by Jay Allan
Everett Wells looked up from the small tablet he’d been reading. The words on the screen told him much the same thing Thornton just had, but he preferred discussing things with her to fighting through the dry reports his staff had prepared. Besides, she’d been out to the mine and inspected things firsthand, and that gave her a perspective the pages of analysis on the tablet didn’t have.
Thornton stood in front of the desk, at attention despite the governor’s lack of a military rank. She was a soldier, through and through, and usually an image of military perfection as well. But now Wells noticed her less than freshly pressed grays and the two small platinum clusters that marked her major’s rank, usually polished to a bright sheen but now a bit smudged. There was more than a little dirt caked on her uniform and boots, and one small spot Wells suspected was half-dried blood.
Things must really be bad, he thought as his eyes panned down Thornton’s rumpled form. If there was one thing about Alexandra Thornton that made an impression, besides her competence and reliability, it was fastidiousness. The fact that she hadn’t stopped in her quarters to change before coming to see him told him all he needed to know about the urgency of the situation.
“The entire complex is occupied?” Wells already knew the answer, and the fatigue in his voice made that obvious.
“Yes, Governor. The guards managed to hold at the outer perimeter fence, and my people have reinforced them there. But everything inside is occupied.” She paused for an instant, reluctantly taking a seat after Wells gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk for the third time. “We don’t think anyone has been killed or seriously injured,” she continued, “well, not yet. But they have taken at least nine guards hostage.” She paused. “They are obviously in great danger.”
Her tone changed briefly when she mentioned the hostages. The prison guards weren’t part of her colonial security force, and they reported directly to the federal authorities who ran the prison complex. Wells knew his military commander disapproved of many of the abuses that took place in the prison mine, just as he himself did. He’d had more than one go-around with Warden Vinson, but his authority as governor did not extend to the federal prison complexes on Alpha-2, and he and Vinson had a . . . strained . . . relationship.
“Who is in command on-site?” Wells asked.
“Captain Rennes, sir.” Thornton paused. “I felt he would exercise the proper restraint.”
“I agree completely, Major. Captain Rennes is a good choice. Please advise him that he is in command on the scene, and if Warden Vinson attempts to interfere, Rennes is to direct him to me.”
Being in charge of Alpha-2 colony meant—notwithstanding muddled jurisdictions where federal facilities were involved—his authority was the last word in any emergency. At least, that’s how he planned on interpreting it. He was pretty confident that hundreds of prisoners on the verge of breaking out constituted an emergency.
It certainly helped having the backing of Thornton and her soldiers in case there was a disagreement about the exact definition.
“Yes, sir.” She hesitated, but then said, “I more or less told him that already.” Another pause, longer this time. “I knew that’s what you would want, Governor.”
Wells just nodded. Thornton had overstepped her authority perhaps, but she was right, too. She did know what he would want, and she’d seen it done.
Wells didn’t condone the general disobedience among the populace that had plagued his term as governor, and certainly not the violent uprising at the mine. His loyalties to the state were strong, and his sense of duty profound. But he was a moderate man, reluctant to use excessive force or to impose heavy restrictions on the population, preferring to try to negotiate with disaffected groups, to solve problems with words and not force. Nevertheless, in spite of his best efforts, he’d presided over four years of steadily increasing unrest. All his attempts to reason with the people seemed to fall on deaf ears, and things had continued to escalate, dangerously so over the past year. He’d come to Alpha-2 a rising star in Federal America’s bureaucracy, but the deteriorating situation on his watch had brought his career to a precarious precipice.
He understood to a point how the residents—Havenites, they called themselves—felt, and he bristled at the callousness of the decrees that had continued to come in from the federal senate. The government was acting in response to the increasing disorder, but its actions were only feeding the growing rebellion and making his job almost impossible.
But he also believed Federal America was the lawful government of Alpha-2, and he disagreed vehemently with those who felt they were justified in disobeying the laws or resisting the dictates of the legitimate authorities. He saw revolution as treason, and he held that the people of Alpha-2 were bound to resolve their issues through normal government channels and not through civil disobedience. And certainly not by open rebellion, which is exactly what more and more people were expecting.
