The Frihet Rebellion

The door buzzer sounded throughout the apartment. The doorcam showed four men in dark overcoats.

Bryant had known it was a risk, coming home to collect a few belongings before returning to Spearhead, but he was unwilling to travel without some basic comforts of his own. Now, he regretted that stubbornness and froze mid-packing, staring at the doorcam screen.

Fairly obvious they’re not your standard salesmen or door-to-door preachers.

The door buzzer sounded again. On the screen, one of the men was shuffling his feet, impatient. The man at the buzzer turned, said something that Bryant could not hear. The shuffling stopped.

Guess I know which one’s in charge. Not that it helps.

He finished packing his small case and snatched it up off the bed. It was heavy, but not uncomfortably so, not even to his bruised and aching muscles.

Hurrying through the apartment towards the rear windows, he stopped himself just before he came in sight of them.

Stupid! They’re bound to have the back covered.

The window locks were non-standard, as was his front door lock, and would delay, if not prevent, forced entry. Given his unique position on Spearhead, he had felt it wise to take extra precautions against burglary and attack. He just hadn’t expected it to come from his own government!

The apartment was on the top floor of the complex, not by accident, and he now thanked whatever deity Jon might believe in for his alien partner’s paranoia. It was Jon who had insisted on a top floor apartment for his human co-pilot, and it was Jon who had designed and, with Bryant’s help, constructed the emergency escape route to the roof. It was also Jon who had insisted he make this journey armed. He was thankful, now, for the weight of his handgun in its holster at his side.

At the touch of a concealed button, the almost invisible hatchway in the hallway ceiling opened. A ladder dropped, and Bryant wasted no time in climbing up, pushing his case before him.

The ladder took him into the dark crawlspace between his apartment and the complex, angled roof above. Behind him the ladder lifted and the hatch closed, the darkness becoming almost complete, broken only by a dim glow from someway further down. As calmly as he could, he crawled towards it, pushing his case ahead.

The dim light came from a sensor screen, scanning for movement on the roof. Another of Jon’s ideas. He paused at the scanner, directly beneath another hatchway. He could see no movement above, but he could now hear movement below. His unexpected callers had grown impatient enough to start work on the lock. He had no doubt they were professional enough to gain entrance eventually, but the delay was useful.

He pushed the hatchway open, cautiously, and scrambled up onto the roof. The hatchway closed, silently, behind him. The scanner provided data only for his own roof, but the adjoining roofs also seemed clear and, relieved, he made his way, at a run, towards the next building.

An explosion ripped apart a patch of rooftop nearby in a gout of flame and debris, knocking Bryant off his feet.

Every newly healed wound and bruise screamed pain through his body as he landed heavily, rolling a short way down the slope of the roof. His side felt warm and wet, and he knew he had been injured.

Someone I missed is up here with me, and they’ve got explosive bullets. The blast pattern is unmistakable.

A second explosion tore the roof near to the first, and Bryant flinched away from flying debris. For the moment it would seem he was, fortunately, hidden. If not, the second shot would have been on target and blown him apart.

Sliding further down the incline of the roof, hoping to make himself an even more difficult target, he thought of Jon.

Empathy and telepathy. If it really gave him a warning last time, maybe I can force the issue here? Perhaps if I concentrate hard enough, broadcast the danger I’m in, he might just pick it up?

It was a desperate hope. But the situation was nothing if not desperate.

With some reluctance, he closed his eyes, nervous of being approached while he could not see. With his eyes closed he could concentrate better. He thought of Jon, of Spearhead. He imagined he was shouting across the distance, calling for help. He imagined his fear, his pain, flowing outward.

Blood ran from his side, down to the belt of his trousers, pooling there. He tried to ignore it, still sending out to Jon.

Despite his focus, he clearly heard the quiet shuffle of feet nearby.

A short cry of pain was dragged from his lips as he drew his handgun, pushed up onto one knee, and fired twice. Both bullets hit the approaching man squarely in the chest.

