Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  “Yes, no doubt both the Union and the Hegemony were selling weapons to smugglers, as no doubt we would have done had one of their colonies been rebelling. That is a far cry from active support, however. Selling guns to third parties even provides deniability.” Wells shook his head. “And I suspect even this level of aid has been cut off. The fleet sent to support the expeditionary force is substantial. I can’t imagine many smugglers’ vessels getting through, or even trying.”

  “True. But there are other factors at play, things that could push the other powers to risk more substantive involvement. For one, Alpha-2 is perhaps the most valuable colony any Earth power has settled. It is fairly well developed, resource-rich, and located along prime trade routes. Federal America’s colony network is far superior to that of either the Union or the Hegemony. The loss of Alpha-2 would go a long way toward equalizing the situation. Conversely, looking ahead another twenty years—as long as their infrastructure isn’t completely wiped out by Semmes—a more developed Alpha-2 would contribute to making Federal America vastly stronger in space.”

  Wells nodded. “Do you truly believe the Hegemony and the Union can be persuaded to intervene? That you and I, our positions as weak as they are, can influence them in some way?”

  “We have to try. We may face . . . difficulties . . . at home, but we are the last two people to wield legitimate executive authority on Alpha-2. I believe that will carry weight with the Union and Hegemony authorities. As will the influence exerted by Stanton Industries. I have arranged for some . . . inducements . . . to pave the way.”

  Wells opened his mouth to respond, but he stopped himself. He wanted to argue that bribery wasn’t going to help, but he realized that would have been his own pointless idealism talking. Payoffs certainly got things done in Federal America—Stanton’s family and the growth of their businesses was proof enough of that. He doubted Earth’s other two main powers were any less corrupt. Still . . .

  “Bribes to win desirable concessions or contracts are one thing. We are talking about actions that could lead to full-scale war. Do you think anyone wants to risk that so soon after the cessation of hostilities? The last war was enormously costly, in lives and capital. I wager the economy came closer to total collapse than either of us would care to admit, and the Hegemony and the Union, if anything, are more vulnerable.”

  “And that’s exactly why they might take the risk. Think about it: How will they be served if Federal America wins the colonization race? More and larger worlds equal greater resources. That turns into more ships and troops. Extrapolate that into the future, and you get my point. They may not want to risk war right now, but can they actually refuse the chance to create better parity in the interstellar power dynamic?”

  Wells disliked Stanton, and he pitied her for the lust for power that drove her, but he couldn’t help but be impressed from time to time. She was no fool, he reminded himself. But he didn’t know if they could succeed, or even if they should try. He wanted to save himself, of course, but helping to shift the colonial race in favor of Federal America’s enemies wasn’t close to treason.

  It was treason.

  Yet he glumly asked, “Can we do this? Fencing with Semmes is one thing. I’d like to see that man destroyed. But what we’re talking about could damage Federal America’s ability as a global—and galactic power—for years to come. I am out of favor, angry even at how I’ve been treated. But I am no traitor.”

  “Fine, you’re not a traitor. Are you a father?”

  Her words hit him like a sledgehammer. He just stared back, his thoughts suddenly light-years away, wondering where Violetta was, whether she was close to any fighting, if she was safe . . .

  “Violetta is on Alpha-2, Everett. Semmes is a horrible man, but he is not stupid. He knows she stayed behind. He may not be able to find her amid the ongoing fighting, but what do you think will happen if he is victorious? What way could he hurt you worse than through her? Think about that when you are prioritizing your loyalties. If Semmes is defeated, if he is killed, she will be safe, or at least has a chance at being safe. If he wins . . .”

  Wells closed his eyes tightly, knowing she had him.

  “Very well,” he said. “Set up the meeting. I will go with you.” He paused. “But we only give them information pertaining to Alpha-2. No other details about the military, or anything else of the sort. If we are to be traitors, let us be controlled ones. We will limit the damage we do.” He hesitated again. “Not that it will matter if we are caught.”

  “Thank you, Everett. It’s the only way to save ourselves and Violetta.” A tiny smile slipped onto her lips. “And we won’t be caught. We will exert the utmost care.” She reached out her hand. “Go back to your office. I will contact you the same way as soon as I have the meeting set. It may take a few days.”

  Wells held back a sigh and reluctantly extended his hand to grasp hers. “I will wait.” He turned and looked around the room nervously one more time, as if he realized he’d forgotten to check something. Then he looked back at Stanton and added, “But whatever you do . . . be careful.”

  “How is this even possible?” Alistair Semmes sat at his palatial desk, his face twisted into a combination of anger and genuine surprise. “How could any product of my genes be so useless? If I hadn’t seen his DNA report myself, I’d swear his mother’d had a fling with one of the servants.”

  “Sir,” the aide said tentatively, “the communiqué reports considerable progress. It would appear that his forces have defeated the orbital fortress, landed, and taken both the spaceport and the capital. That is much to be . . .”

  “Are you that much of a fool, Barnes?”

