by Jay Allan
But where do I go?
She knew she couldn’t go back to her lodging. That was the first place they’d look.
Shit. Everything is there. Currency, weapons, most of my documentation . . .
She realized her documents were useless. Everything. ID, passport, captain’s license. Sasha Nerov was a wanted outlaw now. Her survival depended on her ability to hide, to assume another identity, at least in public.
Which meant her stash bag. She had to get to it. Everything she needed was in there. Money, false identity documents, weapons. It was in a storage facility on the outskirts of town, hidden among a mundane assortment of farm and industrial equipment. She had one in pretty much every major port, and she said a quick prayer to the god of smugglers, Paranoia.
But there was something she had to do first: warn her people. The authorities would come looking for them soon enough. And they had no idea what was coming.
Trouble was, she didn’t keep track of her crew’s whereabouts when they were in port. She figured they were scattered around in every tavern and whorehouse in Landfall, half of them probably lying on the floor somewhere drunk.
Griff.
Griff Daniels took his job as first officer seriously. So even if he was having a good time, he’d have kept tabs on the crew and have a much better chance of reaching them quickly. It helped that she knew where to find him, too. Daniels had a regular woman on Haven, a widow with a small farm a few kilometers outside the city. He’d be there. She was sure of it.
I just hope I can reach him in time.
She stepped slowly across the open sewer, trying not to think too much about the putrid flow—or the exact makeup of the slimy gunk that coated almost every surface.
It’s better than getting caught . . . getting shot.
But she wasn’t sure how much better . . .
“How’d we draw this duty?” The soldier was looking toward his partner, his eyes bleary, half open. The pair had pulled the night shift at the entrance to the mine, and they’d been sitting there for six hours now, with no more activity than a bit of rustling in the woods when the breeze kicked up.
“On the one hand, I’m not complaining—it’s probably the safest duty we could get.” The other trooper looked around, over his shoulder toward the perimeter fence and the main gate. Things had been patched back together, but the scars of the battle were still visible everywhere. “Still, I don’t like it any better than you. I had friends who died here. And I keep thinking back to the governor’s speech . . .” His voice trailed off, and he froze, looking into the distance, beyond the gate, to the road that cut through the dense woods surrounding the facility.
“What is it, Rog?” The other man turned . . . and froze. There was light visible in the distance . . . and then sound. Someone was approaching. A lot of someones. “What the hell is that?”
Rogers didn’t know, but for all his bluster about the colonists, he had no desire to face down a large group of them, especially if they were armed. And who else would be coming to the prison at this hour? He gripped his rifle, holding it out at the ready. “We better report this.” He got up and started moving toward the small guardhouse, motioning for the other soldier to stay and keep an eye on the approaching group.
But even as he was about to call it in, the approaching force already at the gate, Rogers and his partner tensed. It was only after the leader stepped into the light that the two guards sighed with relief: he was wearing a federal uniform. Not the same one they wore, but the darker garb of the anti-insurgency forces the observer brought with her. The column was large, at least three hundred strong, marching in perfect order behind the officer.
The two guards moved up toward the main gate, standing behind the fence and watching as the soldiers marched up. About five meters from the gate, the column halted.
“Open the gate.” The voice was loud, commanding. “I am Captain Arthur Crandall, federal anti-insurgency forces. Per the orders of the federal observer, the pardons issued by the governor for the prisoners of this establishment are hereby revoked. All rioters are hereby sentenced to death—summary executions to be carried out at once.”
Rogers looked at his companion, a stunned look on his face. There was a rush of excitement, of vindication, but it only lasted for a few seconds. Then uncertainty took over. It was one thing to be angry, to feel as though the soldiers lost in the uprising had not received justice. But this didn’t seem like justice either. No trials, no courtrooms, nothing.
Just hundreds of executions.
Murders?
“Open the gate.” The officer repeated himself, his voice louder, more insistent. He moved forward from the column. “Now.”
The guards looked at each other for a second longer. Then, without a word spoken, they moved to the side, pulling the gate open.
Rogers watched as the new arrivals marched inside the complex, moving toward the main entrance of the mines—and then inside, down to the levels where the prisoners waited for the doom they didn’t know was coming.
The soldier looked out at the vengeance he had craved so desperately, but now he was unsure, his stomach twisted into knots.
CHAPTER 14
FIELD A3
WARD FARM
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“BLOODY TUESDAY”
“Dammit.” Damian Ward stared down at the body of the man—a boy, really—lying facedown on the muddy bank of the stream. The kid had a hole in the back of his head, and his hair was crusted with blood and brains.
Damian knelt, feeling the wetness of the soft ground on his knees as he did. He reached down, grabbing the kid, rolling him over. He knew his shot had been a fatal one, but he had to confirm it. Just to himself. One look at the cold, dead face reinforced his regret at his combat reflexes and deadly aim.
