Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  “Here, sir?”

  “Yes, here. As long as we’re going to poke at the federals and bring hellfire down on us, we’re damned sure not going to let the federals keep President Danforth’s house. We’re going to hit it at midnight, just as the other groups attack the logistics trains.” He paused and stared at his aide. “And no one gets away, not one. They’ve got tech on their side, and training. It’s time we put something on ours.

  “Fear.”

  Black stared back and smiled, wolfish once more. “Yes, sir.”

  Jacob North slipped through the dark alley, cautious about making noise or even allowing his shadow to be cast out from any lights he passed. He’d tried to get out of town by three or four different routes, but he’d been blocked on every one. There were federals all around the city, covering the streets, smashing down doors, dragging terrified civilians out of their homes.

  Ninety percent of the rangers’ attacks had succeeded, plunging Landfall into utter chaos. Millions of credits of food, ammunition, and medicine had been destroyed, and from the looks of things, Robert Semmes had been driven to uncontrolled rage. The capital city had turned into a nightmare, and North could hear the gunshots in the distance . . . and sometimes not so far off. Civilians were being killed, and more would die before Semmes’s rage died down.

  North felt the urge to intervene, but there was nothing he could do. He’d be lucky enough to avoid the enemy patrols—for an hour, a day, however long it took to find a way out. Or to empty a gun in my mouth.

  Because he was sure of only one thing: he wasn’t going to let himself be taken prisoner. He had too good an idea of what Semmes would do, not only to a captured rebel, but to one on which he could focus the wrath caused by burning airships and obliterated warehouses.

  For now, though, he was going to do everything he could to stay alive. He looked all around, and then he moved out again, edging up slowly toward the street and peering out. It was a back road, and it seemed empty. He’d worked himself as far as he could from the areas of the main attacks, and he’d also avoided the heavily built-up zones. He was close to the originally settled area, where the first colonists had built ramshackle structures with little concern for layout or durability. That area had quickly degraded, and all but the poorest residents had long ago moved to better areas. It seemed like the perfect place to hide and decide what to do next.

  He was about to rush across the street diagonally, toward another alley tucked between two buildings, but he saw something, a light down at the end of the street. A guard? He paused, sliding back into the shadows.

  The figure turned, moving toward him, slowly. Clearly he hadn’t seen North yet. He kept coming, and soon he was close enough that North could tell he was a soldier.

  Damn.

  North wasn’t looking for a fight, and leaving a dead federal trooper behind was like marking his trail with paint. But if he stayed where he was and the soldier saw him . . .

  He reached down for the pistol shoved under his belt, but he stopped. No, he couldn’t risk a gunshot. He had no idea who else was near.

  He grabbed the heavy survival knife he’d carried since the invasion. It was twenty-five centimeters long, notched along its length. An ugly weapon for ugly work.

  He pressed himself up against the wall, waiting as the fed moved closer. He could hear the footsteps now, and he held his breath, struggling to remain motionless, silent.

  Then he saw the faint shadow, cast from the light of the sole functional streetlamp in the area. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He lunged out into the street, and then he angled himself into the trooper’s side. His arm swung down, bringing the blade right for his adversary’s neck . . . but he missed, slightly. The wound would have been fatal, without question, had the knife not caught on the top of the man’s combat armor. The tip was still for an instant, pressing against the hard composite of the armor. Then it slid down, leaving a slight scratch on the protective gear but doing little other damage, even as the uninjured trooper reached for his own weapon.

  If the man had possessed a pistol, North knew he’d have been dead. But the soldier’s hand reached around, pulling at the rifle slung across his back. It was a slower move, and more cumbersome.

  North pulled his knife away, angling for another stabbing motion, but his target was alert now, and he moved aside, struggling to bring the assault rifle to bear.

  North had no choice. He let the blade fall to the ground and whipped out his pistol, even as his other hand shoved at the fed, pushing the rifle’s barrel away.

