Freedom's Fire

by Bobby Adair

  “I got a big Imugi in my ass.” It’s unusual for Phil to make a joke when he’s stressed.

  I don’t tell him an Imugi is a big snake, that according to Korean mythology, might turn into a dragon one day. Instead I ask a question to confirm what I’m not sure of. “Is that the big battle station over North Korea?”

  “It is,” Penny tells me.

  “Yeah,” Phil confirms. “It’s the only one in a geosynchronous orbit. Tells you something, doesn’t it?”

  Apparently, our great leaders on the Korean Peninsula went through their own analysis of the situation and decided earth needed to spend the rest of its military resources saving their asses, probably so they’d have time to cut a deal with the Trogs just like the one they made when the Grays came in and took control. “Fucking North Koreans.”

  Chapter 26

  “You need to decide,” Penny tells me. “Now that we know the situation, do we bubble jump the hell out of here, make our way to the asteroid belt like we’re supposed to, or attack those cruisers on our own—”

  “Suicide,” mutters Phil, letting us know exactly what he thinks of the attack idea.

  “—or follow orders and go to Imugi Station?”

  “I hate the North Koreans as much as any of you,” says Phil, talking in slow, wooden words, like he always does when he’s starting a new argument. “We need to remember they managed to make a deal with the Grays when the rest of the world was being bombarded in the siege. This war with the Trogs is lost, just like our war with the Grays. Maybe the North Koreans are the bet.”

  “Phil,” says Penny, “I like you, but sometimes your limp dick routine rubs me raw.”

  “Just because I use my brains,” Phil shoots back in soft words, like he expects to be punched, “instead of hiking fourteeners every weekend looking for a mountain goat with an attractive sphincter?”

  “We’re not going to bicker,” I tell them, dead serious. “There’s a reason we’re all up here. All of us chose this.”

  “Not me,” says Jablonsky, still on the command comm.

  Shit.

  Penny said too much.

  Now Jablonsky knows desertion is an option. And if he doesn’t know it, he’ll certainly guess when he’s trying to figure out what Penny meant about bubble jumping to the asteroid belt. Once he figures that out, it’ll only be a matter of time before the other soldiers know, too. Not that he’s a snitch, that’s just human nature at work.

  Now what to do about Jablonsky.

  Pending decisions are piling up—big ones—and I need to figure out pretty quickly if I’ve got the mettle to make them.

  If not, I need to step out of the way and put someone else in charge.

  I flex my fists around my railgun as I think.

  I’ve never had a real weapon in my hands, especially not a military-grade tool designed and built for wholesale murder.

  I’m in command of a platoon of inexperienced soldiers I think want to fight.

  I’ve got a bullet-shaped ramrod of a ship slapped together from two helpings of desperation and a trainload of steel smelted so long ago human flight was only a dream in a few crazy men’s heads. Still, the rusty thing is a powerful beast wrought for killing graceful, star-faring leviathans full of Neanderthal-looking wankers who want to make my people slaves.

  I have more power than I’ve ever had, or ever will again.

  I’ve sniveled and sucked up to my Gray masters and their North Korean lapdogs my entire life, pretending in every moment I was the most loyal, diligent cog in their war machine, building grav plates, sweating twelve-hour shifts, keeping my insurgent thoughts buried too deep for them to see.

  I did it all on the chance that one day I’d have an opportunity just like the one I have right in this moment.

  Do I have doubts?

  Yes.

  Am I afraid I’ll get all of my friends killed?

  You bet your fuzzy ‘nads.

  From the moment our ship lifted off from the Arizona desert I’ve been free, and only one question matters now that I’ve had that small taste on my tongue.

  Really, just one question.

  Will I ever be able to kneel again?

  Hell, fucking no!

  And that’s my choice.

  I’ll die a fat old man, standing on a beach, with a beer in my hand and warm ocean washing over my feet, while three kinds of ass cancer eat away at my lymph nodes, but I’ll be free, or I’ll die fighting.

  First order of business: Gamble.

  Because my goal is bigger than just my pride.

