by Jay Allan
Merrick didn’t understand the colonials; to him they were simply upstart traitors who needed to be shown their place. He was a Political Academy graduate, as were all senior officers in the terrestrial military establishment and, as such, a member of the de facto upper class of the Alliance. Not surprisingly, he tended to view the colonists in the same way as the lower classes on Earth. A bit more troublesome, perhaps, but he had been confident they would cave in once he applied the iron fist. He hadn’t given much thought to the fact that the police had been applying that same strategy, and all they had to show for it was a planet in turmoil and a growing casualty list. Now he was reassessing and coming to the conclusion that he faced a long and difficult struggle.
His troops were well-equipped, but one on one he wasn’t sure they were a match for the armed colonists, leavened so heavily with Marine veterans. The Alliance army, like the other terrestrial forces of the Superpowers, was of mediocre quality. There’d been no fighting between the Powers on Earth for a century, so combat experience was negligible, nothing more than the occasional punitive action against a gang or band of outlaws. The Alliance officers were drawn from the Political Class, the junior ranks filled from families with little influence and the senior officers drawn from those higher-placed. It was usually somewhat of a dead end as a career, but even some members of the highest placed families liked putting on fancy uniforms and calling themselves general, at least until parents and grandparents died or retired and passed on choice government posts. Governmental positions weren’t officially hereditary, of course, but that’s how it worked in practice.
Merrick, though fairly typical of the mindset of the Political classes in the Alliance, was actually a capable officer. He spent a considerable amount of time tending to his troops, far more than others of his rank. Though untested in battle, he was smart and well-educated in strategy and tactics. He was more patient and restrained in his actions than many of his peers, and he was popular with the rank and file, another rarity in the Alliance army.
The capital city had been a hotbed of unrest when they arrived, and Merrick’s first order of business was to clamp down and assert effective control. He instituted a curfew and sent troops to take over the entire communications network. He tried to utilize as little force as possible, but there had been armed resistance in the communications center, and his troops had to fight their way in. When he disbanded the Planetary Assembly, the representatives who were present barricaded themselves in, and a nasty battle broke out. His troops suffered heavy casualties and he’d had to send in reinforcements before they managed to overwhelm the defenders and secure the building. Both sides had taken serious losses.
He had to think about his next steps. He couldn’t just sit in Arcadia; his orders were to secure control over the entire planet. Now he was considering just how large the planet was. If they fight everywhere the way they did here, he thought, we’re going to have our hands full.
Kara Sanders walked across the rough stone floor of the production facility. She had always been slim, but after the last few months she was stick-thin, her clothes hanging loosely over her tiny frame. Amazing, she thought…these pants used to be tight. She’d been working day and night, and it was starting to wear her down. Her shoulders ached and her once beautiful blue eyes were red and sore. She hadn’t slept in two days…or was it three?
The makeshift factory was burrowed into the low mountain range that formed the western border of the Concordia district. There had been a fairly large cavern there already, and they’d massively expanded it with plasma-blasting. Now it was almost a kilometer long, large plasti-steel girders bracing the high stone ceiling.
The entire space hummed with activity. Machines of various sorts were positioned, sometimes haphazardly wherever there was room, and at that equipment, men and women worked feverishly producing weapons and other high tech items. Securing the production equipment had been enormously difficult, and they’d had to take what they could get. Much of it had been purchased from smugglers and black marketeers at astronomical prices. Their output was a fraction of what a proper factory would have produced, but for a makeshift operation thrown together in a few months it was impressive. And now that unrest had progressed into war they would need those weapons.
Kara had committed most of the Sanders fortune to the cause, and she’d done so with her grandfather’s whole-hearted support. The old man was a revolutionary at heart, and as far as he was concerned, Alliance Gov would turn his beloved Arcadia into a totalitarian nightmare over his dead body. Money wasn’t the only thing he would give to the fight. Despite her best efforts, Kara had been unable to prevent him from digging out his old uniform – he’d been commander of the planetary militia for forty years – and chasing Will around, offering advice on how to forge his band of veterans, farmers, and merchants into the army Arcadia needed to win its freedom.
The old man was full of advice on another topic as well. Will and Kara had engaged in a tempestuous, years-long relationship, full of breakups and reconciliations. Neither of them was particularly emotional alone, but for some reason their escapades together were overwrought and full of drama. He was sick of it; he couldn’t think of anyone better-suited for his grand-daughter than Will Thompson, and he wasn’t about to let her throw away happiness because she’d inherited his own ornery stubbornness. She was a pain in the ass sometimes, he knew that. But he was sure Will loved her so, already an adventurer, colonist, soldier, and entrepreneur, Gregory Sanders added matchmaker to his resume. He’d been driving her crazy about it for weeks.
She knew he was right; she’d realized it a few weeks before when Arcadia was taken by newly arrived Alliance army units. Will had been in the city when the crackdown hit, and when she heard what happened at the Assembly Hall she was gripped by panic that he was dead. Grief-stricken and inconsolable, she realized what he really meant to her, what a gaping void he would leave in her life. She burst into tears when he walked into town the next day, exhausted and hungry, but very much alive.
