Starship Freedom

by Daniel Arenson

  The gunnery crew, who had spent the past thirty years shooting fireworks instead of torpedoes, lay dead across the chamber. Dead tourists hung from the wall. Eggs festered inside their slit stomachs.

  In the center of the station, he stood.

  King's nemesis. A warty gray spider with red legs. A spider larger than the mightiest grizzly bear. He was busy chewing on a dead woman, ripping off strips of her skin, sucking them up like noodles.

  "Hel'rah!" King called out.

  The rah raised his head from his meal. A grin spread across his face. King hated the way the damn things were always grinning those psychotic Cheshire cat grins.

  "Hello, Commander King!" the rah said. "I've been waiting for you. Join me for dinner? I've saved you the choice cuts." The spider cackled, blood in his mouth.

  "Hilarious," King said, aimed his gun, and opened fire.

  On cue, his crew opened fire with him.

  A storm of bullets slammed into Hel'rah. They bounced harmlessly off his exoskeleton. The alien just stood there, laughing as the bullets shattered against his armored body.

  King tried to hit an eye. But transparent eyelids like glass visors snapped shut, covering the alien's swirling red eyeballs. The bullets bounced off those goggle-like shields.

  Apparently, Hel'rah was a rare breed of rah. Not only was he larger and colored differently. He also had nictitating membranes, able to protect his eyes, a rah's weak spot. And who knew what other abilities the bastard had?

  "Yes, King," the rah hissed. "I am no mere hunter. I am a prince! I am the son of Skel'rah, Warweaver of the Fleet. I am the grandson of Elder'rah, Empress of the Great Web. You cannot kill me with bullets or blades." He laughed. "You can only die, King. And I will make sure you die so slowly."

  The spider prince pounced.

  David Pibbs, the paunchy carny, ran forward and shielded King with his body.

  "You will not touch Commander King!" Pibbs cried.

  The spider plowed into him.

  Claws lashed with incredible speed like the needles of some deranged sewing machine.

  The claws perforated Pibbs. They ripped him apart. He collapsed in several pieces onto the deck.

  "Let's kill this son of a bitch!" shouted the tourist with the Hawaiian shirt. He ran toward the spider, swinging a pipe. And then everyone was running. Soldiers. Carnies. Tour guides. Tourists. The whole makeshift squad of them. Their guns were useless. They wielded blades, clubs, or just fists. Thirteen men and women, they did not flee, even as they saw the carnage. They ran toward the enemy.

  And King made a choice.

  Another choice he knew would haunt him forever.

  He ran away from the spider.

  He left the others to die.

  Behind him, he heard them scream. Heard Hel'rah laugh. Heard the skin rip, the blood splatter, the wet pieces of people slap onto the deck. King did not look back. He kept running.

  At his age, King didn't run much anymore, but now he raced as if the world depended on it. Which in a very real sense, it did.

  He ran until he reached the mecha at the back of the chamber.

  The machine rose there, as tall as an oak. During the last war, Samson had loaded the heavy Maccabees into the chute. The mecha had seen better days. His paint was peeling. His gears and pistons were rusty. Tourists had etched rude drawings into his steel frame. But Samson's forklift hands were still strong.

  As the screams rose behind him, King climbed a ladder toward Samson's torso, which contained the operator's seat.

  "What are you doing, King?" rose a screech from behind. "Hiding as I kill your lackeys? How cowardly!"

  The spider laughed, a high-pitched, demonic sound. King heard the claws scraping across the deck, racing toward him.

  He still didn't look back. He concentrated on climbing the ladder. He hurried into the cockpit, which filled the mecha's torso. He sat on the plastic seat and pulled down the metallic harness. Two steel bars held him in place. It reminded him of the roller-coaster rides on the upper deck.

  From here, sitting inside the mecha, he saw Hel'rah racing across the deck toward him. Behind the spider lay his victims. King had led a dozen warriors into this chamber. Within seconds, the spider had killed them all. Their mangled bodies lay across the steel deck, blood pooling.

  The spider charged like a bull, shrieking.

  King shoved down a throttle.

