The Frihet Rebellion

Karl paced the communications room as technicians gathered more data from other worlds in the Raga system. He tried to concentrate solely on watching the numbers of available ships rise steadily, but his mind kept betraying him, taking him back to the image of Princess Thalor on the totally inadequate throne.

He blamed himself for the throne, for spending so much time researching royal clothing that he had not left enough to gather the artisans necessary for replicating the original throne of Frihet. It would be ready soon, but it should have been ready for the moment Princess Thalor came out of her prison.

The Princess. She was even more beautiful than all the holoslides he had seen of her while she languished under house arrest. Those images, and the promise he had fastened to them, had kept him going during the darkest of times. He still had them now, but why look at them when he could see the real thing? And the real thing was so much better.

At least the clothing had been ready and correct, even though the Princess had questioned it. The dress had looked beautiful on her, as he had expected. The transparency of it had caused him some issue, however. He felt guilty, a little dirty, grubby even, for stealing a quick glance at that wondrous body. His love was purer than that. Beyond anything as crude as sexual desire. It soared above such base, animal needs. He and the Princess were destined to be together. In time she would see that to. He just needed to be patient.

A technician tracking the advance of the Earth fleet brought him out of his reverie with the news that the first ships of the fleet had exited the wormhole.

Karl had considered ambushing them there, as they appeared ship by ship. It was when any travelling collection of ships was at its most vulnerable, but it was also an area protected by inter-system agreement. Had he broken that agreement then, victorious or not, Frihet would have been shunned by all other worlds in the galaxy, human or alien. A pariah. It was not the fate he wished for his world. He wanted Frihet to be honored and respected in the galaxy, not expelled from it. Frihet already had supporters on many other worlds, as evidenced from the messages of support they had received. There had even been a partial, garbled message from Earth itself, stating an intention to help. He wondered if they’d ever managed to come up with a plan.

Ciummi had easily slipped away from his work detail, and now hid in a small alcove he had spotted on an earlier visit to the fourth level. He was new to Starfire, hired specifically for the Frihet expedition. Battleships were always in need of lower-class citizens, taking on the dirty and dull jobs that those better trained did not wish to do. Ciummi’s birthplace of Earth disguised his true loyalties, and had allowed his application quick progress through a security system geared to search for off-world threats.

He had already placed the devices as instructed, the last one on the fourth level, and had been about to return to his work detail, when he had heard footsteps approaching. Now, he tried to merge with the slight shadow thrown by the alcove, and slipped a knife from his work tunic.

When news of the rebellion on Frihet had first reached Earth, Ciummi had been disappointed not to be part of it. Worse, he was the only son of Frihetian parents who had emigrated to Earth before he was born. His dream had long been to, one day, travel to Frihet on a pilgrimage to the world he considered his true spiritual home.

He had run when those of Frihet ancestry were herded into hurriedly erected internment camps, hiding himself in the ghettos of New Washington. There he had been found by other, like-minded, enemies of President Deaton. This mission had been their idea, but he had volunteered.

The footsteps came closer.

He was not trained for combat. However, the knife gave him an edge, as did his fervor and belief in his cause. The mission was already completed, the devices automated and unstoppable. He had not killed before, but he would kill now if his choice was that or be captured. And if he died, he would die a martyr. That had been the plan from the start.

He recognized the two Ensigns who walked past his hiding place, neither turning to see him. Ensign Banks had been briefly introduced on the group induction tour of engineering, and he had seen Ensign Roberts with the Admiral, when the same tour had watched Bridge activity on a viewing screen. They had not been allowed to visit the Bridge itself. Both men continued walking down the corridor, deep in their own thoughts, and Ciummi knew that, as long as he stayed still and silent, he would most likely remain undetected.

But the nerve-shredding worry of being seen by the ship’s security system was taking its toll. Even though his route, and the location of the devices, had been carefully planned to take advantage of every blind spot, he had been constantly looking over his shoulder, listening for unusual sounds, straining every sense to ensure he was unobserved. Standing in the alcove, watching two Earthmen about to pass close by the last of his devices, his nerve finally gave way.

He saw a chance to strike an immediate blow for the rebellion. The fire of the righteousness was in his belly. The Princess he had never seen would hear of the name Ciummi and of his deeds. He would be exalted as a hero of the rebellion.

He wiped sweat from his eyes. His mouth felt dry, his palms clammy. The knife weighed heavily in his fist.

For the rebellion. For Princess Thalor!

He let out a cry somewhere between fear and anger and rushed out of the alcove.

Ensigns Roberts and Banks span round at the cry. Roberts leapt aside, slamming into the corridor wall. Banks’s reaction was slower, and he tumbled to the ground under the impact of Ciummi’s onslaught.

Ciummi, as he fell, tangled in the arms and legs of the engineering ensign, stabbed again and again with the knife. He felt the warmth of spreading blood and laughed. Killing Earthmen was so easy. So liberating!

Roberts, recovering quickly, saw his colleague in trouble. He grabbed for the attacker’s knife-hand, pulling it away from the sticky wetness of the blood-soaked uniform. Throwing his other arm around the crazed knifeman’s throat, he dragged him from the bleeding, dying man on the floor.

Ciummi screamed in rage as he was pulled away, a scream that died as the arm around his throat tightened. He felt his grip on the knife loosening and tried to grab it as it fell. It clattered as it hit the corridor floor, blood spatter spotting the white plasteel.

Roberts pulled the man down, releasing his stranglehold and slamming punch after angry punch into the man’s face. The Admiral would want this man alive, but a battered face would not stop the man being interrogated.

He continued to beat the now unconscious Ciummi as, behind him, Ensign Banks sighed his last, bloody sigh.