by Jay Allan
The door opened a crack, a man’s face barely visible. “Who is the . . .?” His words stopped abruptly, and he swung open the door. “Katia! Katia! I have been looking for you all night.”
He stepped out of the door, fully dressed, his clothes disheveled, his boots caked with mud. “Where have you been?”
He knelt down next to his daughter, his eyes moving over her. She had a cut on her face, covered now with dried blood. Her shirt was torn, hanging in front of her like a rag, with only her hand holding it up. Her pants had half a dozen rips in them, and she had fastened what was left with a strip of fabric torn from her jacket and turned into a makeshift belt. He imagined a hundred nightmares, horrors that might have befallen her, but he forced them all away. She was here, she was alive . . . and that was all that mattered to him.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy.” Her words were choked with sobs, and tears streamed down her face. “I know you told me to stay away, but I went to Landfall, to the protest.”
Alexi exhaled hard, pushing back the anger, the frustration, at his daughter’s foolishness. He knew she sympathized with the Guardians, with all the rebel groups, but he’d warned her of the dangers . . . and begged her to stay out of trouble. This wasn’t the time for recrimination, however. “Katia . . . my Katia . . .” He put his hand on her face, wiped away her tears.
He closed his eyes and reached out, putting his arms around his daughter and pulling her close. He could see images, another face, not unlike Katia’s. His wife, Anya. First as she was when they met, young, vibrant, smiling at him as she had that first day. Then lying on a filthy bed, covered in sweat despite half a dozen blankets, holding her shriveled arm up to him, like a thin, gauzy fabric hanging from the bone.
Anya Rand had died from a disease that could have been cured, would have been had Alexi not been barred from openly pursing his livelihood as an electrical engineer. Few people knew their way around computers and other high-tech gear like Alexi, but he was self-taught, lacking the expensive government-sanctioned credentials required in Federal America. He’d survived by working unofficially, for a fraction of what a government-certified engineer would have charged, but his medical priority rating was that of a laborer, far too low to obtain the expensive drugs and therapies Anya had needed. So he’d knelt by her side, loved her, cooled her face with a wet towel as he spoke softly to her . . . and he’d watched her waste away and die.
That tragedy had almost destroyed him. It would have, in fact, had it not been for Katia, and for the promise he’d made to his dying wife. He’d sworn to Anya he would look after their daughter, that he would somehow see that she had a better life than theirs. And that had driven him since. It had led him to Haven, and it had kept him from getting involved in the rebellion. And now it would drive him to arms, to stand with the revolutionaries . . .
“I tried to get home, but there were soldiers everywhere. They were chasing people, arresting them. Killing them. They shot people in the streets. It was awful.” She broke down in tears again, sobbing uncontrollably.
Alexi tightened his grip on his daughter. “It’s okay, my love. You’re home now.” He could feel the wetness from her tears as she buried her face against his shoulder, her body shaking.
He thought again of that day, of the moment he’d realized that Anya was gone. He’d felt an emptiness he couldn’t describe, and a relief, too, that her pain was over. It had almost broken him watching his wife, once so energetic—so alive—wasting away in agony. He’d been devastated, and only one thing drove the sadness back from the front of his mind. Hatred. He hated Federal America, the entrenched politicians who lived such luxurious lives while people like Anya were denied basic care. He detested the cronies of the politicians who controlled the economy, crushing people like him, keeping them down with regulations and endless mandates. They had killed Anya as far as he was concerned, no less than if they’d put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. But he put his hatred aside, for perhaps the only reason he could have done so. To keep his promise to Anya.
And he had done just that, trading his services on a bulk freighter for passage to Haven, a place where a man with his skills could practice his trade unfettered. He had built a business, and given his daughter a life. But the hatred was only controlled, not extinguished, and he struggled to contain it as he held his terrified, brutalized daughter in his arms.
Alexi had heard about the massacre the day before and, when Katia had failed to come home, he had feared she had given in to her rebel sympathies and gone to the protest.
