Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

  Daniels turned back to his workstation, moving his hands over the controls. “Charges doubled, Captain.”

  Nerov sighed softly.

  One more big risk.

  She angled the throttle, cutting Vagabond’s thrust slightly. The station wasn’t visible yet, but her scanners gave her a perfect image. She tapped the controls again. And again. She had AI data programmed into the nav system, but she knew this was going to take her own experience, so she was flying by instinct as much as anything.

  “Sixty kilometers.” Daniels’s voice was edgy.

  Nerov stared at the scanner, ignoring everything, tapping the reverse thrust, slowing Vagabond as it closed with its target. She angled the throttle, adjusting to the greatly reduced gravity and air pressure at this altitude. The ship was close to the edge of the station’s blind spot. Too close. She pulled harder on the throttle, bringing Vagabond up right under the station.

  “Thirty kilometers.”

  She could see the station now . . . barely. The scanning plot showed the five-kilometer behemoth, and Vagabond’s location as well. But the fire arcs of the platform’s batteries were as much guesswork as anything more substantive. When Nerov had proposed the plan, she did so with a greater degree of certainty than she’d actually possessed. The brutal truth was, there simply wasn’t another option. So it was just as easy to let Damian Ward believe she knew the specs of the station with more assurance than she did.

  “Ten kilometers.”

  It was time for the final approach.

  She took a deep breath and gripped the throttle tightly.

  “Forty seconds, Colonel!”

  You can do this . . .

  “The rebel ship is still in our blind spot, Captain.”

  Mara Cross sat in her chair in the center of the station’s main control room. She’d been watching the vessel approach, waiting for it to enter into the range of her guns. Her orders were clear—no warnings, no negotiations . . . she was to destroy the ship.

  But the enemy hadn’t moved into her fire arc. The platform’s main guns faced outward, positioned to defend against any vessels approaching the planet. Even the secondaries could only hit targets in orbit . . . or a bit below that if she used the positioning thrusters to reorient the station.

  What the hell are they doing? They can’t stay down there . . . and as soon as they show themselves we’ll blow them to bits . . .

  “Lieutenant, get me Commodore Quintel.” Cross had considered every option—every one she could think of—and she didn’t see how the rebels were going to get past her. But there was no sense taking chances.

  “Commodore Quintel on your line, Captain.”

  “What is it, Mara?” Quintel and Cross went way back, to the prewar navy, and she knew the commander of the blockading squadron was a true professional.

  “Commodore, we have an unauthorized vessel approaching the station. The federal observer has issued orders for its destruction. I suggest you put your squadron on alert in case it gets past us.”

  “Why haven’t you destroyed it already, Mara?”

  “The ship’s been coming at us from our blind spot, sir. All the way from liftoff.” She paused. She couldn’t see how the ship could get by her . . . but she knew whoever was flying that thing was good. Really good.

  Quintel was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “Very well, Mara. I will go to yellow alert.” He paused. “Just in case.”

  “Thank . . .” Her words stopped dead. Suddenly, she understood. “Commodore, I have to go. I request you go to general quarters and await further word.” She cut the connection, hardly proper protocol when dealing with a superior officer, especially one you just asked to bring his force to red alert. But she knew what the rebel was going to do. And she was almost out of time.

  “Lieutenant, bring the station to red alert. All security forces are to report to the lower levels, armed for battle.”

  The bridge officer hesitated, staring back with a surprised look on his face.

  “Now, Lieutenant!” Cross’s tone was harsh, urgent. “We’re about to be boarded!”

  “As soon as the portal opens we go in . . . and we go hard. No hesitation to fire, no prisoners . . . not until we secure the station.” She hated how much she sounded like Killian. The ranger was standing off to the side, with about ten of his people. He had the best poker face Morgan had ever seen, but she could see that he was surprised at the brutality of her orders.

  The difference between us, you psychopath, is that I do what I have to do and you enjoy it.

  “You all have the public data on the station’s configuration, but the control and defensive systems are all guesswork. We’ve got two goals and only two. We take control of the station . . . and we get Dr. Holcomb safely to the bridge or the main data center.”

  She turned toward Holcomb. “Doctor, I need you to stay back.” She gestured toward four men standing, two on either side of him. “These men are here to protect you, Doctor. They’re all decorated veterans, so please do whatever they say—and remember, if you get killed, we’re all dead, us here and the rest of the rebel forces on the ground. We must succeed, and you’re the only one who can do it. Every one of us is expendable. You are not.”

  Holcomb nodded. “Yes, Colonel.” The scientist had never been a soldier, but he didn’t look too happy about hiding behind his new allies when the shooting started. She didn’t know much about Holcomb, no more than most soldiers knew about the man who had designed half their weapons systems. But her respect for him was growing.

  She looked at her soldiers. They were veterans, every one of them, but most of them were pale now, or one shade or another of sickly green. The cargo hold was a nightmare, clumps of vomit floating everywhere in the zero-g environment. She’d been thrilled when the order came to ready her people to board the station. But gut-sick soldiers weren’t at their best for combat.

