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

by Bobby Adair

  “Makes no difference,” I say. “The doors will be shut.”

  “You say that now,” he says. “If we have to fight our way out, it’ll be easier knowing there’s no one there to ambush us.”

  “Stop being so paranoid,” I tell him.

  “You brought me along to watch your back,” he answers. “That means I need to be paranoid.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Phil tells us.

  “Are you guessing?” I ask.

  “Nicky says so.”

  “Did the Trogs tell him that?” I ask. “Can he tell if they’re lying?”

  “They’re not practiced in deception,” Phil tells me. “In a telepathic society, it doesn’t have a lot of value.”

  “Unless you’re dealing with people who aren’t telepathic,” I argue. “Like us.”

  “Only we are,” Phil counters. “You. Me. Nicky. Stop forgetting you’re not like most humans.”

  It takes several minutes to close the outer door and seal it. After that, we wait while air hisses into the airlock. That takes another few minutes. As soon as the air pressure stabilizes, the Trogs each take off their helmets, and attach them to dangle on their belts.

  “That’s our cue,” says Phil.

  I remove my helmet first. Brice and Phil follow.

  “It stinks,” says Brice, knowing the Trogs can’t understand. “Not as cold as I expected.”

  Phil says, “It’ll take weeks for the ship’s interior to cool off now that it’s powered down.”

  I notice the impassive Trogs are sharing glances with one another. “What’s that about, Phil?”

  It takes a moment, but Phil says, “Nicky asked what they’re talking about. Telepathing about.”

  “Talking is fine,” I tell him. “I understand how they communicate.”

  “Speech is forbidden for Trogs,” says Phil. “They were surprised to hear you use words with Brice.”

  “Do they use words at all?” I ask.

  “I told you,” he says. “It’s forbidden.”

  “I know. Ask them anyway. Find out if they use their words when the Grays aren’t around.”

  Phil is reluctant.

  “Do it. Please.”

  More silent moments pass. The Trogs share a few more glances, and then one steps out ahead of the rest and says something in a deep voice with noises that don’t sound anything like words.

  Phil is surprised when he turns back to me. “You guessed right. They have a secret spoken language they keep hidden from the Grays.”

  “So deception is more common than you think,” I observe. “What did he say?”

  “He said they have a spoken language that—”

  I raise a hand to stop him. I got it. I step forward, deliberately, careful not to appear to be attacking and I say, “Hello. I’m Dylan Kane.”

  The Trogs stare blankly at me.

  “Is Nicky translating?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Do they have names?” I ask, “Or are they like the Grays?”

  “They have names.” Phil pauses, and then nods at the Trog standing in front. “The nearest translation for his name is Prolific Man Killer.”

  I turn back to Phil, unable to hide my surprise. “Seriously?”

  Phil nods.

  “Has he killed a lot of us?”

  “I gather it’s more of an aspirational name. Trogs often change their names. Prolific Man Killer took this one prior to embarking on his journey to the war.”

  “The war with us.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his name before?” I ask.

  “It’s not polite to ask that,” Phil tells me.

  “Okay, then. Is Prolific Man Killer the one in charge?”

  “Yes,” Phil answers. “The situation with them is still rather fluid. They suffer from the influence of Gray culture where leadership is always in flux, but they’re more comfortable with the idea of Trogs claiming a leadership role and holding onto it for long periods of time.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “Prolific Man Killer is in charge for now. Tomorrow it might be someone else.”

  “If we make a deal with Klingon Pete here, will tomorrow’s headman be bound by the agreement?”

  “Don’t call him Klingon Pete.”

  “Why? It’s not like he can understand me.”

  “Do you really want to be childish about this, Dylan? We’re trying to negotiate an interstellar treaty here.”

  “It’s a term of endearment.”

