Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  He knew human nature well enough to understand his relationship with the troops would never be the same. Even those still totally dedicated would be more distant now, the easy camaraderie gone. Which, he realized, was probably for the best. He was the one who sent them into battle, who spent their lives, and who would again. He had wanted to consider himself their neighbor, but that wasn’t what they needed. They needed a leader, which meant the time for sentimentality was over.

  I can worry about what they think of me when we win.

  And yet, still he wondered if he could really believe there was a chance of victory . . . and then he wondered if there was, would it come at such a grievous cost that it wouldn’t matter anymore? Was fighting for freedom worthwhile, if all that remained to be free was a silent wasteland, a graveyard where once a vital and growing world had been?

  Violetta Wells stumbled down the path, feeling like she was about to drop, but somehow taking one step after the other, following her comrades as they continued the retreat from Dover.

  Her mind felt numb, almost as though she couldn’t hold together a structured thought about anything. Her service in the army had pushed her to the limit, the exhaustion, the fear. But now she’d seen battle, in all its brutality, and she feared the cost had been her sanity.

  She hadn’t been wounded, not really, though she had cuts and scrapes from falling, and her whole body ached beyond anything she’d ever imagined. She didn’t know what was keeping her moving, and each tortured step felt like the last.

  She still had her rifle, which was something not all of her comrades could say. Her feelings of pride in that fact were forestalled, however, by the fact that she hadn’t fired the weapon in the battle. Not once.

  She’d stayed in the line, terrified to near insanity, as the veterans of her unit stood and fought off the advancing federals. She wanted to flee, and truth be told, she’d been there praying for her comrades to break, for all of them to do the only thing that seemed remotely sane. Run.

  Finally she’d gotten her wish, after what had seemed like an eternity standing there, each second feeling like the one when an enemy shot would find her, when her life would end. She’d managed to stop herself from tucking tail and running, at least before everyone else did, but that was pretty much all she could say for her actions.

  Because she hadn’t been able to do anything else.

  She wasn’t sure if it had been unwillingness to harm the federal soldiers—no, she thought, they’d been firing at her, and she didn’t feel any compunction about killing someone who was trying like hell to kill her. So perhaps just paralyzing fear. Regardless, for those long minutes she’d just stood there, behind the moderate cover of the woods, and held her weapon in front of her, but never pulled the trigger. Pathetically, she had acted as though she was shooting. But every round still remained in the clip she’d loaded before the battle.

  She knew she’d made a mistake. She’d known it before, but the battle had left no doubt in her mind. She still supported the rebellion, still longed to see Haven freed from the iron grip of Federal America, but she knew one thing for sure: she would never be a soldier, not a capable one. All she could think of was running, slipping into the woods and . . .

  And what? Where could you go? Father is back on Earth. Landfall is occupied by General Semmes. You’d be a deserter to the rebels and a traitor to the federals.

  She cursed herself for her folly, for the impetuous actions that had put her in this situation. The idea of another battle scared her out of her wits. Perhaps she’d do better next time. Maybe she’d even fire. But she knew she would never become proficient at combat . . . and, moreover, she had a dread certainty that all that lay ahead for her in her next battle was death.

  “All right, let’s take a break.” The voice was different from the one that had shouted out commands as her company had marched north from Landfall. Lieutenant Quinn had been hit in the battle—she’d heard rumors that he was dead, but there hadn’t been any confirmation of that. Sergeant Winger was definitely dead. He’d been standing less than five meters from her when he’d taken a shot in the head. Violetta was half convinced one of the stains on her shirt was from Winger’s blood, but she couldn’t be sure. Half a dozen troopers had died close enough to her to splatter her with their innards.

  She turned and walked off the path—Winger had told her again and again to step off the road during rest periods. Though the Sanderson Road barely qualified as anything more than a pass this far north of the Tillis intersection.

  She looked around, images in her mind of someplace to sit, a log or even a large stone, but there was nothing but muddy ground. She might have avoided it if the prospect of standing another second hadn’t been so onerous, but before she had another conscious thought, she was sitting in the driest spot, a patch of ground still damp enough to soak the seat of her pants in a second or two.

  She sat there for a few minutes, her primary thought revolving around whether the memories she had of comfort and good, warm food were hallucinations brought on by exhaustion.

  “Excuse me, are you Violetta Wells . . . yes, you are!” There was a man standing next to her, dressed in rough terrain gear, but not a uniform, or what at least passed for uniforms in the Haven army.

  “Mr. Jacen?” She’d met Cal Jacen a number of times at meetings, but she’d hardly said more than a word or two to the Society’s founder. She was surprised he even recognized her.

  “Yes, Violetta. I had heard you joined the army, but I hardly expected to run into you here.”

  “I still can’t believe I am here, Mr. Jacen.” Her exhaustion poured out with her words.

  “Please, Violetta, I’m Cal. And I can only imagine the difficulty of army service. I only wish I could have joined you, but the needs of the congress called . . . not to mention the Society.”

