A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds)

by Jay Allan

  “Very good, Number Three. I will attend to it.” With the escape of the real Augustus Garret, the imposter was the only hard evidence that a switch had been made. Now that evidence was gone, neatly disposed of before it could become a problem. Admiral Garret could claim he was held captive, but the imposter had been seen all over Washbalt, looking just like the admiral. Garret would look like a raving madman if he spoke out. Even in failure, Stark tied up his loose ends. Especially in failure.

  He looked out over the table, his icy gaze settling on one of those seated, a well-dressed woman perhaps fifty years of age. “Number Nine, I believe it has become necessary to entrust the job of managing the security of this building to a member of this body. Do you believe you can accept this responsibility?”

  Number Nine looked like she would rather dive head first into a nest of rattlesnakes, but she glanced up at Stark and nodded. “Of course, Number One. However you feel I may best serve our purposes.” There was no way to refuse – in Stark’s current mood any one of them could find themselves following the three unfortunate security directors down to Sub-Sector C. The Directorate members were awesomely powerful and feared throughout the Alliance, but Gavin Stark ruled with an iron fist. None of the others could stand up to him, nor did any have the courage to try.

  “Very good, Number Nine.” Stark kept his gaze on her as he spoke. “I will expect your complete report on how you plan to revamp security procedures. I trust 72 hours will be sufficient.”

  It wasn’t nearly enough time, she thought, but again there was only one acceptable answer. “Yes, Number One. You will have it.”

  “Very well.” He winced. The pain in his shoulder was really bothering him, and he tried, not entirely successfully, to hide it. “Number Five, what is the status of the Directorate expeditionary force sent to Columbia?”

  Troy Warren was uncomfortable, as he usually was in Directorate meetings. He’d clawed his way to the top in the Megacorps, but that hadn’t been enough for him. He realized that true power in the Alliance was vested in the Political Class – the Corporate Magnates were really just pampered servants. Without a Political Academy background, most routes into the government were closed off, even to someone wealthy and powerful. He saw the Directorate as his way, but now, for the first time in his life, he felt out of place, uncertain. “They are positioned in the YZ Ceti system, awaiting the arrival of the assembling battlefleet.” He paused slightly. “With Admiral Compton’s apparent…ah…sympathies, we have few alternatives until our fleet has defeated his. It would be imprudent to approach the system with the lightly-armed transports.”

  Stark’s face remained unreadable. He knew all of this already – his inquiry was just a precursor to the command he was about to give. “Issue an order redirecting the force.” There were surprised faces around the table, but no one uttered a word. “Governor Cooper has three full Alliance army divisions plus a brigade equivalent of Federal Police. That should be more than sufficient to defeat the rebels there.” He looked out over those assembled. “And if, through some stunning incompetence, he is not successful, we will soon control space around the planet. If the insurrectionists manage to defeat Cooper, their reward will be planetary bombardment.” His voice was frozen. “We are going to end this foolishness now, whatever it takes.”

  “Where would you like them sent, Number One?” His throat was dry, and his voice cracked a little, but otherwise he managed to sound calm and in control.

  “I will provide you with detailed directives within six hours. Please act on these immediately upon receipt.” Stark was not offering any further details, and no one had to stomach to ask.

  “If there is no further business, we will adjourn.” Stark paused, as if waiting for someone to speak up but, as always, the Directorate members recognized that Stark had dismissed them.

  They filtered out of the room silently and respectfully, as always. But there was something else there…anger, even a growing hatred. Stark had always been an autocrat, but his continued successes had long kept a damper on resentment. He had always made an effort to at least pretend the Directorate was making decisions as a body, but now he barely even acknowledged their input. Without Dutton’s restraining influence, Stark’s growing megalomania was becoming uncontrolled. He was the most intelligent one by far, but the others were smart and capable as well. They were scared of Stark, but too much fear eventually turns into hatred, and hatred breeds a strange kind of courage. The Directorate was seething with discontent and, for once, Gavin Stark was blind to a developing threat.

  Stark was in the middle of his usual post-meeting conference. It was during these smaller gatherings he felt Dutton’s loss the most. He’d invited Alex this time, though there really was no compelling need for her to be there. He was futilely trying to fill the void left by his old, his only, friend. For so many years he’d casually joked about Dutton’s longevity, brushing aside concerns that the old man would eventually die. Now it felt surreal to sit there, reflecting on those instances, recalling the many conversations they’d had about just this eventuality. Time was still man’s nemesis, Stark thought glumly, wearing down everything and everyone.

  Rafael Samuels was there as well. Soon there would be no more need for such secrecy surrounding the Marine Commandant, but right now it was still essential. The endgame was upon them; it was time to execute what they had planned for so long and to avoid any mistakes.

  Stark had just told Alex about Samuels. She was stunned; suborning a Marine of such a high rank was an amazing feat, one with staggering implications. Whatever else he was, Gavin Stark was a master manipulator.

