by Allen Ivers
“Wasn’t the greatest part of town, but it was work inside a secure building. Not going to get mugged when you live and work within shouting distance of a couple dozen peace officers. It wasn’t a good life. I paid my bills and I could afford food most of the time, if I kept the lights on low and the heater off in the winter. But it was mine and it was safe. Then…”
He paused, remembering that gulaw rain clinging to the back of his bloody hands. His friends and followers hung in the doorway, drinking in every word.
“Suddenly, I was standing on the wrong side of that courtroom. I knew how they worked. I’d seen plenty of cases against cop killers. They threw the book right out the window. They’d have hung me from the rafters if somebody had brought rope. The bailiff, guy named Oscar McDermott. He wouldn’t look up from his file. They slapped me in iron and that was that. I was a Capital. I was locked up for defending myself.”
He almost spat fire with the words. “I was sixteen. Capital for life.”
Talania inclined her head, a reptilian part of her brain triggered, ignition in her gut.
“Everybody’s been asking me what I’d do with my freedom, if I’d go back, what I’d do. Tal, I couldn’t go back if I wanted to. I don’t have a trade or family or nothin’. I lost all that. And it was never their’s to take.”
“Angry?” Talania asked, in a word.
“I was,” he whispered, “For the first year. Then you…” He looked back at the people in the door, “You find a new life.”
“Yeah… well, I’m still angry,” Talania growled.
“Good,” He said. “Then help us.”
Talania gritted her teeth. “One condition,” she grunted, “You and your Capital friends get their freedom as promised, if -- and only if -- Marcus Riley stands trial.”
Aaron’s eyes darkened, “He escalated a war for personal glory. He cracked down on anyone that stood against him. He imprisoned innocents & children. Instituted slavery. He tortured me, and he killed my friends.”
“He killed my father,” she said, all cold fury.
Aaron nodded. “He’s going down. But I can’t promise a court.”
She smiled, “I can live with that.”
23
Riley
"First they will organize, then they will organize their violence."
Riley could read a thousand treatises on it; there was no comparing to seeing it. They rose up with batons and hate, hurling firebombs at peacekeepers while hiding behind metal bulkheads they tore from the very walls around them. They had, in a matter of hours, gone from frightened to aggressive.
Perhaps that was his mistake. He had cornered the animal.
He craned his neck to look up at the city. The towering structures of Vanguard were dingy with soot and smoke, blotting out whatever light they used to cast. The obscene obelisks towered over the lesser buildings, commanding obedience they could no longer compel.
He listened to the cries of anger that echoed up amongst those towers and back down to his encampment. It was everything in him not join in that chorus, just cut loose and scream until his throat went raw.
Only a third of the populace were involved, but the rest of the colony did nothing to oppose or silence their comrades. They just watched with the muted and distant horror of a middle-class family that stopped at a memorial to early human inhumanities; ‘How uncivilized they were back then’ they might say to their children, while assuring their little ones they were safe from such malice.
The hypocrites.
How would this be recorded in the histories? Was it a demonstration with a streak of violence and looting? Or was it a riot with political and anti-social motivation?
Rules of engagement differed dramatically in the permitted response between the two, riot and demonstration.
To hell with the rules.
He had done this for them. He had defied orders, committed treason, and killed his career all to protect their frail little sensibilities.
His stomach froze up like he'd been punched, like there was a crimp or knot in the length of rope. Maybe he should've listened to all the flights of fancy and had the average Joe pick up a rifle, they'd have some patriotic unity with the men who volunteered for the pain.
No, they'd have broken under the stress, the demands of military life. It required a sacrifice most didn't find fathomable, let alone were willing to make. Martial law was preferable to press-ganging an entire population.
They just didn't understand. They all had complaints; no one had solutions.
Not even her.
“He has imprisoned your leaders,” Talania had said in her brief chat, through bruised lip and mangy hair.
She wanted to get out her words before Allied Forces could jam the signal. Intelligence suggested she used the Hospital’s emergency transmitter, and with a little technical wizardry beyond her abilities.
Aaron and his rogues gallery, of course. They blanketed the civilian airwaves for but twenty short seconds.
Talania knew how to use that time. “He has invaded your homes. He has stolen your food. He has used the crisis to consolidate power and eliminate any who might challenge him. He tells you to be frightened and beats you until you are. He believes he owns your lives.”
She raised an inquisitive eyebrow like she was looking right at him. “Does he?”
And with that, the signal cut out.
The suggestion was clear enough to him. Riley had made them all Capitals, a collection of blood bags to live or die at his discretion. It was moral absolutism, dangerous and lacking in nuance.
The public so does love a simple slogan.
Riley's men had established a base camp to treat wounded and resupply squads outside the Aurora building, about a mile from the worst of the fighting. At least, it had been a mile when they set up their little popsicle stand.
What had been an indistinct din echoing off of the towers above was now clear enough to make out individual voices, even if their specific complaints were unmet.
