Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  Rear. Ha! What rear? There’s just the center of a shrinking circle . . . and soon we won’t even have that.

  He watched as a pair of Guardians turned and ran back from the line. One of them dropped his rifle, the other held on to his. But both had abandoned their position. Danforth wanted to be angry, to call them cowards, even to shoot them down as they fled. But then he saw the bodies. They were the last two of at least a dozen, the others all cut down by a federal autocannon. These were no cowards; they were brave fighters who had reached their limit.

  He could feel the line starting to collapse. There were just too many of his people down, too little ammunition. They were all exhausted, their throats parched with burning thirst. It was as if they could all taste the end of the rebellion. The cause of liberty was dead, stillborn. Destroyed before it even had the chance to spread.

  He grabbed his rifle and turned toward the two troopers carrying the ammunition crate. “Hand that ammo out.” He knew he was going to die, either here, rifle in hand, or on the gallows. And if that was his choice, it was one easily made. He moved forward, yelling out, “Hold firm, Guardians! Hold your positions!”

  There was gunfire all around. The federals were pushing hard against his perimeter, shrinking it steadily, forcing his survivors together in a tight cluster around the village. Keep pushing, then. Let’s see if you’re willing to pay the price our deaths will cost you.

  “Keep firing. Make them pay for every millimeter.”

  He crouched down behind a pile of wood, the shattered remains of a large fence. He aimed his weapon. He was a middling shot at best, but he took his time, resisting the urge to hurry the shot. If he was going to die, he was going to take as many of these bastards with him as he could, and that meant not wasting any of his precious ammo. He squeezed the trigger, and saw as his target fell to the ground. He fired again, missing this time.

  Then the federal fire slammed into his shaky cover, sending shards of wood in every direction. He flinched, felt the urge to crouch lower, to lie on the ground and wait for the end. But if he was destined to die, he resolved he would do it well. He aimed again, and moved to pull the trigger. But his target dropped before he could shoot.

  For an instant, he thought one of his people had shot the federal. But then he saw another federal fall—forward. His first thought was that Killian and his rangers had managed to get behind the federals attacking the village. But then the entire enemy force started to break up, troopers fleeing to the left and the right, trying to escape from . . . something.

  What the hell?

  “Watch your fire!” Danforth leapt up to his feet and shouted to his troopers. “There are friendlies out there somewhere.”

  He didn’t know who it was, but someone was definitely attacking the federals from behind. He watched for perhaps half a minute, staring in wonder as the soldiers who had been about to destroy his army lost all cohesion, their retreat turning quickly into a panicked rout.

  Maybe . . .

  Hope coursed through him. “Attack!” Danforth ran out onto the ground that had moments before been a deadly no-man’s-land. “Guardians . . . charge!” He was screaming as loudly as he could, waving his rifle over his head. “Charge!”

  He had no idea if this was tactically sound—he was almost certain it wasn’t—but he knew, in his mind, in his gut, that this was the moment for action.

  The moment his battered forces could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

  “Let’s go!” He ran across the frontage of the rebel line, gesturing wildly, calling to the exhausted men and women of the army. For a few seconds, no one moved forward. Dozens of rebels, hundreds, clung to their fortified positions, watching in wonder as their leader stood out in the open, where a moment before the fire would have cut him down in half a second. But the federals were on the run now, and the rumble of their gunfire had ceased, replaced by the more distant shooting of whatever force had slammed into the federal flank.

  “Victory is there, my soldiers. It is there for the taking. It is time, time to avenge our dead, time to strike a blow for freedom!” Danforth’s voice was raw, but he shouted again and again, each time louder than the last. And his efforts began to show their effect.

  One by one, the Guardians began to respond. Soon, groups of men and women were leaping from their cover, rushing toward their leader. They were silent at first, but it wasn’t long before they were shouting a wild battle cry.

  Danforth held his arm out, his rifle pointing the way. “Let’s go! You all, with me to the left. The rest to the right. Roll up the federal line . . . and don’t stop until you meet your comrades on the other side!”

  He spun around and ran across the battered plain at the outskirts of the village, plunging into the woods in pursuit of the broken federals, his ragged army crashing behind.

  He had no idea what was happening, but he knew it was a chance . . . a chance that had seemed impossible just moments before.

  “Victory!” he shouted.

  “Victory!” they screamed.

  Please, God . . . victory.

  CHAPTER 25

  DOVER VILLAGE

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  “Luci, take your people and Tucker’s. Stay on their heels. Don’t let them rally. They’ve still got enough force to come back at us if they reorganize.” Damian stood on the edge of the village, passing out orders to his officers.

  “Don’t worry. We won’t give them time to stop and take a piss.” She quickly turned and trotted to the perimeter of the village, shouting out commands to a group of her soldiers and leading them off into the woods. Damian watched for a few seconds, taking a tiny moment for himself. He was exhausted and covered in sweat. His arm throbbed. It wasn’t much of a wound—the bullet had just grazed him—but it still hurt.

  “I guess I did a better job of persuading you than I thought.”