The man fell, Bryant’s modified bullets drilling straight through the standard issue body armor.

Despite his aches and pains, Bryant ran, jumping the small gap between his building and the next with ease.

Explosions tore up the roof at his heels as he quickly ducked behind an old chimney stack, a relic of a bygone age. Dust and slivers of brick filled the air as more explosions hit the far side of the stack. Bryant stayed crouched behind it, fairly confident the old structure was thick enough and strong enough to withstand all but a concentrated campaign of fire from the explosive bullets.

A quick glance showed six, maybe seven, figures heading slowly across the rooftop towards him. There was no way he could run without making himself an easy target. He renewed his outflowing of emotions, of desperation, with fervor. If he couldn’t reach Jon, he wasn’t sure he’d make it off the roof alive.

He could hear the footsteps, slowly edging their way closer.

Should he open fire? Make a gallant last stand?

It would be suicidal. He wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

Would they take him alive if he surrendered?

Judging by the behavior of their colleagues at the hotel, the answer had to be no.

He was still debating his next, and probably last, move when a sheet of flame flared on the far side of the chimney stack, the heat singeing his hair.

In the strange silence that followed, Bryant risked a quick look around the edge of the brick. Charred bodies lay scattered about the rooftop, tendrils of smoke rising lazily into the air. No one was left alive.

He looked up, not too surprised when Spearhead swept in near silence to a stop above him and a ladder dropped from an open door.

The first three fighter ships that Spearhead encountered, as it drove towards space, were sent spinning to the ground between the tall concrete buildings below, holes rammed neatly through their middles. The next two were disabled by Spearhead’s external cannons.

“They are very serious about killing you,” said Jon, as he and Bryant piloted the small, ball-like craft, zigzagging through more attackers, deliberately keeping the destruction to a minimum.

“You still sure you want to get involved in this?” said Bryant, concentrating on the readouts and controls before him. “It seems to be me they’re after, not you. I’ve no idea why, but that’s the way it is.”

“We are partners,” said Jon. “Friends. They attack you, they attack me.”

“Thanks,” said Bryant. “It really does help to know I’m not in this on my own. But do you have any idea what sparked all this off?”

“None at all,” said Jon, sitting with total relaxation in his command seat. “But I think it is a good idea to get some space between them and us while we try and work out what to do next.”

Bryant glanced quickly about the command center.

“Is Spearhead fully space-worthy now? I thought we still had some stuff to do.”

“We do, but nothing too vital. As to the rest, what better way to test the repairs than to take a little flight?”

Jon emitted a small sound that fell somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle. It was the closest to a laugh that Bryant had ever heard from him.

They had left the fighter pilots behind some time ago, and now punched their way out of the Earth’s atmosphere into space. Jon immediately slowed the ship and Bryant, viewing the forward screen, checked all his weapons systems were up and running.

Although many of the Earth Navy ships had headed off to Frihet, more than enough remained to defend the planet, and all of them waited ahead of Spearhead. An impressive line-up of firepower was waiting for the small ship. The sight of Supernatural, the one great battleship that had not sailed with the expeditionary force, in prime position was daunting.

“This is no spur of the moment set-up,” said Bryant angrily. “To get this many ships organized and waiting takes time and planning. Just how long have I been a marked man?”

“Not just you, us,” said Jon, his voice radiating calm, in sharp contrast to Bryant’s. “This blockade is only here because they knew you would be escaping in Spearhead, which means with me. It would seem we are both marked for death.”

“But I still don’t know why?”

“Not immediately relevant,” said Jon. “Does not matter why. All that matters is what we do next.”

“Well,” said Bryant, his naturally gifted military brain cooling his anger as it began its analysis. “We’re fast, but at this distance I think Supernatural could pretty much keep itself ahead of us, whichever way we went, especially with all those other ships slowing us down.”

“Agreed.”

