Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  “Sir, this terrain is extremely difficult. If we had sufficient air support to defoliate these . . .”

  “Enough, Colonel.” Semmes’s patience, what little of it had been there, was gone. He was sick of reasons for failure, of explanations for delays. “If we had more air support, if the woods weren’t there, if the other soldiers didn’t have guns . . . the litany of causes for failure could go on forever. We have no time. These arrogant rebels have fallen into a trap, and if we can close it in time, we can end this conflict here and now.” He paused, staring coldly at the colonel. Ending the rebellion so quickly would undoubtedly save thousands of lives, but Semmes’s thoughts were more focused on the impact it would have on all those who doubted him, that shit of a father at the top of the list. The victorious general who crushed the rebellion in a single battle would be a hero, with influence and power from sources other than the auspices of Senator Alistair Semmes. “If that effort fails through cowardice or lack of effort, I assure you, any officers responsible will be severely punished.”

  Semmes could see the disapproval in Granz’s expression, and he imagined the things going through the officer’s head, the comments he dared not actually state. He didn’t care. Semmes knew the military types looked down on him, considered him a disgrace to the service. They thought he was a fool, just as the rebels did . . . but he would make them all see differently. The flanking maneuvers had been his plan, a masterstroke to not just win a victory, but to destroy the entire rebel army in one fell swoop. He hadn’t been at all sure Damian Ward would give him the chance, that the rebels’ decorated leader would fall into the trap he’d laid, taken in by the apparent disorganization of the federal forces in pursuit of his army. But Ward had stepped into the snare, and Semmes had no intention of allowing it to fail because the soldiers wouldn’t push themselves hard enough to make it work.

  “General, the troops are doing the best they can. This is very difficult terrain in which to mount an offensive, and it favors the forces trying to slip away, especially when those forces are more familiar with the terrain. We are already assured of a significant victory, and with any luck, we will cut off a portion of the enemy’s forces from retreating.”

  “See that we do better than a portion, Colonel. My plan was flawless, and if it is not entirely successful, I’m going to find out who is to blame, I can assure you of that.”

  “Yes, sir.” The colonel was barely holding back the disgust he clearly felt.

  “Go, Colonel. Let us finish this.”

  “All right, Lieutenant Strong. We’ve got to retake that hill or these bastards are going to mow us down.” Morgan stood next to the officer, not an army veteran like many of her company commanders, but one of the heroes of the past year’s fighting. She’d performed well since her commission, but now she looked at the colonel, unable to hide the fear in her face.

  “We’re all scared, Lieutenant,” Morgan said, trying hard to sound supportive and not punitive. Hell, she’d have wagered Strong wasn’t any more scared than she was. But there was no time for fear now.

  “Yes, Colonel.” Morgan wasn’t sure how much she’d gotten to her officer, but it seemed to be enough. It had to be—they had to counterattack now, before the battered federal force that had taken the small ridge was reinforced.

  “All right,” Morgan yelled, looking down at the ragged line of Strong’s survivors. There were no more than twenty of them—eighteen, she told herself as her subconscious finished counting, not including Strong or her. “We’re going to advance and we’re going to take that hill back . . . and we’re going to do it right now.” She pulled out the assault rifle she had slung around her back, gripping it tightly with two hands. “Follow me,” she shouted, lunging forward, out past the line of fallen trees her people had been using as cover, into the semiclear patch of waist-high grass.

  She was about halfway to the hill before the enemy opened fire. She was surprised to see federal regulars so lax in their response time. They don’t respect us . . . they’re not as sharp as they would be against Union troops. The thought drifted through her mind, and though her concentration was dominated by fear and by the combat surrounding her, she still had enough attention left to be offended, downright pissed.

  She opened fire as she ran the rest of the way, unleashing her rage on the soldiers along the crest of the hill. She caught one out in the open, hitting him at least three times before he crumpled to the ground, but then the others were back in position, and the incoming fire ramped up enormously.

  She swung to the side, crouching as she continued forward, trying to present as small a visible target as possible. And finally, she looked behind her, confirming that her people had actually followed. She’d had faith they would, but seeing all of them moving up the hill made her proud.

  That pride shattered into despair as one of them dropped as she was looking, and she could tell that at least one other was wounded, but still moving forward, staggering as he did. Morgan shook off any emotion, and turned her attention back to the ridge. She kept up her fire, even as she shouted, “Open up, all of you. Hose down that hillside now!” Her people weren’t likely to take down any of the enemy, not as long as they stayed down behind the crest. But if they remained in cover, it would also minimize the incoming fire at her soldiers.

  She felt her feet slam into the higher, harder ground of the hill. She popped out a spent cartridge and slammed another in place, not slowing at all as she did. Every second she stayed out in the open was another chance to be hit. The federals were better equipped, more extensively trained than anyone she had, all massive advantages in close combat. But at least in a hand-to-hand fight her soldiers wouldn’t be out in the open, facing a protected line.

  Her hand moved to her belt, pulled off a grenade. She threw it hard, up and over the crest, even as she raced toward the target area. She could hear the explosion—and now she was close enough to hear the shouts and yells, the sounds of men and women startled or wounded, she couldn’t tell which.

