Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  He didn’t even begin to know how he was going to feed thousands of civilian refugees, but there was no choice. He couldn’t allow a butcher like Semmes to get his hands on all those people. It was unthinkable . . . but brilliant, too. Better than attacking him outright, the colonel’s plan would destroy his army if he did nothing. It was one thing to ask of soldiers to fight, to risk injury and death in battle. If their courage and success on the field would condemn their families, though . . .

  “I’ll see to it, Damian.” Danforth ran back toward the HQ building, shouting out commands as he did.

  Damian looked out at the cluster of soldiers, the men and women who had spoken of their families, already captured, beyond aid. He wanted to say something, but no words came. Finally, he managed, “We will do all we can to secure the release of your loved ones.” He knew the words were empty even as he spoke them. But they were all he had.

  Jamie walked over toward Damian, limping as he did. “I have to go get Katia, Damian. Once they realize you’ve joined the rebellion, you know they’ll come to the farm.”

  “Katia and her father are well hidden, Jamie.”

  “Damian . . .” Jamie said, incredulous.

  “Yes, Jamie—you’re right. We’ve got to get them out of there. But not you.”

  Jamie opened his mouth to argue, but Damian held up his hand to silence his friend.

  “Be reasonable, Jamie—you can barely walk. Let me send Ben with some men. They can move quickly, and if they run into a federal patrol, at least they’ll have a chance.”

  Jamie frowned, but he nodded. It must be killing his friend to stay behind, but there was nothing he could do about that. If Ben Withers couldn’t rescue Katia and Alexi Rand, no one could.

  CHAPTER 27

  CAMP LIBERTY

  LANDFALL CITY, GOVERNMENT DISTRICT

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  Everett walked along the line of heavy metal fencing, looking in at the hundreds—no, over a thousand now—of civilians confined in the camp.

  Camp Liberty.

  Semmes is a son of a bitch, but he’s got a sense of humor. A sick one.

  The people in the camp had committed no crime. They had seen no court. Had no due process. They were simply the relatives of suspected rebels—the fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, spouses and children of men and women who had taken to the field to fight for the rebellion.

  It was a brutal tactic, one Wells had never even envisioned. He’d been sure that Asha Stanton would put a stop to it, but she’d simply nodded her assent. Stanton wasn’t a monster like Semmes . . . but she knew a failure to crush the rebellion would destroy her, even as Wells knew it had done the same to him.

  He looked through the chain-link perimeter, and he felt sick to his stomach. The men and women in the camp were crowded together. They were outside, with no shelter, no place to sleep save on the ground where they lay. They were soaking wet now, from the morning’s rain, and they sat in the mud, looking at each other with vacant stares.

  They were on minimal rations. They hadn’t been there long enough yet for malnutrition and starvation to take a toll, but Wells knew it was only a matter of time.

  “My God, you have to do something about this!”

  Wells turned abruptly. He’d been lost in dark thoughts, and Violetta had crept up on him.

  He turned toward his daughter, saw the horror in her eyes. “There’s nothing I can do, Vi. I argued with the observer, but she won’t budge.”

  “You can’t let this happen!”

  “I don’t have the power to stop it.”

  Violetta turned and looked over at the miserable prisoners clumped together, staring off at nothing with glassy eyes.

  “There must be something you can do . . .”

  Wells turned and looked again at the prisoners. “I don’t know what, Vi . . . but one thing is certain. I can’t be a part of this anymore.” He turned toward his daughter. “I told you before. I’m going to resign the governorship.” He paused. “Get ready to leave, because we’re going back to Earth.”

  Ben Withers crept slowly forward, holding his hand out behind him, signaling his troopers to wait. Damian’s farm was mostly open country, but the eastern edge stretched into the meandering section of forest north of Landfall. Withers knew every centimeter of the farm, better even than Damian himself, and this was the best way to sneak close to the house and the cluster of buildings surrounding it.

  He looked out over the open, slightly rolling countryside. He could see the house, off in the distance. At first he thought everything was calm, with no signs of enemy occupation. But then he realized there was no activity anywhere. No hands in the fields, no tractors or plows operating. Nothing.

  His senses went on alert. It could be nothing. Perhaps everyone was hiding, waiting for word from Damian. But that’s not what his gut told him.

  “All right, we’re going to move on the storage shed to the left of the main house. They’re in there.” He paused, looking out again, still seeing nothing untoward. “We stay away from the main house, you understand? If there are federals on the farm, they will be in there for sure.”

  He turned, looking at the ten troopers he’d brought with him. They all nodded and offered a ragged chorus of “yessirs.”

  “Okay, let’s go. Stay behind me.” He lunged out of the woods, swinging hard to the right, moving through one of the cultivated fields. He crouched down, staying under the cover of the shoulder-high crops. It was better than running out in the open . . . but he knew anyone with combat experience would pick off the movement.

  He raced forward, reaching the end of the field. There was a stretch of grassland between his position and the building. He stopped for an instant . . . and then he moved out, running as quickly as he could. There was no way to sneak up on the main compound—Damian had seen to that when it had been built, his military instincts kicking in, driving him to have a two-hundred-meter swath of land cleared all around the house.

