He smiled thinly. "Maybe someday. Now go on! Get down into the hangar. I want double shifts and full rosters. We're still in yellow alert."
She saluted, eyes damp. "Yes, sir."
He returned the salute. "Spitfire, you are no longer a stunt pilot. You're a fighter pilot."
Sniffing, the pilot ran off, and King continued walking down the corridor.
He marched onto the bridge.
"Commander on deck!" Darjeeling cried, snapped his heels together, and saluted.
King paused, looked his friend in the eyes, and returned the salute. Then he stepped to the center of the bridge.
"As you were, everyone," he rasped.
The crew got back to work, bustling around their monitors. Not the whole crew. Several of them had fallen.
King stared at the central monitor. Mercury shone ahead, as wide as a wagon wheel. The monitor's heat maps painted the planet in purple and golden hues, all swirling like a psychedelic brew. The sun shone farther back, dazzling and flaring. The solar wind blazed across the Freedom. They flew through the photon storm, their hull sparking.
They were almost there. At Merc Mory. At the armory that could refit the Freedom into a warship, that could transform a dying old bird into a mighty eagle.
"Perhaps we had to pass through fire," King said softly. "Perhaps like a phoenix we can only rise again from the ashes of destruction. This ship is hurt. But she is being forged anew. She will rise like a steel blade to strike down our enemies."
Jordan approached him, put a hand on his shoulder. "You led us to victory in this battle, Jim, and you will lead us in the great war ahead. But Jim … when the rahs stormed onto the bridge, I still killed more of them than you." He winked. "You're slowing down, old man."
King did something he rarely did.
He laughed.
* * * * *
Battered and bruised like a boxer after nine rounds, the starship Freedom limped into orbit around Mercury.
Mercury was unique among the planets. It was tidally locked to the sun. The planet did not rotate around its axis. One side blazed in a constant inferno. The other side remained eternally dark and bitterly cold. Because of the extreme temperatures, the surface was inhospitable. Merc Mory was a space station, orbiting the planet, staying always on its dark side. This close to the sun, you definitely wanted to stay in the shade.
The Freedom settled in a low orbit, only a thousand klicks from the dark, frozen surface. The ship glided through the night, heading toward the station. The planet's horizons blazed around them, crackling with sunlight like a halo of fire. From afar, the Freedom would seem to be flying inside a flaming corona.
They were fifteen minutes from the armory when they saw it.
King stared, fists clenched at his sides.
No. God, no.
A portal opened in space, obscuring the stars.
From inside they emerged. Three clawships.
They came storming toward the Freedom.
Jordan walked closer to the monitor. He inhaled sharply. "We have to turn and run. We can't fight three more. Not without ammunition. Not with our shields all battered and our hull cracked open."
King knew his XO was right. Last time, they had been lucky.
"Sir, the enemy are charging toward us at incredible speed!" Mimori cried.
King nodded. "All right. Mimori, turn us around, kick up the Talaria drive to full power, and—"
"Jim!" Jordan grabbed his arm. "Look!"
The XO pointed.
They all stared.
From beyond Mercury's horizon she rose.
A dreadnought. A human-built dreadnought. A ship even larger than the Freedom. Her hull was painted red. A golden equal sign glittered across her prow, the symbol of equalism, the cursed ideology that had dominated the twenty-second century. The ideology King had fought a world war to beat back.
The dreadnought rose from the fiery horizon, flying fast, prow lifted in pride. The enormous letters on her hull, spelling out her name, were Russian letters. But King could read them.
Here flew the RDS Lenin, flagship of the Red Dawn. The personal starship of Premier Katyusha herself.
The Lenin's cannons boomed.
"Shields to full power!" King barked. "Prepare for impact!"
But the impact never came.
The Lenin wasn't aiming at the Freedom.
The mighty photon bolts, rolling balls of energy the size of houses, plowed into a clawship.
The alien starship exploded, scattering metal claws every which way.
The Lenin fired a great laser beam.
The second starship exploded.
