Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  Danforth climbed over a body, and moved toward the heavy weapon. He dropped down to his knees, grabbing the gun and angling it toward the approaching federals. He had read all he could about these weapons, and so he was as familiar as he could be with this cannon. He opened fire, targeting a squad moving from around a disabled transport. They were less than ten meters away, and his fire took down three of them almost immediately. The others dove to the ground, and then opened fire on his position.

  He ducked down below the lip of the trench, reaching up, trying to fire the autocannon blindly.

  “Mr. Danforth . . .”

  He turned toward the voice. It was one of the Guardians, a boy barely sixteen or seventeen. Danforth struggled for a name, but it just didn’t come.

  “What is it?” He gestured for the boy to duck down. He’d seen too many of his people killed because they were careless, and he didn’t think he could take much more.

  “Your cousin sent me, sir. He says there are federal troops coming down from the north, moving behind his lines.”

  Fuck . . .

  Danforth wasn’t a soldier. He’d known that before, but the day’s events had pounded it home. He was dedicated, and he even fancied that he’d shown some courage. But he just didn’t know what he was doing. And because of his inexperience, he’d gotten a lot of good people killed.

  No more . . . not today.

  The battle was lost. He’d known that already, but he’d refused to accept it. His people had gotten some of the guns out of Vincennes, but now he realized he’d have to abandon the rest. If he didn’t order a retreat now, he would lose the Guardians. All of them.

  “Go back. Tell Tyler to get his people out. We’ll pull back to Dover and regroup.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy turned and headed north. He’d gotten about ten meters when a heavy round from one of the transports took off the top of his head. Danforth watched him fall, and he closed his eyes. He knelt where he was, barely hanging on, replaying the nightmare of the kid’s death over and over in his mind.

  No . . . you don’t have time for this. These people need you . . .

  He turned toward one of the Guardians standing nearby. “Go up north . . . now! Tell Tyler to retreat to Dover.”

  The man nodded and ran to the north. Danforth turned around and yelled, “Get to the south end of the line and pass the word. Everybody is to retreat through the woods to Dover.” The two men stared back at him for a second. “Go! Now!”

  He snapped his head around. There were ten of his people left in the trench. “Okay, people. Stay with me. We need to buy a few minutes so the others can pull back.”

  He reached back toward the autocannon, gripping it tightly. Then he took a deep breath and raised his head, looking over the edge of the trench. There were federal troops moving right toward him, at least ten in the first group, with a new wave coming up from behind.

  C’mon, Danforth, this is your moment.

  He opened fire.

  CHAPTER 19

  GREEN HILL FOREST

  WEST OF THE OLD NORTH ROAD

  EIGHT KILOMETERS NORTH OF VINCENNES

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  “BLACK WEDNESDAY”

  John moved through the woods, limping from a twisted ankle, but otherwise unhurt. He still couldn’t understand how he’d escaped from the final federal advance . . . much less how he’d gotten away more or less uninjured.

  He was surrounded by Guardians, or what was left of them, men and women moving slowly through the dense woods, many of them walking wounded, others helping their more seriously injured comrades. Danforth had no idea how many people he’d lost at Vincennes . . . or how many Guardians and other rebels had simply fled the battlefield and taken off for home. But he was amazed how many of his people had remained, even through the disastrous final stage of the battle. They were far too spread out for him to even attempt a count, but it was clear that despite the defeat and the near-envelopment of the army, he still had hundreds of men and women in arms. The revolution had suffered a terrible blow. But it wasn’t over.

  “Mr. Danforth, you have to come, sir.” It was one of the Guardians. Harold-something . . . Danforth tried to remember the man’s name.

  “What is it?” His gut tensed. He’d been terrified the federals would continue after his exhausted forces, but there’d been no sign of a pursuit. At least until now.

  “It’s your cousin, sir.”

  Danforth felt as though the breath had been sucked from his body.

