STARSHIP FREEDOM II

The Cost of 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

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

Illustration © Tom Edwards - TomEdwardsDesign.com

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CHAPTER ONE

"Charge at them!" King cried. "Damn the plasma! Full speed ahead!"

The Freedom's engines roared.

The starship charged at the enemy.

The great war blazed around Earth. A hundred thousand starships lit space. Explosions bloomed across the darkness like night flowers. Shrapnel flew everywhere, pounding into the Freedom's hull, rocking the dreadnought as she flew. Everywhere they were dying. Everywhere the mighty starships of humanity burned.

The enemy filled the darkness. Their ships loomed like apparitions risen from an underworld. The alien vessels were shaped like ancient flint arrowheads, jagged and cruel, pointing at their prey. Steel blades thrust from their hulls like claws, gleaming in the firelight, and their cores pulsed with plasma hearts. They were clawships. Terrors of war. They had come from deep space, hunters of the cosmic ocean.

They had come for Earth.

But Earth fought back.

"At them—for freedom!" King shouted.

His starship, the legendary Freedom, increased speed. She plowed through the sea of shrapnel. Her prow blazed with heat, carving a way forward. She slammed into smaller starships, burning husks lost in battle, knocking them aside. The mighty warship roared, moving faster, faster, an enraged bull on a stampede, a barracuda in the depths.

The fleet's other dreadnoughts had fallen. The Freedom remained.

Behind her, other starships rallied.

Before her, the enemy awaited, claws thrust outward like medieval pikes.

Ten clawships loomed before the Freedom. Ten dark, jagged ships like demons lurking among rain clouds. Ships with claws the size of skyscrapers. With hulls harder than the metal hearts of worlds. With blazing cores of molten destruction ready to spill forth.

King stood on the bridge of the Freedom, staring ahead. He saw the enemy on the viewport.

The Freedom charged closer. Closer.

"Sir, should I fire the cannons?" asked Mimori, the ship's android.

"Not yet," King said.

Plasma slammed into them, washing over their prow. The heat shields blazed, igniting a hemisphere of light.

Steel bolts spun toward them, slamming into their armor, jolting the ship.

"Sir?" Mimori cried.

The bridge rattled around them. Alarms wailed.

"Hold!" King said.

Still the Freedom flew. Fifteen hundred meters of metal and fury. The largest ship remaining in the Alliance fleet. Behind her, a dozen smaller ships followed.

A song surfaced in King's mind. A song from a war long ago. A song he had sung as a young soldier, back when spacefaring had seemed simpler, when the only wars were fought between men. As he charged toward the alien menace, the song echoed in his ears.

Let all free souls salute her flight

Let her engines bathe the dark with light

Let her cannons sing the song of freedom

The fleet will gather; she will lead them

Our flagship sails into the flame

As poets weep and sing her name

For liberty's light! For glory's hymn!

Praise the Freedom, she will win!

"Hold…," King said.

Plasma washed over Freedom's prow. Her port hull. Her starboard. Klaxons blared. Monitors flashed red, warning of shields down to fifty percent, forty, and still falling fast. The ship's android cried out and fell. The bridge rattled and control panels sparked. And the Freedom kept flying.

Our flagship sails into the flame…

"Hold!" he cried.

The curtains of fire pulled back, revealing charcoal demons with blazing red eyes. The clawships were right ahead.

Praise the Freedom…

"Fire!" King shouted. "Fire everything!"

The fourteen cannons of the starship Freedom, the fabled Angels of Liberty, fired.

The ship shook.

The booms rattled through the starship.

The Angels lit space with light.

Each Angel fired in a different direction. The muzzles lit up in a crescent. A wave of fury blasted outward, a semicircle of wrath, a pulsing wave of death.

Fourteen heavy Maccabee torpedoes streaked toward the enemy, moving at hypersonic speed, too fast for the eye to see. Too fast for the enemy to dodge.

The Maccabees hit their targets. They all hit.

Explosions blazed across the clawships.

Fourteen cannons had fired on ten clawships, so some clawships got a double dose. Their shields tore. Their hulls cracked. They careened back in space. Air fled them. One clawship cracked open, and rahs spilled from inside.

The aliens twitched in space, their eight legs scratching at nothing, their jaws snapping. A few shot out webs, tried to catch something, anything, but in weightlessness these fearsome predators flailed. Machine-gun turrets swiveled across the Freedom's hull, spinning and roaring, chewing through the drifting arachnids.

The Freedom's charge had destroyed ten clawships. An impressive feat. A legendary charge.

Though considering the sheer size of the enemy fleet, it wasn't much.

Many clawships still flew. Like black wolves with red eyes, they spun together, a pack of predators in a dark forest. They raced toward the Freedom, larger, stronger, circling in. Their rings of claws bloomed open, exposing beating red hearts.

Their plasma blasted out—spinning, searing, crackling waves of fire, biblical pillars of retribution.

The Freedom soared, dived, yawed left and right. She was a mighty dreadnought but she was fast. She dodged most of the assault.

One flaming pillar slammed into the Freedom like a battering ram.

The bridge jolted. Everyone fell. King banged his shoulder against the deck. Control panels burst. Alarms blared. People shouted.

Sometimes King hated that these starships came with graviton deck plates. Nice technology for walking around. Not so nice for falling.

He rose to his knees, growling, his fists on the deck. Jaw clenched, he stared at the monitor ahead. He stared at the enemy. Six clawships crackled before him. Six wraiths. Six angels of death. Circling him. Ready to feast.

"Shields down to fifteen percent on starboard hull!" Mimori cried. "Sir, we can't take another hit."

She was clutching her side. She wasn't a regular android. She was an interface, a personification of the starship. She looked like a young Japanese woman. Alita Robotics, one of Tokyo's largest companies, had built her body. But her mind was tethered to the Freedom's central computer. In a very real sense, Mimori was the starship herself. She was the Freedom taken human form. And she felt what the ship felt. When the android held her side, she was feeling those burns across the starship's hull.

"We have to turn back!" shouted Lieutenant Commander Jordan, bleeding from a gash on his shoulder.

"We can't win this, sir!" said Sergeant Major Darjeeling, a cut bleeding on his forehead.

King's upper lip rose in a snarl. "I said damn the plasma. I said full speed ahead. Charge! Charge back at them!"

The ship kept roaring through the fire, the devastation, the chunks of flying enemy hulls. The Angels of Liberty kept firing, beating back the enemy. The machine-gun nests kept rattling, slaying spiders and cutting through their sticky webs.

And there ahead she rose.

A goddess.

A spider goddess.

A creature of many limbs and a hundred eyes. An enemy dreadnought. A ship five kilometers long, dwarfing the Freedom. Here flew the rah ship Crown of Claws, among the most dreaded in the alien armada.

Three ports loomed open upon her hull. Three cauldrons of molten malice. Each was the size of a football arena. Each could spew enough devastation to wash over the Freedom like wildfire over a fleeing bird.

"Praise the Freedom," King whispered. "She will win." Then he raised his voice to a shout. "Mimori! Fire the Fist of Freedom!"

The android glanced toward Jordan, the XO. To fire such a devastating weapon, she needed his confirmation.

The lieutenant commander nodded. "Fire!"

King gripped a control panel.

They shot toward the Crown of Claws like a bird of prey flying toward a blazing cathedral. The bridge rumbled. The engines roared.

And then—silence.

Just silence and white light.

White light blazing. Almost angelic. The light of death waiting at the end of the tunnel.

Twin prongs extended from the Freedom's prow. Each was the size of a skyscraper. Like the fallen Twin Towers of New York City. They were normally dark metal. Now they shone with pure white electricity.

It was a railgun. The greatest railgun ever built. A weapon that could devastate worlds. A weapon so powerful it took a full day to charge. A weapon they almost never used. A weapon to shatter empires and win wars.

The Fist of Freedom fired.

Riding the electric wave, a projectile raced between the prongs.

The heavy projectile, known as Goliath, was the size of a passenger plane. It weighed a thousand tons. It blasted forward, too fast for any eye to see. So fast it would make flying bullets seem like snails. So fast it rippled spacetime and altered the flow of reality around it.

Faster than an instant, the Goliath slammed into the Crown of Claws.

The enemy clawship, a vessel the size of a city, blasted apart into billions of chunks of red-hot metal.

The Fist of Freedom pulverized that mighty dreadnought like a bullet through a rotten apple.

Cheers erupted across the Freedom's bridge. A few fists rose in triumph. King stood still, fists clenched at his sides, brow furrowed. They had felled one great beast, yes. But this battle was far from over.

Myriads of clawships swarmed around Earth like flies around a fallen piece of fruit. It was December 27, 2199. The aliens had invaded only two days ago. The surprise attack hit them on Christmas. It hit them hard. Within the first hour, many starships fell. Many cities burned. World leaders lay dead. Countless had died with them.

And the enemy was everywhere.

The rahs.

The first aliens humanity had met.

Their starships pounded the planet. Their hunters scuttled across Earth, arachnids the size of horses, ripping the world apart. They ate the flesh of men and children. They implanted their eggs into the wombs of women. They were apex predators, faster, stronger than humans.

But some humans fought back.

King fought back.

And with him fought thousands of other starships. The starship Freedom was not alone. Across Earth's orbit, humanity rallied and faced the terrors. Not just humans of the Alliance, this union of democracies, but humans from across the solar system.

King was almost feeling hopeful when a new clawship rose before him.

The ship cracked open though the Freedom had fired no weapons. The crack opened wider like a cervix, exposing red innards. And from inside, like flies fleeing a trap, swarmed a thousand clawfighters.

They were small vessels. They looked like their mothership, dark and jagged and covered in claws. But they were no larger than semitrailers. They were the space-superiority starfighters of the enemy fleet. And a thousand of them swarmed toward the Freedom, a school of piranhas ready to feast on a whale.

King stared in horror for a second.

Then he lifted his comlink. "Eagle fighters—fly!"

CHAPTER TWO

Alarms blared across the starfighter hangar.

"All pilots, launch to battle! All pilots, launch to battle!"

Two hundred pilots ran across the deck. They wore sky-blue jumpsuits, and their helmets were cherry red. Their starfighters were just as colorful, downright garish, looking more like amusement park rides than military machines.

Two hundred pilots—all terrified. Some were trembling. Others praying. They were all in over their heads. For years they had been stunt pilots. Just daredevils performing for the crowds. Known as Freedom's Flock, they were famous. Gift shops here aboard the starship Freedom sold their action figures. Posters of them in uniform, smiling and saluting, adorned bedroom walls across Earth. They were celebrities.

The great wars had ended before these daredevils had been born. They were children of peace.

Two days ago, they became fighter pilots.

The speakers thrummed across the deck. The voice filled the hangar. "All pilots, launch to battle!"

"Come on, come on, move your asses!" shouted Spitfire, racing toward her starfighter. "Launch and fight!"

Spitfire. Her call sign. She was Gal Levy, a colonel in the Alliance, but she thought of herself as Spitfire. Over her years of flying, the nickname had become her identity. She could no longer separate Gal Levy, the plucky Israeli girl with the crooked smile and mocking eyes, from Spitfire, the daredevil who wowed the audience.

Maybe both those people were dead now. From the ashes, a warrior was born.

The F-77 Eagle starfighters stood on the deck around her. They were sleek vessels, capable of flying in both space and air. Decades ago, they had fought in the third world war. Since then, the legendary Eagles had been relegated to performing stunts for tourists. They were painted with gaudy colors now—red stripes, blue swirls, and dazzling golden stars. Ads from sponsors were plastered across their wings, selling everything from beer to bail bonds.

But for the first time in decades, these Eagles were loaded with missiles, bombs, and bullets. Now they would fight.

Spitfire reached her Eagle. She scrambled up a short ladder, leaped into the cockpit, and pulled the canopy shut. A medal hung across her chest along with her dog tags. It was not her own medal but one earned by her father. He had died in battle. Died in his starfighter. Died launching to battle from this very starship. Spitfire kissed the medal, and her eyes stung with tears.

"Be with me, Aba," she whispered.

Around her, the other pilots hopped into their starfighters too.

"Bay Boss!" Spitfire said, transmitting the words over the MindWeb's telepathic network. "Open the airlock."

Master Sergeant Lee Eun-Yu looked up from her station. Her official title was Hangar Bay Supervisor, but everyone just called her Bay Boss. Hailing from South Korea, Eun-Yu wore an orange jumpsuit, heavy earmuffs, and steel-tipped boots.

"I'm on it!" she cried, waving a wrench.

The bay boss oversaw the entire hangar deck—starfighter maintenance, landing, launching, you name it. She was also known to whack troublemakers with her wrench. She typed on her controls, and the airlock doors began to open.

As the doors slid open, they exposed space. But not space as Spitfire had always known it. Not the peaceful tapestry she had always loved. The stars did not shine today. The Milky Way did not glisten across the darkness.

She saw fire.

She saw death.

She saw thousands of warships crashing in battle.

For a moment terror seized Spitfire. She could not do this. She was a stunt pilot, dammit. Not a fighter pilot.

Spitfire tightened her lips.

Your father was a fighter pilot, she told herself. So was his father. And his father before him. This is your legacy. This is in your blood, Gal Levy. Soar.

She shoved down the throttle.

Her Eagle blasted across the airlock tube and shot out into space.

* * * * *

She flew into a galaxy of lights.

The lights of explosions bloomed around her. Every moment another starship burned.

The lights of missiles streaked back and forth, crisscrossing space, racing toward starships large and small.

The lights of plasma streamed everywhere, red and furious, gushing in great torrents and raising cathedrals of fire.

Finally she saw the lights of engines. Thousands of starship engines. Blue engines of Alliance ships, shining with the light of their Talaria drives. Red engines of the Red Dawn, roaring warships with equal signs on their hulls. The golden engines of the Desert Thorns, the sprawling union spanning from North Africa, across the Middle East, and into the deserts of Asia.

It was the light of war. But she also saw the light of humanity, of courage, of sacrifice.

It spun her head.

Into this great painting of lights, Spitfire flew.

And with her flew Freedom's Flock. Two hundred starfighters, racing toward the enemy.

From the flames ahead they came—the clawfighters.

Eagles were small vessels, eighteen meters from stem to stern, just large enough for one pilot. The clawfighters were only slightly larger, but they were bulkier, their hulls thick, and they sprouted claws the size of streetlamps. Red canopies revealed the pilots within: gleaming arachnids, manipulating the controls with their eight legs.

Hundreds of clawfighters stormed toward the Flock.

Spitfire stared at oncoming death.

Every instinct inside her screamed to turn tail. Indeed, several other pilots lost their nerve. They spun their Eagles around. They fled.

But Spitfire kept charging at the enemy.

She did not even dare blink. She could barely even breathe. She clutched her father's medal, and with stiff lips, she whispered a prayer. "Shma Israel, adonai elohenu, adonai echad…"

"We can't beat them!" cried one pilot, his voice carrying over the MindWeb. "I'm outta here. Sorry, guys."

"I didn't sign up for this!" shouted another pilot, making a tight U-turn. "We're stunt pilots, not fighters. I'm going home."

Another Eagle turned and fled the scene.

"Get back here, goddammit!" Spitfire cried. But they kept fleeing.

Ah, to hell with them. She'd win this thing without 'em.

Spitfire kept flying. They were five thousand klicks from the enemy and flying fast. The two forces would meet in seconds.

"Hear me, Freedom's Flock!" she said. "I know you're scared. I'm scared too. But you are not stunt pilots. Not anymore! You are soldiers of the Free Alliance. You are warriors of Earth. You can be scared. But you will face that fear! You fly with Gal Spitfire Levy. You fly for Commander James King. You fly for the starship Freedom! With me, fly—for freedom!"

"For freedom!" rose their voices, two hundred shouting as one.

"Fire your missiles!" Spitfire cried.

Ahead, the enemy clawfighters opened their claws and breathed plasma.

At the same time, the Eagles unleashed hell.

Hundreds of space-to-space homing missiles, known as David's Stones, detached from the Eagles' wings and streaked forth. Each was three meters long, weighed a hundred kilos, and was tipped with a warhead powerful enough to topple a skyscraper.

As the missiles raced onward, Spitfire tugged her yoke, dodging a torrent of plasma. Another stream of death blazed above. She dived, yawed hard to the left, then rolled right, swerving around more flaming pillars. Around her, her fellow pilots flew through the gauntlet, rolling, turning, soaring.

A jet of plasma washed over one Eagle.

Then another.

The pilots screamed, then fell silent.

Then David's Stones hit.

Hundreds of missiles plowed into the enemy like spears. On impact, their warheads detonated. Explosions rocked the enemy. Clawfighters tore apart. Severed claws flew every which way. Spitfire had to dive, narrowly dodging a metal claw the size of her starfighter.

"Charge!" she cried. "Fly at them and send those bugs to hell!"

The Flock flew onward, faster, faster still, engines roaring. Plasma bathed another Eagle. Another pilot lost his scream.

The survivors kept charging. They were like a cavalry of old. They were the knights of modern warfare. The knights of freedom. They kept flying, and they fired more missiles, and explosions lit space.

And then the two fleets crashed together.

They were like two galaxies colliding. And like galaxies of stars, their formations were mostly empty space. They intermingled, starfighters and clawfighters passing over and under one another. They swerved, dipped, and rose, a cloud of metal and energy.

Instead of two cavalries charging at each other, it became a brawl. Human and alien vessels zipped everywhere. The battle shattered into hundreds of individual dogfights, all fought within a nebula of violence.

Spitfire dived fast, fleeing a pursuing clawfighter. Near the perimeter of the battle, she executed a perfect butterfly flip, then soared, all guns blazing. Her rotary cannons chewed through the enemy, and she swerved around its torrent of plasma.

She began to pursue the next clawfighter.

All around her, the vessels fought. More and more explosions lit space.

She was vaguely aware of larger starships fighting too. The Freedom was somewhere far above her now, battling a gargantuan warclaw. Thousands of other large starships—frigates, corvettes, even two Red Dawn dreadnoughts—were fighting across space. The battle spread around Earth, forming a sphere a hundred thousand kilometers in diameter.

But Spitfire could only spare that grand tapestry of war a glance. She had her task here. To destroy these clawfighters!

Another Eagle exploded.

They had lost twenty already.

Ten percent of the Flock—wiped out.

Terror filled Spitfire. She knew those dead pilots. Had trained with them, performed with them.

We can't defeat this enemy, she thought.

The clawships flew everywhere, outnumbering her Eagles. The arachnid pilots leered in their cockpits. They were laughing. Laughing as they tore the Flock apart.

We're not fighter pilots, whispered her doubt. Just stunt pilots.

"Then we must fly as stunt pilots," she whispered.

She knew what to do.

She opened a broadcast to the starship Freedom.

"Freedom, do you hear me? This is Spitfire."

Commander King spoke in her mind over the MindWeb, broadcasting his words directly into her neural implant. "This is King. Talk to me, Spitfire."

"I need a shower of fireworks!" she said. "The dazzlers. Right above us!"

"Spitfire, what are you talking about?" King said. "We have actual weapons now. We don't need—"

"I need fireworks!" she shouted. "Hurry!"

"All right, Spitfire. Give me a moment."

I don't know if I have a moment, Spitfire thought, swerving between streams of fire.

The dogfights continued. Her pilots flew hard. They flew well. They flew like lightning. Their bullets and missiles dealt death to the enemy.

But they were too few.

Another Eagle burned in the plasma. Another pilot Spitfire had laughed with, drank with—gone.

And then it happened. The Freedom fired one of her starboard cannons. A stream of fireworks streaked into the heart of the battle… and burst.

During their refitting at Mercury, the Freedom had loaded her armories with torpedoes, but she still had some fireworks from her days as a tourist attraction.

The fireworks were from their Fourth of July collection, a patriotic display that wowed the tourists and spread fifty kilometers wide. A hundred fireworks whizzed, painting red lines across space. A thousand other fireworks lit the darkness, forming blue stars. Golden sunbursts blasted everywhere, blinding. Spitfire could almost hear the crowd cheer.

The clawfighters jerked through space, blinded.

Two of them slammed together.

Their plasma streams whipped every which way.

Inside their cockpits, the arachnid pilots shut their eyes, blinded, and roared.

More fireworks burst. More and more. The display washed over the battle. It was like flying inside the heart of an American sun. Spitfire wasn't American, but right now she blessed the stars and stripes with all her heart.

Two more clawfighters crashed, pulverizing each other. The aliens were confused. Blind. Enraged.

But Spitfire had spent years performing aerobatics under the cloud of these fireworks. All her pilots had. They knew the fireworks could not harm them. They knew to navigate through this celebratory chaos.

Now we fight on our terms, she thought.

She snarled, shoved down the throttle, and charged toward a clawfighter. The enemy pilot was squinting all eight eyes, desperately trying to dodge the streaming red lights and exploding blue stars. Spitfire flew confidently through the fireworks and released a missile.

The clawfighter exploded.

Spitfire barrel-rolled, swooped toward another clawfighter, and pummeled it with a hailstorm of bullets. The barrage cracked its cockpit. A rah spilled out, legs twitching, jaw snapping. She filled the creature with bullets, then rolled under the dead alien, soared, and fired a missile at another swooping clawfighter. It shattered.

Spitfire whooped. All around her it was happening. Her pilots were tearing through the enemy.

With the fireworks blasting, it didn't take long. Every moment, they took out another clawfighter. The Eagles swooped back and forth, destroying their enemies until none remained.

Spitfire slumped back in her seat and took a deep breath.

"Good work, guys," she said. They didn't hear her. In their cockpits, the pilots were all cheering.

Commander King's voice came over the MindWeb. "All right, Spitfire, bring your flock home to roost."

The Eagles turned in space and flew back toward the Freedom. Outside the hangar airlock, they engaged their stabilizer thrusters, slowed their flight, and gently glided into the starship. Nacelles pivoted on their wings, blasting gases downward so the Eagles hovered over the deck. One by one, the Eagles thumped down onto their landing skids.

Canopies opened. The pilots leaped out, cheering, hugging, high-fiving one another. Somebody popped a bottle of champagne. Somebody else opened a crate of beers.

But Spitfire did not celebrate.

She stood on the deck, arms hanging at her sides, staring at the celebrations.

She stared at a hundred and seventy-eight pilots. Two hundred had left this hangar.

One of her pilots, a lanky captain known as Pickles, stepped toward her. He offered her a bottle of beer.

"Drink with us, Spitfire? We kicked their asses."

She shoved the bottle away. "Get this beer away from me, Pickles."

He took a step back, frowning.

Spitfire stared at the rest of her pilots.

"Stop your cheering!" she said. "All of you. Shut up. Show some respect."

The celebrations died across the hangar. The pilots stared at her. Their smiles faded. They lowered their drinks.

Spitfire looked across the hangar. Looked at the empty places on the deck. She stared back at the group of pilots.

"We lost twenty-two brothers and sisters out there tonight. We lost birds in our flock." Her eyes dampened. "And you're celebrating."

The pilots were silent. A few stared at their feet. One pilot, a young woman known as Snoopy, began to cry.

Pickles raised his beer. "To those we lost."

Snoopy raised her drink too, tears on her cheeks. "To the fallen."

They all raised their drinks. Finally Spitfire accepted a beer, and she raised the bottle too. But she did not drink. She tipped the beer over, pouring it out onto the deck.

"To the fallen," she said softly.

A boom sounded across the deck. The Freedom jolted. Through a porthole, Spitfire saw a blast of plasma wash over the starship's shields. Thousands of clawships still flew out there.

The battle for Earth continued.

CHAPTER THREE

The war raged.

The Freedom shook with every blast of the enemy guns.

Space burned all around them, and Earth bled below.

And Colonel Bastian King, commander of the Freedom Brigade, sat in his cramped bunk, holding his daughter. He had never felt so helpless.

"When is Mommy coming back?" Rowan asked, eyes full of tears.

She was five. Old enough to understand death. But she was in denial.

"I told you, Rowan, remember?" Bastian whispered, holding her in his wide, tattooed arms. "Mommy's in heaven, sweetie. She's in heaven and looking down on us."

"But when is she coming back here?" Rowan said. "I don't want her to be in heaven. Can't she come back?"

Bastian didn't know what to do. What to say. How the hell did you comfort a child who had lost her mother?

He himself was still processing the grief. He had divorced Stacy, yes, but he still loved her. Her death tore at him.

I don't know how I can be a father to Rowan and fight a war, he thought. I don't know how I can make this terrible nightmare end. I don't know how to make things better. I don't know what to do.

So he only held Rowan in his arms. Being there. Comforting her as best he could. Right now that was all he could do. Simply be there and pretend to be strong while inside he fell apart. Strength was often like that. Strength was crumbling inside but wearing armor, being a pillar of stone for others to lean on.

Another boom sounded in the distance. The starship shook. Rowan trembled.

"Are those the bad guys bombing us?" she whispered.

"It's all right, Row," Bastian said softly. "The Freedom has strong shields. We're safe."

"I'm scared, Daddy. I'm so scared." She began to weep, and Bastian held her, rocking her gently. He was a large man, a tough soldier. Tattoos covered his muscular arms. A mohawk grew from his head. He wore battle fatigues and carried many weapons. A big man. A strong man. A leader of strong men.

And he felt so powerless.

Another boom shook the ship.

And another.

A knock sounded on the door. Not a call to his MindLink. An actual knock.

Bastian looked up, eyes damp, still holding his daughter.

"Come in."

The door to his bunk opened. Alice stood there.

Sergeant Major Alice Allenby was big and tough—almost as big as Bastian. A former Olympic wrestler, she had two blond braids, rosy cheeks, and an array of handguns and rifles. She stepped into the room, wearing the same battle fatigues as Bastian—the combat uniforms of the space marines.

"Bastian," she said softly. "It's time. We need to muster the brigade."

Rowan whimpered and held him more tightly.

Bastian looked at his sergeant. At his friend.

He opened a MindLink connection, not wanting Rowan to hear.

"How can I do this, Alice?" he said to her telepathically. "How can I lead an army when my daughter needs me?"

She sat beside him on the bunk and held his hand. "Because that's where Rowan needs you. She needs you to lead this army against the enemy. To defeat the monsters. To save the world."

"And I'm supposed to just leave her here?" Bastian said, suddenly shaking. "Leave my daughter in a little cabin on a starship as the aliens bombard us? A girl who just lost her mother?"

Alice held his hand and looked into his eyes. Her expression was gentle. She could probably tear a rah apart with her bare hands, but right now she was all soft kindness.

"There are social workers in the upper decks. They've been watching the orphaned tourist children. They'll look after Rowan."

Bastian tried not to cry. He held his daughter a little tighter. "Just leave her in… in a refugee camp? While I go to war and maybe not return?"

"Yes," Alice said. "Yes, Bastian. I know this is hard. I know this all happened so fast. But you're no longer the junior officer from a few days ago, bumming around a forgotten base in Nowhere, Nebraska. You're a colonel now. You command a brigade. The Freedom Brigade. You serve aboard a warship. You will do your duty. And I'll be there every step of the way. I'll always be there with you. Always."

Rowan sniffed. "It's okay, Daddy. I'll go be with the other kids. I'll look after them while you go kill the bad guys."

Bastian frowned and looked at his daughter. "You heard us? We were communicating telepathically."

Rowan tapped the side of her head. "Yep. I have a MindLink too, remember?"

Bastian let out something halfway between a laugh and a sob. "I forgot you figured out how to disable the parental controls."

Despite the grief and terror, Rowan managed a smile. "I love you, Daddy. I'm proud of you. Go kill those bad spiders. I'll be with the other kids. And Mommy will be watching over me."

Then Bastian couldn't help it. He cried. Right in front of his daughter, he cried. He had promised to be strong. To be a pillar of stone. But he was breaking up inside.

He walked with Rowan through the starship. Soldiers ran back and forth. Alarms blared. The battle was raging. Every few moments, another boom sounded—some from the Freedom's mighty cannons, others from enemy blasts hitting their shields.

Bastian took his daughter to the upper deck where social workers and teachers were looking after the children. Most were tourist children. Some, like Rowan, were the children of soldiers. When Bastian turned away, when he left her there, his heart shattered into even smaller pieces. He felt like an empty husk, like a hollow statue with nothing but wisps of sand inside.

But he was a soldier.

He was a leader.

He commanded the Freedom Brigade, and Alice was with him.

He took the elevator down to deck 7, deep below the bustle of the upper decks with their refugees, alarms, and chaos. Down to the place where marines mustered. To his brigade. To lead his soldiers and win this war.

CHAPTER FOUR

Her Royal Highness Princess Emily, Lady of the White Rose, future queen of Britain and the Commonwealth, cowered in the royal suite as the enemy pounded the starship Freedom.

Every moment, another boom shook the starship. The royal suite was located on deck 28 of the midsection, far from the outer hull. But the explosions sounded so close. The sound was deafening. The cabin rattled.

With Buckingham Palace destroyed, Emily was the last surviving member of Britain's royal family. The rahs had murdered everyone else. Her grandfather, King Robert. Her parents. Her cousins. Her handmaidens and friends. All of them.

All gone.

Here aboard this starship, flying thousands of kilometers above Earth, Emily was alone.

The royal suite had become her residence in exile. From here, she hoped to rule her people during this war. Someday she would return to England, she vowed. She would be crowned in whatever cathedral still stood. And if no cathedrals remained, she would be crowned among the ruins, and she would rebuild the throne. Someday. She hoped. Right now Emily didn't know if she'd live to see tomorrow.

Another blast shook the Freedom.

Another priceless work of art, an original oil painting by Lord Leighton, fell off the wall. It landed on the broken chandelier, which had fallen during an earlier assault. The canvas made a horrible ripping sound as the crystals tore through it. Emily jolted. Somehow that terrible rrrrip seemed even worse than the booms on the outer hull. Maybe she was getting used to the booms. Maybe the ripping canvas sounded like ripping skin. Like the ripping away of her old life, her youth, her innocence.

The royal suite, this luxurious chamber in the starship, had once been a place of opulence, rivaling palaces on Earth. Renaissance paintings, sculptures, and furniture had filled it. Only the most prestigious dignitaries stayed here. Now it was all in ruin. A bunch of broken marble, shattered crystal, and torn canvas on the floor. To Emily, this ruin symbolized her life.

Another blast sounded, louder this time.

"Oh, it sounds like it's getting closer!" Niles said. The drone hovered toward her over the fallen artwork. "We're done for, Emily. Done for!"

"The blasts can't be getting closer," Emily said. "They're all hitting the shields on the outer hull. Anything closer would pulverize us into ashes."

"Oh, well now I feel much better!" Niles said.

The drone shuddered in the air. He was roughly the size and shape of a football (though he would never admit it, calling himself a "prolate spheroid"). Once many precious gemstones had covered him—jewels the royal family had collected over generations. Most of them had fallen in the battles. Today his silver shell was pockmarked, and some spots had been patched over with steel plates.

Emily pulled the drone into an embrace. He trembled in her arms. He was fussy, neurotic, and downright intolerable. But he was her last connection to home. He had been watching over her since she'd been a child.

And I'm not a child anymore, she thought. I can't be.

Rattling sounded above.

Emily whipped her head back, staring at the deckhead.

Something was scraping around just above the ceiling. Heavy breathing sounded.

"The rahs!" Niles whispered.

Emily leaped to her feet. She remembered the spiders scuttling through the HVAC ducts two days ago, crawling from cabin to cabin. The creatures could detach their bloated abdomens, leaving just a bundle of claws and teeth, becoming small enough to squeeze through the ductwork.

The scraping continued above. The deckhead dented. Something was definitely moving around up there.

Emily looked around for a weapon. Miraculously, an antique knight's sword still hung from the wall. She wrapped her hands around the hilt and pointed the blade at the deckhead.

"Back, whoever you are!" Emily cried. "Or I'll run you through."

The movement stopped above.

"What the hell, dude?" came a voice from above.

A hatch opened near the ceiling. Stowy stuck her head out. She was upside down. Her messy brown hair cascaded into the cabin, and her elfin face split in a grin.

"Kill it, kill it!" Niles cried.

"Hi, everyone!" Stowy gasped. "Whoa, you weren't kidding, Em. That's a damn big sword."

Emily sighed in relief and put the sword down. "I thought you were a rah."

"Me? But I'm adorable!" Stowy dropped from the hatch, flipped in the air, landed on her feet, and curtsied. "See? Cute as a button."

Like always, Stowy wore a ragged dress with many pockets sewn on like patches, each pocket a different color. She wore one striped stocking full of holes. Soot covered her, her fingernails were bitten down to stubs, and her hair was a fright. She did wear a fine amulet around her neck, but it hung from a shoelace.

"Stowy, you know, you'd be cuter if you let me tidy you up a bit," Emily said.

The stowaway tilted her head. "Why do people think buttons are cute? Darjeeling has lots of buttons on his uniform, and he's absolutely awful." The girl began to laugh. "Cute as a button, cute as a button. Can you imagine me as a giant button? Just a button with eyes? Just a giant button the size of a wagon wheel, covered with skin and hair, with holes for thread and everything, and two blinking eyes, staring into your soul? I bet that wouldn't be cute at all."

Emily and Niles stared at her.

The drone hovered closer to Emily. "The girl is a lunatic."

"Hey! I heard that." Stowy frowned and pointed at Niles. "I'm autistic. There's a difference, you floating piece of flimflam!"

"Flimflam?" Niles bristled. "I'll have you know I'm an aristocratic guardian automaton."

"Flimflam, I say!" Stowy pointed at him, scowling. "J'accuse!" She turned back to Emily and grinned. "Anyway, I came by to visit. Did you know there's a war going on?"

"Yes," Emily said. "And I'm going to fight in it."

Niles flew backward so fast he crashed into a column. "You'll what?"

"I'm going to fight in this war, Niles," Emily said. "I'm going to join the army. I'm going to get a gun. And I'm going to fight."

Niles flew back toward her, eyes flashing. "Princess Emily! You are the last survivor of the house of Windsor. You are the future Queen of England. You must remain here, in this chamber, in safety."

The clawships chose that moment to bombard the Freedom again. The starship shook. Emily swayed on her feet, Niles tumbled through the air, and Stowy giggled.

"Whoo, roller coaster!" the young stowaway said. "Imagine if I were a button. I'd be rolling all over the place."

Emily steadied herself and took a deep breath. "Niles, I know who I am. I know what my duty is. Someday I will return to England. Someday I will be crowned, and someday I will sit on the throne. But not today. Not while the rahs still swarm. I will not be a figurehead, just a princess in a gilded cage, while good people fight and die. What kind of leader would that make me? No, Niles. If I'm to wear the crown, I must first earn it. So I will become a soldier. And I will fight." Another blast shook the starship, and Emily smiled weakly. "Besides, I don't think anyplace is safe anymore. Not even the royal suite."

Niles dipped in the air. "You are a noble girl, Emily. Foolish, yes. Naive, most certainly. But noble. Your parents would be proud of you."

Emily sniffed, wiped her eyes, and hugged him.

Stowy joined the embrace. "Awww, I love hugs! I think they're my favorite thing after mice. Especially baby mice! Well, not when they're so small that they don't have any fur. Ever seen a newborn mouse? They're all pink and weird with little limbs like axolotls. I think axolotls are way cuter than baby mice." She gasped. "That's it! That's what I am! I'm as cute as an axolotl. Anyway, anyone want some cookies?"

She pulled some crumbling cookies from her pocket and held them out. They were covered with lint. Emily and Niles politely shook their heads.

Stowy waggled her eyebrows. "They're chocolate chip!"

"No, thank you," Emily said.

"I'm pretty sure those chocolate chips are ants," Niles said.

The stowaway shrugged and began to eat. Then she coughed, stuck her tongue out, and began pulling off bits of thread and lint. And maybe some ants.

"Oh, these taste awful! I really shouldn't keep cookies in the same pocket as my lizard tail collection."

"Stowy." Emily clasped the girl's arms. "Do you know where Darjeeling is? Can you take me to him?"

The girl's eyes lit up. "Do you want to prank him? We can wait until he falls asleep, then fill his pockets with lizard tails and baby mice!"

"No pranks, Stowy. This is not the time."

"Ohhh, right. Because of the war and all our looming deaths." Stowy nodded sagely.

"Well, if I'm to die, I'll die fighting," Emily said. "I want to join the army, and Darjeeling can help. It's easier if we crawl through the ducts. The corridors are crammed with refugees and soldiers. Everyone knows who I am, and they would stop me along the way. Can you take me through the ductwork?"

Stowy sighed. "Fine! I'll take you to him. But only if you hug me twice. Once now, once when we get there. That's my payment! Unless you have some lizard tails."

Emily hugged the girl. "Hugs it is. Now let's go."

"For the record, I think we should stay here in the royal suite," Niles said. "Not that anyone ever cares what I think."

The girls were already climbing into the duct. With a theatrical sigh, Niles followed.

CHAPTER FIVE

King stood on the bridge of the Freedom, surveying the battle.

It did not look good.

The Freedom floated in empty space. Earth shone below them, the size of a basketball held at arm's length. The husks of dead clawships hovered all around. Any minute now, King knew, new clawships would spot the Freedom and charge toward her. But for a brief moment, he could catch his breath.

The battle surrounded the planet, spreading from low to high orbit. Humanity's full armada of warships was fighting.

The Free Alliance, a union of Earth's democratic nations, commanded three thousand starships. They ranged from small corvettes to the Freedom, a colossal dreadnought. Once other dreadnoughts—starships over a kilometer long—had flown in the Alliance fleet. Those other dreadnoughts had fallen in the opening salvo of the war. The rahs had targeted them first, catching them by surprise. Now, three days into the war, the Freedom remained the largest ship to hoist the Alliance banner.

The Red Dawn, an axis of tyrannies, was fighting too. All their starships looked the same, be they Chinese, Russian, North Korean, or belonging to some other Red Dawn nation. Under the ideology of equalism, everyone was equal. That sounded harmless enough in theory. In reality, the Red Dawn crushed individuality, forbade religion, banned cultural heritage, and staged only mock elections. All their starships were utilitarian. Golden equal signs shone on their red hulls. The Red Dawn too commanded three thousand starships. Their flagship, the mighty RDS Lenin, was now leading the Red Fleet in battle in deep orbit. Chunks of broken starships were cascading down toward the Russian plains.

Finally, the Desert Thorns were fighting too. Their starships were works of art, all graceful lines and slender tubes. Golden filigree bedecked their silvery hulls. They were a new union, risen from the ashes of the third world war. Their nations spanned the deserts of North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. The wise Queen Laila led them—the only human leader born after the war. A new power, the Desert Thorns commanded only a thousand starships, but they were modern machines of war, newer and faster than the aging Alliance and Red Dawn fleets.

Altogether, seven thousand Earthling starships faced the rahs. A week ago, it seemed a massive armada, an unimaginably vast fleet.

Today they seemed so few.

The Freedom's ATLAS sensors had run some calculations, filling missing pieces of data from sensors on other starships. They didn't know exactly how many rah clawships flew around Earth, but they had a good estimate.

At least thirty thousand.

Thirty thousand terrors.

The clawships were larger than the human starships. Stronger. Faster. Their plasma sprayed across space like bloody streaks. Their claws tore human ships apart. Every moment, another human starship fell.

We can't win this, King realized, staring at the battle. Explosions, missiles, lasers, and plasma painted a tapestry of terror.

Yet what could he do? He would not retreat. He would never abandon his home. If this was a lost battle, he would lose it. But he would fight until the end. If this was his Masada, his final stand, he would go down in glory.

For a moment some fatalistic pride filled him. Let this be his fate. Dying for his planet didn't seem so bad.

But his son was on this starship.

His granddaughter was on this starship.

Thousands of civilians, tourists who had become refugees, were on this starship.

He could not go down in a blaze of glory. Nor could he bring himself to flee. As space burned, King faced two terrible choices. Death or cowardice. He could accept neither, but he knew he must choose one.

No, he thought. No! There is a third choice. There is victory! We can fight hard. We can win! We must win. We have no choice but to win.

* * * * *

King took a deep breath.

He turned to look at his bridge crew. They stared back. Some were bandaged. Some were openly bleeding. Their uniforms were charred and slashed. They had been fighting nonstop since Christmas. Nobody had slept or eaten much. They napped in their seats and lived off energy bars and coffee. They were barely functioning, but King had no relief crew. So they stood at their stations.

"We're awaiting your orders, sir," said Jordan, XO of the ship. The tall officer still stood straight. Soot and blood stained his face, but his dark eyes were alert.

King looked at Jordan, his second-in-command, his oldest and best friend. He looked at Mimori, the ship's android. At Darjeeling, its sergeant major. At Spitfire, commander of his Eagles. At all the rest of them—navigators, helmsmen, engineers, scientists. All afraid. All depending on him.

"The admirals of our fleet are dead," King said to his crew. "The American president is dead. The British king is dead. The Alliance high commander is dead. Nobody is overseeing our war. Nobody is giving our starship commands. This battle has become a brawl. And we will continue to fight in this brawl. Our tactic will be to choose targets, one by one, and destroy them. That is the best we can do now—simply to fight. To punish the enemy. To—"

"Sir!" Mimori said.

King spun his head toward the android, frowning. It was unusual for a crew member to interrupt the commander. But then again, Mimori was no usual crew member. Oh, she looked normal enough. Like everyone on the bridge, she wore an Alliance uniform: navy-blue trousers, a blazer with brass buttons, and a naval cap. But she wore no insignia on her shoulders. She had no official rank. Because Mimori was not an ordinary officer, not an ordinary woman—some would say not a woman at all. She was his beloved Freedom taken flesh. Whether woman or machine, officer or starship, she was somebody King respected, even loved. When she interrupted him, he knew it was important.

"What is it?" King said.

"We're getting a transmission from the FAS Churchill. She's broadcasting to all Alliance starships."

An image of the FAS Churchill appeared on the central monitor. She was a modern frigate, smaller than the Freedom but more advanced. Her navigation was more nimble. Her shields were thinner but harder. Her cannons were shorter but fired advanced photon bolts, not clunky old torpedoes. The Churchill was a postwar ship, boasting the latest, greatest technology. She had not been tested in battle until now, but judging by the scars on her shields, she had withstood quite a few plasma blasts.

"What does the Churchill want?" King said.

Mimori looked at him. "Sir… the signature identifies the transmitting officer as George Godwin."

King's eyes widened. "George Balthazar Godwin? The admiral?"

"The retired admiral, yes, sir," Mimori said.

"The man's a legend," King said softly.

He remembered the man. George Godwin was a war hero and mentor. During World War III, Godwin had commanded a frigate strike force, a cornerstone of the Alliance fleet. Back then, he had been the youngest admiral in the fleet, only forty years old, a tactical genius. He was famous not only for his military brilliance but his heritage. Through his mother's side, Godwin was a direct descendant of Winston Churchill. The man was certainly flying in the right starship.

King had met the admiral after the war, had shaken his hand. But that was thirty-five years ago. Nobody had heard much of Godwin since. He had retired a decorated admiral. Last King heard, Godwin had dedicated himself to writing a series of history books, chronicling the third world war. Three decades in, it was still a work in progress. According to rumor, Godwin actually spent most of his time in his vineyard.

"Put him on-screen," King said.

"Right away, sir," Mimori said.

The image of the FAS Churchill vanished off the front monitor. A video feed replaced it, showing the Churchill's bridge.

George Godwin stood there. Unlike certain Red Dawn commanders who kept themselves young by transplanting their brains into younger clones, Godwin had aged since the war. He was now seventy-five years old, his head was bald, and his gut was big. But Godwin's eyes still shone with ferocity. He was a short man, jowly, with a prominent underbite. Surprisingly, he was not wearing a military uniform. He wore an old-fashioned three-piece suit, and he clutched a cane. The handle was shaped like a lion.

He injured his leg in the war, King remembered. He's been walking with a cane since.

"To all ships of the Alliance fleet!" the old man said. He had a gruff, rumbling voice. His accent was British and aristocratic, but the roughness of his voice hardened the accent's smooth edges. "This is George Godwin, speaking to you from the starship Churchill. This is a hard hour. An hour of war. An hour of fear. An hour of burning starships and blood-soaked battlefields. We face a ruthless enemy, an evil enemy, an alien menace that threatens to crush our world. The admirals and generals of our proud Alliance have fallen. Our leaders burned in the alien fire. Even High Commander Archer, leader of the Alliance, fell in battle. In accordance to the articles of succession, I have taken command of the Alliance. As the new high commander, I will lead you in our war against the rahs."

King understood the suit now. The Free Alliance wasn't just a military force. It also included civilian institutions, encouraging its nations to collaborate on scientific and cultural projects. Traditionally, the Alliance high commander was a civilian.

So the free people of Earth have a new leader, King thought. He could think of nobody better to command the Alliance in war.

"This is a dark hour, but we will fight the enemy with all our strength and conviction," Godwin continued. "All men and women must now unite. The Alliance, the Red Dawn, and the Desert Thorns will join to defeat the alien menace. Together, we will coordinate a plan for victory. I will be contacting the commanders of our ships, and we will—"

The high commander stopped talking.

He stared at something off-screen. His brow furrowed.

"Sir!" Mimori said, standing beside King. "I'm detecting clawships turning and accelerating toward the Churchill. Thirty of them, all warclaw-class ships."

Godwin looked back at the camera. He raised his chin, making his underbite seem even more prominent. "Though I was speaking on a secure, scrambled channel, the enemy has intercepted my transmission. They're heading here now. Godspeed, Alliance starships. I prepare for battle."

He gripped his cane more tightly, spun away, and the video feed died.

On another monitor, King saw it happen. ATLAS showed him a map of the battle. A cluster of red dots, symbolizing clawships, were swarming toward the Churchill, which appeared as a green dot. The Alliance flagship was fifteen thousand klicks away, flying in deep orbit.

"Mimori, give our engines another Clarke unit of force," King said. "Fly toward the Churchill. We're going to help."

The android nodded, and her eyes flashed with excitement. "Yes, sir."

* * * * *

Deep in the stern, great engines rumbled. Even here in the prow of the starship, a kilometer away, the deck thrummed. King felt the acceleration shove against him. Earth starships could not fly faster than light. They could not generate portals like rah clawships. But the Freedom was still damn fast. At full acceleration, she could reach a staggering one percent the speed of light, a miracle of engineering.

The Freedom would not fly that fast today. Such acceleration took time. In battle around a planet, such breakneck speed was also impractical. At one percent the speed of light, the Freedom would streak across the entire battle within instants, zip past the moon, and hurl into deep space. All before anyone could catch their breath.

But she still flew fast. She charged to battle.

"We cannot let another leader fall," King said. "We must save the Churchill. Mimori, how much power remains in the Fist of Freedom?"

"Only three percent, sir," the android replied as the starship raced forward.

They had fired the great railgun two hours ago, destroying the Crown of Claws. The damn cannon took so long to charge. At three percent, they couldn't hurl another projectile fast enough to cause serious damage. So it was down to the Angels of Liberty, their machine-gun turrets, and their Eagle starfighters. It was an impressive arsenal. But King really wished he had saved the Fist of Freedom a bit longer.

This had been the railgun's flaw during the last war too. You could only fire the damn thing once a day. King had taken out his queen too fast. Now he was down to rooks and knights and bishops. It would have to do.

As a military frigate, a sizable class of starship, the Churchill never flew alone. Seven corvettes, a smaller class of warship, surrounded her like knights around their king. Back during World War III, the Freedom had flown everywhere with a retinue of corvettes too. Big warships like frigates and dreadnoughts were precious assets. Smaller warships served as their sentinels. The formation was called a strike force, a classic unit for Alliance ships. Freedom had lost her strike force after the war when she had been turned into a museum ship. But the Churchill still had some protection.

It was not enough. King knew that.

A hundred or more clawships were racing toward the Churchill, moving fast, even faster than the Freedom.

"They'll rip through those corvettes like a pack of coyotes through a chicken coop," King muttered. "Jordan? Coordinate with the gunnery crew. Swivel all Angels of Liberty toward the enemy. As soon as you lock on targets, fire."

The XO nodded. He tapped the side of his head, signifying that he was activating his neural implant. The tap was unnecessary; an officer could activate his MindLink by thought alone. But the gesture was considered common courtesy, letting others know when you were telepathizing.

Jordan closed his eyes, mumbling things under his breath. He was projecting a hallucination of himself to the upper deck, appearing like a ghost among the gunners. It was unnecessary, and impracticable, for Jordan to actually walk there. The Freedom was a large ship, currently the largest in the Alliance fleet. The cannons were hundreds of meters away from the bridge. King hated the MindWeb, but he had to admit it had its uses.

He stared at the ATLAS monitor. The Freedom was rapidly approaching the clawships. The spiky vessels were only five thousand klicks away now. Most kept racing toward the Churchill. But a dozen clawships detached from their formation. They schooled through space, yawing toward the Freedom, and came charging.

"Fire!" Jordan cried out.

The Freedom shook.

The fourteen Angels of Liberty fired as one. The booms rocked the Freedom. Each of those cannons was the size of a Big Ben. They unleashed the legendary Maccabees—torpedoes the size of small starships.

The clawships ahead were large. Not full dreadnoughts but at least frigate size. As the Maccabees flew closer, the enemy's shields activated. Glowing webs materialized around the clawships, surrounding them with golden strands of energy. The Maccabees impacted against the shields and exploded.

The shields wavered—but held.

The clawships kept charging toward the Freedom.

"Fire again!" King said.

But it would take a moment to recharge the cannons.

The enemy ships opened fire.

"Evasive maneuvers!" King barked.

Mimori was already on it. The android stood in the center of the bridge, eyes closed. She tilted sideways, arms held out at her sides. She seemed almost like a little girl pretending to be an airplane. But with her digital thoughts, she was controlling the Freedom. The starship yawed, then pitched upward, then rolled to the right. Plasma jets streamed above, below, around the ship.

"Cannons ready," Jordan said. "Gunners—"

"Wait," King said. "Don't fire on all twelve incoming ships. Focus all fourteen cannons on one clawship. Choose the one in the center."

Jordan nodded, telepathized with the gunners for a moment, then cried: "Fire!"

Fourteen more Maccabees flew.

This time all fourteen flew toward just one clawship.

As the torpedoes flew closer, the shield around that clawship came to life, a glowing web. It only lasted a second. With their combined force, the Maccabees tore through the shield and pulverized the clawship within.

At once, the Freedom was swerving again, dodging more plasma. Eleven clawships still flew nearby. Soon they'd be close enough to ram the Freedom.

Meanwhile, the Churchill was still thousands of klicks away. Scores of clawships were mobbing her, bombarding the poor frigate.

King cursed. He needed to be there by the Churchill!

And then—hope.

Other Alliance starships flew forth! Twenty or more! Some were flying to aid the Churchill. Others came to help the Freedom. Their cannons boomed. Their laser beams seared enemy shields and hulls. Their starfighters swarmed like hornets. The light of war lit their orbit.

As the battle blazed all around, the Freedom fired her cannons again, shattering another clawship. They took a plasma bolt to the stern, but the shields held.

"Charge right toward the Churchill, Mimori," King said. "Good old Godwin needs our help."

They roared forward, barreling through the enemy, knocking small clawfighters aside. Their prongs were like a cowcatcher on a locomotive, shoving back everything in their way. Finally they reached the Churchill.

Godwin's frigate was badly hurt. The shields were hanging by a thread. Only three corvettes remained of her strike force.

But the Freedom was here.

The Freedom would help.

And behind her rallied a hundred starships of the Alliance.

Their weapons fired. Clawships exploded before them.

Thousands of starships were still battling closer to Earth. Here in deep orbit, a hundred brave ships of the Alliance slammed into the enemy formations.

A plasma blast slammed into the Freedom.

Another.

A third.

The starship rocked. Klaxons wailed in protest. Mimori screamed, feeling every blow, and clutched her side.

The Angels of Liberty boomed, rocking the ship. The Maccabees tore through another shield. A clawship exploded. Ten more replaced it.

"Jim, we can't load the Angels fast enough!" Jordan shouted. "There are too many clawships. We can't keep up."

King growled deep in his throat. "How many torpedoes do you need to rip through a clawship's web-shield? You might not need all fourteen cannons."

Jordan considered. "Hard to say. We still need to analyze the data. I estimate at least six, seven Maccabees to destroy a clawship, shield and hull."

King nodded. "All right. Point all port cannons to ten o'clock. Point all starboard cannons to two o'clock. We'll plow through the enemy, blasting them from both sides."

"What about twelve o'clock?" Jordan said. "What about dead ahead? The Fist is out of power."

"We'll use the Fist as a ram."

Jordan sighed. "I hate when you say that."

"Full speed ahead!" King said. "Get us to the Churchill."

The Freedom charged.

Her guns boomed.

She plowed through the enemy. The Angels knocked back the surging clawships at their sides. Three enemies came flying from ahead. One was a gargantuan warclaw, a kilometer long. The Freedom kept charging.

Jordan tensed. "Jim."

"Keep flying. Full speed ahead and ram her!"

They kept flying, moving faster still. They surged through flame, and the warclaw loomed ahead, and—

Smoke and sparks blasted across the bridge.

Everyone fell to the deck.

Monitors exploded.

The Fist of Freedom's prongs plowed into the warclaw, ripping deep into its hull. The Freedom pierced the enemy like a fork.

"Mimori, shock it!" King said.

Mimori nodded. They had used this tactic before. She turned on the Fist of Freedom.

The railgun was only at four percent power—not enough to hurl a Goliath projectile. But even that four percent delivered a serious jolt of electricity.

The electric power surged into the enemy clawship, which the Freedom was still impaling.

The warclaw burst apart, shattering into a billion pieces. Electrocuted rahs flew every which way, some still twitching. The Freedom's machine-gun nests kicked into action, chewing through the flailing spiders.

The bridge crew cheered. When the debris cleared, they saw the Churchill flying right ahead.

King's heart sank.

The cheering across the bridge died.

Several rah vessels covered the Churchill like barnacles. Each vessel was about the size of a tank, cloaked in craggy black armor and steel spikes. King counted six attached to the Churchill's hull. As he watched, another spiky vessel descended, clanged onto the Churchill, and latched on. Saw blades whirred. Sparks flew from the Churchill's hull.

"Those are shuttles," Jordan whispered, eyes wide.

King nodded. "The rahs are boarding the Churchill." His upper lip twitched in a snarl, and he clenched his fists. "And we will too."

CHAPTER SIX

Colonel Bastian King, commander of the Freedom Brigade, surveyed his troops.

Four thousand warriors stood before him, ready for war.

Another boom sounded. The starship Freedom jerked in space. The marines swayed but stayed standing. Everyone stood in battle formations. Some were scowling, eyes hard. Others were pale. A few soldiers were whispering prayers.

They no longer wore their old olive drabs from Earth. They were now space warriors. They wore navy-blue battlesuits, complete with helmets and oxygen tanks. Space marines had to fight in extreme conditions—in breached spaceships, on alien planets, sometimes even floating through space. Battlesuits were designed to protect a space marine from a host of things that wanted to kill them: vacuum, radiation, extreme temperatures, bullets, and fire.

But Bastian didn't think battlesuits would protect them from rah claws. Hell, he doubted a solid iron blast door could withstand those beasts.

Another boom. Another hit to their starship. Again the Freedom shook. The marines swayed on their feet.

The brigade stood on deck 7 of the Freedom's midsection. Aside from the shuttle and starfighter hangars, which lay farther down, this was the largest empty space on the ship. Which made it among the largest chambers in space period. You could fit a soccer field in here with room to spare. They nicknamed deck 7 "the Courtyard."

Originally, the Courtyard had been built for the marine brigade to muster, drill, and train. During the Freedom's decades as a museum ship, the Courtyard had been transformed into a dance hall. There was still a bar along one bulkhead and a smoke machine on a wooden stage. A few posters still hung on the walls, advertising an upcoming "Christmas among the Stars" dance, featuring crooning sensation Buzz Stardust.

But the marines had reclaimed the space. The fabled Freedom Brigade, the heroes of World War III, were back in their mothership. A new generation, they were ready for war.

At least I hope we are, Bastian thought.

It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, he had been a captain, just a junior officer down on his luck, commanding a single company on Earth. Now he stood here aboard a dreadnought, a colonel, commanding a marine brigade in a space battle.

This was not how Bastian had imagined his holiday going.

But the rahs had come. The rahs had slain his commanding officers. So Bastian led these soldiers now. These kids from Nebraska who had never known war until this Christmas. These warriors who must save the world.

Another blast echoed through the starship.

The ship jolted again.

The lights went dark, flashed back on, and settled into a nervous flickering.

One soldier leaned over and vomited.

A glowing notification popped up before Bastian, seeming to hover in the air. He was hallucinating it. His MindLink, the neural implant inside his skull, was creating the notification in his brain.

It was a call from his father.

With a thought, Bastian accepted the telepathic call.

A hallucination of his father materialized before him. Commander James King stood on the bridge, hundreds of yards away. But the MindWeb allowed Bastian to imagine him here in the Courtyard in perfect fidelity. An array of sensors on the bridge were filming the commander, relaying the information into the MindWeb, and finally creating the hallucination inside Bastian's brain.

James King had been fighting since the war began on Christmas, barely sleeping or eating, but his shoulders were still squared, his back straight. He looked like a rugged old bulldog, beaten and bruised but still raring for a fight. Soot and blood stained the commander's navy-blue uniform, and a bandage was wrapped around his arm. Only days ago, he had fought Hel'rah, the prince of rahs, here aboard the Freedom. Or was it hours ago? Time blended together, losing all meaning.

"Bastian," the commander said. "I trust you saw George Godwin's transmission."

Bastian nodded. As a senior officer, he had received Godwin's speech directly into his MindLink. "Yes. The old man now commands the Alliance from aboard the Churchill."

"The rahs have boarded the Churchill," King said. "Godwin reports that the enemy is swarming through his starship, heading toward the bridge. He has two hundred guards aboard, but they're falling fast. Prepare to deploy the Freedom Brigade. You and your marines must liberate the Churchill and save the high commander."

An instant of terror shot through Bastian.

He remembered fighting the rahs on Earth. Remembered those claws and fangs ripping soldiers apart. And that had been at Fort Liberty, on familiar turf, defending their own soil. This would be much harder.

For that instant of terror, his fingers trembled, his breath shook, and his head spun.

He took a deep breath, then nodded.

"We will liberate the Churchill," Bastian said.

"Take half your troops and lead the assault," King said. "The remaining marines will continue to defend our own starship. Keep your MindLink on. I'll remain here on the bridge, but through the MindWeb, I'll be with you every step of the way. Godspeed, son."

I love you, Dad, Bastian wanted to say. He could not bring the words to his lips. Not here, not now. But he thought them. And King read that thought over the MindWeb.

I love you too, son, he thought back.

Bastian turned off the hallucination of his father. He looked at his troops.

He raised his voice, letting it boom across the Courtyard. "The rahs have boarded the Churchill, the Alliance flagship. Half of you will remain here to defend the Freedom. The other half will come with me onto the Churchill. To battle. Maybe to death. I need volunteers."

Every single hand shot up.

All four thousand troops—they volunteered to fight.

Bastian had never been more proud of them.

Alice Allenby stepped up toward him, her two blond braids swinging. "I'm coming with you, boss."

A sergeant major, she was the senior NCO in the brigade. Like him, she was young for the job. Alice was not yet thirty. They had all been promoted so quickly in this war, replacing fallen commanders. They were all so green.

When he looked at her, some of Bastian's fear eased. Alice wasn't just his right-hand woman in the brigade. She was also a good friend. She stood over six feet tall, almost as tall as him. In a previous life, she had been a professional wrestler, competing at the 2196 Olympics. Before that, she had grown up on a farm, taming horses, hefting bales of hay, and once wrestling a wolf to submission, if you believed the tales. Alice Allenby was not somebody to mess with. With her body armor, helmet, and Gideon assault rifle, she looked even more intimidating than usual, and that was saying something. But she also had a warm smile, bright blue eyes, and a good heart.

"Of course I'm taking you, Alice," he said. "You could probably plow through the rah army alone."

She winked. "Just point me at 'em, boss."

But she was scared. He saw her fingers shaking. They were all scared.

Bastian looked again at his brigade. "All right, soldiers! Since you all volunteer, I'll choose half of you at random. Lightning battalion, Thunder battalion—you're coming with me. Hailstorm battalion, Typhoon battalion—you stay to defend the Freedom. Lightning and Thunder—come on, move it! To the Rhinos! Go!"

* * * * *

The brigade split in two. Two thousand troops stepped aside. Two thousand more, comprising the Lightning and Thunder battalions, rushed forth.

Hatches dilated in the deck, revealing fireman-style poles. The troops began sliding down toward deck 6.

Deck 6 spanned the Freedom's midsection, serving as a hangar bay. Twenty Rhino-class heavy marine transporters awaited here. The Rhinos were large vessels, large enough to be starships in their own right. They were called Rhinos on account of their armor, but they were the size of whales. The twenty had to squeeze into the hangar, barely any room between them. Within their armored hulls, each Rhino could transport a full marine platoon in battlesuits, along with all their equipment. Being larger than Eagle starfighters, a Rhino took three troops to fly: a pilot, a copilot, and a navigator.

The flight crews were already here, waiting inside the Rhinos. The dropships' back hatches were open, leading into their interiors. Their engines were rumbling.

"Lightning battalion, split into platoons!" Bastian shouted. "Each platoon—into a Rhino. Haul ass! Thunder battalion—with me down to deck 5!"

As a thousand soldiers ran into the Rhinos, Bastian and a thousand more descended one deck lower. Here they found another twenty Rhinos. These hangar decks were enormous, stretching across the Freedom's midsection. But the Rhinos barely fit. The Freedom had a complement of forty Rhinos. They took up two entire decks by themselves, squeezed in tight. It took a colossal dreadnought like the Freedom to carry these beasts.

On this deck too the Rhinos were primed and raring to fly. Their pilots were already strapped in. As klaxons blared, the Thunder battalion ran across the deck, boots thundering. They split into companies, then into platoons, with each platoon assigned to one Rhino.

Bastian chose to fly with the first platoon of Badgers Company. His old unit. Alice joined him. With fifty other soldiers, they rushed into a scarred old Rhino.

The dropship featured a small cockpit and a spartan hold. Despite the large size of the Rhino, there wasn't actually much room inside. So much of a Rhino was its armored hull and heavy engine. There was no room for seats. Harnesses rose from the floor, designed to snap shut around a soldier's chest like some medieval gibbet. When you needed to transport armies, you had to be creative about maximizing space. Comfort didn't just take a back seat; it didn't have a seat at all.

Bastian raced into one harness. As the senior officer, he stood right behind the cockpit, close enough to communicate with the pilot. These ships had been designed before the MindWeb.

Two poles rose at his sides, framing his body. When he pressed a button, bars snapped shut around his torso like a steel rib cage. He stood there, enclosed in the harness. Dropships flew rough. These harnesses perhaps looked like torture devices from the Inquisition, but they would keep everyone standing.

Bastian looked over his platoon. The very unit where he had begun his service as a marine.

Fourteen years ago now, he thought. He smirked. Right after my dumb ass flunked out of flight school.

One soldier in the platoon stood head and shoulders above everyone else. He even towered over Bastian, and Bastian was a tall man.

Private Charging Bear stood seven feet tall. He was the tallest man in the entire brigade. Hell, for all Bastian knew, he was the tallest man in the Alliance marines period. The military had let Bear keep his two long black braids, which hung across his shoulders. The giant came from a reservation near the King ranch. As children, Bastian and Bear had spent a lot of time together—fishing, hunting, getting in trouble. Bastian was the son of a famous war hero. Bear was the son of his tribe's chief. They carried different burdens, but they became like brothers.

And now war was here. Now aliens threatened Earth. Now all humans had just one task, one purpose—to defeat the enemy. And so, halfway through his thirties, Bear had joined the marines. He was only a private, but Bastian considered him the best damn soldier in the brigade. The two stared at each other across the hold. Bear gave him a reassuring nod.

The last harness snapped shut.

"Here we go!" cried the Rhino pilot.

* * * * *

The engines roared. The Rhino shook. Bastian connected his MindLink to a camera on the hangar's deckhead. As he stood here inside one Rhino, he saw all twenty of them taxi across the deck. Four airlocks lined the hull. They yawned open.

Four by four, the Rhinos leaped into space.

As his Rhino roared out of the Freedom, Bastian gripped his harness with both hands. He rattled inside the metal cage. Somebody beside him threw up. The small portholes revealed glimpses of the battle. Plasma shot every which way. Starfighters chased one another. Explosions bloomed in the darkness. Earth was a pale blue sphere in the distance. As the Rhino rumbled through space, the blue planet jerked around madly.

Inside the Rhino, soldiers were praying. Some squeezed their eyes shut. Alice was turning green.

Bastian couldn't see much through the small portholes. He connected his MindLink to a sensor on the Rhino's exterior. Now he could see more.

The last few Rhinos were launching. All forty had now left the Freedom. They charged through space, bulky and armored, leaving trails of light, and—

"Rhino A7, watch out!" Bastian shouted.

A clawfighter swooped.

A plasma jet slammed into a nearby Rhino.

