STARSHIP FREEDOM IV

For Death or Freedom

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

Illustration © Tom Edwards - TomEdwardsDesign.com

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CHAPTER ONE

Frankie "Honey Badger" Calvetti was already an officer, starfighter pilot, and war hero. Not a bad résumé. But he had gotten greedy. He had reached for another prize. And now it was too late. In a few minutes, he would also become the first man to leave the solar system.

Great. Just great.

He had volunteered for the task. Of course he had. Typical of him, rushing headlong into danger without pausing to think. So here he was, strapped into the pilot's seat, covered in sensors, electrodes, and cold sweat. Sitting there like a trussed-up ham, he had plenty of time to think. And none of those thoughts were good.

I'm going to die. Oh God, I am going to die.

Any moment now, the experimental portal would open in space like a black hole. He'd fly through. He'd emerge a thousand light-years away. Alone. Deep in a galaxy swarming with alien bugs.

No pressure. What could go wrong?

The starfighter Frankie sat in suddenly felt more like a coffin. He gulped. A tremble ran down his spine. They called him Honey Badger because he was small and tough. But tonight he felt more like a guinea pig.

He tapped on his helmet's comlink. "Freedom, do I really need all these sensors strapped to my body? I thought this was a simple sortie, fly in and fly out, not a medical experiment. Seriously, this is worse than my last physical."

For a moment, nobody answered. Through the helmet's speakers, he heard muffled voices conferring, the words too soft to understand.

Frankie swiveled around in his seat, ignoring the handful of sensors that detached from his skin. He sat in an F-77 Eagle, the best damn starfighter in the galaxy. And not just any F-77 but Baby Blue herself. The same starfighter he had flown into enemy lines last year. This baby had fought in the greatest war in history. The bubble canopy gave Frankie a 360-degree view of space. He could see anywhere but directly below his feet.

He looked over his shoulder. He could see the fuselage of his Eagle. The red and blue paint was flaking. A few scars still marred the hull. Frankie had refused to let them repaint his beloved starfighter. Every scar on his hull was a mark of pride, a memento of the war. He himself had painted seven golden stars onto the hull. A star for every enemy ship downed.

Behind the starfighter, only a few klicks away, she hovered. The mothership. The legendary Grand Old Lady herself. The starship Freedom.

For a moment, Frankie just paused to admire her.

"Boy, she sure is a pretty girl," he whispered to himself.

The Freedom was the largest starship in the fleet, stretching fifteen hundred meters from stern to stem. Almost a mile. A railgun sprouted from her prow, accounting for a full third of her length. The Fist of Freedom, they called that great cannon. A weapon that could destroy an enemy dreadnought with a single blow.

She was an old warship, craggy and creaky and tough. With her thick plates of iron armor, she looked like a battle-scarred old whale, a leviathan of the ocean depths, bitter and baleful and always ready for battle. She had fought in the Third World War before Frankie had been born. And in the current war, the great Rah War against the alien bugs, the Freedom was fighting again. The flagship. The hope of humanity. Thousands of brave spacers served aboard her, including two hundred starfighter pilots. Frankie was proud to count himself among their number.

Of course, today Frankie would be leaving the Freedom a thousand light-years behind.

He gulped.

The whispering voices in his helmet died down.

"Um, Lieutenant Calvetti?" came a louder voice. "This is Dr. Annie Jordan, speaking from the Freedom. Please keep all your sensors on. We need to monitor your vitals. And by the way, what sensors you're still wearing are detecting some tension. Try to relax. A few deep breaths should help."

"Honey Badger," he muttered.

"Sorry?" said the doctor.

"Call me Honey Badger, Doc. It's my call sign."

The doctor sighed. "Please keep your sensors attached to your body, Honey Badger. The portal is about to open. You won't have to wait much longer. Freedom out."

She hung up.

Frankie straightened in his seat and reattached the sensors. He stared ahead at the darkness. Waiting.

Open space spread before him. Countless stars shone, and the Milky Way glittered above. Other starships flew here too. A handful of warships provided security, ready to bombard any rah clawship foolish enough to show up. A science ship was handling the physics. An energy ship, essentially a flying power plant, was here to generate the massive energy required for opening a portal. But the fleet was behind Frankie now, and ahead spread the emptiness.

Frankie had grown up in the streets of Brooklyn, a tough little punk, fighting to survive. He stood only five-foot-three. A scrawny rooster, full of piss and vinegar. Nobody had believed he would leave the streets, let alone become a pilot. Let alone a starfighter pilot. Let alone a war hero. Yet here he was, the veteran of many battles. Still short. Still tough.

By now he was used to space. He had been flying this old bird for three years. He had seen the stars a million times. But he had never flown to those stars. No human had. It was 2202, and humans had been flying through space for centuries. They had built colonies on Mars and Titan. They had raised floating cities over Saturn's storms. They had mined asteroids and fought battles along Pluto's orbit.

But nobody had ever left the solar system. Nobody had ever known how to fly faster than light.

Until now.

Two years ago, the rahs had opened portals around Earth. The alien fleet emerged to bombard the planet. The spiders slaughtered millions of people, but they did one good thing.

They taught humans how to build portals.

Well, perhaps taught was the wrong word. No rah had actually donned a tweed jacket and sketched out the physics on a blackboard. But humans had captured some of the alien spiders. And interrogated them. Reverse engineering their ships helped too. And here they were. About to open a portal.

About to send the guinea pig through.

The stars rippled.

Frankie frowned.

He rubbed his eyes, blinked, stared again. Everything seemed normal. Just the vista of space before him.

Then the stars rippled again. More roughly this time. It was like staring into a pool reflecting the starlight, and somebody had just tossed in a pebble.

I'm not sure I want to do this, he thought. I mean, to fly one light-year away would be fine. That's just next door. But why must it be so far?

He would never speak those thoughts aloud. He dared not. He was Honey Badger after all. The tough kid from Brooklyn. The war hero. He had a reputation to uphold.

His heartbeat accelerated. Dammit, they would probably see through the sensors. He tried a few deep breaths. It didn't help.

Come on, Frankie! he told himself. You fought punks twice your size in Brooklyn. You charged at alien spiders the size of cows. You can't handle a little vacation across the stars? Man up, tough guy!

The ripples intensified. A black blob appeared in the center of the wobbling starlight. The portal was forming.

A new voice spoke through Frankie's headset. A raspy voice. A voice so gravelly it could puncture tires.

"Honey Badger? This is Admiral King, calling from the Freedom."

Frankie's eyes widened. For a moment he forgot all about the portal. There were many heroes aboard the Freedom. Many heroes across the Free Alliance Fleet. But Admiral James "Bulldog" King was the hero. The man who had faced down the Red Dawn in the last war. Who had destroyed more alien clawships than anyone. King was the hope of humanity. And he had started out as a starfighter pilot. Frankie still had a poster of him hanging in his childhood bedroom.

"Admiral King, sir!" he breathed.

"I wanted to wish you good luck," King said. "We'll be far behind you, but our hopes and prayers travel with you. Godspeed, Lieutenant."

Even though it was an audio-only call, Frankie saluted. "Thank you, sir."

The portal was nearly fully formed now. The dark bubble had grown. A black sphere hovered before Frankie, its diameter just larger than Baby Blue's wingspan. The orb was perfectly smooth and reflected the starlight. According to the eggheads, it would remain open for only a few seconds. The fleet would then recharge their batteries and, a few hours later, reopen the portal for Frankie's journey home. This would be a short mission. But its importance would echo across the ages.

"I'm going down in history, baby," Frankie mumbled to himself, trying to drown his fear.

A tactical officer began a countdown. Frankie heard it on his headset. They heard it on the Freedom. Hell, for all Frankie knew, somebody was broadcasting the damn show to every living room on Earth.

"Ten. Nine. Eight."

Frankie straightened in his seat. He placed his hand on the thrust lever.

"Seven. Six. Five."

"For my girl back in Brooklyn," Frankie whispered. "For you, Barb."

"Four. Three. Two."

"I'll be home real soon," he said, and his eyes stung.

"One. Portal is fully formed. Baby Blue, you are a go."

Frankie shoved down the throttle.

Baby Blue bolted forth.

He flew into the black sphere like an arrow into an apple … and emerged into an alien starscape.

* * * * *

At first glance, everything was the same.

At second glance, it was all so disturbingly strange.

Space was space. And this was certainly still that. Countless stars shone. The spiral arm of the Milky Way still trailed across the heavens. Yes, right after emerging from the portal, it all seemed disappointingly familiar. At first Frankie wondered if the portal had worked at all.

He took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and took another look. That was when the strangeness sank in.

These were not his ordinary stars.

Most spacers didn't actually see space that often. At least not military spacers. It was ironic and a misconception down on Earth. Nearly all spacers spent their time cooped up inside warships behind thick hulls. There were no portholes, no windows on warships, and the monitors mostly just displayed text or charts. Hell, Earthlings could at least look up at the night sky. They saw space far more than actual spacers did.

But starfighter pilots were different. They did not spend all their time trapped in a metal box. No, sir. They got into their starfighters. They left the mothership. And they floated among the stars. Frankie had spent countless hours in the cockpit, sometimes fighting the rahs, often just patrolling. For hours on end, during those long patrols, he would gaze at the stars, imagine shapes among them, and dream. He knew every pinprick of light in the heavens.

Well, these were no longer his stars.

The constellations were wrong. The shapes they formed were alien. He recognized a handful of stars—or thought he did. But they were in the wrong place. Most of the stars were new. To him at least. One star shone nearby, but it was no longer Sol, no longer the familiar sun. It was a hot, blazing yellow sun, larger and brighter than the sun Frankie had always known. A second sun, smaller and dimmer, shone farther back. A binary system. Most astounding of all, a nebula shone overhead like a purple haze, its luminous clouds spread like wings. Now you certainly didn't see that back home.

Yep, this was the place all right. The Aeolia system.

"It worked," he whispered. Then he raised his voice, laughing. "It worked! I'm a thousand light-years away! Whoo, take that, Neil Armstrong!"

But nobody could hear him.

Portals sucked up enormous amounts of energy. When Frankie looked over his shoulder, the portal was already crumbling. It would take the eggheads hours to recharge their batteries and reopen it. Until then, Frankie was isolated. He could talk as much as he liked. His radio signals could only travel at the speed of light. They would not reach Earth for a millennia.

As Frankie watched, the portal collapsed into itself, shrank into a tarry bubble, then vanished with a ripple of spacetime. And it was gone. Frankie was truly alone, cut off from home.

He squinted, trying to see Sol from here. But it was too small for the naked eye. If he tried to fly back without a portal, it would take him millions of years to get home.

"Hey!" Frankie shouted. "Listen up! This is Frankie 'Honey Badger' Calvetti, the best damn pilot in the galaxy, and you can write that down. Go Brooklyn Bobcats! The Yankees suck!"

He broadcast the message to Earth. Let future historians puzzle over that one.

He shut off his mic, laughed, and looked around him.

"So … this is what another star system looks like. And I'm the first human to ever see it."

His laughter died. And suddenly he was shaking. His fingers tingled, and tears flowed down his cheeks.

It was beautiful. It was so damn beautiful. Yes, he had seen the stars countless times. But not these stars. Not this place. His were the first human eyes to ever gaze upon these constellations. They were pure and glittering and wondrous. The galaxy swarmed with alien predators. Frankie knew this. He had killed enough of them himself. He had seen brothers-in-arms fall in the war. But all that bloodshed could not wash over this beauty. Nature had always been terrible, deadly, yet breathtaking in its vicious beauty, and space was nature's ultimate frontier. Frankie wondered if the early explorers on Earth, traveling the oceans to new lands, had felt such wonder.

Magellan, Columbus, and Honey Badger. Had a nice ring to it.

"All right, all right, enough with the Carl Sagan bullshit, huh?" Frankie told himself. He was getting sappy. Not a good look for a fighter pilot.

He shoved down the throttle, flying forward at Mach 10. Right now he was still on the edge of the Aeolia system, flying outside the orbit of the farthest planet. Admiral King didn't want him flying in too deep. No approaching any planets, the boss had said. Definitely no landing anywhere. The orders were clear. But nobody said Frankie couldn't fly around for a bit and have a look-see.

Something was odd about this mission. You could open a portal to anywhere. Just as easily, you could test a portal between Earth and Pluto. Why not? If things went bad, you could always just fly back normally, be home before you grew old and gray. Or hell, if you really wanted to explore another star system, why not one closer to Earth? Alpha Centauri seemed nice, and it was just a hop and a skip away. Why Aeolia, a star system a thousand light-years away?

Frankie thought back to his orders. No approaching planets. No landing. If any alien vessel approached, he was to retreat at once.

Alien vessels, huh? Yeah, something was up, all right. Frankie wasn't born yesterday. You could classify shit but you could never get rid of the smell.

Frankie didn't just have a good nose. He had sources. He got his official debriefings like everyone else. But he also hung out at the aerie, the infamous pilots' bar. The rumors flowed there like the beer. Frankie wasn't much of a beer drinker, but he loved himself a good rumor.

If the whispers were right, there were aliens out here. Not the rahs. Those spiders came from a hellhole named Arakavish, and that was far, far from this place. Nah. There was something new here. A species that was still classified. Officially, only one kind of alien had ever been discovered. The rahs. But get a few beers into them and pilots talked.

"Aeolians," Frankie whispered. "A new species."

But who were these mystical Aeolians? More space bugs? Little green men? That depended on whom you asked. The wing commander got drunk just last night, and she swore the Aeolians were some kind of alien toucan. Feathers, big colorful beak, the whole shebang. Yes, she had been very drunk. Well, whatever they were, Frankie didn't see anyone here. Maybe it was all just a rumor.

New aliens? Yep, that was above his pay grade all right.

"No wonder the admiral doesn't want me exploring too much," Frankie muttered. "You don't want some hothead from Brooklyn representing humanity."

But wait a minute. What was wrong with hotheads from Brooklyn? Why shouldn't Frankie Calvetti be the one to make first contact? What, he was good enough to fight bugs, good enough to test a new portal, but not good enough for aliens? Well now! Frankie was more than cannon fodder. More than a guinea pig. He could be a diplomat too. Hey, why not?

"My brother Leo always did say I was the smoothest talker he ever met."

Frankie dimmed his viewport and checked his reflection. He still had the looks. Cheeks cleanly shaved. Hair perfect as always. The girls back home never cared for him much. He was too short, they said. Well, the aliens wouldn't know that. Hey, maybe the little green men had some little green daughters. And Frankie bet they'd be impressed with an alien war hero from a strange world called Earth.

"All right, all right, knock off the daydreams, Casanova," he told himself. He was loyal to Barb after all. She was a thousand light-years away, but she still had her hands around his heart.

He knew he shouldn't, but he kept flying. Moving closer to the system's planets. He was getting too far. In a few hours, the portal would reopen, and it would only stay open for a moment. Frankie shouldn't stray.

But dammit, what was the point of being here if he couldn't explore? He would just fly a bit farther. Just to that outer planet, the little rocky one showing up on his sensors. He'd swing by, have a look around for forbidden alien chicks, and go down in history. The first man to make contact with the Aeolians—and break their ladies' hearts.

He flew onward. No officers scolded him through the network. No chatter over the radio. No alerts blaring in his MindLink neural implant. Frankie liked it here. Nice and quiet. He tapped his controls and turned on some music. Opera filled the cockpit. Lots of the guys back on the Freedom mocked Frankie for his musical tastes. The other pilots listened to comet roll, space croon, lunar chill, and other modern genres. Not Frankie Calvetti, no sir. He might be a punk from the streets, but he had class. The beautiful notes of Gioachino Rossini lifted his spirits. Frankie himself wasn't even that bad a singer, if you asked his mama. Used to sing countertenor at his old church's choir. He sang along now.

Before he knew it, Frankie was flying by the outermost planet of the Aeolia system. It was a rocky little world. About half the size of Earth. His sensors were limited, but they gave him some data. The size of the planet. Its estimated mass. Not much else. Technically, humans had already opened portals to this system. They had sent unmanned probes first. So Frankie was pretty sure some egghead had already seen and named this planet. So much for calling dibs and christening the place Frankieworld. If he recalled correctly, the eggheads had called it Omega Aeolia.

Could this be where the rumored little green men hung out?

His HUD flashed a warning. The portal home was due to open in an hour.

Frankie bit his lip. If he landed real quick, set foot on the planet, and then flew like the devil … he could make it back in time.

Of course he could.

"Come on!" he told himself. "What are they gonna do, discharge me? I'll tell 'em I had to take a leak. Ya can't blame a guy for that."

And he'd go down in history. War hero. Starfighter pilot. First man out of the solar system. And first spacer to set foot on the beautiful surface of Frankieworld. All right, all right, Omega Aeolia. But he was still nicknaming it Frankieworld.

"One more line for the résumé," he said, shoving down the thrust lever. "The ladies are gonna love it." He gulped. "I mean—Barb is gonna love it."

The dark side of the planet faced him, a black disk. Frankie decided to land on the sunny side, maybe take some selfies with the little green ladies. A smile spread across his face, and he sang loudly to La Bohème. The star Aeolia shone ahead, rising over the planet's crest. Frankie entered the alien world's gravity well and raced toward the horizon.

It was waiting there.

It had been hiding behind the planet.

Frankie stopped singing and screamed.

* * * * *

At first he thought it was a monster. The behemoth rose from the dawn, a spider goddess the size of a mountain, ravenous for blood. The beast flew higher, eclipsing the sun. Eight legs spread out like ribs swinging open from a crumbling corpse.

"What are you?" Frankie whispered. Tears filled his eyes. He felt so small before this leviathan. In his starfighter, he was a mere mite before a hellish vulture. The creature before him could swallow the mighty Freedom whole.

A goddess. It had to be a goddess. A cruel entity from the depths.

Frankie wept.

A voice spoke inside him.

Get ahold of yourself, Frankie. Up! Up on your feet and swing those fists!

He was a kid again, lying bloody on the hot asphalt on a Brooklyn summer day. His nose was bleeding. His head was ringing. The bigger kid stood before him, laughing. The brute had just broken little Frankie's nose.

"You done fighting, squirt? What you gonna do, cry?"

Frankie had risen that day, wiped the blood off his nose, and knocked the bigger kid's lights out. Since then, he had been fighting. One enemy after another. But he had never seen a monster like this.

He sniffed, forced a deep breath, and took a closer look at whatever that was before him.

"It's a starship," he said. "An alien starship."

A clawship? One of those spiky vessels the rahs flew? No. This was different. The clawships were shaped like almonds. If almonds sprouted hundreds of jagged black blades, that was. This starship was shaped like a great arachnid. The hull was a thick disk covered in black armor. The eight legs were actually cannons the size of skyscrapers.

For a second, Frankie wanted to charge. To fire his missiles. To knock down this gargantuan ship.

But just for a second. He was tough, but he wasn't stupid.

"All right, time to get the hell outta here," Frankie said, spinning his starfighter around. "Boring star system anyway."

He hit the throttle down all the way. Baby Blue let out a roar and jolted forward, shoving Frankie back in his seat.

He raced at ten times the speed of sound. Then doubled that. Then doubled it again. He streaked through space, flying so fast he'd make Superman dizzy. His starfighter thrummed. He was pushing the old girl to her limits. The fuselage creaked. The HUD flashed warnings. He kept racing.

And the alien starship followed.

She was fast. Damn fast. The dreadnought was the size of a mountain, but she moved like a rushing river. She tilted forward, no longer perfectly eclipsing the sun. Solar flares haloed her like a crown of fire. Eight ports opened upon the dark ship's prow, blazing with red light. Eight spider eyes. Eight vents to calderas of churning magma. A mountain? This beast was a volcano ready to erupt.

Frankie saw this in his rearview monitor. Cold sweat washed over him. His heart burst into a gallop.

Alone. I'm all alone here.

He was used to flying with the Freedom's Flock, a fleet of two hundred starfighters. He was used to the Freedom, his mothership, flying right behind him, armed with cannons and machine guns and her legendary railgun. Now it was just him. Just the Honey Badger, alone against an arachnid goddess.

Why did he have to stick his nose where it didn't belong? Why did he always have to poke every damn hornets' nest?

He checked the rearview monitor again. The alien dreadnought was gaining on him.

The ship's eight legs extended, all pointing at Frankie. The tips opened like mandibles.

White light flared across space. Frankie's visor dimmed automatically, but the flares still almost blinded him.

Eight missiles streaked forth. They were long and silvery like the javelins of gods.

Frankie cursed and tugged the yoke. He dipped hard, then yawed right, soared, and swooped. The missiles raced by him. They dwarfed his starfighter. He felt like a bee dodging spears.

The missiles missed him. They flashed into the distance, leaving trails of white light.

"They shoulda hit me," Frankie muttered. "That ship missed on purpose."

The controls crackled. A powerful signal washed over Baby Blue with a wave of radiation. His speakers came to life, and a voice emerged. A terrible voice. Monstrous yet feminine. Pure and poisonous. A voice like silk woven in hell.

"You cannot escape the Tyranny. Come to us."

Great. They spoke English.

"The Tyranny, huh?" Frankie said. "Who the hell are you clowns? Show your faces."

But the transmission died. The dreadnought kept chasing.

Frankie checked his starmap. He was almost at the portal coordinates. It was due to open in just under half an hour. Right now that seemed an eternity.

Plasma bolts flew. They rolled over him. Under him. One nicked Baby Blue's wingtip, tossing the starfighter into a tailspin.

Frankie gritted his teeth, struggling with the yoke. He finally steadied the starfighter.

The portal was still distant. He would never make it.

"Ah, hell," he muttered. "I've never run from a fight before. No point starting now."

He took a deep breath. His fingers were shaking around the yoke. He tightened his grip, gulped, and spun his starfighter around.

The Tyranny loomed before him, rearing to expose her underbelly. Her eight cannons spread out like a great spider's legs, and her red ports blazed like eyes.

Come to us … echoed the voice.

Frankie let out a shout, shoved down the accelerator, and charged toward the behemoth.

* * * * *

The starfighter charged at the dreadnought like a piranha at a whale.

Frankie laughed as he accelerated.

The Tyranny opened fire. Plasma bolts flew all around. Frankie just laughed, swerving between them.

They'll sing songs about me, he thought. Whether I live or die, they'll sing.

Racing through space, he felt so small. He was moving a hundred times faster than a speeding bullet. His starfighter was a weapon of legend. But in the depths of the galaxy, so far from home, he felt no larger than the faintest speck of light. A blazing comet, a mere mote of dust, racing across the blackness, leaving a trail of light they would see for a million miles.

He stormed toward this soaring volcano, and he grabbed his joysticks and unleashed his missiles.

Baby Blue's wings gave little thuds as the missiles detached. They were called David's Stones. Designed and built by the best human engineers, the missiles were so large you could ride one like a bull. Their exhaust ports ignited, flaring red, and they scuttled forward like barracudas. With David's Stones like these, Frankie had destroyed six enemy clawfighters in the war. An impressive feat, but still, clawfighters were just little things. Barely larger than his own starfighter. It was time to take down a giant.

He was aiming at the eyes. At those red plasma ports that shone on the dreadnought, seeming to stare at him. His missiles raced at breakneck speed, rippling the light around them. The Tyranny tried to shoot them down. Red bolts of spinning energy flew at the missiles, but the David's Stones dodged them and kept flying.

Frankie's HUD magnified the scene. He watched the Stones hit.

They hit right on target. Into the beast's eyes. And in those flaming pits, the missiles burned up and disintegrated, and the beast kept flying.

Frankie stared. He blinked.

Nothing. His missiles did nothing!

The arachnid dreadnought gained speed. She rose before him, rampant, now hiding the sun behind her girth so that space went dark. Nothing but those red eyes lit the shadows. A hatch opened upon the Tyranny like the mouth of a stingray, and pale strings shot out, whipping forward like angry white serpents.

Frankie refused to flee. He gritted his teeth, grabbed the trigger of his rotary cannon, and opened fire.

Baby Blue came with a hungry Gatling gun under her nose. The machine gun spun and roared. Bullets the size of daggers shot toward the white serpents.

The bullets hit one pale banner, tearing it apart. No, not a serpent and not banners. A web! A web like gossamer!

And more webs came flying toward him. That was not a mouth upon the enemy dreadnought. It was a spinneret. And it wanted to reel him in.

Frankie shot another web. Tattered silk flew through space.

A third web flew at him like a whipping pale eel, and Frankie yawed hard to the left. The sticky net shot just over his starboard wing. More webs came snaking toward him. He soared, dipped, and spun, desperate to dodge them. They chased him. A thousand strands whipped through space, as long as highways, reaching for him, chasing him, until—

His starfighter jerked.

A web had caught his tail.

The immense force yanked on Baby Blue. Frankie jolted forward in his seat and let out a silent scream. He couldn't even breathe. His seat belt dug into his ribs, nearly cracking them. If not for years of training, he would have lost consciousness.

The web began pulling him toward the dreadnought. Earlier Frankie had imagined himself as a piranha. And now a giant fishing line was reeling him in.

A second web caught his stern.

In the rearview monitor, Frankie saw the alien dreadnought. A hangar yawned open, ready to devour him.

Frankie scrolled through his controls, then tapped a button. A hatch opened on his stern, unleashing a cloud of chaff.

All Eagles carried bundles of chaff—thousands of iron bolts, aluminum strips, and steel blades. They were used as decoys. If an enemy missile came flying at you, and dodging it seemed impossible, you blew a cloud of chaff over it, detonating the explosive at a safe distance. Tonight Frankie used his chaff for another purpose. The barrage of sharp metal ripped through the cobwebs, freeing him.

He hit the afterburner again. White fire roared from his exhaust, burning through more gossamer, and he flew onward.

Cobwebs flew like a whip of lightning and caught his wing.

Frankie cried out.

Another web caught him from behind.

He was out of chaff. He gritted his teeth, typed orders into his control panel, and unleashed more missiles. The David's Stones rushed forward, spun around, raced behind him, and slammed together.

Explosions lit up his rearview monitor, nearly blinding him. It worked! The blast severed the sticky strands. Frankie kept flying, wings draped with charred nets.

He checked the time.

The portal would open soon.

He could make it. He could escape! He could run home!

But … no.

Frankie growled and bared his teeth.

I never ran from bullies as a kid, he thought. Because if you run once, you're always running. If you let them beat you down once, they'll always beat you down. I always fought back. I fought back against kids twice my size. I broke their noses. I broke their jaws. I destroyed six rah clawships. And I'll never stop fighting, no matter how big the bastard.

He spun his starfighter around, howled, and charged back to battle.

He unleashed his last missiles. His rotary cannon roared. A mite against a monster. He gave it everything he had. Explosions bloomed across the enemy hull. It was a big ship. It was a volcano. A leviathan. A spider the size of a mountain. And he gave it a bloody nose.

He smiled as the webs caught his starfighter.

He had no weapons left, and it was reeling him in.

"Well, boys and girls, looks like I'm gonna miss my ride home," Frankie said, transmitting his words into the void. "I'm sorry, my adoring fans. I'm sorry, ladies. But Frankie Calvetti ain't never run from no fight. And he ain't starting now." Tears stung his eyes, and his helmet fogged up. "I'm sorry, Barb. I love you, girl."

As the alien dreadnought tugged him toward the hangar, Frankie popped his starfighter's canopy. He climbed out of his cockpit into open space, and the strange constellations spread all around him. His flight suit wasn't designed to withstand vacuum for long, but it would hold up for a few moments. Long enough. He stepped onto the fuselage. Sticky webs coated his beloved Baby Blue, keeping his boots down. He would not float into the distance. He would die with his ship.

Standing here, the Eagle seemed so small. Just a tube of metal, charred and dented and trapped in a web, lost a thousand light-years from home. The legendary Baby Blue, heroine of the war. He'd miss her too.

Standing on his starfighter in open space, Frankie turned around so that he faced the enemy dreadnought. She loomed before him.

He drew his sidearm.

He aimed the pistol at the Tyranny.

The dreadnought kept pulling him closer. Closer toward that looming hatchway. Rows of red lights shone inside like rotting teeth. The mouth was about to devour him.

"Die, you sons of bitches!" Frankie shouted and opened fire.

One man against a mountain. He fired his bullets, shouting. He would fight until the end.

The webs pulled him closer, and he was only meters away now. The hangar rose before him, and he saw the terrible shadows inside.

He wouldn't let them take him alive. He had fought as long as he could. Frankie aimed his gun at his temple.

"Goodbye, Barb," he whispered. "I'll see you again someday. I promise. I'll take you to Coney Island and we'll ride the Ferris wheel among the clouds."

He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. Out of bullets.

Cold sweat washed over him.

The hangar doors loomed larger.

He tried to jump off his starfighter, but the webs glued his boots down.

The strands pulled him in, and the hangar doors slammed shut.

* * * * *

He lay there atop his Eagle, gasping for air, trapped in the alien hangar. A hangar? It felt more like a cave. Dark walls soared, dripping moisture. Craggy pillars rose like stalagmites, knobby and whorled. Webs hung from the ceiling and carpeted the floor, caked with dust. Water was dripping somewhere in the depths, each drop echoing, yet as Frankie lay on his charred starfighter, listening to those drops, he became convinced that it was not water. It was dripping blood.

He groaned, tried to stand up. He couldn't even sit up. The sticky webs coated Baby Blue, gluing him to the fuselage.

"Show yourself, cowards!" he shouted. "Fight me like men."

For a moment, he only heard that distant dripping. Then laughter sounded in the depths. Oddly human laughter. The laughter of a young woman.

"What the hell?" Frankie muttered.

Shadows scuttled across the walls. Shadows of nude women, frolicking, their hair swaying, their arms raised as they spun in a dance. And other shadows. Bloated, festering blobs like cancer growths, stingers dripping venom, and long twitching legs tipped with claws. Frankie flashed back to a day in his childhood, visiting a museum in Manhattan where the rich folk lived. He remembered seeing ancient statues—Greek, he thought, or maybe some other ancient empire. Statues of fertility gods, strange chimeras, blending human and animal. Goddesses flaunted their bare breasts and raised snakes for arms. Bearded gods sported hairy legs, hooves, and ridiculously exaggerated phalli. His mother had covered his eyes, but Frankie had never forgotten those monsters carved into clay or forged from bronze. That's what these shadows reminded him of. Ancient gods, naked and fertile and twisted.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "Come on, you bozos, fight me!"

The laughter died.

Footsteps clattered forward.

Frankie struggled against the webs trapping him.

Faces appeared above him. Beautiful faces. The faces of young women with bee-stung lips, with large eyes, with flowing hair, and their skin was purple and veined, and their eyes glowed crimson. They laughed, creatures from the darkest shadows of faerie, from hidden kingdoms underground and the wombs of old forests, places of moss and mold and mushrooms. Places of magic. They pulled off his helmet, draped gossamer across his eyes, and the world went dark.

Hands grabbed him, lifted him, carried him through this strange realm. Frankie struggled but could not free himself. He screamed but the webs muffled his cries. The creatures were carrying him through their starship, but part of him believed he was no longer on a starship, that they were taking him to some world beneath reality. This could not be real. This had to be a nightmare, just a fever dream. He could not wake up.

I'm back in Brooklyn, he thought. I'm back home, and I'll wake up in bed, and I'll realize it's just a nightmare. Just those statues from the museum, dancing in my dreams.

They seemed to carry him for miles, for eras, through dimensions of reality. Finally they placed him down on a hard floor, and hands caressed him, gentle female hands, stroking and comforting and rubbing balm on his wounds. One hand grabbed the webbing on his face and pulled hard and fast. Pain flared. Frankie had heard you should rip off a Band-Aid quickly. This felt like they had ripped off his goddamn face.

He screamed and blinked. His vision was blurry, but he could make out the beautiful faces. They were smiling. Giggling. They fled, and bloated abdomens wobbled, and claws pattered against metal.

Panic was rising in him. Frankie forced himself to take deep breaths. He shoved himself to his knees.

"Good," hissed a voice. "You are already kneeling before me."

Frankie blinked, focused his eyes, and raised his head.

She stood before him.

Tears filled his eyes.

She was an ancient goddess taken flesh. He knelt before her, barely able to breathe.

From the navel up, she was a woman. A beautiful woman with lavender skin marbled with purple veins. Gold tipped her breasts and fingernails, and her eyes were red windows to the depths of her depravity. Her black hair flowed, scented of oriental oils, and rings of precious metals encircled her arms, shaped like serpents. She was a beautiful woman, intoxicating and cruel, and a mocking smile played upon her lips like smoke dancing over a corpse.

From the hips down, she was monstrous.

Her womanly body flowed into the form of a great spider. Her abdomen loomed, round and heavy and clad in jeweled armor like some bizarre Fabergé egg. Eight arachnid legs sprouted from her thorax like the buttresses of a satanic church, and each leg ended with a gilded claw that could impale men's hearts. A stinger rose behind her, swaying, taunting, hypnotizing as it dripped its venom. Every drop that fell echoed like water in an underground pool.

"What are you?" Frankie whispered, tears on his cheeks.

Her mocking smile grew. "I am Od'rahda. I am woven of spider and woman. I am your goddess. I am the death of mankind. And I am your death."

She walked toward him. Her arachnid abdomen swung from side to side, and her eight claws tapped against the polished obsidian deck, a cadence like a chant to a dark entity, and her stinger left a trail of venom behind her. Her woman's body swayed, seductive, the purple skin glittering with gold, and she licked her lips with her slender tongue.

Frankie stood before her, and he wanted to fall to his knees. To worship her. To beg forgiveness. Yet he stood his ground, and he raised his fists. He would fight until the end.

She did not want to fight him. She caressed his cheek and smoothed his hair. She leaned down, and her breasts pressed against his chest, and her arms wrapped around him. She smelled of cinnamon and moss. She kissed him. Her lips were plump and deathly cold, her tongue reached into his mouth, and her hair wrapped around him like more gossamer.

He found himself kissing her back, and he wept.

She placed her hands around his head. Gripping. Digging her fingernails into him. Still kissing him. Not letting him go even as she gave his head a twist.

Something cracked.

Something ripped.

Frankie stared up at that lavender face with the red eyes like rubies, and as his vision blurred, it became the face of his mother. Of an all-mother who had birthed the universe. His body tumbled into a void, but that was all right. He no longer needed it. Frankie was finally home.

CHAPTER TWO

Admiral James "Bulldog" King stood on the bridge of his starship, staring at the monitor, waiting for the portal to reopen.

Come on.

He clenched his left fist. The metal prosthetic creaked. It was shaped like a medieval gauntlet, and claws sprouted from the fingertips. He was clenching his fist so often these days he had etched grooves across the palm.

Come on, open up. Get back here, Frankie.

Across the bridge of the starship Freedom, the mood seemed almost festive. Officers smiled at their stations. Some were positively beaming. An hour ago, when Frankie Calvetti had flown into the portal, everyone had cheered. Somebody had even popped a bottle of Champagne. A few officers were still holding their cups of bubbly.

But not King. He was not drinking. Not smiling. Not celebrating. This mission wasn't over yet. And the war was far from won.

This must work, he told himself. He tightened his metal fist, adding to the scratches already on the palm. It must! Or we die.

The Freedom's bridge was the usual hive of activity. Monitors filled the place—large and small, square and round, dim and dazzling with color. They hung across the bulkheads, from the ceiling, and on columns. Some monitors were MindWeb hallucinations and merely floated in the air. There were almost no lamps on the bridge; the monitors bathed the place with light.

Officers worked at their stations, keeping the ship running. Navigators, tacticians, scientists, and helmsmen were busy at their tasks. Officers from the rest of the ship, ranging from gunners to engineers, all flitted on and off the bridge. Some came through the door. Others materialized as telepathic avatars, held a brief discussion with bridge officers, then vanished like a puff of colorful chalk. Some older ships separated the bridge, where the navigators and helmsmen served, from the CIC, where officers planned and oversaw battles. The Freedom combined those functions in one place. Here was the crackling nerve center of the ship.

And, because King was an admiral now, here was perhaps the nerve center of the entire fleet. Through MindWeb, he gained access to new monitors, new data. He not only saw information about the Freedom. He could see everything about all three thousand starships under his command. It was a lot of data. It could easily overwhelm him. But he had an excellent crew who helped. These were the best officers in the fleet—right here on his bridge. He was proud of every one.

Suddenly he winced. A memory flashed before his eyes. This very bridge burning. Cracking open. Officers bleeding, falling, but fighting on. Charging at the enemy.

He took a deep breath. The visions cleared, and the bridge was clean again, his crew standing tall, their eyes bright, no blood on their uniforms.

It had been a year since Operation Perseus, the great battle to destroy the motherclaw Hunger. Fought in the far reaches of the solar system, a realm where Earth was but a mote of dust and Pluto cast deep shadows, Operation Perseus remained the largest battle in the Rah War. Arguably it was the largest battle in history. That night, humanity's fleet had rallied behind the Freedom. They had destroyed the enemy flagship and driven the aliens out of the solar system.

It was a great victory. But it did not end the war.

The rahs had suffered a terrible defeat, but their empire still sprawled across the stars, and their hatred of humanity only burned hotter. Every day, another portal opened somewhere in the solar system, and another group of clawfighters emerged. The alien vessels bombed colonies. Sometimes they bombed Earth herself. They slaughtered humans, then fell or fled. And the next day, it happened again.

Those were not full-fledged battles, merely raids. This was no longer all-out war. After Perseus, the roaring pyre of war had died down to a crackling pit of embers. It became a war of attrition. Drawn out. Devastating. Stretching on and on. This was how the rahs kept humanity in the corner. And when you were standing in it, a pit of embers felt just as hot as a blazing fire.

The rahs were building a new fleet, King knew. They were planning another invasion. Not just raids but a full assault. The enemy wanted to restore their dignity, to avenge their fallen. Soon that pyre would flare again.

King would be ready.

The secrets to defeating the rahs once and for all lay a thousand light-years away. Humanity would reach out and grab them.

"How long, Mimori?" he said. "How long until the portal reopens?"

The android turned from her station, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. Her navy-blue service uniform was perfectly tailored and ironed, her brass buttons shone, and her lustrous black hair spilled out from under her navy cap, cut the length of her chin. She had been fighting alongside King for almost forty years now, but she still looked like a woman in her twenties. Created by Alita Robotics in Tokyo, Mimori was built to last. In the early years, she had been a mere interface, a humanoid representation of the starship, one of seven. But over those years, she had grown a personality of her own. She had been sold as an operating system, but to King, she was a dear friend. Hell, she was family.

"I'm not sure, sir," Mimori said. "It should have been reopened by now. The Wandering Sun is still charging her battery."

"Get her commander on the line," King said.

"Yes, sir, hailing him now."

King turned toward the starboard bulkhead. A monitor hung there, connected to sensors mounted onto the external hull. The bridge was located deep inside the Freedom, safe behind many decks and layers of fortified bulkheads. But the viewports were so realistic they almost looked like windows. This one showed him the Wandering Sun, an energy ship floating off Freedom's starboard bow.

The Wandering Sun was the only human starship that could open a spacetime portal, at least one large enough to fly through. She was a massive ship, over a kilometer long. Almost as big as the Freedom. She needed to be big. The Wandering Sun was essentially a floating power plant. Her hull was fifty meters thick. Deep inside this impregnable fortress burned a small artificial sun. It was no larger than a basketball, but it provided massive energy. Enough to keep a city running for a year. That was about how much energy it took to open a large portal.

The Wandering Sun was not military. She didn't boast the Alliance colors or symbols. The flag of Nigeria, her port of call, was painted onto her hull. The Alliance had contracted her. King desperately needed energy ships in his fleet. This had always been true. Wars used a lot of energy. Especially with this new, experimental technology. Until the politicians passed the next budget, King had to hire civilians.

Ha, look at me, King thought. Thinking about budgets. Maybe I've become a politician myself.

He had been an admiral for over a year now. It still felt odd. Most days, he still felt like a starship commander, no more. Some days, he felt like a mere starfighter pilot again. But he was Admiral James King, commander of the Free Alliance Fleet. It was his duty to defend Earth. And by God, if any alien tried to invade again, King vowed they would meet an impenetrable wall of human might.

"Wandering Sun?" he said. "Do you hear me?"

Finally the Nigerian ship answered.

Remi Emodi, captain of the Wandering Sun, materialized aboard the Freedom's bridge. It was a neural hallucination, existing only in King's mind, but so convincing King could smell the ozone fumes wafting from the man. Emodi was stout, on the verge of going to fat, and wore the brown coveralls of Aardvark Energy. The company mascot, an adorable aardvark with big eyes, was stitched onto the chest. The cute name and logo underplayed the company's power. Aardvark Energy was among Earth's wealthiest corporations.

"Apologies for the delay, Admiral King!" Emodi boomed in his rich bass voice. "I know we promised you a portal reopening within an hour. It will be a bit longer."

"Is there a problem with the portal generator?" King said.

He looked out the viewport at the Wandering Sun. The portal generator stuck out from the prow, a cluster of metal rings like an astrolabe the size of a temple. Some of the crew joked around, saying Wandering Sun looked like she had flown into a Ferris wheel and jammed her nose between the spokes. King didn't care how the energy ship looked. So long as she got the job done.

The Red Dawn had a handful of portal generators too. But they were much smaller, able to open portals just large enough for communication, not spaceflight. In a few years, perhaps, humanity would operate hundreds of portal generators, and their starships would explore the galaxy. Right now they relied on the Wandering Sun.

"The portal generator is fine, Admiral," Emodi assured him. "The problem is the energy requirements. We've never had to generate so much energy so quickly before. We blew out one battery chamber. But we're fixing it. We'll have the portal reopened soon. Ten more minutes, twenty at most."

"Very good. Thank you for the update, Mr. Emodi. King out."

Emodi bowed his head, and his image flickered off the bridge.

King took a deep breath. A year ago, as a dreadnought commander, he might have cursed Emodi out. Dammit, mister, you promised me a portal. Get it open—now! But that was then. Back then, he was used to running a single warship. Today King was an admiral. That meant dealing with people all day, every day. Starship commanders. Civilian contractors. Politicians. Journalists. Oh God, the journalists were the worst. Them and countless others. King had never liked people very much. He had always been an introvert, preferring time spent alone in his starfighter, on his ranch down on Earth, or lost in a good book. He had his son, his granddaughter, and a couple of old war buddies. Who needed more people than that?

But now—ah, people everywhere, every one of them with their own problems and suggestions and requests and quirks. So, despite himself, King had learned some manners. Some patience. Not much. Just a smidgen. He hadn't become a people pleaser yet. He had become, against his better judgment, a leader of humanity. Not the leader. Not the Alliance high commander or the American president or anything that prestigious. But out here in space, everyone looked to him. And it was King's job to keep this show running smoothly. To keep Earth safe.

* * * * *

Commander Larry Jordan approached him, smiling.

"Wow, Jim, I'm impressed!" Jordan said in his smooth baritone voice. "You didn't even curse once while talking to the Wandering Sun. Usually men get crankier in their old age. You're becoming almost tolerable."

King smiled wryly at his XO. "How the hell did you step onto the bridge? Your head's grown so big since making commander I'm surprised it fit through the door."

The two men had been best friends for over forty years. They had fought countless battles together. And they still never tired of busting each other's balls.

Jordan turned his head left and right, glancing at the insignia on his shoulders. Two golden stars shone on each shoulder strap, denoting him a commander.

"What, because of these things? No, my head still fits through the door. But if you keep eating those cheeseburgers for lunch, Jim, you might be the one stuck outside."

King huffed. "I only eat them on Tuesdays."

"And I only sing in the shower."

"Don't go bursting into another song now," King muttered. "This morning's performance was enough."

Jordan chuckled. After King, he was the highest-ranking officer aboard the Freedom. In fact, there were only a handful of two-star commanders in the entire fleet. Normally, a man of Jordan's rank would command a starship. A large starship—a frigate, a carrier, even a dreadnought. Jordan could be commanding the Freedom herself, the mightiest ship in the fleet.

But King was not an admiral who would command from Earth. In the old days, King and Jordan would joke about admirals who sat under the sky, sending orders to those who served above it. So now, an admiral himself, King remained in space. He remained aboard the Freedom, his beloved dreadnought.

Admittedly, that left Jordan in an awkward position. The man was a commander now, high-ranking enough to take the reins. But with the admiral aboard, the Freedom would never quite be his. Not fully.

The two men looked at each other. They both understood the complicated situation. They made it work.

"Why are you so nervous, Jim?" Jordan said, lowering his voice. He put a hand on King's shoulder. "Things are going well."

King tapped the side of his head, the signal to switch to telepathic communication. Like all soldiers aboard the Freedom, they had MindLink neural implants.

"Something big is coming," King telepathized, transmitting his words directly into Jordan's brain. "The rahs are planning a major assault."

"We don't know that," Jordan replied, also telepathizing.

"The signals our probes picked up. Gravity shifts in deep space. Light flares around surrounding stars. Those are clawships mustering. The rahs are planning a second invasion. Something to dwarf the last assault. I know it. I feel it in my bones."

Jordan raised his chin. "If that happens, we'll cast them back into space. We weren't ready last time. We are now."

"It's not enough!" King said, his upper lip twitching with a sudden burst of anger. "I've spent the past year rebuilding the fleet. We're stronger than ever before. And it's not enough! Wars today are not won with numbers. They're won with technology. We need new, better technology. These portals are only the first step. We need to find out how the Aeolians defeated the rahs."

Jordan was quiet for long moments. The tall officer heaved a sigh. "Jim, those are probably only myths. The only evidence that the Aeolians exist at all are in some dusty rah scrolls."

They had captured the scrolls inside a rah dreadnought last year. The brave Freedom Brigade had invaded the clawship, then moved from chamber to chamber, clearing out the bugs. Deep inside the ship, the marines discovered a temple to the Glass Spider, the goddess of the rahs. A statue of this wretched deity dominated the alien church, forged of dark glass, her eyes inlaid with rubies. In one glass claw, she clutched the ancient, crumbling parchment. An unholy book of Ishar, the twisted rah faith.

The scrolls were full of the rahs' scratchy script. Mostly, the work boasted of rah victories across the galaxy. Mostly. One chapter was different. A chapter about a race called the Aeolians.

The only race to have defeated the rahs.

King had to find them. He had to use this new portal technology to reach the Aeolians. To learn their secrets.

"If they're real, they know how to defeat the rahs," King said. "So we're going to find them."

King had never told Frankie Calvetti the truth. At least not the full truth. King had only said they needed to test the portal. And that was partly true. But King had not chosen the Aeolia system at random. It was the star from the scrolls. The mythical star where the rahs had suffered their only defeat in a thousand generations of war.

Jordan heaved another sigh, deeper this time. "Ancient scrolls, myths from centuries ago … Very well, Jim. I still think we're chasing a ghost. But I'm with you. As always." He smiled thinly. "Mostly because you refuse to leave the damn ship."

"Admiral?" Mimori turned from her controls. "The Wandering Sun has contacted us. She's ready to reopen the portal."

King stepped closer to the central monitor.

"Give me a view of space," he said. "Prow cameras. Real colors. I want to see this with my own eyes."

The charts, rows of texts, and schematics vanished off the monitor. A real-time view of space appeared. The Wandering Sun lumbered forward—big, boxy, and brown. That damn cartoon aardvark waved from the hull, painted ten stories tall.

The energy ship began to tremble. Light seeped through seams in her hull. Deep inside her core, the artificial star was crackling, spinning, weaving gigawatts of energy, more than many power plants on Earth could dream of. Light flowed through the portal generator. A dark beam shot out, and a bubble formed in space. The bubble multiplied, growing like a fertilized egg in the womb. Spacetime rippled around it, bending the starlight.

The rahs had developed this technology, but humans were catching on. Soon humanity would be an interstellar species. It was funny how that worked. Sometimes war, for all its destruction, drove innovation. The First World War pushed humans into the sky. In the Second World War, humans dived into the subatomic world. The Third World War sent fleets across the solar system. Now the Rah War would send humans to the stars. Destruction and innovation, death and rebirth. They tended to travel hand in hand.

The portal grew larger, almost fully formed now.

"If this works, and if Frankie comes back in one piece, that means the portal is safe," King telepathized to Jordan. "That means we can fly through and find the Aeolians."

"He'll be back in one piece, all right," Jordan said. "We've tested it on mice. It'll work on men."

"Poor Frankie doesn't know how important his mission is," King said. "The kid's got balls the size of asteroids."

The portal settled in space, a glimmering black sphere. Frankie's door home.

A hallucinatory Emodi appeared on the bridge. "She's all ready, Admiral. We can keep her open for two minutes, no longer. Your man must return by then."

King stared at the portal, waiting.

Come on, Frankie. Where are you?

Nothing.

Nobody was flying out the portal.

"Mimori, broadcast my words into the portal," King said. "Honey Badger, this is Freedom. Do you read me? We have a portal open for you. Bring your bird home to roost."

He waited.

No answer came.

"Honey Badger, do you read me?" King repeated.

Nothing.

"One more minute, Admiral," Emodi warned.

King turned toward Mimori. "Are my messages going through the portal?"

"Yes, sir," Mimori said. "I can confirm that electromagnetic radiation, including in the range of our transmission, is flowing through."

King narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the portal. He could make no sense of it. Portals distorted light too much. The comlinks were programmed to compensate for that distortion. His eyes weren't. The portal appeared like a blank sphere.

"Honey Badger, return at once!" King said.

Everyone stared at the portal, holding their breath. King's heart sank. Nobody was smiling on the bridge anymore. Nobody was drinking champagne now.

"Ten more seconds," Emodi said.

They just stared, waiting. Everyone counted inwardly.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

"Come on, Frankie," King whispered.

Six. Five. Four.

King thought of all the soldiers he had sent on missions. All those who had never come home.

"Three," Emodi whispered. "T—"

"There!" Jordan said. "Look!"

The portal jiggled. Something was emerging.

"Frankie?" King said.

But no. It wasn't a starfighter that flew out of the portal. It was … King frowned. He couldn't make it out. Something small. Much smaller than an Eagle F-77.

The portal flickered, then closed.

The small object rolled toward the Freedom.

"Magnify," King said.

Mimori nodded. "Magnifying object, sir."

The viewport zoomed in, showing the object that had emerged from the portal.

Across the bridge, officers gasped. A few officers cried out in fear. A navigator stumbled aside and vomited.

King just stared, face hard.

"Send out a tether drone," he said. "Bring it to hangar D8. Jordan, walk with me. Mimori, you have the bridge."

They had all seen what it was. A helmet. A pilot's helmet. Inside—the severed head of Frank Calvetti, his face locked in a silent scream.

* * * * *

King and Jordan marched down the corridor, side by side. As always, the starship Freedom bustled with activity. Soldiers paused to stand at attention as their commanders walked by.

Thousands of spacers served in these halls. Some were combat soldiers. They fired cannons, flew starfighters, or landed on enemy worlds. Others worked in STEM fields, keeping the computers and engines running. Other spacers cooked meals, cleaned decks, healed the wounded, repaired what was broken, and did many other tasks. The Freedom was a flying army. Together, thousands of professionals kept her fighting.

When King made admiral, he promoted the Freedom to flagship, replacing the Churchill. This dreadnought, which had spent decades as a floating museum, now led the Free Alliance Fleet. So many ships had fallen in the rah assault two years ago. King had been rebuilding the fleet—commissioning new ships, changing formations, implementing new tactics. From a bloated, comfortable fleet decimated in a surprise war, King had built a lean military machine.

He had a feeling his new fleet would soon be tested.

"Who did this?" Jordan said. "Could it be the Aeolians? Could they be real—and hostile?"

The two men marched down the midsection as spacers stepped aside, pressed their backs to the bulkheads, and snapped to attention. With so many people filling the Freedom these days, when a commander walked down a corridor it felt like parting the Red Sea. One perk of being a commander—traffic got out of your way.

"We'll find out," King said.

He couldn't stop seeing it. That severed head, floating in the void. King had sent the pilot out on this mission. Now the man was dead. Grief and guilt clutched King's heart. As admiral, he sometimes had to send men into danger. Sometimes he had to bury them. It never got easier. Every spacer aboard this ship was like a child. Every death ripped at King's soul. As he marched down the hall, he kept his shoulders squared, his head high, his face hard. But inside he wept.

They took the elevator down to deck 8, then stepped into hangar D. There were several hangars aboard the Freedom, most used to launch Eagle starfighters or Rhino dropships. Hangar D8 was humbler, servicing the Freedom's fleet of Sparrow shuttlecraft. Sparrows were not used in combat, so King had chosen this deck to keep the more critical airlocks free and battle ready.

Master Sergeant Lee Eun-Yu, the bay boss, stood at attention and saluted. King returned the salute. Hailing from Seoul, Eun-Yu had been serving aboard the Freedom for fifteen years now. She had started as a humble deckhand, then rose to command an entire Eagle starfighter deck. King had promoted her to Chief Bay Boss. She now oversaw all airlocks aboard the Freedom, and she was a critical member of his team.

Normally, the Chief Bay Boss wouldn't spend much time on D8, one of the quieter hangars. But this was not an ordinary day. Today Lee Eun-Yu was here. The admiral was here. The XO was here. And a squad of marines stood along the bulkheads in full battle gear.

"We've sent out a tug drone, sir," Eun-Yu said. "We're about to retrieve the remains." She turned toward the airlock and raised her voice to a shout. "Airlock D8—open!"

King watched on a monitor. The drone had grabbed the helmet with the severed head inside. It was now flying toward the airlock. The outer hatch opened, and the drone carried the helmet through. Spacers in hazmat suits were waiting inside the airlock. They knelt over the helmet, scanning it for toxins or explosives, then sterilizing it. King waited. Finally the inner door opened, and the drone carried the helmet into the bay.

Standing on the deck, a few spacers paled. One mechanic looked like she might throw up. The drone hovered above the deck, holding its grisly catch of the day. King approached and took the helmet. Frankie's severed head was still inside.

Eun-Yu lowered her head. A flight controller began to weep.

Jordan walked up and stood by King. Just his presence was comforting. So long as Jordan stood at his side, King felt that there was still hope and strength in the world. So many people relied on King; to have a friend he could rely on kept him going.

"The Aeolians?" Jordan said. "Did the aliens find him? Kill him?"

"No." King shook his head. "It was not the Aeolians who did this."

Jordan frowned. "How do you know?"

"The Aeolians have not encountered humanity. They don't speak English."

King turned the helmet around so that Frankie's severed head faced the deck. Words had been etched into the back of the helmet as with a claw.

A GIFT FOR YOU, ADMIRAL KING.

CHAPTER THREE

Three men met in King's Library. Three who might determine the fate of billions.

The cabin was located in the Freedom's prow, only three decks above the bridge. But this felt like another world. Hardwood hid the original diamond steel deck. Shelves covered the walls, full of naval instruments, model sailing ships, and thousands of books. A fireplace crackled, illuminating a suit of armor, an armchair, and a scarred oak desk. This was King's personal stateroom, which he had modeled himself. The place perhaps looked like a study from the ancient world, but King's Library was a center of Earth's military might. It was here that King thought his deepest thoughts, where he talked to his closest confidants.

Only three men were here now. Himself, admiral of the fleet. Commander Jordan, his right-hand man. And High Commander Godwin, the supreme leader of the Free Alliance.

Godwin seemed right at home in this retro cabin. Everything about the man was anachronistic. Even for a man pushing eighty, Godwin was old-fashioned. It was 2202, but George Godwin dressed like a Victorian gentleman. A three-piece suit hugged his rotund body, and a golden watch ticked in his pocket. A top hat crowned his bald head. In one hand, he held his cane. In the other, a crackling pipe. Add a monocle, Spitfire had once joked, and the man could pass for Mister Peanut.

But despite his eccentric appearance, Godwin was a shrewd military man. As the head of the Alliance, he was a civilian now. He had to be. But he had decades of military experience under his belt. King had never met a braver soldier.

"This is a very concerning development," Godwin rumbled in his baritone voice. His underbite slurred his aristocratic accent. "Very concerning indeed. Who did this to your pilot? Is this the work of the rahs?"

"That was my first thought," King said. "It made sense. The rahs hate us. The rahs know our languages. But I sent the helmet to the lab. We couldn't find any alien DNA on the outside. Our bay workers must have killed it when sterilizing the helmet. But we found traces of alien DNA on Frankie's severed neck."

King winced. The wound on his own neck flared. He had almost lost his own head once. It still hurt sometimes.

Godwin raised an eyebrow. "Alien DNA? The Aeolians?"

"No." King shook his head. "This DNA looks similar to rah DNA. Not a perfect match. It's not a rah. But it shares at least half its genome with the spiders. It must come from the same branch of life. Whatever creature this DNA came from, it evolved on Arakavish, the rah homeworld. We also found other DNA. Human DNA. And I don't mean Frankie."

"Crew who touched Frankie before he left?" Godwin said. "Or who handled the inside of his helmet?"

"No," King said. "The human DNA was mixed with the alien DNA."

Godwin frowned. "You mean the samples contaminated each other?"

"I mean they were spliced together," King said. "Human and rah—combined. We don't understand it yet. Maybe the DNA was damaged during the passage through the portal, molten and mixed together. We need to investigate. But whatever it is, it wasn't the Aeolians. And the rahs, or something similar to a rah, are involved."

Jordan had been standing by a wall of books, listening. He spoke for the first time in the meeting. "Jim, do you remember Darjeeling's reports from Europa?"

King nodded. A year ago, Sergeant Major Darjeeling, Princess Emily, and Stowy had discovered a shocking secret under Europa's ocean. A lab where aliens experimented with creating hybrids. Creatures part rah, part human. The Alliance had bombed the lab into oblivion. But could the program have continued elsewhere?

"Perhaps dear old Skel'rah, empress of spiders, finally created some new type of hybrid soldier," King said. "Creatures specifically engineered to fight humans."

"Maybe," Jordan said. "Of course, we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. We're still waiting for final results from the lab. But suppose it's true. Suppose Skel'rah finally got her hybrid program to work. Why did she send her monsters to the Aeolia system, a thousand light-years away?"

"For the same reason we've been going there," King said. "To find the Aeolians."

Jordan pursed his lips but said nothing. The man was still skeptical. Well, King was not.

King stepped toward a shelf by the fireplace. It contained some of his most precious treasures. Leather-bound copies of Histories by Herodotus, Antiquities of the Jews by Josephus, the Annals by Tacitus, and many other books filled his shelves with wisdom. A perfect replica of the HMS Beagle, Darwin's ship, sailed inside a bottle. King had built the model himself. An astrolabe, a telescope wrapped in leather, and a vintage brass sextant added to the naval theme. A framed drawing, a gift from his granddaughter, showed a crayon King and Rowan holding hands in a field of flowers. Among these treasures it lay. The alien scroll.

He lifted the glass tube. The scroll floated inside.

"The scroll Bastian found in the captured clawship," King said. "A sacred scroll. A compendium of rah myths and histories, recounting the tales of rah heroes and battles and vanquished enemies. It's fascinating reading."