  He reached one of the barns, throwing himself against the wall and watching as his troopers did the same thing. He took a quick glance at his small force. They were good soldiers, he knew, all of them. He’d served with three of them during the war, and he’d heard of the others, men and women who had fought on other fronts. They were all decorated veterans, handpicked by Damian for the operation.

  Withers swung around the edge of the barn, his rifle down. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for threats. For targets. But there was still nothing.

  He waved for the troopers to follow him, and he raced across the open courtyard between the main house and several of the outbuildings. He reached the door to the storage shed . . . and he froze.

  His eyes caught the edge of the vehicle, barely visible from his angle. But he knew what it was. A federal military transport.

  Shit.

  He turned again, flashing a warning to his people. Then he poked at the small pad next to the door, entering the access code. He held his breath. If the federals had disabled the farm’s AI system, his codes wouldn’t work . . . and he’d have no chance of opening the secure door to the safe room. Not without blowing it to bits.

  Crack. The door popped open.

  Withers exhaled hard. Then he slipped inside, waving for the others to follow. The sooner they were all out of sight, the better. He ran across the poured concrete floor, over to a stack of crates.

  “Let’s go.” He leaned down, pushing a crate to the side. It looked heavy, but he knew it wasn’t. It was full of straw, just like the others covering the hidden entrance.

  He knelt down as his troopers pushed the rest of the boxes away, and he felt around for the loose chunk of concrete. He knew it was there, but for a few seconds he couldn’t find it.

  Damn, we hid this well . . .

  He felt a rush of hope—if the federals had found the room, they’d never had taken such care to replace it the concrete . . . or the crates. />
  Then his fingers felt the slight give in the floor. He reached around, finding the edge and pushing down. A small chunk of concrete popped up, revealing a pad similar to the one at the door. Withers punched in a code, and there was a loud click as a section of the floor rose slightly and moved to the side, revealing a dark tunnel below.

  “Stay here.” Withers climbed into the hole, his feet feeling around for the ladder he knew was there. He stepped down to the bottom and turned around. There was a door, with another pad next to it. He punched in the code again, and it opened.

  He stepped inside . . . and saw someone lunging toward him, swinging a chair . . .

  He jumped back, evading the blow as the chair broke into shards on the side of the door. He brought his rifle around, ready to fire. But he held. Katia Rand was standing in front of him with a jagged piece of wood still in her hands.

  “Katia . . . it’s Ben Withers. We’re here to get you out.”

  She froze, looking at him with shock on her face. Then she dropped the remnant of the chair. “I’m so sorry, Ben . . .” She paused an instant, and then she ran up to him, throwing her arms around him.

  He returned the embrace, his eyes scanning the room. There were two knives on a small table behind Katia, and a few tools that looked like makeshift weapons.

  She stepped back from the embrace, seeing his expression and then turning toward the table.

  “I saw them on the surveillance system . . .” She pointed to a small screen set into the wall on the far side of the room. “I wasn’t going to let them take me again . . .” Withers could see her stare, angry, the hatred in her glazed-over eyes. “Never.”

  “Okay, Katia . . . we’ve got to get out of here now.” He moved toward a small doorway in the back of the room. “How is your father? Can he travel?”

  He burst through the opening before she could answer. Alexi Rand was lying on a makeshift bed. His shirt was off, and his midsection was covered in bandages.

  “Alexi, it’s Ben Withers. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go.”

  Rand turned his head and stared at Withers with a hazy look in his eyes. “Ben . . .” His voice was soft, weak. “No . . . take Katia . . . get away.”

  Withers shook his head. “That’s not how we operate here. We don’t leave friends behind.”

  “I will slow you down . . . go . . .”

  Withers ignored Rand’s words. “Can you stand?” He reached around, sliding his arm under Rand’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

  Rand grunted as he struggled to his feet, clearly in pain.

  “I’m sorry, Alexi, but there’s no other way.”

  Withers slid under Rand’s shoulder, slipping the wounded man’s arm around his neck.

  “Lean on me, Alexi. One step at a time.”

  The two moved slowly into the other room, toward the ladder.

  How the hell am I going to get him out of here?

  He looked up to the main floor of the shed. “I need a rope . . . there should be some up—”

  He heard a muffled crack, a sound he’d have recognized anywhere. Then another . . . and a dozen more in rapid succession.

  Gunfire.

  Semmes was standing by himself, watching the roughly three hundred men and women lined up in the courtyard of the federal complex. They stood holding weapons, though most of them looked out of place with the military grade assault rifles. They were farmers, office workers, professionals of various kinds. And they were also loyalists, citizens of Alpha-2 who remained faithful to Federal America.

  His troopers had been scouring the countryside around Landfall for a week now, rounding up anybody even suspected of affiliation with the rebels. But they’d also been spreading the word, recruiting volunteers to fight alongside the federal soldiers, men and women who wanted their world to remain as it was.

  Asha Stanton walked up next to him. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Colonel? I appreciate the additional forces, but they are completely untrained. How much use will they be?”

