Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

Danforth tried not to show any concern, but his stomach was twisting into knots. He had no idea what Damian was doing. The two had written a speech together, and the words streamed across the screen on the podium. But Damian was ignoring it. He was ignoring every word.

  “I will promise you this. I will lead your armies. I will fight the enemy. And never forget, the federals are our enemies now. I may face soldiers I’ve served with, men and women who fought at my side in our previous battles. I do not relish opposing them now—killing them—but that die is already cast. When I look across the field and see them, they are my enemies. I will do all I can to destroy them.”

  Damian’s voice was gradually increasing in volume, and the cool calmness was slowly giving way to a hard edge. To anger.

  “That may sound harsh, it may sound cold. But all of you must understand what we face, and what it will take to see us through, to give us the victory so many speak of with such ease.”

  Danforth wanted to talk to his friend, to somehow get him back on the program. But there was nothing he could do. And as the general continued, he began to understand a bit of what Damian was trying to accomplish.

  “It is one thing to talk about sacrifice, to attend rallies and shout slogans. It is quite another to face brutal combat, to see friends and loved ones killed on the battlefield, mutilated and burned and crying for their mothers. To watch our homes burned to the ground, to flee when we must so we can fight another day. Yet that is exactly what we must endure, my fellow Havenites, if we are to survive. Only through our perseverance, through our grim, unyielding determination, can we achieve the victory—the freedom—we all crave.”

  He paused, staring straight at the camera as he stood stone still. “I ask this of every able-bodied man and woman . . . we need you to join us, to fight with us. To all the soldiers who joined our army and then went home when your enlistments expired—and also to those who left before your terms were served—I ask you to come back to us, for the battle you trained to fight is upon us. I don’t care how you departed or why. There will be no penalties, no recriminations. Just rally back to the ranks and help us win Haven’s freedom, now and for all time. For you are no safer in your homes, waiting helplessly for the federal forces to reach you.”

  He started to turn to walk away, but then he stopped. He stood for a moment, silent, looking back at the camera. Then he said, “You have adopted me, Havenites. You have welcomed me to this extraordinary world, though I was not born among you. I was reluctant to join this revolution, that is no secret. I served Federal America, was one of her soldiers, and I fought in her wars. I disapproved of the oppression, but I told myself that wasn’t my concern. I was a soldier, and all I had to do was follow my orders. At least, that is what I always believed. And when I retired, I took pride with me, pride in the service I had given. But the events of last year, the rebellion and the painful choices many of us had to make, were a reckoning for me. I lost something I had held dear, the idea that I had been a part of something worthwhile. That my service had meant something. Now that is gone, and there is only one way for me to regain it. Victory here. The birth of a strong and free Haven. And I will give every measure of my strength to see that happen.” He paused again. “And for those who heed my call, who come to help me in this sacred duty, I offer my devotion and my eternal loyalty. I cannot promise victory, but I can assure every one of you that I will not survive defeat.”

  He stood for a moment, looking straight ahead. The studio was silent, every man and woman present staring in rapt attention at the man who would lead their army.

  Then he turned abruptly, almost as if on parade, and he walked off the stage.

  Violetta Wells sat in her small room, legs curled up under her body on the bed, and stared at the small screen, her eyes fixed on Damian as he spoke. She knew the general, though knew, she suspected, was a strong word. Her father had known Damian, and she had met him a few times.

  Violetta had listened to revolutionary firebrands since the day she’d arrived with her father four years earlier. Haven was unsettled even then, though things had only gotten progressively worse despite Governor Wells’s best efforts. She had believed in her father when they’d first arrived, and to some extent she had maintained that faith, save for one thing. Her father was a good man, but he served an evil government. She couldn’t understand how he had forced himself to do that, justified his career. How he’d been able to live with himself.

  She’d been naïve, too, she realized now. She understood that, listening to Damian’s words and remembering some of her father’s. It was easy to protest, to thrust your fist into the air and shout out against all manner of outrages, perceived or otherwise. But actions had consequences. She knew that now in ways she hadn’t when she’d gone to her father and told him she was staying behind and joining the rebellion.

  Only now she realized how much she had hurt him, how she had plunged a knife into him when he was at his lowest, returning home in disgrace, his career in ruins. He’d needed her, and she hadn’t even considered that when she’d made her decision. Hers had been an emotional choice, one fueled by the baseless idealism of youth.

  She still believed in the revolution, but there was more than that in her mind now, shaping her views. A realization of just how terrible a price her adopted world might be compelled to pay . . . and guilt for abandoning her father, an open sore on her conscience that the self-righteous young girl of a year earlier couldn’t have imagined.

  She looked around the ramshackle room, still listening to Damian’s words. Her father had left her as much money as he’d been able to, but as governor on a colony world, he hadn’t needed much currency. And all electronic transfers from Earth were cut off. Violetta came to realize very quickly how sheltered a life she had led. She’d had to leave the governor’s house, of course. Her father and the rest of the federals were departing in defeat, and the mood of the people was restive. Out in the street at least, she was another woman, not a symbol of the hated federals. She could blend in, avoid conflict. If she’d declared some right to remain in the official quarters, she would only have whipped the people into a frothy outrage, a dangerous anger that could easily have turned to violence toward the deposed governor’s spoiled daughter.