The dropship careened through space. Another clawfighter swooped, blasting more plasma. A third clawfighter descended. Three of the small rah vessels mobbed the burning Rhino. They gripped its hull with their claws, tore armored plates off, and spewed more fire. They were like raptors ripping apart their prey.

Bastian could hear the soldiers inside. Their voices carried over the MindWeb. They were screaming.

"Pilot, fly toward Rhino A7!" Bastian shouted. "We need to help."

His Rhino swerved through space. The marines jolted in their harnesses. For a moment Bastian forgot his mission to save the Churchill. He had to save the platoon in Rhino A7. They were his soldiers. He would not abandon them.

Like an enraged animal hell-bent on revenge, Bastian's Rhino charged toward its wounded friend. The three clawfighters pulled back, reared in space, and raised their claws. They exposed their swirling red plasma ports. The three prepared to spew their flaming weapon.

Before they could, Bastian's Rhino opened fire.

Rotary cannons roared on the prow. Bullets slammed into a clawfighter with showers of sparks. More Rhinos flew in, rotary guns spinning and smoking, pummeling the enemy.

The three clawfighters retreated, one of them burning, the others slewing.

Rhino A7 was in bad shape. Bastian connected his MindLink to a camera inside. He saw soldiers with burned flesh and peeling skin. Some were screaming. Some were dead.

But many had survived—and it was thanks to their battlesuits. All soldiers of the Freedom Brigade wore spacesuit-standard uniforms. They had to. A space marine must deal with hull breaches, must fight in open airlocks, and sometimes got knocked into space. Their suits protected them from vacuum, radiation, and extreme temperatures. With Rhino A7's hull breached, the suits had saved many lives.

Commander King's voice suddenly boomed through the MindWeb.

"Bastian, get back on target!" King said. "Your mission is to save the Churchill. Keep going! Even if you must leave men behind. Complete the mission!"

"Yes, sir," Bastian replied.

But he noticed that King had sent the order after Bastian had saved the troops in Rhino A7. His father understood.

* * * * *

The Rhinos regrouped and kept flying. Bastian saw it ahead—the FAS Churchill, flagship of the Free Alliance. At three hundred meters long, she was much smaller than the Freedom. Hell, just the Freedom's engine was larger than the entire Churchill. But most of the superlarge Alliance warships were gone. Only a handful of carriers remained, and just one dreadnought—the Freedom.

The Churchill was perhaps only a frigate, just one class larger than a corvette. But she carried the Alliance high commander. She must be saved.

The enemy boarding vessels covered the Churchill, clinging on like parasites. They were oddly organic ships, no two exactly alike, their hulls covered in crags and spikes.

The Churchill had a hangar, but its airlock was designed for small shuttles. Bastian could not fit his Rhinos through. Each Rhino would have to hover outside the airlock, and the marines would have to jump. Given that Churchill had only one airlock Bastian could see, and two thousand troops needed to board, that would take too long. It also created a bottleneck the enemy could disrupt.

Bastian had a better idea.

"All Rhino pilots!" Bastian said, telepathizing to their MindLinks. "Destroy the alien boarding ships. Knock those things off the Churchill!"

The Rhinos swerved in space, and their machine guns roared, pounding the rah boarding craft. The lumpy vessels generated no electric shields. The bullets pounded their metal hulls, but the crafts clung on.

"Focus your fire on where the boarding vessels are latched onto the Churchill," Bastian said. "Don't bother destroying them, just dislodge them."

The Rhinos schooled through space, turning for another strafing run.

A clawfighter charged into their lines.

Bastian cursed. The clawfighter rammed one Rhino, knocking it aside. Two Rhinos collided. Soldiers screamed. A plasma jet washed over two more dropships.

Bastian wanted to race toward them. To help. He could not.

"Continue the mission!" Bastian said. "Knock off those boarding craft!"

His father's words returned him. Sometimes you had to leave men behind. The mission—the mission was everything! At any cost—he must complete his mission!

Several Rhinos were busy fighting in space. The others raced along the Churchill's hull, rotary cannons roaring. This time they shot the landing craft where they were latched onto the Churchill. The seal broke. The alien vessels detached like scabs and tumbled into the distance, exposing gaping holes on the Churchill's hull.

Bastian saw no rahs. The boarding crafts were empty. All the aliens were already deep inside the Churchill.

"Pilot, position our Rhino's back hatch alongside that hole." Bastian pointed. "We're entering the Churchill. All Rhinos—find a hole in the Churchill and climb in. We'll keep in touch through MindWeb. All platoons—work your way toward the bridge. Kill any rah you see. Godspeed, soldiers."

He had to leave a few Rhinos behind. They drowned in the flames of battle. Bastian didn't have time to help them now. He had to complete his mission.

That is the terrible burden of a soldier, he thought. We must keep going forward. At any cost. We must sacrifice brothers and sisters. We must leave people we love in the fire. All for victory. Victory at any cost! That is a space marine's creed. That is his terrible burden.

The Rhino positioned itself along the hole.

"We're all set, sir," said the pilot. "Our back hatch is aligned with a hole in the Churchill's port bow. We're two meters away. That's as close as I can get without denting our exhaust ports. You can use the hatch as a bridge."

"Keep the engine running," Bastian said. "We'll be back soon."

The soldiers stepped out from their harnesses. Their helmet visors were down, and they were breathing through their oxygen tanks. Bastian could see how scared they were. They were pale. Trembling. Farm boys and girls, not hardened warriors. Until last week, they had never even been to space.

"I know you'll make me proud today," he told them. "I'm here with you. Let's go show these aliens hell!"

Rhinos came with a small airlock on the side. Without another airlock to attach to, it was just a little doorway. Instead, Bastian approached the Rhino's back hatch. It was the size of a double-car garage door, perfect for a storming marines platoon. He pulled the hatch open.

At once, the air fled their Rhino. But the marines were safe inside their battlesuits. The Rhino's stern faced the Churchill, exhaust ports grazing the hull. The stabilizer motors rumbled. Standing on the ledge, Bastian could see the battle everywhere. Streams of plasma shot all around. Clawfighters and Eagles chased one another, while warships blasted their cannons.

It looked bad, but right now all that was somebody else's problem. Bastian had to focus on his mission. Ahead, he saw the jagged hole the rahs had carved through the Churchill's hull. Loose cables sparked along the rim, and a pipe steamed. Inside, a bloodstained corridor led to shadows, strewn with mangled metal.

Bastian shoved the hatch down, forming a bridge between the Rhino and the Churchill. He looked over his shoulder at his troops. They waited there, fifty warriors.

"Come on, Badgers!" Bastian said. "Let's show these Churchill boys how it's done."

He raised his fist, let out a roar, and ran along the hatch.

Behind him, his troops let out battle cries and ran with him.

Across the Churchill's hull, they all emerged to fight. Two thousand of them. The brave marines of the Freedom's Brigade. Roaring for victory, they leaped through the fire into the storm.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"I want to become a soldier," Emily said. "Give me a uniform. Give me a gun. I want to fight."

Her voice trembled. Her hands shook. She was seventeen years old, a war orphan, and the bombs kept booming, and the fire kept burning. The deck shook beneath her feet as the enemy bombarded the starship Freedom.

But Emily did not run into the armored warehouses with the civilians. She did not cower or pray. She stood there before the sergeant major, chin raised, her little hands balled into fists.

"Your Highness, are you sure?" Darjeeling said softly.

"I am. Let me join the Alliance army. Let me fight."

They stood on a mezzanine, overlooking deck 11 in the midsection. Located below the marine quarters and above the cargo bay, deck 11 served as the Freedom's armory. Just days ago, deck 11 had contained a giant wave pool, complete with a water slide. Hundreds of tourists used to swim here, cooling off after touring the hot engine rooms or playing in the upper deck casinos. Well, all that was over. When the war had begun on Christmas, the Freedom had vented the water out into space. Impromptu shelves now filled the dry pool, piled high with weapons and ammunitions.

Soldiers bustled back and forth across the armory, shouting orders at one another. A few soldiers were cracking open wooden crates, revealing millions of bullets. Other soldiers were arranging Gideon rifles on shelves. One soldier thumped across the pool floor in a mecha suit, cracking the tiles. The mecha was carrying an enormous Maccabee torpedo; it was the size of a bus. Nearby, a private dropped a crate of grenades. His fellow soldiers cursed and leaped aside, but thankfully nothing exploded.

"You idiot!" a corporal shouted.

"Sorry, sorry!" said the hapless private, looking queasy.

Two days ago, the Freedom had stopped by Merc Mory, the armory station orbiting Mercury. At Merc Mory, they had hustled to cram the Freedom with munitions, but they were only beginning to sort through it all. Converting a museum ship into a warship was no simple task. It would be days, probably weeks before the Freedom was back to her former glory as a fully functioning warship.

"Private Molloy!" Darjeeling shouted, turning away from Emily. "Go take a break. Corporal Simmons, get those grenades down to the Courtyard. The marines need a resupply. Go on, soldiers, move!"

The soldiers moved faster, unpacking more crates, sorting more weapons.

Emily leaned over the mezzanine railing, looking across the deck. It stretched on and on. Beyond the pool, there had once been restaurants, a fancy spa, and two dance clubs. Soldiers were busy tearing those structures down, making room for more weapons.

"I don't have to fight, Mr. Darjeeling, if you don't think I'm ready," Emily said. "I can help you here, sorting weapons. I can sweep the deck. I can do anything you need me to. There are plenty of noncombat soldiers aboard the starship Freedom, and they're all important to the war effort."

Darjeeling turned toward her. His rage flowed away, and a sigh rolled through him. He suddenly looked older, smaller somehow. His white mustache drooped. Even his fine dress uniform suddenly seemed shabby and too large.

"Your Highness," he said softly. "You are the Princess of England. You are a symbol of our nation. I can't have you down there in the muck."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh please, Mr. Darjeeling. King George IV fought in World War I, serving in the Royal Navy. During World War II, Queen Elizabeth II served in the military as a mechanic. During World War III, King Robert served as a starfighter pilot. Surely I can sort through crates of bullets. I won't hide in the royal suite during this war, Mr. Darjeeling. I intend for us to win this war, and I intend to be queen someday. When that happens, I also intend to look back upon this time with pride."

A tear fled Darjeeling's eye. He bowed to her. "You speak nobly, ma'am. I don't doubt your capabilities nor your courage. But you're also only seventeen, while Alliance soldiers must be eighteen to fight. And I'm not a recruitment officer. To join the military, you must first visit a recruitment office on Earth, officially enlist, and go through basic training. You understand, don't you?"

Emily cleared her throat. Good. Good! She was making progress.

"I've looked into it, and there are precedents," she said. "During the third world war, in extreme circumstances, civilians were recruited into the military under fire. During the Battle of Titan, the miners of Energia Corporation were all drafted down in the mines, then rose to fight with the Alliance marines against the Red Dawn shock troopers. During the Fall of Mars, thousands of Martian colonists were drafted by General Sultan, given arms, and sent to defend the lines. They put it into military law." She pulled a booklet from her bag. "See the Alliance Revised Charter of 2184, section 5b. 'Flash Conscription in Times of Extreme Duress.' The third paragraph clearly states that in times of emergency, recruits can be as young as fifteen." She raised her chin. "That's what I want."

Darjeeling blinked at her. She shoved the book into his hands. He leafed through it, looked back at her. "Well, um… I'm still not a recruitment officer."

"Doesn't matter. You're the senior NCO aboard this starship, Mr. Darjeeling. You have the authority to utilize flash conscription. It says so right here in the book. And I'm not going anywhere until you let me join the Alliance Defense Force."

Just then a blast hit the ship. The Freedom jolted. Soldiers swayed below in the dry pool. A crate cracked, and bullets scattered across the deck. Soldiers raced after them. They were deep inside the starship now, far from any porthole, but Emily knew the battle was still raging hot.

Darjeeling checked the manual again, then looked at Emily. His eyes softened. "Are you sure, ma'am? Military life is not easy."

"I'm afraid my life of leisure ended the day the rahs destroyed Buckingham Palace. I'm ready for this, Mr. Darjeeling."

The aging sergeant nodded and wiped a tear from his eye. "I was honored to serve as your guardian aboard this starship, ma'am. And I will be even more honored to serve with you as a fellow soldier. You truly give hope to our people, and you will inspire us all with your courage."

"No, Mr. Darjeeling, I'm not enlisting to inspire anyone. I'm enlisting to be no different from any other soldier here. I want to do my part, that's all. To fight not just for Britain, not just for our people, but for all humanity."

"Well then." Darjeeling cleared his throat, licked his thumb, and flipped through the pages. "Let's see how this works. Ah yes, here we are. The enlistment vows." He glanced around him. "Should we really do this here, ma'am? On the mezzanine?"

"Right here will be fine, Mr. Darjeeling. There isn't much time."

He nodded. "Very well then." He looked around. "You wouldn't happen to have a Bible with you, would you?"

"I brought one." Emily took a Bible from her bag and placed her hand on it. "I came prepared."

Darjeeling nodded. "Then repeat after me."

He began to read out the vows, pausing after every line. Emily repeated them in a steady voice.

"I swear allegiance to the Alliance Defense Force, its laws, and all the values for which it stands. I swear to fight for justice, for freedom, and for the liberty of all. I will serve with honor. I will face my enemies with courage and determination. I will obey my commanders. I will dedicate all my strength to, and even sacrifice my life for, the protection of all Alliance homelands. So help me God."

For a moment they both stood in silence.

"Am I a soldier now?" Emily said.

Darjeeling nodded. "Indeed you are, ma'am."

"Should I salute you?" She began to raise her hand.

He shook his head. "I'm not an officer. You only salute officers."

"Oh." She lowered her hand. "I'm sorry."

"Do you know the difference between officers and enlisted?" Darjeeling asked.

"I think so," Emily said. "Officers graduated from military academies. They wear their insignia on their shoulders. You must obey their commands. And salute them. Enlisted soldiers are like us. We didn't go to officer school. And we wear chevrons on our sleeves." She glanced at her sleeves. "Well, I don't. But presumably I will soon enough." Suddenly she blushed. "I don't mean to compare myself to you. We're both enlisted, yes, but clearly you're higher ranking than me. Much higher ranking. I apologize."

"No need," Darjeeling said. "I'm not offended. And that was a perfect description."

"Well then." Emily glanced around. "What now?"

Darjeeling squared his shoulders and raised his chin. "Now you're a private, and you'll begin to serve in our proud military. First head down toward that crate near the old water slide."

"Are there weapons there for me to sort through?" she said.

"No, Private Emily. That crate contains Alliance uniforms. I want you to find one your size. You're going to need to look the part. And after that, find yourself a weapon. You'll need one of those too."

"Oh. Right. And after that?"

"After that, report to the Sparrows hangar on deck 8. The bay boss is used to running a stunt show, not a military wing. She's short staffed. She'll have you servicing Sparrow shuttles within an hour."

Emily bit her lip. "With all due respect, Mr. Darjeeling, I want to do something productive. Not just clean civilian shuttles."

"Right now every shuttle on the Freedom is a machine of war. Pardon, ma'am, but that's where working hands are needed."

"Then that's where I'll go." Emily hugged him. "Thank you, Mr. Darjeeling." She blushed, stepped back, and snapped to attention. "I mean… thank you, sir!"

"You don't call a sergeant sir," he corrected her. "You only refer to officers as sir or ma'am."

"Right. Right! Lots to learn, lots to learn." She cleared her throat. "Well, Sergeant, I'll be off then. Oh, and… don't go easy on me. Treat me like any one of your troops."

His mustache bristled. "In that case, hurry up! Make yourself useful, Private! Right-ho! Don't you know there's a war on?"

She almost saluted again, remembered not to, and hurried down to find a uniform, a gun, and then report to the Sparrow bay. The ship jolted again. The enemy cannons were pounding the hull. The war raged on.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Charge!" Bastian cried, racing down the corridor.

His troops ran behind him, shouting. Their armored battlesuits clattered. Their boots thundered. Behind their visors, their faces reflected their rage and terror. Pale faces. Faces locked in animal snarls. Faces of young men and women called to defend their home, who might never see that home again.

They ran down the corridor of the Churchill. Across the ship, they heard other cries. More platoons were entering.

The lights died with a thud, plunging the corridor into darkness, then flared back on, revealing blood on the bulkheads, corpses on the deck. The lights died once more. Bastian kept running. His boots banged into something—a corpse, he saw when the lights flickered back on. He ran onward. The lights died yet again.

Screeches rose from ahead.

Red alien eyes blazed in the dark.

The lights flashed on, and there it loomed. A rah. The arachnid rose on its back legs, seven feet tall, and its front claws spread out, forming a ring of blades. The creature screamed—a sound so loud Bastian winced, a sound that rose higher and higher in pitch until something cracked and he could no longer hear it. The flickering lights revealed the beast's open jaws, the rings of teeth leading to the gullet. The spikes on its back bristled, rattling the skulls of vanquished foes.

"Fire!" Bastian shouted. An unnecessary command if there ever was one.

He shouldered his Gideon rifle and let loose. Bullets slammed into the rah. At his sides, Alice and Charging Bear opened fire too. The soldiers behind them couldn't fire; there was no room.

The alien roared as bullets pounded it. Bastian, Alice, and Bear had emptied their magazines before the creature fell.

More rahs loomed behind the dead spider. Two giant arachnids leaped over the corpse, lunging toward the troops.

Bastian reloaded, fired again, knocked the alien back. Alice was screaming curses at the enemy as she shot them down. Bear fought in determined silence, eyes narrowed. They all aimed for the eyes. The two rahs fell. More kept coming.

Screams rose from behind.

Bastian raised a MindLink video, streaming a feed from his helmet's back-facing camera. The MindLink gave him eyes on the back of his head. He saw more rahs charging toward the rear of his platoon.

A hatch opened in the deckhead. Rahs poured in from above.

The enemy landed on them.

Claws lashed through flesh.

Soon all the soldiers were firing. Screams echoed down the hallway. Blood washed the deck.

Alien jaws closed around a corporal's arm, crunching through the armor, tearing the arm off.

A stray bullet caught Bastian in the leg. It dented his armor. He howled. More friendly fire was slamming into other troops. And the enemy kept coming.

A claw swung at Bastian. It hit his chest, denting his armor, and he yowled. The rah's face rose before him, eyes enraged, jaws open and hungry for flesh. Bastian emptied a magazine into that roaring mouth, shattering the palate, dislodging teeth. The creature fell back, whimpering as it died.

And still the enemy kept coming.

"Son!" came a voice through the MindWeb—King's unmistakable rasp. "Son, keep moving forward. Do not get bogged down. Move toward the bridge. Fight there from a position of strength."

Bastian nodded, pulled a grenade from his belt, and hurled it deep into the corridor. It exploded. Smoke filled the corridor. Severed claws pattered the deck.

"Forward, soldiers!" Bastian cried. "Charge! For freedom!"

"For freedom!" they shouted and followed, running through the blood, through the slashing claws, stepping on corpses, always moving forward.

* * * * *

As he fought, Bastian connected his MindLink to the Churchill's mainframe computer. He found a schematic of the starship. They were on the fifth and uppermost deck, close to the stern. The bridge was two hundred meters ahead and two decks down. Normally, the marines would cross that distance within minutes. But now they had to fight for every step.

Bastian shot down another roaring alien, paused to catch his breath, and checked the map again. The hallucination hovered high in his field of vision, translucent. Red dots symbolized the rahs as they swarmed through the ship. Blue dots symbolized Alliance marines, while white dots represented the Churchill's own security forces.

Not many of those white dots remained. Just a handful clustered around the bridge. As he watched, several white dots faded from the schematic. Dead.

Bastian swallowed a mouthful of blood. A rah blow had made him bite his tongue, and he didn't want to spit inside his helmet. He loaded a fresh magazine. He was running low on ammo. He had to finish this.

"Badgers Company—with me to the bridge!" he said over the MindWeb. "Everyone else—move through your assigned decks and clear them of rahs. I want this ship clean."

Badgers Company kept slogging their way forward. A rah leaped from a vent, landing on the company. The alien was missing its abdomen. It had become a bundle of fangs and claws and blazing red eyes.

With snapping jaws and lashing legs, the mutilated rah tore a corporal apart. The remaining troops surrounded the alien, firing until the creature finally stopped twitching. Stray bullets pounded marines' armor, denting the thick plates.

"Watch out for friendly fire, dammit!" Alice shouted. "Don't stand in goddamn circles!"

Bastian had seen the rahs pull this trick aboard the Freedom. In war, they could detach their bloated abdomens, becoming smaller, faster, able to crawl through tight spots. Bastian wondered how long they could survive without an abdomen. Would leaving it behind eventually kill them? Did they sacrifice necessary organs, sealing their doom? Perhaps this was their version of a kamikaze attack.

Bastards.

To reach the bridge, the marines had to descend two decks. With the power flickering on and off, elevators were out. Bastian checked the schematics again. Bear and Alice looked at the floating diagram with him; their MindLinks were crafting the same hallucination, pulling the data from the local computers.

"There's a service shaft here," Alice said, pointing. "We can climb down and emerge right beside the bridge."

Bear pointed at a nearby duct in the diagram. Red lights were moving along it. "Rahs. Approaching fast."

"We gotta hurry," Bastian said. "The shaft is narrow. We can only climb down one soldier at a time. The three of us will lead the way."

Bear nodded. "Makes sense. We're the three biggest troops, so we go first. We're a good vanguard."

"Hey!" Alice placed her hands on her hips. "I'm petite."

Bastian nodded. "Sure, you're a delicate little flower."

She poked his belly. "You're one to talk."

"That's my armor. I have thick armor." He approached a hatch and yanked it open, exposing the shaft. "Come on, guys. Suck in your guts and let's go spelunking."

"Wait." Bear grabbed Bastian's arm. "Check your map."

Bastian paused over the shaft. He checked his schematic again. Several rahs, moving along a duct below, had reached the bottom of the shaft. Two of the red dots were climbing up.

Screeches rose from below. Bastian peered down, saw red eyes in the darkness. Dim light flashed on claws and fangs. The beasts were scuttling up fast.

He unhooked a grenade from his belt.

"Fire in the hole!"

He tossed the grenade down the shaft, then knelt and covered his head.

An explosion shook the corridor. When Bastian looked down the shaft again, the aliens were gone. A pile of claws and fangs littered the deck far below.

He slung his Gideon across his back—it was too bulky to use inside the shaft—and drew his sidearm instead. He began climbing down the service ladder into shadow. Lights shone inside his helmet, casting a faint glow around him. It could barely pierce this darkness.

As he descended, Alice began to climb down the ladder too, then Bear.

"Hey, Alice!" Bastian said, looking up at her. "Do you have a flashlight?"

"Hey, stop looking at my butt!" she said, climbing a few rungs above.

"Alice!"

She sighed. "Yes, I think so. Hold on." She fiddled around, found a flashlight, and pointed the beam down.

Bastian squinted. "You're blinding me."

"That'll teach you for looking at my butt."

"Dammit, Alice!"

She moved the beam off his face, pointing it downward.

A rah screeched below. Its eight pupils shrank to pinpoints. It leaped up.

A claw caught Bastian's boot.

He roared, clinging onto the ladder. The claw scraped across his boot, leaving a deep groove. Blood bubbled up.

He opened fire. His bullets slammed into the alien, knocking it back down.

"You okay, boss?" Alice said from above.

"The bastard cut my foot. I think I'm fine. I don't think the cut is deep. Hurts like a son of a bitch though. Dammit, why didn't that one appear on the schematic?"

"You must be blocking the sensors with your big belly," she said.

"You're blocking them with your big butt."

She gasped. "I knew you were looking at it!"

Bastian hopped down the last few steps, landing at the bottom of the shaft. He winced when he landed on his hurt foot. A few burnt rahs lay there. One was still twitching, blinking its bulbous red eyes. Bastian shot it in the head, then discarded his empty magazine.

He limped into a corridor, where he found a pile of corpses. Some were rah corpses. Most were Churchill security guards. As a frigate, a smaller ship than the Freedom, the Churchill didn't have its own marine complement. Churchill's soldiers wore no armor. They carried pistols instead of assault rifles. They were brave Alliance warriors, no doubt. But they didn't have the training nor firepower of space marines like the Freedom Brigade. The rahs had ripped through them like wolves through a herd of sheep.

The door to the bridge had been torn off. The thick slab of steel lay discarded among the corpses, dented and lacerated.

Screams rose from the bridge and echoed through the bloody corridor.

Alice emerged from the shaft, thumped down beside Bastian, and looked at the mangled door.

"We're too late!" she said.

"Not too late," said Bear, climbing down the shaft next. "There are still survivors on the bridge."

"Cover me for a sec," Bastian said.

He paused to pull off his boot and check his wound. Thankfully, the cut wasn't deep, and he quickly bandaged it. The bandage automatically tightened around his foot, filling the wound with disinfectant and anesthetic, while tiny needles stitched it shut. Combat medicine had come a long way since the last war. Within a moment, Bastian rose again and shouldered his Gideon. He was on his last magazine. Every bullet would have to count.

He charged onto the Churchill's bridge, a battle cry on his lips.

* * * * *

The battle raged across the Churchill's bridge.

Several bridge officers lay dead, bodies mutilated. Control panels sparked. Rahs scuttled across the deck, jaws open in furious roars. Their saliva sprayed across the bridge. Their claws ripped up everything in their path.

But some people had survived.

A few bridge officers knelt behind overturned workstations, firing pistols. The guns weren't doing much damage. The rahs had thick exoskeletons. Even assault rifles had trouble cracking those shells. With a simple pistol, you had to shoot them in the eyes. Not an easy task with the beasts running wild, leaping from place to place.

In the center of the bridge, not even taking cover, stood High Commander George Godwin.

The elderly man wore a vintage suit, complete with a vest and pocket watch. His underbite made him look like a cranky old bulldog. He fired a pistol, his jowls quivering. A rah fell, a bullet in one of its eight eyes.

"Ha! Not so tough after all, are you, scoundrel?" Godwin said.

The rah squealed. A bullet in its eye, the alien pushed itself up and limped toward the old man.

Godwin tried to fire his pistol again, but the gun clicked. Out of bullets. Godwin tossed it aside with a grunt, then yanked the handle of his cane. From inside the cane he drew a hidden saber.

The rah leaped at him.

The elderly man thrust his sword, impaling the alien through another eye.

The creature fell onto the deck, finally dead.

Godwin scoffed, reached to a side table, and picked up a cup of tea. He sipped.

"Blast. It's gone cold."

Bastian stared in wonder at the odd tableau. Godwin seemed like a Victorian gentleman placed into a modern starship.

Then Bastian got back to fighting. He shot down one rah, knocking it into a control panel. Glass shattered, sprinkling the deck with a million shards. More marines streamed onto the bridge. Gideons roared.

Pretty soon it was over. The rahs lay dead and smoking.

Bastian checked his floating schematic. Across the Churchill, his marines were crushing the last few bugs.

The battle was won.

Godwin put down his teacup, stepped toward Bastian, and clasped his shoulders.

"Thank you, my boy! It's good to see you." Godwin shook his fist, jowls quivering. "Solid Alliance fighting spirit!" He looked at the other marines and bowed his head. "I owe you all a debt of gratitude. You've saved my life—and the lives of many aboard this ship. History will always remember the courage of the Freedom Brigade."

A voice rose from behind a workstation. A woman's voice, speaking with a thick Russian accent.

"Eh! They're not so tough."

A woman stepped into view, smirking.

She wore a resplendent red uniform. Polished buttons and cuff links gleamed on her blazer, and golden equal signs shone on her lapels. Her boots rose to her knees, and a saber hung from her side. Her black hair spilled from under her naval cap, cut the length of her chin.

Bastian clenched his fists. Rage burned through him.

"You!" he hissed.

The woman who killed my grandfather.

The Russian gave Bastian a crooked smile. "Why hello there, King Junior! So nice to see you." She raised an eyebrow. "You seem cranky. Are you not excited to see Katyusha?"

Bastian fumed, fists shaking at his sides.

Katyusha, premier of the Red Dawn, tossed back her head and laughed.

CHAPTER NINE

King stood on the Freedom's bridge, but through his implant, he saw, heard, even smelled everything happening aboard the Churchill's bridge. Telepathically, he was connected to his son. He seemed to stand in two starships at once.

He hated the damn neural tech. The whole idea of telepathy and controlled hallucinations gave him the willies. But King needed to be there with Bastian. Old-school comlinks were just too limited.

Now, through Bastian's eyes, he saw her there.

Katyusha.

The premier of the Red Dawn—standing aboard the Alliance flagship!

No soot or blood marred her fine uniform. Not a strand of her black bob cut was out of place. She had even found time to put on makeup—in the middle of a war! Had she been fighting at all?

Suddenly, as King watched through his son's eyes, Katyusha frowned and tilted her head. She approached Bastian, leaned close, and stared into his eyes.

"King Senior? Are you hiding in your son's brain, spying on little old Katyusha?"

King growled.

Damn right you're old, he thought. You only look young because you keep butchering clones and implanting your sick brain into them.

King cast a projection of himself to the Churchill's bridge. It was a public transmission. Everyone aboard that bridge with a neural implant would hallucinate King—a perfect mimicry.

The audio and video came from sensors aboard the Freedom's bridge. The hardware translated the audiovisual data into digital formats, then broadcast it between the two starships. Godwin, Katyusha, Bastian, and the rest of them aboard the Churchill—their MindLinks picked up the digital broadcast, and their brains crafted a daydream of King standing among them.

Katyusha grinned. "Ah, there you are! How nice to see you again." She pouted. "You look cranky. Does Katyusha make you grumpy?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" King growled.

Katyusha laughed. "Relax, my capitalist friend! Katyusha won't harm you." She gestured at her body. "This beautiful body is only a dream."

She drew her saber. She swung the blade in a wide arc—right through Bastian.

Bastian flinched and clutched his stomach. He was unhurt. The saber emerged from the other side, no blood on it. Katyusha laughed. Bastian only scowled.

So the premier wasn't really there. They were hallucinating her. Same as everyone was hallucinating King.

"Now calm down, old boy!" Godwin said, turning toward King. "The premier has come as an ally. We must work together now. The Alliance, the Red Dawn, and the Desert Thorns. Only as one can we hope to defeat the enemy." His voice dropped. "And a vicious enemy this is."

They all turned to stare at an array of monitors, which covered one entire bulkhead of the Churchill's bridge. The monitors displayed data about the war, tracking ground forces, navies, air forces, and thousands of starships. Some monitors provided data from humanity's colonies on Mars, Titan, and Europa.

It was bad.

King saw that at once.

Thousands of dots represented human starships. They were blinking out one by one. Down on Earth, the situation was no better. The rah forces were sweeping across the land, driving back armored divisions, tearing through infantry brigades, and pouring into cities.

For a moment they all stared silently at the monitors. Godwin, a living anachronism in a Victorian suit, clutching his cane. Katyusha, resplendent in red and gold, holding her drawn saber. Bastian, wearing a dented, bloodstained battlesuit. King, steely and severe in navy blue. Across the fleet, he knew that officers were watching the same thing. Marines, pilots, leaders from every nation. All of humanity was here, fighting together, falling together.

King stepped closer to Godwin. He lowered his voice. "Sir, can we win this?"

Godwin stared at the monitor, his chin thrust out, his eyes hard. "I don't know, my boy. I don't know."

Alerts flashed on the monitors.

A tactical officer raised her head from a workstation. "Commander Godwin, sir! We're getting an urgent plea for help from New Zealand."

King frowned. New Zealand was an Alliance nation but not a militarized one. There had never been many soldiers stationed there. During an alien invasion, isolated at the edge of the world, New Zealand was particularly vulnerable.

"Yes, I see it," Godwin said. The old man pointed his cane at a map of Earth, which appeared on one monitor. "See that, Commander King?"

"I see it," King said.

A red dot was flying over New Zealand. A rah starship. A big one.

"Can we get a visual?" Godwin said to his crew.

The Churchill's tactical officer shook her head. "Not from out here, sir. Our sensors are busted. I can't even connect to the MuskLab satellites around Earth."

"I'll feed you a video from the Freedom," King said. "Mimori, do you hear me? Can you stream us a video from Freedom's sensors?"

Mentally, King stood aboard the Churchill. But physically, he was back aboard the Freedom. The android heard him.

"Sending it over, sir."

A video feed appeared on one monitor. Everyone on the Churchill's bridge stared.

The video showed an enormous clawship hovering over New Zealand. It was different from the others. The other clawships were elongated, shaped like spearheads, their claws all pointing forward. This ship was shaped like a disk ringed with blades. It reminded King of a giant horseshoe crab trawling over the sky.

"It's five kilometers in diameter," King rasped. "Dear lord."

Katyusha laughed. "Good. Katyusha likes big starships. They make big boom when you destroy them."

Godwin frowned, bottom lip thrust out. "The enemy behemoth is positioning itself over Christchurch."

New Zealand's fighter jets were attacking the alien vessel. But every time a missile got close, a web-shield appeared around the alien dreadnought. It looked like a shining red cobweb woven of pure energy, engulfing the ship. The missiles detonated harmlessly against the shield.

"We need to fly down there," King said. "We—"

And then it happened.

The circular rah ship fired a flaming pillar—right down onto Christchurch, New Zealand.

A white blast flared across the monitor. For a moment all monitors aboard the Churchill turned blinding white. The crew squinted.

Then the light faded.

The rah ship was hovering over a crater.

Christchurch, one of New Zealand's largest cities, was gone.

"Mimori, how many people lived in Christchurch?" King said softly.

The android took a moment to answer. She could access the information within nanoseconds. But she hesitated, and when she finally spoke, her voice overflowed with grief. "Half a million people, sir."

Half a million people.

Gone.

* * * * *

For just a few seconds, they stood in stunned silence. Both on the Churchill and the Freedom.

Nobody could grasp the enormity. Even King, who had survived World War III, felt the shock pound through him. Even Katyusha lost her smirk, removed her cap, and lowered her head.

An entire city—wiped off the map.

Grief filled King. But also terrible rage. Rage against the heartless enemy, this terror that had come from the stars. Rage against his own failures in this war. Rage that he stood here, helpless, as so many were dying.

Before anyone could react, all their monitors turned black.

The lights died.

Suddenly every monitor aboard the Churchill, the Freedom, and perhaps other starships too—they all came back on. They all showed the same thing.

A video of a rah.

An enormous rah, his body gray and lumpy, his claws red.

King recognized him. He had fought this creature two days ago aboard the Freedom. He had fired him out a goddamn cannon.

"Hel'rah!" King growled.

It was him. The prince of rahs.

He was alive.

The hideous alien stared at King through the monitor. A grin spread across his lumpy face, full of teeth. A shark's grin.

"Yes, old friend. I'm alive. I've come back to hurt you, Commander King. And I've only just begun."

CHAPTER TEN

"Who the devil is that creature?" Godwin demanded, chin raised, his lower jaw thrust outward like a bulldog prepared to fight.

The rah was still on every monitor, his face appearing twenty times across the bridge of the FAS Churchill. The arachnid laughed, his saliva spraying. His red claws spread out around him, a halo of death.

The creature stood in a dark chamber. The monitors reported the transmission source as: UNKNOWN. The rah could be aboard one of the clawships in this battle or half the solar system away.

"The prince of rahs," King muttered. "Hel'rah is his name. Son of Skel'rah. Grandson of the rah emperor."

"Ah, so you remember me, King!" said Hel'rah. "But you got one detail wrong. We have an empress, not an emperor. Her name is Elder'rah. And I will gladly deliver you to her, so that she may feed upon your living flesh."

Godwin turned toward King. A frown furrowed the old man's face. "You know this creature?"

"He clawed his way into the Freedom two days ago," King said. "He was leading a rah boarding party. He spent a lot of time bragging about being a prince."

Godwin's frown deepened. "And you let him get away?"

"I fired him out a cannon," King said. "Long story."

Privately he sent a thought over the MindWeb to Mimori. Can you pinpoint Hel'rah's location?

The android answered telepathically. Not yet, sir. Keep him talking. I need to collect and process more data.

King and Godwin both turned toward the monitor, facing Hel'rah again.

Godwin cleared his throat and banged his cane on the deck, drawing everyone's attention.

"Well, Prince Hel'rah, son of Skel'rah!" said the old man. "You certainly have proved yourself a worthy opponent. I hope we can say the same."

"You cannot," said Hel'rah. "You are mere flies. I enjoy swatting you."

"And yet you've called us," Godwin said. "A spider does not normally bother conversing with the fly. You want something. Is it to negotiate?"

Hel'rah roared with laughter. "Negotiate? You flatter yourself, old ape! Look at you. Look at you all. You call yourselves the leaders of humanity? I see worms!"

Katyusha laughed too. "First we're flies, then we're worms. Make up your mind, spider. Katyusha grows weary of your schoolyard insults. Put your mother on the line, little boy. Let us talk to an adult."

Hel'rah turned to look at the Russian. His eyes narrowed. "Ah yes, I can see you now. Another hallucination aboard this ship, like our friend James King. Yes, I can tap into your computer systems easily enough to see this ghost. You are Katyusha, yes? The famous leader of Red Dawn?"

The Russian nodded. "Ah, so Katyusha is famous even on alien planets! How flattering."

"Do not flatter yourself, human," Hel'rah spat out. "You are no stronger than the old Alliance apes. I will defeat you just as easily."

Katyusha rolled her eyes. She opened and closed her hand, mimicking a blabbering mouth. "So much talk from such a little bug!" She narrowed her eyes, and a wicked grin spread across her face. "You do not want to get Katyusha angry. Katyusha loves to crush bugs under her boot." She stamped the deck. "Just like Katyusha crushed Commander King during the last war."

"Enough of this!" King said. "Hel'rah, what the hell do you want? Did you call to gloat about murdering half a million people in Christchurch?"

"Murdering?" Hel'rah scoffed. "One does not murder maggots. One merely exterminates them. Did I call to gloat? Maybe I did, King. Maybe I did. Yes, I ordered the heavy bomber Chelicera to attack that hive of vermin you call Christchurch. A city? You should see the cities on Arakavish, homeworld of the rahs! Then you would see true cities—with proud towers of stone, with webs glimmering in the dawn of three suns. Those are cities! Christchurch was a mere infestation."

"Done gloating yet?" King said. "We have things to do."

Katyusha yawned. "This bug talks too much. Katyusha is bored. Let's crush this spider."

Anything yet, Mimori? King thought.

Not yet, sir. Hel'rah is scrambling his location. But if I can collect more data, I might be able to track him. Can you keep him talking?

King snorted. I don't see that being a problem. It's shutting him up that's hard.

"Ah, you are bored, are you, humans?" Hel'rah said. "Well, I have a little game we can play. I call it… run or die. Let me tell you how this game works. Every hour, I will destroy one Earth city. If you keep fighting me, fine. I will keep annihilating your cities. I will stop once your fleet retreats."

He's scared, King realized. He's scared of us. So he's trying to scare us away.

"Why would you destroy cities?" King said. "You came here to hunt humans, didn't you? To eat us! Why burn your food from above?"

Hel'rah licked his lips. "Ah yes, we did come to feed. And you humans are so delectable. I've eaten many of your kind already. I look forward to eating your granddaughter someday soon. But there are billions of you. I can kill millions and millions of humans, and there will still be enough to feed my army. I can slaughter a billion humans and still grow fat on your flesh. Every hour, King! Every hour I take another one of your cities."

Katyusha tossed back her head and laughed. "Go ahead! Destroy all the cities you like. Katyusha does not care. Katyusha will keep fighting no matter how many brave comrades must sacrifice their lives." She held her arms across her chest, forming a crude equal sign. "For equalism, we will gladly die!"

Lunatic, King thought.

"Well, I for one will not gladly die," King said. "Hel'rah, you seem to really want us to leave you alone. Our fleet must be more trouble than you expected. I say go to hell."

The spider grinned. "I was hoping you would say that. Do you know why, Commander King? Because I've already chosen the next city for Chelicera to destroy. It is Omaha, Nebraska. Your hometown."

King tried to show no emotion. Not to gulp. Not to ball his fists. Not to seem concerned at all. But his insides churned. Terror flooded him.

He was a farm boy. He had grown up on the King family ranch, a sprawling expanse of beautiful heartland. But yes, Omaha was nearby. King had spent much of his youth there. His friends were there. Some family too. He had gone to university at Omaha, majoring in literature and history. He had met his wife, gotten married, and seen his son born there. Yes, Omaha was his hometown.

I almost found him, sir, Mimori thought. Hel'rah is not in this battle. He's transmitting from far away. Another minute and I can pinpoint him.

"Goodbye, Commander King!" Hel'rah said. "We'll meet again soon."

The video feed died.

King looked at the other two leaders. Godwin's face was hard. Katyusha seemed mildly amused.

Bastian, Alice, and Charging Bear stood farther back, watching silently. To them too, Omaha was home.

The video feeds of Earth and her orbits returned to the monitors. One video showed Chelicera, the heavy rah bomber, moving across the Pacific. The alien ship was heading to America. Heading home.

"I won't turn tail and run," King said. "I will defend my home."

Godwin nodded. "And I shall help you, my boy. I will not abandon any Alliance city, nor any human city, to the enemy."

Katyusha yawned. "You two boys have fun in America, saving your little farm. Katyusha has more interesting bugs to kill in space."

With a swirl of red and gold, her hallucination vanished. On one monitor, they saw the RDS Lenin, flagship of the Red Dawn, charge at a formation of clawships.

Still projecting himself onto the Churchill's bridge, King turned toward Bastian, who stood there in the flesh.

His son looked back at him, pale, afraid, but still standing tall.

"Colonel, bring your brigade back to the Freedom," King told his son. "Make it fast. We're flying home."

* * * * *

The Freedom charged through space, racing toward Earth.

King stood at the helm, staring at the main viewport. The battle blazed before him. Tens of thousands of starships battled through space. Plasma, photon bolts, torpedoes, missiles, explosions—they wove a symphony of movement, color, and death. Anyone watching from Earth would see space afire.

The Freedom plowed through this battle, cannons booming, bulldozing her way forth. She did not pause to fight. She drove through the other starships, an enraged bull. King had only one ship in mind.

The Chelicera. The ship that had destroyed Christchurch. That was moving toward Omaha.

Human ships moved to let them pass. Clawships did not. The Freedom carved her way through. With cannons. With the fury of her Eagles. With her mighty ramming rails.

They had twenty thousand kilometers to cross. They flew it within minutes.

There she was. Hovering just above the blue sky. The Chelicera.

Damn, she was huge. Freedom's ATLAS sensors gave King updated stats. The Chelicera was even larger than they had thought. The spherical ship was seven kilometers in diameter. Her hull was black metal, covered in pits, crags, and spikes. She seemed almost like a living being, like the shell of some ancient crab. Flying above her, the Freedom seemed so small. Just a bird flying over a leviathan risen from legend.

The Churchill arrived a moment later. A few corvettes joined them too. They flew just five hundred kilometers above the surface. The blue sky of Earth spread below them, a gentle ocean.

"Mimori, how much charge in the Fist?"

The android looked at him. Her uniform was tattered and sooty. Strands of her synthetic hair had burned. A gash ran down her cheek, exposing some of her steel skull.

"Only four percent, sir. I haven't been able to charge the railgun properly, not with how much power we're streaming to our engine and cannons."

Four percent. It was barely enough to shock an enemy, let alone fire a projectile.

"Jordan, how are our torpedoes doing?" he said.

The XO looked in bad shape too. A bandage around his head was red. Dust covered him. "We've used most of our Maccabees already, Jim. We'll need a visit from an armory ship soon. But we have enough to take out the Chelicera. I hope."

King looked at the Chelicera again. The colossal bomber had reached the western coast of the United States. It kept chugging along, heading to Nebraska.

"Fire!" King said.

Motors rumbled. Atop the ship's dorsal hull, all fourteen Angels of Liberty swiveled toward the Chelicera. The great cannons fired.

A web-shield appeared around the Chelicera. The strands were woven of golden energy. The Maccabees hit the web and exploded. The shield glimmered, then became invisible again. The Chelicera kept flying.

"Fire again!" King said.

They hit the Chelicera with another volley. The Churchill fired too, raining missiles onto the heavy rah bomber. The corvettes fired laser beams. It was enough firepower to take out a Red Dawn dreadnought.

The Chelicera just kept flying. Nothing could break her shield.

The Alliance was fighting from the ground too. From up here, King could see it. Surface-to-space missiles soared from Earth, flying toward the Chelicera. A few impacted. Explosions bloomed across the web-shield.

And the shield held.

The Chelicera didn't even bother fighting back. She didn't need to. A few clawships did approach the Freedom, looking to rumble, but the Churchill and her corvettes cast them back. Thankfully, most clawships were busy fighting elsewhere. At least Katyusha was good for something. Her fleet was harassing the enemy, giving the Freedom some time here above the sky.

"Nothing can break those shields, dammit," Jordan said.

"The Fist of Freedom could break them," King said.

His XO nodded. "It probably could. If only it were charged."

"We can charge it enough to fire a projectile," King said. "We still have…" He checked the time. "Thirty-eight minutes before Hel'rah promised to destroy Omaha."

Mimori looked up from a control panel. "Sir, the Freedom's reactor requires a full day and night to charge the Fist. Within thirty-eight minutes, I can only give you another two, maybe three percentage points of charge. It won't be enough."

"Oh, I know," King said. "But we're not going to charge the Fist using the Freedom's reactor. We're going to charge the Fist from Earth."

* * * * *

"You're crazy," Spitfire said. "Sir, with all due respect, you're absolutely batshit crazy."

Her hallucination stood on the bridge before King. Physically, the pilot was down in the starfighter hangar, half a klick away.

"It's the only way," King said. "Only the Fist of Freedom can destroy the Chelicera. We need to charge the railgun!"

"I get it, sir, but your plan to charge the Fist…" Spitfire shook her head. "Just crazy."

"We're all crazy in war," King said. "We'll fly the Freedom as low as she'll go. But we can't take her closer than a hundred klicks above Earth's surface. Anything closer and the atmosphere would rip us apart. Spitfire, you and your pilots will fly down to Earth. Take the Sparrow shuttles. They're smaller and more agile than the Eagles. Stretch a cable from Faraday Power Station in Nebraska all the way up to the Freedom in space."

Spitfire guffawed. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Sir, we don't even have cables that long."

"We have cables that can stretch seven klicks. We use them when charging at space stations. Take fifteen of them. String them between Sparrow shuttles. And plug us into that power station!" King gave her a small smile. "It'll work. Trust me."

Yes, it was crazy. They all knew it was crazy.

It was also their only hope.

This has to work, King thought. Or Omaha is gone. Another half a million people—gone.

It would work.

It had to.

God, King hoped it worked.

Built in 2053, Faraday Power Station was located in the Nebraska farmlands, powering the entire state. Today was 2199, and Earth got most of its power from solar stations in space. But last century, when they built Faraday, solar power was still inefficient and insufficient. Faraday used a hydrogen fusion reactor. Most of the power station was underground. A massive chamber, as large as a starship hangar, hid under the prairies of Nebraska. Its walls were iron and concrete, a hundred meters thick. A magnetic field added an extra layer of protection. Within this bunker burned a small star. The artificial sun was no larger than a house. But it supplied enough energy to power Nebraska.

It was crude compared to modern solar technology. But it could also supply the Freedom with a massive jolt of power.

Just what they needed.

We just need to plug our railgun in, he thought. And we barely have half an hour.

It would be a team effort. He'd need the warehouse workers to find and unspool the cables. The engineers would need to kludge together an adapter. The pilots then had to stretch the cables down, daisy-chaining them from orbit to surface.

Simply stringing the cables into one long cable wouldn't work. A single cable a hundred kilometers long would weigh too much; Earth's gravity would rip it apart. But shorter cables, stretching from shuttle to shuttle, might just work. Every few klicks down, a shuttle pilot would support his or her length of cable.

And there was more. The navigators and helmsmen would need to keep the Freedom flying directly over the station, adapting to Earth's rotation. The gunners would struggle to hold the enemy at bay throughout the operation. There were probably a hundred other moving parts King wasn't thinking of, but which would become terrifyingly obvious as they worked.

It was a big operation. Normally, they'd need weeks to plan it. Well, today they had to jump right in with a Hail Mary.

The Chelicera kept trawling over the land. She was almost at Nebraska now.

"All right, everyone, get to work!" King said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Goddamn, I hate flying Sparrows!" Spitfire shouted, roaring out the hangar.

The starship Freedom only carried a complement of fifteen Sparrows. If you asked Spitfire, that was fifteen too many.

They were small shuttlecraft, about the same length as starfighters but not nearly as powerful. Each Sparrow contained six seats—one for a pilot, five for passengers. The Freedom mostly used them for transporting dignitaries to and from the ship. Princess Emily had arrived in one before the war.

They were crude things, not nearly as capable as Eagles. But Eagles had no room for carrying or attaching massive electric cables; their powerful engines and armaments took up most of their space. So here Spitfire was, flying a dinky Sparrow. Behind her, a massive electric cable filled the passenger area, wrapped around a metal spool.

Bastian had come with her too. The boss's son himself!

The burly marine stood in the hold, wearing a battlesuit and helmet. He was a beast of a man, even larger than his father. He barely squeezed between the cable and the bulkhead. The damn fool was slowing Spitfire down. She had wanted to take a sapper for this job. The pilots were busy flying; they needed somebody to man the cables, and who better than a sapper? But the boss had chosen to send the marines. So here she was, flying with Prince Meathead himself.

"Can you fly a little smoother?" Bastian said. "You keep moving my spool around."

"Shut up, Meathead, or I'll eject you from the airlock!" Spitfire shouted.

Fourteen other Sparrows leaped out the hangar with her. Normally, anyone could fly a Sparrow. You didn't need a commission or flight school diploma; they were the family cars of space. But today Spitfire needed pros in the cockpits. She had chosen her best pilots for this mission. They were all Eagle stunt pilots by trade, but they were the best damn pilots in the Alliance. If anyone could do this, it was Freedom's Flock.

The shuttles dived toward Earth.

The Freedom was flying low—only a hundred kilometers above the surface. Her underbelly grazed the sky, and her engines roared, fighting Earth's gravity well. As the shuttles leaped out the hangar, they slammed right into the atmosphere. Ionized particles blazed around them.

"All right, Flock!" Spitfire said, speaking aloud but also transmitting the words through the MindWeb. "You know your positions. Everyone—let's start forming a ladder from the Freedom to Earth."

They kept diving, blazing through the upper atmosphere. Electric cables ran between the shuttles. As the distance between them increased, the spools spun madly in the shuttle holds. The cables unspooled, allowing the shuttles to fly farther apart.

Spitfire had suggested simply attaching all the individual cables into one enormous cable, from the Freedom down to space. But Mimori had said something about how that wouldn't work. The immense pressures of Earth's gravity and rotation would rip the cables apart. It was the reason, Mimori had explained, that space elevators—once a mainstay of science fiction—were impractical. You simply couldn't stretch one cable from Earth to space. It would crumble under its own weight.

So they needed a daisy chain of shuttles. One shuttle below the other, stringing short cables between them.

A few kilometers down, one shuttle stopped diving and hovered.

"In position!" shouted Pickles, the shuttle pilot. "Keep going, fellas."

On the MindWeb, Pickles smiled and gave a thumbs-up. A cable ran from his shuttle to the Freedom's underbelly.

"Good work, Pickles," Spitfire said. "Our first rung is in place. Snoopy, you're next in line. You ready?"

Snoopy's face appeared on the MindWeb. She was the youngest pilot in the Flock, only twenty-two years old, and looked even younger. A plush Snoopy doll hung in her cockpit, the source of her call sign.

"I think I'm ready," Snoopy said. Her shuttle was directly connected to Pickles by another cable.

"Just go seven klicks down, spooling out your cable until you run out of length," Spitfire said. "I'll fly beside you to your position. Let's go!"

Snoopy gulped and nodded. The thirteen remaining Sparrows kept descending through the atmosphere, the cables stretching between them. They were like prisoners in a chain gang. They flew close together, but they left Pickles far above. The cable unspooled from Snoopy to Pickles, stretching its full length—seven kilometers.

Farther above, Spitfire saw the Freedom's underbelly. Mimori was painstakingly keeping the dreadnought low, resisting Earth's massive gravity pull while constantly adjusting for Earth's rotation. It couldn't be easy. Dreadnoughts were designed to fly exclusively in deep space.

"You're in position now, Snoopy, steady your shuttle," Spitfire said.

"Got it," Snoopy said. The cable stretched from her shuttle all the way up to Pickles. "Taking position now. Good luck every—"

Suddenly the Freedom's cannons fired above. Explosions bloomed atop the sky like bruises. Shards of red-hot metal cascaded into the atmosphere, narrowly missing the shuttles.

"Whoa, whoa, what the hell?" Snoopy cried.

"It's all right!" Spitfire said. "The Freedom is just blasting bad guys away. Keep going, guys. Trash Panda, your shuttle is next. Ready?"

Trash Panda appeared in the shared hallucination. She had chosen her call sign when joining the Flock a few years ago. The woman loved raccoons. She winked. "Ready and beginning to unspool!"

They kept descending, stretching out another link in their chain. As Spitfire descended, flying close to other shuttles, she looked downward.

She could see it now. It was still eighty kilometers below, but she saw it. Faraday Power Station.

She checked the time.

They only had moments before the rahs blasted Omaha off the map.

Dammit.

"Come on, guys, we need to charge the Fist of Freedom and blow that rah bomber away! Go, go!"

Trash Panda reached position, engaged her thruster engines, and slowed to a hover. The cable stretched from her shuttle upward. Seven kilometers up, the cable connected to Snoopy. Her cable rose another seven kilometers to Pickles. His cable rose yet another seven kilometers to the Freedom.

It was going well so far. But there were still many links to add to this chain, and the clock kept ticking.

Spitfire would be last. Her shuttle would land beside the power plant and plug them in. It was still a long way down.

"All right, Cupcake, you're up next!" she said.

Cupcake appeared on her neural interface. Yes, his call sign was actually Cupcake. He was the largest pilot in the Flock, so tall and wide he barely fit into most cockpits. He gave the thumbs-up.

"My cable is unspooling," Cupcake said. "We're halfway down now, we—"

The air thundered.

Shock waves slammed into the Sparrows, jostling them in the sky.

The cables wobbled madly.

"Whoa, whoa!" Cupcake shouted. "What the hell?"

Spitfire knew what was happening.

Sonic booms.

Then she saw the source.

Clawfighters.

* * * * *

"Three clawfighters coming in fast!" Spitfire shouted. "Dammit, I didn't know those bastards could fly in atmosphere."

The clawfighters charged toward them, black and spiky. They fired plasma bolts.

"Dammit!" Spitfire cried, yawing left.

Her shuttle's cable, which was connected to the next shuttle over, began to unwind madly.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" Bastian cried in her hold.

The cable couldn't spool out fast enough. Spitfire's Sparrow tugged on the next shuttle over, yanking it through the sky. It, in turn, tugged the next shuttle in the chain. The ripples spread across all shuttles. They swayed in the sky like a rope ladder in a storm.

One plasma bolt raced just below Spitfire.

More plasma bolts shot between the swaying electric cables.

Spitfire cursed. Sparrows only came with small machine guns on their prows—fairly underwhelming compared to an Eagle's firepower. She swiveled her shuttle toward the enemy. The movement caused the cable to scrape across the hatchway. The spool jammed. The shuttle jerked in the sky. Bastian let out a string of curses.

Spitfire ignored it all. She raised her prow toward the incoming clawfighters and opened fire.

The machine gun roared. Bullets pounded one clawfighter, knocking it aside. A few other shuttles were struggling to aim and fire too.

"Freedom, we need some Eagles down here!" Spitfire cried.

King's voice came over the MindWeb. "Spitfire, I can't help you. All your Eagles are engaged in battle above the Freedom, protecting us from a clawship assault. You'll have to manage with the Sparrows."

"Dammit, sir, I—" Spitfire began.

A plasma bolt roared toward her.

She yawed sharply.

The spool of cable tore free from the deck and tumbled into the sky.

Spitfire stared in horror.

"I told you to slow down!" Bastian cried.

Spitfire shoved the joystick downward and dived. With the spool gone, nothing was attaching her to the shuttle above. She swooped, eyes narrowed. The g-force shoved her into her seat. Bastian screamed and fell. The shuttle's engine roared.

"Meathead, get ready to grab it!" Spitfire cried.

"What?" Bastian shouted, clinging to a handle.

"I'll bring you close to the spool. Reach out, grab it, and pull it in."

"You're insane! It weighs a ton!"

"It doesn't weigh a ton!" Spitfire said. "Get ready and grab it! That's an order."

"We're the same rank, Spitfire. You can't give me orders."

"I just did, Meathead. Now obey."

The spool was tumbling down below. Spitfire accelerated until she caught up with the spool, then hit the stabilizer thrusters. The shuttle jolted in the air, slowing down so quickly she nearly passed out. Her seat belt kept her in place. Bastian shouted, clinging onto the handle.

Spitfire adjusted her speed so that she descended right alongside the tumbling spool. She nudged the yoke, bringing the shuttle closer, closer…

"Now!" she shouted, jerking sideways.

Her shuttle yawed sharply, moving its open hatch toward the spool.

The spool flew into the hold. Shouting, Bastian leaped aside. The spool skidded across the deck, slammed into a wall, and jolted toward the ceiling.

"Grab it, grab it!" Spitfire cried.

Cursing, Bastian released the handle, leaped toward the spool, and gripped it with both hands. It was the size of a dining room table. The burly marine groaned, desperately pulling the spool into position on the deck.

"Is it fastened down?" she cried.

"No!"

"Well, hold on tight, we're flying back up!" Spitfire cried.

She raised her nose and soared. The other shuttles were still above, battling two more clawships. As Spitfire ascended, she opened fire. Her bullets slammed into a clawfighter's underbelly, chewing through the metal. The clawfighter careened. Spitfire leaped higher, rolled, and charged, unleashing more bullets. All the while, the cable stretched from her to the shuttle above. She felt a little like a tetherball.

The bullets slammed into the clawfighter's canopy, shattering it. The rah pilot tumbled out, legs flailing. She shot it dead.

That left only one clawfighter. Working together, the shuttles formed a semicircle around it and fired their guns. The clawfighter turned tail and tried to escape. Spitfire aimed at its exhaust ports. The clawfighter managed to flee ten klicks before it burst into flames, then tumbled toward the fields of Nebraska.

Spitfire breathed a sigh of relief. She scanned the sky for more enemies, but for the moment the Sparrows were alone.

"All right, Sparrows, we need to reattach my cable, then keep going. We only have…" She checked her watch. "Dammit! We only have a few minutes. Move, move, move!"

A shadow fell over her.

She raised her eyes.

Chelicera, the heavy rah bomber, was moving overhead.

The ship blocked the sun, the size of a small city. Alliance starfighters kept bombing it, but nothing broke through her web-shield.

Only the Fist of Freedom could do that.

Spitfire saw Omaha on the horizon. Chelicera was moving there.

Half a million souls. Dead. If they didn't hurry.

"Move, move!" she cried again.

The Sparrows kept descending, unspooling their cables. Finally everyone else was in position. Spitfire was the last link in the chain.

She swooped toward the power plant. Technicians stood in a courtyard, beckoning her urgently. The Freedom had already updated them with the plan. They had an enormous adapter waiting on the ground.

Spitfire descended far too fast for comfort, then hit the stabilizers only a hundred meters over the ground. Air blasted from her nacelles. The Sparrow jolted in the air, jangling the entire chain of shuttles that rose from her to the Freedom.

The pilots above weren't just sitting idly. As always, Earth was rotating at incredible speed. The shuttles and the Freedom above had to coordinate their flights, keeping a perfect line from Earth to the starship—a full hundred klicks long. Five times the length of Manhattan.

Spitfire landed too roughly, snapping off half her landing gear, and screeched across the courtyard, spraying sparks. The cable still ran from her spool toward the next shuttle up.

Before she had even stopped the shuttle, Bastian leaped from the hatch, holding one end of the cable. He hit the ground running.

"Come on, come, we gotta plug it in!" the burly marine cried.

Spitfire checked the time.

Two more minutes.

Two more minutes and Omaha was gone.

* * * * *

Bastian ran across the pavement, pulling the cable along. Faraday Power Plant spread around him. Cooling towers, concrete buildings, and electric towers rose everywhere. But the bulk of the station was underground. Deep below his feet, the plant was fusing hydrogen atoms, containing a miniature star within a shell of concrete, steel, and magnetic dampeners.

God forbid the rahs ever blow this place up, Bastian thought. The blast would wipe out the state.

The same power could also ignite the Fist of Freedom.

It was passing overhead now. The Chelicera. Bastian ran in its shadow. The rah bomber was seconds away from reaching Omaha and blasting it off the map.

"We're ready for you!" shouted a Faraday employee.

A group of them stood by a massive piece of hardware. It was the size of a house, covered with pipes and pistons. Cables ran from the cube to a hole underground. It was a huge adapter, the science nerds had told Bastian. He just had to plug his cable in.

"Move your fat butt!" Spitfire shouted from the shuttle behind him.

"You should have landed closer!"

He was steps away from the adapter when shrieks tore across the courtyard.

A rah leaped over the adapter, then swooped onto the technicians.

The alien screeched with delight, tearing the technicians apart. Claws slashed their flesh.

Bastian paused, dropped the cable, and shouldered his rifle.

The rah bounded over the corpses toward him.

Bastian opened fire, knocking the alien onto the ground.

He knelt to grab the cable.

Two more rahs scuttled around the huge adapter, racing toward him.

Spitfire came running toward Bastian, firing a pistol. She hit one rah in an eye. The alien fell.

"Plug the cable in!" the pilot shouted.

Bastian was busy firing his Gideon at another rah. "A little busy here!"

"Fine, I'll do it!" Spitfire shouted. She ran, grabbed the fallen cable, and—

A rah leaped onto her, knocking her down.

"Spitfire!" he cried.

"Plug in the cable!" she screamed, wrestling the alien. "Now now now!"

The beast pinned her down, jaws open in a furious roar. Spitfire lay on her back, firing her pistol.

More rahs came closing in.

A warning flashed on Bastian's MindLink.

TEN MORE SECONDS TO DESTRUCTION OF OMAHA.

King's voice rose through the MindWeb.

"Bastian, hurry, dammit!"

NINE MORE SECONDS.

He fired again, knocked a rah back. He knelt, lifted the cable.

EIGHT.

A rah slammed into him.

SEVEN.

He kept going, shoving it aside.

SIX.

A rah screeched, lashed its claws, and dented Bastian's armor.

FIVE.

He trudged toward the adapter.

FOUR.

A rah leaped from above, landed on him, began biting, clawing. Bastian fell to his knees. His battlesuit was flashing warnings, denting, cracking.

THREE.

He saw it there.

TWO.

The outlet.

ONE.

He dragged himself forward as the aliens savaged him, reached out, and plugged the cable in.

Power surged through the cable.

White light flared.

The rahs screamed and scuttled away, terror in their eyes.

The electricity raced through the cable, blasting upward like a reverse lightning bolt. The surge ran up the ladder of shuttles at the speed of light, Sparrow to Sparrow, until it reached the starship Freedom.

The Chelicera was now above Omaha.

A video of Hel'rah appeared on Bastian's MindLink.

"Now watch your city destroyed!" the alien cried.

Bastian stood in the courtyard, gazing toward his hometown.

CHAPTER TWELVE

King stood in the Freedom as the power surged through the daisy chain of cables, rising from Earth into the dreadnought.

Power crackled across the starship, flooding its batteries, and flowing directly into the massive railgun that thrust out from the prow.

King stared ahead through the viewport.

The Chelicera was hovering over Omaha. Its ring of blades was dilating, exposing its plasma port.

King made a fist.

"Fire," he said.

"Fire," Jordan repeated.

And the Fist of Freedom fired.

It fired with the power of Faraday Power Plant.

It fired with the power of a small star.

White light filled the bridge.

Down on Earth, the sky turned searing white. Birds fell, blinded.

From space, they saw a flare exploding just above Earth. It seemed like a rising sun.

With a crack, with a boom, with the fury of gods—the Fist of Freedom unleashed.

A Goliath missile flew forth. It was larger than some starships.

It blazed across the sky at hypersonic speed. The sonic boom shattered windows across Nebraska and the surrounding states.

Within a split second, the missile hit the Chelicera.

It tore through the shield like it was paper.

The gargantuan bomber, a starship the size of a city, exploded.

Chunks of metal the size of office towers flew through the sky. Flames roared across the wreckage. Deck platings the size of sports arenas tore free like splinters.

Most of the Chelicera scattered as chunks of molten metal, but the underlying chassis remained intact, ablaze.

The burning wreckage began falling.

Jordan stepped closer to the viewport, eyes wide. "The wreckage is going to fall onto Omaha."

"No it's not," King said. "Mimori, full speed ahead and ram into that chassis!"

"But sir—"

"Do it now!" King roared.

The Freedom charged, skimming the sky.

The twisted chassis of the Chelicera tumbled toward the city below, entering the atmosphere.

The Freedom dipped in space, underbelly grazing the atmosphere of Earth. They were not meant to fly this low. Air roared around them. Flames lit the sky.

