Even so, the journey seemed agonizingly long. Every minute lasted an eternity.
Finally Bastian saw the place ahead.
Meskwaki reservation. Home to the last few dozen members of the Meskwaki tribe.
"Bastian, why are we here?" Alice shouted over the wind, riding behind on the buffalo.
"Charging Bear will help us," he said. "He's the best damn tracker in Nebraska. Hell, probably in the world."
He slowed the buffalo down. For a moment he and Alice rode in silence, staring around them.
Meskwaki reservation was a humble place. Pickup trucks and tractors rusted along dirt roads. Trailers, huts, and even a few tents stood on the plains, home to the last survivors of the tribe. The little gardens and farms didn't produce much food. The locals did what they could to survive. They wove bracelets, embroidered rugs, sold whatever they could. They were too proud to beg. The landscape around them was wild and beautiful, but here in the valley was a hard life, an ancient people clinging to survival. World War III had been hard on everyone. But the Meskwaki had suffered more than most.
Riding the buffalo at a slow clip, Bastian rode through the reservation. The tribe came out to greet him. They knew him well. Smiling shyly, a woman offered him and Alice bowls of stew, which they gratefully accepted. The meal was rich with venison and wild mushrooms.
"They don't mind seeing Alliance uniforms here?" Alice asked, sipping from her bowl. Both she and Bastian were wearing their olive drabs, the standard fatigues of Alliance marines.
"Many members of the Meskwaki tribe fought with the Alliance in the war," Bastian said. "Half of them gave their lives. They are a proud, free people, and their tribe is thousands of years old, but they honor the Alliance."
They found Charging Bear outside his trailer. He was a towering man, close to seven feet tall. Bastian was a big guy, but next to this giant, he seemed small.
On his birth certificate, his name was Chuck Baker. But he preferred to go by Charging Bear, his traditional name. He stood in the snow, holding a chainsaw. He was busy carving a log, sculpting the rough shape of a wolf. He was a sculptor by trade. Completed works stood around him in the yard. With his chainsaw, Bear could carve logs into eagles, wolves, bears, and other proud animals. Some of the logs were carved with the faces of the tribe's elders.
Charging Bear sold some of these sculptures to support the tribe. Bastian himself owned one, a mighty eagle. It sat back in his home. Well, Stacy's home now.
"Hey there, Bear!" Bastian cried over the roaring chainsaw.
The giant shut off the chainsaw and turned toward Bastian. He wore faded old jeans and a leather jacket. His face was gaunt and weatherworn, and his black hair hung in two braids. The two men were the same age, thirty-three, but Charging Bear seemed older. It wasn't just the lines on his forehead, carved by wind and bronzed by sunlight. It was an old sadness in his eyes, a weight on his broad shoulders.
Despite the sadness he carried, when he saw Bastian, the giant smiled. "Hello, Bas. How are you?"
Bastian dismounted the buffalo and hugged his friend. "Hey there, bud. I like the new eagle you're working on."
Alice waited on the mechanical buffalo, wringing her hands and biting her lip. Bear noticed her distress.
"What's wrong?" the giant asked.
"We need your help and quick," Bastian said. "Can you spare an hour?"
"Of course," said Bear. "For you—always."
"Then come on. Onto the buffalo. We gotta ride hard. I'll explain on the way."
"On that contraption of yours?" Bear snorted. "You guys keep your buffalo. I'll take my horse."
"Your old nag?" Bastian said. "We gotta move fast, bud."
"Oh, don't worry. I got a new ride."
The giant walked toward a rickety shed, opened the door, and revealed a gleaming new robot. It was shaped like a horse, forged of dark steel, as graceful as the real thing.
Bastian whistled. "That's a beauty."
"Built her myself." Bear grabbed a shotgun, slung it across his back, and climbed onto the saddle. "Try to keep up, buddy."
Not a moment later, they galloped out of the reservation. Bastian and Alice rode the buffalo. Bear rode his robotic stallion. Indeed, the buffalo struggled to keep up.
They galloped hard across the plains, heading to the forest to hunt a spider.
