Freedom's Fire Box Set: The Complete Military Space Opera Series (Books 1-6)

by Bobby Adair

  I know I’m getting close when I start to see friends of mine from the grav factory, my insurgent recruits, standing in twos and threes among soldiers waiting to go up.

  Apparently, none have been arrested by the MSS. One bucket of worries empties down the drain. That means Blair must have been telling me the truth about being my new contact with the Free Army.

  I hope.

  Yeah, I’m that much of an optimist.

  A new worry bucket starts to fill with the possibility she could be playing a deeper game than I’ve guessed. That’s a symptom of growing up under the boot of an oppressive regime, never believing you’re winning, just knowing you’re too stupid to figure out how you’re losing.

  Despite that, I move forward.

  Freedom calls.

  Station 13C suddenly presents itself in front of me.

  Penny, my pilot, is standing by herself, looking away from me, down the valley. I don’t need to see her face or read the name stenciled across her chest to know it’s her. She has a shape to her, large-breasted, wide hips—voluptuous they might have called it in another time. She spends her free time in the gym, so she has an athletic build. In fact, she’s more muscular than most of the men I know.

  She bleaches her hair and wears it short and spiked. We’ve even flirted over the years when one or both of us were going through a rough patch in our relationships at home. The timing never worked out, and our friendship remained flirtatious and frustrated.

  Penny turns and spots me. She waves.

  I cross the stone boundary to officially enter my muster station as I spot Phil talking to a sergeant.

  It looks like the entire platoon has arrived ahead of me. The troopers are lined up sitting on the ground in squads. The sergeants are on their feet, walking among them and answering questions. A short distance away from the rows stand two officers, the platoon’s lieutenant and the company’s captain, talking with another two men I know immediately are Koreans. They’ve got Asian features and unblemished, crisp suits. The assault ship’s first officer and captain.

  “Glad you made it,” says Penny, as I walk up.

  “Been here long?” I ask.

  “Half-hour.” She nods toward Phil. “Adverb got here first, a little bit before me.” ‘Adverb’ is her nickname for Phil because he never just does anything. When he walks, he does it tiredly, or slowly. When he worries, he does it loudly, pulling any passerby into his anxiety. When he sighs, it drips with boredom. He talks quickly, and sadly, and excitedly, always glazing his words in the emotion at the forefront of his troubles. When he despises the nickname Adverb, he despises it intensely. Lucky for him, everybody at the grav fab tired of the nickname years ago. Penny, though, finds her fun in his discomfort. Something inside her smiles whenever she prods his sensitivities and he reacts with a whine.

  I notice neither Penny nor Phil is armed. The Koreans, the only other two who’ll be on the ship’s bridge, are. All the soldiers have rifle-sized railguns, and three pairs of them share the load of larger railguns, each with a mount. Those are the platoon’s only heavy weapons. I turn my d-pad up so I can see it, and I start tapping. “Do you know anything about these assault ships we’ll be flying?”

  Penny purses her lips, and her eyebrows draw close to one another. She knows. “Got my briefing while they were suiting me up.” Penny puts her hands on her hips and snorts. “I thought all that simulator training about high-speed docking maneuvers didn’t make any sense when I was going through it. Now it does.”

  I grimace. “What do you think? Can it be done?”

  “Damn gravity lens better work, is all I can say.”

  “Can you fly the ship?”

  “If it works like the simulator.” Penny shrugs.

  Of all the pilots-in-training in the web of my conspiracy, Penny did a little better than average in the flight simulators. I know she’s a quick learner and she’s fearless. At least she pretends to be.

  “Did you hear anything about the light-speed capabilities on these ships?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, but looks at me instead, scanning my face, looking for something. “You’re asking questions because you’re nervous.”

  I shrug. I don’t feel nervous, not really. A lot is running through my mind. Troubles are piling up.

