Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  He didn’t know exactly what Katia had been through. She had thanked him profusely when she’d awakened, but she hadn’t said a word about her flight through the city and her escape back to her house. Still, it was clear she’d had a hard time of it, and he was damned sure he wasn’t going to let anything else happen to her.

  He wished he had the same conviction on everything else happening around him as he did in his loyalty to his friends. He was harboring fugitives . . . and he’d done all he could to help Jamie escape, something he knew was sufficient by itself to send him to the scaffold.

  Yet he still couldn’t bring himself to fully join the rebel cause. He was from the slums of Washington, a place where less than half the children born reached adulthood. The army had saved him, and his service had given him respect, prestige, even a chance to build something of value. And that service had been to Federal America. He’d followed its flag into battle; he’d fought its enemies with all he had to give. And it seemed anathema to him to raise arms against it now, however much he understood the provocations that had driven the rebels to arms.

  Also, any chance of a peaceful solution was lost when the federal observer arrived. Damian had realized then and there the authorities on Earth had decided that negotiations weren’t an option and that Asha Stanton’s only concern was crushing the rebellion once and for all.

  He suspected the government in Washington had underestimated the Havenites, and he was convinced the federals would have a much harder fight on their hands than they were expecting. Which only increased the chance his new home was facing a holocaust of daunting proportions.

  But for all his keen analysis, he had no idea what to do himself. Let his neighbors, his friends, fight alone? Or take up arms, march against the flag he had served? And if he did, how many friends would face him from the other side? Alexandra Thornton was more than a just a comrade in battle. There was . . . history. Could he take the field against her? Could he target her in his sights, pull the trigger, extinguish her life, and leave her lying in the mud and filth of the battlefield? And if he did, could he live with himself?

  Was he being naïve, though? Was neutrality a real possibility? His cooperation with the governor had earned him enemies among the rebels, and brought down their retribution on him. It had cost the life of one of his people.

  Would the federals be any different? Would they allow him and the other veterans to go about their business, to stay out of the conflict . . . or would they demand the retired soldiers all declare for them, even call them back to the colors to fight against their neighbors?

  “Fuck!”

  Damian picked up his head, looking around the room. It was empty. And it was moving. Or at least it looked that way to him. Ben Withers had come in half a dozen times since he’d sat at his desk three hours before and opened the bottle. The ex-noncom was clearly worried about his old commander. But the last time Withers had asked if he was okay, Damian had sent him scurrying for the door with firm orders not to return.

  He’s probably peering around some corner even now, keeping an eye on me . . .

  He felt guilty just thinking that, even through the alcoholic haze. Ben Withers was as loyal as a man could be.

  You’re a piece of shit, Ward. He was just worried about you . . .

  Yeah, well—I’m worried about me, too.

  Damian reached out, grabbing the bottle and looking around. He knew there’d been a glass; he remembered getting it. But now he couldn’t find it. He shrugged and put the bottle to his lips, taking a large swig. He hated the taste, and it burned his throat going down. But he couldn’t bear the idea of any more sober thoughts, not now. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and his problems would still be there.

  For now, all he wanted was oblivion.

  CHAPTER 20

  GREEN HILL FOREST

  JUST WEST OF DOVER VILLAGE

  SIXTEEN KILOMETERS NORTH OF VINCENNES

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  John Danforth moved around, trying without success to get at least moderately comfortable on the folding chair. He looked around the makeshift table, half a dozen rough boards nailed together, stacked on top of two large crates. None of the others sitting with him looked any better off. They all had to make do with what they had—the comforts of the Danforth estate and his plush office were a vestige of the past, and a hard war lay between him and regaining any of that.

  Not that any of them would complain. The Guardians had lost heavily—two hundred and two dead, he now knew, and seventy-six wounded, most of those lightly, thank God. But there were two hundred and six missing as well, and he knew many of them had been seriously injured, unable to withdraw with their comrades. A few badly wounded Guardians made it back, mostly through the herculean efforts of their fellows, but the others had been left behind.

  Abandoned to the federals . . .

  It ate at him, the thought of those men and women made prisoners, or dying alone, but there hadn’t been anything he could do about it. If his people had stayed in Vincennes another ten minutes none of them would have escaped . . . and the rebellion would be over.

  And those prisoners would still be prisoners, as would the rest of the Guardians.

  He knew his logic had been sound, that his action had saved his force from total destruction, but he still hated himself for giving the order. For having to be the one to give the order. But who else was there? For good or for ill, he was their leader, and they were looking for him to do just that: lead.

  So let’s get started.

  “We must find a way to spread the word. Even here, near Landfall, we have supporters who do not know there is an army of rebels already in the field. And that army is not defeated. Yes, we lost a battle, but we hurt them as much as they hurt us. We can fight the federals! But only if we can gather more men and women and let them know what’s going on.”

  Danforth had tried not to think about the weapons they’d lost, the fortune he’d paid to get that ordnance to Haven. It didn’t seem important with so many of his followers dead or in federal captivity. At least Vincennes hadn’t been the Guardians’ only stash of guns. “Riley!” he shouted suddenly.