  She’d reached out to various rebel groups as well, anxious to become a true part of the cause. It had been a more difficult experience than she’d imagined, especially when her revolutionary cohorts found out who she was. She’d been ostracized by some, and more than once, she’d feared for her safety. Others had sought to use her identity to further their ends. Violetta was ready to roll up her sleeves and work for the rebellion, even fight for it, but she had no intention of using her name for propaganda.

  Finally, she found a place with the Society of the Red Flag. A number of others had warned her that the Society was a dangerous, radical organization, but whatever their reputation, they at least had embraced her fervor and put her right to work. She had protested with them, gone to meetings. She had found a home. For a while, at least.

  Now she was worried that the warnings she’d ignored had been correct, that she’d twice succumbed to foolish naivety. The Society was agitating constantly to root out and persecute loyalists . . . or even those Havenites whose revolutionary zeal wasn’t up to the standards they expected. Violetta was still committed to the revolution, but she’d become increasingly uncomfortable with the violent rhetoric of Cal Jacen and the other leaders of the Society. She’d heard rumors of people being beaten, even killed, and while she had no idea what to believe, it all seemed so plausible based on the rhetoric. She would fight the federals, though the thought of actual combat scared her to death, but she wasn’t so sure about violence against other Havenites. She understood that the loyalists were against the cause, against Haven’s freedom. But the idea of attacking them made her queasy.

  She’d been confused, uncertain what to do, but now, looking at Damian Ward on the screen, she suddenly understood. It all made perfec
t sense. The commander of Haven’s army was calling for volunteers to swell the ranks. She didn’t have a doubt in her mind that Ward was an honest man, one who would do all he could to preserve Haven’s independence. She remembered enough from his visits to her father to bolster her loyalty and confidence.

  She looked at the screen, nodding her head. Yes, that was exactly what she would do. She would join the army. She would fight for Haven.

  Chapter 6

  Grant House

  Outskirts of Ward Farm

  North of Landfall

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

  “Jamie . . .” Katia stood at the door leading from the bedroom out into the modest structure’s main area. The farmhouse was small, and it had been hastily built, but the past eight months she’d lived there had been the happiest of her life. She had waited years for Jamie to be freed, and as soon as he was, the two of them were plunged into the rebellion. Finally, with Damian’s help, they had a home together, and it had been all she’d hoped for those many years.

  And now she could feel it slipping away.

  “Don’t be afraid, Katia. We have a trial ahead of us, but it’s not the first we’ve faced. We will do what we must, and when it’s over, we’ll spend the rest of our lives together here.” Jamie Grant had lived almost all of his adult life in the hellish federal mines, a prisoner exiled from Earth for a series of petty crimes. Katia knew he had suffered terribly, and that if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Damian Ward, Grant would almost certainly have died in the mines, instead of gaining a new chance at a life. With her.

  “But I am afraid, Jamie. For you, for me. For Damian. Why can’t they just leave us in peace?” She paused, but only for an instant. She didn’t expect a response. Her question required an hours-long answer, or none at all. And she was as qualified to give it as anyone else.

  Finally she said, “It’s just . . . what we went through a year ago, so many people killed, so much destruction. Now it feels like that was just the start.” Katia wasn’t a military tactician, but she knew Damian well, and she’d seen the worry in his eyes, the trepidation he thought he hid from everyone. She loved Damian Ward like the big brother he’d become to her—and to Jamie—and she couldn’t imagine the load he was bearing now.

  “Katia, we made it through the fighting last year, and we’ll get through this. We just have to stay strong. You’re leaving here, too. We both have our duties. And we will both have to find a way to handle the worry we feel for each other.”

  She nodded. She was in uniform now, as he was, or at least what passed for a uniform in the fledgling Haven army. Her kit bag was packed and lying against the wall. She felt out of place as a soldier, and a bit ridiculous with the shiny new lieutenant’s bars on her shoulder. It felt strange being in the army at all, much less as an officer.

  Still, for all of Jamie’s reassurances, she knew the two of them would face far different challenges. Katia had worked at her father’s side since she was a little girl, and she’d become an accomplished engineer in her own right. Her posting would be with Damian, at army headquarters, helping to keep at least some level of communications going in the face of the federal jamming and other interdictive efforts that would almost certainly accompany invasion.

  Jamie, on the other hand, would be leading troops in battle. For the most part, she knew he could take care of himself, that twelve years in a prison where few survived half that long had toughened him in ways she still couldn’t truly understand. What was more difficult to accept was what lengths he might go to in order to take care of himself.

