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

by Bobby Adair

  One hundred times the speed of light? Amazing to think about. So much of the galaxy would lie within reach.

  “You also have a computer-controlled bubble jump system,” says Spitz. “It’s built to assist the gravitational officers.” Spitz nods at Phil, since that was Phil’s job on the Rusty Turd, “It should drastically reduce the time between jumps, decreasing your overall travel time.” Spitz nods toward the doorway leading into the central hall, only the door has been moved. It no longer aligns with the ship’s long axis. “Let’s go forward.”

  Spitz steps through. Both Phil and I follow.

  The central hall running from the bridge to the crew compartment has been widened to accommodate a tube covered in complicated shapes and wires. The airlock at the far end of the hall, like the door to the bridge, has been moved off-center.

  “A railgun?” I guess, though it doesn’t make sense. From here to the nose of the ship it would have to be over two hundred feet long and cut right through the grav lens.

  “Yes,” Spitz proudly confirms. “It’s not exactly experimental. We’ve tested. This is an early production model.”

  “Experimental? Early production model?” I don’t like the sound of either one.

  I start forward, but Spitz stops me and points at each of the aft-most rooms off the hall. One was the captain’s quarters. He says, “They’ve been converted to magazines for the weapon. What’s another twenty tons of slugs in a ship of this weight?” He chuckles.

  “Twenty tons?”

  Nodding, Spitz explains, “Twenty-five thousand one-kilogram slugs will feed into the railgun at eight hundred per minute, fired by the pilot. We’ve added a trigger to her control stick and a safety on the console.”

  I didn’t even notice the extra controls.

  “If it works as planned,” says Spitz, “this weapon alone will overwhelm the defensive grav fields on any Trog cruiser. You don’t need to ram anything.”

  One-kilogram slugs don’t sound like much to me for attacking a Trog cruiser. “Unless we want to capture it.”

  “A dubious tactic at best, don’t you think?” Spitz leads us up the hall. The airlock doors are propped open, so we walk right into the platoon compartment. The railgun does indeed run right through, past the jump seats, and into the grav lens on the Rusty Turd’s bow.

  “What about the grav lens?” I ask. “Will it still function?”

  “Of course,” Spitz tells me. “In fact, it now serves three purposes. One, as a particle shield during hyper-light and sub-light travel; a second, as a ram for skewering Trog vessels; and now, as a final acceleration stage for slugs shooting out of the railgun. Our calculations suggest a final slug velocity in excess of 100,000 miles per hour.”

  Phil can’t contain his wonder. “Holy shit!”

  “That’s faster than those big gun emplacements on the moon.” It’s hard to believe so much firepower could be built into my ship.

  “The grav lens is the kicker,” says Spitz. “The acceleration is so intense, it’ll disintegrate any material we put through it.”

  That doesn’t sound good to me, though Spitz isn’t bothered at all. “Depending on how far your target is, it might be hit by a plasma of heavy nuclei and free electrons that’ll tear through pretty much anything, or it’ll be hit by a kilogram of solidifying metal the diameter of a straw a dozen meters long.”

  I nod appreciatively. It’s roughly the secret behind the effectiveness of the grav lens—its ability to focus the ship’s ramming momentum behind a pencil-point tip. “Either way, the target is toast.”

  “Toast,” Spitz agrees. “One thing, though.”

  “What’s that?” I hate the fine print.

  “You’ll need to take along a few of my techs. As I said, the railgun is an early production model. The techs will need to operate it and repair it as needed.”

  I turn to Phil.

  He shrugs.

  “One condition,” I tell Spitz.

  “Which is?”

  “Phil has to okay anybody you send with us.”

  “Cautious.” Spitz seems pleased by that. “Agreed.”

  Patting the steel railgun tube as we stand in the platoon bay, I can’t help but start to think about the implications of what we’ve done here. Looking admirably at Spitz, I say, “So this is the fastest and probably most powerful space-based weapons system in the solar system.”

  Spitz nods proudly.

  Phil seems a little worried. “It’s not going to blow up on us, is it?”

  “Doubtful,” Spitz answers. “However, that is a legitimate concern.”

  I elbow Phil. “Our odds of spontaneous combustion were one-in-twenty when we first pushed the Turd to light speed.” I turn to Spitz. “We’re better off now, right?”

  “Much better,” he assures me.

  Now, for the most important of the implications I’d just thought through. “How many of the surviving assault ships can you refit like this? Can you turn them each around in a week?”

  Spitz’s face turns to worry, though I can see his gears turning as he considers the question. “It takes us several months to construct one of these railguns, and we only have two others. The most I could convince my boss to spare is the one. You’ll be on your own when you go back out there.”

  I shake my head. “No, we’ll be with the Free Army fleet. We’ll just have a better chance of destroying the enemy in the battle to come.”

  Chapter 34

  Besides the brief hour or so I was out of my suit back on the Potato after frying my grav plates while chasing down the SDF loyalists, I’ve not had the orange antique off.

