The Frihet Rebellion

Admiral Jorcam Kramer limped through the thick undergrowth of the Frihet jungle. The hastily improvised crutch, cut from a tree branch by Doctor Moore, helped but did not remove the pain from the wound in his leg.

Only fifteen of his crew, the most mobile and least injured, moved with him through the dense foliage. The others remained behind at the crash site. He hoped he would be able to return to them before too long, but they had provisions to last almost two months, and weapons to defend themselves with. If he had not returned by the time their food and drink ran out, it was unlikely he would return at all.

This whole mess was bad for his image, and bad for his career. His ship had dropped out of the battle early. He had lost most of his crew. The whole attempt to quell the rebellion had fallen apart in a shambles. And whether it was all his fault or not, he was the Admiral of the fleet and, ultimately, all blame would come to rest on his shoulders.

He had worked too hard and too long to reach his current elevated position in the Earth Military. He would not let it all fall apart because of an ill-planned show of strength based on poor intelligence. He had to turn this around, come out of it the hero, the military leader who took the failure of those higher up than himself and turned it into a victory for the Earth Empire. That was his reason for pushing himself, and the able of his crew, out into the jungle, when the safest action would have been to remain at the crash-site. Had he stayed, he would either have been eventually rescued by other ships in his fleet, or captured by Frihet patrols. Neither option covered him in the glory he felt he needed to save his military career. His current plan was dangerous, at best sketchy, but gave him the possibility of coming home the hero. And if he died in the attempt? That would at least give him some credit to his name, albeit posthumously.

He told none of this to the crew-members accompanying him. They followed orders, as they should, without question. Their role was to provide support and, if necessary, act as cannon fodder to allow him to survive and complete his plan. It was not that he cared nothing for his crew, simply that the danger to his own name, his hard-won position of authority and power, overrode his sense of responsibility and respect for them.

The jungle was filled with noise, of animals and insects and the creaking of vegetation. But the sound off to his right seemed out of place to Kramer. He stopped, and his crew stopped with him. They stood silently as Kramer strained to hear the sound again.

The seconds passed and there was nothing. Cautiously, he signaled his crew to continue their tough, noisy way through the intertwining lattice-work of hanging vines, tall plants and low tree branches.

More sounds out of place in the natural background noise he had quickly acclimatized to.

Again, he stopped. Again, his crew stopped with him.

“What is it?” whispered First Officer Crane, stepping closer to his Admiral.

“There’s something else here,” said Kramer, his own whisper sibilant in the damp, cloying air. “First one side, then the other. We’re being tracked, perhaps surrounded. Pass the word for everyone to be ready for…”

He never finished the sentence. The jungle around them exploded with spear and club carrying natives, screaming a shrill war cry, naked and painted with clay and natural dye. Near-perfect camouflage in their natural habitat of the Frihet jungle.

Kramer and his crew fought valiantly hand-to-hand, with no time to draw weapons. But the attacking numbers were overwhelming and, one by one, they were killed or captured.

Pinned to the ground by two males, while a female stood over him, a spear point pushed against his throat, Kramer held up his hands in surrender.

The noise of the battle faded, absorbed by the screen of vegetation. Four of the Earthmen lay dead. Twelve were captured. It was not the start to his plan that Kramer had hoped for.