The Frihet Rebellion

It took Jon one-and-a-half days to swim to land. He staggered from the sea and slumped, exhausted onto a beach of stones and coarse sand, a wall of thick jungle some ten feet away. He slept.

When he woke, with Frihet’s sun setting over the water, and its moon a grey ghost in the darkening sky, he felt refreshed, rested. His constitution was such that recovery from tiredness was fast and complete, even after a stamina draining swim such as he had achieved. He checked his automatic weapon. Despite its submersion in water for so long, it was working fine. When he searched for the heat burner, however, he could not find it. At some point during the swim it had been lost. Annoying, but not critical.

A quick look around gave him few options. Taking for granted that he did not want to stay on the beach, his choices were the sea, again, or the jungle. After only a moment’s thought, he headed for the jungle.

As soon as he pushed his way into the wall of vegetation, he was among jungle so dense it took some strength to force his way through. The intense growth meant that he was constantly treading on roots, catching his feet on sticky vines, risking a twisted ankle or worse. It made progress slow.

He could sense danger, but so far it was too vague a threat to be identified. It could be anything from a mildly poisonous plant that would cause a rash, through to a whole troop of Frihet soldiers waiting just ahead of him with weapons raised, ready to fire. There was no way he could tell until the feeling grew stronger. The knowledge that, by then, it might be too late did nothing to ease the tension he already felt at being deep in enemy territory.

Then there was the battleship. The strange, slim one that reminded him of the ships of the Sklalen Navy, and of a time when everything had seemed simpler.

They had been good years for him. Training at the Academy. His first post as a junior officer on Vredon. His rise, through many other posts, to co-pilot on Wdrovn, the ship that would become the template he used for the design of Spearhead. But all that had been destroyed, along with his people. There were no Sklalen battleships left. Whatever else that slim craft might be, it was not a Sklalen battleship. He was the last surviving member of his race, and Spearhead the last ship.

With some relief, he broke out into a clearing. The ground beneath his feet was no longer crowded with potential hazards, but flat, burned, perhaps even blasted. Bare rock and soil, and a clear sky above, replaced twisted roots and treetops. Flame and exhaust from ships’ engines had done this. The burn patterns were unmistakable. And at the far end of the clearing, so far that the fine mist from the surrounding jungle blurred his sight, sat at least one of the culprits. A sleek, black shuttle that mirrored the design of the strange battleship, including the resemblance to Sklalen Navy shuttles. Perhaps this was the source of his sense of danger?

That sense of danger now leapt from vague to vivid. But it was not the shuttle that flashed in his mind. He saw a strange creature, bristling with horns, barreling its way through the jungle to his left. He drew his gun and turned as the huge bulk of a rhinohog burst from the jungle, heading straight for him.

He had raised his gun, ready to fire, when he sensed another danger. Something, he could not tell what, heading for his eyes.

He dropped quickly to the ground, jarring his knees and elbows and winding himself. The venom, spat from the rhinohog, dissipated in the air safely behind him.

Pushing aside the pain, and steadying his gun as best he could from his prone position, he opened fire. The bullets slammed into the rhinohog, two in the head, a third in the eye, a fourth chipping the side horn as the creature stumbled, fell and rolled over, dead.

Jon clambered quickly to his feet, still sensing danger and certain, now, that this time it came from the shuttle.

He ran as best as he could towards the jungle, his knees shooting pain through him with each step. With luck, he could lose himself in the thick vegetation, and hide from whoever was inside the shuttle. As he neared a gap between two trees, however, his sense of danger shifted to another animal. Above him. Dropping!

The vampape landed on his back heavily, before he had time to react to the warning. He fell face first to the ground beneath its weight. He struggled to move the animal, twisted one way, then the other, but it clung on, and its bulk was such that he could not push himself upwards. He reached out, desperately clutching at the ground until he felt the plasteel of his gun. Before he could grab hold and attempt what would, at best, have been a blind shot, he felt the creature bite the back of his neck.

The pain was intense, burning, as the fangs sunk in and tore the flesh, blood blossoming on his grey skin. The teeth withdrew and he felt something push into the open wound. He could feel his blood being sucked from his body, but he could not move to stop it. All he had left was his mind.

He focused on the animal, visualizing pain and death, pushing them into its mind. The animal hesitated, then continued to drink his blood. He tried again, despite the pain at his neck and a growing ache throughout his body. Pain. Death. With sudden inspiration, he imagined the other creature, the one he had shot dead, rising to its feet and charging towards the animal that sat astride his back.

The sucking stopped. The vampape, in the belief that a rhinohog was about to attack it, leapt from Jon’s back and turned to face a threat that was not there.

Jon rolled, crying out at the pain in his neck, lifted the gun and fired two bullets into the wide body of the vampape. His third shot was placed perfectly between its eyes, entering its brain and killing it instantly.

Jon dropped the gun, its weight suddenly seeming heavier than anything he had ever held. He lay on his back, staring up at the trees at the jungle edge, and the clear sky of the clearing. Blood ran from his wound, pooling around his head and shoulder. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Already he felt light-headed, and was sure that, soon, he would lose consciousness and it would all be over.

In the distance, he thought he heard the gasp of an airtight door opening. The shuttle? Had the occupant finally come out to gloat? A figure leaned over him, misty, out of focus. Jon tried to see clearer, an odd need to identify the person before he died. He was barely aware that the figure lifted him up, though for a moment, with the movement, his eyes cleared.

He stared, stunned, at the impossible. The face of another Sklalen.