The Freedom Zenith
A ruined battleship is found after a century, and two siblings want to restore her to glory: but ancient weapons and dark secrets lie dormant in her halls.
It began with a blazing luminance. A mighty vessel fell from the stars into fiery oblivion. A conglomeration of metal that could only be created by the genius of the greatest innovators. Deep within its bowels lay many lives, crying out for the release of death.
The ship survived the explosion that rattled the solar system. She lay in pieces entrenched in the unforgiving mountains. Years passed, the vicious plants of the planets waged war against the machine, curling around edges, growing in gaps in the once gleaming bodywork.
They fought with ferocity and won. The vessel sat forgotten. The greatest battleship in the universe, reduced to a thorn-covered hill. Until we found her.
After the defeat of the spaceship, we came to live on the same planet. We don’t know why we were drawn there. In my sister’s internal workings, the heart is king, but the gut is queen. She felt something I couldn’t. I asked her what led her to the ship. Did she feel remorse for the vessel’s plight? A sense of loyalty or connection because they’d both suffered so?
She answered as I should have expected she would, with a laugh and a smile, brushing off my attempts to gain insight into her chaotic life trail. We were fresh from the horrors of the invasion of our home planet. We fled into the unknown, and though the tormentors have fallen, we haven’t returned.
Our childhood home only exists in memories, but we have a new one. The Freedom Zenith, the oldest battleship in the universe. Organic beings run on sustenance, water, and sunlight. She runs on the fumes of dying stars. We have a physical body of flesh, blood, and bone, and she is of metal. The Freedom Zenith is many things, but she is home.
We arrived as refugees in the Freedom Zenith’s resting place. Put in temporary accommodation on the outskirts of the vast capital city, close to the forests. My grandparents and I remained in shock, unable to construct complete sentences. Frankie craved the outdoors, the endless exploration of the wild.
Our grandparents were adamant she stay indoors for her safety. They still fear the unknown. My sister would cease to function if she were robbed of fresh air for too long. I suggested we take a walk together.
Strength in numbers gave our grandparents comfort. Frankie and I set off on what we thought would be a simple walk. After wandering for hours on end, we sat in the shade of a magnificent tree. Voyagers from afar traveled across the atmosphere as we watched the gentle swaying of the surrounding plants.
A warm breeze brushed against our skin, reminding us of home. All emotions pent up inside broke through the thick walls, pouring out in a river of tears. How we lamented our loss and still do.
A bone-shaking boom made the surrounding debris tremble, and the ground caved in. Frankie’s tears were those of adrenaline as we slid down through a tunnel towards a light, our shouts of surprise echoing around us. We were moments away from being crushed as we fell, but the metal reached out and cushioned our fall.
Nothing but endless darkness, the black you find inside your eyelids. Frankie’s hand found mine, a strange comfort against the unknown.
“Who are you?” A voice thundered, vibrating with the electrical glitch of a thousand-year-old sound processor. It proved difficult to not quake under such perceived power.
“My name is Frankie. This is my sibling, River,” Frankie’s voice trembled with a thousand unspoken fears.
The voice replied, and it shocked us. “What took you so long?”
The great door opened, and the light flooded in. Was this a dream? When my vision cleared, I was confronted with a vast, broken room, a once glorious bridge of a ship lying in shambles, roots crawling around the columns. She was shattered, but magnificent. A thousand questions wanted to pour out. I
asked, “What are you? Do you require help?” I would have taken any distraction from my raging grief.
The ghostly, distorted voice replied. “For a century, I have rotted, wasting away in a verdant grave. I want to be free, to travel the stars once more.”
Frankie had the courage of a hardened warrior in her eyes. “How can we help?” she asked. “And who are you?
The reply exploded with energy and a mighty, triumphant roar, “Thank you. Tell the people you trust The Freedom Zenith needs help to fly once again.”
When we returned to our temporary housing with the news of a lifetime. Our grandparents didn’t believe us. Who would believe two excited teenagers saying they’d found the famous battleship, The Freedom Zenith, lost for a hundred years?
The next day, a team descended upon the great ship, working around the clock to help us bring The Freedom Zenith back to life. The first thing: give it power. After hours of work, light shone in the great chamber. Days, weeks, months passed, and the diligent work continued.
My grandmother, delighted to have a purpose after months of listless fretting and worry, devoted herself to fixing the ship’s mechanical systems. She’d once been the best starship mechanic in our former solar system. We had to see if the grand ship would fly. Booms, bangs, and crashes echoed through the long hallways as we worked to repair her.
Months passed with no visible signs of progress until one day. The engines roared awake, shaking the ground. We rushed from our makeshift sleeping quarters, stumbling half-asleep into the chamber. I half expected to see The Freedom Zenith limping off into space.