CHAPTER TEN
The Starship Freedom
High Earth Orbit
11:51 Christmas 2199
"Off for Christmas." King grunted. "The admiral—off for Christmas! I'm sitting here on the most credible threat the Alliance has faced in years. And he's off for Christmas."
King stood in his quarters, nearly crushing his comlink in his hand. That hand began to shake with rage. He had called the admiral's office. His personal assistant. Even the man's wife. They were all stonewalling him.
"Jim." Jordan's voice was deep and soothing. "It's all right."
King's upper lip rose in a snarl. "They're blowing me off. You know they are. This wouldn't have happened before the Freedom turned into a goddamn theme park."
Something cracked in his hand. He opened his fist. He had crushed the comlink.
"Jim." Jordan placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're stressed. It's your last day. You're looking for enemies to fight."
"What do you think I'm doing—trying to recapture the glory of war before retirement?" King snickered. "You know me better than that."
"Yes, I know you, Jim." Jordan smiled soothingly. "We go way back. And I've seen the report on the Rubicon. I know this is serious. Go blow off some steam, Jim. Hit the gym or bar. I'll keep trying the admiral, and if I can't get him, I'll try the other generals. I might have better luck." He winked. "After all, I'm far more personable than you, you cranky old bastard."
King glared at his old friend, then barked a laugh. "I can't argue with that. All right. You try it. Before I break any more expensive equipment and get it docked off my first retirement check."
He left his office, stood for a moment in the corridor, and gazed at the hustle and bustle of the ship. Crew members hurried back and forth, busy at their tasks. A guide was showing Japanese tourists the uniform of Prince Robert, which hung in a glass display case. When they noticed King emerge from his office, the tourists pointed and took photos. An elderly woman with thick glasses approached King, spoke excitedly in Japanese, and snapped a selfie with them.
King forced himself to smile, but he suspected it looked more like a grimace. Struggling not to pummel somebody, he marched down the corridor, into an elevator, and ascended toward the upper deck.
Blow off steam, Jordan had told him.
There was something King had always wanted to do. In forty years aboard this ship, he never got the chance.
Hell … why not? It was his last day. What could they do? Fire him?
The Freedom's primary weapon was the Fist of Freedom, the enormous railgun whose twin prongs thrust out from the prow. But the Freedom had other weapons too. Fourteen cannons topped her dorsal hull. Seven along the starboard, seven along the port. The Angels of Liberty.
Back in the war, these cannons had fired Maccabee torpedoes. The legendary Maccabees were among the largest torpedoes ever built, their warheads the size of houses. Launching those devastating missiles, the mighty Angels of Liberty could destroy an enemy frigate with a single hit.
During his days as a starfighter pilot, King had fired only small missiles, which could fit onto his Eagle's wings. He had always wanted to fire one of the Angels, a cannon the size of a redwood.
King rarely smiled. But right now a mischievous smile tugged at his lips.
A retirement present to myself, he thought.
He took the elevator into a cavernous control room. The chamber would not shame a church nave. Gears covered the walls, their teeth as large as men. Pipes ran along the deckhead. From this chamber, gunners controlled the Libertas, one of the fourteen Angels of Liberty. The Libertas was the most famous of the fourteen; she had
taken out the great dreadnought Mao during the war.
A colossal chute dominated the room, slanting from the hull toward the floor. It looked like a water slide for giants. The gunners used to load the Maccabees into this tube, which then delivered the torpedoes into the cannon's bore. Today the gunners loaded barrels of fireworks, but the principle was the same.
To lift torpedoes and fireworks this big, every Angel of Liberty came with several loader mechas. Well, they used to. Today most of the giant robots were on Earth, working in factories. One had apparently been gutted and turned into a playground, complete with swings on his metal arms. But a few mechas remained aboard the Freedom.
One mecha stood here in the control room behind velvet ropes. They called this one Samson. Tourists like to snap photos of him. If they paid extra, they could even climb into the cockpit for a photo.
