Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  Jacen’s face was pale, and the revolutionary seemed indignant. But then he answered simply, meekly, “Yes. I understand.”

  Damian turned around and walked back toward his chair. He was unhappy with himself for allowing so much anger to show. Jacen was trouble, he reminded himself, a dangerous enemy. Scaring him now would buy some time, but in the end, it only increased the chance of problems down the road. He had no doubt the revolutionary was a petty man, one who would harbor a grudge. But right now he didn’t care.

  One step at a time. One day at a time. You have a hundred problems to deal with before Jacen.

  Damian sat at his desk, enjoying the warmth of the fire in the hearth, at least for a few moments. He smiled, at the crackling flames, at all of the half-dozen small comforts he’d found waiting for him when he got home. Ben Withers had resumed his place as a soldier a year past, when Damian had reluctantly joined the fight and taken command of the rebel forces. Withers had served since then as his chief’s loyal aide, reprising, after a fashion, the role he’d held six years before, during the war against the Eurasians and the Hegemony. But when he saw that Damian had come back to the farm, he’d donned his other hat, that of a civilian manager and valet of sorts, and among other things, he’d seen that the fire was lit and the library’s brandy decanter was filled.

  Damian was grateful for the fire, and he leaned back, allowing the waves of heat to radiate into his back. There was a knot there, partially from exertion, but mostly from stress, and the dry heat from the native cedar was almost like a magic tonic. His eyes caught the crystal decanter full of amber liquid, but he left it where it was. He’d never been much of a drinker before, and he suspected it would be a long time indeed before he allowed anything to interfere with his judgment.

  He’d been staying in Landfall, in the room he’d had set up near headquarters, but something had called him back to the farm tonight. It was inconvenient, and perhaps it didn’t make much sense. It had been late by the time he’d arrived, and he had to leave early to make his address. But the calling hadn’t been one born of logic. This farm, the house he’d designed and built himself, was his home, the only real one he’d ever known, and though he’d lived there for just five years, he’d realized it had grown on him immensely in that time.

  It was the place he’d come to retire from war, yet war had found him again. He would have been happy to spend the rest of his life there, monitoring crop yields and spending quiet nights reading in front of the fire. But that wasn’t to be, at least not now. He knew it might be a long time before he saw the farm again, if he ever did, and one last night there didn’t seem like too much to ask.

  He knew things would happen quickly when the federals arrived. They would take, or destroy, the orbital platform, and Damian somehow had to make sure it was the latter. Providing the federals with an intact station would only add to his problems.

  Then the government forces would land and, unless he was very wrong, they would take the capital, almost without a fight. His troopers had no real chance in a battle in the open, and committing to a house-to-house defense of the capital would not only reduce Haven’s largest city to rubble, it would tie the bulk of his army to a single win-or-lose proposition—and there was little doubt they would lose such a battle. Whatever chance his people had was based not on quick victories, but on surviving. There was no easy path to success that he could see. If he could drag it out, though, fight a protracted, bloody, agonizing conflict, perhaps—just perhaps—he could wear the federal authorities down. The war would cost them a hundred times what it did Haven. Five hundred. Every soldier, every weapon, every round of ammunition, had to be shipped from Earth. To that end, the path was clear: the chance for victory lay not in defeating the federal armies, but in avoiding the destruction of his own forces for long enough that it made the war untenable. Federal America could not sustain a large force in action forever. As long as he had an army in the field, the rebellion would survive.

  He looked over at the corner of his desk, at a small cube of high-density plastic. He reached over, grabbed it, and pulled it close to his face. He sat quietly, staring at the platinum medallion inside. It was a lump of metal in the shape of a starburst, attached to a blue silk strip of fabric, nothing more. But it represented a moment in his life, one that had, until recently, been the proudest.

  He still couldn’t remember exactly what had gone through his head, what had driven him to lead his shattered platoon forward, to seize the crucial spot on the battlefield, and to hold it for six hours, against everything the enemy could throw at his people. He would never forget the soldiers who’d served with him that day, nor the ones he left behind there, the half of his platoon that died on that ridge.

  He still had the nightmares. That was something he knew he’d take to his grave. He remembered the cold dead faces staring back at him. He knew he’d always carry the scars of his service with him, but he’d never imagined that the pride, the sense of accomplishment he’d brought with him into retirement, would be stripped from him. Now he looked at his decoration, and he wondered what he had fought for. His comrades, of course, but what else? What had any of them really achieved? Furthering the interests of a corrupt, oppressive government, fighting rivals that were just as bad as it was?

  He felt a wave of anger, resentment at the rebellion, for stripping him of the simple pride that had been so important to him. Or was he grateful for the clarity, to be saved from the lies he’d believed for far too long? He suspected it was some of each, even though they seemed to be opposites.

  No one ever said man was a rational beast.

  “Are you hungry, sir? I didn’t know you were coming until an hour ago, but I stocked the kitchen as well as I could.” Withers stood at the doorway, looking toward the desk.

