Flames of Rebellion

by Jay Allan

“I promise.” Her arms tightened, pulling him closer.

  The two stood there, hugging, for a long time. Finally, Violetta pulled away slowly. She paused for a few seconds, wiping the tears from her eyes. Then she turned and walked out the door.

  It was a few days later when Damian stood in the control center of the spaceport, watching as the last of the troops boarded the transport. When the vessel lifted off, there wouldn’t be a federal soldier or political official left on Haven.

  He felt a rush, a hint of the joy of victory, but he quickly pushed it aside. His people had scored a tactical triumph; there was no doubt about that. But he knew the rebellion wasn’t over. The senate back on Earth would surely be enraged. They would take out some of their anger on Wells and Stanton; he had no doubt the two federal appointees faced a difficult immediate future. But then the federals would turn their attention to Haven. It would take time to assemble forces. Federal America’s peacetime footing and the postwar force drawdowns meant they would have to divert forces from the various garrisons and bases, and transit times between planets slowed mobilization. And they would have to assemble a fleet strong enough to overwhelm the orbital fortress.

  But it was coming.

  A year. At most. That’s how long we have.

  They would be back with thousands of troops. And this time it wouldn’t be just security forces and colonial units. The federals would send regular army units, frontline soldiers with battle experience from the war, supported by aircraft and complemented by a navy that would have total control of local space around the planet. Apart from his core of retired veterans, none of the rebels had ever faced an enemy like that.

  And I will have to look across the field at federal regulars, men and women I served alongside, and do everything I can to kill them.

  Not everyone shared his grim thoughts. There were celebrations all across Haven, parades and gatherings. And he knew they served a purpose as well, however premature they might be. He would allow them to continue—he would even encourage them . . . for a while. But he would focus on the business at hand, so when the celebrations ended, the work could begin. He had to turn these thousands of recruits—farmers, office workers, tradesmen—into an army. A real army. One that could stand and face the federal forces when they returned.

  One that could fight and win the final victory . . . and secure Haven’s independence forever.

  He didn’t know if he could do it, if he could lead Haven to true independence . . . but he was resolved to try, and if he failed he knew one thing: he would not survive the war to see the defeat.

  EPILOGUE

  “The vote is unanimous, forty yea and zero nay. The motion passes.” John Danforth stood at the front of the room and raised his hands in the air. “We have done it, my friends. My fellow Havenites. May the free world of Haven prosper for a thousand years!”

  The assembled delegates leapt to their feet and roared their approval. Then they began to chant. “Haven . . . Haven . . . Haven . . .”

  “Let us go, fellow delegates. Let us go out and tell the people.”

  Danforth walked across the room, to the large double doors leading out to the street, Damian and the others following behind.

  The building had originally been built as a theater for a company of actors doing live-action plays. They had folded years ago, before Damian had even arrived on Haven, and the building had sat idle ever since. Until John Danforth chose it as the first meeting place of the Haven Provisional Congress. Damian couldn’t remember the original name—Starlight, Moonlight, something like that—but he would never forget its new one. Freedom Hall.

  He followed Danforth onto the landing outside, a large flat area with stairs going down on two sides. There were hundreds gathered—no, thousands—the streets packed in every direction as far as he could see.

  Damian stood on the platform and looked out over the crowds, the men and women who had assembled outside Freedom Hall for the momentous proclamation.

  Danforth stood next to him, holding a small tablet in his hand. He’d offered Damian the chance to read the words to the crowd, but the general had demurred. He knew Danforth had been the father of the rebellion more than any other single man or woman.

  Besides, he thought what his fellow Havenites had done was foolish.

  He had turned down a seat in the congress, stating that he didn’t believe the military commander should also hold a civilian office. But that was mostly bullshit. The truth was, he had great reservations about what had been done, and enormous concerns the Havenites had just foreclosed even the remotest chance of a negotiated settlement.

  He didn’t object to the idea of independence, but he felt declaring it now was foolish. It changed nothing. It didn’t put another soldier in the field, nor did it replenish the dwindling supplies of weapons and ammunition. And he knew how Federal America would respond.

  He’d hoped the senate might agree to some kind of compromise, even after all that had happened . . . especially if he managed to win a victory or two when the war resumed. The cost of diverting ships and soldiers to Haven in sufficient numbers to fight the rebellion would be crippling, and he’d had a spark of optimism the federals might eventually accept an arrangement reaffirming the terms of the planet’s original constitution, perhaps even adding a few new guarantees. In return, Federal America would keep its colony, officially at least, and the flows of ore and other precious goods would resume and grow. But Damian knew Federal America would never accept Haven’s independence. It couldn’t. It set a precedent to every other disaffected colony world, one the government back on Earth could never allow. What happened on Haven would send a message, one way or another. That independence was attainable . . . or that any attempt to achieve it would be treated as the gravest treason and drowned in a sea of blood.

