But Emily knew this show was for her.
"I don't deserve this," she said softly when the show ended. "I'm not some heroic warrior. I'm not my grandfather. I never fought in any great battles."
"That's a good thing," said Darjeeling, voice soft and kind. "The age of wars is over. Do not lament its end. It's a far, far better world that celebrates fireworks over bombs, that adores princesses over warriors. We fought for freedom in the war. Now let us enjoy our freedom."
She kissed his cheek. "Thank you, dear Mr. Darjeeling."
He blushed, removed his cap, and saluted her.
Still a little flustered, he flew the shuttle toward the Freedom, a hatch opened to welcome them, and Emily's life changed forever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fort Liberty Marine Base
Headquarters of the Freedom Brigade
Nebraska
10:07 Christmas 2199
It was sad to wake up alone at Christmas.
Captain Bastian King was a typical marine. He woke up every morning at the crack of dawn, ready to face the day. Most days, that meant hitting the gym. On Christmas, it meant opening presents with his family.
But not this Christmas.
This Christmas his family wasn't with him. This Christmas he was a divorced man. This Christmas he woke up on a military base, alone.
It sucked.
He wanted to stay in bed till noon.
His MindLink buzzed in his skull. Somebody was trying to call him telepathically. Probably what woke him up. Screw that. It was Christmas. They could get lost. With a thought, he shut off the microchip. The ringing faded from his mind.
Bastian tried to fall back asleep but could not. Finally his bladder, full and aching, got Bastian to his feet.
He glanced at his watch. Jesus, was it really past ten?
He trudged across the room, wincing. The floor was too damn cold. Nobody else was around. His fellow marines had all gone home for Christmas. They were probably opening presents with their families now.
But my family kicked me out, Bastian thought with a grimace.
He shuffled out the room, down the hallway, and into the communal washroom. He splashed some water on his face, shook his head like a wet dog, and stared at his reflection.
He was a big, beefy man, built like a tank. Tribal tattoos covered his muscular arms. A mohawk ran across his head, a strip of bristly black hair, and a chinstrap beard hugged his jawline. Bastian took out his trimmers, began shaving the sides of his head. He did this every morning, keeping the unusual hairstyle neat and groomed.
His wife said he looked like a meathead. Like a big dumb brute. He supposed he did. He supposed he was. But at least he had great hair.
Well, ex-wife now. Bastian was still getting used to thinking of Stacy as his ex.
Music sounded from down the hall. His minicom, a computer the size of a playing card, was back in his bunk. It was blasting "The Eagles' Last Flight" by Powertron, his favorite band. The bombastic song, full of electric guitars and pounding drums, indicated that a fellow soldier was calling. When his family called, the minicom played "The Dunes of Mars," a soothing ballad.
Bastian ignored the music. It was probably the same person who had buzzed his MindLink. Persistent bastard. Whoever the hell it was, they could get lost. It was Christmas. Yes, he was stuck here at Fort Liberty, a marine base in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. So what? It was still his day off.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stared again at his reflection.
"Cheer up, buddy," Bastian told himself. "This afternoon, you get to pick up Rowan. The judge herself said you can. Christmas morning might suck. But Christmas afternoon—that's daddy and daughter time."
That brought a smile to his lips. Whatever life threw at him, Rowan was still his daughter. She still loved him. Maybe Bastian couldn't open presents with her this morning, but they could still spend the afternoon together. That was a ray of light in a dark year.
He checked his watch again. Three more hours. Then he could drive home and pick up Rowan.
Well, not my home anymore, he reminded himself. I built the damn house. And I can't even step inside.
He heaved a sigh, buttoned up his fatigues, and wandered down the corridors of Fort Liberty. The base normally bustled with activity. Marines marched, drilled, and chanted in the courtyard. Soldiers rushed up and down the hallways. Voices came from every room. Well, not today. Almost everyone was home with eggnog. Only a skeleton crew remained, a few unlucky souls chosen to hold down the fort during the holiday. The base was eerily silent. Bastian wasn't used to hearing his footsteps echo in these corridors.
