Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  The ranger at the autocannon hesitated, just for a second.

  “I said fire!” Tull’s voice was harsh, loud. The federals were running and ammunition was low. He understood the trooper’s thought process. But every minute counted now . . . and the more he could shake up the federals, the more time he would have.

  Tull looked out as the autocannon opened up again, watching as another federal fell almost at once, and perhaps two or three more in total before they got back in cover. He stared at the field.

  They won’t come back this way—they’ll move around the perimeter . . .

  His mind whirled about what to do. The other side of the spaceport, the periphery farthest from Landfall, was the weakest held, with just a few pickets in place. But it would take time for the feds to redeploy. They’d have to go around the circumference, at least fifteen kilometers.

  They won’t want to wait that long. They’ll move in both directions, just far enough to be out of range of the autocannons.

  “Ranger, get that gun ready to move. I want you half a klick south of here. Grab the best spot you can, a good field of fire and as much cover as you can find.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man turned and flashed a glance at his partner. Then the two of them began pulling the weapon off its stand.

  Tull turned and walked twenty meters north toward the second emplacement. “You men get that weapon moved. Now. One-half kilometer north. Dig in and get ready. The federals will be back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tull turned and walked back, taking a deep breath as he did. He looked at the four rangers he’d positioned along this section of line, all that would remain once the autocannons moved. The four men were twenty-five meters apart, far too much ground to cover with an assault rifle.

  I hope I’m right moving these guns . . . because if they come back this way, they’re going to slice through like a knife through butter.

  He looked out over the ground, no-man’s-land, at least for a few moments more.

  Hopefully long enough.

  “I’ve only got seven troopers left, sir.” Johnson stood in front of Colonel Semmes, trying to hold himself as erect and steady as possible. He’d managed to avoid taking a bullet—somehow—but he was exhausted and sore. He’d fallen twice, and a shard of rock had ripped a nasty cut in his arm. His people had charged three times . . . but the rebel commander’s intuition was uncanny. The bastard had managed to move his heavy weapons around, placing them in exactly the right spots to repel each assault.

  “I understand that, Sergeant, but we cannot take the pressure off. I have brought up reinforcements. You are to take a fresh platoon and attack again . . . at once.” There wasn’t a trace of understanding or sympathy in the officer’s voice.

  Johnson stood in front of the army commander, trying to hold back the shakes. He’d almost lost it when the first attack was crushed, and he’d routed himself, for a moment. But he pulled it together, just barely. He’d never felt fear like that before, the almost overwhelming need to run away, to escape the field, whatever the consequences. He’d managed to get control of himself, and even to lead two more attacks, both of them repulsed almost as severely as the first. But now he honestly wasn’t sure he could do it again . . . even though he knew Semmes was likely to have him hanged—or to shoot him where he stood—if he refused.

  “Sir, with all due respect, we should move around the perimeter of the spaceport. The enemy is much weaker—”

  “There is no time for that, Sergeant.”

  Semmes’s tone was clearly intended to discourage further commentary, but Johnson held his ground. What the hell do I have to lose? “Colonel, sir, I request that you commit more than a single platoon to the attack.” He stood nervously, struggling to hold Semmes’s gaze. The colonel had quickly established a reputation for arrogance and for disciplining subordinates harshly. But the thought of sending another platoon into a useless slaughter was even harder to take.

  Semmes glared back for a few seconds. “Very well, Sergeant. We have three platoons ready to go . . . and I will commit them all.” He paused for an instant. “And you will lead them. Prove to me you are correct. Retake the spaceport, and you will have your lieutenant’s bars as a reward.”

  Johnson stared back in shock. He’d expected to escape the burden of commanding the assault, but it was still there . . . and heavier than ever. Semmes had offered him a great reward for success.

  And he didn’t doubt for a second the penalty for failure would be severe.

  “Yes, Colonel. I will see it done, sir.”

  There was nothing else he could say.

  “The reactor is at 40 percent, Captain. I’ve initiated emergency warm-up procedures for the engines.”

  “All right, Griff. Keep going. We need that reactor at 90 percent for liftoff . . . and we’re going in two minutes no matter what.” Nerov sat in her chair, restless, fidgety. She was about to put her beloved ship through its greatest test. The minimal warm-up time allowed a much better chance of success than the desperate dead cold start she’d originally planned, but it still wasn’t ideal. Moreover, she hated that those extra minutes weren’t free. Without communications, she didn’t know exactly what was going on along the spaceport’s perimeter, but Vagabond’s external microphones were picking up the sounds of gunfire . . . and that meant men and women were dying to buy her that time.

  She put her hand down on the communications panel, flipping the switch to the intercom. “Colonel Morgan . . . is everybody in place and hanging on back there?”

  “Yes, Captain.” Morgan’s reply sounded confident, but Nerov had her concerns. She doubted the retired officer had been through a liftoff with no more restraint than hanging on to an EVA cable. The whole mission would be pointless if Vagabond managed to dock with the station with a hold full of injured soldiers, too battered to take out the security forces.

  “Reactor at 60 percent, Captain.”