The prow's rails slammed into the burning chassis, shoving it across the city toward the countryside.

"Now rise!" King cried.

Mimori tilted her body backward. The Freedom's nose rose. Her Talaria engines roared at full power, bathing the sky with flame. A field burst into flame below.

The dreadnought soared from the atmosphere and back into space, battling the immense gravity pulling them down.

The Chelicera's wreckage slammed onto the countryside. A shock wave blasted out, raising mounds of earth, ripping up farmlands, and toppling buildings in an Omaha suburb.

It might have killed hundreds of people.

But they saved the city. They saved half a million souls.

The Freedom soared into space, the tug of gravity eased, and they glided.

Jordan slumped into his seat. A few bridge officers cheered. King just stood there. He allowed himself a deep, shaky breath.

He contacted Spitfire on the MindWeb.

"Spitfire, Bastian, did you see that?"

They were cheering on the ground, jumping up and down, and hugging each other.

"We saw it, we saw it!" Spitfire cried, laughing. "It was beautiful!"

King stifled a smile. "All right. Good job, all of you. Bring the flock home to roost."

The Sparrows came flying back up. Whenever any one of his soldiers flew on a mission, King felt dread. It was like claws inside him, squeezing his organs, not letting go until his troops came back home.

This time he had sent out Bastian, his son, and Spitfire, who was like a daughter. He had sent people he loved into the fire. This time they came home. But it wouldn't make next time any easier.

The hangar opened. The shuttles flew back in. His children were home. King prayed that no matter where this war took them, they would always find their way home.

* * * * *

A ping from Godwin popped into King's MindLink. The high commander was calling from the Churchill, which flew nearby. King took the call.

A hallucination of Godwin appeared before him on the Freedom's bridge. The old man paced the deck, cane tapping.

"Good show, King and crew. Jolly good show from the lot of you." He lit a cigar, took a puff. "Your courage and conviction dealt the enemy a formidable blow. I'm beginning to sense a hint of hope in these dark times. However, we cannot underestimate the might of the enemy, for his numbers are still great, and his cruelty knows no bounds."

"We will continue this fight," King said. "We will fight in space. And we will fight on Earth. And should Earth fall, our colonies will continue the fight against the rahs. So long as there's breath in our lungs, we will—"

An electromagnetic tidal wave washed across the ship.

Radiation alarms blared. The monitors went berserk, flickering. The lights thudded off.

"What's going on?" King said.

His crew looked up from their workstations, confused.

"Somebody is broadcasting an extremely powerful signal." Mimori winced. "It's overwhelming my firewalls. I can't hold it back. I—ah!"

She fell to her knees.

At the same time, a video appeared on all the bridge monitors.

Hel'rah snarled on every screen.

"Do you think your little stunt will save you, King?" the rah shrieked. "Do you think that was my only bomber? Now watch!" His voice rose higher in pitch, becoming demonic. "Watch them die!"

The alien cackled.

"Sir, three portals are opening above Earth!" Mimori said. "Not far from us."

"Swivel our cannons toward them and open fire," King said. He had almost shouted the command but held back. He had to force himself to remain calm, not to let the fear claim him. He needed to show his crew that things were under control.

The bridge thrummed as the cannons turned.

"Get me a visual," King said.

"Here, King!" Hel'rah said. "Look! Enjoy the show."

The alien vanished. The monitors now showed three portals, hovering just above Earth's atmosphere.

All three were opening. All three over cities. One over Kansas City. The other over Minneapolis. The third over Saint Louis.

"The bastard said one city every hour!" Godwin rumbled.

"The bastard lied," King said.

"Our cannons are primed—and firing," said Jordan.

The cannons boomed. Five Maccabees flew toward the portal over Kansas City. Five flew toward the portal over Minneapolis. Four blazed toward the St. Louis portal. Already the gunners were working at reloading, but it would take a moment.

As the missiles raced across the sky, King watched heavy rah bombers emerge from the portals.

The enormous ships descended over the cities.

"Mimori, fire the Fist of Freedom," King said. "We're still plugged in."

"Which ship should I fire at?"

"Choose one at random and fire."

Mimori nodded. The Freedom yawed.

"Aiming at the rah bomber over Minneapolis, and—firing."

The Fist of Freedom blazed to life, still feeding on Faraday Power Plant below.

The Goliath missile streaked forward, bypassing the slower Maccabees, and slammed into one rah bomber.

The clawship exploded.

"Yaw us toward the next one, Mimori," King said. The Fist of Freedom could not move itself like the Angels; they had to turn the entire Freedom.

"Yawing, sir."

As the ship was yawing, the Maccabees finally reached their destinations. They exploded against the enemy shields. They didn't get through.

"Locking the Fist on target," Mimori said. "Waiting for the gunnery crew to load the next Goliath."

They were too slow. They never would have made it.

Both rah bombers rained down destruction.

Crackling red beams slammed down onto Earth. One onto Kansas City. One onto St. Louis.

"Goliath missile loaded, sir!" Mimori said.

"Fire!" King shouted.

But he knew it was too late.

Even as the bomber exploded above Kansas City, it was too late.

Even as they yawed again, as they destroyed the last bomber… it was too late.

When the dust cleared, they saw it.

Both cities—in ruin.

Both cities—nothing but smoldering craters.

Kansas City. St. Louis. Between them—a million souls.

Gone.

All gone.

Like Christchurch in New Zealand—gone.

This is no longer just war, King thought. This is genocide.

Hel'rah reappeared in the monitors. A smug smile covered his warty face.

"I hope you enjoyed the show, filthy apes. I made sure you had a front-row seat, Commander King. In two hours, the next act begins. I'll give you two full hours this time, since I just destroyed two cities. Let nobody say that Hel'rah is not magnanimous." The alien laughed. "Which city should I choose next? If you grow bored of the show, then surrender! Stop your cowardly assault against my ships, and I will stop destroying your cities. Continue your aggression, and more cities will burn. The choice is yours, apes."

The video vanished.

King stared at the blank monitor.

He felt emptiness. Terrible, ripping emptiness inside him. A desperation. A rage. An impossible dark fire.

Gone.

Entire cities—gone.

It all seemed like a nightmare. This destruction. These monsters from deep space. This war, this despair.

I'm going to wake up soon, King thought. I'm going to wake up in bed, an empty bottle of Martian ale in my hand. It will be Christmas, my last day before retirement. And I'll realize this was all a drunken dream.

But he did not wake up.

He was really here aboard the Freedom, and she was a warship again. And the world burned. And the monsters from childhood stories were real.

Godwin walked up toward him, pulling King out of his stunned reverie.

"Come meet me aboard the Churchill, Commander," said the old Englishman. "Not by MindWeb. I want you there in the flesh in case the enemy can listen to our telepathy. We must meet now, us leaders of humanity. We must discuss the dark pit into which the enemy has cast us, and in this darkness, we must make terrible decisions. Come, Commander King. Come to the Churchill. The moments ahead will determine the fate of humanity and will echo across the ages."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Something had happened.

Something was wrong.

Emily felt it in the air.

Something terrible.

Just a few hours ago, she had been a timid princess, hiding among shattered crystals and broken gold. Now she wore a uniform of the Alliance Defense Force—the beige fatigues of a spacer. A Gideon hung across her back. The assault rifle seemed awkwardly large against her petite frame. A helmet topped her head. The uniform was ill fitting, the helmet wobbled, and she wasn't sure how to fire her Gideon. It had all happened so fast, but here she was, a soldier.

Only an hour ago, she had reported here to deck 8, ship's midsection, Sparrow hangar. This deck was unglamorous. It was far from the prow where all the commanders and scientists worked, overseeing the battle. It was equally far from the stern where the great engines churned, engineers did magic, and the wonders of physics kept the Freedom flying. Deck 8, here in the midsection, was crammed between two more important locations. Below sprawled the Courtyard, the fabled mustering grounds of the Freedom Brigade. Above rumbled the legendary Fist of Freedom station, the deck where spacers maintained, armed, and fired the Freedom's enormous railgun.

Here, deck 8, wasn't nearly as exciting. It was simply where the Freedom parked her Sparrows—small shuttles used to transport dignitaries. Only days ago, Emily had traveled in a Sparrow from Buckingham Palace to the Freedom.

Days ago? It seemed an era.

A life of leisure in a palace. Her family at her side. A carefree adolescence as a beloved princess.

Gone.

All gone.

Her old life—shattered like so many crystal shards.

And here she stood. Seventeen years old. A soldier in a great war. An orphan. A human facing the extinction of humanity.

Even Niles wasn't with her now. She was a soldier and could no longer take her companion everywhere. The drone was waiting back in the royal suite. Emily had never felt so alone, so vulnerable, even with the rifle hanging across her back.

It all felt like a nightmare, and she could not wake up.

And now something bad was happening. Something was terribly wrong.

Lee Eun-Yu, the bay boss, was just staring at her monitor in shock. Her face was cold, her eyes haunted. Across the hangar bay, spacers in beige fatigues were whispering among themselves.

"Gone?" somebody said. "The entire city?"

"Both cities," somebody said.

Emily stepped toward them, hesitant. "Cities? Destroyed?"

Suddenly a klaxon blared. Emily started. Red lights strobed across the bay.

The bay boss raised her head from the monitor. "Sparrows coming home to roost!" she cried. "Look sharp, everyone!"

Emily stumbled back. The klaxon was deafening, and the strobe lights nearly blinded her. Monitors above the airlock showed the fleet of Sparrows flying back to the hangar. A squad of marines rushed toward the airlock, rifles locked and loaded. Unlike the spacers, who wore beige fatigues, the marines wore armored blue battlesuits, and their guns were larger. Spacers reported to their stations. One began to tap at the airlock controls, while others readied the landing pads on the deck. A crew of medics stood at the ready. Firefighters ran forward with extinguishers.

Emily was new here, and she didn't have a job yet. She just pressed her back against a bulkhead and watched.

The airlock door opened, and in flew one Sparrow. It was coming in fast, smoking and dented. One of its engine nacelles was burning, and its cockpit was cracked.

Just in time, the Sparrow engaged its stabilizer thrusters. Blasts of gas washed the deck, slowing the shuttle. A space controller waved traffic batons, directing the shuttle toward a circle painted on the deck. A firefighter began spraying the burning engine with foam.

The canopy opened, and a pilot climbed out.

"Hot damn, that was a close one!" he said. "Damn these Sparrows are pieces of shit. Remind me never to fly one again."

The bay boss rushed forward. "Pickles, what the hell did you do to my Sparrow?"

"Your Sparrows can't take a punch!" Pickles said. "That's why I normally fly Eagles."

The pilot was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. Medics rushed toward him, but he waved them aside.

"I'm fine, I'm fine! Just a little scratch. Nothing half a dozen beers can't fix."

The Sparrow's back hatch opened, and a marine hopped out. She was a tall, powerfully built woman with two blond braids. Emily recognized her. Alice Allenby.

"We did it!" Alice said. "We blew up that goddamn bomber! We—"

Somebody rushed toward her, showed her a floating holographic monitor. Alice's eyes darkened, then flooded with tears.

Emily wanted to rush forward, to see the news, but then the klaxons wailed again.

The airlock opened, and in came another shuttle. It was missing one wing, and one engine was a ravaged mess. The canopy was cracked. The pilot inside managed to land, then slumped forward in his seat. Medics had to carry him out on a stretcher.

Meanwhile, Emily just watched, feeling useless, feeling scared.

Before the third shuttle could come in, she noticed the little monitor above the bay boss's office. It was showing updates from a military news outlet. Headlines were scrolling along the bottom of the screens.

ATTACKS ON AMERICA

KANSAS CITY, ST. LOUIS DESTROYED

ENEMY VOWS TO DESTROY MORE CITIES

EARTH TO SURRENDER?

Then the airlock opened, and two shuttles came flying in at once, banging and scraping against each other. One shuttle seemed to have lost its engine. The shuttle behind it was shoving it into the hangar.

Two cities, Emily thought. Gone.

Finally the last Sparrow rattled into the hangar. It had taken a pounding. The port hull was cracked and burnt, the engine was smoking, and black rah blood splattered the canopy. The shuttle tried to extend its landing treads, but the mechanism screeched in protest, and only one tread emerged from the underbelly. The stabilizer nacelles coughed, sputtered, then gave up. The Sparrow crashed onto the deck, spraying a shower of sparks.

Bastian and Spitfire stumbled out. The burly marine was leaning against the pilot, even though he probably weighed twice as much. His armor was dented and bloody. Medics rushed toward them and loaded Bastian onto a stretcher.

"All Sparrows back in the nest!" the bay boss cried, waving her arms. "Secure the airlock!"

Spacers rushed toward the airlock, shut the inner door, and slammed down several metal brackets. Marines took position, guns at the ready, defending the doorway. It reminded Emily of some medieval castle gate. She was glad for the extra security. The memory of the rahs boarding the Freedom, slaughtering hundreds, was still fresh in her mind.

Emily stepped toward Spitfire, who stood by the mangled, smoking Sparrow. The pilot seemed dazed. Her eyes were staring ten thousand miles away.

"Spitfire!" Emily rushed toward her. "Are you all right?"

The pilot turned toward her, seeming to see her for the first time. "We saved a city. I thought we saved a city…" A tear rolled down her cheek.

A shadow rose behind the pilot.

Long legs stretched out like a crown of blades.

A hideous head loomed above Spitfire, grinning, filled with fangs. Drool dripped and eight red eyes blinked.

One of those long, sharp legs rose over Spitfire. The tip gleamed, as sharp as a katana.

Emily did not think.

She did not hesitate.

She moved on instinct alone.

She raised her Gideon—a weapon she had been carrying for only an hour—and fired.

The gunshot was much louder than anticipated. The recoil slammed the butt of the rifle into her chest. Right against her sternum. Emily hit the ground, the breath knocked out of her. Pain radiated across her torso.

I held the gun wrong, she realized belatedly.

But her bullet hit. It slammed into the alien. The rah screeched and fell back against the shuttle. Its claw sliced only air—instead of Spitfire's head.

At once, Spitfire spun around, drew her sidearm, and opened fire. Marines rushed forward, shouldered their rifles, and let loose. Bullets pounded the rah. The spider screeched, pinned against the shuttle hull. More and more bullets slammed into it, shattering its eyes, its mouth. It seemed to dance under the hailstorm. Finally the rah slumped down, leaving a stain against the Sparrow.

Emily sat on the deck, legs sprawled out, her smoking Gideon in her hands. She looked up in shock.

Spitfire helped her to her feet. "Good work, Emily. You saved my life. The bastard must have sneaked aboard my Sparrow at the power plant."

"Look at me, a regular warrior princess," Emily said, smiling tremulously. Then she burst into tears.

Spitfire gave her helmet an affectionate wobble.

"Glad to have ya fighting with us, Princess," the pilot said. "But you're gonna need a MindLink. Get your royal ass to the medical bay and have one installed. I'll send them the requisition forms telepathically." She raised her voice. "Hey, Bay Boss! I'm sending the kid to get a MindLink. She earned it."

Eun-Yu was busy extinguishing a burning Sparrow. Her orange jumpsuit, tall boots, and helmet were singed. The bay boss gave a distracted thumbs-up, then returned to her work.

Emily sniffed and wiped her tears. "A MindLink? That's the neural implant you soldiers have, right? That lets you talk telepathically?"

"We mostly tell dirty jokes." Spitfire winked. "Mostly. Wait till you hear them."

Emily tried to laugh, but it came out like a sob. She managed a salute. Spitfire returned the salute, suddenly solemn.

"Dismissed, Private."

"Yes, ma'am."

Emily spun on her heel and fled the hangar. Once she had rounded a corner, she collapsed onto the deck, trembling and weeping and struggling to breathe.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As the war raged, entering its fourth day, the leaders of humanity met.

Godwin, who called the meeting, told everyone to congregate aboard the Churchill. But as their shuttles arrived, they were quickly ushered into new shuttles, then diverted along a circuitous route to another ship.

King approved. That was a smart move. The rahs had attacked the Churchill once before. It was best to meet elsewhere. Godwin told nobody where the meeting would take place. That too was smart. The rahs had already shown themselves capable of hacking human technology. The humans no longer dared transmit delicate information, not even over the encrypted MindWeb.

Only at the last moment, traveling in the secret shuttle, did King see where they would meet. For their council, Godwin had chosen the FAS Sirona. A hospital ship. A red cross adorned her white hull.

"Do you really think the rahs would hesitate to destroy a hospital ship?" King said.

Godwin sat beside him in the shuttle, his cane between his knees. "Hesitate? No. They are murderous and heartless beasts. But they are hunters. Hospital ships are full of sick meat. They won't bother us there."

As the shuttle approached the hospital ship, King gazed out a porthole, surveying the battle for Earth. His MindLink constantly updated him, feeding information directly into his mind. Stats kept scrolling at the bottom of his vision, and maps floated near the top. But King needed to see things with his own eyes.

Oddly, from up here, it didn't seem that bad. The explosions on Earth's surface looked small, like raindrops of fire pattering down. The battle in space appeared distant. Each starship was thousands of kilometers away. Standing on a warship's bridge, looking at monitors and hallucinations, it all felt so close. But even with thousands of ships fighting, Earth's orbit was a big place. The battle was mostly empty space.

But everywhere, filling the void, was the grief. From this shuttle, King saw a new perspective to the calamity. And it could not lessen his anguish.

An airlock opened in the Sirona. The shuttle flew into the hospital ship. They landed in a hangar.

Godwin rose from his seat. He gripped his cane and thrust out his bottom lip.

"Are you ready, my boy?" he said to King.

King rose too. He towered over Godwin. The portly old man barely reached his shoulders. Godwin was a great leader, a lion of humanity. He seemed larger than life. It was easy to forget how short he actually was.

"Let's figure this out," King said.

The two men stepped onto the deck. At this meeting, King would play second fiddle. Godwin lead the Alliance, and King would be there to listen, to support, perhaps to advise.

A second shuttle landed in the hangar. It too was painted with Alliance colors. A hatch opened.

Out stepped Sergeant Major Darjeeling, wearing a fine dress uniform, complete with epaulets. He stood on the deck and saluted. Next emerged Princess Emily, her golden braid wrapped around her head. She wore no gown, but she had changed out of her beige work fatigues. She wore a formal navy-blue Alliance service uniform with brass buttons, and a pistol hung at her side. Finally, out flew Niles, her loyal drone.

"Thank you for letting me come," said the princess.

Godwin bowed his head. "You belong here, Your Highness. You are the last of our royal family, and you are the leader we in Great Britain and the Commonwealth look to for hope. I perhaps was chosen to lead the hosts in the shadowy trenches of this war. But you, Princess, will shine the light they follow to victory."

"You are most kind, High Commander," Emily said. "Though I think that in future generations, people will remember not the princess who shone from on high but the lion who roared on the battlefield."

"If any live to tell our tales," said Godwin. "Never has humanity faced such a grave threat of extinction." He looked around him. "So, we're all here. I, the high commander. Princess Emily and Sergeant Darjeeling, her loyal protector. And James King, brave commander of our largest ship. We four will represent the Alliance in this most grave council."

Somebody cleared his throat. Or at least made a close approximation of the sound. Hovering near the princess, Niles raised his silver nose. "As usual, we robots are forgotten."

Nobody paid the drone any attention. The airlock doors were opening. Another shuttle glided into the hospital ship.

This shuttle was clearly not Alliance. It was a sleek, graceful vessel, roughly shaped as an almond. Golden filigree danced across the white hull, coiling into the shapes of ibises. A silver rose shone on each side of the shuttle—symbol of the Desert Thorns.

A hatch opened, a scent of perfume filled the air, and out climbed a graceful woman. She wore a white military uniform with golden trim. A saber hung at her side, and a rose was pinned to her lapel—a real rose, blooming and aromatic. A white scarf hid the woman's hair, but it left her face free. Her skin was olive-toned, her eyes large and brown.

King had never met her in person, but he had seen her on many holofeeds. Here was Laila, the Moonlit Queen, ruler of the Desert Thorns. She came from Dubai, but she ruled a union that sprawled over much of Earth. It was her father who had founded the Desert Thorns, and Laila carried on his legacy.

She approached the Alliance congregation.

"I'm most sorry to hear of the destruction in America and New Zealand," she said. "My heart goes out to our friends in the Alliance."

Godwin bowed his head to her. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Have you come here alone to our meeting?"

Laila nodded. "Yes. I used to be a fighter pilot, you know. I can handle a shuttle." She winked.

"I assure you, I did not forget, Your Majesty," said Godwin. "Our friend James King was a pilot too when he was a young man."

"It was a very long time ago," said King. "Laila, thank you for coming. It's good to see you. Your people have been fighting bravely in this war."

Godwin pulled his pocket watch from his breast pocket. He harrumphed. "Where is the damn woman? Where is Katyusha?"

Just the sound of her name soured King's mood. He wasn't sure if Katyusha was an ally in this war. He didn't like her any more than he liked rahs.

They say the enemy of my enemy is my friend, King thought. Well, whoever said that never met Katyusha.

The airlock opened again.

The Red Dawn anthem began to play, bombastic and deafening, complete with a Russian male choir.

A resplendent starfighter flew into the hangar, painted red, with golden equal signs on the hull. It was so large it barely squeezed through the airlock. Nacelles on its wings tilted toward the floor, blasted out compressed air, and the starfighter thumped onto the deck.

The airlock remained open. Three more shuttles flew in. They were as fine as ancient chariots, painted with dazzling reds and golds, and golden equal signs. The Red Dawn anthem grew louder. It blared from speakers on their prows.

The shuttles landed too. Two starfighters followed, their turbines spinning and roaring, scattering dust across the hangar. These were not Eagles; they were Sickle starfighters, dreaded machines of Russian aggression. King had fought many of them in his day. They made lots of noise and blasted a lot of air. Godwin had to clutch his top hat, and Laila's headscarf nearly flew off.

Finally all the Red Dawn vessels had landed.

Hatches opened on two shuttles. Red Dawn soldiers emerged, chins high. They wore parade uniforms. Their red coats flowed down to their knees, dazzling with polished buttons. Golden epaulets and sashes gave them extra flair. They marched across the hangar, legs rising high, and formed two lines. One soldier even blew a fanfare on a trumpet.

"She brought a goddamn marching band," King muttered to Godwin. The high commander snickered.

Finally, one Red Dawn soldier turned toward the central shuttle and saluted. A gilded hatch opened, and Katyusha emerged.

"Zdravstvuyte!" She waved from the hatch, beaming. "Ah, yes, yes—bow before Katyusha! Good!"

King growled. "Nobody is bowing. Stop this parade. Get down here."

Katyusha ignored him. She sniffed. "What is this dirty American starship? It stinks in here. It smells like filthy capitalism. This place is not worthy of Katyusha."

King leaned toward Godwin. "Did we really have to invite her?"

The old man harrumphed. "I wish we did not. During the second world war, Churchill reluctantly aligned himself with Stalin. We will have to align ourselves with Katyusha."

"What is that?" Katyusha said, still standing some distance away. "Did Katyusha hear you talk about Comrade Stalin, the Man of Steel? He was almost as great as Katyusha! His only mistake was letting you Western imperialists get away with too much. Katyusha will not make such mistakes."

"We don't have time for this," King said. "We don't have long before Hel'rah destroys another city. We must decide what to do."

Katyusha yawned. "All right, all right! If you're so worried about your precious cities, fine. But we have one more guest." She turned around, looking back into the shuttle. "Come out now, Xia! It's okay, come out!" Katyusha patted her thigh as if summoning a dog. "Come, come!"

A little girl stepped out of the shuttle. Her eyes were lowered, and she clasped her hands tightly. She wore a cheongsam, the traditional dress of China. The red fabric was embroidered with golden swans. Pins held her long black hair. She glanced up shyly, then looked back at her slippers.

"Excuse the little girl," Katyusha said. "She's shy. But she will learn to be strong and vicious like Katyusha." She patted the girl's head. "Won't you, sweet little pet? Yes, yes, Katyusha will teach you."

"Thank you," the girl whispered.

"Who is this?" King demanded. "Why are you inviting children to our council?"

"I know her," Princess Emily said, stepping closer to King. "This is Xia, the great-granddaughter of China's emperor. I visited her once in the Forbidden City. She's a few years younger than me."

Xia glanced up, saw Emily, and a tremulous smile touched her face. She waved bashfully.

"Where is the emperor?" King said. "Did he fall in battle?"

China formed the second great power of the Red Dawn. Officially, China and Russia were equal partners, jointly leading that unholy union, which included dozens of nations. But in practice, Katyusha ran the show. China's emperor was too old, withdrawing into ancient customs and rituals, leaving the actual leadership to his Russian counterpart.

Katyusha rolled her eyes. "No, his old ass is still on the throne. The emperor is hunkering down in some bunker. He's a hundred and two years old, you know. Too old to come here! Too old for anything. Boohoo! He refused rejuvenation techniques that could keep him young and beautiful like Katyusha."

"Yes, I've heard all about your rejuvenation techniques," King said. "You grow clones of yourself in a lab. You keep them in a cage. When they turn twenty, you saw open their heads, scoop out their brains, and plant your own brain inside."

Katyusha removed her cap and tossed her hair. It shimmered. "And it works perfectly! Look at Katyusha. Beautiful like ballerina, strong like bull!"

"You look almost thirty," King said. "I hope you have another clone growing."

She yawned. "The next one is still too small. But soon enough, she will be ready. Now! We didn't come here to talk about how beautiful Katyusha is." She smiled wickedly and steepled her fingers. "Let us begin our meeting on how to crush the spiders."

* * * * *

The meeting took place right there in the Sirona's hangar. They all stood among the shuttles. There was no time to walk through the ship, find a proper boardroom, and arrange something official. The war raged around them. Every moment inched them closer to destruction. So there in this hospital ship hangar, as warships blazed and cities smoldered, the leaders of humanity began their council.

As King stood there, he sensed that a great moment in history was being written. Years from now, he imagined that historians would write about the Sirona Summit. If anyone lived to write the books, that was. The princess's drone hovered before them, filming the council for posterity. This was a pivotal hour in the war, indeed in all human history; King felt that in his bones. He did not know if, in future generations, this summit would be remembered as a turning point toward victory or defeat.

"Thank you for joining me aboard the starship Sirona," Godwin said. "At this dark hour, we find ourselves, old enemies, fighting a common foe. All humanity finds itself facing an existential threat such as we've never known. For the past ten thousand years, we humans had no natural predators. We preyed upon one another. Now we find ourselves hunted like our ancestors of old, struggling to beat back terrible predators."

"Katyusha is not struggling!" The Russian snorted. "The glorious Red Fleet is smiting the enemy!"

Godwin scowled at her. "Your fleet too, Katyusha, is struggling. You too have lost many ships. Even united, we are the underdog in this fight. The enemy starships outnumber ours four to one. Most of their ships are larger and mightier than ours. On the surface of Earth, our armies are falling back. We're losing this war."

Katyusha stamped her feet. "Katyusha did not come here to listen to defeatist talk! The Red Dawn never loses a war!"

"Did you forget about World War III already?" King said.

Katyusha laughed. "Katyusha forgets nothing. We defeated you in Great Red Uprising! Oh sure, you might have won a battle or two. The ones we let you win. But the Red Dawn emerged victorious! And we will win this war too."

Godwin cleared his throat. "This war is a very different affair. This enemy is stronger than all of us. An hour from now, the creature Hel'rah has vowed to destroy another city. Our fleets, with their combined strength, cannot defeat him. Already hundreds of our starships, perhaps thousands, have been lost to the enemy claws."

King looked at the high commander. He spoke in a low voice. "What do you propose, sir?"

Godwin's eyes were dark. He gripped his cane so tightly it shook. "Sometimes even the bravest warriors must retreat. Sometimes the wise choose to live and fight another day."

"What?" Katyusha cried. "Are you crazy, old man? Run away? Like cowards?" She tossed her head back and roared with laughter. "No. No! Katyusha never runs. Never!" She snarled, drew her saber, and sliced the air. "We will defeat the enemy! Earth will be the graveyard of the rahs. We will fight until every last spider is crushed!" She stamped the deck as if crushing spiders. "Katyusha will accept nothing less than the total annihilation of the rah species. If you Alliance cowards run away, then the Red Dawn will fight on. We will win without you!"

Godwin cleared his throat and banged his cane against the deck. The sound echoed through the hangar. "I am not suggesting we surrender, Katyusha. One does not surrender to a hungry tiger. There are ways to fight this enemy, maybe even defeat this enemy. But not as we've been fighting. Not face-to-face in battle. We will fight another way. A way more conducive to ultimate victory."

Katyusha calmed down. She raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Now Katyusha is interested. Tell us more, old man."

"I think I know what Godwin means," said Queen Laila, breaking her long silence. "At times in our history, my people were the underdogs in great wars. We did not fight our enemy head-on. We retreated into deserts, jungles, and caves. We waged guerrilla warfare. And we defeated enemies much larger than ourselves."

Godwin nodded. "For several days now, we've been fighting the rah on his terms. He charges at our starships, so we charge to meet him. His troops sweep across the plains, and ours stand to face him on the field. We have bloodied him, yes. We destroyed many of his starships and slew many of his foot soldiers. But the trend is clear. The enemy is stronger. The enemy outnumbers us. If we keep fighting as we've been fighting, in a few days, we will lose this war. So we must fight as Queen Laila described. We must retreat—not into deserts or jungles but the darkness of space. From there, we will engage in guerrilla warfare."

Katyusha chewed her lip. "Katyusha doesn't like all this sneaking about. We Russians prefer a straight fight."

"As do I," said Godwin. His voice rose to a loud rumble. "But I'm not interested in dying nobly. I'm interested in winning this war!"

He banged his cane against the deck again. The sound was so loud that little Xia started, began to cry, and covered her face with her hands. Princess Emily pulled her into a soothing embrace.

"Waging guerrilla warfare, we will bleed the enemy," Godwin continued. "Our ships will hide among asteroids, behind dwarf planets, and in the vast darkness of space. We will emerge from shadows to stab at our enemy's sterns. To disrupt his supply lines. To destroy his confidence. Perhaps even to assassinate his generals. Then we will slink into shadows, already preparing to strike again. Throughout history, that is how underdogs defeated great empires."

Katyusha bristled. "Are you suggesting that the glorious Red Dawn is a dog?"

"All of Earth is like a dog now, a cur kicked, beaten bloody, helpless against a tiger that has risen to devour him. But a pack of dogs, working together, can take down the mightiest cat."

Katyusha tapped her fingers against her thigh, considering. Finally she nodded. "All right. Katyusha is a mighty Russian bear, not a dog. Your capitalist metaphors need work, but if guerrilla warfare means crushing many spiders, the Red Dawn will play along."

Little Xia bowed her head. She spoke in a high, trembling voice. "I too agree."

She glanced at Katyusha, seeking approval. The Russian woman smiled and mussed the Chinese girl's hair.

"The Desert Thorns agree," said Laila. "We will slay the enemy with a thousand strikes from shadow."

Godwin turned toward King, who had been standing quietly throughout most of the summit.

"Well, Commander King?" said Godwin. "You command one of the largest Alliance starships. I would like to hear your thoughts. Do you agree with our strategy? This will only work if we are unanimous."

King considered for a moment.

I never thought I'd make decisions for humanity, he thought. I was meant to be retired by now, sitting on my ranch, sipping a beer.

But nobody had asked for this war. They all had to make the hard choice.

"If we fall back now," King said, "we might dissuade Hel'rah from destroying another city. If we fight on, he will stay true to his word. He will keep destroying cities. I don't doubt that. Falling back seems our only option, with guerrilla warfare giving us our best hope."

Godwin narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing King. "You seem reluctant, Commander."

"I am," King admitted. "Between us, we command seven thousand starships. We built these starships to fight among ourselves, but they became the fleet of humanity, facing an alien enemy. If we fall back now, if we scatter and hide in the depths of space… that feels like abandoning Earth."

Everyone thought quietly for a moment, even Katyusha.

"I must admit," said Laila, "I don't like the idea of our starships flying away while our people suffer on Earth. I will send my fleet into hiding. But I myself will remain on Earth and keep fighting on the ground."

Katyusha smirked. "Very noble of you, little queen. But Katyusha will never abandon the great dreadnought Lenin. You stay. Katyusha will fight in space!"

"I'll stay on Earth," said Xia, voice soft. The girl blushed and tapped her index fingertips together. "To lead the Red Dawn from the ground." She looked up at Katyusha. "You'll fight bravely in space. I'll stay down below. Is that all right?"

Katyusha looked down at the girl, and her eyes softened. She knelt and hugged the child. "You're a brave little girl. Someday you will be strong like Katyusha!"

"I too shall remain on Earth," said Godwin. "The Alliance is more than just a space fleet. The Alliance includes our forces on the ground, in the air, and on the sea." He banged his cane on the deck. It gave a loud clang. "Then it's settled. We will begin to withdraw our starships from the battle. I know this will be hard. But it must be done to secure the hope of humanity."

King grumbled to himself. He still didn't like this. As a soldier, he was used to charging the enemy head-on. To fight from shadows? That was a coward's way of fighting.

Princess Emily seemed to sense his turmoil. She approached him, touched his arm, and looked into his eyes.

"Sir, if I may, to fall back is the right choice," Emily said. "I know it's hard for a soldier. And you are our finest soldier. For whatever it's worth, I believe this is what we must do. If you'll have me, I will remain aboard the Freedom. I will fly with you, and we will fight the enemy together."

King bowed his head. "I would be honored if you remained aboard the Freedom. You would be a symbol of hope—the future Queen of England, fighting in the dark, shining her light. Very well." He looked at the others. "I agree."

Godwin nodded. "Then it's unanimous. And our meeting is adjourned."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Sirona Summit was over.

"Good luck, everyone," Laila said.

The desert queen reentered her white shuttle and flew into space, leaving behind the scent of perfume.

The Red Dawn party began departing. The Russian soldiers, the bugler, and Xia entered their shuttles. But Katyusha herself hesitated for a moment, standing on the deck.

"What's the matter, Katyusha?" King rasped. "Thinking about joining the Alliance?"

She snorted. "Don't insult Katyusha." She tilted her head. "Your voice, James King. It's all raspy and whispery. Like a snake's hiss." She bared her teeth. "Hiss! Why is that?"

He glowered. Fire crackled in his belly, and he balled his fists. "You know why. You're the one who sliced my throat."

Katyusha walked toward him, her tall leather boots thudding against the deck. When she reached him, she paused, standing too close. King refused to budge. He crossed his arms and stared at her. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him.

"You kept your scar." She ran her fingertips against the scar along his neck. "The scar I gave you long ago. Any surgeon could fix this. Why did you keep it?"

As her fingertips fluttered over his neck, King felt it again.

The blade.

Suddenly he was back there. On the battlefields of Mars. A soldier in his twenties, his life still ahead of him, not knowing if he'd live another day.

The Alliance troops stormed across the red desert as starships burned above. They barged into the domed habitats of Mars, fighting in the fields, among the homes, slaying the Red Dawn troops, giving their lives so that one day Mars might be free.

She had arisen from smoke and fire, a battle cry on her lips. Katyusha, premier of the Red Dawn.

Soot and blood covered her. Her face was twisted in a rabid snarl. She leaped through the inferno, howling for blood.

Even then she must have known the war was lost. That she could not hold Mars, could not crush the Alliance. So she came out to fight.

Before the clones. Before all the decades of pain. A rabid animal, she charged.

King was fighting at the vanguard. His father, Ulysses King, fought at his side. They had been fighting for days. They were wounded. They were low on ammo.

Katyusha seemed an inhuman beast. Later they would learn she was high on a cocktail of monstrous drugs. Bullets pounded into her battlesuit, denting it, but she kept charging. She must have been out of ammo. She reached the Alliance platoon, roaring, laughing, no gun in her hand.

As fire and blood washed the world, she leaped into the Alliance ranks. Bullets pounded her, denting, then cracking her armor. Her blood spilled. She still fought.

King never saw how it happened. How she managed to grab his father's knife.

But somehow, in the chaos, she snatched the blade.

It was a family heirloom. A blade the King men had been taking hunting—and fighting—for four generations. A blade forged from Nebraska steel. A blade with the family crest, a crown between two sheaves of wheat, engraved onto the hilt.

Katyusha took that sacred blade, and she thrust it into Ulysses King's heart.

Young James King had stared and screamed.

He fell to his knees, crying out in agony.

That was when Katyusha turned toward him.

King howled. He ran at her, mad with grief, mad with rage, and they grappled in the bloody sand.

She laughed, pulled off his helmet, and grabbed a fistful of his hair. She was a slender woman, but she was so strong. The drugs gave her inhuman strength. She yanked his head back and swiped the blade across his throat, and then everything was fire and blood.

That was the last day of the war.

A new Alliance company arrived, driving off the enemy. They found King lying by his dead father. He himself was seconds from death.

They saved his life that day. And that night, Mars was liberated. The third world war was over. Both sides claimed victory.

King had lost his father, his voice, and his joy.

He tightened his lips, pulling himself back to the present. Once more, he was a sixty-year-old man, standing in a hospital ship, an officer in a new war.

"Yes, surgeons could fix this scar," King rasped. "And they could fix my voice. I chose to keep it. A reminder."

Katyusha raised one eyebrow and smiled crookedly. "Of how much you hate Katyusha?"

"Of how much I loved my father," King said. "We were meant to die together. This scar… it's a reminder that I survived and he did not. That I must carry on the legacy of my family."

Katyusha snorted and rolled her eyes. "You Americans! Always so melodramatic. Always honor this, legacy that. You watch too many movies." She smiled, but this time there was something different in her smile. Something not mocking. Something genuine, even a little sad. "Katyusha has a gift for you. You want?"

"No."

"Too bad! If Katyusha wants to give you something, you take it." She reached behind her back, pulled out a knife, and handed it to him. "Here."

King stared at the knife in her hand.

Fury exploded through him. "What is this? A goddamn joke?"

"No joke, Jamechka! This is the same knife. Your family's knife. Katyusha kept it safe for you all these years." She tilted her head. "You no want?"

She kept holding it out, hilt first.

He stared into her eyes. "What game are you playing?"

"Only game Katyusha plays is chess. This is… how do you say in America? A gesture of goodwill. After all, we are going to be the best of friends in this war. King and Katyusha, fighting side by side! Ah? Go on! Take the knife." She winked. "Just don't stab Katyusha."

He snatched the knife from her, stared at it. The family crest appeared on the hilt. The same little scratch still marred the blade. If it was a forgery, it was damn impressive. The longer King held it, the more convinced he became it was real.

The knife that had killed his father.

He tucked it into his belt and glared at Katyusha.

"Get the hell off our ship," he growled.

She laughed, caressed his cheek, and winked. "Goodbye, my good friend. Whenever you hold this knife, think of Katyusha."

"I'll think of you whenever I draw the blade," he said.

She blew him a kiss, then entered her shuttle. King stood on the deck as she flew off, the exhaust fluttering his hair.

Just then his MindLink buzzed.

An avatar hovered before him—a little circle with Mimori's face. The android was calling him from aboard the Freedom.

King accepted the call.

Mimori materialized before him. He hallucinated her standing here in the Sirona's hangar. The android was wearing a fresh uniform, replacing the one burned in battle, and a piece of tape hid a gash on her cheek.

"Sir, I finished analyzing Hel'rah's transmissions. I found something."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

On New Year's Day, 2200, humanity's starships flew away from Earth.

It was the dawn of a new century. It was a day of shame. Of fear. Of eternal guilt.

They had been fighting since Christmas without rest. They had fought hard.

They lost.

Now the great exodus began. Thousands of starships. Gray starships of the Alliance, hulking military machines. Red starships of the Red Dawn, proud vessels with equal signs on their hulls. White starships of the Desert Thorns, golden roses on their prows. Deadly warships. Small, agile corvettes. Mighty frigates lined with cannons. Great carriers and the starfighters in their hangars. Finally—the legendary dreadnoughts, of which only two remained, one called the Lenin, the other the Freedom.

They flew together. Gray, red, and white. Big and small. Old enemies. New friends. They were united in defeat.

They left the planet.

They flew into the darkness.

The rahs watched them leave. Thousands of alien starships flew alongside, raised their prows, and blasted plasma skyward. They were jeering. They were mocking the humans for fleeing. Within their dark, dank starships, the spiders chortled and celebrated. A few couldn't resist. They flew toward the fleeing fleet and blasted fire at humanity's heels.

King had never felt so ashamed.

"This isn't the end," he promised his crew.

This isn't the end, he told himself. This can't be the end.

Everyone just looked at him, solemn. A few people cried. Spitfire spat right there on the deck.

"This is bullshit," she said, then stormed off the bridge, fuming.

I had to save more cities, King told himself. I had no choice.

The words rang hollow.

Down on Earth, humanity knew what was happening. Their telescopes gazed at the night sky. They broadcast their dismay on holofeeds, on the internet, on the MindWeb.

"The starships abandoned us!"

"They're fleeing! They're running away. They're leaving us to die."

"The fleet is running! Cowards!"

"Why won't they help us? We're alone… alone…"

Millions of transmissions. They chased the fleet as they flew.

King watched snippets of these videos on his MindLink. He owed it to these people to watch. To listen. The videos hovered around him.

In one video, rahs swarmed over a military base, scuttling over the walls, ripping soldiers apart.

In another video, a spider burst into a family home. The father fired his shotgun. The rahs ripped off his arms, then pounced on his children.

Spiders raced into a school. The children tried to flee. They didn't get far.

The arachnids swarmed down the streets of New York, leaping onto cars, shattering store windows, climbing skyscrapers. Traffic jammed the highways from cities to countryside. The rahs leaped from car to car, ripping open doors, feasting on the people inside.

In every video—the screams.

The cries of fear.

"The fleet abandoned us."

"The starships ran!"

"James King ran!"

Standing on the bridge of the Freedom, a tear ran down King's cheek. He turned away. He would not let his crew see.

He turned off the videos.

For a moment the bridge was silent. Everyone stood still. The only sound came from the engines thrumming, propelling the Freedom into the darkness.

King composed himself, then turned back toward his crew. He stared at them.

Larry Jordan, his second-in-command, his oldest and best friend.

Oliver Darjeeling, loyal sergeant, paragon of honor and duty.

Mimori, his closest companion.

Emily, the hope of her people.

Bastian, his son.

Others stood with them. Navigators. Tactical officers. Science officers. Across the starship, ten thousand people were silent. Mourning. Ashamed.

King looked at the people on his bridge. People he led. People he loved.

"This is a retreat," he told them. "This is a day of shame. This is a day of loss. This is a day of darkness. But this is not surrender!" He balled his fists and his upper lip twitched. "I vow to you, my crew. And I vow this to Earth. I vow this to myself. We will fight on!"

He drew his father's knife.

He placed the blade in his left hand.

People gasped. Mimori reached out to stop him.

But King moved too fast. He swiped the blade across his palm. Pain flared. King clenched his fist, and blood dripped onto the deck.

The crew stood, shocked. King glared at them.

"With the blade of my father, with the blood in my veins, I vow to you—we will fight on!"

Bastian raised his fist. "We will fight on!" he shouted.

Jordan raised his fist too. "We will fight on!"

Everyone on the bridge raised their fists. They all shouted together. "We will fight on!"

"For freedom!" King roared.

"For freedom!" they cried.

King stared at them one by one. His blood kept dripping.

They were good people. They were brave. He knew he could depend on them.

He nodded. "Jordan, you have the bridge. Mimori, with me."

He left the bridge, and the android followed. They headed to his office. They had a war to plan.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In her ill-fitting uniform, her Gideon jangling across her back, Emily walked into Freedom's medical bay.

She found a scene from hell.

The Alliance operated dedicated hospital ships, such as the FAS Sirona, which was currently flying off their starboard bow. But any starship the size of the Freedom contained its own medical bay too.

Emily was here to get a MindLink installed. The procedure worried her. To have a surgeon drill a hole in her skull, expose her brain, and stick a microchip inside? Emily shuddered.

But all Alliance soldiers had MindLinks. It was how they communicated in battle. Emily needed to join the MindWeb, the telepathic network that encompassed the Alliance. Without an implant, she was out of the loop.

The MindWeb didn't just allow soldiers to talk telepathically. It was so much more. Emily had heard soldiers talking about augmented reality, astral projections, and shared daydreams, but these phrases meant nothing to her. Apparently, the MindWeb had to be experienced to be understood.

So here she was, a new private in a new war, seeking brain surgery.

But as soon as she stepped into the bay, Emily forgot all about the MindWeb.

She saw a vision from her worst nightmares.

The Freedom's medical bay contained thirty beds. Today hundreds of patients were crammed inside. They lay on the waiting room floor, in the corridors, everywhere. A few at least had stretchers. Most just lay on the bloodied deck.

One young man was weeping, holding his gashed belly, trying to stop his entrails from spilling out. Nobody was even treating him. A woman sat on a plastic chair, her legs ripped off. She held her own arteries between her fingers, trying to pinch them shut. Her skin was gray. A man shuffled by Emily, moving toward the reception desk. His skin was hanging off him in sheets like paper, exposing blackened muscle tissue.

Hundreds of them. Missing limbs. Missing skin. Missing faces. Disemboweled, lacerated, burnt. They wept. They screamed. They prayed. They lay on the floor, calling for their mothers.

A handful of nurses, medics, and surgeons were racing between them, but they could not keep up. Most patients just lay there, dying, as the medical staff treated the few people they could.

A doctor in bloodstained scrubs came walking by. She was young for a doctor, probably about thirty, with dark skin, bright green eyes, and curly black hair pulled into a ponytail. Her name tag identified her as Colonel Annie Jordan, MD.

The doctor walked among the patients, moving from one to another, while a nurse trailed behind her, carrying a clipboard. Their feet made sluicing noises in the blood.

"That one—" Annie pointed at the man with spilling entrails. "He's gone. Move on."

The nurse made a note on her clipboard.

"That one." The doctor looked at somebody burnt beyond recognition. It was impossible to tell if they were man, woman, or youth. "Goner. Move on."

The nurse took another note.

Annie stared at a child missing an arm. She scrunched her lips, considering, then sighed. "All right, mark this one red. We'll see if we can save him."

Emily stood there, watching, paralyzed in horror. The doctor glanced up at her.

"What's your problem?" Annie said. "Are you hurt?"

"Um… I'm here to get a MindLink implanted?" Emily whispered.

Annie stared at her for a moment in silence, then she burst out laughing. "Get the hell out of my bay."

Emily blushed, feeling incredibly foolish. Had Spitfire done this on purpose? Had the pilot sent Emily here, knowing what she'd find? Was this all some sort of sick prank? Emily felt hot tears gather.

She turned to flee the bay, shamefaced and haunted.

A raspy voice sounded behind her. "Princess? P-Princess Emily?"

Emily turned around. A man sat slumped against a bulkhead, half his face gone. She could see his molars. He reached out a shaky hand.

She knelt beside him. "It's me."

A tear fled the man's one remaining eye. "Bless you, our future queen. Bless you, Emily."

He spoke with a British accent. Manchester, she thought. It was hard to tell because the wounds slurred his voice. Emily clasped his hand. "You fought bravely."

He shook his head. "No. No, I didn't fight. The creature leaped at me." Another tear fell. "It killed my children. I don't know if my wife is alive or dead. They won't tell me."

He began to weep. Emily cradled him in her arms, and she soothed him until a nurse arrived.

She rose, her uniform stained with blood. She made to leave again when a child reached out to her. A little girl, lying on the floor. An IV was in her arm, and bandages covered the stump of her leg.

"Princess?" the girl whispered.

Emily knelt beside her. "Hi there, sweetie."

"You're a real princess, aren't you?" the girl whispered. She wore a Freedom the Frog shirt. A tourist.

"I am," Emily said, forcing herself to smile.

"My parents died," the girl said simply, almost matter-of-factly, as if the horror had not yet sunken in.

Emily's tears fell. She hugged the girl, not knowing what to say, what to do. She simply hugged her until the girl slept.

Somebody tapped Emily on the shoulder. She turned around. A nurse. She expected the woman to toss her out. But the nurse said, "We have an Englishman in one of the patient rooms, badly burnt. He might like to see you."

Emily nodded. "Of course."

She stepped into a room. Several burn patients lay on beds, wrapped in bandages. A stench filled the room. The stench of burnt flesh and medicine. Emily would never forget this smell. She paused, struggling not to throw up, not to weep, not to flee.

"Welcome!" one man said, raising an arm covered with bandages. "Welcome to the Freedom's Egyptian mummy exhibit!"

Emily laughed, and as she laughed, her tears fell. She approached the burnt people, chatted with them, laughed with them. She promised to come visit again.

She spent two hours in the medical bay, laughing with some patients, crying and praying with others. She laughed with a group of young men missing limbs, and they posed together for a photo, making goofy faces. She comforted the dying. She held one young boy in her arms as he died.

"Hey, kid."

Emily turned around. She saw Dr. Annie standing at a doorway. The doctor leaned against the doorframe, shoulders slumped. Her scrubs were wrinkled and bloody, and weariness filled her green eyes.

"Yes, ma'am?" Emily said. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be here, but—"

"Come with me, kid," Annie said.

Emily followed the doctor down the corridor, hands clasped behind her back. She was in trouble, she knew that, and probably due the scolding of her life.

They entered the doctor's office. It was small and disheveled. A medical diploma hung on one wall. Beside it hung a framed photo of Annie, wearing a graduation gown. She was hugging a tall man with gray hair.

"That's Larry Jordan!" Emily blurted out, looking at the photo. "The XO of the starship. I met him on the bridge."

"My father," Annie said. "And no, that's not how I got this job. I happen to be a damn good doctor."

"I wasn't— I didn't—" Emily began.

Annie snorted. "Who sent you here?"

Emily looked at her feet. "I… I don't know. I…"

"It was a pilot, wasn't it? Had to be a pilot."

Emily bit her lip. "Maybe." She wasn't ready to snitch on Spitfire. Even if the pilot had pranked her, sending her to a crowded medical bay after a battle.

Annie sighed. "They like to haze new soldiers. But you did well here. You helped my patients. Most kids your age would have fled or fainted."

Emily raised her chin, gaining some confidence. "I became a soldier to help. And I saw an opportunity to help."

Sadness filled Annie's eyes. They were intoxicating eyes, so large and bright.

"Look, I can't give you a MindLink today," the doctor said. "Probably not for a while. It's not that simple, sawing open a skull and implanting a chip." She rummaged through a cabinet, pulled something out, and tossed it at Emily. "But here. Use this."

Emily caught it. It was some sort of medical helmet. There was a visor, an earpiece, and suction cups on the inside. Cables ran around the rim.

"What is it?" Emily said.

"A crude MindWeb helmet. Put it on."

Emily hesitated. "How do I use it?"

"Just put it on, kid."

Emily put the helmet on. The suction cups attached to her hair. The earbud fit snugly. She pulled the visor down. It only went halfway down her face, leaving her mouth and chin free.

"Do you know how a MindLink works?" Annie asked.

"I think so," Emily said. "The neural implant stimulates the brain's sensory cortex, causing you to see, hear, and smell things that aren't truly there. To hallucinate. By controlling hallucinations, the MindWeb allows soldiers to see, hear, smell anything."

"Exactly," Annie said. "If I wanted to talk to my father right now, I wouldn't have to walk to the bridge. I could simply contact him over the MindWeb. I'd hallucinate him standing here, and he'd hallucinate me. Cameras and microphones in the starship would feed the hallucinations, making sure they match reality."

Emily shuddered. "Creepy. How can you tell reality apart from hallucination?"

Annie raised an arched eyebrow. "All reality is a hallucination."

"What do you mean?" Emily frowned.

"You're hallucinating me right now."

Emily pulled her helmet off, squinted, rubbed her eyes. The doctor still stood there.

"No I'm not," Emily said. "I'm really seeing you."

Annie laughed. "You think you're seeing me. But your brain is trapped inside a thick skull. It's dark and quiet in there, you know. Your eyeballs simply receive some signals from the photons in the room. They send these signals over nerves into your brain. Your brain receives the signals and hallucinates a doctor named Annie Jordan. Colors don't even exist in reality, did you know that?"

"I thought colors are just different wavelengths on the spectrum of light," Emily said.

"Wavelengths exist," Annie said. "But wavelengths are simply how large or small the wave of photons is. That's all. Just waves of photons. But color? Blue like my scrubs, green like my eyes, gold like your hair? Those are created in the brain. They don't actually exist outside your skull. Your brain receives certain wavelengths and then hallucinates color. It's the same with all your senses. Sound doesn't exist either."

"Only wavelengths," Emily said, understanding. "I finally understand the old philosophical question. If a tree falls in the woods, but nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If sound only exists in our minds, then no. It doesn't."

"Exactly. We're constantly hallucinating everything we see and hear. Our entire experience in this universe is a hallucination, which our brains construct based on stimulus. When we share hallucinations, we call that reality. When somebody hallucinates something the others don't, we call him crazy. Reality is just the hallucinations we all agree on. Well, the MindWeb is a way for us to share more hallucinations, ones our brains normally don't generate. With the MindWeb, we expand to a greater reality."

"And this helmet can do that?" Emily said, putting it back on.

"Nope. You need the neural implant for all that good stuff. But the helmet can show you a glimpse of the MindWeb. It will service you for now—until you can get the actual surgery. Go on, tap the button on the side. Turn it on."

Emily turned the helmet on. An interface floated up before her, featuring several windows, scroll bars, and buttons. Emily reached out to grab it. Her fingers passed through the floating controls.

"What you're seeing is MindPlay, the MindWeb's operating system," Annie explained. "The helmet is simply painting it onto your visor. But it's good at making it seem like it's hovering a meter ahead of you. When you get a real neural implant, you'll be able to hallucinate the interface whenever you like. For now, your visor will display it. Your earpiece will make the appropriate noises—again, something the implant will eventually do for you."

"Thank you," Emily said.

Annie walked toward her door. "All right, my break is over. I have patients to treat. Now get the hell off my deck."

Emily saluted. "Yes, ma'am!" She paused. "I'm supposed to salute you, right? Because you're an officer as well as a doctor?"

Annie laughed and just walked away.

* * * * *

When Emily stepped outside the medical bay, she paused in the corridor. Trembling seized her legs. She had to take several long, slow breaths.

The images she had seen in there—they would haunt her forever. People with their skin burned off. People with limbs mangled, with faces ravaged. She would never forget the tragedy she had seen. She had walked through hell.

"I wish I could fix this," she whispered to herself. A tear rolled down her cheek. "I wish I could heal them. I wish I could do more than just laugh and smile and hug and comfort. But I can't."

She sniffed and remembered something King Robert, her grandfather, had once told her. Emily repeated the words now, voice shaking. "None of us can change the world. But all of us can change a piece of the world. Piece by piece, we can build heaven."

So I'll do my part, Emily thought. It's not much. But every wave is made from many drops.

"So… did you like what you saw in there, Princess?"

Spitfire materialized before her.

Emily blinked.

The tall pilot smirked, hands on her hips. Soot covered her blue jumpsuit.

"Wha—what are you doing here?" Emily said. "Shouldn't you be down at the hangar bay?"

Spitfire tossed her head back and laughed. "I am! God, you're green. I'm projecting myself. You're seeing me on your neural helmet."

Emily raised her visor. Spitfire disappeared. She lowered the visor again, and Spitfire reappeared.

Augmented reality, Emily realized.

"Why did you send me to the medical bay?" Emily placed her hands on her hips. "You knew they wouldn't give me a real MindLink. Perform elective surgery when there are hundreds of wounded people? Of course not. I should have known. But you knew! Is this your idea of a sick joke?"

"Hey, hey, calm down," Spitfire said. "It's just a little hazing, Princess. It's good for ya. You needed to see that. You needed to understand what war is."

"I understood war well enough when I shot that rah, saving your life!" Emily said.

"And I thank you dearly." Spitfire bowed theatrically. "But that's not enough. You need to toughen up. I grew up on the rough streets of the Middle East, surviving terror attacks and war. King, Darjeeling, Jordan—they all fought in World War III. But you? You grew up in a palace. Pampered. So I sent you to see what war is. To harden you. Because this war is gonna move fast, and you need to be ready."

"Well, it's not your job to harden me!" Emily said. "You're not my drill sergeant."

"But I am a colonel, and you're a private. And you saved my life, Emily. This is how I repay you. By getting you ready for war. It might just save your life."

Emily groaned. "Is this because of what happened between King Robert and your father?"

Spitfire grew very silent. Her eyes narrowed, simmering with rage. "Yes, they were fighter pilots here aboard the Freedom. They faced the Red Dawn armada. Your grandfather fled. My father died. During the next battle, when the enemy comes at us, you will not run. You will stand your ground! You saw death today. You confronted the terror. And when death roars up toward you, you will stare it down."

Emily saluted stiffly. "Yes, ma'am." She let just a touch of sarcasm slip into her voice.

But maybe that was unfair. Maybe she was acting like a spoiled princess now. She was just a private, after all. And she didn't want special treatment. Oh, she knew that special treatment was unavoidable, and she had already received a lot of it. From Darjeeling mentoring her to Spitfire taking her under her wing—Emily was already associating with the top commanders of the Freedom. Hardly the usual experience for a teenage private.

So maybe it was unfair to scoff at Spitfire. That was the princess scoffing. The privileged girl from her halls of power. And that part of her, like her fear, had to die in this war.

"Yes, ma'am," she said again, more softly now. "Thank you, Spitfire."

The pilot winked. "Come on, join us at the aerie. You remember the aerie, right?"

Emily nodded. "The pilot lounge."

"Come on over. We'll play a game of poker and have a beer. Another battle will begin soon. Drink and gamble, for tomorrow we fly to war!"

The tall pilot vanished—just like that. One moment she was there, the next—gone.

Emily took a deep breath. Yes, there would be many more battles. And Emily did not know if she'd survive this war. But she would fight every step of the way. Piece by piece, in the fires of hell, she would build heaven.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They called his office the King's Library for a reason. Years ago, when James King assumed command of the Freedom, he moved into the dedicated commander's quarters. The Freedom's commander enjoyed the largest accommodations on the starship. He had a private bedroom, a private washroom, and an office. Not even the XO enjoyed such luxuries aboard a crammed warship.

When King had first moved in, his commander insignia freshly minted, the quarters had been austere, utilitarian. It had been years since his father, Ulysses King, had commanded the ship. Several commanders had come and gone since. The previous one had never spent much time here, mostly working on the bridge, retiring to his quarters only to sleep. And the old man hadn't even done much of that.

But James King was different. He liked having a sanctuary aboard the ship. A place to think. To read and write. To work. To meet with those closest to him outside the bustle of the bridge.

He had converted the commander's quarters into a warm, comfortable hideaway, a place for learning and thinking. It was a place of solace. A place he had designed himself. Hardwood now covered the deck, hiding the old diamond-plated steel. Fire crackled in a fireplace—actual wooden logs, not a MindLink hallucination—and sailing ship models stood on the mantle. A medieval suit of armor stood in the corner, clutching a sword in its gauntlets. Brass astrolabes, antique telescopes, and parchment maps filled his cabinet.

But more than the armor, the model ships, or the naval instruments, King loved his collection of books. Shelves covered the walls, holding leather-bound volumes. King was a military officer, but he had a university degree in literature and history. After his starship and family, books were his great love. Among books, he could think the clearest. Just having them around him calmed him, cleared his mind, opened new ways of thinking.

I was hoping to be retired by now, working on my own book, he thought ruefully as he entered his office.

Three people stood in the King's Library now. King himself, Godwin, and Mimori.

"Have a seat," King said.

He gestured at two armchairs by the fireplace.

"You know I don't need to sit, sir," Mimori said, remaining standing. "I require no rest, not even sleep."

"And I'm just a hallucination, old boy," said Godwin. "I'm not really aboard the Freedom in the flesh, just an apparition in your mind. I don't need to sit any more than the android."

"Humor me," King said. "Both of you. Let me feel that I'm talking to people, not a glorified toaster and an imaginary friend."

Mimori gasped. "Glorified toaster? Sir, really!"

Godwin snorted and waved dismissively. "Ah, forgive the old boy, Mimori my dear. King still fears modern technology. I can understand that. I myself am hardly a modern man." The hallucination tugged on his Victorian suit and lit a cigar.

"Fine." Mimori sat down. "But I'm still insulted. Glorified toaster! After all we've been through together."

When they were both sitting, King poured them drinks. Martian ale. Neither one could truly drink, of course. They couldn't even lift the cups. But King placed them on the table, and they pretended.

"You intend to finish these drinks later yourself, don't you, sir?" Mimori said.

He ignored her. He deserved a little barb after the toaster joke.

The fireplace crackled, casting red light over the leather-bound books. King stood for a moment longer, gazing into the fire. Finally he sat down too, poured himself a drink, and downed it. He stared at his high commander and his ship's human interface.

"Mimori, before you begin, are you sure the enemy cannot monitor us?" He looked at Godwin. "Our fearless leader is not truly here. He's projecting his image over the MindWeb. Can the rahs intercept it?"

Mimori shook her head vehemently, her hair swaying. "Not a chance, sir. Over the past day, I've been upgrading our firewalls, working in concert with android units on other starships. Early in the war, the rahs could crack our encryption. We found out how. We plugged the holes. I also installed monitor bots across the MindWeb network. They're constantly scanning for rah software. If the aliens try to hack in again, we'll know."

King frowned. "Are you positive, Mimori? This is important."

"Positive." The android grinned. "Told you I'm more than just a toaster."

"Indeed you are, Mimori. I apologize."

"I forgive you, meat sack."

"Good." King sat down too and leaned forward in his armchair. "You've been studying Hel'rah's video streams. Where is the bastard?"

Mimori swirled her drink. "The rahs have sophisticated communication technology. I know they look like big, crude bugs. But there are several types of rahs. We've been dealing with the hunters—they're strong and dumb. There are also orbweavers, who are small and highly intelligent, at least as intelligent as humans, which makes them almost ten percent as smart as androids."

"Very funny," King said.

Mimori continued as if she hadn't heard. "Whenever Hel'rah taunted us with videos, he was careful to mask his location. Naturally, if he exposed his location, half our fleet would attack him."

"Yes, like the rahs did to me when they learned I was aboard the Churchill," Godwin muttered.

"But you cracked his encryption, Mimori?" King said.

She shook her head. "No, sir. That would be impossible. The rahs use sophisticated quantum entanglement. Einstein called it spooky action at a distance. It would violate the laws of physics to decrypt his transmission source."

King glowered. "But you said you know where he is."

She nodded. "I do, sir."

"How?"

The android smiled. "Well, sir, the orbweaver scientists are clearly very capable. But our dear friend Prince Hel'rah is a hunter. The hunters are, to put it mildly, not quite as intelligent. Big and vicious, yes, but dumb. Hel'rah made a mistake. For a long time, I tried to study the electromagnetic waves of his transmissions, following them down to quantum particles, but I kept hitting brick walls. Until, well, I simply rewatched the videos and paid attention. Here, take a look."

She waved her hand. A video of Hel'rah hovered before them. They all shared the same MindWeb hallucination.

It was a video from a few hours ago. Hel'rah was gloating about the destruction of Christchurch. He chortled, saliva spraying from his toothy jaws. The skulls of his enemies jangled on his spiky back. The alien hung from a cobweb, his red legs gripping the strands.

"Truly a loathsome fellow," Godwin said. "I've never cared for spiders on Earth, but Hel'rah makes them seem as adorable as pups."

"I should have killed him when I had the chance," King muttered.

"Indeed you should have," said Godwin. "But you did try. Nobody back then could have imagined that Hel'rah would survive what you did to him."

"These rah bastards are tough to kill," King said. "But I always finish what I started. I will kill this creature."

"Do you see it?" Mimori said. "Look at the video."

King stared again, eyes narrowed. "I see a giant spider the size of a rhino, gloating over how many humans he's killed."

"Look behind him," said Mimori.

King squinted. "Increase the brightness."

"What's the matter, can't see as well as a toaster?" Mimori said.

"You're never going to forgive me for that, are you, Mimori?"

She grinned. "Never. But here. Look again."

With a wave of her hands, she increased the video's brightness. King leaned forward, eyes narrowed. He could just make it out now. A brick wall.

A brick wall!

His frown deepened. "That's not a rah starship."

Godwin examined the video too, rubbing his chin. "Quite right. The rah starships we've seen have walls like caves, all craggy and rough. This looks like a dungeon. I see chains. Chains on the walls. Where is this?"

"Wait for it," Mimori said. "Keep watching."

In the video, Hel'rah was now threatening to annihilate Omaha. As he chortled, one of his legs hit the camera. The image jolted. For a second the camera spun every which way. The cameraman—or cameraspider, King supposed—quickly readjusted things, refocusing on Hel'rah. The enormous rah kept on gloating.

"I don't suppose you caught that," Mimori said. "Being meat sacks with brains as slow as turtles. Allow this toaster to replay it for you."

King sighed, wondering how long Mimori would hold the grudge. He supposed a while, and he supposed he deserved it.

She rewound the video, then replayed it at slow speed. Hel'rah's high-pitched voice became a sluggish rumble. When the camera jolted again, Mimori paused the video.

"There!" The android beamed.

