Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  He made his way through the building, slipping by five or six federals in the hallways, until he came to Wells’s old apartment. There was a guard, but he wasn’t in front of the door. He was sitting on a small bench at the end of the hall. Killian wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew there was no sneaking past this one. He reached under his shirt and pulled a small throwing knife from its hidden sheath. He gripped it carefully. He’d have one chance, and even if he was able to kill his enemy, the noise could give him away.

  No choice.

  He swung around the corner, whipping the knife as he did. It felt like the blade took forever to cross the six meters or so to the target, but then it hit its mark, cutting deeply into the soldier’s throat. Killian was right behind the blade, his much larger combat knife in his hand now. He reached out and put his left hand over the victim’s mouth, muffling his attempted scream, as he plunged the blade deep under the man’s rib cage. The soldier fought for a few seconds, and then his body went limp. Killian held on to it, lowering it slowly.

  The clock was really racing now. He didn’t know if there were surveillance monitors in the hallway, but all it would take was for someone to pass by and see the dead sentry, and it was game over. He searched the man and grabbed the key card on his belt. He turned and pressed it against the touchpad next to the entry, slipping inside as soon as the door slid open. He pulled the man inside with him and raced around the apartment, from one room to the next. He was ready, his pistol in hand. He found a stack of documents, and a quick scan all but assured him this was his intended victim’s quarters. But Semmes was nowhere to be found.

  Damn.

  Killian turned and ran back into the corridor. The situation room was his next bet. If Semmes wasn’t asleep at 3:00 a.m., he was dealing with the current crisis.

  He made his way through the mostly deserted corridors of the Federal Complex. It was a fair walk from Semmes’s quarters to the main tactical area, but he ran into only three federals, and he managed to slip into empty rooms to avoid two of them. The third had come out of one of the rooms, right in front of him. As with the guard outside Semmes’s room, he hadn’t had any choice there, and he’d left the man dead in the room he’d come from.

  He crept up toward the door he knew led to the main control center. Most likely, Semmes was in there. The federal commander would almost certainly not be alone, and that complicated things.

  It would have been easier if the bastard had been in his bed . . .

  Killian took a deep breath. He knew he’d only have one chance . . . and he also knew his chances of escaping from that room were poor. Damned poor.

  He’d ached for revenge, for the chance to make the man who’d destroyed his career pay for his offense. Robert Semmes had turned Killian into the monster he knew he’d become, twisted by bitterness and hatred. It was time to repay him for that gift.

  Still, it was one thing to crave revenge, to whisper silent prayers for it in the night, vowing again and again your willingness to die to achieve it, and quite another to stand outside the door, knowing you were on the edge of attaining that long sought-after goal, and also staring into the face of almost certain death.

  Killian felt his heart pounding, and his mind began to race, images of a free Haven, one he knew he was unlikely to see. He dared to imagine a life on that planet, one where he could shed the demons that had plagued him. As he stood on the cusp of the goal he’d sought for so long, he felt the urge to slip away, to let go of the rage, to look toward the future and not the past.

  But that was impossible. If he didn’t kill Semmes, thousands of Haven soldiers would die. Worse, they would likely die in a failed attempt to take the city. And if they did fail, Union and Hegemony soldiers would land and engage the federals. Landfall and much of Haven would be reduced to ruins, and in the end his adopted home world would never rid itself of the foreign troopers, no matter which side won.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He had to kill Semmes. Life, freedom, home . . . that wasn’t for him, but just maybe, his death could make it happen for his comrades and friends.

  He steeled himself to do what he knew had to be done, but then he heard something. He swung around, looking down the corridor. Then he thought he saw something, a flash of a figure ducking around the corner. But then he wasn’t sure. It didn’t make sense. If it was a federal, there’d already be alarms sounding, if not gunfire blasting his way.

  You’re hearing things, Killian. You thought you were more ready for death than you are. Your mind wants more time, a few precious moments of life, but that would come at the cost of risking the mission. Time to go. Now.