  Phil labors through a sigh and his attention turns to the Tick. He looks back at me and says, "Nicky wants to remind us we shouldn't talk in terms of agreements with Prolific Man Killer. Trogs are the lowest of the lowly forms of living beings. Every Gray knows that. You should assert your authority over the beast. Tell him to bow, and if he refuses, you should kill him. Then the other Trogs will be more apt to listen to you."

  “Like I did to Nicky and his buddies back on the Potato?” I ask.

  I feel Nicky cringe at the memory.

  “Will the Trogs be bound by whatever we agree to today?” I persist.

  It takes a moment, but Phil finally answers, “Probably.”

  “Is that Nicky answering, or Klingon Pete?” I’m looking into the Trog leader’s eyes as I speak.

  “Prolific Man Killer,” answers Phil.

  “Who are all these guys?” I ask.

  "Representatives of the surviving clans. Thirty-two of them made up the fleet before our attack," Phil explains. "Some shared ships, richer clans had several ships to themselves. The Grays controlling the clans own the ships and the Trogs onboard."

  “What about Klingon Pete here?” I ask. “How many ships does he control directly?”

  “Seven.”

  "How many of his clan's ships did we destroy?"

  “Four.”

  “So we killed some of his cousins.”

  “Three of his brothers,” Phil tells me. “Dozens of his cousins and some of his nephews.”

  “I didn’t expect that answer.”

  "Trog families tend to be very large. Prolific Man Killer has seven brothers and nine sisters. The sisters are all back in the home system. His two older brothers went to war with earth in the first fleet."

  “And he doesn’t know if they’re dead or alive?”

  “No,” answers Phil. “He can’t.”

  “So he’s down five brothers already. He must hate us.”

  “The Trogs exist in a warrior culture. They live to serve their Gray masters and to die in the service of those masters. Dying in war is how they expect their lives to end. In fact, death in battle opens the door to their version of heaven.”

  “So what,” I ask, “he doesn’t hate us for killing his family?”

  “It’s complicated,” says Phil. “But you know that, right?”

  "How's that? I don't have any brothers."

  “We could have destroyed all these ships for what the Trogs and Grays have done to our people, but here we are, talking to our enemy.”

  Brice chuckles. “He’s got you there, Boss.”

  “Prolific Man Killer has a question,” says Phil.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “He wants to know if any of the ships sent to the earth system survived. He wants to know if we’ve imprisoned or killed the surviving Trogs.”

  That brings to mind all those Trog prisoners we captured and left back on the Potato, and I wonder whatever became of them. "Tell him the war was still underway when we left, and I can't honestly say whether it's over. As for prisoners, tell him we've taken some, but I don't know what became of them. As far as I know, they weren't killed. That's not usually how humans deal with war prisoners.”

  “He says the disruptor on your back appears to be a Trog blade.”

  I admit it is as I slowly take it off my back, being careful to handle it with only my fingertips so as not to a
ctivate the grav field.

  “He asks that you put power to the blade.”

  This makes Brice uncomfortable. “We should have left the blades back on the ship.” Unfortunately, neither of us thought to. The blades have become a natural part of our kit. “I think he’s going to challenge you to a duel.”

  Wary, with Brice’s warning at the top of my mind, I grasp the handle and watch the blue field lines come alive over the steel. The Trogs shuffle and look at one another. “What is it about this disruptor that’s making them react?” I ask Phil.

  “It is the blade owned by the son of a chieftain of a rival clan,” says Phil. “A very powerful one. Half the ships that went to earth in the original fleet were from that clan.”

  I say, “It was won in our first battle. We killed eight Ghost Trogs on that first ship.”

  “With your rifles?” asks Prolific Man Killer.

  “Some,” I admit. “I killed several with this disruptor after I took it.” I don’t speak Trog, but I can feel a sense of respect from them that wasn’t there when we first came in.

  Phil says, “Prolific Man Killer asks how it’s possible that the war isn’t over? With one ship, we destroyed half their fleet here, and killed their Gray lords.”

  “War is complicated,” I answer. “How is it that a race as powerful as the Trogs can be controlled by creatures as frail as the Grays?”