A private wandered down the hall, looking utterly miserable. The poor kid had pulled Christmas duty. Bad luck. When he saw Bastian, a captain, the boy stood at attention and saluted.
"Merry Christmas, sir!" the private said.
Bastian returned a lazy salute, mumbled something that sounded like "Mury 'mas."
He walked on by. He just couldn't wake up fully this morning. Okay, he was also a little hungover. Okay, very hungover. Not professional for a marine officer, he knew. But dammit, last night had been rough. His first Christmas Eve without family around. So he had hit the bottle. Hit it hard. He was paying for that now.
Fort Liberty, Nebraska. Headquarters of the Freedom Brigade. Normally, five thousand soldiers served here. Bastian, a captain with over a decade of experience, commanded two hundred of them.
Over a decade of experience. Bastian liked that. It sure sounded better than stuck in a rut for thirteen years.
The Freedom Brigade had a proud history. Posters hung on the base walls, displaying its past glory. During World War III, the Freedom Brigade had flown aboard the starship Freedom, serving as the dreadnought's marine force. From the Freedom, they had deployed to the mines of Titan, the methane jungles of Europa, and the deserts of Mars. It was on Mars that they finally beat back the Red Dawn and won the war.
Well, that was ages ago. Bastian hadn't even been born. The starship Freedom was now a museum. The bunks aboard the dreadnought, where the space marines used to live, now served as a hotel. Tourists bunked in the homes of heroes. And the modern-day Freedom Brigade was stuck on Earth.
So much for heroics in space.
None of today's Freedom Brigade marines had seen combat. Few of them had even been to space. Hell, half of them had never left Nebraska. They spent their time stuck here, training for God knows what. After countless generations of bloodshed, culminating in the worst war in history, humanity had finally achieved world peace. That was great. That was a miracle. It was also incredibly boring.
Bastian paused by a poster on the wall. It depicted the great Battle of Mars. Marines were racing across the red surface, firing their guns. Starfighters streaked above. More troops kept deploying in shuttles. Far above flew the starship Freedom, wreathed in light, delivering salvation. It was the most famous photograph from the war.
My dad is flying one of those starfighters, he thought. The famous James "Bulldog" King, the greatest war hero of them all.
Bastian turned away.
Sorry, Dad, for being such a disappointment.
Those glory days were long gone. Times were good. And maybe that made men soft. Sometimes Bastian wished he could fight a great war too, could become a hero, could be something more than who he was.
A fat, depressed meathead who can't afford child support. Some hero I am. He glanced back at the poster and snorted. But at least I don't run a tourist trap, Dad.
Bastian rubbed his temples. His head was still pounding. He wandered into the executive lounge, looking for a strong cup of coffee.
"Dude!" Alice leaped from her seat. "I've been calling you all morning. You turned off your MindLink. And you're not answering your minicom either." She ran toward him. "I need to—"
"Shh." He put a finger on her lips. "No talking yet. First coffee."
"But—" Alice began.
"Coffee. First."
He
shuffled by her. Alice grumbled, hands on her hips.
It was probably a mistake to antagonize her. Master Sergeant Alice Allenby was not somebody you wanted to piss off. Especially not on Christmas morning.
Nicknamed "the Viking," Alice stood over six feet tall, even taller in her military boots, and boasted impressive muscles. Her hair hung in two blond braids, and her eyes were blue fire. She had grown up on a Nebraska farm, chopping wood and lifting bales of hay. In high school, she became captain of the wrestling team. When she wasn't stuck on the base, she still wrestled competitively. Which she frequently reminded people of.
"You know, I went to the Olympics last year," she said. There she went again. "If you're not careful, Bastian, I'll kick your ass."
He waved her aside. "You finished twelfth place. I'm not scared of you." He reached for the coffeepot, found it empty. Dammit. He began to rummage for coffee beans. "And you know, Allenby, it wouldn't hurt you to call me sir every now and then. I am your commanding officer."
