Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  And at whatever cost.

  Sasha Nerov peered around the corner, looking out onto the empty street. Landfall was eerily quiet, the streets utterly deserted. It was early in the morning, but normally there would have been at least some people, early risers on their way to work. But between the curfew, and now the federal observer having declared a state of emergency and ordering all nonessential citizens to stay in their homes, it was a ghost town.

  She still hadn’t had a chance to shower, and she shuddered to think of how badly she must reek to anyone who hadn’t been smelling her for hours now. She sniffed, and winced. And even people who have been smelling me. But at least she’d managed to find—steal—a change of clothes. She was a little warm in the hooded cloak, but it covered her face, and that was pretty key. That looked suspicious itself, no doubt, especially on a day that promised to be a hot one, but no more than being the only person on the street. And it was better than having some camera’s facial recognition algorithm pick her off as a wanted fugitive. The feds clearly had their hands full today, and it was possible they would ignore a strange hooded curfew violator. That said, if they got wind of a smuggler who had attacked federal soldiers, she was sure the response would be more aggressive.

  She ducked back onto the side street, leaning against the wall and taking a moment to rest. The night had been long and difficult one, but in the end mostly successful. Vagabond had a crew of twenty-four, including herself. She and Griff had managed to warn eighteen of them. That left four of her people unaccounted for. She tried to tell herself they’d drunk themselves into a stupor and were lying in some alley somewhere sleeping it off. But she couldn’t help but imagine them in federal prison cells. Or worse. Memories of Wasp, of Sergei Brinker and his fate, flooded into her mind.

  She pushed it all aside. There was nothing she could do about it. She had sent Griff and Elisa off on their own, to the safe house she’d long maintained on Haven. As far as she could determine, she’d left no way to track the property back to her or to Vagabond and its crew.

  So Griff should be safe there.

  Her first officer had begged her to come, too, to lie low and hide and wait until the worst of recent events had blown over. But Nerov knew better. This wasn’t a momentary crisis, a disturbance that would pass in a few days or a week. This was it. The revolution. It had begun, and she knew when it had finally run its course things would never be the same again.

  She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the fatigue she felt in every centimeter of her body. She wasn’t going to hide in the shadows . . . and she couldn’t stay in Landfall. That didn’t give her a ton of options, but she didn’t really need any.

  She knew what she had to do.

  She slipped out of the alley and moved swiftly down the street, heading for the outskirts of town.

  She had to find John Danforth. She had to find the rebels.

  “They’re coming! They’re coming! The federals are coming!” A young man came running out of the woods, waving his arms and shouting the warning.

  John Danforth stared for a moment, uncertain what he was seeing. Then he realized he was looking at one of Killian’s rangers. The man was clad from head to toe in dark green camo, and his head was covered with the beret that was the only real uniform Killian’s scouts wore.

  Danforth moved forward, toward the man.

  Man, he thought. More like a boy.

  The ranger moving toward him couldn’t have been more than seventeen . . . and Danforth would have believed fifteen if someone had told him that was the right number. But the picture changed as the ranger got closer. His face was speckled with red, splotches Danforth knew to be blood, and the assault rifle and bandolier he carried could only have come from a federal trooper.

  Danforth’s eyes dropped to the ranger’s waist, staring down at something dark hanging from the man’s belt. He was confused for a few seconds.

  That almost looks like hair . . .

  Then he realized, and he had to fight back the urge to vomit. The ranger had scalps hanging from his belt, three of them. Danforth had known Killian was a hard man, driven by anger over how he’d been treated by the government. But now he realized the man was insane . . . and it seemed his mental state was contagious, that he had transferred it to his rangers.

  “Mr. Danforth, is that you, sir?” The ranger’s words were forced, difficult. He was panting hard, and Danforth realized he had run all the way back to Vincennes.

  “It is,” Danforth replied, trying to avert his eyes from the bloody hunks of hair hanging at the man’s side.