  He fired as his enemy was moving his own weapon into place. Once, then a second time. The soldier fell backward, his hand tightening on the trigger, letting off a burst of three shots that blasted through the night air, echoing into the distance.

  North looked down the street. He couldn’t see anything, but as his eyes darted back to his victim, he could hear sounds from farther down the street. The fed was lying on his back, still breathing but clearly badly hurt. North looked more closely. The first shot had glanced off the trooper’s armor, but the second one had hit just where he’d intended his knife strike to go. The wound was mortal, if not immediately, and it was clear his enemy wasn’t able to threaten him further.

  But he can tell them where I went . . .

  North looked down at the wounded soldier, and his thought filled with images of friends who’d fought at the spaceport, and in Landfall, some of whom—many—were now dead. He felt a short burst of pity, a hesitancy to kill this man in cold blood. But it didn’t last.

  He’s dead anyway. And you didn’t come invade their home. They came to yours.

  He leaned forward, slipping the pistol back into his belt as he reached down and picked up the knife. He glanced up, staring down the street again. The noises were louder, getting closer, and he could see movement now, at the far end of the road.

  He knelt down next to the soldier, his eyes momentarily pausing, fixed on those of the dying man. Then he held the knife next to the fed’s throat, slipping it over the lip of armor until he felt the press of soft flesh. The man looked up at him, seeming as if he was going to say something. But he remained silent.

  North hesitated for a second, but then he looked up again. There were definitely soldiers coming, at least five or six, and they were getting close. There was no time.

  He jerked his hand quickly, the razor-sharp blade slicing the fed’s throat. The soldier’s eyes widened as he drew a final, gurgling breath.

  North leapt to his feet and ducked back into the alley. He had to put some distance behind him and the soldier. The approaching feds would go batshit crazy when they found their dead comrade. He was going to be actively pursued now, a target on his back.

  He turned around a corner and raced along the back wall of a decrepit old building. He was running, but he had no direction . . . or idea what he could do next.

  “Bracketing force, open fire. Assault teams, get ready to move out.” Killian stood and stared across the once-manicured lawns of John Danforth’s estate as his three autocannon teams opened up, sending a stream of deadly fire across the open space, shattering the masonry walls of the great house.

  “Assault teams . . . move out!”

  Killian watched as sixty of his people surged out onto the open hillside, rushing toward the house in columns separated by three carefully placed fields of fire. He had no reason to attack the Danforth property, no purely tactical ones, at least. But he felt it important to teach the enemy the true depth of the war they had come to fight. And here, in his friend’s house they were despoiling with their presence, he intended to do just that.

  “Keep up that fire. The assault forces know the killing zones.” Technically that was true, but Killian was also enough of a veteran to guess that more than one of his people would wander into their own friendly fire before this fight was over. He could only hope now wouldn’t be that time.

  “Des, you stay here and watch over the gun crews.”


  “What are you going to do, sir?”

  Killian didn’t answer. His aide already knew. He pulled the heavy weapon he had slung across his back, more a light autocannon than an assault rifle, and he flashed a single wicked smile at Black. Then he leapt out into the field, following his troopers in.

  Chapter 25

  Abandoned Dockside

  Baltimore

  Federal America

  Earth, Sol III

  Everett Wells pulled up the collar of his sweater and shivered against the cold predawn breeze. The cold was so numbing, so biting, it made him forget how terrified he was. For a moment.

  He’d spent a significant amount of time with Asha Stanton, more than he’d ever imagined he would have. Whatever else he thought of Stanton, she’d done what she’d promised, and the two were about to meet a representative of the Hegemony . . . to discuss matters the government of Federal America could hardly consider as anything but treason.

  “Your Excellencies,” a voice came from near where Wells was standing, and a man stepped out from behind a partially collapsed masonry wall.

  “That is no longer my title . . .” Wells turned to face the man as he waved for Stanton to come over from where she’d been looking for their contact.

