Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  Despite the massive damage the rangers had inflicted on the federals along their approach the last time, they hadn’t been turned back. If this force was indeed even larger, it was unlikely Killian’s forces could have a major impact. Especially since the federals would be more careful this time. Without the surprise they had enjoyed before, the rangers would suffer heavy losses. And as uncomfortable as Danforth was with Killian’s methods, he knew the rangers were among the best fighters he had, and he couldn’t afford to lose any for the potential to merely wound the federals.

  “Advise the captain I want the rangers back here as quickly as possible. He is not to engage.”

  “Yes, sir.” The kid stood straight. Then he turned and ran toward the woods, heading back the way he had come.

  Danforth stood where he was. For a few seconds he thought about the kid, feeling as though he should go after him. But then he stopped. He didn’t have time to worry about one boy turned warrior. He had his whole army to think about. The federals were coming, and he didn’t know how his people could possibly defeat a force the size Killian had reported. The problem was, retreat wasn’t a good option either. If his forces left the woods, the enemy satellites would track every move they made . . . and the federal airships would cut them down on their march.

  Dammit, we can’t run. Whatever the odds, however strong a force we face, we must fight.

  He started shouting orders.

  Kendrick Johnson moved through the woods, about two meters ahead of his squad. He wore sergeant’s stripes now, an almost astonishingly rapid ascent from his days not long before as a private. But Vincennes had cost the federal forces a lot of experienced NCOs, and Semmes had purged the colonial units, discharging or imprisoning those his investigators flagged as having rebel sympathies, even those simply deemed insufficiently prepared to use harsh methods against the colonists.

  Johnson had been all for it at first, as he had been well aware that some of his colleagues had mixed loyalties. Some of them had married local men and women, and a few, it had come out, were active members of rebel groups, double agents of a sort. Those foolish few had been summarily executed, and many of the others had been imprisoned. But most were simply dishonorably discharged and scheduled for transit back to Earth. And while Johnson wasn’t a fan of some of Semmes’s methods—he still had nightmares about the massacre at Landfall—he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and do his job.

  And now that job was as sergeant.

  He now had ten soldiers under him, including two of his original four, the half of his team that had survived the fighting at Vincennes.

  As much as it was exciting to get such rapid promotions—and the money was much better—the fact was, he wasn’t sure if he wanted the responsibility.

  Fuck it—I’m not even sure I want to still do this job at all.

  Again, though, he kept his mouth shut. So when Lieutenant Parks said, “Johnson, get your people moving forward. We’re advancing along the whole line,” he simply turned to his team and signaled them to move out. Lieutenant Parks was one of the anti-insurgency troops who’d come with Colonel Semmes. Johnson had welcomed the harsh new commander and the stern forces he had brought with him, but his hatred for the colonists had waned in the past two weeks, his need for vengeance sated by the death and destruction he’d witnessed at Vincennes. He’d killed at least two rebels there, and the last one had been a shock to him. He’d fired, taking down the enemy from perhaps thirty meters. Then he’d advanced . . . and gotten his first close look. It was a young woman.

  No, a girl. Sixteen, maybe . . . it was hard to tell since you blasted her face to a bloody mess.

  His zeal to fight the rebels dissipated sharply after that, and the next two weeks of kicking down doors and dragging screaming colonists off to the overcrowded prisons had sapped it further. He’d seen enough crying spouses begging the soldiers to release their husbands and wives, enough children clutching to the legs of their parents as they were dragged off, to last a lifetime. His need for vengeance was sated, and now the suffering he saw made him sick to his stomach.

  He still blamed the rebels for causing the whole nightmare Haven had become, but after the courage he’d seen on the battlefield at Vincennes, he couldn’t detest them the way he had before. They might be wrong, but he had no doubt they believed in their cause, likely with more fervor than he supported the federal one.

  And it was a lot easier to kill someone you hated.

