Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  “I will do all I can, General. Should Grant show you what else it can do?”

  “It can do more?”

  “The autocannon is the secondary weapons system. There are also two small X-ray lasers, one attached to each arm. Their purpose is primarily for combat in vacuum and space conditions, and I’m afraid that in atmosphere, their range is severely limited. Still, they should be quite lethal to any lesser-protected target within, say, one hundred meters. They . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, did you say the autocannon was the secondary weapon?”

  “Yes, well, perhaps I should have said, I hope it will be. There was no hope of building the particle accelerators the original specs called for, but I believe I am on the verge of developing a working electromagnetic force projectile delivery system.” Holcomb glanced at his onlookers, every face with a confused expression. “Colloquially, something like a rail gun,” he added. “Though much smaller than most similar systems, not exactly what most consider a rail gun, but more of a magnetically charged hypervelocity weapon system.”

  “A rail gun?” Damian was stunned again. He knew Holcomb was an extraordinary scientist, and he likely wouldn’t have doubted anything the man had promised, in a proper lab with real production facilities. But there was something hard to grasp about producing cutting-edge technology, or at least a rough facsimile of it, in a bunch of shacks in the woods. “Doctor, I don’t know what to say. I guess I should just ask, can we produce these in any kind of numbers, and if so, what do we need?”

  “More uranium, for sure. And the metallic ores for the armor. Items that will likely be difficult to obtain, I realize. Mass production is obviously an impossibility, but if you can find the materials, and you will supply me all your people with any relevant industrial experience, I think we could build a couple hundred of them in a reasonable time, perhaps two months.”

  Damian nodded. “That would be extraordinary, Doctor.” He had no idea where or how he was going to scrape up the materials but he knew who might at least help. John Danforth was vastly wealthy, and he’d smuggled goods to the rebels for years before the revolution even began. If anyone could find what was needed on Haven, it was the republic’s new president himself. “Get your people together, Doctor.” Damian gestured toward the two figures standing silently behind him. “Major Withers and Sergeant Wells will provide you any assistance you require. You can requisition anyone you think will be helpful.”

  He stood silently, just staring at Grant and the massive suit he wore. “And since you worked your way into this project, Captain, you can head up recruitment and training for the personnel who will wear these things, assuming we’re able to build them. I don’t know how much time we have before we’ll be forced into another fight, but maybe we can have a surprise for the federals when that day finally comes.” We’re damned lucky we haven’t been engaged already. “Just make sure we’ve got someone in those suits besides convicts from the mines, okay?”

  Damian didn’t wait for an answer. He looked over at Holcomb and said, “Doctor, if we’re able to actually produce enough of these things, and they’re as incredible as they seem, you may just have saved the rebellion.”

  Holcomb smiled and nodded. “I will do anything I can, General, as I promised you last year.”

  Damian returned the smile, and then he turned around. The instant he did, the grin vanished, replaced by a worried frown. He had to go find John Danforth, and he had to find a way to scare up a bunch of stuff that was hard to find. Really hard.

  Damned near impossible.

  Chapter 29

  Blackstone Detention Facility

  Washington Megalopolis

  Federal America

  Earth, Sol III

  “Mr. Wells, or may I call you Everett? I assure you this will be much easier on you if you cooperate. We know you have had . . . difficulties . . . since your return from Alpha-2, and your past service will certainly be considered in any consideration of leniency if you aid us in identifying your accomplices. We know you were not alone, Everett, and if you choose to protect fellow traitors, it will hardly speak well of your repentance.”

  Wells looked up at the interrogator. The man was meticulously dressed, almost bookish in appearance. Not intimidating at all. Not what one would expect to encounter in the deepest, darkest prison in all of Federal America. But looks could be deceiving, and though Wells had long tried to feign ignorance, to himself as well as others, of the things he knew the government did to maintain order, now that he faced the menace himself, there was no self-delusion.

  He’d tried to tell himself they had no evidence, that as long as Asha and Xi had escaped, there was no way to convict him. But he heard the derisive laughter in his own mind, the mockery of his own naivety. Evidence wasn’t a requirement to convict him. Such things were merely words, used to placate the masses, to give the veneer of justice to the brutal methods used to sustain the state. Nothing he could do or say would matter. He could cooperate, give names, do anything his captors asked, but when they had gotten all they could from him, he would be convicted of treason anyway. And there was only one punishment for betraying the state in Federal America.

  Oddly, the prospect of almost certain death gave Wells a sort of courage. He was still scared, so terrified he’d come close to soiling himself more than once since he’d been brought to Blackstone, but the certain realization that giving up his contacts wouldn’t save him made it easier to resist.

  Until they push things to the next level . . .

  There was no torture in Federal America’s prisons—or so the official government position stated, one Wells had been content to believe for years. Now he cursed himself for a fool, and he knew his jailers would do whatever was necessary to break him. They would bribe him, make false promises of leniency, but when all of that failed, they would resort to more forceful measures. Wells was determined to resist—more out of hope that Stanton’s scheming might protect Violetta than out of concern for his coconspirators—but he knew he would talk, eventually. He was a man of conviction—at least, he liked to think he was—but he didn’t try to fool himself about his endurance for physical abuse. He suspected Blackstone had housed some rough types, men and women who’d withstood almost unimaginable torment before breaking, but he wasn’t one of those. He’d been ignoring the interrogator’s questions, but now he decided if he responded, he might be able to delay the inevitable enhancement of the questioning.