  The vote just concluded set the future in stone. Total victory . . . or abject subjugation.

  “It is done, Havenites! The vote has passed unanimously!” Danforth’s voice pulled Damian from his thoughts. The revolutionary leader turned back, passing his eyes over Damian, and the other representatives even now pouring out of the hall. Then he looked out over the crowd again.

  “As it is the responsibility of free men and women to take whatever steps are necessary to preserve the basic liberties that are natural to all mankind . . .”

  His voice was strong, powerful, as he read the document. Damian watched, realizing that John Danforth had worked for years for this moment. He’d spent most of his family fortune . . . and he’d lost his cousin, killed in the first battle. Damian was happy for Danforth, that his effort and sacrifices had been successful. Whether he agreed or disagreed with the proclamation, he knew Danforth was a good man. A man of integrity.

  “And, as there are forces and powers extant that would strip away those freedoms, and impose upon the people burdens and arbitrary and capricious obligations, it is incumbent upon said men and women, being threatened with the yoke of servitude, to take whatever actions they deem necessary to break the shackles of grim and brutal rule and to secure for themselves, and generations to follow, the bright light of freedom, now and for all time.”

  Damian held back a sigh. He wondered if Danforth and the other politicians understood how similar they sometimes sounded to their Earth counterparts, so easily reciting lofty words that served their purposes. They spoke proudly of liberty and freedom, yet there were multiple factions in the new congress, each with its own agenda, and many hating their rivals nearly as much as the federals. Their definitions of freedom rarely extended to those who disagreed with their own points of view.

  Damian was glad he was a soldier. Politics left him cold. It seemed to invariably bring out the worst in those caught in its web, turning even honest and admirable men and women into conniving things, maneuvering constantly for power. He didn’t know if Danforth would go down that path, but he’d seen nothing in his life to make him feel optimistic. He would do all he could to win the war . . . but what his fel
low Havenites would do with that victory, if somehow his soldiers were able to attain it, he had no idea.

  “As such, we, the first congress of the planet Haven, speaking for the free men and women of our great world, do here solemnly pronounce as follows. All ties and bonds connecting the planet Haven to the nation of Federal America are hereby immediately and forever severed. Henceforth, the free world of Haven shall be independent, and part of no external polity, wherever said entity may be located.”

  Danforth looked up from the tablet. There was more. As with politicians since the dawn of time, the members of the congress had droned on at great length, paragraph after paragraph of soaring language that said virtually nothing of substance. But he had read the important part.

  The part that will bring the true wrath of Federal America down on Haven.

  Damian looked out at the crowd. They were screaming, waving banners in the air. And Danforth was urging them on. “Join me now in a cheer for the free world of Haven!”

  The mob erupted, the sound even louder now, almost deafening.

  Damian cheered, too. But inside he could only see two possible futures. One dimly lit, for he knew even in victory the cost would be great . . . and the people, the politicians, all who would struggle for control, could easily usher in a dark age for Haven, one with less freedom and not more. The other was the road to defeat, one that was as dark as the blackest, moonless night and offered nothing but death and servitude.

  He took a deep breath. He knew what was coming, the forces his people would have to face. He had been a part of that army, and he’d fought with it to victory over two other superpowers. And now he had to find a way to defeat it.

  But he just didn’t know if that was possible.

  Alistair Semmes stood behind the desk, staring out the massive window at the Washington cityscape below. The office was colossal, and richly appointed, one that befitted his station. Semmes was a powerful man, a senator with three decades of service in Federal America’s governing body, and the current patriarch of one of the nation’s strongest political dynasties.

  He was trim, looking younger than his sixty years, his hair still mostly brown, closely cropped in a style that looked almost military. His suit was simple but clearly expensive, the tailoring perfect.

  He had a reputation as dedicated lawmaker, one devoted to protecting and serving his constituents. But that was a charade, the product of a carefully executed and well-funded public relations effort. In truth, Semmes owed none of his terms to the vagaries of anything so quaint as an actual election, at least not an honest one. He rarely gave a second thought to those who voted for him, either the actual constituents of his district, or the thousands of dead voters who remained on the rolls, their votes automatically tallied for him whenever the polls opened.

  “This is the second time I have been forced to use my influence to save you from the damage caused by your own failure. The incident during the war was bad enough, though that was resolved easily enough by shifting the blame. That is not possible here. This disaster is so colossal, it requires blunter methods. There is no unfortunate NCO to frame this time. I must expend hard-earned political capital on this, favors I could have used to great gain . . . but must now waste on you.”

  Alistair Semmes stared at his son, making no effort to hide his anger and shame. Robert sat quietly, enduring his father’s rage and abuse. He wanted to argue, to say that he hadn’t been in charge on Haven, that his efforts had been held back by Stanton and Wells. But he knew his father well enough to realize that silently enduring was the better strategy.