  A lot of that feeling came from the fact that the federals outnumbered the rebels, and their forces had moved all around the woods, surrounding Danforth and his people. His officers had assured him this fight would be nothing like Vincennes, that it would be over in a few hours, and with its conclusion, the rebellion would be crushed. But Johnson had doubts. He’d seen the way the rebels had fought . . . and he didn’t expect them to be any less fierce when they were cornered, surrounded.

  He was preparing himself for the worst.

  He continued to move forward through the dense trees and knee-high underbrush. His head pivoted every ten seconds or so, scanning the woods on either side. He knew there were friendly units there, and scouts ahead of the main formation, but he still remembered those rebel bushwhackers. The federal force at Vincennes had suffered almost as many casualties marching to the field as they had in the main battle itself. His people had largely escaped that part of the fight, but he’d seen enough bodies to scare the hell out of him, more than one of them mutilated beyond recognition.

  Johnson tried to push the thoughts aside, but it didn’t really help. He was scared shitless . . . and the responsibility for ten other soldiers only made it worse. Part of him longed to shed his stripes, to slip back into the line, a private again, responsible only for himself and maybe the man next to him. But that wasn’t an option. Not now.

  He heard a shot, and his head snapped around, his eyes squinting, trying to see what was happening.

  Another shot, and a small burst.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Hundreds of rifles began firing. Then the louder, higher-pitched sound of the autocannons filled the air. It was ahead, and off to the right of his squad. But there was no question. The army had made contact.

  The battle had begun.

  And lots of people are about to fucking die.

  The bullet whizzed by Jamie’s head, so close he’d have sworn he felt it graze his cheek. He ducked down, lower, behind the large stump he was using for cover, and touched his cheek. No blood.

  Be careful, Jamie boy, or the next one will take off that pretty head of yours.

  Despite all the violence he’d faced growing up, all the fights he’d survived in the mine, and the nine federals he’d killed, Jamie had never actually been in a battle. For the first time, he faced the true experience of war, and it was nothing like he expected. Every other time he’d fought, it had been heat of the moment. There wasn’t the long pause where you lived inside your head as you waited for the inevitable attack.

  He struggled to force enough breath into his lungs, and his stomach did flips. He’d almost vomited once, and he was still nauseated. He’d never considered himself a coward, but now he was wondering. All he wanted to do was run, to get away from the death and destruction and keep going until he was safe.

  But safety was an illusion, a dream that didn’t exist. The only safety he’d know rested with victory. So he bore down, took in another breath, and tried to center himself. His eyes panned the woods in front of him, watching, looking for movement. He whipped his rifle around and fired. Then he ducked back down, just as a burst of fire flew over his head.

  He understood now, at least better than he had, the nightmares that lived in Damian’s mind. He knew the retired officer had seen many battles, watched comrades die, that he’d been wounded twice himself. He’d always respected his friend’s courage, but now he had an insight he’d lacked before. And his respect only grew.

  God, I wish he was here with me. />
  He dropped down, lying on his stomach, crawling to the edge of the stump. The fire was too heavy to expose himself again. He peered out, trying to spot any enemy soldiers. The underbrush was thirty centimeters high, though, and it blocked his view. He looked up, trying to get a look above the heavy grass and sprawling bushes.

  He still couldn’t see anything.

  He could hear the fire, though, and it was only intensifying, the branches and leaves above him chewed apart by something heavier than an assault rifle.

  Damn—they’ve got an autocannon out there.

  Jamie heard a cry then, one of his comrades off to the left. He felt the urge to crawl over to the soldier’s aid, but he couldn’t abandon his position. If the federals got through the line here they could outflank the rebel forces on both sides . . . and they could press on to Dover and take the headquarters and the main supply depot. That would be the end of the rebel army, Jamie knew . . . all but the mopping up. And he couldn’t let that happen.

  Not that me staying here is going to matter all that much when that autocannon comes to bear. It’s going to clear out this entire section of the line and there’s not much we can do to stop it.