Not that he hadn’t been justified. The kid had been caught planting a bomb on one of the irrigation pumping stations, an act of vandalism Damian hadn’t had the slightest intention of tolerating. His people had chased the vandal—terrorist—across half the farm and all the way to the river on the edge of the property. Damian had called out three times for him to surrender, but he’d just kept running. Damian dropped him with one shot.
Then he saw how young his victim was.
He shook his head. The kid looked fifteen, maybe sixteen. Damian felt conflicting emotions. Guilt and regret at having shot the boy. But, more than that, rage at whoever had recruited a child to commit such a crime. As he had said before, he sympathized with the rebels, but things like this cooled any urge he felt to actively support rebellion.
“He’s dead.” Damian didn’t turn, but he heard his people run up behind him. His eyes were fixed on the kid, but he wasn’t seeing his victim. He was seeing Jamie, even himself. Both of them had been angry, rebellious teenagers, born into poverty and angry at the world. He knew either of them could have been recruited at such a young age, that if they had been born in different times and places either of them could have ended up lying in the mud of the riverbank.
Still, I never had to run away from a veteran soldier with a sharpshooter’s badge.
“Get him out of this muck. Take him to one of the barns. Clean the body and wrap it up. It’s the least we can do.” Which wasn’t exactly true.
Because when I find whoever is responsible for all this . . .
“Ben, make sure this gets done. Then come back to the house. We need to figure out how to protect the farm against people who send children to fight their battles.”
“Yes, sir.”
Damian sighed and took a last look at the kid, dirty blond hair, blue eyes still staring at him lifelessly. He reached out, moving his hand over the boy’s face and closing his eyes. Then he stood up, and turned back toward Withers.
“I’m going to contact the governor’s office and arrange for someone to come for the body.”
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then he turned and walked
back toward the house.
The soldiers marched down the street, a hundred strong, wearing body armor and carrying assault rifles. The people in the street moved away, many turning down side roads to avoid the imposing display of force. But the troopers weren’t paying attention to the civilians, not even the occasional cluster of four or five who were in violation of the federal observer’s orders against public assemblages. They had their orders, and they were on the way to carry them out.
The column turned onto the main street of Landfall, marching into the center of the small city’s business district. Haven’s capital had grown around two primary nodes, development clustering around both the colony’s governmental functions and its growing industrial center.
They moved steadily toward the largest building in the district, the ten-story headquarters of Danforth Communications—one of the largest private concerns in Landfall.
At least until today.
The soldiers stopped just outside the main entrance. A quarter of them fanned out, covering the area, chasing away any civilians curious—and brave—enough to gather around and watch. The rest of the force followed an officer inside.
The commander was a woman wearing the insignia of a captain. She stepped up to the reception desk and glared down at the man seated there. “I am Captain Yolanda Sanchez, Federal America security forces. In the name of the federal observer, the honorable Asha Stanton, this enterprise is hereby nationalized. All broadcast operations are to cease immediately, pending the installation of federal censors to approve or reject all content. All facilities are now the property of the federal colony of Alpha-2.”
The man at the desk stared back with a stunned look on his face. Then he reached down toward a comm station. The officer nodded to a soldier standing next to him. The trooper slammed down his rifle butt on the unit, smashing it. The man pulled his hand back, barely in time. He looked up, eyes wide.
“You are to remain where you are,” Sanchez said. “You are to talk to no one. Lieutenant Fargus, station your people here. No one is to leave until we have arrested everyone on the proscription list. You are authorized to use deadly force at your discretion. Understood?”
“Understood, Captain.”
“Lieutenant Regis, you and your people are to come with me.”
“Yes, Captain,” Regis snapped back, gesturing for his soldiers to line up.
The captain moved toward the bank of elevators, stepping inside the first car to open. A dozen soldiers followed her in, but she motioned for Regis to stay. “Bring the rest of your people up as soon as you can, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, Captain Sanchez.”
The captain reached out, pressing the button for the top floor. The executive suite. There were sixty-two people at Danforth Communications on the proscription list, men and women suspected of rebel sympathies . . . or even outright support of subversive activities. But she was most concerned with the name at the top of the list.
John Danforth.
Asha Stanton sat at her desk—Governor Wells’s desk, really—and looked down at the small screen of the comm unit. “You heard me correctly, Lieutenant. I want all communications jammed. Planetwide. Everything but the specified federal frequencies.”
“Your Excellency, that will cause widespread disruptions. All major broadcasting networks will be affected, as will almost all legitimate business communications. Even personal traffic will be affected, portable phones and comm units. Everything. It will cause panic and enormous disruption. Business will crash to a halt.”
“I am aware of that. Is there anything in the order I gave you that you do not understand? I do not recall asking for a breakdown of the effects of jamming all comms. If I gave any impression that I wanted your thoughts or opinions—or anything but your obedience—allow me to clear that up right now. You are ordered to initiate jamming of all planetary overair communications, save the specified channels, and you are to do so at once.” She paused, glaring down at the man’s image on the screen, drawing a bit of amusement from the look on his face. “Now, is that sufficiently clear, or do I have to relieve you with an officer who understands how orders work?”