Major Thornton and much of his staff shared the same views, but his moderation had only served to bring criticism and anger from both sides—from the Havenites, who, despite his restraint, still considered his policies too harsh, and from the federal authorities on Earth, who viewed his leadership as weak and indecisive.
Let any of them sit in this chair and see if they could do better.
“I’d like you to get back out to the scene, Major.” He paused for a few seconds. “It’s not that I don’t trust Captain Rennes, but I’d prefer to see this end as quickly as possible. I think your judgment on scene will be helpful. Normally, I’d try to be patient, but . . .” Wells’s voice trailed off.
“But the federal observer is due to arrive in two weeks.” Thornton’s tone suggested she didn’t think any better of the assignment of a federal overseer to Alpha-2 than Wells did. But neither of them had been given a choice.
Observer, he thought. What a measured title. Some master politician came up with that. She’s a military governor, that’s what she is. So the question is: How much authority will she have? And how much will I have left?
He’d have to worry about that when the time came. For now, he could only reply to Thornton. “Yes, Major. She is. And if there is any way to defuse this situation before she gets here, I think we’ll all be happier.” He looked down at the desk for a few seconds and added, “And the prisoners most of all, I suspect. From what I hear, Asha Stanton is not to be trifled with.”
Thornton nodded, but didn’t respond to the comment about the observer. Because she’s smart enough to keep her personal opinions to herself, Wells thought. Instead, she said, “I will do the best I can, sir. But if we can’t talk them out, we’ll have to storm the facility and take it by force. And that’s going to be messy, especially if it has to be over in the next few days.” Thornton’s eyes found the governor’s. “I’ll need your approval for that, too, sir. So, you might want to consider exactly what you want us to do if negotiations are unsuccessful.”
Wells sighed. “I will do that, Major.” He stood up slowly, pushing his chair behind him as he did. “And I think now you should get back out there and do your best to keep me from having to make that decision.”
Thornton sprang to her feet when Wells rose, and she snapped to attention. “Yes, Governor. I will do my best, sir.”
“That’s all any of us can do, Major. Dismissed.”
He watched her leave and then he sat down again and reached his arm around, rubbing the knots in the back of his neck. He’d taken an analgesic earlier, but the headache and the pain in his neck had proven stubborn. He knew his ills were side effects of the growing stress from his job—and the lack of sleep that went along with it—but it didn’t look like things were going to get better anytime soon, so he reached down to one of the compartments under his desk and pulled out the bottle, dropping another two pills into his hand.
He felt a brief rush of hope, a thought that the situation at the mine might be resolved without bloodshed. But that passed quickly. Thornton
was a good officer, trustworthy and efficient. Those traits were admirable, yet they did nothing to actually change what was going on at the prison. With the way things stood, Wells had a feeling in his gut, one he’d had for days now.
Things were about to get a lot worse.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but there’s trouble at the mine. I thought you’d want to know immediately.” Ben Withers was peering through the open door into the farmhouse’s study. Withers was tall and muscular, and in the three years since he’d followed his platoon commander into retirement on Haven, he hadn’t lost a bit of his combat conditioning nor added a gram of fat to his lean frame.
Damian Ward looked up from his work. “What kind of trouble, Ben?” Ward had tried for months after they’d arrived on Haven to get the now civilian Withers to stop calling him “sir,” but to no avail. He finally gave up, and now he hardly even noticed it anymore.
Something in Withers’s voice made him perk up this time, though.
“An uprising, sir. The inmate-workers have gained control of the facility. They’ve taken some of the guards hostage.”
Ward’s expression darkened. “They have the entire complex?”
“Yes, sir. At least, that’s what I was told. The security forces still hold the outer wall, so the rioters are contained, for the moment. It’s currently a standoff right now.”