Alice snorted, hands still planted on her hips. "Oh please. I've known you since I was two years old, back when you would pull me along in your wagon."
"Yeah, well, you weighed a ton back then too. My arms still hurt." He lifted a bag of ground coffee. "What the hell is this crap?" He sniffed. "French vanilla? Where's Sergeant Aydemir? I told that idiot to buy Columbian beans."
Alice stomped closer to him, grabbed his arm. "Listen to me, meathead. I've been looking for your dumb, hungover ass. My grandfather called this morning. He's in trouble. I need to leave the base and check on him, so sign my damn exit card, sir." She draped that last word with a good dose of mockery.
Bastian watched the coffee brew. He tried to ignore the vanilla smell. It contained caffeine, and that was what mattered now. His stomach gave a sickening churn. His head was still throbbing.
"Alice, you know your grandfather." He rubbed his temples. "He calls every day about something. Bigfoot trampling over his rhubarb. Aliens molesting his chickens. Vampires sucking blood from his cows. What now? Did the Loch Ness monster pop out of his bathtub?" Bastian rinsed a chipped mug. "Or was it a ghost in his underwear drawer?"
Alice bit her lip. "He said a giant spider kidnapped my grandmother and trampled over their cornfield."
Bastian sighed. "Giant spiders. That's a new one." He finally filled his cup and took a sip. The hot brew burned down his throat. He barely noticed the vanilla. "Your grandpa is crazy, Alice. Tell him to call the police and leave us alone."
"The police told him to stop calling them."
Bastian gave a sarcastic grin, holding up his cup of coffee. "Gee, I wonder why." He sipped. Ah, blessed caffeine.
"I better go check up on them," Alice said. "I just need you to approve it. Don't make me go AWOL, Bas."
Bastian rolled his eyes. "Alice, you're stuck here for Christmas with the rest of us losers. You lost the draw fair and square. So suck it up. I assure you, a giant scorpion did not drag your grandmother away."
"Giant spider," Alice said. "My grandfather was quite specific."
"Your grandfather is quite senile. He needs to be in a nursing home."
Alice frowned. "He's a proud Allenby. We Allenbys do not belong in nursing homes."
"You're right. You Allenbys belong in loony bins."
"Sir. Can I go check on him? I promise to be back by lunch." She looked around the lounge. "It's not like anything else is happening around here today. Or ever." She muttered those last two words under her breath.
Bastian checked his watch yet again. Stacy, his ex-wife, still had their daughter for three more hours. Ah, hell. Bastian had time to kill. And maybe some fresh air would clear out this hangover.
"Fine," he said. "But I'm going with you. We'll take the buffalo. I'm driving, and we're listening to my music."
* * * * *
Bastian left the lounge with Alice. With two cups of coffee in him, he felt a little more like a human, a little less like a zombie. Soon Rowan would be here. He had a present waiting for her. Maybe she would even bring him a card.
She was the light of his life.
His marriage had collapsed. His military career, if you could call it that, had slammed into a wall. His father was the commander of a starship, and his uncles had all been legendary fighter pilots. And him, Bastian King? Well, he had the famous surname. But he was nothing but a meathead. A grunt. Too dumb to fly. Stuck on Earth. The black sheep of a famous family.
Yes, he was feeling sorry for himself this morning. He blamed the booze from last night.
But he had Rowan. His little girl still loved him. She was five years old and the only good thing in Bastian's mess of a life.
He couldn't wait. He needed a dose of Rowan now.
As he walked down the corridor, he activated his MindLink implant with a single thought.
MindPlay, the implant's operating system, hovered before him in the hallway. Glowing buttons, scroll bars, and drop-down menus floated in the air like holograms. If anyone else walked by, they would see none of it. It was all in his mind. The implant sat inside his skull, plugged into his brain tissue. Slender cables connected directly to his visual cortex. He was hallucinating the interface. The neural implant simply controlled the hallucination.
As he walked, Bastian raised his hand, scrolled through a few options, and pulled up an old video of Rowan.
