Freedom's Fury (Freedom's Fire Book 2)

by Bobby Adair

  “Or they happened upon a colony and decided to attack.” Blair is being argumentative. She’s probably wired that way, someone who disagrees when progress is as easy as shutting up and listening.

  “None of that matters,” I tell them both, comprehending what I see is the real news. “The Trogs didn’t destroy the base. They captured it. They took prisoners. Blair, the assault ship crews weren’t the only ones.” Refocusing on Tarlow, I ask, “How many are down there?”

  “No.” Blair disagrees, of course. “What’s important is how Tarlow got out when it seems nobody else did.”

  “I wasn’t locked up,” he argues, hurrying to the next part. “I was never captured. I know all the nooks and crannies. How to override the systems. I knew where to hide when the Trogs occupied the base.”

  “And why are you wandering around, now?” asks Blair.

  “The Trogs all of a sudden hurried away.” He points to the far end of the Potato. “Down the halls leading to the gun emplacements. I figured it was my chance to make my way to the surface and steal the tug.”

  “That’s why you’re wearing the suit,” I deduce.

  “I’ve been in the suit for two months.”

  “To abandon your friends.” Blair doesn’t try to hide her disgust for his behavior.

  “No.” Tarlow shakes his head vigorously. “No.”

  That answer’s clearly not true, and I have the urge to tell him he should think through his lies before he starts to spout them, but where would the fun be in that?

  Blair pokes him hard in the ribs a few more times. “You’re a coward, Tarlow. You were planning to run off, weren’t you?”

  Shaking his head, Tarlow says, “I…I… maybe. I don’t know. I had to get away. I’d have sent back help. I would have.” He’s convincing himself now. Trying to, anyway.

  “The tug is gone,” says Blair. “Even if it wasn’t, there’s a Trog cruiser parked about a klick up. It would’ve blasted the tug into junk before you made it ten meters off the ground.”

  “Just one?” asks Tarlow. “Two attacked us.”

  “We destroyed one,” I tell him.

  He looks at me, wide-eyed, a hopeful smile starting to form. “You brought the fleet?” And then he looks sick. “I thought you weren’t SDF.”

  “No,” I tell him, “there’s no fleet. Let’s get back to the important stuff. How many Trogs were down here? Where are the Grays? How many of you are locked up on level nine? Where did the Trogs put the weapons they took from you when you surrendered?”

  Tarlow gawks at me. “How do you know about the Grays?”

  “I got a postcard about it.” My impatience for answers I’m not getting is starting to irritate me.

  “From who?”

  “Kane’s being an ass,” Blair tells him. “How many Trogs?”

  Tarlow reaches up to scratch his beard, remembers his helmet is there, and instead stares at the glass dome above us. After a moment, he says, “A thousand, maybe.”

  “Weapons?” she asks. “Where are they?”

  “Weapons?”

  “The ones they took from my troops?”

  “In one of the surface buildings, I think.” Tarlow looks up and to his left. “I haven’t found them, and I’ve looked. Unfortunately, with a thousand Trogs, it’s hard to sneak around.”

  “How many of you are there?” asks Blair, finally getting back around to my question.

  “Four hundred and sixty-nine,” he answers, “In three reservoirs.”

  “That’s pretty exact.” Blair is skeptical. “How’d you manage to count them if they were all locked up and you weren’t?”

  It’s Tarlow’s turn to be taken aback by her stupidity.

  I figure it’s best not to say anything at this point, lest I suffer a withering glance as well.

  Tarlow points to a small round module mounted on one of the walls. A green LED glows near one edge. “Signal relays. We’ve got them all through the tunnels. They carry the standard bands supported by the comm systems in the helmets. We need the relays because of the metals in the ore screwing up the signals. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to communicate down here.”

  “How many of the four-sixty-nine are military, and how many are miners?” I ask.

  “Mostly miners and support personnel,” answers Tarlow. “The garrison went out to fight the Trogs on the surface when they arrived. They were wiped out. The survivors surrendered.”