  “Hiram Gloster, sir . . . Killian’s rangers. Sir, Captain Killian sent me to give the warning. We engaged the enemy, and Captain Killian estimates federal losses in excess of one hundred troops and fifteen vehicles. But the federals are still on the road, not ten minutes from here.”

  Danforth was silent for a moment, absorbing what he’d been told. He had hoped Killian’s people might pick off a few federal scouts, perhaps delay the column’s progress somewhat. But it was well past midday now, hours after he’d expected the federals to arrive. And now he was hearing of over a hundred casualties inflicted. Was it possible?

  “Very well . . . Hiram.” Danforth didn’t know what to call the ranger. The Guardians didn’t have ranks, at least nothing official, and neither did the rangers. Indeed, this was the first he had heard of “Captain” Killian, though he had to admit, the commander of the rangers had the right idea. The Guardians had an informal command structure, one that had been fine when they were protesting and rabble-rousing, but this was war.

  That was a mistake, not formalizing ranks, one that could cost us. If we get past this fight, I’m going to have to name some officers, and some noncoms, too.

  “Sir, Captain Killian reports the rest of the rangers are moving this way with all speed. He intends to harass the enemy from the rear while they are engaged with your forces.”

  “Very well, Hiram. Find yourself some cover, son. Things are going to get hot in a few minutes.” He almost laughed at himself, telling the ranger about the heat of combat. This kid had already seen war up close, far more so than he ever had.

  He turned back and looked over the open area. The Guardians were spread out in a long line, behind overturned farm equipment, rocks, piles of wood . . . anything they could find. In the center, they had dug a shallow trench, and Danforth had placed two of the heavy tripod-mounted guns there, backed up by fifty handpicked Guardians. If the federals tried to punch through the center, they’d have a fight on their hands.

  Danforth stood in the open, perhaps twenty meters in front of the line, staring off into the trees, down the road that disappeared quickly into the depths of the forest. He was scared to death, but he fought it with all he could muster. He couldn’t let the Guardians see that—panic was too contagious. And they all had reason to be afraid.

  He heard something then, and he looked up. Transports! Coming down the road. He turned to run back to the line, but before he did gunfire erupted all along the trees. Federal soldiers, in a skirmish line at the edge of the woods. And something else . . . from above. Noise. And a shadow covering the ground. A gunship . . .

  He ran back toward the trench.

  Jamie sat at the controls of the transport, staring out the cockpit as he raced down the winding, forest road. He didn’t know what he was doing, not really, but he wasn’t about to let that stand in his way. Not when Katia’s life was on the line.

  He had to catch the federals before they got to Landfall. He had to. It was his only chance. If they got her back to the federal complex he knew he might never see her again. And his mind raced with the torments she might suffer. He knew enough about the dangers and hardships of prison, and his imagination raced with how much worse it would be for a woman—especially when federal soldiers started dying and their comrades started to take out their anger on anyone they could.

  Inmates in the detention area would be easy targets.

  He
’d almost wiped out twice now, and he’d bounced off more than one tree, but he’d managed to keep the vehicle moving. He figured the others had a ten-minute head start, and that meant he had no time to lose.

  “C’mon, you piece of shit,” he muttered. “Faster . . . faster.”

  The transport swung around a curve. Jamie could feel the tension in his gut as the wheels on one side came off the road for an instant.

  He caught his breath . . .

  And then the transport righted itself with a loud thump as the wheels slammed down. Almost wiped out three times . . .

  Which is when he saw it: the other vehicle, perhaps fifty meters ahead.

  It’s time, he thought to himself. He’d been focused on catching the federals, but now that he had, he suddenly understood his next step: to kill everyone in that transport except Katia.

  The forward vehicle was getting larger as he closed the distance. He could hear the comm unit crackling as the troopers ahead tried to contact him. He ignored it, instead shoving the throttle as far forward as he could and bracing himself as his transport slammed into the back of the truck ahead.