  “Rafael, we will keep this short. I know your shuttle leaves within the hour.” Stark was seated behind his desk as usual, with Samuels and Alex occupying the two buttery soft leather guest chairs. “General Holm’s request to meet with you on Terra Nova is a stroke of luck.” Stark paused briefly, a predatory look on his face. “I hadn’t anticipated that the great General Elias Holm would be kind enough to walk right into a trap for us.”

  Samuels smiled uncomfortably. He would be glad to have Holm out of circulation. The hero of the Marines was the biggest threat to him, the one man with enough stature to challenge his control of the Corps. But he still had regrets about this devil’s bargain he had made. It was far too late to change his course, but he didn’t relish the thought of ambushing Holm, no matter how advantageous it was for him. He’d do it, but he didn’t like it.

  “Please do try to bring him back here alive.” Stark looked right at Samuels. “He could be very useful for us. For a while.”

  Samuels nodded, exhaling loudly as his great bulk rose slowly from the chair. “Very well, Number One. If you will excuse me, I must get down to the spaceport if I am to beat General Holm to Terra Nova.”

  Stark got up, leaning across the desk to shake hands with Samuels. “Good luck, Rafael.”

  “Thank you, Gavin. I will be back as soon as possible.” Samuels nodded to Alex, who returned the silent gesture. Then he bounded through the hidden door, his usual route in and out of Stark’s office.

  “You decided not to tell him?” Alex had waited until Samuels was long gone before she spoke.

  “Yes.” Stark’s tone was calm, almost relaxed now that Samuels had departed. “He is struggling enough with this whole thing. I don’t need him feeling guilty because there are strike teams on the way to ambush Marine garrisons.”

  “Won’t he be angry when he finds out you didn’t tell him?” Alex was nervous. She’d be pissed if she was in Samuel’s shoes, she knew that much.

  “Who cares?” Stark’s voice was still calm, but she felt a shiver up her spine as she listened. “Once Holm is neutralized and the key garrisons are destroyed, General Samuels will be less important to us.” He looked at her with a face utterly devoid of emotion. “If he becomes a problem we will have another Seat to fill.”

  She just nodded. Alex was cold-blooded in many ways, but she had to keep reminding hers
elf that Stark was a true sociopath. She controlled her emotions, subverted them to her needs. But other than his terrible temper, Gavin Stark had none at all.

  “Then let’s finish these assignments.” He looked back down at his desk, to the figures displayed on his ‘pad. “I want to get these orders to Number Five tonight. I want those strike teams on their way by this time tomorrow. It’s time to deal with these Marines once and for all.”

  Chapter 25

  The Marine Officers’ Training Center

  “The Academy”

  Arcadia – Wolf 359 III

  The Academy sprawled along the idyllic coast of Arcadia’s northern continent, a pleasant, leafy enclave where the Corps had trained its officers for almost a century. Originally a single structure, the campus had grown into a complex stretching over 20 square kilometers of winding paths and stately stone buildings. It was the pride of the Marine Corps, the place where its most successful foot soldiers became its leaders.

  The last few years had been troubled ones, the worst in its storied history. Late in the war the political officers arrived, acting as observers posted in all classes and assigned as counselors to the cadets. It was a massive violation of the Marine Charter, and an intrusion the cadets, combat veterans all, found difficult to accept. The staff bristled and grumbled among themselves, wondering how this could have happened. They waited for the Commandant’s office to act…but that action never came.

  The demobilizations after the war further sapped morale among the Academy faculty and attendees. Class sizes were drastically reduced from the record levels of the war years, and now many of the buildings were closed up, the classes held there consolidated into other half-used locations. The cadets themselves faced an uncertain future, with good postings a rare commodity in the post-war Corps. Many of the new lieutenants would be retired out of the service after graduation, their shiny new bars doing service in closets, adorning old, unused uniforms.

  There was more substantive discontent too. No one expected to Corps to remain at wartime strength after the peace was signed. But it seemed to many – the ones who had fought and won the war – that the cuts were too deep, too reckless. They seemed poorly targeted, almost as if they were designed to sap morale and degrade combat effectiveness. They worried what would happen when war inevitably came again, wondered how many would die needlessly before the Corps could build itself back to its old readiness.

  There was sympathy for the rebellion too. Many of the officers felt the Corps should intervene and force a cessation of hostilities on the rebelling worlds, or even declare outright for the separatists. But cooler heads had prevailed. The Commandant had ordered that there be no interference in the fighting on the rebelling worlds. The orders were resented by some, but they were obeyed.

  The transport arrived late, but the gate guards followed procedure to the letter. They were undermanned that night, the work of two officers who modified the scheduling manifest before slipping quietly off base. The guards on duty were Marines, but they weren’t expecting the four heavily armed agents hidden in the cargo bay. It was over in an instant of muffled gunfire. The bodies of the three ambushed Marines were hidden inside the bay of the transport as it made its way to a secluded spot on the Academy grounds.

  The device was a small one, and even though it had been built in the cutting edge labs at Alliance Intelligence, it was a crude design, the apparent work of amateurs. It was a fission bomb salted with cobalt…a terrorist’s weapon, perhaps 30 kilotons in yield, and very dirty.

