The Frihet Rebellion

Bryant Johnson checked the bio-chips one final time and then closed up the control section of Spearhead’s bridge.

“All looks fine to me,” he said, leaning back into the padded command seat.

“Then other than running a few trials, we are back in business,” said Jon, speaking perfect English.

If it wasn’t for that slight harmonic in his voice, you wouldn’t know he was an alien, thought Bryant. Until you look at him. That kind of ruins the whole could-be-human thing.

The Sklalen’s long domed head, sparse wispy red hairs sprouting randomly across the grey skin, was the most obvious sign of his non-human origins. The facial features, below a thick overhanging brow, were surprisingly human. His blue eyes held obvious intelligence, and the thin-lipped mouth, below a long aquiline nose, smiled often and, at times, flirtatiously. He had long ago changed to wearing Earth clothes, those of Sklalen proving too flimsy for Earth’s changing weather patterns, and the body beneath was trim and muscular. The lack of nipples, as Sklalen’s did not suckle their young, and the odd extra toe or finger had proved, for the most part, an attraction, rather than a deterrent, to the many Earth women who apparently had an urge to interact with an alien. Although he had never revealed his age in Earth years, he seemed barely older than Bryant’s twenty-eight. He was not the only alien on Earth, but he was one of the more humanoid and, therefore, one of the more palatable to human tastes. With a tragic background story of a world destroyed by war, he had become a popular invitee to the social gatherings of the Earth elite.

Bryant was never invited, and was pleased about it. Socializing with the rich and powerful was not something he would have enjoyed. They were not his kind of people.

“What do we do about the fleet heading for the Raga System?” said Bryant, dragging his thoughts back to more mundane matters.

“I would not be happy risking Spearhead in combat until we finish the trials,” said Jon. “I suggest we let the fleet go without us, as planned, and join them later. That is, if you want to get involved in this expedition at all?”

“I can’t deny a certain sympathy with the Frihet rebels,” said Bryant. “Deaton is very heavy-handed in his empire building. However, while I might not be the most patriotic of people, my loyalties still lie here, with Earth.”

“Nevertheless, we are freelance,” said Jon. “If you did not feel comfortable with this assignment, we could decline.”

Bryant hesitated and span the control seat in a gentle circle. His eyes drifted over the complex array of switches, dials, buttons and lights inlaid in the walls of the control room’s dome. Being recruited so unexpectedly by Jon had been a defining point in his life, and had given him an independence he would never have otherwise achieved. However, it did not alter his ancestry, nor his emotional attachment to his home planet.

“There’s certainly some justice in the rebel cause,” he said, as he brought his spin to a halt. “However, not helping Earth when we can just wouldn’t feel right.” He smiled. “But you probably already know that, given your ability as an empath. You told me about it yourself, remember?”

Jon nodded. “I remember, and you are right. But it is always good to have one’s feelings confirmed. Also, I concur. While I am not of Earth, I am grateful for the aid I have received and would prefer to help when I can.”

“So,” said Bryant, turning back to the control panel. “We better get these trials started and get Spearhead back in action. Then, off to Frihet!”