  “Tyler?”

  “Please, sir . . . come with me now.”

  He could see the emotion in the rebel’s face. He just nodded and gestured for the man to take the lead.

  He followed the man to the east. There were more Guardians there, trickling through the woods. They were exhausted, defeated, but they seemed to hold their order a little better than the shattered remnants from the center. The flanks had escaped from the federal enveloping move, and they hadn’t been hit as his people in the trench had been.

  They scrambled up a rough hill, and then he saw. Tyler, lying on the ground on top of a tarp, surrounded by at least a dozen Guardians. John could see their faces, and he knew them all. They were among the toughest and most dedicated adherents to the rebel cause. But now their faces were grim, and more than a few were wiping away tears.

  John scrambled forward, dropping to his knees next to Tyler. His cousin was pale, sweating. His eyes were two slits, barely open, and he was groaning softly. He was covered by two large coats.

  “Tyler . . . Ty?” Danforth leaned over his cousin, reaching down and taking the wounded man’s hand in his. “Ty?”

  “John . . .” Tyler’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Yes, Ty. It’s John.” He was struggling, trying to hold back the grief threatening to take him. He reached down, grabbing one of the coats to pull it aside, but one of the Guardians leaned down and stilled his hands.

  “Don’t, sir . . .” The man spoke softly. “It’s bad, Mr. Danforth.”

  Danforth was furious. How dare this man stop him from seeing his own cousin? But then he saw the rebel’s face, the terrible sadness, the helplessness. He loosened his hand, pulled it away.

  “Ty,” he said again, moving his face closer.

  “John . . . do . . . something . . . for . . . me . . .”

  “Anything, Ty. Anything.”

  “Hold . . . the . . . army . . . together . . .”

  Danforth closed his eyes tightly, fighting back the tears. Tyler was dying . . . and his last thoughts were of the army, of the rebellion. It tore at John, sliced open a deep wound inside. But it awakened something else, too—strength. Determination. His dedication had been shaken, his confidence shattered by the battle and the losses. But now his resolve firmed.

  “Whatever . . . it . . . takes . . . John . . . never . . . give . . . up . . .” Tyler gasped for breath, and he coughed, spraying blood from his mouth. He turned his head, slowly, barely, and looked up at John. “Promise . . .”

  John nodded, and then he forced out the words. “I promise, Ty. I promise.”

  He thought he saw a smile on Tyler’s face . . . and his cousin’s hand tightened, squeezing his own for a few seconds. Then Ty let out a deep breath, and his arm went limp.

  Tyler Danforth was dead.

  John sucked in a lungful of air, desperately trying to maintain his composure. He felt for an instant that he might lose control . . . but then he felt the coldness take over. It wasn’t simply anger. It was deeper somehow. He could feel the idealism that had drawn him to the rebel cause fading away. The federals weren’t the opposition anymore. They weren’t his adversaries. They were the enemy, in the purest and darkest form. He hated them, and he craved vengeance. He would make them pay—for all the men and women who had died this day.

  For Tyler.

  “Get those explosives in place now. I want those buildings blown, and I want to get the hell
out of here.” Frasier knew his decision would be second-guessed, that pompous fools like Semmes would call his failure to pursue the defeated rebels an act of cowardice, of incompetence. But there was nothing he could do about that. The column had less than half the more than five hundred troops who had left Landfall still in the field, and they still had to go back down that road . . .

  There were more than a hundred and fifty dead, plus as many wounded. And even those still in arms were exhausted, their morale, even in victory, near the breaking point. The force was in no condition to advance farther, let alone conduct a running pursuit across country sympathetic to the enemy. His mission was to destroy the weapons cache, and he was going to do that and get the fuck out of there.

  His head snapped around as a loud crack echoed across the clearing.

  Those damned snipers . . .