She was proud of what they had accomplished in the year since they’d resolved to start making their own weapons. Despite increasing federal scrutiny – and finally open hostilities - they’d kept the facility a secret. Even if the Feds discovered it, they had burrowed deep into the mountainside. The installation was extremely defensible, and any attempt to take it was likely to be a bloodbath for the attackers. Will had designed the defenses himself, and even working with the limited materials available, he’d created a fortress of considerable strength.
The production equipment was a mixed lot, consisting of whatever they’d been able to obtain without drawing too much scrutiny. She’d worked around the clock to turn it all into a rational and productive facility. The workers were all locals, volunteers doing a rotation in addition to whatever other work they did. Will had gotten the schematics and other documentation from his friends at the Academy, but they’d basically had to train themselves in how to build modern weapons.
Raw materials were a problem as well. Arcadia was a beautiful world, full of valuable resources. But it was light on the types of heavy elements needed to build modern weaponry. Will had managed to get three shipments of heavy metals from his contacts on Columbia, sending back a load of finished weapons to the resistance on that world. But all contact with Columbia had stopped abruptly; no ships, no communications were getting in or out. Now Arcadia was similarly cut off. The capital and spaceport were occupied, and the interstellar communications network had been interdicted. They were alone.
We have enough material to keep going for two months, maybe three, she thought. Then we’ll have to slow to half-production at best. She’d been up nights reworking their procedures, refining them to eliminate waste. Every percentage point she reduced the loss factor saved a portion of their dwindling raw material stockpiles. That meant more guns and ammo for the troops in the field.
The work also kept her busy, with less time to think. Will had marched out with
his troops, headed toward Arcadia. The Feds had been launching operations all around the city, and if they didn’t do something, morale throughout the Capital District would be shattered. They needed a victory, and they needed it badly. The more Kara focused on her work, the less time she had to think about the danger, about the chance that will would not come home. Worse, her grandfather had insisted on going along too; the old man would not be dissuaded despite both she and Will arguing against it. Everyone she loved was with that force marching off to battle, and she welcomed any distraction from the constant fear.
“Fire!” Will Thompson’s voice was hoarse, but he yelled the order loud and clear into his comlink. The ragged ridgeline erupted as his hidden heavy weapons opened up, raking the confused federal troops with fire from their flank. The guns weren’t the nuclear-powered auto-cannons the Marines used – producing something like that was well beyond the rebellion’s limited capability. But the weapons they had were still effective, especially at this range.
The Feds were well-equipped and trained in basic drill and maneuver, but it was obvious they had no combat experience. Will’s troops on the ridge were mostly veterans, retired Marines who’d had their baptisms in some of the bitterest battles ever fought. Detaching so many of his veterans was a risk; it gave him a formidable assault unit, but it left the rest of his force low on experienced personnel. He planned to make up that deficit himself, he and a few others he’d put in key positions with the main force.
Will had never intended to command the rebel army he’d helped build. He was a veteran, yes, and his service record was solid, but there were others who had done the same, and some who’d been of higher rank when they did. He’d fought on a dozen worlds and been decorated several times, yes, but he’d only been a sergeant in the field. His commission had been an honorary one, given on the eve of his retirement after he was grievously wounded in a training accident while attending the Academy. All his service in combat had been as a non-com.
But Will had lived on Columbia for over a decade, and he was universally liked and respected. After his speech, when he’d called the residents of Concordia to action, Will had been at the center of the Arcadian resistance. In the last year he’d proven himself to be a true leader. When it came time to choose a commander for the newly-formed Army of Concordia, Will was overwhelmingly acclaimed.
Now he watched as his troops slaughtered the confused Alliance soldiers. The heavy auto-gun rounds tore through the Feds’ hyperkev body armor, not just killing, but shattering bodies. The federal troops tried to return the fire coming from the ridge, but Thompson had his teams dug in, and the ragged volleys the Feds managed to deliver were largely ineffective. After a few minutes they broke and started to run away. A week before, Will would have ordered his troops to cease firing and allow the routing federals to retreat; he was a soldier and a professional, not a butcher. But the enemy had captured eleven of his troops five days before and executed them all. It was a different war for Will now, and an icy resolve chilled his soul when he imagined his unarmed men and women lined up against a wall and shot. He looked out over the panicking masses in the valley below, a harsh smile on his face. “Mortar teams, target the retreating force.” His voice was cold. “Fire.” He watched with grim satisfaction as the panicked federal troops were blown apart by his heavy mortar rounds. He muttered softy. “This was the war you chose, not me.”
“What the hell is going on out there?” Merrick was angry, venting at his staff more than looking for an answer. He was getting nothing but excuses and doubletalk, and he was sick of it. One thing he knew; he was losing troops – the casualty lists were getting long. After the initial difficulties in securing the city of Arcadia things had gone fairly well for a few weeks. He’d sent columns throughout the entire district, rounding up suspected rebels and asserting control of the area 50 klicks out from the city. But now his forces were encountering much heavier resistance, well-equipped troops that were more than a match for his own. The district, which had been nearly pacified, was now in open revolt, and even in the city there had been attacks against his troops and supply depots.