The loaders were essentially human-shaped forklifts. Samson was forty years old now. His yellow paint was peeling off his steel frame. His motors, pistons, and gears were all outdated. Today, people used graviton lift plates to carry heavy loads. But Samson remained, an enduring symbol of the Freedom.
King had always wanted to operate him.
The gunnery crew was on break. They wouldn't be firing more fireworks until the Christmas gala tonight. The fireworks awaited in cylindrical containers the size of buses, stacked together like giant metal logs.
King's mischievous smile grew. He was the commander of this ship, but suddenly he felt like a young ensign again, pulling pranks and getting into trouble. Those had been good days. More innocent days. Before the loss of his father. Before the death of his wife. Before he got old.
King pulled aside the stanchions that cordoned Samson. He climbed a ladder to the mecha's torso, where he slid into the cockpit. An array of joysticks and levers thrust out from a control panel. Pedals controlled the mecha's heavy metal feet. A crude but effective machine.
King flipped a switch, turning the mecha on. Samson's motors rumbled. Lights flashed in the cockpit. King grabbed the joysticks and placed his feet on the pedals.
He moved his legs. Hydraulic pistons moved. And Samson began to walk, thumping his way across the deck. The machine weighed thirty tons, and King knew they could hear these footsteps several decks down.
Try to stop me, he thought.
So far, so good. No dismayed gunners came running into the control room. King still had the place—and the mecha—to himself.
King kept moving the joysticks and pedals. Motors rumbling, Samson thundered toward the pile of firework barrels. King pushed two joysticks. Samson extended his hands, which were shaped like forklift prongs.
Gently King manipulated the mecha's hands. The metal fingers closed around one of the firework barrels. King pulled back the joystick, and Samson lifted the tubular container.
This was fun. King hadn't had this much fun in ages.
He placed the barrel into the loading chute. With one of Samson's fingers, he tapped a button. The barrel began rolling up the chute on magnetic tracks. The chamber vibrated. The barrel vanished from view, moving toward the Angel of Liberty, which thrust out from the hull.
King climbed out of the mecha, approached a huge lever, and paused.
He connected his MindLink to a camera on the starship's exterior. A video feed floated before him, featuring a view of the Libertas. The legendary cannon pointed at the stars.
This was one time King didn't mind using the implant. It gave him eyes outside the ship. And he wanted to see this.
A green light appeared on a control panel on the wall. A message appeared below it.
READY TO FIRE
"Here goes," King said, gripped the lever with both hands, and shoved it down.
With a deafening boom that shook the entire starship, the Libertas fired.
King stumbled back, grinning. The deck swayed beneath his feet. The entire starship jerked in space.
On his MindWeb video, he saw it happen. The cannon fired the barrel into the distance. A few klicks away, the fireworks exploded.
Red and blue lights blazed in space, forming the shape of a great eagle. Its wings spread a mile wide. The bird of light soared, spun, and opened its golden beak to silently sing.
Across the ship, they were probably scratching their heads. This wasn't on the schedule! King chuckled to himself.
There. Now I've done everything on the ship, and I can retire in peace.
"Not bad!" came a voice from behind him. "Next time, can you fire Darjeeling out the cannon?"
King turned around.
A girl sat on a pipe, one knee pulled to her chin, chewing an apple. She spat out a seed.
"Hello, Stowy," King said. "Were you watching the whole time?"
"Nah." The girl shrugged. "I was relaxing in the ducts, minding my own business, when you raised a holy racket. Had to come see what the noise was about. I thought it was a goddamn alien invasion!"
The girl wore a ragged dress with many pockets sewn on like patches. She wore no shoes and only one striped stocking, which was pulled up to her knee. Her messy brown hair hadn't seen a comb in years, it seemed. Freckles lay strewn across her impish face, especially on the upturned nose. There was something a bit off about the girl. Elfin. She seemed like a creature from the lands of faerie, risen into the world. Sometimes King wondered if she was just a MindLink hallucination.
"Has Darjeeling been giving you a rough time lately?" King asked, suppressing a smile.