  “Ah. I, too, am addressed as ‘Your Excellency,’ Governor Wells, though I would propose that we all put aside such niceties and speak informally, even as friends. My name is Xi.”

  “I appreciate the informality, Mr. . . . Xi. But surely you are aware of my current status. My ranks and forms of address have been stripped from me.”

  “That assumes one acknowledges the actions of Federal America’s senate, a pack of gangsters and nothing more. Their disrespect for a man like you was revolting.”

  Wells felt a shiver move through his body. He wasn’t all that pleased with the senate’s actions himself, but hearing the foreigner say it made the reality of what he was doing all too plain.

  For Violetta . . . this is for Violetta, he reminded himself.

  “Xi, welcome. I certainly did not expect you to come here yourself. Please ignore my partner. I’m afraid Governor Wells is a bit edgy about our endeavor.”

  Edgy . . . I’m disgusted. And scared shitless.

  “I understand, of course. Loyalty speaks well of a man’s character, even when it is to an entity as undeserving of it as the senate. But perhaps now we should turn aside from politic discussions and get on to specifics. I almost sent a representative to meet with you, but your father’s request was quite emphatic.”

  Wells had known Stanton’s family was a significant trading partner with several firms in the Hegemony. That wasn’t treasonous, not since the end of the last war and the ratification of the treaty requiring all three of the superpowers to open their markets to one another. But it sounded a little too cozy to be totally legitimate, though he realized Stanton’s connections were the only thing that provided a chance to stop Semmes.

  Before he crushes the rebels. Before he finds Violetta . . .

  “You have my thanks, Xi, and my father’s appreciation.” She paused and looked over at Wells. “The former governor and I are terribly concerned about the prospects of the federal expeditionary force defeating the rebellion on Alpha-2.”

  “That is a somewhat surprising position, particularly since the two of you had been charged with just the same thing. Is that not correct?” Then, before either could answer, Xi continued, “I take it your concern is about General Semmes securing the victory where both of you . . . were unable to do so.”

  “Yes, something like that, Xi.” Stanton sounded a bit touchy, but she kept her calm. “But there is more at stake than our pride, or even our rivalry with Semmes. If the federal forces put down the rebellion, it will send a signal to the other colonies, discouraging resistance. Fear is a powerful motivator, and I can assure you that General Semmes will instill fear in those who witness what he does to the defeated rebels. Your government has a choice, Xi, to see Federal America strengthened, its hold on its colonies tightened beyond the prospect of weakening, or to see Alpha-2 slip away, and send a spark of resistance to the other worlds.” She stopped, staring at the Hegemony minister as he stood silently. “We all know Federal America is winning the colonization race. That was the true cause of the last war, was it not?”

  Wells watched, impressed at Stanton’s arguments, but also concerned at the aggressiveness of her hostility toward Federal America. Wells himself was uncomfortable even interfering with the rebellion on Alpha-2. The thought of their efforts leading to more uprisings and the weakening of Federal America’s lead in space made him nauseated.

  “I cannot discuss any specific positions of my government, of course, but I do not believe it is any secret that we would prefer more of a balance of power beyond the solar system. However, that does not mean that we are able—or willing—to intervene, to risk the renewal of the war. An invasion of Alpha-2 by our forces would almost certainly have that result. There is no way your senate could leave the Hegemony, or the Union, in control of their former colony. Certainly not their largest and most valuable. There is little doubt that they would go to war to prevent that.”

  “I am not suggesting you take Alpha-2, Xi. I am proposing that you assist the rebels in winning their war, in achieving their independence.”

  The Hegemony representative stood there with a stunned look on his face. “Do you think that is even possible? Our intelligence suggests that there were considerable forces sent to crush the rebellion.”

  “There were.”

  “And you believe a makeshift rebel army can defeat them? I’m sorry, Asha, but I just can’t see that as reasonable.”