  Now, with nothing covering my skin except a sweatshirt and thick cotton work pants, I feel the kind of naked that torments the dreams of insecure people. I’m vulnerable. I don’t know how many doors and airlocks stand between my thin human skin and the vacuum of space, but they are only tidbits of technology that could fail at any second.

  Or be destroyed by attacking Trogs.

  Or Grays.

  Or SDF loyalists.

  Who knows how many varieties of hostiles lurk in the blackness, waiting for an inattentive moment to pounce on their prey?

  That’s what I feel like without my suit. Inattentive. Unprotected. My life in the hands of others.

  I don’t like it.

  I wonder, if I ever get back to earth, will I ever feel secure again, even beneath miles of atmosphere coddling me from the cold?

  And there’s more.

  I have unprocessed calories gurgling their way through my intestines.

  Not suit goo, but actual food!

  It tasted good when I ate it, though my jaw tired quickly from the chewing.

  That was unexpected.

  I felt full much sooner than I thought possible. I guess all the fiber I so rapidly grew used to not having. I don’t know how the next few days will go with the solid foods. I expect I’m going to spend a lot of time sitting on or frantically sprinting to the nearest commode. Cramping. And maybe, just when my body is starting to adjust back to normal food again, it’ll be time for another intestinal cleanse, the salty syrup treatment for making my system ready for the suit.

  More sitting. More sprinting.

  I know this time out of the suit is intended to be a kindness, something I’m supposed to need and want, something to make me feel like a human again. Perhaps I adjusted too fast to life in the orange.

  A knock sounds at my dorm room door.

  Even as I look up through the darkness, I know it’s Phil with his Gray in tow. “Come.”

  The door swings open, letting the dim light from the hall drizzle over my darkness.

  “Why are you sitting in here with the lights out?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”

  Phil steps inside. The Tick follows.

  “Close it?” I ask.

  Phil complies.

  I reach over to a di
mmer switch on the wall beside my bed and illuminate the room in dusky gray. I motion to a chair.

  Phil seats himself and the Gray stands beside him.

  “Everyone else asleep?” I ask. Our hosts have housed us in a barracks facility designed to handle a few platoons. It’s much too large for our needs, with less than half of one platoon surviving. We’re all in adjacent rooms on the same floor. The rest of the barrack stands empty.

  “Some are asleep,” answers Phil. “Some are logged into computers, reading the news. Six are in a room four doors down, talking.”

  “About?”

  Phil shrugs. “Nothing important. At least not now. I think they miss the constant communication.”

  I nod at that. As physically isolating as the suits are, you’re never, ever more than a heartbeat away from talking to another person. It’s a strange sweet-and-sour state of connectedness to exist in.”How do they feel about things?”

  “Are you asking if they’re on board?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Nothing has changed as far as I can tell. They’re a loyal bunch. Several are talking about turning colonist if Spitz lets them.”

  “If any ask,” I’m reluctant to say it, but it’s the right thing to do, “tell them they have my blessing. It’s probably the smartest option.”

  Phil silently agrees.

  “What about you?”

  Phil shrugs.

  “Do you want to go to the colonies? That’s what Gustafson and Spitz want for you.”

  “I know.”

  “And?”

  “I’m staying with you and Penny.”

  “But what do you want?”

  “I want to go to the colonies,” answers Phil. “Yet, more than I want that, I want to stay with my friends.” He looks away so I know he’s going to admit something he’d rather not. “I think you’re both alive because of me.”

  I chuckle. I’m not sure if it’s because I agree or disagree.

  “Well, that’s not exactly right,” he clarifies. “We’re alive because we’re together. If any one of us weren’t along for the ride, the other two would have been killed.”

  “I think you’re right about that, Phil.”

  “What do you want?” he asks. “I know you’ve built your self-identity around this concept of turning rebel and saving the human race.”

  “I’m not a superhero.”

  Phil grins. “That’s what it looks like in your fantasies, though, right?”

  Mind readers suck. “Yes.”

  “Don’t glower. You’re normal. I think most people have an aspirational version of themselves they picture in their minds, knowing all the while they aren’t that person, and knowing they’ll likely never be that person. I don’t think that makes them vain or crazy or anything.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Phil.”

  “Don’t feel bad because I peek at your secrets. Most of the time I can’t help myself. The hard part is keeping my mouth shut about what I’ve seen.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” I sigh. “You’re right. I want to be the hero. I know I’ll never—”

  “You already are the hero.”

  I laugh out loud.

  “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “Phil…” I don’t know how to continue.

  “The things you do.” Phil shakes his head in wonder. “I’d never do any of that. Yet you jump right in like you’re invincible.”

  “Well, if you’ve been reading my mind, you know I believe in the lie of my invincibility.”

  “That’s just another lie you tell yourself, because it’s easier than admitting that you’re brave enough to risk your life in ways most people wouldn’t.”

  I never thought about it that way. But then, I never had another person giving me a third-party opinion about the thoughts buzzing between my neurons. “Why would I do that?”

  Phil laughs. “Ask Dr. Gustafson. It’s hard enough reading people’s thoughts without trying to figure out what they all mean.”

  I shake my head slowly and return to the question that troubles me. “Why don’t you go to the colonies? Penny and me, we’ll be fine.”