  “We’ll make it up there, and we’ll be prepared or we won’t,” she says. “We’ll do what we need to do, or we won’t. Time for what-ifs is long gone.”

  “I can always count on you for a dose of sunshine.”

  “You can.”

  “What about your…” Penny looks around, checking to make sure no one is close enough to overhear, “friend. What’s the word?”

  She’s asking about Vishnu. I can’t tell her the news. Not right now.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Some hiccups. That’s all. We’re good to go.” It’s my turn to look around suspiciously. “We’ve each got half an encrypted file on our d-pads. We can merge them to find the coordinates for a secret Free Army base out in the asteroid belt. Our orders are to get the ship out there.”

  Penny glances over at the officers. “What about them?”

  It’s a question that’s always gone unanswered. Mutiny was easy when we were planning and plotting. “We do what we need to do.”

  And just like that, I’ve failed to answer it again. I wonder whether I’ll have the balls to do what needs doing when the time comes.

  “So this is for real?” asks Penny.

  “We’re all here,” I answer, as I scan across the field, seeing more of my coconspirators from the grav factory, mixed with their SDF units. We’re all ready to turn on our masters and join the Free Army. How many of these soldiers will raise their weapons to kill us once they realize some of us are traitors?

  Chapter 13

  I don’t have much time to study the assault ship’s tactics. There isn’t much I need to know. Penny’s the pilot. She understands the ship’s flight capabilities. That much, if not the details about ramming other ships, was included in her simulator.

  More technical aspects, such as grav controls, navigation, and ship fusion reactor systems, were included in Phil’s simulator courses. The only new parts for him are those covering the grav lens. It’s new for all of us, but only Phil needs to have an intimate understanding, since he’ll be in charge of that part of our ship.

  Assault ship tactics aren’t hard. It’s all guesswork. Nobody on earth has engaged in this kind of warfare since ancient times when Rome and Carthage sent their navies out to ram and board enemy ships. Effective modes of attack may exist, but we’ll have to learn those by trial and error once we’re in outer space fighting the Trogs.

  A flock of grav lifts descends on the regiment’s muster stations.

  Watching them come down, I realize I’m out of time for prep. I’m as ready as I’m going to be.

  The platoon’s senior sergeant—a lean, intimidating man named Brice—orders everyone to their feet.

  Butterflies fill my guts as our assigned lift silently settles onto the short grass in front of us. Like all the other lifts, it looks better from a distance. Up close, I see it’s a forty-foot shipping container, older than any of us, rusted by age and pitted by countless trips through the atmosphere. Attached to the container is the actual lift, little more than a rigid frame for holding the container in place, embedded grav plates, and a small fusion reactor. The pilot sits in a half-bubble cockpit on one end.

  Soldiers close their faceplates.

  I take my last breath of earth air and do the same.

  Penny nudges me and smiles. She’s more than ready, she’s anxious.

  I wonder if her confidence is as fake as mine.

  I’m listening in on the platoon comm. Brice’s orders are curt and clear. He’s a guy who’s used to having soldiers do what he says, like he’s used to being right.

  Then again, maybe that’s me projecting hope.


  The doors on the grav lift’s container swing open.

  “Hazardous Mangos!” Brice’s strong voice addresses the troops in their brightly-colored suits. “Move your feet and stay in line. Pretend you’re real soldiers, or first graders. You pick. Move!”

  Men and women are on their feet, jogging toward the vessel.

  Moments later, I’m inside with all the others. There’s nowhere to sit—the container is just an empty metal box built to haul twenty-ton loads of equipment, workers, and raw materials into orbit. It was never meant to make anyone comfortable.

  I look around for Phil. He’s near the door, one of the last to step inside. Through his glass faceplate, I see anxiety on his face, not unusual for Phil. I hope he’s ready for what’s coming.

  Penny nudges me again, advertising her excitement. “It’s really happening!”

  Is it the revolution or the flying she’s talking about?