  Motors grumbled. Servos hummed. Pistons chugged. The smell of motor oil and exhaust filled the air.

  Samson woke up.

  Hel'rah leaped through the air, soaring toward King in his mecha.

  King pulled a joystick. Samson swung his left arm. His forklift hand slammed into Hel'rah, knocking the spider down.

  The rah shook his head madly, pushed himself back up, and glared at King.

  King shoved a lever. Samson took a step. His footfall shook the mighty chamber.

  Hel'rah rose onto his back legs, grinning savagely. His legs lengthened, new joints emerging from his abdomen. The creature rose higher and higher, extending his sharp red legs. Soon the spider stood even taller than the mecha. He swung one of his front legs like a scythe.

  King moved another joystick. The mecha's right arm rose, parrying the spider's attack.

  The mecha took another step, reached down, and grabbed Hel'rah with his mechanical hands. Samson squeezed the spider between the metal fingers.

  The alien shrieked, a deafening sound. King growled and kept squeezing the spider. The mecha was designed to lift torpedoes the size of trucks. It could certainly crush a damn bug.

  Caught in the machine's grip, Hel'rah screamed. He stretched out his front legs, extending them like retractable pointing sticks. More and more joints emerged from the body. Then Hel'rah thrust one leg like a sword.

  King leaned sideways. The claw whooshed over his shoulder, impaling the back of his seat.

  Hel'rah thrust another claw. King leaned the other way. This claw scraped against his arm, slicing the flesh. He roared.

  "I will carve you up, King!" Hel'rah said. "I'll skewer you like a tunnel maggot!"

  King extended the mecha's arms as far as they'd go. But the spider's claws were longer. Hel'rah thrust another leg.

  King squirmed aside in his seat. This claw tore across his shoulder. He bellowed in agony.

  But he kept moving the joysticks.

  The mecha kept walking, its mighty feet shaking the deck.

  "Die now!" Hel'rah screamed, thrusting more claws.

  King moved the joysticks. Samson's arms swung to the side, slamming the spider into a beam. The alien shrieked, opened his jaw, and revealed his spinneret. He shot a bundle of cobwebs at King. The sticky glob slammed into his right arm, binding it to his seat. King tried to free his arm but could not.

  His left arm was still free, but it was an ugly mess, slashed twice and bleeding badly.

  With his wounded arm, King kept operating the mecha, still gripping Hel'rah with Samson's mighty hands. He moved his own hand from joystick to joystick, controlling the machine's hydraulic limbs.

  "We are done, King!" Hel'rah screamed. "Die now!"

  He thrust a claw, aiming at King's head.

  Before the claw could hit, King released the spider, hurling him downward.

  Hel'rah crashed onto the deck, and King slammed the mecha's foot down.

  "I will crush you like the bug that you are!"

  Samson's enormous foot landed on the spider.

  Something cracked.

  Hel'rah screamed.

  King shoved down with all his strength, leaning the mecha's great weight against the spider, intending to flatten him.

  Hel'rah was pinned down. He wrapped his red claws around the mecha's leg, tightened his grip like a vise, then hurled the mecha aside.

  The machine weighed several tons. And the damn rah tossed it through the air.

  Samson slammed down hard, cracking the deck. The clang could probably be heard across the starship. Dangling from his har
ness inside the torso, King grunted. His blood soaked his chair.

  Before he could rise, Hel'rah leaped into the air, then came swooping down.

  Those red claws gleamed.

  King rolled aside in the cockpit. The claws drove into the blood-soaked seat. One claw slashed King's thigh. He bellowed in rage. The spider crackled above him, drooling. The sizzling saliva burned King's skin. In frustration, King fired his sidearm, but the bullets did nothing.

  "Goodbye, Commander King," the spider hissed, then thrust his jaws into the cockpit. His mouth opened wide, revealing a gullet ringed with teeth, hungry for flesh.

  King finally managed to free his right hand from the webs. He grabbed the joystick. Samson's massive metal hand grabbed Hel'rah, pulling him out of the cockpit.

  He shoved another joystick.

  The mecha rose to its feet.

  Hel'rah struggled, caught again in the mecha's grip.