  I open a comm link to everyone on the ship. “Our North Korean slave masters are calling for a retreat. They want us to take up an orbit a thousand clicks over Pyongyang.” I know we can’t geosynchronously orbit at a thousand clicks, but we can easily grav stabilize there just like Imugi station. “They think we’ve lost this war. And they might be right.”

  “What you saw in that Arizona shipyard when we were loading into this rusty beast, that’s it. That’s earth’s navy as far as I can tell, and most of them have probably already been blasted into space junk. The last of our battle cruisers was destroyed or captured in a battle near the moon yesterday. Three of earth’s battle stations are slag, and the Trogs are out there pounding a fourth. Maybe that’s the worst of it, maybe the truth isn’t that bad, but you know how our North Korean masters like to keep us in the dark.”

  A few of the soldiers gasp. Masters is a word that would get me thrown in jail back on earth. Everybody knows what we are, yet we’re not allowed to say.

  I exit the airlock so I’m standing in the platoon compartment.

  The soldiers strapped into their seats and the ones on their feet all look at me.

  I let everything I’ve told them sink in for a moment.

  I continue. “I’ll tell you what I think. You all saw each other back at the muster station. You know what we are—pimply kids, fathers, mothers, and daughters. We’re not the cream of the crop. You’ve seen the ship. It looks like a rusty piece of shit, some kind of kamikaze torpedo thing with an untested gravity lens welded on the front. The MSS news vids tell us the war is going well, they even imply we’re winning. That’s bullshit. Look around.” I point at them. “We are not what winners in war look like.” I wave a hand at the ship. “This isn’t what a victor sends to mop up their beaten enemies.

  “We’re losing badly.”

  Mouths are agape. Eyes wide.

  I’m spouting firing squad-worthy truths, the kind your drunk uncle babbles about when he’s sprawled on the couch, half-delirious from alcohol poisoning and carb-loading after a Thanksgiving Day binge.

  Before I reach full evangelist mode, I tone down to a rational level. “Captain Milliken is dead. All of you know that. Our Korean ship’s captain and first officer are dead. It’s just us on this ship—just us Americans. That’s the situation. Now it’s time for each of you to decide what you believe. And it’s time to decide what you want to do about it. I’m disabling the automatic kill switch on your suits.” Using my implant, I toggle the gravity switches. “I’ve been a slave all my life. I’ll not be a new master’s slave, and I won’t kneel again for my old one. Right now, in this moment, for the first time in our lives, we’re all free.”

  I pause again, hoping I won’t have to jump back through the airlock door to avoid the hostile fire.

  Nobody moves.

  I think they’re all in shock.

  “We’re floating just below Juji Station. It’s been slagged, but I’m sure rescue parties will be up from the surface just as soon as the Trog ships bugger off to wherever in the solar system their supply base is. Anyone who wants off this ship can hop through a door and go. Use your suit’s grav to fly down to the surface. You’ll be able to find a way inside. There are plenty of extra holes now, thanks to the Trogs. Your suit’s hydro pack and calorie pack will last three days. That’s only three days of power and food. There’ll be plenty of suits on the surface with corpses in them,
and all the half-full power and calorie packs you need to last a lifetime if that’s what you want.”

  “Or,” I tell them, coming to my closing pitch, “you can stay on the ship and follow me. I’m a rebel major in the Free Army, and I’m taking this ship to one of our bases out in the asteroid belt.” God, I hope that part is true. All I have are Vishnu’s and Blair’s credibility on that. “I’m not going to take up an orbital station over North-fucking-Korea, and I don’t intend to follow another MSS order as long as I live. I’m going to find a way to live through this war, do my part to win it, and then I’m going to kill every Gray bastard I can get in my sights, and murder every North Korean stooge who gets in the way.”

  The speech wasn’t planned, but when I imagined how it would look in all those years I fantasized about this moment, it looked a lot like a Roman victory parade.

  All of the soldiers are silent. Not one is moving.

  Not one of the bridge crew adds a word.