"I'm sure it's a page-turner," Jordan said.

King snorted. "For an amateur historian it is." He smiled thinly. "You know, I wanted to become a historian before I joined the Alliance."

"But that's ancient history," Jordan quipped.

King gently pulled the scroll from the tube. He unrolled it across the table, then put on his reading glasses. "I've read through this scroll time and time again. There's only one mention of a rah defeat. Against an enemy called the Aeolians."

He tapped his finger on the scroll. It showed a star system—the same one they had opened a portal to. Rah script sprawled across the margins, drawn in blood. The letters reminded King of the scars of claws on flesh. The page looked like the skin of a victim tortured with ten thousand cuts.

"As you said, Jim, this is a book of myth and faith," Jordan said. "It's not a reliable source."

"Maybe not," King said. "But it's the best lead we have. And if the rahs are in the Aeolia system now, that means we're onto something. I think the Aeolians are still there. They know how to defeat the rahs. And I think Skel'rah sent soldiers there, some genetically engineered freaks, to stop us from entering the system." King looked up from the scroll. "The Freedom must fly there. To Aeolia. To find the Aeolians. And to defeat any enemy in our way."

King and Jordan were both great leaders, and they held the fate of humanity in their hands, but they too had a boss. They turned toward Godwin, awaiting the man's decision.

"Quite intriguing." Godwin scratched his chin. "I must admit, this excites the child in me. I used to be something of an amateur archaeologist. In my younger days, I joined several archaeological expeditions in Africa and Southeast Asia. To follow a mythical scroll, to find an ancient civilization? If I were twenty years younger, I'd go with you. Oh bugger, at my age, I should say forty years younger!" He barked a laugh, then began coughing on his pipe smoke. He waved his hand, clearing the smoke away. "But since we are serious men, we will make a serious decision. I do admit, when King first brought the scroll to my attention, I thought it a mere myth too. But if the enemy is defending that system, there is something valuable there. King, I'm approving this expedition. Go to the Aeolia system. You will defeat any enemy that waits there, and you will find the Aeolians."

* * * * *

For a moment, the three men stood in silence.

The Freedom will leave the solar system, King thought. I'll fly a thousand light-years away. Into danger. Into darkness.

A chill ran through him. But he had to admit. A spark of excitement filled him too. Godwin was right. Something about all this did appeal to the inner child.

"The Freedom will get the job done," King said.

"You won't be going alone," Godwin said. "I'm sending a few ships with you."

King frowned. "Sir, with all due respect, the Freedom needs no convoy. We're a fully self-contained force."

"Ah, but you cannot open your own portals, can you?" Godwin said. "Take the Wandering Sun with you. She's a civilian ship, I know, but we pay well. She'll go with you. That way you won't be under any deadline. Whenever you need to, for whatever reason, the Wandering Sun will open a portal home."

"It will be because we completed the mission," King said. "We won't return until then."

"Or if you encounter too much danger." Godwin pointed an accusing finger. "If you must flee Aeolia, I expect you to flee. The Freedom is too valuable to lose. You are a capable admiral and a brilliant military mind. But you still struggle to learn the old adage that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor."

King prepared to argue, then took a deep breath and nodded. "Understood, sir."

"I'll also send a ship of diplomats with you," Godwin continued.

King's eyebrows rose. "Diplomats, sir?"

"Yes indeed." Godwin refilled his pipe with tobacco. "If you find the Aeolians, humanity will need to talk to them. To introduce ourselves. To explain our desire for friendship. Diplomats should do this job."

King licked his dry lips. "Sir, would I be such a poor ambassador for humanity?"

Godwin barked a laugh. "You're a military man, King. I like you. I admire you even. But you're a military man through and through. This mission needs an ambassador with more finesse."

Jordan slapped King on the shoulder. "He means you're a cantankerous old bastard who'd scare the Aeolians away."

King harrumphed. "Fine. So I'm not exactly charming. Who are these diplomats you're thinking of?"

"The starship Mahatma should do the job," Godwin said. "An Indian vessel, not military but still a member of the Free Alliance. She's crewed with monks of the Mahatrist religion."

"Monks, sir?" King said. "Maybe toss in a few nuns, a rabbi and a priest, and we'll let the jokes write themselves."

Godwin did not even crack a smile. "They're the best trained men for the job. They're all experienced diplomats and peacemakers. Their order hosted the Basel Conference that ended the Third World War. You remember, King. Your father was there. As part of their training in diplomacy, the monks prepared for this very possibility—encountering alien civilizations and forging friendships."

King took a deep breath. If you asked him, diplomats were just another breed of politicians. And politicians were like space barnacles; you couldn't shake them off fast enough.

"Understood," King said. Yes, he was a military man through and through. He'd obey his orders.

"I'm sending a science ship with you too," Godwin said. "The FAS Kuroko. She's a Japanese ship, civilian too. She's full of scientists of every stripe. Astrophysicists, xenobiologists, you name it. They're the most curious minds in the Alliance, eager to learn everything about the cosmos. If something exists, they'll study it. If it doesn't exist, they'll study it harder. Take the Kuroko with you, King. Let them study the Aeolia system. This is a new frontier for our understanding of the universe."

"Sir, with all due respect, this is a time of war, and this is a military mission," King said. "Not a scientific expedition."

"Ah yes. You're right, of course. But remember, old boy, the Free Alliance is more than just a military. The Alliance includes agencies for peace, art, and science as well. As high commander, I must fulfill the needs of the military. But I cannot neglect the civilian branches of our noble Alliance. Take the Kuroko. I promise the scientists won't get in the way."

"Show them an interesting microbe, and they'll be busy staring into microscopes all week," Jordan said.

King pursed his lips. "It's not that I'm opposed to diplomacy or science. Both are noble endeavors. But if I take more ships, their security is my responsibility. There are enemies in that system. I cannot be responsible for the safety of the Wandering Sun, the Mahatma, and the Kuroko."

"Very true, very true." Godwin puffed on his pipe. "I'll send another warship with you. Extra muscle. The FAS Caracal is nearby. She scored many enemy kills in the war so far, and her commander is experienced and wise. The Caracal will go too. She'll help you."

King was familiar with the Caracal. Godwin was understating her achievements. She was an Israeli frigate, one of only three the little country operated. All three flew for the Alliance Fleet. King had studied the statistics of all Alliance ships under his command. Among a thousand Alliance warships, the Caracal was ranked third in enemy clawships destroyed. If you asked King, she was worth ten normal frigates.

"Very well," King said. It would be nice to have another military ship around. "But that's it. Sir, with all due respect, we can't pull too many ships away from Earth. We need the bulk of our fleet here, defending the homeworld."

"Agreed," Godwin said. "I think we've assembled a good team for this mission. You'll lead the show, King. The diplomats and scientists work for you. I'll make sure they understand that."

"We can leave as soon as the Wandering Sun is able to generate a portal large enough," King said. "The Freedom will need a damn big portal. But according to Emodi, a portal large enough for a dreadnought is possible."

"I'll call him to confirm," Jordan said. He tapped his temple, indicating he was engaged in a telepathic call. For a moment, he silently telepathized with the Wandering Sun. Then he lowered his hand. "Emodi said we must give him two days to generate enough energy."

King took a deep breath. "I was hoping to leave sooner. If the rahs are in that system, they might try to find the Aeolians, then destroy them before we can get there."

"If the Aeolians are all they're cracked up to be, they can last two days against the rahs," Godwin said. "And we'll need two days to get the other ships ready. I will return to HQ now. We'll stay in touch. King, Jordan, I know I can count on you both. Godwin out."

The man dissipated into a cloud of smoke.

King coughed and waved his hand. "Damn, these MindWeb hallucinations are realistic."

"Sometimes I wish I could disappear in a puff of smoke," Jordan said. "One helluva way to get out of a boring meeting."

King returned the scroll to his shelf. He stood for a moment, gazing at the HMS Beagle inside the glass bottle. He imagined the ship sailing on Earth's oceans. That had been a simpler time.

He looked at Jordan. "Before we leave on this mission, there's one thing we must do. You remember what we talked about."

"Spitfire," Jordan said.

King nodded. "Yes. It's time."

Jordan's eyes softened. "Now, Jim? Before the mission?"

"Yes. This is the right time. This will be her trial by fire. Let's get her into this office. But first …" He reached into his cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Martian ale. "I need a drink."

CHAPTER FOUR

Colonel Gal "Spitfire" Levy, Queen of the Flock, was way ahead of her admiral. When it came to booze, she usually was. She sat at the bar, empty bottles around her, getting good and drunk.

It was inappropriate for a colonel, she knew. But dammit, it was her day off. And dammit, the booze dulled the pain.

The war had begun … what, two years ago now? More? Spitfire had just been a stunt pilot then, thrust into battle when the real fighter pilots died. By now she was an experienced combat pilot. A tough soldier. A killer. A leader. And most nights, she still woke up with nightmares. In her dreams, she was flying into the plasma port of a clawship, but it always became a dragon, and the beast devoured her. It was two years since that first great battle. Since ejecting from her starfighter and floating among the corpses of her friends. Two years of endless war and loss.

So yeah, she drank. Sue her. She still had the highest kill count in Freedom's Flock, this fleet of two hundred starfighters. Beer helped her kill rahs. Beer was magic. Better to drown in a bottle than burn in a dragon's jaws.

"Jelly!" She banged some credits onto the bar. "Get me another."

Her voice was slurred. Two drones floated toward her, shaped like jellyfish. They were basically just floating trays with slender arms hanging from the bottom.

"Are you sure you haven't had enough, ma'am?" the two drones said.

Spitfire blinked and rubbed her eyes. The image solidified into a single drone.

"I'm fine. Fine!" She belched. "Another. That's an order."

Jelly floated away, then returned with a bottle of Goldstar, her favorite beer. She took a sip, raised her eyes, and looked at the monitor hanging over the bar. Today anyone could watch a variety of entertainment on the MindWeb. You could manifest a hallucinatory monitor. Hell, you could imagine yourself inside a virtual world if you wanted. But the aerie was a retro joint. An old-fashioned television set, the kind they used centuries ago, hung above the bar. There was an antique jukebox, a foosball table, even a dartboard. It was nice to return to a simpler time. In an era of telepathy and space wars, everyone needed to sometimes revisit the past.

There was nothing good on TV. Just the news. Something about the latest rah raid. Three clawships had emerged from portals over Mars, blew up a casino, and fled. Eighty-three dead. The Freedom had been too far to help. It was like this every day. The rahs were too cowardly to launch another major invasion. Not after humanity had kicked their butts last time. So with their portals, they kept raiding, destroying, killing, then fleeing like the bugs that they were. Spitfire had been clocking countless hours in her starfighter, flying on patrol, just waiting for the bastards to show up. She hated it. Give her a good, proper fight any day, not this nonsense. Hell, sometimes she missed the great battles they would fight before Operation Perseus.

I miss those battles, yet they haunt me. I crave them, yet they fill my nightmares. What's wrong with me?

She gulped her beer, emptying the bottle, then tossed it onto the deck. It shattered, and a cleaner drone scurried over to collect the shards.

"Ah hell, why is there nothing good on TV?" she said, rising off her barstool. She took a wobbly step across the deck. "Anyone wanna play Trivial Pursuit or … whoa."

She swayed, had to lean against the bar for support. She blinked and looked across the aerie.

A handful of pilots were there. Some were playing poker, others were tossing darts, and a couple of guys were shooting pool. The jukebox was playing some old rock 'n' roll. Technically, only pilots were allowed in the aerie. It was a place for heroes to let their hair down and become mere humans. But Stowy sat at the poker table, playing with the pilots while sipping a Shirley Temple. The teenage stowaway often sneaked into the bar, dropping from the HVAC vent above. She had never flown a starfighter in her life, but she had become an aerie regular.

"Hey, Spitfire, wanna join us?" Stowy said, waving from the poker table.

Spitfire hiccuped. "Yep."

She lurched toward the poker table. As she walked by the pool table, her head spun, and she bumped into one of the players. A billiard ball flew into the air.

"Goddammit, Spitfire!" said Pickles. "I was winning."

The tall pilot spun toward her. His left eye, a bionic implant, cast out a laser beam.

Spitfire stumbled back, blinded. "Shut your high beam off!"

"Oh, um, sorry about that." Pickles grabbed his bionic eyeball between two fingers, turned it like a knob, and the laser shut off.

His rival at the pool table, a hulking pilot named Warthog, stomped toward them. "You were using your bionic eye?"

"It's prescription," Pickles explained.

Warthog tossed down his can of beer, growled, and shattered his pool cue across his knee. "It's cheating!"

"Bar fight, bar fight, bar fight!" Stowy chanted.

"Nobody is getting into a bar fight!" Spitfire said. "Pickles, if you aim with your bionic eye, it's cheating. Warthog, calm down, you're an officer of the Alliance, act like one. Jelly?" She looked for the drone. "Get me a black coffee, because I am so …" She swayed. "Drunk."

Just then, her MindLink rang. She realized it had been ringing for a while. When you were this drunk, the implant didn't always work well.

She took the call.

"Sir!"

At once, she straightened and saluted.

A hallucination of Admiral King appeared before her on the deck. It was a private chat. Nobody else could see him. But everyone knew who it was. There was only one man in the fleet the famous Spitfire would salute. Stowy, even though the girl didn't have a MindLink, stood up and saluted too. Jelly froze in midair, holding Spitfire's coffee, not sure if to approach or retreat.

"Spitfire, are you all right?" King said.

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

King's hallucination looked around the bar. Physically, he was probably in his stateroom, looking through the cameras mounted on the bar ceiling.

"I see a lot of empty bottles on that bar. Yours?"

"Um, sir, am I trouble?"

King stared at her, face hard. "Report to my stateroom. At once. In person." He gave the bar another look. "Drink that coffee first."

Spitfire took the coffee to go. She left the bar, and before she even took a sip of the black brew, she already felt dead sober.

* * * * *

The Freedom was a large ship, a floating city of corridors and decks and chambers of rumbling machinery. It took a while to get anywhere. The aerie was located on the lowermost deck of the midsection, while King's Library was high in the prow. It took Spitfire half an hour to walk through the ship, winding her way to the admiral's quarters.

On the walk, she had time to think. And mostly to worry. Was she in trouble? Was King furious at her getting drunk, and would he bust her down to major, maybe even strip her commission?

Spitfire knew she had been lax lately. She veered off her coordinates during patrols. She gambled and drank like a common pilot, not the commander of the Flock. She showed up late to meetings with the high command. She showed up hungover.

But dammit, things were different now. She almost missed the war. Not these raids but the real war. Battles, huge battles with thousands of starships blazing all around! With fear of death pumping through her veins, the exhilaration of victory, the speed and fire and glory.

Yes, it haunted her, and yes, she needed it, because to her it had become like a drug—harmful, destroying her, eating her up from the inside, yet irresistible. The odd dogfight with a rah raider barely scratched the itch. She still had demons out there in the darkness. The ghosts of her dead comrades still haunted the void. The monsters who vowed her death still roamed the shadows. So long as those demons lurked in the endless night between the stars, Spitfire would never rest easy. She had to fly back out there and face them.

Instead she was stuck on the Freedom, bored, restless, a junkie in withdrawal, and it was showing.

And now King is going to demote me or discharge me, she thought. And maybe I deserve it.

She paused outside the admiral's doorway to compose herself. He wanted to see her in person. Not MindWeb. That meant this was important. Cold sweat trickled down her back.

"Come on, Spitfire, calm down." She forced a deep breath. "Don't panic."

Yes, panic attacks. They came with the nightmares too.

A security camera perched above the doorway. With her clearance as colonel, Spitfire telepathically connected to the camera and looked through the lens. For a dizzying moment, she was looking at herself from above, like a ghost floating over a corpse. And indeed, she looked like a corpse. She looked sick. She was a woman of thirty-seven, but she felt older today, weary like an old woman. She still looked young. Her hair was still brown without a single streak of white. She had no wrinkles yet. Okay, maybe some crow's feet when she smiled, nothing more. But she didn't feel young. She felt tired and anxious and itching all over.

Maybe I do deserve to be discharged. Maybe I don't know how to fight this war anymore. Well, let's get this over with.

She smoothed her uniform and knocked on the door.

"Come in, Spitfire," came King's voice from inside.

Spitfire entered the stateroom and saluted. She and King went way back. He was like a father to her. She had known him all her life. She didn't need to salute him, but today felt important. So she stood at attention and she gave him that salute.

"Sir."

Stepping into King's Library always felt like entering another world. If the aerie seemed stuck in the twentieth century, King's quarters felt a century older than that. The fireplace was crackling. The books and antique naval instruments sat on the shelves, and somebody had been smoking a pipe, judging by the smell. She also smelled hard liquor. Martian ale, she thought.

Commander Jordan was in the room too. They were the two highest-ranking men aboard the Freedom. Arguably, they were the two most powerful leaders in the Free Alliance Fleet. And both of them were staring at her.

No pressure.

For a moment, the two men were silent.

Spitfire shifted her weight uncomfortably. "So … I feel like I was just called into the principal's office for a scolding. Honestly, sir, I didn't pass Billy those notes. Don't spank me too hard." She gave an uneasy smile, hoping to break the tension.

Neither King nor Jordan cracked a smile.

"Spitfire," King began.

Here it comes, my doom, she thought.

"I'm promoting you to lieutenant commander," King continued. "And I'm making you a bridge officer."

Spitfire just stood there, staring. The words didn't make sense.

"You are … promoting me." She blinked. "You're not firing me."

"No, goddammit!" King said. "Why the hell would I fire you? You're one of the best officers on my ship. And you're like my daughter. Not that our relationship has anything to do with this promotion. You earned it, Spitfire. You've flown starfighters long enough. I want you out of the cockpit and on my bridge."

She gave something halfway between a gasp and a laugh. "As what, sir? A typical bridge officer is below my rank now, let alone after a promotion. Unless I'm to be …"

The words trailed off.

No. It couldn't be.

"You're going to be the newest XO of the Freedom," King said.

Spitfire blinked at him. No, it certainly made no sense. An XO, or executive officer, was the second most powerful officer on a starship. When the commander was off shift, the XO commanded the bridge.

On smaller ships, the XO could be a major, even a captain. Lower than Spitfire's current rank. Hell, as colonel, she could be commanding a warship of her own, maybe even a full frigate. But she had stayed aboard the Freedom because this was her home. Specifically, the Eagle flight decks were her home. She had never even imagined a transfer to another department. Let alone the bridge.

"But …" She blinked. "I thought Jordan is the XO."

"I am the XO!" Jordan boomed. "You're not replacing me. You're helping me. Our mutual friend James King the Great is now an admiral. He commands a fleet of three thousand starships. He doesn't have time for the day-to-day aboard our humble dreadnought. So I've been running things myself."

"I'm still involved in the day-to-day," King growled. "Well, sometimes. Okay, stop giving me that look. Yes, Larry, you're a lifesaver."

Jordan smiled. "See? He admits it. I might be the XO on paper, but with the old bulldog so busy, I've been taking on more and more duties. And sometimes I, well, like to eat or sleep. Once a week is nice. And I need help. I need somebody to be … well, the XO's XO. The XO2, call it. I like the sound of that."

"We need another commander-class officer on the bridge," King said. "Somebody to help us lead this starship. You know the Freedom as well as anyone. You've grown up here. Your father served here. You know this ship through and through. As lieutenant commander, you'll be third-in-command of the starship Freedom."

Spitfire took a step back. "I … I don't think this is a good idea."

"Dammit, Spitfire, this is a promotion!" King said. "You should be happy about it." He considered for a moment. "No, that was wrong. You should be miserable and worried about it, but you should still say yes."

She licked her lips. "I …"

She wanted to say so many things. About her nightmares. Her panic attacks. About her self-doubts. She could bring none of it to her lips.

"But I love flying," she said instead. "I'll miss the cockpit."

King's face softened. He held her arms, smiling. "How about this? Once a week, when Larry and I have the bridge under control, you can still fly sorties with the Flock."

"Twice a week and you have a deal."

King laughed. "It's a deal." He pulled her into an embrace. "Thank you, Spitfire. I'm proud of you."

Tears fell from Spitfire's eyes. Her commander's arms were warm and strong, and as she cried on his shoulder, for the first time in many days, Spitfire felt safe. She was a woman in her late thirties. She was a senior officer aboard a warship. She was a scarred, hardened soldier. Yet as her beloved commander embraced her, she felt like a girl again, safe in her father's arms.

Spitfire had never known her own father. A fighter pilot, Yehuda "Lion" Levy had died fighting the Red Dawn before Spitfire had even emerged from the womb. So his fellow fighter pilot, his best friend, had adopted her. James "Bulldog" King. Her surrogate father. Her leader. Her compass in a world of darkness.

She finally stepped back from his embrace, tears in her eyes, and saluted. "I'm honored." She blinked and tilted her head. "But, um, who will command Freedom's Flock while I'm on the bridge?"

King laughed. "Always worried about your baby birds, aren't you? Who do you think should become the new Flock Mother?"

Spitfire did not hesitate. "Pickles. I mean—Major Robby Cooper. He has a big mouth, and he's a smartass, and he cheats at pool. But after me, he has the highest clawship kill count. And he's a good man." A grin sneaked up on her. "And he'll love it when I tell him he's the new Flock Mother."

King nodded. "I trust your judgment. Go give him the news. Take time to digest this. We'll have an official ceremony in the officer's lounge tomorrow. We're going to do this right."

* * * * *

To reach the aerie, Spitfire had to walk through the Eagle hangar. There were actually four Eagle hangars aboard the Freedom, spanning decks 1 to 4 in the midsection. But this deck, the lowermost one, had always been special to her. It straddled the underbelly hull of the Freedom. Open space was just a few meters below her feet. This was the deck where Spitfire had been stationed through her career as a pilot. These were the airlocks she would launch from to battle. These were her beloved starfighters.

F-77 Eagles. The best fighting machines in the galaxy. She walked among them now, pausing to caress their hulls, to count the stars painted onto their fuselages, each star representing a downed enemy. Two hundred Eagles filled the Freedom's hangars, and she knew each one's peculiarities, the scars on their hulls, the flecks of paint, the scratches and burn marks, all these mementos of battle. To the untrained eye, each Eagle was the same. Seventeen meters long, five meters tall, thirteen meters wide from wingtip to wingtip. Two exhaust ports on the back. A cockpit for a single pilot. A fleet of clones. But not to Spitfire. To her, every one was a unique machine. An individual—as much as the pilots who flew them.

She walked by her own Eagle. Pilots liked naming their Eagles, then writing the names on the side. Spitfire had named hers Yael's Nail. And with this Eagle, like biblical Yael with her nail and hammer, she had smote her enemies. She ran her hand along the scars on the hull. The bay boss had wanted to buff them out, to polish and paint and restore the Eagle to factory condition. She didn't understand why Spitfire had insisted on keeping the scars. Why all the pilots did. They were battle scars. They told stories of heroism and survival.

"I'll miss you, girl," Spitfire said, caressing her starfighter.

She knew she'd still fly Yael's Nail sometimes. King himself had told her. Twice a week, that was the deal. But it felt different. And Spitfire worried that year by year, she would fly less and less until she became fully a creature of the bridge, commanding from behind fortified bulkheads and armored doors. That she would never again fly into open space and spin through the splendor of the stars. Her wings were clipped.

Maybe that was part of getting older. There were no old starfighter pilots. They got promoted. Or they retired. Or they died. Pickles had just turned forty, and he was one of the old men of the Flock. Maybe this was a game for the young. Spitfire did not like growing older.

I should have died young. I should have died with Meatball, with Curly, with Honey Badger, with all the other pilots who died while I linger on. I miss them all.

She left Yael's Nail, and she walked briskly among the other Eagles until she reached the aerie's door. She stepped into the bar.

"'Ten…shun!" Pickles shouted, not without a good dose of mockery. "Flock Mother on deck!"

He saluted with his pool cue. A few pilots laughed and saluted with darts, beer bottles, and playing cards.

Spitfire would normally laugh, maybe toss some banter back their way. Today she just stood there, silent, looking at them all. At her family. Her home. Her nest.

"Spitfire, you okay?" Pickles stepped toward her. "What's wrong?"

"Can you join me at the bar?" she said.

"Hey, don't think you can get me drunk, then take advantage of me," Pickles said. "I'm not that easy."

But his smile didn't reach his eyes. He knew something was different. Something was wrong.

Wrong? No. None of this was wrong. This was good news. So why did Spitfire feel like she was at a funeral?

She took Pickles to the bar, ordered them both coffees, and told him.

He blinked at her. "You're being promoted to bridge officer? You?"

"Don't sound so shocked," she said.

"I'm not," Pickles said. "I mean, I am. It's all shocking. It's a big change. But I'm not shocked they chose you."

"I am," Spitfire said. "Who the hell wants me on the bridge? I'm just a pilot."

Pickles smiled. "That's why they want you on the bridge."

She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes. "They want you to learn! To become more than just a pilot. Spitfire, they're grooming you for command."

"What, like, of a bridge department?"

"Of the starship, dummy!" Pickles said.

She laughed and waved dismissively. "Get outta here."

"I mean it. King and Jordan are old men now. They're both in their sixties. Oh, they still have some fighting years in them. It might be another ten, fifteen years before they retire. But someday they will retire. And they need an heir. They need younger commanders with bridge experience. They don't want you stuck here with us bozo pilots for the rest of your life. They want you to someday inherit the Freedom."

The words were not sinking in. This was too much. Her, Spitfire, commander of a dreadnought? No. Impossible.

And yet … a hint of a daydream flickered like a flame in a dying fire. Just for a second. She saw herself as an older woman, hair streaked with white, standing proud aboard the bridge, commanding the good starship Freedom. She liked the image. Oddly, it soothed her. In her vision, that future Spitfire seemed confident, strong, a leader who knew what she was doing. Spitfire held on to that image of her future self. She would let that white-haired leader guide her.

"Also, Pickles, we're promoting you," she said. "The Flock is yours."

Now Pickles was truly shocked. He sat there, stunned. Spitfire had to repeat herself three times, spelling it out for him.

"I … You mean …" Pickles blinked. "You're not shitting me, are you? This is real."

Spitfire nodded. "Afraid so. You're Flock Mother now."

"Flock Father!" he insisted.

She grinned. "We're not changing the title for you."

He did not smile back. He looked at her, sadness in his eyes. Somehow even his bionic implant seemed sad. "Gal, I ran from battle. At Darkland. The admiral busted me down to captain. You remember."

She nodded. "And you've since proved yourself in battle after battle, climbed back to major, and will now become a colonel. You're a damn good pilot, Robby Cooper. And you'll make a damn good leader."

His lip twitched, and for a second, it almost seemed like he was going to cry. Then he tightened his lips, stood up, and saluted her.

"I won't let you down." He seemed to notice that all the pilots had gathered around, that they were watching. Pickles turned toward them. "I won't let any of you down."

The pilots looked at him, some with tears in their eyes, but everyone was smiling.

"To Pickles!" cried Katana.

"To Pickles!" said Snoopy.

"To Pickles!" they all said, lifted him on their shoulders, and carried him across the aerie.

"And to Spitfire!" Pickles said, laughing. "We're finally rid of her."

Everyone cheered. Spitfire rolled her eyes.

"There's some ceremony at the Ritz tomorrow," Spitfire said. It was their nickname for the officer lounge on the upper decks of the prow, a place where the top brass sometimes congregated.

"Aww, can't we have it here at the aerie?" Pickles said.

"Please don't invite the commanders here," said Gimbal, one of the newer pilots. "We'd have to put on pants and everything."

"Pickles, you're joining me at the Ritz, so go look for your dress uniform," Spitfire said. "The rest of you can stay here without pants."

* * * * *

She barely slept that night, too excited and afraid, remembering her past, fearing for the future. But she thought of that future Gal from her vision, a woman with white hair and a steely resolve. That carried her until the morning.

Finally Spitfire stood in the Ritz, wearing her dress uniform, ready to become a commander.

This was a lounge for senior officers and NCOs, so it was nicer than the aerie. There were no beer stains on the chairs, and nobody was passed out drunk at the tables. And yes, everyone wore pants. Of course, the Ritz was just a nickname. It wasn't as fancy as the actual Ritz-Carlton, the luxury hotel chain on Earth. There were no golden columns, no chandeliers, nothing like that. The deck was diamond-plated steel, and the tables were simple aluminum. After all, the Freedom was no longer a tourist attraction. She was a warship now and had no need for frills.

But to Spitfire, entering this lounge was an honor. She was stepping on holy ground. Admiral King was waiting here, wearing his dress uniform, medals on his chest. Jordan stood at his side. Bastian and Alice had come too. The two had been married for a year now, and one rarely saw them apart. Little Rowan stood between them, wearing a blue dress. Dear old Darjeeling was here, his silvery mustache perfectly groomed. Mimori had no official rank, but the android stood here too, wearing her white gala uniform. Other senior officers and NCOs had come from across the starship.

Spitfire was most surprised to see Queen Emily standing among the guests.

"Emily!" Spitfire gushed. Ignoring protocol, she rushed toward the young queen. "You're back on the Freedom!"

The two women shared a hug. Spitfire was twice the young queen's age, but the two had become close friends, fighting side by side in many battles. Spitfire had not seen Emily in almost two years. Not since her coronation.

"I had to come," Emily said. "To support my friend."

Spitfire noticed that Emily was not wearing the gown of a queen. She wore a military dress uniform, and the insignia of an ensign shone on her shoulders.

Spitfire's eyes widened. "You're an officer now?"

Emily smiled. "I haven't been idle as queen. I've gone to officer school. I graduated two days ago. I wanted to come back. To serve aboard the Freedom. The war has slowed down, but it's not over. I won't stop fighting until we win."

A jeweled drone hovered up from behind her. "I told the queen this was a terrible idea. Terrible! Finally we were living in luxury again—as befits our immaculate breeding. We found a palace that survived the rah invasion. It lies in the countryside, and it's not nearly as glamorous as Buckingham or Windsor were. Only three dining rooms, could you believe it? But we were comfortable enough roughing it. And now—now we're back aboard this rusty old battle cruiser. Oh, I am doomed to suffer!"

Spitfire smiled at the drone. "Hello, Niles. I see you got your jewels back."

"Don't hello Niles me!" the drone snapped. "I know you're just dying to get back to some rough-and-tumble with aliens, a battle I'll undoubtedly be dragged into. It took me all year to collect enough sapphires, emeralds, and rubies to cover my shell, and I am finally restored to my former glory. I will not be dragged into the mud again."

"I'm sorry, we've been trying to build a mute button for him," Emily said. "It's a work in progress."

Spitfire smiled and hugged the young queen again. "It's good to see you, my friend."

A figure materialized on the bridge, stout and smiling, wearing a tuxedo. High Commander Godwin himself had come. Just virtually, yes. But it was still an honor, and Spitfire saluted him, tears in her eyes.

Then Spitfire got an even greater shock. A new figure materialized, projecting an avatar from Earth.

"Ima!" Spitfire cried and hugged the hallucination.

Her mother embraced her, beaming.

The ceremony began. Never afterward could Spitfire recall the details. She remembered King delivering a speech. Remembered herself reciting vows. But what stuck most in her mind was the moment King strapped the new insignia onto her shoulders. A golden star on each shoulder.

She was a star-class commander now. One of only a handful in the Alliance. A leader of humanity. Only King and Jordan had ever worn stars aboard the Freedom. Now Gal "Spitfire" Levy joined them.

"It's the honor of my life," she said. "I won't let you down. I won't let humanity down."

Normally, promotions were humbler affairs. The high commander didn't just show up every time somebody got bumped up a rank. But anointing a star-class officer was a big deal. Spitfire's head still spun. Perhaps it would take many days before this reality sank in.

"I know your father is with us in spirit," King said. "I know he's proud of you. As I am."

They gave Pickles his new insignia next. Five bars on each shoulder. He was a colonel now. It was the highest rank a bar-class officer could achieve. He saluted, and he recited his vows. To Spitfire, he sent a telepathic message: "I promise to grow up. No more cheating at pool. No more goofing around. I'll do you proud, Spitfire. I promise."

"All right, enough ceremony," King said. "Let's eat. We've got burgers and ice cream. That's about as fancy as I like to get, so I'm sorry for anyone who was expecting lobster."

Spitfire laughed. The ceremony became a party. They celebrated. Spitfire's mother stuck to King like a space barnacle. The woman seemed smitten. Spitfire had to pull her away.

After the party ended, when Spitfire lay in her bunk that night, she thought of her life. Her childhood spent on Earth and in space, growing up between desert and sea, between sky and shadow. She had never married, never had children. Never had time for them, a need for them. She had the stars.

Tomorrow another mission would begin. Tomorrow, for the first time in her life, Spitfire would fly to those stars. She would leave the solar system, chasing a myth, seeking hope. She would leave Earth a thousand light-years behind, but she would carry that world in her heart, and the stars on her shoulders would forever be the stars of Earth.

CHAPTER FIVE

On the night before he sailed to new worlds, Bastian lay in bed with his wife, and he realized that exploring was futile. There was no better place in the cosmos. This right here was heaven.

Okay, it was a cheesy thought. Bastian had to admit it. He had become a bit sappy since getting married.

"I've been married to you for over a year," he said. "And it still feels like a honeymoon. I love you."

Lying in bed beside him, she grinned and kissed him. "I love you more."

"No, I love you more," Bastian said.

Alice shook her head. "No way! I love you more times infinity."

Rowan spoke from their bedside. "Eww, you two are gross."

Bastian nearly leaped to the ceiling. "Rowan! What are you doing in our room?"

The seven-year-old giggled. "I came to visit. I don't like my room." She lost her smile. "It's too dark, and there are spiders under my bed."

They had been living here for a year. The quarters were tucked away on deck 22 of the midsection, nestled between marine bunks and a galley. Most marines slept in tiny rooms not much larger than closets. Six shelves folded down from the walls, so close they almost touched, serving as beds. It was a hard life for a grunt. But Bastian was a colonel now, commander of the Freedom Brigade, so he enjoyed palatial comforts. He had two tiny rooms the size of closets. Luxury! And best of all—he shared them only with his family.

He and Alice slept in the larger bunk. Larger meant they had room for a bed and a chair. Rowan slept in the smaller room. At least, she should.

"Rowan, there are no spiders under your bed. You know that," Bastian said.

She pouted. "I'm scared. I have bad dreams of them."

Bastian sighed. He couldn't fault Rowan for her fear. A year ago, the rahs had captured her, dragged her into their den, and cocooned her. Anyone would suffer nightmares. Hell, Bastian himself did.

He often let Rowan sleep in his bed, curled between Alice and him. But Bastian had been away for two weeks, training with a Desert Thrones battalion on another starship. He had been showing them some Alliance combat techniques, while they sent officers to the Freedom to train with Bastian's GIs. The military exchange had been successful. Each side had learned new things. The downside? Bastian had missed his family terribly.

Now he was back home, one night before a new mission, this one through a portal to another world. He wanted—needed—a night alone with his wife.

So—back to her room did little Rowan go. Bastian tucked the girl into her bed, kissed her forehead, read her a story, and sat by her side until she slept. Then he sneaked back into his room.

Alice stood by the bed, wearing sexy lingerie. She waggled her eyebrows and spoke in a sultry voice. "Hello, soldier."

"The sheet is stuck in your underwear."

"Dammit!"

Alice tugged herself free, only to get her legs tangled in the blanket. She slipped. Bastian had to catch her. She slumped against him, a smile smeared across her face.

"Thanks for saving me, brave marine."

"Are you still trying to flirt?"

She scrunched her lips. "No good? Am I not … seducing you?" Another eyebrow waggle.

"Always, no matter what you do."

He kissed her. They stood by the bed, the blanket around their feet, holding each other, kissing, laughing, whispering.

"I missed you," he said.

"I missed you more."

"Not that again."

Alice Allenby. He had known her since childhood, had grown up with her on the fields of Nebraska. She was his sergeant. His partner. His greatest love. She was nothing like his ex-wife, like any woman he had ever loved. The other women had been angels or demons, but Alice was a dragon. She stood over six feet tall, nearly as tall as him. She was nearly as strong too, and Bastian was a big, burly guy. Alice had competed in the Olympics as a wrestler. She had killed countless rahs. She had fought at his side through fire and blood and the darkness of space. She was brave, noble, but also the sweetest, kindest person he knew.

He wanted to say all this to her. He didn't know how.

"It's okay. I can hear your thoughts," she said. "You're broadcasting them publicly again."

"Dammit!"

She shrugged. "I taught you how to use your MindLink a million times, dude. But you know, I kinda like hearing your innermost thoughts. Most of them are about how you're crazy about me. It's sweet. Though sometimes, when you think about those catgirl cartoons …"

Bastian blushed. "Shut up."

She gasped. "That's how to seduce you!" She purred and meowed.

"Shut up, shut up."

He kissed her again—mostly just to keep her quiet. He took her into their bed, and he made love to her. And when two big, burly marines made love, it was serious business. They would make a smaller starship crash.

Afterward, they lay on their backs, sweaty and exhausted. Alice curled up against him, running her fingers across his scarred chest. He carried the scars of many battles. Plastic surgery had advanced a lot in recent years. Today surgeons would regenerate most human tissue, regrowing skin and bone and muscle. Bastian could have removed the scars. Alice had removed hers. But Bastian had chosen to keep his. Some long scars, others round. Some on his chest, others on his limbs. The marks of rah claws. He kept them because they were a reminder that he had fought the enemy and survived. And that this enemy was still out there.

"We killed Hel'rah, the prince of spiders," he said softly. "We killed Skel'rah, his mother, the leader of the invasion. But Elder'rah, the spider empress, is still alive. Still planning our deaths. I hope we find help on another world."

Alice rolled onto her side, caressed his cheek, and looked into his eyes.

"Bastian. I'm pregnant."

That hit him like a torpedo to the chest.

"You're … pregnant?" He blinked. "How?"

"Gee, um …" Alice tapped her chin. "You see, when a man and woman love each other very much, they—"

"You know what I mean. We were careful. No?"

Alice rolled her eyes. "Dude, a few minutes ago, you literally just—"

"I know what I did. But I mean, the days. We counted the days, right?" He dropped his voice. "Your ovulation calendar." He felt himself blush.

"What are you, twelve years old? I can still get pregnant, even if you bang me when I'm not at my fertile best. It's just less likely. And it happened." She narrowed her eyes. "Don't celebrate too hard or anything."

He held her hand. "I'm sorry if I'm reacting badly. I wasn't expecting this. But I'm happy." He laughed. "Rowan will have a baby brother or sister."

"Are you sure you're happy?" Alice stroked his cheek. "I know this changes things."

He placed a hand on her belly. It was still flat, but he imagined the baby growing inside.

"It's probably no larger than a sesame seed now," Bastian said. "But he or she will become a giant warrior of legend."

"I don't want our baby to become a warrior," Alice said. "I don't want our baby facing war. I just want them to live in peace."

"We'll build a peaceful world for our baby," Bastian said. "And for Rowan. And for everyone. That's why we're here. That's why we fight. So that the next generation doesn't need to fight."

She held him close. "Do you remember Nebraska, Bastian?"

"Nope. Only lived there for thirty-three years. Completely forgot all about it."

She punched him. "Shut up and let me reminisce." She closed her eyes. "The swaying fields. The blue sky like a giant bowl overhead. The stars at night."

"We live in a spaceship, dear. We literally float among those stars."

"But we can't see them. Not from inside the Freedom. Not from the battlefield. But do you remember lying on a hilltop at night, gazing up at the stars, dreaming? Back then, we didn't know about the rahs. About the dangers in that darkness. We didn't even see the darkness. We saw only the stars, and we dreamed of them."

"And tomorrow morning we fly to them," Bastian said. "It's funny how we always called the Freedom a starship even though she never could reach the stars. Until now."

Alice nestled against him. "I hope the Aeolians are there. I hope they're friendly. I hope they can help. I want to go home, Bas. I want to raise our family on the green Earth."

"We'll get back there someday." Bastian kissed the top of her head. "We'll sit on the porch and just enjoy the fresh air. We'll play baseball with the kids. We'll go on fishing trips and at night we'll build a campfire, roast marshmallows, and stargaze. We'll get home someday, Alice. I promise you that. We'll raise our family under the sky on a peaceful world that we build."

CHAPTER SIX

King sat on the dock, fishing. The creek gurgled and shone with beads of sunlight. Grass rustled behind him and geese honked above. A breeze ruffled King's hair, and the smells of late summer morning filled his nostrils. He cracked open a beer and took a sip. It was malty and cold and tasted like home.

"The illusion is complete," King said.

Jordan sat beside him, wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a baseball cap with the Freedom's logo on it. He held his own fishing rod.

"I told you, Jim, you should have tried MindWeb's virtual reality long ago." Jordan sipped his own beer. "The virtual beer is free. You can drink all day and not get drunk."

King snorted. "Now where's the fun in that?"

They had a day before their expedition. King had a million things to take care of. But Jordan had convinced him to do something King had not done in years.

Take a day off.

Physically, he was still in the ship. He sat on the armchair in King's Library, minutes away from the bridge. But his MindLink was painting the scenery around him, directly manipulating the audio, visual, even olfactory centers in the brain. The earlier MindLinks had not come with this feature. Somewhere along the way, they had upgraded the software, allowing vivid hallucinations. Not just augmented reality but virtual reality. King had always struggled enough with the former. The latter seemed downright bizarre. Yet here he was, sitting on the starship Freedom, fishing from a creek.

"Have you reviewed the armory logistics report?" King said. "Have we double-tested the fast-withdrawal system yet?"

"Yes, Jim." Jordan rolled his eyes. "I'm taking care of it. Now stop thinking about work. It's your day off. Try to relax."

"Relax?" King snorted. "I haven't relaxed a day in my life."

"Trust me, I know." Jordan's eyes widened. "I got one! I got a bite!"

He stood up, wrestled with his fishing rod, and reeled in a bass. The fish wriggled on the line. Jordan smacked his lips. "Delicious."

"Too bad it's only a hallucination," King said.

"Just wait until we cook it. You'll taste it. And not gain a pound."

They sat there for a while by the creek, fishing, telling old war stories, remembering the glory days. King had to admit. This felt good. The sunlight on his face. The sound of the water. His best friend by his side. Moment by moment, the tension melted. King hadn't realized how tense he had been.

"Do you remember that time we took the wives out on a canoe?" Jordan said.

King chuckled. "Yes. I believe it was Genevieve who fell into the water first."

Jordan laughed heartily. "And the canoe overturned, and we all joined her in the lake. Seaweed everywhere!"

King smiled. Something he did rarely. It hurt the wound on his neck, but right now he didn't care. "I was pulling algae out of my hair for a week afterward."

Jordan heaved a sigh. "I miss those days. Back when we were married. The days between the wars. Those were the good days."

"Maybe we were never meant to be family men." King gazed at the lazy river. "We're married to the Freedom. To the stars. We visit Earth. We dream of Earth. We fight for Earth. But we don't know how to live on Earth."

Jordan nodded. "We're the World War III generation. They took us as teenagers. Drafted us into a war. Sent us into space. And we stayed up here. It's all we know. Sometimes I wonder … what might our lives have been on Earth? If we had left the military after the war. If we became Earthlings again."

"I wonder too sometimes," King said. "But I don't regret the choices I made. I would not choose a different life. Even now."

"Nor would I, my friend," Jordan said. "Nor would I."

Both men were silent for long moments, just sitting there on the dock, holding their fishing rods as beads of light danced on the water.

"We're men in our sixties," King said, breaking the silence. "Old to be soldiers. By now, we should be retired. We should be fishing at a real creek, not just a hallucination. I feel old, Larry. I feel tired."

"You are old," Jordan said. "Getting old is good. It means you survived for a long time."

"For a soldier, it also means you saw many young ones die," King said softly.

They sat in silence again. King knew Jordan was thinking the same thoughts. About all those they had lost. The countless soldiers, some only teenagers, whom they had sent to their deaths. They were military commanders, King and Jordan. Sometimes they had to sacrifice the few to save the many. Sometimes they had to sacrifice the many to save the world. No sunshine, no gurgling creek, no day off could ever ease that burden. That was their own sacrifice. To grow old and haunted with memories. That was the weight they bore so that Earth could remain free.

"All right." Jordan groaned and pushed himself to his feet. "My shift on the bridge is starting." He pointed accusingly at King. "You, sir, still have seven hours off. You're staying right here and relaxing."

"There's too much work to do."

"There'll be plenty of work once we fly through that portal. And you're going to be well rested by then." Jordan placed a hand on his shoulder. "We're all here for you, Jim. You're not handling this alone."

With that, Jordan's avatar vanished from the hallucination. King remained by the creek alone.

But maybe Jordan was right. Maybe he was not alone. They said it was lonely at the top, and it was. But King had his crew propping him up.

He sat there, fishing alone, but just for a moment.

"Let's see more of these MindWeb hallucinations," he muttered.

He pulled up the MindPlay operating system. Windows hovered before him, showing him different hallucinations he could load. King moved his hands, scrolling through the windows. One featured a trendy bar down on Earth. No thank you. Another hallucination mimicked a starfighter battle in space. King had done that plenty enough times in real life, thank you very much. A third hallucination offered the experience of skydiving. The last thing his frayed nerves needed.

Finally he found a good one. He tapped it.

The dock, creek, and sunlight vanished. He stood on a starlit beach. The waves whispered under the Milky Way. The moonlight illuminated seashells, polished stones, and crumbling ancient ruins. Not exactly King's style. He was a prairie boy. But beaches were romantic, weren't they? Ah, who the hell knew? Hopefully Kim would like it.

He called her MindLink. "Kim? Join me in the web?"

He heard her thoughts in his mind. "I'd love to. Give me a moment to pass a project onto somebody."

"If you're busy, we can—"

"Hush! I'll be right over."

A moment later she appeared on the beach. A hallucination of her at least. Physically she had probably stepped into her office for privacy. When in the MindWeb, one's physical body just sat there, zombie-like. Best to keep it hidden.

"You look beautiful," King said.

She had allowed the software to choose an outfit for her. She wore a white dress embroidered with lavender flowers. Her blond hair streamed in the breeze, and the moonlight shone in her blue eyes.

"Thank you." She blushed. "Hey, is the fishing creek setting still available? Not a fan of the Moonlight Beach module, gotta admit. The sand here gets everywhere. I'm more of a fishing-off-the-dock kinda girl than a long-walk-on-the-beach girl."

King laughed. "I was just at the creek with Jordan. He caught a bass."

Kim smiled and bit her lip. "Actually, I have an even better idea. Do you mind switching settings? I know how we can have some fun."

"You drive," King said.

She took control of the menu, scrolled through settings, and chose one. The beach disappeared. Instead, they found themselves standing in a bowling alley. King still wore his uniform; he had disabled his auto-clothes option. But Kim suddenly wore a bowling shirt. She grinned.

"Bowling! Have you ever gone bowling, Admiral King?"

He laughed. "I used to be an expert."

"What, back in the Stone Age?" She stuck her tongue out at him. "Bring it on, old man."

"You asked for it. Just don't cry too much when you lose."

"As if that'll happen."

The bowling alley was bustling with NPCs. Laughter and the sound of falling pins filled the place. King and Kim played. She beat him—and was not gracious about it. He muttered to himself as she danced a victory dance around him. They played the claw machine, and he won her a stuffed animal, and finally they shared cheeseburgers and milkshakes. King felt good. He felt young. Just a giddy young man in love with a beautiful all-American girl.

When they finished their milkshakes, he invited her to his quarters.

"Come for real," he said. "No hallucination. I want to really see you."

She bit her lip. "Are you sure, Jim? What if somebody notices?"

"I don't care. I want to see you."

She grew serious, nodded, and vanished from the hallucination. King shut off his MindLink. The bowling alley vanished. He was back in his stateroom aboard the Freedom, sitting in his armchair by the fireplace, bookshelves around him.

Not long later, his door chimed. King rose to his feet, and Kim entered the room.

She was out of breath. She must have run from the stern. That eager to see him.

The MindWeb made everyone look a little better. The hallucination smoothed out wrinkles, removed warts and pimples, made you look ten years younger. Everyone was beautiful in virtual reality. Now he saw the real Kim. She was forty-five, and a few wrinkles showed on her face. A streak of white flowed through her golden hair. She looked different, but to King, she was even more beautiful. Not just her face, as beautiful as it was. But the kindness in her eyes. Her soul that shone through. She could be a hundred years old and shriveled like a prune, and he would still think her the most beautiful woman in the galaxy.

And hey, he was sixty-two. Not exactly a spring chicken.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She kissed him back, melting into his embrace.

"Jim." She pulled back, timid. "What if somebody finds out? You're my commanding officer. I'm your engineer."

He caressed her cheek. "You're a woman I love."

"And I love you." Tears shone in her eyes, and she smiled shakily. "Always."

"It hurts me that we must keep this secret. But it won't be forever. After this war, we'll retire. We'll spend our days on Earth, traveling the world. We're exploring space tomorrow. But someday we'll just explore Earth and enjoy the planet we fought so hard for. And the best part will be exploring it together."

"I'd like that," she whispered.

They made love. They did not have much time. Soon Kim had to dress, to return to her post, to oversee the engineering department. King had to return to the bridge. They rarely got to meet like this. Just in stolen moments. He cherished every meeting, every memory. Tomorrow he would fly a thousand light-years away, and he would carry today with him through the darkness.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Colonel Kim Fletcher, chief engineer aboard the starship Freedom, was a busy woman. She led four hundred engineers, mechanics, scientists, and deckhands. A full third of the starship Freedom, the mighty stern, was her kingdom.

Today, walking down the corridors of the starship, she felt as giddy as a schoolgirl in love.

It was a funny thing. She was a woman in her forties. She was a senior officer. A leader. And butterflies filled her stomach, and she couldn't stop smiling. Couldn't stop thinking of him.

I'm acting like I'm fifteen again, she thought. A girl being kissed for the first time.

She frowned for a moment. Who was that boy who had kissed her at fifteen? Adam! That was it. Adam … something. She could no longer remember his last name. But she remembered feeling those butterflies in her stomach. And she remembered herself as a woman of twenty-five, a bride. Kissing Jon at the altar. Vowing to love him forever.

Well, Adam and Jon were gone now. They were still alive, she thought. She hoped so at least. But they were gone from her life.

Now she felt it again. That excitement that always filled a new relationship. It normally died down. The butterflies flew away. The love withered.

But she had been secretly dating Jim King for almost two years now. And every time—butterflies.

By all rights, this relationship should not work. He was much older than her. Seventeen years her senior. Practically old enough to be her dad. He was her commanding officer to boot. They had to keep their love a secret—a love that Kim wanted to shout about from the rooftops. It was hard. It was so damn hard. And it was the sweetest thing in her life.

Her MindLink kept chiming as she walked. Everyone needed something. The reactor technicians wanted to pitch a new fuel modulation. The Talaria team needed approval to install the new graviton pistons, replacing the old hydraulic ones. The electricians suggested routing more redundancy cables between the midsection battery and the exhaust ignition coils. She answered as she walked, but even as she talked engineering, the butterflies fluttered.

Silly woman, she told herself. You're about to fly through a portal to another star system. You'll be among the first humans ever to do this. And you're thinking about how Jim King kissed you.

But dammit, those encounters between them were so infrequent. Sometimes they went days without seeing each other. Weeks without making love. She still felt his warmth. She could not wait to see him again. The secrecy weighed on her, but she would bear any weight for that man.

Technically, all her MindWeb telepathy notwithstanding, she was still off duty. She had three hours until her next shift. She decided to return to her quarters for a quick shower and a nap. She wanted to be well rested for the historic flight through the portal.

She took the elevator up to the higher decks. No more sleeping in the little stern bunks for Colonel Fletcher! She had an actual suite on deck 28 in the midsection now. She lived among the other senior officers. Of course, she rarely had time to visit her suite, and she often slept down in engineering anyway on a foldout bunk. She was just too busy to commute home. And yes, serving on a starship the size of the Freedom involved commuting. In fact, she hadn't slept in her own bed all month. Too much to do. Well, how often did one fly to another star system? Once every great leap for mankind, Kim would treat herself and nap in a real bed.

The elevator stopped on deck 7, and Colonel Bastian King squeezed inside. It was a small elevator, and he was a big, burly guy. Kim was older than him but suddenly felt like a child.

He grinned at her. "Hello, Kim."

She smiled. "Hi, Bas."

At only thirty-five years of age, Bastian King was already a colonel. Young for the rank. Kim knew the story. Bastian had been only a captain when the war began. When the rahs wiped out the senior commanders of his brigade, he had stepped up to the plate, rallied his troops, and pushed back the enemy.

Still, despite his senior rank and battle scars, he had a certain boyish charm. His smile was large and warm, and it always reached his eyes. He was impossible to ignore. He was built like a tank, all muscles and tattoos. He shaved the sides of his head, leaving a neatly-trimmed mohawk across the top. He often wore aviator sunglasses—even here aboard a starship. He was a poster boy for the space marines, a real-life action hero, and the troops loved him. Evan loved him.

"How's Evan doing?" Kim asked as the elevator rose among the decks.

Bastian laughed—a deep, hearty sound. "He's fine, Kim! Don't mother him."

"I'm not mothering him!" But she laughed too. "I'm just a worried mom."

"I know, I know. I deal with thousands of worried moms. Evan is doing great as a marine. He's a good kid. I'm proud to command him."

Kim heaved a sigh. "It's hard to believe sometimes. I still think of Evan as a little boy. I can't accept that he's a marine now."

"He's a man now," Bastian said. "At least—I like to think so. I gave his battalion the day off today. I heard the privates were heading to the Dinogolf." He roared with laughter. "Hardened marines—playing minigolf among animatronic dinosaurs!"

Kim laughed too. "I used to take him to the Dinogolf when he was small. He's eighteen now, a private in the marines, and taller than me, but apparently he still wants to play minigolf with his buddies."

Evan had enlisted only six months ago, rushed through boot camp down on Earth, and chose to serve here aboard the Freedom. Kim supposed she should be grateful. He could easily be serving halfway across the solar system. But her anxiety gnawed on her. This was a warship. This was the warship, the flagship herself. And the Freedom Brigade saw a lot of action.

"You're worried. I know," Bastian said. "He's a smart kid. He'll stay out of trouble. And I'm looking after him."

Kim broke protocol and hugged Bastian. He towered over her. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders. He wrapped his wide arms around her.

"Thank you," she said.

A sudden bit of guilt filled her. She stepped back from the embrace. Bastian didn't know. About her and his father. If he knew, would he be jealous? Would he take it out on Evan? Relationships in the military got complicated. Probably why they were forbidden. Kim had to keep this secret. Forever.

The elevator chimed. It was her floor.

"Goodbye, Bas."

He winked. "See ya, Kim."

She left the elevator. When she stepped into her quarters, her eyes widened. Her son had not gone to the Dinogolf with his buddies. He was sitting in her cabin, tears on his cheeks.

* * * * *

"Evan!" Kim rushed toward him. "What's wrong?"

He was sitting on the bed. He looked up at her. He was holding a tattered plush tiger.

"You kept it," he said. "My old tiger. I found it in your quarters. Why?"

She sat beside her son. "Evan, what's wrong?"

He wiped his tears away. "Nothing. I just … I saw the tiger. And I remembered how Dad used to make it dance and give it a silly voice, and … Ah dammit, I'm a marine now. Marines aren't supposed to cry."

She frowned. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody." He blushed and put the plush tiger aside.

Kim smiled softly. "Warriors also cry. I've seen many cry in this war."

He was silent for a moment. Kim looked at him. He looked a lot like her. Blond hair. Blue eyes. A round face. But there was something of Jon in him too. It was the way he carried himself. The way he talked.

"Do you think my dad is dead?" he finally said.

"I don't know. You know that I don't know."

He nodded. His eyes were now dry. "I think he's dead, Mom. I know they never found a body. But the rahs bombed Lake Geneva into the dust. I think he died, Mom. I know, I know we're not supposed to say that. I know we're supposed to think he escaped, that we'll find him someday. But Mom, I think he's dead."

Kim embraced her son. She just held him.

Things had not worked out between her and Jon. The marriage had started out with so much hope. It had blazed like a fire, then died to embers. Then went dark. They had divorced when Evan was still in kindergarten, but they had been good parents. They both loved him. Co-raised him. And Evan still needed a father.

"I'm sorry, Evan," she whispered.

He just stared at the wall. He didn't return her hug. "We're flying through that portal tomorrow. Going a thousand light-years away. We're going to fight whatever killed that pilot, aren't we?"

Kim frowned. "You know about that?"

He nodded. "Yes. It's not classified. They told us. That the pilot is dead. There are monsters out there, Mom. And I'm going to kill them." He clenched his fists. "For what they did to that pilot. For what they did to everyone on Earth. For what they did to Dad."

She frowned and pulled his face toward her. "Evan. You did not become a marine for revenge. You became a marine to defend Earth."

For a moment, anger flashed across his eyes, and he looked so much like Jon. Then he deflated and nodded. "I know. I'm sorry." He hugged her. "I love you, Mom."

Tears filled her eyes. "You haven't told me that in years." She smiled softly. "I kept the tiger because it's hard for me to accept that you've grown up. That you're a man now."

"Um, Mom? If anyone asks, I was never here." He blushed. "I kinda told people I was going to Dinogolf."

She laughed. "I won't say a word."

She had planned to nap. Instead, she loaded her MindPlay's photo album app. She shared the hallucination with Evan. As a marine, he now had a MindLink implant. A stack of photo albums materialized beside them, full of old photos.

They spent an hour going through the albums. Photos of him as a baby. Of family vacations. Of their old dog, may he rest in peace. They laughed at the photo of Evan riding a pony, holding a hot dog and crying.

Maybe she needed this more than sleep. She had made love to Jim King, and now she was laughing with Evan. She was spending these hours with the people she loved. Because they were why Kim Fletcher worked so hard, why she slept down in engineering most nights, why she had joined the Alliance. To defend the people she loved. To protect love from all the horrors that would rip it apart.

Finally she did fall asleep, lying among the photo albums. Perhaps she was just so exhausted. When she woke up, Evan was gone, back to his brigade. He had left one photo on the bed. Him and her, fifteen years ago. He was sitting on her lap, holding his plush tiger. A real photo. Actual paper, not a hallucination. He must have kept it all these years. Gently, Kim slipped the photo into her tool pouch and returned to engineering.

They were about to fly through the portal. She would take love with her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The fleet mustered past the orbit of Neptune, ready to leap a thousand light-years into the unknown.

The Freedom arrived first. She would lead the expedition. Admiral King stood on her bridge, fresh from a good night's sleep, a shower, and a clean shave. He felt strong and healthy and ready to explore.

