A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds III)

by Jay Allan

  The central core of the city was small, perhaps fifty large buildings, all clustered around Founder’s Square. The Square was a park, marking the spot where the first colonists had established a temporary settlement. In the center stood a large chunk of twisted plasti-steel, a section of the Star of Hope, the ship that brought the first 200 colonists to the planet almost a century before. The old colony ships were disposables, built for one-way trips. Landing a ship that big in an atmosphere was a rough ride, leaving a vessel useful for shelter and spare parts, but not for future liftoffs.

  Now the pleasantly landscaped square was full of armed soldiers, and speakers had been set up throughout the park and the adjoining business district. The troops wore the brown uniforms of Federal Police, but they were heavily armed and clad in hyperkev body armor. They had cordoned off the central area of the park, allowing no one to enter, though the growing crowds were starting to push up against the barricades.

  Jill Winton stood among the nervous throng, watching just like everyone else. She was a student at the university in Weston, but her class had emptied into the streets, as most of the city had done. She’d been drawn out by the same curiosity that brought everyone else there, but she was distracted with her own thoughts. She’d been ecstatic that morning when she got the transmission - her application to the Naval Academy had been accepted. But then she faced the realization that she’d have to tell her father, and that was something she dreaded.

  Jack Winton had been a naval officer, and Jill had never understood why he’d always been so against his daughter’s desire to follow in his footsteps. Whatever his reasons, he was vehemently against the idea, and every time she mentioned it they had a massive argument. He didn’t even know she’d applied. It was the only thing they ever fought about; otherwise they had a very close relationship. Her mother had died when she was young, and since then it had been just the two of them…and Winton Transport, the company she was supposed to take over one day. She loved her father and respected his accomplishments, but the thought of spending all day every day moving other people’s stuff around made her crazy.

  She was roused from her circumspection by a loud tone, followed by a voice emanating from the speakers. “Attention all citizens.” The voice was loud and harsh. “Attention all citizens. Stand by for an address from the Planetary Governor.”

  Planetary Governor? Jill’s attention snapped away from her problems with her father. This doesn’t sound good, she thought. What is he talking about? What is a Planetary Governor? She could feel her stomach clench with tension…with fear.

  “Citizens of Columbia, this is Arlen Cooper, formerly your Planetary Advisor. As of 0700 this morning I have assumed the position of Planetary Governor.” A stunned murmur rose from the assembled crowds.

  “Last night a group of outlaws illegally seized possession of the militia armory outside of Weston. When challenged by duly authorized law enforcement officials, they opened fire, killing 29 Federal Police. The offenders subsequently escaped with a considerable stock of stolen weapons.” He paused, allowing the crowd to absorb what he had said.

  “This kind of lawlessness and brutality will not be tolerated. At 0710 this morning I declared Columbia to be in a state of insurrection against the lawful government of the Alliance.” His voice was becoming louder, harsher. “As a result, and until the offending parties are apprehended, I have implemented a series of necessary measures.”

  The confused babble of the crowd began to change, turning darker, angrier. “One, effective immediately, the entire planet of Columbia is under martial law. The planetary constitution and all its provisions are suspended. Two, the Planetary Assembly is hereby disbanded. All representatives are ordered to disburse and return to their homes. Any who fail to comply will be arrested.”

  The crowd became louder and started to surge toward the center of the square, pressing harder against the barricades. “Three, a curfew is in effect until further notice. All citizens are to remain in their homes from the hours of 1900 through 0700 the following day.” The curfew period covered virtually all of the non-working hours of Columbia’s 27 hour day. “Any citizens performing legitimate jobs outside of these hours must register and obtain a permit. Violators will be subject to arrest and further punitive action.”

  Jill was stunned at what she was hearing, and she could feel the anger in the crowd around her. It was becoming something animated, something uncontrollable. She was in the middle of the surging mass, and she started to make her way someplace less packed.

