"And like me, the Golden Eagle is a tough killer," King rasped.
Spitfire laughed. "That she is. Best damn bird in my fleet. If only you'd let me fly her now and then."
She was fluent in English, the lingua franca aboard the Freedom, but she spoke with an accent. Spitfire had been raised in Israel, the daughter of a famous fighter pilot. Her grandfather had been a fighter pilot too. And his father. It went back seven generations. Flying was in her blood.
King growled at her. "So long as I'm commander of the Freedom, nobody flies the Golden Eagle but me."
Spitfire raised an eyebrow. "Sir, you haven't flown the Golden Eagle since before I was born. When are you going to let somebody fly her again? By somebody I mean me, of course. The lovely commander of your starfighter fleet."
Gal Levy was only thirty-five years old. But despite her young age, she commanded the Freedom's Flock, the starship's complement of starfighters. Spitfire was young and cocky, yes, but also fiercely intelligent and brave. She had been flying starfighters since she was twelve years old, and she was the best damn pilot in the fleet.
A stunt pilot, King reminded himself. Spitfire has never flown in battle. She was born after the war. Just a few days after it ended. After her father died in battle.
"Spitfire." He hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder. He gazed into her eyes. "I wasn't going to tell you yet. I'm going to announce it officially at our Christmas dinner. But I'll tell you now. I'm retiring. Today is my last day in uniform. I'm leaving you the Golden Eagle. She's yours now. Take good care of the old bird."
Spitfire took a step back. Her eyes dampened. Her arms dropped to her sides.
"No, sir!" she whispered. "No, you can't retire!"
"Try to stop me."
She sniffed, then dropped all decorum and pulled him into a hug. "It's so sudden. I'm going to miss you, sir." Tears flowed down her cheeks. "You took me in when I was just a young pilot. You trained me. Mentored me. I can't let you go. After my father died, I …" She pulled back a little, stared into his eyes. "You're like a father to me."
King could not speak, suddenly worried he'd shed a tear.
My own son rejects me, he thought. But I have Spitfire.
He brushed back a strand of her brown hair. "And you're like a daughter. Your father was a good friend. He never got to meet you, but if he's looking down, he's proud of you. And I'm proud of you, Gal."
"Does that mean you're giving me command of the entire starship Freedom?"
"Don't push your luck," he growled. "That job is going to Jordan." He barked a laugh. "Nice try though."
She laughed too, wiped away her tears, and winked. "Maybe someday. A girl can dream."
"Just don't tell anyone," King said. "Not until after I announce it officially. I wanted you to know before the others."
Spitfire took a step back, stood at attention, and saluted. "It's been the honor of my life to serve you, sir."
He returned the salute. "The honor has been mine." He lowered his hand. "All right, all right, enough sentimental crap. Princess Emily is due to arrive by shuttle soon. Before she flies into the Freedom, she'll be touring space around the starship. A prime spot to view starfighter stunts. I want your team to put on a damn good show for her."
Spitfire's smile faded. "With all due respect, sir, Emily is not my princess. I'm Israeli. My people fought to free ourselves from the British empire."
King snorted. "So did half the world. My country did too. But that was long ago. Today we're united under the Free Alliance banners. Princess Emily is a symbol of the Alliance. She's a symbol of what we all cherish."
Spitfire bit her lip. "All right. I disagree with you, sir. But I respect you. And I'll respect the little princess. We'll put on a damn good show." She winked. "Don't we always?"
"Nobody showboats as well as you," King agreed with his own wink. "Is the flock ready?"
"My pilots are relaxing in the aerie," Spitfire said. "Lazy bastards. Probably getting drunk already. I'll go fetch 'em." She made to walk away, then hesitated. "Sir … why don't you fly with us today?"
King frowned. "What, perform stunts?"
She placed her hands back on her hips, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, are stunts beneath you, mighty starfighter ace?"