  Phil takes a long time to consider his answer. “I’m not as special as they think I am. I suspect plenty of Gustafson’s people can use their bug as well as I can, they just don’t know it. It’s like they’ve been standing on a dark street in the pool of light from a street lamp, afraid to venture into the darkness, thinking of it like a wall they can’t get through. All I’ve done is walk in from the dark carrying a flashlight. Now that they see it, who knows what they’ll be able to do? They don’t need me.”

  “I think you underestimate yourself.”

  Phil smiles weakly. “Maybe we have that in common.”

  Chapter 35

  A week passes in a flash of boredom and anxiety.

  Each day brings with it updates from Penny and Brice on the Trog fleet. The cruisers are nowhere to be found. They restocked their holds after the last attack, and now they’re gone. Not back at earth. Not around the moon. Nowhere we can find them.

  Everybody’s worried, especially Spitz and his people.

  Five of my platoon have come to me and asked for permission to stay on Iapetus. They want to queue up for a spot on a ship bound for the colonies.

  It doesn’t anger me, losing them. I don’t feel betrayed. In fact, it makes me jealous they can answer the call from the greener grass on some faraway planet and tumble their dice for a chance at peace.

  I can’t.

  I won’t.

  I can only hope to join them one day.

  One day.

  I’m standing in Spitz’s office, viewing the expansive hangar through a window on a wall opposite the door, while I wait for him to arrive.

  I don’t see much activity around the Rusty Turd, and that worries me.

  Phil is nearby, silently communing with his Gray. They’ve been doing that a lot lately—constructing a thought space from the comingling of their minds, a place where they explore their combined strength, a tele-space where they seem to prefer to exist.

  The idea of it gives me the willies, and I find myself always aware of my thoughts—always careful to keep them hidden. I’m guarding my mind with the same diligence I did after my wife brought the Gray hatchling into my house back in Breckenridge.

  And I think of Amy.

  Those inexplicably lifeless eyes. Her pearly smile. The corn silk hair.

  The softness of her bare skin.

  She was cold inside, but such a beauty to look at.

  Before the hatchling started killing her.

  Now she’s a wrinkled hag, the outside matching the inside, devoid of life, except by the strictest definition.

  Thoughts of her always lead me to sadness.

  I turn my eyes back toward the hangar and try to shake the memory.

  In less than twenty-four hours, if all goes well with my ship, I’ll be back in an orange suit. During the week I’ve spent out of it, I’ve not touched another human being skin-to-skin. The closest I’ve come are Phil’s engulfing hugs.

  Those leave me feeling strange. Dirty. I can’t explain why.

  My mind wanders and I close my eyes. I’ve thought about Silva more than once.

  More than a thousand times, probably.

  But God, she’s not even eighteen.

  My old-fashioned sensibilities won’t allow me to make an advance, though if I hadn’t been told she was six months shy of her eighteenth birthday—had she lied and told me she was nineteen—then her true age wouldn’t have mattered.

  I wouldn’t have known the difference.

  I sigh.

  “What?” asks Phil.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s something.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Phil’s content with that. He goes back to pretending he’s a Gray.

  The door swings open an
d Dr. Spitz walks in with a big smile.

  “Good news?” It’s the obvious question. I ask it anyway.

  “The work is done,” answers Spitz. “The diagnostics check out. All that’s left is cleanup and supply.”

  Phil grins about this, and I don’t understand why.

  I’d have guessed he wouldn’t be so happy when it was done. I know he’d prefer to stay on Iapetus.

  Spitz walks over to plant himself in the chair behind his desk.

  I take one on the opposite side. “Are Penny, Brice, and Jablonsky still due back tomorrow?”

  “You talk to them more than I do,” answers Spitz. He leans forward and scrutinizes me for a moment. “You still don’t trust us, do you?”

  “No,” Phil answers for me.

  I was going to lie, come up with something that sounded plausible, because despite my distrust, I’ve grown to like Dr. Spitz very much. “Sorry, it’s just—”

  “No worries.” Spitz leans back again. Casual. “Perhaps when you fly out tomorrow with your crew aboard, you’ll trust us then.”

  I nod. I will.

  “It’ll be best if you allow some of my technicians to ride along and monitor your systems for a shakedown cruise before you speed off into the universe.”

  “How long will they need to be aboard?”

  “I imagine we can run through all of our tests in three or four hours.”

  That sounds reasonable. “Do ships often fail at this stage of the process?”

  “They can fail at any stage,” answers Spitz. “This one of yours, who knows? We didn’t construct her, remember? Earth did. We’re improving her with our technology. We have a lot of unknowns.”

  “Like we could blow up on our first jump to light speed?” I smile, but I’m deadly serious. That was the hand we were dealt when we first lifted off from the Arizona shipyard.

  “We built in every failsafe that was practical. The ship might malfunction, however, the possibility of a catastrophe is extremely remote.”

  I glance at Phil to make sure he’s paying attention. It’s hard to tell.

  “We put some extra suits on your ship,” says Spitz. “They’re in the infirmary. They’re the same orange ones you wear now, manufactured on earth.”