  He moved toward the door, putting his hand over the small pad next to it. He was ready to pick it if he had to, but then it slid open, revealing a large room full of workstations, not unlike a ship’s bridge. There were about half a dozen figures inside, a pair of guards against one wall, a cluster of officers gathered near a center console.

  No, more than half a dozen. Seven . . . eight . . .

  Killian sprang into action, but it took him perhaps a second to identify Semmes. His target was standing, looking down and pointing at a screen, yelling at one of the other officers.

  He whipped up his gun, his eyes locking on his target. But it had taken too long to find Semmes, and he knew it, even as he fired.

  The federal commander saw the threat, and he ducked to the side, grabbing the officer next to him and using him as a shield. Killian saw one of his shots hit the officer in the shoulder, even as Semmes slipped completely behind the man.

  Dammit!

  He tried to take aim, to get another shot at Semmes, but even as he did, he knew he’d been too slow. He could hear orders being shouted, and even as his finger started to tighten on his weapon, a wave of energy hit him. A stun gun. His body went limp and his mind began to slip into darkness.

  No . . .

  He’d been ready for death, more or less, but fate had devised a worse torment for him. Being captured by the federals.

  Being captured by Semmes.

  Chapter 42

  Haven Army Headquarters

  Just Outside Landfall City

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

  “I shouldn’t have sent him. I let myself believe in nonsense, that it was possible to get to Semmes. I might just as well have shot him here myself.” Damian sat at his makeshift desk, ignoring a small shiver that passed through his body, despite the coat he wore and the small portable heater in the corner.

  “That’s wrong, sir, and you know it. It was a long shot—one we can’t be sure hasn’t paid off—but Killian wanted to go. He had to go. You know that.” Ben Withers was sitting on the other side of the desk, on a small wood-and-cloth folding chair. He managed to look content despite the fact that Damian was well aware of just how uncomfortable that chair was.

  Damian nodded. “I know. But I could have ordered him to stay. It wasn’t worth throwing his life away. I even let myself believe he had a chance of getting out of there. It’s amazing what the mind will do to ward off guilt and self-loathing.”

  “You’ve got no call for either, sir,” Killian volunteered. “Patrick knew what he was doing. He wasn’t just chasing after revenge, though we all know he would have gone just for that. He is trying to save soldiers, perhaps thousands of them.” A pause. “You understand how ugly this is going to be if we have to go in. We’ll be sending thousands of untrained recruits against federal regulars, entrenched and defending. If there was even a chance of avoiding that . . . Pat Killian is a hero, Damian, but he’s not a victim. He knew exactly what he would face.”

  Damian sighed, looking down at the small chronometer on his desk. “Well, it looks like sending those recruits to their deaths is the next nightmare we’ve got to face.” There’s no “we” here. You’re going to send them to hell.

  Damian knew just what was going to happen when his soldiers hit the Landfall defenses. The sudden wave of new recruits had exh
austed the supply of weapons built up before the rebellion. Many of his new soldiers had their own guns, weapons vastly inferior to the military-grade assault rifles his veterans carried. Some didn’t have rifles at all. He shook his head at the absurdity of sending soldiers into modern combat armed with only knives and household tools. He might as well kill them himself and save the trouble. Worse, he would knowingly use them as cannon fodder, casualties that would allow his veterans, the ones with a chance to win the fight, to get through.

  He realized he’d let himself believe Killian could succeed. He’d done it because he considered the ranger a friend, and also because it would have spared him from the nightmare bearing down on him.

  “We might as well get ready, Ben. Patrick’s likely as not dead already, and we’ve only got two and a half hours of dark left.”

  Withers nodded. “I wouldn’t give up on Killian just yet, Damian, but you’re right. We need to get the troops ready. In case they have to go in.”