He chuckled—a hoarse, raspy sound. "Yes. But it's more than that. I haven't flown a starfighter in years. I'm rusty."
"I've watched the old videos of you flying in the war," Spitfire said. "I've studied those videos over and over again. Your raid on Mars. Your attack on Titan. Your triple butterfly spin maneuver in the asteroid belt, diving from the sun to break the Red Dawn lines. You're the best damn pilot I've ever seen, sir."
"That was when I was much younger. But thank you for kissing up to an old man. It still won't get you the job of ship commander."
She sighed. "Well, I better start buttering up Lieutenant Commander Jordan. I suppose he'll be Commander Jordan now. The old bastard is going to outrank me by two ranks now. Oh, he's going to love that."
King sighed too. "Try not to make his life miserable, Colonel. He's a good officer."
She stuck out her tongue. "I make everyone miserable. It's my greatest talent. After flying, that is. Now let's go fetch those lazy pilots. It's time to perform for a princess."
King walked across the hangar deck, heading toward the pilots' lounge. Spitfire walked a step behind him. The lounge, where the pilots spent their free time between performances, was known as the aerie. A nest for eagles. An appropriate name. Though King had always thought the name a bit ironic too, given that they were on the ship's lowest deck.
As they neared the aerie, King frowned.
Music was playing in the lounge. It sounded dim from here. But King recognized it.
He growled, clenched his fists, and his scar blazed with white fire.
Red Dawn's national anthem.
* * * * *
King burst into the aerie, the blood roaring in his ears.
It was coming from here. The damn music! Red Dawn's anthem!
"What the hell is going on here?" he demanded.
Dozens of pilots filled the lounge, relaxing in armchairs, playing pool, and drinking at the bar. At once they snapped to attention and saluted.
The anthem kept playing. The music was bombastic, far too loud, and full of trumpets. A marching song. A battle song. The choir was singing in Russian, but different Red Dawn nations sang the anthem in their own languages.
The Red Dawn. An axis of evil.
King hated the bastards.
A century ago, a movement called equalism had swept across the world. The ideology worshipped the government, oppressed the people, and crushed freedom. Fascism and communism had a baby, and its name was equalism.
Nation by nation fell to the revolution. First equalism seized Russia. Then China, North Korea, and Vietnam. From there, it spread across the Pacific and consumed all of South America. Several countries across Africa and the Middle East bowed before them. Together, these nations formed the Red Dawn. A grand cabal of evil. United, Red Dawn tried to conquer not just Earth—but the entire solar system. First the moon, then the asteroids, finally Mars—they fell to Red Dawn, and still the empire spread.
But some nations resisted.
The free nations of the world formed the Alliance. The United States led them. Britain and the Commonwealth joined the battle. Japan, South Korea, Israel, India, Western Europe—they joined too, answering the call of freedom. They all hoisted the Alliance flag.
They stood up. They fought back.
It took half a billion lives to defeat those red bastards, King thought, the anthem playing in his ears. And now their anthem is playing here on my ship!
King had heard the Red Dawn anthem many times during the war. The enemy blasted it from their tanks, their infantry brigades, even their starship transmitters. He had silenced them all with the Freedom's guns.
He glowered at the holoscreen that hovered near the deckhead. The anthem was coming from
there.
The holoscreen was streaming a live video from the Kremlin. Red Dawn troops were marching, rifles in hand. They wore the dress uniforms of their cruel army. The fabric was red, adorned with many brass buttons and buckles. Their coats were long, their boots tall, and elaborate aiguillettes adorned their chests.
The Red Dawn didn't celebrate Christmas; religion was outlawed in their lands. But December 25 was still an important day to the entire human species. Today World War III had ended, and the Russians were out en masse. King imagined that it was the same in the other Red Dawn nations.
They put on the same damn show every year.
The camera panned toward Saint Basil's Cathedral. Its teardrop domes scratched the clouds, painted in dazzling colors. The Tsar Cannon stood below the cathedral, a masterwork of bronze, adorned with reliefs of lions, serpents, and horses. Built in 1586, the Tsar Cannon remained the largest gun in the world until the age of spaceflight.