  “Sir . . .” Barnes’s voice tapered off, and his eyes dropped to the desk.

  “Don’t whimper, Barnes. But don’t kiss my ass, either. I’m not an idiot, and I don’t like being treated like one, by you or by that simpering fool my wife whelped.”

  “Sorry, sir. I meant no . . .”

  “Enough. Look here. It’s plain enough to see, even for someone of your limited abilities. Look at these supply requests. They are enormous. The cost of this operation is already exorbitant, but these new requests could be crippling. I bit the bullet and secured all the funding we needed at one time. The invasion fleet was backed up by two dozen freighters, carrying all the supplies and ordnance needed for the whole campaign. And already that idiot son of mine is asking for more? What did he do with the supplies he had? There is no word of any major battles, nor even of significant resistance. Either he lies to me about the completeness of his victories, or he is selling the stuff on the black market.”

  Semmes slammed his fist down on the desk, and Barnes jumped. “Damned if I wouldn’t prefer that. Basic corruption I could understand, but stupidity I will not tolerate.”

  “What do you plan to do, Senator? If we are to ask the senate for additional funding, we need to start working on the bill. Based on the debate last time, we will have to make it good.”

  “And what will that do, Barnes? If you and your band of hacks write the most exquisite proposal in the history of governance, do you think it will matter one bit? The last authorization passed the senate on the strength of anger at the rebels and fear of the message allowing Alpha-2 to secede would send to other colonies. And the almost poetic codicil your people drafted, speaking of Robert’s capabilities and experience with Alpha-2 in such soaring terms, did absolutely nothing. My fool son got his posting in dark rooms and in private conversations in the clubhouse, and it was paid for by a considerable chunk of this family’s funds, not to mention a number of political favors I cashed in.”

  “But with General Semmes there and in command, is there any choice but to give him what he needs? He is your son, but also, would not his failure reflect poorly on you?”

  “That’s why I pay you, Barnes. To state the obvious.” He shook his head in disgust. “Listen closely: the problem is one of degree. I have the influence to secure some amount of addition
al funding, I am sure of that. More, perhaps, if I put everything into it. But even my power is finite. I have to make a decision, and once made, I have to stick to it.”

  “To support the general?”

  “No, Barnes. I must support my son, if for no other reason than we are already in this so deeply, and losing Alpha-2 would have severe repercussions on our position in space. No, that decision is made for me.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “The decision I have to make is a more difficult one, fraught not only with political ramifications but also with personal embarrassment, even feelings.”

  He exhaled hard and let his hand drop onto the desk. “I have to decide how far I will go . . . and then at what point I will pull back and abandon that imbecilic son of mine to his own fate.”

  Chapter 19

  Old North Road

  27 Kilometers North of Landfall

  Just South of Vincennes

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

  “Keep moving. Fire a few bursts, and move to a new spot. We’re trying to cause casualties, not take them.” Grant was crouched down behind a large tree, peering out toward the road, about ten meters from his position. The woods were thick here, the large old-growth trees sturdy enough to provide meaningful cover, even against the high-powered assault rifles both sides were using.

  “Jamie . . . I mean Cap . . . Pollack is down.” Grant’s ex-prisoners were fighting well, but the rest of military conduct and protocol was proving a bit more difficult. For every time one of them called him “captain,” there were at least three “Jamies,” and even one or two of his old nicknames from his prison days. “Griswold, too. He’s dead. The fire is really thick over here.”

  “Push out to the side, Illich. Don’t let them get around your flank or we’ll all be lying in holes by nightfall.” In the same way discipline was light coming from the ex-prisoners, Grant found himself devolving into his prison persona during combat, abandoning all attempts at military procedure and speaking to his troopers in raw terms.

  “We need help over here, Cap’n. There’s a lot of these damned feds, and they keep comin’.”

  “Swing back at an angle and find good cover. Stretch out your line. You can’t let them get around, whatever it takes.”

  Grant shook his head and spit on the ground. He was hot, sweat pouring down his neck. He reached down, grabbed his canteen, and threw back his head as if to take a deep guzzle. But he felt the lightness of the canister, and he pulled back, took a small swig. He was almost out of water, and he had no idea when he’d get a chance to replenish.

  His people had been deployed along the army’s line of retreat. With Killian’s rangers all involved in guerilla operations in Landfall, his pack of freed prisoners was the closest thing the army of Haven had to scouts and commandos.

  The first fight had erased many of his concerns. His people had fought savagely, and fortunately only with the enemy, not with each other. He’d had to repeat a few orders, and add a few threats his long history in their minds made credible, but in the end, everyone had done their duty. They had fought three more times along the way, and they’d given as good as they’d gotten, which, considering the disparity between their training and experience and the federals’, was pretty good. Still, he’d lost thirty of his troopers. Half of those had been wounded. With any luck, they’d made it to the mobile field hospital, and most would return to service. But sixteen of his one-sixty were dead, their bodies lying along the army’s line of retreat—and with them their precious guns and ammo.