Ward slapped his hand down on his desk. “I hope Jamie’s not involved in this idiocy,” he said. “The kid can be a damned fool, and I wouldn’t put it past him. But he’s been so good recently. No, I can’t believe he would jeopardize everything, not this close to getting out.”
He realized he had said that all out loud, but he couldn’t help it. Damian had found somewhat of a kindred spirit in the young Jamie Grant. He’d liked the kid immediately, and he saw in the troubled young man what he might have become if he hadn’t ended up in the armed forces. His rank—received as a field promotion after distinguishing himself in battle—was a rare achievement for someone from his low social stratum and it had led him to this farm and the promise of a life of some prosperity, both in terms of being a respected resident of Haven, as well as generating a moderate level of wealth. All of which was a protracted way of saying he’d come a long way from the fetid slums of Federal America’s old capital city of Washington, and that he knew he could have easily ended up in Jamie Grant’s shoes.
And if I were in those shoes, I might easily find myself caught up in this nonsense in the prison.
“I’m sure Jamie is not involved, sir.” Withers’s expression suggested he wasn’t at all sure.
Damian shook his head. “It may not matter. Even if he tries to stay out of it, if the whole place is in rebellion he’s a part of it. Whether it’s the inmates forcing him to participate or, when the authorities retake the place, the feds being unable to differentiate between those who rose up and those who didn’t, he’s there. So does it really matter what he chooses to do?” Assuming Jamie doesn’t just get killed in the crossfire, he thought but didn’t say.
He glanced up at Withers, noting the man’s uncomfortable expression. He put his hand up. “I’m just thinking out loud, Ben. Not expecting you to have the answer.”
Withers nodded, though he still looked troubled.
Damian sat quietly, deep in thought. He understood the discontent of the prisoners in the mine. Conditions there were an outrage, and he suspected many of the prisoners had received less than just and honest trials, Jamie Grant not the least among them. But they couldn’t really think they would succeed, could they? Governor Wells wasn’t a bad sort, not really—indeed, he and Damian had become friends of a sort. But sooner or later, he’d have to send in his security forces. And a bunch of prisoners with steel bars and knives weren’t going to beat back trained troops with assault rifles and concussion grenades.
He felt for the prisoners, and the inevitable conclusion to the tragedy they had set in motion. But mostly his thoughts were on his friend. He’d sponsored Jamie, committed to give him a job upon his release. He had even posted a security bond to allow his friend to stay in one of the farm buildings between shifts in the mine, instead of in the grim and filthy prison residence wing. And now all he could see in his mind was Jamie rounded up with the others and sentenced to years more in that hellhole. Or summarily executed.
Damian knew he had helped to give Jamie hope, to focus the kid on the life he could have. And Katia had done the same. But Damian also knew it would break Jamie to hear the warden or the governor sentence him to years more at hard labor, to have his off-site sleeping privileges revoked and his work period increased from twelve hours a day to a more punitive fourteen or sixteen. To be denied visitors and lose his tenuous link with the outside . . .
He’s not going to survive this. Either as the man he’s become, or at all.
“Get the transport, Ben,” he said suddenly. “I’m going into town to see the governor.” There were advantages to being a war hero, and that had its own currency. Damian was a minor celebrity on Haven—remember to call it Alpha-2 when you’re talking to the governor, he thought—and he knew his relationship with Wells would ensure access. Whether the governor would listen—or do anything—was another matter entirely. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
“The price is going up, gentlemen. Double what it was, and that’s just for the next shipment. I can’t guarantee what will happen after that, or if there’ll even be any more runs.” Sasha Nerov spoke softly, her eyes panning suspiciously around the room as she did, despite her certainty that she and the two men facing her were alone.
“Double? That’s insane. You’re already being paid twenty times the price of these weapons on Earth.” Cal Jacen was a tall man whose patrician features looked out of place on a colony like Haven. He had been a law professor on Earth, until his outspoken—some said radical—views compelled him to leave his comfortable life behind and immigrate to the colonies under circumstances that were still shrouded in mystery.
Regardless, she wasn’t going to have this former lecturer lecture her.