  “Four, until all insurrectionists have been arrested, communications shall be monitored and controlled. The information network will be limited to government announcements and a select list of allowable data. All other access will be blocked. Until further notice, the interstellar transmission network is closed to private use.”

  My God, Jill thought, Columbia is completely cut off. Is this really happening? She was getting really scared. There had been a lot of talk about rebellion, about independence. People found it relatively easy to speak of such things and make bold declarations, but now they were getting a glimpse of the reality that road entailed. She just wanted to go home, but she couldn’t get anywhere in the seething, angry mass.

  “Further announcements will be posted each day on the information net. All citizens are responsible for knowing and obeying these rules. No disruption will be tolerated.” Cooper paused for half a minute, but the crowd’s screams just kept getting louder.

  “The criminals responsible for last night’s horrific attack had scouts and allies in Weston, warning them of the movements of the Federal officers they ambushed. We have apprehended two of them.” Cooper stopped talking, but from the front of the crowd, closest to the square, an enraged howl started. In the square itself, two men in civilian clothing were walking toward the base of the Star of Hope monument. They were led forward, flanked by guards with an officer behind each.

  The crowd sensed what was coming, and they surged forward, over the barricades toward the line of federal troops standing between them and the captives. The Feds lowered their weapons, aiming into the crowd. “Anyone who advances past the barricades will be shot.” It was a new voice on the speaker, the federal commander in the square.

  The mob hesitated, uncertain, those in the front looking out over the leveled assault rifles of the police. In the square, the two prisoners were pushed down to their knees, their heads shoved forward and down. The officers put their pistols against the back of their captives’ heads. A second later the two kneeling men jerked forward and fell, though the sounds of the shots were drowned out by the roaring crowd.

  A collective gasp rose from the front ranks of the mob. The crowd stood frozen in place for a few seconds then surged forward, screaming, knocking the barricades aside. They’d run just a few steps when the line of police opened fire. All along the front of the crowd, men and women crumpled and fell, the wounded trampled by those behind who continued ahead. The police fired again into the enraged mob and then a third time before the boiling mass stopped coming.

  The wave of panic started at the head of the crowd and moved back rapidly. Those in front turned and tried to flee, running into and climbing over those behind. In seconds the mob turned into a confused, hysterical mass. All through the streets, people were stampeding, screaming, and trying to get away from the park. Jill was caught in the maelstrom and almost trampled. Her bag was torn from her shoulder as she pushed her way toward the outer districts of the city and relative safety.

  In the square, the line of federal troops continued to fire, though the mob was fleeing and no longer approaching them. By the time the crowd had dispersed from the area of the square, the ground was littered with dead and wounded. The troops formed up and marched out of the square, leaving the injured to lie where they were.

  Arlen Cooper sat at his desk watching the whole thing on his monitor. He had a sadistic smile on his face. After months of putting up with arrogant colonists making his
life miserable, he finally had the power to squeeze their insolence out of them. He had seethed at their refusal to respect his authority; now he could strike back. He’d hoped the crowd would give him an excuse to show them just how much things had changed, and he had deliberately provoked them. He was thrilled they had obliged.

  Still, he was slightly unnerved by the ferocity of the mob. These people were nothing like the meek middle classes he’d terrorized back in New York. He was surprised when they charged the line of police, and even more so when they kept coming after the first volley. For an instant he was afraid they’d tear his troops apart with their bare hands. There was an insanity – his prejudices wouldn’t let him consider it courage – in these colonists, and there was nagging doubt behind his arrogance.

  He was also concerned about the weapons from the armory. He was still waiting for the complete inventory on what was taken, but what he did know was worrisome. In addition to small arms and ammunition, they had apparently grabbed several heavier weapons – ones that could be used against the armored vehicles and atmospheric attack craft his reinforcements had brought with them. The rebels who had seized the weapons knew just what to take, at least according to his field commanders. Cooper wouldn’t have known a magnetic assault rifle from a bow and arrow.