  “You are wrong about what was happening. There was no treason. My . . . circumstances . . . have changed, as you note, and I find myself in need of funds. My meeting was with a band of smugglers. Nothing political. Just an attempt to use what little remained of my influence to prop up my finances.” Wells knew his story wasn’t going to hold water. Despite the decline in his prospects, he was actually fairly well set financially, something his interrogator could determine with a routine asset check, if he hadn’t already. It was actually worse than that, he suspected. Anyone would assume that he’d used his prior positions to generate some level of illicit income. No one would believe the truth, that his idealism had prevented him from using what power he’d had for personal gain. It had all seemed perfectly rational to him at the time, but now he wondered if he was the only honest member of Federal America’s government.

  Honest until you started conspiring with the Hegemony.

  It almost made him smile. But this wasn’t a place for smiles.

  The interrogator paused for a moment, a vague look of uncertainty passing over his face, just for a second. “That seems very unlikely to me, Everett. You came from some wealth, and you had many long years of government service.” The man paused. “I can go and review your finances, to see if they support your story, but I warn you, there is nothing to be gained by lying to me. It will only be worse for you later.”

  Wells just nodded. “I was involved in a smuggling deal. It was stupid and foolish, and I am ashamed. But that was all.”

  The in
terrogator was wrong. There was something to be gained. Time. Time until the drugs and pain and all-night questioning sessions. Time until the misery. Until they broke him.

  It wasn’t much time, perhaps until the next day. But even a passing instant was better than nothing.

  And it was all he had.

  “Father, we have to find a way to help Everett.” Asha Stanton stood on the plush carpeting of her father’s library, looking across the antique desk at the silver-haired patriarch of the family fortune. Trevor Stanton was a hard man, but Asha knew her father had a soft spot for her. He’d spent an enormous amount of money to get her appointed to her position on Alpha-2, and he’d forgiven her for her failure after only a mild tongue-lashing. He’d even agreed to her latest stunt, one that now threatened not only her own future—and her life—but also the continued existence of the Stanton companies.

  “Asha, my dear, there is simply no way to rescue someone from Blackstone Prison, and certainly not from the Political Zone, which is where Everett Wells is no doubt being held. No amount of money, no bribes or blackmail, at least none within my reach.”

  “But if we don’t get him out . . .”

  “Yes, daughter. I spoiled you when you were younger, far too much. You were always smart, Asha, too smart perhaps. I indulged you, tried to aid your ambitions to a political career. When you returned from Alpha-2, I said to myself, perhaps our aspirations to become a senatorial family would be postponed a generation. Still, I said yes when you came to me, asked for my introduction to our Hegemony contacts. Your latest failure could cost you your life, and with it the future of this family. If we are tied to treasonous activity, we could all end up on the scaffold, and Stanton Industries will be confiscated.”

  He was angry, something she’d rarely seen from him aimed at her. But his anger was misplaced. There was no time to be angry. Their situation was desperate, and sitting around being angry accomplished nothing. For as much as Everett Wells was a good man, an honest man, he was a fool as well. He would try to hold out, but he was hardly the toughest man she’d ever seen. The interrogators at Blackstone would break him, that was a certainty. And when he gave up her name, it was over.

  But it didn’t have to be.

  If only you’ll do something, Father!

  Yet he wasn’t having it. “I have explored the possibility of having him killed, but even that seems impossible. No guard is ever alone with him, and even if one was, there is no way to do the deed and escape.” He paused, staring at the fire roaring in the hearth. “All your grandfather started, that I spent my life building . . . we may lose it.”

  Stanton stared silently at her father. The idea of having someone murder Everett Wells seemed terribly harsh to her. The two of them had never gotten along, not really, but he’d tried to work with her on her plan to thwart Semmes. He was naïve, perhaps, but he was a hard man to completely dislike.

  He will suffer in there, and the longer he resists, the more terrible it will be. Then he will die, no matter what he tells them, no matter what anyone does to try to save him.

  Unless . . .

  “Father, we may not be able to break him out of there, but do you think we could get a message to him? And a small package?”

  Trevor Stanton looked up at his daughter, a quizzical expression on his face. “Perhaps that would be possible.” He sat and stared at her, silent for a moment. “What do you have in mind, Asha?”

  Everett Wells sat on the cold metal bunk in his cell. It was too short for him to lie down, not without bending his knees. And when he did that, it was hard to stay on the narrow platform. It was hard, uncomfortable . . . and on purpose, all part of the gradually increasing coercion he was enduring.

  His ruse about needing money had bought him longer than he’d expected, two full days, probably because of his interrogator’s workload more than any actual difficulty in investigating his finances. However, when the reckoning came, it brought with it the first round of physical abuse he’d endured. His accountant-looking nemesis stood and scolded him for his lies as a large, unnamed man beat him with a long metal truncheon.