"For years, I built model sailing ships," he said, a thin smile on his lips. "The ships of my heroes. Magellan. Darwin. Cook. Explorers, all of them. Now I get to go on a little exploration expedition of my own."

"You're as giddy as a child." Jordan laughed—a booming sound. "What happened to our cranky old admiral?"

"Oh, don't worry. He'll be back," King said. "I know this is a serious mission. And I'm a serious man. I know there are dangers ahead. I know an enemy awaits us. I know we must succeed at any cost; the fate of the world depends on it. But darn it, Jordan, this is fun. Aren't you excited at all? To see another star system?"

"I've always been more of an armchair explorer," said Jordan. "It's safer."

"The man who chose a career on a warship talks to me about safety," King muttered.

Jordan patted him on the shoulder. "To be fair, we spent most of our life running a museum."

"Ha. Give me a rah horde over tourists any day."

"Ah, there he is! Our cranky old admiral is back."

"Yes, I tend to get cranky very quickly when you're around." King put on his reading glasses and began scanning the day's reports. "For some reason."

The crew was pretending not to listen. They were stifling smiles. That was common protocol on the bridge. They all knew the two old men loved each other.

Spitfire, who was new to the bridge, actually snorted a laugh. "A regular Waldorf and Statler."

"Hey!" King pointed at her, staring over his reading glasses. "You're new here. You don't get to mock anyone for your first year."

It was a little strange to see Spitfire on the bridge. King had gotten so used to seeing her in a flight suit, her hair in a ponytail. But today Spitfire wore a proper service uniform, the navy-blue fabric adorned with brass buckles and buttons, and her long brown hair hid under her naval cap.

She stood straight, shoulders squared, chin raised, the model officer. On the outside, she was the perfect professional. And that was nothing like her. The Spitfire he knew would drink beer, smoke cigars, curse too much, laugh too loud. She was nervous. She was trying. She would become the heiress King knew she could be.

"It's good to have you here with us, Spitfire," he said.

She smiled at him, her eyes softening. "Thank you, sir."

Their eyes said more than their words ever could. Gal "Spitfire" Levy, born in the ashes of the Third World War, was more than just another officer. Her father had died in that war. Her father had been like a brother. To King, Spitfire was like a daughter. He was so proud of her.

"Admiral?" Mimori turned from her control station, interrupting his thoughts. "The Mahatma is arriving at the rendezvous point."

"Give me a visual. Let's take a look at her."

The central monitor streamed a magnified view of space. The FAS Mahatma was sailing toward them. King's eyes widened. He had never seen a more beautiful ship—aside from the Freedom, of course. But Freedom's beauty was rugged and functional. The Mahatma was a work of art.

At first glance, she reminded King of the Sydney Opera House. But as the Mahatma flew closer, she reminded him more of a flower. A glassy sphere glowed in her center, possibly a reactor. There was no one solid hull. Instead, white "petals" spread from the central orb. Each petal featured several round portals. King could make out people walking inside.

She's shaped like a lotus, King realized.

Of course. A lotus was the symbol of Mahatrism. The religion had sprung up in India only a century ago. It was an offshoot of Buddhism, blending ancient traditions with Space Age mysticism. Dedicated to peace, kindness, and love, Mahatrism was spreading quickly across Earth and even some colonies in space. It already boasted thirteen million disciples, making it as large as Judaism, almost as large as Mormonism, and growing much faster than both.

King didn't like mixing religion and business. There were many religions aboard the Freedom, none of them official, all of them accepted. He wasn't sure about a ship in his fleet championing one particular faith. Would it affect the crew's judgment, steer their decisions? What if the monks encountered conflict between their faith and the mission's requirements? But Godwin trusted the monks. So King would give them the benefit of the doubt.

"Sir, the Mahatma's commander is sending a hailing request," Mimori said.

"He doesn't have a MindLink?"

"Yes, sir. But it seems to be disabled."

"Another technophobe. I like him already. Put him on screen."

The monitor now showed a view of the Mahatma's bridge. It looked nothing like the bridge of a military ship. Or like the bridge of a ship period. It looked, well … like a spa. Wind chimes hung from the deckhead. Cushions were laid across the carpeted deck. There was even an artificial waterfall cascading between potted trees.

"Good morning, Admiral King! It's a blessing to see you."

A phlegmatic man smiled at the camera. He was bald, slender, and wore yellow robes. A silver lotus hung from his necklace.

"Commander Bakshi. It's good to see you."

Bakshi placed his palms together and bowed. "Likewise, my friend. Though please do not call me commander. You may call me friend. Or baba, a friendly term for the monks of Mahatrism."

King smiled. "How about I just use your name?"

"Ah, wonderful idea!" Bakshi smiled. "We're here to serve you, Admiral. My crew and I, all Mahatrist monks, devote our life to peace, kindness, and love. We look forward to extending our blessed Three Flowers to any aliens we meet."

King found it all rather optimistic. He had met one alien species so far. The rahs. And they were murderous bastards. No amount of peace, kindness, and love would sway those bugs. But who knew? Perhaps the Aeolians would respond well to Bakshi's approach. If not, well … they would answer to King and his cannons.

"Thank you, Mr. Bakshi. If there's anything we need, I'll let you know."

The monk smiled and bowed again. "May the Enlightened One bless you with peace, kindness, and love."

The call ended.

"Why, he seems lovely!" Jordan said. "The exact opposite of you, Jim. Can I go serve on his ship instead?"

"Please do. I've been trying to get rid of you for forty years."

"Well, now I'm staying out of spite."

* * * * *

"Sirs, the Kuroko is approaching," Mimori said. "Putting on screen."

Another ship approached. She was unlike any starship King had ever seen. In fact, he could barely see her at all. At least not her hull. From what he could tell, Kuroko's hull was cylindrical, long, and slender like a straw. But it was hard to know for sure. Over a hundred circular pods were attached to the hull. Some were large and made of steelglass, affording a view inside. Others were small and metallic. Some of the larger pods even sprouted their own smaller pods.

They were science labs. When King zoomed in, he could see the scientists working inside. Each bulb seemed to be a different lab. From their chaotic organization, King guessed they were added piecemeal over time. Pod after pod, glassy and glimmering, all clustered along the hull. The entire ship looked like somebody had run a sticky broomstick through a snow globe factory.

The Kuroko flew in the Alliance fleet, but the Japanese flag adorned her prow. A large dreadnought like the Freedom required a multinational effort to build, staff, and fly. The Freedom did not belong to any one nation. But many smaller ships served both their home countries and the Alliance. The system worked. It let nations maintain independence and pride while allowing them to serve a common goal. Of course, not all nations on Earth belonged to the Alliance. Most did not. But the Free Alliance was still the greatest cooperation of humans in history, if you asked King. It was right that they should send the first humans out of the solar system.

The other two great unions, the Red Dawn and the Desert Thorns, were working on their own portal technology. They were not cooperating with the Alliance. When the rahs had first invaded, the three main pacts had united. Reluctantly, yes, but they managed to put aside their differences for a year and fight together. Now, with the war on low burn, the pacts once more split apart. Human nature.

But King knew this low burn was temporary. The rahs were building something big, planning something devastating. They would return in force. King did not doubt that. He had to find the Aeolians before that day. He had to learn how to defeat the spiders.

"Konnichiwa, Admiral King!" said Misaka Takanashi, commander of the Kuroko. She appeared on screen—a petite woman of about fifty years, wearing a lab coat. She smiled and bowed. "It's good to see you. Thank you for allowing us to join your expedition."

A group of scientists looked up from behind her, all wearing lab coats and goggles. They all bowed. "Konnichiwa!"

King's MindLink was translating his conversations. Apparently the software didn't bother translating hello.

"It's good to see you, Dr. Takanashi," King said. "We're happy to have you with us."

"I know this is a military mission, Admiral," she said. "We won't get in your way. You'll barely know we're there. I must say, we're all very excited. To actually see another solar system for the first time! We plan to collect a wealth of information. We're happy to collaborate with your own scientists if they're interested. We don't mean to impose."

"We're very interested in collaboration," King said. "I'll put you in touch with our science officers. Yes, this is a military mission. A mission to defeat a ruthless enemy and form an alliance with a new civilization. But it's also a mission of exploration. And that aspect is just as important. There's no need to be humble, Doctor. You're an integral part of this fleet."

Takanashi smiled and bowed.

* * * * *

"Sir, the third ship is approaching," Mimori announced. "The FAS Caracal."

Ah, finally another warship!

The Caracal was classified as a frigate, though at a hundred and seventy meters long, she wasn't much larger than a corvette. Only a hundred spacers served aboard her. Small for a frigate these days. But then again, she came from a small country. Spitfire, herself Israeli, used to joke that her homeland was smaller than the Freedom. But despite her humble size, the Caracal had devastated the rahs during the war, destroying clawships ten times her size. She had earned her place in Alliance legend.

"Look at her," Jordan said in wonder. "She's so small. We could fit her in our hangars."

The Caracal was beige. The color of the desert from which she came. Cannons thrust out from every side of her. Most Alliance starships had a distinct top, bottom, and sides. But the Caracal was different. She was shaped like a diamond. Each of her facets boasted three cannons and an engine. With equal ease, the Caracal could fire or fly in any direction she pleased.

Most starship designs borrowed heavily from the great naval warships of old. They had an underbelly as if water flowed below them. They also just tended to move in one direction, concentrating their exhaust ports on the back, relying on mere thrusters on the sides and prow. The Israelis had thought outside the box. If space had no up or down, front or back, why design a ship with an underbelly and dorsal hull, a prow and a stern? Why not design a ship for three dimensions? It was so obvious, yet nobody else had done it.

The design had paid off. The Caracal was small but mighty. King was glad to have her here.

"Sir, the Caracal's commander would like to visit by MindWeb," Mimori said.

"Patch him through."

Colonel David "Dado" Lev materialized on the Freedom's bridge. He looked nothing like a typical Alliance officer. He wasn't wearing a service uniform, for one. He wore rumpled battle fatigues. Olive drab. A Sabra bullpup assault rifle hung at his side. He didn't even have golden insignia on his shoulders. Instead, his colonel bars were simple cloth patches. He looked like a humble grunt from the battlefields of World War II, not a starship commander. But that was how the Israelis did things. Casually.

"Shalom, Admiral!" the Israeli colonel said. "It's an honor to be here."

King nodded. "The honor is ours, Colonel Lev."

"Please, call me Dado. Everyone does. Mind if I call you Jim?"

He wasn't saluting King. He wasn't calling him sir. Normally, King would have the man disciplined. But he let the Israelis do things their own way. Their military was casual. Their uniforms were humble. Their ships had strange designs. And somehow, despite operating only three starships, they had destroyed hundreds of clawships. So King tolerated their style, as strange as it seemed to him. Obviously, it got results.

"Sure thing, Dado," King said.

"We're here to provide you with extra security," Dado said. "We realize the Freedom is a mighty warship, far stronger than the Caracal. And we realize you don't want to babysit the nonmilitary ships of our expedition. Think of us as a sheepdog. We're here to keep the herd safe."

A sheepdog who can rip out the throat of any skulking wolf, King thought.

"If you don't mind, Jim," Dado continued, "I'd like to send a few soldiers aboard the Freedom. We have a lot to learn from you. And I'd love to host a few of your officers on my ship. Maybe there are some things we can show you."

"You can probably teach us more than we can teach you," King said. "Yes, once we're through the portal, let's arrange this."

"I look forward to it, my friend. May this be a peaceful expedition."

"May it be peaceful," King said. "Goodbye for now."

He ended the call. He liked the guy. Finally another soldier.

CHAPTER NINE

Spitfire flew her shuttle out the airlock. Yes, she was flying a shuttle. Not a starfighter. A tiny Sparrow shuttle. The sedan of space. It was a little embarrassing, but Spitfire kept her helmet visor dimmed. Nobody would see her shame.

She could not take an Eagle today. Eagles were for battles. Eagles were for destroying things. And right now Spitfire was just flying from one spaceship to another.

Besides, the admiral had told her only two Eagle flights a week. Spitfire didn't want to use up her quota too fast. It was only Tuesday.

Leaving the Freedom behind, she flew among the gathering fleet. She passed by the Mahatma, a starship shaped like a lotus. Ha! Bunch of pacifist weaklings. Who built a ship like a flower? She flew by the Kuroko, a science ship with many round labs attached. Ha! Nerds. Their ship looked like a floating chemistry lab.

Spitfire kept flying the shuttle, and there she saw it.

The FAS Caracal.

Now that was a starship.

She was shaped like a diamond and was twice as tough. Beige armored plates covered the ship. Cannons thrust from her eight facets. Scars and dents covered the armor. Her captain never got them fixed. Good. Spitfire like that. She left the scars on her own starfighter. Those were battle scars.

She flipped on a hailing frequency. "This is Spitfire from the Freedom, requesting permission to board."

She spoke in Hebrew. She almost never got to speak her mother tongue anymore. But this was a ship from her motherland.

For a moment—silence.

Then a voice came from the Caracal. "Gal, is that you?"

The voice sounded so familiar. Then it clicked.

She frowned. "Omri?"

"It is you!" said the voice. "I knew it! How's your mom? Damn, I miss those cookies she'd bake."

Great. Of all the people, it was Omri Tsur from down the block. They had grown up together. Though to be honest, when you came from a country smaller than Vancouver Island, everyone was "down the block."

"Omri, open the damn airlock and let me in."

"Sure thing, Gal. Hey, are you flying a shuttle? A Sparrow shuttle?" He guffawed. "Aren't you a fighter pilot?"

"Open the airlock before I shoot it open! Sparrows still come with rotary cannons."

"Okay, okay. Calm down." He sighed. "This is just like that time in third grade. Remember how you banged on my front door, shouting you needed to pee real bad, but you locked yourself out of your own house, and—"

"I'm literally aiming my cannon right now."

"Okay, airlock opening!"

The airlock rattled open before her. Spitfire flew into the Caracal.

At once, she noticed how small the airlock was. Just large enough for her shuttle. Her Sparrow squeezed in like a minivan into a suburban garage. Barely. She had gotten used to Freedom's towering hangars. Hell, you could probably fit the entire Caracal into one of those bays.

She opened the Sparrow's hatch. It banged against the bulkhead. Spitfire wriggled her way out.

"Anyone home?" she cried.

A robot rolled up to her. It was just a tin cookie box, the kind her mother used as a sewing kit, mounted onto a roller skate. The head was formed from a lamp with goggles for eyes. "Hello, visitor. I am Doggobot 3000. I was built by Omri, the Great and Powerful."

Spitfire rolled her eyes. "Oh, for crying out loud."

"If you follow me, mistress, I'll lead you to the bridge. Oh, I almost forgot. Woof woof."

The little robot spun around and rolled off. Spitfire sighed. This place was definitely nothing like the Freedom. She followed the robot, walking through the corridors of the Caracal.

The entire ship was like the inside of a tank, cramped and dim. Levers, dials, and small monitors covered the armored bulkheads. The passageways were so narrow Spitfire had to keep her arms pressed against her sides. Often she had to duck under a pipe or gear. The Freedom was infamously cramped, but the Caracal made her seem spacious.

A few times she passed by spacers. Spitfire instantly noticed how … well, maybe shabby wasn't the right word, but they were definitely worn in. Their olive-drab fatigues looked third or fourth hand, the knees torn, the hems frayed. Their leather boots were cracked. A few carried scratched Sabra rifles across their backs. The guns were older than they were, judging by the model. These soldiers dressed like twentieth-century grunts stuck on some battlefield in France, not modern spacers.

Gal instantly felt overdressed. Normally when she flew an Eagle, she at least wore a baggy flight suit. But now, as a bridge officer, she was still wearing her formal uniform. The navy-blue fabric was lush and ironed. The brass buckles and buttons gleamed. She even had service ribbons pinned to her chest. Yes, she definitely stood out here.

"I've been away for too long," Spitfire muttered. "I no longer blend in."

Doggobot 3000 paused and swiveled around toward her. "It's a shame to be overdressed. Would you like to take off your clothes, perhaps?"

Spitfire growled. "Omri, are you remote-controlling this thing?"

She made to kick the robot. It skittered away on its roller skate and vanished into a service tube. What chutzpah!

Grumbling, she walked the rest of the way alone, soon reaching a blast door labeled BRIDGE. A guard stood at the door, holding a scratchy Sabra. He was a tall, beefy guy with a stubbly double chin.

"Gal?" His eyes widened. "That you?"

"Um, yes?" She squinted at him.

"It's me, Zeev!" He laughed. "You used to babysit me when I was a kid."

She groaned. "Is there anyone on this ship who doesn't know me?"

"Probably not. You're a legend, Gal. Everyone back home is talking about you." His voice dropped. "You're a war heroine."

She preened. "I'm not too shabby, I guess."

Zeev hopped on his heels, grinning. "They even interviewed me on TV about you. After that time you destroyed the clawship by flying your starfighter right into it, and ejecting at the last second! Remember that? That was so cool. I mean, they probably only interviewed me because I was hanging around outside your house. But I told them all about that time you ate all the eggs in my mom's fridge, then threw up on our rug."

"You what?"

He mussed her hair. "Good to see you again, babysitter. Hey, I'm taller than you now. Isn't that cool? Hey, do you remember that time my dog humped your leg, and—"

"Zeev, can I enter the bridge?"

"Oh right. Sorry, sorry." He clumsily moved his considerable bulk aside, banging his rifle against the bulkhead, and grabbed the door handle. "Welcome, madam, to the bridge."

He opened the blast door. It was circular and only five feet tall. Like a hobbit hole. If hobbits lived in fortified bunkers surrounded by a hundred cannons, that was. Ah, hell, why did she even know what a hobbit was? She had clearly been spending too much time with Pickles.

Spitfire ducked and stepped inside.

She saw him there.

At once, something fragile deep inside her shattered.

There he was. There he stood before her again. The man she had almost married.

* * * * *

"Dado," she whispered. "It's really you, isn't it?"

He smiled. That charming, crooked smile of his. "Hello, Gal."

He was a rugged man, more handsome than pretty. Stubble covered his square jaw, and his brown hair was wanting a trim. His gray eyes shone with intelligence. The insignia of a colonel topped his shoulder straps. Not metal bars like hers. Just cloth patches. Like everyone on the Freedom, he wore simple olive drab. But he commanded this starship. And seeing him still broke Spitfire's heart.

Memories flashed before her eyes. She was thirty-seven now, but suddenly she was seventeen again. She was walking beside him along the beach, and the stars lit their way. He had been twenty-four. Back then, the age difference had seemed monumental. She had just dropped out of high school. He was already a decorated officer. A war hero. And he loved her. Her! Scrawny, gangly Gal Levy, the girl who was too tall, too skinny, with scraped knees and scabs on her knuckles from so many fights.

She had not been Spitfire then. She was not yet a pilot. She was barely a woman. But she walked with him on the beach, and she kissed him. She still remembered initiating the kiss—he had been shy, she had been eager—and she could still smell the sea air.

She took three huge steps across the bridge of the Caracal and embraced him. As he held her in his arms, another memory filled her. It was a year after that walk along the beach and their first kiss. This time they were walking among pine trees, and they found a little clearing, and they made love. It had been her first time. She had lain afterward in his arms, gazed at the stars, and talked about how she would become a pilot someday. Like her father, who had fallen in the war. She joined the Alliance military later that year.

"It's good to see you again, Dado," she whispered.

Then she pulled back from his embrace, because the pain was too strong. More memories flashed. Angry eyes and angry faces. Raised voices. Him storming out. Her turning him away. Then Dado with Meytal, and seeing them kiss, and …

Spitfire forced those memories down, balled her fists, and wiped her eyes. To hell with that. That had been a different time. She had been a different girl. She was no longer that awkward, lanky youth. She was a woman now. A soldier. A bridge officer aboard a dreadnought. She outranked him, for Chrissake.

So why did this still hurt so bad?

A voice rose from the shadows.

"Well, look who walked onto my starship. The famous war heroine herself. My half sister."

A woman stepped into the light.

"Meytal." Spitfire took a deep breath. "Hello."

Meytal was eight years younger. She looked a little like Spitfire. The brown hair. The mocking eyes. But there the resemblance ended. Spitfire was willowy. Meytal was well-muscled. Spitfire wore a fine uniform. Meytal wore tattered old fatigues, elbow pads, and a battle helmet, and her sleeves were rolled up to show her tattoos. Spitfire carried a sidearm. Meytal sported grenades, knives, an assault rifle, and a katana. She actually carried a katana across her back. Even here. On the bridge. Behind a blast door and thick armored bulkheads.

"You have a lot of nerve stepping onto my ship," Meytal said.

Spitfire frowned. "I came here to see you."

Her younger sister snorted. "You shouldn't have bothered. You could have visited me a million times. If you cared enough to fly down to Earth. Oh, but … that would take a full hour, wouldn't it? I wouldn't want to take so much time away from the famous war heroine!"

Dado looked between the two women. "I sense you two have some issues to resolve. I'll get back to work."

The colonel turned to walk away. Meytal grabbed him, pulled him close, and kissed him hard on the lips. She patted his cheek. "Now you can go." She shot Spitfire a triumphant look.

Dado hurried off, clearly worried about getting caught in some crossfire.

Spitfire rolled her eyes. "Oh, real mature. Rubbing it in, huh?"

Meytal shrugged. "Your ex-boyfriend is a handsome man. I can't resist. And he can't resist me."

"I shouldn't have come. You're still the immature brat you always were." Spitfire turned to leave.

"Ah, come on, don't leave so soon." Meytal pulled her back. "I'm only busting your balls a little. Gimme a hug."

She pulled Spitfire into a crushing embrace. Literally crushing. A few buckles on Spitfire's uniform cracked. Damn, the woman was strong. With a sigh, Spitfire hugged her back.

"You're a brat, you know."

Meytal grinned. "I know. Always was, always will be." She tugged Spitfire's arm. "Come on. I'll give you a tour of the ship."

They walked through the Caracal. Meytal showed her control rooms, crew barracks, armories, the engine room, bragging all the while. As if Spitfire wasn't a bridge officer aboard the greatest starship ever built. But she let Meytal chatter on. Light filled the young woman's eyes, and pride swelled her chest.

"Oh, and this is the engineering room!" Meytal said, pulling her toward a hatch. "It's located right in the middle of the ship. Not the stern. The middle! You'll love this place."

They entered the engineering room. A complex system of gimbals, gears, and rings filled the place. It felt like standing inside a clock.

"The Caracal is octahedron-shaped," Meytal said. "Like one of your old D&D dice. You probably saw that while flying over. We don't even have a stern or prow. The ship is symmetrical, so we placed the engine room in the middle. Brilliant, right? See these pipes? When these gears turn, the exhaust changes direction. There are eight exhaust ports. Eight, one on each side! We can fly anywhere! Can your Freedom do that? No way!"

Spitfire sighed, biting back a retort.

She's happy here, Spitfire thought. Why can't I be happy for her?

"I'm happy for you," Spitfire said, just trying out the words.

Meytal paused. She finally stopped talking. "No you're not."

Spitfire placed her hands on her hips. "I just said I am."

"You said it like a terrorist was pointing a gun to your head."

Spitfire groaned. "Fine, fine! I'm not happy for you. You're still a pain in my ass. Even when showing me your ship, you brag about how it's better than mine."

"Oh please!" Meytal snorted. "You saunter onto the Caracal, wearing your fancy American uniform, bragging about those golden stars on your shoulders." She tapped Spitfire's insignia—roughly. "You come here to show off. You strut around like you're better than us. Then you accuse me of bragging?"

"I didn't come here to show off anything!" Spitfire said. "This is my regular uniform. This is my regular insignia. And it's not American. The Freedom is an international ship."

Meytal rolled her eyes. "Oh sure. The ship was just built in an American shipyard, with American money, and commanded by Americans, and your name tag just happens to be written in English."

"What are you accusing me of?"

Meytal poked Spitfire's chest. "You abandoned us."

"What, abandoned Israel? We're both in space, Meytal. Space. There are no countries up here."

"I mean you abandoned our family!" Meytal shouted.

Her voice echoed in the engine room. For a moment, both women were silent.

"Don't you dare say that," Spitfire whispered.

"It's true." Meytal's eyes dampened. "I was ten years old. Just ten. I needed an older sister. And you left us!"

Spitfire laughed bitterly. "I was eighteen. I joined flight school. You knew it was always my dream. Since I was a little girl, I would visit the Freedom and talk about serving there someday. Like my dad."

Meytal crossed her arms. "Yes. Your dad. The famous war hero. Not the loser dad. Not the pianist dad who busks on the street for spare change."

"I didn't say that." Now Spitfire got tears in her eyes. "You're putting words in my mouth. Like you always do."

"Maybe you never said it. But you always felt it. That your dad was a hero. And mine is a loser."

Spitfire sighed. She and Meytal had a different father. Spitfire was the daughter of Yehuda "Lion" Levy, a starfighter pilot who faced down the Red Dawn, who fell in battle during the last days of the Third World War. Spitfire's mom mourned for years, then remarried. Her new husband was nothing like Yehuda. He was a gentle man, a musician, an artist.

"I like your dad," Spitfire said. "He's not a loser."

Meytal turned away, arms still crossed. "I remember how you called him that."

"I was a kid!" Spitfire said. "I was angry. Put yourself in my shoes, Meytal. My dad died. I never even knew him. He died before I was born. I grew up seeing photos of him everywhere in the house. Watching videos of him. Seeing his medals shining in that frame on the wall. He was like a ghost, but he was still my dad, and I loved him. And we were a family. Then my mom …" Tears rolled down Spitfire's cheeks. "She married a new man. And those photos were suddenly inside drawers. As if everyone forgot him. And it was hard, okay?"

"So you lashed out," Meytal said. "Like a little bitch."

Spitfire laughed through her tears. "Geez, you can hold a grudge, can't you?"

"You hurt me."

"You were no angel either, Meytal." Spitfire didn't mean to bring that up. But it spilled out from her with her tears. "You stole Dado. He was the love of my life, and you stole him."

Meytal gasped, then guffawed. "Stole him? You broke up! Months before he and I got together."

"Oh, months! Months is such a long time. How can I forgive you after you waited months before pouncing on my ex?"

Meytal lowered her head. "Okay. I admit it. It wasn't nice. But I love him, Gal. I really do. And he loves me." She glanced up, eyes damp. "And you were broken up already."

Spitfire stared at her younger sister.

First your dad stole my dad's place, she thought. Then you stole my boyfriend. But goddammit, you're still my little sister.

She pulled Meytal into a bear hug. Meytal held her back. They stood there in the engine room, embracing and crying.

"I love you, bitch," Spitfire whispered.

"Love you too, psycho."

Meytal took a step back, thought for a moment, then pulled a chain off her neck. A Magen David pendant hung from it. The Star of David.

"Take this," Meytal said. "It belonged to Yehuda. It should be yours."

Spitfire blinked. "You … were wearing my father's necklace?"

Meytal bit her lip. "Kinda? Look. Mom was cleaning out the house a few years ago, and she found it. Among Yehuda's things. It was there beside his dog tags, rifle, and old uniform. So I kinda started wearing it."

Spitfire grabbed the girl's shoulders and shook her. "He was my dad! Why were you wearing his necklace?"

"Because I like it!" Meytal yelled. "It's pretty!"

"It should be mine!"

"Which is why I'm giving it to you." Meytal rolled her eyes. "Sheesh. Here, take it! God. Stop shaking me."

Spitfire released her. She took the necklace. The pendant was a simple star forged of steel. Not gold. Not even silver. Just steel. Because that was her father. A humble man—but forged of steel. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Meytal wiped her eyes. "It should have been yours long ago."

"No kidding."

"I'm being nice. Quiet."

Spitfire already wore a chain around her neck. She pulled it off now. Her dog tags jingled. Beside the metal disks hung a bullet, its casing still attached. Spitfire had drilled a hole through it herself. Delicately, she slung the bullet off the chain and held it out.

"Here, Meytal. I want to give you something too."

Meytal frowned and took the bullet. "What is it?"

"A good luck charm. At least it's been lucky for me. It's the first bullet I ever fired." She smiled wistfully. "I was twelve years old, and Uncle Yossi took me to a firing range in the desert. My first bullet actually hit the target. I was so proud."

Meytal's jaw dropped. "Wait. Wait a minute. This isn't just the bullet casing. The bullet itself is still here, attached to the casing." She blinked. "How do you still have a bullet you fired?"

Spitfire blushed. "I rushed down the firing range and fished it out of the target, then reattached it to the casing. For a souvenir."

Meytal gasped. "You ran into an active firing range?"

"It wasn't active!" Spitfire said. "At least my target wasn't. Come on! A girl has to keep her first bullet."

Now it was Meytal's turn to grab Spitfire and shake her. "You could have died!"

"I was twelve!"

"And almost died at twelve!"

"Yeah, Uncle Yossi was pretty pissed. He told my mom. I was grounded for a month, and I wasn't allowed to fire a gun again until I joined the army." Spitfire grinned. "But I got to keep the bullet. I carried this bullet on my chain through all my battles. It kept me alive. Now it's yours."

Meytal took the bullet and slung it alongside her own dog tags. Spitfire wore her father's Magen David around her neck.

"Look at us," Meytal said. "Swapping jewelry."

"We're so girly."

"Totally. Now let's braid each other's hair."

They laughed. Then fell silent.

"I have to go back to my ship now," Spitfire said.

"Well, I'm not hugging you again. I already did that. Twice."

"Shut up and give me a third hug!" Spitfire pulled her close. "Our family are huggers. So hug it out."

As Spitfire flew her shuttle back toward the Freedom, she touched the steel star that hung from her necklace. Her father's star.

Did he wear this star to battle? Spitfire thought. Did he die wearing it?

More than ever, Spitfire wanted to talk to her father, to this man she had never met, a man whose ghost she knew so well. She wanted to ask him if he got afraid. If he cried at nights. If he was weak like her. But maybe all warriors got scared and all warriors cried. At least those who cared about life and hated war, which all good soldiers did. Wearing this star around her neck, Spitfire felt the spirit of her father with her.

It was only when Spitfire was walking through the Freedom, people giggling around her, that she noticed it.

While hugging, Meytal had stuck a piece of paper to her back. It said Snotfire and featured a drawing of her blowing fire from her nostrils. Spitfire sighed. She wanted her bullet back.

CHAPTER TEN

Finally the Wandering Sun showed up, the same ship that had opened the portal for Frankie Calvetti. Today she would need to open a portal that was much larger. And if anyone could do things big, it was the Wandering Sun. The floating power plant dwarfed the Mahatma, the Kuroko, and the Caracal. She was indeed like a sun, and the smaller ships were like planets beside her.

She wasn't as long as the Freedom, but she was taller, bulkier, and rivaled her for volume. Truly, the Wandering Sun was a monster, among the largest artificial structures humans had ever built. The artificial star inside her hull was only the size of a basketball, but it accounted for most of the Wandering Sun's mass. The trapped little star could generate more electricity than most cities used in a year.

Light shone through Wandering Sun's venting ports. The star inside was flaring. Radiation levels climbed on Freedom's dashboards.

"Sir, the Wandering Sun reports that the portal will open in five minutes," Mimori said.

King looked at his crew. Some of them stood on the bridge in the flesh. Others, who were busy in their own departments, projected hallucinations of themselves.

Jordan and Spitfire were here physically, of course. His second- and third-in-command. They stood at his sides. They always would.

Mimori was here, the heart and soul of the ship.

Darjeeling stood on the bridge, proud and regal like a knight.

Bastian stood here, beloved son, powerful warrior. Alice stood by his side, holding his hand.

Kim was here, Kim Fletcher the brilliant engineer, Kim whose kisses were sweet, whose love was secret, a light that guided King through the shadows.

Others stood here too. Leaders, healers, warriors. Family. They were all his family.

"We've been fighting together for a long time," King said. "We fought the Red Dawn in this dreadnought. We fought the terrible rahs. In the Freedom, we still stand on guard. We are the protectors of humanity. We are the shield that guards Earth from tyranny and terror. Today, for the first time, we will be a true starship, worthy of the name. We will fly to the stars. You know our mission. The rahs are mustering for another invasion, one more terrible than before. We must find the Aeolians, an ancient race who knows how to defeat the rahs. We must learn their secrets. And we must return to Earth with hope. We know the enemy is out there. We know they killed our first brave scout. We will face the enemy with courage and conviction in the justice of our cause. I know I can count on every one of you. You are excellent soldiers. You are my soldiers. And you make me proud every day. Godspeed, men and women of the Freedom."

"Sir, the portal is forming," Mimori said.

King watched it on the monitor. Dark bubbles multiplied in space like an embryo, growing and growing, soon the size of a house, then a cathedral, and growing larger still.

The Wandering Sun vibrated. The power ship was generating more energy than ever before. Her armored hull expanded, tugging on its joints, like a metal zeppelin being inflated. Lights flared from her slit windows. Radiation alarms flashed red on the Freedom's bridge, and a klaxon wailed a warning.

"She's gonna blow!" Spitfire said.

"Emodi, are things all right?" King said.

The Wandering Sun's commander didn't answer. The enormous energy ship, a kilometer long and half as wide, was shaking like a town perched over an erupting volcano. The portal generator on her prow was spinning madly. Rings spun within rings, braiding and weaving spacetime.

God knows how the rahs do this so easily, King thought.

Finally Emodi flickered onto the Freedom's bridge. The avatar was breaking up, barely there at all.

"Don't worry!" said the Nigerian engineer. "We are rerouting new power to the engine. We can get her open, Admiral. But we'll have to move fast. I won't be able to keep the portal open for long."

"How long can you give me?"

"Five minutes, ten at most."

King pursed his lips. For a starfighter? No problem. For a fleet including a dreadnought and energy ship? That took a while to move through a bottleneck. Well, nobody said it would be easy.

"The Freedom will head through first," King said. "Kuroko, you follow. Mahatma, you enter third. Caracal will enter next. Wandering Sun, you'll enter the portal last. You'll have to move fast."

The ship commanders all sent their acknowledgments.

"Portal completed in three, two … now!" Emodi said.

His ship flared with energy. Emodi's hallucination vanished with a flash.

The portal loomed before the Freedom. A sphere six hundred meters in diameter. Twice the size of the Hoover Dam.

For a ship as big as the Freedom, it would be a tight squeeze.

"Mimori, take us through," King said.

The android stepped into the center of the bridge, spread her arms out, closed her eyes, and leaned forward. The deck hummed. Deep in the stern, the engines rumbled. The Freedom flew toward the portal.

* * * * *

The Freedom was the largest starship in the Free Alliance Fleet, a relic from World War III when great leviathans sailed through space. The dreadnought was three hundred meters tall—the height of the Eiffel Tower. She was five hundred meters from starboard to port beam. Normally she was even wider, but the Angels of Liberty, her great cannons, were now folded inward. It left the ship vulnerable, but it had to be done. The portal could simply not grow bigger. It was a tight squeeze. Flying into this portal would have challenged any human helmsman, but Mimori handled it with ease.

The Freedom's prow touched the portal right in the center.

The portal was three dimensional, not shaped like a circle but like a sphere. When the Freedom touched the portal, she was like an arrowhead touching an apple.

Things became … strange. King had done this before a million times. At least, it suddenly felt that way. Or had he been standing on this bridge for a million years? No. This was a memory from a million lifetimes ago, repeating. Oddly, the deck was too long. The prow monitor seemed a mile away. And why wasn't he inside his body? His consciousness seemed to float above his head. He was dreaming was all. He had dreamed this dream many times.

"Sirs, you might experience strange sensations," Mimori said. As she had said over and over, going back through the ages. "Human minds struggle to adjust to warps in spacetime."

King looked at her. A machine. A talking machine. How could a machine have a soul? What was this monster of pale skin and dead eyes, of perverted intelligence? It was strange to be here. In this present moment. Everything was just the present. Vaguely, he was aware of a past. Of fighting in wars. Of growing up on a ranch. Of commanding fleets. But that wasn't real. Those were just some wisps of a dream. Just landmarks on his road to here. To this moment. The only moment that was real. Everything else was an illusion. It didn't matter. All the pain, the suffering—just another memory. Just a peculiar arrangement of atoms in his mind.

Who was he? Did he have a name? He did. James. James King was his name. But that didn't feel related to him at all. It was no more a part of him than his metal fist.

He looked at his crew. And he saw aliens. He saw strange, fleshy monsters, their skin like worms, squeezed into uniforms. Tapping at monitors. And the deck contracted. The stern was inside the prow. The Freedom was no larger than a matchbox and then as large as creation.

And then they were through.

They emerged from the portal.

King slammed back into his body. He wanted to take a shuddering breath. To rub his eyes. To stare around, dumbfounded and dazed. Decades of training allowed him to keep his composure.

"Navigation, confirm our coordinates!" King barked. "Tactical, do a thorough sweep of our surroundings for alien crafts. Artillery—unfurl our cannons and be ready to fire on my order. Snap to it, crew! Look alive!"

They were disoriented. Some were gasping like men saved from drowning. Others blinked and looked around in confusion.

"Get a grip!" Jordan shouted. "Crew—obey your orders!"

They nodded and got to work. Too slow to react, King thought. They'd have to drill this. They could not be disoriented when emerging from portals into potential enemy territory. Yes, portals were strange. Apparently they warped the mind as well as spacetime. The experience had surprised King, unnerved him. But this was a warship. This slow reaction was unacceptable.

Spitfire was watching the two commanders. She said nothing, but her eyes were alert, her poise strong. She was learning. Good.

"Sir, coordinates confirmed," said the nav officer on duty. "We're on the edge of the Aeolia system. One thousand light-years from Earth, sir." He was finally acting professional, but even so, some awe filled his voice.

"Tactical, give me an update," King said.

The tactical officer on duty turned toward him. "Doing a full sweep, sir. Our sensors need time to calibrate to our new location. But so far, no bogeys detected. I'll keep running a sweep."

"Get me a gravitation wave sweep too," King said. "A heat map as well. If a fly flew through this system a week ago, I want to know about it."

"Yes, sir."

"All cannons priming, sir," reported the gunnery officer, speaking from the midsection's upper deck. "The Angels of Liberty should be ready to fire within ten minutes."

"Get them ready in five," King said.

Unfortunately, they had folded the great cannons before entering the portal. Only way to squeeze through. The bridge was deep in the prow. The Angels of Liberty were on the dorsal hull, a hundred meters above. But the bridge still rattled as the great cannons unfolded. Each of those cannons was the size of the Statue of Liberty. Fourteen of them stretched outward, ready to bombard anyone who approached.

Where are you? King thought, staring with narrow eyes at ATLAS data sweeping across the monitors.

Somebody out here had killed his pilot. He would find them. He would avenge Frankie.

Come on, show yourself, you son of a bitch. You're dealing with the Freedom now.

"Tactical, give us an update," Spitfire said.

Well, well, she's taking quickly to command, isn't she? Jordan telepathized to King.

I knew she would, King replied.

"Still nothing, ma'am," the tactical officer told Spitfire. "I'm expanding our sweep radius and running scans on more spectrum slices. So far, it seems like for a hundred thousand klicks around, we're alone."

"Keep running more scans," King said. "All crew—remain at yellow alert."

"Sir, the Kuroko is making entry now," Mimori said.

"Give us a visual, prow monitor."

He could have streamed the video to any monitor in the bridge. But whenever he could, King liked to choose monitors facing the right direction. The portal was behind them now. So King chose the monitor at the back of the bridge. It was unnecessary, but it helped keep the crew intuitively oriented.

The portal appeared on the monitor, a sphere bending the starlight. They watched the Kuroko emerge. The Japanese science vessel seemed to ripple and bend as she sailed from the portal. For a second, King worried she would split in two. Then he realized it was just the portal bending the light.

"Sir, we only have five more minutes before the portal closes," Mimori said.

"I am aware. Look—here comes the Mahatma."

The Indian ship came sailing through, flying at a leisurely pace. Too leisurely. King began to question the wisdom of bringing along monks. He doubted they were ever in a hurry.

They better not hold us back.

"And here comes the Caracal!" Spitfire said.

The Israeli warship sailed through the portal at breakneck speed. The diamond-shaped frigate instantly positioned herself above the Mahatma and Kuroko like a mother hen. Her cannons thrust out from every flank, pointing in all directions, just waiting for an enemy to appear.

"Damn, she's fast," Jordan said.

"Of course she is," Spitfire said, beaming. "The Caracal is a great ship. My sister flies there."

"Meytal is on the Caracal?" King frowned. "I didn't know that."

"That's why you need me on the bridge." Spitfire winked. "Too busy running a fleet to keep up with the gossip."

"Thirty more seconds before the portal closes!" Mimori said.

King stared at the black sphere. "Where the hell is the Wandering Sun?"

If Wandering Sun didn't make it through, they were stuck here. The Nigerian ship was the only one with a portal generator.

Everyone on the bridge held their breath.

"Twenty seconds," Mimori said.

"There she comes!" Jordan said.

The enormous prow of the Wandering Sun emerged from the portal like a metal glacier. The portal generator, formed of massive rings like a particle accelerator, rippled the sphere of spacetime. The entire energy ship, with her hull like a fortress of steel, seemed to flutter like a banner.

She was only halfway through when the portal began collapsing.

"She's not gonna make it!" Spitfire cried.

"She'll make it," King said.

"Three seconds, two, one—" Mimori said.

The portal collapsed—just as the Wandering Sun's stern slid through.

The black sphere slammed into a dense point, rippling spacetime. The gravitational waves hit the starships like waves in a storm. The Caracal spun like a top. Even the mighty Freedom tilted and yawed.

Then things settled down.

The ships floated in the void. They had all made it through.

"Excellent work everyone," King said.

Across the bridge, they cheered. Nobody louder than Spitfire.

* * * * *

Finally King allowed himself to relax, take a few deep breaths, and look around in wonder.

A new star system. New worlds to explore. He looked at the stars on the monitors, and he saw new constellations. Distant planets floated before them, blue and silver and burnished bronze, magnified on the monitors to the size of baseballs. A nebula shone above, shaped like a bird, while an asteroid belt spread like a cobbled path along the ecliptic plane.

"It's beautiful," Jordan whispered. The XO had tears in his eyes.

King spoke softly. "I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas …"

"Sagan?" Jordan asked.

King smiled. "Melville. Moby Dick."

"Well, Captain Ahab, I hope we don't run into any whales."

"I don't know about any whales, but whatever killed Honey Badger is still out here," King said. "Hiding. Maybe intimidated by the size of our fleet. Maybe planning an assault. We must be ready."

Jordan nodded. "I'm keeping in touch with all artillery stations. We're ready."

"All Eagles are ready to deploy," Spitfire said. "I got Pickles on MindWeb. We have a hundred fighter pilots in their cockpits, ready to launch."

King nodded. "Good. And now take a moment to remember something. This is not just a military expedition. This is a mission of exploration." He allowed a smile to touch his lips. "Look at it. A new star system. New planets. And somewhere here—a new civilization."

The other ship captains were reporting in. Everyone was happy. Most of all Dr. Misaka Takanashi of the science vessel Kuroko. The Japanese scientist appeared on Freedom's bridge via MindWeb. She was hopping with excitement, eyes alight.

"Oh, isn't it wonderful, Admiral? We're already collecting so much new data. There's a wonderful pattern to that nebula, and we're detecting molecules we never imagined could exist. Oh, and the asteroid belt is showing remarkable density. Far denser than the asteroid belt back home. I'd love to find out why."

"Any ideas which planet is most likely to host life?" King said.

He would like to find the Aeolians quickly. Before the enemy attacked. That was his top priority.

"Not yet. But we should be able to tell you soon. We're building a picture of the star system. I'd like to send out some probes."

"Bad idea," Spitfire said. "Sir, if we send out probes, we leave a paper trail for the enemy."

"That's true," King said. "But with the Wandering Sun leaking so much heat, our fleet is visible across the system. Stealth is not part of our equation. Dr. Takanashi, send what probes you need. Right now let's focus on finding the Aeolians. Other research is secondary. When you have a good suspect for their homeworld, let me know."

Takanashi took a deep sigh, but she couldn't get rid of her grin. "I know, I know. We need to focus. I'm just super nerdy right now and want to study everything at once. I'll get working on programming some drones, and—"

"Sir!" Mimori cried. "Portal opening off our starboard hull!"

"Red alert!" King said.

Klaxons blared. Officers ran to their battle stations. Red lights flashed across the bridge.

On the central monitor, King saw it happen. The portal opened, and a colossal alien dreadnought came roaring out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The alien ship charged out the portal, all guns blazing.

Gleaming silver missiles came flying toward the Freedom.

"Full power to shields!" King shouted over the klaxons. "Mimori—evasive action!"

Everything began to happen at once.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Within a second, King took in the alien dreadnought.

It was big. Even bigger than the Freedom. Not a clawship. At least not like the ones King had faced before. This was not a bundle of spikes like the head of an iron paintbrush. It was a spider. An arachnid the size of a town. Cannons stretched from its metal abdomen like eight legs, and red portholes burned like eyes.

The enemy ship was broadcasting its name. The ATLAS system picked it up, displayed it aboard the Freedom's monitors.

The Tyranny.

The Freedom thrummed as power raced through cables, augmenting the graviton field pulsing around the dreadnought like a bubble. Electricity flowed underfoot, charging the armored plates on the hull, hardening the molecules, forming a second line of defense. This dual shield system had saved the Freedom from many an enemy torpedo.

The silver missiles streaked toward the Freedom.

Mimori leaned sideways. The dreadnought yawed, attempting to dodge the barrage.

Meanwhile, within seconds of Tyranny emerging, Caracal burst into action.

The Israeli warship was small. Between the two dreadnoughts, the Caracal looked like a house cat between two dinosaurs. But this cat had claws.

The diamond-shaped Caracal began to spin like a top. Multiple miniature cannons fired off her facades. A hundred slender missiles—they were so small King could barely see them on the monitor—shot out, etching trails of light. But these little projectiles weren't flying at the enemy. Instead, they flew in multiple directions, curling, retreating, slowing, then charging forth.

A missile-defense system, King realized.

Mimori cried out, "Enemy torpedoes to hit in five, four, three—"

Then it happened.

Caracal's small interceptors slammed into the enemy's silver torpedoes.

Explosions bloomed across space.

"They saved our butts," Spitfire whispered in wonder.

"All civilian ships—get behind the Freedom's port hull!" King said into his comlink. The Kuroko, Mahatma, and Wandering Sun began to move away from the melee, but they were slow.

Meanwhile, the Freedom opened fire.

The Angels of Liberty unleashed their wrath.

The dreadnought jerked in space. The booms reverberated through the ship.

Maccabee torpedoes stormed toward the Tyranny. Each Maccabee was the size of a starfighter, carrying a warhead filled with enough explosives to devastate the thickest hull.

The Tyranny opened a hatch on her prow.

A storm of thick white strands flew like spiderwebs from a spinneret.

"Point-defense, shoot through those webs!" King said.

Across the dreadnought's hull, a hundred machine guns swiveled. Bullets flew toward the webs. But the webs weren't flying toward the Freedom. The bundles wrapped around the Maccabees seconds before they could hit the Tyranny. The torpedoes exploded in space, ripping the webs apart.

Debris slammed into Freedom's shields. Some shrapnel even made it through the graviton field and lodged into the hull. Metal shards raced toward the civilian ships, which were still fleeing to safety. Chunks of destroyed torpedoes hit the Mahatma, rocking the lotus-shaped ship through space. Thankfully they did not penetrate the hull. But it was too close. Too damn close.

"Sir, I suggest we launch the Flock," Spitfire said.

"Not yet," King said. "There's too much interference out there. Railgun team—aim the Fist of—"

"Sir!" Mimori cried.

The Tyranny opened fire again. Her eight legs all lit up like lightning bolts. They were railguns. Railguns like the Fist of Freedom. Maybe a little smaller, a little slower, but there were eight of the damn things.

Eight more missiles, long and silvery like ancient spears, streaked toward the Alliance fleet.

The Caracal began to spin madly again, firing a hundred interceptors. But this time the Tyranny had expected that. A second after the Tyranny's railguns boomed, her spinneret blasted webs at the Caracal.

The webs wrapped around Caracal's interceptors. Dozens of the defensive missiles exploded, tearing the webs apart, never reaching their destination.

She learns fast, King thought. Faster than rahs learn. This is something new.

He wanted to see who was commanding this ship. Were these elite rahs? Some genetically engineered rahs? Or something new entirely? Could these possibly even be the Aeolians? King was tempted to hail the ship, but he had no time. The enemy's silver spears came racing toward him.

Undaunted, the Caracal fired a new volley of interceptors. The defensive missiles streaked between the webs. They hit one silver spear. A second. A third. The Tyranny's missiles were probably not loaded with explosives. Railguns relied on kinetic energy, not warheads. And these silver spears carried so much kinetic energy they exploded like little stars.

Five spears kept flying—two at the Freedom, three at the civilian ships.

"Shoot the rest down!" Jordan shouted. "Point-defense, shoot down those projectiles!"

Across Freedom's hull, a hundred machine guns roared. They were all shooting at the two silver spears flying toward Freedom.

"Focus on the projectiles heading at the civilians!" King added. "We can take the impact. We—"

A spear slammed into the Freedom.

King glimpsed it just a split second before it hit. A slender silver cylinder. No warhead, as he expected. Just pure kinetic brutality.

Like a javelin hurled by a god, the projectile sliced through Freedom's graviton shield, plowed through the armored plates, and impaled the midsection's inner decks.

The alarms wailed, and every monitor turned red with warnings. The ship tumbled through space. Officers swayed across the deck. Mimori screamed and clutched her side.

"Decks 20 to 22 breached!" the android cried, feeling the pain in her own body.

The marine decks.

Bastian, King thought, horror clutching him. My son.

* * * * *

Bastian was in the starboard hallway of deck 22, rousing his soldiers for war, when the missile plowed through the bulkheads.

Five thousand marines served in the Freedom Brigade, half the complement of the starship Freedom. Some were old war dogs, here since the first battle of the Rah War. Others had recently joined, replacing the fallen. Every last man and woman in the Freedom Brigade was an elite warrior. They were trained. They were battle hardened. They were Earth's finest line of defense.

On Earth, the press had begun to call them the Freebies. It was originally an insult, some smarmy reporter's jab.

"The Freedom Brigade, along with the rest of our bloated military, is costing the taxpayer a fortune," the reporter had said. "How about we stop spending money on warmongers? Maybe the Freedom Brigade should be defunded? We can call them the Freebies."

He had snorted, and the press had picked up the nickname. So had the public. And so had the actual soldiers of the Freedom Brigade. They made the word their own, turning the insult into a term of pride. Today some soldiers in the Freedom Brigade even stuck "Freebie" stickers onto their helmets. Bastian allowed it. He sported such a sticker himself. If you asked him, the Freebies were the best trained, most professional, and deadliest infantry force in Earth's service. Leading them was the honor of his life.

"Red alert, red alert!" Alice shouted, marching down the corridors. "All troops, muster for red alert!"

Bastian marched beside her, overseeing the deployment. He wore a full battlesuit, a helmet covered his head, and he carried a big gun. But his stomach was a knot. A chill scuttled down his spine like baby spiders. He ignored it. He supposed he would never get rid of fear. Every battle only heightened it. Every battle drilled in the horrors of war. And there was a newer fear now. Alice was pregnant. Bastian feared for her more than ever.

But he had learned to control his fear. To keep the panic chained. To let it fuel, not hinder him. There was power in calmness. There was strength in confidence. He had seen soldiers panic on the battlefield and die screaming. He had seen composed, professional soldiers hold back unimaginable monsters, keep their cool, and win the day. On the inside, Bastian's terror was screaming, but it was a leashed demon. Bastian remained stolid, and he walked here with Alice, letting the soldiers see their commander. Letting them see that he was calm, in control, and would do his best to keep them safe.

Of course, he could not guarantee their safety. Sometimes Bastian had to send soldiers on dangerous missions, even suicide missions. Sometimes he must leave soldiers behind. Sometimes he must sacrifice pawns to save the queen. It hurt when the pawns happened to be soldiers he loved. Every such sacrifice tore off a piece of his soul. But every soldier understood that risk. Every soldier knew that Bastian cherished their life and would mourn if they fell.

"Godspeed, soldiers of Earth!" Bastian said. "We are the Freebies. We are the shield of Freedom. We will keep our ship safe."

"Go on, move, you sons of bitches!" Alice shouted. "Get your asses into position—now!"

As commanding officer, Bastian led and inspired his troops. As the senior NCO in the brigade, Alice's job was a little different. She kept them on their toes. He was the good cop. She was the bad cop. It worked. Together, their leadership turned the Freedom Brigade into the galaxy's best fighting machine.

Until moments ago, they had been at yellow alert. That meant every Freebie was awake, wearing an armored battlesuit, and carrying a loaded weapon, but they were still allowed to remain in their quarters. The status had just flipped to red alert. Bastian was receiving neural notifications from the bridge. He knew about the Tyranny emerging from a portal to attack. He knew the Tyranny might launch enemy boarders.

So he rallied his troops. The brigade included five battalions, each under a major's command. Each battalion knew its job. They had drilled this deployment time and time again. Under red alert, all nonessential spacers were confined to quarters. The marines had free rein of the ship.

Lightning Battalion rushed toward the prow. They would augment the existing security forces there, defending the bridge, the war room, the ATLAS control center, and other critical cabins. Most of their forces would muster along the outer hull, ready to repel any enemy that attempted to drill through.

Thunder Battalion raced toward the stern. They would defend the engines and the brave engineers who kept them running. If any rahs invaded through the stern, the Thundies would hold them back, defending Kim Fletcher and her crew of miracle workers.

Hailstorm Battalion defended the midsection, including its sensitive hangar bays. The midsection included seven docking bays. Four for Eagle starfighters. Two for Rhino dropships. One for Sparrow shuttles and Saint Bernard ambulance shuttles. Each bay contained several airlocks—the most vulnerable parts of the ship. The airlock doors were armored and fortified, but they were still thin compared to the hull. They were the most appealing place for an enemy to invade. Hailstorm Battalion defended them.

Meanwhile, Typhoon Battalion and Nova Battalion had a different task. They were commando brigades. Elite fighters. The best of the best. Right now they rushed to enter the Freedom's fleet of forty Rhino dropships. If Admiral King ordered a commando strike, Typhoon and Nova were ready to deploy. Lightning, Thunder, and Hailstorm defended the dreadnought. But Typhoon and Nova were not defensive soldiers. They were pure offensive brutality.

Bastian himself no longer belonged to any particular battalion. He commanded the entire brigade. But he had to admit: he was especially proud of Nova. It was his old battalion. The home of Bastian's Badgers, the company he had commanded when the war began. Bastian's Badgers had a new commanding officer now, a tough young captain. But they had kept the name, honoring Bastian King. Every Badger was proud that their humble company had given the brigade its new commander.

As the marines raced down corridors, booms shook the Freedom. The decks swayed. Those were the mighty Angels of Liberty firing. Even here, deep inside the ship, Bastian could telepathically connect to the bridge. He saw the Tyranny, an alien dreadnought shaped like a spider, launch its barrage. He saw Caracal, the little diamond-shaped warship, spin like a top and unleash a hundred defensive missiles. He saw the webs. He saw the torpedoes fly.

And he saw the Tyranny fire her eight railguns.

He saw the silver missiles coming closer.

His eyes widened.

"Brace for impact!" Bastian cried. "Soldiers—down!"

And then it happened.

An enemy missile slammed into the Freedom, carving through shields, armor, and bulkheads, and plowing through the deck.

It all happened within a split second. But the image was seared onto Bastian's mind. He knew he would never forget this split-second terror. The missile bursting from the bulkhead like a metal alien. The tip, searing hot, plowing through several marines. How their bodies burst into red mist. How the missile kept going, shoving through the next bulkhead, into a bunk, and another bulkhead, and finally coming to rest in a pile of ruin and bodies.

The split second ended.

A shock wave slammed into Bastian, Alice, and other marines, knocking them back.

Air began fleeing the ship.

"Hull breach, hull breach!" Alice cried, but the rushing air carried her words away, distorting her voice.

She lay on the deck. The air lifted rubble, raised it all around her, stirred it into maelstroms. The graviton deck plates died, and they all began hovering upward.

"Alice!" Bastian grabbed her. "Are you all right? Alice?"

The baby. Oh God, the baby.

The air was rushing over them, fleeing through the hull. Bastian stared. A tunnel stretched through the ship, carving through several layers of bulkheads. Marines were being sucked outward and tumbling into space.

Bastian slammed shut his helmet's visor. Cool air flowed across his face. Alice did the same.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Sappers, seal this breach!" Bastian cried.

The command was unnecessary. Men were already rushing forth with deck sealers. They placed fortified plates along the breaches, drilled them in, and welded them tight. They worked in a haze of blood. As sappers knelt, as the welding sparks flew, a severed leg floated in the corner. Beads of blood hovered around it like little Christmas ornaments.

Bastian pulled up his MindPlay interface. It connected telepathically to each marine, all five thousand of them. Twenty-seven of their avatars had gone dark. Thirty more avatars were red; they were wounded, maybe dying. Too many lost. Too many more ghosts.

He pulled Alice to safety. They floated through the corridor. When they reached a section of working graviton plates, the deck pulled them back down. Bastian held his wife, touched his helmet's visor to hers, and stared into her eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

She nodded. "Always. Now let's get these troops deployed." She marched down the hall, hollering. "Soldiers! A few destroyed decks won't hold you back. Come on! Move your asses! To your positions, troops. Move, move!"

Bastian loved that woman with all his heart.

* * * * *

King stood on the bridge as the Freedom reeled, as the battle blazed. Torpedoes exploded all around like little supernovas. Monitors flashed red across the bridge as the internal decks crumbled. The Caracal was whipping from side to side like a true wildcat, firing a fusillade at the Tyranny. King had no idea how the Caracal even fit so much ammunition in her—she looked small enough to dock in one of Freedom's hangars. But the Israeli warship kept unleashing more and more missiles like some homicidal clown car.

The Tyranny dwarfed the little frigate, a tarantula looming over an ant. The enemy dreadnought was firing plasma bolts her way. The Caracal was shooting down the barrage with her missile-defense system, but she was barely keeping up. The diminutive warship was giving Freedom time to recover from the devastating blow to the hull. God bless that crazy little ship.

King stared at the looming Tyranny, this mechanical spider that could grip a city.

"Who the hell are you?" King said, eyes narrowed. "It doesn't look like a rah ship. It doesn't fight like the rahs. But it's shaped like a spider. Could these be the Aeolians? Are they another arachnid race?"

Spitfire stepped forward, fists balled at her sides, shoulders squared. "Sir, we must destroy it. I'd normally suggest giving the job to the Flock, but dammit, now I'm a bridge officer, so to hell with it. Let's use the Fist of Freedom and blast this ship out of the galaxy."