  Wow . . . 60 percent already. He’s pushing it to the edge.

  “Good, Griff . . . keep it up.”

  Her eyes dropped to the small screen in front of her. She’d plotted the ascent three times . . . and checked it another half dozen. It was spot-on, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind. But she checked again anyway.

  It was a tight route, with little room for error. If Vagabond lifted too quickly, she’d enter orbit . . . and the station’s secondary batteries would be able to target her. Nerov knew her ship was tough, but that kind of firepower at point-blank range would melt her to plasma in seconds.

  If the ship ascended too slowly, it would miss the insertion angle needed to come in precisely in the station’s blind spot . . . which would leave her the choice of entering orbit beyond the platform—and getting blasted to atoms—or landing back at the spaceport—and getting blasted to atoms by the federals on the ground.

  No, she had to hit the target dead-on. If her piloting skills failed, by even the smallest margin, she would end up dead . . . along with everyone else on the ship.

  “Reactor at eighty, Cap.” Daniels looked over at her, his expression anxious.

  “Let’s get the engines going, Griff.”

  “Feeding power into the drive systems. Engine temp is climbing. Two hundred degrees. Three hundred . . .”

  Nerov leaned forward, her hands gripping the ship’s controls. She was Vagabond’s pilot as well as its captain, and if Griff and the two crew members in the ship’s engine room managed to quick-start the engines, the success of the mission rested with her flying skills.

  “Six hundred degrees, Captain. Reactor at 90 percent.”

  She nodded, her eyes focused on the control panel. Ninety on the reactor was fine, but six hundred degrees was still cold for the engine core.

  She paused for a few seconds, the only sound on the bridge the gunfire transmitted from the ship’s hull sensors. It was getting louder . . . and closer. There was no time.

  She flipped a series of levers, feeding power into the engines
. Then she switched on the intercom. “Prepare for launch. Everybody in the hold, hang on to those cables!”

  She gripped the ship’s throttle, and she looked down for a few seconds at the engine firing control. Then she pulled the throttle hard . . . and flipped the launch switch.

  Ash Tull was running. The federals had been fools for a long while, arrogant and disorganized, sending platoon-strength forces against his prepared positions. He’d known, perhaps longer than anyone on the rebel side save Captain Killian, that one of their greatest weapons was the sense of superiority many of the federal officers felt, the contempt they had for their opponents. It had been on display again . . . and it had allowed Tull and his people to buy the time for Vagabond to lift off.

  They’d finally learned from their mistake, and sent a force his rangers couldn’t possibly handle.

  He paused and glanced up for a second, looking at the still-visible glow of the ship’s engines as they moved higher, bound for the orbital platform. Tull didn’t know much about spaceflight, but he was well aware Captain Nerov had her plate full executing the hairsbreadth maneuver. He was also aware he couldn’t do anything about that. His people had accomplished their mission. It had cost them half their number . . . and the survivors were running for their lives. Yet he felt good about his role.

  Gunfire echoed behind him. The federals were as disorganized in victory as they’d been in defeat, and the pursuit was a confused affair. He could only imagine what the federal commanders were thinking, watching as Vagabond rose into the sky. Would they figure out the plan? Or would they just assume a smuggler was trying to escape, to get off-world and run the federal blockade?

  He moved forward, slipping around the edge of a large storage structure. He was alone—all his people were. That was always the plan. The instant they heard Vagabond’s engines roar to life, they were to scatter, disappearing into the spaceport, giving the federals no single target to pursue.

  He snuck around the edge of the large concrete building, peering around the corner before he continued on. The sounds of the gunfire were receding, the main federal force far behind him now. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t run into a guard or a scout somewhere out here.

  He could see the woods ahead, his immediate destination. All his people were heading there, by whatever route they could manage. The forest wasn’t exactly a safe refuge, but he knew any of his troopers who made it there had a good chance of getting back to Dover.

  But how many will get to the woods?

  He didn’t know . . . and he realized there was no point in making wild guesses. He’d see soon enough how many of his rangers escaped . . . and he’d have the final count of the cost of taking the spaceport and holding it long enough for Nerov and the strike team to take off.

  It’s going to be steep. I fucking hope it’s worth it.

  He glanced back up, but Vagabond was gone now, the fiery trail of her engines too far up to see, even in the darkness of the night sky.

  Vagabond would reach the station in less than twenty minutes . . . and then the fighters in her cargo hold would carry the future of the rebellion with them into battle, as his own people had when they held the spaceport.

  And then we’ll find out if we’re the heroes who saved the rebellion.

  CHAPTER 31

  FEDERAL COMPLEX COURTYARD

  LANDFALL CITY

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  “A smuggler’s vessel?” Asha Stanton stood in the situation room, watching the footage from the spaceport. “They launched an attack to steal a smuggler’s ship? That doesn’t make any sense. They have to know the blockading ships will be on alert. They’ll never get out of the system.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency . . . but nevertheless, that is what they have done. My people have retaken the spaceport. We attempted to take prisoners for, ah, interrogation . . . but unfortunately, they all fought to the death.”