Finally the Lenin fired a storm of torpedoes.
The third and last clawship shattered into a million pieces.
Shrapnel pounded the Freedom. The old ship rocked in space.
It's a good thing I ordered the shields to full power, King thought wryly.
"Sir, we're getting a neural call request from the Lenin," Mimori said.
A chill flooded King's stomach. The scar on his neck blazed in sudden pain. He knew who was calling.
"Accept the call," he growled. "Feed it to my MindLink."
A hallucination appeared on the bridge, life-sized.
It was her. Katyusha. Premier of the Red Dawn.
She wore a fine military uniform. Tall black boots. A red coat with golden buttons and a braided aiguillette. A saber hung from her side, and her chin-length black hair spilled out from under her cap.
"Zdravstvuyte, Commander King!" She gave him a crooked smile. "So nice to meet you out here. And to save your American ass."
King growled at her. "We can handle ourselves."
Katyusha tossed back her head and laughed. "You still have your sense of humor, James King! Even now, in these dark times, you make jokes."
He glared at her. They were both sixty years old, but King looked his age. Katyusha did not. She still looked like a woman of thirty, same as she did during World War III. He had heard the rumors. That the Red Dawn was growing her clones in labs. That every few years, she sliced a clone's head open, scooped out its brain, and planted her own brain inside. That way she kept young forever, but with every implant, she became a little madder.
King believed those rumors.
Suddenly he saw it again.
The battlefields of Mars.
The Red Dawn troops closing in—Russia from one side, China from another, the North Koreans from behind.
He remembered how Katyusha had laughed when slicing his throat.
Instinctively he touched his scar.
"Ah yes, it still hurts, doesn't it, James King?" Katyusha said. She tsked her tongue. "So sad."
"What do you want?" he snapped.
She laughed. "Oh, Jamechka! You are always so direct and to the point. What does Katyusha want? Call it … an alliance. No, not an alliance. Bad word. That is the word for that group of rogue nations who joined against us. Instead, call it … a truce. Between you and Katyusha. Between your precious Alliance and Katyusha's glorious Red Dawn. Today we have a common enemy."
"Contrary to popular opinion, the enemy of my enemy is not my friend," King replied.
"A lovely American truism," she said. "But we Russians are more practical." She gave a mock pout. "You do not want to be Katyusha's friend, Jamechka? Not even after Katyusha saved you?"
King felt everyone on the bridge staring at him. He took a ragged breath.
I cannot let my personal feelings interfere with my duty, he thought. Katyusha took my father from me. I hate her as much as I hate the rahs. But that is my hatred. That is my burden. And mine alone. The world needs us to unite.
"For now, until the rahs are defeated, we'll work together," King said. "Not as friends but as allies." A growl fled his throat. "Now get that dreadnought of yours out of my way."
Katyusha laughed heartily. Her hallucination leaned forward and patted King's cheek. The implant generated the feeling of her hand—soft but cold. She wasn'
t really there, but he could feel her.
"Goodbye, James. Try not to fly into any more ambushes while Katyusha is away." She winked, and her avatar vanished.
King took a deep, grainy breath. He turned toward his XO. "I hate that woman."
The Lenin yawed in space, then her engines flared. The mighty dreadnought blasted into the distance, leaving a streak of light. King watched her fly away. She was heading back to Earth.
Jordan patted his shoulder. "Come on, Jim. Let's get to the armory. We've got a bunch of missiles to load. Not to mention a lot of repairs."
"And not a lot of time," King said. "Every moment we linger here, the rahs are gaining ground on Earth. We must rejoin the fight as soon as possible."
* * * * *
Scarred, dented, still leaking some air, the Freedom arrived at the Merc Mory.
A cylinder formed the station's axis, three kilometers long. Seven rings spun around the central axis, offering docks for Alliance starships. The Freedom was too large to dock directly at the station, so the ship entered a matching orbit five klicks away. They would use shuttles to go back and forth.
There was a lot to do.