  Vagabond shook hard . . . then a few seconds later even harder. Morgan didn’t know Captain Nerov, at least not beyond a brief introduction at the planning sessions for the mission. She knew the smuggler had never been in the military, but Nerov carried herself with a quiet discipline that reminded Morgan of some of the better naval officers she’d known. She’d ended up as confident in Nerov as she could be in anyone executing such a wild and reckless scheme.

  “All forces . . . prepare to board . . .” Nerov’s voice blasted out of every speaker in Vagabond.

  Morgan’s eyes were locked on the hatch in front of her. She knew she should be farther back—she was the expedition’s commander, and if she went down in the first seconds of combat it would imperil the entire mission. But some things defied logic . . . and she was where she knew she had to be.

  A series of loud booms echoed through the corridor, and the ship shook hard again. The boarding charges. They had either blown a hole in the station’s hull . . . or the mission was over, a failure, with nothing left for her people to do but die . . .

  The hatch swung open. She hesitated, for just an instant, staring through the meter and a half diameter tube. Then her eyes focused . . . the shattered section of hull, and the interior of the station beyond.

  “Let’s go! Forward.” She leapt into the portal, bending down and moving as quickly as she could. She could feel her soldiers behind her, but she was alone in front.

  She saw movement, and she fired, almost by instinct. She wasn’t sure if she hit anything, but she lunged forward, leaping down from the portal to the deck half a meter below, feeling the impact as her boots hit the hard metal. Vagabond’s lower levels were close to zero g’s, but the station’s stabilization jets provided a reasonable level of artificial gravity.

  She moved to the side, her eyes darting around, looking for enemies. She almost stumbled, her body reacting sluggishly to the change in gravity, but she caught herself, just as she saw the federal. She didn’t know if he was armed security—or just naval crew here cleaning up or fixing a burnt-out system—but she didn’t wait t
o find out. Her finger tightened on the trigger, and the federal went down.

  She heard a blast of fire next to her, the trooper behind her firing at the same target. She glanced back quickly—three of her people were through now—and then she looked across the compartment again. It looked like some kind of storage area, with a row of metal canisters lined up along one of the walls.

  “Check those cases, Corporal. Make sure there’s nobody hiding over there.” She pointed as she snapped out the command, and then she raced forward toward a large hatch on the far side of the room. “The rest of you, with me.”

  She stopped at the hatch, her fingers moving across the small control panel on the wall next to it. She tried to open it three times, but it wasn’t working. She knew what that meant. Whoever was in command of the station, he or she had put the defensive systems on alert.

  She reached into a pouch hanging from her belt, pulling out a small lump of a gray putty-like substance. She pushed the plastic explosive against the edge of the door.

  “Back!” She waved for her troopers to move away. Then she followed, ducking behind a small crate and pushing the button on the detonator in her hand.

  The blast was loud, the sound echoing throughout the compartment. She ran forward, waving for all her people to follow as she raced through the now-open doorway.

  “You all know what to do. Move out, find the control room. And keep your eyes open—nobody gets scragged because they’re not paying attention.”

  Her troopers were all veterans, but they’d been retired for years now . . . and a sluggish return of battle reflexes was a shitty reason for any of her people to die.

  She held her rifle in front as she ran through the hatch, her head whipping back and forth, scanning the hall, looking for threats, even any hints of movement.

  Carelessness was a shitty reason for her to die, too.

  CHAPTER 32

  COMMAND CENTRAL

  ORBITAL FORTRESS

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  “Team Alpha, move toward Yellow Section. Team Delta, to Blue Section.” Mara Cross was staring at her display, watching the action as her people fought to repel the boarders. She was too experienced a spacer not to take the threat seriously, but she hadn’t really thought a group of rebels could take control of the station. But these weren’t shopkeepers and farmers, that much was obvious. They were trained soldiers . . . and they were outfighting her people.

  “Captain, we’ve lost contact with Team Epsilon. The AI reports enemy incursions in White Section . . . moving toward Red.”

  Fuck.

  The control center was in Red Section, along with everything else the invaders needed to capture if they were to gain control over the station.

  She leaned down over the comm unit. “Belay my prior orders. All forces, pull back toward Red Section. Hold at all costs at every entry point.”

  She looked around the control center. Cross was a veteran of the war; indeed, most of her people were. But she hadn’t considered the rebels to be a real enemy, not really . . . and certainly not capable of taking the station. But the casualty reports told a different story. She was losing three troopers to every rebel her forces took down. And she didn’t outnumber them enough to sustain that ratio.

  She reached down to her comm unit, punching at the small keypad. “Commodore?”

  A few seconds passed as the signal traveled to the ships on station in the system.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Commodore, we’ve been boarded and there is a possibility the enemy could gain control of the station. Requesting immediate assistance.”

  She waited again, her stomach twisted into knots as the seconds passed. This would hurt her career, if not end it permanently. No board of inquiry would rate a bunch of rebel raiders the equivalent of her people. She would take the blame, almost certainly. But right now she was just worried about making sure the enemy didn’t gain full control of the fortress . . . and surviving.