  Damian turned around, holding out his good arm toward his friend to shake hands. “I don’t know, John, maybe. But I think you really have Colonel Semmes to thank for our aid.”

  “Semmes?” Danforth sounded like he’d tasted something bad, even as he reached out and took Damian’s outstretched hand. “What did that son of a bitch do?”

  “He activated the reserve clauses in the veterans’ discharges. He ordered us to report for duty with the federal forces.” Damian paused. “I still don’t feel good about fighting against the flag I served under, but I couldn’t take the field against my neighbors, my friends. Perhaps more important, I could never serve under a man like Semmes. And that’s the choice he put to us.”

  “Well, as soon as we find a bottle, we can toast that piece of shit. Because I don’t mind telling you—you saved our asses. Hell—you saved the revolution.”

  “For today, maybe,” Damian said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Damian looked around Dover. The buildings were mostly wrecked, torn apart by hundreds of autocannon rounds and grenades. More than a few had burned to the ground, the smoke still rising over the blackened wreckage. People had lived here, called it home. But now the village was gone, little remaining of the vibrant community save smoldering shards and broken chunks of masonry.

  Another cost of war.

  One of the few barns still standing had been turned into a field hospital, but it was proving to be woefully inadequate. There were wounded men and women all around, holding blood-soaked shirts and jackets as they waited—either to get treatment, or to die. They completely filled the structure, and most were still lying on the ground outside. The moans filled the air, and the smell of smoke and blood was a nauseating mixture. He was initially disgusted at the apparent neglect the Guardians had for their wounded, but it quickly subsided, and turned to pity. He knew Danforth’s people were doing their best with what little they had. The rebels had stockpiled weapons, but not medicines. Not blankets and bedrolls, not food to sustain the hundreds—thousands—it would take to win fre
edom. The few doctors they had were ill-equipped to treat grievously wounded soldiers, and he suspected the injured rebels were dying where they lay, when even a few more triage units might save their lives.

  “The battlefield is never a pretty site, my friend.” Damian looked at Danforth. “And this is far from the last one this rebellion will see if we are to achieve your goal of independence. You have planned this for years, John, but now you are only beginning to see the true face of what you craved. How ill-prepared your people truly are, despite your efforts.”

  Danforth took a deep breath, but he didn’t respond.

  “I know you are a good man, John, that you were driven by what you thought was best for Haven. But now perhaps you see the wellspring of my doubts, my hesitation. What I mean is that you may call me the savior of the revolution, but how many more will die before it is through? If I am a savior, I am a devil, too. Our intervention offers no promises of victory, no independence . . . only the certainty that hundreds more will die. Thousands. I will always bear the guilt for what I have done today, for it was partly motivated by selfishness. I could have remained on the farm, refused the summons to report to Semmes . . . and dared him to move against me . . . against all the veterans. You, at least, did what you have done purely, you risked all for what you believed. I wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t been personally threatened.”

  Danforth stood silently for a moment. Then his eyes locked on Damian’s. “You take too much blame, my friend. We all have our motivations, the thing that drives us to action. And you assign yourself too much responsibility for the sacrifices rebellion demands. More will die perhaps; indeed, they almost certainly will. But we do understand the cost. These men and women all volunteered to fight, to put their lives on the line for a chance at freedom.”

  “And the children, John? The ones who will die when a shell lands on their house? The ones who will cry through the night when they are starving? When their parents never come home? The civilians, the elderly, caught in a war zone? The widows and widowers? The orphans?” He gestured toward the remains of Dover. “What about those who lived here? Did they all volunteer as well? And what of those who remain loyal to Federal America? You must know not every Havenite craves independence. Indeed, many of my old comrades are deeply conflicted. We fought for that flag, and now we wage war against it. What of the others, those who refuse to accept rebellion? Will they become enemies, traitors? Will we fight them as well, shoot them down if they stand against us? If they, too, take up arms for what they believe, even as you have?”

  He sighed deeply.

  “I don’t mean to pour this all on you, John. But I tried to stay out of it. I tried to do my part to ensure peace. And now we’re all caught up in this, and it’s as if we’re all adrift without any plan other than ‘beat the federals.’ We did that once. I don’t think they’ll underestimate us anymore. And if we don’t figure out a way to fix this rebellion, then we’ve lost anyway. All these brave men and women are then dead for no reason.”

  Danforth nodded. “I’m sorry, Damian. I know you wanted to stay neutral. But I won’t apologize for being glad you’re here. As you said, there’s so much we don’t know. And this victory has to mean something.”

  “Damian!”

  He turned toward the voice. It was Withers, but he couldn’t remember the last time his aide had called him by his first name.

  Which meant something was wrong.

  “What is it, Ben?”

  Withers ran the rest of the way toward Damian before speaking. “You have to come with me, sir.” He was out of breath, struggling to get the words out. “Now.”

  Damian looked over at Danforth. “I have to go, John.” He turned and began to follow Withers. “What is it, Ben? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Alex Thornton, sir. We have to hurry . . .”