  The agents buried it. Not deeply…it didn’t have to stay hidden for long. Just long enough for them to put 10 or 12 kilometers between them and the Academy. The transport turned and headed back, reaching the gate just as the alarm was sounding. The murdered guards had been missed.

  It was too late. The transport blew through the gate and away from the campus. It raced down the road at 120 kph. Ten minutes later it pulled over behind a rocky outcropping, and the team leader flipped a switch.

  The light reached them first, but they were ready, looking in the other direction and wearing goggles. They were far enough away that the effects of the detonation were minor. The transport shook as the shockwave hit, but again, this far out there was no real damage. The sound was loud, but not deafening, and a minute after the blast they were on their way to the rendezvous point.

  They were halfway there when the capsules hidden in the transport split open and released their deadly contents. The gas was quick, almost instantaneous. In a second, perhaps two, everyone in the truck was dead. Half a minute later, the power core exploded, leaving nothing left of the vehicle larger than a few molecules.

  Gavin Stark did not like loose ends.

  They’d been digging in for three days. Will Thompson was everywhere, inspecting every inch of trench line, monitoring the dwindling supply of weapons and ammo, giving the troops rousing pep talks. He was the beating heart of the army, and he kept their morale high, even as his own was sagging. Things had been going very well, but he knew that was about to change. That it had already changed.

  The rebel forces ran wild for several months, liberating areas previously occupied by the federals, and recruiting heavily. After their defeat at Sander’s Dale, the federal forces retired to Arcadia, licking their wounds. They had to rest and resupply before were able to take the field in force again, and Will used the time to great effect.

  Gregory Sanders had been notably absent during those operations. He’d gone missing at the battle and hadn’t been seen in the six months since. Thompson had every inch of the battlefield searched and searched again. They hadn’t found a body, but they hadn’t found Sanders alive either. Will hoped the old man was a prisoner. This federal general, Merrick…he seemed to treat prisoners humanely.

  Will felt the loss of Sanders keenly, both as an officer and a friend…and he felt it for Kara too. She’d been raised by her doting grandfather ever since she’d lost her parents to a transport accident. She loved the old man fiercely, and his loss had been hard. She, too, clung to the hope that he was alive in some federal prison camp in Arcadia, but it was a tenuous faith. Some days she believed it; others she didn’t.

  She and Will had only grown closer, though their moments together were few and rushed. His job consumed him, the army taking all he had to give and more. The responsibility, the burden…it was overwhelming. Thousands of men and women at his command, depending on his judgment and skill for their very survival. The troops loved him, and they would do whatever he commanded. It was gratifying, but it only added to the crushing stress. It was a pressure that was constant and unceasing…day, night, always.

  Kara was just as busy. Production at the arms factory had slowed to a crawl. Starved for raw materials, the facility would have shut down entirely if it hadn’t been for her tireless efforts. She organized teams to strip usable materials from every building and all non-essential equipment throughout the district. Her people scoured the battlefield at Sander’s Dale, scavenging every broken piece of weaponry they could find. It was a varied patchwork of weapons and ammunition that flowed from her factory, but it kept the army supplied…more or less.

  Kara Sanders was a patriot, completely devoted to the cause of Arcadian independence, but something else was driving her this hard. Will was out in the field with the army, risking his life every day. She felt that every gun, every round of ammunition she squeezed off that production line was something she could do to help protect him. It drove back the feelings of helpless fear that otherwise consumed her.

  The disaster at the Academy had hit Will hard. He felt it as a Marine, the anger, the loss. But it was more than that. He had friends there, good friends, and they were all dead now. Almost no one on the campus had survived the horrific blast, and the few who had were badly stricken by radiation sickness. The entire area was uninhabitable, and would be for years. It had been an appalling atrocity, and no one seemed to know who had done it.

  He was worried, terrified th
at some radical rebel group was responsible for the attack. None of his people would be involved; he was sure of that. The Marines were virtually worshipped in the colonies, which they had defended time and time again. But every cause attracted a lunatic fringe. It was a nightmare scenario, one that chilled him to his bones. But he couldn’t ignore the possibility. If a rebel group had destroyed the Academy, what would the Corps do?

  Thompson had seen them with his own eyes…Gordons. His heart sank as he saw the sleek craft landing in the fields around Arcadia City. The fleet of small landing sleds meant only one thing – powered infantry. For one terrifying instant he thought they were Marines. He knew the Corps would respond to the destruction of the Academy, but this was fast, too fast. Word couldn’t have even reached Marine HQ yet. No, these troops were something different.

  They were sloppier than Marines, their landing patterns looser, more disorganized. Whoever they were, their training wasn’t up to the standards of the Corps. But he wasn’t sure it mattered. There were a couple thousand of them landing, and Will had no idea how he could counter them once they moved against his forces.

  Powered infantry was a danger to any non-powered force, but they were a grave threat to Thompson’s raggedly equipped rebels. He needed heavy ordnance to face these new forces…artillery and assault weapons, equipment his army sorely lacked.

  His forces were spread out, conducting operations over a wide area, but when he saw those landers, he issued the recall orders immediately. He wanted everything he could muster massed together. Those newcomers would be looking for a fight soon, and Will needed everything he had to face them.