  “Let’s get moving.” Damian stood, looking across the room at his aide. There is no “in case,” my friend. That’s just wishful thinking, a way to try to escape a hell you’re already in . . .

  “Violetta, it is good to see you.” Cal Jacen walked into the headquarters tent, and he nodded. “I was hoping to catch the general before he left.” That was a lie. Jacen had spent the last half hour standing around the perimeter of the camp, waiting for Damian to leave.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jacen, but you just missed him. He left for the lines. The troops are about to go into Landfall.” Her voice was somber. Everybody in camp knew what kind of fight the army had ahead of it.

  “Damn. I rushed over, but I was afraid I’d be late.”

  “You might be able to catch him. He just left.”

  Jacen turned and looked toward the tent flap. “No, that’s okay. I don’t want to distract him, not right before the attack. I’ll just wait here if that’s okay. I was hoping to have a private word with him.”

  Violetta looked up. “Of course, Mr. Jacen, but he may be quite some time. I think he’s planning on leading the attack himself, and there’s no way to know how long the fighting will go on.”

  Maybe a federal bullet will do the job for me. That would make things a lot easier. The fallen hero . . . we could use that very well.

  “I think I’ll wait. I really do need to see him.”

  “Okay, Mr. Jacen. I’m sure the general will want to see you as soon as he gets back.”

  He nodded, and he walked across the tent, sitting on one of the portable chairs. His plan was clear. Violetta was alone in the tent. With any luck he could be waiting when Damian returned. He’d kill the general . . . and then Violetta. Her service to the Society would take a different turn than she’d expected, but one far more useful. She would take the blame, the former governor’s daughter, a closet fed, murdering the victorious general at the moment of his triumph. Better still, the assassin killed by his own hand as he walked in on the horror. He would be a hero, and he’d already written the somber address he would give at Damian’s funeral, the words that would propel him to control of the senate, to become the firm hand Haven needed to see the revolution to its ultimate fruition.

  Killian was on the floor. He was confused, disoriented. For an instant, he didn’t know where he was. Then it came together. The stunner. It had hit him hard, but somehow, he’d managed to remain conscious. Barely.

  “I believe we have Patrick Killian here. He served under me during the war, before his cowardice and treachery cost the lives of dozens of my people. I had heard you were crawling like a worm through the bowels of the rebel army, Killian. Now you are here, and no doubt full of useful information about the rebel forces.”

  Killian’s confusion vanished as the unmistakable sound of Semmes’s voice cut through his head. He felt a burst of rage, and he tried to lunge forward toward his hated enemy. But his muscles were still spasming, his control over his body only slowly returning.

  “You are a piece of shit, Semmes. I might have failed, but someone’s going to put a bullet through that head of yours. You’ll never leave Haven.” It was hard to speak, and he knew his words were soft and a little slurred. But he could see from the rage on Semmes’s face, his nemesis had understood every word.

  “We will see, Killian. Clearly your pathetic effort has failed. Perhaps there is someone else in that motley army of yours with more ability, but I’m inclined to doubt your idle threats. No doubt you’re trying to convince yourself, so you don’t die wallowing in hopelessness and failure. Well, I can alleviate your concerns, to an extent. I have no intention of killing you, not for quite some time. We will get every bit of information you possess that is of any value, and then we will make an example of you. You will die, but not before you beg me to let you.”

  “You will rot in hell before I beg anything from you.” Killian’s speech was clearer, louder. His anger was helping him overcome the effects of the stunner.

  “We shall see.” Semmes turned toward an officer standing next to two guards. “Shackle him, Major Brendel. We wouldn’t want the infamous Patrick Killian loose in here when the stunner’s effects wear off, would we?”

  The officer gestured to the two guards—Peacekeepers, Killian recognized from the uniforms—and they moved toward him and grabbed his hands, pulling them behind his back. He resisted. His motor control was returning, but he was still weak, and the troopers wrenched his arms back hard, painfully.