In a sense, it was a memory. A memory experienced with his own senses, recorded by the MindLink, and stored inside the microchip. Memories stored on MindLinks were always so much crisper, more detailed than "wet memories," which were what people called memories stored in the ancestral brain.
Walking down the hallway, Bastian no longer saw the white tiles and concrete walls. He was watching Rowan racing through a cornfield maze, giggling as she tried to find her way out. Bastian could even smell the crisp air.
"Daddy, Daddy, I'm lost!" Rowan ran toward him, grinning. "This maze is too big."
"I guess we'll have to stay here forever," he said in his memory. And the present Bastian, walking in the base, mouthed the words silently. He had replayed this memory many times.
"Dude, careful!" A strong hand grabbed his arm. "You almost walked into the wall."
Bastian blinked and minimized the memory. The hallucination shrank into a little floating sphere like a soap bubble. He was back in the base. Alice gripped him, glaring. Indeed, he had almost walked right into a wall near the commissary.
"Oops," he said.
"Are you hungover? Or were you watching MindLink videos again?"
"Both," he confessed.
Alice sighed. "You were watching those catgirl cartoons again, weren't you?"
"It's called anime, and no." He felt his cheeks flush. "And how do you know about that?"
"I know everything. Come on, here's the exit door." Alice gestured. "Try not to trip."
Before Bastian could step outside the base, his minicom rang. Somebody was calling. He pulled the device from his pocket. The caller ID appeared on the small screen.
James "Bulldog" King, commander of the starship Freedom.
Bastian's father.
"Crap," Bastian said.
* * * * *
He stepped into a utility room, leaving Alice in the hallway. He wanted some privacy.
He had not spoken to his father in over a year. What did the old man want?
Bastian wanted to hang up. To ignore the bastard. His fists clenched.
Maybe it was the hangover weakening his resolve. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit. Maybe it was the divorce still messing up his mind. For reasons he could not understand, Bastian said to hell with it, and he took the call.
He held his minicom to his ear.
For a moment—silence.
Finally James King's voice emerged from the minicom's speaker.
"Hello, son."
With his wounded throat, King's voice was sandpaper and gravel and creaky old leather. Ironic. The old man could be calling over the MindWeb, communicating w
ith Bastian telepathically. No need for speaking. Both men had the neural implants installed. All soldiers did. Telepathy was easy, fast, safe.
But King hated it. A few years ago, he had reluctantly undergone the implant surgery. It was an Alliance requirement. But he avoided using his MindLink whenever possible. To the old man, telepathy was akin to witchcraft—mysterious and unholy. So he had called Bastian on a goddamn phone, ruined throat and all.
"What do you want, sir?" Bastian said. "Aren't you busy overseeing your museum?"
Yes, King was calling from the starship Freedom. Bastian was sure of that. The old man never visited Earth. Not even for Christmas. Not even for birthdays. Bastian remembered that quite well.
"Son," the commander rasped. Then paused.
Bastian waited. He wanted to hang up.
Finally King continued speaking. "I called to say Merry Christmas."
"You said it. Goodbye."
"Wait." His father coughed. "Bastian, I know we haven't talked in a while. I know you're still angry. But we don't have to—"
"I'm not angry, Dad. All right?" Bastian made a fist, facing the wall. "You called, we talked for Christmas, you're off the hook for another year. Happy?"
"No, I'm not happy!" King snapped. "I'm trying to fix this, dammit."
"Fix what?"
"You know what!" King roared. "The fact that my son won't talk to me. That my granddaughter barely knows me."
Bastian laughed. A cold, mirthless sound. "I get it. When I was a kid and you were the famous starship captain, you ignored us. Your family didn't matter. Suddenly you turn sixty, you realize you're an old man, you're lonely on Christmas, and you want to make amends. Well, Dad, it's too late."
King was silent for a moment, just breathing raggedly. "I deserve that," he finally said. "But dammit, Bastian, our family is falling apart. Stacy and you got the divorce. And with what happened to your mother—"
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