  The vehicle shook hard, and he struggled to maintain control as it swerved wildly. He stared ahead, watching the other transport skidding across the dirt road. Its driver was clearly trying to regain control, but then the vehicle slammed hard into a clump of trees. It snapped the first one, sending it falling across the road—a few meters from Jamie’s own transport. Then it came to a stop, lying on its side.

  Jamie slammed on the brakes, his battered truck screeching to a halt a few meters from the other transport. He punched at the controls to open the door, grabbing the assault rifle as he slipped out of the cockpit.

  He was moving quickly, acting on instinct, not thought. There was no mercy in him, no pity. The federals in that truck would die . . . or he would. He raced across the space between the two transports, leaves crunching under his pounding feet. He jumped over the fallen tree, the rifle out in front of him, ready to fire.

  He could hear banging. He looked toward the transport. The side of the vehicle, now the top, was dented and pitted. The hatch was jammed, and the soldiers inside were trying to bash it open. It was a break, enough time at least to get clear of the open ground and move into position.

  The hatch finally started to open, the twisted metal of the door moving slowly. He ducked down, just to the side, stepping back behind one of the large trees. His mind was screaming at him, urging him to find Katia, to see if she was all right. But his discipline held firm. He couldn’t help Katia unless he took care of the feds. That was his first priority.

  The hatch popped out of its frame, sliding down the side of the transport and landing with a loud clang. Jamie brought his rifle around and stared down the barrel. He took a deep breath and held it . . . and then he squeezed the trigger just as the federal’s head popped out of the transport’s cockpit.

  Bang! He fired a single shot, and the soldier’s head exploded in a cloud of red mist, his body falling back inside the truck.

  That was the easy one. The others will be more careful.

  More dangerous.

  He leapt out of the woods, taking advantage of the time it would take the others to move their dead comrade aside and climb out. He reached the back of the truck, his eyes darting around, looking for the controls to open the hatch. He reached up and pulled on the lever. Nothing. It was stuck.

  He spun around the edge of the truck, looking up toward the side door. A shot clanged off the side of the transport, maybe two centimeters from his head.

  Shit!

  That was quicker than I thought.

  He gulped a lungful of air and leapt hard, out into the open. It was a gamble—he was playing for the instant it would take his opponent to realize he wasn’t where he was expected to be. He had one shot . . . maybe.

  He moved quickly, his eyes focused on the soldier on the transport. He could hear the fire, see the clouds of dirt in the air where the shots intended for him impacted.

  He almost stumbled, but he regained his balance, squeezing the trigger, holding it, spraying the transport with a burst of fire. He saw the soldier pushed back as multiple shots slammed into his chest.

  Jamie knew he had a chance now, before the others could free themselves and come at him. He slung the rifle over his back and raced across the few meters to the transport, grabbing on to any handhold he could get, struggling to climb toward the open hatch before the rest of the soldiers could clear their comrade’s body.

  He could feel his muscles burning—his arms, his back—as he powered himself up. He reached up, stretching his arm as far as he could, grabbing the edge of the hatch and pulling hard. He scrambled onto the top of the transport—the overturned side actually—and he moved cautiously toward the opening. He could see the body of the man he just killed moving, as the troopers inside pushed it up, trying to get it out of the way. But Jamie was there already, and he slipped the rifle off his shoulder, bringing it to bear in an instant.

  You fuckers thought you were going to take Katia away from me?

  He flipped the weapon to its full autosetting, and he emptied the clip into the vehicle.

  He barely heard the troopers inside shouting over the gun, at least for a few seconds. Then nothing. He grabbed the man slumped over the opening and pushed him over the side, staring into the vehicle’s cab to make sure. There were three more soldiers inside, and it only took one look at the hideous mess to confirm they were all dead.