The vid networks were all down, but there were other ways for word to spread, and the search for his daughter had taken him to a dozen homes. Each person had told him a single fact or rumor, one bit of information of dubious reliability. But the persistency of his efforts gave him enough snippets to piece together a likely scenario of what had happened in Landfall. It terrified him.
There had been rumors, too, of what had taken place after the massacre, of federal troops roaming the streets, kicking down doors searching for protestors who had fled the carnage and escaped arrest. And other stories, too, of gangs of soldiers wandering the streets, terrorizing civilians. There had been more murders, he suspected, and rapes and beatings. The normally safe streets of Landfall had become the most dangerous place in the galaxy.
And Katia had been there.
What he hadn’t been able to determine was what had happened to her. Had she been arrested? Or had something worse happened? The questions had haunted him all night. But now she was back, alive despite whatever nightmare she had endured. He was grateful that he hadn’t lost the only thing that really mattered to him. But his relief only lasted a moment.
His eyes caught the movement, and his head snapped up. He could see someone approaching, a transport . . . no, two. Big ones, with room for troops up front, and what looked like large holding areas in the rear. More troops? Or for prisoners?
They were coming down the road, leaving a trail of dust billowing up behind their heavy bulk.
He stood, putting his arms under Katia’s shoulders, pulling her up. “Go inside, Katia. Now.”
Katia hesitated, moving a hand across her face, wiping away tears. “What is it?”
“Just go,” he said, his voice firmer. He pushed her gently toward the door, just as the transports pulled up in front of the house.
“Stay where you are,” a voice boomed out of a speaker on the front vehicle. The hatch opened, and four federal soldiers climbed out. They wore riot gear and carried assault rifles.
A man stepped toward the house, flanked by two other troopers. The rear transport had opened as well, and soldiers were pouring out of it. They weren’t normal colonial regulars. They wore the darker uniforms of the newly arrived internal security forces.
“What can I do for you?” Alexi asked. Besides asking you all to go straight to hell. His eyes scanned the area in front of him. The two soldiers behind the apparent leader had their weapons pointed at him.
“What is this? A cooperative colonist? I thought you were all piss and vinegar and revolutionary slogans?” The soldier turned toward the others and let out a caustic laugh.
“I am not a revolutionary.” Alexi stood on the porch, almost shaking as he forced himself to be respectful. “My name is Alexi Rand, and I’ve been a citizen of Haven for a long time.”
“Well, I’m Sergeant Cole and I know who you are. And if you’re the loyal citizen of Alpha-2—a colony of Federal America—as you claim, the first thing you can do is hand over that traitor standing behind you. She was recorded on multiple cameras participating in seditious activities in direct defiance of the federal observer’s order against unlawful assemblages. Her identity has been confirmed by AI scan of the footage. She is also charged with resisting arrest and assaulting federal enforcement personnel. Katia Rand, you are under arrest.”
Alexi could feel Katia behind him, pressing into him, as if she could hide behind him. She was shaking uncontrollably and sobb
ing loudly. “Please, no . . .”
“Corporal,” the sergeant shouted, turning toward a soldier who had just walked up from the rear transport. “Take the prisoner.”
Alexi Rand moved fully between the soldier and Katia. “Wait . . . please.”
The corporal moved up toward Rand. “Stand aside.” His voice was a raspy growl.
“No, you can’t. Plea—”
The corporal slammed his rifle butt into Alexi’s midsection. The big man doubled over, dropping to his knees and gasping for breath.
“Take her to the detention area, Corporal.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
She screamed and struggled, thrashing wildly to escape. The corporal stopped, and he punched her hard. She dropped down to her knees, her face a bloody mess, staring up with undisguised hatred. The corporal just grabbed her arm and pulled her forward, dragging her toward the road. He’d only taken a few steps, though, when he went down hard to the ground, Alexi Rand on top of him.
