Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  “That is the problem, Colonel. You are too soft on the locals. You consider it beneath your military dignity to do what you must to neutralize them as a factor. Do you know what it says to me when the locals are still aiding your enemies? It says they are the enemy. It says they are not scared of you. Perhaps you should do something to change that. I have some other units here in Landfall. They have secured the city entirely. Perhaps they can instruct you in the tactics you require to finish your own mission.”

  Granz chafed, fully aware Semmes was talking about Major Brendel and her “Peacekeepers.” Butchers. “General, I don’t believe those kinds of tactics are . . . advisable. We have executed over one hundred civilians convicted by military tribunals of aiding the rebels. But we do need to reintegrate this planet into Federal America after this conflict is over, do we not?”

  Semmes looked over at Granz, and the expression on his face made the officer’s blood run cold. “This planet will be just fine, Colonel. As to the people on it, they are expendable, certainly any who have turned traitor and rebelled against their government. Collateral damage is not a concern in our plans here, Colonel. It makes little difference to me if a hundred are killed, or a thousand . . . or a million. As long as this detestable revolution is ended. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Granz tried to hide the disgust in his voice, but he knew he hadn’t even come close.

  “You do not have to like my orders, Colonel Granz, but you do have to obey them. Unless you, too, wish to face summary execution for mutiny.”

  Granz bristled at Semmes’s words, but he knew enough to take them seriously. The colonel was proud of his career and of the men and women he’d led, but he also knew what Federal America truly was. His own family, both sets of grandparents, had been on the losing side of the civil war, a family secret he’d never dared to allow to become known.

  “No, sir, I do not.” Granz wasn’t sure how he’d gotten the words out civilly. Self-preservation, perhaps.

  “Then you will brief Major Brendel on the status of your operations, and you will include her in all planning sessions. You will, of course, as per your rank, retain command of the overall operation. But, Colonel Granz, if the major reports to me that you are holding back, that you are not pushing the pacification effort as aggressively as possible, the fact that I will immediately relieve you of your command will be the least of your concerns. Do you understand me?” Semmes glared at Granz for a moment.

  Granz nodded.

  “Good. Oh . . . and you will also deploy the new Loyalist battalions, Colonel. Those people have much to prove, cleansing themselves of the traitors who have shamed them. And no doubt, they are much more familiar with the countryside than you and your soldiers.”

  Granz stood stone still for a moment. He hated knuckling under to a monster like Semmes, but the general could make good on his threats. The only thing that made any of this remotely bearable was Granz could read a quartermaster’s report as well as anyone. And while Semmes’s family connections were what kept the continuous, and almost unimaginably expensive, flow of supplies coming, there had to be a breaking point, a level of devastating expense that even the senator’s legendary political influence couldn’t overcome. And when that happened, the younger Semmes would be well and truly screwed. It was alien for Granz to hope for his side to fail in a conflict, but he couldn’t deny, some small part of him would enjoy watching Semmes squirm.

  “Yes, sir,” was all he managed to force from his parched throat.

  He stood there holding back his anger, and his shame. Granz had seen hell before, fought in battles so terrible they still tormented his sleep. But he’d never felt as dirty as he did now. He believed his forces could defeat the rebels, that they could bring Alpha-2 back into the fold. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever be the same again afterward.

  “Your soldiers look good, Jerome . . . or should I say, Captain Steves.”

  Steves turned toward the voice, smiling as he did. “As do yours, Captain Isaacson.” Steves had been working his men hard, something all the more impressive because his own military knowledge didn’t extend far past the few hours of indoctrination at the hands of Colonel Granz and Major Brendel. But General Semmes had insisted on having Loyalist units ready to support the final campaign to secure the areas outside Landfall, and that had left little time for settling into the reality of military command.

  Isaacson and Steves each commanded rump battalions, hurriedly assembled units of roughly three hundred fifty troops each, picked from the best of the Loyalist volunteers. There were some security forces and police in the mix, but most had never even held a weapon. Three weeks of intense training had changed that, however, and while he wouldn’t say his people—or, for that matter, he—were ready for combat, they were a lot more ready than they’d been less than a month before.

  “We’re moving out tomorrow. I just got the word.” Isaacson sounded anxious. He’d always been a bit rabid, his opposition to the rebels often seeming very much like hatred. But now Steves sounded a lot more like his friend than his previous measured self.

  Having an assassin in your house would do that.

  Still, he was more scared than anxious about leading his forces into battle.

  Steves looked back at his friend. “Ray, do you think we’re ready?” His voice was hushed. The last thing he needed was for any of his soldiers to hear his doubts.

  “Ready? These bastards tried to kill you, Jerome. They’ve thrown our world into a nightmare. Whatever happens, things will never be the same because of them.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean . . . aren’t you worried about going into action? Our people haven’t had a lot of training, and these rebels in the woods to the north have been fighting off the feds for months now.”

  “That’s only because they know the terrain so well . . . and because traitors up there have been hiding them. But we know this area as well as any rebel scum, and we’ll help the federal troops root them out, one at a time if we have to.”