  Killian was trying to fight off the hopelessness threatening to take him. His mind was racing, trying to find a way to get loose of his captors. His eye dropped to the major, to the sidearm she wore on her waist. One quick move, a single shot, and Semmes would be dead. And the guards would shoot him, not an ideal result, but far better than weeks of torture at the hands of the Peacekeepers.

  But he was too weak. He could shoot the weapon, he was pretty sure of that. Getting it from Brendel would be the problem. She was sharp, attentive. He’d get no jump on her. And his chances of overpowering her in his current state were nil.

  Still . . . he had to try.

  He pulled his arms back, putting all the strength he could muster into the move. He surprised the two guards, and they reached for him, grabbing at him. He lunged toward Brendel, but before he’d gotten halfway to her, she stepped back, drawing her weapon, and the guards pulled him back, hard.

  “A noble attempt, Killian, but not enough, I’m afr—”

  The door slid open suddenly, and gunfire erupted. One of the guards fell back, and Killian could feel the man’s warm blood splattered across the back of his neck.

  He saw Brendel raise her weapon and fire, but even as she did, he saw the expression on her face, and he knew she’d been hit. An instant later, he saw the widening circle of blood, dead center on her chest as she fell back.

  He shoved his arm back, smashing his elbow into the face of the remaining guard. The man had been moving to face the door, and Killian caught him by surprise. He spun around, as quickly as he could manage with his still recovering nerves and muscles, and hit the trooper as hard as he could. The man fell to his knees and then backward to the ground, clutching at his crushed larynx as he struggled to breathe.

  Killian still didn’t know what had happened, but he dove toward Brendel’s body, grabbing for the pistol she’d dropped. His eyes shot a quick glance toward the door, and he saw a lone figure, gaunt, slim.

  Jacob North.

  He followed me. That was what I kept hearing . . .

  He felt a rush of excitement, and then he saw his savior drop to his knees, blood pouring from a hideous wound on his neck. Brendel got off a shot . . .

  He shook his mind free for an instant. His hand felt the cold plastic grip of Brendel’s gun. He looked up. Semmes was rushing toward a door on the far side of the room. He had a second, perhaps two. Then his enemy would escape. There was another officer on the far side of the room, and two guards behind him, regulars. The guards were bringing their
weapons to bear even as Killian took aim.

  He pulled the trigger, his eyes focused on his target as the top of Semmes’s head exploded in a grotesque cloud of red mist and chunks of bone. The federal commander dropped hard, his momentum carrying him into the far wall.

  Killian knew he was dead. The guards would fire any second. But he was ready. He’d done what he’d come to do. Perhaps now Damian could negotiate with the new federal commander. And the man who had destroyed his life was dead by his hand. There were worse ways to die.

  “Hold!”

  The voice was loud, commanding. Killian wasn’t sure what was happening, but he was still alive. He looked up and saw that the other officer had issued the order. The two guards had their weapons trained on him, but they hadn’t fired.

  “Drop the weapon, Colonel Killian.”

  Killian paused for an instant, but then he did as the officer commanded. He stayed where he was for a moment, but then he turned to the side, crawled toward North.

  “Jacob,” he said, still not knowing what was happening, why the federals had not killed him yet.

  “Did we do it, sir? Did we get him?”

  “Yes, Jacob.” Killian felt his emotions rising up. He’d given North up for dead months before, and he still hadn’t reconciled with the shock of finding his ranger alive. Now, as he looked down at the stricken soldier, the guilt began to come on him. He’d abandoned one of his most loyal troopers, left him to fend for garbage in the streets and to hide from roving patrols through the coldest winter since Haven had been colonized. North had hidden, hour after hour, day after day, enduring the pain of his infected wound. And yet he’d answered the call, come to Killian’s aid.

  And now he was dying, the price he’d paid to save Killian.

  “For freedom, Colonel. For the rebellion.” North looked at Killian for another second, and then he let out a final deep breath, and it was over.