  Vincent Perrin moved his hand slowly, easing the throttle forward, sending the gunship into a sharp dive. He could see the federal forces now, streaming out of the woods in complete disarray. There were transports in the lead, the soldiers lucky enough to be mounted racing ahead of their less fortunate comrades who followed behind in a panicked rout.

  Perrin shook his head. He’d never imagined he’d see a federal force so badly defeated by the rebels. For an instant he felt the urge to leave them to their fate, a fleeting thought that the cowards deserved it. But he knew his duty, and he intended to see it done.

  He could see the rebels coming out of the woods now, too, moving into the plain in pursuit of their fleeing enemies. They might have broken the federal army, but now they had gone too far. They’d had cover in the woods, but out here they belonged to Perrin and his crew.

  He pushed the throttle harder, steepening the descent. He had to make this count. The army needed a chance to regroup, and he was in the best position to give them time.

  “Raven Two, this is Raven One. Follow us in—we need to keep those rebels pinned in the woods and buy the army time to get away.”

  “Raven One, this is Raven Two. Copy . . . we’re right behind you.”

  Perrin knew that a pair of Talons was a weak force to provide air support to ground troops, but the rebels had nothing at all, and that was definitely a force amplifier.

  The rebels continued to run from the cover of the trees, following the federals, gunning down the fleeing soldiers.

  That’s about to stop.

  “All right, boys, stay sharp. It’s time to show these rebels what air support can do.”

  His two gunners snapped back their “yessirs.” He could hear the feral tone in their voices.

  His eyes darted to the altitude readout. Less than a kilometer, and diving at almost a hundred meters a second.

  “Ready . . .”

  Five hundred meters.

  He took a deep breath.

  Three hundred meters.

  “Fire!”

  He heard the distinctive sound of the quad chain guns unloading, sending hundreds of rounds blasting down at the rebels. He held the throttle firm for another second . . . two. Then he pulled back hard, hearing the gunship’s engines blasting at full. He’d waited a long time, almost too long, and the ship skimmed along eighty meters from the ground before it began to climb again.

  His focus was forward, on piloting the ship, but he could hear the gunners cheering behind him.

  He twisted his arm, bringing the ship around, flying back over the strafing zone, five hundred meters up this time, just in time to see Raven Two finish its deadly run. His eyes darted toward the ground, and he felt a wave of satisfaction. The rebels had stopped their pursuit, and they were fleeing now, racing back to the cover of the forest . . . and leaving at least thirty of their number behind.

  “Ammunition status?”

  “About 50 percent, sir. Enough for another run.”

  Perrin nodded to himself. He was tempted to bring the airship around for another attack. But the rebels were already back under cover, and that would be a waste of his ammo. His orders were clear: do whatever was necessary to ensure the defeated army was able to disengage and rally. Wasting half a bird’s ammo hoping to pick off one or two rebels in the woods wasn’t going to get that done.

  “No. The rebels are back in cover. We’ll hold our ammo in case they come out again and stay in position as long as fuel allows.” He repeated his plan to Raven Two, who confirmed, and then angled the ship around, slowing down, hovering above the tattered remnants of the federal army.

  “We’re going to follow the army back to Landfall. That said, if any rebels poke out their noses, we’re going to send them straight to hell.”

  “I came to find you . . .” Alex’s voice was weak, strained. “I saw you, across the field . . . in my sights . . .” She was looking up, but her stare was vacant, as if she was seeing images in her own mind and not the darkening sky above. “But I couldn’t . . .” She paused again, gasping a raspy breath. “Couldn’t . . . not you . . .”

  Damian knelt down, leaning over h
er, his hand reaching down, taking hers. He fought for words, overcome with confusion. He imagined her, the stone-cold sniper he remembered from the war, holding her rifle, having him dead to rights . . . and not firing. She’d let him live, she’d held her fire, even though he was leading soldiers in an attack against her own.

  And one of my people shot her.

  He looked down at her, at the terrible wound he knew was mortal.

  One of my people killed her . . .

  “Alex . . .” It was all he could force from his mouth.

  “Damian . . . I am so sorry . . .” Her voice was soft, weak. “I never thought I would be on the other side . . . in battle . . . facing you. I am so sorry . . .”

  Damian could feel the sorrow in her voice, the regret. He knew that no politics of hers had led her to this field, only her sense of duty. If she’d been an officer like him, she might have mustered out with a farm of her own; indeed, she’d have likely been at his side, joining the rebels as he had, as most of the other veteran-farmers had. But she’d been a noncom, and among her more modest prospects, a commission in the security forces had seemed the most attractive. Damian knew he might have made the same choice in her shoes.

  “There is no cause for sorrow, Alex, and no reason for you to apologize.” Softly he said, “Alex, you are one of the best people I know. I am grateful to have served at your side . . . and for all we shared together.”

  He felt a twinge of guilt, for more than the gunshot that had mortally wounded her. The two had been close when they’d both been noncoms—more than close. They had been young, passionate, facing the prospect of death in battle at any time. That had been the extent of things for him, at least beyond friendship and camaraderie. But he knew now that Alex’s feelings had been different, deeper. She had loved him. And he had broken her heart.