  “Trogs don’t usually take prisoners,” says Blair. “How’d that work?”

  “We were all underground when the fighting ended,” continues Tarlow. “The Grays found a way to telepathically link to one of the control room spaghetti-heads. They forced her to tell the commander to surrender, or they’d bomb us to dust. What else could we do?”

  “Do you know why they took you prisoner?” asks Blair.

  Of course, she and the other SDF mutineers were taken prisoner as well. Maybe that’s the question she’s really getting at.

  Tarlow shrugs. “I don’t know if they were going to make us work the mine for them or take us back to Troglandia—”

  I laugh.

  Blair glares at me. “What?”

  “That’s what I call it in my inner voice, Troglandia. Seriously.” I stop laughing, because Blair is looking at me as if she wants to come over and poke me with her empty railgun. “It’s funny, right?”

  She clearly doesn’t appreciate my humor.

  She turns back to Tarlow.

  He straightens up and glances at us both, like he’s going to make an important announcement. “If Grays are in charge of the Trogs, like they’re in charge of the earth, maybe the Trogs’ Grays decided to acquire some human breeding stock to supplement their slave pool. Maybe that’s why they changed their policy on taking prisoners.”

  Chapter 11

  Behind me, the airlock door clinks against its frame.

  I jump.

  The light mounted above it flashes red.

  Tarlow’s eyes go wide, and he starts backing toward one of the doorways to the lower levels.

  “Don’t move,” Blair orders.

  “But…” Tarlow points at the airlock, ignoring Blair’s admonition not to move.

  I’m already against the wall, pulling one of the upturned lounge chairs in front of me.

  “Railgun slugs will go right through that,” Tarlow bawls.

  “I don’t want it to protect me.” Why am I explaining myself to Tarlow? “I just want it to hide me long enough for them to make it inside so I can take ‘em out all at once.”

  “We should go down to level three,” Tarlow tells us. “I have a place down there—”

  Blair pushes him through one of the doors and Tarlow stumbles on the stairs. “Get down,” she tells him, “and stay.” She kneels, using a wall for cover, and levels her weapon at the airlock door.

  “You might want to chamber a round,” I suggest. “You’re too used to the automatic you had.”

  “Shit.” She fumbles with the railgun made for larger Trog hands.

  “Not loaded?” Tarlow groans as he steps back.

  I swing the barrel of my gun around to put him in my sights. “Don’t.”

  “We’re on the same side,” Blair tells him. “Stop being such a chicken-shit.”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  The light above the door turns to yellow.

  “Air’s going back in,” whines Tarlow. “We can still run.”

  Full of confidence from the nine Trogs I killed—well, maybe eight—on the way here, I think I’m good. “How many will fit in there? Eight? Ten if they pack tight?”

  “Yes,” Tarlow answers, “but they usually go in six at a time. They have a fetish for that number, just like the Grays.”

  “You know a lot about them,” Blair observes.

  “I’ve been watching them for two months,” replies Tarlow.

  “Two months?” It doesn’t seem possible. Pointing out the hole in his story, I say, “How could yo
u keep watch on them for two months and not get caught?”

  “The camera system, of course.”

  I glance at Tarlow.

  He’s pointing again.

  I follow the line of his finger and see a small, unobtrusive lens attached above one of the exit doors.

  “They’re all over the complex,” he says.

  Blair asks, “How do you—”

  The light above the airlock turns green. The door unseals and swings open.

  I press against the wall, thankfully cut from asteroid stone, exactly the color I’m coated in. With the lights flickering dim to add to my advantage, I doubt I’ll be spotted. I brace myself to pull the trigger.

  Gray-dusted figures enter—one, and two more.

  They stop on the stairs, glancing around as the airlock seals behind them.

  They’re carrying rifles. Their bodies aren’t thick like Trogs. Their helmets are shaped and sized for human heads.

  I don’t fire.