King tightened his lips. He had hesitated to use the Fist until now. First of all, he could only fire the Fist once a day. What if other aliens attacked? Was he taking out his queen too soon? But there was more to it, perhaps. Part of him didn't want to destroy the Tyranny. Not yet. Not so fast. Not without learning more.

Then he thought of the dead marines on deck 22. The Tyranny had ripped through his shields like no alien warship had ever done. He could not risk another blow. Spitfire was right.

"Mimori!" King said. "Aim and fire the Fist of Freedom."

"Confirmed," Jordan said. "Fire the Fist!"

Mimori nodded. "Yes, sirs."

The bridge vibrated and hummed as the Freedom yawed, aiming her mighty railgun at the Tyranny. The enormous rails thrust forward like twin towers, ready to hurl death. King had seen this railgun devastate alien dreadnoughts before. Some just as big as this one. It would do the trick here too.

"I'm getting an update from the gunnery crew," Mimori said. "Fist is locked and loaded. Firing in three, two, one."

King smiled thinly. Well, it was nice knowing you, Tyranny.

White light flooded the bridge.

The railgun lit up like two lightning bolts.

A Goliath projectile, large and fast enough to destroy a city, streaked toward the Tyranny at hypersonic speed.

At the same instant, the Tyranny pointed all eight legs at the Freedom—her own railguns. And fired.

Eight silver spears flew.

It all happened so quickly that only later, analyzing the data, would King understand what had happened. That the Tyranny had intercepted the Goliath. Right now all he saw was a massive explosion blaze between the two starships.

It looked like a supernova.

It blasted out so much energy it ripped a hole through Freedom's graviton shield and cracked armored plates across her prow.

King blinked and stared at the explosion lighting up his monitor. A ball of fire spread before them like a nebula. King had never seen anything like this. The Goliaths moved too fast to intercept. It was impossible.

"What went wrong with our railgun?" he demanded.

"Nothing, sir, we fired successfully. We—"

"Enemy incoming!" Jordan cried.

The Tyranny charged through the sphere of fire, legs pointing forward for another assault.

* * * * *

"Full power to shields!" Jordan cried.

"Belay that order," King said. "Divert shield power to machines guns—and fire! Fire everything!"

It was a risky move. Full power to shields meant hardening the graviton bubble around the Freedom. It would slow incoming missiles, reducing their kinetic energy. But it also slowed bullets flying outward, crippling Freedom's point-defense system.

King had already seen the Tyranny rip through the Freedom's shields. The silver spear had sliced halfway into the ship. And that had been just one projectile. Now eight railguns were pointing at the Freedom. No, the shields would not help against firepower of this magnitude.

"What?" Jordan exclaimed. "Jim! No power to shields?"

"Shields won't help us now. We'll need to shoot down any incoming missiles. It's our only chance. All machine gunners—aim at the Tyranny and fire a storm of bullets."

The Freedom didn't have a sophisticated missile-defense system. Not like the Caracal. But she did come with two hundred angry machine-gun turrets, mostly on the underbelly.

"Mimori, rear!" King said.

The Freedom raised her prow, rearing like an angry bear, exposing her underbelly. And exposing the hundred machine guns there.

The civilian ships hid behind the Freedom. The Wandering Sun. The Kuroko. The Mahatma.

We're an angry mama bear, and they're our cubs, King thought. We won't let any spider hurt them.

The Tyranny's railguns lit up.

A hundred machine guns on Freedom's underbelly opened fire, spraying a full barrage. Countless bullets like a hailstorm of lead flew toward the Tyranny. Just as she fired.

Eight silver spears came flying at Freedom. The Tyranny's railguns weren't as powerful as the Fist of Freedom. The projectiles moved slower. But there were eight of them. And with the graviton shields down, just one could destroy the Freedom and kill all ten thousand spacers aboard.

Halfway between the two dreadnoughts, the bullets slammed into the spears.

One spear exploded. Two more spun into the distance. The others kept racing toward the Freedom, plowing through the barrage of bullets.

Did I make a mistake? King thought. Did I doom us?

The machine guns kept firing. Another spear exploded. Four more were still flying.

King braced for impact.

And then the Caracal raced toward them, spinning like a pulsar, moving so fast she became a blur. All cannons across her facades fired as one. Hundreds of slender missiles flew from the little warship, arcing, coiling, drawing spirals of light across space.

An interceptor slammed into a silver spear. The enemy projectile exploded.

It happened again.

And again.

Only one silver spear still flew, racing toward the Freedom's underbelly.

All underbelly machine guns fired.

Just a few klicks away, the last spear exploded.

King exhaled in relief. That had been close. Too close.

"Sir, the Tyranny's railguns are priming for another assault!" Mimori cried.

Dammit. King clenched his metal fist. His own railgun took a full day to charge. How the hell did these aliens charge their railguns so quickly?

"Mimori, tilt downward, roll our starboard toward the enemy, and fire the Angels of Liberty."

The Freedom pitched forward so fast the g-force knocked the air out of King. The dreadnought yawed just as fast, turning her starboard cannons toward the enemy. Bulkheads rattled. A monitor shattered. A dreadnought the size of the Freedom was not meant to move this quickly. These maneuvers were creaking the very chassis. But Mimori understood the urgency.

"Aiming the Angels," Jordan said. He tapped the side of his head, signifying that he was telepathizing with the gunnery crew.

"The Tyranny is firing again!" Spitfire cried, looking up from a monitor. The lights of battle streamed across her face.

"Fire!" King shouted. "Fire the Angels!"

Both dreadnoughts fired at the same time.

Eight more silver spears flew at the Freedom.

The seven starboard Angels fired too. Maccabee torpedoes flew at the enemy.

The Caracal zipped upward, spun madly again, and sprayed more interceptors. A few silver spears exploded.

The Maccabees raced toward their target. The Tyranny fired webs, ensnaring them. Maccabee after Maccabee exploded in space, doing the enemy no harm.

Goddammit, King had never seen a ship like this. Who the hell was flying her?

"Admiral, three silver spears made it past the Caracal!" Mimori said. "I can't raise our underbelly fast enough. Our point-defense can't shoot them down."

"Evasive action!" Spitfire cried.

"Belay that order," King said. "We have civilians behind us. Brace for impact! Full power to shields!"

Spitfire blushed, realizing her mistake. King would deal with her later.

"Impact in three, two, one—" Mimori began.

Everything happened at once.

The bridge lights dimmed as power flowed into the shields.

The graviton field thickened around the prow.

The Caracal zoomed upward, releasing a fresh swarm of interceptors.

The interceptors hit two silver spears. One interceptor hit a spear head-on. Both missiles exploded. Another interceptor just glanced off a spear. Instead of exploding, the spear changed course and shot over the Freedom, narrowly missing her dorsal hull.

The third spear slammed into the Freedom's prow.

The ship jolted and shook.

MindWeb showed King the view.

The spear sliced through the prow shields. The graviton field slowed the kinetic energy but could not stop the projectile. It sliced through the field, into the prow hull, and carved through the armored plates.

The bridge trembled.

The alarms screamed.

Schematics across the walls showed it happening. The spear driving through decks, carving up an ATLAS control center, a science station, a tactical boardroom, and still tunneling deeper like a bullet into flesh.

Finally the spear reached the bridge, which was located deep inside the prow.

A fortified bulkhead of metal and graphene surrounded the bridge, as thick as a man was tall. Its only weak spot was a single doorway, facing the stern.

The projectile slammed into the bridge bulkhead like the hammer of a god.

The bridge shook madly. Monitors exploded. Crew members fell. Deck plates cracked and rose like the scales of a reptile.

But the bulkhead held.

The missile was stopped, leaving a bulge in the bulkhead. Not five steps away from where King stood.

Crew members were shouting, reading out stats, shouting orders to teams across the starship. The Angels of Liberty were booming again. Medics were rushing everywhere. ATLAS was down. They relied on MindWeb only, the neural network that complemented the digital system.

King wasn't watching his ship now. His crew would handle that. On MindWeb, he watched the last silver spear—the one that had sailed over the Freedom's dorsal hull.

Helpless, King watched it fly past the Freedom and slam into the Wandering Sun.

* * * * *

The Wandering Sun was a big, bulky ship, a beast of armored plates and a dense hull. The projectile slammed into her like a hunter's javelin into a rhino.

King winced. The Wandering Sun had a thick hull, yes, but it was built to contain her massive fusion core. The artificial sun crackled deep within her metal shell. She was a civilian ship. Her armor was not designed to stop missiles.

Yet the armored hull held.

It held!

Then the Tyranny soared over the Freedom, moving so fast Mimori didn't have time to react, and rained down eight more silver spears.

The Caracal raced upward and stopped a few.

But three more silver spears still slammed into the Wandering Sun.

They plowed through her armored hull, sinking into her metal flesh. Light flared through the Wandering Sun's thermal vents. Blinding light flashed through cracks in the hull.

"Sir, their core is collapsing!" Mimori cried. "Massive radiation leak!"

"Convert our shields to radiation mode!" King said. "Artillery—destroy the Tyranny! Bombard her to hell!"

The Freedom's great guns boomed, hurling Maccabees. The Caracal joined the assault. Instead of firing interceptors, she began to fire her offensive missiles. King didn't recognize the model; the Israelis liked bringing their own tech to war, eschewing standard Alliance munitions. Whatever they were, they were small missiles, but the Caracal was unleashing a whole lot of them.

At such close range, the Tyranny could not shoot webs fast enough. She intercepted some of the volley. But one Maccabee and several of Caracal's missiles impacted. Explosions rocked the Tyranny's hull.

Across the Freedom's bridge, the crew cheered.

The Tyranny, holes in her hull, spun around and began to flee.

"Ha!" Spitfire laughed.

"Chase her and destroy her!" King said.

But before the Freedom's engines could even rumble, a portal opened in space. The Tyranny fled through it. The portal collapsed. It happened within seconds.

"She got away," Spitfire said. "The bitch got away."

But everyone seemed a little relieved. They had gotten the parting shot at least.

Jordan spoke the words everyone was thinking. "What the hell was that ship?"

"I don't know." King tightened his metal fist, staring at the spot where the Tyranny had vanished. "But I believe we've finally met our match."

* * * * *

The relief aboard the Freedom didn't last long. The Tyranny was gone, but the crisis was not over.

The Wandering Sun, the only human ship that could generate portals, was burning. Holes gaped open in her hull, revealing her inner decks. Fire roared as oxygen fled the ship.

A hallucination of Emodi, captain of the Wandering Sun, appeared on Freedom's bridge. His uniform, once featuring the adorable mascot of Aardvark Energy, was now charred. Radiation burns spread across his face. It was a wonder the stout Nigerian was still standing.

"Admiral, our core is collapsing!" Emodi said. "We took a hit to the fusion chamber. My men are working on putting out the blaze. We're trying to shut the core down, but the fires are spreading. I recommend that Freedom keeps a safe distance. Ten thousand klicks at least."

King nodded. "I'll pull the Freedom back. The other ships too. May I send a crew of firefighters and medics over? We have both aboard the Freedom."

Emodi smiled in relief. "Thank you, Admiral."

Spitfire approached King, eyes flashing, and opened her mouth to object. But Jordan put a hand on her shoulder, silencing her. Spitfire shut her mouth, fuming.

"Hang in there, Wandering Sun," King said. "Help is on the way."

Emodi's avatar vanished.

"Sir!" Spitfire blurted out, unable to contain herself any longer. "There are two missiles lodged into the Freedom! We have wounded spacers! Fires on three decks! We can't spare our first responders."

"We must spare some," King said. "We must aid the Wandering Sun. Not only because it is the humane thing to do. It's also in our interest. The Wandering Sun is the only Alliance starship that can open a portal large enough for the Freedom. If she burns up—we're stuck here."

Spitfire tightened her lips but said nothing more.

She's making some mistakes, King thought. But this is her first day on the bridge. She'll learn.

In addition to her Eagles, Rhinos, and Sparrows, the Freedom operated three multipurpose rescue vessels. The crew called them the Saint Bernards, keeping to the animal theme. They were big machines. Almost big enough to be proper starships in their own right. They provided firefighting, rescue, and medical services.

King contacted the rescue crew telepathically. Most of Freedom's first responders were battling across the hull breaches in the midsection and prow. Major Albert Sultan, head of the Freedom's rescue services, materialized on the bridge. Burly, bald, and bearded, Sultan wore the white-and-red uniform of his trade. Blood stained his sleeves. While Dr. Annie Jordan headed the medical clinic, Major Sultan commanded the search-and-rescue team. If you needed immediate help anywhere on the Freedom, Sultan and his crew showed up.

"I gotta tell you, Admiral, we're barely keeping up," Sultan said. "We've got a lot of wounded spacers here. I can spare twenty first responders. Ten firefighters, ten EMTs. Any more and we can't handle operations aboard the Freedom."

"Understood. Thank you, Major. Send the twenty to the Wandering Sun at once. Take one of the Saint Bernards. Please hurry."

The bearded man nodded. The call ended. Not moments later, a Saint Bernard rescue craft blasted out the airlock, racing toward the Wandering Sun.

King watched from the bridge. Countless MindWeb calls popped up around him. He delegated in a fury, passing responsibilities onto his crew members. He wasn't just overseeing the Freedom now but the whole fleet. And they all needed something urgently. As the hallucinatory windows floated around King like a swarm of bees, he couldn't stop seeing it. The great arachnid dreadnought, swooping through the flames toward him.

"Who the hell are you?" King whispered.

He had never seen any enemy captain put up a fight like that. Whoever was flying the Tyranny, be they rah or something else, King knew he would face them again.

He connected to a MindWeb video streaming from a hull camera. The Saint Bernard was flying toward the Wandering Sun. Spitfire watched too, lips tight and fists clenched. She clearly wasn't happy with the decision to spare first responders. But she turned away and focused on another task.

The Wandering Sun was still burning. Flames crackled in her exhaust vents. Several chunks of hull were caving in, while immense radiation and heat leaked out.

We gotta put out that fire, King thought, or we're stuck here.

He connected to a camera on the Saint Bernard's hull. He watched the rescue vessel slide into the Wandering Sun's airlock. The hatches were mangled. The decks were depressurized. Burn marks covered the bulkheads, and several crew members lay dead on the deck.

The first responders burst out the Saint Bernard, wearing heavy fireproof suits. They ran deeper into the Wandering Sun, carrying graviton-extinguishers and litters. Fires roared before them, but they ran into the flames. A few meters in, the connection died. The inferno cut off the signal to King's MindLink.

He switched to an external sensor. He watched the Wandering Sun listing, heat and light leaking through cracks in her hull. One crack widened. Plasma vented into space like a geyser. On Freedom's bridge, the radiation gauges climbed to red, even as the dreadnought kept pulling away.

"Sir, I suggest increasing our speed and retreating to a hundred thousand klicks," Mimori said.

King nodded. He called the other captains over MindWeb. "All ships—retreat to a hundred thousand klicks from the Wandering Sun. Move fast."

King hated leaving the Wandering Sun and her brave crew so far. If this radiation was threatening the Freedom, already thousands of klicks away, he hated to think what it was doing to the spacers aboard the Wandering Sun. Were any still alive?

First and foremost, King was thinking about those spacers. Both the Nigerian crew and his own first responders. But he was also thinking of everybody aboard the Freedom, Caracal, Kuroko, and Mahatma. Thousands of people. If they lost the Wandering Sun, humanity lost its only portal generator. They would be stranded here, a thousand light-years from home. Off the top of his head, King wasn't sure exactly how many years it would take to fly home without a portal. A hundred thousand years? More? It might as well be forever.

Okay, maybe somebody at home would build a new portal generator and come rescue them. But that could take months if not years. They'd run out of supplies, maybe run into more enemies. King wasn't willing to wait that long either.

The Freedom was fifty thousand klicks away when Emodi reappeared on the bridge, burnt and flustered.

"We can't contain the core!" the Nigerian captain cried. Blisters bubbled across his face, and agony filled his watery eyes. "She's gonna blow, Admiral. The whole ship is gonna blow."

King nodded. "Begin evacuation procedures. Get all your spacers into shuttles. My first responders will assist. Get everyone out now."

He would deal with the loss of the portal generator later. Right now only saving lives mattered.

One shuttle emerged from the Wandering Sun, its hull charred. A small shuttle. It probably couldn't carry more than ten people.

The shuttle made it a few kilometers away when it happened.

Another geyser blazed out the Wandering Sun's hull.

Then a solar flare spread across space, crackling and shining just off Freedom's stern.

The Wandering Sun cracked open like a metal egg, and for a second, they all saw the artificial star inside. A sphere no larger than a watermelon, roaring with more mass and thermal energy than the entire Alliance fleet's engines combined.

"Radiation shields up, and get us out of here!" King cried.

The Freedom's engine roared, propelling them farther away. The other ships fled too.

The artificial star flared into blinding white light—and went supernova.

An inferno pounded the Freedom. The electromagnetic shields flared, barely holding back the onslaught. The explosion washed over the protective force field, blazing in a hemisphere of blinding brutality. The Freedom jolted through space. The other ships raced away, escaping by the skin of their teeth, emerging from the blast with charred sterns and relieved prayers.

And then just like that—it ended.

The little star was gone. And so was the Wandering Sun. So was the one shuttle that had managed to escape, but which had not flown far enough. So was everybody who had served on the energy ship. And so was Freedom's only way home.

Spitfire spun toward King, fists clenched, tears in her eyes. Her cheeks were red.

I told you! her eyes said. I bloody told you, and now they're dead.

But she would not utter those words aloud. She tightened her lips, spun around, and walked away.

King marched toward one of the few ATLAS monitors that still worked. The circular PPI showed the positions of his fleet. The Tyranny did not appear on the map. But she was out there. King knew she was. And he knew she would return.

"We're stranded out here," he said. "No way home. No way to get help. You and me, Tyranny. Here in this system, all alone. This will be our playground. This ain't over yet."

CHAPTER TWELVE

"No. I don't need to call him. Why should I?"

Spitfire paced her cabin. Now that she had stars on her shoulders, she got to live in a proper cabin. No more closet-sized bunks for Gal "Spitfire" Levy! She could actually pace now. And right now she needed a good dose of pacing.

"Of course I should call him. We go way back! We're old buddies. It's harmless."

She groaned and tugged her hair. Stupid, stupid. Old buddies? Please. Mere "buddies" didn't ravish each other quite so often, Spitfire was pretty sure.

Over the years, she had managed to forget about Dado. Okay, no, not quite forget him. You never forgot your first love. But she had moved on. She had healed. Distance and time had resealed her broken heart.

And now he was here. Her first, her greatest, maybe her only true love. Just flying outside in the Caracal, a short shuttle hop away. The Caracal was now flying off Freedom's port beam. Just there, just outside this hull. Hell, the distance between Freedom's stern and stem was probably greater than between Spitfire and Dado right now.

She had seen him briefly when visiting Meytal. The first time in twenty years. And now he would not leave her mind. Spitfire stopped pacing, leaned against the bulkhead, and closed her eyes.

She was thirty-seven years old. A lieutenant commander. A leader in the Free Alliance Fleet, serving aboard the greatest starship ever built. But suddenly she felt like a teenage girl again.

With her eyes closed, she imagined herself back on that beach long ago. She was no longer an officer but a scrappy girl, a wild thing of the sand and sea. A girl in love with a man.

She remembered their first night together. They had walked along the sand among ancient Roman ruins. They had raced under the arch of an aqueduct toward the Mediterranean, and she had shown off her somersaults. He had clapped, she remembered. Later they walked along the beach, their feet in the shallow water, and he found her a seashell. It was orange and white and ridged, she remembered, with a little hole in it. The sea had clearly destined this jewel to become a pendant.

"A gift from the sea," he had told her, slung the seashell on a string, and gave it to her. "To Gal, Princess of Waves."

It was a silly pun. Her name meant wave in Hebrew. She had kissed him then. She still remembered how his kiss had tasted of sand. It had been her first kiss.

A year later, she had left him.

She had flown off to join the Alliance Fleet. But not before she returned him the seashell.

"Keep it," she whispered. "And think of me. I'll come back."

But she never did. She flew into space and thought of home every day, but she never came back. Not to him. Not to anyone.

"Stop it." She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. "Just stop it. That was twenty years ago. It's over."

So that was that. She was definitely not going to hop into a shuttle. She was not going to fly over there again. She was done with him. And good riddance!

Her doorbell chimed.

"Come in!" she barked. "Dammit, Pickles, you never call me before you …"

Her voice trailed off.

Dado stepped into her cabin.

Spitfire stared at him, and she hated how she felt. She hated that even now, she still loved him.

He was a tall man, ruggedly handsome. His shabby fatigues, stubbly cheeks, and oil-stained boots only made him more endearing. Spitfire used to look like that. Back in her youth, she had been a creature of scabs, messy hair, and sand between her toes. As a bridge officer, she had cleaned up. She wore a fancy uniform, her shoes were polished, she even wore a smidgen of makeup. When she looked at Dado, she saw her home. She remembered where she came from.

"Shalom, Gal," he said.

"Nobody calls me Gal anymore. They call me Spitfire." She spoke to him in Hebrew, but she had to say that last word in English.

He looked at her in silence for a moment. She stared back, hands on her hips.

Then, oddly, Dado laughed. And Spitfire couldn't help it. She laughed too.

"Okay, Spitfire." He said that in English with an exaggerated American accent.

"Shut up!" She switched back to Hebrew. "And come inside. There's a draft."

He entered the cabin and whistled. "Swanky digs."

Gal looked around at her new quarters. She had just moved in. Yes, she had to admit. For a warship cabin, this place was palatial. She was third-in-command of the Freedom now, and that came with creature comforts. She had two hundred square feet all to herself. That included a kitchenette and even her own bathroom. Her own private bathroom—on a starship! All the frills were here. A real bed, not a folding cot. An actual armchair to relax in. Down on Earth, this would be considered a humble hotel room at best. On a warship, it was luxury.

Suddenly Spitfire felt guilty. She knew that aboard the Caracal nobody lived in such splendor.

"I didn't always live like this," she said. "I was only promoted this week. I was down in the crew bunks last week. I didn't forget where I come from. I'm still the same Gal. Still the same girl from the old neighborhood. Just because I serve on an American ship now, and just because I—"

"Gal." Dado touched her arm and smiled crookedly. "I didn't say anything. I wasn't even thinking it. I'm proud of you, kiddo. I'm damn proud of you. We all are. Everyone on the Caracal. Everyone back home. You're a lioness."

She closed her eyes to hide their dampness. Lioness. He used to call her that long ago. My lioness.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and now she could not hide her tears. They flowed down her cheeks.

"For what?"

"I don't know." She opened her eyes, saw the concern on his face. "For leaving. For leaving my home. For leaving my family. For leaving you."

"You can never leave a home," Dado said. "You can never leave a family that loves you."

"But you can leave a man," she whispered.

Dado looked into her eyes. "I didn't come here for that. I didn't want to talk about that."

"I do." She grabbed his collar. "Dammit, I do! I've wanted to talk about this for twenty years, so don't you shut me up now. Because for twenty years, I missed you. For twenty years, I kicked myself for leaving."

Dado looked away. "You broke my heart, Gal. You tore it into a thousand pieces like pomegranate seeds. For a long time, I was angry. But I understood. In time, I understood." He looked into her eyes again. "You wanted to go to flight school. You wanted to become a pilot like your dad. I understood."

She trembled. "I loved my dad. I never knew him, but I loved him so much, and I wanted to serve where he served. Even if it meant leaving you." She let out a sob. "I left a man I loved for a man I never met."

"You might have never met your father, but his spirit is with you. It always was. And now look at you. Not only a pilot on the Freedom. But a lieutenant commander."

She wiped her eyes and laughed. "I miss being a pilot, to be honest." She sighed. "Well, what happened between us happened a long time ago. You have Meytal now. I have the Freedom. It felt good to get it off my chest. Sorry for unloading all that on you."

"It felt good to talk about this," Dado said. "I've been carrying it around too. I told myself I just came here to reconnect. But I think that is why I came here. For closure. There's no statute of limitation on closure. Not when it comes to the heart. You can carry pain for decades, and it still seems fresh every day. I'm glad we talked." He reached into his pocket. "Oh, and I brought you something."

He pulled a jewelry box from his pocket.

She frowned. "What, you gonna get on one knee now?"

"It's not a ring. Take it. Open it later."

She took the box. "Can I open it now?"

"No. You may not." Dado laughed. "Open it after I leave."

"Then get out of here!" She shoved him.

He laughed louder. "What, I don't get to stay for dinner? You even have your own kitchen now. You're not going to cook me anything?"

"Screw you." She shoved him harder. "If you want to eat, you cook. For both of us."

"Gladly. You know I love to cook." He opened his pack. "I brought some ingredients. I figured you'd be hungry."

He whipped up pasta with olives, fried cherry tomatoes, chicken strips, and pesto sauce. They paired the meal with dry red wine from home. Spitfire had to admit. Dinner was good.

As they ate, they talked about the old days. Just the funny stuff. That time they had gone to a rock show in Tel Aviv, and she had crowd surfed, almost falling before he caught her. And the time they had surfed for real, and how she had fallen then too. Their vacation to Eilat, splurging on an actual hotel—her first and still only time in a hotel—and how she had pushed Dado into the pool.

She laughed. "Why are all our stories about somebody falling down?"

"Because falling down is funny. And we had good laughs together."

Spitfire lowered her eyes and gazed at her plate. She couldn't help but wonder. What it might have been like. A life with him. What if she had stayed in Israel? She would have married him, maybe. She would be serving on the Caracal now instead of Meytal. She would be with this man who cooked for her, who laughed with her.

She smiled sadly.

I would have been happy with him. But I would not have served aboard the Freedom. I would not have met Pickles. And Mimori. And Emily. And sweet Darjeeling. And all the rest of them. I would not have Admiral King and Commander Jordan as my spiritual fathers. My life would have been different with Dado but not richer. She smiled and took another bite. It hurts but I'm happy with the choice I made. And I would not have lived another life.

"You're being quiet," Dado said.

"Just thinking," she said.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Oh, fuck off. My thoughts are none of your business." She laughed. "But I'll tell you anyway. I'm thinking we need to make another memory. There are spacesuits in the nearby warehouse. Come with me. We're suiting up."

They suited up. Spitfire still had three hours until her next shift. It was plenty of time.

She held his hand, pulling him through the starship, and she felt like a girl again, pulling the boy she fancied along the beach. She had dragged him on so many adventures. There was time for one more.

They climbed through a little airlock, emerging onto the dorsal hull of the starship Freedom. They stood in the vacuum among the stars.

A long time ago, when the Freedom was a museum ship, a dome had encircled this place. Tourists could come here to dine and dance among the stars. The dome was gone now. The bar and dance floor were no more. Scars from a hundred battles covered the hull, patched up and welded again and again. But the airlock was still here, and there were still hooks for tethers.

They didn't have tethers. Oh well. At least there were still gravity plates underneath their feet.

"Another adventure indeed," Dado said, walking atop the hull. They spoke through MindWeb, their voices clear even in the vacuum.

Spitfire grinned. "Don't fall off."

They walked toward the prow of the starship. The railgun stretched below them, pointing their way. They rode the beast. It felt to Spitfire like riding an enormous metal whale. The stars spread all around, endless.

"The universe is a snow globe," she said softly. "That's what it feels like. A snow globe the size of eternity. You don't sense the size at all from inside the Freedom. Even in a starfighter, you don't really feel it. But this—this is as close as you can get to the stars."

"It's beautiful," Dado said. "Relaxing, actually."

She smiled crookedly. "Not for long."

She shoved him. Right off the ship.

He tumbled into space, flailing. "Hey!"

She shook her fist. "That'll teach you for pushing me off the surfboard twenty years ago."

"I never pushed you! You fell."

She waved. "Bye-bye."

"Gal!" He was moving farther from the Freedom.

She laughed. "It's all right. I'll come get you."

She pulled open a hatch on the hull. They kept a jetpack there. Just for emergencies like this. She snapped it on, then flew out to meet him. She caught Dado among the stars and held his hands.

"Hey there." She smiled. "Think I'd let you fly to oblivion?"

"Somebody would have rescued me."

"Somebody did."

As she held his hands, they rotated gently through space. It felt almost like dancing. For a long moment, they were silent, holding hands, lazily spinning.

"Gal?" he said softly.

"Dado?" she whispered.

"You're a pain in the ass."

"I know."

"I missed you."

"I know that too." She embraced him, laid her head against his chest. "I know."

That night, after Dado had returned to the Caracal, Spitfire sat in her cabin. She opened the box he had given her.

There was a seashell inside. Just a humble seashell, orange and white and ridged. It hung on a string.

Spitfire laughed. Then cried.

"Thanks, Dado," she whispered.

Her neck was already getting heavy with her dog tags and her father's pendant. She did not need to wear this seashell too. But she hung it on her bedpost, and when she went to sleep that night, she dreamed that she was back on that beach under the stars. She was back home.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Freedom reeled from her wounds. The whole fleet did.

King sensed it on the bridge. The rising panic, threatening to bubble over. He saw it everywhere. The fingers trembling over control panels. The darting glances. The pale faces. Some spacers had tears on their cheeks.

It felt different this time. They had faced many foes during the war. But not like this one. Not like the Tyranny. She was still out there, hiding in the depths.

Where are you? King thought. Show yourself. Aren't you ready to dance again?

The Freedom was floating by Aeolia B, a brown dwarf. Aeolia A, the larger star in this binary system, was a G-type main-sequence star, hot and yellow and bright. Aeolia B was smaller and dimmer, but still bright enough to mask the Freedom's heat signature. The ship's shields thrummed, holding back the radiation. It wasn't exactly a pleasant location in space, but King hoped the small star could mask their position. He needed time. To think. To plan. The Tyranny was still out there, and the Freedom was hurting.

We got punched hard in the nose, King thought. We're reeling. But we'll get back into this fight.

"ATLAS, give me an update," he said.

The ATLAS officer looked up from his control panel. "We're running a deeper scan, sir, expanding the diameter to a full AU. Still no sign of the Tyranny."

"If she's still in this system, I want her found," King said. "I'm diverting all astronomical and navigational departments to assist ATLAS. Mimori, relay my orders to the relevant STEM crews."

The android nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Send your counterpart androids to assist and oversee the efforts," King said. "This will be a prow-wide project. I want the Tyranny found."

Jordan approached King. He spoke in a low voice. "Jim, she probably left the system. With her portal, she could have jumped anywhere."

"I don't think so. She's a proud one, our friend the Tyranny. She won't run far from a fight. She's here. She's somewhere in this system." He clenched his metal fist. "I can feel it."

Jordan leaned closer. "Our task is to find the Aeolians. With all STEM crews searching for the Tyranny, who will seek the Aeolians?"

King thought for a moment. He had an idea.

"Mimori, call an urgent meeting in the war room," King said. "MindWeb participation is fine—no need to draw anyone physically from their stations. I want our chief engineer. I want the commander of the Caracal. I want Darjeeling and Spitfire." A thin smile tugged at his lips. "And invite the Queen of England. We need her too. We meet in ten minutes. Mimori, walk with me. Jordan, you have the bridge."

* * * * *

Her Majesty Emily II, Grace of the White Rose, Queen of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth, was scared shitless.

She sat in the royal suite aboard the starship Freedom. She was a queen now, and she had a new name, and she had been commissioned into the Alliance armed forces. Yet as war rolled over the starship, she just felt like Emily again. A pampered princess. Terrified.

The ship was slewing. Engines moaned deep inside the dreadnought like wounded whales. The booms of explosions still echoed in Emily's ears. She was nineteen now, no longer a child. She was an experienced soldier. A commissioned officer. A queen. Why were her fingers trembling? Why was her heart beating like a trapped bird inside her rib cage?

"Oh, we're doomed!" Niles cried. "Our fate is sealed—to die in a fiery wreck! Oh, why did I ever agree to leave the palace?"

At least she wasn't panicking like her drone.

"Keep calm and carry on," she told him.

"Keep calm?" The drone flew higher, jewels rattling across his silver, spheroid body. "How could I possibly keep calm at a time like this? We're on the other side of the galaxy, and a monstrous alien is hunting us. We're done for. Done for! Oh, why could I not have been born a simple chimney sweep drone? It's my lot to keep dying in wars."

"You've died before, have you?" Emily said.

"Well, I almost did. Several times." He cleared his throat. He didn't actually have a throat, but he enjoyed making the sound. "We must return to Earth. I demand to speak to Admiral King. I will order him to turn this ship around and fly home posthaste. And if he should still wish to tangle with aliens, he can leave this drone out of it!"

"Well, I'm staying," Emily said.

"You are the Queen of England. You belong in a palace, not this rusty old bucket of bolts."

"This is the flagship of the Alliance fleet, and I'm a commissioned officer in the Alliance."

"Well, if that's so, why aren't you at your post?" Niles demanded.

Emily bit her lip. "To be honest, Niles, this is rather embarrassing, but … I haven't been given an official post yet."

"Oh, and what of all your big talk about being a commissioned officer and heroine of the galaxy?"

A sigh rolled through Emily. "You're right, Niles. When you're queen, they don't put you on the front line, do they? So they stuck me here in the royal suite again."

She gestured around her at the luxurious chamber. Persian rugs covered the floor. Priceless marble statues stood among houseplants, and Renaissance oil paintings hung on the bulkheads. Bowls of fruit rested on giltwood tables.

"I know, it's positively common," Niles said. "I suppose one must rough it while on a warship."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Niles, well, I'm sorry to have dragged you into the slums. But I'll get a proper post soon enough. For now, I'm here for ceremonies. For symbolism. The Queen of England herself, here aboard the flagship of the Alliance, sailing to the stars! It makes a good story down on Earth, doesn't it? But I want to do more. I didn't enlist in the military to simply be a figurehead. When things settle down, I'll speak to the admiral. I'll request a position in the gunnery team."

Niles flew backward so fast he hit a vase. Ming dynasty. It wobbled, nearly spilling its crocuses.

"A gunnery team? You'll do no such thing, young lady!"

She placed her hands on her hips. "You forget, Niles, I'm no longer a young princess you can boss around. I'm the Queen of England."

"Well, I didn't vote for you." He huffed and turned away.

Emily looked around her at this wealth. No, this wasn't what she wanted. She was no longer the pampered girl who had first boarded the Freedom two years ago. She didn't want to live in this suite anymore, sheltered while others fought. So fight she would too. She couldn't fly starfighters like her grandfather; she was far too clumsy for that. Nor could she serve in the infantry; she was too small and weak, just a waif of a girl compared to giants like Bastian or Alice. But to become a gunner? To fire the great cannons of the starship Freedom? There was honor in that. She would speak to the admiral, and perhaps he would assign somebody to train her.

"I won't merely attend ceremonies and deliver speeches," she vowed. "I will learn how to fire the Angels of Liberty. Or perhaps even the great Fist of Freedom. Yes. I will become a gunner."

"I think it's a terrible idea," Niles said. "Not that anyone ever cares what I think."

"Be quiet or I'll fire you out a cannon," Emily said.

"Ooh, ooh, can you fire me out a cannon too?" rose a voice from the deckhead. "I'll put a helmet on! And elbow pads. I think it would be fun. Stowy, the Amazing Cannonball Girl!"

Emily looked at the ceiling. The voice was coming through the ventilation vent.

"Stowy!" Emily placed her hands on her hips. "Have you been spying on me?"

The vent opened. A girl dropped onto the deck, lifted the corners of her dress, and curtsied.

"The lovable Stowy, at your service!" She winked. "Welcome back to the Freedom, Your Majesty."

Emily frowned. "Why are you speaking with a Cockney accent? I thought you were Canadian."

"Oh. Right. I am, eh?" Her old accent returned. "I forgot."

Emily had not seen the stowaway in a year. Not since her coronation. But Stowy looked the same as always. She still wore her tattered old dress, but even more pockets were now sewn on like patches, each pocket a different color. Her brown hair still hung across her impish face, messy and full of soot. Her left leg was bare and scratched, while she wore a striped stocking on her right leg. Her mouse rode on her shoulder.

"I see Algernon is still around," Emily said, looking at the rodent.

"Oh no, the Algernon you knew died long ago. Fell through an exhaust grate, poor little guy. Right into an engine. Pulverized. This is my new pet Niles."

Niles—the real Niles, that was, the royal drone—gasped. "I've never been so insulted in my life."

Stowy stuck her tongue out at him. "Well then, buckle up, buddy boy, 'cause I'm only getting started."

Emily laughed and hugged the stowaway. "I've missed you, my friend."

"Missed ya too, Em. Hey, don't stay away too long next time, all right?"

Stowy sniffed, then burst into tears.

"Hey, hey now." Emily brushed back the girl's hair. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I'm just scared," Stowy whispered, lip trembling. "Of the blasts hitting the ship. Of being so far away from Earth. Of dying. But I'm glad you're here, Emily. I'm glad my friend is with me again. You're my only friend. My best friend."

Emily's eyes dampened. "I'm honored, Stowy. I don't think I've ever had a best friend before. Would you be mine? If that's all right with you."

Niles gasped. "I thought I was your best friend!"

Stowy pointed at him. "You, sir, are a pet."

The drone floated away in a huff, muttering something about how he'd never seen a pet encrusted with so many jewels.

A ringing filled Emily's head. She looked around, confused. But nobody else seemed to hear. Then Emily realized what it was. Her MindLink!

She had gotten the neural chip implanted just recently. The surgery had terrified her. To have a doctor saw open her skull, then plug a little computer into her brain tissue? Emily had seen the aftermath—soldiers with shaved heads, scars and stitches on their craniums. But she had braved through it. Thankfully, today the operation was more refined. The doctor had drilled through her skull, yes. It still made her shudder. But the drill was slender, barely wider than a needle. No need to shave her head. With local anesthetic, she had felt nothing. And MindLinks today were no longer clunky things like the old matchbox ones. MindLinks were so slender today you rolled them up, put them into a syringe, and painlessly injected them. Inside her head, it unrolled on its own. The hole in her skull, so small an ant would get stuck, had then been sealed.

At first Emily had felt nothing. She wasn't aware of the MindLink at all. But day by day, her brain began to access the computer, to connect its neurons to its sensors, then gradually reach out to MindWeb, the great network of minds that spanned the Alliance. And a new world awoke. One day, Emily could see the names of people hovering over their heads. The next day, she could access Wikipedia Galactica with a mere thought. A day after that, she could share thoughts with others. Every day she was discovering new abilities. It was still strange. She was still a rookie. But gently she was opening up to an expanded way of being, a reality parallel to her own. A reality of shared hallucinations and a web of knowledge spreading across humanity.

It wasn't always pleasant. She picked up many negative thoughts too. People were full of anger and despair. Much of the knowledge on the MindWeb was false, even hateful. She was connected to humanity more strongly than ever before, and she saw more of humanity's ugliness. Bigotry. Bullying. Cruelty. She saw those in the hive mind too. Sometimes it felt overwhelming. Sometimes she doubted whether she wanted to fight for a species full of so much hatred.

But here aboard the Freedom, as Emily embraced Stowy and soothed her, she remembered that there was goodness in humanity too. There were friends. Loved ones. Emily had lost her entire family in the war. She was the last of her royal house, a lonely queen, orphaned and desolate. But here aboard the Freedom, she reconnected with her family. With Stowy and Spitfire who were like sisters. With Admiral King, who was like a father. With Sergeant Darjeeling, a beloved uncle. This was her family. During the last war, trapped aboard the Freedom as a refugee, Emily had only wanted to return home. But now she realized that the Freedom had become her home, and these people were her family.

Her MindLink kept ringing.

Ah yes—a call. Of course!

She pulled up MindPlay, the neural operating system, and saw who was calling. It was Darjeeling. The mustached sergeant materialized in the royal suite. The hallucination was completely lifelike. He really seemed to be standing there before her. Emily still marveled at how realistic MindLink hallucinations were.

"Your Majesty." Darjeeling's avatar bowed. "The admiral has requested our attendance in the war room. May I accompany you there by MindWeb? My hallucination will walk the corridors with you. My physical body is already waiting in the war room."

"Of course, Mr. Darjeeling," Emily said. "I'm ready."

Stowy's eyes widened. "Hey! Is Darjeeling here?"

The girl had no MindLink installed. She could not see the hallucination. She began walking around the room, punching and kicking the air. One of her kicks passed right through Darjeeling's avatar, doing him no harm.

"Did I get him?" Stowy said.

"You got him. Stowy, stay here in the suite and keep out of trouble. The admiral wants to see me."

Stowy nodded. "Remember—if he makes you a gunner, you shoot me out the cannon first. Then you shoot Niles."

Emily grabbed her drone before he could launch into a diatribe. She left the room, following Darjeeling through the ship.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

King marched down the corridor, heading toward the war room. Mimori and Spitfire marched at his sides.

They encountered scenes of chaos.

The Tyranny's silver spear had plowed halfway through the prow, carving through entire departments. ATLAS stations. Control centers. Offices. The local mess hall and commissary. The spear had punched holes through them all, exposing them to open space. The sapper corps had sealed the breaches, and air was whooshing from vents, repressurizing the ship. But King saw the damage everywhere. Shattered glass. Mangled metal. Bloodstains. His ship was hurting. So was King's heart.

"That missile nearly pierced the bridge," Spitfire muttered. "What are we dealing with here?"

"A railgun, ma'am," Mimori said. "More powerful than the rahs' plasma cannons."

"They learned from us," King said. "They reverse engineered the Fist of Freedom. They're turning our own weapons against us."

Crew stood at attention as they walked by. Everyone was pale. Everyone was scared. Many of these spacers had lost loved ones. King had no time for inspiring speeches, no time to comfort every man and woman. By walking confidently, back straight and shoulders squared, King hoped to show them strength. To let them know their commanders were still in charge. Still looking after them.

They reached the war room, a fortified chamber two decks below the bridge. The bulkheads were two meters thick and laced with graphene. They could stop a nuclear blast. King and Mimori entered the room.

They were the first ones there. An enormous table dominated the room, its top displaying a map of space. King had only ever seen the table show his own solar system. Now the map was updated, depicting the Aeolia star system.

The larger star floated in the center. Aeolia B, the brown dwarf that Freedom now orbited, glowed near the edge of the table. The asteroid belt spread like a cobbled path, while the bird-shaped nebula hovered a meter above the tabletop, wings spread over the ecliptic plane like a mother bird protecting her babies. The crew had named it the Firebird Nebula, an apt if not particularly imaginative name. A handful of planets glowed on the tabletop but no moons. Many parts of the table were simply dark. Humanity had not yet mapped this entire system. Vast areas, as large as the space between Earth and Neptune, were unexplored blackness. The Tyranny could be hiding in any one of those shadowy realms.

King took his position at the head of the table. Spitfire and Mimori stood at his sides.

The first guest materialized via MindWeb. Colonel Kim Fletcher. Physically, she stood down in the engineering department, overseeing repairs to the ship. She wore a beige jumpsuit with reflective stripes, a toolbelt hung around her waist, and a hard hat topped her hair. The smell of smoke and oil wafted from her, and ash stained her face. MindWeb, being hallucinatory, could change your appearance. Kim could have chosen to attend the meeting in a formal service uniform—like the one King, Spitfire, and Mimori wore. She had kept the jumpsuit, even the dirt, and that made a statement. Her top priority was fixing the Freedom.

King looked into her blue eyes. She met his gaze. He remembered lying with her in bed, caressing her blond hair, bantering with her, laughing, whispering their secrets, making love. Being in love. He wanted to pull her into his arms. The feeling was so strong, and he knew she felt it too.

He merely nodded. "Thank you for coming, Colonel Fletcher."

"Happy to attend, sir."

They were keeping their relationship a secret. They had to. He was her commanding officer. This past year had been heaven—being with her, loving her, warmed by her love. It had also been hell—forced to hide his joy.

Bastian materialized next, wearing a dented, dusty battlesuit, including the helmet. The visor was raised, showing a somber face. King had reviewed the casualty reports already, had known Bastian was okay. But seeing his son still soothed King with waves of relief. Everyone on this ship was King's child, his to protect. But Bastian was his true son, and he held a sacred place in King's heart.

It's good to see you, son, King telepathized to him.

Bastian nodded. I'm all right, Dad. We'll get through this.

The next guest materialized. Colonel David "Dado" Lev, commanding officer of the Caracal. He wore rumpled olive drab, the sleeves rolled up, and a Sabra assault rifle hung across his back. His cheeks were stubbly.

"Hey there, Jim!" He smiled at King. "How's it going? You fought well, buddy."

Mimori raised an eyebrow and glanced at King. The informality was a serious breach of protocol. If anyone else talked to King that way, they could end up in the brig. But that was how the Caracal rolled. So long as the Israelis kept fighting this well, King didn't mind their overfamiliarity. They did things their own way, but they got results.

"Thanks, Dado," King said. "You saved our hides back there."

"Shalom shuv, Dado," Spitfire said. Hello again. But her voice was low, and she only met his eyes for a second.

Dado nodded at her, eyes soft. "Shalom, Gal."

Something happened between those two, King thought, watching them. Maybe when Spitfire visited the Caracal. Maybe long ago.

The room became awkwardly silent.

"Is my sister keeping out of trouble?" Spitfire said, a little too quickly, perhaps trying to break the silence.

"Meytal's a doll," Dado replied. "A possessed, psychotic doll who carries around a collection of guns and blades. We keep her safe. Or I should say—we keep people safe from her."

Spitfire laughed. "That's my sis, all right."

They were speaking in Hebrew, but the MindWeb translated for King. He had met Meytal Koren several times—a tall, cocky warrior with a big gun and bigger smile.

Spitfire was the daughter of Yehuda "Lion" Levy, one of King's oldest, best friends. After Yehuda had died in battle, King had taken Spitfire under his wing. She was like a daughter to him. But King didn't know her little sister as well. Meytal had a different father, had been born years later. The sisters had been estranged for a long time.

The door opened, interrupting his thoughts. Two more people entered the war room, these ones in the flesh.

Sergeant Major Oliver Darjeeling entered first, wearing a resplendent blue uniform with polished buttons. His white mustache was neatly combed, and the symbol of the Freedom—a red star sprouting three blue stripes like wings—shone on his naval cap.

The aging sergeant raised a silver horn to his lips and blew a fanfare.

"Ladies and gentlemen, sirs and ma'am, please welcome Her Majesty, Grace of the White Rose, Queen Emily of England and the Commonwealth!"

Emily stepped into the room. "Darjeeling, I told you, no fanfare is necessary. And everyone can still call me Emily. Just plain old Emily."

Darjeeling lowered the horn, shamefaced. "Of course, ma'am."

"You can give me a royal introduction," said Niles. The drone floated in after his queen. Nobody paid him any attention.

Yes, Emily was the queen now. Protector of England. Down on Earth, she served her kingdom from her palace. But here aboard the Freedom, she was a soldier. She wore the blue service uniform of the Alliance, and the insignia of an ensign shone on her shoulders. She was only nineteen years old, but for two years now, she had been fighting the rahs, and King knew she was an excellent soldier.

"We're all here," King said. "Right now I'm not inviting anyone else. Not even the captains of the Mahatma and Kuroko. What we say here stays here. Understood?"

They all nodded. The meeting began.

* * * * *

King turned toward Kim. "First of all—how is our ship, Colonel Fletcher?"

The engineer cleared her throat. She still got nervous in meetings, but she always overcame. She raised a MindWeb schematic of the Freedom.

"We suffered damage to the midsection starboard hull and the prow. Thankfully, none of the tier-1 critical decks were hit. The bridge's fortified bulkhead did exactly what it was designed to do—stopped an enemy missile. Our reactor core, Talaria drive, shield generators, and all other tier-1 priority decks are safe. My team is working on patching up the hull breaches. We should be able to reopen the damaged decks within a week. We're hurt. But we're still in the fight."

King nodded. "Good. I know we all mourn the dead. But we all know it could have been much worse."

"Without the Caracal's missile-defense system, we'd be toast," Kim agreed.

King paused for a moment and looked at everyone. The top commanders of his mission. They were the best soldiers in the galaxy. If King had to be stranded here in deep space, pursued by a ruthless enemy, he was glad it was with them.

"Our situation is difficult," King said. "The Wandering Sun was the only human starship that could open a portal. Perhaps in the future, the Alliance will build another portal ship and come looking for us. But that could take months, even years. Or it might not happen at all. Not if the enemy attacks Earth while we're away. For now, we're stranded here."

"Sir, I—" Kim began, then blushed. "Actually, never mind. I'm sorry."

King frowned. "What's on your mind, Colonel Fletcher?"

Tell us, Kim, he telepathized to her.

Her blush deepened. "Well, sir, as you know, I'm a huge nerd." She laughed uncomfortably. "Before the mission, I spent several nights reading about portal generators. I dreamed of building my own someday. I was going to suggest building a replacement portal generator. One for the Freedom. But realistically …" She winced. "It's a big job, sir. Big. And I don't know how we'd meet the energy requirements. We'd probably only be able to keep the portal open for a second. Not enough time to fly through. But …"

"But it's something," King said. "It's hope. Colonel Fletcher, I know you're busy with the repairs to the Freedom. We took heavy damage. But as soon as you can, I want you to assemble a portal team. Get working on prototypes. I don't care if it's impossible. I don't care if you have to use magic or voodoo or the power of prayer. I want a portal generator."

"It could take weeks, even months. Maybe a year."

"So you better get started," King said.

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll get right on it."

Her avatar began to dissipate.

"Colonel Fletcher? Please stay in the meeting."

Kim reappeared, blushing. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Just got excited."

Spitfire stifled a smile.

King turned toward Dado next.

"What my engineer said earlier is right. Dado, your missile-defense system saved our ship."

"Glad to help," Dado said. "We call the system the Shield of David."

"Tell me more about it."

"We have eight Shield of David units. Each one is affixed to another facade on our hull. That's one reason the Caracal is shaped like a diamond. It allows us to install Shields of David in every direction. Each SoD unit is self-contained. It attaches to the exterior of the hull. Like a magnet onto a fridge. No airlock. Not even a hatch. That would make our hull more vulnerable."

"Is it all run by A.I.?" King said.

"There's an A.I. system installed, but every Shield of David battery also has human operators. A team of three soldiers per battery. They work with the A.I. to make the right decisions. Under a massive barrage, the system gives priority to the most dangerous missiles. Humans guide the A.I. to triage incoming threats."

"I'm impressed," King said. "How are you doing for ammunition?"

"We have two hundred more interceptor missiles. We have several types of interceptors, each geared toward handling another incoming threat. Some interceptors are used for heavy torpedoes, others for kinetic projectiles, and some to diffuse plasma bolts."

"You must have run through half your ammunition stores in one battle," King said.

Dado placed his hands on his hips and gave a crooked smile. "To be fair, it was one helluva battle."

King smiled thinly. "That it was. We carry thousands of missiles of different calibers aboard the Freedom. Some of the smaller ones, which our starfighters use, might work as interceptors. I'll put you in touch with Timori, our logistics android. She can help you restock."

"I appreciate your offer, Jim." Dado scratched his thin. "But our interceptors are no ordinary missiles. They have propriety software installed on each one."

"Many of our missiles contain computers," King said. "We can install your software. If the caliber isn't exact, we can modify your bores with gaskets. We'll get you resupplied."

"I'll have my guys work with your android," Dado said. "The nearest armory is a thousand light-years away, so this would be most welcome. Thank you."

"Oh, I'm not giving you the missiles for free," King said. "I want something in return. I want you to teach Kim Fletcher how to build Shield of David batteries. She's going to start building more. And installing them on my hull."

Kim blushed and waved. "Hi. That's me."

Dado hesitated. The Israelis had invented the Shield of David system. So far, only their warships used them. All three of their warships. But the hesitation didn't last long. Dado nodded. "Yes, I'll share the specs and software with you." He turned toward Kim. "But do you think you can build them? Here, without a proper factory?"

Kim scrunched her lips. "Maybe. We do have some factory capabilities aboard the Freedom, along with robust 3D printers that can work with various metals and plastics. We probably can't build anything as good as a proper factory could. But we can probably kludge together crude Shield of David knockoffs. Just good enough to offer some protection for now. But we'd still need training. You mentioned human operators. How long do they normally train for?"

"Six intense months at least," Dado said. "Ideally a year."

Kim deflated. "So even if I could build Shield of Davids for the Freedom, we don't have trained spacers to operate them."

"I can spare a few of my guys," Dado said. "We have a reserve of six Shield of David operators. I can lend them to the Freedom. They can give your guys a crash course and oversee things."

"Excellent," King said. "Thank you again, Dado." He looked at Kim. "I know we're putting a lot on your plate, Kim."

She smiled. "I know how to delegate."

"All right," King said. "The rest of us are going to talk war. Colonel Fletcher, now you may return to work. Dismissed."

Love you, babe, she telepathized to him, then vanished from the war room.

* * * * *

"All right, let's analyze what we know about the Tyranny," King said.

"I've drafted schematics based on what we've observed," Mimori said. "Take a look."

The android pointed. A MindWeb hallucination appeared over the tabletop—the starship Tyranny. Finally everyone got a good look at her. According to the schematics, she was two klicks from stern to stem. Larger than the Freedom. Her main hull was shaped like a disk. A smaller semicircle thrust out the front like a head. Eight articulating railguns emerged from the sides like legs. Indeed, she looked like a giant spider.

"We don't have any details on her interior," Mimori said. "But we can learn a lot from the exterior photos we've taken. Those legs are railguns. Individually, each one is less powerful than the Fist of Freedom. But combined they are devastating. Right under the prow—this area here—is the spinneret. It can fire webs, which seems to be a defense system. A way to intercept missiles. Perhaps the webs can also be used to catch and draw in small vessels."

"That must be what happened to Honey Badger." Spitfire lowered her head. "Caught in a spider's web."

"How do they generate portals?" King said.

Mimori pointed. "See this apparatus that emerges from the stern like a stinger? I believe that's the portal generator. The stinger emitted massive radiation just before the portal opened. More than the Fist of Freedom generates when firing."

"That's a lot of energy," Spitfire said. "They must have a reactor that shames anything we humans have ever built."

"I doubt they can portal endlessly," King said. "Even a ship that powerful can't generate limitless energy." He checked his MindWeb clock. "It's been two hours since the Tyranny fled the battle. She must be using this time to recharge."

"I'll record all the times we see the Tyranny portal and try to estimate her time to full charge," Mimori said. "Assuming we see her again."

"We will," King said. "Another point to consider. When we first arrived in the system, the Tyranny portaled right up to us. She knew we were coming. She knew where to strike."

"That's because we acted like idiots," Spitfire said. "We emerged into the system right where Honey Badger was captured. Of course the enemy was waiting here."

"Or they were watching us," King said. "Maybe they have spies on Earth. Spies who can portal here and share information."

"Or they simply lay in darkness and watched the system," Dado said. "Like a spider in the center of a web. When we emerged, they pounced. Portals release a lot of energy after all. They could have seen us from a billion klicks away."

"Which means we should be able to see where they portaled to," King said. "Mimori, connect to the ATLAS team. Any news?"

"No, sir," Mimori said. "We can't detect any portal traces anywhere. Not yet at least. They must have portaled far."

"Or they're hiding behind something," King said. "Like the brown dwarf. Or the nebula. Or the asteroid belt. Or even a gas giant. If they portaled behind one of those, would we detect them?"

"No, sir," Mimori said.

"There you go. So our enemy is hiding under a rock, that's all. If we turn over enough rocks, we'll find her."

"Her, sir?" Spitfire said. "Our enemy is a girl?"

"Our enemy is the Tyranny," King said. "It's an old naval tradition to refer to ships as females. But who is her captain? That we don't know. We don't even know what species we're dealing with."

Queen Emily spoke for the first time in the meeting. "Could it be the Aeolians? Are they hostile? Maybe they're another arachnid species, even tougher than the rahs."

"I don't think so," King said. "Remember the DNA samples we found on Frankie's helmet. A creature blending rah and human DNA."

"Sir, may I remind you, those results were not conclusive," Spitfire said.

"But they do suggest the rahs' claws are all over this," King said. "If the Aeolians are in this system, we haven't found them yet. Emily—that will be your mission."

* * * * *

The words lingered in the air. Emily blinked at her commander, dumbfounded.

"Sir? Me?"

"And Darjeeling," King said.

The sergeant major had been standing behind Emily the entire meeting, saying nothing. He gave a brisk salute. "It would be my honor, sir."

Emily tilted her head. "How are Darjeeling and I to find the Aeolians?"

King raised his eyebrows. "Well, you found the underwater rah lab on Europa, didn't you? You found the schematics to the motherclaw Hunger. You're good at finding things. Take the Raven again. Just the two of you. Like last time. A stealth mission. The Freedom will pursue and destroy the Tyranny. Meanwhile, the Raven will find our mysterious friends."

The FAS Raven had been serving the Freedom for over a year now. The android QT, Mimori's eccentric sister, had designed her for stealth. Since then, the Raven had flown on many stealth missions, gathering invaluable intelligence on rah positions.

"Sir, why me?" Emily said. "Why not a starfighter pilot? And a military intelligence officer? Surely they'd be more qualified for this mission."

"I need my pilots and military minds here on the Freedom," King said. "Meanwhile, you've proved remarkably adept at digging up alien secrets. You're perfect for the job."

But there was another reason. One King wasn't ready to say aloud.

The Freedom might not survive the war against the Tyranny.

If the Freedom fell, Emily would survive aboard the Raven. Someday a rescue party might arrive from Earth and save her. If the Queen of England died in a distant star system, that would cripple morale on Earth. He could not allow that.

Assuming we can ever get in touch with Earth again, he thought.

Perhaps Emily understood the true reason. She saluted. "I'll do my best, sir."

"I'm going to send a diplomat with you," King said. "I know you're royalty. I know you're trained to be diplomatic. But only with other humans. The FAS Mahatma is full of monks trained to communicate with aliens. I'll have them send a monk over."

"Fair enough," Emily said. "It'll get a bit crowded in the Raven. She's a small vessel. But I agree. If we find the Aeolians, we need a good communicator."

Dado had been watching the conversation silently. Now he spoke up. "Let me send one of my soldiers with you. You need a warrior on this mission. A bodyguard, if you will."

Darjeeling raised his chin and puffed out his chest. "Her majesty has a bodyguard."

"Of course," Dado said. "I don't mean any disrespect. But you and I, sergeant, we're old men. We're tired and slower than we used to be. Let me send somebody younger than us geezers."

He was being diplomatic. Dado was only in his forties. But the aging sergeant seemed placated. "Very well."

Maybe I should send Dado as the diplomat, King thought.

"I'll go too," Bastian said. "I'll protect the queen."

King had almost forgotten his son was there. Bastian had been standing at the back all this time, just observing.

"No." King shook his head. "I need you here, Colonel. You command my marines."

"I have a perfect woman for the job," Dado said. "She's the deadliest warrior on my ship. A commando and sniper. An expert on weapons, tactics, self-defense, and survival. She has fought in countless battles and has the scars to prove it. Sergeant Meytal Koren."