  It doesn’t really matter.

  Then she leapt up over the top of the hill, firing her rifle on full auto as she did. The federal troops were clearly surprised, and she took out two of them before they could respond. But the others fell back a few meters, forming a thin line as they did.

  Her peripheral vision caught another fed, down, missing one leg and screaming in pain. A grenade victim, she thought.

  She turned to face a pair of federals about three meters to her side, and as she did, she caught the image of her troopers coming over, perhaps six or seven at first, and then the rest, all firing wildly as they ran forward at full speed.

  The federals opened up, taking down two—no, three—of her new arrivals, but then the two lines crashed together. Rifles swung hard, makeshift clubs now, and knives flashed in the partial sunlight. She was startled by the ferocity of her troopers, at how aggressively they had rallied to her call for the attack, to the example she had set. But close combat was a fearsome thing, and the training and body armor of the federals were huge advantages.

  She saw more of her people go down, one or two seriously hurt, the others battered by rifle butts or sliced by combat knives. But they were taking down federals, too. She was fighting with one herself, pushing forward with her rifle, shoving the butt into his upper thigh, just below the black breastplate that covered his vitals. The soldier stumbled as his leg gave way, and he dropped to one knee.

  Morgan loosened her hands, let the rifle drop as she pulled out her own knife. It was a quarter meter long and razor sharp—she had always seen to its sharpening, even in her peacetime days on the farm. She shifted her body, dropping down and shoving the blade up sharply, plunging it just under the soldier’s body armor in the spot she remembered, the one that had always felt vulnerable to her in her army days.

  She felt some resistance, the thick protective cloth that extended down below the hyperkev armor. The blade stopped, and for an instant, she thought it might slide off,
diverted by the protective gear. But then she felt it sliding forward, ripping through the material and deep into the man’s abdomen.

  The soldier she was fighting had grabbed his own knife, but he’d been too slow, and now it slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground with a loud clang. Morgan felt hot blood pouring out of the gaping wound, all over her hand. She pulled hard, removing the knife from the wound before plunging it in again . . . and again. Until her adversary stopped moving, and his body went limp. Then she stepped back and let him fall to the ground.

  She wasn’t bloodthirsty, and she drew no pleasure from killing a man who once might have been her comrade. But she knew enough of war to realize it was a choice between her and the enemy. If she turned her back, left him alive . . . well, she’d seen too many friends die that way.

  She looked all around, making sure she had no enemies right by her. Then she took a second and panned her eyes across the field. It was horrifying, a nightmare she could barely stand to watch. At least half her people were down, and some of those on the ground were wrestling with enemy soldiers, brutal fights to the death with blades, rocks, bare hands. She’d been afraid her people were about to break, that they wouldn’t follow her into yet another fight. But now she was stunned at the pure animal rage she saw. They were struggling for the rebellion, against the invaders of their world . . . and they were fighting to avenge the friends they’d lost in today’s battle, and in the fighting of the previous year. But most of all, they were fighting for themselves, for each other. They weren’t as skilled as their adversaries, and they paid a cost for that in blood, but they had something the federals could never match, a home to defend, a nation and future they dared to believe in. If the rebel forces managed to prevail, if they won freedom for themselves and their families, it wouldn’t be training or experience or weapons provided by Federal America’s rivals that made it happen. It would be their spirit, their dedication to the idea of a future the downtrodden people on Earth could never imagine.

  The spirit being shown now.

  The rebel army was full of inexperienced troops, raw would-be soldiers driven to the ranks out of patriotism, fear, anger. But that wasn’t her people. They were different now, evolved from what most of their comrades were, from what they had been. Changed in a way she understood deeply.

  They were veterans. They were her comrades.

  She ran in to help them survive.

  Chapter 23

  Intersection of Tillis and Sanderson Roads

  44 Kilometers North of Landfall

  Just Outside Dover

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

  “Colonel Morgan is going to be fine, General. We just got an update from the aid station. The doctor tried to get her to stay and rest awhile, but she told him . . .” Katia Rand’s voice stopped abruptly.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I can imagine just what Colonel Morgan told him.” He’d been worried since he’d gotten the word that Morgan had been wounded, even more concerned, that is, than he already was about the battle, the army, the fact that Robert Semmes had turned out to be a more dangerous tactician than he’d expected. Damian knew Semmes had not been alone, that the precision and organization of the attack was owed to the federal officers and their troops. But that wasn’t the whole story. The brutal federal commander had given the impression that his forces were far more disorganized than they actually were.

  Semmes had outfoxed him.

  He suckered you in. You commanded this army just like a lieutenant jacked up way too far above your capability. How many men and women died today so you could play general?

  Damian wasn’t being entirely fair to himself—there was no one on Haven any more qualified who could have taken his place—but he was in the mood for self-flagellation, and he had little interest in making excuses for himself.

  If it hadn’t been for Jamie’s people on the left and Morgan’s on the right . . .