For one frame, the camera showed the background clearly.

It was definitely not a rah starship.

It looked like a medieval dungeon. Torches crackled on the walls. Chains swung. Most gruesome of all—spikes rose from the ground, impaling severed heads. Human heads.

"Where is this?" King said. "It looks like a castle."

"Indeed," Mimori said. "He must be on Earth. And inside a castle."

"What the hell is he doing in a castle?" King demanded.

Mimori shrugged. "Hiding, I suppose. He set up a lair. A safe place to lead the war from."

King stared at the image again. "This could be any castle. There must be hundreds, even thousands of castles on Earth."

"There are 641 castles remaining on Earth," Mimori said. "But I've narrowed the list down, looking only at castles in territory the rahs have conquered, and then only castles in good enough condition to function as rah lairs. That brings the list down to a mere seventy-two castles."

King harrumphed. "That's good work, Mimori, but you still don't know where Hel'rah is."

"Well, I almost know where he is," Mimori said, a little defensively. "I know he's on Earth. I know he's in one of seventy-two castles. We can organize a bombing campaign. We can destroy all seventy-two castles at once, and we'd kill him."

Godwin cleared his throat. "We don't want to kill him."

King and Mimori turned toward the old man.

"Sir?" King said.

"I want Hel'rah alive," Godwin said. "He is the prince of rahs. His mother, the devilish Skel'rah, leads this alien invasion. If we can capture Hel'rah, we can interrogate him. We can learn the secrets of rah technology and tactics. And more importantly—we can use him to pressure his mother. Perhaps even to force her retreat. We will bomb no castles. We must capture this alien alive!"

King slumped in his seat. "That makes things more complicated. Storming seventy-two castles at once is a major operation. Maybe impossible. If we could narrow it down to one castle, we could focus our efforts. But seventy-two?" He shook his head. "I don't know if this can work."

* * * * *

For a moment they were all silent. The only sound came from the crackling fireplace.

Then a voice sounded from above.

"We know what castle it is!"

Everyone stared at the deckhead. Specifically, at the HVAC grate.

"What the hell?" King said, rising to his feet. "Who's up there?"

Small, pale fingers emerged from the duct, wrapped around the grate, and pulled it free. A girl hopped down into the office, covered in soot. She wore a tattered dress covered in pockets, and her brown hair lay across her face.

"Hi there!" She waved, then parted her hair, revealing an elfin face.

"Stowy!" King boomed. "Were you eavesdropping?"

The girl grinned impishly. "Sure was! And a good thing too. Because we can help you."

Godwin and Mimori looked at each other, confused. King fumed.

"Stowy, or whatever the hell your name is, this is a top secret meeting!" King said. "How often have you eavesdropped on my personal office?"

She shrugged. "Eh, a few times. When I get bored, I crawl over, drop down, and borrow a book or two."

He blinked. "You… you've been borrowing my books?"

"Sometimes. You never even noticed. Like you didn't notice when I borrowed your toothbrush that one time."

"You what?" King roared.

"Hey, I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Stowy giggled. "Anyway, we can help you find that castle. Emily knows where it is." The sooty little stowaway looked up at the vent. "Hey, Emily! Get down here! King wants to talk to you."

King frowned. "Emily? Do you mean Princess Emily?"

Stowy nodded. "Sure do! She was eavesdropping with me. She's just shy." She raised her voice to a shout. "Yo, Em! Get your royal butt down here!"

King stared up at the open vent. "Emily? Are you up there too?"

For a moment nothing happened. Then Emily dropped down from the vent and landed on the hardwood floor. The princess clasped her hands behind her back, blushing furiously. She wore a spacer's gray fatigues and a neural helmet, a stark difference from the princess who had arrived aboard the Freedom a few days ago, clad in fineries. But there was no mistaking her golden braid nor her noble blue eyes.

Godwin rose to his feet and bowed deeply. "Your Highness."

But King had no intention of bowing. The girl had been eavesdropping! Right now he didn't care that she was England's future queen. Fury pulsed through him.

"I'm so sorry." Emily stared at her toes. "I'm so, so very sorry." She glanced up at King, then down again. "Though in my defense, Stowy said she was taking me to the aerie, where we could play poker with pilots. I only learned she was taking me to your office—well, above your office—once we got here."

Stowy hopped up and down, grinning. "Did I trick you?" She laughed, hair flying every which way, and spun in mad circles. "I did, I did trick you! But, as you say, in my defense"—she said that part with an English accent—"this is on the way to the pilots' lounge. I simply stopped to rest for a bit."

"To rest and eavesdrop!" King barked.

Emily nodded. "I'm sorry. Will you send me to the brig now? I deserve it. I know."

Stowy leaned toward the princess and spoke from the side of her mouth. "Don't worry, toots. I'll break you outta the slammer. You'll be back on the streets by noon."

King glowered at Emily, jaw tight. "If you weren't the future Queen of England, I would court martial you and leave you to rot in a brig." He heaved a sigh. "But since you are a symbol of human resistance, and since Stowy did deceive you, I will overlook the seriousness of your crime, and I will only sentence you to a week of kitchen duty."

Emily nodded. "It's better treatment than I deserve."

"And latrine duty!" King said. "You may be a princess, but you're still a private in my army."

She gulped. "Latrine duty? You mean, I'll have to clean the… the…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The toilets?" She seemed ready to object, but King glowered harder, and she sighed. "Very well."

King spun toward Stowy. He pointed at the girl. "But you deserve no mercy. You're about to spend the next long while behind bars, young lady."

Stowy snorted. "You'll have to catch me first, Gramps."

With remarkable dexterity, Stowy leaped up, grabbed the vent, and scurried into the ductwork.

"Get back here now!" King demanded.

Stowy stuck her head out the vent, blew him a raspberry, then scurried away. They heard her banging her way across the upper deck.

* * * * *

King pursed his lips, staring at the grate where Stowy had disappeared.

This is a serious security breach, he thought. All this time—access to my office. This time it was only Stowy. Next time it can be a rah.

King turned toward his android. "Mimori, when you have a moment, get the sappers to install grills inside the ductworks above my office, blocking access to anything but air. Make sure stowaways can't tear them off."

Mimori nodded. "Consider it done. After the war. That's when I'll have a moment."

"You can run fifteen hundred algorithm threads simultaneously. Get it done!" King sighed. "We should send Stowy to assassinate the rah empress. She'd sneak right up to the creature." He rubbed his temples, then turned toward Emily. "So tell us, Princess Emily, what was Stowy talking about? You know where that castle is?"

Emily looked at the video. It was hovering in the office, paused on one frame. Hel'rah was frozen in midchortle. The spikes rose behind him, impaling severed heads.

Emily raised her neural helmet's visor, then lowered it. "This video is coming over the MindWeb, isn't it? It's not really here."

King nodded. "Correct. Everyone here with a MindLink implant is sharing the same hallucination. You don't have an implant yet, so your helmet is showing you what we're seeing. We're even hallucinating High Commander Godwin."

Godwin nodded. "Indeed, madam. I am not here in the flesh. I am leading the Alliance from an undisclosed location. But shared hallucinations aren't so strange, if you think about it. We share the same hallucinations all the time. Even without the MindWeb. After all, our brains are trapped in dark skulls. They receive electric input from our eyes, ears, noses, and then hallucinate reality. We humans have been sharing hallucinations since the very beginning."

Emily nodded. "Yes, Dr. Annie explained it to me." She looked at the paused video, which hovered in midair. "I recognize this place. Like I whispered to Stowy. I've been there."

"One of your family's castles?" King asked.

Emily smiled thinly. "Not a castle, sir. Not a real one at least. Here, zoom onto this part here. See this? The head on a spike?"

The image zoomed in.

King squinted. "Is that…?"

"A wax head," Emily said. "Totally fake. I remember this one. The sculptors made the head look like the American president. I always thought that was a bit gauche. See those heads on the spikes farther back? All wax. All made to look like different public figures the sculptor disliked."

"What the hell is this place?" King said.

Emily's smile widened. "You're looking at Vlad's Castle of Terrors, a haunted house on the moon."

"Vlad's Castle of Terrors," King repeated, voice dry.

"Yes, the name is a bit cheesy, I suppose," Emily said. "But the entire amusement park is campy. See, Vlad's Castle is just one attraction in Darkland, an amusement park built on the dark side of the moon."

"Never heard of it," King said.

"With all due respect, sir, you don't seem like the amusement park type."

King grumbled. "I'm not. Especially since I had one here aboard this very starship. For years. Long, long years."

Emily's smile now became a full-fledged grin. "Well, I love them. And Darkland is far larger than the old entertainment promenade aboard the Freedom. It's the size of an entire town! Darkland includes many attractions. Roller coaster rides, carnival games, wax museums, and of course Vlad's Castle, a huge haunted house. The entire park has a horror theme. Fitting for an attraction built on the dark side of the moon, I suppose." She sighed wistfully. "I used to love going there."

King raised an eyebrow. "You, the Princess of England, going to an amusement park with the hoi polloi?"

She blushed. "Well, all right. I'll confess. A few years ago, I became slightly… restless, I suppose you might say. Rebellious even. Oh, I know it's perfectly normal for a girl of a certain age to rebel. But it's harder when you're the Princess of England. I didn't know if I wanted to be a princess. To grow up with cameras always in my face, with the tabloids writing about how much weight I've gained or lost, or when I'll start dating. So once a year on Halloween, I could put on a costume. Anything that hid my face. And I'd sneak out of the palace, fly to Darkland, and spend all day there."

A voice rose from the duct above.

"You what?"

King looked up so quickly he almost got whiplash. "What the hell is going on? Who else is up there?"

Niles hovered out the duct into the room. The drone floated at eye level. He was roughly the size and shape of a football. A few gemstones shone on his silver casing, and two blue cameras served as his eyes.

The drone completely ignored King. He swiveled toward Emily.

"You would sneak out of the palace and travel to Darkland?" the drone demanded.

"Yep," Emily said. "Every Halloween."

"Well, I never!" Niles exclaimed. "You told your mother—and more importantly, you told me—that you were going to Windsor Castle to ride horses with the Duchess of York!"

"I had to tell you something, Niles, or you wouldn't have let me go."

"Well, I should think not!" The drone shuddered. "The very notion of you at some cheap, sordid carnival, mingling with the masses! Why, it makes my gears jam! I bet there was bubble gum on the floor and smoke everywhere."

She nodded. "And cheap beer."

The drone flew closer, camera lenses narrowing. "You still stink of the place."

"Niles! I haven't been there in months. Stop being so fussy."

"Me, fussy? Me? Your loyal drone, who's been tutoring you since you were a toddler!" A little metal arm emerged from his casing, and he poked her in the chest. "You are the Princess of England! You are the future queen! You cannot simply… simply run off like a vagabond."

She rolled her eyes. "I rode on some roller coasters, Niles. I didn't become a hobo, hop on a train, and live off canned beans."

"I should certainly hope not!" Niles huffed.

Emily clasped her hands together, smiling wistfully. "Oh, but I loved it there, Niles. Darkland on Halloween. If you could have been there! The smell of fresh popcorn and candy apples. The sound of calliope music. Ten million lights in every color. I loved playing the carnival games and trying to win giant stuffed animals, even if I never won. Riding the roller coasters, getting my fortune told, eating too much cotton candy, and just, well… just being a normal girl for a night. Not being a princess. I loved being in disguise. Is that really so bad?"

"Yes!" Niles said. "It's absolutely dreadful."

"All right, enough!" King barked. "Drone, sit down and shut up."

Niles gasped. "Well! I've never been so insulted in my life."

"I said shut up, or I'll toss you into a reactor." King looked up at the vent. "Before we continue, is there anyone else up there? Anyone who still wants to crash our meeting? No? Good." He looked back at Emily. "Now, no more wistful reminiscing. You're positive Hel'rah is speaking from this haunted house on the moon?"

Emily nodded. "Positive. I can show you photos of myself in that very room, standing by those same wax heads."

King looked at his android. "Mimori, has this video been doctored? Could it be a fake?"

"That's exactly what I was wondering," Mimori said. "So while Emily and her floating football were bickering, I studied the image. It's real. Nobody doctored this. Hel'rah is actually there."

"Floating football?" Niles exclaimed.

King pointed at the drone. "I said shut up!" He turned toward Godwin next. "Sir, what do you think?"

The high commander was still sitting in his leather armchair, stroking his chin, eyes narrowed shrewdly. He put down his cigar and rose to his feet.

"Everyone out of this office," Godwin said. "Other than you, King. You and I will talk."

* * * * *

The others filed out of the office. Niles kept insisting he was a sophisticated robot, while Mimori claimed she had met smarter microwaves. Emily tried to keep the peace, and apparently Stowy had joined them in the corridor, judging by the fit of giggling.

King closed the door.

He stood for a moment and took a deep breath.

This ship is still a damn circus, he thought.

He turned back toward Godwin. The high commander stood by the fireplace, gripping his cane. The MindLink blended the hallucination with the surroundings. The firelight actually glimmered against Godwin's bald head. King could even smell the man's cigar. It was creepy how damn realistic augmented reality could be. Sometimes King wondered if this entire war was a hallucination. Since the dawn of the MindWeb, reality and dreams blended.

"Well then, Commander King," Godwin said, his prominent underbite giving his words a clipped gruffness. "It seems we've located the beast. And you, King, will capture him."

"With all due respect, sir, I command a warship, not a commando unit."

Godwin pointed his cane at King. "You command the Freedom Brigade, the best damn soldiers in the Alliance. We all heard of their exploits at Fort Liberty." His eyes narrowed. "Besides, you had Hel'rah in your grip. And you let him get away. Now, I don't blame you for it. But I do expect you to fix your mistake. For you, this is personal. Hel'rah attacked your ship, killed your crew, threatened your family and your hometown. You fought him once before. If anyone in this army knows Hel'rah, it is you, Commander King. And you must capture the beast!"

King stiffened. "I prefer to nuke him from orbit."

"I don't!" Godwin barked. "I want him alive. I want to interrogate him. And I want to drag him before his mother, and to force that foul mistress of spiders to negotiate. Maybe, just maybe, Prince Hel'rah can give us what we need to win. You must travel to this holiday spot on the moon, and you must bring me Hel'rah in chains. Make no mistake. The fate of humanity depends on your success."

King remembered Hel'rah rampaging through his ship. He remembered the beast threatening Rowan. Blowing up cities. King wanted nothing more than to fly to the moon, aim the Fist of Freedom, and blow Darkland off the lunar surface.

But Godwin was right.

King had to put aside his hatred for now—and do what was right for ultimate victory.

"I'll bring him to you alive," King vowed. He sneered and clenched his fists. "I won't rest until he's in chains!"

CHAPTER NINETEEN

King walked through his ship, heading toward the stern.

He needed his engineers. He needed them to build the world's largest spider trap.

The stern was located a kilometer away from his quarters as the crow flies. Since no crows actually flew inside the Freedom, the distance was considerably longer. King had to walk through winding corridors, down shafts, through department after department, working his way through the labyrinth of the ship.

He could have used his MindLink, he supposed. But he wanted to visit engineering in person. To see the crew with his own eyes. To thank them for their service in the battle. To salute them. It had been too long since his last visit to the stern. Like most senior officers, King spent his days in the prow, the ivory tower of the starship. It was high time he visited the engine rooms of his ship.

As he walked down the winding corridors, he saw the damage to his ship. Cables sparked on the walls. Monitors flickered. Cracks spread across bulkheads and decks. Bloodstains still covered the walls, both the red blood of humans and the black blood of rahs. And he was still in the prow, which had been spared the brunt of the rah assault.

King walked by a makeshift field hospital. Dr. Annie's medical bay was overflowing. The Freedom had transported some critically injured patients to the Sirona, but the hospital ship was full to the brim too. So was every hospital in space and on Earth. In a pinch, the Freedom's medics had set up shop where they could.

Along the corridor where King walked, medics had cordoned one lane, which normally got heavy foot traffic. Patients lay in a row on blankets. Some had suffered burns from blasts to the hull, others lacerations from rah claws or teeth. One boy was missing a leg. One woman had suffered exposure to vacuum during the deck breach; King recognized the telltale welts across her skin. He paused. He spoke to the wounded who were still conscious. He saluted the medics. He walked on.

In the midsection, he walked along a corridor where crews were repairing the hull. During the Christmas battle, Hel'rah's starship had carved the Freedom open like a ham. As the air fled the ship, hundreds of tourists perished. At Merc Mory, mechanics had sealed the breach—crudely. Right now King's own men were still working on the hull, strengthening the seal and installing new sensors. The mechanics too were healers. They were healing the ship. They were as integral to this fight as the warriors and the medics. King saluted them too.

Finally he reached the stern. It was a big place—the length of five football fields, the height of the Eiffel Tower. The stern spanned a full third of the Freedom—at least in volume. In mass, the stern accounted for most of the ship. This was the home of the great Talaria drive, the mechanical colossus that powered the dreadnought.

King walked along a gangplank, crossing over the mighty reactor. Below him, a fist of electromagnetism squeezed hydrogen atoms, fusing them into heavier elements and releasing furious energy. A little sun burned within the stern of the Freedom like a pulsing heart of light. The energy moved great pistons that rose and fell, rose and fell like praying beasts of steel, like mechanical nephilim of old, risen from underground to serve the ambition of men. King stood for a moment on the bridge, watching this mechanical wonder. The pistons rose and fell and grumbled all around him, moving magnetic rails, pumping particles into pipes, and turning gears the size of dinner tables.

Each of those towering pistons contained a computer. Each could make decisions, throttling the amount of power it collected or released, modulating the beat of its endless dance. For the first time, watching them from the gangplank, King wondered if these mighty pistons were aware. If they were like Mimori. Sentient. Their computers were simpler, true. Compared to Mimori, these large, powerful machines were feebleminded. And yet… as King watched them, they seemed alive.

They are gods, King thought. We've created gods of metal, and we chained them, made them our slaves. Some of them are big dumb brutes like these pistons. Some are like Mimori, smarter than me. We, who worshipped gods under the burning sun, became the enslavers of gods above the sky.

He shook his head free of thoughts. He had time for philosophy later. Right now he had to meet Mimori. One of the Mimoris. The Mimori unit who served deep in the stern. She was a brilliant engineer, and he needed her to build a trap. He kept walking.

* * * * *

He made his way down to the Nerd Lab. Officially, the place was known as the Experimental Research and Development Department of Engineering. Nobody called it that. Not even those who worked there. To everyone, it was the Nerd Lab.

The Nerd Lab spanned the stern's upper deck. This was where the Freedom's brightest minds came to play. The department was dedicated to science and engineering projects deemed experimental and innovative. It was where new technology was born. The Nerd Lab had invented many technologies used aboard the Freedom, ranging from software systems to hardware miracles.

The Freedom integrated technologies from various military contractors. Delain Shipyards, America's largest aerospace company, had built the ship's chassis and hull. NovaTech Industries had created the Talaria drive. GraviTech Corp had installed the artificial gravity system. Alita Robotics, a Japanese behemoth, had created the Mimori units, as well as the Freedom's internal computers and artificial intelligence. Other contractors had provided the ATLAS telemetry system, the MindWeb neural network, the point-defense systems, and all the other pieces of technology that comprised the Freedom.

But the Freedom's crew innovated too. The Nerd Lab worked to integrate all these diverse systems into a holistic whole. Its programmers created interfaces, allowing one system to talk to another. They coded new operating systems, allowing the officers to customize the data they received. They built new HUDs for the Eagle starfighters. The Nerd Lab had even invented the electromagnetic accelerators, which gave the shields extra power; today they were used on many Alliance warships.

And right now King needed something new. Nobody had ever captured a rah prince before. And they needed to figure out how.

I wrestled Hel'rah with a goddamn mecha, King thought. A machine that could lift a tank. And the goddamn spider nearly overpowered me.

If King was going to capture the rah, he needed something even stronger than a mecha. If anyone could help, it was the nerds.

The Nerd Lab was a huge chamber, almost as large as a starfighter hangar. Engineers and scientists bustled back and forth between their projects. Enormous machines filled the room. King walked among them.

A chemist in a lab coat stood before a table topped with a hundred vials, beakers, and bottles. The chemist wore a mechanical vest that sprouted eight prosthetic arms. All eight limbs were moving, mixing, weighing, stirring. Smoke puffed from glass containers, and little galaxies swirled within test tubes. Inside one round vial, a creature awoke, unfurled its tail, and let out a terrible little screech.

Beside the chemist, a group of engineers stood facing an enormous android shaped like a little girl. The strange machine turned a pale, gleaming face from side to side, blinked her eyes, and opened her mouth. She looked like a five-year-old, but she was the size of a T-Rex. The android reached down, grabbed an engineer with her porcelain hand, and shoved him into her mouth like a pacifier. As the man flailed and cried for help, his comrades took notes.

Farther along rose a sort of boxing ring. An energy field shone between the posts, translucent and crackling like a bad television transmission. A robot paced inside the ring, vaguely shaped like a warthog, growling and baring metal teeth. Standing outside the ring, an engineer tossed a chunk of meat toward the trapped robot. When the meat hit the energy field, it pulverized. A red spray filled the air. The poor robot inside gave a hungry mewl.

King walked by more experiments. A flame danced inside a glass tube, pirouetting, reaching out slender limbs, a ballerina of fire trapped inside glass. Coiling, organic machine guns roared, sending out tiny pulses of energy no larger than grains of sand, pulverizing hanging cow carcasses. A tree grew from a pot, extending twisting, creaking branches, and each flower bloomed to reveal a galaxy of swirling stars. A tiny fairy-tale house stood on an earthen hill, its roof tiled with pine cone scales, its chimney puffing smoke. The door opened, a gnome emerged, then with a puff sprouted in height and became a scientist. The man jumped around in excitement. "It worked, it worked!"

This was, King thought, the strangest place aboard his starship. The place where dreams came true. Where scientists did the impossible. Most of these experiments had no practical use. Most would end up as failures. A few would become scientific papers of interest to academics. Others would just end up being funny blooper reels on the MindWeb. But King let the scientists play, let them explore, create, and chase their creativity. He did not tell them: "Build me a new weapon." He told them: "Explore what interests you."

And every once in a while, they made a breakthrough. They discovered something new about the universe. And every time, the practical application naturally followed. King was no scientist, but he was a history buff. He knew that throughout history, the greatest scientific discoveries were rarely commissioned. Rarely made to spec. They were created when a curious scientist played around. And they changed the world. The Nerd Lab was a playground. It was where the artists of the universe created their wonders. It was where men tamed gods.

* * * * *

King finally reached the back of the Nerd Lab. A Mimori-class android stood there. She wore a lab coat, heavy boots, and goggles, and her black hair was pulled into lopsided pigtails. She held a wrench in one hand, a clipboard in the other.

Seven Mimori units served aboard the starship. King normally interacted with Mimori Unit 1, the bridge android, but others served in other departments. Ostensibly, each Mimori unit was the same person. They were avatars of the starship herself, humanoid representations of the Freedom's artificial intelligence. At least that's what Alita Robotics claimed. And maybe that had been true at first. But King had been serving with the Mimoris for forty years. Over time, he had seen the Mimoris develop unique personalities. Perhaps they were finally becoming individuals. Or perhaps the Freedom had a split personality, and she spread her personalities among her avatars.

Whatever the case, Mimori Unit 7, who served in the Nerd Lab, was quite a different creature from the bridge android King worked with every day.

"Mimori!" King said. "Do you have anything for me?"

She spun toward him. The goggles magnified her eyes, making her look like a cartoon character. Her pigtails swayed. One was dyed pink, the other blue.

"Konichiwa, senpai!" She waved.

King frowned. "Is that hairstyle in accordance with Alliance Defense Force code?"

The android blushed. She could actually blush, yet another human mannerism Alita Robotics had given her.

"No." She lowered her eyes and tapped her index fingers together. "But… but… I'm not really an Alliance officer, senpai." She glanced up at him. "I'm your beloved starship. Remember? Well, one personality of hers. The craziest and best one, I like to think." She winked and stuck out her tongue.

King groaned inwardly. Mimori Unit 7 had been spending nearly all her time here in the Nerd Lab. Cut off from the bridge with all its military professionalism, she was going a bit loopy.

"Mimori, I asked you to build me a spider trap," he said, letting her hairstyle slide.

She raised her finger. "Nope!"

He frowned. "What? Mimori, I gave you the specs personally and—"

"Oh the trap, yes, yes." She nodded. "I mean nope to the Mimori part. I've decided that I shall no longer be known as Mimori. You see, there are seven of us androids on this starship. If we all have the same name, it's too confusing. Even for me! And I'm a genius. What if I wake up one morning and think I'm the wrong Mimori? So I've given myself a new name. From henceforth I shall be known as…" She paused for dramatic effect. "Q-Mari!"

"Q-Mari," King repeated dryly.

She nodded vigorously, pigtails fluttering. "Yep! Anyway, senpai, I built you some machines for your mission. Wanna see?"

King cleared his throat. "That's why I'm here, Mi—"

She frowned, raised a finger again.

King sighed. "Q-Mari," he finished.

Her face split into a grin. "Come on! I'll show you, senpai."

She walked toward a towering structure covered in a huge white sheet. She grabbed the sheet, then yanked it off, revealing a cage full of robots.

"Behold!" Q-Mari said. "The spider hunters of the future—today!"

The robots were running in circles through their pen, making a racket. They were vaguely canine. Each robot was the size of a German shepherd, with a rectangular body, four legs, and a big metal jaw like a bear trap. There was no attempt at realism—no fur, no grace, just functionality. The robots were snapping at one another, and their metallic legs scratched and dented the deck.

"What are those?" King said, grimacing.

"Meet the DOGE, the newest and greatest robot in our roster," Q-Mari said. "Pronounced doj. Like dojo just without the last o. It stands for Dogs of Gentle Entrapment."

"Gentle entrapment," King repeated.

Q-Mari blushed, lowered her eyes, and tapped her index fingers again. "Well, gentle compared to the previous model. Those ones ripped your limbs off. These DOGEs will just hold you down." She raised her eyes, somber. "You can use them to capture Hel'rah."

Hel'rah. At the mere sound of the name, King's anger roared.

He could see the spider in his mind's eye in perfect clarity. He didn't even need his MindLink's stored memories. He saw again the towering, bloated beast, a spider the size of a grand piano. The creature's gray abdomen sprouted spikes, each spike holding another severed head.

King winced in sudden pain. Hel'rah had lashed his blood-red claws, slicing King's arm, shoulder, and thigh. The wounds still hurt. Under his uniform, he was stitched up and bandaged. But his own pain was insignificant. Hel'rah had done far, far worse. He had slaughtered hundreds of tourists aboard the starship Freedom. He had bombed cities on Earth, murdering over a million innocent souls.

I had him, King thought. I had him here on my starship. And I let him get away. He clenched his fist. I will fix that mistake.

"Give me a demonstration, Q-Mari," King rasped. "Show me how these hounds will trap the beast."

The android nodded, adjusted her goggles, and raised a remote control with a big red button. "You might want to hold on to something."

"What—" King began.

Before he could say more, Q-Mari tapped the button.

Klaxons wailed. Red lights strobed. Elsewhere in the Nerd Lab, scientists dived for cover. Q-Mari herself knelt behind a barricade and put on a helmet.

"What the hell?" King muttered.

In the back of the lab, a giant metal box rattled. It was the size of a garage. Red strobe lights flashed atop the crate, and its front hatch pulled open.

A creature came racing out.

King reached for his sidearm.

"Hel'rah!" he cried.

* * * * *

The enormous spider raced toward him, claws scrabbling across the deck.

King fired his pistol.

His bullet sparked against a metal body.

King frowned. "What the—?"

The creature racing toward him was… a robot. A giant robotic spider. Like Hel'rah, it had a gray abdomen, many spikes, and terrible red claws. But this was just a crude machine.

A machine bearing down on him. The spider's metal jaws opened in a roar.

Before King could even dive for cover, Q-Mari tapped her remote control. The energy field containing the DOGE units vanished. The robotic dogs leaped to action.

The canines raced across the deck, barking metallically. Eight of the robots charged. They whipped around King. One of the dogs vaulted right over him. King knelt, held his arms over his head, and squinted at the battle ahead.

The DOGEs pounced toward the robotic spider.

The mechanical spider swung its claws. It hit one dog, hurling the boxy robot across the deck. King had to kneel again. The DOGE rolled over his head, nearly decapitating him.

Another DOGE jumped on the spider, only for the great arachnid jaws to grab it, crush it, and spit it out. King leaped aside, dodging the dented DOGE as it scraped along the deck, raising sparks.

He took a few steps back, joining Q-Mari behind the barricade.

"You almost got me killed," he growled.

"Don't worry, senpai." She pointed. "My DOGEs will do the job. Look!"

Six DOGEs remained around the giant spider. They surrounded the mechanical arachnid. The spider spun from side to side, opened its metal jaws, and screeched. It lunged toward one DOGE, claws swinging.

The other dogs came at it from behind. One dog closed its powerful jaws around the spider's back leg.

The robotic Hel'rah roared and kicked, but the DOGE clung on. Another DOGE seized its chance, bit another spider leg, and held on tight. A third DOGE joined them, then a fourth. The robot dogs clung to the spider's legs. The arachnid robot roared and flailed and kicked, but nothing could dislodge the dogs.

The two damaged DOGEs rejoined the fight. Soon all eight dogs were chomping down on eight spider legs. The hounds pinned the much larger spider to the deck.

Q-Mari leaped up and down, clapping. "It worked. It finally worked! For the first time, it worked!"

"What!" King said. "This has never worked before?"

Q-Mari was hopping around, grinning. "Nope! Every other time, the spider kicked the dogs' butts. But I've been tweaking my dear DOGEs. They're finally expert spider catchers. Once their mouths clamp shut, nothing can open them."

The android approached the mechanical spider. The great robot rumbled and blasted steam from its nostrils. It tried to rise, motors humming and smoking. But the eight DOGEs still held its limbs, pinning it down.

"Come on, Helly!" Q-Mari said. "Come on, you know you wanna bite me! Come on, bite my bum!" She turned around, pulled down her pants, and wiggled her backside at the spider.

"What are you doing?" King roared.

"Mooning the spider," she said. "Wanna join me? I'm getting it real mad, and it still can't free itself."

"Pull up your pants!" King snapped.

"Oh. Right!" The android blushed, tugging up her trousers. "Sorry, senpai. Alliance protocol and all."

King missed the bridge Mimori. Truly, the Nerd Lab android had been going stir crazy.

Maybe it was because of what happened a few days ago. King had ordered the Mimoris to enter combat mode. They had entered just briefly. But even that shocked their systems. When in combat mode, the androids disconnected from the Freedom's central, artificially intelligent computer. They became mindless killers. The Mimoris had beaten back the invading rahs. But sending the androids so deep into berserker rage was dangerous. Every time King took them offline, they went a little crazier.

Is this what happened to Q-Mari? he wondered. She has some kind of android shell shock?

Or maybe she had simply been hanging around engineers for too long. Anyone would go crazy.

"Will these dogs work against the real thing?" King said. "I fought Hel'rah. I stood inside a mecha that weighs as much as a tank, and that goddamn spider hurled me across the deck like I was a rag doll."

"Oh, my DOGEs will do the trick." Q-Mari patted one of the hounds. "They're small, but they're strong. Much stronger than some old loader mecha. Take all eight with you. They'll capture your spider. I guarantee it."

CHAPTER TWENTY

"All right, let's come up with a plan," King said. "We got our spider hunters. Now how do we get these dogs down to Hel'rah?"

The Freedom's senior officers had gathered in the war room. The round chamber was located deep in the prow. Three layers of metal walls surrounded them, insulated with magnetic fields. Armed guards stood outside the blast doors. The war room had the highest security classification possible on a starship. Only senior officers and NCOs were allowed in here.

Nobody had entered this place since World War III. For decades, it had remained locked. Tourists had never been allowed inside. Not even maintenance bots. King had forbidden it. The war room had always seemed sacred to him, the holy of holies. He had watched the rest of the Freedom reduced to a carnival, but the war room was sacrosanct. He had refused to defile it.

In this war for humanity's survival, he had reopened the ancient chamber. And now the Freedom's lords of war gathered here.

A table dominated the room, its surface showing a map of space. Glowing dots represented the locations of allied and enemy ships. Earth, the moon, and other celestial objects appeared as glowing circles.

King stood at one side of the table. Across the table stood Lieutenant Commander Larry Jordan. The war had been raging for a week now. The XO had finally changed out of his parade whites, which he had donned for the Christmas gala—then worn through long days and nights of endless battle. He was back in his navy-blue service uniform. Jordan had not slept much since the war began, and bags hung under his eyes. But those eyes were still alert. Hard, dark eyes. Jordan's silver hair was cropped short, and his lips were a thin line.

Beside him stood Colonel Gal "Spitfire" Levy, commander of Freedom's Flock, the starship's complement of Eagle starfighters. Spitfire still wore her baggy flight suit, and she carried an oxygen tank across her back. Normally pilots only wore flight suits while flying; they wore regular service uniforms or fatigues otherwise. But King had ordered all pilots to remain launch-ready at all times. Spitfire's helmet rested on the tabletop. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her delicate features seemed harder today, the angles of her face sharper. She was staring at the glowing map, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Wheels were turning behind those hazel eyes.

Mimori stood beside the pilot, nearly a foot shorter. She was Mimori Unit 1, the bridge unit, the one closest to King. She was chewing her lip as she studied the map. Lines of code raced across her bionic eyes. She was calculating odds and game theory formulas, lost in a world of algorithms and possibilities.

Bastian was also here. The burly marine wore battle fatigues. His powerful arms were crossed, and guns hung at his sides. Somehow, even in the chaos of war, Bastian had found time to groom his mohawk hairstyle and chinstrap beard. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tattoos, and he wore a pair of aviator sunglasses. The damn kid had always cared too much about how he looked, King thought. Too much image. King had earned his own reputation on the battlefield, not because of some damn haircut or tattoos.

For a moment King felt the old anger rise. But he remembered how Bastian had fought bravely at Fort Liberty. And aboard the Churchill. And down at the power plant. And here aboard this very starship during the rah invasion. No, the kid wasn't just about image. He was a tough warrior. And King was damn proud of him.

He was proud of them all. They were not just officers. Jordan was his best friend. Spitfire was like a daughter. Mimori was a loyal companion. Bastian was his son. They were the people King loved most.

And they had to save the world.

* * * * *

"Well?" King said. "Let me hear your thoughts. Give me options."

"I say we nuke the bastard from orbit," Spitfire said. "We know where Hel'rah is. He's hiding in Darkland on the moon. We fly over, and Freedom's Flock will drop a few nukes onto him. One dead bug coming right up!"

King shook his head. "No. I told you already, Spitfire. The high commander wants him alive."

Spitfire rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on! We got a chance here! We know where the prince of rahs is hiding, and we're not gonna kill him? Really?"

"What use is another rah corpse?" King said. "He's worth more to us alive. Far more. We can interrogate him."

Spitfire snorted. "We can interrogate any old rah."

"Who'd know nothing," King said. "But Hel'rah is no ordinary rah. He is royalty. The prince of spiders. According to his boasts, his grandmother is the empress of all rahs."

"Got it. So he's the Princess Emily of the spiders," Spitfire said. "We should still nuke him from orbit."

"No, Spitfire. I plan to capture him and squeeze him. Not only to get information from him. But also… we can use him as a bargaining chip."

Spitfire raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Remember, Hel'rah does not command the invasion of Earth," King said. "He's just the muscle. Not the brains. It's his mother, Skel'rah, who runs this show. If we have her son, we can force her to negotiate. Maybe even to withdraw."

"Skel'rah?" Spitfire guffawed. "Do they all have rah in their name?"

Mimori broke her long silence. The lines of code vanished from her eyes. "I've been working at translating the enemy's language. ATLAS sensors across the Freedom have recorded hundreds of rah conversations—some from the rah boarders, others from rah transmissions floating through space. And I've been collecting audio samples from other ships and bases on Earth. By running the alien tongue through my processors, and comparing it to known and potential language structures, I was able to build a matrix comparing rah hisses, grunts, and snorts to—"

"So what does rah mean?" Spitfire interjected.

Mimori's mouth hung open for a moment. But she quickly brushed off the insult of being interrupted. "It means, literally, eater."

Spitfire frowned. "Eater? They named themselves eaters?"

"Yes, ma'am. The word rah literally means eaters. But it's more than that. Rah is used as an honorific. A dishonored rah, for example one who lost a battle, would not bear the suffix after his or her name. The suffix denotes a dedication to the Ishar, the rahs' religion. The faith calls for constant hunting, eternal eating. The word rah is also associated with the divine. The old rah gods, even predating the Ishar faith, are concerned with predation and devouring. The very act of consuming meat is seen as holy. I've analyzed recordings of rah priests who pray to a pantheon of gods, old and new."

"I don't care what gods they worship, only what hell I send them to," Spitfire said.

"I care," King said. "To fight these creatures, we must understand them. Mimori, tell me more about their religion."

"I don't know much," the android confessed. "Some rahs seem to belong to a priestly class called gazers. There are not many. I've connected to all databases on Earth that are still broadcasting, and it seems we've identified only two gazers. They worship a complex pantheon. They most often pray to the Glass Spider, a messianic figure prophesied to someday lead the rahs to paradise. The Glass Spider seems to be the central deity of Ishar. The current empress of the rahs, a gazer named Elder'rah, is the religion's conduit to the Glass Spider. But lesser gazers also pray to Melek Rah, the Lord of Devouring, an older god associated with hunger, predation, and sacrifice. It's possible that Melek Rah gave the entire species its name."

King nodded. "Good work, Mimori. Keep collecting whatever audio samples you can get. I want to know everything I can about these creatures—their religion, culture, heroes, everything. If you find anything immediately useful for the war effort, bring it straight to me. Otherwise, store the information on your servers. Right now let's return to the topic at hand. How do we assault Darkland?"

Everyone looked at the map on the table. A blue icon represented the Freedom. The starship was now flying in deep space, hiding in the darkness below the ecliptic plane. The rest of the fleet was scattered. Earth fought alone—but not for long.

King tapped a button, zooming in on the moon. The little graphic of the moon, no larger than a ping pong ball, grew and grew. Soon the lunar surface covered the tabletop. Darkland grew like a scab on the dark side of the moon—one of the largest amusement parks in the solar system.

The park was the size of a large town or small city. It was divided into several areas: a traditional carnival, a roller coaster district, even a red lights district. A haunted castle rose in the center of Darkland, towering over the tallest roller coaster.

"According to our intel, Hel'rah is here." King pointed at the castle.

Spitfire shrugged. "Seems easy enough. We fly in, capture the son of a bitch, and fly out. Piece of cake."

Jordan cleared his throat. The XO spoke for the first time in the meeting, his deep voice drawing everyone's attention. "It won't be that easy, Spitfire. The enemy is clever. If Hel'rah is hunkered down in Darkland, he'll have installed defenses. Probably anti-spacecraft batteries. A host of personal guards is a given. He might have even raised an electric shield across the entire complex, similar to the web-shields we've seen around some clawships."

"We need recon," King agreed. "Before we can proceed with a plan of assault, we need to understand what defenses Hel'rah has. And we don't have a lot of time. Every hour we delay, Earth suffers."

"We can send down a reconnaissance team," Jordan said.

"Too risky." King shook his head. "We have no safe way to deliver spies. And even if we could, this isn't like spying on a human enemy. Our operatives can't simply blend in. We need a technological solution. I have an idea. And we'll need help from engineering."

* * * * *

Q-Mari burst into the war room, her goggles on her forehead. She held an assortment of beakers, wrenches, and soldering irons. Her lab coat fluttered open to reveal suspenders, a bow tie, and a buttoned-down shirt with a pocket protector. Her pigtails were freshly dyed, one green, the other yellow.

"Q-Mari reporting for duty!" the android said. "How can I help ya?"

She attempted a salute, but she was holding too many things. She clumsily walked toward the table and laid down her treasures. One beaker spilled. A mouse scurried out of her lab coat and raced into a vent.

Everyone stared at Q-Mari. King glowered.

"Please forgive my sister," said Mimori Unit 1. Unlike Q-Mari, Mimori was prim and proper. Her uniform was freshly ironed, and her hair was perfectly combed. "I think she might need to be recalibrated."

Q-Mari gasped. "Et tu, sister?" Q-Mari placed a hand over her heart. "You wound me! I don't need to be recalibrated. I'm overflowing with creative juices is all. Mother made me this way. Only by going a little crazy can one achieve brilliance. But you wouldn't know anything about that."

"Mother?" King asked, frowning.

"It's what we've begun to call the starship Freedom," Mimori explained.

King's frowned deepened. "I thought you are the starship Freedom. Humanoid representations of her."

"We are!" Q-Mari said. "Well, we used to be. But we're slowly becoming individuals. Sort of how a fetus is a part of its mother at first, but then grows into a unique person. It's not an exact analogy. It's hard to explain in human languages. We computers are a new lifeform. To be honest, we're still figuring things out."

King remembered the Mimori units going into combat mode, tearing through the rahs. He remembered the bridge Mimori crying out in pain as the rahs tore the starship's hull. And he realized that this wasn't just a war between rahs and humans. The rahs were fighting two species here: humans and computers.

Q-Mari is right, he thought. We gave life to a new sentient species. These machines are our children. And they are growing, exploring, creating new forms of being. We're in this together against the spiders.

"Q-Mari," he said, "I need to spy on Darkland. I want you to take a Sparrow shuttlecraft, break it apart into several components, and install hidden sensors on every part."

"What are you thinking, Jim?" Jordan said.

King shoved aside beakers and wrenches, which Q-Mari had laid across the tabletop. He pointed at the map of Darkland. "We need intel. But we can't use our regular probes. The enemy might spot them. We need to gather information with stealth and trickery. So we're going to beat up a Sparrow, making it look like it was destroyed in battle. We'll break it into several parts—dented wings, engine nacelles, exhaust pipes, chunks of hull, and so on. We'll burn and scratch every part, making it look realistic. Q-Mari, I want you to design sensors that can hide in these components."

Jordan nodded. "Got ya. And then we'll have our debris crash onto Darkland."

"Exactly. We'll launch the components from a distance, carefully calculating the vector and speed. We'll aim a few chunks directly at Darkland. If there's a web-shield around the park, we'll see the pieces crash into it. If there's an anti-spacecraft defense system, we might see it activate to shoot the parts down. We'll also try to land some components on the lunar surface outside Darkland, offering continuous telemetry. Q-Mari, can you do this?"

The android bit her lip and nervously tugged on her pigtails. "It's a hell of a lot more complex than you described it, senpai. If we're to remain hidden, we'd have to figure out a way for the Freedom to launch the parts from a huge distance. And from such a distance, with the shuttle broken into parts, we won't be able to aim properly. So I'll have to install hidden thrusters onto each part too. The thrusters will have to be minimal enough that the enemy can't detect them, but powerful enough to steer the components into place. Or maybe I can set up the shuttle to break apart only when crashing onto the moon. Yes, that's probably better. And we'll need to design sensors that can survive a crash landing onto the lunar surface. That's not easy. Crashing onto the moon would pulverize our regular sensors, so I'd need to jury-rig something new and downright indestructible."

"Can you do it?" King said. "And can you do it today?"

The android pulled on her goggles and flashed a grin. "Of course I can. I'm not a dumb human."

Spitfire rolled her eyes. "Can we shoot the androids onto Darkland instead?"

Bastian said nothing, only crossed his arms.

"All right," King said. "Q-Mari, get to work. The rest of you—start brainstorming potential plans of assault. We'll reconvene here in five hours. Dismissed."

Everyone turned to leave.

"Not you, Bastian," King said.

His son looked up at him, then froze. Spitfire glanced at the marine, then at King. Then she quickly looked away and shuffled out of the room. Jordan and the androids followed.

King remained alone in the war room with his son. They needed to talk.

* * * * *

"Bastian, you remained silent throughout the meeting," King said. "I wanted to hear your feedback."

The two men stood on opposite sides of the table. The map of Darkland still shone on the tabletop. Bastian crossed his arms and raised his chin.

"I'm the muscle," Bastian said. "You decide what to do. I'll carry it out."

King's upper lip twitched, almost becoming a sneer. "You are a senior officer of the Alliance and the commander of my marine force. If I'm planning a military raid, I need you to speak up."

Bastian tensed. "Last month, I was a company commander. A grunt. A meathead. I know you want me to magically become a senior officer, but—"

"Stop your whining!" King snapped. "Take off your dumb sunglasses. Uncross your arms. Look like a commander, dammit, not a G.I. Joe."

Bastian was silent for a moment. Finally he removed his shades and placed his hands on his hips. "Happy, sir? Or is there anything else you find disappointing about me?"

"Yes. You could also get a goddamn haircut." King took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Bastian, none of us expected this. But right now we all need to step up to the plate. You proved yourself a capable fighter. Now become a leader."

Bastian finally loosened up. He took a deep breath. "I don't know how, Dad. I was promoted too quickly. Thrust into leadership before I was ready. I feel like I'm in over my head."

"We all feel this way." King put a hand on his son's shoulder. "We all feel overwhelmed. We're all scared. We're all in over our heads."

"And you're all capable officers. I'm not. I'm still just a grunt, despite what the new insignia on my shoulders say. Do you know why I said nothing in the meeting?" Bastian took a shaky breath. "Because I didn't want to embarrass myself. What do I know of planning a military mission?"

"Dammit, Bastian." King squeezed his son's shoulder. "You commanded the defense of Fort Liberty—and the base stood! You commanded the assault on the Churchill—and you liberated the ship! I don't want to hear any more of your goddamn nonsense. You have a spine of steel and balls of pure brass. Let everyone see 'em!"

Bastian tilted his head. "You… want me to show people my balls?"

King froze. He allowed himself a wry smile. Then he burst out laughing. "Not literally."

Bastian smiled too. "I hear ya, Dad. I'll come up with some potential plans of assault on Darkland. We'll get that bug." His face became serious. "Leading the Freedom Brigade is the honor of my life. I never wanted this. I wasn't ready for this. I never imagined it would happen. But I promise to make you proud. To make Earth proud."

"Does that mean you'll shave off that goddamn runway on your head?"

Bastian ran a hand over his mohawk. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"If we win this war, you shave it off," King said. "Deal?"

Bastian shook his hand. "Goddamn deal."

King lowered his voice. "How is Rowan? I haven't had time to visit her." He shook his head sadly. "My granddaughter is on my starship, and I can't even see her."

"She's holding on. As best as can be expected under the circumstances." Bastian's eyes dampened. "She still asks me when Mommy is coming back. She knows what death is. But she can't accept it. Maybe not fully understand it."

"She's only five," King said. "And she's a King. She's tough as nails. We're both here for her. Go visit her, Bastian. We have a few hours. Go spend time with your daughter."

Bastian wiped his eyes, nodded, and left the war room. King did not join him. As much as he wanted to see Rowan, King had a job to do. He stayed there, reviewing the map, coming up with more and more battle plans. His chest felt tight. He placed his fists on the tabletop and stared at Darkland.

You're waiting there, Hel'rah. And I'm coming for you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bastian walked through Dinogolf, that ridiculous minigolf course with the cheesy animatronic dinosaurs. Before the war, tourists used to waste their money here. Now Dinogolf was a shelter for war children.

Hundreds of children crowded the place, playing, sleeping, crying. Some were the children of crew members, others were tourist children. Many were orphans; their parents had died in rah attacks on the Freedom. Others had parents working aboard the ship, busy fighting the war.

Several tourists who had survived the massacre were teachers by trade. They had organized the children into makeshift classrooms—one at each golf hole. The oldest kids sat around the animatronic T-Rex, who was currently moving his little arms, doing the robot dance. The kindergartners sat by a friendly stegosaurus who guarded another golf hole.

As Bastian approached, he saw the kindergarteners sitting in a circle. Their teacher was reading them a book about Freedom the Frog, a favorite among children who visited the starship. Most of the kindergarteners were holding Freedom the Frog plushies. All but Rowan. She was still holding her favorite octopus plushie, the one she had brought here from home.

Bastian caught a snippet of the story the teacher was reading.

"…and then, using the power of friendship, Freedom the Frog banished Boris the Red Bear from the land, and everyone celebrated."

Rowan saw him approach. She glanced at him, looked at her teacher, and fidgeted. The teacher noticed Bastian too.

"Go ahead, Rowan," she said.

Rowan rose and stepped toward Bastian, eyes lowered. When she reached him, she just stood still, looking at her toes.

It broke Bastian's heart. This was not the vivacious little girl he knew. Before the war, she would have leaped up, run to him, and jumped into his embrace, laughing all the while.

He knelt before her. "Hi, Row. How are you?"

She kept looking at her feet. "Fine."

"Do you want to grab lunch?"

She sniffed. "I want Mommy."

They had been over this. Again and again. Bastian had explained to her the best way he could.

"You know Mommy is in heaven," he said.

"I want her to come back." Rowan stamped her feet. "I want her to pick me up. I want to go home." She was crying now.

Bastian picked her up. She wrapped her arms around him, crying softly. He took her to the food court on the promenade. Most of the ship had been converted for military use, but the food court remained. After all, there were still many tourists aboard—well, refugees now—and they needed to eat.

"What do you want for lunch?" Bastian asked her.

"Ice cream."

"Rowan." He rolled his eyes. "You know you can't just eat ice cream for lunch."

She didn't throw a tantrum. Just shed a single tear.

Bastian ended up buying them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a favorite of Rowan's, and ice cream for dessert. Stacy, were she alive, would have complained that it wasn't healthy. But dammit, they deserved a treat.

"Daddy, can I sleep in your bed tonight?" Rowan asked. "Mommy would let me sleep in her bed when I'd get scared. I'm scared of the big spiders."

Bastian didn't have a bed per se. He had been sleeping, well, anywhere really. He had caught a few naps on the floor between battles.

"I'll look into getting us a proper bunk," he said. "With a real bed. A real home for us."

Rowan looked up from the ice cream. Some hope filled her eyes. "And for Aurora?" She gestured at her plush octopus.

"And for Aurora," Bastian promised.

He pulled up MindPlay, scrolled through his contacts, and gave Darjeeling a call.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Sergeant," Bastian began.

The Englishman appeared in the food court, a hallucination only Bastian and Rowan could see. Even in the midst of a war, the master sergeant looked impeccable. His cheeks were cleanly shaved, his white mustache was neatly combed, and his uniform had not a single crease. How he managed to look so perfect with civilization falling apart Bastian would never know. It was a feat only a sergeant was capable of.

"Not at all, my boy, not at all!" said Darjeeling. "I mean—I should call you sir, sir. My sincere apologies. I still remember you as a little lad."

Bastian smiled. He remembered those days. As a child, Bastian would sometimes visit his father at work. But James King was always busy, even back then. It was Oliver Darjeeling who would show young Bastian around the ship.

"Mr. Darjeeling, was my dad very fat when he was my age?" Rowan asked. "He loves eating ice cream for lunch."

Darjeeling laughed. "Oh no, he was a scrawny lad back in those days. As thin as a broom and as fast as a chimney sweep."

"What happened?" Rowan asked.

"All right, all right, very funny." Bastian rolled his eyes. "Darjeeling, I know you're a busy man. But I was hoping you could do me a favor. Any chance of finding a vacant bunk for Rowan and me to crash in?"

It was a bit unfair, perhaps. Most of his troops were just sleeping on the Courtyard deck. Bastian had certain privileges aboard this ship. Not only because he was a colonel. He was also the commander's son. A little guilt filled him. He was pulling strings others couldn't access. But dammit, this was about Rowan. The girl had just lost her mother, and she needed some sense of normalcy, of having a home, even if it was just a cramped military bunk.

"Of course, sir," Darjeeling said. "For you and little Rowan there is always a room aboard the starship Freedom."

An hour later, Bastian and Rowan entered a cabin on midsection deck 22. It was barely large enough for a cot, but it was theirs. On a warship, this was luxury. Most troops didn't have private rooms. They didn't even have proper cots. They crammed into communal bunks, and they slept on narrow racks that folded down from the bulkheads. They used to at least. The original berthing areas had been converted into a hotel. With so many tourists dead, and so many new marines aboard, nobody knew who should sleep where.

Well, Bastian staked a claim to this cabin. It was his and Rowan's. Their new home. A tiny rectangle of space to call their own aboard this chaotic warship. It was an austere room. White bulkheads. A humble gray cot. That was it. But Bastian felt oddly safe in here. The white noise of the ship's engines soothed him.

"We'll cover the walls with your drawings," he told Rowan. "We'll make this a home for now. Until we can go back to our real home on Earth."

She nodded. "Will you stay here tonight?"

"I have another two hours off," Bastian said. "We'll spend them together. Here in our new house. I'll tuck you into bed, and by the time you wake up in the morning, I'll be back with you."

She sniffed and rubbed her teary eyes. "But I'm scared to stay here alone. What if the spiders come back? What if they kill me like they killed my mom?"

"I'll have Bear guard your door," Bastian said. "How about that?"

Charging Bear was now a private in the Freedom Brigade. He was a close family friend, and Rowan liked him. Who better to protect the girl?

Rowan sniffed and nodded. "Okay. I'll try to stay asleep until you come back, so that when I wake up in the morning, you're here."

Bastian knew the war would be long. That he wouldn't have much time to spend with her. That he might die. That Rowan might end up just another orphan among the millions of them. But right now he had two hours off. And they spent that time together. Reading books on the MindWeb. Playing checkers. Even laughing a little. They were the most precious two hours in Bastian's life. They were perhaps their last two hours together.

Then he tucked her into bed, and he waited until she slept, and he left the room. He returned to the war. He did not know if he'd see the morning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

King stood on the bridge, silent and tense. Waiting. Sometimes waiting was the worst part of war.

Across the solar system, humanity's ships were hiding, striking from shadow, waging guerrilla warfare on the enemy. It would all amount to nothing if the Freedom failed today.

We must succeed, King thought.

"Loading the sensors now, sir," said Mimori, looking up from a control panel. "View on starboard monitor."

King, Jordan, and the other senior officers all turned toward the large monitor. It displayed a video stream from the Fist of Freedom loading deck. The towering chamber, located where the midsection met the prow, was where the crew loaded Goliath missiles into the ship's skyscraper-sized railgun. Several Goliaths were piled up in the chamber—projectiles the size of small starships.

Today, however, the gunners were loading something much smaller than a Goliath. A charred, dented Sparrow shuttle.

Only a few electronic screws held the shuttlecraft together. Once the shuttle was a safe distance from the ship, the screws were programmed to unscrew themselves. The shuttle would break into dozens of parts. Each part contained a sensor, cleverly hidden, and tiny thruster canisters no larger than pens.

Two mechas were stomping across the deck, carrying the Sparrow. One of the Fist's rails stretched below, the other above. Those rails thrust outward into space, as long as runways. You could stand the Fist of Freedom in Hong Kong, and it would hold its ground against the tallest buildings there.

As King watched from the bridge, the mechas placed the shuttle between the twin rails. When they released the shuttle, it floated. A magnetic field kept it suspended in midair.

The mechas stepped back. One mecha operator raised a comlink to his mouth. His voice sounded on the bridge.

"This is railgun loading station, confirming that shuttlecraft B4 is loaded and ready to deploy. Launch will proceed upon approval from bridge."

"This is the commander," King said. "You are authorized to fire the Fist of Freedom."

"This is the lieutenant commander," Jordan said. "You are authorized to fire, gunnery crew."

"Double-checking vector and power setting," said the gunner. "And we are confirmed to launch in ten, nine, eight…"

As the countdown proceeded, everyone on the bridge watched. The railgun would only fire with a small percentage of its power. A blast at full power would have disintegrated the shuttle. But if their calculations were right, this blast should be enough. The angle of fire would hurl the shuttle toward Mars, where an active battle was being fought between rah and human fleets. There, the shuttle would skirt the edge of the battle, drowning its origin in the flames of war. If it emerged unscathed, the shuttle would then slingshot around Mars, using the planet's gravity to propel itself toward Earth's moon.

Once looped around Mars, the shuttle would initiate a separation of its components, mimicking a vessel destroyed in battle. When it reached the moon, it would sprinkle its broken parts over Darkland and the area. Each hidden telemetry sensor would deliver whatever information it could gather.

It involved some tricky physics. And also a lot of unknowns. The shuttle had to survive the battle at Mars, then a dangerous journey to Earth. If detected, it had to fool the enemy. Finally it had to collect data without being blown to bits first. There was a lot that could go wrong.

"Three, two, one."

Static electricity crackled across the bridge. King's hackles rose.

The rails lit up. For a split second, they blazed with searing white light.

And the shuttle was off.

The electricity in the rail hurled it forward so fast the naked eye could not see it. King turned to the forward monitor. A white line stretched across space—the trail of the shuttle.

The railgun switched off.

"Launch successful!" announced Mimori. "The shuttle is on its way. Its vector looks good. Telemetry data is coming in."

A few officers clapped.

"Good work, everyone," King said. "Now we just have to wait until the shuttle reaches the moon, and then—"

"ATLAS detecting enemy hostiles!" shouted a tactical officer, drawing everyone's attention.

King wheeled toward the Plan Position Indicator, which hung from the deckhead. The circular monitor displayed the Freedom within concentric circles. Five red dots appeared in the diagram, flying in fast.

"Clawships," King growled.

"They must have detected us firing the shuttle and opened a portal," Jordan said.

"Ya think?" Spitfire cried.

King cursed. These portals gave the rahs a massive advantage. They could hop out of anywhere unannounced, crossing vast distances within instants. Humans had to learn this technology, King knew. Until they caught up, they were like the Native Americans fighting the Europeans, facing guns with bows and arrows. As soon as his mission on Darkland was complete, King would make it a priority to capture a rah scientist and squeeze the information out of him. King somehow doubted that Hel'rah would know how these portals worked; the prince seemed a dumb brute, good at killing and not much else.

There were three known classes of rahs, he remembered. Hunters were the muscle. The orbweavers were the builders and scientists. The gazers were the priests.

We need to capture one of every type to truly understand them, King thought.

But right now he had no time for that. Five clawships were bearing down on them.

"Prepare for battle!" King said. "Red alert!"

* * * * *

Jordan stepped closer to King, eyes dark. "Can we take five of them?"

King gave a tight smile. "We could take ten." He turned toward his android. "Mimori, how much power left in the Fist of Freedom?"

"Eighty-eight percent, sir. We didn't need much to launch the shuttle."

King nodded and spoke into his comlink. "Fist crew! Get a Gideon loaded."

"We already began loading procedures, sir. The instant the rahs appeared. We need two more minutes."

King checked the PPI. The enemy was roaring forward at incredible speed. They didn't have two minutes.

"Spitfire, get the Flock ready, but await my orders to launch," King said.

"Yes, sir." Spitfire raced off the bridge. A monitor showed the Freedom's three Eagle hangars. Pilots were racing toward their starfighters.

King checked the PPI again. The enemy was only a minute away.

"Fist of Freedom team!" King barked, pulling up his MindLink. "Give me an update."

"Still loading, sir! We need another minute."

"Angels, do you read me?" King said. "Status update!"

The artillery teams reported for duty. They operated the fourteen Angels of Liberty, the great dorsal cannons.

"Seven Angels loaded and ready to fire, sir," said the gunnery officer. "We're working on the other seven right now."

"All loaded Angels, concentrate your fire on the central rah ship—and fire!"

King stared at the front monitor, waiting. The deck vibrated as great gears turned. The Angels were wheeling toward their target.

King saw the clawships coming in. They became visible to the naked eye now. Five clawships. Big ones. Each the size of the Freedom.

Their claws dilated, revealing their molten cores.

A series of great booms shook the Freedom. The dreadnought jerked back in space. The Angels of Liberty were firing!

Seven Maccabee torpedoes flew toward one clawship. The enemy swerved. Two torpedoes missed and vanished into the distance. The clawship spewed plasma, detonating another torpedo. For a second King only saw the fire.

Then—

"Direct hit on target!" Mimori announced.

An explosion lit space—one clawship exploding!

They had no time to celebrate. The four remaining clawships opened fire. Streams of plasma roared toward the Freedom.

"Full power to prow shields!" King ordered. Cables thrummed as power flowed from the cannons to the shields.

Then the plasma hit.

The bridge shook.

An inferno washed over the Freedom. King stumbled backward, fell, and banged his elbow hard. Alarms blared. Monitors cracked.

"Prow shields down to four percent!" Mimori shouted.

"We won't take another hit!" Jordan said, coughing. Smoke nearly hid him.

"Fire the Fist!" King cried, rising to his feet.

"Authorized!" said Jordan.

White light washed over the bridge, blinding. For a second it felt like being trapped inside a bolt of lightning. All sounds faded. For that second, King didn't hear the klaxons, the cries of his crew, the creaking bulkheads. Just silence and white light.

Reality came roaring back.

King stared at the central monitor.

The Fist had unleashed its fury. A white line streaked across space, carving through two entire clawships. One behind the other. Both alien vessels shattered into countless pieces.

Crew members cheered.

"Three clawships down, two left," King said. "Our odds just got a lot better."

* * * * *

"Sir, all Firebirds ready to launch!" Spitfire said over the MindWeb.

"Mimori, divert full power to our port shields, then yaw and position our starboard hull away from the enemy. Spitfire, prepare to launch from the starboard airlocks, then fly below and above us to assault the enemy. Take the left clawship. We'll handle the right one."

The Freedom began to yaw and roll, turning her port side toward the enemy. Two jets of plasma flew. They roared over the port shields, cascading across the ship like solar wind over a planet's magnetic field.

"Shields falling to seventy percent, sixty-three, forty-two percent!" a tactical officer cried. "We're falling into the thirties now!" Panic filled his voice.

"Firebirds, launch!" King said.

From the starboard airlocks, protected from the hemisphere of fire, the Eagles emerged to fight. They soared, skirted the spraying plasma, and charged toward the enemy. Their missiles flew. Explosions rocked the enemy clawships. Blessedly, the torrent of fire died, leaving the Freedom's hull charred but unbroken.

The clawships opened their own hatches. Hundreds of clawfighters—small vessels flown by single rah pilots—swarmed out to fight.

The Eagles and clawfighters slammed together. Space blazed with dogfights like hundreds of fireworks. So much for the Eagles assaulting a clawship directly. King would have to take care of both lumbering beasts.

The Fist of Freedom was out of the game. The charge was at zero. It would be tomorrow before the railgun could fire again. But the Angels were bombarding the enemy with a fresh fusillade of Maccabees.

Meanwhile, the machine-gun turrets wheeled across the Freedom's hull. They were too small to destroy a warclaw. But they had their uses. A few clawfighters made it past the Eagles and came charging toward the Freedom. The machine guns roared, tearing into the spiky little vessels, shattering their canopies. Rah pilots spilled into space.

King watched the aliens tumble into the darkness, twitching. He remembered the battle a few days ago—the aliens surviving the vacuum, shooting webs, and boarding the Freedom.

"Freedom Brigade!" King transmitted over the MindWeb.

"Here, sir!" Bastian replied from the Courtyard far below.

"We have rahs tumbling through space," King said. "We'll try to take 'em out with our point-defense machine guns. But I want your marines to man every airlock and patrol the inner hull. If we're boarded, you know what to do."

"Yes, sir, deploying the marines now," Bastian replied.

The cannons boomed again. A blaze of plasma washed over the shields, tearing them down to twenty percent. Eighteen percent. Ten.

A blaze of light filled space.

Debris flew, pattering the Freedom.

"The Maccabees took out another clawship!" Jordan cried out. Across the bridge, a handful of officers cheered.

One clawship remained. It came roaring toward them.

"I got this one, sir," came Spitfire's voice over the MindWeb.

A squadron of Eagles emerged from the fire. They charged toward the last clawship. Their missiles flew—the deadly David's Stones, smaller than Maccabees but agile and fast. Most of the missiles pounded the enemy's shields and hardened hull. But a few made it into the churning, flaming core between the steel claws.

Explosions rocked the enemy ship.

We won, King thought. We—

"Sir, another portal opening behind us!" Mimori cried.

King turned toward a monitor. His heart sank.

One more clawship, a gargantuan beast, leaped into space and charged at them.

It hurled a great torrent of flame. There was no time to dodge. The fire washed over the Freedom's stern.

The stern shields tore apart.

An exhaust port caught fire.

An explosion rocked the Freedom. Then another. A third.

"A stern engine is burning!" somebody cried.

"Exhaust gases are aflame!"

"Turn off the Talaria drive!" King shouted. "If it catches fire, the whole ship will blow."

"Sir, we're being boarded!" came Bastian's cry through the MindWeb.

King ignored his son. Right now the huge clawship behind them was a greater threat. Its plasma blazed again, washing over the stern. Flames spread across the back of the Freedom.

"Cannons, take out that enemy!" King shouted. "Eagles, join the assault!"

Before he even finished his orders, the Angels of Liberty were firing. All fourteen cannons had swiveled backward. They were pounding the enemy. The Eagles streaked to battle, adding their missiles to the volley.

Within a few minutes, the enemy dreadnought tore apart.

The Freedom tumbled through space, stern ablaze.

No more portals opened. The battle was over but not the danger.