Stowy laughed. "Nah, not really. He chases me a lot, but he's slow and fat. I can always escape him. He yells and waves his fists and it's really funny." She put a finger atop her lip like a mustache, shook her fist, and spoke with a fake British accent. "Oi, you girl! Get out of that pipe, you pipsqueak!"
A fit of giggles seized her. Stowy laughed so hard she fell off the pipe. She rolled around the deck, laughing hysterically.
King couldn't help but smile. Nobody knew her real name or where she came from. Three years ago, the girl had sneaked onto the ship. A stowaway. She had no home on Earth, no family that anyone knew of. So they called her Stowy. They accepted her. She spent her days sneaking around the ductwork, crawling all over the ship, popping out from vents anywhere between the stern and prow. Nobody knew where she slept. They left out trays of food for her. Sometimes Stowy even popped out of a vent in the aerie, where she joined the pilots for beer and poker.
King would have given her a proper bunk to sleep in, but they all belonged to the civilian company that ran the hotel. So in the ducts Stowy remained, spending her days sneaking around, popping up everywhere like a mole, and mostly tormenting poor Darjeeling.
"Hey!" Stowy said once she stopped laughing. "Commander King, are the rumors true? Are you going to retire?"
King lost his smile. "And how do you know a secret I've only shared with my senior officers?"
Stowy grinned. "I know everything that goes on around here. Hey, when you retire, you should name me commander. I know this ship better than anyone."
King snorted. "That I don't doubt. But you have to be eighteen to join the Alliance."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh my, look at you, judging me for being young and cute. It's not my fault I'm only seventeen. I would have been born earlier, if I wasn't so lazy and just stayed in my mother's womb for a full extra two years! Yes, two years I stayed in the womb. My mother said I was just sleeping in there, eating apples, singing tunes, not wanting to come out. She'd hear me giggle from inside, you know. True story. That's probably why she abandoned me." She shrugged. "Go figure."
King brushed some ashes off her shoulder. "Stowy, when I'm gone, look after this ship, will you? You might not be an officer of the Alliance. You're not even supposed to be on this ship. But you're right. You know this ship. You know it better than any map. Look after the place when I'm gone."
Suddenly Stowy was sniffing. Tears rolled down her cheeks, drawing lines through the soot. She saluted. "Yes, sir! And the first thing I'll do once you're gone is shoot D
arjeeling out the cannon. Kidding, kidding!"
She let out a huge sniff, then pulled King into a hug.
King grumbled. Stowy was getting soot all over the uniform. But gradually he loosened up and hugged her back.
"Goodbye, Stowy. Don't get in too much trouble while I'm gone. And if you ever find yourself back on Earth, swing by Nebraska. I'll cook you a meal."
"No thanks. I love the Freedom too much to ever leave. This is my home." She smiled shakily. "Thanks for letting me stay. You da best, boss."
She hesitated, then stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.
Then, giggling, the girl spun on her heel and ran off. Quick as a chipmunk, she vanished through a vent into the ductwork. King smiled wistfully. Whenever Stowy left a room, it always felt like waking up from a dream, as if a bit of magic had just left the world. You were left wondering if she had ever really been there. The only signs of Stowy that remained were the apple core on the deck and the soot on King's uniform.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Starship Freedom
High Earth Orbit
12:27 Christmas 2199
Emily walked through the starship Freedom, eyes wide, gaping at the wonders.
"Oh, Niles, isn't it marvelous?"
The drone hovered beside her. His silver shell glittered with sapphires, rubies, and diamonds. He seemed woefully misplaced among the starship's metal bulkheads, diamond plate decks, and rattling pipes.
"It's positively ghastly," the drone said. "We've been exploring this starship for two hours, and I haven't seen a single decent work of art on the walls. Not one original oil painting or statue to be seen! I miss Buckingham Palace."
"Oh come, Niles." Emily slung an arm over the hovering drone. "Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Adventure? Bah!" Niles turned from side to side. His cameras took in the twisting, metallic corridors that snaked through the Freedom like a maze. "I'm liable to catch a horrible computer virus in this place. It's positively oozing with viruses. I can hear them scurrying through the walls."
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