  “Talk among yourselves,” I tell them. “You’ve got a couple minutes. Maybe. Phil, open some of the assault doors so whoever wants to go can get out. On second thought, Penny, drop us down to the surface real quick. I’ve seen these knuckleheads try to use their suit’s grav controls.” I look back at the soldiers. “You can step out onto solid ground. No hard feelings. Just don’t come with me unless you’re ready for revolution and ready to die for it.”

  Over a private comm connection, Penny tells me, “Ignoring orders from the admiralty is one thing, but you shouldn’t have told the platoon about the revolution. You’re endangering us all.”

  On the open line, I say, “Get us down to the surface, Penny.”

  Several of the assault doors slide open, giving everyone in the platoon compartment a dizzying view of the earth and the orbiting wreckage of ships and busted battle stations. It looks like interstellar defeat.

  We close in on Juji.

  Through faceplates I see lips move. Men and women are talking to each other over private comm links.

  God, I hope there’s not an eloquent loyalist among them.

  I watch, hoping no one raises a rifle.

  The ship jolts as we hit Juji’s surface.

  “Now’s the time,” I tell them.

  Down at the far end of the platoon compartment, Sergeant Brice pushes past a few soldiers and somehow, without a single word, commands everyone’s attention. He drills me hard with those war-weary eyes of his. “I’m in.”

  Chapter 27

  Penny tells me I’ve pushed too far, too fast.

  Phil curses at me on a private comm link.

  I ignore it. That’s just Phil. He and I have a steamer trunk full of baggage in our relationship, and his whining is, at times, insufferable. Nonetheless, he’s dependable and talented. And sometimes, he’s right. Just not now.

  Lenox privately connects with me. “I’ll roll the dice with you, sir.”

  I thank her and step back into the airlock. It’ll be easier for the draftees in the platoon compartment to make an honest choice if I’m not staring them down. On the bridge comm, I say, “If you’re all staying, we need to get in the game.”

  “Of course, we’re all staying,” Penny tells me. “What about you, Whit-shit?”

  “Name’s Jablonsky, skank.”

  Penny shoots back, “You’re name’s what I say it is until I know whether you’re staying to fight or getting off the ship with the other pussies.”

  “I’ve got nothing to lose back home,” says Jablonsky. “I’ll fight.”

  “Phil,” I ask. “I need to hear you say it.”

  We’ve talked about this for years, but late night bullshit between half-drunk friends is one thing. Making plans and asking for support from people who don’t think they’ll ever have to follow through is another sort of thing, and they both add up to squat.

  We’re at the moment where words are tested.

  “Well?” I ask again.

  Phil says, “If you get me killed—”

  “Quit suckin’ your momma’s titty and grow up,” Penny tells him. “We’re probably all gonna get killed. Do your job or let Jablonsky do it.”

  Jablonsky can’t do Phil’s job. He doesn’t have an alien bug in his head, so he can’t see gravity fields.

  Penny says, “Phil, quit playing for attention and answer.”

  “You know you can depend on me.” It’s perfunctory when it comes out of Phil’s mouth. However, it’s the final commitment.

  Good.

  Time to do something for real. “Jablonsky, broadcast on the ship-to-ship frequency that we’re rallying at Juji Station. As soon as we have five more ships, we’re leading a full-bore attack on the nearest Trog cruiser. Be clear about this next part, don’t ask them, tell them. If no one answers the call, we’re doing it alone. Shame them. Phil, calculate an attack vector for Penny on the nearest Trog cruiser bombing the Arizona shipyard. Do it now.”

  Acknowledgements.

  Double good.

  I flip to the platoon command comm, now just me, Brice, and Lenox. “What’s the status of the platoon?”

  Brice links to the whole ship. “Close the assault doors. Everyone’s staying on board. Grunts were born to kill, not kneel.” I know among the SDF troops, the label ‘grunt’ is an honorific between comrades. From Brice, it’s a compliment.