And they only had a handful of men, a few over three dozen to contain this wildfire. With most of the defenses deployed to Wall Prefectures, the skeleton crew was quickly taxed to its limit. The battles were one-sided, as peacekeepers were under explicit instructions to hold their fire. With them so outnumbered, any attempt to dissipate the crowd with gas or batons would only endanger the officers.
Instead, Holmst had pitched a novel concept: let the rioters work out their aggression, sacrifice buildings, businesses, and a few black eyes to the whims of the crowd, and in their exhaustion, only then reinstate order.
The damage would highlight the importance of peace and civility, while minimizing any military casualties.
The only other option would turn the tables in a rather criminal direction. The Oskies and the Regulars may be outnumbered, but the citizens were not armed with ceramic plates or twenty-eight-megawatt energy weapons. Firepower was not a practical problem, but a moral one.
And besides, it would only validate their feelings and surrender the only ground he had left.
He was in the right. He had to act like it.
Riley stared out at the streets, as flickering lights and fires danced across the spires above. There had to be two thousand people out there tearing up everything they could get their hands on.
Every one of them wanted something different: their satellite television, their comfortable clothes, more rationing, or maybe to use disposable bottles again. Discord could not be rewarded, and any mob that could be bought would simply make further demands using their pitchfork and torch discount.
He didn’t need their loyalty, just their cooperation.
This colony was at war, clinging to survival by their fingernails. The people had wreathed themselves in anger. They had forgotten their fear, those same heart-felt pleas they had screamed at his retreating back.
They needed to be reminded why they begged him to stay.
“Can we erect barricades on Westing and Jericho?” Ho
lmst asked his assembly of advisors.
“We can bring up vehicles and strip the surrounding structures-”
“We’re protecting the city,” Holmst dismissed the idea, “Not looting it.”
“A dozer might rip up the paving, make the groundwork impassable?”
“That’s better. If we’re going to break things, let’s break public property.”
Riley shook his head, “I’m not surrendering the Market District.”
Holmst and the others looked up at their commander, “Sir, we’re not surrendering -- we’ve lost the District. We have to contain the damage, let the fire burn itself out.”
“I’m not surrendering the District, Lieutenant. We're going to give quite a bit more ground than that.”
Holmst narrowed his eyes, "What did you have in mind?"
“Broadcast this message, single burst in the open. I want Rebel forces to pick it up right away.” Riley hung on that pause, forcing Holmst to wait in anticipation. “The Oscar Nomad and Gamma Tau Wall Prefectures are to disband. Return to Vanguard hold points with all haste.”
Holmst shifted in his boots, instantly sweating, “Clever. Make the Rebels think we’re surrendering the Wall… opening them to alien attack. They might think they’ve overdone it, fall in line.”
“Oh, no, we’re surrendering the Wall. Bring ‘em home.” Riley pivoted to another Aide, “What’s the position on Thor’s Hammer?”
“Belay that order.”
There was an audible gasp from some aide behind them. Riley didn’t expect that response from Holmst, though he should’ve. Nobody else could’ve dared to dream of it in their most recalcitrant moments.
“Colonel…” Holmst began with the calm weight of a hostage negotiator, “Why would you need to know Thor’s position?”
“Tactical withdrawal protocol,” Riley said, “Surrender only ground with no value.”
“Drop the textbook bullshit for just one moment, sir!” Holmst had to hear the ice cracking underneath him. It was daring but foolish.
Riley side eyed his second-in-command, “The Jergad will pour into the city. The citizens in their bunkers will be safe from the kinetics.”
Holmst barely maintained his composure, “Say that again.”
“They think they’re safe because they haven't had to bleed for the ground they stand on. You have, Ilern. Your men have. Even the goddamn Capitals have.” Riley growled, “I don’t think the average citizen remembers why we call this place the Hellmouth. Every day we cannot maintain order, people will die. Every soldier I pull off the Wall to restore it, the more soldiers die on that Wall. I will not let them take this ground. Will you?”
Riley squared off with his lieutenant. He had to sell this idea or everything was lost, “No, instead — we give the ground. And then light it on fire. What do we lose? Buildings? Supplies? In exchange, we cripple the alien threat and punish them for their greed.”
“Sir, do we have a BDA for that? Thor’s Hammer striking inside the Green…”
Riley almost laughed. The lieutenant wanted to know what that report could possibly tell them. There was no way to accurately predict the kind of damage this would cause.
Whatever alien casualties were suffered, the Colonial Rangelands would never be ‘secure’ again, what with the possibility of traps laid out there. Structural damage, civilian casualties would not be immediate; it would last for years.
Riley rubbed his jaw, “Lieutenant, is it battle damage if it’s a civilian target?”
Holmst pointed at the men behind him. They recoiled from his hand, desperate to avoid association with his insubordination. “We volunteered to protect people, sir.”
Not you too.
Riley took a deep breath that failed at quieting the boil in his gut. “Then you can stay behind and protect the people.” Riley shouldered past him, marching up to the table of Top Shirts, “Pack this up. I want all of it in the cruisers. We are going land mobile.”