  “Pindry . . .” His voice was sharp, tight, the anger clear in every word. “Send a squad out there and run down those damned shooters.” The partisans in the woods had hurt his forces badly, both on the approach march, and later, when they reappeared just as the final assault was under way. Frasier wasn’t a brutal man by nature, but even he’d taken as much as he could. He’d ordered all snipers killed on sight, no surrenders to be accepted.

  Not that any of them have tried to surrender.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pindry was among the wounded, but it was only a minor round he’d caught in the arm. He’d had it quickly dressed, and then he’d returned to his shattered command.

  Frasier hadn’t known much about Pindry before the battle, but he had nothing but admiration for the officer now. The younger man had somehow held his crumbling unit together long enough for Frasier to lead up the reserves and punch through the rebel line. The final assault had reached its climax just as the flanking forces were moving against the northern and southern ends of the enemy line. The rebels, who had fiercely clung to their positions until then, collapsed in a few minutes, hundreds streaming to the rear.

  His soldiers pressed the attack, gunning them down as they fled, but then the survivors reached the woods on the other side of the village. That was when Frasier knew he couldn’t pursue. Sure, he had felt an urge to send his lead elements after them, to stay on their tails and prevent them from regrouping. But he remembered what the irregulars in the woods had done to the fresh column. He had visions of his troops—nearly as disordered in victory as their adversaries were in defeat—being cut off, surrounded in small groups, shot down . . . and worse.

  He’d walked along the Old North Road, staring down at the bodies. He’d seen a dead man, his hair and the skin at the top of his head sliced off. No, he’d decided. He couldn’t send his exhausted, battered troops plunging into the woods without any scouting reports or air cover.

  Destroy the weapons, and get back home.

  Not that it was going to be easy. He’d lost too many transports in the battle, and most of those still operational were packed full of wounded. That meant most of the column would be marching back on foot as it was. And he had no way of knowing what was out in the woods all around Vincennes. Were there more rebel forces on the way? How many of the irregulars were still out there? It was just too dangerous. He’d told Major Stein his concerns, and the column commander had told him to do what he thought best . . . and then he’d remained inside his armored command vehicle.

  Still, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind the blame for the losses suffered—and for letting the rebel survivors get away—would land on him.

  Fuck . . . I really didn’t need all this on my shoulders.

  Pindry jogged back toward him. “The explosives are ready, sir.”

  Frasier looked over toward the massive barn, and the three smaller buildings where his people had found weapons. The guns were all leading edge, modern union and hegemony models. He suspected his report would stir things up back on Earth. Federal America’s diplomats would scream bloody murder, lodging official complaint after official complaint about the other powers interfering in its internal matters. And the ambassadors from the union and the hegemony would throw up their hands and shout back just as loudly, denying any involvement, blaming black marketeers or accusing the Americans of setting the whole thing up to discredit them.

  In the end it would all come to nothing. The last war had been over less than five years, and none of the powers were ready for a full-scale resumption of hostilities. Still, Frasier was glad at least that his involvement in the source of the rebel weapons would end with the filing of the report.

  “Are all your people clear?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Frasier took one last look at the building. He couldn’t have imagined the effort it had taken the rebels to acquire so many weapons . . . or the cost. There was satisfaction, at least, that these hundreds of guns would do his people no further harm. That was a gain to set against the terrible losses they had suffered.

  “Then let’s blow these things, and get the hell out of here.”

  “It’s true, Cal. The federals took Vincennes. Solid information is hard to come by, but it sounds like the Guardians had at least three hundred killed and wounded, maybe more.” Zig’s normally confident cocky mien was clearly shaken now.

  Jacen stared back, not responding at first. It was the third report he’d had of the battle at Vincennes, and they were all pointing to a bloody fiasco. Finally, he looked up at Welch and asked, “What are you hearing about the federals?”

  “They took heavy losses, too, especially from Killian’s bushwhackers.” He paused. “I’ve heard some stories about the fighting in the woods, the ambushes—they must be exaggerations.”