Alexi jumped back up, off the stricken soldier, his eyes moving all around, fixing on the other federals. He dove for the sergeant, but halfway there he felt as though a train slammed into him. He staggered and tried to continue, but he could feel his strength draining away. His hands moved toward his chest, and he felt the blood.
“Katia!” Alexi’s cry was desperate, all anger and frustration. He stumbled forward, falling to his hands and knees. He tried to get back on his feet but then he felt a boot in his stomach, and he fell to the ground, facedown in the dirt.
“Go, Corporal.” The sergeant waved toward the stricken noncom as he climbed back to his feet. “Take her, and we will handle things here.” He looked to the side, to one of the soldiers standing behind him. “Let’s search the house, Private. I’m wondering now if this is another rebel we have here.” He stared down at Alexi, still trying to get to his feet. He walked over and kicked him again, sending his victim back to the ground.
The corporal dragged Katia across the road toward the transport. He pushed her inside and slammed the rear hatch shut, moving around toward the front of the vehicle and climbing in. Three other troopers followed him, and then the side doors slammed shut and the vehicle roared to life. A second later it began to move, turning around and heading down the forest road, and the last thing Alexi saw was the feds taking his daughter away from him . . . just like the feds had taken Anya.
CHAPTER 16
FEDERAL COMPLEX COURTYARD
LANDFALL CITY
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“BLACK WEDNESDAY”
The soldiers formed up just before dawn, five hundred strong. They wore body armor over their camouflage uniforms, and they carried assault rifles and a wartime complement of reloads. They had even been issued grenades, and every platoon had two heavy weapons, mostly tripod-mounted autoguns. They were outfitted not for police duties, not for patrolling.
They were ready for war.
They marched in single file toward the waiting trucks, silent as they loaded up. For many, this would be their first real taste of combat. Their faces were a mix of veteran impassiveness, rookie fear, and—for some on both sides—eager anticipation.
They were moving quickly, trying to maintain secrecy around the operation. But they were heading to capture the rebels’ primary supply dump of illegal weapons, and it seemed unlikely such a target would be entirely undefended.
Johnson took a deep breath, fighting back the nausea. He’d mostly passed on the predawn breakfast, eating half a piece of dry toast and deciding that was about all his stomach could handle. For weeks he had craved battle. All he had wanted was the chance to avenge his friends. But the carnage of the day before had hit him hard. He’d walked the square after the shooting ended. He’d had to tread carefully, slowly, to avoid slipping on the pools of blood. He saw men and women lying on the pavement, their bodies almost torn apart by the relentless automatic fire. He saw a man whose head had been split open like an egg, a sickly gray ooze dripping out on the street. He saw severed limbs lying on the ground. And he saw the baby that had fallen from her mother’s arms, her still-open eyes looking lifelessly at the sky.
Now he was heading for another fight, more death . . . and all he wanted was to curl up and hide.
Especially as another thought struck him: And this time you may be dealing with an enemy that is shooting back.
He shuffled forward, his body following through, though his mind was elsewhere. Two days ago, he’d been livid. Yesterday, he had been disgusted.
Today, he was scared.
He reached up, grabbing the handhold on the end of the transport and hauling himself up and in. He moved to the side, sitting on the long metal bench, and watched as his four subordinates did the same.
Lieutenant Fritz was sitting on the other side of the transport, looking a lot more confident than Johnson felt. Fritz was the platoon commander, one of the many officers who’d come to Alpha-2 with the federal observer. Johnson didn’t know much about the new forces, but he was sure Fritz had more experience than he did in gunning people down. He wondered if the officer had ever faced a foe fighting back on anything like even terms.
Because God knows I haven’t. It didn’t matter how much he exaggerated the fight in the mine—those prisoners had modern weapons, but they were also outnumbered, untrained, and disorganized. On the other hand, the rebel groups have been organizing in secret for years, and based on the mission briefing, it seemed they had access to military-grade weapons, too.