  “Yes, I am sure you are enormously busy . . . Cal.” She looked up at him, realizing just how surprised she was to see a man of Jacen’s importance here, amid Haven’s beaten and retreating soldiers.

  “There is nothing more important than our brave troops. I could not stay away, and the more so after I realized the federals had pushed us back.” He paused. “I was surprised to see General Ward so easily beaten by Robert Semmes.”

  “General Ward did his best, Cal. I am sure of that.” Violetta remembered Damian from the times he’d come to see her father. She’d found him to be pleasant and charming . . . and something more. He’d clearly struggled with joining the rebellion himself, and his ultimate acceptance of the struggle for independence had, as likely as anything, been the final influence that pushed her to openly support the revolution, and to abandon her life and father and remain on Haven.

  “Of course, Violetta,” he said reassuringly. “It’s just that the general was a federal soldier. He must have some level of divided sympathies.”

  Violetta had never considered Damian’s past, or how it might affect his judgment now. Was it possible his sympathy for federal soldiers had played some part in the disastrous battle? No, she thought, not General Wells. Yet, exhausted as she was, Cal Jacen was making a certain amount of sense, too. Through the fog in her brain, a tiny nub of doubt could be felt.

  “I don’t know, Cal. The few times I’ve met General Ward, he always seemed to be an honorable man.”

  “He is, most certainly. But even admirable men can be pulled in different directions. I support General Ward fully . . . but I also want to be sure to help him however he may need it, whether he asks or not.” He paused, and then he said, “Violetta, you seem out of place here in an infantry unit. I don’t doubt your courage, but I am sure General Ward would make a place for you at headquarters. There are many ways to serve, you know.”

  “Leave my unit?” Violetta felt a wave of self-loathing at the prospect of using her status as the ex-governor’s daughter to get herself moved from the front line.

  But she also knew it wouldn’t stop her.

  “Why, Cal? Because
of who my father is?” She wasn’t foolish enough to think Jacen was interested in her by random accident.

  “No, Violetta. Your father, noteworthy individual that he is, no longer has any meaningful role in the rebellion. But you do. You are a member of the Society, and we are all brothers and sisters. And your past, your upbringing . . . it is not your fault that you were insulated, that it is harder for you to transition to a soldier’s life than it is for a farmer accustomed to physical toil.”

  She looked back at Jacen, but she still didn’t believe him, not completely, at least. But the thought of being in headquarters instead of here, or in the front line of another battle . . . it was intoxicating. “Do you really think I could serve at headquarters?”

  “Of course, Violetta. I will ask President Danforth to speak with General Ward. I suspect we can have you transferred by tomorrow.”

  Violetta turned and looked at her comrades. But she couldn’t resist the prospect of staying farther away from enemy fire, of traveling in a vehicle instead of marching endless kilometers on foot. “That would be wonderful, Cal . . . if you are willing to do it for me.”

  “Of course, Violetta. In fact, I believe it can be of help not only to you, but to me and to the rebellion, as well. I will use my influence to get you assigned to General Ward’s staff . . . and as a member of the Society, perhaps you can keep me advised of what is happening.”

  The fog shifted a bit, and along with the doubt, a bit of suspicion emerged. “You want me to spy on the general?”

  “No, of course, not, Violetta. But we both agreed, General Ward is in a difficult situation. The job he has taken on himself is more than any one man can manage. It is our place to help him, to give him the support he needs, to bolster his strength and his will. I would never disrespect the general, and if I tried to help him directly, I’m afraid that is how it would seem to him. But you may be able to help him, and help President Danforth and me to help him, as well.”

  There was something in Jacen’s voice that made her nervous—not exactly hostility toward General Ward, but something that made her vaguely uncomfortable in a way she could not pinpoint. But the prospect of getting out of the field, of escaping the endless marches, she couldn’t resist. She respected Jacen. He was one of the fathers of the rebellion, and she’d never heard anyone call him out as anything but the most fervent patriot.

  “I will do anything I can to help the Society and the rebellion, and General Ward.” She looked back at her comrades, listening as the sergeant who had taken Winger’s place belted out the command for the company to re-form and prepare to resume the march. She felt a rush of despair at the prospect, and whatever doubts she might have had about Jacen’s offer vanished in a wave of self-justification. “I would be greatly appreciative, Cal. I want to serve the rebellion, but it’s obvious I won’t do a thing to help secure Haven’s freedom on the front line of a battle. I was not cut out to fight, let alone to kill.”

  “Then it is settled. I will make the arrangements. Your transfer should come through tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.” He paused. “You will serve under the general, aid him in his enormous task.” He hesitated again. “And you will report to me when you can, help me aid the general, to assist him in avoiding mistakes.”

  “Thank you, Cal,” she said as she stood up and moved slowly back toward the road. “I will do everything I can to help you and the rebellion.”