  “Grab a handhold on the wall,” the sergeant tells us from where he stands in the center of the container. He reaches up and clutches one of several thick wires strung across the box just overhead. “Or a cable.”

  I grab a handhold that was welded to the wall so recently the raw metal hasn’t had time yet to rust.

  The grav lift’s captain powers his plates, and the vessel starts to rise.

  I feel the downward pull of the earth as we accelerate away with wide-open doors.

  Plenty of troopers have something to say about that, mostly versions of “Holy shit!”

  We’re a few hundred feet in the air already and starting to veer, when the ship’s single crewman swings the doors shut, leaving us in darkness.

  My eyes adjust.

  Spears of light shine in through gaps around the door and holes in the walls where the metal has corroded through.

  A soldier falls to the floor and knocks another over.

  “Grav compensate,” barks Sergeant Brice. “Or hold on.”

  Suit lights mounted on helmets and left shoulders come on, casting beams at odd angles all through the crate.

  Wind starts to howl through the gaps as the lift picks up speed.

  The g’s start to weigh on me, and I feel like I’m being stepped on by a giant. My back strains and my knees hurt. My readout tells me we’re pulling two g’s.

  Soldiers lean on one another. Good thing we’re packed in pretty snug.

  A woman’s knees buckle.

  Another trooper goes down.

  “Auto-goddamn-compensate!” shouts Brice. “It’s the slider on the left end of your d-pad. Use your favorite nostril finger and move it up and down. Remember your training, people!”

  The metal wall I’m standing next to starts to flex, buffeted by the wind outside.

  The wind’s howl turns to a screaming whistle.

  The container shudders like it’s going to fall apart.

  I glance at Penny, letting the concern on my face ask my question.

  “This is normal,” she tells me. She used to date a grav lift pilot who’d take her on occasional joyrides. “Only the old ones fall apart.”

  I glance around at the oxidizing walls and look back at Penny.

  She’s grinning, and I’m wondering which part of what she said was the joke.

  The shaking gets worse.

  People start talking, letting fright run away with their words.

  A grav lift ride was never in any of the simulators. None of us but Penny knew what to expect.

  I decide it’s time to stop with pointless machismo and set my suit to ninety percent auto-compensate for the extra g’s. My bones thank me by only hurting a little bit less.

  Penny is looking at her d-pad, unconcerned about the grav lift. “The trip goes faster than you think.”

  The whistle changes.

  The ship’s shudder dissipates.

  The push of the ships acceleration lessens.

  I feel the lift lean.

  The pilot is letting off.

  Sound dies away. A moment later, all sense of weight disappears.

  “We’re at the edge of space,” Penny tells me.

  The troops around me notice, too. One of them whoops, and a few more copy. For most of them, this is the first time they’ve felt actual zero-g.

  Feet come off the floor.

  Hands grip everywhere.

  A few steps in front of me, a man’s visor screen splatters yellow from the inside.

  I’m thankful the smell of his vomitus is contained in his suit. Lucky for him we’re touching down in Arizona before boarding our ship. He’ll have a few minutes to open his faceplate and clean the mess out. Unfortunately, taking off his helmet or suit aren’t options, so whatever drips down inside, he’ll have to live with for days or weeks, maybe more.

  He starts to complain loudly over the platoon channel.

  “Suck it up,” Brice tells the whiner. “Maybe put that waggly tongue to work and lean forward and lick it off your glass. It all goes back inside anyway. Might as well get used to it.”

  “He’s no Marine,” jabs a woman, like any of us have earned the right to label ourselves.

  “None of us are,” says another, and more of them laugh.

  That’s the joke, really. We’re part of a Heavy Assault Division, but all of us know—whatever a Marine was fifty years ago—it’s not us.

  “Kill some Trogs,” says Sergeant Brice. “Live to tell about it, and I’ll call you whatever you want.”

  That gets some nods from the platoon.

