by Jay Allan
Damian sighed softly and stared back silently for a few seconds. “Of course, John. We may disagree on this, but I know you are a man of integrity. You do what you feel you must. As I do.” He paused. “And what I must do now is go back out and find Katia Rand.”
Danforth nodded silently, opening the door and stepping back out onto the porch.
“And, John . . .”
Danforth turned around, and the two men’s eyes locked.
“I will wish the best for you, and for your followers. For all of us.” Damian stared at Danforth for a few seconds, and then he closed the door.
“Anybody who doesn’t have a modern weapon, come up to the barn behind me and get a rifle and ammunition.” Tyler Danforth stood on top of a small tractor, looking out at the assembled mass of citizen-soldiers, rebels ready to fight for their freedom. He was proud, of the men and women milling around in front of him, and at his cousin and himself, for the work they had done to create such a force. It was one thing to repeat slogans, to cry for liberty in dark gathering places . . . and another entirely to march to war to achieve it. And the Guardians had answered the call; they had come, bringing sons and daughters and friends in tow.
“Even if you have a good weapon, if you don’t have at least a hundred rounds of ammunition, come up and get a new gun.” He watched as a crowd surged forward, dozens of men and women who’d come with nothing more than farm tools and knives. And hundreds more, who had shotguns and pistols, weapons suitable for hunting small game or for protecting a household from intruders perhaps, but hardly proper equipment for facing armed federal troops.
He watched as Guardians walked away from the barn carrying their assault rifles, mostly union Karkarovs, but also some of the new hegemony Diahmins. It was state-of-the-art stuff, a match for anything the federals would have. This was what he and John had worked so hard for, the day these weapons would be used to strike a blow for freedom. But he couldn’t help but feel strange as he watched them pouring out from the cache. The Danforths weren’t the only financial supporters of the Guardians, but they were the biggest by far. Tyler knew his cousin had poured an enormous amount of the family’s wealth into smuggling these guns to Haven.
He’d objected at first, but John had won him around in the end. Wealth would be nothing without liberty, he had said. And Tyler had realized he was right. The Danforths were titans on Haven, but the oligarchs and government cronies on Earth who, more and more, were beginning to call the shots on Haven had a hundred times the wealth he and John controlled. The Danforths might live well under increased federal control of Haven, assuming they kept their mouths shut and didn’t cause trouble, but they would be little better than slaves in a gilded cage.
There were hundreds milling about in the clearing, perhaps nearly a thousand. Guardians, and others, too—men and women who had never joined the Guardians of Liberty, but who were now rallying to the cry for rebellion.
No doubt yesterday’s massacre has been an effective recruiting tool for us . . .
He turned back toward the barn. “If any of you are uncertain how to use those guns, we’ve got people all along the back side of the barn to help. Please, these are complex weapons. If you’re not sure how to use them, get up there and ask.”
Please . . . my family almost bankrupted itself getting them here, and it wasn’t so you could stand around when the feds get here and not know how to fire . . .
He looked out toward the woods, and the small road cutting through the dense trees. It was almost certainly the way the federal soldiers would come, but Tyler’s mind was elsewhere now.
Where are you, John?
Tyler Danforth knew he didn’t have his cousin’s charisma, nor John’s basic leadership skills. He was a quiet man, unaccustomed to this kind of role. He was doing his best, but he would feel nothing but relief when John’s transport came down that road. He stared for a few seconds more, watching as a group of fifty or more, another batch of Guardians, marched down the road and into the clearing. But still no sign of John.
“Again . . . anybody who doesn’t have a modern weapon and at least a hundred rounds of ammunition, come to the barn behind me and get a gun.”
And hope to hell John gets here before the feds . . .
Patrick Killian crouched down along the side of the road. His troops were stretched out along both sides, hidden and waiting for the federals.
Killian was a veteran of the army, like Damian Ward and Alexandra Thornton, a forward scout and a special forces operative who’d had an almost unmatched record in the service. At least until he’d come under the command of an officer so incompetent he’d have been bounced out of the service in a heartbeat . . . if his family hadn’t been so well connected politically. In the end, almost fifty soldiers died because the officer froze in the middle of a major operation. None of that came as a surprise to Killian. What was a shock, though, was how he was scapegoated for the disaster and dishonorably discharged . . . while the officer received a field promotion and a decoration.
Patrick Killian came to Haven without any pension or mustering-out bonus. He had only two things. An extraordinarily diverse skill set . . . and a burning hatred of the federals. And now he was using both.
“You all remember what I taught you.” He got up and walked through the dense woods, a few meters in from the road. “You’d fucking well better remember, my little babies, or the feds will have your guts dripping down your legs.” Killian seemed to think that his soldiers wouldn’t take anything seriously if he didn’t swear at them while he was saying it.
Killian was one of the first members of the Guardians of Liberty, and as soon as John Danforth had heard about his training and experiences he’d tapped him to form his own unit. Killian’s rangers didn’t look much like a spit and polished elite military force. That’s because they were as far from that as one could possibly imagine. Killian did that on purpose, though, having scoured Haven for every manner of ne’er-do-well and petty criminal who knew his way around in the wild. He’d won their loyalty, as often as not by beating the disobedience out of them, and he’d taught them everything he knew. Almost everything.