A familiar figure stood atop the cannon's bore, smiling a crooked smile at the camera.
Premier Katya "Katyusha" Petrova, the leader of Red Dawn.
The woman who had slashed King's neck.
* * * * *
Her name was Katya Petrova, but everyone, both her people and her enemies, simply called her Katyusha. It was what she called herself.
King stood in the pilots' lounge, staring at the video from Moscow. Staring at the woman he hated most in the world.
Like him, Katyusha was sixty years old. But she barely looked thirty. Nobody knew how the Russian premier kept her youthful looks. Some believed she simply had good plastic surgeons. Others claimed she was an android. Some defectors whispered of horrifying medical procedures. They said that Katyusha grew her own clones in underground labs. Once they were old enough, she sawed open their skulls, scooped out their old brains, and implanted her own brain instead. With every brain implant, they said, she became crazier and crazier.
And that was saying something. King remembered her well from the war, and she had been quite unhinged then too.
She wore the field uniform of Red Dawn. A long red coat. Leather boots that rose to her knees. Her chin-length black hair spilled out from under her fur cap. A pin on her lapel showcased the symbol of her ideology—an equal sign inside a circle.
"Hello, people of Red Dawn!" she said, still smiling crookedly. Her Russian accent was thick. "Today is Victory Day. Today we celebrate our great triumph against the evil Alliance!"
Fighter jets soared above her. Red fireworks blazed. The people cheered. At least the people watching in Moscow. Here aboard the starship Freedom, nobody was cheering.
"Turn that damn screen off," King growled.
One of the pilots, a big guy with the call sign Meatball, rummaged through a box of remote controls. "Right away, sir. Sorry, sir, the holoscreen has been acting up lately, and … I just need to find the right remote, and …"
"Hurry before I shoot the damn projector," King said.
Despite his rage, he couldn't resist looking back at the screen.
Katyusha was smiling at the camera. She seemed to be smiling right at him. That deranged crooked smile, her eyes dripping mockery.
"The cruel Alliance butchered our children," Katyusha was saying. "They raped our women. But we fought them. We defeated them!" She drew her saber and swung the blade, slicing the air. "If they ever threaten us again, Katyusha will cut them down to size!"
The pain on King's neck blazed. But worse was the pain in his heart.
He remembered. The Battle of Mars. The blood pouring over the red desert.
Katyusha had looked exactly the same. He could see it all again, as vivid as the hologram. His father, Ulysses King, leading the troops from the trenches. Katyusha—charging at the general, wrestling his knife from him, and slitting his throat.
"Dad!" the young James King had cried, running toward the old man.
He grabbed his father. But it was too late. The general was dead.
And then—the pain.
The blazing agony in his neck.
Katyusha, laughing and slicing, and—
King growled, gnashed his teeth so hard he cracked a crown, and pulled himself back to the present.
"Of course, the silly Alliance claims they won the war," Katyusha said, standing atop the cannon. She tossed back her head and laughed. "Silly capitalist weaklings. They might have conquered Mars, yes. So what? Everybody knows that the glorious Red Dawn won the war! Even if little Commander King refuses to admit it." She stared at the camera, smiling crookedly. "Are you watching Katyusha now, little commander?" She pouted. "Does your little neck hurt? Katyusha should have cut deeper, perhaps. But Katyusha does rather enjoy knowing you lived to run a museum. Just an old man in a floating tourist trap. So sad!"
She laughed again. As billions watched.
"Get this crap off my ship's screens!" King roared. He almost never shouted. His throat would ache all night.
"Ah, here we go," said Meatball, finding the right remote. He clicked a button, and blessedly the damn hologram vanished.
King took a raspy breath, then turned toward the pilots. They all stood in the lounge, staring back at him.
King glared at them, one by one.
For a moment silence filled the aerie.
