by Jay Allan
There was one bright spot, at least. He had multiple reports of the suits breaking down, of the enemy losing strength as they pressed forward. It made sense. Whatever miraculous effort had allowed the rebels to build those suits, they clearly hadn’t had the time or resources to test them and work out any problems. That meant—probably—it would be some time before they’d be able to put more of the weapons into the field, so the quicker Granz could get his army reorganized and ready for action, the better.
If only this madman would shut up and let me do my job.
“It is unforgivable, Colonel. Your incompetence is . . .”
Semmes was still ranting. It wasn’t like Granz to zone out completely on a superior officer, but the other option was to pull out his pistol and silence the bastard for good. On the scale of mutinous activity, tuning the general out was clearly the lesser offense.
Granz did draw one shred of satisfaction, a spark of joy in his sea of misery. He tried to imagine Semmes having to tell his father about the defeat, about how, despite the astonishing flow of troops and supplies, the rebels were still not only in the field, they held the field. Granz was disgraced, but he took comfort in the fact that, however much Semmes would try to blame him solely, the mud would splatter across the general, too.
There was another shred of pride, one he knew was misplaced. Damian Ward was his enemy, the commander of the rebel army. His triumph was nothing for a loyal federal officer to celebrate. And yet, Damian Ward had once been an officer of Federal America, too. His skill, the man he clearly was, had been forged in the same furnace as Granz himself. Unlike Semmes, whose earlier service had been the result a politically obtained commission that was wholly undeserved, Ward was a man he could respect.
But could he defeat him?
Jacob North sat in the damp, cold cellar, the refuge that had kept him alive, if barely, all the months he’d been trapped in Landfall. He was a scrawny remnant of what he’d been half a year before, when he’d first staggered into the run-down streets of Landfall’s oldest neighborhood, in search of a place to hide from the federal patrols on his tail.
He’d found that place, and he’d managed to avoid the incessant Peacekeeper patrols for more than six months, though at times, he’d almost wished a federal’s gun had taken him down. His refuge had no heat, and he’d shivered through winter nights, too cold to fall asleep, counting the passing minutes until morning’s light brought at least some scant warmth to the air. He’d scavenged for food, but the gaunt stick figure that replaced his once muscular frame testified to the fact that what he’d found had been enough to keep him alive, but not much more than that.
He would never speak about some of the things he had to eat.
He’d spent the first months in hiding planning to escape the city, to head north and find Colonel Killian or the army. But as cold, sickness, and hunger drained his strength, that had become less and less of a possibility. His aspirations had dwindled from escaping and returning to the fight to simply surviving. Even that had been a tremendous struggle, one that had taken all the will he could muster. But today he felt something that had been long absent, a warmth that filled him with hope.
He’d managed to make a few contacts, citizens who’d snuck him what food they could spare, as well as blankets and medicines. They didn’t have much—Landfall was on strict rationing, and there was little to go around—but North knew he’d never have survived without their help. They were a small group. The Peacekeepers were everywhere, and he dared not trust anyone he wasn’t completely sure about. But today they had given him something new, something he wouldn’t have traded for a gourmet feast or a fancy hotel suite.
News of a victory.
He hadn’t believed it at first. But then he heard it again, and again. He still had trouble convincing himself it could be true. The Haven army had won a battle. Not just a victory, but a full-scale triumph that had sent the federal forces racing down the Old North Road back to Landfall.
It was more than he’d dared to dream about those frozen nights, more than his wildest dreams when he’d torn scraps of meat off the bones he’d pulled from garbage bins. It renewed his faith, his determination. It filled him with a strength no food could match.
The fight wasn’t over, not for Haven, and not for him. He’d been spent, ready to give up, to die in his hidden cellar, weak and defeated. But not now. There was a rebellion to finish, freedom to win.
North didn’t know what he’d be able to do, how he could help his comrades. But he knew he had a part left to play.
He was still hungry and cold, but that didn’t matter. His hope was back. He was determined again, ready to do whatever he had to do.
Chapter 36
Village of Dover
46 Kilometers North of Landfall
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
Damian Ward had led his army to an unexpected victory, a historic and unprecedented win over a veteran army that outnumbered his forces nearly two to one. Even his grim outlook on the rebellion and its prospects for success couldn’t hold back the satisfaction, the joy he felt. For a few brief, shining moments, it had seemed like nothing could stop that, drain away the pride and good feelings.
But it turned out, all it took was Cal Jacen.
“We barely have enough provisions to feed the army. We’ve got the congress, the civilian government staff, the families of the soldiers. There is no room for captives.” The politician stood in the room, interjecting his views into a discussion Danforth and Damian had been having with several other officers and senators. Damian had not invited Jacen, but he’d come anyway, and now he was shouting the others down.
Damian felt the acid in his stomach, and he wondered how one man’s presence could so easily simulate the feeling of overindulgence in a poorly chosen meal.
The topic was prisoners. Against all expectation, and all probability, Damian’s army had captured over five hundred federal soldiers. He’d seen with his own eyes proud veterans putting their arms down and surrendering.