  “Prolific Man Killer asks if humans have killed their Gray masters.”

  “No,” I laugh, and so does Brice. Prolific Man Killer’s laugh rumbles like an avalanche—human enough that any doubts that his species is originally from earth disappear. I turn to Brice. “He has your sense of humor.” To Prolific Man Killer, I say, “We suffer under the Grays just as the Trogs do. That is why I don’t want to enslave you. I wish to be master of no living creature.” I feel Nicky’s shock, even as I say the words.

  Nothing happens for a few long moments.

  “Phil,” I say, “are you making sure Nicky is telling them exactly what I’m saying?”

  “Yes. Nicky thinks this is by far the most stupid thing you’ve done.”

  “Nicky hasn’t been around him long enough,” laughs Brice.

  "Tell him," I insist. "Tell Prolific Man Killer he needs to believe the history that Nicky told them. All the Trogs need to believe. The Grays aren't gods—they're mortal, and they're evil. They need to be exterminated for what they've done to both our species. If the Trogs are capable of accepting freedom, then I extend a hand as their friend. I want to make peace, and ally against our common enemy." I step forward and outstretch my hand to shake.

  Prolific Man Killer jumps back and draws his disruptor.

  I step away, raising my railgun as I do.

  Brice's weapon is up and he's ready to fire as Phil runs out between us, waving his arms and begging for calm.

  Everyone stops.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “Your right hand,” says Phil. “You put it out, open. Trogs are a left-handed species. They see an extended right hand as a challenge to fight. It means you’re going to draw your weapon with your dominant hand as soon as your enemy takes the challenge by grasping your right.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Not one bit,” he says.

  “Are you explaining to him that I didn’t mean to challenge him?”

  “Nicky is.”

  Prolific Man Killer puts his blade back on its mount, and he cautiously steps forward, extending his open left hand as he does.

  I lower my weapon and put my left hand out, stepping slowly toward him until his large hand engulfs mine. He smiles, and I do, too. Like the laugh, I hope it means the same thing in his culture as mine.

  Chapter 8

  By my fifth meeting with Prolific Man Killer, I decided to go in alone. That’s to say, I planned to. Penny and the rest of the crew wouldn’t hear of it. They threatened to restrain me and bubble jump back to earth. It was only when I agreed to bring Brice as my bodyguard—again—that things settled down. Nobody was happy I’d chosen to go in without Nicky and Phil, but what the non-bug heads on the crew couldn’t accept was how readily telepathic communication with the Trogs came to me. That sounds like a brag, but by the end of the second meeting with them, Phil could communicate with the Trogs nearly as well as Nicky. I was catching up.

  The thing that made the whole thing work was the bug. In its way, it acted as a universal translator. I won't make any attempt to explain why I think that was so, but I know Dr. Gustafson back on Iapetus would have been fascinated to have some Trogs to participate in her research. Maybe I can make that happen.

  Penny brings the Rusty Turd in close to Man Killer’s ship, as has become the norm. I exit with Brice and suit grav over to the cruiser while Penny takes the Turd out to a safe distance where she can keep an eye on the fleet and watch for danger. We still don’t trust the Trogs. Again, that's to say Phil and I are developing trust because we're building mental bridges. Nicky, as I’m coming to learn, will always despise them. His racism was baked in too early to overcome, and it makes me wonder how he and Phil managed to get so close, being of different species. That’s a question for another day.

  As Brice and I drift through the void, not moving fast, just floating at a comfortable clip, I see below us three Trog cruisers arrayed side by side with a kilometer of spacing between, just like they were lined up when we first arrived to spy on Trinity Base. From what Prolific Man Killer has shared with me in our powwows, I know those three ships have refueled from the tanks of wrecked cruisers and have enough hydrogen onboard to sustain themselves for several months.