John Danforth had just left, heading back toward the main force at Vincennes, leaving Killian and his people five kilometers closer to Landfall.
The feds had fired the first shots when they slaughtered those people in Landfall. Those men and women had been unarmed, though, and so this was the first chance for the revolution to fire back. And Killian’s rangers would have the honor of being the ones to pull the trigger, not the massed Guardians on the green at Vincennes.
Killian looked out at the road, and then he panned his head down the woods, looking toward Landfall. His people were deployed over more than a kilometer. They’d spent most of the night planting mines and laying traps, felling trees and building makeshift roadblocks. And now they were hidden all along the federals’ line of march, fifty-three snipers and bushwhackers, and some of the dirtiest fighters ever to grab a rifle or a well-used blade.
Killian had his orders. He was to shoot up the federal column, inflict as many casualties—and cause as much disorder—as he could. And he was to buy time, time to get the forces at Vincennes organized.
He moved through the woods, past a dozen of his people, so well-hidden even he could barely see them. Ideally, he’d have positioned himself in the middle of his forces, but the lack of communications was cumbersome. He’d given his rangers detailed orders, and now he just had to trust their judgment. But he was damned sure going to position himself up front, where he could see the feds as they moved into his ambush.
He was careful in the woods, placing his feet carefully, making almost no sound as he hurried forward. Then he stopped and looked around, finding the forward elements of his unit positioned just where he had placed them. Everything was ready.
He stood for a minute perhaps, and then he heard it. The sound of transports coming down the road. He knew the federals had limited airpower on Haven. Th
e troops at Vincennes might have to deal with a gunship or two—and he didn’t underestimate the danger aircraft would represent to the defenders there—but the feds didn’t have nearly enough capacity to execute an airmobile operation. And that meant the sound he heard was the main force, hundreds of heavily armed security troopers mounted up on their transports and heading for Vincennes.
He took a deep breath. It had been nearly six years since he’d seen battle. As he had been back then, he was scared, though he’d never admit it to anyone. But there was something else.
He felt like he was going home.
“I don’t like this route, Major. We’re vulnerable here, exposed.” Captain Ian Frasier looked out from the top of the transport, his eyes panning along both sides of the column. There was nothing there but trees, endless masses of them in full bloom. The road was narrow, unpaved, and it wound torturously through the deep forest. It was early morning on a bright sunny day, but the road was covered in a gray gloom, illuminated only by a few rays of light penetrating the canopy of the trees.
“Vulnerable to what?” Major Randall Stein was a tall man. He looked military through and through, from his closely cropped brown hair to the cold focus of his eyes. “What could be out there, Captain? There is no military force opposing us, only a rabble of revolutionaries. It won’t take us more than a few minutes to send them running . . . and in the pursuit we will end this rebellion once and for all.”
“We should at least send out some scouts, flank guards. Just to be sure. Our visibility in here is—”
“Our orders are clear, Captain. To proceed to Vincennes and seize the weapons stored there . . . and to crush any armed force that stands in our way. We would have to halt the column to deploy scouts . . . and there is no way to move any vehicles in those woods. We would be slowed to a crawl.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“No buts, Captain. Your advice is noted. The column will proceed at full speed toward Vin—”
The sound was loud, almost deafening. Stein stared ahead, frozen in place. His view of the lead elements of the column was blocked by a curve in the road.
Frasier leapt onto the ladder, climbing quickly down the side of the vehicle.
“Captain Frasier, where are you going?”
“We’re under attack, sir. We need to deploy forces now.”
“We will do no such thing.” Stein looked down at a small tablet he held in his hand. “I am getting the report now. It appears the lead vehicle struck some kind of improvised explosive.”
“Sir, we have to—”
“We have to do nothing, Captain, except clear the damaged vehicle from the road and continue on to Vincennes. The fact that the enemy terrorists were able to plant one explosive is hardly justification for this column to deviate from its orders.”
Frasier held back his frustration. He was one of Alexandra Thornton’s officers, and a resident of Haven himself. Stein had come along with Colonel Semmes, and the best thing Frasier could say about the major was that he wasn’t as bad as his commanding officer. Frasier was a fool, but he lacked Semmes’s naked brutality.
“Major, I request permission to move to the front of the column to assess damage and see how quickly the wreckage can be cleared.” There was no point arguing, and anything that got him forward and away from the pompous ass running this mission would be a blessing.
“Very well, Captain, but my orders stand. You are to clear the damaged vehicle and that is all. We do not have time to deploy forces to the woods to chase shadows.”
“Yes, Major.” He turned and moved forward, staring off into the woods as he did. He was far less confident than Stein that there was no one out there.
John Danforth raced toward Vincennes, pushing his vehicle as hard as he dared on the winding, rutted forest road. He was late, and he had to get there as quickly as possible.