  Now he had to consider next steps. First, he wanted to know who was involved in the armory raid, especially the ringleaders. Once he had names, he could start rounding up family and friends and exert some pressure on those remaining at large. Cooper wasn’t troubled much by the prospect of collateral damage as long as it served his ends. He might even enjoy it. We will see how many people these rebels are willing to sacrifice, he thought darkly.

  Tracking people down was going to be difficult, though, or at least tougher than he was used to. In New York, everyone had a spinal implant; he could pull up the current location of anyone he wanted to find in a matter of seconds. But here almost no one had a functioning implant. Even recent immigrants had theirs removed or deactivated as soon as they arrived. How did Alliance Gov allow this to go on for so long, he wondered? It is no surprise these people are as uncontrollable as they are. There were no Political Academies out here, no established government class. They just elected anyone they wanted as their officials, and if they weren’t happy they just voted them out. What kind of government could function, he wondered, so tied to the fickle wants of the masses? The whole idea was idiotic to him, and the generations of Alliance Gov that allowed it to develop were just as much to blame. But he resolved it would end here, at least on Columbia.

  The two men who had been executed that morning in the Square were proxies, miscellaneous prisoners who stood in so he could make his point publicly. The men who’d actually been captured aiding the rebels - and there were four of them, not two – were still very much alive, safely held in the detention center of the Alliance Gov building. They were too useful to shoot out of hand; they had information buried in their heads, information Cooper needed. They were tough and stubborn, but they’d break sooner or later, and when they did they would give him the names he wanted. Oh yes, they would tell him all they knew.

  Meanwhile, he had a pretty good idea where to start – the Weston area militia. He’d issued arrest orders, starting with the senior officers, and even now detachments of Federal Police were on their way to round up the first batch. He was pretty sure at least some of the militia units were involved in the rebellion, and he didn’t much care if a few innocents got caught in his nets. Not if he got the people he was after.

  The flotilla of hovercraft was spotted long before they reached the shore. Skimming along the ocean at 150 kph, the lightly armored personnel carriers raced toward the rocky coast of Carlisle Island. They bore the insignia of the Federal Police, and they carried two full troops, 120 armed personnel in total. They had a list of suspects to find and detain. At the top of that list was Major John Marek.

  Marek’s militia battalion was one of the formations supplied by the armory that had been raided, and that alone made him a prime suspect. So far, Cooper’s people were operating on unsubstantiated assumptions. The prisoners in Cooper’s dungeon were proving to be tougher to break than he’d expected. Despite severe methods, he still hadn’t gotten anything useful out of them. If he pushed the interrogators any harder he’d just end up with dead prisoners. Impatient, Cooper decided to move forward on a series of preemptive arrests, starting with Marek and a number of others on the Island. People he could reason were likely involved. Maybe some of them would break more quickly.

  Lucius Anton peered out from a boulder at the edge of the rocky cliff that dominated the southern coast of Carlisle Island. He had rocket teams – they’d appropriated several launchers from the armory – ideally situated, ready to open fire at his command. The teams weren’t experienced, but the Z-9 launchers were AI-assisted and fairly easy to use. He figured they could take out half the incoming craft before they could turn and escape, maybe two-thirds. But he didn’t give the order.

  At first he’d thought Marek was crazy. Why let the Feds land when they could practically wipe them out coming in? But he was starting to appreciate just what a feel his old lieutenant – and current friend, business partner, and militia commander – had for strategy. Firing on the incoming hovercraft would advertise just how heavily defended Carlisle really was. It would dare the Feds to come back with really heavy stuff sooner. Marek wanted to keep as many cards close to the vest as he could, especially until they’d had a chance to organize the militia troops and volunteers who’d been streaming in. That trickle had become a flood after the atrocities committed in Weston the week before.

  But Marek also wanted those vehicles – intact and ready for his own forces to use. The rebels had weapons and ammo – not enough to last long, but a workable amount for now. But they were very low on vehicles and heavy support equipment. If the Feds were willing to offer some, he thought it would be rude not to take them.