  “We’re on our way, Captain. Estimated arrival in two hours, ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Two hours and ten minutes . . .

  She’d known the amount of time it would take for the squadron to intervene, of course, at least roughly. But now it truly hit her. Quintel and his ships could retake the station, but they would be far too late to save her and her people. If they were going to hold out, they’d have to do it themselves.

  “Lieutenant, you have the con.” She stood up, reaching down to her side, pulling her pistol from its holster. “I’m going to command the defense directly. You are to keep me informed of the rebels movements—you’re my eyes and ears.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The officer didn’t sound pleased about the responsibility, but Cross didn’t care. The control of the station would be decided in the corridors and compartments leading to the critical areas, not sitting on the bridge looking at screens and shouting out orders that were already too late as she spoke them.

  If they want my station, they’ll have to take it over my dead body . . .

  “All ships, attack pattern Sigma-5.” Simon Quintel stared straight ahead, his eyes on Emmerich’s main screen. The squadron’s commander was a hero of the last war, and his performance in the final battle of that conflict had won him his commodore’s star. Like most federals, he didn’t think much of the rebels on Alpha-2, but he knew Mara Cross. He’d seen her in action. And the fear he’d heard in her voice had driven home just how serious the situation was on the station.

  “All ships confirm, sir. Attack pattern Sigma-5.”

  Quintel nodded and sighed to himself. He thought about Cross and her people, about the fight he knew was going on inside the station, and his frustration grew. Emmerich was more than two hours out, and some of the squadron’s vessels were farther still, much too distant to intervene in the fight now under way. But he swore one thing: if he wasn’t there in time to save Cross and her crew, he’d damned sure avenge them. Quintel wasn’t a brutal man by nature, but he was intensely loyal . . . and he had no pity for any rebel bastards who killed his fellow spacers.

  “All ships increase thrust to 110 percent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quintel was pushing hard—perhaps harder than his ships could handle. It might even cost him a ship or two from the eight frigates under his command, their reactors scragged. But damage could be repaired, and he wouldn’t need the whole squadron anyway. The fortress was heavily armed, but the AI would disable the weapons systems if an enemy gained control. And the rebels wouldn’t be able to reactivate them, not in a couple hours. That would take a miracle.

  So even if just one ship gets there, we should be able to finish these rebels off.

  “All ships report 110 percent thrust, sir.”

  Quintel nodded. “Very well, Lieutenant. Steady as she goes.”

  Hold on, Mara.

  We’re coming.

  “What the hell is going on up there?” Asha Stanton stood at the end of the table, looking utterly spent. “They’re trying to take the orbital platform? Why? Even if they seize it, they’ll never hold it. The squadron will retake it before they can make any use of it. Unless . . .” She turned toward Semmes. “Colonel, they can’t turn the station’s weapons on the planet, can they?”

  “No, Your Excellency. That’s part of the reason they were able to board . . . because none of the weapons are positioned to fire on Alpha-2.” Semmes paused. “They might be able to retask some of the missiles, but that would take days, and a lot of expertise they don’t have.”

  Wells had been sitting quietly in the corner, trying to decide if he wanted to intervene or just wait things out. Alone among those in the room, he grasped that the federal position was in deadly peril. He’d almost decided to remain silent, but then he saw Stanton standing there, looking lost for the first time since he’d met her. As much as he hated what the federals had been doing since she arrived, he was still a part of the
Federal America government himself—at least until his resignation reached Earth—and he couldn’t let her lose this fight, not without trying to help.

  “They’re not going to launch missiles at the planet. They don’t want to destroy this world; they want it for themselves.”

  Semmes glared at Wells. “Then what is the purpose behind this attack? What could they possibly gain?” The officer seemed surprised Everett had even spoken, but that didn’t keep the dismissive tone from his voice.

  Wells rolled his eyes at the man’s bluster. “I tried to tell you, Colonel. I tried to explain the true nature of the unrest here, Asha. But you wouldn’t listen. You both looked at these people as simple malcontents, as protestors who were only as bold as they were because I allowed them to become that way. But you misread the people, just as those on Earth who read my reports did the same.”

  Semmes shot out of his chair. “You piece of—”

  “Sit down, Colonel!” Stanton shouted. The force was enough for him to slow, and the look in her eyes was enough to stop him completely. “We don’t have time for egos. If Governor Wells has insights into this situation, we will hear them.

  “Everett—what are we missing?”

  He turned his attention fully on Stanton. “They don’t want weapons of mass destruction to use on this world. They want to cut your jamming. They want to get the word out. What we’re missing is that the Guardians in Dover aren’t the only rebels on Alpha-2. There are thousands of citizens who will rise up and join the rebellion. But only if those leading it can reach them, coordinate with them. Your greatest weapon—in fact, the one move that’s been the most effective since you arrived—is the jamming. It’s crippled the rebellion—and yet they’ve still fought you to a draw. Imagine if they had their full numbers? The lack of communication has saved your forces from being overwhelmed, from being penned in and hunted down by a force that outnumbered them ten to one. Twenty to one.”