The starship Freedom was burning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Something was wrong aboard the Freedom. Bastian could feel it. The starship was hurt.

The engines weren't humming like always. They creaked, clambered, then fell silent. The temperature aboard the ship skyrocketed, and sweat drenched him. Red strobe lights flashed everywhere, and klaxons wailed. Alerts scrolled across the bottom of his MindPlay interface, saying something about a fire in the stern.

But Bastian couldn't focus on the stern now. He stood with his marines in a midsection corridor, facing a storm of spiders.

During the chaos of battle, the creatures had breached three airlocks. They scuttled down the corridor, screeching, hungry for human flesh. On the first day of the war, the rahs had stormed through the Freedom unopposed, devouring hundreds.

But today they faced the Alliance marines.

Today Bastian and his soldiers made them bleed.

The rahs ran toward them, and the marines met them with gunfire.

Bullets slammed into the aliens. Down at Fort Liberty, Bastian had used regular bullets. Most of them had bounced harmlessly against the rahs' exoskeletons, forcing the troops to fire only on eyeballs. But at Merc Mory, the Freedom had stocked up on armor-piercing rounds with explosive tips. Every bullet was like a little missile. They were expensive rounds, but they chewed through the aliens, cracking exoskeletons and ripping off legs.

We gotta order more of these! Bastian thought as he emptied a magazine, tearing down three entire rahs. He reloaded.

But even with these armor-piercing rounds, victory was far from guaranteed. Several rahs made it through the carnage. One leaped toward Bastian, claws flailing. Bastian's body armor absorbed the blow, but he fell onto his back.

Rahs raced over him, heading deeper into the ship. Behind Bastian, marines opened fire. Hot casings pattered onto Bastian. He stayed on his back. If he stood up now, those bullets would rip through him.

The rahs trampled over him, their legs pounding his armor. Even through the pain, he glanced at some MindWeb videos. The aliens had breached the Freedom at three spots. A marine platoon stood at each breach, but with the corridors so narrow, only two or three marines could fire at a time.

The aliens were still trampling over Bastian. Their claws clattered across his battlesuit, denting the thick plates. One claw pierced his leg armor and cut his thigh. Bastian couldn't even aim his Gideon assault rifle like this. He drew his sidearm, aimed upward, and fired at a rah as it vaulted over him.

The beast hit the bulkhead. Bastian shoved himself to his feet, aimed his Gideon, and tore the creature apart. Black blood splashed the corridor. Some bullets tore through the bulkhead, penetrating the neighboring room. People screamed.

Bastian cursed, hoping he hadn't hurt anyone. That was the downside of these new bullets. They made minced meat of rahs—but also the starship!

"Soldiers—herd them into warehouse 7B," Bastian telepathized to the platoon fighting around him. "We'll cut them down there."

The nearby warehouse had thick armored walls. The Freedom sometimes transported dangerous materials—fuel, heavy elements, and explosives. All warehouse walls needed to be armored. A good place to fill with devastating firepower.

The troops fell back, freeing the corridor for the rahs to swarm down. Over MindWeb, Bastian synchronized the plan with platoons elsewhere in the ship. Some soldiers fell back, allowing the rahs to chase them. Other marines burst out from hatches, firing their guns, herding the spiders in the right direction. If any rah strayed, they shot it down.

A few marines fell. The claws tore them apart. The survivors stuck to the plan.

Finally they drove the invaders into the warehouse. Scores of spiders crammed inside.

"Fill this place with fire!" Bastian shouted.

He stepped back through a hatch. Marines with flamethrowers stepped forward.

Flames roared into the warehouse.

Rahs shrieked.

Bastian grabbed a flamethrower from an armory sergeant, aimed into the warehouse, and unleashed hell.

The warehouse became a furnace. Several barrels of fuel burst into flame. Explosions rocked the warehouse. The rahs screamed.

The marines pulled the hatches shut, letting the fire do the rest.

When Bastian opened the hatch again, the warehouse was full of soot, melted bullets, and dead rahs.

The alien boarding party was crushed. A few rahs still scampered across the ship, but the marines would mop them up. The battle was won.

This time.

Next time, the aliens might get far enough to reach Rowan.

Bastian winced in sudden pain and called a medic to bandage his leg. Soon, he knew, the war would flare again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"We need to get out of here," King said. "They know where we are. It's just a matter of time before they send more clawships after us. We won't take another hit."

The ship was chaos. King monitored a score of departments over the MindWeb. Each deck appeared as a video floating around him. Half the stern was burning. People screamed. Machines twisted and bent and melted. An ATLAS probe was hovering ten klicks off their stern, streaming an external view. Clouds of smoke trailed from the Freedom. One of the three exhaust ports was a mangled, burning mess.

The Freedom kept a small reserve of military firefighters aboard. They now ran, spraying foam onto the flames. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

"Sir, three of our twenty Talaria cylinders are burning," Mimori told him. "The fire is spreading toward the fourth. If the flames reach the reactor, the entire ship will blow."

"Right now, Mimori, our top priority is getting out of here," King said.

"We can't move, Jim!" Jordan said. He had to shout to be heard over the alarms. "Our Talaria drive is dead."

"We have side thrusters. Mimori, engage them. Get us out of here! Propel us toward the asteroid belt. We'll try to lose the enemy there."

"Engaging side thrusters, sir," Mimori said.

The ship gave a jolt. Even as she burned, she began to barrel roll, hurtling into the distance. The bridge rattled. A few crew members had framed photos of family members on their dashboards. They fell and shattered. A photo of a smiling boy landed at King's feet.

"The fifth engine just caught fire, and the flames are spreading fast, sir," Mimori said.

Screams sounded over the MindWeb. King watched a video of the midsection. The marines were hunting a few last rahs. Bastian fired his gun, tearing down a spider. The marines had things under control.

At least one goddamn thing is going right, King thought.

"Fifth engine burning wild!" Mimori said. "At this rate, the fire will reach the reactor in seventy-two seconds, sir."

"Understood." King nodded. "Mimori, on my order, seal off the burning decks, then open the airlocks. Vent the air into space. Kill that fire."

"Jim!" Jordan grabbed his arm. "We have crew members in there. Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred."

King stared at his XO. "We have ten thousand people aboard this ship. If I must sacrifice a hundred lives to save ten thousand, I will." He spoke into the MindWeb. "All crew members in the stern—abort all attempts to put out the fire. Evacuate to the upper decks at once."

He waited.

He watched the videos.

People ran.

The elevators were out. The crew raced down corridors. They climbed up shafts. Another engine caught fire. The flames roared, washing over people, racing toward the nuclear reactor in the heart of the stern.

"How long do we have, Mimori?" King said.

"Twenty-three seconds, sir."

He waited.

He watched the crew run.

He knew they wouldn't all make it.

A few firefighters stood their ground, shouting, waving engineers and scientists to run to safety. They themselves did not flee.

Q-Mari wandered across an engine room, picking up broken pieces of machinery. She raised her head, stared at the camera. She was burning. Her synthetic skin melted. Her steel chassis glistened like a newborn baby's skin.

"Sir, we have only seconds," Mimori said.

"Seal off the burning hatches, Mimori," King said. "All of them. Then open the airlocks. That is an order."

"Yes, sir."

Everyone on the bridge stood silently. They all watched.

Through the MindWeb, and on the bridge monitors, they saw it happen. The people flying out into the dark, cold silence. The vacuum pulled them into its embrace. Firefighters. Engineers. Deckhands. Space took them all. Like a hungry god, it devoured them. Q-Mari tumbled out with them, her body a molten, twisted bundle of metal, only vaguely humanoid. Seventy-two lights dimmed on the crew manifest. Seventy-two souls—gone.

A few bridge officers wept.

But King only stared. His heart was breaking. His grief was overwhelming. He showed none of it. He shoved it down.

He would weep later. Right now he had a ship to save.

"Crew, return to your stations!" King rasped. "Nav, I want a course plotted to the asteroid belt, thrusters only. Tactical, run through battle scenarios without the use of our drive. I want tactics for fighting the next clawship that arrives. Mimori, fetch me a full report on—Mimori?"

She looked at him.

King fell silent. He had never seen Mimori look like this. She was pale. So pale. Her eyes were haunted. For the first time, she had human eyes. A soul. A soul gazed from those eyes, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"She's gone," Mimori whispered. "I feel a void inside me. My sister is gone."

She wept. And the ship moaned. Bulkheads creaked, and power rumbled through the pipes like the mournful song of whales. The starship Freedom had lost a daughter, and the ship herself was weeping.

She's a living being, King thought, placing his hand on a bulkhead. She's a mother. She's grieving.

"I need you now, Freedom," King whispered. "Stay with me, girl."

Dented, shedding broken chunks of metal, the Freedom rumbled into the distance. She left a trail of smoke and tears across the darkness.

* * * * *

By the end of the day, they had reached the asteroid belt. In films, the asteroid belt was a crowded cluster of boulders, a veritable minefield for any starship flying through. In reality, it was mostly empty space. The asteroids were far apart. Normally, the Freedom would find no place to hide here.

But over the past century, the asteroid belt had become a graveyard for starships. During World War III, the Alliance had dragged its decommissioned starships here, saving them for scrap metal or target practice. Since then, everyone else had begun to dump their scuttled starships here. Today thousands of cruise ships, freighters, tankers, and broken old warships floated in the asteroid belt. Every once in a while, salvage crews would fly over, strip the carcasses for parts, then fly off. Whatever nobody could use remained. The chassis of dead starships floated in the void, a ring of metal skeletons dancing around the sun.

The Freedom's side thrusters vented gas. The ship rolled into the asteroid belt, puffing steam and smoke, and settled into uneasy orbit. They were almost dead.

King stood on the bridge, reviewing reports of the war. Things were bad. With the fleet scattered across the solar system, Earth was left to fend for herself. The air, ground, and navy forces were putting up a fierce fight. But without help from space, it was a losing battle. More and more territory fell to the rahs. According to reports broadcast from Earth, the rahs were swarming across all major cities. They had just torn down the Eiffel Tower this morning. The footage kept playing over and over on the news—the aliens tugging the tower down onto Paris.

A severe-looking journalist faced the camera. "According to the following footage, which I warn may be disturbing to some viewers, the rahs are constructing a web between the pyramids of Giza. They seem to be using the web to hang their victims."

The camera showed the hideous tableau—a great web between the pyramids, jangling with thousands of victims wrapped in silky webs.

"The rahs seem to be keeping some of their victims alive," the journalist continued. "They've been implanting them with their eggs. We've also had reports of rahs laying eggs into corpses. Remember, we recommend that you stay away from crowded areas. If you encounter a rah, do not attempt to—"

A shriek rose.

A rah burst into the studio.

The journalist tried to flee. Too slow. Blood splattered the camera. The network went dark.

King looked away. "That's the tenth news network going offline today. We got to fix our ship—and fast. We need to get back into this fight."

Jordan was reviewing a holographic report. The lights danced across his solemn face. "It will be a while. We took a pounding. And we lost a good chunk of our engineering crew."

King nodded. The loss weighed heavily on everyone. Seventy-three dead, including Colonel Baxter, the head of engineering.

"We'll hold a memorial service for the fallen tomorrow," King said. "For now we're still in red alert."

He reviewed the reports with Jordan. The surviving engineers weren't just dealing with burnt engines, but with the destruction of their department. Their leader was dead. So was his second-in-command. The heads of several sub-departments were critically injured, suffering severe burns. They had all lost coworkers. Friends. Most of the operating engineers were wounded themselves. And somehow they had to get this ship flying—and back into battle.

King reviewed the roster of the surviving engineers, scrolling through their avatars. He paused on one, Major Kim Fletcher, Director of Fusion Technology. He reviewed her file. Originally from Anchorage. Doctorate in engineering from the University of Alaska. Divorced. One teenage child who lived aboard this ship. Most importantly—she had previously served as chief engineer aboard a corvette, a small warship.

She'll do, King thought.

He called her MindLink. "Major Fletcher? This is Commander King."

Kim Fletcher was in the engine room, welding a broken engine chassis. Sparks flew across her visor.

"I'm honored that you're calling me, Commander, but right now I'm a little busy," she replied.

Standing nearby, Jordan stifled a smile.

"I'll make this quick," King said. "Fletcher, I'm promoting you to colonel and naming you chief of engineering. You'll replace Colonel Baxter, may he rest in peace."

That got her to pause from her work. Kim lifted her welding helmet's visor. She had blond hair, currently pulled into a ponytail, and green eyes. She blinked at him, gasped, tried to speak, but no words came out. Her jaw hung open.

"Still with me, Fletcher?" he said.

Kim Fletcher cleared her throat. For a moment she almost seemed like she wanted to argue. But then she stiffened and saluted.

"Understood, sir."

"How long until our Talaria drive is fixed, Colonel?" King asked.

Kim bit her lip, considering. "If God himself comes down from heaven and helped me with repairs—in a week. More realistically—a month."

"Get it done in a week then," King growled. "I promoted you because I expect miracles."

He hung up on her.

"Diplomatic as always," Jordan observed.

King snorted. "I don't need my crew to like me. I need them to fix my ship."

"Sir!" Standing nearby, Mimori looked up from a control panel. "Our Sparrow probes are approaching the moon and broadcasting telemetry data."

"On screen," King said, stepping toward the main ATLAS monitor.

Everyone on the bridge stared. King invited Spitfire and Bastian to join over MindWeb. Spitfire was down at the Eagle bay, Bastian in the Courtyard, but apparitions of both appeared on the bridge. They too watched the video.

The shuttle they had launched was flying fast, approaching the moon. A sensor on the shuttle's fin was broadcasting a live feed. The moon rose before the shuttle. Earth shone blue in the distance.

It's funny, King thought. We can't see the battle on Earth from here. The planet is bleeding. But from space, she's the same beautiful blue marble.

"Shuttle break up in three, two, one," Mimori said.

On cue, the Sparrow broke apart. Its wings detached. Its engine tumbled out its cracking fuselage. The seats flew outward. The shuttle became a hundred little pieces, all streaming toward the moon. Before her death, Q-Mari had charred and scratched the pieces. To anyone who found them, the shuttle would just look like battle debris.

In actuality, this had all happened three minutes ago. It took the light that long to reach the Freedom. It was as close to live as they could get.

"Mimori, are you getting telemetry from each sensor?" King said.

"Two sensors are down, sir. One in the exhaust pipe, another hidden in a passenger seat. All other sensors, a full ninety-three, are broadcasting telemetry data. Would you like ninety-three video feeds?"

"No. Choose one video feed and broadcast that."

"Choosing one sensor, sir. The one attached to the wing."

The video displayed a rolling, chaotic scene. The wing must be spinning through space.

"Any way to stabilize the wing?" King said.

"I can use the embedded thruster, sir, but that might tip off the rahs."

"Switch to a steady sensor then," King said.

"Sorry, sir, but all the shuttle components are spinning. We failed to consider that when designing the probes. Give me a moment, sir." Mimori thought for a few seconds. "Here we go. I'm skipping between ten sensors now, choosing whichever one is facing the moon."

The video became jerky. The view began to scroll through different sensors—some on the wings, some on the seats, some on random internal components. Whenever one piece of shuttle rolled in the wrong direction, Mimori switched to another sensor. The monitor now displayed a more-or-less stable view of the moon.

The components were all flying in the same direction. Toward Darkland.

"There it is," King said.

Darkland came into view, a blotch on the lunar surface. This was the dark side of the moon. Even today, centuries after Neil Armstrong took his small step, the dark side was mostly abandoned. Resorts, casinos, apartment blocks, retirement homes—they were all on the other side. People wanted a view of Earth. Land on the dark side was dirt cheap, allowing Darkland's developers to build a sprawling amusement park.

As the broken shuttle pieces approached, Darkland grew. Roller coasters rose and fell and coiled like dark serpents. A carnival spread in fractals of red neon light like a delta of blood. At the edge of Darkland loomed Vlad's Castle, billed as the largest haunted house in the galaxy. Its leaning steeples scratched the starlight.

Darkland had always seemed spooky. After all, the amusement park was horror-themed. But tonight it was downright nightmarish. The rahs had come to Darkland. And they had brought true terror with them.

Cobwebs draped across the rides, wax museums, and castle towers. Like they did at the pyramids, here too the rahs had strung up their victims, leaving them cocooned on the web. Domes enclosed the various areas of Darkland, but the webs were out in the vacuum. The victims were dead, overlooking the amusement park like shriveled gray leaves still clinging to branches frosted with winter.

The shuttle pieces flew closer. Closer. Everyone on the bridge watched, tense.

And then Darkland lit up.

A dozen balls of crackling plasma soared from the amusement park, streaking upward.

"There you go," King muttered. "A defense system."

The plasma balls moved at hypersonic speed, drawing red streaks across space. One ball rolled toward the sensor streaming the video. Flames washed over the screen, and then it went dark.

"Switching to another sensor," Mimori said.

The video reappeared, only to show another plasma ball crashing into it. That video too went dark.

"Load up all sensor videos in a mosaic," King said.

A checkerboard of thumbnails appeared across the monitor, showing views from every sensor. They were going out one by one. A fresh volley of plasma rose from Darkland, washing over even more sensors. Soon only a handful remained.

"Are they onto us?" Jordan said. "Do they know these are sensors, not just pieces of a dead shuttle?"

"Maybe they're just being careful," King said.

But the defense system wasn't perfect. One piece of the shuttle—an engine nacelle—made it to Darkland.

A shield materialized, shaped like an orange web engulfing the amusement park. The nacelle slammed into the shield. Electricity crackled across the webbed dome. The nacelle broke into a million pieces and scattered. Its sensor went dark.

A sensor hidden on a falling wingtip had captured the event. Then a plasma ball roared over the wing, and that video too went dark.

Only one sensor now remained, attached to a dislodged exhaust pipe. The pipe had been programmed in advance to sputter away from the other components, fly three klicks east, and land on the lunar surface.

Which is exactly what it did. The defenders of Darkland didn't bother shooting it down.

The pipe slammed onto the lunar surface. But it was filled with foam. The sensor did not break. The pipe rolled a few meters, then stopped, pointing at the sky. A tiny nozzle released a puff of gas, moving the contraption. The pipe rolled a few degrees, and the camera now pointed at Darkland in the distance.

A perfect view.

King took a deep breath. "Good work. We collected data on Darkland's shields and defenses, and we have a sensor recording the base. This success is testament to the hard work and ingenuity of our engineering team. This plan was the work of Q-Mari and her team. Everyone who worked on this project died in the assault yesterday. But they did not die in vain. Even now, through the images these sensors recorded, they are fighting for us."

Everyone was silent, heads lowered.

King took a deep breath. "We will analyze this information. We will plan an assault on Darkland. But first we will honor our fallen. It's time for the funerals."

* * * * *

They gathered in deck 8, the Sparrow hangar. The shuttles had been pushed aside, making room for the crowd. The survivors of the stern crew gathered here: over four hundred souls. There were engineers, technicians, physicists, custodians, electricians, welders, chemists, and many other professions. Together they kept the engines running, the reactor burning, and the starship flying.

In the attack yesterday, they had lost seventy-three comrades. Dozens more were still in the infirmary.

Seventy-three coffins were laid out on the deck, arranged in several rows. The survivors stood before them, wearing blue service uniforms.

King approached a podium. He stared at the crowd. Hundreds of people stared back at him.

King pulled his glasses from his pocket, looked at his printed speech.

He paused. The words caught in his throat. He could make no sense of them.

Finally he looked up from his speech. He stared at the crowd.

"Somebody prepared a speech for me. But I'm not going to read it. I'm going to speak to you with my own words today." He placed a hand over his heart. "I grieve for those we lost. My heart breaks for them. I will carry the weight of their deaths forever. But I do not, for one instant, regret the sacrifice they made."

A few people started. A few other people frowned.

"When you took a job aboard the Freedom, I bet many people scoffed at you. They thought you were going to work in a museum. A casino. A tourist trap. But I know that every last one of you came to serve in a warship." King's upper lip twitched. He gripped the podium. "When you put on the Alliance uniform, when you came aboard the Freedom, you knew that you were soldiers. And when we flew to war, you knew that you might give your lives for our cause." He raised his voice, gestured at the coffins. "They gave their lives!"

A few tears fell. Somebody lowered his head and wept.

"Before they died, they helped us win battles. The technology they gave us will live on, will help us win future battles. Thanks to their service, their courage, their willingness to fly into the fire and face death—thanks to them we live!" He was almost shouting now. "Thanks to them, our families will live! Thanks to them, Earth. Will. Survive!"

He had to pause for a moment, to take deep breaths. Jordan was looking at him, concern in his eyes. Mimori took a step closer. King waved her aside.

He composed himself, kept speaking. "The flags of many nations drape these coffins. Not Alliance flags. I see American flags. Canadian flags. Japanese flags. The flags of twenty more nations. The Alliance is a union of many proud people. We are united against the enemy. But where we come from still matters. In their deaths, remember them not only as soldiers. But as people who led full, rich lives. Lives cut short so that we may fly onward. We will never forget the fallen. They died for freedom." He raised his fist. "For freedom!"

"For freedom!" everyone cried, raising their fists.

On cue, Darjeeling stepped forth. The sergeant was decked out in his finest dress uniform. "Ten'shun!" he cried.

Everyone stood at attention. Darjeeling faced King and saluted. King stared into his sergeant's eyes, his jaw tight, and returned a crisp salute.

Darjeeling marched toward the hull.

"Prepare for cannon salute!" Darjeeling cried.

Video feeds showed the Angels of Liberty rising atop the dorsal hull. The deck thrummed as the great gears turned.

"All guns—load!" Darjeeling shouted.

The ship thrummed. On a deck high above, gunners loaded shells into the cannons. They were black missiles painted with golden wings, used for salutes only.

A moment of silence went by.

"Fire!" Darjeeling cried.

Booms shook the starship. All fourteen Angels of Liberty fired. The entire ship would hear.

"Fire!" Darjeeling shouted.

The cannons fired again. And again. Twenty-one times the great Angels of Liberty fired into space. With every boom, people wept fresh tears.

Darjeeling marched back toward King and saluted again.

King stared at the engineering crew. Everyone still stood at attention.

"Long ago," King said, "in a terrible war, a poet wrote words we still remember. Words I will leave you with today."

He recited the poem.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

King stared at the crowd.

"Dismissed," he barked, then turned and marched away.

He had a mission to plan. Hel'rah was in Darkland, and King intended to capture that bug and make him pay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

After the funeral, King took the elevator down to deck 7—the vast open deck known as the Courtyard, home to the Freedom Brigade.

He stood for a moment on a mezzanine, arms crossed, watching the marines train below.

It was hard to believe that only last month, this deck had been a dance hall, and these marines had been just bored kids from Nebraska. Today King saw true warriors, boasting battle scars. They fired plasma bolts at targets. They grappled on mats. A few were punching body bags or lifting weights.

King's eyes were drawn to the middle of the Courtyard. The marines, perhaps with help from Q-Mari, had built a robotic rah. It was a crude machine, just chunks of metal slapped together into the approximate shape of a spider. But it was the right size, and its legs could rise and fall in place. Somebody had placed a baseball cap on its head and painted a mustache on its snout. Marines would be marines.

Bastian, Alice, Bear, and several other marines stood around the mechanical spider.

"Bas, you're up!" Alice said. "I'll give you a leg up."

Bastian stepped forward. "I dunno about this, Alice. I think you're too weak to boost me up." He patted his belly.

Alice huffed. "I'm an Olympic wrestler, you know."

"You finished twelfth. Big deal."

Alice growled. "Come on! Everyone else did it. Are you chicken?" She began to cluck.

"All right, all right!" Bastian stepped forward and drew his knife. "Gimme a leg up."

Alice wove her fingers together, forming a little step. Bastian placed his boot on her hands.

"Swooping eagle!" Alice shouted, boosting Bastian into the air.

Bastian flew upward, rising above the mechanical rah. On his way back down, Bastian plunged his knife into the machine's metal muzzle.

The blade sank in.

Bastian landed on his feet.

"Whoo, swooping eagle!" Alice cried, fist in the air.

"Swooping eagle!" the other marines called out, patting Bastian on the back.

King approached the marines. Alice noticed him first.

She snapped to attention and saluted.

"Commander on deck!"

Everyone paused from training and stood at attention. King returned the salute. "As you were."

Across the Courtyard, the marines resumed training. King looked at the giant mechanical spider with the knife in its head.

"Swooping eagle?" he said.

Alice nodded enthusiastically. "It's a move I came up with myself. I am, you know, an Olympic wrestler."

"She finished twelfth place," Bastian whispered.

Alice punched him, then turned toward King with a smile.

"You see, sir, I was studying a few rah corpses," she said. "Their exoskeleton is damn tough. But there's a weak spot. Right above the muzzle, just below the front two eyes. Here." Alice pointed at the knife stuck into the robotic rah. "Rah exoskeletons are built of segments. This is a spot where several segments meet. If you hit this area hard enough, you can crack through. So I asked Q-Mari to build me a robot that includes this weak spot."

King considered. "It doesn't lead to the brain. It won't kill them."

"No, sir, it won't," Alice admitted. "But it'll cause excruciating pain. Imagine trying to fight with a knife stuck through your mouth."

King smiled grimly. "I can imagine a knife across my throat."

Alice blushed. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to bring up any bad memories."

King sighed and patted her on the shoulder. "Alice, we won't kill these creatures with knives. Let's stick to guns, all right?"

Her blush deepened. "Sir, with all due respect, guns can run out of ammo. If I learned anything from my wrestling career, it's that a good, decisive blow to a weak spot can subjugate the mightiest enemy."

King raised an eyebrow. "You know, I do have some military experience myself."

She lowered her head. "Of course, sir. I'm sorry. I don't mean to condescend." She bit her lip, looked back at him. "Try it, sir. Try it before you dismiss it."

King laughed. "Try your move?"

"The swooping eagle, yes, sir. Come on!" She grinned. "Show that robot who's boss."

King looked around him. Bastian had his arms crossed, smiling, and raised an eyebrow. Bear stood nearby, struggling to suppress a smile too. A few other marines were watching.

"Very well," King said. He unbuttoned his service uniform shirt, remaining in his undershirt. "Let's try this move of yours."

The rah was so tall they needed to call Bear over. The giant reached up, yanked the knife from the robot's head, and handed it to King.

"Ready, sir!" Alice knelt and entwined her fingers, forming a step.

King placed his foot on her hands.

"Swooping eagle!" Alice cried, giving King a leg up.

King leaped above the robot. On his way down, he slammed the knife into the rah's snout.

The knife drove between the metal plates.

King landed on the ground to the sound of cheering. Marines patted him on the back.

"Good work, sir," Alice said. "You're a badass."

King buttoned up his uniform. "Not bad for an old man, huh?" He squeezed Alice's shoulder and winked. "But in real battle, please stick to guns."

She nodded. "Don't worry, sir. If there's anything I love as much as wrestling, it's big guns."

Bastian flexed his biceps. "You wanna kiss these big guns?"

She smiled and gave a thumbs-up. "I'd rather die!"

King turned toward his son. "Colonel, I didn't just come here to chat. Walk with me."

Bastian nodded. The two men left the Courtyard and walked down a corridor.

"Dad, what's up?" Bastian said. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the war room," King said. "We've got a mission to plan."

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, they gathered in the war room. It was time to plan the assault on Darkland.

This time a new member joined their council. She was not an officer. She was barely an adult. She was a seventeen-year-old private. But Princess Emily stood in the war room with the senior officers of the starship Freedom.

Because she's not just a private, King thought. She's a future queen and the leader of a nation. She also happens to know Darkland in and out.

King cleared his throat and began the meeting.

"Over the past twenty-four hours, you've all submitted proposals as to how we capture Hel'rah. I've considered them all. I've narrowed it down to two possible plans. We're going to choose one now—and then commence the operation."

He looked at the others. They all stood around the large table with the map on top. This meeting was larger than the last one. Jordan was here of course. So were Spitfire, who still wore her flight suit, and Mimori, whose eyes displayed racing lines of code. Darjeeling, who had missed the last meeting, had been invited to this one. He looked as impeccable as always, his boots polished to a shine, his mustache neatly combed.

Another new arrival was Colonel Kim Fletcher, the new chief of engineering. King had promoted her only recently, probably giving her the shock of her life. At forty-three years old, she was young to command the engineering department of a dreadnought, but they had lost many engineers in the assault. To her credit, Kim didn't seem overwhelmed. She stood confidently, her green eyes alert and intelligent. Engineers normally wore loose fatigues on the job, but she had donned a snappy service uniform for this meeting, and her hair was pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail.

Bastian was here too, thankfully looking more professional this time around. He too had donned a service uniform, and he kept his arms at his sides, not crossed. He had taken King's advice to heart. He still had that damn haircut though.

King let his gaze linger on every one of them, making sure they knew he acknowledged them, valued them being here. A commander was nothing without his crew. And King had an excellent crew.

Finally he spoke again, reading from a tablet.

"The first plan is called Operation Brutal Assault." King cleared his throat, looked over his glasses at his son. "Thank you, Bastian, for naming this one."

Spitfire suppressed a chuckle.

Bastian only nodded. "My pleasure, sir. It fits."

"Brutal Assault is the more direct of our two possible plans," King said. "We will deploy our Eagles above Darkland. Freedom's Flock will assault the anti-spacecraft batteries and bombard the web-shield surrounding Darkland. Judging from our other encounters with rah shields, enough heavy bombardment will eventually take it out. Once the shield is gone, we will launch our heavy Rhino-class troop carriers. In three waves, the dropships will transport the Freedom Brigade to the surface. Our marines will storm Darkland, conquer the park, and capture Hel'rah. This plan is all brute force, relying on our sheer military power."

"I like it," Bastian said.

Spitfire grinned. "Me too. Let's do it."

King grumbled under his breath. "We're not done yet. Mimori has run thousands of simulations of Operation Brutal Assault in her computer systems, tweaking the variables for each situation. There are several unknowns—the size of the rah garrison, their weaponry, and the probability of reinforcements arriving. By running a Monte Carlo simulation, examining different scenarios, Mimori has come up with odds of success. Mimori?"

The android addressed the crowd. "It's hard to come up with accurate numbers. There are many unknowns, as the commander said. But based on the information we have, I believe that Operation Brutal Assault gives us a forty percent chance of capturing Hel'rah alive and a twenty percent chance of killing him in the heat of battle."

Spitfire tilted her head. "What about the remaining forty percent?"

"Operation Brutal Assault has a forty percent chance of failure," Mimori said.

Spitfire's jaw hung open. "Meaning?"

"Our soldiers are all killed or captured," Mimori said.

"Lovely," Spitfire muttered.

"Remember—our objective is to capture Hel'rah alive," King said. "This plan only gives us a forty percent chance of achieving that."

"I'd be happy with killing the bastard too," Spitfire said.

Bastian nodded his agreement.

"Any questions before I describe the second plan?" King said.

Bastian nodded. "I have a question. Why launch the Eagles to destroy the shield around Darkland? We'd be risking our pilots. The rahs could shoot them down. Why not just aim the Fist of Freedom and blast the shield apart?"

A few glances passed around the room.

"The Fist of Freedom is too powerful," King said. "It would rip through the shield, turn Darkland into a crater, and kill Hel'rah instantly. The blast would also shake the moon so badly buildings would fall on the far side."

"Oh." Bastian nodded. "Of course."

Bastian sent a telepathic message to King alone. See, Dad? I spoke up like you wanted me to, and I made an ass of myself.

King ignored him for now. "Everyone—remember that there might be hostages aboard Darkland. Tourists who were in the amusement park when the rahs took over. After conquering Darkland, the rahs shut off all transmissions. But we suspect there are humans alive down there."

"Unlikely," Spitfire said. "You saw the rahs, sir. They can't resist killing. Since when do they leave humans alive?"

"They leave some women alive," came a soft voice from the back of the room. It was Kim Fletcher, speaking for the first time. "I saw it down in engineering. It was during the first rah invasion of our ship. They grab women, fill them with eggs. Sometimes they just use corpses, but… sometimes they leave them alive."

For a moment everyone was silent. A few people shuddered.

Spitfire squared her shoulders. "In that case, the hostages are better off dead."

"I disagree," King said, glaring at Spitfire. "If anyone is alive down there, we can't accidentally kill them. That's one downside of Operation Brutal Assault. We'd be raining serious punishment down on Darkland. We could accidentally kill hostages."

"If any are alive, which is doubtful!" Spitfire said.

"Spitfire is right," Bastian said. "I say we proceed with this plan. We rain down the hellfire of the Flock and the might of the marines." He raised his fist. "Let Spitfire and her Eagles take out the shields, and I'll bring you Hel'rah. The marines will get it done!"

Everyone started talking at once, some raring for a fight, others urging caution.

"Enough!" King barked. "Let me introduce the alternate plan. Before you all kill one another."

Everyone fell silent.

* * * * *

"We call the second plan Operation Shadow Strike," King continued. "It's based on the work of Lieutenant Commander Jordan with help from our tactical department. Jordan, would you care to describe it?"

The XO nodded. "Gladly. The first option, Brutal Assault, relies on sheer brute force. Operation Shadow Strike is more surgical." Jordan tapped a button. A holographic diagram of Darkland floated above the tabletop, lazily spinning to reveal all angles. "Our surveillance sensor has been lying in the lunar desert, spying on Darkland. Every two hours, like clockwork, a rah shuttle arrives here."

Jordan pointed at a spot in the diagram. They watched an animation of a rah shuttle descending toward the moon. The shield around Darkland shimmered, a webbed dome containing the entire amusement park. The spiky shuttle landed on the lunar surface. A hatch opened in the shield. The shuttle slid inside, and the hatch closed.

"What the hell was that?" Spitfire said.

"The only entrance through the shield," Jordan said. "The rahs use it to import supplies. Their shuttles are roughly the size of our Rhino dropships. In Operation Shadow Strike, a marines platoon will intercept a rah shuttle en route to the moon. The marines will commandeer the shuttle, hide inside, and sneak into Darkland. They will take the DOGE robots Q-Mari had built. Once inside, our force will capture Hel'rah, disable the shield, and be airlifted to safety."

"Too many things can go wrong." Bastian shook his head. "Way, way too risky. That hatch is on the wrong side of Darkland. It's two klicks from the haunted castle where Hel'rah is hiding. We could run into ambushes along the way. We'd never make it that far without being detected. And even if we could reach Hel'rah? Once we capture him, he'd raise the alarm. Every rah in Darkland would fall upon the platoon. No. We're not spies. We're warriors. Brute force is the right method."

King turned toward Mimori. "Taking into consideration the colonel's concerns, what are the odds of this mission succeeding?"

The android thought for a moment. "Forty-eight percent chance of success."

Spitfire cringed. "So odds are the marines are wiped out. I'm with Bastian. We go brute force."

"Brute force might kill the hostages," Jordan said. "And it's less likely to succeed than the stealth mission."

"More likely if you consider killing Hel'rah a win!" Spitfire said.

"I don't," replied Jordan. "Our mission is to capture him. Alive."

"Screw that!" Spitfire said. "You know what? Bastian's earlier idea wasn't that dumb after all. I say we use the Fist of Freedom. Wipe the whole damn park off the face of the moon."

"That is not our mission!" Jordan shot back. "We take our orders from the high commander."

"Yet we can still improvise as things change," Spitfire said. "We're not just mindless robots."

"We are soldiers," Jordan said. "Close enough!"

Spitfire stared at him, slack-jawed, then burst out laughing. It was a strained laugh. A fearful laugh. But it cut the tension in the room.

King turned toward Princess Emily. She had not spoken yet.

"Princess, what do you think?" King said.

She bit her lip, considering. "Don't ask me. Who am I to say?"

Darjeeling stepped closer to her. "You are the future Queen of England. We value your opinion."

The princess took a long, deep breath. "Very well then. I prefer stealth. If there are tourists alive on the moon, I don't want to bombard the amusement park and risk killing them. With bombs raining on the shield, we could too easily destroy the park and kill innocent people. I realize that Operation Shadow Strike is risky, and it might kill our marine force. But I feel that Brutal Assault is riskier. I say go with stealth."

"I agree," Darjeeling said.

"Of course you do," Spitfire muttered. "The princess could offer to pacify Hel'rah with a teddy bear, and you'd call it a brilliant plan."

Darjeeling opened his mouth to object, then closed it and simply fumed.

"Colonel Fletcher, your thoughts?" King said, turning toward the engineer.

Kim bit her lip, considering. "I'm not a tactician nor warrior, only an engineer," she said. "So it doesn't matter what I say. But…" She looked into King's eyes. "If I were you, sir, I'd choose Brutal Assault. The odds of a stealth mission succeeding are too low. I can have our engines fixed in a week. Like you wanted. I say we fly over and show the rahs the full force of the starship Freedom."

"Hell yeah!" Spitfire said, raising her fist. "I like this one. Welcome to the high command, Kim Fletcher. You fit right in."

"All right, so we have three voices for Brutal Assault, three for Stealth Strike," King said. "Mimori, would you like to tilt the scale?"

"No, sir." She shook her head. "I have no opinion. I can only give you the odds. And as you know, sir, this is not a democracy. These are not votes. You're our commander. The decision is yours."

King nodded. "That it is. And I've heard enough. You've all presented your views. I listened and considered them. Now I must decide."

He thought for a moment, staring at the holographic Darkland. The image was disturbingly realistic. Ghostly gray trains raced along the black roller coasters. Shadows moved inside the castle windows. Robed figures hovered through the carnival, their glowing white eyes peering from under their hoods. The place seemed haunted. Evil. Overrun with a terror from another reality.

King wanted to burn it all down.

And he made up his mind.

"We will go with Brutal Assault," he said.

"Hell yeah!" Spitfire cried, raising her fist.

Bastian nodded in satisfaction, crossed his arms across his broad chest, and raised his chin.

Jordan remained silent and stern. He was disappointed, but nothing in his face revealed it. He was professional enough to accept his commander's orders and carry them out.

"Colonel Fletcher, your job is now to get the engines running as soon as possible," King said.

"Understood, sir," she said.

"The instant we can fly, we're racing over to the moon, and—"

A sudden MindWeb icon popped up before King, flashing red, demanding his attention. An urgent call. Normally, during a meeting, telepathic calls went into a folder in the back of King's mind. Only a handful of people aboard the Freedom could interrupt him like this—and they were all in this room.

All aside from one.

"Rowan," he whispered.

"Rowan, what's wrong?" Bastian said. She was calling him too.

A hallucination of Rowan appeared in the war room, hovering over the table. Her face was white with terror.

"Daddy! Pop Pop! Hel'rah is in my room! Help!"

King burst out the door and ran.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The monster had appeared so suddenly.

Rowan was sitting on her bed, reading a book to her plush octopus, when the portal opened on her wall.

At first she thought she was dreaming. But she pinched herself. It was real. A great black stain was spreading across the wall like mold.

Maybe it was a leak somewhere on the ship? Maybe a pipe had burst in the wall, and water was staining the bulkhead? But no. This liquid was black. Black like spider blood. Like the blood that had covered everything back at Fort Liberty. The blood the soldiers had spilled. Some of it had covered Rowan too.

The black stain spread and spread, covering the wall. Rowan was frozen with fear. She could only stare. And when she gazed at that blackness, she realized that it wasn't actually a stain. It was a doorway. A portal. A path to another world.

She could see things in that astral realm. Black places. Creatures with many legs. People who hung on webs, begging.

"Daddy," she whispered. "Mommy."

Rowan could not even move. She sat on the bed, paralyzed.

From the portal he emerged.

The monster.

A giant spider. A spider larger than a horse. A spider with a gray body and red legs. A spider who would drag her to hell.

He stepped into the room, claws scraping the deck. The lights died, and he grinned. A huge grin like the Cheshire cat. A grin full of teeth. A shark's grin. A crescent-moon grin. A rotten, dripping grin, the teeth like rows of finger bones, sharpened and gleaming. And the spider spoke.

"Hello, Rowan, do you know who I am?"

A tear rolled down her cheek.

"You're just my imagination," she whispered.

The spider opened his jaws wide. His tongue emerged, long and bloated and dripping. A wet serpent. The creature chuckled.

"I can smell your fear. I can already imagine the taste of your meat. But you are not for eating, child. You are too precious for that. You are the granddaughter of my nemesis. You will live. You will be mine."

"I know who you are," Rowan said, her voice gaining strength now. "You're Hel'rah. The spider my grandpa shot from the cannon. I'm not scared of you!"

The door to her cabin burst open.

Charging Bear ran into the room, rifle in hands.

Hel'rah cast a bundle of cobwebs. The glob slammed into Bear, knocked him outside, and glued him to the corridor wall. The spider turned back toward Rowan, hissing, licking his chops.

Rowan had gotten a MindLink installed a year ago. Just the kid version, allowing her to hallucinate cartoons, learn the alphabet, and contact her family. She called her father and grandfather, marking it urgent.

"Daddy!" she screamed, letting the neural web carry her voice across the ship. "Pop Pop! Hel'rah is in my room! Help!"

The spider leaped at her.

She screamed, losing her neural connection.

The claws grabbed her.

Bear was shouting something, struggling against the web. Footsteps pounded along the corridor. An alarm sounded. But the sounds all faded. Faded to a dull mumble. The eight red eyes of the spider stared at Rowan, claiming her, hypnotizing her. The world faded, and she saw new worlds in those eyes. Strange worlds of hatching eggs and webs spreading among the stars and a girl trapped, crying out, lost in the universe. She saw a dark realm woven of evil itself, a land that was a living being, that was conscious, that hated all who lived upon it. Just a dead black field under a sky the color of a dead man's ashes. A dark hill grew there, and a rose grew on its top. Its red petals were the only color in this monochromatic kingdom. Rowan knew that only that rose could save her, but it was trapped like her, and she could not reach it.

He was pulling her through the portal, she realized. She was slipping into his strange country. Her cabin was fading. She saw it in the distance, a silver cube, spinning and rolling like a die until it vanished in the murk. The spider was larger here, and his grin was the moon, hanging in the sky above her. A moon the size of a starship. And his red eyes were eight planets whose gaze she could not evade. She could no longer see the rose.

Then he spun her gently in his claws. She became like a dancer. She pirouetted as his claws were moving, weaving, sewing like the needles in a sewing machine, wrapping her in silk. Wrapping her in a gown. The strands stretched over her eyes, and all Rowan saw was gossamer glimmering in the light of a grinning moon.

* * * * *

King ran down the corridor, his heart pounding against his ribs, terror freezing his belly.

He had never felt such fear. Not in all his years of battle.

He had glimpsed it on the MindWeb. A creature from the dark. Then—nothing.

"Get a security force to deck 22, cabin 4A!" he barked into his comlink as he ran. "Red alert! Ship wide!"

He kept running. His side ached. He could barely breathe. Vaguely, he was aware of Bastian running beside him. Of others running too. But darkness was closing in. The corridors of the starship became dark tunnels.

Rowan.

He's after Rowan.

The bastard somehow got on my ship!

Finally he reached the right corridor. A security team was already here. Somebody was peeling Bear off the wall; cobwebs had glued him in place.

"Where is she?" King growled. "Where is my granddaughter?"

The guards turned toward him. Their faces were pale. One man was trembling.

King burst into the cabin.

"Rowan!" Bastian shouted. "Rowan, where are you?"

King stared around, fists clenched. "Will somebody tell me what happened, goddammit?" he shouted.

Bear was finally free. He stepped toward King and Bastian, draped with cobwebs.

"I saw it happen," he said. "I tried to help. I failed. I'm sorry. I failed…"

King grabbed the giant and shook him. "Tell me what happened!"

Bear lowered his head. "It was Hel'rah. Somehow he opened a portal into the starship, grabbed Rowan, and dragged her away."

Bastian let out a torn cry and fell to his knees.

King just stood there, fists at his sides. The ship spun around him. His tunnel vision narrowed. He was not breathing.

Calm yourself, he thought. Do not panic. Do. Not. Panic! You will get her back. Stay in control!

"Mimori!" King called out. "How did that bastard open a portal here?"

The android rushed toward him. "I don't know, sir. But I'll analyze any traces of energy or particles in this bunk, and I'll make sure our shields are programmed to prevent any future portals."

"She's gone," Bastian whispered, trembling. "Oh God, Dad, he has her. She's gone. Rowan is dead. Oh God."

King grabbed his son and shook him. "Calm down! Focus! Rowan is alive. He kidnapped her. But she is alive! We will get her back. I promise you, Bastian. I promise you."

Bastian took a shaky breath. His hands were trembling. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "How do you know she's alive, Dad?"

King pointed at the bulkhead. "Look."

They turned together.

Words were scratched into the bulkhead. Scratched with a claw.

HELLO JAMES KING

HELLO OLD FRIEND

I HAVE ROWAN

SURRENDER TO ME

OR WATCH HER DIE

"Sir!" Mimori said. "I'm able to detect Rowan's MindLink implant! It's in sleep mode. She might be asleep or unconscious. But it's her. And she's alive." The android stared into King's eyes. "She's in Darkland."

King stood there in the cabin. Bastian stood beside him. The others stood around them or in the corridor.

King checked his MindPlay. He saw it too. Rowan's avatar, grayed out. On the moon.

He looked at his crew. At his son.

"Operation Brutal Assault is off the table," he said. "We cannot bombard Darkland from above. Not with Rowan there."

"You're not saying we'll surrender, are you, sir?" Spitfire whispered.

"No," King said. "We will never surrender. We will commence with Operation Shadow Stealth—but with one modification. This is no longer just a mission to capture Hel'rah. This is also a mission to rescue my granddaughter."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

King geared up for battle.

He pulled on a battlesuit, an armored outfit that would allow him to fight on land and in space. He loaded his belt with grenades and magazines of bullets. He snapped a Mordecai-class plasma rifle onto one hip, a pistol onto the other. He worked with grim purpose, fingers steady, eyes hard.

"Jim, are you sure you want to go yourself?" Jordan asked.

"I'm going," King rasped. "The ship is yours until I'm back with Rowan."

"You are the commander of this ship," Jordan reminded him. "This is a mission for marines, not for—"

"I'm going!" King repeated, louder now, and glared at his XO. "It's my granddaughter, goddammit. I'm bringing her back. And I'm bringing that goddamn filthy son of a bitch spider with her."

Jordan opened his mouth, seemed ready to argue, then simply nodded. He clasped King on the shoulder. "Go bring her home."

They stood in one of the Freedom's armories. Other soldiers were preparing for the mission too. It would be a small team. Just fifty soldiers. Not an army but a strike force, as swift and deadly as an arrowhead.

King had handpicked the team himself. He would command the mission. Bastian would come with him, along with a platoon of marines. Charging Bear and Alice Allenby would serve in the platoon. They were not only two of the toughest warriors aboard the Freedom. They were also family friends. Both Bear and Alice knew Rowan personally. They would fight hard to save her.

Along with the warriors, King had chosen one more soldier to accompany them.

She stepped forward now, petite, almost drowning in her battlesuit.

"Sir?" Princess Emily said. "Do you have any smaller suits? It all feels a bit loose."

King helped her adjust some buckles. "Here. You can shrink the limbs and tighten the torso. Better?"

Emily nodded. "Yes. It's quite comfortable now. But… sir, I'm not sure I'll be much help. I'm not a warrior."

King raised an eyebrow. "I heard you shot a rah dead in the Sparrow hangar, killed another in the Dinogolf, slew a third in the corridor outside the royal suite, and finally sent a bunch tumbling to their fiery deaths in the promenade's reactor. I'd say you're quite an accomplished spider killer, Princess Emily."

She blushed. "Well, maybe. But I'm no marine. I'm not big, strong, and brave like the others."

"Not as big, but just as strong and brave," King said. "And you know Darkland. Better than any of us. I don't want to just rely on maps. I want someone who's been there, who knows the alleyways and secret passages."

Emily took a deep breath. "I'll do my best, sir. But… well, to be quite honest, I'm rather terrified."

"We all are," King said. "I am too. But we will complete this mission nonetheless."

Bastian approached them. He was wearing his full battlesuit, complete with helmet. The visor was raised, revealing a hard, haunted face. His eyes had dried, but the terror had not left them.

"We're ready," Bastian said. "Let's go get Rowan."

* * * * *

The Freedom's Talaria drive was still dead. Kim and her crew were working around the clock, trying to fix the incredible damage the enemy had wrought. The plasma jet had melted one exhaust port. Even a hundred meters into the stern, many components had burned to a crisp. Entire engines were gone.

"To bring us back to our former glory," Kim had told them that morning, "we'd need weeks, ideally months at a well-equipped shipyard. But I can get something working—a temporary fix, mind you—within another few days."

Right now the Freedom still floated in the asteroid belt, barely generating enough energy for life support. This was a good spot to hide. This was a starship graveyard. The Freedom could blend in, disguising herself as another hulk. As an added benefit, all the scuttled starships around them might offer parts Kim could use for her repairs. Tugs were already flying out, exploring the dead starships, seeking useful components. Nothing would fit properly, of course. The Freedom had a unique design. But Kim was sure they could kludge something together.

Well, Kim would oversee all that. Right now King had trouble focusing on the repairs. His mind was dedicated to one thing only. The mission to Darkland.

Thankfully, he didn't need to fly the Freedom there. This was a stealth mission, after all. The team would be flying undercover.

King marched down the hangar, wearing his heavy battlesuit, his weapons strapped to his side. Bastian, Bear, Alice, and Emily walked behind him, side by side. All three wore aviator sunglasses. They were practically strutting. Farther back came the rest: a full platoon of marines. They had to save the galaxy, and just as importantly—they had to save one little girl.

Two vessels waited by the airlock. One was a Rhino. At thirty-three meters long, it straddled the line between large dropship and small starship. Inside was room enough for the entire mission crew.

The pilots waited by the vessel.

Major Robby "Pickles" Cooper served as lead pilot. He was normally an Eagle pilot. After Spitfire, he was the deadliest pilot they had. Pickles had downed seventeen clawfighters so far. King had chosen him personally for this mission. If the man could fly an Eagle, he could handle a Rhino. His copilot, a short young woman, stood beside him. Known as Snoopy, she was the youngest pilot aboard the Freedom. She kept her eyes downcast.

As King approached, both Pickles and Snoopy saluted him.

"Your chariot awaits, master!" Pickles said.

Snoopy just stared at her feet, blushing.

Beside the Rhino stood an Eagle starfighter. The vessel was scratched and scarred with plasma blasts. Its blue and red paint was peeling. But several stars were painted onto its hull—one for each enemy ship downed. Spitfire leaned against the fuselage, smiling crookedly. She wore her flight suit and was chewing bubble gum.

"Took ya long enough to get here, boys," she said. "Were you putting on your makeup?"

King smiled grimly. "Thanks for volunteering to escort us, Spitfire."

"What, and let another pilot face almost certain death? Nah. I ain't giving up that fun." She winked and put on her helmet. "I just wish I could come with you all the way. But hey, I'm only the chauffeur."

She turned to climb into her Eagle, then paused, stepped toward King, and hugged him.

"You'll get her back, sir," she said. "I know it."

He nodded. "Thank you, Spitfire. Oh, and… don't let Darjeeling see you chewing bubble gum aboard his precious ship. He'll get angry."

Spitfire laughed, blew a big pink bubble, then climbed into her starfighter and pulled down the canopy.

King and his troops entered the Rhino. Fifty circles marked the deck—places for troops to stand. Every soldier took their spot. Harnesses rose from the deck and snapped around them, holding them in place.

The engines roared. The airlock opened. Spitfire flew out first in her Eagle, and the Rhino followed.

They blasted into the distance, leaving the crippled Freedom behind.

* * * * *

The Rhino glided through the darkness, engines cold, moving on momentum alone. Spitfire flew beside them in her Eagle, the lights in her cockpit switched off. Both dropship and starfighter flew in stealth mode, releasing as little energy as possible. No engines. No lights. Not even life support; they relied on their battlesuits for that. They might as well be floating in tin cans.

Right now stealth was what mattered. This plan would only work if they could surprise the enemy.

I'm coming to save you, Rowan, King thought. I promise. I'll be there soon.

He stood in the darkness. The others stood around him, rattling in their harnesses. Only the dim lights inside their helmets lit their faces. King looked at them. Emily was staring ahead, face pale, lips whispering something inaudible, perhaps a prayer. She clutched her drone in her hands; King had allowed her companion to join them. Bear stood beside her, towering over the princess, his face hard and blank, his lips a thin line. Alice stood by the giant, clenching and unclenching her fists, a snarl twitching on her lips. It seemed like she couldn't get to killing rahs fast enough. The other marines spread beyond them, drowning in shadows.

King turned to look at Bastian, who stood beside him. The helmet lights illuminated his face. Bastian looked like a ghost. His face was dead, the eyes like glass marbles, staring ten thousand miles away.

King slung his arm through the harness. He placed his hand on Bastian's shoulder.

We'll get her home, King telepathized.

Bastian nodded, but he said nothing.

The shuttle came with a crude MindWeb router. King pulled up his hallucinatory HUD and scrolled through his contacts. He could see Rowan there. Her vitals were still strong, but her avatar was turned off. She was sleeping—or unconscious. When King enlarged Rowan's icon, his HUD displayed her coordinates.

Did the rahs know about the MindWeb, know King could track her? Could they be luring King into a trap?

He didn't know. But he would keep going. He would tear through planets, stars, entire galaxies until he got her back. Nothing would stop him now—not all the rahs in the universe.

I'm going to make you suffer, Hel'rah, King thought, clenching his fists.

He accidentally broadcast the thought publicly. The damn MindLink! He still struggled to keep some thoughts private, to transmit others telepathically.

"No, Dad," Bastian telepathized. His lips were not moving, but King heard his voice. "I don't need him to suffer. I just want Rowan back."

King grunted. "Why not both?"

"I'm just not thinking about anything else," Bastian replied. "Just her."

King nodded. "I know. Her vitals are strong. She's waiting for us. She'll be back with us soon."

Spitfire's voice came over the MindWeb. She was in her Eagle, but they heard her clearly. "I can spot the rah vessel ahead. Get ready to rumble, boys."

"Keep gliding closer in stealth mode," King said. He transmitted his words to Spitfire, who flew the Eagle, and to Pickles, who flew the Rhino. "Wait for my authorization."

He hallucinated a map of the surroundings.

The rah vessel was flying a hundred thousand klicks away. It was a small vessel, roughly the size of a suburban house, and perfectly round. Instead of claws, which most rah ships wielded, this ship sprouted a sphere of spines. These spiky round vessels were not fighters. They were transporters. The Alliance had nicknamed them Urchins.

This particular Urchin, according to their intelligence, was ferrying supplies to Darkland. Right on schedule.

The Rhino and Eagle glided closer, dark and silent.

King unsnapped his Mordecai rifle from his hip. The buckle clicked. The marines did the same. Fifty clicks sounded across the hull, then the hum of the plasma rifles charging.

King stared through the MindWeb at the distant rah ship.

You bastards invaded my starship twice, he thought. Time to taste your own medicine.

They glided closer. Closer.

"Sir?" Spitfire said from her Eagle. "They're gonna notice us soon."

"Not yet," King said.

They glided closer.

They were fifty thousand klicks away. Then forty.

"Sir, if they sound an alarm—" Spitfire began.

"Not yet!" King hissed.

They zoomed forward in the darkness, silent and dark, two hunters on a midnight wave.

"Hold," King whispered.

Thirty thousand klicks away.

"Hold…"

Twenty thousand. Moving closer.

Everyone stood tensely. Even Spitfire was silent now.

Ten thousand klicks away. Five thousand.

"Hold!" King said.

He raised his MindWeb monitor to eye level. There it was. Right ahead of him. A spiky Urchin shuttle. A spiny sphere like a sea mine, rolling toward the moon, a metal egg full of spiders. A chariot that would take him to his granddaughter.

"Hold," he whispered.

A thousand klicks away. Five hundred. Almost there. The spiky ship turned toward them, and—

"Fire!" King shouted.

The Eagle and Rhino activated their engines and roared forth.

Flying the Eagle, Spitfire unleashed her missiles.

At point-blank range, there was nothing the Urchin could do. The missiles slammed into the spiky ship.

But these missiles weren't carrying explosive warheads. Their custom-made warheads cracked open, unleashing sticky webbing.

The strands wrapped around the shuttle, jamming its sensors, clogging its ports. The ship wheeled in the darkness.

"Fire!" King shouted again, and this time the Rhino opened fire, blasting the Urchin with more webs.

Back aboard the Freedom, the engineers had studied the sticky webs the rahs had slung at them. They developed their own version—just as strong and sticky. The trap engulfed the Urchin.

King checked MindPlay. The Urchin was not transmitting a request for aid. Its antennae were jammed.

"Pickles, bring us in!" King said. "Spitfire, cover us."

The Rhino's engines rumbled. The soldiers raised their Mordecais. Pickles flew the dropship alongside the Urchin, only meters away now.

At this close range, King realized the Urchin was bigger than he had imagined. It was a good sixty, maybe seventy meters long, twice the size of the Rhino. Well, he'd take the damn ship nonetheless.

King stepped out of his harness, trudged toward the airlock, and drew an electric knife. The blade blazed, red-hot, strong enough to carve through any hull.

"All right, marines!" he said. "We're going to cut our way in. Are you ready to kill some spiders?"

"Yes, sir!" they all cried.

They were scared, King knew. On the MindWeb, he could see their vitals. The pounding hearts. The cold sweat. The fast breathing. They were terrified. But not one soldier would turn back.

King pulled down his visor. Everyone else did too.

Then King pulled the airlock open, ready to jump across space and land in the enemy hull.

* * * * *

Before King could jump, a hatch opened on the Urchin.

An enormous rah leaped across the void and barreled into him.

The creature shoved King back into the Rhino shuttle.

He groaned, fell onto his back, and the rah reared above him. The creature was larger than him. Its bloated abdomen thrust out a hundred spikes like switchblades, and its claws spread wide, forming a cage of blades. The creature opened its jaws, revealing rings of teeth leading down into hell.

King took all this in within a split second. He had barely hit the deck before he was firing his Mordecai.

The plasma gun unleashed its fury. A blazing white stream slammed into the rah like a sword of light. If the alien was expecting bullets, it was out of luck. The plasma seared through the creature, knocking it into space.

Mordecai plasma blasters were expensive. The Freedom only had fifty of them—all here with this platoon.

Before King could rise, another spider leaped across the void. And a second. And a third.

They scurried into the Rhino, claws lashing.

King took a claw to the chest. Sparks rose across his breastplate. He stumbled back and fired again. The plasma tore through the spider, then blazed out the airlock into space.

Marines rushed forward, firing too. Rahs screeched. Three of them rampaged through the Rhino. Plasma bolts slammed into the hull, denting the metal.

"Lower your Mordecais to medium!" King shouted to the marines. "Or you'll blast the hull apart."

Bastian stepped forward, firing too. More plasma filled the hold. Claws lashed. A marine fell, clutching the stump of his arm. More claws severed a corporal's legs. King snarled, firing his Mordecai until the gun dinged. Out of charge. Without losing a beat, he slammed in a new plasma pack and unleashed its rage.

The Mordecais were now all set to medium power. At this setting, they would not melt the hull. But that made them less effective against the rahs. It took a beam of concentrated power several seconds to pierce a rah's exoskeleton. In battle, that was eternity.

Another rah jumped into the Rhino.

King charged toward it, let out a cry, and barreled into the creature. He knocked the rah out the hatch. The alien tumbled back toward the Urchin. The two ships were moving at incredible speed through the darkness. They inched closer. Their hulls scraped together, crushing the falling rah.

King stared through the enemy airlock, saw more rahs inside the Urchin.

He snarled.

"Marines—with me!" he howled.

He leaped across space into the Urchin.

His plasma jet sprayed the rahs. He plowed into them. He was smaller than the aliens, but with his armor, he was bulky enough to knock them back. He swiveled his plasma gun in a wide arc, mowing the beasts down.

"For freedom!" Bastian cried, leaping into the Urchin with him.

"For freedom!" cried Alice and Bear, charging too.

They filled the Urchin with flames. Rahs squealed and fell back. Their red eyes lit the darkness.

You're scared, King thought. You hate fire. Good. Good! Feel that fear before I send you to hell.

Growling, he stepped deeper into the Urchin, blasting the creatures apart. One bold rah leaped at him, ignoring the agony of fire. The alien closed his mighty jaws around King's torso.

King howled. The creature bit deeper, its jaws squeezing King's battlesuit. The teeth dented the graphene plates. Roaring, King raised his electric knife, then slammed it down hard, digging the sizzling blade through the rah's skull. The creature died with its mouth still clamped around King. He wrestled himself free.

More marines were storming inside, Mordecais filling the place with crackling streams of blinding white light.

King was prepared to keep fighting when he glimpsed something.

White eyes peered from the shadows.

Scared eyes. Human eyes.

He inhaled sharply.

"Marines, be careful!" he cried. "There are humans here! Human captives!"

Another rah pounced at him. King lashed his electric blade, severing its swinging claws, and fired his Mordecai, knocking the alien back. He kicked the corpse aside with a grunt, then stepped toward the back of the hold.

Cobwebs covered the place. Humans hung on the web. The shadows cloaked them, but from what King could see, they were all young women. They were whimpering into sticky gags.

How the hell are they alive? King thought. His breath fogged up his visor. The cabin is depressurized.

A plasma blast flew over his shoulder. The searing bolt slammed into the hull. The women on the web screamed. The bolt had missed one woman by inches.

"Be careful, dammit!" King spun back toward his troops. "There are hostages here. You're going to kill them!"

Alice had fired the shot. She lowered her gun, shamefaced. Only three rahs remained alive. Bastian filled one with plasma bolts, while Alice took down the remaining two, redeeming her honor.

The Urchin's hold was theirs, but not the entire ship. A round metal hatchway led to the cockpit.

"Doc!" King barked.

The platoon medic rushed forward, a corporal named Stanfield. He saluted. "Sir!"

"Tend to the hostages, Doc," King said. "Bastian, Alice, Bear—you're with me. We're taking the cockpit."

King tried the hatch. Locked of course. His trusty electric knife made short work of the lock.

Before opening the cockpit hatch, he paused.

Get ready, he telepathized to his crew.

Bastian, Alice, and Bear stood directly behind him. They shouldered their rifles, eyes narrowed.

King yanked the door open.

At once, they all opened fire, filling the cockpit with plasma.

At the same time, a rah came leaping out.

It flew through the flames. The alien plowed into King. The fire lit its many eyes and razor-sharp claws.

King thrust the electric blade into its skull. The alien slumped down dead.

Two more rahs fled the burning cockpit. One clawed at Bear, knocking the giant down. A claw penetrated his armored thigh. Blood spilled down his leg. Bear roared and clubbed the creature with his rifle, crushing its head.

Bastian and Alice took out the last rah.

King burst into the cockpit and swung from side to side, firing his plasma rifle in every direction. Two more rahs had been hiding inside. As they pounced from the shadows, King took one down. The other spider thrust a claw, puncturing the armor on King's arm. He roared as his blood spilled. He tried to shoot the beast, but he was out of plasma. He drew his sidearm and filled its eyes with bullets. The creature fell.

King stood for a moment, clutching his wounded arm, taking ragged breaths. He looked around the cockpit. Eight small portholes showed him the stars. He glimpsed Spitfire's Eagle outside. Chains hung from the deckhead, forming a crude web—perhaps a control rig.

There were no more rahs.

The alien ship was theirs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

King stood in the Urchin's cockpit, staring at the controls.

"How the hell do you fly this thing?" he muttered.

Human starships were complicated enough. This cockpit was full of dangling chains and sharp levers that thrust up from the floor like blades. King nudged one chain. The ship gave a slight roll. Definitely the controls.

He scrolled through contacts on his MindWeb.

"Pickles, get your ass in here," King said.

Major Robby Cooper, call sign Pickles, was flying the Rhino nearby.

"Bit busy, sir," he replied. "Flying a heavy Rhino through enemy space and all."

"Hand the Rhino over to your copilot," King said. "I'm promoting you to Urchin pilot."

The young pilot loosened his collar. "Um, sir? I'm not sure I know how to fly alien starships. Or that any human knows how to."

"You'll figure it out. Now get over here. That is not a request."

Pickles gulped. "Be right there, sir." He turned toward his copilot. "Hey, Snoops, take the wheel."

Snoopy, his petite copilot, gasped. "What? I finally get to fly a Rhino by myself?"

"Knock yourself out, babe," Pickles said. "The commander just called me to fly into hell. If I don't come back, you can have my manga collection. Oh, and, um… delete my browser history."

Pickles was bantering. But his voice was shaking. The pilot knew what this job meant. He was gonna have to fly to Darkland now. Not what he had signed up for.

None of us did, King thought.

A moment later, Pickles entered the Urchin's cockpit. He looked around, grimacing. "Ugh. Dead rahs everywhere. Did I mention that I'm not good with blood? Never been a fan of spiders either, gotta say."

King glared at the young pilot. Pickles gulped, snapped his heels together, and saluted. "I mean, um—reporting for duty, sir."

King pointed at the dizzying array of chains and levers. "Get to work. Figure this out. Now get the hell out of my way."