  “No, thank you, Ben. I’m not hungry. I’m just sitting here and enjoying the fire. And thinking.” He paused a few seconds, but when Withers looked like he was going to slip out the door, he said, “Come on in, Ben. Sit with me.”

  Withers stepped into the room and walked across the stained wood floor. The old noncom’s posture was as rigidly perfect as ever, and he sat down bolt upright in one of the chairs facing the desk.

  “You know what’s coming, Ben. You know as well as I do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Damian almost told Withers to stop calling him “sir.” But it had been six years since they’d been discharged together, and he’d never managed it before, so it hardly seemed likely now.

  “Tell me what you think, Ben. Have we done enough? Have we prepared them for what they will face?” Damian’s tone suggested he had significant doubts. “And, Ben . . . give it to me straight. I want your real opinion.”

  “Always, sir. Truth is, we won’t know, not until it’s over. But I think they can do it.”

  Damian looked back, the surprise certainly obvious on his face. Withers was a cold realist, and he’d expected the aide to deliver an ominous response, not one with rays of hope shining through.

  “We’re going to be facing regulars, Ben.”

  “I know that, sir. But strength comes in different forms.” Withers hesitated, as if uncertain he should continue. Then he said, “You and I, sir, we came from nothing. We had no homes, none worthy of the word, at least.” He paused again before continuing, his usual firm voice betraying rare emotion. “I used to steal food. For my mother. She was sick . . . she was sick for a long time. My father was dead. There was no one else.”

  Damian sat silently, listening attentively. He had known Withers for ten years, and this was the first time his friend had talked about his life before the military.

  “It was hard seeing her like that, but it gave me a purpose, too. She needed me, and anything I could find—some extra food or an old blanket—helped make her more comfortable. It was miserable, living in such deprivation, but she kept me going, even amid the despair of the Chicago slums. When she died, that was all gone. I didn’t care about anything. I was
fortunate to end up in the army, and to find meaning in serving with my comrades. It saved my life, sir, as I suspect it saved yours. The army was an escape for us, but that’s all it was. We fought because we became professionals, because we bonded with the men and women around us. And that gave us something we were missing. But I’m not sure it was a true replacement for what we’d lost . . . or never had. I still remember the look in my mother’s eyes when I brought back some tattered old coat, something that could help keep her warm when the heat went out. The feeling that gave me, to help her—in my mind back then, to save her—I’ve never had that feeling since.”

  Withers looked across the desk, and for the first time Damian had ever seen, the old veteran’s eyes were moist. “These people have something we’ve never known, sir. They have houses and families. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. They have husbands and wives and children. Homes, sir. They have homes here. Real homes, the kind you and I never had. Until we came to Haven. They may not have the training we do, and they may not have the experience crawling across the battlefield, facing Union and Hegemony troops, but they have a lot to fight for. More than we ever did. We were professionals, sir, but they are defending their homes and families. Don’t underestimate them.”

  Damian considered Withers’s words. He realized he’d been almost entirely pessimistic, and for all the effort he’d put into training his army, he hadn’t really ever believed they could win. A pall had followed him through every exercise, through each day that the force grew, and more so since it had begun to shrink. He tended to discount the encouragements of others. He’d seen too many times how easily people convinced themselves to believe whatever they wanted to believe. But Ben Withers had been to hell and back with him. His aide, his friend, was a man whose opinion Damian always took seriously.

  “All right, my friend. You have made your point. Perhaps we do have a chance. But the truth is, I’m not just concerned about our soldiers. They may be undertrained and inexperienced, but their general is worse. I have no place commanding an army, Ben. I know that, and I suspect you do, too. How can they not?”

  “I know no such thing, sir. A leader is more than a list of battles or a benchmark of years served. I followed you into battle when you wore stripes on your arms, and after you exchanged those for shiny new lieutenant’s bars. And I followed you here into civilian life. You are the kind of leader people follow, Damian, and the fact that you can’t see it only makes it more real.” Withers paused. “We will fight for you, sir. Me, the old veterans, the new recruits. We will follow you into battle, into hell itself, if you will lead us there. It lies with you now, General Ward. Will you embrace your destiny?”

  Damian took a deep breath, trying hard to ignore the ache in his stomach. He wasn’t sure he thought Withers’s confidence was as well placed as the sergeant—no, major now—seemed to think. But he knew what he had to do, and to have any chance at success, he had to let himself believe, at least a little.

  “I will give all I have, Ben. I will fight with every scrap of strength I can muster.”

  And by God, I hope that is enough.

  Chapter 5

  Command Central

  Orbital Fortress

  Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)

  “There’s definitely something there, Command. Energy readings are off the scale. My guess is, we’re looking at a minimum of a dozen ships, possibly more.” Josh Garabrant had been working twelve-hour shifts for days, ever since Vagabond had returned with a warning of approaching federal forces. He heard a quiver in his own voice that he hoped came across as exhaustion, and not the gut-wrenching fear he was feeling.

  “Very well, scanner control, maintain your track.”

  “Yes, Command.” He held back a snort of derision at the officious tone of the officer on the other end of the comm.