  It wasn’t bad, he suspected, not by the standards of what went on in the bowels of Blackstone, but it was the most painful, horrible experience of his life, and he was howling in pain, his face soaked with tears by the time they dropped him back in his cell.

  He’d had three more beatings since, each one progressively more severe than the last. They hadn’t drugged him yet, at least not as far as he knew, nor had they done any permanent damage. But despite the fact that he knew he was still near the beginning of the path, he felt he was close to breaking. He’d almost given them Asha Stanton’s name during the last session.

  He’d held back only out of the dim and fading hope that Stanton would somehow manage to continue what they had begun together, that she would find a way to defeat Semmes before he pacified Alpha-2. Before he found Violetta.

  It was a wild long shot, the most tenuous thread of hope to which he could cling. It had gotten him this far, but it wouldn’t take him through much more.

  He heard the door rattling. It’s not time yet. I’m not ready! A wave of panic hit him, and it was only because things hadn’t quite progressed that he had the thought that changing the schedule could just be more of the psychological torment his captors would use to make him talk. Then he saw the guard come in with a tray, and he could feel the oxygen return to his body. His dinner. He’d forgotten. Meals were harder to remember when his jailers skipped them half the time. Another way to wear him down.

  The guard put the tray down on the floor, as always. Then the man stared at him, his eyes moving to the tray and then back to Wells. He stood there for a moment, definitely longer than usual, and then he turned and left.

  That was strange . . .

  Wells sat still for a moment, his eyes moving to the tray. Against all odds, the food at Blackstone, when they chose to give him any, was actually pretty good. He felt a spark of defiance, an impulse not to eat what his captors had given him. They could have drugged the food, and even if they hadn’t, his hatred for them was growing. It sickened him to take anything from them. But he was hungry. More than hungry. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t eaten since the middle of the day yesterday. What I think was midday. He had no window, no way of keeping track of time.

  He sat on the bunk for another minute, but then he dropped to the floor and reached down to the tray. It was some kind of stew, with a chunk of surprisingly fresh bread next to it. He grabbed the spoon, the only utensil they had given him. As he picked it up, the paper napkin moved, and underneath there was a small piece of plastic.

  He pulled it up, recognizing it for what it was immediately. A message. But from whom? Were his jailers toying with him somehow?

  He glanced around nervously, but realized there was nothing for it. Either they were watching him or they weren’t—the torture was going to come regardless. So he held it up, close to his face so he could read the tiny lettering. It had no identity on it, but he immediately knew it was from Asha Stanton.

  Everett, I have tried every way to get you out of there, but I am afraid it is just not possible. As you know, the interrogators will break you eventually. I know we are not friends, that you have no loyalty to me, but I offer you this bargain. Under your plate you will find a small tablet. It is a way out for you, one that will spare you at least from the torment that lies ahead.

  There is no escape for you anyway, and nothing but pain between now and your eventual death. I know this is a terrible situation, but I give you my word, I will do everything possible to continue our plan, and I will try to save Violetta, or if we fail, I will try to have her smuggled off-world before Semmes can get to her. I am sorry there is no way to save you, but you can still give your daughter a chance.

  There is a special coating on this message slip. Your body heat activated it. It will disintegrate in a matter of seconds. You will want to drop it or your hands may be burned.
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  Goodbye, Everett.

  Wells stared at the thing in stunned surprise. He wondered how she’d managed to get even the message to him, much less the poison lying under his bowl. The Stanton money . . .

  He remembered her words, and he dropped the small sheet of plastic, just as it flared brightly for an instant and disappeared.

  He sat there quietly for a moment. The idea of killing himself to save Asha Stanton was far from appealing. She’d gotten him involved in the whole sordid affair to begin with, and now he was the one in Blackstone Prison, and she was worried about keeping him from ratting her out.

  But there was more to it than that. It was an escape of sorts. Remaining where he was could only mean more torment, even if he told them all he knew. They’d work him over until they were sure he’d broken and revealed all he knew. Then he’d be executed, humiliated as a traitor as he was dragged to the gallows. And if Asha Stanton went down, the last chance of helping Violetta would be gone. He didn’t think Asha would really somehow manage to stop Robert Semmes from reconquering Alpha-2—he wondered what he’d even been thinking, how he’d convinced himself such a thing was possible. But rescuing Violetta, getting her off-world before the worst of the retributions began? That seemed like something within reach of the Stanton money.

  He slid the bowl aside, his eyes focusing on the small white tablet. It didn’t look like much, smaller even than an analgesic one would take for a headache.

  How simple . . . to end one’s life. Is it quick? Painless? Stanton hadn’t described the poison she’d chosen, just identified it for what it was.

  Wells felt a burst of fear. He knew he’d decided what he had to do, but now the thought of taking that step almost overwhelmed him. He slid away from the tray, from the deadly little pill sitting there. No, I can’t do this . . .

  But images flooded his mind, mostly of Violetta as a child, back when her mother was still alive. He had to help her, any way he could. Even if it was only a small chance of saving her.