  The elder Semmes walked over to his desk, leaning down and grabbing a small box. “You are fortunate, boy, that you were born into this family. By any reasonable assessment, I should cut my losses and allow you to sink. But no Semmes is going to fade into disgrace and oblivion. I owe that to my father and grandfather more than to you. It was they who built the foundations of this family’s power and influence. And no son of mine will damage that legacy.” He paused, glaring at Robert. “Not even one who is a blundering imbecile.”

  He threw the box at Robert, who bobbled it and dropped it. Alistair watched his son with renewed disgust. “Pick it up.”

  Robert knelt down, scooping up the box. Then he stood up and looked back at his father.

  “Open it! By God, if you didn’t have the Semmes eyes, I’d suspect you weren’t even mine, that your mother had managed a dalliance with a security guard or some other weak-minded fool.”

  Robert felt a rush of anger, but he suppressed it. He was a cold man, but he’d loved his mother, and he’d seen how the senator had tired of her . . . and how she’d been left with nothing after the divorce. She’d ended up performing some type of menial labor to support herself. Robert never knew much about it. He’d only been allowed to see her twice a year, and that under guard. Then she died a few years later, under circumstances he’d never truly understood.

  He opened the box . . . and his eyes froze. There were two single silver stars inside.

  He looked up at his father. “A general’s stars?” He tried to hide his surprise, but he realized immediately that had been a complete failure.

  “Yes, a general’s stars. I can assure you it was not easy to attain those . . . and the orders that accompany them.”

  “Orders?”

  “Yes, orders. You are fortunate indeed. You will have a chance to redress your failure, to emerge from this business strong and powerful . . . instead of weak and disgraced.”

  Robert just stared at his father, a confused look on his face.

  “You are going back to Haven.” Alistair made no effort to hide his frustration and impatience. “I have secured for you the top command of the expeditionary force being sent to crush the rebellion. You will have no one in your way now. You will be the supreme commander, in charge of all federal forces and personnel in the system.”

  He glared at his son. “Your orders are simple. You are to crush the rebellion. We cannot allow this kind of thing to spread to other colonies . . . or to Earth itself. You will destroy the rebel armies, execute their leaders. You will drown this revolution in blood, and before you return, Haven will be prostrate and obedient . . . and it will be a century before anyone in Federal America dares even think the word rebellion.”

  Robert nodded, a smile creeping onto his face. He had scores to settle on Haven. “Thank you, Father.”

  Alistair nodded. “Use this opportunity, my son, and use it well, for it was not cheaply bought.”

  “I will, Father.”

  “And, Robert . . . do not fail me again. There will not be a third intervention. So, if you cannot defeat the rebels, do us both a favor. Get yourself killed in battle and save the family the disgrace.”

  The smile slipped off Semmes’s face, replaced by a cold, hard stare. He felt the usual struggling emotions, hatred for the man who’d sired him, battling with the old craving for his father’s love and approval. When he finally spoke, his voice was frozen. He stared at his father, and spoke just three words before he turned and walked out the door.

  “I won’t fail.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JAY ALLAN currently lives in New York City, and has been reading science fiction and fantasy for just about as long as he’s been reading. His tastes are fairly varied and eclectic, but favorites include military and dystopian science fiction, space opera, and epic fantasy—all usually a little bit gritty.

  He writes a lot of science fiction with military themes, but also other SF and some fantasy as well. He likes complex characters and lots of backstory and action, but in the end believes world-building is the heart of science fiction and fantasy.

  Before becoming a professional writer, Jay has been an investor and real estate developer. When not writing, he enjoys traveling, running, hiking, and—of course—reading. He also loves hearing from readers and always answers emails. You can reach him at jay@jayallanbooks.com, and join his mailing list at http://www.crimso
nworlds.com for updates on new releases.

  Among other things, he is the author of the bestselling Crimson Worlds series.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  ALSO BY JAY ALLAN

  FAR STARS

  Shadow of Empire

  Enemy in the Dark

  Funeral Games

  CRIMSON WORLDS

  Marines

  The Cost of Victory

  A Little Rebellion

  The First Imperium

  The Line Must Hold

  To Hell’s Heart

  The Shadow Legions

  Even Legends Die

  The Fall

  War Stories (Crimson Worlds Prequels)

  MERCS (Crimson Worlds Successors I)

  PORTAL WARS

  Gehenna Dawn

  The Ten Thousand

  PENDRAGON CHRONICLES

  The Dragon’s Banner

  CREDITS

  Cover design by Owen Corrigan

  Cover illustration by Tony Mauro

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  FLAMES OF REBELLION. Copyright © 2017 by Jay Allan Books. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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