  He turned and climbed back down, running around toward the back of the truck. He jumped up and braced himself, pulling with all his strength on the jammed lever. It didn’t budge . . . at first. Then he thought he felt something, movement, no more than a millimeter. He gritted his teeth, pouring all he had into the effort. The metal bar moved again, a few centimeters this time . . . then the resistance was gone and it slammed all the way to the open position.

  He opened the door and looked inside. For an instant he didn’t see anything, and his stomach tensed. But then his eyes fixed on her. She was lying on the side of the compartment, unconscious, half covered with boxes and debris that had broken free.

  Jamie climbed into the back, pushed everything aside, and leaned over her. He put his hand to her face. Still warm. Then he moved his fingers to her neck. He could feel her heartbeat.

  His own was racing pretty hard.

  He turned her over gently, and as soon as he got a good look at her his rage returned. She was banged up from the crash of the truck . . . but there was more. The cut on her face was covered in crusted blood, and her clothes were in tatters. Whatever had happened to her, much of it had been well before she’d stepped into the truck.

  He reached down, picking her up as gently as he could, but not waiting to make sure he wouldn’t be causing more damage. If they were found near a wrecked federal truck with five dead soldiers in it, they’d be dead for certain, so they had to move quickly.

  “I’ve got you, Katia,” he said, knowing she couldn’t hear him. “I’ll get you away from here . . . I promise.”

  Jamie felt the relief at finding her alive, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the cold burn at seeing her like this.

  I’m sorry, Damian, but I’m past the point of no return. I know you wanted to keep me out of the revolution . . . but there is no way now.

  He’d killed nine federal soldiers.

  He was ready to kill more.

  CHAPTER 18

  ALPHA-2 ORBITAL PLATFORM

  IN LOW PLANETARY ORBIT

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  “BLACK WEDNESDAY”

  “Lieutenant Fowler, status report on jamming operations.” Captain Mara Cross walked out of the elevator into the main control room. She wore the dark gray uniform of the navy of Federal America. She and her crew had replaced the colonial security forces that normally ran the station, at least in the command and key operational posts.

&nbs
p; “All jamming operations proceeding at optimum levels, Captain. The power drain is significant, but the reactor is holding up for now.”

  “Very well. Maintain operations.” Cross had warned Asha Stanton that planetwide jamming would strain the station’s power capacity. It was unlikely the effort could be maintained indefinitely, even with the frigates Nobellus and Banshee docked and adding their reactors to the station’s own. She’d had her engineering staff working under near-battle-stations conditions, watching the reactor, trying to see any issues before they truly became problems. But eventually something would slip by, and the reactor would scrag.

  The federal observer had been clear, though: any revolution on Alpha-2 would be crushed, and the orbital station would be a crucial part of that. Part of Cross’s mission was to keep the rebels from communicating effectively, a relatively easy thing to do with total control of the planet’s satellite network. Her people had another job, too: to spot rebel positions and keep the forces on the ground supplied with up-to-date intel.

  “Status of ground support operations?”

  “We are providing continuous intel, Captain. The column en route to Vincennes has apparently been engaged by minor forces hidden in the woods, where our scanners cannot detect them. But we have sent Major Stein a complete map of rebel positions at Vincennes. Enemy strength is estimated at approximately 1100.”

  “Very well.” Cross walked over toward her chair and sat down, thinking quietly for a minute. The battle on the surface would begin in earnest any minute now. She hadn’t expected the rebel force to be so large, but she was confident it wouldn’t matter.

  It is time for those ignorant colonists to learn what it is like to face forces that have modern support.

  Cross didn’t have any real animosity toward the Havenites. Indeed, she tried to be as apolitical as possible, at least as far as she ever let anyone see. What she did have was a specific set of orders. And they superseded other considerations.

  “All scanners on full, Lieutenant . . . and make sure we maintain our comm-lock through the jamming. Our orders are to provide all possible support to Major Stein and his forces.”