  Chapter 24

  Blackwood Forest

  Just North of Danforth Hall

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

  “They’ve occupied Danforth Hall, Colonel. At least a platoon in the house itself, along with some officers, but I’d say there’s a whole company there, counting the outposts and the troops deployed in the outbuildings and on the grounds.” Desmond Black had just returned from the scouting mission Colonel Killian had ordered. Killian had intended for him to send a patrol, not lead it himself, but Black was cut from the same ragged cloth as the commander of the rangers. For all Killian had come to depend on his valued aide, Black was no staff officer who could sit behind a desk—or under a tree—taking notes all day.

  “It’s a damned shame. Those bastards in Danforth Hall. John Danforth is the father of the rebellion. Don’t think they don’t know that. There are two dozen big houses a lot closer to the action. They could have used any one of those, but that bastard Semmes knows just what he’s doing. That’s their area HQ, all right. That will be the focal point of their efforts to root us out of these woods. And I’ll bet anything when they’re done, they’ll level the place.”

  “They’ll need more than President Danforth’s house to chase us down, sir . . . a lot more. We’ve got each unit in its own designated area, spread out but in mutually supporting range in case the enemy tries something. And we’ve still got people making their way out from Landfall. Our numbers are growing every hour.”

  Killian looked over at his aide, a grim expression on his face. “I’m afraid that trajectory will reverse soon, Lieutenant. Any sign of Major North?”

  “No, sir. Not yet.” Black looked down at the ground for a few seconds before returning his gaze to Killian. “But that doesn’t mean he . . .”

  “No, Lieutenant, it doesn’t mean he’s dead. But his people made it back. Whatever happened to him, he made sure of that. None of them saw him killed or captured, but no one had any idea where he was, either. So it seems there are two possibilities—he went down in the fighting, or he was captured, and no one saw it happen.” Killian’s tone suggested he thought little of the possibility of North allowing himself to be taken alive. “Or maybe there’s a third: he’s still in Landfall. Somewhere.” Killian wondered if that was possible, ultimately deciding yes, he thought it was, at least for someone like Jacob North. But after the wave of strikes his people had managed to pull off, he had no doubt that the federals would be tearing Landfall apart, looking for anyone responsible—or even those who weren’t necessarily responsible, but whom they could blame. He’d bequeathed a nightmare to the residents of the capital, and it pained him, the misery he imagined being unleashed even as he stood there. But there was no place for half measures in war.

  “If he is still there, sir . . .”

  “Yes.” Killian understood exactly what his aide was thinking. “If he is still there, he’s going to have his hands full just staying alive.” Killian wondered just how many of the people of Landfall would still support a trapped ranger after Semmes got done punishing them for the loss of his supplies.

  “I’m afraid Major North is on his own, Lieutenant.” Assuming he is still alive. “There is nothing we can do for him. We have to keep our eyes forward. If we see him again, it will either be toasting victory or in Hell.”

  With that note of finality, he turned his attention to the reports he’d been getting. One shining piece of news was that his teams’ one-day frenzy in Landfall had left most of Semmes’s aircraft inoperable. That had been one of Killian’s priorities, and he was heartened to have done damage to one of the feds’ biggest assets. There were still a few—enough to make open terrain treacherous—but it meant the rebels had at least a little time to maneuver and regroup.

  “Colonel Killian, a scout from the north just arrived.” The voice was from one of the rangers, and the second Killian heard it, he knew something was terribly wrong.

  “Calm down, Sergeant. What is it?”

  The ranger took a deep breath, and he seemed to regain a bit of control. “Sir, the army engaged the federals near Dover.” His voice stopped for a few seconds, but Killian understood completely. “They were defeated, Colonel, and driven deeper into the woods north of Dover. Reports suggest casualties were heavy, perhaps as many as three thousand.”

  All thoughts of his success in Landfall went out the window. Killian hadn’t expected that. Three thousand was a huge number, especially since the army of Haven had never been more than twelve thousand strong, and that had been before the one-year enlist
ments had begun to expire.

  He’d been trying to keep the sergeant calm, but now he felt his own insides twist into knots. He wasn’t surprised the federals had driven Damian’s army back . . . in fact, anything else would have been unexpected. But he was stunned at the thought that Damian had allowed his forces to be hit hard enough to lose a quarter of their strength. Assuming, of course, the reports were true. Such things were prone to exaggeration. But he also believed it this time. And in a way, he could use the bad news—it gave him his next move. Because as sure as he was of anything, he had to do something to take the pressure off Damian.

  He turned toward Black. “All right, Des . . . General Ward needs us. We’ve got to cause some trouble, foul up the federal supply lines to the north. I want a dozen operations ready to go by nightfall tonight. We’re going to shut down the road, blow up their supply transports. By the time we’re done, they’re going to think they’ve got another army on their flanks.”

  “Yes, sir,” Black said with a feral grin.

  “It’s going to bring heat down on us. I want every trooper we’ve got left to be on guard every minute. They’ll send teams in these woods to hunt us down, but that’s exactly what we want. We’re going to have to be nimble, but the more they’re chasing us, the more those are resources that won’t be pursuing Damian and the main army.”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t worry, Colonel. We all understand what is at stake.”

  “Good. Des, one more thing . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “While we’re hitting these bastards along the road . . . I want a raiding party deployed right here.”