There had been incidents, of course, and he had no idea how many federal soldiers were killed trying to give up. He disapproved, and he’d hold any soldier accountable if he could, but he was realistic, too. Some of his people had had family members in Robert Semmes’s camps the year before. Many had already lost loved ones to the rebellion. There was a limit to what men and women could endure, and pain brought out the worst of human nature. But that wasn’t the issue with Jacen. He hadn’t lost any loved ones. As far as Damian knew, he didn’t have any.
He was just a fucking lunatic.
“Cal, we can’t resort to such tactics. We’re going to have to negotiate with the federals at some point, and prisoners could be valuable . . .”
Damian had listened to Danforth debating Jacen, giving his old ally all kinds of reasons why it didn’t make sense to line up a bunch of POWs and just shoot them, but now his patience was gone.
“Listen to me, you slimy piece of shit,” he said. “I’ve put up with you as much as I’m going to. We are not going to shoot helpless prisoners. I don’t care what kind of twisted shit goes on in that excuse for a brain you have, but so help me God, if one of those prisoners dies, and I don’t care if he’s shot by a firing squad or if he chokes on his dinner, I’m going to blame you. And if that happens, there is no place on this planet you’ll be able to hide from me.”
He stared at Jacen, his eyes glistening, his rage pushing against his own usual stern control. He reached down to his side and pulled the pistol from his holster.
“Do we understand each other?” He raised the gun and held it centimeters from Jacen’s face.
“Damian . . .”
“No, John . . . no more. You’re my friend and I respect you, but I’m done with you making excuses for the pile of filth.” He stared back at Jacen, unhappy with himself for the sheer joy the man’s unmasked fear gave him. He didn’t consider himself sadistic, but he was enjoying Jacen’s discomfo
rt.
“Damian, please . . .” Danforth took a step forward. “Don’t do this, not now.”
“I’m not doing anything now. I should.” God knew he wanted to. He could feel the urge, part of his mind pushing at him, images of squeezing his finger, finishing this once and for all. It would take only an instant, a mere fraction of a second. “He’s a schemer, an untrustworthy, worthless worm.”
“Damian, please don’t.” There was real fear in Danforth’s voice. Clearly he was afraid Damian was going to do it.
Jacen just stood against the wall, unmoving, clearly too afraid to even speak.
“It’s up to him, John. Do we understand each other, Jacen?” Damian stared at the terrified man with cold intensity.
Jacen tried to answer, but no words came out. He managed a small nod.
“That’s not good enough. Do . . . we . . . understand . . . each . . . other?”
“Yes,” Jacen managed to croak out. “I understand.”
Damian’s arm relaxed and dropped to his side. He shoved Jacen away from the wall. “Then get the hell out of here, and out of my sight!”
Jacen turned back, flashing a quick glance toward Danforth, as if looking for support. Then he walked out of the room.
Damian stared at the others present, then toward Withers, who’d been standing against the far wall, watching the entire time.
“Ben, go find Colonel Morgan and tell her I want her to take over responsibility for the prisoners.”
“Yes, General.”
“And, Ben, tell her if Cal Jacen or any of his Society thugs so much as come within ten meters of the holding areas, she is to have them shot on sight. Understood?”
Withers snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir. Understood.” He turned and walked out, leaving Damian behind with the others, and a stunned silence in the room.
“I appreciate your willingness to take such a risk, Sasha, but do you really think Ambassador Kutusov is going to agree to jump on board Vagabond and make a desperate run past the federal fleet? He may be stuck here, but even if we lose the war, he can always surrender to the feds and ask for repatriation. They’d never let him go, of course, while the rebellion is still going on, but even Semmes wouldn’t dare harm a Union diplomat.”
Damian was in his quarters, with a group that included Sasha Nerov, John Danforth, and Luci Morgan. They were at a small table, enjoying the first hot food any of them had eaten in days.
Damian’s billet was a small but comfortable house Withers had somehow found for him among the remains of the badly damaged village. Dover had seen no less than three battles over the past two years, and whole sections of it were in ruins. If he’d been paying more attention, Damian would have refused the accommodations, slept in a tent, but Withers had taken him by surprise, and the wall of overdue fatigue that had hit him as soon as the stress of battle was gone had been too much to endure. The thought of an actual bed . . . it had been more than he could resist.
“I’m afraid that Damian is correct, Sasha.” Damian had asked for first names and no military formality for the evening, and Danforth was complying with his friend’s request. “I’ve come to know the ambassador rather well, and while he is—much to his surprise, I believe, as well as my own—made of somewhat sterner stuff than many of his profession, I do not believe he has in him what it takes to endure such a risk. What do you think your chances are? Fifty-fifty?”
“I’m sorry you think so little of my piloting skills, John. How many loads of weapons and ammo did I get to Haven? Where would you all be now without those stockpiles?”
“I meant no disrespect, Sasha, nor any lack of gratitude, but there’d never been a full fleet surrounding our planet before. And,” he said with a kind smile, “I will note that prior to your spiritual awakening as a true rebel, you were very well paid for those guns.”