“Then go buy them on Earth and haul them here yourself. It’s not like I’m dying to have another run at the federal blockade.” Nerov didn’t try to moderate the sharpness of her voice. She still couldn’t get the image of Wasp’s destruction—of Sergei Brinker’s death—out of her mind. She didn’t blame Jacen or the rest of the revolutionaries on Haven for what had happened—Brinker had chosen his life as a smuggler, just as she had—but she wasn’t about to haggle either, let alone put up with any of Cal Jacen’s shit. Not when it was her people that had to sneak loads of guns past a squadron of federal frigates. And if Jacen gave her any more trouble—one more word she didn’t like—she was ready to turn around and walk out the door. She already had enough money stashed away to last her a good long time, and sitting out the rest of Haven’s unfolding drama on a beach somewhere far away seemed like a pretty good alternative to facing summary execution at the hands of the federal navy.
In fact, Nerov wasn’t sure why she was even considering another run. No—that wasn’t true. What she wasn’t sure of was whether or not she wanted to admit to herself that she was more than a cold-blooded mercenary—that she sympathized strongly with the rebels and wanted to aid their cause, no matter the risk. Her support had its limits—it didn’t prevent her from charging exorbitant fees for her weapons, for example. But it kept her from abandoning the rebels and pushed her to take the much greater risk running guns now carried with it. And every thought of Brinker and his crew murdered by the federals only inflamed her anger, and made her more of a rebel inside.
Still, just one more word . . .
Jacen actually opened his mouth, looking as if he was about to throw an angry retort back at her and give Nerov all the excuse she needed, but the man standing next to him spoke first. “Double, it is, Captain Nerov. And I assure you, we are most grateful to you and your crew for your willingness to continue your shipments in spite of
the . . . enhanced . . . federal presence.”
Nerov turned and looked at the older man at Jacen’s side. She nodded her acceptance. “Thank you, Mr. Danforth. My crew needs a few days of rest, and Vagabond needs some minor maintenance, but we will be lifting off in four days, five at most.”
“That should work out well, I think. It will allow me to prepare your advance payment.” He paused for a few seconds. “Shall we meet back here in two days? Same time?”
Nerov nodded, pushing back against the frown that was trying to slip onto her face. Danforth had always had the deposit for the next run along with her payment for the delivered weapons. This was the first time he’d shown any difficulty in producing the funds. But she also realized how difficult it must be to put together that much platinum on Haven, especially without drawing too much attention. Danforth was one of the planet’s richest men, which she suspected only made his clandestine activities that much more difficult to conceal. But he’d always kept his word in his dealings with her. And a smuggler couldn’t exactly accept payment by electronic transfer.
“That will be fine, Mr. Danforth,” she replied softly. “Back here in two days.” Her eyes darted to the side for an instant, toward Cal Jacen. She was willing to trust John Danforth, at least as much as she trusted anyone, but Jacen was a different story. He was more abrasive than Danforth, and his revolutionary zeal seemed to have a sinister feel that the older man’s lacked. She’d always dealt with both of them together, and her opinion of Jacen had never changed. Fortunately, her actual business was with Danforth, and so that was how she looked at it.
“Again, you have my thanks, Captain. We need these guns desperately, and I know very well the risks you take in bringing them here.” He took a deep breath. “How soon do you think you can return with the next shipment?”
Nerov thought for a moment before answering. It wasn’t just the trip to Earth and back. Running a direct route would be like broadcasting her smuggling activities. Vagabond was bringing a shipment of high-value ores back on its return trip from Haven. It would look strange, after all, if a freighter showed up with no cargo. And when she left, her departure documents would show she was taking manufactured goods and electronics to some planet out on the frontier, preferably one belonging to another power, one that wasn’t seething with discontent and drawing the prying eyes of every customs inspector and government spook in Federal America. There was just too much heat on vessels departing Earth for Haven. It was much safer to travel to a different destination, and then come back to Haven from someplace with less security. But it turned a four-week trip into one lasting months.