“No, Your Excellency . . . I mean, yes. I mean, I understand. Your order will be obeyed at once.” The officer paused. “Your Excellency . . . implementing your order will require enormous energy output. We may need assistance from some of the vessels on blockade duty to supplement our own reactor.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. See to it. I will request Commodore Karras’s cooperation.” Stanton had complete authority on Alpha-2, but Karras and his people were navy. She knew his forces had been directed to cooperate with her, but she really couldn’t do more than make a request.
Just a touch shortsighted of the senate, if you ask me. But she’d make it work.
“Yes, Your Excellency. Thank you.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.” Stanton almost cut the line, but then she added, “And the next time I give you an order, I expect it to be obeyed without the need to discuss the merits first.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” The officer was clearly shaken, but he was doing an admirable job holding himself together. Good. “Planetary jamming commencing in ten minutes. All except the designated frequencies.”
Stanton flipped the comm unit off without saying anything else.
Wells was really soft on his people. I’m going to have to remind them their purpose is to do as they are told . . . not to think. And certainly not to offer opinions.
She didn’t understand how Wells had excelled so much in his previous postings. The more she was down here, the more she saw the results of his three years of work, the more she saw his weakness. She saw a bleeding heart, one that showed an almost total reluctance to impose harsh measures on the population. But it was more than that. Wells wasn’t just opposed to the violence; he had become completely unnerved by the prospect of it.
It’s one thing to try to prevent violence. But to shy away from it? What kind of governor can afford such squeamishness? Besides, it was such a waste of time. Violence is so often the expedient solution to a problem.
As she was about to demonstrate.
Not that she particularly enjoyed using harsh methods—at least, not like Semmes did—but she wouldn’t hesitate to employ whatever it took to crush the rebel elements on Alpha-2.
And get me off this miserable rock as soon as possible.
“All right, our orders are simple.” Captain Leslie stood in front of the line of soldiers, all of them clad in full body armor and holding heavy assault rifles. “There are multiple protests out there, all of them in flagrant violation of the mandate against large assemblages. We are to break them up and arrest any protestors who do not immediately disperse.”
Johnson stood in the line, he and his four troopers part of the large force formed up just inside the federal complex. The regular colonial soldiers had been paired off with companion units from the newly arrived anti-insurgency troops. Johnson and the other colonial regulars were positioned on the left of the overall formation.
His hands were wrapped around the new rifle. His people had been rearmed, their light weapons replaced by powerful military-grade rifles. The guns had a higher rate of fire, and they shot a heavier projectile. They were designed for one purpose: to kill. Johnson tried to maintain a noncommittal expression, but he couldn’t hold the smile from his lips.
Finally, we are done letting these people walk all over us.
“The rules of engagement are as follows. Protestors who disperse upon command will be allowed to return to their homes, others will be arrested immediately and without further warning. You are authorized to fire on any civilians resisting arrest. You are also authorized to open fire if you feel threatened by the mob.”
Johnson listened, but he barely heard the words. He could only see Billings’s corpse lying on the floor of the mine . . .
“All right, people . . . let’s go.”
Leslie turned and walked toward the ga
te. “Open,” he yelled, looking up at the troopers in the two small towers flanking the three-story gate.
He stood and waited as the two giant metal doors slid open, each side slipping into a slot in the wall. The sound of the crowd poured through, massively louder without the closed gate in the way. There were hundreds of civilians in the square in front of the complex, perhaps thousands. They were marching, shouting, carrying signs.
Johnson looked out at them. He knew, at least on some level, that the citizens of Landfall weren’t the same ones who had killed his friends in the mine, but he didn’t care anymore. The murderers had almost escaped punishment. He had no doubt Governor Wells would have pardoned them all to appease the city mob. At least the federal observer had intervened—and given the killers exactly what they deserved.
Now this bloody mob will be appeased in a different way.
Johnson stood for a few seconds and watched as the formation began to move, following Leslie out into the square. Then it was time for his people. He stepped forward and turned sharply to the left, moving in step toward the open gate. He could see the crowd reacting to the soldiers. The volume of their shouts rose, and they surged forward, moving toward the approaching formation.
“By the authority of the federal observer, I order all of you to disperse at once.” Leslie spoke into a small comm unit, and his voice was broadcast from every outdoor speaker on the federal building. “There will be no second warning.” His last words were ominous, and the crowd seemed to hesitate for a moment.
Johnson stood and watched, thinking for a moment that the civilians would back down. But then one of them pushed out of the crowd, raising his arms in the air and shouting to the rest of the mob. Johnson couldn’t hear his words, but he could see the effect. Those around him stopped moving back, and they turned toward him. Then more of the mob moved out, inspired by the single figure in the front.
Others followed suit, all through the crowd, men and women moving out from the masses, shouting and pointing and pumping fists in the air. And around each one, more gathered, rally points in the mob, hundreds of civilians holding their ground, defying Leslie’s orders.