  “You misunderstand. I do not believe the rebels can win without assistance . . . but I do believe they can achieve victory on the ground. With the right support.”

  “We provided them considerable supplies of guns and ammunition, but with the federal blockade, I’m afraid that conduit is shut down.”

  “It is the blockade of which I speak when I ask for your aid. If your forces and the Union’s were to launch a combined operation, you could drive the federal fleet from the planet, at least temporarily. If the federal supplies are cut off, and reinforcements cannot get through, I believe the rebels could then win their ground war.”

  Wells had just been watching the exchange, but now he was as incredulous as the Hegemony representative. He knew Stanton had intended to ask for aid, but he had no idea her intention had been to call for Federal America’s combined enemies to attack the fleet.

  “Asha, I won’t be a part of this any further. This is not what we had discussed.” Wells had expected her to request ammunition shipments, possibly the commissioning of blockade runners . . . not the outright request for a combined enemy force to attack the naval force at Alpha-2.

  “Everett, there is no other way. If Senator Semmes is able to send a continuous stream of supplies and reinforcements to his son, the rebels have no chance. But the senate will rebel against Semmes’s pushing Federal America into a resumption of the war. The last treaty was advantageous, and a renewed conflict risks all of that. They will negotiate rather than risk total disaster. They will accept Alpha-2’s independence, as long as neither the Hegemony nor the Union controls it.”

  Wells was going to respond, and he was still trying to think of a nicer way to ask what he was thinking than Are you insane? when Xi beat him to it.

  “Asha, I’m afraid Everett here”—he looked at Wells—“if I may call you Everett?” Wells nodded. “Everett is correct to be cautious about your plan. What you propose is quite aggressive, and I will go so far as to say brilliant . . . but it is also terribly risky. You ask us to take the chance of restarting the war, to mount a major multinational fleet expedition that would be financially devastating. And our reward? Are we to control the colony once it is wrested from federal control? No. We are not even to have any reliable certainty that Alpha-2 will be liberated. If the rebels are unable to defeat the
federals—and despite your seeming confidence, I must say I consider this a highly unlikely occurrence—we will at best cause a temporary stalemate, a victorious ground force trapped on the colony they have pacified. In such a circumstance, I think there’s a very good chance the senate will mobilize the entire federal navy rather than back down. Then our adventure will not just be enormously expensive and light on rewards. It will be a desperate battle to which we will be forced to commit virtually all our fleet assets. You ask much, Asha. Perhaps too much.”

  “The loss of Alpha-2 will reduce the differential between your colonial revenues by 64 percent, and the Union’s by 58 percent. There is no one action that can make such a dent in federal superiority in colonization, and leave a Union-Hegemony alliance ahead of Federal America for the first time since the first extrasystem travel.” Stanton’s voice was firm, confident. “I understand the risks of what I am asking, Xi, but let us not try to kid each other about what you have to gain, without so much as one of your soldiers touching down on the planet.”

  Wells just stood, dumbstruck, even as Xi digested Stanton’s words. Eventually the Hegemony contact said, “Very well, Asha. Let us be frank. You know we would do almost anything to see Federal America humbled in space, perhaps even risk open war. But we would not do so recklessly, and I’m afraid I cannot quite accept your assertion that if reinforcements and supplies are interdicted for a time, the rebels will defeat the federal forces. It seems, honestly, impossible, and even if you could somehow convince me, I can assure you that I would not be able to gain enough support from my colleagues, not without some kind of evidence to bolster the idea that a rabble of revolutionaries can somehow have a decisive victory over federal regulars.” He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Even if there was such evidence, if the rebels are fighting well, even gaining the edge, there is no way to know. The Union sent an ambassador before the federal invasion departed, but now he is trapped on the planet—or worse—and there is no way to get word in or out, not without chasing away the federal fleet, which will require resources we cannot commit without evidence of rebel success on the ground.”