“If we move much closer, we’ll be in range of their smaller weapons. They won’t use their big stuff this close to Earth. I’m pretty sure our hull could withstand anything they throw at us, but the sheer number of them might cause a problem.”

“Also agreed.”

“We could ram our way through a ship or two and escape, but we’d need to get around Supernatural first, and like I said before, I don’t see that happening. And we can’t ram through Supernatural…”

“Why not?”

Bryant paused in his analysis, staring at his alien friend with disbelief.

“Seriously?”

“Like I said,” smiled Jon. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a battleship!” said Bryant, not raising his voice but only just holding it under control. “We’ve never taken on anything that size before, or that strong. Even if we run the gauntlet of its weapons there’s the hull to deal with.”

"The construction of Spearhead is stronger than their hull,” said Jon. “I’ve run the computer projections. As thick and strong as it is, we will go through it without even slowing.”

“Okay,” said Bryant, his head beginning to ache. All his healing cuts, wounds and bruises seemed to be firing up, pushing out pain through his body.

He reached down and increased the pain medication dose that Jon had set up on a small subcutaneous dispenser for him. He could feel its warm, soothing effect spreading through his system and he smiled, perhaps not pain free, but pain lessened.

“Even presuming you’re right,” he said, as the pain receded enough for him to continue thinking. “There’s the whole bulk of the ship to get through: the inner walls, the consoles, the machines, not to mention the people!”

“The people I regret,” said Jon. “But there is no other way. Everything else, we can handle.”

“You really believe that?”

Jon smiled. “Of course.”

“Your ship, your call,” said Bryant, turning back to concentrate on his controls and trying to calm his racing heartbeat. Was Jon really going to try and ram his way through a battleship? The biggest and strongest class in the Earth Navy?

“Yes, I am,” said Jon, tuning into Bryant’s thoughts and feelings automatically.

“We must both be crazy,” said Bryant. “Okay, let’s do it!”

Under the steady hands of Jon, with Bryant supporting on weaponry and damage control, Spearhead accelerated straight towards the battleship Supernatural.

When it finally became apparent to the Captain and crew of Supernatural that Spearhead was on a collision course, it was too late for them to turn or move away. As quick and agile as the great battleship was, Spearhead was moving too fast for them to do anything but stare in horror at their HUDs and forward screens.

Spearhead hit Supernatural head on, Jon aiming for the heavily protected bridge. True to his computer predictions, the outer hull gave way under Spearhead’s momentum and the strength of its alien construction. The thick metal buckled inward, cracked, peeled back. The inner alloys were no match for the ball-like alien craft, and most splintered into fine particles with the force and the heat generated. Only the bridge, contained within its own armored walls, thicker even than the outer hull, offered any kind of resistance to the relentless advance of the attacker. It succeeded in diverting the craft, causing it to skim across the surface of the armor, gouging a deep trough as it went. The people on the armored bridge might have survived the attack, had not Jon pushed the power of Spearhead even further at that precise moment.

Under the increased momentum, the trough scoured by Spearhead deepened, finally breaking through the armor moments before it cleared the bridge altogether. Those that were not crushed or burned by Spearhead’s intrusion onto the bridge, suffocated as air bled out through the rip.

Nothing else in, or on, the battleship had the same level of protection as the bridge, not even the engines, and Spearhead ripped through it all with ease: corridors; rec rooms; cabins; gym; bathrooms; kitchens; engine room. As it passed, it left in its wake crushed and mangled bodies, floating out into space through the holes ripped in the ship.

The other ships, on either side of Supernatural, were unable to react quick enough to do anything other than fire a few ill-timed canon and beam shots after Spearhead, as it exploded from the rear of Supernatural and sped away from Earth.

Bryant, standing down from weapons and having no damage to report or control, felt physically ill at the death and destruction they had just caused. But he refused to blame himself, or Jon. The blame lay with President Deaton and his unprovoked assassination attempts. However, even accepting that could not remove the image of the twisted wreck they left behind, or the human detritus littering space around it.