  Steves nodded. He was as angry as Isaacson. Landfall was badly damaged, whole sections of the city in rubble, from the battles, the rebel raids, the federal punitive expeditions. If the rebellion didn’t end soon, the whole planet would be a smoldering ruin.

  “You’re right, Ray. Captain Isaacson.” He felt a little better. Isaacson was right about knowing the ground, and he was sure that’s why their units were being ordered up there. They couldn’t add much to the overall combat power deployed, but their ability to assist in search-and-destroy missions would be invaluable. And there was more than a little rage in the ranks. He shuddered to think of what would happen when his people met rebels.

  Then he wondered if he’d make any effort to stop them.

  “Keep moving, all of you.” Des Black was running through the woods, shouting orders to what was left of the patrol he commanded. His people had endured the winter, using the time to build hidden shelters and to form alliances with the locals, who provided hiding places and intel on federal movements. They’d suffered losses, heavy losses, but they’d managed to hang on, remaining a thorn in the enemy’s side, and taking the heat off the main army. But something had changed.

  Suddenly the federals’ operations were much better targeted. Caves, well-protected hillsides deep in the woods, all the strongholds that had anchored their operations since they’d abandoned Landfall, it seemed that suddenly they were all under attack by overwhelming federal forces. It had been a mystery for the first few days. Then the rangers captured their first Loyalist.

  The federals were finding their way to the most defensible and hidden spots because Havenites were showing them the way. Black bristled at the thought of his countrymen betraying the rebellion. A small smile slipped onto his lips as he remembered what had happened to that Loyalist once he’d been persuaded to share all he knew. That one and the dozen others his people had captured. He’d wondered for a moment if such savagery weakened the rebel cause, if it made him and his
soldiers the monsters. But then he thought of the men and women he’d lost, the desperate retreats from strongholds that had protected his people for months, and he decided he just didn’t give a shit.

  Through all the federal attacks, the freezing winter, the constant effort to endure and survive, Colonel Killian had managed to maintain some frequency of raids and attacks on enemy logistics and communications. But now the entire force, what shattered bits of it remained, was in full-scale retreat. The colonel’s initial reaction had been to stay, to fight it out to the bitter end, but then Black and his people had come upon a farmhouse.

  Rather, what was left of a farmhouse, and a family that had aided his rangers.

  The brutality was astonishing, and Black still couldn’t force the image of that butchered family from his mind. It had been the Loyalists, no doubt aided by the Peacekeepers, he was sure of that, and he cursed himself for any regret he’d felt about what his soldiers did when they captured the first Havenite traitor.

  It wasn’t that first house, nor the second, nor even the greatly ramped-up casualties—Black wasn’t even sure exactly what had finally driven him to give up, to issue the orders for all units to head north by whatever paths they could, their only instructions to survive, and try to find their way back to the main army.

  He gasped for some air, the early spring morning still chilly, but nothing like the brutal winter deep freeze. His people had been moving all night, but as far as he could tell, they were just ahead of their pursuers. That had been a determination based on gut feeling through most of the night, but just before dawn, a Loyalist platoon had caught up to his rear guard. He’d had six of his people back there, dug in and waiting, protecting the rest of the small column while it retreated. They’d fought well, but they couldn’t hold against more than forty Loyalist militia, specially equipped as they were by the federal armory and supported by a team of Peacekeepers. Their fragile position had fallen shortly after daybreak, and the chase continued.

  Only two of his people had come back, but the sacrifice of the others had bought time, just enough time to keep his dwindling force ahead of the pursuers who would destroy it.

  Barely ahead.

  The question was, what would joining with the main army even accomplish, at least in terms of adding strength to the fight? Colonel Killian had conducted a masterful guerilla campaign, keeping the federals tied up around Landfall, and shielding the battered army from a full-scale federal offensive. But now, whether a few of the rangers and their comrades made it back or not, the way was open. General Ward and his soldiers had lost their shield, and the addition of a few ragged and exhausted survivors, however seasoned, wasn’t going to tip any scales.

  The federals would come now, soon. They would march north, right toward the army’s main camp, and General Ward and his people would face a desperate fight for their lives.

  One Black was far from sure they could survive.

  Chapter 28

  Northern Edge of the Green Hill Forest

  118 Kilometers Northwest of Landfall

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

  “It’s rough, General.” Jonas Holcomb stood in front of the small building that had housed his main lab through the winter. He’d been in there every waking hour, working with such intensity that it worried even Damian as he drove his own soldiers so hard. “It’s ugly, not polished at all.” A pause. “And it could be dangerous, to the wearer and even those around it. I did my best, but we’re limited on effective materials for shielding radiation, and those reactors I managed to cobble together don’t exactly meet safety parameters.”

  “I understand, Doctor. We’ve discussed this before. No one expects you to produce something up to laboratory specs.” Hell, I didn’t really expect you to come up with anything workable at all.

  “Very well, General.” Holcomb turned, a nervous look on his face. “Captain Grant, please come around now.”