  Riley James ran over to him. “Yes, Mr. Danforth.” Riley was twenty-three, but her slight build and her short, spiky blond haircut made her look even younger. She’d been one of his assistants at Danforth Communications, until her strong rebel leanings became apparent. She’d kept her job after that, technically at least, but her work over the past year had almost entirely involved the Guardians of Liberty and Danforth’s political activities. Despite her young age, she quickly became one of his inner circle.

  “We need to send a party to Strickland Lake. There’s another cache there . . . and we need to secure those weapons immediately. We have to get everyone rearmed and resupplied with ammo.” It was the latter that gave him pause. The Guardians had expended an enormous amount of ordnance in the battle, and hundreds of them had thrown down their arms when they retreated. The astonishing amount of material it took to keep a fighting force in the field was only just dawning on him. Which made getting to Strickland Lake all the more crucial.

  “And we still don’t know how the federals found out about Vincennes. We can’t take any chances with the other caches—if we have a spy in our midst . . .” His voice trailed off. The idea of a turncoat among his beloved Guardians was painful . . . but he hadn’t been able to come up with any other explanation as to how the federals had suddenly found out about Vincennes.

  “Yes, Mr. Danforth. I’ll make sure it’s done at once.” Like every interaction he’d ever had with her, the sheer competence she exuded came through with every word she spoke. Today, however, there was also sympathy. She’d known Tyler, of course, and she had been very fond of him, as almost everyone in the rebel cause had been. And for all his efforts, John Danforth had not done a very good job hiding his pain. At least, not from those who knew him well.

  She
paused, as though she was going to say something else. But then she just nodded once and turned around, running down the hill to carry out his command.

  Danforth sat still for a few seconds, turning his head and watching his aide. He was very fond of Riley. Indeed, in many ways she’d slipped into the role of the daughter he’d never had. Images of her passed through his mind, dark ones: her lying on the ground, covered in blood . . . the light in her eyes slipping away, as Tyler’s had.

  He’d involved her in his rebel activities, and now part of him regretted it. Her service, her reliability, they were crucial to him . . . but now he realized how much danger he’d put her in. He’d always known rebellion was a hazardous game, but there was a difference between theoretical dangers and the dead, broken bodies of comrades, of friends. He’d found that out the hard way at Vincennes. And just as he’d ordered the Guardians to retreat, he felt an urge to send her away, someplace where she’d be safe.

  Is there even such a place on Haven now?

  He shook his head. He needed her. The cause needed her. Besides, she would never leave him. He would have to break her spirit to make her go. And he knew he didn’t have the strength to do that, or the endurance to look at the hurt in her eyes if he did.

  He stood up abruptly. Doubts, guilt, uncertainty—there was a time and place for that. The Guardians needed a leader, and he knew that was him, no matter how much his first battle had shaken his confidence.

  He turned and walked down the hill, following the path she’d taken. Things were suddenly clear to him. He had to get his people ready to carry on the fight. Equipping them was part of that . . . and leading them would be the rest. He knew they were scared and confused—he was, too. But he wouldn’t let that become despair. For once he let them progress down that road the rebellion would truly be over.

  And he was far from done. He stood up a bit straighter as he headed down the hill. He was going to be the leader they needed right now: alert, active, hopeful . . . not wallowing in his own stew of remorse and fear. He felt the determination building inside him. He would hold them together, whatever it took—whatever it cost John Danforth, the man.

  And the next time the federals faced his Guardians, he swore the result would be a far different one.

  Colonel Semmes scowled as he walked through the courtyard of the federal complex. The normally manicured grounds had been given over to a holding area. Rebel wounded were scattered all around, men and women, mostly those hurt too badly to escape. The hospital in Landfall was already overwhelmed dealing with the federal wounded, so Semmes had ordered the rebels to be left where they were. He hadn’t had the slightest intention of providing any kind of care at all, but Governor Wells had intervened, arguing vehemently that basic decency required providing at least some level of medical attention. Semmes had argued, but Observer Stanton had sided with Wells, at least at first. Stanton had been making a significant effort to work with the governor, to make him part of the overall solution, even though she had the authority to overrule him on virtually anything.

  Which pissed him off. To say he had been frustrated with Stanton would have been an understatement. For all her disdain for Alpha-2, for all her impatience to escape the provincial nature of life on the colony, she had been reluctant to allow him to take the full measures he’d requested.

  It chafed. Who the hell did she think she was? His grandfather had been a senator, a titan of government. Hers, for all the war-created Stanton wealth, was a jumped-up tradesman. His authority was his birthright; hers had been purchased with family money.

  For three days he’d walked through the courtyard, watched the orderlies running back and forth, bringing water to the wounded, erecting tents to protect them from the sun. And for those three days he had argued for more . . . decisive . . . measures against the captured rebels. Wounded or not, he argued, they were traitors, and they offered a real chance to make a clear point to the population. A display of the cost of treason, one the people would never forget.