  Wells was sitting silently at the table, watching this all unfold. Semmes was full of shit on one thing at least. His words suggested the rebel force had been wiped out . . . but Wells had seen other footage from the spaceport’s security cameras, scenes of men and women moving back toward the woods, escaping. Semmes had retaken the spaceport, but he’d lost ten soldiers to every rebel casualty . . . and he’d been too late to stop the smuggler’s ship from lifting off.

  And I very much doubt the rebels risked that just to help a smuggler escape.

  “That is far from an adequate report, Colonel.”

  Semmes stood still, not responding. He was confused, still trying to figure out what had happened. It just didn’t make any sense. If the orbital platform didn’t blast the ship to atoms, the blockading squadron would. If it was an attempt to escape, to get back to Earth, say, and seek help from one of the other superpowers, it seemed insanely desperate. Their chances of getting out of the system were nil . . . and none of the other nations would come openly to the aid of a rebellion that was on the verge of defeat.

  The rebels’ options were limited, but he’d have expected an all-out assault on the federal complex before something like this.

  What can they gain by getting a single ship off the ground?

  “I want information, Colonel, and I want it now. Get me a prisoner, review every second of security cam footage—whatever it takes. But I need to know what is going on.”

  She’s scared.

  Wells watched Stanton as she paced back and forth across the room. She had publicly discounted the possibility that the rebel attack was any real threat . . . but he suspected she was far less confident than her public performance suggested. And he was, too. He didn’t know what was going on, but he had warned her not to underestimate the rebels. He certainly wasn’t.

  An aide called out, “Your Excellency, I have Captain Cross on the line.”

  “Put her on, Lieutenant.”

  “Your Excellency, we are tracking the vessel the rebels seized. It should enter weapons range in five minutes, thirty seconds. What do you want us to do?”

  Wells watched, knowing Stanton had no real choice. He was sure she’d love to have the crew in her hands, to question them and find out what desperate plan was behind the attack. But she’d never take the chance of trying to capture the rebel vessel and failing. She couldn’t.

  “Destroy it.”

  Wells sat silently, wondering what the rebels were up to. He had no idea, but he was damned sure they didn’t pull the stunt they had to run a ship up to orbit only to get blasted to dust.

  Vagabond shook hard. Nerov was taking her ship up at a sharp angle, a far more vertical ascent than it was designed to handle. In her mind she saw the hull glowing, the heat coming right to the verge of melting even the iridium-alloy armor her smuggling profits had provided. But it was the only way this was going to work. If she missed the right angle—and hitting the orbital station was like shooting a tossed coin with a bullet from ten kilometers—the station’s batteries would open up, blasting Vagabond to atoms.

  Just hold together, girl.

  She wondered how the troopers in the hold were keeping it together. She could only imagine how rough a ride they had back there. She was a hardened spacer, and even her stomach was rebelling against the wild turns and the rapid ascent.

  And she was strapped in. She couldn’t imagine it was pleasant in that rear compartment right now.

  “All right, Griff. We’re coming up on final approach. I’m going to need all the power I can get . . . and you need to be ready with the boarding portal.”

  It had been more than five years since Vagabond had boarded another vessel, and even then, it had been a freighter, not a giant orbital fortress. The dynamics of the approach were far simpler in space than coming up out of a planet’s gravity well . . . and there weren’t many cargo ships that could have blasted Vagabond to scrap if her captain misjudged the approach angle by a fraction of a degree.

  “The reactor’s at one zero five, Capta
in. The portal’s ready.”

  She could hear the tension in Daniels’s voice. She had tremendous confidence in her first officer, but she knew he’d never been at the controls during a hostile boarding action. He’d been on board Vagabond during the war, but he’d been one of the crew, waiting next to the portal, weapons in hand, while Sergei Brinker sat in his current place.

  That’s all right. You’ve never boarded an orbital fort from below either, so if you can do it, so can Griff.

  She tapped the intercom. “Colonel Morgan, are your people okay back there?”

  “Ah, yes, Captain Nerov. We’re ready.” She sounded anything but; however, what else was she going to say?

  Nerov suspected the boarding party was more than ready to get off Vagabond . . . at least until the federals on the station started shooting.

  “Okay, Colonel, we’re going in. We’ll be docking in . . . one hundred thirty seconds.”

  “We’re ready,” Morgan said with more conviction this time.

  “Roger that. One hundred thirty seconds.”

  Nerov had gone over Vagabond’s layout with Morgan, at least in the minute she’d been able to spare before launch. The boarding portal was close to the cargo hold, but Morgan would have to get her bruised and nauseated troops down the main corridor and up one ladder to the upper deck. In two minutes.

  “Griff, I’m bringing us in on final approach.” She paused. “Double the breaching charges.”

  Daniels turned back and looked at her. “Double . . . Captain, that could blow the portal.”

  “There’s no choice, Griff. The armor on that thing is lighter on the planetary side, but it’s still a hell of a lot tougher than any freighter’s hull. And if we don’t penetrate in the first twenty seconds, we’re going to snap the portal off clean anyway. That will be the end of the mission . . . and mostly likely the end of us.”