The motors died, and the ship’s mechanical roar of frustration shattered our eardrums. Disappointment and self-loathing ruminated on the metal walls.
“It’ll take time,” my grandmother said as she moved to the great ship’s console, tapping buttons and making adjustments. “She hasn’t moved in over a century.”
Addressing the Freedom Zenith, she said, “What else do you need help with?”
The voice came back, rumbling and full of anguish. “Fix my starfuel generator, and cut me free of these monstrous plants, I beg you!” A starfuel generator? What was such a thing? The ship let out a sigh and said, “My manuals will tell you.”
A wall section lit up with a flickering, iridescent purple light, stretching out into the hallway beyond. Frankie and I set out, taking to the old hallways of the ship. It was like exploring a massive jungle, metal walls cracked with water damage, vines and moss dripping from every surface.
Frankie had her weapon. There was no telling what lurked in the ship’s depths. We discovered a mess hall, covered in hundreds of years’ worth of dust.
Cracked pots and pans with empty takeout containers from a dozen star systems littered the room.
We ventured past the mess, down a long hallway, and through an archway into a room lined with thousands of empty glass bottles decorating the perimeter. The walls were plastered with old posters and flickering signs swaying in the stale air. Betting games, unfinished books, and scattered decks of cards sat on the tables.
The cabinets and countertops were cluttered with food, empty bottles, mixing tools, and strange glass devices. The flickering purple line went to the doorway at the far end. It had a machine, like a small, squat tree surrounded by dozens of small computer terminals.
“Frankie, I presume this is the correct vicinity,” I said.
The lights flickered as if the vessel was saying yes.
We approached the machine and stopped short as a voice came to us from behind, full of wonder. “Do you two know what this is?”
Turning around, we saw Grandfather looking at us with a bewildered expression on his face. We shook our heads, as much at a loss as he was. Grandmother mumbled about overgrown jungle vines and how she would handle it if she had a good pair of secateurs.
“This,” Grandfather explained, “is the starfuel generator. It collects the expelled energy from stars and propels her through space.”
We stood for a moment in silence, watching the lights blink and listening to a low hum coming from within the machine.
As if in pain, the Freedom Zenith groaned. “Please fix it.”
Grandmother asked, “What’s wrong?”
“You have fixed my engines, for which I’m grateful.” The ship sighed. “Though the generator is broken. I need parts to repair it.”
Grandfather patted Frankie on the shoulder and said, “See if there’s anything in the central information room.”
As if on queue, another long line of light appeared, guiding our way.
I felt compelled to question the ship. “How long have you existed?”
The air vents let out a sound like a laugh. “Millenniums, child.”
“Who built you?”
For an eternity, there was silence. What could she have experienced? At last, she replied, “Long ago, there was a race of people. I was their sanctuary, and they gave me consciousness.”
“What happened to them?”
“The great wars were won, and my people were the victims. The victors turned a planet into a graveyard of ships containing the remains of my civilization.” Water traveled up from her vents, leaving trails in the dust on the walls. Once could’ve sworn the magnificent vessel could shed tears.
“Did anyone survive?” ”Only me,” she said, her voice full of longing.
The purple line ended at a heavy door in the shape of a squat tree with wide branches. Frankie opened it for me, and we climbed up into another room filled with computer terminals and countless screens.
The Freedom Zenith continued, “I have watched the universe around me die and be reborn for many eons.”
“Do you think that might happen to us?” Frankie asked.
“To our universe? I hope not. I enjoy being here.” Those words gave me a chill, but she said them with wistfulness.
“What about your crew?” Frankie asked. “Where are they?”
“My crew is long dead,” she answered, the air vents emitting a gasping sound, as if in deep sadness. “They left me stranded with my broken generator.”
How could someone do something so despicable? In times of panic and sheer desperation, one can only think of themselves. Frankie walked up to a terminal and began typing away. “I’m sorry.”
Wind didn’t blow here, yet old posters shivered. A screen flickered to life. “You will find everything you need here,” the Freedom Zenith said. “I don’t have full access to my archives.”
Frankie let out a grin and said, “That’s fixed. Hold tight.” Fingers flew across the keyboard as if performing an intricate whirling dance.
As she inputted information to the terminal, Grandfather called us. We left the room and found him in a long hallway.
“What is it?” I asked.
He pointed at the corridor. “Look at this.”
Little turrets protruded from the walls, covered in dust and wooden crates. They shined bright green when Grandfather turned on his lantern. “What are they?” I asked.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said as he poked one of the tiny protruding objects with a stick. The turrets were like living statues. “Who knows what surprises might lie in store for us?”
If only we knew.
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Statistics → Word Count: 1,911 | Reading Time: 6:57 mins