  The process of doling out the limited supply of fuel to the surviving cruisers is going slowly, as most of the ships are completely dry. Hydrogen needs to be transferred from one of the wrecks to an intermediary cruiser, and then from there to the recipient, all while navigating a shifting pecking order over which ship should be serviced first. I don’t envy Prolific Man Killer the task of keeping his coalition in order.

  For our part, Phil and even Nicky employed their combined grav sense to identify which wrecks had hydrogen stores onboard that could be salvaged. They even provided the locations on each ship where the unruptured tanks could be found. Would the Trogs’ desperation have driven them to find that fuel eventually? Certainly. But having the fuel sooner rather than later adds credibility to our relationship with the Trogs.

  Far below, on the surface of the protoplanet, tens of thousands of Trogs are working to rebuild Trinity Base. That was a point of contention between my crew and me. The purpose of our mission to 61 Cygni was to destroy the base. Now we’re letting the Trogs salvage what they can to turn it operational again. My hope is we’re overseeing the construction of the Trogs’ first rebel base, the beginning of their war with the Grays back in their home system.

  As for everything in the cruiser containing their bootstrap equipment, much of it has been deployed to the surface, and the two tankers it carried are now making runs to Cygni Saturn to bring stores of H to the stranded cruisers.

  Again, hope rears its ugly head as I wonder for the thousandth time if I’m doing the right thing in allowing it all to happen.

  Brice and I touch down on the hull of Prolific Man Killer's ship, and an airlock immediately opens. It's not the hangar-sized airlock he and I first entered the ship on, but one much smaller, maybe big enough for only a few dozen soldiers at a time. The door closes once we’re inside, and the air starts to cycle in. We’ve moved past meeting the Trogs in airlocks. Now we go inside, led by a trio of guards to a room in the bow of the ship once used only by the Gray officers who ran this ship. Now it’s part of Prolific Man Killer’s domain. He’s standing when we enter the room, as are three others, the remainder of the original eleven we met. All eleven are fine as far as I know, but these guys are Prolific Man Killer’s most dependable advisors. All three are Ghost Trogs, clad in intimidating black, looking like armored og
res from a medieval fairytale, yet smiling like we’re all friends.

  With my pistol holstered, rifle in my hand, and disruptor on my back, I extend my left hand to shake with each, finishing with Prolific Man Killer. He seems genuinely happy to see me, and it’s become easy for us to talk without being burdened by the language of diplomacy, though all the death between us has left dangerous pitfalls we both take trouble to avoid.

  “When will you leave?” he asks me through our telepathic link.

  “If you can finish your repairs without our assistance, this will be our last meeting.”

  Prolific Man Killer accepts that without response. He guides me to take a seat on one of a dozen saddle-style stools at a kidney bean-shaped table. The stool is a comfortable fit for a human, which is no surprise since Trogs and humans are so similar.

  After sitting on a stool across from me, Prolific Man Killer says, “You see me as a friend, no?”

  “I do,” I answer.

  With some difficulty, he explains a concept I take as forgiveness, a new word in our mutual vocabulary. “For your kind,” he asks, “is forgiveness easy?”

  “No.”

  “It is difficult?”

  “Mostly. And for Trogs?”

  “The same.”

  “This makes peace difficult, no?”

  “In human wars, peace often comes many years before forgiveness. Sometimes, forgiveness never comes.”

  “Does this lead to more war?” asks Prolific Man Killer.

  I’ve never looked at human history from that perspective, but I make a guess. “I think so.”

  “For a Trog, peace does not come without forgiveness. It is a necessary precondition.”

  I didn’t realize that. “You and I are at peace,” I say. “Does that mean you have forgiven me for what happened here?”

  “The death of my family members? The death of entire clans? I have chosen to forgive you to reach peace.”

  “Forgiveness is a great gift,” I tell him. “I thank you for that.”

  “And for the friends and comrades who were killed by Trogs,” asks Prolific Man Killer, “do you forgive for that or only offer peace?”

  “I’ve not thought about forgiveness,” I tell him. “I was satisfied with peace.”