  Not for the first time today Jamie thought about how thinly they were spread here.

  I know we’re supposed to stay in position, but we’re going to die unless somebody does something. He looked around.

  Guess I’m somebody.

  The fear grew in him, but he did his best to ignore it, springing into action without giving himself time to think about it. He jerked his body off to the right, out of the immediate line of fire. Then he crouched low and ran through the woods, moving as quickly as he could. He almost tripped over a root, but he managed to regain his balance after stumbling a few meters.

  He heard bullets ripping by behind him, and he turned his rifle, firing off to the side as he continued to run. Then he saw it, nestled in behind a pile of branches, hastily thrown together to create some cover: the autocannon. It had been nearly invisible from his earlier spot, but Jamie was coming in from the side, flanking the gun.

  His eyes fixed on the three men crewing the weapon. One was firing, while another was dragging a heavy box of ammunition forward. The third was off to the side, looking through a pair of binoculars.

  Searching for targets . . . for our men and women to kill.

  Well, I don’t have to look any farther for my own target . . .

  Jamie acted on instinct. He snapped upright, standing straight. He knew he was making himself a target, but he only had one chance to take out the autocannon. He was a decent shot, better than he had any right to expect considering his lack of experience, but he’d never take out three enemies quickly enough—not crouched over and firing from an awkward position.

  Exposed, he pulled the trigger and he saw the man drop the binoculars, falling back into the underbrush. He knew he should have taken out the shooter first, but something about the trooper standing there, spotting his comrades and marking them to be killed, pissed him off.

  Jamie angled the rifle, staring down the sights, centering the crosshairs on the firer. Crack. His rifle let out one shot . . . and he watched the target fall back, the top half of his head blown off.

  At this point the loader was reacting, dropping the ammo box and reaching for his own rifle. But Jamie’s weapon spoke again . . . and the third man fell, first to his knees, wobbling there for a few seconds before he dropped to the ground.

  Jamie was already running. He’d been stationary for too long, and he could hear the enemy fire all around him. But he wasn’t heading back to his line.

  No, he had zero intentions of leaving the autocannon there so the federals could move up and reman it.

  He covered the ground quickly, then dropped prone, ducking below what was left of the savaged underbrush. He reached around behind his back, pulling one of the grenades hanging from his belt. It wasn’t much, just a frag unit, relying on shrapnel to take out enemy infantry. But it was all he had.

  And it should be enough.

  He shoved it under the autocannon, and pulled the pin. Then he leapt up and ran back toward the rebel lines. With any luck, a shard of shrapnel would put a hole in the weapon’s barrel. But even if it didn’t, it would blow off the stand . . . and at least make it difficult to put the gun back in action anytime soon.

  Jamie heard the gunfire all around him, and the deadly danger of his audacious stunt was starting to hit home. He ran as quickly as he could, pumping his legs hard. He could see his old position ahead, hear his comrades on both sides shouting for him to run faster.

  But he wasn’t fast enough.

  It felt as though a sledgehammer slammed into his back. He stumbled forward, the blow enough to send him spinning. He tried to continue running, but the strength drained from his legs. He saw the leaves, the canopy of the woods far above him . . . and then he felt the impact.

  He was lying on the ground, looking up. He was confused, disoriented. The sounds of the battle were gone, replaced by silence.

  He gasped for air, but every breath was agony. He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. He saw figures moving past—federal infantry, something inside him said. But he couldn’t really be sure.

  And then the light began to fade . . .

  Danforth stood on the edge of the village, staring out into the woods where the rebel forces were heavily engaged with the federals. He longed to move forward, to stand on the line with his people, but he couldn’t.