  Stanton had steadfastly refused the extreme proposal he had made initially, but finally he had worn her down. The lists of federal casualties had eroded her opposition, the numbers continuing to grow each day as new data was compiled. But it was the bodies, the ones she’d ordered retrieved for proper disposal, that did the trick. He could still remember the look on her face as she stared down at the half dozen corpses, five men and a woman, stabbed and slashed at least a dozen times. And the hideous wounds on their heads: the hair gone, skulls exposed and caked with dried blood.

  She’d looked sick and excused herself from the room. When she came back, she gave Semmes the go-ahead he’d been seeking.

  It’s about fucking time, he had thought then.

  He’d arranged everything (he’d had it ready even before he had Stanton’s orders), even a short break in the communications jamming. This was something he wanted to broadcast for every citizen to see. So they knew as clearly as possible: this was how traitors would be treated from now on.

  He looked over at the line of soldiers against the wall. There were thirty of them, and they were clad in spotless uniforms, looking like images of military perfection. They held assault rifles, and on the end of each weapon there was a shiny bit of metal. The army had long ago abandoned the bayonet as a weapon, but the anti-insurgency forces had maintained them, mostly for their utility in crowd control situations. But today they would have another use.

  He turned to the left, looking up at a man standing in front of a small tower, appearing like something built from a large version of a child’s erector set. There was a large camera on top, mounted on a rotating platform. The man nodded.

  “All right, people . . . let’s get this going . . . we don’t have all day.” He nodded back at the man in front of the camera tower, the signal to cut the jamming. Semmes watched as the man moved to his comm unit and called the orbital platform, relaying the command. A moment later he turned back and nodded again.

  Semmes turned around and walked toward the wall, stopping in front of a smaller camera. The technician standing behind said, “Any time you are ready, Colonel.”

  Semmes stepped in front of the camera, standing ramrod straight. “Citizens of Alpha-2, I am Colonel Robert Semmes, commander of all colonial and anti-insurgency forces on this planet. As most of you know, rebel forces were defeated in a battle at Vincennes four days ago, and a large cache of illegal weapons was destroyed. Over one hundred rebels wounded in the fighting were subsequently captured.” He paused. “You will now all see what happens to traitors, to citizens who rise up against their rightful government. These men and women took arms against their nation. They spilled the blood of federal soldiers.

  “And now they will pay the price.”

  He turned and looked toward the lieutenant commanding the detachment. The officer saluted and spun around, shouting out commands. The soldiers moved forward, bayonet-tipped rifles pointed toward the sky. They marched forward in lockstep, and when they reached the first wounded rebels they stopped and flipped their rifles around. Then they struck, bayonetting the helpless men and women, before moving forward toward the next row.

  There were cries, of pain by those who were stabbed, and of fear and horror by those next in line. But the soldiers continued. Methodical. Merciless. And in less than ten minutes it was done. Every prisoner in the courtyard was dead.

  Semmes stood there smiling. Then he gestured toward the man by the camera—the signal to order the orbital platform to resume jamming. He had nothing else to say to the population. His actions had been communication enough.

  He stared out over the courtyard for another minute. Then he turned and walked into the building.

  “It’s true, sir. The jamming has stopped, at least for now.” Ben Withers stood outside the glass door leading into Damian’s library. The normally tidy room was a mess, reeking of spilled brandy and days-old sweat. Withers was doing a superb job of ignoring Damian’s condition. Nevertheless, even through his han
gover and the fogginess clouding his brain, Damian could see immediately something was troubling his aide.

  “What’s wrong, Ben?” Damian asked, forcing the words from his dry, pasty mouth.

  “Sir, I think you should turn on the vid . . .” He paused. “They are broadcasting it on every channel.” He hesitated again. “I’m afraid something terrible is happening.”

  Damian reached down, tapping at the controls on his desk. A second later, the large screen at the other end of the room snapped on. A man was on the screen, speaking. He wore a uniform, and a colonel’s insignia on his shoulders.

  Semmes . . .

  The man was talking, and Damian immediately detected the hard edge to his voice. Not anger, not exactly. Something colder, more dangerous. And then suddenly, he realized what was about to happen.

  My God . . . no . . .

  Damian’s eyes were unmoving, locked on the screen as he watched Semmes finish his address. The camera panning over an open area—the courtyard at the federal complex, he realized. And soldiers, moving. Slowly, steadily, across a field of wounded men and women. They held assault rifles, tipped with something bright.

  Bayonets . . .

  “No . . .” Damian whispered as he watched the nightmare unfold.

  The room was silent as he and Withers watched the prisoners murdered. All of them. He was still staring a moment later when the broadcast ended and the static of the jamming pattern returned.

  Jamie stood in the clearing, looking over the shoulders of one of the Guardians. There were seven or eight of them gathered, watching the footage of the massacre of the prisoners. John Danforth had ordered data chips with the recorded footage to be distributed throughout the rebels’ makeshift camp.

  The clip was having the desired effect . . . or at least what Jamie suspected Danforth had intended. He didn’t know John Danforth, except through Damian. He was well aware his friend respected the communications magnate—and rebel leader—but he also knew Damian had more than once refused Danforth’s calls for him to join the Guardians. He couldn’t help but try to imagine Damian’s reaction to this latest outrage.