Typically, he wouldn’t even answer, but this man had been there too. Even though he hadn’t been inside, he’d done his share of killing … even if it’d only been with his index finger.
“Yeah, I hated them,” he finally said. “But I have to say … more than that … I admired them … I still do. How could you not?”
«◊»
They ride the mag-lev tram through the old mine tunnel in silence. In the cramped tram car, each pilot sits lost in their thoughts. Some wonder if today they will breathe their last. A few, clinging to ancient religions, say silent prayers for safe returns. Some pore over the details of their sortie. They play it out in their heads over and over, imagining how things will go down. Others listen to music or audiobooks, hoping to calm jittery nerves. The magnitude of this mission and the resulting consequences are well understood.
They’re about to punch the giant in the nose. They’re about to start humankind’s first war in space.
Starr rides across from him, as quiet as the rest. She sits arrow straight, hands in her lap, looking off into oblivion. Her flight suit is a size too small, but she likes her clothes tight. It compliments her figure well.
Tiger watches her. She doesn’t have a brain. So, what is going on inside her? Does a CPU fear? Do memory processors reflect? Was she analyzing their odds? Or is she merely sitting there in idle mode, nothing clicking away in those circuits until action is warranted?
As if on cue, she suddenly looks to him, an enthusiastic, childlike smile on her face.
“A puppy!”
“Excuse me?”
“A puppy!” she repeats, even more excited. “I would like a puppy when all this is over! As a pet!”
He can’t help but grin, her eagerness for something so simple and innocent is contagious. He sees it in her eyes more and more. Something amazing is awakening inside of her. With each passing day, it’s a new wonder.
Hours earlier, she’d displayed other human traits, stubbornness and defiance. He’d badly wanted her to stay behind. But she’d been just as adamant about coming along. It is incomprehensible for an android to refuse a command. Such is the fear of the technophobes. For years, they’ve warned of the day when the A.I.s would turn on their creators. It’s for this very reason androids are banned from earth.
He chuckles and wonders what they would think if they knew the rebellion had begun. And the rebels want puppies.
A twinge of fatal foreboding snaps him back to reality like a noose snaps a condemned man’s neck. When this was over, he doubted there would be any puppies waiting on her.
As he watches her daydream of pets, he can’t help but feel a sense of pride. He knows, deep down, he’d be disappointed now if she backed out. That would be a whole other exhibition of human emotions. Some he would find disappointing now.
No, she’d started her countdown, and she would see it through the liftoff. She was doing what a real spacer did. There was a job to do, and she was going to do it by the gods. He wouldn’t deprive her of that which she so desperately wanted.
It made his heart swell with pride.
Their destination is an underground maintenance bay. Built before construction of the city’s dome had even begun, it once served the mines during the early years of colonization. When the City Spaceport was finished, it was mothballed. Few, except some long-term mining company employees, even remembered it or had any use for it.
Until the Rebellion.
Crammed into the old hangar, nose to tail, are the ships of Colonial Squadron One. The backbone of the tiny fleet is a handful of Chargers and Super Chargers. After that, the drop-off is substantial. The rest consists of a few short-range lunar shuttles and obsolete Russian-built tugs. There’s even a retired tour bus that’s little more than a glorified “skimmer,” slang for the commuters that crisscross the lunar surface daily, carrying workers or scientists to whatever tasks they need to perform. Not one ship in the pitiful little fleet has been built for military service, even though all of them have been retrofitted with rail guns and missile launchers. The Chargers are hot rods. As such, they have speed and some degree of maneuverability to them. The others are slow-moving, unwieldy and easy targets.
But they’re not looking for a fight. They’re looking to surprise. A cheap shot. They’re hoping to catch the Authority with its pants down and its dick hanging out. They won’t deal a knockout blow. The enemy is too powerful … has too many men, too many ships, too many guns, too many of everything …
But they can give him a good swift kick in the balls. They can hurt him. Sure, he’ll get over it and come back swinging hard, but he needs to know he can bleed. He needs to have it in the back of his mind when he strikes back. Yes, he’s going to win, but he’s going to pay the price.
The pilots disembark from the tram and make their way to their ships. The ground crews are completing the last of their pre-flight checks. Now’s the time for well-wishes and goodbyes. Most of these pilots have never flown in combat. One or two are ex-Guard, having served pirate interdiction duty in the Belt. But for the most part, the majority are civilian pilots, spacers who hauled ore or shuttle pilots who flew tourists around the moon or to the Grand Orbital. All are volunteers. Some aren’t going to return. All wonder who will and who won’t.
Kentucky Belle is first in line to launch, so he stops at most of the ships for a short visit with each pilot. A handshake,