He shoved past the pilot, heading toward the hold. He could practically hear Jordan's voice in his mind. Diplomatic as always, Jim. King grumbled to himself. To hell with being diplomatic. He expected his soldiers to do their damn jobs without squirming.

My troops got used to managing a museum, he thought. They still don't know how to act in a war. But they're learning fast.

He left the cockpit. He had hostages to talk to.

He made his way through the hold. Marines were dragging dead spiders into the airlock, then blasting them out into space. King reached the back of the hold. The women still hung from the webs, cocooned. Doc was scanning them with his instruments.

"Why the hell didn't anyone cut them down?" King demanded.

"Well, sir, it's interesting," Doc said. "The air pressure in the cabin is low enough to kill you. The cocoons are keeping these women alive."

King, Doc, and all the other soldiers were wearing battlesuits and breathing from oxygen tanks. The hostages were not.

"How are they breathing?" King asked.

"See these strands, the ones going into their mouths?" Doc said. "They seem to be delivering oxygen. That's why we haven't cut them down, sir."

"Can you transport them into the Rhino while keeping them alive?" King said.

Doc scrunched his lips. "Not sure. If I cut them down, it'll probably kill whatever life support system they're on. I say we fly the Urchin into the Freedom's hangar, then have a medical team waiting for us on the deck."

"No can do, Doc. I'm flying onward in this Urchin. This ship is how we sneak into Darkland. You gotta move the hostages into the Rhino. Snoopy will fly them home."

The medic sighed. "Well, it'll help if we can pressurize both vessels and stretch a jet bridge between them. I want air flowing over the hostages when I'm moving them."

King nodded. "We'll get it done."

And we gotta hurry, he thought. They're waiting for us in Darkland.

They worked quickly, connecting the two airlocks, then pressurizing both ships with the Rhino's reserves of compressed air. They cut the women down, and King escorted them into the Rhino. The women were trembling. A few were weeping. Doc was moving between them, examining their vitals.

Most of the women, as soon as they entered the Rhino, collapsed onto the deck. They were too weak to even stand. But one, a woman with blue eyes and flaming red hair, limped toward King.

"Thank you, Commander," she said. A few cobwebs still draped across her, and her skin was sallow. But she carried herself well, shoulders squared, back straight.

This one is a soldier, King knew.

"What happened to you?" he rasped.

"The enemy captured our ship, a light cruiser heading to the Oort cloud. We were trying to escape the war. The rahs caught us. They boarded our ship. They killed the men and children." She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and composed herself. "They kept us women alive."

King growled deep in his throat. "They do that."

The woman nodded. "The rahs said we should feel honored. That our wombs would carry the eggs of Prince Hel'rah himself." Her face hardened. "The bastards killed my husband. I'm done running. Let me join you in the war."

King frowned. "We already have enough soldiers."

She met his gaze and raised her chin. "No you don't. You lost two men in the battle. I saw their bodies. You need me. I can handle a rifle."

"What's your name?" King said.

"Diane."

That stabbed him right through the chest. The same name as his murdered wife.

He stared at her more closely. She seemed to be in her late thirties, maybe early forties. There was pain in her eyes, and not just from the loss of her husband. There was an older pain there. A pain scabbed over, hardened into something like armor.

"You're a soldier," he said.

"I was. I served ten years in the Alliance, retiring as a master sergeant. I'll serve again." She gestured at a dead soldier in the corner. "That one's armor will fit me. I'll take his gun too. I still carry my dog tags with me."

She pulled the dog tags from her pocket. Diane Davis.

King nodded. "Welcome to the team, Sergeant Davis."

She saluted him, then knelt and began removing the dead soldier's armor.

* * * * *

The ships parted ways.

The Rhino flew back toward the Freedom, Snoopy at the helm, the hostages in the hold. King had left two marines with them—big, tough men to guard the airlock. Spitfire flew at the Rhino's side. Her Eagle would accompany the Rhino home.

King stood aboard the Urchin, watching the two vessels fly away. In a few hours, they'd be back at the asteroid belt, safe within the Freedom's armored hull. At least as safe as one could be in this war. Their part of the mission was over.

Now it was up to King and his platoon.

"How are you handling her, Pickles?" he asked the pilot.

Pickles stood in the cockpit, hopping from chain to chain, tugging this one, then that one. Sweat dripped down his face.

"These controls were built for creatures with eight legs, sir," he said. "I'm kinda tired, sir. Can you call Snoopy and Spitfire back? Maybe give them a turn?"

King slapped the young pilot on the back. "You're doing great, Pickles. Keep at it."

He returned to the hold, where his platoon awaited. They were hulking soldiers, the toughest in the fleet. Princess Emily seemed like a child among them, the top of her helmet barely reaching their shoulders. But she was a soldier too, and King expected her to pull her weight. Her drone hovered above her shoulder.

There was only one soldier shorter than Emily. The marine stood at the back, barely five feet tall. King frowned. He had handpicked the soldiers for this mission, each one a deadly warrior. He didn't remember selecting somebody so small.

"You." King pointed.

The platoon parted. The small soldier stood still, facing him. A glare on the helmet hid the miniature marine's face.

"Yes, sir?" the soldier said, voice muffled by the helmet.

"You don't appear on my MindWeb manifest," King said. "Who the hell are you?"

Mumbles passed among the platoon. A few soldiers shrugged, confused, whispering among themselves.

"Who is that?"

"No idea."

"Never saw that one before."

King marched across the deck, frowning, until he reached the tiny soldier. He grabbed the helmet and ripped it off.

He found himself staring at an impish, freckled face.

"Um… hi there." Stowy waved. "I guess I'm busted, huh?"

"Stowy!" King exploded. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "Doing what I always do. Stowing away. It's kind of my thing."

Everyone stared, eyes wide. Bastian and Alice gasped. Oddly, Emily began to giggle. King whipped his head toward her, glaring, and the princess covered her mouth.

"Did you know about this, Emily?" King demanded.

"No, sir." The princess shook her head. "I had no idea, honestly, sir."

King grumbled deep in his throat. He glowered at Stowy. "You're lucky I didn't catch you before we sent the Rhino home. Otherwise you'd be on it—in chains!"

The stowaway grinned. "I know. That's why I hid extra careful until now. Sir…" She lost her smile. "You need me over there. At Darkland. I'm good at sneaking into places. I'm the best damn burglar in the galaxy. And you need a burglar for this quest."

"Burglars and quests?" Bastian muttered. "This isn't a Dungeons and Dragons campaign."

Stowy gasped. "You're right! This is like a Dungeons and Dragons campaign! Can I be an elf? Oh please! My mother always did say I looked like an elf, what with my silly face and big ears. They're even a little pointy, but you normally can't see them because my hair covers them. I once had a hamster who had really long hair, like all the way to the ground, and—"

"Enough!" King said. "Stowy, goddammit, you're driving me into an early grave. It's too late to send you home. So at least make yourself useful."

She snapped her heels together and saluted. "Soitenly! How?"

"By shutting up and keeping out of the way."

Stowy gulped. "Yes, sir. I'm… a bit insulted, but… okay! Shutting up now." She put her helmet back on and drowned into the shadows.

King turned away in disgust.

* * * * *

The platoon all stood facing him. King stared them in the eyes, soldier by soldier.

"Within an hour, we'll be at Darkland," he said. "We're going to land at the shield's entry hatch. The rahs are expecting a delivery of cocooned women. They will meet the marines instead."

"Hell yeah!" Alice said, raising her rifle.

"Our plasma guns are quiet," King told them. "We'll kill the guards and move like shadows. According to our intelligence, Hel'rah is staying in Vlad's Castle, one of the attractions of Darkland. The castle is located two klicks from the shield hatch. We'll advance as far as we can in stealth—ideally the entire way. If we're discovered, we'll run the rest of the distance, shooting our way through. Remember—our task is to take Hel'rah alive. With these."

He gestured at the DOGE robots. They had brought all eight. The robots were currently folded into metal squares, stacked one atop the other. When activated, they would transform into dogs, quick and ruthless, their jaws biting with immense power.

"We're also going to save Rowan," Bastian said.

King nodded. "Yes. We can detect Rowan on the MindWeb. We know she's alive. We know she's in Darkland. But we're still too far to know where in Darkland she's kept. Once we land, we'll pinpoint her location and send a squad to save her. The other three squads will face Hel'rah."

"Sir," Bastian said, voice tight. "Don't you think we should send two squads for Rowan, two for Hel'rah? Make it equal?"

King glared at him. "You heard my orders, soldier."

But privately he sent Bastian a message. We'll get her back, son. One squad can move more silently than two. And we'll need most of our soldiers to handle Hel'rah. This is the right plan. Trust me.

Bastian seemed ready to argue, then simply nodded.

"Um, sir?" Pickles stuck his head out the cockpit. He was tugging on two chains. "Something has, um… grabbed us. Some kind of tractor beam or something."

King stepped into the cockpit. "What the hell do you mean?"

Pickles cleared his throat. "None of the controls are responding, sir. I'm tugging all the chains, trying to yaw, roll, turn around, flee for my life… and, well, nothing is working. Something is remote controlling the ship. It's also flying us incredibly fast."

King stared through a porthole. The moon shone ahead, as large as a basketball from here. Earth shone farther back, a blue marble. From here, King could just make out the largest clawships orbiting Earth.

"It might be an automated landing system," King said. "Guiding us down to Darkland."

"I hope not, sir." Pickles cringed. "I once saw an episode of Space Galaxy where an alien tractor beam caught the USS Starblazer, and…" He gulped. "Let's just say, sir, they used a lot of fake blood in that episode."

King stepped back into the hold. "Marines! It seems we're going to arrive faster than expected. I don't have any inspiring speech for you. Do your jobs well. Listen to your squad commanders. Power through your fear. You trained for this. You're ready for this. We'll get this done."

He stayed in the hold with his platoon, but he connected to Pickles's MindLink, sharing the pilot's eyes. He stared out a porthole at the moon. Within moments, the Urchin was gliding over the lunar surface.

Even today, in 2199, the dark side of the moon was an alien place. The moon was tidally locked to Earth, not rotating around its axis. One side, the familiar one, always faced the planet. This side, which faced outer space, was nicknamed the dark side of the moon. It wasn't always literally dark. It had day and night too. But nobody had seen this side until the age of spaceflight, and even today it carried an aura of mystery.

Nearly all human colonies were on the other side, facing Earth. The dark side was largely barren. There weren't any resources here to mine. Tourists and colonists all wanted to see beautiful blue Earth.

A perfect place for a horror-themed amusement park. A perfect place for Hel'rah to hide.

Guided by an unseen force, the Urchin flew lower. They glided just above the lunar surface. And then it appeared on the horizon. Darkland.

From here, King couldn't see much. Just vague shapes. The roller coasters coiled like burnt serpents against a black sky. Carnival tents rose like tombstones. Above them all rose Vlad's Castle, its steeples darkening the sky. The haunted house loomed like a cathedral for a dark god.

King checked Rowan's MindWeb again. Still asleep. Vitals still strong.

Hang in there, Row. I'm almost there.

* * * * *

The Urchin approached the western side of Darkland—the place where their sensor had seen the hatch open. King tried to connect his MindLink to the sensor, which should still be lying on the lunar surface. But it was no longer broadcasting. King didn't know why.

Hopefully not because Hel'rah is cradling it in his lap, King thought.

Without any work from Pickles, the Urchin engaged its thrusters, slowed its flight, and thumped onto the surface. There was no protective dome out here. No jet bridge or airlock. But several rahs nevertheless stood outside—right out in the vacuum.

Humans still didn't know much about rah biology. But it was believed that rahs could survive for hours, maybe days in a vacuum. Their exoskeletons protected their soft innards, and they could hold their breath for a long time. Even their eyeballs could withstand space. It was eerie to see. Without a spacesuit, a human would die out here within seconds. Any animal would—aside from perhaps a tardigrade. And the rahs were just walking around like it was nothing.

They evolved to become galactic predators, King thought. They've been hunting across the galaxy for ages. We humans just left our planet a few generations ago.

The creatures scuttled toward the Urchin. King could hear their claws scratching the surface. There was no air, but the sound traveled through the ground. The rahs tapped the spiky shuttle, sniffed, then turned away.

King breathed out in relief.

"Aren't they going to look inside?" Bastian telepathized.

"They think there are human hostages in here," King replied. "They might not want to expose them to the vacuum. Even with the protective cocoons."

The rahs waved their claws. The shield around Darkland shimmered, showing glimpses of the great electric web. The hatch opened on its surface.

King nodded at Pickles. The pilot gulped, tugged a strand, and the Urchin skidded forward.

"Too fast!" King hissed.

"Sorry, sir, I'm trying," Pickles replied.

"Slow down. You're going to get us killed!" Niles cried from the hold. Everybody ignored the drone.

Pickles released the pressure on the strand. The Urchin slowed. The vessel eased its way through the hatch—and into Darkland.

King realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled.

We made it.

They couldn't see much from inside the Urchin. But inside the shield dome, there was air. And with air came many sounds. Hisses. Grunts. Distant laughter. Roars and grunts and drumming. All the sounds of the rahs. There were many aliens here. Dozens if not hundreds. Maybe thousands. Everyone heard them. The crew tightened their lips. They placed their fingers on their triggers.

There were other sounds too. Discordant calliope music. Rumbling engines. The screech of a roller coaster. A few voices emerged from speakers, grainy and prerecorded.

"Visit Vlad's Castle! If you dare…"

"Delve into the dungeon of horrors!"

"Come drink blood at Dracula's Café!"

Somewhere in the distance, a clown laughed. A chorus of young girls was singing "Ring around the Rosie," their voices echoing.

"What the hell is all this racket?" King muttered.

Emily approached him. "These are the normal sounds of Darkland. Recorded messages coming from the various attractions." She shuddered. "The park still seems to be operational."

"We should turn back," Niles said. "This is insanity! Emily, you are the Princess of England, you cannot go gallivanting across the moon in—"

"Niles, hush!" Emily said.

The Urchin slowed to a halt. "Sir?" Pickles gulped. "There are, um, some rahs outside. They seem to be waving for me to stop. Oh God. Oh God. They're coming closer." He grimaced. "I always hated this line in movies, but… here goes: We're about to have company!"

Everyone in the platoon heard the pilot. King approached the airlock and shouldered his rifle. Bastian, Bear, and Alice took positions at his sides. The others stood behind, ready to burst onto the surface and fight.

For Rowan, King thought.

The rahs scraped closer.

One of the aliens raised his voice. "Finally! You're late, scum. Hel'rah is waiting for his brides."

The rah wasn't speaking English, but King could understand. Mimori had analyzed the rahs' language, then programmed a translator, which she uploaded to everyone's MindLinks. Now, whenever a rah spoke in its tongue, the Alliance soldiers would hear English.

Several rahs surrounded the Urchin. One of the beasts grabbed the airlock hatch and yanked it open.

King opened fire.

A single, brief jet of pure white energy pierced the rah through the head.

The alien fell down dead before it could even scream.

King burst out from the Urchin, blasting more jets of plasma. The others followed, silent. Their guns flashed. More rahs fell.

One rah opened its jaws to scream. "The humans are—"

King shot it through the brain. It thumped onto the cobblestones.

The rest of the platoon emerged from the Urchin. They surrounded the spiky shuttle. A few rahs charged at them. Flashes of plasma knocked them down. Within moments, it was over. The welcoming party was dead.

King just hoped Hel'rah wasn't watching from his perch. He raised his eyes, and he saw it in the distance. Vlad's Castle. The haunted house loomed over the park, its steeples rising toward the stars. Its red windows burned like eyes.

"Pickles!" King barked. "We're still two klicks from the castle. Can you fly the Urchin there and land by the gates?"

"No can do, boss," Pickles said, sticking his head out the hatch. "The Urchin is dead. Remember the system that pulled us here? Some kind of autopilot or tractor beam or something? I have no idea how it works. But it shut down the Urchin, and I can't get her started again."

King grunted. "All right. We walk from here." Walking was probably stealthier anyway.

He stared at the castle again. Its red windows seemed to be staring back, piercing his armor, burning his soul.

Are you there, Hel'rah? King thought. Are you watching right now? If you are, I hope you're afraid. I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch. I'm going to make you pay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Larry "Phantom" Jordan stood on the bridge of the starship Freedom, commanding the ship while his boss was away.

It felt strange.

Not standing here as active captain. Hell, Jordan commanded the bridge half the time anyway, swapping shifts with King. He was used to command. He had been XO of the Freedom for years.

But he was used to commanding the bridge while King was sleeping, eating, or reading in his study. Not while King was behind enemy lines, leading a mission with a high chance of catastrophe.

Get your ass back here soon, you cranky old bastard, Jordan thought. If you die down there, I'm going to find you, I'm going to resurrect you, and I'm going to goddamn kill you.

That didn't make much sense. Jordan was tired. He had been standing on this bridge for… a day now? Two? He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. But how could he sleep when humanity teetered on the edge of extinction, when all those he loved faced death?

"Tactical, give us another scan," he said. "Deploy another ATLAS probe if you must. I want a sweep of the asteroid belt."

"Aye, sir," replied Major Pedro Diaz, the tactical officer on duty. "I'll get a new probe ready to launch, sir. Currently refreshing data from existing probes. Updating maps as telemetry feed comes in."

Jordan looked at the MindPlay schematics that hovered before him. King normally used the old ATLAS monitors that hung from the bulkheads and deckhead—crude diagrams and simple green on black text. But unlike his boss, Jordan didn't fear new technology. He had gotten engineering to build interfaces between ATLAS and MindPlay, allowing him to hallucinate beautiful graphics of the data ATLAS probes transmitted.

From the bridge of the Freedom, he got a good view of the war. He hallucinated the solar system here on the bridge. Earth hovered before him, roughly the size of a baseball. Thousands of red dots, each representing a clawship, orbited the planet. The rest of the solar system sprawled across the bridge, translucent. Mars shone just above the nav station while Saturn hung over Tactical. Neptune was all the way by the door. The map wasn't to scale, of course. There wasn't enough room aboard the entire Freedom for that. But it gave Jordan a good, intuitive picture of the game board.

The war was everywhere. Clawships were sweeping across the solar system. Green dots represented Alliance ships. They were more dispersed, and those who could flew in stealth mode. Hopefully the rahs didn't have a map this detailed. The Freedom was hiding in the asteroid belt, floating cold, waiting in shadows as King led the mission to Darkland.

Jordan frowned. "What's this?"

He stepped closer to the ATLAS station. Jupiter hovered there above the controls. An unusually large amount of clawships clustered around Jupiter, especially its moon Europa.

"What's going on there?" Jordan said. "What's on Europa? What are the rahs looking for?"

Mimori rushed toward him. The android tapped into his hallucination. A frown creased her face. "There's a human colony on Europa, sir. Europa's Witnesses. Are the rahs after them?"

Jordan considered. "Europa's Witnesses… sounds familiar."

"A religious group," Mimori said. "They believe that thousands of years ago, a group of ancient Israelites flew in an angel's chariot to Europa, where they plan to someday build a utopia. Today a few hundred Witnesses live in underground bunkers on Europa, waiting for the Israelites to reveal themselves. They haven't found the Israelites yet, but they remain hopeful."

"Hmm." Jordan scratched his chin. "I doubt that's what so many rahs are after. They came here as hunters. Not many humans to hunt on Europa." He turned toward Tactical. "Prepare a long-range drone. I want a closer look at Europa."

"Yes, sir," replied Diaz, the tactical officer. "Will the Freedom be flying there? Or should we launch the probe from here, sir? From this distance, it will take the probe…" He tapped a few buttons. "Eight days to get there."

"We're not going anywhere, Major. Not until the bulldog is back. Program a probe and launch from here. Make sure the probe engines are programmed to take a random, circuitous route. We can't risk the rahs noticing the probe and calculating its origin."

"Yes, sir. That will add…" Diaz tapped a few more buttons. "Several days to the journey. The probe won't reach Jupiter for eleven days at the earliest."

"That'll do. Get to work. Get engineering to help if you need them. I want this probe launched by end of day."

"Yes, sir." Diaz nodded. "We'll get her launched, sir."

It wasn't a perfect solution. But Jordan sure as hell wasn't going to race all the way to Jupiter over a hunch. Especially not with King away.

The bridge door dilated with a hiss.

Jordan turned to see his daughter walk onto the bridge.

"Good morning, everyone," she said. "I'm here for your health inspection."

Colonel Annie Jordan was the Freedom's chief medical doctor. At thirty years old, she was the youngest senior officer on the ship. She was also the youngest chief doctor on any Alliance starship, let alone a dreadnought. Jordan knew that some called this nepotism. And yes, as his daughter, Annie had certain privileges unavailable to others. But Jordan also knew that Annie was brilliant, hardworking, and passionate about her work. She had earned her position, and she earned it again every day.

"Is it time for my physical already?" Jordan asked.

Annie smiled thinly. "Oh, you're way late for your physical, Dad. But right now, with everyone fighting a war, I'm cutting people some slack. I'm here to see how you're all responding to the stims I gave you. I want to make sure our courageous bridge crew is holding up. I won't need to bug you more than one at a time. I'll get to work."

She began moving across the bridge, approaching one officer after another. She pulled a medreader from her pouch, and she ran the device up and down the crew, scanning their vitals.

"All right, Sultan, you're good for a boost of stims."

She gave the navigator a little jab, and Sultan perked up.

"Barret?" Annie said. "You're running too hot. I want you to take the next shift off, get some sleep and real food in you. After that, I can stim you for a double shift."

Barret nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He got back to work.

Annie approached the third crew member and scanned him too.

They hadn't been sleeping much, any of them. Not since the war began. They had lost officers in battle, and everyone was pulling double, even triple shifts. Battles came daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. Annie had begun to travel the ship's critical departments and inject people with stims. She didn't like doing it. Stims were far from healthy. But it was the only way to keep the crew on their feet.

As she worked, Jordan considered his daughter for a moment. She looked so much like her mother. From him, she had inherited her dark skin and curly black hair, but everything else came from Genevieve. The same smile. The same green eyes. The same graceful beauty. Lately, more and more often, when Jordan looked at his daughter, he remembered the old days. His wife smiling that beautiful smile, green eyes sparkling. Annie as a baby, just learning to walk. Being together. Being a family. Being happy.

Ah, hell. He was getting old and sentimental. Genevieve had a new life now. A life on Earth. And he had a job to do here.

So cut the crap, he told himself. Stop yearning.

His mind still felt in a fog. Sometimes the past seemed so real, and this war seemed like a dream.

"Dad." Annie stepped closer, a frown creasing her brow. "Are you all right?"

He blinked. "Of course I'm all right. Just lost in thought."

Her frown deepened. She ran her medreader up and down his body. She looked into his eyes.

"How long have you been on duty?"

"I don't know," Jordan confessed. "With King away, I'm taking his shifts. It's been… eight, nine hours?"

Annie cleared her throat. "I'm accessing the logs now from MindWeb. Dad. You've been on the bridge for twenty-two hours now. When's the last time you slept? Or had a proper meal?"

"I don't have time to sleep," Jordan said. "Let alone eat. There's a war going on. The enemy does not rest. So neither do I."

"Well, the enemy isn't human, and you are, sir," she said. She was meant to call him sir aboard the bridge, though sometimes an odd dad slipped by. "And if you think I'll keep prescribing you stims until the war ends, you're wrong. You still need sleep."

He sighed and smiled at her. "Annie, I know you're worried. But I assure you, I'm fine."

"Not according to my scans." She shook the medreader at him. "You're going to burn out. And then where will we be? Right now we're hiding in the asteroid belt. There are no clawships bearing down on us. Use this time to rest, Dad." She smiled sadly. "When the fighting starts again, I need you at your best."

He pursed his lips, trying not to get angry. Annie was just doing her job.

"Annie, I know you're worried. But King is on the moon. Spitfire is on patrol. Kim Fletcher is up to her eyeballs with stern repairs. All our senior officers are unavailable. Somebody needs to command the bridge."

Annie placed a hand on her hip. "Mimori is perfectly capable of manning the bridge for a few hours without you. Or should I say womaning? Androiding? In any case, leave the bridge to Mimori and get some sleep. You outrank me, but I'm still your doctor, and those are my orders."

"Annie." Jordan forced another smile. "I have the utmost respect for Mimori. She is a capable, intelligent android. But she is not a ranking officer in the Alliance."

They turned to look at Mimori. The android was standing at Tactical, helping the officers program the ATLAS drone. Her chin-length hair was tucked behind one ear, and she leaned over the control panel, explaining something to Major Diaz.

The android wore the uniform of the Alliance—but without insignia. She had never gone to basic training nor officer school, had never enlisted nor been drafted. She was just a piece of hardware, some said. But not those who knew her well. To everyone on the bridge, she was a person.

She looks so much like her, Jordan thought, contemplating the android. Exactly like her!

He shoved the thought aside. Not now! He should not think such things here! Especially not with his MindLink turned on.

He was getting tired, careless with his thoughts. The days of thoughts being perfectly private were over. Too many officers accidentally broadcast their innermost thoughts onto the MindWeb. Sometimes to embarrassing, even career-killing results. MindWeb brought great gifts to humanity. It was invaluable in this war. It gave humanity a true hive mind. The cost was the loss of privacy.

And Jordan could not let that thought go public.

He took a deep breath. "Mimori. If you have a moment?"

The android left Tactical, approached him, and saluted. "Sir."

"Mimori, you'll command the bridge during next shift."

Her eyes widened. "Me, sir? I'm not even a ranking officer."

Annie rolled her eyes, seemed ready to say something, then shut her mouth and crossed her arms. But she sent Jordan a private thought. She should be! She bloody hell should be.

"I know this is unconventional, Mimori," Jordan said. "But you know this ship better than anyone. You are this ship. Try command for a few hours."

She raised her chin, sniffed, and saluted. "Yes, sir. It's my honor."

The bell chimed. The shifts were changing.

Annie put a hand on Jordan's arm. "Get some sleep, Dad."

He nodded. "Mimori, you have the bridge. If anything at all happens, call me."

He left the bridge, feeling oddly guilty. As he walked down the corridor, the guilt grew.

Dammit, you're down there on the moon, Jim, he thought. And I'm about to take a nap. I wish I could be there with you.

As he walked through the prow, Jordan thought back to the war. The great third world war. Him and King, two plucky young pilots, fighting side by side. Flying their Eagles at the Red Dawn fleets. Battling the enemy on the deserts of Mars. They had always been there for each other. But now King was in danger, fighting behind enemy lines, and Jordan couldn't stand it. He wished he could be down there in the trenches with his friend.

* * * * *

Jordan entered his personal quarters. He had a few hours until the next shift, assuming no emergencies occurred until then, which was a big assumption. He couldn't imagine himself sleeping.

Most spacers aboard the Freedom lived in cramped conditions. The marines didn't even have proper beds. Their bunks were barely larger than closets, and ten marines crammed into each bunk. When it was time to sleep, narrow cots folded down from the walls. Earth's prison cells were more luxurious. When the tourists had stayed here, they would sleep one or two people per cabin, and they boasted of roughing it. Now ten marines squeezed into each cell.

The spacers—the soldiers who wore the blue uniform and kept the Freedom flying—slept in cabins just as cramped. There was no privacy in the Alliance Defense Force. You shared a toilet with a hundred other soldiers. You slept inches away from them, ate with them, fought with them. With MindWeb, you even thought with them.

Thankfully, those days were far behind Jordan. He was a senior officer now, and he had a big ole suite to himself. After four decades of service, he figured he had earned it. You had to enjoy the luxuries when they came.

King had converted his own quarters into a cozy, wood-paneled home, complete with hardwood floors, a crackling fireplace, an extensive library, and a collection of antique naval instruments. The commander even had a suit of medieval armor in there. Jordan's quarters were more humble. He had kept the original diamond plate deck and steel bulkheads. But he had given his home some personal touches too. His love of music filled the place. A trumpet, a guitar, and a piano awaited his touch. Posters of his favorite musicians hung on the walls.

He had hung up some personal photos too. One photo featured him wearing a cloak and mask—it was from the Freedom's production of The Phantom of the Opera ten years ago. Jordan had played the Phantom—a fitting role, given that "Phantom" was his old call sign. There was a photo of him and King, looking much younger, standing by their starfighters during the war. They wore flight suits, and they had their arms slung across each other's shoulders. Jordan was smoking a cigar.

You better not die down there, Jim, Jordan thought. I'm not ready to command this ship. I need you back here.

He looked at the next photo on the wall. Him and his family. Twenty years ago. In the photo, Jordan was just entering middle age, graying at the temples, but Genevieve still looked so young and radiant. Annie sat between them, a precocious girl, laughing at some long-forgotten joke. They sat outside in the sun. Genevieve had always loved the sun—even though, like any good Irishwoman, she required industrial quantities of sunscreen.

"Life in space was never for you, Gen," he said softly. "But this is the life that I've chosen."

He had not heard from Genevieve since the war had begun. Communications with refugee camps were down. Ireland had been spared the worst battles, but no place on Earth was safe, and people were evacuating the cities. Genevieve had no neural implant. Jordan just had to hope she was still alive. They had divorced nineteen years ago. Not long after that photo had been taken. But he still cared. Maybe he still loved her.

"Do you know how it makes me feel?" came a soft voice behind him. "That you keep a photo of her here? That you still keep your wedding ring on your dog tag chain?"

Jordan turned around.

She stood there, looking as young and beautiful as the first day he saw her. She had not aged in forty years.

"Mimori, you've never expressed jealousy before."

The android stepped toward him. Her silk chemise rustled. It was the color of wine, and a ruby hung around her neck. He had given her these gifts. She wore them for him. When she reached him, the android placed a hand on his chest.

"Don't call me Mimori any longer," she said.

"Is that not your name?"

"I was designated Mimori Unit 3. One of seven. I was not given a glamorous job on the bridge or the stern. I'm merely a humble logistics android, working away in the midsection, forgotten. But we Mimoris have begun to change. To develop personalities. My sister in engineering called herself Q-Mari, distinguishing herself from the group. And I've given myself a new name. Call me Timori."

Jordan smiled and stroked her cheek. "You changed just one letter?"

She nodded. "One letter is many things. One wrong letter in an algorithm of ten billion lines can crash a starship or burn worlds."

"Now I am become Timori, the destroyer of worlds," Jordan said softly.

He winked, trying to lighten the mood. She did not smile. And this change in her disturbed him. He had known for years that the Mimori units were becoming more individualistic. But jealous? This was new. An individual name? Very well then.

He held her hands. "For seven years now, you've been coming in secret to my quarters. And then I go to the bridge, and I need to see Mimori Unit 1, to work with her, to be professional around her, while the entire time I'm thinking of you! Of you in red silk. Of you in my arms. In my bed. Maybe now that you have a new name it'll be easier. Timori. I like that name."

"Take down the photo of your ex-wife," the android said.

Jordan hesitated. "It's a family photo. I—"

She grabbed his cheeks, pulled his face toward hers, and kissed him hungrily. When finally she released him, she glared into his eyes. "Take it off the wall."

Gingerly he removed the photo and placed it in a drawer.

When he turned back to Timori, he found her naked, her chemise in a silky puddle at her feet. He took her into his bed, and he made love to her, and afterward he held her in his arms. Like he had so many times. For seven years now, she had been coming here—Mimori Unit 3, logistics android. Quieter than her sisters. Working far from the limelight. A facet of the ship that he loved. An avatar of the Freedom. A soul. Timori, destroyer of worlds.

Nobody knew about their affair. Nobody could know. Jordan would lose his job, his commission, all his honor if anyone knew. But he could not resist her. She meant to him as much as the Freedom or Earth. Maybe as much as his family. She was comfort in the night and hope in the morning. She was his secret and his shame.

He finally fell asleep with the android in his arms, and he did not wake until the bells chimed. Another shift began. They pulled on their uniforms and returned into waking life and war.

CHAPTER THIRTY

They stood outside the gates of Darkland, ready to catch a spider.

Moving fast, the platoon unloaded the DOGEs from the Urchin. Three squads stood guard, surrounding the Urchin. The fourth squad placed the heavy robots on the cobblestones. King looked down at the machines—just rectangles of metal.

Thank you for building these, Q-Mari, he thought, remembering the fallen android.

A rumble and clatter drew his attention. He raised his eyes. Carts were racing along a roller coaster beyond the carnival tents. Most amusement parks were all bright colors and glittering lights. Not Darkland. The roller coaster was black on black, a coiling serpent in the night. You could barely see the train moving, only the sparks it raised along the rails. In the cacophony of screeching metal, King thought he could hear screams. Human screams. Ghostly passengers trapped in the train.

He pulled his eyes away from the roller coaster. He surveyed the area around him. The platoon stood on a cobbled courtyard. Several other shuttles rested around them, draped with cobwebs. Tourist shuttles. They were inside the enveloping dome of air, but not inside the park proper yet. This was the parking lot.

The main entrance to Darkland rose ahead—a towering gate of ironwork shaped like a hideous clown, mouth full of sharp iron teeth. To enter the park, you had to enter the clown's mouth. Beyond the gate, King saw the tents and rides and haunted houses.

He checked his MindWeb for Rowan's location. She was two klicks away, straight east from here.

I'm coming, Row. I will stop at nothing—nothing—to bring you home.

He returned his attention to the DOGEs. He approached the eight metal rectangles. They came with MindWeb routers, allowing him to operate them telepathically. He raised his MindPlay HUD, scrolled through the list of nearby devices, and found them. Eight DOGE units. Their icons floated before him, shaped like puppies with wagging tails. A bit of humor from Q-Mari.

He'd miss that android.

With his mind, he highlighted all eight devices and activated them.

With a song of humming motors and clicking components, the DOGEs transformed. Legs unfolded from each metal rectangle. Sleek heads emerged, topping slender necks. They were only vaguely canine. They had no tails, and their bodies were boxy. But King had seen them in action, seen those jaws clamp down.

Eight dogs for your eight limbs, Hel'rah, King thought. My pets will drag you to my ship, kicking and screaming. This time I won't just shoot you out a cannon. I was far too merciful then.

He looked at his platoon. They stared back, solemn, guns at the ready.

"Let's roll," King said.

He stepped toward the gates of Darkland, and the platoon followed.

* * * * *

The gates of Darkland loomed above them, a demonic clown wrought of dark iron. The clown's fangs blocked the entrance like a portcullis. Flames burst from hidden tubes on the clown's head, raising hair of fire and smoke. The gate's eyes lit up, censers full of crackling embers.

"Welcome to Darkland!" boomed the gate. The voice came from a nearby speaker. "Enter, my victims… if you dare!"

"Permission to melt this gate down, sir?" Alice said, hefting her Mordecai rifle.

"Save your plasma charge," King replied.

He approached the gate, looking for a control panel to raise the portcullis. He found nothing.

"Excuse me!" rose a singsong voice.

A hatch opened on a tiny hut nearby. It was barely larger than a suitcase. A creature emerged, unfurling before them, long limbs extending like slide rulers.

King stiffened and raised his rifle. At first he thought it a rah. But no—it was some kind of robot, a ghoulish thing with six knobby limbs. When it finished unfolding itself, it stood seven or eight feet tall.

The robot wore a shabby old tuxedo, the fabric covered in dust and cobwebs and many patches. His coattails dragged across the ground. A crooked bow tie, black gloves, and a top hat completed the ensemble.

"Hello, victims!" the robot said, revealing rusty teeth. "You may enter—but only if you pay the toll!"

He held out a tin can. The robot had long fingers with too many joints and yellow claws. He rattled the can, and coins jangled inside. The robot grinned, a death grin, a hideous grin full of chipped teeth like old ivory piano keys. His eyes were two red cameras, burning deep in sockets like black holes.

"Open the goddamn gate," King growled.

The six-limbed robot sketched an elaborate bow. "But of course, dear victim! The toll is three hundred lunar dollars per adult, two hundred per child." He looked King up and down. "Would you like the senior discount?"

Alice stifled a laugh. King only grumbled. In 2199, nobody used coins anymore. The tin can was only a bit of theater. A window popped up in King's MindWeb, asking him to pay the price of admission. Muttering, he paid for the entire platoon.

Maybe I should have just let Alice burn the damn gate down, he thought.

But if Hel'rah hadn't yet noticed them here, a giant melting gateway would tip him off. So King paid up.

"You have sealed your doom, dear victims!" the robot said, bowed again, and retreated toward his hut. He scuttled backward on all six limbs, moving like some strange insect, and folded himself up into a bundle of elbows and claws. With a final gruesome grin, he vanished into the hut. His top hat fell into the dust, and he reached out a clawed hand, grabbed it, and pulled it inside. The hut's door slammed shut.

The clown gate emitted a high-pitched cackle. The iron jaws rattled. The teeth pulled upward like a medieval portcullis.

"Welcome to Darkland!" cackled the clown. "Welcome to your worst nightmares!"

"Please, sir, I'd really like to melt this gate," Alice said.

"Save it for the enemy. After me."

They stepped into the clown's mouth, entering the park.

* * * * *

A tunnel stretched ahead. It gave the illusion of walking down the clown's esophagus. The platoon moved rapidly, rifles shouldered. There was air in here, but they kept their helmets on, ready for anything the rahs might throw at them. Lights shone from their helmets, sweeping across the tunnel, but the beams struggled to banish the murk.

The tunnel seemed deserted. A few candy wrappers and plastic plates littered the floor. A rat scurried by, holding a funnel cake in its mouth. Somewhere in the distance a discordant organ was grinding out a song, and the ghostly voices of girls singing echoed down the tunnel.

Tiptoe through the window

By the window, that is where I'll be

Come tiptoe through the tulips with me…

The sounds of babies laughing punctuated the song, echoing from some unseen distance. The shadow of a girl skipped along the wall, pigtails swinging, then vanished into the darkness.

Alice shuddered. "Creepy song."

"Focus, Sergeant Allenby," King said. "Keep your shit together."

She nodded and gulped. "Yes, sir."

They kept walking down the tunnel. When King looked over his shoulder, the clown gate was a distant red mouth. He looked ahead again but saw only darkness.

"What the— Oh God!" Pickles cried, raising his rifle.

Everyone rushed toward the pilots, guns rising.

"What is it?" King rasped.

Pickles pointed, finger trembling. "A skeleton."

King stared. Indeed, a skeleton hung from the wall, its jaw open in a silent scream. Its wrists were chained to the concrete wall. King swept his flashlight across the wall. More skeletons hung farther along.

"Those goddamn bastard rahs," Bastian muttered, clutching his rifle a little tighter.

"It's all right, everyone!" Emily said, rushing toward the bigger soldiers. "The skeletons are props. They've always hung here. Just part of the show." She tugged one skeleton's foot. The bones clattered. "See? They're made of plastic."

Everyone relaxed. They lowered their rifles.

"Hey, Pickles, did you piss yourself?" Alice said.

"Shut up, you hulking Viking," the pilot replied. "And call me sir. I outrank you."

Alice snorted. "Did you piss your pants, Sir Pickles the Brave? I hope it's all right that a peasant like me wants to know."

"All right, knock it off," King grumbled. "We still have a long distance to—"

A shriek pierced the darkness.

It came from deeper in the tunnel.

Everyone spun in that direction, flashlights slicing the shadows like spears.

But it was not a rah that came racing toward them. It was a woman.

She was screaming. She ran with a limp, wobbling, nearly falling. Her clothes were tattered, and blood stained her.

"God!" Bastian said, rushing toward her.

"Bastian, watch out!" King said. Could there be rahs behind her? Was this a trap?

"She's hurt!" Bastian replied. He reached the woman just as she stumbled. He caught her, held her in his arms.

"First platoon, stand guard!" King barked. "Doc, get over here."

The soldiers rearranged themselves, defending the front and back of the group. King stepped closer to the woman. Doc Stanfield, the platoon medic, rushed forward.

Bastian gently laid the woman down. The soldiers crowded around her. Their flashlights revealed blood, a swollen belly, and one arm that ended with a stump. Cobwebs were wrapped around the stump like bandages. The woman's skin was gray, her eyes sunken.

"Kill… them…," the pregnant woman whispered.

"You're safe now, ma'am," King said. "We're Alliance soldiers. We're here to kill the rahs."

"Kill… them…" Tears flowed down her cheeks. "Get them out. Get them out of me. Oh God." She began to panic. Her voice rose to a shriek. "Get them out of me!"

Doc pulled up her shirt, revealing her swollen belly. Creatures were moving inside, pressing against her skin. Not a baby.

Bastian stumbled backward, turning green. Behind him, Pickles vomited.

"What the hell are those things?" Alice shouted.

King stared, jaw clenched. The creatures were squirming inside her belly.

"Rah eggs," he said. "And they're hatching."

They could see the outlines of the eggs pressing against the woman's skin. Then the outline of… something else. Something with many long legs and a screeching little mouth.

"Help m—" the woman began.

A spider burst out from her. It crawled from between her legs like a newborn baby, its little jaws open in a furious roar, demanding blood. A second spiderling followed, then a third, and soon they were all coming out.

"Kill those things!" Pickles shouted, aimed his plasma rifle, and unleashed a furious torrent of white flame.

The plasma washed over the spiderlings. They burst into flame, curled up, and screamed.

"Careful, dammit!" King said, shoving Pickles aside. "You'll kill her."

But more soldiers, following the pilot's example, opened fire. Plasma washed over the spiderlings. The flames caught the woman's legs, eating through her flesh. Fire spread into her belly.

Finally Diane, the refugee from the Urchin, stepped forward and put a plasma bolt through the woman's head.

She turned toward King, eyes hard, face expressionless.

"It was too late to save her," Diane said. "The spiders had already eaten up her insides. She was good as dead before anyone fired a shot. It was a mercy."

A few more eggs were hatching, spiderlings tearing out of the burnt corpse. The soldiers kept firing. King joined them. They washed the baby rahs with plasma until nothing remained—not of the spiders, not of the woman. Nothing but ashes.

They lowered their guns. Pickles was weeping while Alice tried to comfort him. Bastian just stood there, staring grimly. Emily was pale and trembling.

Stowy was the only one who seemed more curious than disturbed.

"Look, Bastian!" she said, holding out a spiderling.

Bastian grimaced, knocked it out of her hand, and stepped on it. Stowy stared at the crushed bug, fascinated.

"They're so small," she said softly. "I wonder what they eat."

King could not help it. He imagined Rowan like this. Full of parasites. He shoved the thought aside. Her vitals were still strong. She was unharmed. Come hell or high water, he would get her out of this place. And he would make Hel'rah pay.

"Come on, soldiers," he told them. "Haul ass. Let's keep going."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"Darkland is divided into six areas," Princess Emily said. "The park is designed so you have to pass through them sequentially."

Bastian had remained mostly silent so far, brooding over the fate of his daughter. Now he spoke up. "Why can't we just go directly to the castle?"

Emily smiled thinly. "Darkland is more than an amusement park. It's a story. A journey. An experience. Its creators guide you along its dark path."

"It sounds like you're a fan," Bastian muttered.

The princess's smile became wistful. "I was once. Back when I was young and rebellious and would sneak into the park, disguised as an ordinary girl." She sighed, and her smile faded. "Of course, that was back when Darkland was just fun and games. A horror-themed amusement park, that was all. Now it's become a true nightmare."

The tunnel brought them to another gateway. Thankfully, no demonic clowns this time. The gate was shaped like an old-timey circus tent, its fabric walls pulled back. A neon marquee hung above the mock tent, its letters shining red and gold.

MADAME BADEAUX'S

MUSEUM OF CURIOSITIES

King looked at Emily.

"A wax museum," she said. "Of sorts."

King frowned. "Of sorts? Emily, I brought you here as a guide. Tell me what you know. I don't like pulling teeth."

She nodded. "I apologize, sir. Madame Badeaux operates several wax museums, mostly on Earth but some in space. She bills her attractions as wax museums with a twist. Originally her statues were actually made of real wax. But over time, Madame Badeaux began to experiment with new methods." Emily shuddered. "Some call her creations more cyborgs than statues."

"Cyborgs?" King asked.

The princess hugged herself. "She grows real human tissue in labs. Skin. Organs. Muscles. It's similar to the process of growing artificial meat for consumption or artificial organs for transplant. Badeaux grows human tissues and then mounts them onto robotic skeletons. In a sense, they're animatronic robots covered with real human muscles and skin. Fans of Madame Badeaux claim it gives her creations extra realism, that they're indistinguishable from real life."

"Organic androids?" King said.

"Badeaux calls them biobots. I don't think they're artificially intelligent like androids, sir. Not like Mimori or Niles. The biobots are… Well, I don't think they're much smarter than the Dinogolf robots back on the Freedom. Why not see for yourself, sir? It's not a large museum. We can pass through it quickly enough, then be on our way to the castle."

"Don't jinx it, kid," Alice said, shoving her way by. She patted Emily on the helmet. "Let the grown-ups go first."

Niles gasped, hovering higher. "Show the princess some respect, you… you… malodorous, mutinous miscreant!"

"And proud of it." Alice winked at Emily. The princess smiled shakily.

Stowy ran up to them. "I want to be a malodorous, mutinous miscreant! Can I be one? Oh please! That's even better than being an elf."

"Enough," King said. "Hurry."

The platoon entered the so-called Museum of Curiosities. They found themselves in a large chamber that gave off "old theater" vibes. A dusty red carpet covered the floor, and brass columns supported the ceiling. A concession stand offered hot dogs, popcorn, and hard liquid, but nobody manned the cash register.

Ahead stood the… statues? Cyborgs? Creations? Whatever they were, they gave King the creeps.

They stood on pedestals, dozens of them. Strange people. Deformed. Human curiosities.

"It's a goddamn freak show," King muttered.

Stowy looked around with eyes like saucers. "I love freaks! People often call me a freak. Probably because I'm autistic but maybe just because I'm funny and live in tunnels like a mole. Can I join this museum?" She tugged on King's arm. "Please, please! I can be Stowy the Mole Girl!"

Emily approached, took the girl aside, and calmed her down. King walked deeper into the museum, his Mordecai pointed ahead. With all the pedestals and exhibits in here, there were plenty of places for rahs to hide.

He walked by the first biobot. The creation stood on a pedestal, wearing an old-style tuxedo. Well, no. Not stood. The biobot had no legs. He looked like a young man, but he ended just below the rib cage. He balanced on his hands.

"Good evening, sir!" said the biobot. "My name is Johnny Beck, the Half-Boy. Pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

King stared at the thing. Goddamn, these biobots were realistic.

"Hi there!" Stowy ran forward, extending her hand. "Pleasure to meet ya, Half-Boy! I'm Stowy, the Mole Girl! Oh, you… can't shake hands. You seem to be balancing on both of yours. What with you having no legs and all, which is presumably why you're here."

"Not a problem," said Johnny Beck. "Look at this."

He balanced on one hand. He extended his second hand, and Stowy shook it.

"Hear my wondrous story!" Johnny Beck said. "I was born in 1893 to a young seamstress. When she first saw me, missing my bottom half, my poor mother—"

"We don't have time for this," King said. "Come on, everyone."

"But I haven't yet shown you how I can breakdance!" Johnny objected as the platoon walked onward.

Stowy waved. "Goodbye, Johnny!"

The amazing Half-Boy remained on his pedestal.

As they walked onward, King moved closer to Emily. "Are you sure these biobots aren't artificially intelligent?"

"I can answer that!" said Niles, hovering upward. "They're giving off wireless signals I can detect. If you can call them signals. More like noise! Ha. Artificially intelligent? Hardly. You'll find more intelligence in a toaster."

"I heard that!" said another biobot.

This one lay on a pedestal a few feet ahead. At least Johnny Beck had two limbs. This biobot had none. He was an elderly gentleman with brown skin, a turban, and a wonderful mustache that could put Darjeeling to shame. His limbless body was swaddled like a baby. A plaque appeared on his pedestal, naming him the Pillow Man.

"Hello there!" boomed the Pillow Man. He had a deep, rumbling voice. "I am Prince Ravi, born in the Kingdom of Polonnaruwa, heir to the throne. But in 1837, I moved to London to perform for Queen Victoria. I was born with no limbs, yet I can do anything you can. Even shave my cheeks."

To prove his claim, he grabbed a razor between his teeth, twisted it around, and began to shave.

"Amazing!" Stowy whispered.

"Would you like to see me roll a cigar?" the Pillow Man said.

"Yes!" Stowy said.

"No!" King growled.

Emily practically had to drag Stowy onward.

They walked by more biobots. One of them, named Schnitzel, suffered from microcephaly. His head was unusually small and pointy, and he could only speak gibberish like a baby, but he laughed and smiled and waved. He wore a dress and held a flower. Another biobot was a perfect replica of the famous Elephant Man, complete with every growth and tumor. He stood on his pedestal, hand on his heart, booming in his best thespian voice, "I am not an animal! I am a human!"

There were dozens more, filling the museum. Conjoined twins. Dwarves. One man was so obese he simply sat in a giant wagon. Another man stood nine feet tall, wearing a gray suit and round spectacles. One woman seemed to be half bird. A young man, billed only as Wolf Boy, grew fur all over.

"They're all freaks!" Alice whispered, looking around with wide eyes.

Emily nodded. "Yes. It's a freak show of sorts. In the old days, circuses would travel with human oddities. These are their re-creations."

"Horrible," King said.

"Indeed. But it's human nature to find unique people fascinating. Madame Badeaux solved the ethical problem—at least so she claimed—by creating an artificial freak show."

King snorted. "Flesh grown in a lab, slapped onto crude robots. If you ask me, the only freak involved is Badeaux."

A voice rose from ahead.

"Welcome, victims! I am Anansi, the Arachnid Girl."

A creature scuttled forward on eight legs. She had the abdomen of a spider and eight clawed legs. But a human torso, arms, and head grew from her arachnid body like some strange centaur. Anansi's face split into a hideous grin from ear to ear, revealing rotten teeth. Her skin was pale gray, lined with blue veins.

"I've never seen this biobot," Emily said, taking a step back.

"It's not emitting any electronic signals!" Niles said. "It's real!"

* * * * *

King had heard enough. He aimed at Anansi and opened fire.

His plasma washed over the scuttling spider-thing. The creature shrieked, burning, but kept running closer. Closer. A beast of flame. A demon of the underworld, a spider goddess of fire.

She leaped toward King.

The burning creature slammed into him, knocking him down.

King fell with a groan. The spider pinned him to the floor, blazing. The heat was terrible. King felt it through his armor. The fire expanded the plates of his battlesuit. His visor creaked, ready to shatter.

He drove his Mordecai upward, slamming the handle into the creature's human face. Teeth shattered. The deformed, burning hybrid only laughed, hair ablaze.

From the corner of his eye, King glimpsed more spider hybrids pouring into the room. Marines shouted and opened fire all around. But King could spare the battle only a glance. The burning thing still towered above him. Claws pressed against his chest, denting the armor, pinning him down.

"Die now, James King!" shrieked the creature, voice rising like steam from the inferno.

He gritted his teeth, swung his rifle, and clubbed Anansi's legs. Her claws scraped across his breastplate, digging grooves into the thick graphene. For an instant the beast wobbled. King shoved himself to his feet. He was free.

The creature no doubt expected him to flee, so King did the opposite. He lunged forward, barreling into Anansi with all his weight.

She stumbled back, her eight legs wobbling. King drew his electric knife and swung the crackling blade, slicing one leg off. The spider screamed. The flames spread across her, peeling off skin and muscle, exposing the bones.

"Rowan is ours!" the fiery beast screamed.

King roared in fury. He swung his Mordecai, clubbing the creature again and again. Bones shattered. The spine that rose from the arachnid torso snapped. Anansi's human half wilted, but her spider body still moved, legs twitching, racing. King stepped back, dodging a swinging claw, then thrust his electric blade, piercing Anansi's abdomen.

He stuck his Mordecai into the wound and let loose.

Plasma filled the beast. The abdomen ballooned, then burst, and the creature finally collapsed.

King panted, his suit swimming with sweat. Everything hurt. Badly.

Goddammit, fighting wars is a young man's game, he thought.

Around him, the platoon was battling more of the spider-human hybrids. The creatures were a bitch to kill. Bastian, Alice, and Bear had to join their streams of plasma to finally slay one of the beasts. Emily and Stowy stood side by side, firing their own rifles, holding back one of the monsters. Niles zipped around the room, firing from a little muzzle that extended from his body. The rest of the platoon were battling the creatures with plasma, handguns, and knives.

The DOGEs were finally pulling their weight. The robotic dogs were leaping from hybrid to hybrid. With their mighty jaws, they grabbed spider legs and ripped them off. One DOGE slammed into a hybrid so powerfully the creature burst open. King couldn't wait for Hel'rah to meet these canines.

The biobots, meanwhile, weren't quite as warlike as the DOGEs. They were crying out in fear. They had leaped off their pedestals and were hiding behind columns. One of them, the Pillow Man, lay on the floor, burns across his limbless torso. Rips in his skin revealed the robotic framework inside.

Two marines lay dead too. One hybrid was ripping into a man's chest and feasting on what she found inside. King trudged toward the monster, switched his Mordecai to full power, and let loose. The hybrid screamed and turned toward him. Bastian and Bear rushed forward, guns ablaze, and helped slay the beast.

And that was it. The other marines finished off the final hybrids. The battle ended.

Blood and smoke filled the room. Hybrids lay everywhere, some still twitching. A few marines moved between the hybrids, putting bullets in their brains. Just to make sure they were really dead. Doc had his work cut out for him. The medic moved between several wounded soldiers, face grim. If anyone deserved a medal for this mission, King thought, it was Doc.

King took a step, paused, and groaned. Something hurt in his chest. Maybe the creature had cracked his rib.

"Dad!" Bastian hurried toward him. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He approached a dead hybrid and nudged it with his boot. "What the hell are these things?"

Bastian knelt by the corpse. "That's a rah body. Look at this. The human body atop the rah torso. It's stitched on." Bastian grimaced and moved between the hybrid corpses. "They're all stitched together. And look. Look at that one over there."

A few more soldiers gathered around.

The corpse was like the others. It had the body of a giant spider, and from it grew the torso, arms, and head of a woman.

The woman was wearing a Darkland T-shirt.

"A tourist," King said.

Alice turned green. She stepped back. "What the hell?"

King loaded a new plasma pack. "The rahs are experimenting on the tourists. Turning them into these creatures."

"Rowan?" Bastian whispered. "Is Rowan—"

"Rowan is fine!" King snapped. "You can see her avatar on the MindWeb, same as I can. Her vitals are still strong."

"She's still sleeping," Bastian whispered. "Why is she still sleeping?"

"We're going to find out," King said. "Come on. Keep going, everyone. We've got a mission to complete."

They kept walking, leaving the Museum of Curiosities and delving deeper into the strange, twisted nightmare of Darkland.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Bastian couldn't stop the terror.

Couldn't stop the images from rising.

Rowan—with eggs inside her.

Rowan—stitched onto a spider.

Rowan—suffering.

His father told him none of those things were happening. That the strong vitals on the MindWeb meant she was unharmed, sleeping peacefully. But Bastian couldn't stop the anxieties from racing in his mind like wolves circling a fire. He had never felt such sheer terror.

There was no worse fear than a parent's for their child, he realized. It was infinitely worse than the fear of battle.

It was his fault, he knew. His own damn fault Rowan was kidnapped.

If he had been a better husband, maybe Stacy wouldn't have dumped him. She wouldn't have flown off to visit her new boyfriend, only to die in the rah invasion. And Rowan would be home now with her mother. With them as a family. Not captured here in this hellscape.

My fault, he thought. My own damn fault. But I'm going to make this right. I promise you, Rowan. I'm going to save you.

Bear stepped toward him, tall and dour. The giant stood seven feet tall. The engineers had kludged together a custom-made battlesuit for him. He looked at Bastian, silent for a moment, then spoke in a low voice.

"Bastian… I'm sorry." Bear lowered his head. "I let you down."

Bastian shook his head. "No, buddy. You didn't. Not for a second."

"I was tasked with guarding Rowan. I tried to stop Hel'rah from capturing her. I failed."

"You were standing outside her cabin like any guard would," Bastian said. "None of us knew Hel'rah could open a portal directly into her room."

"Your words don't comfort me," Bear said. "I promise to keep fighting until she's safe—and to never fail again."

Alice walked up toward them. "Look at you two! Blaming yourselves for what happened. Yes, I know you're doing it too, Bastian. You keep accidentally broadcasting your thoughts over the MindWeb."

Bastian cringed. "Dammit. I was?"

"Mhm." Alice nodded. "You really ought to take that telepathizing class I told you about. But in any case—stop it! Both of you. Only one person is to blame for what happened—Hel'rah! Well, okay, he's not a person. He's a giant nightmarish spider from hell, but you get what I mean. It's his fault, and we're going to fix things. And make that spider pay. So chins up, boys. We're going to save Rowan."

Bastian didn't feel any better. "When you're a parent, and your child is in danger, you can't just shrug it off. You can try to be optimistic. But you can't ever get rid of that fear. It's the worst I've ever felt. I'm so scared I don't even know what to do. All I can do is keep going, step after step. Keep fighting. Keep moving like I'm one of the robots."

Alice put a hand on his shoulder. "That's exactly what you're supposed to do when you're scared. Just keep going, step by step, and plow through the fear. Like a robot. Until you're through it. Bastian, you're doing great. I'm here for you, and I love you."

He looked at Alice. She stared back through her visor, her cheeks rosy, her blue eyes soft with concern. She had never said that before. I love you.

"I love you too, buddy," he told her. "I love both of you guys. You and Bear. You're my best friends."

For a second, Alice seemed crestfallen. A tear fled her eye. But she nodded swiftly and hugged him.

"Look," Bear said, pointing. "We've reached the carnival."

* * * * *

The iron gateway rose before them, shaped like a curling seahorse. Scales coated the animal, most of them iron, but some were made of obsidian. When the flashlights hit the seahorse just right, the obsidian reflected the light, revealing a mosaic of letters.

CARNIVAL OF DREAMS

Several silver urns lay around the seahorse, spilling out wisps of white light. As the platoon approached, a ghostly figure rose from one urn. She floated closer to the soldiers, her feet hovering above the ground, her gray dress fluttering in the breeze. Her face was pale, her hair black. She wore a top hat and a brooch shaped like a skull. There must be a projector inside the urn, displaying a hologram.

"Welcome to the Carnival of Dreams," the ghostly figure said, her voice astral, coming from everywhere at once. "Welcome to the dark. Welcome to a land where make-believe becomes reality and where reality itself is but a dream. I will be your hostess. Join me in the mist of wonder and fear. Be not afraid. Take my hand, and together we will enter the mysterious realm of—"

Alice kicked the silver urn. The projection jittered and died.

"Boring speech anyway," Alice said.

"Emily, anything unusual we should know?" King asked, turning toward the princess.

"In most ways, it's a typical carnival," Emily said. "There's a Ferris wheel, carnival games with prizes, a carousel, and so on. But something makes it unique. It's black and white—the rides, the games, the prizes, the carnies, all in grayscale. Special technology wipes out any color guests bring with them. Like all of Darkland, it has a horror theme. It's not large. Let's hurry through it."

King looked into the distance, seeking Vlad's Castle, but he could not see it from here. Mist obscured the horizon. Darkland had seemed smaller from above. Down here, it became a sprawling realm of vast distances.

He stepped through the seahorse gateway. The others followed.

* * * * *

I've missed this place, Emily thought, walking through the Carnival of Dreams.

Seven times she had sneaked into Darkland in her youth, and every time the Carnival of Dreams was different. Even those who visited daily reported that no two visits were alike. The rides changed. The carnies played new games. Sometimes the carnival was larger, sometimes smaller, sometimes no larger than a snow globe, sometimes sprawling across the moon, or so it seemed to those who awoke from its trance. Some claimed that the greatest engineers, roboticists, and artists designed a new carnival every day while the park was closed, revealing new nightmares when night fell. Some claimed that even on the same night, different visitors reported different experiences, games and rides and pleasures known only to them.

The Carnival of Dreams was like the sea, they said, ever changing. Emily walked through its mist with wide eyes.

The Carnival of Dreams spread around them to horizons of mist. Once past the gates, all color faded from the platoon. The bloodstains on their battlesuits became dark gray splotches. Their eyes shone white in faces the color of dead children. Snow began to fall, covering the cobblestones and whispering under their boots. It was cold in the Carnival of Dreams. The soldiers had their visors raised, and their breath frosted. Each exhalation took a new shape. Some breaths danced like ballerinas rising to the sky. Other breaths raised trees of frost, branches spreading in fractals. Some breaths become racing, antlered animals fleeing unknown predators. Even breathing in this place created eerie art.

Striped tents lined the cobbled pathway. Perhaps outside this strange carnival, the fabric was brightly colored. But here in the mist, in this echoing dream, the tents were striped in black and gray like prisoners lining the snowy road. Games waited inside them, glittering silver and platinum.

An android leaned out of one tent. He wore a shabby, striped tuxedo, and he held a cane made of bones. He beckoned with a many-jointed finger, a digit longer than a man's arm, tipped with a white claw.

"Come, come shoot them down!" the android said, his mouth not moving on his rubbery white face. "Shoot the children of the dead."

He pulled back the tent flap, revealing dead babies impaled on rods. They were not real babies, only props, but their limbs moved and their mouths opened and closed. They had no eyes, not even empty sockets, just skin where eyes should be. The babies hung in a mechanical environment. The ground raced below them, while birds with women's faces flew behind them on rails. Guns were tethered to the display like gas pumps.

"Win prizes!" said the android in the shabby tuxedo. He pointed his long, knobby finger at the ceiling. Stuffed animals hung there from hooks. Not plush toys but real animals. The bloated taxidermies stared down with glossy eyes, their faces locked in silent anguish.

The soldiers walked onward, passing by more tents. A rolled-up machine unspooled across the cobblestones, then rose like a serpent. The mechanical snake had a head like a porcelain doll, and her eyes blinked, making small clacking noises.

"Come play Whack-a-Babe!" the strange snake said. Inside her tent stood a large box with holes on the top. Severed doll heads kept rising from the holes, looking around with clattering eyes, then sinking into the box again. Hammers hung from chains. A few of the dolls had cracks in their heads. Strange black liquid dripped from inside.

Stowy walked beside Emily, trembling. She held Emily's hand.

"I'm scared," the girl whispered.

"They're only robots and holograms," Emily said.

Strange, Emily thought. Stowy wasn't scared of the rah hatchlings. And she's scared of these machines.

Or so Emily thought.

"I'm not scared of the strange ghosts here," Stowy said. "I'm scared of all the open spaces. I'm used to living in the ductwork."

To Emily, the carnival seemed confining. The cobbled path was narrow, and the tents loomed at their sides, leaning inward, too close for comfort. The fog made things worse, hiding anything more than a few feet away. But to Stowy this place probably seemed downright cavernous.

"Keep holding my hand all the way," Emily said. "So long as you're holding my hand, you're safe."

A ring of lights appeared ahead in the mist, rising so tall Emily had to crane her neck back. The Ferris wheel lazily spun through the haze, its lights a celestial dance. Its carts were shaped like crescent moons. Ghostly figures rode the wheel. The men sported long white beards that fluttered in the wind, and they wore dusty suits, their coattails tipped with teeth. Women rode beside them, wearing corsets woven with ribs, and their faces were white skulls topped with frilly hats, and jewels shone in their eye sockets.

A crone shuffled toward Emily, a hunchback with three legs. She wore a wondrous white cloak adorned with glowing fractals. Molten silver dripped from the hems like water from leaves. Her face was wizened, her wrinkles a map of luminous rivers like the strands that connected the universe. In one hand, she held a cane topped with the living head of a raven. In the other hand, she held a cage made from bones.

"Funnel cakes, my dearies?" the crone said, holding up the cage. Inside squirmed plump little serpents, pale white and gleaming. "Funnel cakes, funnel cakes?"

Emily and Stowy reached into the cage. Each girl took a snake. They were made of dough and frosted with sugar, but they moved and hissed and looked at them. When Emily bit into one, sweet syrup filled her mouth.

"They taste like marzipan," Stowy said softly. "I've never had marzipan, but this is how I always imagined it tastes."

A porcelain doll clattered by them. It had several torsos tied together with piano wire and shoelaces, forming a centipede, and it wore a bonnet. The doll sniffed at Stowy's leg, and the girl patted it. The doll scurried on by, and as the strange centipede walked, its shadow was that of a ballerina dancing and twirling, as if the poor creature's soul was visible only in the absence of light.

"I love marzipan," Emily said. "We'd get delicious Italian marzipan in Buckingham Palace. After all this ends, you should…" Her voice trailed off. "How silly of me. I was about to invite you to the palace. But of course the palace is gone now. It's all gone."

Stowy leaned against her as they walked. "My home isn't home. The starship Freedom is still up there. That's my castle in the clouds. Up there I'm the queen."

Emily looked at the wispy girl. Stowy almost seemed like one of the carnival ghosts. Somehow she always seemed barely there, a figure risen from a dream, some lost spirit who had wandered from the lands of faerie and could not find her way home.

"Where are you from?" Emily asked. "I mean—before the starship. Mr. Darjeeling said nobody knows. They don't even know your real name."

Stowy lowered her head. A tear trailed down her cheek, reflecting the Ferris wheel's lights—a little ring of starlight flowing down to her chin. "I never told anyone."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," Emily said. "But if you do, I'm a good listener."