  They are being careless, Anton thought - coming in one big wave, no scouts, nothing. No precautions at all, as if they expected the mere sight of so many hovercraft would shrivel our resolve. They really think we’re going to let them land and haul off whomever they want and just do nothing? Can they really be that arrogant?

  He and Marek had been working around the clock, forging their growing group of volunteers into a fighting force. They had just under 500 men and women under arms now, perhaps a third of them from Marek’s militia battalion, the rest normal citizens from Carlisle and the nearby archipelagos. Over 100 of them had been in the service, maybe half of those in combat units. Marek had turned most of the Marine vets into non-com and officer equivalents, though they hadn’t assigned formal permanent ranks yet.

  Anton watched as the incoming transports swung around the west side of the island; the southside cliffs were too high for the hovercraft to navigate. He climbed slowly down from his perch. “Jack, take over the rocket positions. If anything tries to head back to the mainland, take it out.”

  Jack Winton had been standing a few meters south of Anton, staring out at the approaching craft. “No problem, Lucius.” Winton was retired military, but he was navy, not Marines, and he’d been an engineer, not a tactical officer. Still, he was rock solid, and both Marek and Anton trusted him. Winton was just as glad to have something to do; his daughter was in Weston at the university, and he hadn’t heard from her since the day martial law was declared. He’d gone to the city twice since then, but he was turned back at the checkpoint both times. He tried to reach his contacts in Weston, but the city was locked down, all communications jammed. He wanted to go to Weston a third time, but Marek stopped him. He was lucky not to get arrested the first two times; Cooper’s troops had been careless, just chasing him away. Winton was almost certainly on a wanted list…just like Marek and Anton. If he got caught and interrogated he’d only put his daughter in greater jeopardy.

  Anton scrambled down the rugged path inland, flipping on his headset. “J
ohn, they’re heading in from the west. Best guess, they’re going to come in over South Meadow.”

  “I read you, Lucius.” Marek’s voice was calm, confident. He didn’t want to go back to war, but it held no surprises for him. If he had to fight, he would fight. It was that simple. “We’re ready.”

  The fully loaded hovercraft were cramped and uncomfortable, and the troops inside were anxious to get out and do what they had to do. The Federal Police were a force intended to keep order on Earth, and they were accustomed to intimidating pliant populations that didn’t fight back. They weren’t happy about being detached for service in space, and the sooner they rounded up the troublemakers and got back to base – and ultimately to Earth, the better.

  The flotilla split up as it came swooping in from the sea. The west coast of Carlisle Island was easier terrain for hovercraft - mostly beaches, some sandy, others rocky, but all of them flat enough for easy maneuvering. They had a list of suspects along with the locations of their residences. Marek was first on the list, and two of the craft veered off to the north, zipping along the shoreline to his modest oceanfront home. It was a prefabricated unit, small but pleasant. The two craft landed in the broad meadow in front and hatches opened on both sides. Federal Police in light hyperkev armor streamed out. They were armed with assault rifles, and they moved out, taking positions all around.

  Marek was watching, but not from the house. The Feds deployed quickly, but raggedly; Marek wasn’t impressed. He tried to think what Colonel Jax or General Cain would have said if his troops had ever looked that sloppy. His people were deployed all around the house, hidden in the rough hills just inland. They were waiting for his order to fire. A week earlier he’d have never ambushed the Feds this way. He’d have waited until there was no choice, tried to capture them unless they forced his hand. But that was before the federals had murdered more than 50 civilians in Weston. The reactions to that incident had varied, usually shock and grief, followed by rage. But Marek went straight to the rage. Not a fiery, uncontrollable fury; that was not his personality. His anger was just as strong, but it was cold, calculating, focused. And patient. He realized what kind of war this would be. The Feds would try to break them, to inflict enough pain to shatter their spirit. To win, they would have to be just as brutal, just as merciless. There would be no pity in this war, no quarter. Those responsible for the massacre in Weston would pay; he was committed to that.