  Here we are, playing at being soldiers. Is even one of us ready for what is coming?

  Garabrant was an engineer by training. He’d come to Haven ten years before, and he’d worked most of that time at Danforth Communications, where the worst crisis he’d faced was making sure the nightly entertainment lineup was broadcast on time. Now there were ships coming. Coming to kill him.

  He was scared—all-out, unfiltered, 100 percent scared to death. And despite the rank they’d pinned on him and the arrogance in his tone, he suspected Captain Evans in the command center was just as terrified.

  He looked back at the screens. He didn’t know the readings were federal ships transiting into the system, not yet. It was a sliver of doubt and not much more, but it sustained him, at least for another few minutes. Then even that was gone.

  “Command, we have confirmation. Fourteen contacts. At least four identified as federal frigates. Inbound directly toward Haven.”

  “Acknowledged, Lieutenant. Maintain tracking and report additional data as it comes in.”

  He sounds like he’s reading straight out of some kind of manual. But somewhere under the officer-speak, he also sounds about ready to shit himself.

  “Yes, Captain.” His eyes darted back to the display as another flurry of readings came in. “Sir, we’ve now got eight confirmed frigates . . . and four larger contacts.” Garabrant had never seen a federal battlecruiser, not even an image of one. The navy’s heavy ships were classified, kept as secret as possible, deployed in crises only, and otherwise docked at clandestine bases. But he’d heard of them—rumors of them, at least. On-screen now, though, the behemoths were far beyond anything he had imagined. Far beyond anything needed to maintain internal order. They existed for one reason only, for wars against the other powers.

  And now, to crush a rebellious colony.

  “Additional contacts, Captain.” He’d been staring right at the screen when another cluster of ships appeared. They were farther back, slower moving.

  Transports.

  “Acknowledged, Lieutenant.”

  Garabrant took a deep breath, watching as the federal fleet slipped into something that was beginning to look like a combat formation.

  Not that you’d know a combat formation if it fell on you . . .

  He’d done his job. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait to see if the enemy landed troops to retake the orbital platform.

  Or if they just blasted it to atoms the instant they came into range.

  “Damian, we’re getting reports from the station.” Danforth paused. He’d come close to trying to keep the report from Damian, at least until the rebellion’s military leader and he had finished their address to the population. Damian’s performance was crucial here. Danforth was, in many ways, the father of Haven’s revolution, but he knew Damian was its war hero, the planet’s favorite son. He didn’t like the idea of dumping the news on his colleague right before such an important speech. He hated lying to his friend more.

  “The federals?”

  “Yes . . . it appears to be a substantial force.” Danforth knew exactly how many ships had entered the system. But feigning less complete knowledge than he had wasn’t lying. Not quite.

  “Perhaps we should have moved more quickly. The station won’t hold for an hour against a major naval task force. How far out are they?”

  “Estimates are they will enter firing range in seventy-four hours.”

  “Three days. A few hours after that, they can be landing troops.” Damian stood for a moment, silent. Then he said calmly, “Well, let’s do this. We’re already late.”

  Danforth nodded. “Everything is ready.”

  Damian turned and walked toward the small stage, Danforth right behind him. Damian stopped just short of the center of the stage, and the communications mogul moved up to the microphone.

  “We’re ready,” Danforth said, looking over toward the control station at the side of the platform.

  “In five, sir . . . four, three, two, one . . . now.”

  “Good morning, my fellow Havenites. I come to you today on a matter of the gravest importance. Almost one year ago
, our great planet declared its independence from Federal America. As a people, we staked our claim to a future, one of liberty and light not darkened by the shadow of oppression. We knew then that we would have to be prepared to defend that future, to fight for it once again. And now that day has come.” He paused, taking a quick breath as he allowed his words to hang in the air for a moment. “Today our scanners have detected a federal fleet approaching Haven. The war we have feared, that many of us expected, is upon us.” Danforth stood silently, staring at the camera, and by extension, at the hundreds of thousands watching.

  “I urge all of you to be strong, to remember the feelings you felt when you first heard of our world’s freedom. We face a difficult time, I will not lie to any of you about that. But if we stay committed, if we stand together, I truly believe we can emerge from our struggle more resilient and more united than we have ever been.”

  He turned and motioned for Damian to come to the podium. “Without any further delay, I will step aside for General Damian Ward, the commander of Haven’s armed forces . . . and the hero of the rebellion.”

  Damian stepped to the podium, and Danforth could see the frown Haven’s general was holding back. He’d known Damian would hate the “hero” remark, but it was what the people needed to hear now, and he suspected his friend realized that, too. Deep down, at least.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” Damian’s voice was soft, almost as if he was speaking to a friend alone in his study rather than addressing the entire planet.

  “As most of you know, I served in the war against the Union and the Hegemony. I know war. I have felt the sting of battle and the pain of loss. I will not give you a flowery speech now, filled with soaring references to freedom. I will not give you empty encouragements, tell you we will surge to victory because our cause is righteous. The justice of our cause has no weight on the battlefield, only the metal of our guns and the mettle of our resolve.”