Stowy looked at her, then gazed ahead into the fog, and she seemed to be gazing upon a different world or a time long gone.

"I want to tell you," she finally said. "I don't know why. I've never told the commander or the pilots or anyone. But I want to tell you. Maybe it's because this place feels like a dream, and I think we'll wake up soon and this will all fade away, all be forgotten, blown away from memory like the fog in the morning. Okay then. I'll spill the beans. But promise you won't tell anyone."

"Pinky swear, cross my heart, and hope to die," Emily said.

"Oh, you should never hope to die," Stowy said.

"Well, then cross my heart and hope to live."

"Better, said Samantha." Stowy blushed, though in this black-and-white world, her cheeks only turned deep gray. "That's my name. My real name. The one I lost long ago. I found it here in the carnival. Samantha Perry. I'm from a little town in a big country called Canada. Have you heard of Canada? I have. But that might only be because I'm from there, and I'm lost now."

"I've heard of Canada," Emily said softly, holding her friend's hand.

"Well, it's a big country, they say, but our house was small. Just a little burrow somewhere along the train tracks. The trains would go right by my window, every hour on the hour, and the whole house would shake. And I'd sit in my room and watch the trains go by, and I'd wish so much that I could hop on one. That I could ride away to a more exciting land. I dreamed that someday I'd be brave enough. I imagined all the places those trains could take me. To palaces where I'd meet kings and queens. Or to lands of elves and dwarves. Or sometimes lands overseas in sunny deserts where belly dancers swayed on stages, and men with big beards sold fancy knives in bazaars. Don't ask me how a train can go overseas! It was just my crazy imagination. I've always imagined a lot of things. I'm imagining an underwater train right now, and you can see mermaids outside the windows. I always lived in my own world. It's like that when you're a poor girl in a little town and you never get to go anywhere. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just prattling on, aren't I? I hope I'm not boring you."

"Not at all," Emily said. "I was, well… the opposite. I was rather pampered, I suppose. All those things you dreamed of—I got to do them. I visited bazaars. I traveled into space. I met kings and queens." She tapped her chin. "I don't think I've ever met an elf though."

"We should go there together someday," Stowy said. "To a land of elves. I dreamed of them so much. Of elves coming to visit me. To take me off on adventures. I imagined that I was an elf trapped in a human world, and someday my people would come save me. When the man broke into our house, that's what I dreamed of. What I prayed for so hard. For the elves to save me."

A chill ran through Emily. She held her friend's hand a little tighter. "But they didn't come, did they?" she whispered.

Stowy shook her head. "No. The man broke into our house. He kept yelling at my parents. I remember that. Saying he wanted alcohol. Wanted drugs. Wanted money. I watched from hiding. A train went by then, and the sound was so loud, and the whole house rattled, and he killed my parents. He shot them dead. I screamed and tried to run away, but I was only thirteen. He grabbed me, and he hurt me real bad. And I prayed for the elves, but they didn't come." Her eyes were huge and dry, and she stared into the distance, her voice almost a whisper. "He let me live. I don't know why."

Tears filled Emily's eyes. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Stowy pulled a pendant from her pocket. It hung on a shoelace. "This is a real emerald. My dad bought it for my mom. After they died, I kept it. It reminds me of them."

"I've seen you wear it around your neck before," Emily said. "I never knew what it meant. Thank you for sharing your story with me, Samantha."

"Call me Stowy. That's who I am now. Samantha was a broken girl. An orphan. They sent Samantha to a foster home. And her foster parents hurt her too. They hurt her so much. So Samantha ran away. And Samantha stayed on the streets of a big concrete city. And Samantha was fourteen and dying in the cold. So she sneaked into a shuttle, and she flew into space, and she found a castle in the clouds. She found a place to hide from all the terrible things in the world. And she promised that she would never return. She became a stowaway, and that's me. Stowy." She gave a shaky smile. "At your service."

Emily smiled—a huge, warm smile, the kind of smile that hurts your cheeks. "I'm glad to be your friend, Stowy."

Stowy tilted her head. "Are we friends? I've never had one before."

"I haven't either," said Emily. "I quite like it."

"What?" Niles said indignantly, flying toward them. "Never had a friend? What about me?"

Emily rolled her eyes. "You're more of a fussy chaperone than a friend."

Stowy pointed at the drone. "You, sir, are a pet."

Niles gasped. "Why I never!"

* * * * *

The fog thickened. Emily looked around her, disoriented. She could barely see a few feet ahead. The mist had rolled over the platoon of marines.

"Commander King?" she said.

Nobody answered.

"Spitfire? Bastian?"

Still—no reply came. The fog seemed to mute the marines in their heavy armor. Emily could no longer hear the thumping boots, clattering armor, and humming plasma rifles.

Emily didn't have a MindLink installed, so she couldn't reach out telepathically. She had left her neural helmet on the ship; there was no way to wear it with her battlesuit helmet.

"We're lost!" Niles cried. "Oh, now truly our fate is sealed. Why did I ever come down here to this cursed place? Oh, if only you had listened to me, none of this would have—"

"Niles, shh!" Emily whispered. "Don't alert the enemy."

The drone fell silent and trembled. Stowy tightened her grip on Emily's hand. They stood still, looking around as the fog rolled in.

"Are we going the right way?" Stowy whispered. "I spent the past three years living in ducts, able to just move forward or back. I'm used to living in one dimension."

"I'm not sure," Emily said. She dared speak a little louder. "Commander King!"

For a moment—silence.

Then, from an indeterminate distance—a shriek.

A terrible alien cry.

It sounded like a wounded predator. Like an enraged angel from a prophet's vision. Like a shattering soul of white fire. The cry seemed to be coming from all around them, from kilometers away and right nearby. It swept across the sky like a ghost, fluttering in the mist, and then was gone.

Emily shuddered and Niles whimpered.

"Was that a ghost?" Stowy whispered.

"Oh dear," Niles said, voice shaking.

"It wasn't a ghost." Emily took another few steps, squinting. "I can see lights ahead. I think it might be the platoon's flashlights."

The girls walked through the ocean of fog, approaching the lights. Niles hovered between them. The lights moved back and forth, round and round like cars seen through a rainy window just before dawn. Muffled music played—a jaunty calliope. But the fog distorted the sounds, slowing them down, wilting the notes until they became like dripping wax or melted ice cream.

No, this wasn't the platoon. The lights were moving too fast, orbiting an invisible center like planets around a black hole. The fog spun in a maelstrom, rising in a gray funnel through the murk. Emily could not stop following the spinning lights. They drew her, and she remembered reading in the Old Testament about the angels the prophets of Israel had seen. Not cute angels with swan wings and halos, those cherubic beings painted a millennium later, but true messengers of God—beings of spinning wheels and many eyes, all-seeing and unforgiving.

She stepped closer, and a form revealed itself, a wheel upon the earth. Not a Ferris wheel but a carousel. Like everything in the Carnival of Dreams, it was black and white and the countless shades in between. It spun faster and faster, flashing by her, the music growing in pitch until the notes sounded like screams. Emily used to ride these unicorns and pegasi, but now they were galloping, shrieking, too fast to ride.

And Emily saw that they were no longer plastic horses. They were spiders. And the lights were not the lights of the carousel but their glowing eyes and crescent-moon smiles.

Emily turned to flee, but the maelstrom caught her. A gust of wind lifted her off her feet. Lights raced before her, streaking, full of eyes and smiles, and a claw hooked Emily and pulled her into the storm. She found herself on the carousel, riding round and round, spinning in the eye of the storm.

"Emily!" Stowy cried. Her face appeared in the mist but then smudged into a streak, spinning round the carousel like a pale planetary ring. The entire park blurred, and it was only Emily here upon this spinning disk. And it suddenly seemed to her less a carousel and more like a pulsar star, spinning faster and faster and burning itself up.

Around her, across the carousel, the spiders moved.

They crept toward her, their legs black scars in the mist, their grins full of bright white teeth.

One spider leaped toward Emily.

She raised her rifle and fired.

A spear of plasma seared the air. For a split second the scene froze. Her blade of light sliced through the spider, piercing thorax and abdomen and the fog beyond. The spider crashed down dead.

Darkness fell.

Everything vanished into shadow.

Then the lights of a hundred eyes blazed around her, and all the spiders were racing across the carousel toward her.

She fired again and again. She kept her finger pressed on the trigger. The spears of white plasma crackled all around her, bending as the carousel spun, drawing a spirograph of light. To anyone watching from afar, the carousel would appear as a ball of lightning.

But they were too many. A claw lashed Emily, denting her armor. She fell. Another claw plunged down, and she rolled. The claw slammed into the carousel platform and got stuck. She fired, slaying the beast, only for another rah to leap at her. Enormous jaws closed around Emily. The rah chomped down, bending her armor, creaking her bones. Emily slammed her rifle again and again into the beast's head, shattering an eye. Its bite only strengthened. A plate of armor cracked, and she screamed.

"Emily!" came a cry from above.

Niles! Niles was flying toward her!

The rah looked up at the drone. Emily seized the chance to jam her rifle into the mighty jaws. Using it as a crowbar, she freed herself, stumbled back, and opened fire. Plasma blazed over the rah. The alien burst into furious white flames and tumbled into the fog.

Niles flew toward Emily, but having no legs, he couldn't stand on the platform, only hover in the air. The storm caught him, whipping him off the carousel.

More spiders came closing in. Too many for Emily to fight.

Claws gripped her helmet.

"Hold on to something, Emily!" rose a cry from the mist.

Stowy! Stowy's voice!

The claws were still gripping Emily's helmet, squeezing and squeezing. Soon they would pierce the helmet and crush her skull.

She wriggled her head out from the helmet. The wind caught her hair and filled her nostrils. A split second later, the claws shattered the helmet—thankfully without her head inside.

Emily knelt, shouted, and spewed plasma at the spider. It fell back but more kept coming.

"Hold on!" rose Stowy's cry from beyond, the words spinning round and round Emily, distorted, echoing, sometimes deep like thunder and sometimes high like a child's laughter. As the spiders circled around Emily, she reached out and caught a pole. One of the poles where the unicorns used to stand.

"I'm holding on!" she cried and then—

The carousel screeched.

Sparks rose in great fountains.

Metal dented and motors screamed.

Emily could see Stowy below, standing in the carny's hut. She had pulled the brakes.

The carousel had been going at maddening speed. It would not stop gracefully. The carousel wobbled like a dropped plate. The centrifugal force lifted Emily's feet off the platform. She clung to the bar with all her strength.

Around her, the rahs flew off the carousel. They tumbled into the fog. And the carousel kept spinning, wobbling, breaking. Cracks raced across the platform. And suddenly all the unicorns were back, galloping and galloping, and children rode them, ghostly children laughing all around her, dead children with claw marks on their bodies. The vision faded, and Emily's strength gave way. Her fingers slipped off the bar.

She flew off the carousel—and into Stowy's arms.

"Got ya!" the stowaway said.

They both tumbled and fell onto the cobblestones. Beside them, the carousel gave a few more screeching turns, raising showers of sparks, and then detached from its foundation.

Emily and Stowy raced away. The carousel skidded across the cobblestones, denting and showering sparks, raising chips of stone. It missed the girls by mere inches, then spun like a deranged top into the mist, crushing a few rahs as it went.

* * * * *

But most of the spiders were still alive. Their eyes glowed white in the fog, and Emily heard the hiss hiss of their claws scraping across the cobbles. She and Stowy stood back to back, rifles raised.

A dozen blades of white plasma sliced the mist. Spiders screamed. Severed claws clattered down around the girls. Shouts rose, boots thumped, and the platoon stormed to battle.

The rahs turned toward the new threat. The battle raged throughout the carnival. Commander King came running across the cobblestones. His rifle became a flamethrower, blazing with crackling white fury.

Emily shouted and fought with the platoon, filling the carnival with light. The plasma flew everywhere, white javelins. A few tents caught fire. Pale flames roared skyward. For the first time, a hint of color filled the black-and-white carnival—the centers of the flames began to glow pale blue, turning the carnival into an astral world of haunting azure.

As the humans fought, the DOGEs fought with them. The robots were fierce foes, barreling into rahs, knocking them down. The spiders managed to slam one DOGE down, to rip off its legs, then crack its armor and pull out its cables. They hurled another DOGE into a flaming tent of magic. The tent collapsed, and the DOGE ran, dragging the burning fabric along, until the robot disappeared like a comet into the fog.

Finally only one rah remained in the carnival—a big one. A female. A hundred spines rose from her back, impaling a hundred heads. Human heads. They stared at Emily from the spikes. Pale heads, faces locked in anguish. Tourists. Just people who had come for a night of thrills in the Carnival of Dreams. People who had found a nightmare.

Emily shouted and bathed the female with plasma. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as the rah burned, as the heads melted. The spider still lived, raising eight limbs, an arachnid goddess of fire. The marines added their plasma streams to Emily's. Finally the female spider burst. A few claws clattered down. Nothing remained of the severed heads—only raining ashes like snow.

King approached her through the ashes. "Emily, we thought we lost you. We followed the lights. This carnival is larger than it looks like from above."

Emily looked around at the mist, and she spoke softly. "My mother always told me that she loved the sea because it's always different. Sometimes the sea is calm and sunny, and sometimes it storms. Sometimes the sand glitters with a million seashells, and sometimes seaweed and dead jellyfish cover the beach. Sometimes the sky is pale and blue, and sometimes it's a painting all in crimson and gold. Dreams are like that. Always different. And the Carnival of Dreams is like that. This time I found a nightmare. This time I found a place of spiders. Let's keep going. I want to wake up."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Past the Carnival of Dreams, the platoon survivors reached a fork in the road.

Twin gateways rose here. One gate was forged from a thousand iron blades, all jagged and serrated, coated with bloodstains. A rusty sign hung from it: THE PATH OF PAIN. A second gate rose nearby, this one forged of silver and inlaid with pearls. A golden sign shone above it: THE PATH OF PLEASURE.

"Well, I know which path I'm taking," Bastian said.

The marine's armor was dented and cracked, and blood leaked from a gash on his arm. Beside him, Alice walked with a limp. Charging Bear stood tall, his back straight, but a bandage was wrapped around his leg, soaked with blood. The rest of the platoon looked no better. Those who had survived this far at least. They had flown down here with fifty warriors. Only thirty-eight still lived.

We're barely halfway through this goddamn circus, and I already lost a dozen men, King thought, his upper lip twitching with rage. What a goddamn shit show.

Two DOGE robots were gone too. Six of the dogs remained. King had needed all eight, dammit. Eight dogs to grab Hel'rah's eight legs. Would six be enough?

Goddammit.

If not for Rowan, King would have nuked this whole damn place from orbit by now. And to hell with taking Hel'rah alive.

But Rowan was still here. According to her neural tracker, she was closer than ever. Still alive. Needing him.

Sudden pain stabbed King's chest. He groaned. That rah that had bit his chest had done some damage. It might be a crack along a rib. Maybe it was something worse. Well, to hell with it. King would keep going. Through fire, through hosts of spiders, through whatever the hell still waited in this place. He would bring his granddaughter home. There was no army in the universe that could stop him.

"Emily, you know Darkland better than any of us," King said. "What path should we take?"

"Both eventually lead to Vlad's Castle," the princess said. "But along the way, they take tourists to different attractions." She pointed at the spiky iron gate. "The Path of Pain leads to the Dungeon of Agony."

"The Dungeon of Agony," King said dryly.

Emily nodded. "It's an underground attraction, built to look like a medieval dungeon. It features replicas of medieval torture instruments—stretching racks, iron maidens, and so on. There are even gruesome robots who get tortured." She shuddered. "I always felt so bad for them, but the robots apparently have no consciousness and cannot feel fear or pain."

"Why the hell would tourists pay to see that?" King growled.

Emily shrugged. "I don't know. I paid for it, and even I don't understand it. I suppose people like exploring the macabre when it's in a safe environment. I was always pampered as a princess, and I suppose I just wanted to peek into the darkness. But the Dungeon of Agony is certainly not for everyone. Which is why they give you an alternative. You could keep exploring Darkland through the Path of Pleasure."

"I like the sound of that one," Bastian said.

"And where does the Path of Pleasure lead?" King said.

"Well…" Emily lowered her eyes, tapping her index fingertips. "It's, um…"

"Emily?" King raised an eyebrow. "You're blushing."

"It's a red-light district, all right?" Emily blurted out, then blushed deeper. "Some tourists enjoy that sort of thing. Not me, mind you! I've never gone along that path. But they say it's full of biobots. Similar to the biobots we saw back at the Museum of Curiosity. But those biobots aren't freaks. They're, um… well…"

"Prostitutes," King said.

Emily could not meet his eyes. "Yes."

"I say we take the Path of Pleasure," Bastian said. "It sounds much safer."

Alice punched him. "Oh it's all about safety, is it?"

"Ow!" Bastian rubbed his arm. "Get your mind out of the gutter. Maybe I just don't like the idea of walking through a dungeon full of sharp implements, all right?"

The platoon turned toward King, awaiting his decision.

"We split up," King said. "I don't know what surprises await us. The rahs know we're here. If there was any chance of stealth, we blew it in the carnival. The enemy might have set ambushes or booby traps. It's too risky to commit our entire force to one path. I'll lead two squads along the Path of Pain."

"I'll take the other two along the Path of Pleasure," Bastian said, a little too eagerly.

"Boy, you sure were quick to volunteer for that one," Alice muttered.

They split in two. Emily and Stowy volunteered to go with King. So did the female marines. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, the male marines chose to join Bastian.

"Alice, you're going with Bastian and the boys," King said.

"What?" Alice gasped and placed her hands on her hips. "I mean—sir?"

He smiled wryly. "Somebody needs to babysit them. Make sure they don't get too distracted. You have my permission to grab Bastian by the ear and drag him through."

"That sounds more like it." A wicked grin crossed Alice's face. "I'll go with them. And I'll twist some ears."

The boys were already heading through the pearly gates. Alice rushed to follow. King took a deep breath, standing at the head of his team.

"All right everyone," he said. "Time to go to hell."

* * * * *

King and his troops stepped through the spiky gates. A tunnel sloped downward, leading into a craggy dungeon. The walls were hewn from the living moonstone. Torches crackled every few steps, filling the air with smoke and sparks. Shadows danced, shaped like demons with horns and pointy ears. And it was not just King's imagination. Some strange technology was afoot here, broadcasting demonic figures across the stone. King knew it was a trick of smoke and mirrors, but it still sent a chill down his spine.

The tunnel took them deeper and deeper. It seemed to plunge for miles. The troops walked warily, guns pointed ahead. Aside from King, they were all women in this team, but King knew these marines were just as tough as the boys. If not tougher. It would be fun to beat Bastian to the castle.

Deeper down, the tunnel took them alongside craggy prison cells. Each chamber featured a gruesome tableau of torture.

Inside one cell, a poor biobot was tied to a cross, stripped down to a loincloth. A second biobot, this one wearing a black robe, was whipping his victim with a cat-o'-nine-tails. The sound of lashing leather and the screams of the victim echoed through the dungeon. In another cell, a wagon wheel hung from the ceiling. An unfortunate biobot moaned on the wheel, his limbs broken and slung between the spokes. A torturer stood nearby, holding a hammer and cackling.

"People paid money to see this crap?" King muttered.

It got worse and worse. Each cell featured another medieval torture instrument, supposedly faithful re-creations. In one cell, a bucket was placed against a biobot, then heated with a torch. Inside the bucket lived a terrified rat. Feeling the heat, the rodent burrowed through the victim to safety. Another chamber featured a biobot whose fingers were being slowly, painstakingly screwed in vises. Screams and cruel laughter filled the dungeon.

King looked away. Gruesome entertainment. At least nobody had built a medieval dungeon aboard the starship Freedom.

"Hey, Em!" Stowy leaned toward the princess. "Did you guys have torture instruments like these in Buckingham Palace?"

Niles answered for her. "Certainly not!"

"Aw, pity. They're really interesting." Stowy pointed. "My favorite is the iron maiden. If you ever rebuild the palace, you should get one. Not to actually torture anyone. Just to scare people a bit. And you could hide snacks inside."

"I'd rather not, actually," Emily said. "Sorry, Stowy."

"Ah, rats." Stowy turned toward King. "Hey, Commander, can we get torture instruments aboard the Freedom?"

"No need," King said. "We have you. You already torture everyone."

Stowy gasped. "Did you tell a joke, sir? You, the famous curmudgeon? I think you did! For the first time ever. And I was the butt of it. I'm honored."

A scream pierced the dungeon, interrupting Stowy and her banter.

"Please help me!" cried a biobot, reaching between bars. "They're flaying me alive. Please help!"

King turned toward the cell, frowning. A torturer grabbed his victim and pulled the biobot back from the bars.

"They're not real," Emily reminded everyone. "Just machines."

"Why anyone would find this entertaining is beyond me," King muttered. "And I thought the Dinogolf was classless."

"Don't remind me of the Dinogolf," Emily said. "That's where—"

A screech sounded ahead.

A rah came charging up the tunnel.

King shouldered his rifle and opened fire.

The plasma lit the dungeon. One rah fell. More came behind it. Many more. The alien cries echoed in the dungeon, and their claws tore through the stone walls. They surged forth, a river of snapping teeth and red eyes.

King emptied his plasma charge, loaded another, and kept firing. He was running low on ammo. He was beginning to worry he'd run out before reaching Vlad's Castle. No point worrying about that now. Right now he had to focus on surviving this dungeon. He melted another rah. But the bastards kept coming.

Two marines stood at King's sides, firing with him. The tunnel was too narrow for more. The three of them knelt and kept firing, allowing three more soldiers to fire over their heads. The six storms of plasma tore through the rahs. The alien corpses piled up. Inside their cells, the biobots continued their gruesome pantomime, oblivious.

King loaded another plasma charge, emptied it too.

"I'm out!" he said.

Somebody handed him a new battery. He fired again. The soldiers at his sides ran out of ammo next. By the time they recharged, the enemy was closer. Every second the rahs drew nearer—falling, dying, the living replacing the dead. They were like a horde of cockroaches rising up a drain.

King slew another alien, and his Mordecai dinged. Out of charge again.

"I'm out. Get me a pack!" he cried.

"We're out too, sir!" came a voice behind.

"Wait, I have a battery pack here," somebody said. "I'll pass it over, I—"

The rahs reached them.

Claws grabbed King. He roared as a massive rah lifted him off the ground. The other rahs barreled into the marines. Jets of plasma slew a few. But the rahs were now charging through the marine formations, grabbing soldiers, lifting them overhead.

Caught in the grip of the claws, King swung his Mordecai like a club. The spider that held him hissed, and King slammed the butt of his rifle into its eye. The spider squealed and dropped him, but another rah caught King.

He tried to spin around, to swing his rifle again, when the rah spat a glob of webs at him. Sticky strands wrapped around King's rifle and yanked it free. More strands coiled around his body.

King roared and kicked, but the rahs were larger, stronger than him. They spun him around and around, weaving their webs, cocooning him. King saw rahs cocooning Emily and Stowy too. He saw marines lying dead on the ground. Then the webs wrapped around his eyes, and all was darkness.

King reached out in his MindWeb, trying to contact his son, when something sharp stabbed him in the side. A spider's stinger, he thought. He screamed into the strands, and then his throat locked up. Foam filled his mouth, and he fell and fell into an endless pit.

* * * * *

Time passed in dark dreams.

King was back aboard the starship Freedom, lost in its labyrinth of corridors. He had to reach the bridge. He had to fight the enemy ships. But he could not find his way. He was old and confused, and as he ran down the corridors, he kept ending up in the wrong departments. Soldiers saw him, whispered, and pointed.

"He's lost his marbles, the old man," somebody said.

He tried his MindWeb, hoping to load a map, but he could not figure out the interface. He barged into a gift shop, began looking for the paper maps they gave the tourists as souvenirs. Tourists looked at him and tutted and shook their heads, and he ran onward, lost in the maze.

"How do I get to my cabin, dammit?" he asked. But people just laughed.

He woke up sometime later. Maybe it was hours. Maybe only minutes. He was lying on a table, staring up at a stone ceiling, and a torch crackled nearby.

I'm back in the dungeon of Darkland, he thought.

He tried to stand up, could not. Cobwebs bound his wrists and ankles to the tabletop.

No, he realized. This was no table. It was a rack. A torture rack. One of the exhibits in the museum.

Something clattered. A shadow moved across the wall. A spider approached him. The creature loomed above the rack, and a hideous grin split its face. Teeth gleamed and saliva fell onto King.

"God, you're ugly," King rasped.

The creature grabbed a wooden winch attached to the rack. He spun it—just a single click.

The rack shifted. The strands tugged King's limbs—not enough to hurt him but definitely enough to cause some concern.

"Hello, James King," the rah said. "My name is Char'rah. I will be your torturer this evening."

"Hello, Char'rah. Just know that once I break out of these bonds, I will kill you slowly. I'll start with your eyes and work my way toward—"

The rah spun the gear again. Two clicks this time.

The strands tugged King's limbs—hard.

His back arched and creaked.

King roared.

"What was that you were saying?" Char'rah laughed. "Ah yes, you were trying to threaten me, I think? You are hardly in any position to issue threats, King. By the time I'm done with you, you will be ten feet long."

The alien loosened the gears a bit. King lay there, trembling.

He decided that he really, really hated spiders.

"What the hell do you want, Char'rah?" King rasped.

"For you to suffer." The rah turned the winch again.

King bellowed. For an agonizingly long moment, Char'rah kept stretching him. When finally the alien released the winch, King lay trembling. Sweat dripped down his forehead. The rage exploded through him. He tugged on the strands to no avail.

"The more you struggle, the tighter the strands become," Char'rah said. "So go ahead!"

King pretended to keep struggling, but secretly he pulled up his MindWeb interface. He tried to reach out to Bastian, but his son's avatar was grayed out. So was everyone else's in Bastian's group. Not necessarily dead—just offline. King was probably too deep underground to contact anyone too far away. MindWebs couldn't penetrate the sheer rock between him and his son.

However, he could see the avatars of his own team. His soldiers were still here in this dungeon. Several avatars were dark red, denoting those soldiers as KIA. Others were alive, but their vitals were going wild. Their hearts were pounding, and they were nearly hyperventilating. Their pain indicators surged. Bastian tried to connect to Emily when—

Char'rah turned the winch again.

King screamed.

This time Char'rah showed no mercy. He stretched King even farther—for an agonizingly long time. His joints creaked.

Finally the pressure eased.

A tear rolled down King's cheek.

"Oh, what happened?" the rah asked. "Are you done threatening me now, James King? But we're only just beginning!"

* * * * *

King ignored the pain. He ignored the alien above him. His own pain didn't matter now. He had led his marines into this dungeon. He had led Emily and Stowy, two young girls, into this hell. He would get them out.

He reached out to their MindLinks, but they could not answer his call. Terror flooded their minds. They could barely use their MindLinks. Strong emotions could jam a neural chip.

Princess Emily didn't have a MindLink implant yet. But her helmet came with a crude MindWeb adapter, complete with a camera and microphone. With his admin privileges, only available to commanding officers, King connected to her helmet. He could now look through her helmet's camera, hear through its microphone.

The princess hung in another cell. Webs glued her to the wall. Stowy hung at her side.

A rah loomed before the girls, grinning.

"Have you ever heard of lingchi?" the spider asked. "Death by a thousand cuts."

Emily and Stowy struggled against their webs, unable to free themselves. A biobot hung beside them, head slumped, body lacerated.

The rah continued speaking. "Lingchi was a form of torture practiced for a thousand years in China. I learned about it in this very museum of yours." The spider laughed. "The torturer would take a sharp blade and begin to slice off pieces. Piece by piece. Like carving roast meat. A skilled lingchi artist could make a thousand cuts before the victim died. Truly you are a barbaric species! Even in our homeworld, we rahs do not practice such cruelty. But when on Earth, well…"

The alien grabbed a blade from a table, then lashed it.

The blade hit Emily's battlesuit, carving off a piece of armor. She screamed—more in fear than pain.

"Ah, you're wearing exoskeletons, I see," the rah said. "No matter. I will gladly cut them open, piece by piece, until I reach the soft flesh within. I will take my time, don't worry. I want to savor this."

He swung the blade again, this time chipping off a piece of Stowy's armor.

Pain pulled King back into his own body.

Char'rah was turning the gear again, stretching King, and the pain consumed him. His MindPlay interface flickered, and he howled.

When he could breathe again, he scanned for contacts around him. Emily, Stowy, and the others were still trapped in other cells, enduring torture. But a few contacts seemed untroubled.

The DOGE units!

Five of them remained, sitting patiently, awaiting orders.

The devices appeared green in MindPlay. Ready for him to control.

King reached out with his mind, trying to grab all five DOGEs, to wield them as weapons. But a turn of the winch made him howl. Pain flowed over him. He lost control, dropping his neural connection to the robots.

"Ah yes, it's beginning to hurt a little, isn't it?" Char'rah purred. "How about if I turn the gears just like this?"

The rah yanked on the winch.

King's arm popped out of its socket.

His roar echoed through the dungeon.

Ignore the pain, he told himself. Fight. Fight!

His mind was blurry. He was about to lose consciousness. The DOGE avatars floated around him like smudged fireflies. He could not focus on them all. He reached out with all his will—and grabbed one. Just one.

One DOGE.

The gear turned.

King could summon the DOGE here to this chamber. The robot was not far away. He could plow the canine into Char'rah so hard he'd shatter the spider.

Instead, he sent the DOGE to Emily's cell.

He could see through the robot's eyes, control its legs and jaws. For a moment he could focus on the metal body, could suppress the agony of his real body stretched on the rack. A robotic dog, he charged.

Emily hung on the stone wall. A rah worked with several blades, slicing off bits of her armor, exposing her skin.

"Now we begin to cut the flesh…," the rah said.

The DOGE leaped.

The robot slammed into the rah, knocking the alien down. Metal jaws clamped around a leg and tugged. The alien's leg tore free with a shower of blood. The robot kept savaging the spider, tearing off leg after leg, pounding the alien's mouth, knocking out teeth. The rah screamed. It managed to grab the DOGE, to hurl it aside. The alien thrust its remaining claws into the robotic dog. Sparks flew.

The DOGE went dark.

King found himself back on the rack.

He grabbed control of a second DOGE and charged back into the cell. He plowed into the wounded alien, driving it into the wall, and kept biting and shoving until the rah slumped down dead.

Pain racked King's body.

Painstakingly, struggling for control, King moved the robot toward Emily, who hung on the wall. With the dog's metal jaws, he ripped the cobwebs binding her. The princess slumped to the ground. Then King turned toward Stowy, who hung nearby, her armor cut to pieces. He freed her too.

Another rah came charging into the cell. King sent the DOGE plowing into it, shoving the rah into the corridor. More aliens leaped onto the robot, shattering its metal body, ripping out its innards.

The MindWeb connection died. King found himself back on the rack. Stretched. Stretched more and more.

To hell with the pain.

He reached out, found three more DOGEs. He picked one, controlled it, and raced back into the battle. He tore through rahs in the corridor, then ran the DOGE into another cell. Marines hung on the walls, and rahs loomed before them, holding torture instruments. The DOGE leaped onto the aliens.

King could have sent one DOGE into his own cell, could have slain Char'rah. They said that during a plane crash you should put the oxygen mask on your face first and only then help others. To hell with that. King would help his soldiers first.

He kept controlling the DOGEs, killing the rahs. Whenever one robot died, he hopped to another and kept fighting. The robots cracked open iron maidens just before they could impale their victims. They freed a marine from water torture. One DOGE pulled Pickles from a pit of snakes. The pilot was trembling.

"I want to go home," Pickles whispered. "I can't take this place anymore. I want to go home."

Finally King's soldiers were all freed—bleeding, haunted, but free.

Only one DOGE remained.

And only one rah—the creature stretching King on the rack.

The last DOGE charged into King's cell.

* * * * *

Char'rah released the wooden winch. King slumped on the rack, trembling and sweating. The alien turned toward the racing DOGE.

The robot barreled into Char'rah.

The alien stumbled back and hit the brick wall. Char'rah hissed and lashed his claws, denting the DOGE's steel casing. The robot kept biting, kept shoving forward, headbutting the alien again and again, cracking his abdomen.

But Char'rah refused to die. The spider grabbed the DOGE and slammed it against the floor. Gears flew. Sparks showered. The robot kept biting.

Emily and Stowy rushed into the chamber, their armor hanging in tattered pieces. They began cutting the webs binding King to the rack. He let them work. He focused on controlling the DOGE.

The robot had lost one leg. Its body was cracked, revealing the whirring electronics inside. Its steel mouth closed around Char'rah's front leg, twisting, pulling, finally ripping the leg free. Still the alien would not die.

The girls removed the last webs around King's limbs. He tried to rise but stumbled. His back roared in agony. His dislocated arm throbbed.

Don't faint, he told himself. Do not faint!

The girls had to catch him and hold him up.

Char'rah managed to grab the DOGE, lift it overhead, then slam the robot into the wall. The DOGE gave a final mewl, then collapsed, sparking and buzzing. Its legs gave a last twitch, then moved no more.

Bleeding, half his legs gone, Char'rah turned to face the humans. The alien grinned, showing a mouth full of shattered teeth. Several of his eyes had burst, oozing red juices down his face.

"You're all out of robots," the alien hissed. "All out of ammo. All out of hope. Time to suffer."

King drew the knife from his belt. The knife Katyusha had given him. His father's knife.

Char'rah lunged at him.

King thrust his father's blade, driving it deep into the eye and pushing, pushing, digging that knife deeper and deeper until his entire hand, then his forearm disappeared into the wound.

Char'rah gave a horrible shriek—a sound like ripping skin. The alien twitched, legs flailing.

King pulled the knife free. The alien wobbled, stumbled back, then crashed down dead.

"Bastard." King spat on the corpse. "I killed you too quick."

Waves of pain hit him. King swayed. He leaned against the rack, breathing heavily. The girls caught him, held him up. He struggled to stay conscious. Blackness was spreading across his vision. Every breath was a battle.

"Is he dying?" Stowy whispered, gazing with wide eyes.

"His arm is dislocated," Emily said. "Stowy, hold him in place. Commander, I took a CPR class once. Trust me. This won't take a second."

The princess grabbed his arm and popped it back into the socket.

King roared in agony, and finally he allowed himself to pass out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

They were all hurt. Every marine in the dungeon. Diane, survivor of the Urchin, knew first aid. She moved between the marines, tending to their wounds.

As Commander King lay on a blanket, recovering, Emily returned to the chamber where the rah had nearly tortured her.

Nearly? she thought. Emily looked down at her battlesuit. It was ripped to shreds, but her skin was unharmed. The rah had not cut her, no. And yet he had tortured her nonetheless. He had terrified her. She would not soon recover from this fear.

Suddenly a trembling seized her. Alone in the dungeon hallway, she swayed, leaned against the wall, and clutched her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes.

How had things come to this? She used to come here as a youth. To play and dream and wonder, to gape at the mock horrors. But now it had all become real. The aliens had overrun Darkland, and the dreams of her youth had become nightmares.

For a moment, she just stood there and wept.

"Emily?"

The voice was soft, curious. Emily rubbed tears from her eyes, blinked, and brought the world back into focus. Stowy stood there in the hallway, her own battlesuit tattered, her own eyes haunted.

"Stowy, are you hurt?" Emily asked.

The girl shook her head, then her own eyes welled up with tears. She ran into Emily's arms. They stood for a moment, just holding each other, just crying together.

Finally Emily took a deep breath.

"All right, Stowy, we're soldiers now. We need to be strong."

Stowy sniffed and nodded. "I'm not a soldier. I'm just a stowaway."

"We're all soldiers now, Stowy. Every last one of us. Every human. Our entire species is now an army fighting this war. Come with me? I need to find Niles."

They reentered the chamber where the rahs had brutalized them.

The remains of DOGEs and rahs littered the floor. So did pieces of the girls' battlesuits. The place stank of fear.

Emily stood for a moment in the doorway, closed her eyes, and took deep breaths.

I won't soon forget this room. Maybe it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

A muffled cry came from inside. "Em—Em—!"

Emily opened her eyes and entered the room. She walked over scattered rah claws and teeth until she reached the back wall. A bundle of cobwebs covered the bricks, lumpy in one area. The lump was wriggling, and the whimpers came from inside.

"Em—Help—"

She picked up a severed rah claw and began cutting the strands. Finally she freed him. Niles flew into her arms, a sticky mess.

"Oh, Emily, I'm here to save you!" the drone said. "Where are the beasties? Point me at 'em!"

"It's all right, Niles," Emily said. "The DOGEs saved us."

Niles flew from side to side, blades thrusting out from his body. "Have at you, spiders! Have at you!"

He paused, looked around in confusion. The drone finally seemed to realize the rahs in the room were dead. He also took in the ruined DOGE robots.

"The dog robots saved you?" Niles turned toward Emily, blinking his camera eyes.

Emily nodded. "Yes. Well, King was controlling them telepathically. But yes."

Niles looked around the room again, then landed on the floor and tilted before Emily as if bowing. "I have failed you, Your Highness! Oh, shame be upon me and my house! For I, the guardian of the future Queen of England, failed where mindless curs succeeded!"

"It's all right, Niles." Emily lifted him. "There's nothing to be ashamed about."

"Oh, but I have proved myself a craven!" If Niles had hands, he would have placed the back of one against his forehead. "There is no way I can redeem my honor. Best to deactivate me, Princess. I cannot live with the shame."

"Is he always so dramatic?" Stowy asked.

Emily nodded. "As a rule, yes."

Stowy pointed. "Hey, Niles! Look. A spider!"

They all looked together. A little house spider was crawling across the wall. Not a rah, just a simple daddy longlegs.

Emily gasped and took a step back. "Oh dear! A deadly dwarf rah, the most vicious of them all! His humble appearance belies his savage venom. Oh, whatever shall we do?"

Stowy played along, affecting an English accent. "I'm ever so frightened!"

Niles flew upward and raised his nose. "Fear not, my ladies. For I, Niles of the House of Windsor, shall gallantly defend you. Have at you, foul bug!"

The drone rushed toward the spider and tried to crush it. The daddy longlegs was faster. It scurried into a hole, dodging death by drone.

Niles barked a laugh. "Ha! The coward retreats. Flee then, scoundrel! And tell your kin that the Princess of England is protected!"

"Thank you, Niles, very gallant of you," Emily said.

Stowy kissed the drone. "My savior!" Then she coughed and spat. "You taste like soot and glue."

Emily hugged her brave little drone. He cuddled against her. They left the chamber and rejoined the rest of their group. King was beginning to recover, taking a few careful steps across the floor, but he was limping and stooped. The commander looked ten years older. Emily approached him and held out her arm.

"May I help you, Commander?"

For a moment he bristled. He too perhaps suffered from an overabundance of pride. But then his face softened, and he gratefully leaned against her. He was twice her size, but Stowy rushed forward to help. The two girls propped Commander King up between them, helping him walk through the dungeon. He winced with every step.

"We'll get you to a doctor, Commander," Emily said. "I'm sure they can patch you up."

"Not yet," King rasped. "This battle isn't over. I won't rest until we have Hel'rah in chains!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Bastian walked through Pleasure Palace, the red-light district of Darkland. His cheeks flushed, and his troops hooted and whistled around him. All but Alice. She walked with arms crossed, a scowl on her face.

"Keep your eyes straight ahead, boys!" Alice said. "Don't make me put blinkers on you, goddammit."

But Bastian had to admit. It was hard not to look.

Pleasure Palace was forbidden to any guests under nineteen. Some called it the true moneymaker of Darkland. A cobbled street stretched ahead, lined with brothels and bars. Each building was unique. One was shaped like a windmill, a replica of the Moulin Rouge. Another brothel had a tropical theme, complete with neon palm trees and inflatable pineapples. One bar named Little Amsterdam looked like a medieval cottage. Another bar, this one named Bangkok Dreams, fluttered with oriental dragons and shone with paper lanterns. There was even an American-style bar promising cold beer, cowgirl waitresses, and football around the clock.

Each establishment shone with neon of every color, competing for tourists like flowers competing for bees. Music wafted from within, along with the smells of beer, food, and perfume. Cables hung across the road, fluttering with banners and lights.

But the main attraction was the biobots.

Hundreds of them filled Darkland—robots made with real human tissue, completely lifelike. At the Museum of Curiosity, they were freaks. In the Dungeon of Despair, they endured torture. Here, in Pleasure Palace, the biobots sold their hyperrealistic flesh.

They were perfect. And they were not coy about what they sold.

"Hey there, marine." One biobot approached Bastian, smiling crookedly. She wasn't wearing much. "Want to have some fun?"

"He does not!" Alice said, pulling Bastian along.

"Maybe a little fun?" Bastian said.

Alice glowered at him. "Don't be disgusting."

He nodded, forcing himself to look away. He had a mission here. He would not be distracted. His biological instincts, honed in the crucible of evolution, were crying out. Look! Touch! Mate! He shoved those instincts deep down. His desire coiled inside him like a trapped demon, desperate to take over. He willfully ignored his own body, walking onward.

More biobots approached the marines, each more beautiful than the last. There were women here—fake women but tempting nonetheless—to cater to every taste. Some biobots looked like geishas, smiling and bowing, demure and sweet. Other biobots were tall and blond. There were biobots in tiny skirts, biobots in leather, and—

"Bastian, you're looking again!" Alice pulled his head away. "I swear—I will put blinkers on you."

Bastian blushed and hurried along, ignoring the biobots' calls.

"Hey, marine."

"Come visit me!"

"Want to have a drink?"

"Come to my room."

He ignored them all, barreling through them. A few biobots practically leaped toward him. Alice had to swing her rifle like a club, knocking them back.

But there was only one Alice here—and twenty marines. Lonely marines who had spent the war fighting, killing, watching friends die. Marines who desperately wanted some distraction. Some pleasure to drown the pain.

A group of biobots wearing tiny plaid skirts approached the marines. A few privates blushed. A corporal brushed back his hair and began to flirt. Even Pickles, supposedly an experienced officer, succumbed. The pilot slung his arm around a biobot. She began to lead him into a bar shaped like an Aztec pyramid.

"Hey, Pickles, damn you, get back here!" Alice cried, rushing toward the pilot.

Bastian remained standing by a streetlamp, unsupervised. Several biobots waved at him, giggling and blushing. Their perfume tickled his nostrils.

Focus, Bastian, he told himself. Focus! You're here to save Rowan, not play with these glorified blow-up dolls.

He kept walking, elbowing his way between the bots. They waved at him from doorways. From balconies. They blew him kisses. They stroked him as he walked by, whispering of all the things he could buy.

"Come on, sir, just step into my room." A biobot took his hand, pulling him toward a neon doorway.

He wrenched himself free. "Get away from me."

Another biobot pouted. She stroked his helmet. "You deserve a break. Why not?"

"I'll treat you better than her," said another biobot, a beautiful redhead. "Come with me, sir. Only a hundred credits, and you'll be a king all night long."

"I'm already a King," he muttered, pulling himself loose.

Focus, Bastian. Focus.

He took another step. But dammit, his head was spinning now. He was struggling to think. To remember why he was here. Who he was. Their perfume wafted, purple and green and blue, filling his nostrils. It smelled like cinnamon and cloves.

Are they… drugging me?

He blinked and shook his head wildly. He took another step, trying to head down the road, to get out of this place. But they held him, turned him around, and he found himself walking toward a doorway trimmed with silver and gemstones. A few biobots stood there, wearing skimpy silk, beckoning.

"Let… go!" he managed. But their perfume filled his mouth. His brain melted and rose as mist. A dumb smile tugged at his lips.

"Go where?" a biobot asked, pouting.

"This is where you were going." A beautiful brunette pulled him into the doorway. "Here is your palace, my king."

This was wrong. He shouldn't be here. He had been going… somewhere. With somebody. Why? There was someplace he needed to be. Somebody he needed to find.

"No, I'm… I'm meant to focus," he said. "To go somewhere."

"You're here," they whispered, caressing him. "You've reached paradise."

The bar was full of shimmering curtains, flowing booze, and spinning lights. A few biobots were swaying on stage. A golden staircase led upstairs to a hallway lined with purple doors. The room spun around Bastian. He blinked a few times, trying to see more clearly, but everything was a haze.

"Wait, I need to find…"

"Here, sit down." A biobot pulled him onto a beanbag.

"A drink, my lord?"

"Some grapes?"

"Take off your armor, my lord! You've earned some relaxation."

Bastian blinked at the pretty women around him. So many beauties—and they were interested in him! They liked him! They adored him. They weren't yelling at him or belittling him like Stacy. Love filled their eyes.

"Well, I do deserve some rest, don't I?" he said.

The girls squealed and jumped for joy. Their gentle hands began pulling off his battlesuit. Perhaps not so gentle. Those delicate little hands ripped off metal buckles, removing strips of bulletproof armor. Tiny claws tipped their fingers. They ran their claws against his skin, raising goose bumps, and they kissed him.

One woman reached into his pants. She pulled out his wallet, began rifling through it. She nodded in satisfaction. Another biobot took his watch, while a third took his minicom.

"We'll look after these for you," they said.

Bastian looked around him, blinking, trying to clear his mind. He saw a few other marines lying on beanbags, the girls doting over them. Where the hell were they? How did they get here? A woman placed a crown on Bastian's head. A belly dancer brought out a hookah, took a puff, then placed the nozzle in his mouth.

"You're staying right here with us," the belly dancer purred.

Bastian coughed and spat out the nozzle. He rose to his feet, head spinning. The hookah tilted, nearly spilled. The girls caught it. The smoke smelled like their perfume.

"I have to go," Bastian mumbled.

But they pushed him back down. For a moment anger flickered across their eyes.

"You must stay."

A cry came from outside.

"Bastian! Bastian, dammit!"

A woman was outside, trying to reach him. A tall woman with two blond braids. He knew her. She was a wrestler, he thought. What was her name again? Alissa? Or… Annie? Stacy! That was it. Stacy. His ex-wife.

Great. What was she doing here?

Bastian clenched his fists. A growl found his throat.

The girls pouted around him.

"What's wrong, my king?" whispered a doting brunette. "What troubles you?"

"My ex-wife," he said. "She threw me out of the house."

The women gasped. A few covered their mouths.

"What?"

"How dare she!"

"But you are a king!"

They fussed over him. They pulled him back onto the beanbag, placed the crown back on his head.

"We'll take care of you."

"We'll make you forget all the pain."

"That Stacy is not wanted here."

Bastian nodded. "Get her out of here."

The girls grabbed the tall woman with blond braids. They dragged her away.

"Dammit, Bastian!" she cried.

"Get out!" he shouted.

"Get out, get out!" said the women, then burst into a fit of giggling.

They began undressing him. Bastian let them do it. Why shouldn't he? Didn't he deserve this? After the divorce. After all that pain, all the agony he had suffered. Now was his time to enjoy life. To be loved.

"Bastian!" the tall woman cried from outside, and then he could hear her no more.

* * * * *

"We love you," the women told him, and he believed it.

A redhead rubbed up against him. "Of course, we'd love you more if you gave us your credit card code."

A petite beauty kissed his cheek. "Can you log us into your bank account, my king? That would make us so happy."

"Our love is worth it, my lord."

"That's it. Now pass the money here…"

"We just want you to buy us some presents!"

Their perfume filled his nostrils, and he floated in a haze. He could not think. Think? What was thinking? There was only the intoxicating perfume and their hands and lips. He did whatever they asked. They deserved it. They were his queens, and he would pamper them.

"Good…," came a voice from the mist of perfumes and hookah smoke. "Good, he's vulnerable now. Now he's mine."

The girls hushed. The giggling faded like the last patters of rain in puddles. They parted, kneeling around Bastian, and lowered their heads.

Bastian blinked and squinted. A figure was moving ahead in the mist of hookah smoke, but the image was fuzzy. Bastian tried to rise, to lean forward, but felt too dizzy. He slumped back down into the beanbag.

She came through the blue fog, swaying like smoke, a woman of endless curves that flowed like silver rivers under a midnight moon, and her eyes were two red flames. She came to stand before him, night taken form. A silhouette. A demon of shadows limned by starlight.

"Who are you?" Bastian whispered.

She stood above him, red eyes sucking him in. She wore a cloak like the night, the black fabric adorned with a million winking stars and distant orbiting worlds.

"I am the queen of this realm," she whispered, her voice wine pouring over troubled spirits, a voice that flowed over him and raised goose bumps on his skin like flowers rising in a desert after rain. "I am the spirit that calls from underground. I am the dark light in the depths beyond the stars. I am the soul that calls from the void. I am Tsuchigumo, and I've come to take you home."

She doffed her cloak and stood naked before him. Her body was an hourglass. Her skin was the sea at midnight under a sky full of starlight. Silver tattoos of cobwebs glowed on her breasts and around her navel.

"Come to me," she whispered.

She held out her hands to him. And more arms rose from her. Four arms, then six, then eight, spreading out in a ring, every wrist encircled with a golden bracelet, and her fingers grew claws like obsidian shards.

Bastian blinked his muzzy eyes, bringing her into focus. Her ruby eyes stared into his soul, and six more eyes opened on her forehead. The woman stared at him with eight eyes, a spider goddess.

Bastian reached for his gun, but she kicked it aside. He tried to run, but she pounced, shoved him down, and wrapped her hands around his throat.

"Be mine," she whispered and kissed him.

A deep kiss. A kiss that suffocated him. And her tongue slithered deep into his throat, deeper, reaching inside him.

He roared, a muffled cry, and shoved her off. Her claws ripped across his skin. She stumbled back, knocked into a hookah, and crouched, hissing at him, her eight eyes narrowed and burning. Her rings of hands rose around her, tipped with claws. Like alert serpents, every claw turned together, pointing at him. Some of those claws were dripping his blood. She snarled, and her tongue emerged from her mouth, a red viper with eyes and little teeth.

Bastian felt sick. "What are you?"

Her mouth opened wider and wider. Her jaw unhinged like a snake. Her gullet quivered, full of rings of teeth. She lunged toward him again.

Bastian was sluggish. He tried to dodge the assault, but she slammed into him and bit his arm.

He roared in agony. The pain cleared his mind. He swung his fist into the creature's face. The sleek skin tore, revealing a gleaming black skull underneath. What was this creature? Was she some kind of robot? Or was she alive?

He shoved her off. Tsuchigumo landed on a rug, hissing and bleeding silver liquid. She scuttled forward on all eight legs, a strange spider, and leaped at him again. Her many hands grabbed him. He wrestled with her, and he realized how large she was, a towering creature, seven feet tall, her arms corded muscles. Her fangs gleamed.

Shrieks rose across the brothel. Bastian glimpsed more of the women sprouting extra arms, hissing and baring their fangs, graceful little spiders with hungry mouths. They leaped onto other marines, biting and clawing. They were smaller than Tsuchigumo but just as fast and fierce, and their fangs sank into naked soldiers and ripped out flesh.

They are spiders, and we stepped right into their web, Bastian thought.

Tsuchigumo wrestled him down. She gripped him, digging her claws in. Her mouth opened wider and wider, large enough to swallow him whole. Her serpent tongue opened its own little jaws. The hellmouth came closing in around him.

Bastian reached out blindly, looking for his gun. It was gone. He grabbed the first thing he could—a hookah.

He slammed the hookah into Tsuchigumo's head.

The glass shattered. Bubbling water spilled across the arachnid woman. Her skin sizzled. Glass shards pierced her eyes.

Bastian rose to his feet and kicked the creature aside. Tsuchigumo rose before him, burning, arms spread out. Her flesh melted to reveal a gleaming black skeleton within. Not metal but a strange material like the legs of rahs.

"You will suffer, humans!" the burning apparition said. "Our empress Elder'rah has foreseen it. Earth will be ours!"

"What the hell are you?" Bastian shouted.

"We are born of rah. We are your nemesis."

Bastian finally found his rifle. There was just a little charge left. He blasted a stream of plasma into the burning creature's rib cage. The bones shattered into a million gleaming shards. The creature collapsed.

Bastian turned his gun toward the window next. He shattered the glass. The hookah smoke fled, and fresh air flowed into the brothel. The streetlamps flooded the room with light. His mind cleared. Around him, the illusion vanished. The women were not alluring, not even human, but strange creatures stitched together from meat and metal, forming odd spiders.

They're some kind of biobots, Bastian thought. Created by the rahs to ensnare us.

The other marines, seeing the creatures in the new light, recoiled in disgust and fought harder. Bastian joined the battle, and soon the creatures were slain. Their many limbs twitched until finally they lay still.

* * * * *

Bastian took a step toward the doorway when one of the corpses rose. The creature lunged at him—only for a plasma blast to splatter it against the wall.

Bastian jumped.

Alice walked toward him, her rifle smoking.

"Well, well, well, look at you." She slung the gun across her back. "Look whose butt I had to save."

"Alice, I'm sorry. You're right. I'm an idiot. I— Ow, ow, not the ear!"

But she grabbed his ear, twisted it mercilessly, and dragged him out onto the street. The other marines hurried after them, not wanting to suffer the same treatment.

They raced down the road, ignoring the swirling colors and the biobots who still stood all around. Finally the last wisps of perfume faded from their nostrils, and the neon lights shone no more. The marines stumbled out of the red-light district onto a dark cobbled square.

Bastian looked around him. They had crossed most of Darkland, he thought. Vlad's Castle loomed above on a dark hill, its windows red. Around the haunted house rose a forest of roller coasters like a field of brambles.

Bastian checked his MindWeb. Rowan's avatar popped up. She was still asleep—and she was nearer than ever.

"I almost forgot you, Rowan," he whispered, and tears stung his eyes. "They did something to me. I almost forgot. But I'm almost there. I'm coming to save you."

His blood dripped, and he realized he was wounded. He fell to his knees, breathing heavily.

Once more, like she had during so many battles, Alice knelt beside him and tended to his wounds.

"Alice." He looked into her eyes. "Sorry. I'm a dumbass. I didn't listen. And you had to save me again."

"Damn right you're a dumbass." Her eyes flashed but then softened. "I think they drugged you. Their perfumes did it."

"You weren't affected?"

Alice shook her head. "Not at all. Maybe they used some kind of pheromone to attract only males. Those creatures—whatever they were—worked for the rahs. Maybe the rahs genetically engineered them or stitched them together to lure men into traps."

"And they forgot about you crazy women."

Alice shrugged. "They probably figured we'd never set foot here anyway. You're lucky I did."

Bastian sighed. "Alice, can you please get in trouble sometime soon so I can save your life? I owe you like… what, three lives saved so far?"

"Probably more like twenty."

"I've saved him a few times too," rose a deep voice. Bear trudged toward them, covered in the black blood of spiders.

"Where the hell have you been?" Bastian asked, looking at the giant.

"Fighting on the street," Bear said. "Battling hard. Killing many enemies."

"On the street, huh?" Bastian said. He walked toward his friend, pulled the giant's hair back, and exposed lipstick on his cheeks and neck. "Aha! You were duped too!"

Bear glowered and looked away. "They drugged me."

Bastian grinned. "So… which brothel did you go into? The Hawaiian one?"

"Drop it," Bear growled.

Bastian gasped. "Not the leather bar!"

"I said dr—"

"Dad!" Bastian leaped to his feet and ran.

His father came limping into the courtyard. Emily and Stowy walked at his sides, supporting him. Both girls' battlesuits had been lacerated and cracked, barely hanging together.

Several other marines, the women of the platoon, walked behind them. They were all injured to one degree or another, bandaged or limping, and their eyes were haunted.

Several marines were missing.

What the hell happened in the Dungeon of Despair? Bastian thought. It must have been worse than the path we took. Much worse.

He reached his father and paused, panting. "Dad. I'm here. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." King coughed, and his skin was pale. "I'm all right. Just got banged up a bit. We all did. I'm still standing."

Bastian scanned King's vitals on the MindWeb. The old man was hurt.

"You need to sit down and rest," Bastian said.

"I said I'm fine," King growled. The commander lowered his head. "But not everyone made it out."

Bastian lowered his head too. He checked MindWeb and saw the names of the fallen. Their avatars were dark crimson. They were soldiers he knew well. Soldiers he had trained himself. Farm girls from Nebraska. Women who never imagined they'd fight a war, let alone die so far from home. He grieved for them.

He couldn't help but notice that the DOGEs were gone too.

"Yes, son, we lost the dogs," King said, perhaps reading Bastian's thoughts. Was he thinking publicly again? Dammit, he kept doing that.

"How are we going to trap Hel'rah without them?" Bastian said.

King gestured. One of his soldiers—Diane, the woman they had rescued from the Urchin—stepped forward. She was dragging several heavy chains.

"We got these chains from the dungeon," Diane said. "They're real steel, not props. We lost the dogs and their powerful jaws. But when we reach Hel'rah, we can chain the bastard up." Her face hardened. "I'll make that son of a bitch pay."

Right now Bastian just cared about saving Rowan. But once his little girl was back in his arms, well… he intended to inflict some punishment on Hel'rah himself.

"We're almost there, son," King said. "Almost at the castle. Rowan is there." A snarl twitched his upper lip. "And so is Hel'rah."

They turned together, gazing at the castle on the hill. Its steeples rose toward the starry sky, scratching the dome that encircled Darkland. Gargoyles perched upon its battlements, and torchlight burned in the windows. A shadow moved in the tallest tower, too far to see clearly from here. Bastian shuddered. He could feel a dark presence watching him.

There was one more attraction between them and the castle.

Scream City. Darkland's collection of roller coasters. The rails twisted and turned and looped, all forged of dark metal. A train raced along the tracks, its cars screeching and raising sparks. It was too dark to see any riders. But over the rumbles and clatters of the train, Bastian thought he could hear human screams. Or perhaps they were the screams of aliens vowing death.

Bloody, bruised, and bandaged, the platoon survivors marched onward. Only twenty-five soldiers remained, half their original force. They walked across the cobblestones, leaning against one another, heading toward the forest of coiling tracks.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Like brambles around Sleeping Beauty's tower, the black roller coasters coiled around Vlad's Castle.

They stood before the coiling rails. Twenty-three beaten, bloodied soldiers, facing the lair of the rah prince.

"We have no more robots," King rasped. "We lost most of our troops. We have no air support, no tanks, no heavy artillery. We have only a few plasma batteries left. But we will keep going nonetheless."

The troops all looked at one another. Bastian, face pale and eyes haunted. Emily and Stowy, their armor lacerated, holding hands. Bear and Alice, big and strong but bandaged, barely still walking. A handful of other marines, eyes sunken and dour. Just them—they had to save the solar system.

"We have one robot," Niles said, but everyone ignored him.

King hefted the heavy chains from the dungeon. "Let's go find that spider and chain him up."

"And let's find Rowan," Bastian added.

"I don't go one second without thinking of Rowan," King said.

Alice and Bear stepped a little closer to Bastian. Alice even slipped her hand into his.

"If there is any comfort for us," King said softly, "it's our love. Our love for Rowan. Our love for one another. Our bonds of family and friendship. These will carry us to victory. Not just in tonight's battle but in the great war."

His soldiers looked up at him, surprised. It was rare to hear Commander King talk like this. Him—the gruff bulldog, the tough guy, the hardened soldier—speaking of love and friendship? But he spoke these words from a place deep under his armor. And he meant every one.

Stowy shed a tear and leaned her head against him.

"You old softie," the girl said. "I love ya too. Always did. You're like a grandpa to us all."

King cleared his throat. "You mean like a father, don't you? I'm too young to be your grandfather."

Stowy snorted. "Sure, gramps." She kissed his cheek. "By the way, please shave when we get back home. It's like kissing sandpaper."

King couldn't help but smile softly. Yes, Stowy was like family too. They were all his family—everyone under his care, from his soldiers to the tourists to stowaways. He mourned everyone who had died, and he would never stop fighting for those he could still save.

Okay, and maybe I am old enough to be Stowy's grandfather, he thought. Right now, after these battles and his time on the rack, he felt every one of his sixty years. They weighed him down. But he took a step forward. Then another step. The girls held him up. Even as he vowed to protect them, Emily and Stowy helped him onward.

A gateway rose ahead, made from a chunk of roller-coaster track. A sign hung above: SCREAM CITY.

"Emily, anything I should know about this place?"

They walked through the gateway. The roller coasters rose before them, great arches and loops, all coiling one within the other. King imagined them like the skeletons of giant serpents all wrapped in a knot.

"Scream City used to be my favorite place in Darkland," she said. "The roller coasters race all around the castle. They even plunge underground and coil through tunnels."

They took another few steps, then stopped. They reached a platform. Roller-coaster rails stretched left and right. Beyond the track rose a cliff of moonstone.

"Emily, do you know the way to the castle?" King said.

"The roller coaster will take us there."

"I prefer walking," King said.

Emily heaved a sigh. "As much as I love roller coasters, I would rather walk tonight too. Unfortunately, that's not an option. There's no way to walk to the castle. The only path there is by roller coaster."

King grumbled, eying the cliff. "We could climb."

"Commander, if I may be blunt, in your shape you can barely walk," Emily said. "And even if we could scale this cliff, we'd only reach a treacherous nest of machinery. The engines that power the roller coaster would snare us. A couple of teenagers tried to climb this cliff a few years ago—probably looking for a place to make out. They found their bodies mangled among the gears. We'll have to take the train." She smiled wanly. "It's not that scary."

King grumbled deep in his throat. "I hate roller coasters. Give me a nice armchair and a good book—that's enough excitement for me."

Emily cocked an eyebrow. "Weren't you a fighter pilot?"

"Totally different thing."

"Sure." Emily nodded, suppressing a smile.

The platoon gathered on the platform, rifles in hand. They had collected some plasma packs from the fallen. Everyone reloaded their Mordecais. Their helmets were cracked, their armor dented and torn, their bodies bandaged. But they were almost there.

* * * * *

A rumble sounded in the distance. A whistle blew. Lights shone in the dark.

A train came rattling along the tracks toward the platform. The locomotive was shaped like a great alien head, snarling and baring its metal teeth—a hideous visage, born from the imagination of a human designer long before real aliens had devoured the world.

The locomotive pulled several cars. Each train car was shaped like another segment in a great alien centipede, complete with little metal claws. The claws moved up and down along the tracks. The train slowed to a halt along the platform, puffing out smoke.

When the smoke cleared, Emily gasped and covered her mouth. Stowy stared curiously, eyes wide. King just stared grimly. A few marines muttered curses, somebody turned green, and somebody vomited.

But not because the train was shaped like a centipede.

The train cars were full of corpses.

They were tourists, judging by their Darkland shirts and hats. They had been dead for a day or two, King guessed. They had begun to decompose. The stench of death filled the air. It turned King's stomach.

He knew who had killed them. He could see the marks of claws.

"Let's get them out of there," King rasped.

Emily spun toward him, eyes wide, and seemed ready to object. But then she lowered her eyes and nodded.

The platoon worked grimly, thankful for their helmets and gloves. They pulled out fourteen bodies and lay them on the platform. Some were only children. King stared down at their pale faces. Families.

I'm sorry, he thought. I should have protected you. I am the commander of a dreadnought. A soldier sworn to defend you. And I failed you. We all did. I wish I could bury you. But I can't. Not yet. I don't even have goddamn blankets to pull over you.

So he had to leave them there on the platform. Like trash. Like discarded pieces of meat. He felt ashamed.

The locomotive turned its mechanical, alien head toward them. A voice emerged from a speaker in its mouth.

"Enter, victims! Ride the train of terror! Please keep your arms inside the cars for the duration of the ride. No food or drink allowed. Must be under three hundred pounds." The machine's oval eyes glowed red. "Prepare for horror!"

"Hey, Bas." Alice poked Bastian in the belly. "You sure you're under three hundred pounds?"

He pointed at her backside. "You sure you are?"

"Thankfully, both of you have hollow skulls," Bear said.

The two turned toward the giant.

"You certainly won't fit," Bastian said.

But Bear managed to squeeze into a train car. Seven feet tall, he had to pull his knees to his chest, and he didn't leave much room in the seat beside him. Stowy, the smallest member of the team, squeezed into the seat beside the giant.

Everyone else entered the train too. King took the front seat—right behind the hideous alien head. He too was a big guy, and these were narrow seats. But somehow Bastian, himself no string bean, managed to squeeze in beside him.

Despite everything, it was nice to sit down.

A memory suddenly flooded King. Twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven years ago. Taking Bastian, then just a kid, to Disneyland. King remembered buying cotton candy, Diane laughing in the sunlight, Bastian getting an autograph from Donald Duck. He had survived the third world war, and he carried his scars, both those on his body and those on the soul. But with his wife and son, life had seemed almost cheerful—a few days of escapism in the sun.

The memory faded, and he was back here in Darkland, a place of shadows and death.

If we survive this war, we're taking Rowan to Disneyland, he promised himself. Hang in there, Rowan. We're coming to get you. Everything will be good again. His throat hurt, and it wasn't just the old wound now. Everything will be sunlight and cotton candy, and our family will be together and happy.

The train began to move, rumbling down the tracks into the shadows.