  The battle at Vincennes had been conventional at least, two lines of soldiers engaging each other. But the fight at Dover was different. For one thing, his people had outnumbered the federals at Vincennes, but now they were outgunned at least two to one. For another, the federals weren’t formed up in a line. They were deployed all around, approaching the village from every direction. There were skirmishes on all sides, and fierce localized firefights. Danforth had known retreat would be death to his forces, but now he realized the option was truly gone. His army was encircled. This would certainly be its last fight if he didn’t find a way to pull victory from the jaws of defeat.

  I just need to figure out how the hell I’m going to do that.

  Riley James ran up to him. “Mr. Danforth, the enemy is breaking through all along the perimeter. We’ve got multiple reports of our people falling back in disorder with heavy casualties. It looks like the Guardians are fighting well . . . but there are just too many federals. We can’t hold them anywhere, sir.”

  Danforth sighed softly. He’d planned the rebellion for years, and in every scenario he’d imagined, the call went out across Haven. A cry for its people to rise up, to stand with the Guardians, to take back their world. As someone who had pretty much controlled communications on the planet, he’d never imagined a total blockage of the signal, an inability to spread the word. He had no doubt people had some idea of what was happening, and that they were responding. But without coordination, they would be too few, too disorganized. He tried not to think about how many had just managed to get themselves arrested—or shot—trying to find and join his forces.

  So much we never really thought about. It’s as if we were just playing at revolution in those basements.

  “What should we do, sir?”

  He turned and looked at Riley, seeing the earnest expression on her face. He wanted more than anything to come up with a stratagem, some wild plan that promised a chance of victory, and confirm to her the confidence she had in him was justified. But this was an impossible situation. He’d spent his time organizing, giving speeches . . . but he wasn’t a military commander. He didn’t know how to lead an army. He’d hoped Damian Ward would come around, that he would take up the field command of the rebel forces . . . but only now was he realizing how much he had depended on that.

  “There is nothing to do, Riley.” He had thought about ordering his forces to mass together, to attack in one or two sectors and try to break out. But that was just suicide in a diff
erent form. The federals didn’t possess a lot of air power, but what they did have would cut down hundreds of his people as they fled across the plains. And while the rebels had some antiair weapons, they were hidden in a cellar in Dover. He’d never get them deployed in time.

  No, all he could do was watch his people gunned down. Or surrender. He knew that meant death for him, but perhaps, amid the collapse of rebellion, some of the rebels would be spared. Governor Wells, at least, would lobby for a merciful policy.

  “Order the contingent commanders to request terms of surrender, Riley. Now.”

  He could see the expression on her face, desperate defiance giving way to despair. “Mr. Danforth . . . no . . .”

  “Do it, Riley. And then get back here. Stay in one of the houses until it’s all over . . . and then surrender yourself to the first federals you see.” Every word he spoke cut at him like a blade, but he knew he had no choice. He would ask his people to fight for freedom, to make the ultimate sacrifice, if necessary. But he wouldn’t send them to their deaths when there was no chance of success.

  Riley hesitated, and he could see the tears welling up in her eyes. Danforth knew his aide was smart . . . and that she realized a surrender was a death sentence for him, and the rest of the leadership.

  “Sir . . .”

  “Go, Riley,” he said softly. “Do as I say. Please . . . one last time.” His voice was soft, and he forced a half smile to his lips. “And thank you . . . for your service. For your friendship.” He reached out and put his hand on her face. “Don’t do anything foolish, please . . . save yourself.”

  She stared back at him for a few seconds, the tears streaming down her face. Then she said simply, “Yes, sir.” She bit her lip, then with a cry said, “Goodbye, Mr. Danforth,” and turned and ran toward the woods.

  Danforth sighed as he watched her go. He suspected a few of his people would manage to slip away from the field . . . but to what? Unless they could hide all evidence of their involvement, they would be hunted down. Haven would be totally subjugated now; the free and prosperous world he’d dared to imagine would remain a dream. Even the remnants of liberty Havenites had enjoyed before would be stripped away. His beloved home world would be worse off for all his efforts, for the sacrifices of his followers.