  Still, that was war, and Grant was just starting to develop some level of comfort in his command position, but now his stomach was tight. This was different than the other fights. There was more power behind the federal advances.

  This is a real attack. They’re not fencing with our rear guard anymore. They’re coming after the whole army.

  He pulled his comm to his face. “Rodrigues, get your people over to the left. Back up Illich and his squad. We’ve got to hold here, at least long enough to get word to the general.”

  “Yes, sir. On the way.”

  The voice was staticky but audible. The federals were trying to jam his communications, but without the orbital platform and its resources, the effect was limited. It might have been enough to black out the Havenite comm network, but their engineer had tinkered with the army’s equipment, putting all his weapons design and electronics experience into his efforts. The channel shifters he’d installed in the comm units had rendered them considerably harder to jam, and to date at least, they had preserved communications . . . to a certain extent.

  This was clearly not one of the good moments. “General? General, do you read me?” There was nothing but static. Army HQ was five kilometers from Grant’s position, too far with the amount of jamming the feds were putting out.

  “Wasserman,” he shouted, turning his head toward a small group of troopers standing behind him. “Get back to headquarters now. Tell General Ward I believe the enemy is pushing down the Old North Road in force. It is my opinion we are seeing the spearhead of a major attack.” He stared at the soldier. “You got that? All of it?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Then go, now. As fast as you can.”

  The trooper nodded, and he turned and jogged off into the woods.

  “Run, dammit!”

  Wasserman broke into a sprint and disappeared into the green.

  Grant flinched at the sound of gunfire slamming into the tree in front of him. He crouched back into full cover, and he pulled his rifle off his shoulder. The enemy was close now, and judging from the thickness of the fire, they were two hundred strong at least.

  He peered around the edge of the tree and fired a burst. He hadn’t sighted any targets, but he was at least going to give the enemy something to think about as they approached.

  “All reserves,” he said, leaning his head down to where the comm was clipped to his jacket, “forward now. Reinforce the line. Dig in, and get some good cover. We’re going to be here for a while.” At least until Wasserman gets through to Damian.

  He eased himself to the edge of the tree trunk, firing once but ducking back as a blast of automatic fire ripped a large chunk of the tree to matchsticks. The enemy knew where he was. Time to move on.

  He whipped around and blasted at full auto for a couple of seconds. Then he dropped low and crawled off to the side, looking for a new piece of cover.

  “Dr. Holcomb, I know conditions are not ideal for your continued research, but we need every weapon we can find if we are to have a chance.” Damian stood at the doorway of the meager tent that was serving as the brilliant scientist’s laboratory. He wasn’t badgering Holcomb, not exactly, more casting out a line and hoping for some aid from the rebellion’s chief researcher.

  “No worries, General Ward. Most real research happens in the mind.” Holcomb paused. “Our problem isn’t research-based anyway.” He gestured toward his portable workstation. “I have a number of projects ready for testing and implementation. The problem is the lack of manufacturing capacity. There is little value in a weapons system we can’t produce.”

  Jonas Holcomb had been Federal America’s lead weapons designer for decades, until he’d become disillusioned and refused to continue his work. That act of defiance had earned him a trip to the dark and mysterious prison on the far side of Haven, one intended to break him and compel him to resume his work. That plan had backfired badly when rebel forces staged a daring rescue mission and broke Holcomb out of captivity. The scientist had been stunned at first, but he quickly joined the rebel cause, and his efforts had played no small part in the victory that had sent federal forces retreating from the planet.

  “I understand. And I don’t think we can mass-produce anything, Doctor, not anywhere that wouldn’t be discovered by the feds. But perhaps we can set up a modestly sized operation of some sort. Of course, raw materials will also be difficult. Most mines and production facilities are closed now, and any
effort to open them en masse is certain to attract the attention of the federals.”

  “That is exactly it, General. I want nothing more than to contribute to the success of our war against Federal America . . .”

  “But you need to actually have the wherewithal to do it,” Damian finished for him, and Holcomb nodded. “If I could secure limited production facilities—and I’m not saying I can—what among your inventions would make the most difference in small numbers?”

  “The suits, no question.”

  “Suits?”

  “Here . . .” Holcomb slid over and grabbed the portable workstation, shifting it so Damian could see the screen. He tapped a few keys, and an image appeared.

  It was manlike, but bulkier, almost like a medieval knight in armor. “What is that?”

  “It’s what I was working on before I quit. It’s a huge jump forward in fighting capability.”

  “Powered armor? For real?” Damian had heard of similar projects before. The world’s militaries had been trying to develop a working design for powered armor for decades.

  “Yes, it is very real. I had to re-create the design from memory, since I destroyed my research when I quit the institute. I couldn’t develop something like this for Federal America, not knowing how the government would have used it. I’m not sure I reproduced everything exactly, but it is close. It is the nanotechnology, you see. That’s what other designs were missing.”

  “This is amazing, Doctor. I can’t imagine how valuable these suits would be in combat. But it must be an enormously complex thing to produce—far beyond our current capability.”