Standing on the bridge, King talked to the station crew.
"I need my ship's hull repaired," he told them. "I need Maccabee torpedoes, as many as you have, for my cannons. I need bullets for my machine guns. I need Goliath projectiles for my railgun cannon. I need medical supplies for my wounded. And I need any men and women you can spare. If they can fix a machine, if they can fire a gun, if they can face the rahs without turning to flee—send them to me. I'll get them into the fight."
On the bridge monitor, the station technicians spoke to one another in hushed tones. Their leader turned toward King.
"We can do all that, Commander. We need three days to load you up with ammunition, about three weeks to repair your hull, and as for finding fresh soldiers, we'll need to—"
"I need it done in twenty-four hours," King said. "That is not negotiable. Repair what you can. Give me what weapons you have. Give me any man or woman willing to face the rahs in battle. Twenty-four hours from now, the starship Freedom is flying to Earth and reentering the fight. Get my ship fixed and armed!"
He cut the call.
Jordan sighed. "You've always been a charmer, Jim."
King turned toward him. "I don't need to charm people. I expect them to step up in times of war and do their damn job." He turned to look at the rest of the bridge crew. "Which you all did. In the war so far, you've all made me proud. I know that you will keep making me proud in the battles ahead."
A nav officer saluted, her eyes damp.
A comms officer saluted next. Then everyone was saluting. Most of them had tears in their eyes.
King looked at them, and he saw children. His children. Children who had never known war. Who had, within two days, become proud men and women. Officers of the Alliance. Soldiers.
"None of us asked for this war," King said. "None of us loves fighting. If I could, I would much rather see the Freedom as a museum ship, not a warship again. But this war was thrust upon us. And you all stood up to the task. We fought a great battle today. We fought without ammunition. Without hope. Without any aid. And we won. The cost of victory was high, and many of our brothers and sisters gave their lives for this victory. We will forever remember the fallen. Let us stand a moment in silence and honor their sacrifice."
They stood, silent. They thought about those they had lost. King also thought of those he had lost in the war long ago.
Then he spoke again. "We defeated three clawships, including one that bore a rah prince. But thousands of clawships still attack Earth and her colonies. Long ago, in a different great war, Winston Churchill said: 'This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.' Many battles still await us, and the road to victory seems long and uncertain. Hope barely shines. But when I look at my crew, I see this hope. I see it in your eyes. In your hearts. In your courage. We will continue this fight with relentless determination and belief in our cause." King raised his fist. "For freedom!"
Jordan raised his fist too. "For freedom!"
Darjeeling raised his fist next, tears on his mustache. "For freedom!"
"For freedom!" cried Spitfire, fist raised.
Everyone on the bridge raised their fists. Their voices rang out. "For freedom!"
"For freedom!" King repeated, louder now.
Their voices filled the bridge. "For freedom!"
* * * * *
Emily stood in the royal suite, looking around at the devastation.
The battle had rocked the starship Freedom, knocking priceless artifacts off the shelves and walls. Ming-dynasty vases, an ancient Greek statue of The Three Graces, the Titian painting, African tribal masks—they lay shattered on the floor. A rah had entered the room at some point, slashing the furniture and ripping out the rug.
The royal suite, once a place of opulence, lay in ruin, a perfect metaphor for Emily's life.
"Oh, this is such an awful, awful mess!" Niles said.
The drone was still damaged. A hole in his silver shell revealed the gears and microchips inside. Most of his precious jewels were missing. Darjeeling had promised to find a technician to repair Niles, but Emily had turned him down.
"Right now, Mr. Darjeeling, every technician we have must work to repair the Freedom," she had told the sergeant. "We must get back into the fight."
Niles had not liked that. He had been sulking since.
"Oh, it's my lot to suffer!" the drone said, flying around the trashed suite. "Look at this painting. Look at it! This is an original Lord Leighton. Ruined. Ruined like our lives. Oh woe!"
"Niles, please," Emily said. "Calm down. It's only a painting."