He’d moved forward after his unsuccessful visit to Damian’s farm, scouting out the route he expected the federals to take. He’d ordered Pat Killian to deploy his rangers along the projected line of march, but he wanted to check on the deployments himself before joining the others in Vincennes. Not that he didn’t trust Killian. He just . . .
I just wanted to see it for myself, he admitted. Which, in hindsight, might have been a pretty stupid thing to do. His place was in Vincennes, not pretending he knew more about ambushes than a veteran like Killian.
He had been impressed, though. Killian had given him a rundown on what he had done—the mines, the roadblocks, his fifty-plus cutthroats hidden in the woods. It was more than Danforth had imagined, and he almost felt sorry for the federals.
They’d get through, of course; fifty men weren’t going to stop an armored column with hundreds of trained soldiers. But by the time they got to Vincennes, the feds would be in decidedly worse shape than when they’d left Landfall.
Danforth had recruited Killian himself, and he’d taken the bitter ex-soldier into his inner circle. But the man still gave him a chill whenever they were together. He was glad, at least, that Killian was on his side. He had a brief image in his mind of the cold-blooded killer as a federal operative, slipping into his room, cutting his throat.
The transport turned hard, and the woods fell away on both sides. Which is when he saw it: Vincennes. The results of his labors, of all the risks he’d taken, the commitment that had lost him his grandfather’s company, and sent sixty of his loyal employees into federal captivity.
My God . . . there must be a thousand of them . . .
He’d built the Guardians, visited the villages and farming hamlets, given speeches in the dead of night, to all who would listen to his fiery revolutionary oratory. And one by one the people had joined him, and with each the Guardians of Liberty grew.
Now they were gathered all together, and his pride knew no bounds.
A dozen men surged forward, surrounding the vehicle. He popped the hatch and stepped out, careful at first until he was sure they knew it was him. His citizen-soldiers were bound to be jumpy. Then he jogged forward, arms in the air, into the center of the mass of his Guardians.
“John!” The shout came from a distance, barely audible. But he would have recognized Tyler’s voice anywhere.
“Well done,” he said as he ran toward the voice. “Well done,” he repeated, lunging forward and embracing his cousin.
“I am glad to see you, John. I was worried.”
“I’m sorry, Ty. I went up to check Killian’s positions before I came back.”
“And Damian? The veterans?”
John just shook his head.
“That . . . that’s too bad. I just hope they don’t join the federals.”
“No,” John said, with as much conviction as he could muster. “Damian Ward would never support the oppressors; he would never fight against us.”
I hope.
“But we are on our own now, cousin. And it is nearly time.” He turned back toward the mass of rebels gathered together, and he raised his arms above his head.
A wild cheer rose up, and the crowd moved, morphed, encircling Danforth.
“Friends! Fellow Havenites! The time is upon us at last. Here we stand, faithful to our beliefs, dedicated to our home, to our families and our neighbors. We have been given a choice, one between freedom and servitude . . . and each man and woman here has given a resounding answer! Never shall we accept the chains Federal America seeks to bind us with. Never will we surrender the freedom that is ours by every measure of morality and justice that exists.”
Danforth moved through the crowd, reaching out, shaking hands and patting the Guardians on their shoulders.
“Have no doubt, friends. The federals are on their way.” He pointed toward the road from which he’d just come. “They will be here soon, and they have come to take what is ours, to drag us all away, to brutal captivity or worse. But I say never. Never! They will take me away when they haul my dead body off and not until then, for with my dying breath I will lash out at the tyrants .
. . and at the brutal henchmen who serve them.”
He thrust his hands up again, and the crowd went mad, screaming, yelling, chanting, “Guardians! Guardians!”
He held his hands up to quiet them, and slowly they stopped. He smiled. “Your enthusiasm is a credit to your commitment. But it is time. Go now, get into position. Listen to your leaders—they’ll tell you where to go. And prepare yourselves. For the shots we fire here today will be heard across the galaxy . . . all the way to the halls of power back on Earth.”
He moved through the cheering crowd, directing as many of his people as he could into good positions. “Turn over those trailers,” he yelled to one group. “Bring that tractor around, and take cover behind it.” It was a little disquieting that this hadn’t been done already. Danforth was no soldier, but he knew the federals who came out of those woods would be heavily armed. Without cover, his Guardians would be gunned down in clumps.
“To the barn,” he cried. “And up on the roof, on the far slope.”
He stood and watched as his Guardians ran about, following his orders. He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself.
You have been preparing for this moment for a long time . . . but are you truly ready?
Jamie was walking through the woods, taking the shortcut from Damian’s farm to the Rand place. He was exhausted, and every muscle in his body ached. But none of that was important. Only one thing mattered. Katia.
He and Damian been searching for her all night, but they hadn’t found a clue. Finally, they had gone back to the farm, to check and see if any word had come in, and to grab some of the hands and broaden the search. Damian was organizing his people even now, and Jamie had decided to check in and see if Alexi Rand had heard anything.
He stopped suddenly. He’d heard something . . . voices. He crouched down, moving carefully. He didn’t know if anything was wrong, but he had a bad feeling. Then he heard a gunshot.