  Ahead King saw it. Waiting. Ready.

  He took several more steps, moving the mecha at a run, until he reached the chute. The same place where Samson would insert torpedoes during the war.

  King shoved the spider into the chute.

  The alien struggled, claws slashing, lacerating the tube's entrance. But King kept shoving him deeper. Finally the spider's body disappeared into the metal tunnel.

  "What are you doing?" Hel'rah screeched from inside, clawing madly, desperate to escape.

  With the mecha's metal fists, King kept shoving the spider deeper inside. "This chute connects to the barrel of Libertas, an Angel of Liberty, the great starboard cannon of the starship Freedom. The tourists love when it fires."

  "I will devour your soul!" Hel'rah screeched from the chute. "I will rip your granddaughter apart! I will destroy your son! You are doomed, King! Doomed!"

  King reached down with one of Samson's forklift hands. He gripped a lever the size of a gallows.

  "Get the hell off my starship, you goddamn piece of filth!" he growled and shoved the lever.

  Deep inside the chute where the great metal tube connected with the starship's hull, a hatch opened.

  Vacuum grabbed everything inside the tube.

  Which, right now, meant Hel'rah.

  The spider was sucked down the metal tunnel, shrieking.

  Gears spun across the chamber. Cables thrummed with energy. The lights dimmed. And the great Libertas fired.

  King connected his MindLink to the drone which still hovered above the starship Freedom. He watched through the drone's camera. The Libertas boomed, and out flew Hel'rah. The spider had seemed enormous inside the starship, but flying out the great cannon's bore, the alien seemed like any old spider. Just a bug after all. Limbs flailing, jaw open in a silent scream, Hel'rah flew into the distance and disappeared into the darkness.

  "Good riddance," King muttered.

  He climbed out the mecha and down the ladder. He kept bleeding. Once he hit the deck, King tried to take a step, but his leg buckled. He fell into a puddle of blood. For a moment, he knelt, wheezing.

  Don't die yet, he told himself. This war ain't over. You stay alive until you win the damn thing.

  He took a raspy breath and scrolled through videos on his MindLink, checking on the rest of his starship.

  The tide was turning.

  Across the Freedom, the rahs were looking from side to side, dazed. They paused from fighting, began speaking in their language. King couldn't understand them, but he understood one word. Hel'rah.

  They were looking for their master.

  A few rahs pointed toward the outer hull. Others ran around in confusion. Without their leader, they were lost. It seemed that unlike humans, the rahs had little individuality. Without a strong commander, their army fell apart.

  The Mimori units, still in combat mode, kept chewing through the aliens. Thousands of humans, soldiers and civilians alike, rallied behind the androids. With guns, knives, sometimes just pipes or wrenches, they beat back the enemy.

  King took a shuddering breath. Everything hurt. His throat. His wounds. His damn bones hurt.

  The war was not over. But this battle was won.

  He sent a MindLink transmission. "This is Commander James King. I need a medic. Track my beacon. I …"

  He didn't realize he was falling. But the next thing he knew, he was lying in blood. He stared across the deck, and he saw the dead. The brave souls he had led here. The warriors who had died for humanity. He did not know all their names, but he would find out, and he would remember them forever.

  A while passed in a haze.

  And then medics were rushing into the chamber. They knelt around him, tended to his wounds, lifted him onto a stretcher. Finally King allowed himself to lose consciousness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Starship Freedom

  Approaching Mercury

  12:21 December 26, 2199

  When King awoke, he bolted up in bed.

  His MindLink was offline.

  "Give me an update! Somebody update me, dammit."

  He was in the infirmary. An IV was attached to his wrist, and bandages covered his left arm and leg. Nothing hurt.

  He tried the MindLink again. Reluctantly, it began to boot up, then fizzled away. They must have given King potent painkillers. Those were known for interfering with the neural implants. Coursing through the brain, the drugs blocked the pain but also messed up access to the MindWeb.

  Grunting, King rose from the bed, slammed his feet against the cold floor, and took a step.

  "Hey there!" came a cry. "James King, you lie back down right now."