"Only a painting?" The drone bristled. "That's like saying that Hamlet is only a play, that England is only a country, or that you, Princess Emily, are only a girl."
"No," she said softly. "I'm not only a girl. I'm the last of the House of Windsor. The heiress to the throne. I am all that remains of Great Britain's royalty. And from here, in exile aboard this starship, I must be a symbol to our people."
Niles stopped fretting, hovered toward her, and nuzzled her. "The princess in exile. And someday—our queen."
"That must be my mission, Niles. To return to England. To rebuild the throne. To be crowned queen. Until that day, yes, I am the princess in exile. I will fight in this war. And however I can, I will lead our people."
Her dress was tattered, covered in soot and blood. She had lost a shoe in her flight through the ducts. Her hair was a fright. She didn't mind. She left the royal suite, walked through the starship as people stared. A few mumbled blessings. Others bowed. This was an Alliance ship, and people from many nations served here, not only nations of the Commonwealth. But they all showed her respect.
As she walked by an ATLAS control room, Emily ran into Spitfire, who was walking the other way.
Emily froze, and her heart pounded. She remembered her confrontation with Spitfire in the aerie.
It was only yesterday, she thought. But it feels like a lifetime.
The tall Israeli pilot froze too. She glared down at Emily and placed her hands on her hips.
Emily took a deep breath. "Spitfire, I'm sorry for what my grandfather did. I did not know the tale. I only learned it today when reading through the ship archives. He …" Emily took a deep breath. "He got scared. He turned tail and fled from a battle. He left your father alone, facing the enemy. He left him alone to die." Emily stared steadily into Spitfire's eyes. "I believe that it haunted King Robert until the day he died in the alien fire. I hope that now, with my grandfather dead, you can find it in your heart to forgive my family. As the last scion of my house—I'm sorry."
Spitfire's face softened. A sad smile touched her lips.
"Hey, you're all right, Emily. I saw the footage of you and Stowy taking on those rahs. You're a badass bitch, Princess. Just don't
expect me to bow and kiss your ass." She winked. "I don't serve no one but Commander King."
Emily laughed. "I wouldn't expect you to. I heard how you destroyed the clawship Venom. Spitfire, you yourself are one badass bitch." She gasped, then covered her mouth. "I can't believe I just said that."
"Clearly I'm a bad influence." Spitfire grinned. "I'm sort of proud of that."
"Maybe, when all this is over, we can share some tea?" Emily said.
"To hell with tea!" Spitfire said. "You join us at the aerie for poker and beers tonight. Cool? One last party before we return to war."
Niles hovered closer. "Princess Emily will certainly not join you for such debauchery!"
"Princess Emily most certainly will," Emily said. "It would be my honor." She glanced at Niles. "And I must keep up my reputation as a badass bitch."
If robots could pale, Niles certainly did.
Spitfire laughed.
Emily continued walking until she reached the starship bridge. As she entered, everyone bowed their heads. Darjeeling bowed deepest of all. A janitor was mopping blood and shattered glass off the deck. He paused to bow too. Emily walked across the bridge, barefoot, her dress tattered, but she kept her head high and her shoulders squared.
A princess must always be elegant, her tutors had told her. At least one lesson stuck.
She approached King.
The steely commander nodded at her. "The ATLAS broadcasting antennae are in position, Your Highness. The ship is ready to broadcast your words to Earth."
He handed her a comlink. She took the little device. It looked like a cigarette lighter from one of those antique automobiles her grandfather had collected.
I suppose all those cars are gone now, she thought. Melted into metal globs.
She took a deep breath. It shook slightly. "May I begin now, Commander?"
He nodded. "When you're ready."
Emily closed her eyes, composing herself, then spoke into the comlink, broadcasting her message from Mercury to Earth.
"To the people of Great Britain and the Commonwealth, and to all humans wherever they may be. This is Princess Emily of Great Britain. I'm speaking to you now at the most difficult time in my kingdom's history. Indeed, in our world's history.
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