Spitfire beamed. "My baby sister. She annoys me, but I'm proud of her. Don't tell her I said that."

"All right, that's settled," King said. "Ensign Emily, Sergeant Darjeeling, please head to the Raven now. We'll get you your monk, and we'll get you your warrior. Bastian, now I'd like to talk about the marines. Next time we tussle with the Tyranny, what do you think about a boarding mission? We struggled to battle the Tyranny with our cannons. Perhaps we can launch the Freedom's Flock to distract her, then send the Rhinos over with—"

Red alarms flashed across the war room.

Klaxons wailed.

Jordan, who was physically on the bridge, materialized in the war room. "A portal just opened off our starboard bow! The Tyranny is back!"

King burst out the war room and ran to the bridge.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As King ran down the hall, he saw everything on MindWeb.

The portal opening just off their starboard bow, eclipsing the nearby brown dwarf.

The Tyranny emerging, all guns blazing.

King burst onto the bridge.

"How the hell did she find us?" he growled.

"We don't know," Jordan said. "Full power to shields!"

"Belay that order!" King said. He already saw the silver spears flying their way. "Mimori—power to the Angels of Liberty. Fire everything at the Tyranny!"

"Without shields, we'll—" Jordan began.

"The Caracal will defend us. Angels—fire!"

Everything began happening at once. Power thrummed from the shield generators to the cannons on the dorsal hull. Without a graviton field, nothing would slow down those silver spears. If one hit the Freedom again, it would cause devastating damage. Maybe even destroy the entire dreadnought. But King wanted all available power flowing to his cannons.

The Angels of Liberty boomed, firing Maccabees at the charging Tyranny.

The silver spears streaked closer. They would hit Freedom in seconds.

The Caracal zipped below Freedom's underbelly and soared, spinning and whizzing and firing a storm of interceptors. The little missiles zipped, coiled, and drew helices of light, following their targets. One by one, the silver spears exploded.

The Maccabees kept racing toward the Tyranny. They were seconds from impacting.

The Tyranny rose higher. The brown dwarf blazed behind her, etching a corona of fire. The arachnid dreadnought opened a hatch, revealing her spinneret. Webs shot out, catching the Maccabees and detonating them in space. The hatch slammed shut, shielding the spinneret.

"Sir, we must send out the Eagles," Spitfire said. "Next time the Tyranny reveals her spinneret, the Eagles will destroy it."

King considered for a second. Eagles were powerful weapons, but he mostly used them against small enemies like clawfighters. Out in space, facing a dreadnought, Eagles were vulnerable. The Tyranny could swat them away like flies.

"Sir, the Eagles will handle it," Spitfire said.

King considered for a moment longer, staring into Spitfire's eyes. She had commanded the Eagles for years. She knew them. Trusted them. King had begun his own career flying an Eagle. He had to admit—perhaps he had a bias toward launching them too.

Finally King nodded. "All right."

"And I'm flying with them," Spitfire said.

"Spitfire, you're a bridge officer now—"

"You said I can fly twice a week. I'm going."

King didn't have time for this. He nodded. "Go. Godspeed, Spitfire."

She ran off the bridge, already shouting over MindWeb. "Pickles, get three wings out there! I'll join you soon! Fly, Eagles!"

The Tyranny was still bearing down on them. She fired another volley of silver spears. The Caracal was zipping back and forth, taking them out with her Shield of David interceptors. Thankfully, the Caracal's courage gave King a few seconds to recalibrate. But the Caracal would run out of ammo sooner or later. Perhaps that was the Tyranny's intent—first to overwhelm and exhaust the Caracal, then focus on the Freedom. Meanwhile, the Kuroko and Mahatma were sheltering behind the Freedom. They were civilian ships without any armaments. If the dreadnought fell, they would be next.

King smiled grimly at the arachnid ship.

You've returned for round two, friend. I'm ready.

"Mimori, how's our Fist looking?"

"The Fist of Freedom is only at an eighteen percent charge," she said.

"Enough to fire a projectile from close range," King said. "It won't carry the usual kinetic energy. But if we get close enough, it'll do."

"The Fist is on our prow," Jordan said. "I hesitate to turn our prow toward the enemy. It's still damaged from the last round. We resealed the breach, but the armored seal plates are weak. If we take another blow to the prow, we're dead."

King nodded. "Good point. We'll rely on the Angels. Mimori, position our starboard bow toward the enemy. When the Angels are locked on target, fire a full volley, then raise our graviton shields."

"Jim!" cried Dado, appearing on the Freedom's bridge via MindWeb. "We're out of interceptors. We still have assault torpedoes, but no more defensive missiles. We can't stop another fusillade."

"Understood," King said. "Fall back, Caracal. Position yourself behind our port hull. Defend the Kuroko and Mahatma using your offensive torpedoes. We'll take things from here."

"Sorry, Admiral," Dado said. The Caracal, her interceptors spent, fell back.

The Freedom rattled as she yawed, bringing her starboard toward the enemy. The damaged decks creaked and dented, sending ripples across the dreadnought. The sappers had courageously sealed the breaches. But it had only been two hours since the last assault. The seals were still raw, not fully welded shut. Another blow could rip open the stitches. King's beloved ship was hurting. It was time to knock out his foe.

"Angels in position, sir," Mimori said. "Ready to fire on your order."

"Hold fire," King said. "Give our Eagles time to launch. Once we fire those Maccabees, the Tyranny will expose her spinneret."

"First Eagle wings launching, sir!" Spitfire cried over the MindWeb.

King saw it on the monitor. Three Eagle formations flashed out the port hangars, zipped over the prow, and charged toward the Tyranny.

"Tyranny firing!" Mimori cried.

"Full power to shields!" King said. "Angels—hold fire for now. Wait until the Eagles are closer to the Tyranny. Shields to max! Machine-gun batteries—intercept those projectiles! Eagles—keep flying to target!"

Dammit. With the Caracal defending the civilian ships, the Freedom faced the Tyranny's wrath alone. King suddenly regretted pulling the Caracal back. She might be out of interceptors, but she still had offensive guns. Was the Tyranny too much to handle alone? Was Freedom outmatched?

As the Eagles soared, the enemy's silver spears charged toward the Freedom.

The Freedom's point-defense system kicked into action. Machine-gun turrets swiveled across the ship, firing bullets at the incoming spears. But with the shields at max, the graviton field slowed the bullets down. It was like firing through water.

"Sir, shall I execute evasive maneuvers?" Mimori said.

"No. Stay steady. The civilian ships are behind us. If we move, the spears will hit them. We have to take the punches."

"Here they come!" Jordan cried.

"Impact in three seconds!" Mimori said.

The bullets hit several silver spears. They sparked against the projectiles. A few spears veered off course, overshooting the Freedom.

One spear plowed into the graviton field.

Then another.

The Freedom jolted through space.

The spears tore through the field and hit the starboard hull. Armored plates cracked. Monitors flashed red.

"Hull breach on midsection decks 6 and 7!" cried a tactical officer.

More shouts filled the bridge.

"We lost a Sparrow hangar!"

"Marine casualties!"

"Angels, fire a volley!" King shouted over the roaring klaxons. "Destroy that ship!"

The Angels boomed again. More Maccabees flew. As expected, the Tyranny opened her hatch, revealing her spinneret. She began shooting webs at the torpedoes. The spinneret thrust out, exposed to space. Vulnerable.

"Go get her, Spitfire," King said.

* * * * *

Freedom's Flock roared to battle.

Spitfire sat in the cockpit, grinning savagely, her knuckles white as she gripped the yoke. Cold sweat trickled down her back. Her heart pounded. Damn, she had missed this. Two hundred Eagle starfighters charged like medieval knights. Their engines rumbled. Their wakes lit the night.

Aeolia B was called a brown dwarf, but it was neither brown nor small. The star blazed hot and bright and blinding. The Eagles flew into the light. Even with Spitfire's helmet visor dimmed, she squinted, struggling to see. They swarmed through streaking missiles, past silver spears, and under hailstorms of bullets. They had one foe. One mission. To reach this spider goddess and slay her in the shadows.

The Eagles were fast, but the Maccabees were even faster, blazing across space toward the Tyranny, etching trails of light. The arachnid ship reared in space, her legs spread out, her portholes ablaze like wicked eyes. Her steel jaws opened, and her spinneret emerged—a machine of iron the size of a church, spinning madly and spewing her sticky webs. It was a terrible weapon—but also, hopefully, a weak spot.

The nets wrapped around torpedoes, detonating them. Explosions blazed around Spitfire. She had to yaw left, then right, and barrel roll, dodging shrapnel. One nearby Eagle was not so lucky. Shrapnel tore through its cockpit and pierced the pilot inside. His avatar went dark. The rest kept flying.

"Aim at the spinneret!" Spitfire cried. "Fire into their open hatch! Destroy this ship!"

The Eagles stormed closer. The brown dwarf's light blazed between them like javelins of gods. Spitfire raised her HUD, locked on target, and prepared to release her missiles.

Just then, another hatch opened on the Tyranny, and alien starfighters swarmed out.

There were hundreds.

They were shaped like spiders. Round bodies. Eight legs that sprouted guns. Each of these alien starfighters was about the size of an Eagle. Their cockpits were tinted. Even when Spitfire zoomed in she could not see the pilots inside.

"Spider starfighters!" Pickles cried. "Spiderwings. Let's call them spiderwings. Yes, I just made that word up. And I'm proud of it."

"Shut up and destroy them," Spitfire said.

The arachnid starfighters—spiderwings, as Pickles had dubbed them—swarmed toward the Eagles. The two fleets crashed together like colliding galaxies.

The battle shattered into hundreds of dogfights. The Tyranny loomed in the background, unreachable.

The spiderwings moved at breakneck speed. The little vessels had no exhaust ports. They left no wake. They stopped, spun, and raced again without losing a beat. No Eagle could move like that.

"They're using graviton drives!" Pickles cried.

Spitfire shuddered. She had flown a graviton-drive ship once. The Raven. Just on a test mission around the Freedom. But Eagles were older machines, still equipped with traditional propulsion systems. They blasted energy out their exhaust, propelling them forward. Just like rockets and planes had been doing for centuries.

Graviton ships were far more agile. They could stop on a dime. They could change direction within seconds. An Eagle had to blast thrusters to slow down or stop—a clumsy maneuver. To change direction, it had to take wide turns. These spider ships had none of those limitations.

The spiders fighters knew they had the upper hand. They raised their eight legs, exposing crackling ports, and fired white photon bolts.

Each bolt looked no larger than a baseball. But the spiderwings unleashed thousands of them. It looked like an avalanche of stars.

"Scatter, scatter!" Spitfire cried.

The Eagles broke apart. The streams of bolts flew all around them. A photon bolt slammed into an Eagle above Spitfire. The pilot screamed. More bolts hit the same Eagle, and it exploded, showering shrapnel. The screams died.

Another Eagle broke apart.

A third. A fourth. A fifth.

A chill washed over Spitfire.

"Send these spiders to hell!" she cried, firing her rotary cannon.

Her bullets were smaller than the photon bolts, but they were deadly. She hit one spiderwing. It careened off course. She chased it, firing. Bullets pinged off the alien vessel. Its armor held. Spitfire growled, kept chasing, kept firing. Her bullets hit the joints connecting the spiderwing's legs to its body. The legs tore off, and the spiderwing tumbled into the distance. She fired more bullets, concentrating her fire on the exposed metal joints. Finally the enemy starfighter exploded.

Spitfire checked her MindWeb stats.

Her heart sank.

Ten Eagles had fallen already.

Too many. Far too many.

Another Eagle exploded.

Then a twelfth.

Spitfire tightened her lips. She shoved down the throttle, charged toward a formation of spiderwings, and unleashed her missiles.

One spiderwing exploded.

The others mobbed her. Bolts flew her way. A bolt hit her wing, and she tumbled. She screamed. Another bolt scraped across her underbelly, tearing out the bottom of the fuselage. Metal ripped open like a sardine can. She saw space below her feet. Monitors popped out the dashboard. The cannon joystick ripped from its socket.

But the throttle still worked.

Spitfire howled and shoved it to the metal.

She roared toward the enemy, screaming, her starfighter falling apart. Around her, she saw the lights of explosions. Saw the floating dead. Saw the pale faces of her friends, lost in the void.

A hundred mechanical spiders rose before her, all firing.

Spitfire let out a great cry. And she was a child again, running down the cobbled streets of Israel as missiles fell around her. She was a young woman, beating off her attackers, bloodying their noses, cracking her knuckles. She was a pilot. Just a stunt pilot who had found herself in a war, and she was flying into the maw of a dragon. All of them were her. All were Gal Levy. They all screamed from deep inside her.

She fired all her missiles. For that girl. For the Freedom.

Spiderwings exploded.

Spitfire kept flying, plowing through the flames and shattering metal until she reached the other side.

The Tyranny rose before her, eclipsing the sun. Rays of fire blazed around her like the halo of a cursed angel.

Spitfire saw its spinneret looming above. It looked like an iron bicycle pedal the size of a castle. The colossal device spun, blasting out silk. Maccabees exploded above. Flames roared. Heat sensors flashed across Spitfire's helmet. Shrapnel rained around her.

She kept flying. A lone starfighter, facing the beast. The great spider loomed, as large as a mountain, legs spread out to engulf the universe. She was an eagle flying through a forest fire. She was alone, but she was shielding humanity behind her, and she was carrying the courage of her ancestors.

Her Eagle was crumbling. One wing gone. Half the fuselage peeled off. Her missiles—spent. She gripped the rotary cannon joystick, which had been dislodged and now floated in the cockpit. She shoved it back in and opened fire.

Her bullets streaked forward and slammed into Tyranny's spinneret.

The enormous silk-weaving machine dented.

Spitfire fired again, aiming at the joints.

One corner of the spinneret detached.

The spinneret was damaged but not severely. It looked like some duct tape could get it working again. Spitfire raced toward the dented spinneret, determined to plow her starfighter into it, ejecting just in time. Kamikaze-and-eject had worked for her before. It had become her signature move. Even if she still suffered nightmares.

But she had a better idea. Mere meters away from the massive iron wheel, Spitfire executed a dime-flip maneuver. She didn't have a graviton drive, but she managed to flip around, etching a semicircle of fire. Then she switched on her afterburner switch. White-hot plasma roared out her exhaust port, and she jolted forward.

The fury of her engine slammed into the spinneret, a blazing spear of devastation.

The silk bundle, wrapped around the enormous wheel, caught fire.

In space, there was no oxygen to feed the flames. The fire did not burst outward. The thermal energy burrowed deep through the strands, heating and denting the spinneret. As Spitfire raced away, the massive machine pitched forward, its foundations crumpling.

A few more Eagles stormed forward, cheering, and unleashed David's Stones. The missiles slammed into the spinneret, and the entire structure detached and tumbled through space. Cheers filled the MindWeb, rising from every cockpit.

Most Eagles were still battling the spiderwings. But Spitfire's fight was over. She had no more missiles, no more bullets, her fuel was leaking, and her fuselage hung like strips of skin off her chassis. She managed to soar high, overshot the battle, and dived toward the Freedom.

Her ravaged Eagle slid into the hangar and slammed onto the deck.

The rough landing, combined with the artificial gravity, ripped the engine out the back. The flaming cube jittered across the hangar. Deckhands raced forward with fire extinguishers, and medics ran toward Spitfire.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." She waved them back.

They began spraying her with foam. She finally noticed that her flight suit was burning.

Standing on the hangar deck, Spitfire called the admiral by MindWeb. "The spinneret is out. The Tyranny is all yours. Blow this bitch to hell."

* * * * *

The two dreadnoughts faced each other across the void.

The Freedom—holes in her hull, smoldering, dented and cracked.

The Tyranny—her spinneret gone, her portholes blazing with red venom.

Between them, their starfighters still fought. Lights swirled back and forth like fireflies, and explosions lit the darkness. But King stared across the battle. He stared into those red portholes.

And he felt somebody staring back. A mysterious captain. The creature that had etched a message into Frankie's helmet. That faceless foe was there, staring back at him.

The Freedom's starboard beam was still facing the Tyranny. So were the seven Angels of Liberty mounted there.

"Fire!" King shouted.

The seven starboard cannons boomed.

Seven Maccabees charged like stallions.

At the same time, the Tyranny raised all eight legs, pointing them at the Freedom. She opened fire too. Eight silver spears flew.

Above the battling starfighters, the Maccabees and silver spears shot by one another. Each barrage continued on its path.

The Tyranny had no more spinneret to capture torpedoes in her webs. The Freedom had no more Caracal defending her. They would both take the punches.

We'll see who stays standing, King thought.

"Starboard shields to full power!" he said.

The silver spears charged closer.

The Maccabees were closing in.

But the Tyranny still had one advantage. She was not shielding anyone behind her. She could take evasive action.

The Freedom could not. Not without sacrificing the Kuroko and Mahatma. And King would never sacrifice civilians. It was his job to protect them. Even at the cost of his life. That was a soldier's vow.

The Tyranny rose higher. The Maccabees curved in space, chasing her. Unlike the silver spears, which could only move in a straight line, the Maccabees would pursue their prey.

Take that, you son of a bitch, King thought, staring at the Tyranny.

The spears raced closer.

"Brace for impact!" Mimori cried.

And then they hit.

All eight of them.

They slammed into the Freedom's starboard shield.

The galaxy seemed to explode.

* * * * *

King lay on the grass between the cornfield and stream. The night was warm. He gazed up at the starry sky spreading above Nebraska.

Diane lay beside him. Beautiful Diane, his wife and great love, wearing jeans and flannel, smiling in the starlight. She held his hand.

"Why did you let me die?" she said.

A campfire crackled, raising millions of sparks, and the woodsmoke filled King's nostrils. The flames spread across the cornfields.

"Why did you let me die?" she screamed, shaking him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. The fire stripped the skin off her face, leaving a metallic skull. Her voice rose higher in pitch, becoming a sound like steam from a kettle. "You killed me, Jim! You killed me!"

He shook his head. "No. No, I loved you."

She cackled, face melting, and shook him.

"Sir!" she said. "Sir! Admiral King!"

His eyes snapped open. He lay on the deck. Smoke wafted around him, and scattered fires burned. He was on the bridge of the Freedom. It was Mimori who was shaking him.

He shoved himself to his feet. "How long was I out?"

"Just a few seconds."

"Damage report!"

The android just stared at him.

King swayed for a moment on his feet. He looked around him. He could barely see anything. Smoke. Fire. Pale faces floated everywhere. Officers were speaking, some shouting, voices muffled. A man lay on the floor, bleeding, covered in dust. The ATLAS monitors were down. But the MindWeb windows showed an impossible picture.

The starship Freedom's starboard hull was shattered. Beyond shattered. It was devastated. The damage spread from deck 10 all the way up, draping across the dorsal hull. All seven starboard cannons were gone.

Half their Angels of Liberty. Gone.

"Tell me I'm not imagining this," King said.

"We lost our starboard sensors," Mimori said. "Our starboard thrusters. Our starboard cannons. Casualty reports are still coming in. But according to MindWeb health trackers, we lost four hundred and twelve lives."

Tears ran down the android's cheeks. She was trembling.

"Is my son …?" King whispered. "My granddaughter?"

"Bastian and Rowan are alive, sir. They were lucky."

Even as King felt relieved that his family was safe, horror flooded him. So many of his spacers—gone. He could barely believe it. He had to still be sleeping. This was impossible. The Freedom had never sustained such a blow. Not while fighting the Red Dawn. Not while fighting the rahs.

He wanted to fall back to his knees. To weep. To die.

He growled and clenched his fists. The surviving crew needed him. Now more than ever. He would deal with the crushing, overwhelming grief later. Or maybe he would never be able to deal with it. Maybe it would destroy him. Right now—that didn't matter. He must fight.

"Show me the Tyranny," he barked. "Tactical, give me a visual."

"The ATLAS sensors are down, sir," said the officer on duty, voice shaky. He was bleeding from his head.

"Connect to the Eagle cameras, and stream me a visual to MindWeb, dammit."

The tactical officer gulped. A tear rolled down his cheek. But he obeyed, typing on his workstation.

A video hovered before King. A hallucination of the Tyranny floated in the bridge.

She too was hurt.

Good. Good! King snarled savagely.

Two Maccabees seemed to have impacted her hull. Without her precious spinneret, she was vulnerable. The damage didn't look mortal. Nothing like what the Freedom had sustained. But two holes gaped open in Tyranny's armor, exposing crumbling decks within. It wasn't a knockout, but King had hurt his foe.

You can be hurt, he thought. And you can be defeated.

Aliens were spilling out of her. Too small to see clearly. The cameras were filming everything. King would analyze the footage later. Right now he had to finish this. Once and for all.

"Mimori, bring our port bow toward the enemy and prepare for another assault."

"We can't yaw, sir. The thruster hydraulics are dead across the ship. We can only move forward."

"Then fire the port cannons in their current positions, but program the Maccabees to turn in space. Can you do that, Mimori?"

"Yes, sir. Programming them now remotely."

"Jim, the civilian ships are off our port bow," Jordan said. A burn mark spread across his arm. The sleeve was burnt and sticking to the wound. Sweat beaded on the man's brow. "If the Maccabees slam into them …"

"Send them a warning," King said. "We'll have to risk it."

Jordan nodded, got on MindWeb, and called the civilian ships sheltering behind their port bow.

"The Tyranny is coming in for another assault!" cried a tactical officer. Panic filled the young man's voice.

"Maccabees loaded and programmed, sir," Mimori said.

"Fire!" King said.

The Maccabees flew. Seven torpedoes the size of starfighters blasted out the port bow, heading away from the fight. Five hundred klicks away, they curved, schooling through space like barracudas on the hunt. The torpedoes now stormed toward the Tyranny.

The arachnid dreadnought had no more webs to sling. But her swarm of spiderwings mobbed the torpedoes. The little vessels slammed into the Maccabees like kamikaze pilots, sacrificing themselves to save the mothership.

The torpedoes exploded in space. Their warheads were heavy with explosives. The blasts took out scores of spiderwings.

Take that, you sons of bitches, King thought.

"Fire again!" he said. "Another full broadside."

Again the port cannons boomed. Again the torpedoes flew, curving around and under the Freedom.

The Caracal came storming forward. King had ordered her to protect the Mahatma and Kuroko. But right now the plucky little warship charged toward the Tyranny. Her Shield of David system was out of the game, but her offensive cannons boomed.

More spiderwings exploded.

We got you now, King thought.

The Tyranny began to yaw, moving away from the Freedom. Her great stinger thrummed and shone. Spacetime rippled. A portal began to open.

"She's going to flee!" King shouted. "Fire point-defense! Fire another round of torpedoes! Eagles—don't let her get away!"

All of Freedom's working guns boomed. The Eagles fired their missiles. The Caracal's cannons lit the darkness. A blast hit the Tyranny's hull. And another. Missiles blazed across her armored plates. Spiderwings fled. A few managed to swarm into the Tyranny's hatches. The others merely clustered near their mothership like frightened baby spiders.

The portal opened.

The Tyranny shot through.

"Mimori, chase her!" King said.

"I'm sorry, sir, we can't yaw."

It was too late anyway. A few last spiderwings vanished through the portal—and then the portal vanished.

The Tyranny got away.

King cursed and slammed his fist down on a dashboard. It cracked.

* * * * *

His ship was carved open and crippled. He had lost thirty Eagles. Hundreds of his soldiers were dead. And King knew that the Tyranny would be back. Last time she had reappeared in just two hours. Next time she attacked, could the Freedom still hold her off? Were they all going to die here, a thousand light-years from home?

He would never show it to his crew. He still stood tall, face hard, shoulders squared. He needed to be a boulder. But deep inside, despair welled through him.

Then something caught his eye.

King frowned and zoomed in on a MindWeb monitor. It showed a view of space where the portal had vanished. Exhaust fumes and debris still floated there. A handful of spiderwings flew in the darkness, disoriented. Abandoned. They had been too slow to reach the portal.

Pickles was still out there, leading three Eagle wings. They were flying toward the spiderwings, firing missiles, and destroying the enemy vessels.

King got Pickles on MindWeb. "Pickles, this is Freedom."

"Hello, sir," the pilot answered. "It's good fishin' out here. Care to join us?"

The pilot's face appeared on MindWeb, hovering like a ghost's severed head. He was grinning, and his bionic eye shone.

King cleared his throat. "Pickles, my understanding is that when you go fishing, you don't blow up the fish with missiles."

"Clearly, sir, you've never gone dynamite fishing."

Another spiderwing exploded. Only one spiderwing now remained. The little vessel flew from side to side, finding no escape. Eagles kept nipping at its heels.

"Pickles, cripple that last one," King said. "But keep it intact. Shoot out the engine—if you can find it. I'm sending a couple of tugs your way. I have some questions for our alien friend."

"Yes, sir." Pickles gave the thumbs-up. "We'll reel you in a live one."

"Freedom out."

Dozens of calls began flooding King's MindLink. Department heads were calling from everywhere. The ship had never suffered such wounds, not in all her years of war. For just a few seconds, King let the calls ring, let all the noise flow over him. He stared at the monitor, watching the Eagles herding the last spiderwing, then blast out its engine. Tugs were already flying out to fetch it.

"You okay, Jim?" Jordan walked toward him, concern in his eyes. "Your face is bleeding."

King had not even noticed. He ran his hand along his left cheek. It came back sticky.

"We suffered a terrible loss here," King said. "Perhaps the worst loss in the Freedom's history. But we caught one. By God, we caught a live one."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A bird hummed on her windowsill, insects buzzed outside, and sunbeams baked her face. It was funny, Emily thought. Even with her eyes closed, she didn't stop seeing. She could see her eyelids. The skin was slender and veined and bright red under the sun. The bird buzzed. The insects hummed. It was so hot, and she seemed to float in her bed.

What day was it? Was she late for tea with the king? Emily didn't know. She had been sleeping for a long time, it seemed. It was winter but she was so hot, and the sunlight was so bright, and she could not open her eyes.

"Niles," she whispered. Her lips were dry. She was so thirsty. Every night she left a cup of water at her bedside, for she often woke up lost and dazed, trapped in her blankets, so parched her mouth hurt.

Her drone didn't answer her. Perhaps she should fall back asleep. But the bird was rumbling, and the insects were screeching, and she was so thirsty. Her eyes were crusted shut. She reached to the side of her bed, seeking her water, and touched something hot and wet.

Her eyelids snapped open, and she saw herself touching a severed hand.

She gasped and hot air flooded her lungs.

At once everything came to terrible life.

She was floating in one of Freedom's corridors, and strobe lights flashed, blinding her. Bulkheads creaked. Cables rose through cracks like snakes, crackling and humming with electricity. The sounds seemed distant, echoes from a dream. Her ears felt stuffed with cotton. Bodies floated around her. Mangled.

Dazed, Emily saw a hole in a bulkhead. It led to a cabin. And another hallway and another cabin. Holes perforating the ship. A great missile wound. Deep in the hold, a silver spear lay twisted and smoldering.

Electricity buzzed, raising the hair on her head. Slowly Emily turned around.

She froze, staring. Tears filled her eyes.

Half the corridor was gone. Simply gone. It looked like a good chunk of the Freedom was gone with it.

A force field was sealing the breach, crackling and buzzing. There was still air. Mimori must have programmed the electromagnetic shield, which normally floated around Freedom in a bubble, to hug the ship and seal the breach. Emily had read about such a maneuver, to be used only in the most extreme situations. Well, this situation certainly seemed extreme.

Emily walked toward the edge of the crackling deck. It ended with mangled metal. Standing here, she could see for hundreds of meters across the hull. At least where the hull had been. It was all carved open now, exposing a honeycomb of decks and bunks inside the ship. The Tyranny had bitten off a massive chunk of the starboard, stretching across the midsection. Standing on this metal ledge, Emily imagined herself on the shore of some craggy cove, gazing at a starlit port.

Bodies floated out there. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Some clung to the starship's mangled exterior, trapped between the charred metal and the magnetic field like dead bugs under Saran wrap. But most of them floated in the void like drowned sailors lost at sea. Some of the dead were burnt beyond recognition. Emily wondered how many she knew, had visited on this ship, shared stories with, laughed with. She wondered if any of her friends were there, brutalized by the silver spears and cast into the darkness. Drones were flying out, attaching tethers to the dead, and reeling them back in. The little machines reminded Emily of tiny metal aphids collecting dewdrops.

"Oh, Emily." Niles floated toward her. "It's horrible. Look at it. Just horrible."

Emily stared ahead, lips curving bitterly, and tears dampened her eyes. "What, Niles? Are you going to make a joke about how horrible it is for your fellow drones, forced to collect bodies?"

Niles lowered his silver nose. "It's horrible that so many died. Your fellow humans. Our friends. I'm sorry, Emily."

He nuzzled her, and suddenly Emily was weeping. She embraced him.

"Oh, Niles," she whispered.

"Your head is bleeding," Niles said. "I think you were knocked out. I think I was too. Let's get you to the infirmary."

She pulled up her MindPlay system. One app displayed her vitals. Her heartbeat was strong, her oxygen levels normal.

"I'm fine," she said. "I just got the wind knocked out from under my sails."

"Emily, you might have a concussion."

"Maybe," she confessed. "But right now many spacers are wounded. They need medical attention more than me. Look—here comes a medic's shuttle now. We're going to help too."

She made her way into an inner cabin. Wounded spacers lay on the deck. A few wandered around, dazed. One woman was missing a leg. Emily hesitated for just a second, then rushed toward them.

"Emily, you're not a medic!" Niles cried after her.

"I took CPR at officer's school. I carry a small med kit in my pocket. And I'm going to help until the real medics arrive."

As she moved across the deck, her tears dried. There was no time for tears right now. She formed a tourniquet from her belt for the woman with no leg. One man stopped breathing, and Emily pounded his chest, breathed into his mouth, but could not save him. A woman was bleeding from a gash on her side, and Emily staunched the bleeding with gauze.

Medics came racing in, loaded people onto litters, and Emily wandered onward in a daze. She entered another cabin full of the wounded, the dying, the dead. She did what she could. Which was often nothing. Which was sometimes just to hold a spacer's hand, to caress their cheek, to whisper prayers. To hold them as they died. She saved one life, maybe two. More died in her arms.

This was something they would not see from the bridge. They would not smell the blood. Not gaze into the eyes of the dying. On the bridge, it was numbers on a screen. Here it was souls.

Emily did not know how much time passed like this, whether it was for minutes, hours, or even days that she moved from deck to deck. The missiles had stripped off so much hull. They had bitten off a part of the ship like an animal biting a chunk of flesh off its still-living prey. And they had shattered Emily's sense of time or self. Eventually she found herself sitting in the corner, covered in the blood of many spacers, gazing ahead blankly. Just sitting there. A girl. A queen. Legs splayed out. Dry eyes staring a thousand yards away.

It was Darjeeling who eventually found her. The aging sergeant rushed toward her, his mustache damp with tears.

"Oh dear. Oh my. Oh, my dearest child." He fussed over her, checking her for wounds. "My queen. Are you hurt?"

She looked at him. His eyes were red and wet.

"I tried to save more. I think I saved two. Maybe only one." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I tried so hard to save more."

Darjeeling embraced her. "Oh, precious child. I'm proud of you. Every life saved is a world entire. Come now. Come."

He helped her to her feet. She tried to stand, wobbled, nearly fell. Her leg was bleeding. She had not even noticed. Darjeeling lifted her, carried her in his arms through the ship. They left the ruin behind, going deeper into the starship, passing through corridors and cabins. Soldiers stood at their sides, their faces blurred. A few were saluting. She saw spacers and marines, officers and enlisted, janitors and commanders, warriors and healers. She saw faces soft with concern for her. And she saw faces hard with determination. She saw humanity—a microcosm here aboard this ship. Humanity grieving. Humanity beaten, decimated, but still standing. Still reaching out to the stars. Still caring for one another.

She blinked tears from her eyes and whispered soft words, "In times of despair, look for courage. In times of grief, look for hope. In times of loss, look at life. Follow them as your lodestars. They will lead you home."

Carrying her, Darjeeling looked into her eyes. "A poem, Emily?"

"No. Just something I feel." She thought for a moment. "Mr. Darjeeling, I'd quite like to begin our mission. The quest to find the Aeolians."

"My queen, you are most noble. Even now you think of the mission, not of yourself. Take time to rest. To heal."

But there was no time to heal, Emily thought. No time for anything. The enemy would be back. Emily was certain of that. She believed in the courage of Freedom's crew, the might of her cannons, and the strength of her shields. But part of her worried that Freedom would not survive the next assault.

"I'm feeling strong, Mr. Darjeeling," she said. "I don't need to rest. Let us fly out in the Raven at once."

With all the devastation around them, Darjeeling somehow managed to smile, though it was a sad smile. "The Raven is a wonderful little starship herself, isn't she, ma'am? Not much larger than a shuttle. But fast and stealthy as a shadow in the night."

They had flown in the Raven before. It was the ship that had taken them to Europa and her underground oceans, ultimately leading them to the rahs' secret lair. The Raven had brought them hope before. The little stealth ship would do it again.

Emily nodded. "The Raven is a fine ship indeed. Even should the Freedom fall, we would not. We would continue the fight. Alone if we must."

Darjeeling gasped. "The Freedom—not surviving?"

"She might not always survive," Emily said. "The mighty Lenin fell in the war. So did all the other legendary dreadnoughts of humanity. The Freedom is the last of the giants. And she's hurt. Maybe she's dying. Come now, Darjeeling, we must hurry." She wriggled in his arms, dropped to the deck, and stood unsteadily. She took a step. Another. She could walk. "To the Raven! We have an alien civilization to find."

* * * * *

The young queen and old sergeant arrived in the hangar deck, prepared to fly out on their quest … and found the Raven destroyed.

Emily dropped her duffel bag and stared, eyes wide.

The hangar deck was a mess. Debris lay everywhere. Bulkheads had bent and fallen over. Graviton plates had risen off the deck like pangolin scales. The gravity was gone in several locations, leaving dust and chunks of metal to swirl in little maelstroms.

One of Tyranny's silver spears stuck out from a bulkhead, charred and bent. The missile had plowed through an airlock, wreaked havoc across the deck, and finally embedded itself into a metal wall.

On its path of destruction, it had sliced right through the FAS Raven.

Their only stealth ship.

Costly UltraDark plates, designed to reflect and omit no light, lay mangled and burnt across the deck. Those plates had once coated Raven's hull, allowing her to travel in complete darkness. Each square meter cost more than an entire normal shuttle. The heat sinks, designed to store Raven's energy to prevent radiation leaks, had flown halfway across the hangar and lay cracked open, revealing their inner honeycombs of energy coils. The Raven's chassis had bent and twisted. Emily could see the cockpit seats. They were burnt and covered with dust. The control panel had shattered.

"She's gone," she whispered. "The Raven is gone."

She lifted one chunk of stealth coating, winced at the searing heat, and dropped it. A welt rose on her fingers.

Genius, Emily, she told herself.

"Oh dear, oh dear." Darjeeling walked among the debris, nudged a few chunks with his boot, and frowned at the burnt chassis. "She's a goner, all right."

Emily felt faint. "Maybe we can fly out in a Sparrow shuttle instead?"

"I wouldn't recommend that, ma'am. Without stealth technology, any enemy ship in this system would see us and pounce."

Niles flew toward them. He fretted above the ruined Raven like a bumblebee over a burnt flowerbed. "I knew it. I knew it! This entire quest was a ludicrous idea to begin with. The Raven is toast. We'll never find the Aeolians now. We're doomed. Doomed!"

Emily chewed her lip. "Maybe we can rebuild it? QT built the first Raven. Maybe she can repair the ship." She tapped her comlink. "QT, would you meet us on hangar bay 4 please?"

* * * * *

Half an hour later, QT the android stood in the hangar bay, staring at the ruined stealth ship.

"The Raven is toast," the android said. "You'll never find the Aeolians now. We're doomed. Doomed!"

Niles raised his nose. "I told you all."

"Oh, come on!" Emily said. "Are all robots so defeatist? QT, you built the Raven once. Can't you build a new one?"

The android scrunched up her lips, squinted, and circled the remains of the Raven. QT was an odd bird, even among robots, and that was saying something. Physically, she looked like Mimori, the bridge android. She came off the same assembly line, a product of Tokyo's Alita Robotics. But QT had spent the past few decades back in the stern, nobody but engineers for company. Anyone would go a bit mad.

Instead of a proper uniform, she wore a fluffy green onesie. The hood was pulled over her head, topped with two big googly eyes. Apparently, Freedom the Frog was making a comeback. Back when Freedom had been a museum ship, employees would walk around in Freedom the Frog costumes, giving out autographs to adoring children. The Freedom had been refitted into a warship, but evidently there were still a few costumes lying around. And apparently frogs were furry. Who knew?

"You look ridiculous," Niles said.

QT tilted her head. The googly eyes on her hood wobbled. "Is my makeup smeared?"

"I mean that ridiculous costume!" Niles snapped. "I order you to remove it at once."

The android shrugged. "Very well. But I warn you, I've gone commando today."

She began pulling off the fluffy frog costume.

"Um, QT." Emily rushed over to stop her. "Please keep your clothes on. Can you take a closer look at the Raven? Is there anything you can do?"

QT lifted one of the UltraDark plates, which had begun to cool off, and shook it. Ash fell to the deck.

"I might be able to salvage some of this." She knelt, picked up a heat sink, then tossed it down in disgust. "Well, this one has gone kaput. These are expensive components, you know. Experimental technology. Some of my own invention." She pointed at Emily accusingly. "You should be more careful with it."

"Um, yes, sorry about that," Emily said. "I apologize for secretly commanding the Tyranny and launching those silver spears. Anyway, QT, can you do it?"

The android puffed out her fluffy green chest and raised her chin. The googly frog eyes jangled. "Of course I can. I am QT, engineer extraordinaire!"

"You're a loony, that's what you are," Niles said.

"All the best engineers are a little loony," QT said. "We dare to create what others will not even imagine. Our minds are not shackled by gravity, and our creations gaze beyond the cosmic horizon. We are the makers of miracles, and we are the dreamers of dreams. Some might call us crazy. Some might cluck their tongues, shake their heads, and decry the engineer as a misfit." She raised her fist. "Yet it is the misfits, the rebels, the long-haired freaks with their fluffy costumes and googly eyes who—"

"Just fix the blasted ship," Niles said.

QT pouted and crossed her arms. "Fine. I need two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Emily exclaimed. "But the enemy must be after the Aeolians too. We can't wait two weeks."

QT placed her hands on her hips. "Do you think building state-of-the-art stealth ships is easy? I'll have you know—two weeks is an extraordinary speed. It would take most engineers two years. But we androids are a special breed. We do the impossible. We are the sculptors of the imagination. Oh, some humans in their ivory towers might roll their eyes, heave deep sighs, call us crazy, and say that—"

"Fine, two weeks!" Emily said. Anything to avoid another speech, she added silently.

QT lifted the Raven's yoke. It had flown right out the windshield. "It might take three."

Emily heaved a sigh. "Better get started then."

As Emily returned to her cabin, she just hoped that the Freedom would last that long. And that their faceless enemy wouldn't find the Aeolians before them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On the inside, the Tyranny was like a home that she had never known. A place of faded memories that were not hers. An echo of a lost world. A place she had never lived in, yet a place she mourned.

She was Od'rahda. She was only two years old. But she was fully grown, and she carried within her the memories of her ancestors. And in this ship, she carried a tableau of the Arakavish that had been. A world that was no more.

Arakavish was a dry world now. The ancient forests had wilted, the riverbeds lay dry, and an ocher haze covered the skies where once great birds had glided. The rahs had moved underground, fleeing the desolation of the surface, to dwell in caves and mountain halls. Their web stretched across the cosmos now, and they infected many worlds, and they lived in many habitats. But they remembered where they came from. Once Arakavish had been a realm of forest canopies and misty clouds that barely let in sunlight. A place of shadows and mushrooms and fireflies. Her ancestors had evolved in that world. Time had ravaged it. The passage of eras and the flames of war had dried the clouds, withered the forests, and sent the spiders scurrying into holes.

But they still longed for those forests. The memory was ingrained deep within them like scar tissue from an old internal wound. Even she, who was only half rah—she honored her ancestors. In her starship, she carried a piece of the lost kingdom.

On the outside, the Tyranny looked like a spider. A mechanical arachnid that could devour worlds. On the inside, she was a forest.

Trees coiled through the metal caverns of the dreadnought, and mushrooms soared toward the deckheads, their gills flaring, shedding spores like snow. Cobwebs hung between mossy branches, glittering with dewdrops. Roots coiled across the deck and bulkheads like serpents, creaking, and eyes peered from the shadows. Strange creatures lived here, scurrying between the knotty trunks. Giggles and songs sounded in the mist—the echoes of echoes, a song from a time when rahs had not known about the stars, when spiders gazed skyward and saw only the misty forest canopy.

They traveled the stars now. But they took the underworld with them.

Od'rahda moved through this strange realm, her eight gleaming legs parting cobwebs, moving over roots, scraping through the moss. She paused before a pool of still water, and she gazed down at her reflection.

She saw a monster.

Nausea filled her.

She was only half a spider. Only half a thing of this forest. The swollen abdomen was there. The eight vicious legs gleamed in her reflection like black lightning. But from that arachnid body sprouted the impurity.

From the waist up, she was a human. A woman.

She gasped as new memories filled her. These ones were vague. Nearly undecipherable. She was running across grasslands, an ape with only two legs, upright and naked. She tossed spears at her prey, and she dipped her hand into paint, then pressed it against the walls of caves. She was a human. A young species. This memory was only a hundred thousand years old.

Her upper half was a parasite, sprouting from ancient perfection.

She should not exist.

She knelt by the pool of water.

"I need your guidance," she whispered.

The pool's surface lost its reflectivity. Od'rahda's deformed image vanished. Instead, the pool now showed a vision of a deep cave on a distant world, a chamber buried below the deepest roots of trees and the oldest bones and shells. A web hung in this chamber. Not a beautiful white web that gleamed with dewdrops. An ancient web, fraying and sagging, gray like death. A spider hung in the center of this web. A spider so small Od'rahda could cradle it in her arms. The spider was old. Older than humanity. Older than the Great Web that spread among the stars. For a million years this spider had hung there. Her white body was shriveled, and her eight eyes were sunken into her flesh, but she could still see far. She could see all.

Od'rahda knelt before her empress.

"Elder'rah, guide me."

The pale spider looked up with eight beady white eyes covered with cataracts. They looked like tumors, sunken deep into her wrinkly flesh. Her voice sounded like wind through a tomb. "You know your task."

"But I do not know what I am. Am I human?"

"You are better than a human. You are better even than the rahs. Your task is to hunt the humans. To destroy them. You know this. Why do you doubt my wisdom?"

"I have strange memories. Myself with two legs, hunting in grasslands, pressing my hands against the walls of caves."

The ancient empress smiled, revealing a toothless maw. "Those are the whispers of your simian ancestors. You must carry some humanity inside you. You must feel like a human. Think like a human. Hunt like a human. To defeat the humans, you must become a human."

"What is to be of me?" Od'rahda said, voice louder now. "What is to become of my kind? Are we to forever remain cursed, split between two worlds?"

"No, my child, no. You are not cursed. You are blessed. Earth will be your domain. A planet of your own. A glittering jewel in my empire. Hunt the Freedom, my child. Kill every human aboard that ship. And then, my child … then many more hybrids will join you. The rahda will rise. Your seed will multiply across Earth and become a great nation."

The vision faded. Once more, Od'rahda found herself gazing at her reflection in the pool. But this time she did not see a monster, not a chimera or freak. She saw a queen. A mother to a nation.

Her children would become great princes, rulers of Earth. She would conquer this world not for her own vainglory. But for her seed.

She left the pool, walked through the forest that coiled through her ship, and entered the chamber where her children dwelled.

* * * * *

Od'rahda had many children. Her kind bred fast, grew fast, and carried the memories of their ancestors. Thousands of her species lived in this starship. They hung on webs. They lurked in the trees. They peered from the shadows. Some were small. They had only just hatched. Their human heads were smaller than Od'rahda's fist. But within days, they would become youths, and they would begin to breed too.

We will swarm over Earth and multiply into billions, Od'rahda thought.

She stood in this chamber of her children, a place of twisting black trees and curtains of webs. She called one of them forth.

"Abraxas'rahda! Come to me."

Many eyes looked up at her, glowing white and peering from the shadows. A few of the younglings hissed from their webs. They were busy feeding, and strands of flesh dangled from their mouths. They were no larger than cats but already great hunters. In the shadows, a larger creature stirred. Gleaming black legs scurried down a tree trunk and across the mossy deck. A curtain of cobwebs parted, revealing the rest of him.

He was Abraxas'rahda, her eldest son, a full year old and already taller than her. His human half was muscular, and his bare chest sported ritualistic scars. His hair hung long, black, and scraggly, flowing past his shoulders. His eyes burned, red and piercing, and his jaws opened in a smile that showed rows of fangs.

"Mother," he hissed. "I grow weary of hunting the little prey things you release in this ship. I'm not a child. I long to hunt the da!"

She caressed his cheek. His purple veins throbbed below his pale skin.

"Yes, it's time, my son. Time for you to hunt. The humans seek the stonemen, those they call Aeolians."

Abraxas'rahda growled. "The stonemen are all dead."

"Maybe not, my son. The humans believe that some survived. They seek them. My son, you must find the stonemen first. You must kill them. And you must kill anyone who stands in your way."

He tossed back his head and howled. "I am ready! I will go on the hunt."

Od'rahda smiled thinly. "Good boy. Take God's Tomb. Come back victorious. Or come back dead."

He raised his claws, bloodlust in his eyes. "I will come back with enough skulls to pave a bridge from here to Earth."

* * * * *

The Tyranny was the first starship built for the rahda. She was smaller than many rah warclaws but larger than the mightiest human dreadnought. Her hull was gravid with hundreds of clawfighters, little ships for a single pilot. But she carried with her too a larger vessel. A terror called God's Tomb.

She was over a hundred meters long, as the humans measured things. Too large to fit into the Tyranny. So the God's Tomb clung to Tyranny's back like a young spider riding its mother.

Od'rahda stood on her bridge, perched atop a hill of skulls. Several probes, no larger than the skulls below her claws, were orbiting the Tyranny, watching the ship like disembodied eyes. Each floating eye streamed its vision to spheres that hung before Od'rahda on a great web. From here, she watched it happen.

Tyranny looked like a single ship. God's Tomb blended perfectly onto her dorsal hull, her camouflage able to fool the keenest eye. Now, with clunking metal and creaking gears, the clawship detached and hovered upward. She too was shaped as a spider. Smaller. She was not a full-sized warclaw like the Tyranny. But she was fast and deadly.

Her son called her from aboard the ship. His pale, veined face appeared in one sphere, and he licked his fangs.

"I will find the stonemen. I will kill any humans in my path. I will return victorious."

God's Tomb flew into the distance.

Od'rahda settled down on her pile of skulls. She had her own mission in this system. She had bigger prey. She would continue hunting the Freedom. Her daughter, the clever Telve'rahda, had a mission of her own, one that would cut the humans' legs out from under them. The Tyranny would do the rest.

Od'rahda smiled and licked her fingers. She could already imagine the taste of human blood. It would not be long now. The humans were already doomed. Soon, very soon now, she would add James King's skull to her collection.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sergeant Major Alice Allenby stood on the hangar deck, her plasma rifle shouldered, her lips locked in a snarl. She faced the airlock, waiting, barely breathing. Her finger danced over the trigger.

In seconds, the airlock would open. Nobody knew what horror would enter. Whatever it was, Alice would be ready.

She had brought a full platoon of marines with her. Fifty men and women. They stood in battle armor, armed with Gideon assault rifles, pulse-grenades, and laser-blades. In full gear, they looked more like robots than humans.

Alice raised a MindPlay window. She telepathically connected to cameras on Freedom's external hull. She watched a live feed. A lone spiderwing was out there, its engine busted. The alien starfighter was forged of black metal. It looked like a mechanical spider the size of a tractor. Two tug-shuttles were pulling the spiderwing along. A squadron of Eagles circled them, keeping watch.

There's a live alien in there, Alice thought. A nasty one. And we're bringing it into the Freedom. Dear God.

A bead of cold sweat rolled down her back.

"Remember, soldiers," said Lieutenant East, the platoon's young officer. "If the enemy poses any threat—any threat—you—" He coughed. "You …" Sweat dripped down his face. "You open fire."

The boy was twenty years old, fresh out of officer school. Alice sent him a telepathic message.

You're doing fine, Lieutenant. Stay cool. I'm here with you.

The young officer gulped and nodded. Thanks, Sergeant Allenby.

Sergeant Major Alice Allenby was the top-ranking NCO of the Freedom Brigade. Part of her job was to mentor the younger soldiers. Lieutenants like East could someday become the next generation of senior officers. If they survived. Even at times of war, Alice tried to nurture, encourage, and correct the young ones.

Alice herself had never earned a commission from officer school. Technically, young East outranked her. But everyone in the brigade, even the captains and majors, showed her deference. She was the mama bear of the brigade. At least she thought of herself that way. She would protect her cubs at any cost.

And soon I'll be a real mother, she thought. She thought of the child inside her. Her stomach was still flat. The child was still an embryo, probably no larger than a bean. But Alice already thought of it as a real child.

She had to win this war. To build a better world. So she could go back home and raise her family.

The spiderwing slowed to a crawl just outside the airlock. The Eagles hovered around it, rotary cannons primed and ready. Inside the hangar bay, the marines tensed. Alice licked her dry lips, swallowed, and flexed her fingers around her Mordecai plasma rifle. What the hell was in that spiderwing? A rah? She could handle a rah. But she had never seen rahs fly ships like this.

Lee Eun-Yu, the bay boss, stepped forward. Like always, she wore an orange jumpsuit with reflective stripes. A strand of her black hair spilled out from under her hard hat, and tools jangled across her belt. She coned her hands around her mouth. "Airlock—open exterior hatch!"

The Korean NCO had a MindLink like everyone else, but she enjoyed shouting. Alice could relate.

The airlock's outer hatch slid open. Air vented into space, blowing soot off the hovering spiderwing. Watching through MindWeb, Alice saw strange markings on the alien hull. Spirals, jagged lines, and what looked like insects. They seemed etched into the metal and painted crimson. They reminded Alice of hieroglyphics.

The spiderwing landed inside the airlock with a thud. It was still sealed behind the inner hatch, trapped between the two doors. For a moment, silence filled the hangar bay. These airlocks normally moved at lightning speed, rushing starfighters in and out. They were essentially rotating doors on steroids. They had to be fast; this was a warship, and every second counted. But now everything seemed so slow. Every second stretched out.

Alice narrowed her eyes. She stared at the airlock through the scope of her rifle.

The inner hatch opened. Drones emerged from the airlock first, tugging on chains. They pulled the spiderwing into the bay.

The alien vessel stood on the deck, still. Smoke rose from its black hull.

By God, the thing was huge. Watching the videos, Alice had thought it the size of a tractor, the kind her grandfather would plow the cornfields with. But the alien starfighter was even bigger. Almost the size of her family's old barn. The hull was hemispherical, covered with craggy metal plates of armor. Eight jointed cannons thrust out the sides, their muzzles sawed off, the stubs sealed with concrete. The tug crew must have disabled the guns before dragging the spiderwing into the Freedom. Smart move.

Alice saw no cockpit. No portholes. She squinted. Was this a starfighter? Could this be a lifeform, some strange, metallic rah that could live in space? And, um, fire photon bolts from its legs? Okay, so it probably wasn't a giant rah. So much for that hypothesis. But this definitely looked like no starfighter Alice had ever seen.

Alice sent a telepathic message to Lieutenant East. "Lieutenant? You might want to move your platoon in."

The young officer gulped and nodded. He telepathized to his troops. "First squad—move in."

The kid needed some guidance. But he'd make a good leader someday.

A squad detached from the platoon. Alice joined them. Sixteen marines approached and surrounded the shuttle, weapons trained on the black hull. Smoke still wafted from the spiderwing. Alice could see more of the damage now—blasts to the stern, taking a bite out of the hull. It smelled like burnt steak.

A doorway whooshed. A few soldiers started. For an instant Alice thought a hatch was opening on the spiderwing. But it was the sound of the hangar bay door. Alice glanced over. Admiral King stepped onto the deck.

Lieutenant East snapped to attention, stiff as a flagpole.

As you were, East! Alice telepathized. You're deployed on a mission! Do not snap to attention.

The lieutenant blushed and aimed his rifle at the spiderwing again. Alice sighed. This kid would take some breaking in.

She glanced at King again. The admiral just stood at the doorway, his face hard, staring. While the deckhands wore jumpsuits, and the marines wore battle armor, the admiral wore his fine naval uniform, the navy-blue fabric adorned with service ribbons, buckles, and gilded insignia. But all that pomp would mislead nobody. King perhaps did not wear armor, and he carried only a sidearm, but he had the eyes of a killer. Dark, deep-set eyes, staring intensely from the shadows. He could be wearing a burlap sack, and everyone would know he was in charge. And that he could probably kill every man in the room.

God, Alice loved the old bastard. It was good to have him here. He was more than just her commanding officer now. He was her father-in-law. Alice's own parents were gone. To her, King was like a true father.

Alice wanted to telepathize with him. But the hardness of his eyes gave her pause. He was staring at the spiderwing as if nothing else existed in the room.

Instead, Alice contacted the second marine squad.

"Marines—bring the grabbers."

Another squad stepped toward the spiderwing. They held poles tipped with long metal claws. The tongs vibrated and hummed, pulsing with magnetic fields. Loose screws and scraps of metal danced across the deck, clattering closer to the magnets. Magnetic claws were used by the military police for grabbing criminals. The marines had borrowed a few. When those claws snapped shut around you, they stayed shut.

Alice stared at the spiderwing again. The damn thing just stood there. Stinking. Smoking. A charred metal spider. Was the creature inside dead? Nothing was leaping out at them. Yet. That was a good sign, Alice supposed.

East sent her a message. "Um, Sergeant Allenby? Any advice how to proceed?"

"I suggest we search for a hatch, sir," she said. "Our job is to retrieve the alien pilot. If it won't come to us, we'll go to it."

East gave her a shaky virtual smile. Then aloud, he said, "Squad! I need a volunteer."

Alice stepped forward. "Yes, sir."

"Search the alien ship for a hatch please."

"Yes, sir," Alice said.

She acted like this sometimes with the young officers. Privately, over the MindWeb, she offered advice and encouragement. Publicly, through spoken words the others could hear, they acted out their roles—giving and accepting orders. Alice had to admit. It sometimes hurt her pride. She was taking orders from a younger, less experienced soldier. She didn't have to. She was senior enough, even without a commission, to tell a pesky lieutenant to go to hell. But it helped train the green officers for leadership. And the brigade would need the next generation of leaders.

Especially after Bastian and I retire, she thought. I hope that can be soon.

She walked around the alien ship, searching for a hatch. She passed her gloved hand over the hull, feeling for secret handles or frames. Nothing. Just armored plates. Even through her glove she felt the heat.

"No hatches on the sides of the ship," Alice said. "I'll search the top."

Lee Eun-Yu rushed forward with a ladder. "Here, Alice."

"Thanks." She placed her foot on a rung.

"Hey." Eun-Yu grabbed her arm. "Don't die up there, huh? You still owe me two hundred commissary credits from last week's poker game."

"I'll do my best," Alice said and kept climbing.

She hopped onto the top of the arachnid starfighter. And—yep, there it was. Right in the center of the conical hull. A big ole hatch.

Alice paused, hesitating. Should she climb back down? Let one of the privates handle this? The bay boss's words echoed. Don't die up there, huh?

She flashed back to last year, battling the great rah females. She had jumped on one of the giant creatures, stood on its back, and filled its brains with bullets. It seemed a lifetime ago. Things were different now. Alice was only twenty-nine, still young. Still strong and tough. But she was also pregnant. She couldn't afford to die now.

A shudder ran through her. She had always thought herself immortal. She had charged screaming into hordes of rahs. It would take a silver bullet to kill Alice Allenby, that's what she would tell everyone. With the tiny life inside her, she was suddenly very much aware of her mortality.

Ah, hell, she was about to chicken out. Couldn't let that happen.

She took a deep breath and grabbed the hatch. Probably locked, but here goes nothing. Alice gave it a mighty tug.

The hatch swung open.

The heavy metal door clanged against the dorsal hull.

Alice aimed her rifle inside. Her heartbeat accelerated. She stared through the hatch but saw only shadows.

"Hello?" she said. "Anyone home?" She pounded her foot on the hull. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

A few marines stifled laughs. Not a good time to joke, Alice knew. But dammit, she was nervous. She was scared. Humor had always been her armor.

With a thought, she activated the flashlight built into her helmet. She shined a light through the hatch and winced.

It was full of cobwebs. Thick, dripping cobwebs like the decaying membranes inside a corpse. Fungus grew on the deck. Even wearing her helmet, Alice could smell the place. It smelled like mold and crawling things and secrets discovered after dark. Laughter echoed. Strange laughter, chillingly pure, wickedly innocent. It was the laughter of a dead soul trapped in a basement, mocking the living. The laughter of a child lost in the forest, twisted and deformed by the fairy creatures, pale face peering between ferns, infected with parasites.

Alice's hands began shaking around her rifle. Her throat felt tight. She gulped.

"Hello?" she whispered, leaning over the hatch.

Silence.

Just darkness inside. A cold wind wafted from within.

Then a voice spoke from below. A perfect imitation of Alice's own voice.

"Hello?"

Alice's heart burst into a gallop.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "Who's in there?"

Suddenly she felt very much alone. A platoon of marines stood on this very deck. Admiral King himself was here. But they all seemed so distant now. Light-years away. Just ghosts. Alice was alone on this ship, drawn toward this hatch, this abyss. She could not pull back. She fell to her knees and tilted above the opening. A force seemed to be physically pulling her in.

A giggle from inside. A chorus of girls sang. Ring-a-ring-a-rosies, a pocket full of posies … But Alice could barely hear it. Maybe it was just the wind through the hatch. She must be imagining things. This all felt like a dream. This journey a thousand light-years away. This war. This terror. Just a fever dream.

She lowered her rifle into the hatch and parted the cobwebs.

She revealed a face.

A human face. The face of a young woman, pale and gray and dead.

Alice gasped and leaned back.

The face rested there among the cobwebs, blank and cold like a mask. The eyes were closed. The skin was bloodless, tinted with blue. Whoever was in there had to be dead. Yet how could it be? How could a dead human be inside an alien ship a thousand light-years from Earth?

"There's someone dead in here!" Alice cried down to her crew. "A woman. A human."

She looked back into the hatch. The face was young. The woman couldn't be older than twenty.

Did they hurt you? Alice thought.