“I can get past the federals, John, Damian. I know I can.”
“I appreciate that, Sasha, but there is still a tremendous risk, even to someone as capable as you. Would your crew be willing to take such a chance? And even if they are, again, I don’t see how we could possibly get the ambassador to go along with it.”
Nerov sat across the table from Damian. She reached out, grabbing her glass and draining the final drops of wine, a luxury the diners had enjoyed courtesy of the last bottles John Danforth had managed to spirit away from his estate before he’d abandoned it. Then she smiled, the mischievous grin she’d worn so often in the past, but that they’d rarely seen in recent months.
“I’ve thought about this, Damian, and I know just how we can get him to do it.”
Damian looked back, a bemused expression on his face. He had no idea what Nerov had in mind. “You think you have some way to persuade him?” He knew Kutusov was attracted to Nerov, but he couldn’t imagine the veteran smuggler thought she could flirt with him enough to overcome fear and self-preservation.
“I wouldn’t say persuade, exactly . . .”
“Then what?”
“We lie to him, my good General Ward. We tell him one wild, flashing whopper of a lie.”
Chapter 37
Free Trader Vagabond
Just Beyond Haven Orbit
Epsilon Eridani System
“Steady, Griff. They’ll challenge us before they do anything hostile.” I hope.
“Whatever you say, Sasha.” Nerov’s first officer, and best friend, sounded edgy, which, considering the insanity of what they were attempting, could have been worse.
“We’ll be fine.” Nerov was impressed with the certainty in her tone. It had been deliberate, of course, but she’d expected at least some of the fear in her gut to slip out.
“The engines are ready.” Daniels was staring at the small screen at his workstation. Vagabond was an old ship, but Nerov had reinvested a large chunk of her smuggling profits into her beloved vessel, and the free trader had a lot more lurking under her battered hull than appeared at first glance.
“System status?”
“All systems at 100 percent functionality.”
Nerov nodded and sighed softly. She’d been a little worried about the effects of the months her ship had spent submerged in the salty water of Haven’s sea. It had been an ingenious plan, if she did say so herself, to hide the vessel in the water, and a ship designed for the vacuum and rigors of space should have been up to the hazards of the environment. But the water pressure had been significant, and despite her maintenance and upgrades, it was an old ship. It wouldn’t have taken much of a hull failure for some leakage to cause damage to some of her systems.
“Sasha, we’ve got a federal frigate engaging its thrusters. My guess is they’re moving to intercept.”
Damn. Nerov had hoped the federals would send a communiqué first, demand that Vagabond cut her thrust and await boarding. If a ship was already heading toward her, she’d have to play her gambit earlier than she’d hoped. It would still be a surprise, at least she was pretty sure of that, but the farther Vagabond was from the jump point, the less chance she had of getting there before the blockading ships closed to firing range.
“Make sure everybody’s strapped in, Griff. We may have to hit the thrusters sooner than we thought.” And hope like hell they work. Vagabond’s engines had always been reliable, and she’d always treated them with care. But now she was going to abuse the hell out of them, one wild gamble to get out of the system before the federal navy blasted Vagabond to scrap. She’d made most of the mods herself, but Jonas Holcomb had added a few details, and when she hit the switch newly installed on her workstation, Vagabond would—should, at least—have roughly double the thrust capacity she did before.
It was risky, of course, and she couldn’t maintain it for long. But the trick was just to make it out of the system. Once they were clear of the federal fleet, Nerov’s smuggler’s instincts would take over, and she would plot a course around any other likely areas of interference.
Or, I’ll flip the switch and the engines will b
low, and we’ll be nothing but a cloud of dust and hard radiation. Unless they just burn out, and then we’ll get the pleasure of a federal trial for treason before they execute us. Assuming they don’t just space us on the spot . . .
“Griff . . .” She was distracted by a sound behind her, the bridge door sliding open. She turned abruptly to see Andrei Kutusov standing there, a smile on his face.
“Ambassador, what are you . . .”
“I just wanted to watch on the scanners as we slipped past the federal navy. Truly, if you are willing to allow us to study and replicate the system, I can almost guarantee the Council will grant your request for intervention in the rebellion.” A brief pause, then: “And how many times have I told you, it is Andrei.”
Nerov felt her stomach tighten. The plan had seemed perfect when it had popped into her head, and despite some initial reservations, General Ward and the others had all agreed it was the only option. But now, with the Union ambassador standing two meters away, about to find out just how blatantly she’d lied to him, it didn’t seem quite as clever as it had.
“Andrei, there is something I have to tell you . . .”
“Sasha, we’re getting a transmission. Putting it on speaker.”
She felt the urge to tell Griff to keep the communiqué off the main channel, but it was too late.
“Unidentified freight vessel, this is the Federal America frigate California. You are in prohibited space, in violation of the Alpha-2 Blockade Resolution, and you are not transmitting an identification beacon in compliance with the Standards of Space Mercantile Operations. You are ordered to cut all thrust immediately and prepare to be boarded.”