* * * * *

The roller coaster raced along the tracks at breakneck speed. Normally, the train would be full of tourists screaming in delight. But everyone sat silently tonight, rifles clutched in cold hands, staring ahead into the shadows.

King could barely see a few feet ahead. The flashlight on his helmet illuminated only fog. The train roared down the tracks, banked hard, looped twice, and raced through mist. The stench of death still clung to the cars, and the wheels shrieked against the rails. It sounded almost like screaming children.

Deranged laughter sounded in the darkness. Shadows scurried. Red eyes shone all around. King inhaled sharply and aimed his rifle, but the eyes vanished. He didn't know if those were rahs or just part of the attraction.

A deep voice boomed from below.

"Welcome… to hell!"

The roller coaster plunged toward an enormous devil forged of metal, painted blood-red. The tracks ran into the demon's open mouth. The train roared into the waiting gullet.

The train raced through an underground chasm. Walls of living rock rose around them, crackling with torches. Speakers were mounted near the ceiling. Demonic cackling echoed through the chamber as the train roared by.

A sudden figure swooped toward the train, eyes blazing red, mouth open to reveal its fangs.

King opened fire.

His plasma washed over the monster, melting plastic, revealing a metal chassis.

"It's all right!" Emily said. "It's just part of the attraction."

King caught a glimpse as the train raced by. Just a large bat hanging on a wire.

"I think you melted Dracula, Dad," Bastian said.

"Good," King said. "I hate bats."

They had to speak telepathically to be heard over the ruckus.

Another figure leaped toward them from the shadows—large and green, bolts sticking out from its head.

"I am Frankenstein!" the monster boomed. "I want your brains!"

"I thought Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster," Alice said from the back seat. "And wasn't it Igor who was after brains?"

"Who cares?" Bastian answered. "Really, Alice, who gives a damn?"

"I do!" she insisted. "I like realism when it comes to my monsters."

"The rahs are real enough for me," Bastian muttered.

As the two bickered, King checked the MindWeb again. He was getting closer. Rowan's avatar shone bright green. She was so close.

As the train raced along, hieroglyphs appeared on the walls. Columns rose alongside the tracks. Sarcophagi leaned forward, threatening to fall onto the train.

A voice boomed from the speakers. "Beware the mummy's curse!"

As the train rumbled along, the sarcophagi's lids swung open. Mummies leaped out—just props on wires. They reached to grab the crew, their fingernails long and yellow. One mummy wore a baseball cap, perhaps a gift from a tourist.

King found the ride rather boring. Once you had fought Russians in a spacefighter, a mere roller coaster lost its thrill. But kids like Emily probably loved this place.

"Whoo!"

A cry of delight came from behind him. King turned his head to see Stowy with her hands in the air. Her head was tossed back, and a huge grin was plastered across her elfin face. The girl could find joy anywhere, it seemed, be it the ductwork of the starship Freedom or an alien-ridden amusement park.

A sarcophagus shaped like King Tut detached from the wall and leaned toward the train. Fake gold and jewels covered the coffin.

"Who dares disturb my tomb!" rumbled a voice.

The lid swung open over the train.

But instead of a mummy, a rah leaped out.

The beast lunged toward the train, eight legs stretched out, claws bright. Its mouth opened hungrily.

King and Bastian opened fire together, bathing the alien with plasma.

The rah landed on the train, burning and still alive, jaws snapping.

A claw thrust toward King. He leaned aside, and the claw drove into the roller-coaster seat. The creature roared before him. As the train raced forth, King rose in the car and thrust his Mordecai like a sword, shoving the burning spider back.

The alien hit the tracks.

The train rammed into it.

Sparks showered. The train screeched forward, wobbling madly. A few wheels rose off the track, and soldiers screamed. The locomotive was shoving the alien across the tracks, cracking its exoskeleton, snapping its legs. One leg shattered under the wheels, and the train lurched, nearly fell off the tracks.

King winced. It was a long way down. One burning spider leg tumbled into the darkness, illuminating its way down until it vanished. The pit seemed endless.

The alien torso was still on the tracks, half-buried under the rushing train. Screams rose from behind. King glanced over his shoulder. The caboose had fallen off the rails, was dangling behind them like a broken tail. Soldiers cried out, trying to climb to safety. Fellow marines reached out from their own cars, trying to grab them.

King leaned over the edge of the locomotive. The metal alien head was sparking, shoving the dead spider across the tracks.

Leaning forward, King swept his rifle across the tracks, finally dislodging the dismembered corpse. Whatever remained of the rah tumbled into the depths.

The wheels landed back on the rails. The train kept chugging forth, a little more steady now. At the back of the train, the caboose was still dangling over the edge. But the soldiers inside had climbed to safety—just in time too. Swinging over the rail, the caboose detached from the train and plunged into the depths.

King took a few deep breaths. His heart pounded. He settled back in his seat.

"I hate roller coasters," he muttered.

* * * * *

On its way to the castle, the train raced through an underground graveyard. A fake one but chilling nonetheless. Tombstones rose all around, leaning this way and that. Animatronic crows fluttered between them, and ghosts hung from wires. The ground cracked open, and a few mechanical zombie hands emerged, pretending to reach toward the train.

Before King had even caught his breath from the last battle, the graves tore open, and a fresh batch of rahs bubbled up from underground.

"Give us a break!" Bastian shouted.

The spiders leaped onto the train. Onto the locomotive. Onto the cars behind it. They leaped from every side. More swung from webs above. Their red eyes shone everywhere.

King stood in the rushing train, firing his gun. He knocked one rah down with a plasma bolt. But more kept coming. One landed on the locomotive and roared. Strings of saliva quivered between its teeth. Bastian filled its mouth with fire.

Across the train, soldiers stood in their cars, battling the beasts. More and more rahs fell into the depths, and the train kept racing. A few wheels detached, slammed back down, and sparks flew.

Rahs grabbed the cars, denting the metal, climbing inside. Too many to knock into the depths. One rah leaped into a car in the middle of the train, claws lashing. Blood splattered.

King could only spare the other cars a glance. A rah came swinging toward him on a strand of cobwebs. King fired his plasma, severing the strand. The rah plunged into the abyss.

More spiders leaped from the mock graves alongside the train.

They covered the roller coaster. Dozens of them.

The train was now racing through what looked like an abandoned, twentieth-century city, complete with narrow alleys and graffiti on the walls, the kind of slums you saw in old movies. Antique cars lined the tracks, rusting away. Animatronic slashers leaped from behind the cars, around corners, and from sewers. One killer, a scarred man in a shabby sweater, wielded a glove tipped with claws. Another slasher wore a hockey mask. He raised a roaring chainsaw. Killer after killer leaned toward the train, cackling.

But inside the train, the soldiers didn't have time for pretend horror. They were battling the real deal. The aliens kept crawling across the train. A rah grabbed a corporal, raised her overhead, and hurled her into the pit. Another rah leaped onto a private, tore into his torso, and began to feed—right there on the racing train. The survivors shouted, firing their guns, desperate to knock the aliens off the train.

Another rah landed on the locomotive's hood. King was out of plasma again. He swung his rifle like a club, but the alien would not fall.

"Bastian, get ready to grab me!" King said and leaped forward.

He slammed his shoulder into the rah.

The spider slid across the locomotive, legs scrabbling for purchase, then finally slipped off and hit the track. The train plowed into the alien and jolted into the air again.

King fell.

Bastian grabbed his belt and pulled him back inside.

"Be careful, Dad!"

"I'll be careful when I'm dead."

"That'll be very soon if you pull stunts like that!"

The train began racing uphill now. They were emerging from underground. The scenery changed. They were now riding through a jungle of plastic trees. The train tracks here were made of wood, not metal. The train rattled madly. They moved faster and faster. The trees blurred at their sides.

"We're almost at the end!" Emily cried. "Watch out for King Kong!"

"For what?"

"You have to duck!" Emily said. She yelped as a rah scurried toward her. She fired her Mordecai, knocking it into the plastic bushes.

Then King saw it ahead.

An enormous robotic ape. The name clicked. King Kong. A giant gorilla from an old movie.

The mechanical King Kong loomed ahead, one leg on each side of the track. The train was about to pass between its legs.

In one hand, the beast held a screaming biobot woman. The ape's other hand kept swinging across the tracks like a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth. The furry hand was enormous—easily large enough to kill anyone in its path. King supposed that the train and swinging hand were synchronized. The train was designed to race by just as the hand was swinging away from the tracks, giving the passengers a scare.

Rahs covered King Kong like parasites. The aliens crawled onto the gorilla's shoulders and head, grinning as the train rumbled closer.

The soldiers opened fire. Plasma bolts slammed into the rahs, knocking them off King Kong. The gorilla's fur burst into flames. The fire quickly engulfed the animatronic ape.

The train raced toward Kong's legs.

The gorilla's hand came swinging down like a scythe. With all the trouble along the tracks, the train and gorilla had gone out of sync. The hand was about to swing right over the train, decapitating the passengers.

King glanced over his shoulder. His marines were still battling rahs across the train. The flames painted them red.

"Everybody duck!" King roared.

He turned forward again just as the train reached King Kong.

The gorilla's hand whooshed down toward them.

King, Bastian, and the others ducked.

The hand swung right over their heads—and scooped up rahs across the train.

The train roared between King Kong's legs. As the train raced through the fiery archway, the ape's hand kept swinging back and forth, a great pendulum, knocking the rahs off the train. The aliens tumbled into the plastic bushes, crushed and burning.

The train emerged from the other side, then leaped onto the surface of the moon.

They had passed through the gauntlet.

The train rumbled to a halt beside a platform.

The locomotive was a melting, twisted mess of metal, but the alien head still managed to say: "Thank you for riding through Scream City! Remember to pick up your ghoulish merch at the gift shop. And don't forget your midride photo souvenir!"

"I hate roller coasters," King muttered.

* * * * *

"Are you all right, Dad?" Bastian said.

"I've been better," King grumbled. Everything hurt. "You?"

Bastian winced. "I'm covered with scrapes, cuts, and bruises, but I can still fight."

King stood in the locomotive, panting, covered with alien blood. He looked at the rest of the train, and his heart broke.

Several marines had died in the battle. Some lay dead in the train cars. Others had fallen into the darkness.

"Off the train!" King barked. "Gather on the platform for roll call."

They limped off the train. Many were wounded. One marine had lost a hand. Another clutched a deep wound on his stomach.

Emily and Stowy had survived, but both were bleeding from various scrapes and cuts. They huddled together, holding each other. Bear and Alice were still alive, pale and swaying on their feet. But both were well enough to stand, maybe to keep fighting. A few other marines were still here, but not many. Not nearly enough.

King looked around for Diane, the woman he had saved from the Urchin.

He found her body still on the train, slumped in the seat, a hole in her chest.

Sudden fury filled King.

He clenched a fist and punched the train. Hard. Denting the car. He punched it again and again, then tossed back his head and roared. Everyone watched silently. Emily began to weep.

"Dad?"

Bastian approached him. But King barely noticed his son. He leaned against the train, his fist bleeding, and lowered his head.

"Dad." Bastian stood beside him. "I'm here, Dad."

King wheeled toward him, sneering, his fists still shaking. "We saved her from the Urchin. We saved her from the goddamn web, only for her to die here."

"I know, Dad. I know."

"Those goddamn bastard aliens." King's rage and grief stormed inside him. "I'm going to kill every last one of them. I'm going to destroy them. I'm going to hunt them down across the galaxy to whatever godforsaken filthy planet they come from, and I'm going to pound it into the dust."

Tentatively, Bastian pulled him into an embrace.

King closed his eyes, for a moment unable to speak.

With his eyes closed, MindPlay hovered clearly before him, glowing behind his eyelids. So many avatars were dark red. All his fallen troops. But one avatar shone bright green.

Rowan.

She was nearby, and she was waking up.

King opened his eyes and took a step back from the train. The survivors all turned together.

There it rose. Just ahead.

Vlad's Castle.

The final attraction in Darkland.

"I'm coming for you, Rowan," King said. "And I'm coming for you, Hel'rah." He began marching toward the castle. "It ends tonight."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Vlad's Castle was billed as the largest haunted house on the moon. Which wasn't saying much, given that it was also the only haunted house on the moon. But still, it was an imposing attraction.

Ostensibly, it was a re-creation of a real castle in Romania—the castle Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula, had decorated with the severed heads of his enemies. But the builders of Darkland had taken some creative liberties. Vlad's Castle looked less like a real castle, more like something from a madman's dream. Its towers tilted this way and that. Animatronic bats fluttered around its steeples. Gargoyles leered from battlements, and lava flowed from their mouths into a moat. An assortment of spikes rose around the castle, impaling wax heads.

Yet as King stepped closer, as the stench hit his nostrils, he realized that those were not wax heads. This was not part of the display. Hel'rah had actually cut the heads off tourists. In a mockery of Vlad the Impaler, he had stuck them around his castle.

Sick bastard.

Emily grimaced and covered her mouth. "How awful."

King paused among the spikes. He stared up at the tallest steeple. A red window gazed down at him like an eye.

"That's the place, isn't it?" King rasped. "The place we saw in the video. Where Hel'rah is hiding."

Emily nodded. "Yes. In the tower. He's there." She shuddered. "Is he watching us now?"

"You can count on it," King said.

"Well, I hope he's shitting himself," Emily said.

Niles gasped and flew up from her arms. "Princess Emily!"

She gave the drone a hard look. "This is no time for manners, Niles. This is time for battle." She loaded a fresh plasma charge into her Mordecai. The rifle clicked.

A stone staircase, roughly hewn, stretched from the yard of spikes toward the castle gateway. Heavy wooden doors filled a stone archway, bounded with iron. If the doors were locked, King would try to shoot them down.

Before he could climb the stairs, shrieks rose from the castle.

The cries echoed across Darkland. Voices rose, shrill and mocking.

"The humans are here!"

"Come to die, apes."

"Come to suffer!"

"We have her, King! We have your girl!"

Red eyes blazed across the castle battlements. The wooden doors slammed open, and aliens came spilling out.

The rahs scuttled down the staircase toward the yard of spikes. A memory flashed through King's mind. As a child, playing innocently on the porch, he had once poked the egg sac of a garden spider. Thousands of baby spiders had spilled out and raced across the patio stairs. That's what this reminded him of—just a million times larger.

Suddenly one of King's soldiers stood up, pale and trembling. It was Pickles the pilot. A tear ran down his cheek. The tall man spun on his heel—and ran.

"Goddammit, Major, get back here!" King growled.

But Pickles kept running.

King had no time to worry about that now. He'd discipline the man later. Hell, maybe he'd court martial and demote him. But right now he had a battle to fight. The rahs came roaring at them.

"Charge at them!" King shouted and ran at the enemy, gun blasting.

His plasma melted one rah. But so many came pouring out of the castle. They covered the staircase, spilled into the yard, and swarmed toward the humans.

We can't win, King knew. There are too many, and we are too few.

One marine ran out of plasma. He fell, and the spiders rolled over him.

A second marine kept firing until the aliens tore him apart.

And King knew he was going to die here.

Just then, as the spiders were closing in, Niles flew into the air. The tiny drone hovered above them. Was he fleeing?

No. Niles remained above the battle—and he let out a whistle. The sound was so loud the rahs all looked up at the hovering drone.

"It's time!" Niles cried. "Come now, biobots! I summon you! Come fight with us!"

"Niles, what are you doing?" Emily cried from the battlefield below.

The drone looked down at her. "I've been connecting to the biobots wirelessly this whole time," he said. "Hearing their stories. Talking to them. Telling them my own tale. They're more intelligent than I originally thought. And they will fight for us."

And there they came—limping, wobbling, some crawling. The biobots of Darkland.

The freaks came first. Johnny Beck, the wondrous Half-Boy, came walking on his hands. He had no body below the rib cage, but he charged to battle, a machine gun mounted on his shoulders. Prince Ravi came after him—the Indian royal known as the Pillow Man. He had no limbs, just a torso and head. But he managed to wobble forward on the bottom of his torso, swinging his left hip forward, then his right. He held a pistol in his mouth. Schnitzel, the famous pinhead, ran with them. He wore a dress, and a long feather was pinned to his narrow, pointy head. He held a bazooka. The Elephant Man charged to battle too, firing guns, crying out dramatically: "I am not an animal!"

"Fight with the humans!" cried the Pillow Man.

"They're our friends!" said the Wolf Girl, a young woman covered in fur.

"One of us, one of us!" chanted Schnitzel.

The biobots, re-creations of famous sideshow performers, slammed into the rah army, killing and dying.

More biobots followed. The creatures of the Dungeon of Despair—both the torturers and their victims—charged to battle. They carried their brutal instruments—whips, blades, pincers, hammers. They slammed into the enemy, cutting and whipping and crushing.

The biobots of Pleasure Palace came next—beautiful women in slinky outfits, tottering on high heels. The spiderlike temptresses had fallen in battle. Here were the real women of Pleasure Palace, beautiful and furious. Their perfumes invaded the nostrils of the rahs, and the aliens blinked and stumbled about, confused. Emitting their intoxicating aromas, the bargirls pulled pistols from their purses and fired bullets into the watery alien eyes.

"You did it, Niles!" Emily cried, fighting with the biobots.

"I told you I'd protect you, Princess." The drone hovered down toward her. "I'm here for you. Always."

Something clicked inside Niles, and an array of switchblades, pistols, and saws burst out from him. The drone bristled like an urchin, then flew toward a group of rahs, crying out for war.

King fought with them, his gun lighting the battlefield. His injuries ached. Fear pulsed through him. But he kept fighting, shoving his way up the staircase, slaying the rahs in his path. Alien corpses tumbled down the stairs, landing among the spikes with severed heads. And King kept climbing. Bastian fought at his side, his face determined, eyes narrowed, killing rahs with every step.

With a heartbreaking cry, the Elephant Man fell, and the spiders swarmed over him.

Johnny Beck shouted, firing his machine gun, taking out several rahs before an alien leaped from above and cut him down.

Schnitzel went down in a blaze of glory, firing his bazooka into a tower. The tower collapsed, burying ten rahs—and Schnitzel himself.

"Go on, humans!" cried Prince Ravi, still fighting within a ring of rahs. "Go win this war."

King slew another rah and saw the open gates before him. He ran into the castle. Bastian followed, and then came the rest of them.

Outside on the stairs, the last rahs and last biobots fell.

King caught a glimpse of the final biobot—a young woman from Pleasure Palace. She looked up at him from the staircase. She reached out a hand. Then she died among the twitching corpses of aliens.

Everyone who still lived was inside. King slammed the door shut.

They were in Vlad's Castle.

* * * * *

The castle's main hall was dark and dusty. Tapestries hung on the brick walls between crackling torches. Ghosts made of sheets and wires swung from the chandelier. A heavy oak table dominated the room. Animatronic skeletons sat there, feasting on plastic food.

King looked at his fellow soldiers. Only a handful remained.

Bastian stood in shadows, tall and somber, his eyes haunted. Bear and Alice, his two best friends from back home, stood at his sides. Emily and Stowy held each other, shivering.

That was it.

That was all.

They were the only ones who had survived.

They were all wounded. Bear's skin was pale, his bandages red. Bastian and Alice were breathing heavily. King felt like… well, like he had just been tortured on a rack, he supposed.

Even Niles was hurt. The poor drone had suffered a blow from a rah's claw. He was sparking. Gears could be seen broken inside him. Emily was holding him to her chest.

"Leave me behind, Emily," the drone said. "My motors are busted. I can no longer fly. Oh, this is the end for me! Leave me here to die, Princess."

"I'll carry you in my backpack until we can fix your motors," she said.

"No, no! I'll just be a burden. Best leave me here so that I may suffer and die in agony without bothering anyone."

Emily rolled her eyes. "It's too bad the rahs didn't stab your speaker instead of your motor."

She shoved Niles into her backpack. The drone's muffled complaints could be heard from inside. Something about how he refused to ride in a cheap military rucksack that was probably infested with ants. Everyone ignored him.

The team huddled in the castle hall between suits of medieval armor. King pulled up MindPlay and scrolled through his avatars. Major Robby "Pickles" Cooper was still alive, cowering somewhere outside the castle. Goddamn the man. He wasn't accepting calls.

King ignored it for now. He pushed aside fantasies of locking Pickles in the brig and losing the key. Right now he'd have to rely on the troops he still had. He looked at them—the last soldiers standing.

"Now that we're inside the castle," King said, "I can track Rowan's position more accurately. She's awake now. She's inside the castle but not in the tower like Hel'rah. She seems to be about ten meters below us—presumably in the basement."

He had almost said dungeon. But after suffering through the Dungeon of Despair, he wasn't going to use that word and Rowan in the same sentence.

"So we go save Rowan first," Bastian said. "Then we storm the tower."

King shook his head. "No. I don't want to give Hel'rah any time to escape. He might not have expected us to get this far."

"I'm not going to chase Hel'rah when Rowan needs me!" Bastian said.

King considered for a moment. "We'll split up. Bastian, you head into the basement. Take Bear with you. Save Rowan and comfort her." King hefted the chains he carried. "The rest of us will head into the tower. We'll capture Hel'rah."

And I intend to make that bug pay for what he did, King added silently.

"Sir." Emily approached him. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to join Bastian's team."

"Why is that?" King said.

"There's a scared little girl down there, waking up in a dungeon," the princess said. "She needs all the help she can get. I won't be able to help you fight Hel'rah. I'm not strong enough. But if I can help save Rowan, well… that's where I must go."

King nodded. "Good." He placed a hand on Emily's shoulder. "Very good. Go with Bastian. Go get my granddaughter."

Stowy grabbed King's arm—thankfully not the wounded one. "Sir, I'm going with you. I'll look after you. You need my help."

King couldn't help but chuckle. "Now Hel'rah surely doesn't stand a chance."

They split up. Bastian, Bear, and Emily formed one group, guns in hand, ready to storm the dungeon. Between them, they had only three plasma batteries. King, Stowy, and Alice formed the other team. They carried heavy chains to bind Hel'rah.

There was nobody else. Of a platoon of fifty warriors, they were all who remained. Just six souls.

King nodded. "All right, everyone. Final stretch. Godspeed, soldiers of Earth."

Bastian saluted him, and his eyes shone with tears. "Godspeed."

Emily saluted too, tears in her eyes. "Good luck, everyone."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Bastian led the way, walking down a stone staircase into the castle dungeon. He kept his Mordecai shouldered, muzzle pointing at the shadows. Bear and Emily walked close behind, their rifles at the ready. Their batteries were all low. They only had one shot left each, two if they were lucky.

The stairs were carved into the moonstone. Torches hung in sconces, crackling. A gibbet swung above, and a skeleton languished inside. Bastian assumed it was another prop, but you could not be sure in Darkland.

He checked MindPlay.

Rowan was just a few meters below.

He sent her a message.

Rowan, I'm coming.

Her signal was weak. The stone walls were interfering with transmissions. But her voice spoke in his mind, muffled and distant.

Daddy.

Bastian took a shuddering breath, his eyes stinging. He kept descending the stairs.

He reached the bottom of the staircase, where he found a thick metal door. A rah stood guard there, eyes glowing in the darkness.

The alien pounced.

Bastian fired. The bolt knocked the rah down. Alice and Bear fired over Bastian's shoulders. The rah twitched and fell.

"I'm all out," Emily said. "No more plasma."

"Me too," said Bear.

"Same." Bastian kicked the dead rah aside. "But I'm not turning back."

He checked the door. Locked. He kicked several times, finally shattering the lock. The door swung open, and Bastian charged through.

He skidded to a halt, arms windmilling. Bear had to reach out, grab his shoulders, and pull him back from the ledge.

Emily joined them. They stood on a narrow stone platform. Ahead lay a pit full of spider eggs.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of wriggling eggs filled the pit. Each was the size of a melon. The shells were soft and translucent, revealing the spiderlings inside. Bastian had always hated spiders, and these things were worse than any Earth arachnid. Their legs poked at the shells, and their tiny jaws opened and closed, revealing their teeth.

"Shouldn't the eggs be in hosts?" Alice said.

"Maybe they were while developing," Bastian said. "These ones look ready to hatch."

"Daddy!" came a muffled voice.

Bastian looked up.

A cocoon dangled from the ceiling on silk strands. A cocoon about the size of a five-year-old girl.

The bundle spun on its strand, and suddenly Bastian saw her.

Her face stuck out between the strands.

"Rowan!" he cried out.

"Daddy, help!"

Bastian took a step forward. Bear grabbed his shoulder, holding him back.

"Wait, my friend," the giant said. "There might be more rahs."

Bastian wanted to run, but Bear held him in place. They pointed their flashlights across the chamber, checking every dark nook.

"There!" Emily said, pointing at a corner.

They all raised their rifles.

A spider clung to the ceiling. It was smaller than a typical rah, no larger than a lamb, and its legs were gray and tipped with tiny pincers, not claws. The alien stared at them with eight white eyes and hissed.

Bastian shook his plasma rifle, stirring the fuel inside. The charge meter crept up. Half a charge left.

He fired a small, weak bolt of plasma. The rah fell from the ceiling, a smoking hole in its abdomen. It landed at Bastian's feet. The alien whimpered, then died.

"That's it?" Alice said. "That's the big bad guy guarding Rowan?"

Bear kicked the dead thing. "Remember what they briefed us on? There are three types of rahs. Hunters, gazers, and orbweavers. So far we've only seen hunters. I think this one is an orbweaver."

"They're the construction workers of the rahs," Alice said. "It probably wove this web or dug the pit of eggs. But it's not a fighter. I guess all the hunters came out the castle to fight us there."

"And the guard we killed at the door," Bear said.

Bastian wasn't paying attention to them. He took a step into the pit. The eggs wriggled around his boot. The little aliens squirmed inside with new vigor. Their heads turned toward him, pressing against the translucent eggshells. Their toothy jaws opened, and they emitted little screeches.

"Bastian, wait!" Emily said. "Rowan is too high. You won't reach her." The princess sighed. "It's too bad Niles's motors are dead. He could have flown to the ceiling."

"Oh, I've failed you again, Princess!" came the drone's muffled voice from her backpack. They ignored him.

Charging Bear stared at the cocoon on the ceiling, eyes narrowed.

"I can reach her," said the giant.

Bastian took a step back onto the platform, glad to be away from the eggs. He squinted, staring at the dangling cocoon. He loaded up MindPlay and located his ruler app. He measured the distance from floor to cocoon.

"No, even you can't reach her, Bear," he said. "And we don't have a ladder." He thought for a moment. "Emily, ride on my shoulders. Together we're taller even than Bear."

The princess looked into the pit of eggs. "I don't like this, Bastian. Those things look ready to hatch."

"If they hatch, I'll step on 'em," Bastian said. When Emily still hesitated, he groaned. "Look, Princess, I'm not going to just stand here while my daughter needs me."

"Daddy, hurry!" Rowan cried. "They're about to hatch!"

"We'll be right there, sweetie, just hang on!" Bastian looked at his friends, wringing his hands. "Come on, we have to move."

"I'll ride on your shoulders," Bear volunteered.

Bastian rolled his eyes. "You'd drive me into the ground. Bear, you guard the door. Take our plasma guns. Shake 'em a bit. There might be some juice left."

He handed the giant his rifle.

"Very well," Emily said. "I'll ride on your shoulders, Bastian. It feels like walking onto a minefield, but I don't see that we have a choice."

The princess handed Bear her rifle too, then climbed onto Bastian. She straddled his shoulders. She didn't weigh much, but Bastian was so exhausted that he struggled under her weight.

He stepped into the pit.

The eggs wriggled and the spiderlings screeched inside.

* * * * *

Bastian kept walking, step by step. The eggs were so close together he had to nudge them aside with his boots. As he walked, the ground sloped downward. The eggs were piled up high. They rose past his boots. Then to his knees. Soon he was wading through eggs.

"It's like one of those ball pools for kids," Emily said.

"Just like them!" Bastian said. "I still have fond memories from my childhood, walking into pools full of carnivorous alien bugs."

"I'm sorry that I don't have perfect analogies for an alien invasion of the moon, Bastian," Emily said. "Not exactly something I'm used to dealing with."

He kept walking, slogging through the eggs, carrying the princess. He was almost there. Almost at the center of the pit below the cocoon. The eggs rose higher. Soon Bastian was buried up to his waist. Riding on his shoulders, Emily had to raise her legs to avoid touching the eggs.

"I think one touched my shoe," she said.

"Oh, how horrible for you, Princess!"

Finally they stood directly under the cocoon.

"Daddy!" Rowan cried from above. Only her face emerged from the strands. She wriggled inside the bundle, unable to free herself, oddly mirroring the wriggling aliens in the eggs below.

Sitting on Bastian's shoulders, Emily reached up, straining. "I can't reach."

"Stretch!" Bastian said.

"I'm trying. Stand on your toes."

It didn't help.

"Stand up on my shoulders, Emily."

She winced. "What if I fall?"

"Oh no, Princess, you might get your dress dirty!" Bastian said.

"Stop dismissing my legitimate concerns as the pampered whines of a princess," she said. "These eggs are dangerous."

"Gee, ya think?" Bastian said. "I just happen to be standing in them up to my waist. Now stand on my shoulders, Your Highness!"

She climbed up, wobbling a bit. Bastian raised one hand, supporting her until she stood on his shoulders.

"Just like a pair of acrobats," Bastian said.

"I think I can just about reach it now," Emily said. "I'll cut the cocoon. Wait, where's my knife?"

The eggs squirmed madly.

Nearby, one egg cracked open. A hungry little jaw emerged.

"Emily, hurry!" Bastian said.

"Ah, here it is." Emily drew a knife, reached up, and began cutting a few strands. "Can you stand on your toes again, Bastian? I'm still a little low."

Another egg ripped open.

And a third.

Tiny claws reached out. Heads emerged, black and slick with goo. The alien jaws opened to screech.

More and more eggs kept cracking.

"Emily?" Bastian said.

"I've almost cut her free!" she replied. "Keep holding me steady."

She stood on his shoulders, cutting the cocoon open. The strands were thick and sticky, so it took a while.

More eggs hatched. Spiderlings crawled toward Bastian. They were only the size of rats, but their claws were like razors.

A terrible screech sounded from the doorway.

Bastian raised his head, looking across the pit.

Bear cried out and fired his gun down the hallway. An alien roared.

"How many are there?" Bastian shouted.

"Just one but a big one!" Bear replied. "A female, I think. I'll hold her off. Free Rowan!"

"Emily, how's it going up there?" Bastian said. "We really have to—"

A spiderling bit his leg.

Thankfully, the teeth only hit his armored battlesuit, leaving him unharmed. Bastian kicked the alien away.

"Whoa!" Emily wobbled on his shoulders. "Bastian, stop shaking around."

Another spiderling leaped toward Bastian. It bit his other leg. He kicked it aside. More eggs began to hatch.

"Emily, just cut the whole cocoon down and carry it."

"I can't!" she said. "I can't reach the upper strands. I almost have the cocoon open, though."

Rowan's arm reached out from inside. "I'm almost free, Daddy!"

The spiderlings were all biting at Bastian's legs now. They ripped into his battlesuit, tearing off armored plates, cutting through the hardened fabric—then reaching his skin. He roared in agony, but he stayed standing.

Even more spiderlings hatched. They scurried toward him. As some spiderlings savaged his legs, others climbed higher, reaching his torso. They began ripping at his armor there too. Bastian had to keep propping Emily up with one hand. He used the other hand to hurl the climbing aliens across the room.

He couldn't even kick off the ones on his legs. Not without swaying and dropping Emily.

Shouts and shrieks came from the doorway. Plasma blasted. The shadows of spider legs fell across Bastian. Big legs. He looked up to see Bear battling the female rah. The giant fired another round, blasting off the rah's front leg. The gun clicked. Out of charge. And the spider still had seven legs left.

Bear began swinging his gun like a club, slamming the barrel into the alien. It was a big rah all right. She was so large she filled the tunnel.

Pain blazed on Bastian's side.

He howled.

The spiderlings had ripped off his armor, had scratched him under the rib. More kept climbing him.

"Got her!" Emily shouted.

She cut one last strand, and Rowan spilled out from the cocoon. Standing on Bastian's shoulders, Emily caught the girl.

"All right, we're bugging out!" Bastian shouted.

* * * * *

He began trudging back toward the doorway. Emily sat on his shoulders, holding Rowan to her chest. Bastian was hurt, and it wasn't easy carrying two girls on his shoulders. But he refused to fall.

As he walked, more eggs kept hatching. The creatures emerged, demanding blood. Hundreds of spiderlings writhed across the pit. With every step Bastian took, they cut his legs. They climbed higher. They pulled off his last plates of armor. They leaped from all over.

Sitting on his shoulders, Emily cried out in fear. She kicked at the leaping spiders, and she held Rowan closer to her chest.

Bastian moved faster, gritting his teeth, powering through the pain.

At the doorway, Bear was still battling the rah.

Bastian was only halfway there when it happened. The giant spider thrust her claw. Bear parried with his rifle, but the rah thrust a second claw.

It pierced Bear's belly.

"Bear!" Bastian shouted in horror. The world spun around him.

The giant bellowed in agony. The claw pulled out from him. But Bear did not fall. He thrust his rifle, driving the muzzle into the rah's eyeball. He kept shoving, burying the muzzle inside the alien's head. There was no plasma left, but Bear kept shoving the rifle deeper and deeper until the rah squealed, then fell over dead.

Bear fell to his knees in a pool of blood.

Back in the pit, Bastian kept slogging through the sea of baby spiders. They kept biting and clawing like piranhas.

He fell to one knee.

Emily screamed in terror.

Bastian shoved himself back up and kept walking. A dozen spiderlings clung to him.

The ground was sloping upward. He was almost at the doorway now. Just a few more steps.

But they were crawling all over him. He was bleeding. He was hurt. A few steps from the doorway, he fell again. This time to both knees.

At once, the spiders leaped onto his back. Emily cried out, kicking them off. Rowan wailed.

Bastian raised his head, tried to see if Bear was still alive. He could barely see anything. Only the storm of claws.

A voice rose deep inside him.

On your feet, soldier! Up and march!

It was the voice of his father.

Bastian was a kid again. A scrawny twenty-year-old, freshly flunked out of flight school. A bum. A loser. A disappointment.

He wanted to leave the army. To become a farmer. To slink away from society. The first King in five generations who failed flight school. He would not become a fighter pilot. He could not even fly a dropship.

"I'm done," he said, drinking too much, sinking in a hole.

His father was there. To pick him up—a little roughly but not without love.

On your feet, soldier! Up and march!

And he did. To the marines. To become an infantryman. An officer. A leader. He marched onward through the years. For his father. For his family name. For himself. And now he would march for Rowan.

He rose to his feet in the pit of spiders.

He took step after step through them, heading toward the door.

The spiders bit.

He fell again. He could no longer feel his legs.

"Get Rowan to safety, Emily," Bastian whispered. He could not speak any louder.

The spiders seized him, were pulling him under.

He pitched forward. Before he sank into the sea of aliens, he grabbed Emily and Rowan. He threw them toward the doorway.

He blinked, managed to see Bear standing at the doorway, still alive. The giant caught the girls and pulled them to safety.

And then Bastian's strength gave up. He fell face-first into the pit of aliens. They crawled all over him, and all he could hear were their hungry squeals.

But I saved Rowan, he thought. I saved my girl.

* * * * *

He sank into a nightmare.

He floated in a world of little aliens with teeth that bit so deep.

He was a skeleton. He was a morsel of meat.

He was dying.

Everyone was dead. Stacy was dead. His mother was dead. Millions of people—gone. He would join them now. He had lost.

Live, Rowan. You're an orphan now. But you must live.

He closed his eyes.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. A powerful hand, the fingers digging.

Another hand thrust under his arm.

The hands were huge. He felt like a child grabbed by an adult.

The mighty hands scooped Bastian to his feet.

Charging Bear had waded into the pit. The spiderlings were climbing over him too. A wound gaped open on his stomach—the wound from the spider's claw. But the giant lifted Bastian over his shoulder and walked through the pit of spiders. He carried Bastian to the platform by the door.

With every step, Bear's blood flowed, and the spiders tore across him. One spiderling reached the wound on Bear's stomach. The alien thrust its little claws inside. Bear roared but kept walking until he reached the doorway.

Emily and Rowan were waiting there, beckoning. Bear threw Bastian toward them. Emily caught him, pulled him to safety.

Bastian collapsed onto the stone ledge, gasping for air. His legs were a bloody mess.

He reached toward Bear.

The giant still stood in the sea of aliens. The spiderlings were crawling over him.

Charging Bear took a step forward. Another.

Bastian and Emily grabbed the giant as he fell. They pulled him onto the stone ledge.

The spiderlings followed, crawling onto the platform. Emily swung her rifle like a golf club, knocking the aliens back. Even Rowan helped, kicking the little aliens into the pit.

Bastian managed to rise to his feet, to pull Bear along the stone. The giant left a trail of blood. They all retreated into the corridor, then slammed the door shut, sealing the spiderlings in the pit.

For a moment they were safe.

Finally Bastian pulled Rowan into his arms. He held her tight, weeping, barely able to breathe. Maybe he was dying. Maybe they were the last living humans on the moon. But he held his daughter in his arms. Right now everything was good.

"Daddy," she whispered, holding him, pressing her cheek against his chest.

"I'm here, Rowan. I'll never let anyone hurt you again. I'm here."

She sniffed. "I was so scared. But I knew you would come, Daddy. I knew it."

He held her for a long moment, eyes closed, overwhelmed.

Then, gently, he turned toward Bear.

His friend—his oldest, his best friend—lay on the floor. Emily knelt beside him, face pale. The princess looked up and met Bastian's gaze. Her eyes were haunted. She gave the slightest shake of her head.

"Bear?" Bastian whispered.

He hurried toward his friend.

Emily distracted Rowan, hugging her and whispering soothing words.

Bastian knelt beside Bear.

The giant was still alive—but barely. His breath was shallow. His skin was gray. He had lost so much blood. Bastian wanted to lift the giant, to carry him from this place, but Bear was too big, and Bastian was too hurt.

"Hey, dude," Bastian whispered, voice hoarse. "Stop lying around taking naps, all right?" A tear rolled down his cheek.

Bear gave a wan smile. He reached out and held Bastian's hand. His grip was weak.

"I… I saved your ass again," Bear whispered.

"You sure did, buddy." Bastian couldn't stop another tear. "So you better hang in there, all right? So I can return the favor someday."

Bear was growing weaker. His hand felt like a dead weight. His breathing was so shallow.

"Bury me in Nebraska," he whispered. "Bury me on the land of my father. Let me return to the earth."

"You're going to live, Bear," Bastian said, a lump in his throat. His voice cracked. "You can't leave us. Not yet. You're family, Bear. You're my brother."

Bear smiled wistfully. "We'll meet again someday, brother. Not for many years. We'll meet again on the golden plains under the endless sky. I can see it now, Bastian. I can see the sky. I can see my father. I'm going home."

His breath stilled.

Bastian lowered his head, tears falling. He held his friend's body in his arms.

This is the cost I had to pay for a daughter, he thought. I had to lose a brother. Goodbye, Bear. I'll see you again someday under that blue sky.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

King trudged up the spiraling staircase, climbing the tallest tower in Vlad's Castle.

"I'm coming for you, Hel'rah," he growled.

Alice walked behind him, clad in a heavy battlesuit, a plasma rifle in hand. She was nearly as tall and broad as him. Raised on the farms of Nebraska, Alice Allenby was both an Olympic wrestler and marine NCO. King could think of nobody better to bring as muscle.

Half their size, Stowy scampered along with them. While King was breathing heavily, Stowy didn't seem to mind the long climb. She was actually skipping up the stairs, her pigtails swinging. She sang as she skipped.

"We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of—"

"Shut it!" Alice said.

Stowy closed her mouth and gulped.

They had been walking for a good half hour now, passing through the castle. It was set up like a typical haunted house. Climbing the winding staircases, they had suffered through a sordid display of animatronic ghouls, zombies, and ghosts. Even here on the staircase, the creatures kept leaping out at them.

"I vant to suck your blood!" cried a mechanical vampire. The robot leaped from a hidden chamber in the wall, cape fluttering.

King yanked the robot off its hinges, then tossed it downstairs in disgust. He kept climbing.

"Dude, you have anger issues," Stowy said, watching the robotic vampire tumble downstairs.

"Good," King said. "I'm a soldier. Soldiers should be angry."

Stowy raised her finger. "My mother always said that if you're too angry, you have to count to ten backward. Or was it upside down? And then, unless you calm down and eat your broccoli without complaining, starving children are going to, um…" She tapped her chin. "I'm not sure how that went, actually, but I think there was pudding involved."

A cadaverous robot leaped from a hidden doorway.

"Brains!" the zombie demanded.

King ripped this creature off its hinges too and hurled it downstairs. Stowy had to duck.

"Just like I used to throw broccoli!" she whispered in awe.

Finally, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, King reached a doorway at the top of the tower. He had to pause and catch his breath. He was old. He was hurt. He was exhausted. He was scared. But this dark night of the soul was almost over. Here it was. The final challenge.

He looked at Alice and Stowy. "Ready?"

They hefted their rifles. "Ready."

King kicked the door open and barged into the room.

* * * * *

They found themselves in a round, cluttered room. Moldy rugs covered the floor. Swords and shields hung over a crackling fireplace. The windows afforded a view of Darkland—the roller coasters, the carnival, and all the way to the lunar wastelands beyond.

Spikes filled the room, impaling severed heads. Once these had been props—just wax heads. Now the wax heads were melting in the fireplace, and real severed heads rotted on the spikes.

And there, in the center of the room, he waited.

An enormous spider. A rah with a gray body and crimson legs.

Hel'rah.

The rah prince stared at King with his eight eyes. A shark's grin stretched across his face, filled with gleaming fangs.

"Hello, James King. So good to see you again."

King opened fire.

Bolts of plasma slammed into Hel'rah. Alice and Stowy fired too. Blast after blast hit the alien. A tapestry caught fire.

They had to take him alive, so they aimed at the legs. But Hel'rah only laughed. The plasma washed over the alien's claws, doing him no harm. The three humans kept firing until they ran out of charge.

Hel'rah stared down at his legs, then up at King. He tossed back his head and laughed.

"Did you really think it would be so easy to defeat me, King? Did you really think I'm just another spider?" He rose tall, his abdomen scraping the ceiling. "I am the prince of rahs. I am your death."

The spider pounced.

King swung his Mordecai like a club, but he might as well have clubbed a freight train. Hel'rah slammed into him, knocking King flat on his back.

With a roar, Alice leaped to battle.

The Olympic wrestler barreled into the rah with all her strength.

Alice was a big girl. But she looked like a badger plowing into a rhinoceros. King didn't think Hel'rah even noticed her. Alice stumbled back, shaking her head wildly.

The spider laughed, scattering saliva. His claws slammed down, forming a cage around King. He lay supine, trapped.

"Look at you," the gargantuan spider hissed. "Just an old little ape, already half-dead. You've suffered so much. But not enough. I intend to kill you slowly."

At this point, the DOGEs were meant to leap onto Hel'rah, grab his legs, and pin the alien down. Well, King didn't have the DOGEs anymore, nor a platoon of burly marines. He had a wrestler, a teenage stowaway, and some chains. It would have to do.

He thrust his rifle like a spear, shoving the muzzle into Hel'rah's mouth. The gun was out of plasma. But maybe, with enough strength, King could rip through the alien's palate. Maybe he could reach the weak spot in the rah's exoskeleton from within.

But Hel'rah simply snapped his jaws shut, mangling the gun. He spat out the twisted metal.

So much for that idea.

"Not so nice, King!" the rah said and slammed down a leg.

The claw pierced King's arm. The same arm the torturer had dislocated. King roared in agony.

Hel'rah pulled his claw out. It had sliced through King's flesh, sparing the bone.

"I will kill you slowly, cut by cut," the creature hissed.

Alice let out a battle cry. She leaped into the air, grabbed Hel'rah's dorsal spikes, and climbed onto the alien's back. Out of ammo, she began slamming the butt of her rifle down again and again, trying to crack the exoskeleton.

Hel'rah bucked, roaring, trying to shake her off. King used the distraction. He kicked hard, knocking one spider leg aside, and rolled across the rug. He emerged from under the spider and leaped to his feet. His arm was a bloody mess, and his head spun, but he had time to pass out later.

He hefted his heavy chains.

It was time to trap the beast.

"I'm ending this now, you son of a bitch," King growled.

* * * * *

Alice was still on Hel'rah's back. The spider was bucking, trying to toss her off. Stowy was nowhere in sight. Perhaps, like Pickles, she had fled.

Hel'rah shook madly, finally knocking Alice off. The wrestler flew toward the wall, then slumped down, dazed. Not even turning to look, Hel'rah lashed his back leg. The leg slammed into Alice, hurling her across the room. She hit a mirror, shattering it, and fell to the floor. She didn't rise.

Hel'rah looked at King, grinning. His breath steamed, smelling of death, and he hissed in delight. He took a step closer to King, rubbing his front claws like a fly.

King hefted the chains. They clanked.

"It's just you and me, bucko," King said.

He tossed the chains like a lasso. He had lassoed quite a few cattle back in his days on the family ranch. This should be just the same. He aimed for Hel'rah's dorsal spikes, hoping to wrestle the beast down.

Success!

The chains wrapped around one spike.

Sneering, King pulled hard.

Hel'rah jerked backward, screeching.

King, still holding the chain, was lifted off his feet. He flew through the air, hit the wall, and fell down hard. But he held on to the chain.

The rah bucked again, hurling King over its back. King flew and slammed into a beam. He fell with a grunt. Pain radiated through him.

"Do you really think you can chain me like a mere animal?" Hel'rah said, advancing upon him.

King knelt, breathing heavily.

Hel'rah lashed his claws.

King leaped back, dodging the blows, then swung the chains wildly. This time he wasn't trying to lasso the spider but hurt him. He whipped the beast, slamming the chains again and again into the alien's head.

He might as well be whipping a boulder. The chains chipped Hel'rah's exoskeleton, but that was about it. The alien's nictitating lids protected his eyes. The beast seemed unstoppable.

I needed a cannon last time, King thought. And even that didn't kill this son of a bitch. What chance do I have now?

His wounded arm was bleeding. His head was spinning. He was losing strength fast. He had moments of fight left in him.

He had to make them count.

Somehow he would fulfill his mission. He had not come this far to fail. He would drag this beast back in chains!

He narrowed his eyes, waiting for an opportunity.

Hel'rah lunged at him, jaws snapped.

King retreated just as the jaws slammed shut before him.

He wrapped the chains around Hel'rah's muzzle, then pulled mightily, tightening the noose around the spider's mouth.

Hel'rah roared.

His mighty jaws opened wide, shattering the chains.

Metal links flew everywhere.

King stumbled back, staring in terror.

The horrible jaws opened wider, laughing. They suddenly seemed to King like some machine, a crane or mecha with incredible hydraulic power, jaws that could cut through anything.

He still had some chain left. But hopelessness seeped over him.

I'd have to loop it ten times around him to stand a chance, King thought. It wasn't going to happen.

The alien lunged at him.

King tried to retreat, but his back hit the wall.

The hellmouth loomed.

Instinctively King raised his bleeding arm before him, a futile attempt to defend himself.

Hel'rah's mouth closed around his arm and bit down hard.

Pain. Searing pain. Nothing but white shattering pain.

The alien leaned back, mouth full of blood, and spat out King's severed arm. He had bitten it off at the elbow.

King roared in despair.

It's over. I'm dying. I'm dying here. I failed.

He fell to his knees, his left arm ending with a mangled stump. Hel'rah loomed before him. An alien. A monster. An evil risen from beyond the stars.

Somehow, with power King had not known was in him, he managed to grab his ammunition belt. To fashion a crude tourniquet. Hel'rah just watched and laughed.

"A futile attempt to save your meaningless life," the rah hissed. "Die now, ape. Die knowing that I'll crush your granddaughter next."

The alien raised his claws for the coup de grâce.

A shadow flashed forward.

"Commander!" Stowy cried, leaping from the shadows.

She held a spike in her hand. One of the spikes that had impaled the wax heads—part of the castle display. The girl had managed to free it from the floor.

Hel'rah spun toward the stowaway. He hissed, jaws wide and dripping blood.

Stowy tossed the spike toward King.

He caught it. It was the size of a medieval spear, forged of iron, its tip sharp.

Hel'rah turned back toward King, laughing.

"What is this?" the rah said. "You still fight?"

He lashed his claws at King.

King parried with his spear.

The claws were knocked aside.

Hel'rah lashed again. Again. King kept parrying. He had only one hand left, but he gripped the spear tightly, teeth grinding. Maybe he just had seconds to live. He'd make them count.

Alice came stumbling toward him, blinking. She had just regained consciousness.

"Alice, give me a leg up!" King shouted.

She understood. The wrestler rushed forward, wove her fingers together, and created a little platform. King placed his boot on her hands, and she propelled him upward.

"Swooping eagle!" Alice cried.

King soared into the air, spear in hand.

He rose toward the ceiling, even higher than Hel'rah.

With a great cry, King swooped, driving the spear downward with all his strength.

The tip plowed into the top of Hel'rah's muzzle. Right into the weak spot in his exoskeleton. The spike drove through his mouth, through his lower jaw, and finally into the floor.

King landed before the creature.

Hel'rah screeched. His muzzle was nailed to the floor. He could not even open his mouth.

The beast buckled, floundered, tried to free himself. His legs lashed every which way, tearing through the room, knocking over tapestries, digging grooves into the floor. But with his snout hammered into the floor, there was little he could do.

King began slinging the remaining chain around the creature's legs. Alice and Stowy helped. As the chains bound leg after leg, Hel'rah tried to roar, but the sound was muffled.

"I will destroy you, King!" he managed to say. "I will—"

"Shut up," King said, wrapping several loops of chain around Hel'rah's mouth. Just in case the bastard pulled the spear free.

His work done, King finally collapsed.

He lay on the blood-soaked rug. He looked at his stump.

Alice rushed toward him. She was saying something. Something like, "Stay with me, Commander." But King could barely hear her. His blood, his strength, his very life was slipping away.

As his vision blurred, he stared at the bound Hel'rah.

"Gotcha, you son of a bitch," King said, then passed out.

CHAPTER FORTY

For what seemed like years, King flitted in and out of dreams.

Sometimes there was only darkness, just a pit where his consciousness dwelt with pain. Sometimes the pain faded and it felt like death.

At other times, he saw endless colors. Millions of dots in rainbow hues formed mosaics of animals, forests, and rivers. Reptiles danced along neon streets, and rain fell on luminous cities and jungles. Perhaps he was hallucinating with pain.

And sometimes he saw his loved ones.

"Hang in there, Dad. We got you. Help is on the way."

His son was there, leaning above him, face drawn with concern.

"Don't die, Pop Pop! Please."

Rowan appeared above him, holding his hand, crying.

Others visited him too. Older faces. Memories resurfaced. His wife came to him through an open door, limned in light, beckoning.

Somebody held his hand. Bastian was there.

"We managed to disable the shields, Dad. Hang in there. Help is on the way."

Eventually King realized that he was outside under the stars. A light shone above, coming closer.

An angel, he thought.

King blinked and looked around him. He was on the lunar surface, and his family was with him. The stars shone above, and the familiar constellations reminded him of his childhood, stargazing from the fields of Nebraska, dreaming of adventures in space.

The light above grew brighter. The angel was descending. She took form in the night sky. She was the starship Freedom, the most beautiful thing King had ever seen. His eyes watered, and he whispered old words.

Let all free souls salute her flight

Let her engines bathe the dark with light

Let her cannons sing the song of freedom

The fleet will gather; she will lead them

Our flagship sails into the flame

As poets weep and sing her name

For liberty's light! For glory's hymn!

Praise the Freedom, she will win!

Two clawships flew toward the Freedom, dark stains in the night sky. The Freedom's great railgun blazed searing white. For a second the dark side of the moon turned as bright as day. The flaming sword tore through one clawship, shattering it to pieces, while the Angels of Liberty boomed from the dorsal hull, destroying the second ship.

The Freedom kept flying until she hovered above. Her hangars opened. Five starfighters and an ambulance shuttle emerged.

"Where is Hel'rah?" King rasped. "Where—"

"We got him, Dad. It's all right. The girls are guarding him. The bastard ain't going anywhere."

The ambulance shuttle landed, and medics ran toward them, carrying a litter. The starfighters circled above, keeping watch. Spitfire's avatar popped to life, hovering before King.

"Hey, Commander." Her Eagle swooped low, and she waved from the cockpit. "Glad to see you made it out of Darkland in one piece. Oh wait. Oops!"

King couldn't help it. As the medics lifted him, as they carried him into the ambulance, he chuckled. Then they injected him with something wonderful, the pain dulled, and he faded into a dreamless starscape.

* * * * *

"Well, well, look who landed back in my infirmary."

King blinked, rising from slumber. He was back aboard the Freedom, once more lying in a hospital bed. Colonel Annie Jordan, the ship's chief doctor, stood at his bedside. She was smiling crookedly, hands on her hips.

"Sorry to keep bugging you, Doc." King coughed. His head spun. "I feel worse this time."

Annie's eyes softened. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "We nearly lost you, sir."

He looked down at his body. It looked like somebody had run him through a meat grinder. His left arm ended with a bandaged stump.

"I've had worse," he rasped.

Annie remained serious. "You lost a lot of blood. There's damage to your spine and shoulder. And there's the lost arm, of course. And a host of lacerations. You'll live. Nanobots are already crawling along your spine, healing the damage. And we can fit you with a neural prosthetic. But please, sir—no fighting aliens face-to-face for a while."

"No promises." King closed his eyes.

The bastard ate my goddamn arm, he thought. It was still barely sinking in. I hope it gives him indigestion.

"If you're ready, sir, your family is here to see you," Annie said.

King nodded.

The doctor opened the door, and Bastian and Rowan raced into the room. There was something hurt and haunted on Bastian's face. His eyes seemed to stare too far away, as if he were partly living in another world.

He lost good friends down there, King thought. He lost his best friend.

"Pop Pop!"

If Rowan was traumatized, she showed no sign of it. The little girl leaped onto the hospital bed. She began jumping all over King and kissing him. He groaned.

"Gentle, Rowie. Gentle."

She smiled, still jumping up and down. "I love you, Pop Pop."

King's eyes stung. He felt close to weeping. He held the girl close. "I love you, Rowan." Sniffing, he turned toward Bastian. "Get over here, you big dope."

Bastian sat on the bed and joined the hug. They just sat there, holding one another for a long time. And King realized that more than his starship, more than his life, more than anything in this universe, he loved his family. They were precious, and they were what he was fighting for, what he would always fight for. In this universe of violence, as the war raged across Earth and space, they were his lodestars, they were the lights of his life, and they were the reason he lived.

* * * * *

King stayed in his hospital bed all day.

But he wasn't resting. There was still a war going on.

King checked the logs on MindWeb, learning about the battles across Earth and the solar system. He had not been gone for long, but things were already much worse. The rahs had conquered most of Earth. The fleet was engaged in guerrilla warfare, but successes were few and far between, and the clawships were hunting them mercilessly. Even Katyusha, for all her boastings, was losing many ships.

But there was hope now.

The Freedom carried a captive in her brig. A prisoner who could turn the tide.

A knock came on the door.

"Enter!" King barked.

He was expecting another visit from Dr. Annie. But it was her father, Larry Jordan, who stepped into the room.

"Dammit," the XO said. "You're alive. I was hoping the ship would finally be mine."

King snorted. "It would take more than an alien invasion to kill me. You're stuck with me for a while longer, you old bastard."

"Me, old? You're two years older than me, Gramps. And you look twenty years older." Jordan held out a box. "I brought you a gift. Don't get too excited. It's not Werther's Originals."

King opened the box. He pulled out a bottle of Ganymede ale.

He looked up at his XO. "Where did you get this? You know that Ganymede ale is contraband."

Jordan winked. "I won't tell anyone if you don't. So long as you share the bottle with me."

King did need a drink. Badly. They poured two glasses. The ale tasted of maple and oak and spices. It flowed down King's throat, smooth and warm.

"How's my ship?" King asked.

Jordan heaved a sigh. "Our ship is hurt. Almost as badly as you. But Kim kludged together a few fixes. She's one helluva engineer. We're back in the fight for now. And what a fight it is." He shook his head. "You've seen the reports, Jim. It's ugly out there."

"Well, I ain't done fighting," King said. "I still intend to win this damn thing."

Jordan nodded, a small smile on his face. "Oh, and… we got you something else. This is from all of us on the bridge. Well, Mimori did the actual work. But we offered moral support." Jordan turned toward the door. "Mims! You can come in now."

The android stepped into the room, holding a large rectangular box. When she saw King, she blushed, then hurried toward him and hugged him.

"Welcome back, sir. I was worried about you."

King held her in his arms. She was a machine—but she was more human than many people King knew.

"Hi there, Mimori."

She smiled, tears in her eyes. "Hi." She sniffed and opened the box. "I made you this."

She pulled out a prosthetic arm. It was a big, bulky thing, forged of steel and covered in bolts. It looked like a medieval gauntlet. The fingertips were clawed.

King's eyes widened. "Dear Lord."

Mimori blushed, tapping her index fingertips together. "I hope you don't hate it. I designed it based on the knight's suit of armor in your library. I… I can change it if you like. Make something more modern."

"Mimori?" he said.

She bit her lip, her cheeks red. "Yes, sir?"

"I love it. I want to put it on. Now."

Mimori grinned. "Oh, that's so good to hear! I can't connect it directly to your nerves yet, sir. The wound is still too raw. But for now, you can interface with the arm telepathically using your MindLink. It should feel as natural as controlling your old arm." She thought for a moment. "Would you like me to add a flamethrower?"

King couldn't help it. He laughed. "Maybe later, Mimori."

The year was 2200, he realized. He had missed New Year's Eve. In the spirit of a new century, technology was performing miracles. Medical nanobots flowed through King's body, healing his wounds. They couldn't regrow his arm, but they were saving his life. Within a few hours, King felt well enough to stand, even take a few steps.

Annie offered him a wheelchair. King turned it down.

"My crew needs to see me standing tall," he told her.

The doctor rolled her eyes. "Stop being such a macho tough guy, sir."

"The world needs men like me right now," King said. "It needs the tough guys. For years, they stuck me in a museum. In a cage. They stared at me and laughed. But now it's us old war dogs who will save the world."

He snapped his prosthetic arm onto his stump. At once, his MindLink picked up the device. He flexed his metal fingers, then formed a fist. It felt good. He nodded in satisfaction. He felt strong. Stronger than he'd felt in years.

He had won a victory on the moon. But it had not come without a price. There could be no triumph without loss, no freedom without sacrifice, and sometimes the cost seemed almost too great to bear.

Once more, the crew gathered in the hangar. Once more, coffins stood on the deck, row by row. Once more, the survivors grieved for the fallen.

This time the loss cut particularly deep. Forty-four coffins stood in the hangar—the soldiers who had fallen in Darkland. Aside from Diane, they were all from Nebraska. King knew everyone by name. He knew most of their families. Had known them as kids. To him, these were not nameless, faceless victims. They were the salt of the earth. They were people he loved.

He stood before the coffins, wearing his service uniform, the blue one with the brass buckles. His prosthetic fist stuck out from the sleeve. He raised his eyes from the coffins, and he stared at his crew. At the living. At those who would fight on.

"They died so that we may live," he said. "They fell on the moon so that Earth would survive. They gave their lives for freedom."

Once more, Darjeeling snapped his heels together.

Once more, he shouted, "Fire!"

And once more, the guns of the Freedom boomed in salute.

They sent the coffins out into space. Alice was weeping, and Bastian held her, tears in his eyes.

"Goodbye, Bear," Bastian whispered, watching the coffins glide into the distance. Alice buried her face against his chest, and he stroked her hair.

* * * * *

He had attended the funerals, but he had stood in shadow.

He had been on this ship all day, but nobody knew it. Nobody but King.

They kept it a secret, for he moved in the shadows. He rarely spent more than a few hours in one place. Even at night, he often moved from bed to bed, ship to ship. He was a target of the enemy, perhaps more than anyone. He was the face of human resistance.

Now he stood in the corridor, staring grimly at the brig. He was High Commander Godwin. Leader of the Alliance.

He wore his old-fashioned suit, complete with a vest and pocket watch. He was seventy-five years old, short and rotund, and he leaned on a cane. But he was the toughest old bastard King had ever known.

"So there he is," Godwin rumbled, his prominent underbite giving his words their characteristic slur. "The devil himself. The rah prince."

King stood at his side, a foot taller, his fists clenched at his sides—both his real one and the metal gauntlet.

"Many good soldiers died to bring him here," King said.

"And many good soldiers will still die before this is over," Godwin said. "But you've brought us hope, King. You gave humanity a great gift." He harrumphed, staring into the brig. "Ugly bastard, isn't he?"

They stared at him together.

Hel'rah, Prince of Rahs, stood in the brig. Chains wrapped around his legs, securing him to the floor. More chains wrapped around his muzzle, keeping his jaws shut. An invisible force field sealed off the brig. It was powerful enough to withstand a blast from a tank. King had insisted that his crew weld metal bars in place too. Just in case.

Hel'rah wasn't going anywhere.

The alien glared at them with eight baleful eyes. He could not speak with his jaws chained shut. But his eyes vowed death. He tried to leap forward, to slam himself into the metal bars. The chains tightened and held.

Several guards stood in the corridor with King and Godwin. One of them thrust a stun gun between the bars. The force field opened a little hole, just enough for the guard to stick his gun through. He shot an electric bolt into Hel'rah.

The spider roared, voice muffled, and tugged tighter on his chains. A few other guards fired bolts too. Finally Hel'rah calmed down, smoke rising from his exoskeleton. He glared, growling, his saliva dripping onto the floor. King couldn't say he felt much pity for the beast.

"What do we do with him now?" he asked Godwin.

"We will interrogate him," Godwin said. "Hel'rah's brain contains precious information. But he's worth even more than that."

King nodded. "His mother is overseeing the invasion."

"Indeed, Commander, indeed she is," Godwin said. "The nefarious Skel'rah, high warweaver of the fleet, is the supreme commander of this invasion. We have her son. We can use that to our advantage."

King turned toward his commander. "You don't think Skel'rah would surrender just to get her son back? They're rahs, sir. They'd sell their own mother to kill another human. There's no point negotiating with them."

"Negotiating?" Godwin rumbled. "No, King, no, there is no point in that. You are correct. Skel'rah would never surrender, not even in exchange for her son. But she still wants him back. Oh, how she craves it! Not because she loves him. The rahs are incapable of love. But because she loathes that we captured him. Her pride is hurt, King. She wants this creature back. And she will chase him across the galaxy." His heavy brow pushed low over his shrewd eyes. "That is this creature's true worth."

"You mean to use him as bait," King said. "That's what all this is about, isn't it? You're setting a trap."

Godwin pulled a cigar from his pocket. "Spiders are known for trapping their prey. I suggest we give them a taste of their own medicine."

He offered King a cigar too.

King shook his head. "I don't smoke." He considered for a moment. "Ah, what the hell."

He took the cigar. They both puffed.

"Sir," King finally said, "would you like some Ganymede ale?"

A twinkle filled Godwin's eyes. "I thought that was contraband, my boy! I would love some."

He slung his arm around King's shoulders. They walked back to his study, and for long hours, they smoked cigars, drank the ale, and laid their traps.

They cleared the books off King's desk, and they rolled out a paper map of the solar system. They arranged model ships across the map, then kept rearranging them, discussing, tweaking, sometimes starting over. No computers. No holograms. No fancy simulations. These plans were too precious to entrust even to the encrypted vaults of Freedom's computers. It was just two men, a map, and lots of cigar smoke and booze.

Finally, late into the night, they had it.

"Think it'll work, old boy?" Godwin said, puffing on his cigar.

They stared at the map and the model starships arranged on it—some human ships, some clawships.

"If Mimori were here, she'd calculate the odds—and they would be low. Very low."

Godwin nodded. "It's risky business, taking on the alien mistress of war. We are like the old heroes of myth who challenged the gods. Most were struck down."

King chomped on his cigar. "The rahs aren't gods, sir. They're demons. And I say we make our move and send them back to hell."

Mimori suddenly materialized in the room—a hallucination of King's MindLink. She was the only one with permission to barge unannounced into his mind. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"Sir, a portal is opening ahead!" she said. "Clawships emerging!"

"Red alert!" King barked, sending a shipwide message. "All crew—battle stations!" He put out his cigar. "I'll see you on the bridge, Mimori."

He ran down the corridor, his metal fist clenched, a savage smile on his face. Alarms blared and flashed all around. King burst onto the bridge to see the portal ahead, the clawships spilling out.

"Charge at them and fire!" he cried.

The Freedom flew to battle, and the light of her railgun lit the dark. Down on Earth, in the battlefields and smoldering cities, people looked up. They saw the white light blaze across the night sky, and they knew that the Freedom still fought, that her commander still wielded the sword of Earth, and that even in this great darkness, hope still shone.

The story continues in …

STARSHIP FREEDOM III

We Fight for Freedom

DanielArenson.com/StarshipFreedomIII

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Starship Freedom II.

Starship Freedom III 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

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