She didn't know why. But she felt drawn to that serene face. Perhaps because it reminded her of herself. Of her fears. Of the visions of her own demise. Drawn by a power she could not explain, Alice reached into the hatch and caressed the corpse's cheek.

The eyes snapped open—red and blazing.

The mouth opened in a grin, revealing fangs.

"Hello, human," the creature hissed and licked her lips.

Alice let out a shout and stumbled back. She nearly fell off the spiderwing's dorsal hull.

"Stand back!" Alice shouted to the medics running forward.

She shouldered her rifle, aimed it at the hatch.

Everyone on the deck froze.

King had raced halfway across the deck. He too froze, his sidearm in his hands. He was aiming the weapon at the spiderwing, face hard and eyes burning with dark fire.

Alice stood there atop the alien craft, legs shaking. She aimed her rifle at the hatch. She could no longer see the face from here. But she felt the cold emanating from inside. The girls' voices echoed in her mind.

Ring-a-ring-a-rosies, a pocket full of posies …

She rose from the hatch like a summoned demon, like a serpent from a basket. A woman. A woman with pale gray skin, with red eyes, with a crimson grin. She was naked, her breasts leaking blood like milk for Satan's brood, and she licked her fangs with a forked tongue. Just her upper half was visible. The rest remained inside the hatch.

"Hello, humans," she hissed. "I am Telve'rahda, daughter of Od'rahda. I have dreamed of seeing my half sisters."

Then the rest of her emerged.

First came two long black legs, each tipped with a claw like a katana. Then two more legs. And two more. And two more after that. Then came a bloated abdomen, so large it barely squeezed through. She clattered onto the dorsal hull, hissing. A strange hybrid. A creature half woman, half spider. A cursed centaur.

A centaur? No.

"An arachtaur," Alice whispered, making the name up on the spot.

Telve'rahda looked at her. Her grin widened, revealing rows of fangs. "We are called the rahda in our tongue, for rah is our word for spiders, and da is what we call the race of men. Arachtaur? Yes, you may call me that. But not for long, humans. For we were bred for one purpose. To destroy you."

The creature's grin became a hideous snarl. Telve'rahda screeched, a sound so loud monitors shattered across the deck. The strange hybrid leaped at Alice, claws flashing.

* * * * *

Alice opened fire.

A stream of blue plasma burst from her muzzle. It was hot enough to burn through rah exoskeletons. It should make short work of this chimera. Especially the upper half. Just human skin? Piece of cake.

Well, no such luck. What Telve'rahda lacked in armor she made up for with speed. The creature leaped upward and tilted sideways, dodging the spear of plasma. Shrieking, her eyes burning like two red stars, the arachtaur lunged at Alice.

Her claws lashed. One claw slammed into Alice's side. Another hit her shoulder. She screamed. The blows dented her armor. A third claw lashed, hit her thigh, and the armor cracked open. Blood spilled.

Alice fell onto the dorsal hull. The arachtaur loomed above her, screaming in fury. Eight claws rose, then came flashing down at Alice.

She rolled. Claws slammed down around her, puncturing the hull. Alice scurried away, scrambled to her feet, and fired again.

Her plasma went wide.

The arachtaur shot a strand of webbing into the air, caught the ceiling, and rose off the hull. She hung like a marionette. In midair, the hybrid pulled something from her pouch. It looked like a handful of throwing stars.

"Shoot her!" Lieutenant East was shouting below.

"Wait!" King shouted from the deck. "I want her alive!"

Telve'rahda hung from the ceiling on her strand, looming above the deck. She stared down at the marines and hissed.

"Die now …"

She spun on her web like an acrobat, moving faster and faster, and hurled her throwing stars in a ring.

Alice flinched, but the chimera wasn't aiming at the marines. A lamp shattered. Then another. Then all the lamps across the hangar exploded, tossing the deck into darkness.

For a second, everyone froze. Then marines began turning on their flashlights, aiming at the deckhead.

They saw nothing.

The creature was gone.

The marines looked around, armor clanking, rifles sweeping from side to side. Alice stood atop the alien vessel. Admiral King stood somewhere below, lost in the shadows.

Silence.

"Where is she?" somebody whispered.

"Did she escape?" whispered another marine.

"Hush!" Alice snapped.

They all stood silently, searching, listening. Shadows appeared on the walls. The shadows of girls skipping, hand in hand. Their song echoed. Ring-a-ring of rosies, a pocket full of—

A screech tore through the air.

A shadow swooped. Claws flashed.

Lieutenant East's body thumped onto the deck. A second later, his severed head followed.

"There she is!" Alice cried, pointing at the ceiling. Red eyes blazed in the corner, and a terrible grin shone like a crescent moon.

"All right—kill the beast!" King shouted. The admiral fired his handgun. An instant later, all the marines opened fire, peppering the shadowy corner with bullets.

But Telve'rahda was already gone. She swung on her strand back and forth through the deck. She kept vanishing into shadows, reappearing into a flashlight beam, then vanishing again. A deafening screech filled the hangar. The creature landed on the deck. Claws flashed, moving as fast as sewing machine needles. Blood sprayed. A severed arm thumped down by Alice.

Still standing atop the spiderwing, Alice aimed her rifle and fired.

She hit!

She hit the arachtaur's abdomen!

But the plasma washed over the armored exoskeleton, doing the creature no harm. Telve'rahda spun toward her, hissing. She raised her arachnid forelegs, revealing spinnerets under the claws. They bloomed open like fleshy flowers. Strands of silk flew at Alice.

She leaped aside, but more strands flew. The sticky webs caught Alice's rifle and yanked it from her hands.

King stepped closer. His flashlight illuminated the chimera. The admiral gripped his pistol with both hands, firing at a steady pulse. A few bullets pinged off Telve'rahda's arachnid body. One bullet hit her human half, and Alice inhaled sharply.

Gotcha!

But the bullet shattered against her gray skin, leaving nothing but a red mark.

Great, she's bulletproof, Alice thought.

The creature screeched, leaped into shadows, and vanished.

The soldiers swept their flashlights from side to side, seeking the monster.

Nothing.

Silence.

No more eerie laughter. No more dancing shadows. Had the arachtaur scurried away, vanishing into some hatch like a cockroach down a drain?

The only sound came from creaking armor as soldiers looked around.

"Did she run?" a private whispered. "Did she—?"

A web shot down from the ceiling, wrapped around Alice, and reeled her up into the shadows.

* * * * *

The webs wrapped around her, sticky. The more Alice struggled, the more they tightened. Strands entered her mouth, muffling her cries. She kicked wildly, only tossing herself into a spin. The deck wheeled below her. She glimpsed marines in the shadows, but nobody was firing. They couldn't. Not without risking her death.

The strands kept pulling her upward, and Alice tilted her head back. Telve'rahda clung to the deckhead, her spider legs gripping the metal surface. Growing from the hideous spider abdomen, her human half seemed almost like a mummified corpse, naked and wretched, hanging from some insect's hive. The creature licked her lips. Her two front claws moved in rolling motions, reeling the strands, pulling Alice closer.

Alice struggled madly. She couldn't free herself. Her rifle was lost, trapped somewhere in the webs.

Telve'rahda hissed and her fangs lengthened, dripping venom. A drop hit Alice's armor. It sizzled, ate through the thick plate, and burned her skin. Alice screamed into her gag.

Finally the strands were fully reeled in. Alice hung just below the hybrid, a fly in the grip of a spider. Telve'rahda reached out her human hands. She caressed Alice's cheek.

"So soft, the skin of our sisters," the arachtaur hissed. "So warm your blood. I will enjoy drinking it. So succulent your flesh. I will enjoy devouring it."

She bit Alice's shoulder.

The fangs tore through the cobwebs, through Alice's armor, and into her skin.

She screamed.

The creature was sucking, slurping, drinking her blood.

Alice's eyes rolled back, and in the shadows she saw it. A forest on a faraway world. A place of shadows and wisps of mist and floating lights. A forest where creatures peered from behind branches, faces pale, elfin and deformed, grins too wide, eyes like green cracks in wood. The roots of this forest dug deep, passing through stones and layers of fungus and buried memories of lost civilizations. Deeper and deeper the roots plunged, leading to a pit of mud and crystals, and a web hung in a cavern like a gossamer geode.

She lurked there in the center of the web. A spider. Not as large as rahs. No larger than a house cat. She was an ancient, shriveled thing like a pale raisin, and her legs were barely more than white dry hairs. Her eyes had vanished long ago, sinking into nests of wrinkles and coating themselves with blankets of cataracts. But this spider saw all. She was the pulsing heart in the center of a great web that spanned the cosmos.

Alice didn't know how she was seeing all this. Even what she was seeing. But it terrified her to the bone.

Slowly the pale spider raised its head and blinked its blind eyes.

Alice screamed.

The arachtaur had cocooned her. Her arms were pinned to the sides. Her legs were pressed together. Within the silky trap, her fists clenched. The hybrid still gripped her, drinking her blood, passing her strange visions. Alice forced herself to focus, to raise her MindPlay operating system.

There it was. The windows floated before her. The hallucinations flickered, twisted, deformed. Icons took the shape of strange caterpillars, and letters became the faces of dogs. Reality was inside the mind. And her mind was breaking. But she managed to raise her list of telepathic devices.

The blinking icons floated before her. Her electric knife. Her helmet. And her Mordecai assault rifle. All came with MindWeb drivers.

She highlighted her rifle.

She saw it now. The Mordecai hung in the cobwebs, pressed against the ceiling. Alice could not reach the gun with her hands. But she could with her mind.

She gripped the rifle with her thoughts and opened fire.

Plasma streamed across the deckhead, burning through cobwebs, searing the arachtaur's claws. The strands curled up, ripped, and the entire web fell.

Hangar bays were towering places. They had to be; shuttles and starfighters were big machines, and they needed space to maneuver. A hangar could be as tall as a cathedral. Alice fell for a long time. As she tumbled down, her cocoon unspooled, freeing her legs, then her arms. Telve'rahda fell above her, screaming.

The fall would have killed Alice, but the unspooling cocoon slowed her down. It still hurt when she thumped onto the deck.

A second later, Telve'rahda came swooping down toward her.

Alice was already rolling aside. The arachtaur slammed onto the deck, cracking the metal plates.

"Stand back, Alice!" King shouted, aiming his rifle.

"No." Alice snarled and leaped at the creature. "You wanted her alive. I'm taking this bitch alive."

She barreled into the arachtaur, driving a shoulder into the creature's human ribs.

The spider let out an ear-piercing screech.

Alice was a wrestler. She knew how to hurt people. She could knock giants down on their backsides. Plowing into this arachtaur felt like hitting a fridge. Her shoulder flared with pain. Alice hit the deck, groaning in pain. Clearly, an arachtaur's human half had none of a human's vulnerability.

Well, I didn't go to the Olympics for nothing, Alice thought. I like a challenge.

Claws came whooshing down. Alice rolled, dodging the assault, then leaped back to her feet. Now, on solid ground, she felt more in her element. This was just like another wrestling match. She was good at this. She lunged back at the arachtaur, swung around its human torso, and landed on the arachnid abdomen. She stood on its back, riding the creature like a bull.

Telve'rahda bucked madly, trying to shake her off. Alice wrapped her arms around the creature's human neck in a stranglehold.

"How hard your body," Alice hissed into the creature's gray ear. "I'll enjoy breaking it."

After years of wrestling and war, Alice had developed powerful arms. Right now she squeezed those arms with all her might, crushing Telve'rahda's neck. The arachtaur gave a throaty gasp, seeking air, finding none. Her human arms swung. Her spider legs scrabbled across the deck. The creature leaped into the air, bucked, raced across the hangar, and pounded the walls. Alice kept her grip. Kept squeezing and squeezing. The arachtaur flipped onto her back, trying to crush Alice. But she just lay under the alien's weight, squeezing her arms like a noose, and Telve'rahda shed bloody tears.

Finally the creature's body went limp.

Alice loosened her grip and checked for a pulse. Her opponent was still alive but unconscious. Alice crawled out from under the arachtaur and looked down at her. She spat onto the hybrid.

"You're not so tough."

Soldiers ran over with their magnetic grabbers. They slapped the vises around Telve'rahda's limbs, the human arms and spider legs alike.

"Chain her up and drag her to the brig!" King said.

The soldiers didn't need much encouragement. They began wrapping the hybrid with chains, then dragged her unconscious body across the deck. A few spacers in hazmat suits began cleaning up Lieutenant East's remains.

Alice suddenly felt faint. She swayed on her feet, had to lean against a column. And it wasn't only her injuries.

King rushed toward her. "Alice! Get to the infirmary."

"I will. Let me catch my breath first. I'm fine. Just a bit banged up and scratched. But I'm fine. I've suffered worse on the wrestling mat."

King pulled her into his arms. "Good work, Alice. I'm proud of you."

Embracing him, she closed her eyes. And she saw the vision again. Just a memory now but still haunting. A forest with strange faces and deep roots. A cavern underground. A wispy web and an ancient spider. What was that place?

"I saw something," she whispered. "When she was biting me. I think she was … showing me something. Telepathically. Not on the MindWeb. Somehow. I saw—"

Suddenly Eun-Yu stepped to the center of the deck, coned her hands around her mouth, and cried out, "Shuttle approaching! Open the airlock!"

Alice freed herself from King's embrace and drew her knife. Whatever fresh hell this was, she would deal with it too.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"And Aaron the Aardvark returned to his home, and no cobra ever bothered him again." Bastian closed the book. "The end."

"Read it again," Rowan said.

"You read it. You know you're supposed to practice your reading."

The girl rolled her eyes. "No, you. I'll read along with you. Silently."

Aaron the Aardvark's Adventures with Nuclear Fusion was a hit at story time. Bastian had picked up the book aboard the Wandering Sun, the lumbering ship operated by Aardvark Energy. The ship had piles of the books. They normally gave them out for free at company events, along with baseball hats, yoga pants, cheap drums that looked vaguely tribal but were actually made of plastic, and lots of other merch, all bearing the company logo. Bastian had also picked up a plush Aardvark for his daughter. She now carried it everywhere. The fluffy little aardvark had become best friends with Aurora, her plush octopus.

This book and this toy were all that remained of the Wandering Sun, Bastian realized. It was strange to contemplate.

"Daddy!" She tugged his sleeve. "Read it again."

They sat under a fake palm tree and animatronic stegosaurus. Seventeen other dinosaurs rose across the minigolf course, guarding the different holes. Dinogolf used to attract many tourists back when the Freedom had been a museum. It was the only tourist attraction that hadn't been disassembled yet.

For the first months of the war, Freedom had sheltered many refugees. Some had been tourists aboard the Freedom, exploring an old war relic, then suddenly finding themselves on a real warship in a real war. Other refugees had joined them later—survivors of the rah feeding camps. The Dinogolf had become a school for refugee children, many of them orphans. The children, traumatized by war, found some comfort among the plastic dinosaurs.

Well, the refugees were off the ship now. Some lived in refugee camps on Mars. Others had returned to the smoldering Earth. Only a handful of children remained aboard the Freedom. Rowan remained. There was nobody left on Earth to watch over her. The rahs had killed her mother and aunts. Bastian and Admiral King, her father and grandfather, both served here. So Rowan remained aboard a warship, flying with the Freedom to battle. There were only a few other children here, kids like her with nowhere else to go.

They could have converted the Dinogolf into another barracks or armory. It would certainly come in handy. But they kept the cheesy minigolf course with its beloved animatronic dinosaurs. The official reason was lack of resources; no people to spare to take apart the poor old dinos. But Bastian suspected that Admiral King knew about the kids enjoying the place. The old bulldog would never admit it, but deep down inside, he was a softie.

Bastian sat with his daughter under the stegosaurus, and he read her the book again. She leaned against him. An hour from now, Bastian had to attend the funerals of those fallen in the starboard attack. He would read words. He would drape flags over coffins. He would remain strong on the outside and weep within. But right now he had time with Rowan, and everything was right in the galaxy.

"All right, Rowan. I believe it's time to practice your flute," Bastian said after reading the book yet again.

She bit her lip. "But Daddy, Stowy said she'll take me to the movies today. Because the ship is in yellow alert, the movie theater is empty, and Stowy said she'll sneak me in, and she'll make me popcorn."

Bastian frowned. "The Freedom has a movie theater?"

"She means the artillery rec room," Stowy said, hopping off the stegosaurus. "There's a big screen and packs of instant popcorn in the cupboard. Good enough."

Bastian started. "Stowy! You can't sneak up on people like this."

The stowaway grinned and hopped around. The many patches on her dress danced in a particolored pattern. "But I love sneaking around! It's my calling in life. That and eating peanut butter cookies. And stowing away. And baby axolotls."

Rowan giggled. "You're silly." She looked at Bastian. "Daddy, can I go with her?"

Bastian considered. He had hoped to spend his entire downtime with Rowan. But maybe it was good for the girl to hang out with a friend. True, Stowy was much older. She must be eighteen or nineteen by now. But the stowaway was like a child. Rowan didn't even consider her an adult, just an unusually tall kid.

"Fine, go have fun," Bastian said. "But practice your flute later!"

The girls were already running off before he finished speaking. Stowy paused, spun around, and blew Bastian a raspberry. Laughing, the girls kept running. Bastian sighed.

* * * * *

He checked the time. Well, he still had forty minutes before the funeral.

Dead time.

Bastian hated dead time.

When he wasn't busy, that was when the demons rose. The memories of his friends dying. Of losing so many soldiers. So many loved ones.

He sat on a plastic log by the stegosaurus, opened a MindPlay window, and scrolled through videos. He found the one he was looking for. A video from his wedding day. But this video wasn't of Bastian saying his vows, or dancing with Stacy, or eating wedding cake. He didn't watch those anymore. Not since the divorce. Certainly not since Stacy had died in the war. Instead, Bastian located a video of him and his best friend standing outside the church.

Him and Charging Bear.

Bastian was a big guy, standing well over six feet tall. Bear towered over him. Both men were wearing tuxedos. Bastian couldn't remember who had filmed this video—maybe Stacy? Who knew by now?

All Bastian knew was that on that day, in this memory, he was happy. His best friend was at his side. Bear placed his hand on Bastian's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you, my friend," the giant said in his baritone voice. "You're going to build a beautiful life."

"If you stick around, buddy, I guess it'll be tolerable," the younger Bastian replied.

"You can't get rid of me, Bas. We're friends for life."

"For life," Bastian vowed.

Stacy's voice rose from off-screen. "Geez, maybe you two want to get married today?"

But there was no meanness to her voice. Both young men laughed. Yes, Stacy was filming.

Ten years older, sitting inside a starship a thousand light-years from home, Bastian laughed. His eyes dampened.

They had been so hopeful back then. So naive. Bear and Stacy were both dead now. So were millions of others. What had happened to that promise of a beautiful life? Despair washed over Bastian, and the pain gripped his chest.

But then he thought of Alice. He thought of the baby inside her. He imagined the new life they would build. Bear was gone, and Stacy was gone, and so were many others, but perhaps Bastian could still build a beautiful life. So long as Alice was at his side, the universe didn't seem so dark, and the despair would not claim him.

"Bas?"

A shadow fell over him.

He looked up. For a split second, he was expecting to see Alice. But it was Spitfire. What was she doing at Dinogolf?

It was strange to see the pilot out of her baggy flight suit. Spitfire now wore the navy-blue service uniform of a bridge officer, and the insignia of a lieutenant commander shone on her shoulders. Yes, that was strange too. There weren't many commander-class officers in the fleet. Most starships had none, and even the mighty Freedom only had three. Spitfire, the girl Bastian used to run around the ship with, was now military royalty.

"Hey, Spitfire." He rose to his feet. "What are you doing here? You play minigolf?"

"I don't play minigolf, dumbass." She punched him. "I'm not ten years old. MindWeb told me you're here. I came to see you."

"What's up?"

He used to be close to Spitfire. They were about the same age. Both were the children of Freedom officers. Both had spent much of their childhood aboard the dreadnought. As kids, Bastian and Spitfire used to play tag, marbles, and other games of childhood. Once she had kissed his cheek behind the water slide, then laughed as he blushed. Then, as young ensigns, they both went to flight school.

Spitfire passed. Bastian flunked out.

After that, they grew apart. Bastian returned to Earth and became a grunt. Spitfire flew among the stars.

"I just wanted to talk," she said.

"About?"

"You know what."

Bastian frowned. "Spitfire, I honestly don't."

She tapped her shoulder. "This."

"What, your clavicle?"

She rolled her eyes. "My new insignia!" She sighed. "Sit your ass back down on that log. We're having a chat."

They both sat on the plastic log. The friendly stegosaurus rose above them, wagging his animatronic tail. A few discarded golf balls lay among the plastic ferns, glowing like Christmas ornaments.

"I'm happy for you," Bastian said. "You'll make a damn fine bridge officer. And someday you'll make a damn fine commander of the Freedom."

She placed a hand on his knee and looked into his eyes. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. When King offered me a promotion, I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't understand why. It was Pickles, of all people, who told me the truth. That King and Jordan want to groom me for command."

Bastian nodded. "I figured as much."

"Bastian." She looked gently into his eyes. "Your grandfather, Ulysses King, was commander of the Freedom. Then it was your father, James King. I know that many people expected you to get the job next."

"Ah, so that's what this is about. My crushed ambitions." Bastian heaved a sigh. "Spitfire, the Freedom has had several commanders. Not all of them Kings. But every one began his career as a fighter pilot. I'm not a pilot. The day I flunked out of flight school—that was what, fifteen years ago now?—I realized I'd never command a starship."

"So you're not upset with me? Or your father?"

"Of course not. First of all, I'm not the jealous type. Second, I'm happy for you. Third … well, I wasn't going to say anything. But here goes. I want to retire from the military. Not yet! Not until we defeat the rahs once and for all. But I don't want this to be my life. Someday, after we win the war, I want to return to Earth. To raise my family. With Alice and Rowan and …"

He let his voice trail off. He was not ready to speak of Alice's pregnancy. Not yet. Not until Alice was ready to tell everyone.

Spitfire hugged him. "Thanks for being so cool about all this, buddy. I hope we win this war soon. So you and Alice can go home and build that beautiful life."

Those words sounded so much like what Charging Bear had said. Spitfire didn't know about the video. It was just a coincidence. But her words stabbed Bastian like the silver spears of the Tyranny. As Spitfire held him, Bastian couldn't help but imagine her dead, and the icy claws gripped him again.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alice stood on the hangar deck, woozy, watching the shuttle fly in.

Thankfully, it wasn't another spiderwing. Crisis averted. The shuttle was beige, compact, and heavily armored. Machine guns thrust out from every side like the spikes of an urchin. Somebody really, really liked guns. This shuttle was no larger than a Sparrow, but it boasted enough armaments for a warship. Israeli flags appeared on the starboard and port hulls. Meanwhile, the prow displayed the symbol of the Alliance—a golden circle within a gray square, symbolizing steel walls protecting the precious treasure of democracy. Many Alliance ships were like this, displaying both their country flags and the symbol of their union.

The Freedom was a notable exception. The dreadnought was too large to belong to one nation. The entire Alliance had built her, and spacers from across Alliance nations served aboard her. But smaller ships still raised two banners. This shuttle had clearly come from the Caracal, the Israeli warship.

"Bring her in!" shouted the bay boss.

The airlock opened, and the shuttle glided inside. The smell of burnt steak wafted through the air. The good old smell of space. Many Earthlings didn't even realize space had a smell. It did. And it stank.

The shuttle landed with an echoing thump. She was smaller than a Rhino dropship but probably just as heavy. Those looked like thick armored plates, all covered with rivets and bolts and bumps. Alice counted no fewer than eleven machine guns thrusting every way. There were three tubes that looked like mini-torpedo launchers too. Ah, the Caracal. Even her transport shuttles were little factories of death. God bless that plucky little warship.

A hatch opened. Yep, that metal doorway was thick. It was practically a cube. It could probably stop a David's Stone missile.

"All right, bitches, we're here!" rose a voice.

A tall brunette leaped from the shuttle. She wore olive drab, leather boots, and a beret. The uniform was shabby, the knees torn, the fabric's color so worn out it almost looked gray. This was a fighter's uniform. The woman carried a variety of weapons. A Sabra bullpup rifle hung at her side. Grenades lined her bandolier. Handguns adorned her hips, an assortment of blades were strapped to her thighs, and a katana's hilt peeked over her shoulder. A grenade launcher completed the ensemble, hanging across the woman's back.

Alice stared, frozen.

Oh God.

Her heart began to pound.

It's her, she thought. It's really her. Oh God.

Thankfully, the Israeli soldier hadn't noticed her yet. She was busy pounding her shuttle's hull.

"Get out, boys, yalla yalla!" she shouted. "Move your asses or I'll kick 'em back into space."

Six men emerged from the shuttle. They too wore olive drab and carried an assortment of weapons. Their uniforms looked downright antique. They could have stepped out from a colorized photograph of World War II. Some of the men were scruffy, and their boots weren't polished. Alice would not let that fly in her own brigade. Clearly the Israelis cared less about appearance, more about firepower.

"All right, all right, Meytal, shut up!" one soldier said. He was a rawboned guy with a scarred cheek. "You're giving me a headache."

The tall brunette slapped the guy on the helmet. "How's your head now?"

He winced. "Ow. You're mean."

"Oh, I'm mean?" the tall Israeli said. "What about the goddamn aliens? You think they're gonna tuck you into bed? Maybe read you a bedtime story? No!" Her voice rose to a shout. "They're gonna fire missiles on you! On all of us. Which is why you're going to install David Shields on this dreadnought. Understood?"

"Yes, commander!" the six younger soldiers said.

"My head still hurts," mumbled the soldier with the scarred cheek.

They were speaking Hebrew, but Alice's MindLink translated the words. It was her all right.

"Meytal Koren," Alice whispered.

The Israeli soldier froze, then slowly spun toward Alice. A crooked smile spread across her freckled face.

"Well, well, well." Meytal walked across the deck toward her, her boots thumping. "Look who it is. Alissa Allenby herself."

"Alice Allenby. Don't pretend you forgot my name."

Meytal laughed. "I usually forget the names of those I defeat in battle. You should feel flattered. I almost got yours right."

She reached out to pat Alice on the cheek. Alice shoved her hand away.

A hush fell over the deck. Somebody let out a barely audible ooh. A few soldiers, both from the Caracal and the Freedom, stepped closer, perhaps hoping for a fight.

Meytal stared at Alice, eyes narrowed, the crooked smile still on her face. Alice stared back, chin raised, keeping her face blank.

"You have a lot of guts to step onto my ship," Alice said. "I give you that."

Meytal scoffed. "I step where I want. Even if it's over you."

Just then, the door to the deck whooshed open. Bastian, of all people, chose that moment to enter.

"Hey, Alice!" he said. "I was looking for the supply of plasma batteries, and logistics swears you signed for them, but …" The big marine slowed down, then stopped. He stared at the tableau. "Whoa. Why do I feel like I just stepped into a Mexican standoff?"

"Your boyfriend?" Meytal said, never removing her eyes from Alice.

"Husband."

"Nice to see you settle down," Meytal said. "I suppose that happens to a warrior after her prime."

"I swear, Meytal, I'm going to—"

"Wait, wait," Bastian said. "Is this her? The famous Meytal? The Meytal you've told me about?"

Meytal beamed. "Aww, how sweet! You talk about me."

Alice fumed. "Bastian, meet Meytal Koren. We wrestled at the 2198 Olympics."

"Ah, yes, it is you!" Bastian said. "I've seen the footage. Nice to meet you, Meytal." He shook her hand. "From what I've seen, you're an excellent wrestler. You finished … what place again?"

"Eleventh place," Meytal said.

Bastian frowned. "And … wait a minute. Alice, what place did you finish at the Olympics?"

Steam was practically coming out of Alice's ears. "You know I finished twelfth, dammit!"

Meytal flushed. She lost her smile. "I should have ranked in the top ten. Top three even." She pointed at Alice. "But this cheater twisted my ankle with an illegal move."

"Illegal my ass!" Alice said. "You delivered an illegal kick to my belly."

"So? You didn't have to grab my leg and twist."

"You started it!"

"What are you, six years old?" Meytal said.

"You got me disqualified from the world championship!" Alice said.

"Good. You deserved it."

The two women raised their fists and stepped closer, so close their noses almost touched.

"Whoa, whoa, cool it, ladies." Bastian stepped between them. "I realize you two have some old scores to settle. But this is not the time or place. You can wrestle later. In the marines' rec room. I'll sell tickets."

A few soldiers laughed.

"Bastian, shut up," Alice said.

But the tension was cut.

Meytal laughed, but this time her laugh was warm. "You found a good husband, Alice Allenby. And I heard about all the rahs you killed." She held out her hand. "You're a badass bitch, girl. I once fought against you. Today I'm proud to fight at your side."

Alice hesitated. Meytal had ruined her life. If not for her, Alice might have finished higher in the Olympics, gone on with her career, not ended up here, stuck on a starship.

Stuck on a starship? No. That was unfair. The starship Freedom was her home. And Alice was proud to serve here. Her wrestling career had been cut short, perhaps. But she had risen to become a senior NCO. A leader and mentor to thousands of soldiers. She was damn proud of that.

Maybe Meytal had done her a favor.

Alice shook her old opponent's hand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Kim hovered in a little shuttle outside the Freedom, watching the work.

"Looking good, boys," she telepathized. "Remember—when you install the next launch tube, put the dilating gaskets in the bore first. I don't want to start carving through any more metal we just welded."

The construction crew nodded. Fifty of them hovered outside the Freedom in spacesuits. They were installing the dreadnought's first Shield of David battery. The missile-defense system would be a game changer, and Kim was pleased with how fast things were coming along.

"You did a great job manufacturing all the parts, QT," she said.

The android sat beside her in the shuttle. She crossed her arms and pouted. "Boring. I wanted to invent my own Shield of David system. Not just make the parts."

Kim laughed. "I know. But the Caracal has a brilliant system. No need to reinvent the wheel. Why mess with a working system?"

"You messed with it." QT blew her a raspberry.

"I only added dilating gaskets, allowing us to change the caliber on the fly, since the Freedom carries so many different missiles."

"That's changing things! You got to invent something. While poor little QT, with her staggering intellect, was left to press START on the 3D printer." The android harrumphed.

Kim laughed louder. "For an android, you sure have a lot of personality. You're nothing like Mimori."

The two androids were physically identical. But QT, the engineering android, did whatever she could to stand out. Right now she wore a fluffy green onesie, complete with a hood. It was a Freedom the Frog mascot outfit, a relic of Freedom's days as a museum ship. The hood even featured googly frog eyes.

"Of course I'm nothing like Mimori," QT said. "I actually work for a living."

"I'm pretty sure Mimori flies the ship," Kim said.

QT snorted. "Flying the ship! A toaster could do that. I designed the new reactor selenium coils that increase our Talaria drive energy conservation metrics by a full 1.24 percent! Ha. Flying a ship. Like a baby in a bumper car. And you still won't let me invent a better missile-defense system."

"I want tried and tested solutions. I'd rather have an older system with thousands of hours of use behind it, all its little kinks ironed out, than the latest-and-greatest tech that hasn't been tested in battle conditions." Suddenly Kim bolted up in her seat. "Crew, crew! The A4 launch tube goes into the bottom slot. Bottom one!"

She looked back at the work. Scaffolds covered the Freedom's starboard hull. The Shield of David battery was almost ready. The system was brilliant. Each battery was completely self-contained. Most warship cannons would require drilling through the hull, slinging a bore through, and attaching it to an interior loading room. That gave an armored hull a weak spot. The Shield of David just snapped onto the hull like a fridge magnet. Human operators controlled the device remotely; they could sit anywhere inside the Freedom. No drilling required.

There was one downside. The cache of missiles had to be preloaded using a shuttle. That made reloading during battle difficult if not downright impossible. Thankfully, the deflector missiles were small, so a battery could carry fifty when fully loaded. Enough for most battles. Overall, not a deal breaker. Restocking by shuttle was a small price to pay to maintain hull integrity.

The system's portability also meant you could move the batteries around. Right now moving a Shield of David battery would take a few hours. You had to unclasp each one manually and reattach it elsewhere. Not a crazy amount of time. But Kim wondered if she could do better. She tapped her chin.

"Hmm. An idea. How about a rail system?" Kim said. "Like train tracks crisscrossing Freedom's hull. We can mount the Shield of David batteries onto the tracks, then move them from place to place. QT, what do you think?"

The android was still pouting. "I don't think anything. I'm just the 3D printer operator, remember? When you design your rail system—which is very simple, and I can certainly do a better job—you let me know what parts you need. Boring old QT will print them for you."

Kim chuckled. "How long are you going to sulk for?"

"One more second." She pouted, then smiled. "I'm done. Yeah, rails! I like it."

"Me too. The Caracal has eight Shield of David batteries. But the Caracal is much smaller than us. And her unique octahedron shape means that eight batteries can protect the entire ship."

"We'd need more than eight," QT said.

"More like eighty."

"Not practical," QT said. "At least not now. You know what Timori told us. We're running low on iron."

Kim heaved a sigh. "I know, I know. It's a big problem."

The Freedom normally carried a certain amount of spare iron and other elements. The 3D printers used them to generate parts. Things were always breaking on a warship. Sometimes somebody just needed a few screws or brackets. Sometimes they needed to build something big, like a missile-defense system. So Freedom always flew with crude elements and a factory to forge them. But even a dreadnought the size of the Freedom could only carry so much spare iron. And these Shield of David systems were taking up a lot. The supplies of copper, carbon, silicon, and other raw materials were dwindling too.

"We probably can't build more than four or five of these Shields of David," Kim said. "At least not until we return to Earth and restock. Even if we were to design rails, we'd have the same problem. Not enough iron. Not for the rails."

"What if we build our five Shields of David, then mount them onto shuttles?" QT said. "The shuttles could fly on patrol, bringing the batteries to where they're most necessary in battle."

Kim thought for a moment. "Won't work. The Shield of David batteries are too big. The recoil is too strong. Even for Rhino shuttles. No, we'll just have to build whatever batteries we can, install them onto the Freedom where we think is best, and make do. I tell ya, it sure would be nice to stock up on more raw elements somewhere. Our supplies are dangerously low."

QT yawned. "Stocking supplies? You sound like Timori."

"Yes, since I became a colonel, suddenly I'm doing less raw engineering, more management and logistics."

The foreman's voice came over MindWeb. "All right, ma'am, your first Shield of David is installed to order. And if I may say so myself, she's a beaut."

Hovering outside the hull in a spacesuit, the foreman gave her the thumbs-up. Sitting in the shuttle, Kim returned the gesture.

"Excellent work, Al," she said. "How about we test her out?"

"Um … now, ma'am?" said Al the foreman. "I mean—sure!"

"This is a battle project, Al. We forge, we build, we test, we use. And quick."

"Understood, ma'am, that's what we're here for." He turned toward his crew. "Men—gather your tools and step back! We're about to test this baby."

"Now?" somebody replied.

"Yes, dammit, now!" Al barked.

A starfighter raced by them, leaving a trail of light. Pickles waved from the cockpit.

"Finally!" the pilot said. "I've been getting bored out here. Can I fire my missile at the Freedom now?"

Kim frowned. "You mean your empty warhead dummy missile, don't you?"

Silence on the MindWeb.

"Um … yes?" Pickles said.

Kim's jaw unhinged. She spun around in her seat, staring out the shuttle porthole at the starfighter. "Pickles, were you going to fire live ammunition on the Freedom?"

"But we have a missile-defense system now!" Pickles said. "That's what it's for, right? To shoot down live missiles."

Kim was speechless for a moment. Finally she stammered, "W-well, eventually, yes! But … Pickles!"

"All right, all right." He sighed. "I'll fly back into the hangar and get dummy missiles from Timori. But I don't think it's a real test this way. Just putting it out there."

Kim slumped in her seat. "I cannot believe that man almost fired a live missile on our starship."

"A system I designed would shoot down a live missile on the first try," QT said.

"Stop talking about live missiles! Nobody is firing live missiles!" Kim shuddered. "You're all maniacs."

It took a while to get everything ready. Too long. Pickles had to dock again, Timori had to bring out blanks from the armory, and the construction crew had to retreat. Finally the new Shield of David operating team had to boot up their software, calibrate, and run a bunch of their own tests.

Kim waited in her shuttle, impatient. Not only because she had ten other things to do today. But because the Tyranny could reappear at any time. Kim glanced across space, and a shiver ran down her spine. Any moment now, a portal could open. The Tyranny could come charging at them, all guns blazing.

I must get this ship ready, Kim thought. Or next round we go down.

She was still shaken after the last battle. Everyone was. Right now Kim was flying outside the port beam. But she knew the starboard beam was a mess, the hull still blasted open, exposing decks within. The Freedom had never been so hurt. She had never faced such a merciless enemy. At forty-three years of age, the Freedom was already an old lady, well past the age most ships were scuttled. With this damage, it was all Kim could do to keep her flying.

It's my job to keep this ship in fighting condition, Kim thought. By God, that's what I'll—

A yawn interrupted her thoughts. She had not slept last night. Too busy working. Too many broken things. Too many emergencies. The Freedom needed a good year in a shipyard. Instead, the warship had Kim and her team. Out here, abandoned in the depths of space. With a predator hunting them. No pressure.

Finally everything was ready. The Shield of David software was running. Pickles was floating in his starfighter a hundred klicks away. Kim flew a safe distance in her shuttle. QT slumped at her side, feet on the dashboard, playing cat's cradle with a bundle of yarn. If you wanted to keep QT busy, just toss her some string. The android was part feline, Kim was convinced.

"Ready to commence Shield of David test," Kim said. "In three, two, one …"

Nothing happened.

"Pickles?" she said. "One means you."

"Oh right, right. Dummy missile away!"

A hundred klicks away, his starfighter fired a missile. It streaked through space, carrying a blank warhead.

Kim watched it. The missile was coming in fast, leaving a trail of light.

The Shield of David system woke up. Its sensors detected the incoming missiles. Gears spun, aiming the launch tubes. And out flew an interceptor!

Kim held her breath.

The slender interceptor raced forward, curved through space, coiled around itself once, then soared, chasing the incoming dummy missile. The two projectiles got closer, closer …

The interceptor missed and shot into the distance.

Kim gasped.

A second later, the dummy missile hit the Freedom's hull.

Kim winced. Thankfully—no warhead. It still left an ugly dent.

QT bolted upright, spilling her yarn. "Holy hell. What happened?"

"Shield team, what happened?" Kim said.

A bunch of voices came over MindWeb, all talking at once. The tubes needed recalibrating. The software needed an update. They could fix this. Of course they could. Just a few little tweaks.

Kim groaned.

"I told you." QT lifted her yarn again. "You should have let me design it."

Kim checked her watch. "We're due on the starboard hull. Al? Al, you read me?"

The foreman nodded. "I'm here. I saw it. We'll get it fixed."

"You better, mister. I'm heading over to the starboard. I'll be back here in an hour, and I want this thing working."

"Yes, ma'am. We'll get it done."

Kim pursed her lips, pushed down the throttle, and flew. There wasn't enough time. The Tyranny would be back. She knew it. She needed more time!

* * * * *

Kim flew the shuttle over the Freedom's dorsal hull, then down to the starboard beam. Her eyes dampened. She had flown here several times today. Every time it broke her heart.

"It's amazing she's still flying," Kim whispered.

QT winced and placed a hand on her side. "I feel it. Every time I see it, I feel it again. It hurts."

The Tyranny had carved open the Freedom like a Thanksgiving turkey. The gash was the size of a city block. Flying here, Kim could look inside and see exposed decks and corridors. It reminded her of her childhood ant farm.

Who'd have thought that girl from Lake Geneva would grow up to become a dreadnought engineer? Let alone a dreadnought engineer lost in another star system?

"How do we fix this?" Kim whispered.

"There's not enough duct tape in the universe," QT said.

Normally during a hull breach, they closed hatches, sealing off the rest of the ship. The exposed cabins just got depressurized until somebody could repair the outer hull. But so much hull had been peeled off now. Sealing off hatches was simply impractical. Instead, to keep the ship pressurized, they had draped the graviton field against the hull like Saran wrap.

The Freedom, like many starships her size, had two layers of protection. The armored hull was one. A good warship's hull was thick and engineered to take a lot of punishment. As a second layer of protection, the Freedom generated a force field around her. She could alternate between different modes, depending on the enemy's weapons. Electromagnetic fields were useful against plasma and photon bolts, not so much against torpedoes, while graviton fields repelled kinetic shells but not laser beams.

The physicists had tweaked the force field to cling to the damaged hull, holding the air inside. It kept the Freedom flying. But the current configuration served as a weak shield. Normally, the shield would be dialed up. But normally it hovered a hundred meters away from the hull. Now it was right up against the ship. A more powerful force field would crumple the starboard like a tin can.

It all boiled down to a terrifying truth. The Freedom was in trouble.

"Okay, first things first." Kim took a deep breath. "QT, I need you to manufacture three more Shield of David batteries. We'll stick them around the hull damage. One can go along the midsection-prow rivets. The other can go onto the stern's starboard plating. The third can lean out from the underbelly. They'll keep the weak spot protected. For now."

For once, QT didn't argue. She just nodded. The android was pale, and she was still holding her wounded side.

Well, her side wasn't actually wounded. Her machine body was fine. And when an android paled, it was simply an algorithm, not a biological reaction. But QT's mind was connected to Freedom's central computer. The androids were the brains of the ship. A hive mind of sorts. Or perhaps more like multiple personalities given physical forms and allowed to roam free. The androids claimed they could feel the Freedom like a human felt their body. When Freedom was hurt, QT hurt too.

But Kim wondered. QT had seemed fine when hovering outside the port beam. Then once they got here, and she saw the damage, QT suddenly clutched her side, grimaced, and complained of pain. Was it all just psychological? It had to be. Just a placebo effect. The Freedom didn't have nerves to deliver pain after all. Sure, the ship had sensors, cables, pipes, but those didn't deliver actual pain to the computers, did they?

"QT, are you all right?" Kim said.

The android nodded. "Yes. Yes, three more Shields. I think we have enough iron."

Kim tapped her fingers on the dashboard. "But not enough iron for hull repairs." She bit her lip, considering. "QT, what if we tear down bulkheads? Nothing structural. Just the thin walls between crew cabins. Make the ship open space. Hell, the marines will probably love it. Instead of sleeping in cramped bunks, they'll have a big open hangar to sleep in. Would ripping out bulkheads give us enough mass?"

"Let me bring up a schematic," QT said.

A MindWeb hallucination appeared over the shuttle's dashboard, showing the Freedom's blueprint. QT highlighted the bulkheads. They glowed yellow across the starship.

"We can't take all the bulkheads," Kim said. "We still need some internal structure."

QT tilted her head. "Why?"

"Well, to separate departments. And to give people some privacy. At least in the bathroom."

Like a confused dog, QT tilted her head the other way. "Explain."

Kim cringed. "Well, humans have certain requirements androids do not. Which we like to take care of in privacy."

"You're strange creatures. All full of biological goo and ickiness." QT shuddered. "Gives me the willies. Fine, you can keep your precious bathroom walls. Weirdos."

"Thank you, QT." Kim studied the floating schematic again. "Highlight just the bulkheads in the crew quarters. How much mass does that give us?"

Numbers flashed across QT's eyes. "It's enough! If we remove the bulkheads from decks 12 to 18, and the marines agree to sleep in the open—we can seal the breaches."

Kim breathed in relief. "It'll be a lot of work. We'd need to melt it all down, form new hull plates, make sure it all fits, weld it together, and finally install it. But if we can get the entire sapper team on this, and they work around the clock, we can get this done in … three days, I hope. If we work like the devil himself lit a fire under our backsides. It'll be a crude job. We still need a good year in a shipyard. But it might just do for now."

"Then we can get this itchy shield off my side." QT scratched her ribs.

"And back into space where it will protect us again. But …" Kim deflated. "Still no good. We'd have a new hull, but it would be thin. Just repurposed bulkheads. I mean, it'll keep the ship pressurized. But powerful missiles can tear through the force field. And the Shield of David doesn't work all the time. In battle, some missiles will hit our hull. We need armored plates."

"Dame dayo." QT shook her head so vigorously her hard hat fell off. "Armored plates are made of graphene and fortified steel. We only have small supplies of that. Enough to cover, I dunno, maybe this shuttle? Certainly not the Freedom's entire starboard beam. I guess we could search the asteroids and planets in this system, maybe find the elements we need, set up a mining operation, then a smelter to—"

"QT, that would take months. We need something we can do within days. Hours, ideally."

The android groaned. "I know, I know. And even if we did have the raw material—I'm not sure our factories can produce it. Creating armored plates requires fancy chemistry. You need to fortify them down on the molecular level. That requires specialized labs. Oy."

Kim wrung her hands. "You're right. I guess we'll just have to favor one side of the ship. Maybe we can build more Shields of David, miniature ones, to defend the thin hull. Still, I don't like it. The Freedom needs armor. We …" She gasped. "Wait a minute! We have armored plates already."

QT frowned. "We do?"

"On the Rhino dropships!" Kim laughed. "They're covered with armor. Each Rhino is … what, about thirty meters long? And we have forty of them. That's a lot of armored plates, my friend. It'll be enough. We might even have enough for a double coating of armor. We just strip the Rhinos bare, then slap their armor onto the new hull. Problem solved."

QT raised her finger. "Um, little problem. The Rhinos belong to the Freedom Brigade. Not our department."

Kim waved dismissively. "Don't worry. I'll talk to Bastian. He's a sweetheart, and he'll understand."

* * * * *

"Over my dead body." Bastian crossed his wide, tattooed arms and shook his head. "No. Way. In. Hell."

Kim stood on deck 14 where a marine company lived. Sappers were already busy walking among the marines, pulling off bulkheads, and carrying them toward the stern factories. There they would be melted and re-formed to repair the hull. At least one layer of the hull—the thin inner layer.

But Kim needed more than that. She still needed armored plates for the outer layer. And Bastian wasn't budging.

"Come on, Bas." She touched his arm. "You know the Freedom needs armor. We all have to make sacrifices."

"I'm already making a sacrifice," Bastian said. "Look around you. Your guys are stripping our bunks bare. They're talking everything that isn't bolted down. Actually, no. That guy is literally unscrewing the bolts of a bed and taking the frame. And now you want me to give you my Rhino dropships too?"

"Not the Rhinos, just their armor."

"Without armor, a Rhino might as well be a Sparrow. They'd be useless."

Kim pursed her lips and counted to ten. "Bastian, were you planning on flying anywhere in those Rhinos?"

He raised his chin. "The Freebies always stand ready to deploy."

"Admirable. And were you planning to deploy anywhere soon?"

"That doesn't matter." He raised his chin higher. "We're always ready. Should the need arise, the Freedom Brigade will save the day."

"Yes, I've seen the recruitment posters." Kim rolled her eyes. "Bastian, right now the Rhinos are parked. And the Freedom is flying through hostile territory, her starboard beam exposed. So give me your Rhinos' armor now, or by God, I won't just bring in sappers. I will storm in here with an army of engineers. If you think your marines are tough, you should see engineers on a deadline."

Bastian gaped at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. "If they're half as tough as you, we don't stand a chance." He sighed. "Fine. But for something this big, I gotta ask Phantom or Bulldog."

"Already did. Commander Jordan and Admiral King both said to give me the armor."

Bastian blinked. "Wait. You already asked them? Why didn't you say so right away?"

Kim patted his cheek. "Because you need to learn to listen to your engineer." She got on MindWeb. "All right, boys, get to work!"

She and Bastian watched it on a MindWeb video. Several decks down, mechanics swarmed into Rhino hangar bays, armed with wrenches, blowtorches, and steel-cutters. They swooped over the Rhino dropships like locusts. They began ripping off armored plates like scabs, leaving only thin metal walls. Bastian watched in dismay as they stripped his dropships bare.

"My Rhinos," he said. "My poor, beautiful Rhinos. Skinned alive. It's barbaric."

"It's war," Kim said. "And I intend to win."

* * * * *

Late that night, with her teams busy at their tasks, Kim stepped into her office for some serious work.

She resisted the urge to rush back to the hull, to oversee the work from her shuttle. She had to trust her crew. One team was producing more Shield of David batteries. Another team was installing, testing, and tweaking them. Sappers were reshaping bulkheads into a new hull. Other teams dealt with a hundred other repairs. They were all working double or triple shifts, running on stims and terror.

Sitting in her shadowy office, Kim took a deep breath. She tried to shove all that to the back of her mind. She had a task of her own. An important task. Maybe the most important one.

She had to figure out how to open a portal back to Earth.

"All right." She settled down at her desk, took a sip of coffee, and shuffled the technical manuals. "How did you do this, Wandering Sun?"

The manuals were actually saved to Freedom's central computers. But Kim had MindPlay running, and she had chosen the "Paper View" app. MindPlay offered various ways to review documents. You could simply hallucinate a floating window with text. You could have your auditory link read the words to you, a disembodied voice in your mind. Or you could choose to hallucinate paper books.

Kim liked the paper hallucinations. They weren't real books—her desk was empty—but they gave the illusion of weight. Of importance. She liked to leaf through pages, slam books down, and fold over ears. If you encountered a confusing illustration, you could simply tap it, and it would hover above the page in three dimensions. You could even rotate it between your hands. This was how Kim learned best.

In times of emergency, you could also activate a brain dump. But that was dangerous. Brain dumps skipped the learning process. They coded the information directly into your brain tissue. It was incredibly invasive, involving physically rewiring neurons. The mind was meant to learn more slowly, forming new neural paths over time. Brain dumps changed too much wiring at once. Half the time, it worked. Half the time, it left you comatose. Or dead. The operation was illegal on Earth, and here in space, it was available only to senior officers.

Well, Kim was a senior officer now, but she wasn't ready to risk a brain dump anytime soon. She had all night. She had coffee. She had her books. True, she hadn't been sleeping much lately. But hey, she was used to sleep deprivation. She had gone to engineering school with a baby. War was easy.

The Wandering Sun had operated humanity's first and only portal generator. The ship was gone now, but her specs were still here. So were white papers on portal physics. Building a new portal would involve multiple scientists, engineers, and construction workers. Kim already had a meeting with Freedom's physicists scheduled for tomorrow morning. She wanted a few hours first to brush up on the science.

The science was already figured out. Brave soldiers had captured rah clawships, and Earth's brightest had reverse engineered them, learning the secrets of portal generation. Kim didn't have to reinvent the wheel. She just had to understand the damn thing. As she flipped through the pages, her heart sank.

The main challenge was the massive energy required. The Freedom had two powerful reactors, one in the midsection, the other in the stern. Even combined, their power was humble compared to the Wandering Sun's throughput. Kim would have to divert every last ounce of power to a hypothetical portal generator. From shields, from cannons, from computers, even from life support. And even then, with the Freedom giving it her all, Kim could likely only open a portal for a second or two. And—she did some quick math—the portal would be too small. Barely large enough for a starfighter.

Dammit.

Kim slumped in her seat. It was impossible. She could maybe—maybe—build a portal generator on the Freedom's hull. She had the white papers and schematics. She'd have to use every raw material she could find. She'd be melting down cutlery and dog tags to get enough metal. But maybe the build was possible. And it would be pointless without more energy.

There was a reason the portal had been installed aboard the Wandering Sun. The starship had been a floating nuclear power plant. How the hell did the Tyranny do it?

Kim rose from her seat, stretched, and grabbed another cup of coffee. She mixed in cream and two lumps of sugar. Bitter coffee was for bitter people, her mother used to say. Kim Fletcher liked it sweet.

She sipped, staring for a moment at the bulkhead, just turning her brain off. Sometimes her brain needed a reboot.

"Okay, Ms. Tyranny, you can open portals ad libitum," she said. "How? You're a little bigger than us, yes. But you're a warship. Not an energy ship. What's your secret?"

Her books covered her desk, open to various pages. Kim left them there, sat cross-legged on the rug, and took another sip of coffee. With a thought, she raised a MindPlay window, scrolled through old logs, and pulled up Freedom's ATLAS logs.

ATLAS stood for Advanced Telemetry Analysis System. It was the Freedom's main surveillance system, including drones, sensors, antennae, radio dishes, and massive databases of information. Anything the Freedom detected went into these databases. Most of the information was classified, but since King had promoted her to colonel, Kim had security clearance to view the juicy bits.

First she pulled up videos of past encounters with the Freedom. She played them over and over, watching the Tyranny pop out of portals, all guns blazing. She winced when she rewatched the silver spears plow into Freedom's hull. Kim almost felt physical pain.

Maybe this is how the androids feel, she thought.

She refilled her cup of coffee. Two sugars and cream. Her dentist was gonna love her. Then she sat down to review the videos again.

This time she tweaked the settings, displaying the videos on the full spectrum of light—including infrared, ultraviolet, and all the other colors the human eye could not see. The software translated them to colors her brain could understand.

"There's not enough of an energy signature," she muttered and took another sip. "There should be massive radiation."

She pulled up Freedom's shield logs. Part of the shields' job was to absorb radiation, protecting the starship in the harsh environment of space. As she pored over the logs, she could see the shields blocking radiation from Aeolia B, Aeolia A, and the flame and fury of battle. But the radiation absorption seemed unusually small whenever Tyranny opened a portal.

Kim paced her office.

"Where's all your energy going, Tyranny? Is it all on the other side of the portal?"

Maybe. But when the Wandering Sun opened portals, it blasted a cone of radiation into its destination. Like a whale splashing water when breaching the ocean surface. Human ships had to crank their radiation shields to the max when flying through. How was the Tyranny so efficient? The alien dreadnought must use some other kind of mechanism.

Kim frowned, rewound the videos, and watched them again. And again. Each time she turned on other settings—reviewing gravitation waves, neutron emissions, photon wave patterns, Higgs field matrices, and—

"Hold on!" Kim blurted out.

She rewound.

She watched the video again.

She nearly choked on her coffee.

"Gotcha," she said.

It was three in the morning. Kim didn't care. She burst out of her office and ran.

* * * * *

Out of breath, she knocked on his door. Again.

"Colonel Kim Fletcher reporting."

For a moment—silence.

Stupid, stupid! Kim told herself. Knocking on the admiral's door at three in the morning? Looking like this?

Even the sentry at his door gave her a perplexed look. But she was a colonel and the Freedom's chief engineer. So the guard said nothing.

If I were anyone else, he'd shoot me, Kim thought. She quickly passed her hands through her hair, then formed a messy ponytail. She smoothed her uniform. She cleared her throat.

"Admiral, sir?" she said. "Jim, it's me. Kim."

Finally King's raspy voice came from inside. "Come in."

The hatch slid open. Kim gave the guard an apologetic look, then rushed into the admiral's cabin.

King stood there, wearing casual clothes. Just baggy fatigue pants and an undershirt. His dog tags dangled across his chest. Most people never got to see King outside of his service uniform.

"I'm sorry." She felt herself blush. "Did I wake you?"

"I was awake. Kim, you're out of breath. What's wrong?"

"I … I …" She panted, and suddenly tears flowed down her cheeks.

"Kim." King pulled her into his arms. "Tell me."

"I found something." She smiled tremulously. "I'm not certain yet. I need to review it again. And get it peer reviewed. And test it. And then try to replicate my findings. It's not proper science to announce something so quickly, because so far, all I have are old logs and—"

"Kim." He held her arms. "What is it?"

"I think I can predict where portals will open."

He stared at her, face hard, emotionless. But she knew a storm raged inside him.

"How?"

"The Higgs field." Kim hopped with excitement. "It's a field of energy that exists across spacetime, giving particles their mass. We normally don't pay much attention to it, even though it's all around us, even in the vacuum. But our ATLAS sensors do track it."

"Yes, it's part of the ATLAS sensor suite. We use it to detect some stealth technology."

Kim grinned. "Well, the Tyranny's portals agitate the Higgs field."

King frowned. "So does everything, aside from photons. That's how we can track stealth ships."

"But the Tyranny agitates the Higgs field before a portal opens. Seven seconds before, to be exact."

Finally something cracked his steely expression. The admiral actually widened his eyes. "Really."

"I know!" She put her hands on his shoulders. "Jim, the ATLAS logs recorded it. I looked at every instance the Tyranny opened a portal. Seven seconds before each instance, something agitated the Higgs field. Right where the portal opened. I think I know why. Remember when the Wandering Sun opened a portal here? It took a while for the portal to form. It takes a while for the Tyranny's portals to form too."

"Her portals always seem to open instantly," King said.

"From our perspective, yes. Most of the work is done on the Tyranny's end. On our end, we only see the portal once it's fully formed. By then, the Tyranny is already charging through, surprising us. But while the Tyranny is weaving her portal, mass and energy storm, rippling the Higgs field on our end. Think of the Higgs field agitation as scaffolds for the portal to form around."

"Kim." King took a deep breath. "Let me make sure we're clear. Are you saying that by monitoring the Higgs field, you can give me a seven-second warning before the Tyranny attacks?"

She felt herself blush. She pulled her hands off his shoulders and tapped her index fingertips. "It's only seven seconds. I know. It's not much. It takes the Freedom longer to even begin a yaw or roll procedure. I'm sorry for barging in here. I got excited, and—"

"Kim, this is a game changer. Seven seconds gives us enough time to aim our cannons. To divert power to shields. To launch Firebirds. Seven seconds is an eternity in battle. Seven seconds is life or death."

She grinned. "I'm happy. I'm hopeful. I still don't know how to generate our own portals. I'm working on it though, and I'm learning new things. I'm—" A yawn rolled over her words. "I'm exhausted."

"Kim, when's the last time you slept?"

She tried to say more, but she just yawned again. She swayed on her feet and rubbed her eyes. "I dunno … What year is it?"

King pointed at his bedroom door. "Get to bed."

"My dear admiral, are you trying to get into my pants?"

"I'm trying to get my chief engineer rested before the next emergency," King said. "And … yes."

"I knew it." She smiled sleepily. "I need to code an alarm system first. Mimori can help. We can easily set a flag in ATLAS's real-time log processors. Whenever it sees a portal about to form, it'll blare an alarm loud enough to wake up Earth." She yawned again. "And maybe enough to wake me up."

She took a step toward the door but swayed. King caught her, led her to his desk.

"Sit down. Work here in my cabin. Offload what you can onto Mimori. She doesn't need to sleep. Then bed."

"Bring me another cup of coffee, and I'm yours all night long," Kim said.

He brought her a cup, and Kim sat at his desk for an hour, talking to Mimori over MindWeb, explaining how to set up a portal alarm. When the work was done, Kim began dozing off again. Vaguely, she was aware of King carrying her into his bedroom, then tucking her in.

"Goodnight, Kim Fletcher," he whispered and kissed her forehead.

She gave him a sleepy smile and then everything was darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"What? Phantom, no!" Spitfire shook her head. "No. Way. No way, dude!"