  The one in front turns and looks right at me. “If you’re trying to ambush a Trog, do it from the right.” It’s Brice. “Nearly all of them are left-handed.”

  “What?” How the hell did he spot me so easily?

  “And the lights,” says Brice. “The dimness doesn’t do you any good. Ever notice how Trogs have those big puppy dog eyes? Well, it means they see pretty damn good in the dark. You’re better off turning the light all the way up and making them squint.”

  “How the hell come nobody ever told us this shit in training?” I stand up and smile, despite feeling somewhat humiliated for my failed ambush.

  Walking down the stairs and into the room, Brice ignores the question. He doesn’t have the answer. It’s those damn North Koreans who write the SDF curriculum.

  He and the other two are near the center of the room when I join them. Blair is dragging Tarlow out of his hiding place to come toward us.

  “Took forever to get here,” says Brice. “Dust and rocks floating everywhere and Trogs all over the place. Hell, I even tripped on a few.”

  Blair glances at me like it’s my fault and I’m thinking she should be singing my praises, not assigning blame for someone tripping.

  Brice catches the glance and looks at me, too.

  I shrug. “I’ve whacked eight outside. Blair killed one in the airlock.”

  “You’re full of surprises, Kane. I’ll give you that.” Brice turns to Tarlow. “Who’s this?”

  “A local,” I answer, before giving Brice and the two soldiers with him the quickest rundown I can manage.

  “What’s the plan, then?” asks Brice. “With all the debris in the air, I think the Trogs will be out there a while trying to find us.” He looks around. “It’s not a huge asteroid, but it’ll take a couple of hours at least.”

  Tarlow steps forward, stammers, and then says, “When the Trogs attacked last time, they pounded us with railguns before disembarking their horde. It took a week for decent visibility to return up top and another few weeks for most of the broken rock to settle back down to the surface.”

  “Well they won’t be out there for three weeks, that’s for sure.” Brice glances at Blair, then his eyes settle on me.

  I start to speak, and Blair, suddenly back in MSS Colonel mode, talks right over me. “The group we killed was heading into the airlock. So no guarantees they’ll be out there a long time. Not all of them, anyway.”

  Into her pause, I blurt, “We need to get this show on the road.” They all look at me, and why not? I said it with the confidence of someone who has a plan. After a quick spin on my brain’s imagination wheel, I come up with one. “Tarlow, can we access that video feed for all the internal cameras? How do we connect our SDF suit comms to the internal relay system?”

  “Passcode for the comm,” says Tarlow, again like it was a question so stupid it was barely worth his breath to answer. After some pained sighs, he provides it.

  Like the others, I power up my d-pad to enter the code. Thankfully, the temperamental little device decides it’s abused our relationship enough for one day, and accepts the numerals without error.

  Looking up, Blair has hers ready to go.

  Brice is pissed. His d-pad is on the fritz.

  Turning to Tarlow and tapping my d-pad, I ask, “Can you fix these things, too? Mine doesn’t work half the time.”

  He nods. “It takes a while,” he says. “There are plenty up top on those dead Chinese. Theirs always work.”

  I doubt the Chinese have any better equipment than we do, but I don’t say anything about it.

  Tarlow continues, “Your best bet is to switch yours out for one of theirs.”

  “Only it’s integrated with the suit,” I argue. “How do you switch it?”

  “I could do it,” he answers. “But it would take a while. And then you’d have to reprogram it and it—”

  “Takes a while?” I guess, with a big eye roll.

  Neither of the troops who came in with Brice can get their equipment to respond to the passcode.

  “What about camera access?” asks Blair.

  “The room I’ve been hiding out in is on sublevel three,” says Tarlow, “I tapped into the camera feed and set up some monitors to watch.”

  “That’s it, then,” I announce. I point to the two soldiers who came in with Brice. “You two, go with Blair and Tarlow and get down to that room. Keep on eye on Tarlow.” I turn to Brice. “We’ll hit the other airlocks and collect any survivors who make it inside.” Looking back to Blair, I see she’s pissed again, now that I’m passing out orders. “We’ll send them your way.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t pick a new fight.