  “Don’t count on that, Zig. Killian is a strange guy. And he’s gathered every half-crazy nutcase he could find.”

  Jacen had once considered inviting Killian into the Society. The man was certainly a rock-solid rebel, and his abilities were beyond question. But Jacen and his followers were political radicals, determined to wash away the sins of the old regime with a river of blood. Killian wanted to bathe in that river, to strike back endlessly at the government that had wronged him. Jacen sympathized with the ranger, and he agreed wholeheartedly he’d been terribly wronged. But he also knew Killian’s experience had cost him more than his military career. It had cost him his sanity. The man was certifiably crazy, and while he appreciated the good Killian could do for the revolution in the field, he’d decided against making the ranger a true insider. Hearing this news only confirmed his feelings.

  Frankly, Jacen was scared shitless of him.

  “Well, crazy or not, his rangers probably saved whatever is left of the Guardians . . . and the others who rallied to Danforth’s call.”

  Jacen nodded. “He’s a powerful tool . . . but a dangerous one as well.” He paused. “Nevertheless, we are at a critical stage. The rebel army, such as it is, has been battered. Morale is failing. A large portion of our cached weapons have been destroyed. And the communications blackout is stifling the spread of the rebellion.” He gave Welch a significant look. “We must be able to get the word out, or we are doomed to fail.”

  Welch blinked. “You want to move on Cargraves. You want to break out Jonas Holcomb.” The two had discussed that very plan multiple times. But it was difficult . . . maybe impossible.

  And it would be costly.

  But Jacen didn’t see any other options at this point. The defeat at Vincennes had shown him this was not going to be an easy fight. “Yes. If anyone can find a way to cut through that damned jamming, it’s Holcomb.”

  “But we don’t even know if he’ll help us.”

  “He’s been in that hellhole for a long time now, Zig. You don’t think he’s going to want to get payback from the federals? We can use that.”

  “I guess. But it will also take almost all the cash we have left in reserve. And with Danforth on the run, his house and company confiscated, we’re not likely to see more anytime soon.”

  Jacen nodded. “I know. You’re r
ight. But if we don’t find a way to communicate, for the revolution to spread before it is extinguished, we’re dead before we even get started. I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Welch stood silently for a moment, looking unconvinced at first. But then he nodded as well. “I don’t like it, Cal, but you’re right. We don’t have a choice.”

  “No, we don’t. And we don’t have time to waste either.”

  Damian sat in his library. It was his favorite place, a room he had designed himself to be his refuge, a place he could come, to read, to relax—just to be himself. He’d built a row of bookcases along one of the walls, in anticipation of the collection of old-style books he’d intended to collect in retirement, though the effort of getting a large farm in operation and the disturbances rocking his adopted world had proven to be significant distractions. As such, there were only eight volumes tucked into one corner of twenty or thirty linear meters of shelf space.

  Damian had planned a lot of things when he’d shed his uniform and come to Haven, and despite the paltry number of books adorning his library, he had cause to be pleased with his efforts. But now he was hunched forward over his desk, his clothes a rumpled mess, a half-empty bottle of brandy sitting next to him.

  Damian wasn’t a drinker, nor was he the type of man to seek escape from his problems, preferring to confront them head-on. But for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do, what path to follow . . . and he’d decided he needed something to quiet the voices, to dull the pain.

  He’d gotten Alexi and Katia Rand out of their house before federal reinforcements arrived, and he’d left nothing traceable in his wake. He’d hesitated for a moment before he lit the fire, but he knew there was no alternative. He couldn’t leave any evidence behind for the federals that might lead them to him or to the underground room where he’d hidden the Rands.

  He didn’t know what had driven him to build the secret refuge, but for all its utility now, he knew it wasn’t hidden well enough to defeat a truly comprehensive search effort. But it was the best he could do for now. Alexi needed time to recover from his wound, and Katia . . .