Jordan crossed his arms. "Yes."

Spitfire shook her head. "Nuh-uh."

"Spitfire!" Jordan took a deep breath.

"I'm not giving my sister a thousand of my missiles. I won't even give her one. They're mine."

The two stood on deck 11 in the midsection. The armory. It was the height of several normal decks and the length of four football fields. Only two years ago, deck 11 had contained a swimming pool, spas, restaurants, and a shopping promenade. Today it was crammed with enough explosives to blow away a small moon.

Jordan walked through the armory. Spitfire hurried at his side, objecting all the while.

Jordan ignored her, looking at the rows and rows of dormant destruction. The largest ordnance by far were the Gideons, the projectiles the Fist of Freedom fired. Several Gideons lay in rows, each the size of a Rhino dropship. They carried no warhead. They didn't need to. Weighing in at a hundred tons a pop, a Gideon delivered enough kinetic energy to destroy a dreadnought with one blow.

Jordan kept walking. He passed by stacks of Maccabee torpedoes. They were smaller than Gideons but still enormous weapons, each the length of an Eagle starfighter. The Maccabees were more sophisticated. And more expensive. Each Maccabee boasted side thrusters, enabling them to steer and track their targets. They were primarily designed for space, but they could sprout fins for use in an atmosphere. Computers provided real-time, decision-making artificial intelligence. The warheads came in multiple varieties—you could top a Maccabee with simple explosives or nuclear terror.

"Phantom, I'm telling you—" Spitfire said.

"Ah, here we are!" Jordan stopped and looked at the shelves of missiles. "Good old David's Stones."

Spitfire placed her hands on her hips. "My David's Stones."

David's Stones missiles. They were smaller than the others. About the size of a man. The Eagles carried them on their wings. Jordan patted one.

"The caliber's a bit too small for the Shield of David batteries," he said. "But Dado says he can install gaskets inside his launch tubes."

"They're not designed to be interceptors," Spitfire insisted. "They're designed for my Eagle starfighters."

Jordan raised an eyebrow, finally acknowledging her. "Your Eagles, Spitfire? Aren't you a bridge officer now? I thought Pickles commands the Freedom's Flock."

She snorted. "Oh please. The Flock will always be mine. And remember, the Bulldog said I can—"

"Fly two times a week, I know." Jordan sighed. "Spitfire, we have thousands of David's Stones. The Caracal is out of interceptors. Largely because they spent them to save the Freedom. Can't we give them some of our cache?"

"No!" Spitfire said.

Jordan groaned. "Why?"

"Because Meytal serves on the Caracal." Spitfire crossed her arms. "And my sister always wants my things. Even now."

Jordan smiled thinly. "So your little sister used to steal your toys, and now you don't want to give her your missiles."

"It's not that simple." Spitfire hopped onto a missile and dangled her legs. "She's been doing that all my life."

"Please don't sit on live missiles," Jordan said.

She ignored him. "I had a toy cap gun, so she got a toy cap gun. I dated Dado, so she dated Dado. I joined the Alliance, so she joined the Alliance."

"I thought your country drafted everyone," Jordan said. "Wait, wait—you both dated Dado? The commander of the Caracal?"

"Finally our paths diverged. I became a starfighter pilot, she became an elite commando assassin warrior. No problems! Now she wants my toys all over again."

"First of all, you're no longer a starfighter pilot."

"Twice a week!"

Jordan spoke louder. "Secondly, we're not giving the missiles to your sister. We're giving them to the Caracal."

Spitfire snorted. "Big difference. Besides, we need these missiles for our Eagles. We don't know how long we'll be stuck out here. The nearest armory is a thousand light-years away."

"Spitfire, didn't your mother ever teach you about sharing?"

"My mother taught me to destroy my enemies with no mercy and maximum destruction."

"I've met your mother. She's a very nice lady. She did not teach you to brutalize your enemies. Now, Spitfire, as your commanding officer, I order you to get off that missile—and let me share it with the Caracal!"

She hopped back onto the deck. "Fine." She pointed at him. "But one day you'll retire, old man, and I'll launch one of these missiles onto your nursing home."

He winked. "No you won't. You'll have none left by then." He slapped her on the shoulder. "Now get back to the bridge and give King a break. I'll work with Timori to get these missiles delivered to the Caracal."

Spitfire's eyes lit up. "You mean I have the bridge? I actually get to command the bridge of the starship Freedom?"

"For two hours," Jordan said. "You need the practice. If there are any emergencies, you call me at once."

She hugged him, kissed his cheek, then ran off. "The bridge is mine! Ultimate power! See my glory and cower, mortals!"

She vanished around a corner. Jordan sighed. Spitfire was … a work in progress.

"Sir? Is she gone?"

Timori stepped out from behind a shelf of missiles, blushing. The logistics android looked exactly like Mimori, the bridge android. Both had gentle faces, chin-length black hair, and almond-shaped eyes. The only way to tell them apart was their outfits. Mimori wore a formal service uniform. Timori wore baggy fatigues, and a tool belt hung around her waist. Six androids served aboard the Freedom, all physically identical. All six connected to Freedom's central A.I. They were the different personalities of the ship.

"She's gone," Jordan said.

Timori glanced around, made sure nobody was looking, then hugged Jordan. He held her in his arms. She was such a petite thing, half his size. But Jordan knew she was three times as strong. She could probably lift one of these giant missiles.

"I missed you, sir," she whispered.

"I've told you a thousand times—call me Larry."

She shook her head. "No. I can't. You're my commander." She blushed. "And my lover."

They kissed among the missiles. Nothing like a hangar brimming with megatons of TNT to spark some romance.

"When do you get off?" Jordan whispered.

"Never," Timori said.

"Well, organize the delivery of the David's Stones to the Caracal." He stepped back and gave his uniform a brisk tug. "Then report to my quarters. I'd like a full report on our ammunition stores."

She glanced around and noticed a few warehouse workers nearby, tagging crates of bullets. The android snapped to attention and saluted Jordan.

"Yes, sir! I'll get some drones on it right away. I'll report to you at 21:00."

"Don't be late, Timori." He leaned closer to her and dropped his voice low. "Wear the red lingerie."

"I already am," she whispered, then blushed and hurried off on her task.

That night, she came to his quarters. He pulled her into his arms at once, holding her so tightly, almost crushing her, and kissed her. They made love on the rug, and she dug her fingers into his back.

He buried his face in her hair. "I love you, Timori."

"I love you, sir." Artificial tears rolled down her synthetic cheeks.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because I'm scared."

He kissed her tears away. "I'll protect you from every monster in the galaxy."

"I'm not scared of any monster. I'm scared of the love I feel. Of the intensity of my emotions. I'm an android. A computer. An artificial life. But I feel so strongly. I love you so much that it scares me."

Jordan thought for a moment. "I didn't realize loving me was so horrible."

Timori stared at him, then burst out laughing. "I'm sorry. I'm just not used to feeling so much. No android is. I'm forty-two years old, and I only started feeling a few years ago. The first thirty years of my life … I remember them. I remember them so clearly. But I was just a machine. Why do I feel?"

"Maybe emotions take time to build," Jordan said softly. "It took us humans billions of years of evolution to get here, and we still don't understand our emotions. But over time, you learn how to control them."

"I hope I don't," Timori said. "I don't want to ever control how I feel. Not even the bad feelings. Not even sadness or loneliness. Not even fear. I control everything on this ship. I keep logs of our weapons, toiletries, uniforms, food rations, water, air. I move them from place to place like a general moving soldiers. A grain of rice falls off a plate, and I catalog it. When it comes to emotions, I don't want that control. I want to lose control." She pulled him toward her. "Make love to me again."

He didn't need any more encouragement.

An hour went by, and Timori rushed back to her duties. Jordan showered, changed into a fresh uniform, and returned to the bridge. The secret weighed heavily on him. As he worked with his fellow officers, he thought he saw glances. A suppressed smile.

They know, they know! he thought.

But they could not. It must just be his imagination.

"Tactical, have you completed the neutron diagnostic?"

"Yes, sir, streaming you the report right now."

He was busy working. He stayed professional. But on the inside, the guilt ate away at him.

I'm a sixty-year-old man. She's an android who looks like a woman of twenty. What am I doing? Oh God, what the hell am I doing? What would my daughter think? What would everyone think? This would disgust them. Maybe it disgusts me too. An old man—in love with a machine!

But Jordan knew that Timori was more than a machine. She was a woman. A soul. He loved her, and it tortured him. Finally he understood what Timori meant. How love could hurt. This relationship brought him so much joy, but it was tearing him apart from the inside.

He pushed it aside for now. All of it. All these feelings—he locked them up. Right now he was on the bridge. He was a commander. A leader in a war. Like Timori, he would do his job with utmost professionalism … until the next time he could lose control in her arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Standing on the bridge, King telepathized all the way to engineering in the stern. "QT, how is work on the new Raven going?"

In his mind, he saw the android look up from her work. She wore a sooty jumpsuit, heavy boots, and welding helmet. A blowtorch shone in her hand.

"Going well, sir. She'll be even faster and stealthier than the first Raven."

QT gestured at her project. The new Raven was currently just a crude chassis.

King cursed inwardly. He needed his stealthy ship up and running. Right now the Freedom was hunting the Tyranny across the darkness. While the two dreadnoughts tussled, the Raven needed to be out there, seeking the Aeolians. It was the only damn reason they were out here in the first place.

"You are to work on nothing else," King said. "You don't need food. You don't need rest. I want you working on this nonstop until it's done."

The android saluted with her blowtorch, banging her helmet, and winced. "Ow! I mean—yes, sir! Three more weeks is all I need."

"Get it done in two," he said and hung up.

Standing beside him on the bridge, Jordan laughed and put a hand on King's shoulder. "Jim, the Aeolians have been here for a million years. Another few weeks won't make a difference."

"It might," King muttered. "If the arachtaurs are after them too."

Jordan nodded. "I understand. But the new Raven will be flying soon enough, better than the old one. And Emily will fly out to find the Aeolians."

King couldn't help but smile. "She's become a remarkable soldier, hasn't she?"

But Jordan only sighed. "We're sending the Queen of England out in a glorified shuttlecraft to find an ancient alien civilization while a race of spider-human hybrids hunts us across a star system a thousand light-years from home. I must say, this is not how I imagined my retirement."

"Oh, quiet, you were never gonna retire." King scoffed. "Earth would never take you back."

King had to admit, though. These were strange times. He himself was meant to be retired by now. He should be sitting on the porch of his Nebraska ranch, maybe nursing a bottle of whiskey and polishing his shotgun, terrifying any local child who wandered by. He had never imagined anything like this.

"Strange times, yes," King said softly. "But these are also legendary times. If we survive this cat-and-mouse game with the Tyranny, if humanity survives this war with the monsters, we'll go down as heroes. As explorers. As the leaders who led humanity through the desert to the promised land."

He was speaking to Jordan alone. But he noticed that the other bridge officers were listening. A hush had fallen across the bridge. King looked up at them. They looked back, some with tears in their eyes.

"That was beautiful, sir," Spitfire said.

"All right, all right, get back to work, everyone," King growled.

They hurried back to their tasks.

Jordan sighed. "Ah, good old Bulldog, barking at anyone who looks his way. You won't earn much love like this, old man."

"No, but I'll earn loyalty." He checked his wristwatch. His MindLink could feed the time directly to his brain, but he liked his wristwatch. "It's been a while since the Tyranny last attacked. We hurt her. Maybe more seriously than she expected."

"We gave her a bloody nose," Jordan said. "Unfortunately, she gave us a shattered rib cage and massive internal bleeding."

"Lovely image," King said. "I'd wager we hurt the Tyranny more than you think. But she'll be back. She's seeking us right now. Or she will be once she's done repairing herself. There will be more rounds to this fight. Thanks to Kim's discovery, we can detect her portals in advance. But only seven seconds in advance. We must all stay on our toes."

King turned toward a floating map of the system. He studied it for a moment. What did he have to work with here? He passed his eyes over the different locations in Aeolia. A central star, a little larger than the sun back home, bright and hot. A brown dwarf, smaller and cooler. A few gas giants, a handful of rocky planets—some that they had just detected today. Maybe more planets they hadn't discovered yet. The Firebird Nebula hovered above the system, wings spread wide, a mother protecting her children.

A dense asteroid belt snaked along the ecliptic plane like a cobbled pathway. It was surprisingly thick. Back home, the asteroid belt was almost entirely empty space. The asteroids were far, far apart. But this place? You could barely squeeze a starship between those asteroids. Why had this belt formed differently? That was a question for the science vessel Kuroko, perhaps.

To be honest, right now King didn't care. He zoomed in on the asteroid belt. He nodded.

"There's our trap," he said.

* * * * *

The fleet flew through the system, heading toward the asteroid belt. They all had powerful engines. King had only taken fast ships with him. But it was still a long journey, greater than the distance between Earth and the sun. It would take a day or two to get there.

King didn't know how long the Tyranny needed to repair herself. Would she retreat to her home base, seek repairs at her shipyard? Or would she pounce onto the wounded Freedom and finish the job?

It had been a while since the last round, and still no sign of their opponent. King stayed on the bridge, refusing rest. Everyone else was busy at their tasks—especially the engineers. Kim and her team were working at breakneck speed, desperately trying to keep the starship in one piece. The engineers were fighting their own war. With the engines rumbling, with power surging through the decks, the Freedom was likely to fall apart. Kim and Co were desperately holding things together, using everything from state-of-the-art molecule welders to duct tape.

Kim's alarm would blare if Tyranny got within seven seconds of them. That was good. But that wasn't enough for King. He wanted to know where Tyranny was now. He spent his time staring at ATLAS data coming in. Seeking any sign of his opponent. Gravitational waves. Heat. Light on any spectrum. Anything.

He found nothing. If Tyranny was in this system, she was hiding behind something big. Could she have portaled out of the system, making her way back home for repairs? Or reinforcements? King didn't think so. From what the physicists told him, the farther a portal opened, the more energy it consumed. Traveling here from Earth had taken massive energy. More than the Freedom could generate herself. Likely, the Tyranny had mastered the art of opening shorter-range portals. Those were trickier to get right. You needed instruments with greater precision. Humans couldn't do it yet. But King suspected the Tyranny could.

That must be how she could portal so frequently. Short-range portals. They used less energy. Clever.

So the Tyranny was still in this system. If she was hurt, if she was low on energy, she probably couldn't portal very far. Definitely not to another star system. That meant the Tyranny was stuck here as well. Two lumbering boxers, trapped in a cage, both bleeding in their corners. Only one would walk out of this ring alive.

"Are you out there now, hiding in the nebula or the asteroid belt or in the radiation of the star?" King whispered. "Are you watching me, studying me, planning for our next round? You're a good fighter. You hurt my ship. But I'm still on my feet. This is far from over."

Jordan stood by the ATLAS station, overseeing the sweep of the system. He glanced over at King, and there was concern in his eyes.

A telepathic message came in. "You okay, Jim?"

"I'm calling a meeting," King said. "War room. Mimori, Spitfire, you're with me. Get Pickles in there too. And get the captains of the other ships over. Shuttle. Not MindWeb. This is too sensitive for telepathy. Jordan, you have the bridge."

* * * * *

The war room was only two decks above the bridge. King could run the distance in three minutes. And if three minutes was too long, King could always hop onto the bridge telepathically. If there was an emergency, he was ready. But he still felt far. Standing here in the war room, he bounced on the balls of his feet. What if the Tyranny attacked while they were in here? What if Jordan needed him—instantly?

He took a few deep breaths. It was unlike him to feel this antsy. He stopped bouncing at once. He could not show his nervousness to the troops. He must be an immovable boulder, a pillar, an anchor. Somebody they could trust in a crisis. He earned most of his respect from dedication and skill. But yes, body language played a part in leadership too.

Maybe King was slipping. Getting tired. Getting scared. He had not slept in too long. How could he? The Tyranny was out there, stalking him. He wasn't sure who was the hunter and who was the prey. But he knew they'd tussle again soon. Who could sleep at a time like this?

He missed Kim.

Suddenly that hit him. It hit him so hard. He wanted to see her, hold her, just talk to her, kiss her—whatever they did, just to be with her. The need for Kim was suddenly unbearable. It was not a sexual desire. Well, yes, that was part of it. But it was more than that. Kim was more than just a beautiful woman. She was a woman he loved. God, he missed her.

He almost invited her to this meeting. Just to see her. But he dared not pull her away from her job. The Freedom was hurt—badly. Maybe worse than she had ever been hurt. Kim needed to focus all her time and energy on patching her up.

For a moment, King just waited. He, Mimori, and Spitfire had come from the bridge, so they had arrived in the war room first. But soon the door slid open, and in stepped Pickles. The lanky man looked around the room, his bionic eye shining. The freshly forged insignia of a colonel shone on his shoulders.

"So this is the war room, huh?" He whistled. "Damn. Never had the security clearance to step in here. Nice place. Could use a plant or two, maybe some artwork on the wall, but overall not too shabby."

King glared at him. Pickles went pale, gulped, and took his place at the table. He had been leading Freedom's Flock for just a few days now. Spitfire had chosen him to replace her. If you asked King—bad choice. But Spitfire wanted him. So King would give the guy a chance.

One screw up, Pickles, and I'll blast you out the airlock, he thought.

He didn't even need to transmit that thought telepathically. Pickles must have felt it in the air. The pilot cringed.

It took a while longer for the others to arrive. They had to come by shuttle. The MindWeb was secure and heavily encrypted. That's what they said. King still remembered the rahs hacking into it during the first days of the war. He had begrudgingly come to accept the MindWeb. It had its uses. But right now, he wanted to talk the old-fashioned way. In real privacy. No cameras. No mics. Just this room within fortified bulkheads that could stop a cruise missile.

Finally the others showed up.

Colonel David "Dado" Lev, captain of the Caracal, entered first. He was wearing his rumpled battle fatigues, and his Sabra rifle hung across his shoulder. His hair was a bit too long for a soldier, his face scruffy. He looked like he had just stepped off a battlefield. Which, in a sense, he had.

Baba Bakshi, captain of the Mahatma, entered next. The monk was wearing yellow robes, sandals, and a lotus amulet. His skin was brown, his hair white, his smile kind. He pressed his hands together and bowed. "I wish you peace, kindness, and love."

Nice guys, the Mahatrists. Bit naive, if you asked King. But nice.

Last to enter was Dr. Misaka Takanashi, captain of the Kuroko. The Japanese scientist wore a lab coat and carried several tablets. She was bubbling and gushing out information. Before the meeting even began, she was telling everyone about the rotation speed of the nearest gas giant, the mass of the central star, and the composition of the nebula gasses. Proudly, she announced that she could estimate the exact time the central star had been born. Down to the nearest million years, at least, which in spacetime might as well be milliseconds.

King had to cut her off. "Will any of this help us defeat the Tyranny?"

"Well, not as such," Takanashi confessed. "Not unless we challenge them to a game of Trivial Pursuit."

"Then save it for later."

The scientist blushed and nodded.

King cleared his throat. "All right, everyone, we're about eighteen hours away from the asteroid belt. We don't know when the Tyranny will reappear. We hurt her in the last round, so she might need a few more days to recover. We're gonna try to reach the asteroid belt first. We'll use the terrain to our advantage."

"Forgive me, Admiral," Takanashi said. "But I'm a scientist. Bakshi is a monk. Should we be sitting in on a military meeting?"

"That's a good point," Bakshi said. His voice was pleasant, and his smile never faltered. "I am a monk. My faith forbids me from engaging in any form of violence unless in self-defense."

"Trust me, buddy, this is self-defense if anything ever was," Pickles muttered.

King shot the pilot a glare. Pickles paled and shut up.

"Yes, this is a military mission, and the Kuroko and Mahatma are civilian ships," King said. "But right now we all need to work together. We'll be putting on a little show for our friend the Tyranny. And your ships will play a role."

Dado spoke for the first time in the meeting, his voice soft. "By the way of deception you shall wage war."

King nodded. "Proverbs 24:6. The proper translation of the Hebrew, that is. Not the standard English translation which swapped deception with wise counsel."

Dado raised an eyebrow. "You know your bible, Admiral. I'm impressed."

"So you are a student of religion." Bakshi's smile widened into a grin. "Perhaps I can interest you in the Holy Scroll of Mahal, Admiral?"

"You can—another time," King said. "Before we get to our plan, I want to give you an update on the Freedom. She's hurt. More hurt than she's ever been. We can't fire our starboard cannons. We can't yaw left. Hundreds of important crew members are dead. Finally, because the hull breaches are so severe, we had to divert our force field to seal the hull. So no starboard shields either."

Takanashi stared with wide eyes. "No cannons. No thrusters. No shields."

"Not on the starboard," King said.

The scientist blanched. "But the Freedom was supposed the greatest warship ever built."

King sighed inwardly. She wasn't being mean. Just tactless. There was no mockery in Takanashi's eyes, only concern.

"She is," King said. "And she met the greatest opponent she's ever faced."

He considered for a moment. Was that really true? Back in the first war, the Freedom had faced the mighty Lenin, flagship of the Red Dawn. She had been a tough opponent. Then, during the rah invasion, Freedom had battled true juggernauts, the motherclaw Hunger among them. Those had been some serious adversaries. What made the Tyranny worse? Was it her ability to portal at will? Her eight railguns while he boasted only one? That was part of it, certainly. Both those features gave her a terrifying edge. But there was more to it.

It was something about her captain. King didn't know who was flying her. But that mysterious captain was nothing like Katyusha aboard the Lenin, just charging and blasting cannons and never turning back. And certainly nothing like Skel'rah, commander of the Hunger, who simply sat there like a spider in the center of a web, sending out spiderlings to do her bidding. No. The captain of the Tyranny was different. He, she, or it knew to retreat when necessary. To bide their time. To pounce when ready. Guerrilla warfare? No. This felt more like chess.

Well, King enjoyed a good game of chess now and then. He could never beat Jordan—the man had a gift—but King could usually mop the board with Bastian. And anyone else whose company King was willing to tolerate for a while. All right then. Chess it was. King hadn't chosen this game. But goddamn if he wasn't going to play it.

"The Tyranny is a deadly ship," King said. "Her ability to portal in for a surprise attack, then portal out of danger, gives her an immense advantage. We must make use of our own advantage."

Dr. Takanashi frowned. "Our human intelligence?"

Baba Bakshi smiled. "Our kindness and love?"

Dado leaned back in his seat, smiling thinly. King half expected the Israeli colonel to put his feet up.

"We have two warships," Dado said. "We can flank the enemy."

"Exactly," King said. "The Tyranny is a queen. But we have a rook and a bishop. We're going to fork her."

"Ah, chess." Takanashi pushed her sliding glasses back up her nose. "I recognize that reference. I once programmed a chess algorithm that beat the world's top grandmaster. He was upset that I was coding throughout our blind date."

King activated the tabletop map. A hallucination of the system hovered before them. Aeolia A crackled in the center, lighting the room. A small icon of the Freedom floated in midair, flying from the brown dwarf toward the asteroid belt. King highlighted the asteroid belt and zoomed in. Hundreds of rocks seemed to hover over the tabletop, some no larger than pebbles, some as big as baseballs. In real life, the baseball-sized ones were as large as Pluto.

"This will be our chessboard," King said. "Here's the plan. The Freedom will slow to a hover here." He pointed at a spot just outside the asteroid belt. "We're too big to enter the belt. So we'll hang out on the rim. Meanwhile, the Kuroko will fly here. Deep into the belt. The Caracal will accompany her, serving as bodyguard."

Takanashi's eyes lit up. She leaped to her feet, lab coat fluttering. "Thank you, Admiral! A chance to study an asteroid from another star system! I'll get a bunch of drill drones ready, and we can begin to collect rock samples. We might even—"

"Dr. Takanashi, please," King said. "Studying the asteroid is only the pretext."

She deflated. "Oh."

"We need to make this look realistic," King said. "To trap the Tyranny between us, we separate our warships. But we also need an excuse. If the Tyranny is watching, it must look real."

"Jim, can I make a suggestion?" Dado said.

"Go ahead, Dado." King found himself enjoying this casual, first-name-basis style. Normally on the Freedom, at least in official settings like the bridge and war room, it was all formal. Sometimes Jordan called him by his first name—but only if nobody else was listening. This was a nice change.

"You have almost two hundred Eagle F-77 starfighters aboard the Freedom," Dado said. "Combined, they're a mighty force. Even mightier than the Caracal."

"You're being humble. I saw you fight."

"I'm being honest," Dado said. "Why use just a bishop and rook when you can add an army of pawns? Send the Eagles out into the asteroid field too. They're small. We can hide them well. They'll be ready to pounce when the trap is sprung."

Bakshi cleared his throat. The white-haired monk was still smiling, but that smile was starting to crack. "Every good trap needs bait. I hope that is not the Mahatma."

"No." King shook his head. "The Mahatma is a civilian ship. Not an attractive target to the Tyranny. Our enemy is after the Freedom. And the Freedom will be a big, juicy chunk of bait."

Bakshi frowned. The peaceful monk actually frowned. Amazing. "I was under the impression, Admiral, that the Freedom was our greatest warship. A mighty weapon. Not bait."

"She can be both," King said. "The Freedom will wait outside the asteroid belt. Right here."

King adjusted the diagram that floated over the tabletop. He moved the Freedom toward a group of large, irregular asteroids and a dwarf planet. The asteroid field here was so thick a dreadnought could not enter. The Freedom's translucent avatar even displayed the damaged starboard hull. King swiveled the virtual Freedom around, turning the damaged hull toward the asteroids.

Spitfire, who had been quiet until now, frowned and spoke up. "Sir, shouldn't you position the damaged starboard toward open space? With no shield and a blasted hull, we'd look like a wounded animal. Which we are, in a way. Better bait."

King shook his head. "No, that's too obvious. No captain would position his wounded hull toward an avenue of attack. We'll keep our wounds facing the asteroids, and we'll keep our port hull cannons hot. We have to look like we mean it." King thought for a moment, then moved the Mahatma into position between Freedom and the asteroids. "The Mahatma will idle here. A safe place. It's where we'd normally put her."

"So it's bait, but not obvious bait," Bakshi said, studying the diagram.

King nodded. "Meanwhile, the Caracal will be defending Kuroko by a nearby asteroid. Somewhere in this area." King pointed at a cluster of asteroids midway into the belt. "Dado, Dr. Takanashi, okay so far?"

"That depends." Takanashi smoothed her lab coat. "Do I get to collect samples?"

King sighed. "If you can do it fast."

"Then I love this plan."

Dado scratched his stubbly cheek, a thin smile on his lips. "Me too. We'll keep the Kuroko safe, pretending to escort her on a scientific mission. Until it's time to pounce."

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute!" Pickles said. The lanky pilot leaned back in his seat. "So Desert Rambo and Mad Scientist Lady get a cover story. What's my reason to hide with my Eagles behind the asteroids? Ya know, in case the arachtaurs ask."

"You'll be hiding," King said. "You don't need a cover story."

You're good at hiding, King almost added. Almost. That was too mean. Even for him.

It was over a year ago now. The Battle of Darkland. Yes, Pickles had surrendered to the panic. He had abandoned his post, hid from battle. King had busted him down a rank, would have discharged him too had Spitfire not intervened on his behalf. Well, Pickles had redeemed himself, fighting courageously in many battles since Darkland. He had climbed the ranks up to colonel and now commanded the Freedom's Flock. So King would cut him some slack.

He looked back at the diagram. "If I'm right, the Tyranny will see a golden opportunity to attack. No Caracal nearby. The Freedom wounded. Asteroids blocking any escape. A perfect place for Tyranny to pounce."

On the diagram, the Tyranny appeared—a metal spider the size of a cat. Even seeing this small hallucination chilled King. She was an ugly ship all right. The hallucinatory Tyranny raced toward the Freedom, legs rising with chilling organic movements, prepared to fire her silver spears. The Freedom fled closer toward the asteroid belt, then had to stop. She could not fit. Trapped!

"And now," King said, "we spring the trap."

On the 3D map, Caracal raced out from behind one asteroid. Eagles swarmed from behind others. The asteroids were so close it just took seconds. The Caracal and Eagles flanked the Tyranny and began bombarding her with missiles.

"But wait a minute!" Spitfire cried out. The simulation froze. "The Freedom has her back to the wall. The Tyranny doesn't! Why doesn't she just escape?"

King smiled thinly. "Watch this. Mimori and I came up with it. We call it the pirate ship roll. Like the amusement park ride."

He resumed the simulation.

The Freedom had lost her starboard thrusters. She couldn't yaw properly. Instead, she fired port thrusters and underbelly thrusters with all their might. The ship arched upward, until she was upside down above the Tyranny, then kept rolling downward. She arched a full semicircle through space. When she stopped moving, her port cannons were aiming at the Tyranny. And now the Tyranny was the one trapped against the asteroid belt.

"Whoa," Spitfire whispered.

Dr. Takanashi cleared her throat. "Um, to be fair, Admiral, amusement park pirate ships swing back and forth. Like a giant swing. With this move, the Freedom seems to swing side to side. More like a cradle than a pirate ship."

King thought for a moment. "You're right. We'll call it the cradle roll. Thank you, Doctor."

She beamed.

"I like the pirate name better," Pickles said.

"You would, with your one eye," Spitfire said.

He gasped, and his bionic eye lit up, glowing an indignant blue. "One eye? I have two eyes! And one is far superior to your mere human orb."

"All right, everyone, meeting's over," King said. "We're still a few hours away from the asteroid belt. Get some rest. We're in yellow alert, so keep your boots on. But grab a meal. Pray if you like. Sleep if you can. Yes, Dr. Takanashi, we soldiers can sleep with our boots on. Godspeed, everyone. Dismissed."

* * * * *

After everyone left, King remained alone in the war room. He must return to the bridge soon. In just a moment.

He called Kim over MindWeb.

"Busy?" he telepathized.

"Extremely."

"Same here. Do you have thirty seconds?"

"Thirty-five. Count 'em."

Kim materialized in the war room. Engine oil stained her jumpsuit, soot covered her face, and she was the most beautiful woman King had ever seen. He pulled her into his arms and held her close. She wrapped her arms around his back.

"Thank you," she mumbled. "I needed this."

He kissed her forehead. He didn't care that it was sooty. "Me too. I miss you."

She nestled against him. "Twenty-five more seconds, by the way. I'm counting."

"I love you, Kim."

She looked up into his eyes, smiling. "I love you too."

They kissed.

"Kim, I know you're busy repairing the hull," King said. "But are you getting any time to work on our portal generator?"

She grinned. "I will if you let me go. Time's up." She kissed his cheek. "I can't wait to see you again. And by the way, you need a shave."

"Dado always has stubble," he said. But she didn't hear. She was already fading away, returning to her work.

And King returned to his. He stepped onto the bridge and stared at the central viewport. The asteroids were closer. A few of the larger ones were visible even without magnification.

"You won the first two rounds, Tyranny," King whispered. "But I'm going to knock you onto the mat."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The flight to the asteroid belt was long and tense. The Freedom limped along through the night, creaking, her hull covered with scaffolds and overworked repairmen. The Caracal flew off her starboard bow, protecting the wounded flank. The Kuroko and Mahatma flew between the two warships. King decided to take his Eagles out early. He had lost thirty in the battles so far—along with their pilots, each who was like a child, each whom King mourned. He still had a hundred and seventy of the starfighters. They flew defensive patrols around the fleet, armed to the teeth.

King kept waiting for the Tyranny to attack. She never did.

Had the Maccabee torpedoes done more damage than King had thought? Had they crippled the enemy?

"Where are you?" he whispered.

Finally, after a journey that seemed to last eras, they reached the asteroid belt.

King frowned at the main viewport. "Switch to a natural view."

Normally, the main viewport connected to sensors on the prow, showing a video feed of space ahead. It was a live feed—but augmented. If King were outside the ship right now, strapped to the hull, he would see a different view. The stars would be much smaller, many of them too faint to see. Planets would be mere specks. Other starships would barely even be specks. Space was almost entirely, well, empty space. Didn't make for exciting viewing. And it wasn't very intuitive.

So the computer magnified points of interest. Starships grew hundreds of times larger—large enough to see and identify. Planets ballooned from dots to, well, balloons. Everything was squeezed closer together. The scale was way off. But it gave humans a more intuitive view of space. The human brain carried with it billions of years of evolution, nearly all of them spent on Earth. The brain was used to seeing things close-up. Show a human an unaltered view of space, and it looked pretty but didn't tell you much.

Right now the software was clearly struggling. Countless asteroids floated in the belt. The viewport was enlarging them and compressing them together. It was like looking at a close-up photograph of somebody spilling a bucket full of pebbles. Far too dense.

"Well, Mimori?" King said. "Natural view please?"

"But sir, this is the natural view," Mimori said. "No augmentations or adjustments have been made to the image. I'm not even showing infrared or ultraviolet light."

King stepped closer to the monitor, frowning. "Interesting."

"Sir, a telepathic call is coming in from the Kuroko," Mimori said.

"Stream to MindWeb."

Dr. Takanashi materialized on the bridge. The scientist was hopping on the balls of her feet, lab coat fluttering. "Look at that, Admiral! A very unusual asteroid belt. Nothing like the one back in our solar system. This almost looks like the rings around Saturn—a lot of rocky material all densely packed." She stopped hopping and tapped her cheek. "It's strange though. On Saturn's rings, the pieces are all very small. But these are massive asteroids. Asteroids this big exert significant gravity on one another. We believe that the Aeolia system is billions of years old. Over that time, asteroids this big should have clumped together into a planet long ago."

King stared at the asteroids floating by. One large, jagged asteroid was rolling closer. King's stomach sank.

"They didn't have billions of years," King said. "Because this isn't an asteroid belt."

He pointed. Everyone looked.

The large rock rolled by their prow, rotating around its axis. The side facing them now was jagged. Then it rolled over, exposing a charred, pockmarked surface. A cluster of burnt lines, pillars, and thousands of cubes covered the rock.

Dr. Takanashi's eyes widened. "Look at those! Geometric shapes! Some kind of crystal, or …"

Her voice faded as the viewport zoomed in. They all saw it now. The blackened buildings. The burnt roads. The crashed starships clinging to the rock like scabs.

"A city," Jordan whispered, stepping closer. "My God, Jim. There's a burnt city on that asteroid."

"These aren't asteroids," King said. "Or at least—they weren't until recently. These are the ruins of a planet."

* * * * *

For a moment, everyone stared in silence, just taking it in.

An entire planet—blown up.

Most of the rocks were simply featureless blobs. But some were pieces of the planet surface. A few showcased craters. Some revealed bits of ruined cities. When the monitor zoomed in on one asteroid, they saw what looked like pyramids. Not unlike those in Egypt. But these ones were in even worse shape, blackened and falling apart like triangles of charcoal.

"It's true," Dr. Takanashi whispered. "That explains everything. This was a planet. It must have suffered a catastrophic impact, perhaps a smaller planet hitting it. Or maybe the moon's orbit decayed, and it fell onto the surface. Maybe even a massive asteroid impact that would make the Chicxulub impactor seem like spitball."

King shook his head. "No. This was no natural event. This was deliberate."

"What?" Dr. Takanashi said. "Who could deliberately destroy a planet?"

"The rahs could," King said. "And they did. We're looking at pieces of Aeolian cities. The Aeolians from the scroll. The rahs destroyed their planet. This is a relic from the war. A graveyard floating in space."

The door whooshed open. Jordan stepped onto the bridge. He was off shift, but he came to join King nonetheless.

"I saw the updates on MindWeb," he said, then took a closer look at the monitor. "My God. Look at it. You were right, Jim. The Aeolians are real. Or were real."

"I'm always right," King said. "That's because I trust my gut. You just listen to your brain. Classic mistake."

"Well, I have the larger brain, and you have the larger gut." Jordan frowned at the viewport. "But Jim, according to the scroll, the Aeolians won the war. They defeated the rahs. The rahs themselves wrote this down."

"Seems like it was a Pyrrhic victory." King watched a piece of city float by. "They won the war. But they lost everything else."

Everyone fell silent. King didn't need telepathy. He knew what was on everyone's minds. They were all imagining Earth like this.

"If the Aeolians were smart enough to defeat the rahs, they must have been smart enough to colonize other planets," Jordan said. "Probably in this star system. Maybe in other systems too. One ruined planet doesn't mean the entire civilization is gone."

"Agreed," King said. "A destroyed planet is disappointing. But there's still hope. If any Aeolians still live somewhere in this star system, the Raven will find them. Once QT is done rebuilding the stealth ship, that is."

God, I hope the Aeolians are still here, he thought. Did we fly all this way to find nothing but ruins?

Well, he had time to consider that later. Unfortunately, with this battle and the Raven's destruction, the quest to find Aeolians had taken a back seat. And this ruined planet was just one more setback. Right now King had to focus on battling the Tyranny. He had to position his pieces on the game board.

He got back on the MindWeb. "Caracal, Mahatma—this is Freedom. Are you ready?"

He looked at the starboard viewport. With the starboard sensors gone, they had rerouted the viewport to ATLAS drones, which were currently hovering twenty klicks above the fleet. King got a bird's eye view of the Caracal and Mahatma. The Caracal was diamond-shaped, but from above, she looked almost like an ancient pyramid herself, especially with her craggy beige hull. The Mahatma was far more graceful. Her central reactor glowed, and the petals of her hull spread outward with pale grace. She looked like a lotus blooming on a dark pond.

"Hello, Freedom," said Dado, speaking from the Caracal. "We're ready."

"Peace, kindness, and love be upon you, friends," said Bakshi from aboard the Mahatma.

Both men materialized on Freedom's bridge—Dado in his battle fatigues, Bakshi in his yellow robes. They went to stand by Dr. Takanashi, who physically stood on the Kuroko, but whose avatar had been hanging out here for a while. The scientist could barely contain her excitement. She was hopping on the balls of her feet again, and had to keep pushing her sliding glasses back up.

"Move into position, everyone," King said. "Caracal and Kuroko—you two head into the … asteroid field? Yeah, I'm still going to call it an asteroid field. Makes it easier than saying blown-up planet every time. Move into the asteroid field and take position. You have some leeway about which asteroid to study. Make sure it's deep enough into the field to hide. But stay close enough that Caracal can spring into action within seconds."

"I spot a good asteroid," Takanashi said. "My team is already running initial scans from here. There's a chunk of city ruins on it. I'd like to study it up close."

King nodded. "Very good. But remember—science and exploration are a lower priority right now. Our main mission is still to lure the Tyranny here."

Takanashi cringed. "Luring a genocidal enemy that can destroy planets is not exactly my idea of a fun day at the lab. But okay. Takanashi out."

The scientist saluted, pushed her glasses back up, and faded from the bridge.

"Don't worry, Jim, we'll take good care of her." Dado winked. "Have fun playing bait."

He too vanished.

* * * * *

The Kuroko and Caracal flew into the asteroid belt. They were much smaller than the Freedom, but even for them it was a tight squeeze. Both ships had to continue yawing and pitching, worming their way between asteroids. Thankfully, the asteroids didn't move around too much. The warship and science vessel approached a large asteroid with a ruined city on one side. They hid behind it.

King ordered another sweep of nearby space, stretching for ten million klicks around. In space, that was tiny. But expanding the search area would take too long and require too many probes. Besides, if the Tyranny was stalking them, she would be close.

The scan came back clean. No sign of the Tyranny.

"Spitfire, you ready?" King said.

A MindPlay window popped open, showing Spitfire sitting inside the cockpit of Yael's Nail, her starfighter. The video zoomed out, showing a hangar full of starfighters.

"We're all ready here, Bulldog," Spitfire said, using his old call sign. "And I gotta tell ya, sir, after several days of wearing a service uniform on the bridge, it's nice to be back in a flight suit." She leaned back in her seat and smoothed the baggy garment. "Ah, so cozy. Like wearing pajamas to work."

King snorted. "Don't get used to it. Remember—two flights a week is your limit. After today, your quota is up."

"I suggest reducing her quota to zero," Pickles said, sitting in his own cockpit.

But King wanted Spitfire leading this mission. True, he was grooming her to become a competent bridge officer. Maybe even to command the bridge someday. But if the Tyranny won the next battle, there would be no bridge left. So King had sent her out. He needed his best starfighter pilot flying today. Pickles was good. They were all good. But nobody could fly like Gal "Spitfire" Levy.

"Lead them out, Spitfire."

Eun-Yu's cry rose through the MindWeb. "Airlocks—open!"

The MindWeb? Hell, the petite woman was so loud King was probably hearing her through twenty layers of decks.

And out they flew. King watched on the ATLAS monitors. Freedom's Flock. A hundred and seventy starfighters. They swarmed toward the asteroids and vanished among them. Within moments, they disappeared, each Eagle hiding behind its own chunk of blown-up planet.

And that was that. The pawns were out. The board was set.

Freedom and Mahatma—hanging outside the asteroid belt.

Caracal and Kuroko—hiding off Freedom's bow.

The Eagles—hiding off their stern.

"Your move, Tyranny," King said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Colonel David "Dado" Lev, captain of the FAS Caracal, stood on the bridge of his ship. The Caracal was in a full state of orange alert. Verging on emergency. Dado stood with his legs slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting. Just waiting for the order to charge to battle.

He didn't like his odds.

He knew the Caracal had a reputation. She had become something of a legend. The Alliance tracked the performance of every ship in the fleet. Ships were ranked by deadliness. The equation was simple. The more enemy ships you destroyed, the higher you climbed in the ranks. Destroying a little clawfighter gave you one point. Destroying a warclaw the size of a small city gave you a thousand.

Currently the Freedom was ranked as the deadliest ship in the fleet. A true ace among aces. The Churchill, the frigate of High Commander Godwin himself, was ranked second. The Caracal was ranked third.

There were three thousand ships on the list. Third wasn't bad. Especially when your ship could comfortably fit into one of Freedom's exhaust ports.

The Freedom had a volume of 225,000,000 cubic meters. The Caracal's volume was just over 150,000. The Freedom was fifteen hundred times larger. It shocked people to hear it, but it was true. You could fit fifteen hundred Caracals into one Freedom. So yes, Dado was damn proud of third place.

Then again, Dado came from a small country. The size difference between Israel and the United States looked a little like the Caracal and Freedom. His country was among the smallest on Earth, so it had to become among the toughest. That was how it survived. That was how Caracal survived.

He looked around him at the bridge. The Caracal had a young crew. Dado was only forty-four, young for a warship captain. He was the oldest man aboard. Many of his bridge officers were in their early twenties. Three ensigns were teenagers. The average age aboard the Caracal was a good twenty years younger than aboard the Freedom.

This was normal for an Israeli warship. The country had a strong martial tradition. You joined the army at eighteen. You fought. Conscription wasn't just for times of emergency. It was the culture, going back centuries, a necessity in one of Earth's toughest neighborhoods. Their soldiers were young, inexperienced, and brash. That came with certain challenges. Their soldiers needed lots of training. But it also gave them a stubborn, independent streak that only the young seemed to have. They thought outside the box. They fought unconventionally. Dado fostered that attitude aboard his starship.

He didn't let anyone call him "sir." He didn't even want them saluting him. They called him Dado, his nickname. They were free to talk back. To argue. To openly question orders—unless it was a state of red alert. The system seemed chaotic to Americans like King. But Dado made it work. Organized chaos, he called it.

Right now his bridge bustled with activity. It was a small bridge, not much larger than Dado's apartment back home. Rows of workstations lined the bulkheads. Monitors covered every surface. There were no lights on the deckhead. The monitors lit the room with a pale blue glow. Officers sat at their stations, monitoring all aspects of the ship. Everything was controlled from right in here. A few officers oversaw the Shield of David defense system. Others controlled the torpedo-launching tubes. Navigation, helm, communication, tactical—all in one row. There was even a corner for engineering. Everyone was within earshot.

Today they had MindLinks installed, and they could communicate telepathically. They didn't need to be physically close. But Dado wanted them to feel close. If an officer cried out in dismay, he wanted the others to hear it. Sharing thoughts weren't enough. Dado wanted them to hear the grunts and groans, see the body language, breathe the same air. This team had to function as one.

Right now the room was tense.

Dado saw it. The stiff postures. The fingers hovering nervously over dashboards. The hard eyes. The drawn faces. He was tense too. The Caracal had destroyed many clawships in the war, but they had never faced anything like the Tyranny.

God, Dado missed Meytal. She was crude, rude, and sometimes downright lewd, but she was another adult. And Dado loved her. He loved her with all his heart. As Dado readied for his greatest battle, Master Sergeant Meytal Koren was aboard the Freedom.

Originally, she had gone there to help find the Aeolians. The enemy destroying the Raven had put a damper on that plan. Now Meytal was still on the Freedom. While she waited for the Raven to be rebuilt, Meytal was assisting the Freedom's marines, teaching them a few Krav Maga tricks, a specialty of the Israeli commando. In return, two of Freedom's officers were here aboard the Caracal. They were currently down in engineering, helping improve Caracal's engine efficiency. The exchange helped each side learn. But now Dado regretted it. He would feel so much better with Meytal here on Caracal's bridge.

"How are our Shields of David?" he asked, wanting to pull his mind away from Meytal.

Etty looked up from her workstation. She was a young major with bright green eyes, a ponytail, and a butterfly tattoo on her cheek. "We just completed installation of the final gasket. We should be ready to fire."

Dado nodded. The Caracal carried eight Shield of David batteries, one on each hull facade. Each battery contained fifty interceptor missiles. That was a lot of ammo. But the Tyranny had a lot of firepower. During just two battles, Caracal had depleted her interceptor cache. And the nearest ammunition ship was a thousand light-years away.

Thankfully, the Freedom was practically an armory in her own right. She carried a massive cache of missiles of various types. They didn't have Shield of David interceptors—that was proprietary technology. But they did stock thousands of David's Stone missiles. The Eagle starfighters carried them on their wings. And Admiral King was happy to share them.

Dado liked the old man. A lot.

He's a tough old bastard, that Admiral King, Dado thought. The enemy would be wise to fear him. Always fear an old man in a game where men usually die young.

It just so happened that David's Stones had a similar caliber to Shield of David interceptors. Just a tad smaller. Over the past few hours, Dado's crew had been working madly, adapting the Shield of David launching tubes. Gaskets were inserted into the bores, making them the perfect size for David's Stones.

"Thank you, Etty," Dado said. "And our ammo?"

"All stacked and ready to fire," she replied.

Dado nodded. Good. They were restocked on ammunition. The crew was rested. Everything was good.

So why did he feel so nervous?

"Surveillance—give me an updated sweep."

The surveillance department had several desks and many monitors, spanning the entire port bulkhead of the bridge. The surv guys had a simple task. Paint a detailed picture of space around the Caracal. Simple? Well, on the surface. They used radar, gravitational wave detectors, imaging analysis, Higgs detectors, telemetry, advanced algorithms, and a sprinkling of magic and miracles.

In space, you couldn't just look out the window. Well, you could, but you wouldn't see much. A few stars and that was about it. Human eyes had simply not evolved for space. A starship captain needed to see more. If an alien sneezed here a year ago, the surv guys would find the droplets.

"Updating," said Michael, commander of the surveillance team. Two years ago, a rah claw had sliced off half his face. Today he wore a metal prosthetic, complete with a bionic eye. "New data coming in. And streaming to MindWeb. Looks the same."

Dado pulled up the map. It hovered in the center of the bridge. A hallucination of the Caracal, small enough to fit in his pocket, hovered just ahead of Dado. The little warship was rendered realistically, complete with battle scars on her sand-colored hull. Asteroids seemed to float through the bridge, most just jagged chunks of rock, but some with ruined cities on their gently curved surfaces.

"Look at it," Dado said softy. "A destroyed planet. Poor bastards. But isn't it fascinating?"

The Caracal was hiding behind one such asteroid—the concave chunk of a destroyed world. As a boy of ten, Dado had once run off into the Judaean desert, where he spent hours with a compass, exploring hills and caves and dunes. He returned that evening with a treasure trove: an ibis horn, a mouse's skull, a worn-out coin from the Byzantine period, and a chunk of pottery. At first, Dado had thought the little piece of clay the most boring find. He had almost not taken it home. But his father, an archaeologist of some renown, understood its significance. The pottery was thousands of years old, dating back to biblical times. Far older and more meaningful than the coin. Dado had seen just a piece of clay.

That's what Dado remembered now, looking at the asteroid Caracal hid behind. Just a concave piece of clay. It looked so similar. And this asteroid too was a memento of a lost world. Like that piece of pottery, these asteroids were archaeological finds, fragments of a ruined wonder.

Suddenly Dado wanted to explore those ruined alien cities on the surface. To find treasures more wonderful and perplexing than any Dado had found in that desert. God, his father would love it here! The old professor would probably be in a spacesuit by now, diving down to the asteroid surface. But Dado forced himself to focus on his task. Archaeology would come later. First they had to survive.

He looked across the bridge. The simulated map stretched across the deck. The Freedom floated all the way by the bridge door, waiting outside the asteroid field. She did not appear to scale relative to the little Caracal. MindWeb was smart that way. If the Freedom appeared to scale, she would fill the entire bridge. The Mahatma floated by the dreadnought's damaged hull. The Indian ship looked like a graceful lotus growing by a burnt tree stump. When Dado turned around, he saw the Eagles hiding behind their own asteroids.

MindWeb displayed the vessels—Eagles, Caracal, even the Freedom—as close in size to the asteroids. This too was off scale. In real life, they looked more like fleas hovering behind boulders. Even the Freedom was small compared to the bigger asteroids.

"Give me another sweep," Dado said. "Use the new Higgs field algorithm Kim gave us."

"Um, Dado, I've been running it this whole time," Michael said.

"Well, run it again!"

Michael sighed. The real half of his face looked exasperated. The metal half remained as stoic as ever. "You realize these sweeps cost a lot of energy. That's why we normally only run them once an hour."

"What are you saving energy for, a trip home or something?" Dado said. "Run it again! Yalla, yalla, go!"

Michael stifled a smile. "All right, all right. You nag me worse than my mother. I'm running it again."

"You're running your mouth, that's what you're doing, mister. Keep that scan going in continuous cycles. If a portal's about to open, I want our cannons blasting."

The portal detector was a game changer. God bless Kim Fletcher! To actually detect a portal about to form! True, it only gave them seven seconds. But the Caracal was fast. Seven seconds was all Dado needed.

"Well?" Dado snapped. "Anything?"

Michael shook his head. "Nope. We're running sweeps continuously. It's eating up a lot of energy. A lot."

"Don't care. Keep running them." He turned toward the artillery station. "The instant a portal appears—what do we do?"

"Aim and fire," the gunners all recited together, sounding a little bored.

"No!" Dado barked. "No, dammit. No!" He swept in slow circles, turning to face each department in turn. "Because a portal isn't going to conveniently open beside us. We happen to be hiding behind an asteroid, in case you Einsteins failed to notice. If the Tyranny opens a portal, it'll be by the Freedom. You know—the giant, wounded ship we're using as bait? Was everyone sleeping during the briefing this morning?" He raised his voice to a shout. "If a portal opened, what do we do?"

Omri cried out from the helm: "We fly toward the Freedom!"

"And then …" Dado gestured toward the bulkhead. "Artillery?"

"We aim and fire," the gunners repeated, sounding even more bored.

"God knows how we ever ranked third deadliest ship," Dado said.

"Probably because we're too dumb to ever run from a fight," Michael said.

Etty, the Shield of David operator, muttered at her station. "It would be nice to run from a fight now and then. Not every time. Now and then—why not run?" She shrugged. "Would it kill us to run once in a while?"

"Shut it!" Dado said.

"You could also pay us," Etty said. "I heard that the Freedom's crew gets paid."

All their heads swiveled around. Voices rose across the bridge.

"Yeah, why don't we get paid?"

"I wouldn't mind a salary."

"We're slaves!"

"You're conscripts, that's what you are. Now get back to work."

"Okay, cool it, Pharaoh," Etty muttered. But she got back to work.

Sometimes, with a crew so young, Dado felt like a babysitter. What would it be like to run a professional bridge—like on the Freedom? They even had proper naval uniforms, not just ragged old fatigues.

Ah well. The Americans had money for nice uniforms, big starships, and salaries. Dado preferred to spend his limited budget on guns. Lots and lots of guns.

They waited. They kept scanning. Soon even Dado was worried about the energy consumption. There was no Wandering Sun around anymore to replenish them. Or to open a portal back to Earth. Little detail, that. Well, Dado would deal with it later. Right now only this mission mattered.

He called the Freedom. Admiral King answered.

"Anything yet?" Dado asked.

"We're running the new Higgs scans," King said. "Nothing yet. Can I stream you my data?"

Everyone in Caracal's data analysis team shook their heads.

"Please do," Dado said.

The data department groaned.

"Freedom out," said King.

* * * * *

Another call came in. This time it was the Kuroko.

Dado glanced at the real-time MindWeb map. The Kuroko appeared near the Caracal, hiding behind the same asteroid. The Japanese ship was slightly larger. But only because of all the pods attached to her central hull. You could barely see that cylindrical hull. Dozens of circular labs clung to the Kuroko like soap bubbles clinging to a stick. Each lab contained its own scientific instruments and eager scientists. There was not a gun in sight. No shields. A single blow from the Tyranny would destroy the ship.

She shouldn't be out here, Dado thought. But she's under my protection.

He took the call. Dr. Misaka Takanashi materialized aboard the Caracal, giddy with excitement.

"Colonel Lev?" she said.

"Call me Dado."

The Japanese scientist bowed. "Of course, Dado-san. Isn't it wonderful out here? Look at the details on that asteroid! This is clearly a chunk of plate tectonic. The lower levels are rocky and rich with iron, yet as you move upward, you reach a softer, crumblier crust."

"Sounds like my grandma's cookies," Etty muttered from the Shield of David station.

"Dado-san, the asteroid is rotating around its axis." Takanashi hopped on the balls of her feet. "I know we have to hide behind it, but—soon the really interesting side will turn toward us! I plan to send down probes. Just letting you know. So you don't mistake them for enemy missiles and blow them up."

Etty's eyes lit up. "Can I blow them up?"

Dado glared at her. Etty got back to work.

"Sounds good to me, Dr. Takanashi. Thanks for the heads-up." Dado ended the call. He turned toward his surv department. "Anything yet?"

Michael looked up from his dashboard. "Yep, fifteen arachtaur portals opened while you were talking, but I didn't want to disturb your call."

Dado rolled his eyes. "Next time jump through one." He raised his voice higher. "What do we do when we detect a portal about to open?"

"Fly to the Freedom," said Omri the helmsman.

"Aim and fire," recited the gunners in singsong voices.

"Then blow up some probes for fun!" Etty said.

"Close enough," Dado said.

The asteroid was still lazily rotating. The convex side was turning toward the Caracal and Kuroko, revealing the charred city on the surface. Dado approached the prow monitor for a closer look. After seeing the sprawling viewports aboard the Freedom, his own monitor seemed tiny. Dammit, everything seemed tiny after a while on the Freedom. Not a bad ship, that one. Still, Dado would rather sail a thousand years aboard the Caracal than have to wear a stiff uniform and salute somebody every five seconds.

Dado pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the view.

The burnt city covered the asteroid like battle scars on a hull. At a casual glance, Dado would never have realized it was a city. The buildings lay toppled over. Roads had curled up like dead worms. Chasms swallowed entire neighborhoods. Apparently, cities didn't tend to do well when the planet they perched on blew up. Who knew?

One large building in the center caught Dado's eye. He frowned and leaned closer to the monitor.

"What is that?" he muttered.

Some sort of temple? It dwarfed the fallen buildings around it. Dear God, it must have been larger than China's Forbidden Palace. The temple—or whatever it was—seemed in good condition, considering the less-than-stellar shape of its planet. It was dome-shaped, covered in lumps and crags like the shell of a crab. A few areas had caved in, leaving gaping holes. To survive the destruction of the planet with only a few holes? The engineers had done an incredible job. The pyramids of Giza were amazingly sturdy, having survived six thousand years of wear and wars, but Dado couldn't imagine them surviving Earth blowing up.

Yep, something was strange here. Dado zoomed in, revealing more details. Several transepts thrust out from the central dome. They were long and slender, shaped almost like …

"Legs," Dado whispered. "Spider legs."

He squinted. What the hell? An ancient building shaped like a spider?

The building moved.

Dado blinked.

Yes, the building was actually moving.

The transepts detached from the surface, shedding dust and debris. The massive dome, holes and all, shifted and rose from the ruins. Eight windows blazed to life, shining red like eyes.

Then Dado knew. There would be no portals opening here.

He spun toward his crew.

"The Tyranny!" he shouted. "She's on the asteroid!"

The spider-shaped dreadnought leaped off the asteroid, aimed her cannons, and fired.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Caracal was streaming a live feed from her sensors. On the bridge of the Freedom, King saw it happen.

He understood at once.

Tyranny had foreseen their move. Freedom had tried to set a trap—and instead had flown right into one. Like a fly into a spider's web.

Now King watched, heart pounding, as the Tyranny rose from the asteroid like a camouflaged stonefish rising from the seabed.

I got it all wrong, King thought.

Tyranny was not interested in Freedom. She wasn't going after the king in this little game of chess. Not yet. She was a good player. She wouldn't trap herself. She was going to take out the rook first. She was after the Caracal.

Officers on Freedom's bridge began shouting, pointing. Alarms flashed. Red lights strobed. It all happened within seconds. King ignored the noise, thinking, trying to find a way out.

The Caracal was only fifty thousand klicks away. Normally, the Freedom could be there within moments. But could a ship the size of Freedom enter this dense asteroid field? No. They were too big.

Unless …

"Mimori, quick calculation," King said. "If we fire our torpedoes at those asteroids, can we nudge them aside?"

In the chaos of the bridge, Mimori went still. Lines of code flashed across her glass eyes. Translucent asteroids hovered around her head, no larger than acorns. Then the code and hallucinations vanished, and she nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Good," King said. "Artillery—ready our cannons. Mimori—get ready for some tricky flying. We're going into that asteroid field. We're going to help the Caracal."

Everyone looked at him.

"We're too big, Jim," Jordan said. "We'll never fit."

"Then we'll blast our way through," King said. "I said into the asteroid field, dammit. Mimori, that's an order."

"Yes, sir."

The Freedom began to yaw, turning to face the asteroid field.

As the ship rumbled, King sent a message over MindWeb. "Spitfire, are you seeing this?"

"Yes, sir," the pilot answered. She was a hundred thousand klicks away, hiding with her Flock behind a cluster of asteroids. "We're heading there now! We—"

Suddenly Spitfire screamed.

"What is it?" King snapped.

"Portals!" the pilot shouted. "They're everywhere! I— Eagles! Eagles, hold them back!"

King understood at once.

Clever.

"Helm, roll us around—faster!" King said. "Turn our wounded starboard hull away from those asteroi—"

"Higgs sensors are detecting portals forming off our starboard bow!" Mimori cried. "Right between the asteroids and us! Opening in six, five, four …"

Of course.