  Dr. Annie Jordan barged into the room, her green eyes flashing. She had the same mahogany skin and commanding presence of her father, Lieutenant Commander Larry Jordan. But her green eyes came from her mother, an Irishwoman who still lived on Earth. The young doctor was only thirty, but King knew her to be fiercely intelligent and capable.

  "I need to get back to my bridge," King growled. "Get out of my way."

  Annie placed her hands on her hips. She was a slender woman and several inches shorter than him, but when she raised her chin, and when her green eyes flashed, she seemed an impassable force.

  "Not so fast. Let me look you over one more time first. You took a beating in this battle, Commander. I won't let you walk until I'm sure you can. Now sit down so I can take a proper look."

  "Get me a comlink at least," he said. "Whatever damn drugs you gave me are jamming my MindLink."

  She huffed, pulled a device from her pocket, and handed it to him. "Keep yourself busy and don't bother me."

  She began to scan him with a variety of medical devices, checking his blood pressure, heart rate, and other stats. As she worked, King placed a few calls. First to Jordan on the bridge, then to Darjeeling, then to Spitfire, then a few other of the ship's commanders. The picture came clear.

  The Freedom was clean of rahs.

  All the invaders were dead.

  So were several hundred crew members and tourists.

  Meanwhile, the Freedom was still flying toward Mercury. Beaten. Battered. Her hull carved open. But still flying fast.

  "Jim, the war down on Earth is looking bad," Jordan said over the comlink. "Only three clawships attacked the Freedom, but thousands of clawships have been ravaging the Alliance fleet. Our dreadnoughts are all gone. The frigates are barely holding up. And millions of rahs are swarming across the planet, overwhelming our ground troops."

  "The dreadnoughts are not all gone," King rasped into the comlink. "The Freedom is a dreadnought. The first dreadnought ever built. And still the greatest. We will turn her into a warship again." He clenched his fist and spoke through a tight jaw. "And then we will return to Earth and defeat the enemy."

  He then tried to call Earth.

  The planet's communication networks were down.

  He didn't know if Bastian and Rowan were alive.

  "Doctor, now get these damn gadgets off me," King growled, gesturing at the sensors and tubes attached
to him. "I've got a goddamn ship to run."

  Annie rolled her eyes. "Still as stubborn as a mule." She sighed, put a hand on his shoulder. "We nearly lost you, sir. If the medics hadn't gotten there in time . . ."

  He nodded. "Annie, your dad and I are best friends. You've known me all your life. But you weren't born during the last war, so there's something you didn't know until now."

  The doctor tilted her head. "What's that?"

  "I'm damn hard to kill." He winked.

  She laughed. "Must say, sir, launching that bastard out the cannon? Brilliant."

  He looked into her eyes. "Thank you, Annie. For saving my life. I know this is a busy day. I know the wounded are flooding the medical bay. Thank you."

  She nodded, wiped away a tear. "We've lost a lot of people."

  "And we will lose more," King said. "This war is not over."

  He pulled on his uniform and left the infirmary.

  * * * * *

  As he marched through his ship, he saw the devastation. The blood on the decks. The claw marks on the bulkheads. The shattered machines. Crew members ran back and forth, not even pausing to stand at attention, racing to seal more hull breaches. A few tourists huddled in a corner, weeping. One old man had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. One boy lay on a stretcher, missing his legs, as medics fought for his life. A woman wandered in a daze, asking people where the medical bay was. Half her body was burnt red and black.

  This was the aftermath of a victorious battle. King had learned long ago that victory always came with a cost. It never got easier.

  On his way to the bridge, he passed by Spitfire. The pilot still wore her flight suit, and she carried her helmet under her arm. But when she saw King, she dropped her helmet and ran toward him.

  She crashed into his embrace. They held each other for a long moment.

  "You kicked butt out there," King said. "Spitfire, I'm damn proud of you."

  She smiled, tears in her eyes. "I guess watching all those videos of you flying in World War III finally paid off. I learned a thing or two."

  He chuckled. "Soon you'll be giving me lessons."

  "No way, sir." Spitfire wiped away her tears. "Next time, you fly with us. You're still the best damn pilot in the fleet, I bet."