  Damian stared in shock, his mind still fixed on the name of his friend. He’d told Holcomb to find any volunteers for his project, but he’d had no idea Grant had gotten involved.

  He heard the thing first, a loud, dull clanking sound coming from behind the building. Then it came around the corner.

  Holcomb hadn’t been kidding. It was ugly, as cumbersome and unfinished as such a thing could look. It was metal, a bit larger than man-sized, covered with rough plasma-weld marks and ridges from poorly matched sections. It was dull gray, with a large protrusion on the back.

  “Well, Damian . . . I mean, General Ward . . . what do you think?”

  Damian could barely recognize Grant’s voice. The speakers were poor quality, with significant distortion. “I think I’m a little surprised. I had no idea you were involved in this project.”

  “I asked Dr. Holcomb to keep it quiet. I wanted to surprise you. I know this is important, and I thought you should have someone you trust wearing his first suit.”

  And you knew if you told me I wouldn’t have let you do it.

  Damian’s mind wandered to all the risk factors, radiation and power overloads being just two of the potentially fatal ones. He was fond of Jamie, very fond, and as much as he hated to see any of his soldiers in unnecessary danger, it especially troubled him to think of Grant being slowly poisoned by his reactor or, worse, killed by an overload that seared him to a crisp.

  “Well, since you somehow managed to justify ‘surprising’ your commander with something like this, tell me, what do you think of it?”

  “It’s uncomfortable as hell, and I’ll be damned if every centimeter of my body didn’t start itching the instant they sealed it up, but it’s pretty amazing.” He turned his head. “Doc?”

  “Yes, Captain, by all means. Show the general what you’ve learned to do.”

  Grant looked back, pausing for an instant before he leapt, jumping over six meters straight up. He landed hard, but his legs held, and he stood and stared right back at Damian before he took off, running at what Damian figured had to be at least one hundred kilometers an hour. It was noisy and clumsy-looking—no one was going to use the suit to sneak up on anyone—but Jamie kept going until he was out of sight, and then a few second later he came racing back.

  “The suit has built-in weapons, as well, General,” Holcomb said. “As we discussed, there was no way to construct the particle accelerators in the original specifications, not with what was available, but I was able to include a built-in autocannon, constructed to utilize Union ammunition . . . though it will be necessary to take the rounds from the existing cartridges and put them into the suit magazines. That will be tedious, I am afraid.”

  “Autocannon? Like a squad weapon? Each suit has one?”

  “Yes, General, just like the squad automatic weapons the federals use. You know . . . or perhaps you don’t . . . that I designed the MV-211s that the federal infantry forces use.”

  Damian just nodded. He kept forgetting that Holcomb had been the feds’ top weapons designer.

  “How much ammunition can the suit carry?”

  “With the external supplemental magazines I’ve almost got finished, five thousand.”

  Damian stared back, stunned. “Did you say five thousand? How could a man carry that?”

  “I don’t think you realize the power magnification of the suit. You just saw Captain Grant run and jump.” Holcomb turned toward Grant. “Captain, perhaps you could show the general the strength you possess in the suit.”

  Grant nodded, a somewhat comical exercise in the cumbersome armor. Then he looked around before his focus settled on a tree, a giant at least fifty meters tall. He turned around to make sure no one was nearby, a clunky effort in the suit. Then he thrust his arms forward, slamming his fists into the tree. Splinters flew all around as his armored hands penetrated deep into the heart of the tree, and then, as Damian watched in stunned surprise, the massive brownwood wobbled two or three times and fell over in a monumental crash that thundered throughout the forest.

>   “You see, General? It is not the weapons, nor the protection offered by the armor plating that is the suit’s greatest strength. It is the power source. Instead of a man, powered by biological chemical reactions and fuel as inefficient as food, the suited warrior has the power of the atom at his fingertips. That was the true breakthrough I had made, the miniaturization of a fully functional fusion plant, bringing the size down to something that could be incorporated into a fighting suit. When we first discussed the project, I was far from sure I could extend the miniaturization process to a fission reactor, but I was able to do it.”

  “It’s amazing.”

  But instead of accepting the praise, Holcomb frowned. “It is what it is. As I originally surmised, there are certain longer-term hazards to the wearer, which is why I suggest volunteers are chosen for the new corps. The main problem is actually if there are others in the vicinity, and those dangers are likely to manifest only when a suit is damaged.”

  “Which is quite likely, since we will be sending them into battle.” Damian sighed softly. He knew the risks of asking soldiers to fight in Holcomb’s suits, but were they really any worse than expecting his outnumbered, outclassed, outsupplied army to go back into the field and face the federals? “I’m sorry, Doctor. I still stand by my earlier praise—what you’ve achieved here is staggering. And I must confess, I didn’t really believe you could do it. Now I understand why the feds wanted you back so badly.”

  Damian could see the mention of the federals was upsetting to Holcomb, and he immediately regretted saying it. “Truly, we’re glad to have you as one of us, Doctor. Perhaps you can help us win this fight, and gain a new home for yourself as well as freedom for all Haven.”