“Sir--”
Riley spun back, almost soft and charming, “If Aaron Havenes is correct, I won’t have a target to shoot at. You will have nothing to worry about.”
“Fire on the crowd,” Holmst said, almost begging, “Just a few shots would put the fear of God into them.”
Riley knew what burning human flesh smelled like.
“No,” he said, “You can’t make people fear something they already hate. They feel safe because we’ve made them so. Every regulation, every curfew, every action they are protesting is what has made them safe. We valued their lives so much we threw away our own. It’s time to remind them why the men with guns are here at all. And when they see the horror with their own eyes, we will purge it from their sight — and they will love us for it.”
Riley stooped down, plucking one of the table legs from its home, helping the nearby aide turn the surface for flat-packing. There was no time to waste. Once the Prefectures were absent, the Aliens would have access.
The little bastards burrowed at about eight kilometers an hour, so they would make the city well before the dawn. It was time to be elsewhere, somewhere they might secure from incursion so that they could watch the fireworks.
“You are suggesting the wholesale slaughter of the entire colony! Colonel, please!”
Holmst was too far gone. He was berating his own commander in public. He sounded like Christopher.
“I am doing no such thing,” Riley said. “I’m just gambling with it.”
“Just realities of command?” Holmst wasn’t asking. He wasn't horrified. That was a threat.
Riley stiffened up, standing tall, “Do what you have to do, Lieutenant,” he said, almost dismissive.
There were a few possible outcomes now. Riley knew his aide far too well. Little damn boy scout.
Holmst drew his sidearm, and charged the capacitor, “Colonel Marcus Riley, under Article Seven, Section Twenty-Two Bravo of the Uniform Code, I am relieving you of your command.”
If memory served, section Twenty-Two was Temporary Insanity and Conduct Unbecoming, generally marked by an order the subordinate could not follow without grave insult or injury to Empire and Man. He even cited the proper regulation. He had done some homework, checked to see if he had the grounds to do this.
He should’ve just pulled the trigger.
No time for pinpoint accuracy. Holmst was an Oskie with the same augmentations. In the best of circumstances, they were on equal footing. Surprise was his only ally.
Riley slipped his pistol from the holster, twisting at the waist as he did, using the turn to cover what was in his hands as he dialed the charge in: full power, wide field, short range.
To those watching, it all happened in the blink of an eye. Holmst was just wrapping his finger through the trigger guard when Riley’s weapon dumped a foot wide beam into his torso.
The lieutenant didn’t thrash or recoil from the blow. The beam had cut and melted; no force had been imparted. He just discovered that a majority of his internal organs were gone, a crater cut into the center of his chest, with the edges a cauterized and oozing black mess.
It almost looked like burnt sugar.
Holmst twitched as he tried to breathe, but the airways were stopped and his diaphragm was gone. It wasn’t pain, but confusion, as an instinctual circuit no longer fired on command. He tried again, and the confusion grew to a realization. He wanted to speak, say some saddening passing thoughts to his mentor and commander, but there was no air to push.
His knees shook and he dropped to one knee, a tilting tower sinking into the ground. He couldn’t bleed out without a heart. No, he was suffocating.
Riley holstered his weapon and turned to the Regulars and Oskies, their faces a mixture of horror, “Send the order: abandon the Wall. Rally point on the Mining Pits. We can hold there until the counteroffensive.”
Holmst hadn’t stopped thrashing when Riley climbed into his cruiser.
24
Aaron
Everyone looked at him like any words
he might say meant the difference between a happy tomorrow and the sky collapsing down around their heads. They hung on his words, treasuring every syllable.
They were waiting for him to respond, for something inspiring to say or words of comfort. He just wanted to be quiet, maybe even have a little uncomfortable cry. Riley had been many things to Aaron; a pragmatic commander, a dismissive tactician, and a charismatic tormentor – but this?
The recording was on a loop, reiterating the disconcerting instruction in case the listeners doubted their senses the first time around. “Withdraw from your posts. Return to designated rally positions. This is not a drill.”
More than a few failed to hide the terror in their eyes. With nobody manning the Wall, the Jergad had free reign. Were they friend or foe? This was a helluva way to find out.
Riley’s old office had been stripped of the most important details. Aaron’s fingers tapped on the edge of Riley's desk, feeling out the metal and its dents and bumps. Twin disposal units still glowed from where classified materials had been atomized. The bulkheads were barren, not even mounts betraying if there had ever been anything. It had given the room a rather unpleasant tin echo.
Everything in the room lacked aesthetic, had a simple function.
Live feed from Thor’s Hammer showed the dozens of vehicles fleeing the Prefectures, most making for the Vanguard city centre with all haste. Almost heartening, a good third refused the order, holding their posts on the Wall. Riley would execute every last one of them for such insubordination.
Even still, the Wall was not going to stop any kind of incursion now. If the Jergad wanted to, they could walk right up to the door and knock like they were selling cookies.