And probably knew how to actually use them.
“All right, let’s go.” He heard the voice outside, another officer walking down the line of transports. “Get mounted up and keep your mouths shut. We’re pulling out in ten minutes.”
“Damian, I’m sorry to disturb you without calling first, but with the comm lines jammed . . .” John Danforth stood outside the door of Damian’s farmhouse. It was almost dawn, and the barest morning rays dimly lit the porch.
“That’s fine, John. You know you are always welcome here. In fact, you’d better come in,” Damian said, pulling Danforth into his house. He had known the communications mogul almost since the day he’d arrived on Haven, and he considered the man a friend . . . despite the underhanded way Danforth had made him a staple of late-night programming.
They moved quickly inside, and Danforth started by saying, “I’m sorry for my appearance, Damian. I’m afraid I have had quite a night.”
“I have as well, John. Katia Rand is missing, and I’ve been out all night searching for her. I just got back, and I was about to go out again.” Damian paused. “Jamie is going crazy. He really loves the girl.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Damian. I’ve never met Katia, but her father has done work for me at the network. I always regarded him as a good man.”
“He is. And Katia is a wonderful girl.” His voice darkened. “I’ll admit I’m extremely worried about her. With all that is happening . . .”
“I know. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Although . . .”
“What?”
“It’s happening, Damian. The rebellion. The federals are on the move, and the Guardians are going to meet them.”
Damian frowned. “I hope you’re not here for congratulations, John. I did everything I could to prevent this tragedy. You have caused a nightmare, for yourselves—and for all of us. You haven’t seen war up close, John, have you? I have.”
“It was not a choice, Damian. The federals left us no alternative. There were, what, a hundred people killed in front of the federal complex yesterday? How many more after that? More than sixty of my employees were arrested, marched off, without charges, without due process. Why do you think the Rand girl is missing?” He paused, realizing that he might have pushed too far.
“I don’t know where she is, John, but that is my priority now, not helping Haven commit suicide. You wanted this war . . . you go fight it, you and all those who clam
ored for it. Just don’t expect me to join in chanting your revolutionary slogans. You may pride yourself on all those you led to this, your Guardians and those who support them. But have you thought—truly thought—about how many of them will die today? Tomorrow? How many are boys who haven’t shaved once? Girls still on the cusp of womanhood? Because I have. And I don’t want the responsibility, John. I may not be able to stop this disaster, but I damned sure don’t intend to help make it happen.”
Danforth stood still, calm, allowing Damian to vent his anger. After a few silent ticks, though, he said, “Damian, I’m sorry, but—”
“But what? You want me to gather the veterans, to march the only real soldiers on this planet to stand with your farmers and carpenters and teenagers and fight the federals. The thing you all so easily seem to forget is that they—and I—fought for that flag you are so ready to make war upon. I had friends die in battle, wearing the uniform of Federal America. I have as many grievances as you do, as many concerns about the future of this world I have chosen as my home. But I am not ready to throw away every vestige of my earlier allegiance, to violate the oaths I took, like so many empty words. Moreover, I have friends still in the colonial forces, John, soldiers I fought with in the war who now live here and who call this world home as I do. Good men and women. Would you celebrate their deaths in battle, notch your rifle stocks for each of them you put in the grave? Men and women you celebrated a few years ago when they came here, fresh from victory against the union and the hegemony, even as you hounded me to do your interviews?”
“I’m—I am sorry, my friend.” Danforth stood in the foyer, struggling to hold Damian’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Yes, I was hoping you would help. And yes, you’re right to say I might not have thought everything through. But this war is here. They killed peaceful protestors, Damian. Hundreds of them, as if they were pests that needed to be exterminated. They are breaking down doors. Snatching people off the street. Hunting us down. So while I respect what you say, know that I don’t ask any of this lightly.” A deep breath, then: “I do respect you, Damian. No matter what, at least I hope I can still call you my friend.”