  Semmes turned toward Stanton. “It will take a while, at least militarily. But they will have other uses. Who knows the rebels better than their neighbors? Who is more motivated to have peace restored to their lives? Whatever their motivations, they’re here, and I’m going to take advantage of that.”

  “I am concerned you’re stretching the limits of my orders, though. I understand the need at times for harsh measures, even brutality. But the prison camp, the attempt to pit the colonists against their neighbors—that is not what you proposed to me the other day. Besides overstepping your bounds, I’m worried that some of your measures will simply breed greater resistance.”

  “We have discussed this idea multiple times, Your Excellency. This constant second-guessing is extremely counterproductive. You give the colonists too much credit. They may have managed to gain a minor victory in the field—with the help of a pack of traitors—but if we inflict enough pain on them, they will crumble . . . and the revolution will die with a whimper.”

  Stanton felt a surge of anger. She knew Semmes was a pompous ass, but he wasn’t even trying to show her the respect her station commanded. She’d have fired him long before . . . if his father hadn’t been such a powerful man. She knew she had little chance to prevail in a political struggle with the Semmes family.

  And now that Alex Thornton is gone, who else could I put in charge? The rebels have proven to be a more difficult adversary than I’d expected . . . but I don’t have a better option than this fool . . .

  “You will remember, Colonel, that I have the final say on any operations conducted on this planet. I will decide what we do and when we do it. If I issue a new order, it is not a ‘second guess’—it is the order based on my observation of the situation. Is that clear?”

  She was provoking Semmes, and that was dangerous, especially when the situation of Alpha-2 was in such flux. She was also savvy enough to know who Earth would support if things went south here . . . and it wasn’t her. Hell, the next supply ship could arrive with a representative carrying orders relieving her and putting Semmes in her place.

  But that hadn’t happened yet, and so until it did, she ruled here.

  “Yes, Your Excellency. It is clear.”

  “Very good, Colonel. You may continue organizing and training your loyalist units, but you are not to deploy them to combat operations without my approval.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  Stanton nodded. Then she turned and walked toward the main building.

  “What the hell is going on?” Withers climbed out of the underground room, his head snapping around as he did. Most of his troopers were up against the door they’d come through, weapons drawn, returning the fire coming from outside.

  “Federals, sir. I don’t think more than four . . . at least, not engaged.”

  “Fuck . . .” Withers moved toward the doorway. Two of his people flanked the narrow opening. They were crouched behind the cover, shooting back at the federals. “We don’t have time for this shit; even if they’re the only ones here, they’ll call for help. If they haven’t already.” He peered around the corner, his eyes darting around, locating the enemy positions. “I’ve got two—one by the corner of the main house and one near the north barn.”

  “The other two are by the house, too, sir. They pulled back. I think we might have hit one. The other is probably on the comm calling for backup.”

  Withers paused for a few seconds. Then he turned and snapped an order to a pair of troopers in the middle of the room. “Get Alexi and Katia up here. Now!” He spun around. “The rest of you, on me. We don’t have time for a firefight. We have to take these fuckers out now and get out of here.”

  He turned and peered around the edge of the doorway again. “All right, Hepps, Krill, Gantz . . . I want you guys to stay here and lay down some heavy covering fire. Just keep their heads down . . . and make sure you don’t hit any of us. Lloyd, Wring . . . you guys charge the guy over by the barn. Noth
ing fancy, just get closer . . . and if he shows his head, blow it off.”

  The two troopers nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sawyer, Vilmont, Jarrit . . . you three are with me. On my mark, we bolt out of here—right for the house. Same deal, keep your eyes open . . . and shoot anything that moves.”

  He turned and looked at the three troopers. They all nodded.

  “Okay, everybody . . . covering fire on three . . . two . . . one . . . now!”

  Three of the soldiers opened fire, their weapons set on full auto. They sprayed the areas around the house and the barn, and Withers could see one of the federals dive deeper into cover.

  “Charge!” He lunged out, running across the mostly level ground at a dead sprint. His rifle was out in front of him, and he was firing in bursts, his eyes staring, looking for any target.

  He could hear the other troopers right behind them, their own fire adding to his own. He pushed himself, putting every scrap of strength he had into his legs. He knew half a second could be the difference between life and death.

  He came up to the corner of the house, slamming against it with his back, his eyes locked on the corner of the building. He moved slowly, steadily . . . and then he spun around, firing on full auto as he did.

  He saw one of the federals go down, at least three of his shots finding their mark. The man dropped, and Withers knew he was dead. His eyes caught another enemy soldier, the one his troopers had thought was hit earlier. He was lying on the ground, still alive, reaching for a pistol on the ground nearby. Withers snapped up his rifle and fired, hitting his target in the chest. The soldier dropped back, and he lay unmoving.

  “That’s two!” He looked around, trying to find the third soldier. The other troopers fanned out behind him, rifles at the ready. Up ahead, there was a staircase leading to the house’s main level, and beyond, the wall turned at a ninety-degree angle. He hugged the wall, working his way around to the corner, waving for the others to hold back, to be careful. He stepped forward slowly, easing around, staring ahead.