  The lift executes a spin maneuver that throws everyone off-balance.

  “At the top of a parabolic path,” Penny tells me. “Like a ballistic missile.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel worse?” I ask.

  Penny grins.

  I guess that’s my answer.

  “The pilot needed to reorient the ship for deceleration.” She reads the time off her d-pad. “We’ll be there in seven or eight minutes.”

  The floor starts pushing up on us as we decelerate at the same rate we ascended.

  We’re back in the atmosphere again, and the wind whistle starts. The container shudders.

  The platoon settles down as we continue our descent. The soldiers know we’re coming to the end of this leg. Like me, they feel they’ve been through the worst of it. From here on out, we know what to expect.

  Something buffets the lift, and a rumble rattles my teeth.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask. A gust of wind? Thunder?

  Everyone is alert.

  Looking at silent Penny, I ask again, “What was—”

  The lift bounces left on turbulence, and the unmistakable roar of an explosion stuns us.

  Shit!

  I think we’re crashing, but realize immediately I’m wrong. We’re still decelerating, not falling, but something’s not right.

  “What do you think?” Penny asks over the comm.

  “I was hoping you had the answer.”

  A guy starts hollering panicked gibberish and falls to the floor. The first of us to crack and we haven’t even seen a Trog yet.

  He crawls toward the doors we entered through, pushing and elbowing past boots and knees.

  Brice orders him to stop.

  Another explosion bounces the ship, but we still descend.

  The company captain squawks some noise, and the lieutenant immediately parrots it.

  I glance at Penny, and I can tell she’s concluded the same thing as me. If the panic spreads, we’re all screwed.

  Sergeant Brice is moving toward the crawling man, but not getting there fast enough.

  I identify the man by the gravity signature emitted by his suit. They’re all unique, and thanks to the spaghetti bug in my head, I can read it. I kill his outgoing comm link and reluctantly issue the command to paralyze his suit.

  He freezes stiff.

  The platoon channel goes silent as they all realize what just happened. Some o
f them look at me, relieved. Other eyes accuse.

  The lieutenant shouts something pointless, but it sounds like a question.

  Nobody pays attention.

  “We’ll be down, soon,” booms Sergeant Brice’s voice. “Disembark like soldiers, and scurry your dainty butts to the assault ship. No time to sightsee once your feet are on the ground. No time for longing looks at the lovely sky. No time for goodbye kisses and happy wishes. It seems some Trogs are in the neighborhood and want to kill you. Don’t make it easy.”

  Another explosion rocks us.

  The press of deceleration disappears, and the ship starts to maneuver in fast jukes.

  We’re all getting bounced around inside.

  “A couple hundred feet up,” Penny tells me.

  Another explosion rattles the shipping container—not close, but distinct—and if any in the platoon had any doubts, they’ve disappeared. We’re coming down in the midst of a battle.

  Chapter 14

  The shuttle pulls hard around a tight turn, grav plates stressing under the load. Thanks to the bug in my head, I see the grav fields glow brilliant blue. The cargo doors swing free and squeal on their hinges.

  Hundreds of assault ships—maybe thousands—are lined in rows on the desert floor, all the way from the sprawling shipyard factories in the south to the foot of the mountains in the north.

  Rusty and coarse. Brutal and hard.

  Iron berserkers.

  Enders of life.

  They’re shaped like the Apollo rockets of the last century but only in the crudest way. Those ships were flimsy and clean, perfect and smooth, painted white and packed with the most ingenious devices of their day for keeping men alive on the first trip to a world beyond our own. Those ships were built for explorers.

  These in the desert are machines of war.

  We’ll ride the corroded brutes into the void to harpoon star-faring dreadnoughts a kilometer long. If the technology supposed to keep the vessels in one piece works, if the enemy ships don’t disintegrate, if we live through the collisions, we’ll pour out with weapons blazing.

  Maybe we’ll capture our prey. Maybe, we’ll die.