  He knew the flank forces had held off the worst of the potential disaster that could have happened, and though he didn’t have complete numbers yet, he also had a pretty good idea of the price they had paid. A price that almost included Luci Morgan. Damian considered Morgan a good friend, one he’d known since his days in the federal service, but more, though he’d never made it official, he looked at her as his number two. My replacement, if the congress comes to its senses and fires me . . .

  For a terrible few hours, perhaps three, he’d truly thought the war was over, that the rebel army would be surrounded and destroyed. He’d imagined endless firing squads, operating around the clock as Semmes taught Haven—Alpha-2, it would be called again—a lesson that would last at least as long as living memory. But his worst fears subsided, at least temporarily, as the reports streamed in. Grant’s and Morgan’s forces held, longer than he’d dared to hope, and each moment, each hour they did meant more units of the army streaming up the Old North and Sanderson Roads. Green Hill Forest only grew denser to the north, the scattered clearings around Dover giving way to tangling undergrowth and soaring trees. The terrain would slow any federal pursuit, and probably stop it in its tracks, at least until the enemy could move up more supplies and start clearing support trails.

  “Damian, I’m glad to see you’re all right.” John Danforth walked into the tent, looking disheveled, but not injured in any way. “I was worried . . . we heard that headquarters was in danger of being overrun. If you’d been captured . . .”

  “If I’d been captured, what? No doubt you can find somebody else who can lead the army into a trap. It’s not highly ranked among military skills.”

  “Damian . . . you did a magnificent job of pulling out of the battle. My understanding is that three quarters of the army is already out of immediate danger.”

  “Yes, we did an excellent job of running away.”

  “Damian, we both knew this would be a difficult and lengthy fight. One lost battle is not the end.”

  “It nearly was, John. Go talk to Jamie Grant and Luci Morgan and their people—if you can find any still alive and in one piece. They held back the enemy, not me. Whatever credit is to be given for keeping the door open so we could run away, it goes to them.”

  “Damian . . .”

  “No, John. I know you’re my friend, but I’m not qualified to do this. I don’t know how to command an army, and I was insane to think I could.” He paused, sighing softly. “Mr. President, I offer you my resignation as the commander of the republic’s army.”

  “And as president, I categorically reject that offer.”

  “It’s not up to you alone, John. The congress should decide. I’ve let them all down, and . . .”

  “The congress is in session right now in a farmhouse about six kilometers north of here, my friend. I just came from there to bring you the results of the sole resolution it has passed since being driven from Landfall.”

  Damian looked at his friend and nodded. “I understand, John . . . I would probably have done the same . . .”

  “The resolution was a vote of continued confidence in you, Damian . . . and it took place before we even knew that most of the army was going to escape from the trap. No one has given up on you.” He put his hand on the general’s shoulder. “Damian, no one expected this struggle to be quick or easy, or to be without great cost.”

  Damian heard his friend’s words and felt his hand, and he drew strength from them, though he was pretty sure that there had been plenty ready to give up on him. He was far too aware of the realities of political bodies to think anything but that Danforth had used all his own clout to sustain his position.

  “Thank you, John, but . . .” Damian realized that part of him wanted to quit, to run from the responsibility, to escape from being the one who had to send more of his neighbors to their deaths. But as disappointed as he was in his own capabilities, he knew Luci Morgan—or anyone else who took his place—couldn’t do any better. The rebellion was always going to be a long and brutal struggle, and he was surpri
sed at how unprepared he was for the reality he’d so long predicted.

  I tried to win the war in one battle. And I failed. But we didn’t fail, and maybe that’s the best we can ask for right now.

  “No buts, Damian,” Danforth said as if agreeing with his thoughts. “Just see to the army. Finish extricating your troops from this fight, and then think to the next. Because there will be a next. And one after that . . . until Haven’s freedom is undisputed.”

  Damian liked to think of himself as someone who didn’t need any outside support, but he had to admit, Danforth’s confidence had energized him, at least a little.

  Enough. It will have to be enough.

  “John . . . thanks.”

  “We’re all in this together, Damian. And we need you. We need everything you can muster if we’re going to win this.”

  Damian just nodded.

  The two stood silently for a few seconds. Then Damian said, “You better get back up north, John.”

  Danforth extended his hand. “See to your soldiers.”

  Damian reached out and shook his friend’s hand. Then Danforth turned and slipped out the door.

  Damian turned toward Katia Rand, who’d been silent during the entire exchange between the two men. “You do a good impersonation of a piece of the furniture, Katia.”

  “I, ah . . . I just thought President Danforth could tell you what you needed to hear better than I could. The army still supports you, sir. The soldiers still look up to you.”

  Damian nodded, but he knew her words were at least partially wishful thinking. Many of the soldiers were no doubt still loyal to him, but now they had experienced the true reality of the task they’d taken on. They’d fought two battles the year before, and they’d lost one and won the other. But the casualties they’d taken here, in what Damian guessed would end up being called the Second Battle of Dover, were many times the number that had been lost in the combined fights of the previous year. The village of Dover was a smoking ruin, and at least two thousand of his soldiers were dead or missing. Danforth’s support, and Katia’s, and that of his officers and whatever soldiers still looked up to him with loyalty and dedication—none of it changed the suffering and destruction that had occurred here, under his command.