  This last year had been wonderful, yet she hadn’t managed to completely come to terms with the monster he became in combat, how the man who was so kind and gentle with her and with his friends could become so terrifying and alien in a fight. He held a powerful rage—an anger forged by the fury of the years of his life stolen and of the mother he’d been forced to leave behind, alone in one of Earth’s worst slums—that he kept submerged. Jamie Grant despised the federals with an intensity that scared her, the woman who loved him, to her core. And she feared what path that hatred might lead him down.

  “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Jamie. I know there will be fighting, and I know you have your duty and responsibilities. But take care of yourself. For me, if not for you.”

  He turned back and smiled at her. “I will, Katia. For you . . . and for me, too. I’ve never had a real life, except for these past months with you. I don’t want to lose that. But it is also something worth fighting for. Do you think we can have the life we want if the feds retake Haven? Would they allow us to live here, to build that life? I can’t imagine what the future would hold under federal rule. If there would even be a future. We can’t let that happen, no matter what it takes.”

  She returned his smile, but it took most of what she had to do it. She knew Jamie, perhaps better than anyone else, and she understood how completely he was committed to the cause. It was admirable, part of what made him the man he was, but it scared her, as well.

  Don’t do anything foolish, my love.

  Please . . . come home to me.

  “I have to confess, Jamie, I approved your plan, but I didn’t really think you’d pull it off.” Damian looked at the ragged group of soldiers—soldiers more or less, at least—lined up in the field behind the two men. Not that you’ve pulled it off yet, but you’ve done better than I thought possible.

  “Thank you, Damian . . . I mean, General.”

  Damian smiled. He didn’t expect his friend to transition easily to the formality of military life, not after over a decade in the prison mines. He almost told Jamie to call him Damian, but he stopped himself. If his people were to have any chance in the fight to come, they had to be as professional as the soldiers they would face. They had to be as much an army, in every sense of the word, as the forces they would be battling against.

  “Captain,” Damian said, following his own internal advice, “I know you did your share of fighting last year. No one can say you don’t know how to take care of yourself, but leading others is something different entirely. And you have an even more complicated situation here, with your . . . soldiers.”

  Damian’s first reaction to Grant’s plan had been skeptical in the extreme. Forming a military unit from escaped prisoners seemed like asking for trouble. He’d already been struggling with efforts to separate the real criminals from the political prisoners—and trying to decide what to do with those who remained dangerous. Newly independent Haven didn’t have any kind of legal system, let alone courts or jails, save the infamous facilities left behind by the federals. Grant’s idea, crazy as it was, provided a solution of sorts.

  “I understand these people, General. For most of my life, I was one of them. I can handle them.”

  As part of Jamie’s scheme, every prisoner who fought for the rebellion would receive a pardon for any past crimes, and be accepted as a citizen of the new republic. It sounded great in theory, but he suspected his friend had more than one unreformed sociopath under his command. Combat was difficult and stressful enough without worrying about the men and women behind you . . . and whose side they were on.

  That, at least, should work in our favor. Not a man or woman from that mine has anything but searing hatred for Federal America.

  Which was why he’d ultimately approved it.

  “Just be careful,” he said. “Not everyone who was in that mine is like you. Some of them deserved to be there. Even a corrupt government like Federal America will send real criminals to prison.”

  Grant smiled . . . almost. “Don’t worry. I know how to handle them, too. If I didn’t, I’d have ended up facedown in that mine years ago. I was one of the longest-serving prisoners there, and that creates a kind of jailhouse respect.” He paused, and his voice shifted to the darker tone, that of the Jamie Grant who took hold in battle. “Any one of them who tries anything will end up facedown . . . in some ditch along the way. And he
will serve by being an example to the others.”

  Damian just nodded. He was still not used to the way Grant’s entire personality seemed to change almost instantly in battle, or even when he was talking about combat. The ferociousness was something that just might help Grant stay alive, but Damian still found it a little unnerving, and having seen what he’d seen, that was saying something.

  Grant looked back at Damian. Then he said, his voice back to normal, “They’ve come along well. They’re operating as a unit. There’s even some camaraderie. Whatever demons run wild in their heads, we all shared a common experience.” He paused. “I’m not sure anyone who wasn’t there could know what years and years in that place is like.”

  “I’m sure they couldn’t, Jamie. I certainly don’t. I hope it works for you. God knows, we’re going to need every bit of strength we can muster, and probably more. And your people have one of the most dangerous jobs.”

  That was another part of the plan that Damian agreed about—that Grant’s ex-prisoners be trained in irregular tactics, taking Killian’s rangers as their role models. Colonel Killian had even assisted Jamie in getting his people ready, which both reassured and worried Damian even more. Either he had one hundred sixty die-hard fighters, ready to kill federals any way they could, with guns, knives, even their bare hands if necessary, or he had one hundred sixty head cases, men and women just as likely to turn on their own allies and officers over the slightest insult, real or perceived. And he wouldn’t know which it was—or if it was both—until battle was joined.

  And when things hit the fan, his best friend would be at the head of this unsavory crew.

  “General, don’t worry. I can handle myself. You’ve got enough to worry about. I’ll make sure this group does what we need them to do. Every one of them faces likely summary execution if the federals win. That’s a strong motivator.”