  I don’t know if it’s worth anything, but I tell the platoon how proud I am. I step back out of the airlock and look at my soldiers while I address them. “Sergeant, the three machine gun teams will stay on board. After we ram that Trog cruiser they’ll defend the ship. Take the rest and balance them into two squads—one yours, one for Lenox.” None of us have fought together. In fact, the grunts barely know each other. Shifting the squad lineup now won’t have any harmful effects on combat effectiveness. God, I sound like a real officer, at least in my head.

  “We should separate them by ability,” says Brice. “Put those who can take advantage of the gravity mobility and fly in one squad, the rest in the other.”

  That makes perfect sense. At least we’ll have one squad that’s fully capable. “Good thinking,” I tell him. “As soon as we ram that Trog ship I want each squad to egress through separate assault doors, killing every Trog bastard we can while they’re still too stunned to know what happened. As soon as we find our bearings, we’ll make our way to the bridge and take control of the ship.”

  All of the soldiers are tense now that we’re talking about fighting actual Trogs and pulling triggers. “One more thing,” I tell them, “There are two kinds of grunts.” I pause for effect. “The kind who piss their suits before they go into battle and the kind who lie about it.”

  They laugh.

  I laugh.

  Hell, even Brice laughs like it’s a real joke.

  Chapter 28

  I comm link to the bridge crew. “Status?”

  “I’ve made contact with third platoon’s ship,” answers Jablonsky.

  “Jill Rafferty?” I ask, hopeful. She’s one of my commissar subordinates, a lieutenant, a coworker from the grav factory, and a coconspirator in our plot to mutiny and defect with our ships to join the Free Army.

  “Yes,” answers Jablonsky. “Both Koreans onboard her ship are casualties. She’s captain now.”

  Casualties? I know exactly what that means. Jill’s a silver-haired, blue-eyed mother left childless by this war, and she’s tougher than any of us bug-headed freaks who came out of that factory. She harbors no illusions about who is to blame for the death of her sons. If anything, those North Korean officers on her ship were casualties to her vengeance.

  “Two assault ships with crews from our factory,” says Penny, relieved, at least a little.

  Nobody mentions we’re still missing two of our company’s ships and six more of our friends, yet we all know it. Extrapolating that casualty rate to the rest of the people I recruited from the grav factory, half of my friends are dead already.

  “She’s about half a klick aft of us,” s
ays Phil, “in the shadow of Juji Station.”

  So she’s using the derelict station for cover from the Trog cruisers higher in orbit. Just like us. “What’s the status of her ship?”

  Jablonsky answers, “She says one-hundred percent.”

  “There’s a formation of three more ships coming in,” says Phil.

  With the mess of so many pieces of so many broken ships orbiting the earth, with my ship’s grav field pulsing through plates bent or destroyed by Trog fire, I’m not able to clearly sense the gravity fields of those vessels.

  “They’ve all got Korean captains,” says Jablonsky. “One with a Korean MSS colonel. He’s the one who’s making noise about being in charge.”

  “What do they want?” I ask.

  “They’re joining us,” answers Jablonsky.

  No shit?

  “Brave,” mutters Phil. “They’re disobeying an order from Pyongyang. They’ll be executed when they get back on the ground.”

  Penny laughs. “Don’t be such an optimist, Adverb. They’re gonna die up here like the rest of us.”

  “Five ships is enough,” I tell them. “Phil, do you have my vector?” No more time to screw around.

  “Yep,” he answers.

  “The Korean colonel says he’s in command,” says Jablonsky, apparently unsure of how to reply to him.

  “Phil,” I say, “send our attack path to the other ships. Jablonsky, patch me through to the other captains.”

  He complies.

  “Captains, my grav officer has sent you our attack path. Form up on me.” I’m telling, not asking. The Koreans will bristle, but I hope it works. Like every uniformed functionary in a totalitarian system, following orders comes so naturally to them, I might get away with it. “Come in tight in two formations—three in front, two following. Max grav in ten seconds.”

  “Wait!” I hear a Korean accent in that one syllable.

  Dammit! So much for the stereotype in my mind about their degree of subservience.

  “Koreans first,” he tells me. “Americans second.”