  “Tarlow,” I ask, “how do I find my way around this complex?”

  “I’ve been taking all the maps off the walls,” he says sheepishly. “The Trogs understand the pictures. They’re not stupid.” He shrugs. “I left the written signs up. They can’t read.”

  “Not our language, anyway.”

  “They can’t read at all,” he argues.

  Jesus! Some people have to be obstinate about everything.

  “So airlock signs?” asks Brice. “On the walls?”

  “Hanging from the ceiling at hallway intersections.” Tarlow cocks his head toward one of the interior doors. “Each has an arrow showing the way.”

  I tell Brice, “That’ll be good enough to start with.” Turning back to Tarlow, I ask, “Which way to the nearest airlock?”

  He points through one of the doorways. “Down that way, third left. About a hundred meters. There’s no sign marking that one.”

  “Great.” Brice starts to go.

  “When I get down to my computer,” says Tarlow, “I can send a map to your d-pad. Look for the message to come through.”

  “Good.” Looking back to Blair as I follow Brice, I say, “Once you’re in front of the monitors, you’ll need to direct us to whichever airlock our troops come through.”

  “I know how to do my job, Major.” She raises her voice for the next part, so it’s clear to all of us it’s an order. “Get moving.”

  Chapter 12

  Brice and I are in a featureless hall cut through the asteroid’s stone. Technically, it’s a tunnel, but not what I’d imagine a mining tunnel to look like. Each wall is flat and straight, set at right angles with the ceiling and floor. The long corridor we ran down to get here, this hall, and the one we saw on the way, look pretty much like any hall in a large building back on earth. Like a hospital, in fact, with floors ground smooth and colored a light gray. Only the rough texture and pale whitewash inadequately masking the natural color of the stone walls give away the secret that you’re underground.

  We’ve come to a stop in a twenty-meter-long stub of a passage branched off the main corridor. All it contains is an airlock door, right at the end. The door isn’t open. No light is on above to indicate it’s being used. None of our troops is standing in the hall, uninjured and happy to see us.

  I stare at the door as I shuffle clo
ser to it, willing it to open, wanting to see someone from my platoon come through.

  “My dog used to do that,” says Brice. “Stare at his food bowl when he was hungry, like maybe looking at it would magically fill it up.”

  Unable to come up with a clever retort, I look back down the way we came.

  “Not a speck of anything to hide behind,” says Brice.

  “Back to the main hall?” I’m not sure what to do. My hopes were pinned too tightly to the prospect of our troops being here, awaiting direction.

  He shrugs. “No cover there, either.”

  I start walking back. “We’ll keep an eye on the light over the airlock door. From the corner, we can watch the main hall, too.”

  “Good enough.” Brice follows along, glancing over his shoulder in case the airlock light should change color.

  The floor shakes and I hear a rumble through the air in the hall.

  I look up. “Still bombing us?”

  “Or our troops setting off charges,” says Brice. “Those explosions are too big for them to be hand grenades.”

  Two more explosions quake through the floor.

  I call over the comm. “Blair, progress?”

  “On level three,” she tells me. “Trogs are down here, however, they haven’t seen us.”

  “Can you get to Tarlow’s video room?”

  “He says yes.”

  “You need our help with those Trogs?” Still disappointed about not finding any of our soldiers, I’m considering abandoning my plan to sweep the airlocks.

  “Too many,” she tells me. “Two guns won’t make a difference.”

  I don’t agree. Brice and I have automatic weapons. She and the two troops with her are carrying ill-fitting Trog antiques.

  Antiques? I suppress a laugh at that thought. Our forces were using pretty much the same railguns until our two heavy assault divisions launched with the new weaponry yesterday morning.

  Brice takes up a position at the corner where the two halls meet. He’s in the branch hall and scanning back and forth down the main corridor.

  I stand at the opposite corner, keeping an eye on the airlock. “How long should we wait?”

  “As long as it takes.”