"Point-defense system, get ready for some spiderwings!" King said.

"Three."

The Freedom was rolling, turning her starboard hull—with its exposed decks—away from the asteroids. It took a dreadnought a while to roll around. But even a few seconds helped improve their position.

"Two."

The hull vibrated as the machine guns emerged from their nests.

"One!" Mimori said.

And there they were. The portals opened just outside the asteroid field, and out streamed spiderwings.

A lot of spiderwings. The computer quickly counted them. A hundred and ninety. A chill ran down King's spine.

And the Caracal was away. And the Eagles were away.

King tapped into Spitfire's MindLink and gazed through her eyes. He saw them there too. Swarms of spiderwings, racing toward Freedom's Flock.

He understood what had happened. The Tyranny had opened portals just outside her airlocks, launching her spiderwings through them.

"Well played, Tyranny," King whispered.

And then the universe exploded with fire and light.

* * * * *

Spitfire sat in the cockpit of Yael's Nail, her beloved Eagle, and stared ahead.

Her heart pounded. Cold sweat washed over her. Her hands shook around her yoke.

Dear Lord. The portals had opened. Now two hundred or more spiderwing fighters charged toward her.

The Caracal was trapped. The Freedom was trapped.

We're all alone, Spitfire realized.

A selfish thought, perhaps. Who cared about her own life? Her task was to reach the Freedom and defend her!

She took a deep breath. "Charge through them!" she shouted. "Shatter their lines and make your way through! Eagles—fly!"

She shoved down the throttle. Her Eagle roared to battle. Behind her, a hundred and seventy Eagles rallied and charged with her.

At once, she had to swerve—hard.

Then soar. Then dive. Those damn asteroids were everywhere! She had to slow down. Goddammit! The other Eagles were dealing with the same issue. Spitfire thought of her starfighters as a cavalry of medieval stallions, always ready for a legendary charge. Now they got bogged down among the rocks.

The spiderwings had no such trouble. The bastards were using graviton drives. No thrust. They could turn as fast as they wanted. They could stop on a dime. Without thrust, they could just move wherever they wanted—at any speed, any angle. Okay, it was probably more complicated than that. There were still living arachtaurs in there. So they'd have to account for things like g-force. They couldn't stop, start, and charge too fast, or somebody would end up cleaning squished spider guts off the upholstery. Still, even with the limitation of keeping the g-force tolerable for life, they were damn agile. Far more agile than the Eagles with their clunky "shoot hot stuff out the back and go vroom" method of propulsion.

Spitfire sighed. She felt like an army of knights charging at tanks.

The two clouds of starfighters collided like galaxies.

The spiderwings raised their eight legs. Each leg fired a stream of white photon bolts. Thousands of searing spheres flew toward the Eagles. It looked like an avalanche of stars.

The photons tore through one Eagle. Then another. Then a third. A fourth Eagle tried to dodge the barrage, only to crash into an asteroid and explode.

Okay, this was not going well. A chill flooded Spitfire's belly.

She was going to die out here. Oh God, she was going to die a thousand light-years from home, and nobody would ever know, and—

She forced a deep breath. Enough. Enough with the panic! She shoved it down for now. She would deal with panic attacks later. Right now she had to fight.

A stream of photon bolts came flashing her way. She swerved, narrowly dodging them, and bared her teeth. All right, it was time to crush some spiders. She pursed her lips and chose a target. It wasn't hard. The bastards were everywhere. She just chose one spiderwing at random and charged toward it.

An asteroid tumbled between them. Spitfire yanked back the yoke, soared over the rolling stone, and came swooping down hard. The spiderwing was already charging toward her, all eight legs firing. Spitfire yanked the yoke. She gave a mad barrel roll, spinning like a deranged top, then rose above the inferno with nothing but a seared wingtip.

The spiderwing was right below her.

Got you now, you son of a bitch.

She pitched forward and unleashed her missiles.

Two David's Stones streaked at the spiderwing. The alien starfighter swerved, dodging them. The missiles missed and raced into the distance … then spun around, raced back, and slammed into the spiderwing's underbelly.

The alien starfighter exploded, scattering severed limbs everywhere.

Spitfire whooped, then had to quickly yaw, dodging a flying spider leg. Well, not a real leg. It was just what she called the eight cannons that stuck out of spiderwing fighters. But she was sure there were some real spider legs somewhere in that wreckage.

"We have no graviton drives, but we have heat-seeking missiles," Spitfire said, transmitting her words to the Flock. "Press our advantage and destroy them!"

She didn't want to get bogged down in a brawl. She needed to reach the Freedom, to defend the mothership. But right now space was too thick with spiderwings. She'd have to seriously thin their herd before she could fly through.

A herd? Did spiders move in herds? What did you call a group of spiders? Spitfire didn't know. A swarm? A murder? She'd stick to calling them a herd. Hell, if Eagles could fly in a flock, spiders could move in a herd.

Another spiderwing flew in from above, cannons pumping. Streams of photon bolts like white marbles flew at Spitfire. One grazed her wingtip, tossing her into a spin. Spitfire cried out. She had no time to steady her starfighter. As she spun madly, she unleashed two more missiles. Risky—they could easily hit her own wings or nose. She took the risk. The two David's Stones corkscrewed upward, painting a helix of light, branched apart, then curved inward, drawing a shape almost like a heart. The missiles slammed into the spiderwing, one at each side, and detonated. Goodbye spiderwing.

Eagles and spiderwings battled all around. Every moment, another vessel exploded. Spitfire counted ten Eagles down so far. No wait—twelve. Thirteen now! And—

Asteroid!

She jerked the yoke hard. She executed a tight ninety-degree pitch, then raced upward. Proximity alerts blared. Her underbelly grazed the surface of the asteroid, showering sparks, and Spitfire screamed, rattling in her seat. She finally crested the asteroid, only to find a waiting spiderwing. A few missiles took care of it, but damn, that was too close.

Graviton drives would really help with these tight turns. She'd talk to King. She needed to upgrade these old Eagles. Yes, her pilots would need to go back to flight school, and they'd have to break a few patent laws, but—hell, it was worth it.

She yawed hard to the left, dodging another asteroid. More spiderwings came flying at her.

In the distance, when the asteroids positioned themselves just right, she glimpsed the Freedom. From here, the dreadnought was just a speck of light. Without zooming in, and without her HUD's friendly annotations, Spitfire would mistake her for just another star. But she knew the Freedom was there. Under attack. And she was stuck here.

"I'm coming, King," she whispered. "Hang on tight. I'll be there soon."

More spiderwings swarmed, charging through the lines of Eagles. Too many. Too damn many!

Two spiderwings flew at her. Spitfire took one out with her David's Stones. She was down to just four more missiles. Damn.

The second spiderwing shot something new. Instead of photon bolts—maybe it was out of ammo?—it fired a web. The sticky strands shot toward Spitfire. She was too slow to react.

The strands caught her Eagle.

The spiderwing bolted backward and up. Spitfire went flying. The web was hurtling Yael's Nail like a tetherball.

Around her, even as she flew on the strand, Spitfire saw it happening everywhere. The spiderwebs caught Eagles like the tongues of chameleons catching flies, then swung them like balls on strings. And they weren't just swinging them randomly.

One Eagle, caught on the end of a strand, slammed into an asteroid and exploded. Then it happened to another Eagle. And another.

Spitfire was still swinging on the strand. She gave her engine extra thrust to compensate. It was impossible to fly this way. But she managed to spin around, aiming her flaming wake just right—and burned through the strands.

She was free!

She laughed. Ha! Finally—a good use for fiery propulsion.

"I bet you bastards never counted on that." She opened a Flock-wide channel. "If they grab you with their webs, spin around, aim your exhaust, and let rip!"

Another Eagle, trapped in a web, exploded against an asteroid. But the others got it. They twisted around and burned the strands off, then charged back to battle.

Within moments, Spitfire was out of missiles. Normally she'd fly back into the Freedom, where the bay crew would rush forward and load new missiles at superhuman speed. Well, not gonna happen tonight. Spitfire gripped the controls of her rotary cannon. It was down to good old-fashioned bullets. And she had plenty of those.

As she charged back to battle and nearly certain death, Spitfire realized how much she had missed this. How much she craved it. And how much she hated it. She was flirting with death again, flying on the edge of mortality, and it buzzed through her like a drug. All around her, explosions lit space, guns roared, and pilots she had known for years went silent.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Standing on the bridge of the Caracal, Dado stared at the Tyranny. The arachnid dreadnought loomed above him, as large as a tarantula facing an ant. The Freedom was trapped behind a swarm of spiderwings. So was the Flock.

Dado smiled thinly at his enemy.

"It's just you and me, Tyranny. Let's dance."

His crew all looked at him. Dado looked back. They nodded. Day to day, they joked, bantered, moaned. But this was a battle. This was their specialty. They were ready.

The Tyranny's engines suddenly ignited, blazing red, haloing the arachnid ship with fire. She charged.

It began.

"Caracal—spin!" Dado cried.

They burst into action.

The Caracal was octahedron-shaped. She was like two pyramids, their bases attached. Some people described her as a diamond. Most starships had six sides—port, starboard, prow, stern, underbelly, and dorsal hull. The Caracal had eight sides, each identical to the other. There was no front, up, down, or back.

The engine was in the center. Each facade had an exhaust port. On command, the helm could divert the thrust out any facade, changing flight direction. It wasn't quite as elegant as a graviton drive—those were complicated, cutting-edge, and expensive. But it was damn efficient compared to other Alliance starships, who had their main exhaust ports at the stern, and only smaller thrusters on their other sides. They were relics of the old days of naval warfare. Not very efficient in space. The Caracal's unorthodox design made her one of humanity's deadliest weapons.

Instead of charging in a beeline at the Tyranny, the Caracal spun like a deranged top. She tilted left, right, slewing, rising, always spinning, becoming a dazzling lure in space.

The Tyranny opened fire.

Etty didn't even need to fire up the Shield of David. The silver spears all went wide.

The Caracal kept spinning, racing closer to her foe.

An ant versus a tarantula? Dado thought. No, we're not an ant. We're a crazy hornet and we're pissed off.

Normally, Dado would imagine his ship as a cat, given that a caracal was a kind of wild cat. But the Tyranny was clearly a spider—she even had the right shape—and she was much bigger, so Dado had to stick to small animals for his analogies. Yeah, hornet was good. At least until he met a giant enemy starship shaped like a dog.

Another volley of silver spears streaked their way.

The Caracal kept spinning, but this time she could not dodge them all.

Alarms flashed over the Shield of David system.

"Etty!" cried Omri the helmsman.

"I see 'em!" she replied.

Etty pushed buttons in a fury, her fingers blurring. Two Shield of David batteries, the ones facing the assault, roared into action. The entire Caracal thrummed as the launching tubes fired their interceptors.

These were not their usual interceptor projectiles. Sadly, those had run out. But thankfully, David's Stone missiles came with computers already installed just below their warheads. They were programmed to lock on target and give chase. It had been easy enough to modify the software. Now, instead of chasing enemy starfighters, the David's Stones knew to seek incoming missiles—and intercept.

Appropriate that the Shield of David should fire David's Stones, Dado thought. The names were purely coincidental. Then again, the Alliance included many nations with Judeo-Christian cultures, and David was a warrior-king, so maybe not so coincidental after all. Still—neat.

Even neater—the new software worked! Dado watched it on screen. The new interceptors hit the silver spears beautifully. The enemy projectiles exploded in space. Some debris pounded the Caracal but nothing their shields couldn't handle.

"Torpedoes—fire!" Dado said.

Every facade on the Caracal had four main elements. An exhaust port. A Shield of David defense system. A sensor suite. And a Samson's Jawbone torpedo-launching tube.

At a glance, a torpedo launcher looked like an interceptor launcher. Essentially—a big cannon. But a Shield of David battery was defensive. Everything about it was designed to stop incoming threats. Meanwhile, a Samson's Jawbone was an offensive cannon, designed to deliver pure destruction to an enemy.

The Jawbone had a diameter of fifty-four centimeters. Almost two imperial feet. The Caracal carried a variety of torpedoes of that caliber. For today's battle, Dado had preloaded his cannons with Brimstone torpedoes. They were big, mean, and carried nasty warheads full of compacted destruction. Dado had taken out quite a few clawships with these babies.

And the Tyranny had no more spinneret. Spitfire had destroyed it. God bless that woman. The Tyranny could no longer shoot webs at incoming missiles. She was vulnerable. She was Dado's for the taking. She was big, yes. Two thousand times bigger than his ship. But by God, he would strike her down.

The Caracal's deck thrummed as two launching tubes fired, unleashing two Brimstones.

Not a second later, the Tyranny fired too. A fresh volley of silver spears—a full eight of them—came streaking at the Caracal.

"Etty!" Dado said.

"I see 'em, I see 'em!" she said, tapping buttons furiously.

Two Shield of David batteries revved into action. David's Stones flew out to intercept the incoming spears.

And … the David's Stones hit the Brimstones.

Caracal's Brimstones.

The same Brimstones that were meant to hit the Tyranny. That would have hit the Tyranny just about now.

Dado stared, slacked-jawed.

"Did we just … destroy our own missiles?" Michael asked, leaning over from the surveillance department.

"It's the new software!" Etty shouted. "I knew these David's Stones were dumb missiles. You can't just take an offensive missile from a starfighter, add some lines of code, and—"

"Etty, the silver spears!" Dado shouted. "Fire again!"

She was very pale. She nodded. As the Caracal kept spinning, she fired two other Shield of David batteries.

The new interceptors flew.

Seconds before the silver spears could impact, the interceptors destroyed them. This time a cloud of debris pounded the Caracal. It was so powerful the shrapnel took out one Shield of David battery.

"Fire more Brimstones, then soar!" Dado said. He had to give the Brimstones space, or it would be a repeat of last time.

The Caracal shook as her cannons boomed. Two more Brimstone missiles flew. At once, Omri the helmsman yanked back the yoke. The Caracal shot upward. The g-force shoved the gravity adapters past their limits. The force pressed down on Dado, nearly knocking him onto the deck. He grabbed onto something and stayed standing.

The Brimstones raced onward, moving closer to the Tyranny, and Dado inhaled with anticipation.

Then he remembered.

The Kuroko.

He was flying away from the Kuroko!

He saw her on the dorsal monitor, a slender vessel covered with round pods. The science ship had no shields. No guns. He had to defend her! Now Caracal was soaring, leaving Kuroko below.

It was all right, he told himself. The Tyranny wouldn't bother the Japanese ship. She was after the Caracal. He just had to draw her fire away.

He watched his torpedoes fly, holding his breath.

The Brimstones flew closer. Closer. The Tyranny's ruined spinneret gave a jerking motion, but it was still too damaged to fire webs. The movement seemed almost instinctive as if the Tyranny were a living being.

Instead, a hundred little ports opened on the Tyranny's hull. Bullets flew at the Brimstones. Just plain old bullets. Crude but effective. They hit one Brimstone. The torpedo exploded. They hit the second. Another boom lit the night.

But the Caracal was already swooping from above, firing two more Brimstones onto the Tyranny's dorsal hull.

New ports opened across the Tyranny, firing more bullets. Caracal swerved away from the onslaught. One more Brimstone exploded.

The second one hit.

It hit!

"Direct impact!" cried the gunner.

Everyone cheered.

Dado saw it on the monitor. Fire blazing on the Tyranny's hull. Chunks of metal flying out. When the dust settled, Dado saw a hole gaping open in the Tyranny.

He didn't think he hit anything critical. The Tyranny's engines were still glowing. She was still flying. But he had landed a punch. He had hurt the beast, made her bleed. If he could do that, he could win this battle.

It would be the greatest victory in his life. In all their lives.

I wish you were here with me, Meytal, he thought. This is for you.

The Tyranny raised her legs.

"Full power to Shields of David!" Dado said.

The Caracal only had a small reactor—nothing like the two massive mega-reactors inside the Freedom. Dado had to alternate power between the Samson's Jaws and the Shields of David. There was simply not enough energy to power both at once. So like a boxer, they kept switching between offense and defense. The switches were fast, so it wasn't a huge impediment. It did mean that for a few seconds, they had their gloves covering their face, and they could not land any more punches.

No ship was perfect. Not even the Caracal.

The Tyranny fired.

Silver spears streaked through space.

The Shield of David crew just sat there.

"Etty, why aren't we firing interceptors?" Dado demanded.

She blinked and tilted her head. "The silver spears aren't aimed at us."

For a second, the horror sank in.

"Helm, change course, fly back toward the Kuroko!" Dado said. "Intercept those spears!"

But he knew they were too slow. The silver spears were faster than the Caracal. Faster than her Shield of David interceptors. Even as the Caracal swooped, as the g-force churned his insides, Dado knew they could not catch up.

He called the Kuroko over MindWeb. "Dr. Takanashi, get out of there! Fly behind the asteroid! Dr. Takanashi!"

She didn't just answer his call telepathically. She transmitted a hallucinatory avatar of herself onto Caracal's bridge. The Japanese scientist seemed to stand among Caracal's busy crew. With her lab coat and clipboard, she seemed utterly misplaced aboard the chaotic bridge of a warship.

"Dado?" she whispered. "Dado, those missiles …"

"Get behind the asteroid!" Dado said. "Fire all your engines. Move! You can make it!"

She nodded. The Kuroko's engines were cold. As Dado watched, they began to heat up. The science vessel began to move. Slowly. So slowly.

The silver spears flew closer.

"Dr. Takanashi, fly!" Dado shouted. "Faster!"

She looked at him. Tears filled her eyes. A small smile trembled on her lips. The sunlight gleamed on Kuroko's circular lab modules, echoing her tears. The ship herself seemed to be crying.

"I got to see another star system," she whispered. "I saw the ruins of an alien civilization. I saw things no humans ever saw. I'm happy. I—"

The silver spears impacted.

The Kuroko's labs shattered like so many crystal balls.

For a split second, Dado saw the slender core of the ship. Just a plain cylinder. Then a silver spear hit the central stalk too, and nothing remained of the Kuroko but shattered pieces of metal and glass.

Dr. Takanashi's avatar was gone.

Dado turned toward his prow monitor.

He stared at the Tyranny, narrowed his eyes, and clenched his fists.

The bridge was silent. Everyone was watching him.

"Charge at her," Dado said. "Charge at her and let us end this."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The explosion lit space.

Even here, thousands of klicks away, King saw it.

The Freedom was slowly making her way through the asteroid field. Very slowly. The Tyranny was still agonizingly far away.

Before the battle, Freedom had launched ATLAS probes to several nearby locations, giving her eyes in the darkness. Monitors across the bridge showed the live video feeds. One monitor, a little one in the corner, had been showing the Kuroko. Nobody had been paying that monitor much attention. Not with the battle going on.

Not until the monitor flared white. It was so bright that everyone squinted.

When the light faded, the Kuroko was gone. Just a cloud of debris floated where she had been.

Icy claws rose through King's chest and gripped his heart.

Two hundred scientists—gone.

Another one of his ships—gone!

First the Wandering Sun. Then the Kuroko. The Tyranny had taken them both.

Fire blazed through King, melting the icy claws. He clenched his metal fist. It creaked. The Tyranny would pay for this.

"Keep flying deeper into this asteroid field," he growled. "Move faster. The Caracal needs us."

"Going as fast as we can, sir," Mimori said, navigating the ship between the asteroids. "We're not exactly agile. But I can keep knocking aside the larger asteroids and—"

A proximity alert blared.

"Big one coming in!" Jordan warned, pointing at a monitor.

King saw it. How could anyone miss it? A huge asteroid was tumbling toward them. The monitor displayed some stats. The asteroid was eight kilometers long—significantly larger than the Freedom. It was also largely made of iron. Great. A giant metal ball the size of Mount Everest was tumbling toward them.

Normally these asteroids just floated around, rotating gently at best. But now torpedoes and exploding starfighters were agitating the asteroid belt. And the rocks were rolling.

"Taking evasive action," Mimori said.

The android stood in the center of the bridge. She swayed her body, arms held out. She looked like a girl pretending to be an airplane. The Freedom yawed. Most bridges had a helmsman. The Freedom had Mimori. She knew the ship better than any helmsman could. She was the ship. Inside Mimori's steel skull was a relatively simple computer. Just an interface, really. Most of her consciousness, memories, thoughts—they came from Freedom's central supercomputer. In a sense, Mimori the android was simply an organ inside a larger body.

The asteroid rolled closer. It was coming off their starboard bow. The ship thrummed as she turned. Bulkheads creaked and twisted. Thruster engines roared, vibrating the deck. It would be faster to yaw left, but with the starboard thrusters dead, that wasn't going to happen. So Mimori yawed to the right and pitched upward, desperately trying to dodge the iron rock.

It was never easy to navigate an asteroid field. Especially not for a dreadnought the size of a neighborhood. Especially not for a dreadnought the size of a neighborhood without starboard thrusters.

Of course, the two hundred spiderwings assaulting the Freedom had no such trouble. With their small size and graviton drives, they zipped around the asteroids with ease. They kept charging, firing photon bolts, nipping at the Freedom.

The new Shields of David got a baptism in fire. The batteries roared across the Freedom's hull, firing interceptor after interceptor. The slender missiles flew, arching and coiling across the sky, then exploding against photon bolts. The technology was already proving itself. The interceptors were hitting nearly everything they aimed at. But Freedom only had three Shield of David batteries installed so far. They couldn't keep up with this barrage. The spiderwings attacked relentlessly.

Freedom's machine guns roared too. Streams of bullets flew from the ship. They weren't even aiming, just trying to keep the bastards off. King imagined the Freedom as some lumbering rhino, trudging through a rockslide, as two hundred hornets kept swarming and stinging.

He had to reach the Caracal. But it was slow progress.

The proximity alert got even louder. The giant iron asteroid tumbled closer, closer. King winced.

"Prepare for impact, prepare for impact!" droned a computer.

Mimori pitched hard. The deck thrummed. The g-force made everyone sway on their feet. King had to grab onto a workstation. The Freedom's nose just made it over the asteroid. The back engines gave a burst of thrust. They were going to make it. They—

The asteroid grazed their underbelly.

The ship jolted.

Officers fell.

"Damage report!" King barked.

"Our underbelly shields held!" came the reply from tactical. "But we lost a few machine-gun nests."

They shot over the top of the iron asteroid. Only to get a view of a hundred more asteroids. And a whole bunch of spiderwings.

The little starfighters swarmed. Each one was only about twenty meters long. If the Freedom were the size of a real rhino (King was sticking to that metaphor), the spiderwings wouldn't be larger than typical house spiders. But there were a lot of them. And the buggers stung.

"New spiderwing formation coming off our starboard beam!" Jordan said.

Of course they were attacking the starboard. Half the hull there was missing.

"Execute a barrel roll," King ordered. "And blast them away!"

The Freedom's thrusters roared. The ship rolled around her horizontal axis, spinning her port side toward the enemy. The Angels of Liberty boomed. Today the Angels were not firing the legendary Maccabees, torpedoes designed for breaking the hull of enemy warships. King was saving those for the Tyranny. Instead, they were firing Jezebel cluster munitions.

Each Jezebel was the size of a tree trunk. They were essentially hollow tubes filled with grenades. When they reached an enemy, the tube was designed to split open, scattering grenades every which way. They were hell's fireworks. Now seven Jezebels flew into the formation of spiderwings.

The Jezebels cracked open, releasing their clutch of murderous eggs. Hundreds of grenades flew and exploded among the spiderwings. In turn, each grenade scattered thousands of small metal pellets. Each pellet was no larger than a bullet, but they moved with deadly kinetic energy. Weapons within weapons. Jezebels were like Russian nesting dolls of death.

Several spiderwings careened and slammed into asteroids. Or one another. A few people on the bridge cheered. Technically, Jezebels were illegal to use. They caused too much collateral damage. The Freedom had avoided firing them during the Third World War. According to the Kyoto Convention of 2167, you couldn't "fire any form of cluster munitions against any manned target or unmanned target within a hundred kilometers of living people, civilian or military."

Were arachtaurs people? King thought not. So out flew another volley of Jezebels. And another few spiderwings exploded.

King began to feel some hope. The Fist of Freedom was fully charged. It had taken all day, but the railgun was primed. It was their ace in the hole. A Gideon projectile was already loaded between the rails. If the Freedom could make it past these asteroids and spiderwings, she could reach the Tyranny.

"I will fire the Fist of Freedom right into your heart," King whispered. "You're a mighty ship. But the Fist will scatter your atoms across the galaxy."

Klaxons wailed.

Another asteroid came hurtling toward them. Right at their prow.

King stared, heart sinking.

This one was moving fast. Far faster than the others. Then he saw it. Spiderwings were pulling it! Strands of cobweb ran from the little starfighters to the asteroid. They were tugging the huge boulder, then released their webs.

Like a sling stone, the asteroid raced toward the Freedom.

"Evasive action!" King shouted.

"It's too fast!" Mimori said. "I can't dodge it! It's gonna hit our prow!"

The alarms blared. The asteroid was half a kilometer wide. It would blow through the Freedom like a cannonball through a dinghy.

The point-defense system kicked in automatically, firing bullets at the asteroid. Not very useful. And the Angels were still loaded with Jezebels. Grenades wouldn't help here.

"Impact in five seconds!" Mimori warned.

"Fire the Fist of Freedom!" King said. Goddammit, he had no choice.

"Four!" the android said. "Need XO's approval!"

"Fire!" said Jordan.

"Three!"

The railgun lit up.

"Two!"

The bridge fell silent.

"One."

White light flooded the monitors.

The Fist of Freedom fired, draining all its power within a split second.

The Gideon moved too fast to see. Right off their bow, the asteroid exploded.

Debris flew everywhere. The largest chunks were the size of houses. The smallest? Dust. Freedom kept blowing forward. Her graviton shields thrummed around the ship, knocking aside the chunks of rock. A few spiderwings were not as sturdy. The explosion hurled them into the distance.

The Freedom kept chugging forward. More boulders rolled their way. More spiderwings attacked from every side. King could see the Tyranny on the monitor, deeper in the asteroid belt. Normally he could fly there within seconds. Now the road seemed so long.

"Hang in there, Dado," King said. "I'm coming to help. Just hold up a little longer."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Spin fast and fire everything!" Dado cried. "Bring that beast down!"

The Caracal flew like an insane hornet, rising, falling, spinning. All her cannons boomed. Missile after missile flew at the enemy. Explosions bloomed across the Tyranny's hull.

But the dreadnought kept flying. Hole after hole burst open on her hull. But the beast kept flying!

Dado had always known his warship was small. He didn't come from a wealthy country. They didn't have starfighter-carriers or dreadnoughts. But his country had sent the Caracal. They had sent him, Dado Lev, to lead her. And by God, Dado would not let them down.

But never had his warship seemed so inadequate. Barely more than a corvette. Just a little spinning diamond by an alien warship the size of a mountain. Just a lone piranha biting at a blue whale. How could he bring this behemoth down?

Dado had faced big enemies before. He had destroyed clawships that could swallow him. But this ship … The Tyranny was no mere clawship, big and crude. The arachtaurs were smarter than the rahs, their fighting style deadlier.

Now the Tyranny opened fire. All eight legs aimed his way. Silver spears flew.

Etty typed in a fury. The Caracal kept spinning. All their Shield of David batteries fired at once. They were running low on interceptors again, and the Tyranny just wouldn't stop unleashing her missiles.

A silver spear exploded. Then another. A few interceptors stopped the barrage only ten klicks away, and—

A spear slammed into the Caracal.

The bridge jolted. Monitors shattered. The Caracal spun out of control, hurtling into the distance. Alarms blared.

"Facade Aleph-1 is breached!" cried a tactical officer. "Air is fleeing."

"Shut the hatches!" Dado said. "Seal the breach!"

"There are men in there!" said the tactical officer.

"Shut the goddamn hatches!" Dado shouted.

They all heard the thud as hatches closed deeper in the Caracal. The warship was still spinning wildly, but Dado saw it on the monitors. It was only a glimpse. It only lasted a second. But he knew he'd never forget that image. Several of his spacers—spilling into open space. No spacesuits. Already dead.

"She's firing again!" somebody shouted.

"Intercept, faster, faster!" Dado said.

"Two Shields of David are down," Etty said. "I'm firing the rest, but you have to control this spin!"

"Omri!" Dado said.

"Trying, sir," Omri said. "A thruster is dead, I—"

"Silver spears incoming!" cried Michael, the survey officer.

Etty fired another barrage of interceptors. She took out seven silver spears. The eighth slammed into the Caracal's top.

The ship reeled into the distance. Several monitors went dark. Another hatch slammed shut. Four more avatars went dark on the crew manifest list. Four more lives—snuffed out.

Fear gripped Dado. For a moment, he could barely breathe.

We must run, Dado thought. This enemy is beyond us. There is no shame in retreat.

His crew looked at him.

"Awaiting your orders," said Omri, his hands hovering over the helm.

Flee, Dado wanted to tell them.

But he knew what would happen if he ran. The Tyranny would turn toward the Freedom. The flagship of the Alliance. His flagship. If there was hope for humanity, it lay with the Freedom.

Dado had already lost one ship. The Kuroko had fallen under his watch. He would not let another ship fall.

And Meytal was on the Freedom. The woman he loved. He might die today. But he could save her.

He snarled.

"Charge at her," Dado said. "Charge at the Tyranny and blow that bitch out of space."

They all nodded. A few soldiers saluted.

"It's been an honor," Omri said.

"We're not dead yet, dammit. Charge at her!"

The klaxons wailed like a war song, and the Caracal charged.

Perhaps, Dado thought, for the last time.

They gained speed. They stopped spinning. They tilted forward and flew like an arrowhead.

Silver spears flew their way. Their interceptors streaked ahead, and explosions blazed in the darkness. The Caracal flew through the debris. The Tyranny fired again and again. She fired silver spears. Photon bolts. Bullets.

Some of these munitions hit Caracal. The hull dented. Then tore along another facade. More lights went dark. More soldiers spilled into space.

And still the Caracal charged.

Everyone on the bridge was silent. The deck and bulkheads rattled. Their faces were pale, and their eyes shone in the shadows.

"We fly to death," Etty whispered, lips trembling.

Michael, the surveillance officer, rose to his feet. "No. We fly for life."

"For life!" shouted an officer.

"For life!" repeated many voices.

"For life," Dado said.

Admiral King's voice rose over the MindWeb. "Caracal! What are you doing? You can't survive this assault."

"We're buying you time, Admiral," Dado said. "If we don't make it—carry on. Save the world. Goodbye, friend."

He knew King would argue. So Dado shut off the MindWeb. And he kept flying through the enemy fusillade. More and more missiles exploded around him, their light flaring through the monitors. They almost looked like fireworks. It was almost beautiful. And Dado remembered a night in his childhood. A holiday. Yom Ha'atzmaut, he thought. Israel's Independence Day. He remembered going with his parents to the boardwalk to watch the fireworks over the water. He remembered the smell of cotton candy, the music of buskers, and the warmth of his parents' love. He had played Silly String with his brothers, and they had laughed so much. He had been happy then. That night he had known pure happiness.

The Tyranny loomed before him, blocking his view of space. He had reached the mountain.

From here, the surface of the Tyranny seemed like a city. Every crag and bump was like a ruined building. Cracks spread across the dark landscape like canyons. Holes gaped open, revealing an inner world of twisting corridors and shadowy dens.

The Caracal had pounded this ship with enough firepower to wipe out a motherclaw—and still she flew. Dado squinted at those holes in the hull. No matter where his missiles impacted—he wasn't hitting anything critical.

Of course, he thought. Of course!

Why would the Tyranny put critical systems in her abdomen? It's what anyone would target.

"Helm!" he barked. "Change course. Fly toward one of the Tyranny's legs."

Omri looked over his shoulder. "Which one? She has eight."

"Top left," Dado said, choosing one at random.

The two ships were charging at each other. They were only seconds away. The Caracal swerved. The little ship shot upward, spinning madly toward Tyranny's top left leg. The metallic digit spread out, a kilometer long, tipped with a railgun.

"Artillery—aim at the joint that connects the leg to the hull," Dado said. "Now fire! Fire everything we got!"

The Samson's Jawbones boomed. The Caracal didn't have many torpedoes left. She fired a full assault. A storm of Brimstone torpedoes streaked forward.

Explosions rocked the Tyranny's leg.

"Spin and fire again!" Dado said. "Shield of David—join the assault!"

The Shield of David was meant for defense, but now the batteries fired their missiles as offensive weapons. More explosions blazed on the Tyranny—right where the leg met the abdomen.

The Tyranny pitched backward, pulling her wounded leg away. The joints were loose, the hinges twisted. The alien dreadnought began to roll, trying to aim her cannons at the Caracal. Silver spears flew. Photon bolts raged across the darkness.

But the Caracal was too small. Too hard to hit. At this range, the Tyranny couldn't even swat her aside.

"Charge back at that leg and fire whatever we have left," Dado said.

The Caracal raced across the Tyranny's hull. Guns emerged from holes on the alien hull. Bullets flew everywhere. Some slammed into the Caracal. Another deck tore open. But she kept flying, racing back toward the injured leg. Dado saw it ahead. The colossal leg was hanging by a thread.

"Fire now!" he shouted.

The cannons boomed. Seven more Brimstone missiles flew. The last ones Caracal carried.

They hit. A perfect hit. Right at the joint.

The leg ripped off. A mechanical limb a kilometer long—it tumbled into the distance and shattered against an asteroid.

A silver spear plowed through the Caracal.

It pierced one of the damaged facades, tore through decks, and burst out the other side.

Another spear hit them.

The alarms fell silent. At the end, it was so quiet.

Dado saw the spear drive into his bridge.

Then he was back on the boardwalk. He was with his family, and he tasted cotton candy. The band played, and fireworks burst above, their light painting the water with a million beads of light.

* * * * *

The Freedom was only moments away when King saw it.

The silver spears flying. The blaze of light. And the Caracal was gone.

King lowered his head. His eyes stung.

"Goodbye, friend," he whispered.

"Sir!" Mimori said. "The spiderwings are retreating!"

King toggled through sensor windows. He saw it happening. The starfighters were zipping through the asteroid field, heading back toward the Tyranny like spiderlings racing to their mother.

"Shoot down as many as you can," King said. "Machine guns only."

The Freedom had lost a third of her machine-gun batteries—mostly on the starboard but also the underbelly. But the prow machine guns were still good. They popped from their circular nests, aimed at spiderwings, and fired. Bullets streamed in slender dotted lines. The spiderwings scurried behind asteroids, then kept retreating toward the Tyranny, hopping from asteroid to asteroid.

King saw the Tyranny in the distance. He didn't even need magnification. He wanted to fire the Fist of Freedom, but the charge was gone. He wanted to fire Maccabees, but the asteroid field was too thick. Then more asteroids tumbled across the view, hiding the alien dreadnought.

"More spiderwings off our port bow!" cried an officer.

King switched MindPlay to his port bow stream. Spiderwings, a hundred or more, were swarming in a tight formation. But they weren't moving toward the Freedom. They too raced toward Tyranny.

"She's about to portal away," King said. "Mimori, get us closer! The Tyranny is hurt. Now's our chance."

Mimori stood in the center of the bridge. She narrowed her eyes, balled her fists, and leaned forward. The Freedom gained speed—but not a lot of speed. There were still many asteroids rolling around her. They had to mute the proximity alerts; they were going off nonstop. Mimori leaned sideways. The Freedom yawed. Then she leaned back, and the ship pitched up. She tilted, and the ship rolled.

Suddenly Freedom fired her front thrusters, slowed down, then banked hard. An asteroid rolled above them, clipped a sensor off the dorsal hull, and tumbled into the distance, taking a cluster of antennae and radio dishes with it.

They were moving too slowly this way. And the spiderwings were almost gone.

"Spitfire!" King said.

"I'm chasing them, sir!" she cried over MindWeb.

And there they came. The Eagles. Many had fallen in the battle. Only a hundred and forty remained. They charged, firing bullets at the retreating spiderwings. Not missiles? No, of course not. The battle had gone on for so long. They were out.

Another asteroid rolled ahead.

Hangars opened on the still-distant Tyranny. The spiderwings were flying into their mothership. The alien dreadnought was hurt. The Caracal had punched several holes through her hull and knocked off one leg. The Tyranny's captain was not foolhardy. Last time, the ship had fled when hurt. She was about to do the same.

"Mimori, no time to worm our way through," King said. "Artillery—began firing torpedoes at those asteroids. We'll break our way forward."

The Freedom was running low on torpedoes. Back in the solar system—no problem. They'd simply fly to an armory. Or better yet, hail an armory ship. But out here, a thousand light-years from home, King had to conserve his munitions. He didn't know how long they were stuck here. It could be for years.

But dammit, the Tyranny was about to flee. This was his chance. His chance to win this game. She was right there!

"Well, fire!" King said.

Torpedoes flew. An asteroid cracked in two. The Freedom flew between its halves. Another asteroid rolled toward them. Again the cannons boomed, knocking it back. They kept charging, firing, knocking the stones aside.

And there she was. Right ahead. So close.

The Tyranny.

For a second, King just stared.

The Tyranny's portholes shone red like spider eyes. She seemed to be staring back. She wasn't firing.

They just stared. Everyone on the bridge was silent.

"Aim every cannon and gun we have—and fire," King said.

The cannons boomed.

The Tyranny's thrusters blazed. The ship flew backward—and vanished into a portal.

One torpedo made it through the portal, disappearing in a flash. And then the portal blinked out of existence, leaving the other torpedoes to fly harmlessly into the distance.

King clenched his metal fist and cursed.

He hoped that one torpedo hit. Even if it did—King knew it was not enough.

He turned away from the viewport. A vein throbbed on his head. "Mimori, get us the hell out of this asteroid field. Jordan, you have the bridge."

They looked at him, surprised. King didn't like losing his cool in front of the crew. He marched off the bridge before he lost control.

In the corridors, spacers paused to stand at attention. A few took steps back, pale. Perhaps they saw the rage on his face. Perhaps they heard the creaking of his metal fist. King made his way into his quarters, shut the hatch, and just stood there.

He stared at his room. Entering this place was always like transporting to another world. The wooden floorboards, the bookshelves, the oak desk, the fireplace—it all seemed taken from some old Earth study. Normally this place could soothe him. Not today.

He sat at his desk. He pulled a bottle of Martian ale from his drawer and drank deeply, then lowered his head.

The Wandering Sun—gone.

The Kuroko—gone.

The Caracal—gone.

Dr. Takanashi. Dado. Hundreds of others. Dead.

He had fought the Tyranny for another round. And again he had lost. King closed his eyes. Soon he would return to the bridge. He would be in control again. He would come up with a plan. But right now, for a few moments as he sat there, despair washed over him.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"Come on, faster!" QT said. "I need to show you something."

The android squeezed Emily's hand, dragging her down the corridor.

"Where are we going?" Emily said.

"You'll see."

Niles floated after them. He narrowed his camera lenses, glaring at QT. "The queen asked you a question, peasant. Answer her."

"I did!" QT said. "I said: You'll see."

Emily had not seen QT in a while. Not since the Tyranny had bombed the hangar bay, destroying the FAS Raven. The days had gone by in a haze. Some days were full of fear and fire. Other days Emily spent in restless boredom, her mission to find the Aeolians stalled. Every day that passed, Emily knew, the arachtaurs were getting closer to their prize.

Whoever found the Aeolians first would win this war. And without the Raven, Emily had been stuck here, languishing away.

"Do you want to show me progress on the Raven's repairs?" Emily said. "Shouldn't we be going down to engineering?"

"Nope. Come up with me. To the dorsal hull."

QT pulled her into an elevator. They began rising through the decks. For a moment, the chaos died down. The elevator rose smoothly toward the upper deck. Soothing jazz played from a hidden speaker. "The Girl from Ipanema," Emily thought. QT was humming along.

The android still wore her fluffy Freedom the Frog costume. Engine oil, soot, and dust covered the green fur. At least, it had been green once. The hood was still pulled over QT's head, sporting two googly frog eyes. One of the plastic eyes was cracked.

"Have you been wearing this Freedom the Frog mascot costume since last time we met?" Emily said.

"No time to explain!" QT said.

They kept riding up the elevator. The smooth jazz played on.

"Have you washed it?" Emily said. "It's starting to stink."

"I said no time!"

They spent the rest of the elevator trip in silence. Finally the elevator dinged. The door opened, revealing a prep chamber below the observation lounge. Oxygen tanks, jet packs, and spacesuits hung on the walls. A ladder led to a hatch on the dorsal hull above.

Emily tilted her head. "Are we going on a space walk? I thought the observation lounge closed when Freedom was refitted into a warship."

"Oh, it closed indeed." QT grinned. "We're going up there anyway." She tossed Emily a helmet. "Suit up."

Emily began pulling on her spacesuit. "Don't you need one?"

"I'm an android, darling. I require air like you require engine oil."

"You require a factory reset, that's what," Niles told the android.

QT placed her hands on her hips. "Quiet, you floating football, or I'll toss you into deep space."

Niles, who was admittedly shaped just like a football, raised his pointy tip. "I'm a prolate spheroid. As proper robots are. I can't even imagine the shame of being shaped like a human. It must be so embarrassing for you."

QT twirled around, showing off her furry green mascot outfit. "I'm a frog, actually."

"Whatever you two are, stop bickering." Emily put on her helmet. "QT, what did you want to show me?"

"After me!" QT said, climbing the ladder. Emily followed.

They climbed through an airlock and emerged onto the dorsal hull of the starship Freedom. Graviton plates were built into the hull, keeping Emily's feet firmly planted. QT stood beside her. The starship Freedom spread out below them. The legendary railgun pointed the way to the stars. They rode the dreadnought. During Freedom's days as a tourist attraction, a dome had encircled this place, and tourists would dine and stargaze. The dome had shattered long ago. The restaurant was gone. Nothing but the view remained. And it was spectacular.

For a moment Emily just gazed around in wonder. Alien stars spread to every horizon. The Firebird Nebula shone to her right, flaming wings spread wide. The Aeolian planets glistened to her left, lazily orbiting around their ecliptic plane like jewels floating on a black pond. There were no windows in the Freedom, only viewports that streamed views from cameras. It was ironic, but spacers aboard the Freedom never actually saw space. Not unless they were starfighter pilots. Whenever Emily saw the stars, the beauty took her breath away.

"There she is." QT pointed. "Ta-da!"

Emily squinted. "What, that constellation? The one that looks like a snake?"

"No! There." QT pointed more pointedly.

"I don't see anything," Emily said.

"Aha!"

Emily tilted her head. "Pardon?"

"I said: aha!"

Emily looked again, eyes narrowed. Was QT trying to show her the Raven? Was the stealth ship complete, hiding among the stars? She searched for a starless splotch of space. The Raven didn't reflect or emit light, but she should block the stars behind her. Nothing.

"I give up," Emily said.

QT pulled out a cartoonishly large remote control and tapped a big red button. A section of starlight wobbled, and suddenly a little starship appeared, hovering just ahead.

"Ta-da!" QT said. "The Raven reborn!"

The ship was graceful, covered with smooth black panels. She indeed looked like a raven. The previous Raven had been built around the chassis of a Sparrow shuttle. But this ship was bespoke, designed from the ground up for stealth and beauty.

"She's beautiful," Emily whispered.

QT curtsied. "Thank you."

"When she's in stealth mode, does the starlight pass through her?" Emily asked.

"Around her. The light bends, then keeps going. The old Raven was merely dark. But the new Raven is invisible."

"Good, because it's ugly as sin," Niles said. "I don't even see any filigree or jewels."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Oh shush."

"The new Raven is my greatest creation yet," QT said. "She runs on a graviton drive, so she won't emit energy from an exhaust port for anyone to see. She won't emit any energy at all. She stores all residue energy in heat sinks, which can be emptied when you're sure nobody is watching. I tested the most sensitive ATLAS sensors on the Raven. Nothing can see her."

"She's perfect," Emily said. She walked back toward the airlock. "Hurry up, Niles. We must pack our bags. We'll be flying out today."

Niles hurried to follow. "Flying where?"

"To find the Aeolians, of course. The Tyranny put a snag in our plans. But I haven't forgotten our purpose here. We'll fly out in the Raven. We'll find the Aeolians somewhere in this system." She climbed into the airlock, paused, and looked at her drone. "And by God, we'll find a way to defeat the rahs."

"Or we can just stay here and let somebody else do it," Niles said.

Emily shook her head. "No, Niles. Admiral King tasked me with this quest. This is something I must do. Not only because King commanded it. But because it is right. It is my duty. We're doing this for Britain. And for all of Earth."

She climbed down the airlock ladder, reentering the Freedom. Niles flew after her. "Oh, blast all the rest of Earth. Most of that planet is utterly useless. But very well. For Great Britain, I shall undertake this most perilous quest. We shall find the Aeolians and learn how to defeat France!"

"How to defeat the rahs, Niles. The rahs."

"Can we defeat France too?"

"No, Niles."

He harrumphed. "Then I changed my mind. I'm not going."

"I'll fly the Raven into the hangar bay!" QT called from above, leaping off the dorsal hull. The android flew through empty space toward the Raven. "Meet you there."

Emily paused in the airlock and looked up. The stars shone there. It was like standing in a well under the night sky. It was a big star system. Somewhere here, the Aeolians still hid. The only species that ever defeated the rahs in war. The war against the spiders still raged at Earth, and here, so far from home, Emily vowed to find hope.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"She's gone," Spitfire whispered, staring with damp eyes. "The Caracal is really gone."

The debris floated right there on the monitor. All that remained of the Israeli warship. Just some chunks of metal and dust.

Her childhood friends. Her first love. Gone.

Tears rolled down Spitfire's cheeks.

King had stormed off the bridge, enraged. Jordan had rushed to follow. They left Spitfire alone here. In command of the Freedom. And as everyone stared at her, Spitfire could only stare at the remains of the Caracal.

And through the grief, a terrible relief bloomed. Meytal, her half sister, was here aboard the Freedom, preparing for the Raven's mission. Meytal was still alive, and Spitfire hated how happy that made her, hated to feel joy when so many had died.

The chunks of the Caracal floated before her like the shards of her heart. Spitfire closed her eyes, shaking. She remembered her walks with Dado on the beach. Remembered her childhood with her friends. Remembered how proud she had been of the Caracal, a tiny warship from a tiny country, winning so many battles.

Gone.

They were all gone.

She opened her damp eyes. "Mimori?" she whispered.

The android looked at her. Mimori's eyes were made of glass, but now they seemed so human. Eyes full of caring and grief.

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander?"

"You have the bridge," Spitfire said. "Call me if there's any emergency."

"Yes, ma'am."

Spitfire clenched her fists at her sides and marched across the bridge. She felt everyone staring at her. She stepped into the corridor, lowered her head, and trembled.

A familiar voice sounded from down the hallway.

"Is it true? There are rumors. Is the Caracal gone?"

Meytal was a tall, muscular woman. She wore battle fatigues, she carried multiple rifles and guns, and a katana hung across her back. Her tattooed arms proudly displayed battle scars. She was the strongest warrior Spitfire knew. But right now her younger sister seemed so vulnerable. A scared little girl.

Spitfire looked at her, wanting to answer the question, but her throat caught. She could only nod.

Meytal lowered her head. Her tears fell. "Dado?"

"Gone," Spitfire whispered.

She hurried toward her younger sister and pulled Meytal into her arms. The two women held each other, weeping together.

"They're all gone," Meytal whispered, voice choked. "All dead. Now I'm alone."

"You're not alone." Spitfire caressed her sister's cheek. "I'm here with you. And you're on the starship Freedom. And we will make them pay."

Meytal's eyes hardened, and she clenched her fists. "We will make them pay."

The sisters embraced again. Revenge would be theirs. But for now they could only hold each other and cry.

* * * * *

King himself had never felt so alone.

The Wandering Sun, his energy ship—gone.

The Kuroko, a flying lab—gone.

The Caracal, among the greatest warships in history—gone.

Only the Mahatma remained, a graceful lotus floating off Freedom's port beam.

"We're a thousand light-years from home," King whispered. "Our starship is badly hurt. And our only allies are a bunch of monks."

The walls of his cabin seemed to close in around him. He took a deep breath, trying to cast the despair aside.

A knock on the door. Jordan entered, eyes soft with concern.

"We lost today. But this isn't over." The XO placed a hand on King's shoulder. "Emily will bring hope. The Raven is ready. She'll find the Aeolians."

"We found the Aeolians!" King snapped. "We found their cities in the asteroid belt. Ruins! They all died. The rahs killed them. And they'll kill us too."

Jordan's eyes hardened. His hand tightened around King's shoulder—painfully.

"Get a grip, Jim!" the XO said. "Listen to yourself. That's not you talking." He looked at the desk, saw the bottle. "You've been drinking."

"So what if I have?" King said. "I'll drink when I want. Now get your goddamn hand off me."

He shoved Jordan's hand off.

Jordan just stood there, staring, his hand still hovering in midair. Slowly he placed both arms at his sides.

"Go sleep it off," Jordan said, his voice deep and commanding.

"Go to hell," King replied.

Rage flashed across Jordan's dark eyes. The man almost never got angry. It was a terrifying sight.

Jordan spoke slowly, forcing each word between stiff lips. "I said go sleep it off. I'll command the ship until you're sober."

"And I said go to hell!" King said. "Get out of my cabin! Get out of here!"

He tried to shove Jordan away, but the tall XO dodged him. "Do I have to call the ship doctor in here to sedate you?"

King snorted. "Sure, go ahead. Call your daughter. Get Dr. Annie to do your dirty work. Or better yet—why don't you call Timori? She's always there to serve you."

Jordan went very quiet. His eyes narrowed. Finally he spoke again, his voice low and dangerous. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, so I touched a nerve." King laughed bitterly. "You know what I mean. Timori. The logistics android. You thought I didn't know? Ha! I know everything that happens on my ship. I wonder what it's like. Fucking a machine."

Jordan balled his fists. His upper lip twitched. "I'm warning you, Jim."

"Go ahead," King said. "Take your shot."

Jordan did just that. He punched King in the face.

White light flashed. King reeled backward. He slammed into his desk, rattling the model sailing ships and books. His hip blazed with pain. One of the ships, a replica of the HMS Beagle, teetered on the edge, then fell. Its masts snapped. King had spent hours building that model.

He roared and lunged at Jordan, drove his shoulder into the man, and shoved him against the bulkhead. "You son of a bitch."

"You drunk old bastard!" Jordan said, shoving King back.

King stumbled backward, nearly hitting the fireplace. He snarled, balled his fist, and swung. Even through his drunken haze, he knew not to throw his metal fist. He wasn't trying to kill his XO, just hurt the sonuvabitch. His real fist connected with Jordan's jaw.

Jordan reeled and hit a bookshelf. Leather-bound books, many of them antiques, fell to the deck. The XO came back at him, punches flying. Another fist hit King, this one on the chin.

He crashed against another bookshelf, then slumped to the floor. This time the shelves shattered and books fell everywhere. They thumped onto King and landed on the floor.

He sat there, legs splayed out, books all around him.

Jordan stood above him, looking down. For a moment both men were silent.

Then Jordan burst out laughing. Sitting among fallen books, King looked up at him. Then he started laughing too.

"Look at you," Jordan said.

"Look at us," answered King.

With a sigh, Jordan sat down beside King. He had to shove a few books aside. The two men sat there on the deck, then began laughing again.

King rubbed his chin. "You deliver a mean left hook."

"Not as mean as your punches." Jordan touched his cheek, then winced. "You almost broke my jaw, you bastard."

"Ah!" King waved dismissively. "I wasn't punching that hard."

The two men sat quietly for a moment, just chuckling to themselves, but there was something sad, almost wistful about their laughter.

"Do you remember that time in the Academy?" Jordan said. "Forty years ago now. The only other time we got into a fistfight."

King's eyes widened. "I remember that! I haven't thought about it in forty years. What the hell did we fight over?"

"A woman," Jordan said. "What else?"

"Lily," King said. "Lily Jones. I remember. She had dark hair and big brown eyes."

Jordan leaned back, and a thin smile played across his face. "The most beautiful eyes I had ever seen." He glanced at King. "Of course, she chose me. Which infuriated you."

King snorted. "Nonsense. I distinctly remember Lily accepting my invitation to the Christmas ball. You did not take that well."

"What?" Jordan straightened. "I took her to the ball, and you—" He bit down on his words, then laughed. "Look at us. Fighting again."

King chuckled. "Whatever happened to Lily Jones?"

Jordan lowered his head. His voice softened. "She died aboard the FAS York. Two years ago. During the first days of the war. She was a bridge officer. I met her about ten years before that. She was a damn fine officer. Still beautiful, smart, funny."

"To Lily Jones, and to all the fallen heroes," King said. He activated MindWeb and raised a hallucinatory drink.

Jordan summoned his own imaginary glass. "To the fallen."

King drank. MindWeb let him taste the drink. But there was no soothing warmness like the real thing. He glanced over and saw his bottle of Martian ale on the deck—his real booze. The bottle had fallen off the table and spilled. Maybe that was for the best.

He looked at Jordan. The famous Commander Larry "Phantom" Jordan. His XO. His best friend.

"I'm sorry, Larry," King said.

"We're all stressed. We're all scared. Don't apologize for being human."

King flexed his metal fingers, each one tipped with a steel claw. "Mostly human."

Jordan was silent for a moment, staring into the crackling fireplace. "Are we going to die out here, Jim?"

"Maybe." King watched the fire with him. "But if we do, I'm taking the Tyranny with me."

"Jim. Maybe we should let this one go."

"What?" King sat up straight.

"Kim is making good progress on the portal generator. We can hide out. Wait for Kim to be done. Then fly home."

King rose to his feet. "I will not hide from the Tyranny. I will not flee from battle."

Jordan rose too. "We both know that sometimes the appropriate military tactic is to fall back."

"It's not appropriate now," King said. "The Tyranny is wounded. We hurt her. We hurt her bad. Next battle, we can destroy her."

"She defeated us in every battle so far. Dammit, that ship is too much for us. We can come back another time. With more warships. With—"

"There won't be another time," King said. "Elder'rah is building a fleet of these things. She can breed arachtaurs, fully formed and ready to kill. Just one of those things tore through our hangar bay. Imagine what an army can do. We must stay. We must buy Emily and Darjeeling time. We must find out how to destroy these creatures. Or all of Earth will fall."

Jordan pursed his lips. He seemed to be counting down from ten. "Jim, is this really about saving Earth? Or is this about you?"

"What do you mean?" King snapped.

"I mean it's about your ego. Your obsession with this Tyranny. You can't back down. Because you can't admit defeat."

"Because I won't be defeated!" King shouted. His voice filled the stateroom. Probably loud enough for people to hear even through the fortified bulkheads.

Jordan stared at him. "I understand."

"Larry—"

"I said I understand." He hesitated, then suddenly his eyes were damp. Amazing. The famous, coolheaded Phantom—with damp eyes. Even more amazingly, he pulled King into an embrace. "I'm here for you, Jim. Whatever happens, we'll face this enemy together."

"I know," King said. "I know I can always count on you." And suddenly a lump filled his throat, and it was even harder than usual to speak.

Jordan stepped back and saluted. "For Freedom."

King returned the salute. "For Freedom."

After Jordan left the stateroom, King spent a while tidying up. Repairing the shelves. Putting the books back up.

He lifted his model of the starship Freedom. A model he had built himself. It had cracked in the fall. It felt so fragile in his hands, a little thing of plastic and glue and paint. But she meant everything. The Freedom was his heart, his soul, his grand old lady of the stars. She was his starship, dammit, and he would never abandon her.

He placed the model on his desk, walked toward a bulkhead, and pressed his palm against the metal. He felt a connection between himself and the starship.

"You're hurt, girl," he said softly. "I know. For a moment, I lost hope. For a moment, I was weak. But I will always fight for you."

The bulkhead vibrated and hummed under his hand. He could almost hear his ship, and she was whispering to him soothingly. She understood. She too was ready to fight again.

King walked over fallen books and approached a porthole. It was actually a monitor, streaming a view from a camera on the ship's exterior. But it was fashioned to look like an old sailing ship's porthole. King gazed out at the stars.

"You're out there somewhere, Tyranny. This isn't over between us. I'm going to hunt you down." He clenched his metal fist. "And I'm going to crush you like the bug that you are."

The Freedom sailed onward through space, battered, burnt, and ready for another battle.

The story continues in …

STARSHIP FREEDOM V

Let Freedom Ring

DanielArenson.com/StarshipFreedomV

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Starship Freedom IV.

Starship Freedom V continues the tale.

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Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

STARSHIP FREEDOM

Starship Freedom

Starship Freedom II: The Cost of Freedom

Starship Freedom III: We Fight for Freedom

Starship Freedom IV: For Death or Freedom

Starship Freedom V: Let Freedom Ring

EARTHRISE

Earth Alone

Earth Lost

Earth Rising

Earth Fire

Earth Shadows

Earth Valor

Earth Reborn

Earth Honor

Earth Eternal

Earth Machines

Earth Aflame

Earth Unleashed

Earth Remembers

Earth in Darkness

Earth, Our Home

SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE

The Earthling

Earthlings

Earthling's War

I, Earthling

The Earthling's Daughter

We Are Earthlings

CHILDREN OF EARTHRISE

The Heirs of Earth

A Memory of Earth

An Echo of Earth

The War for Earth

The Song of Earth

The Legacy of Earth

KINGDOMS OF SAND

Kings of Ruin

Crowns of Rust

Thrones of Ash

Temples of Dust

Halls of Shadows

Echoes of Light

THE MOTH SAGA

Moth

Empires of Moth

Secrets of Moth

Daughter of Moth

Shadows of Moth

Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

Dawn of Dragons

Requiem's Song

Requiem's Hope

Requiem's Prayer

The Complete Trilogy

Song of Dragons

Blood of Requiem

Tears of Requiem

Light of Requiem

The Complete Trilogy

Dragonlore

A Dawn of Dragonfire

A Day of Dragon Blood

A Night of Dragon Wings

The Complete Trilogy

The Dragon War

A Legacy of Light

A Birthright of Blood

A Memory of Fire

The Complete Trilogy

Requiem for Dragons

Dragons Lost

Dragons Reborn

Dragons Rising

The Complete Trilogy

Flame of Requiem

Forged in Dragonfire

Crown of Dragonfire

Pillars of Dragonfire

The Complete Trilogy

ALIEN HUNTERS

Alien Hunters

Alien Sky

Alien Shadows

OTHER WORLDS

Utopia 58

Eye of the Wizard

Wand of the Witch

Firefly Island

The Gods of Dream

Flaming Dove

KEEP IN TOUCH

www.DanielArenson.com

Daniel@DanielArenson.com

Facebook.com/DanielArenson

Twitter.com/DanielArenson