“Sir, we need to move against these rebels in force, and we have to do it soon.” Major Jarrod was the lowest-ranking officer present; in the Alliance army that was someone who usually stayed quiet while the superior officers debated. In an extremely hierarchal service that hadn’t fought a war in a hundred years, it was more important to avoid offending anyone with more influence than you. It was a far likelier path to success than speaking up, even if you were right.
Merrick, however, was a cut above the average Alliance army general, and he knew Jarrod was one of his best officers. “Please elaborate, major.” Merrick’s indulgence of Jarrod caused a few raised eyebrows in the room, but no one would dare interrupt after the commanding general had spoken.
“Sir, we need to…” - Jarrod nervously noticed the expressions of the other officers at his presumption - “…excuse me, it is my belief that it would be beneficial to launch an offensive with significant strength and bring this rebel force to battle so it can be destroyed before it grows larger and bolder.”
Most of the senior officers were ignoring Jarrod, but he had Merrick’s attention. “How do you define significant, major?” Merrick was staring right at the younger officer, looking him directly in the eye.
“Sir, if it was my decision, I’d mobilize the entire division.” He paused for an instant. “Minus a garrison for the city, of course.”
Most of the officers laughed and snorted derisively at Jarrod’s suggestion, but Merrick was impassive, still looking at the major and listening intently to what he had to say.
Jarrod took a deep breath and continued. “Sir, we have to stop thinking about these rebels as some ragtag force we can mop up at will. There are a lot of Marine veterans in their ranks, and they have far more combat experience than our troops. The rest of them may be townspeople and farmers, but they believe they are fighting for a cause, and that alone makes them formidable.” Jarrod took another breath; he’d gone much further down this road than he’d intended. “We need to crush them and do it quickly, or they will gain strength from all over the planet.”
Merrick paused a moment to consider Jarrod’s words, but before he could speak, Brigadier Quinn interjected his own comments. “That is absurd.” His tone was arrogant, dripping with derision and contempt – whether that was for the colonists, him, or both, Jarrod couldn’t tell. “The very idea that colonial rabble can stand up to Alliance regulars is not only foolish, it is insulting.”
You are a pompous ass, Merrick thought looking over at Quinn…especially since your brigade has fared worst of all at the hands of the “colonial rabble.” Merrick thought it, but he didn’t say it. Despite the fact that Quinn was a damned fool and everyone knew it, his connections were top of the line, and that’s all that really counted in the Alliance. You didn’t advance your career arguing with a Senator’s son, even when you outranked him, and Quinn was just in the army biding time until his father retired and passed on his Seat.
“With all due respect, General Quinn…” - Merrick didn’t think much respect was due, but there was no point in making political enemies of powerful colleagues - “…whether it is numbers, familiarity with the terrain, help from the locals…whatever…this rebel army has enjoyed considerable success against our isolated forces.” He paused, considering how to proceed. He hated having to parse his words and play diplomat in his own headquarters, but that was the way the Alliance was run. “While I of course concur with you regarding the combat capabilities of the rebels compared to our own troops, I see no harm in launching a large scale operation.” He paused, waiting to see if Quinn was going to argue with him, but for once the arrogant fool was just listening. “A little overkill won’t hurt us, and we can end this quickly rather than allowing it to drag on in a series of small actions.”
Quinn was silent, looking at Merrick as he spoke. He almost interrupted, but he didn
’t, just nodding instead. Arrogant as Quinn was, Merrick was his military superior, and nothing he said was out of line. Nothing like that upstart Jarrod.
“I hardly think the full division is needed, however. In fact, General Quinn…” - Now’s the time, Merrick thought; put it to him – “…I think a brigade-sized operation would be sufficient.” He paused, looking right at his troublesome subordinate. “Do you think your people can be ready to execute in one week?”
Quinn was on the spot, and he squirmed a bit. For all his bluster, he was unnerved by how effectively the rebels had fought his troops…and since he’d had some rebel prisoners executed, the enemy had kicked up the ferocity level. The troops in his brigade were shaken. They’d expected to clear out the equivalent of some armed Cogs; now they were facing well-armed and led troops. But there was no way to back down, not in front of everybody. “Of course, general. We would be honored.”
Merrick smiled. “Thank you, General Quinn. There is no one I’d feel more comfortable entrusting this operation to…no one.”
Quinn snapped Merrick a salute. “Then with your permission, general, I will go and start preparing the brigade.” He was trying to keep a poker face, but Merrick enjoyed the look of fear in his eyes.
“Of course, General Quinn.” Merrick watched Quinn skulk out the door, and his smile grew. If you only knew you were the bait in this operation, he thought, with far too much satisfaction.
Chapter 10
Founders’ Square
Weston City
Columbia - Eta Cassiopeiae II
The crowd had been gathering all morning. No announcement had been made, but everyone seemed to know something was happening. Word of the confrontation at the armory had spread virally. Now there were rumors everywhere. It was the middle of a workday, but offices and places of business sat virtually empty as the people of Weston flocked into the streets.