Then King spoke.
"You are stunt pilots. You put on shows for tourists. You've never flown in battle. The war ended long ago. Some of you were little kids. The rest of you hadn't even been born. But despite what you might hear elsewhere, the war never truly ended. Not for me! Not for this ship! Today the war is not fought with guns. But with words. And that is a good thing. I would rather suffer ten thousand insults than have to fly to a single battle."
The pilots stared at him, solemn. Meatball lowered his eyes, cheeks red, perhaps feeling guilty for letting the video run for so long.
"You all know what really happened on Mars," King said. "I was there. I saw it. The women—defiled. Their children—murdered. The Red Dawn troops carried out those crimes. The same crimes they blame us for now. We defeated them then. We liberated Mars. We liberated half of Earth. We did this—the Free Alliance. You are officers of the Alliance. And I want you to be proud of the uniforms you wear. You stand for something. You stand for justice. For democracy. For freedom."
One pilot, a young hotshot they called Curly, cleared his throat. "With all due respect, sir, we're just stunt pilots. We're glorified circus performers."
"You wear the uniforms of the Alliance Fleet," King growled. "That still means something. To me it does. You might think you're just performers. Just acrobats dancing for the crowd. But to me, you are pilots as fine as any from the war. I'm proud of you. Every last one of you."
A few pilots glanced at one another. This was, King knew, uncharacteristically sappy of him. He was normally the guy chewing out soldiers, not waxing poetic about how proud he was of them. They didn't know this was his last day. Only Spitfire knew. She stood nearby, a sad, knowing smile on her freckled face.
"The echoes of Red Dawn's national anthem still fill this room," King said. "Sing with me a better song."
He had never been a great singer. Not even before Katyusha had sliced his throat. Jordan had always been the officer with the golden voice. But as King began to sing in a raspy, pained voice, the others joined. They sang the "Song of Freedom," the anthem of their beloved starship.
Let all free souls salute her flight
Let her engines bathe the dark with light
Let her cannons sing the song of freedom
The fleet will gather; she will lead them
Our flagship sails into the flame
As poets weep and sing her name
For liberty's light! For glory's hymn!
Praise the Freedom, she will win!
CHAPTER SIX
Sparrow Shuttle Freedom-A1
High Earth Orbit
09:33 Christmas 2199
Emily squinted through the viewport.
"The star
ship Freedom?" she said. "Where? I still can't see her."
Darjeeling pointed. "There, ma'am. Do you see that slender blue light?"
Her eyes widened. "Yes! It's still so far."
Darjeeling nodded. "The starship Freedom is a dreadnought-class warship, among the largest machines humans ever built. She cannot anchor too close to Earth. She awaits us in deeper space."
The Freedom was dim. Some starships shone like stars. Others glittered with neon. Some starships were floating casinos, and their dazzling lights lured gamblers like flowers lured bees. Other starships were pleasure pontoons, speed racers, and luxury yachts, their particolored lights projecting the wealth of their masters.
The Freedom was different. Despite her massive size, she was hard to see. Her hull was dark gray tinged with blue. The starlight limned her form, painting her with azure highlights. As the shuttle flew closer, Emily squinted. At this distance, the ship seemed rough, irregular. If Emily hadn't known any better, she might have mistaken it for an asteroid.
"That so-called starship is positively ghastly," Niles said. His two camera lenses spun on their little stalks. He was probably zooming in, could see more details than Emily.
"I think she's beautiful," Emily said.
The legends returned to her.
The starship Freedom rising from the ashes of the Red Dawn's assault.
The great dreadnought rallying the Alliance Fleet.
The Freedom charging toward the final battle, cannons booming.
Emily had watched the movies over and over, read the books, the poems, listened to her grandfather's stories. And there she was before her. Not a hologram or words on a page but the real starship.
A tear rolled down Emily's cheek, and she whispered an old poem.
Let all free souls salute her flight
Starship Freedom Page 7