by Jay Allan
Killian stared at North’s face, his hands moving slowly, closing the dead man’s eyes. He knew the federals were still there, that he would likely follow North to the grave, now or after weeks of hell at the hands of the inquisitors. But he didn’t care, not right now.
“General Semmes was assassinated by a rogue colonist, Sergeant. The assassin also killed Major Brendel and her two guards . . .” the federal officer was saying. He walked across the room, and Killian watched as he stood over the wounded Peacekeeper, pulling out his own pistol and firing a single shot. “The major killed the assassin as well, with her final shot.”
Killian looked up at the officer, utterly confused as to what was going on. Then he recognized the man. Colonel Granz. He remembered Granz from the first war, though the officer had been a major then.
“Colonel Killian, I think it’s time for you to leave the way you came.”
Killian had gotten back to his feet. “Colonel Granz?”
“I see you remember me.” He looked over at Semmes’s body. “The general would have gotten thousands of soldiers needlessly killed, and still lost Alpha-2 in the end.” He looked over at North’s body. “This assassin did us a service, of a sort. Perhaps we can end this pointless conflict now, before more men and women die to no purpose.”
“Yes, sir . . . Colonel. I, ah . . .” Killian didn’t know what to say. Of all the scenarios he’d imagined, this wasn’t one of them.
“I would love to sit and talk about old times, Colonel Killian, but for a man who wasn’t here you are awfully . . . present. Perhaps you should be going, as I suggested before. And use those skills we’ve seen so much of in the field to make sure no one sees you.” He turned to face the two guards standing behind him. “The sergeant and the corporal here didn’t see anything except General Semmes’s assassin, isn’t that right, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” the noncom snapped, not a hint of emotion in his voice. It was clear Granz had chosen his most loyal troopers for duty in the army’s headquarters.
“Yes, Colonel . . .” Killian nodded. “I believe you are right.” He took a last look at North, and then he turned toward the door. He stopped, pausing a moment. He didn’t turn around. He just said simply, “Thank you, Colonel.” Then he slipped out into the hall and headed back toward the tunnels.
Chapter 43
Haven Army Headquarters
Just Outside Landfall City
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
“I have spoken with both Admiral Bellakov and Ambassador Kutusov, and they have agreed to extend the withdrawal deadline by forty-eight hours.”
Damian sighed softly as he adjusted the portable headset he wore. The communiqué had been a bit more involved than that. The Union officials had pushed hard to land forces, stating that the federals’ failure to meet the deadline gave them every cause to do so. Just to ensure against any treachery by the federal forces, of course. Damian had come close to stating that his army would consider any Earth troops that landed to be invaders and respond accordingly. He’d never considered himself a diplomat, but he had to admit, he’d trod a masterful line between threatening hostilities and enthusiastically thanking allies.
“Thank you, General Ward. Admiral Taggart has mobilized every shuttle in the fleet. We will make the revised deadline.” A short pause. “You understand, General, that neither I nor the admiral have any authority to grant cease-fires or peace treaties, and certainly none to recognize your independence. All I can do is evacuate my forces, and that is all the admiral can do, as well. There’s a good chance we will both face considerable disciplinary action when we return.”
“I understand, Colonel. Ambassador Nerov will be returning to Earth with the Union forces to negotiate with the senate.” John Danforth had corrected the earlier oversight. Sasha Nerov would conduct her affairs this time as a fully authorized and credentialed ambassador, for whatever that was worth negotiating with a body that didn’t yet recognize Haven’s authority to grant such titles.
“I wish you well, General. You were one of us once, and it showed. The Havenites would never have prevailed without your leadership.”
“Thank you, Colonel. That means a lot. For what it is worth, Colonel, I believe things would have been quite different if you had been in command. Semmes’s . . . shortcomings . . . contributed to the final outcome.”
“Your forces can occupy Landfall in three days’ time. Is that satisfactory?” Granz didn’t respond to Damian’s roundabout tribute, but his expression softened. Slightly.
“It is, Colonel. I wish you the best as well. I hope that you are not unjustly treated. You deserve better.” You deserve a better nation to serve. He found himself wanting to invite Granz to stay, but he knew it was pointless. Granz would never leave his troops now, and the officer had served Federal America for far too long. He would see defecting as an act of disloyalty. Too bad. We will need men like Granz if we’re to build a viable nation.
Damian walked back to the small tent he was still using as an office. He’d just returned from the front when he’d been called to the communications shed to take Nerov’s transmission. He’d been moments from sending the army in, launching the attack he knew would be a horrendous bloodbath, when Granz’s communiqué had come in. He’d been stunned at what the federal officer had said. Jacob North had killed Semmes? None of it made much sense, at least not until several hours later, when Killian walked back into camp and told him everything that had happened. He’d known the regulars didn’t like Semmes, but he was still stunned at what had transpired.
Granz was right, of course. Any deals he made were subject to the senate’s approval or rejection. But the rebellion was over, Damian was sure of that. There would be negotiations, and no doubt the new republic would have to make various concessions to its former government, quotas of raw materials, for example. Damian had already spoken to Nerov, and he’d told her she could agree to anything she thought made sense, but not any provisions that interfered with what she had already promised the Union and Hegemony—or anything that would ultimately put the planet in the sphere of influence of another nation ever again. He knew he’d overstepped his bounds, issued directives that should have come from President Danforth, but he did it anyway. He had no interest in becoming a politician, but he would not allow the republic’s new allies to be betrayed, even though he knew full well they would have taken any chance to try to seize control for themselves. He’d fought for a free Haven, and he’d be damned if he’d see it become another version of the foul governments that ruled Earth. He’d lead another rebellion before he’d allow that.
He walked through the tent flap and saw Violetta. He’d come to like Everett Wells’s daughter. He respected the strength it must have taken for her to stand up to her father, to give up all she had to remain on Haven. She’d been a good aide, and he intended to make sure she was well set up in some kind of civilian career. She deserved nothing less.
“It looks like the rebellion is over, Violetta.” He smiled, but he could see from her expression they were not alone. He turned, and the instant he did, the pleasant feelings of victory slipped away.
“What do you want, Jacen?” His voice was coarse, and he made no effort to hide his distaste for his visitor.
“I wanted to congratulate you, General, on our great victory. We have much to celebrate. And much to discuss.”
“I do agree the end of the rebellion is cause for celebration, but I might suggest that we wait until the federals are off-world and all the Earth fleets in the system have departed.” He paused, turning away from Jacen. “As far as us having much to discuss, I suggest you seek out President Danforth. My responsibility is ensuring the withdrawal of the federals, nothing more. And frankly, I don’t much care to have protracted discussions with you. I suspect we agree on very little.”
Damian started to walk toward the flap that separated the anteroom from his office. He stopped suddenly. It was something, a feeling, a quick gli
mpse of movement that didn’t look right. Perhaps just combat reflexes?
He spun around, his hand dropping to his pistol, even as he saw the weapon in Jacen’s hand. He was going to be too late, he could see that in an instant. He felt his muscles react, trying to dodge the shot he knew was coming. They did the job, in part at least, and the bullet that was aimed at his heart hit his arm.
He fell to the ground, his balance lost as much by his wild evasive maneuver as by the wound itself, and he hit the dirt hard. He rolled to the side, trying to avoid the second shot he knew was coming. But it didn’t. Not right away.
He could hear Violetta scream, and then a crashing sound. His eyes barely caught the image of her throwing her tablet at Jacen . . . and then he saw the Society leader turn and shoot her.
Damian saw red. He cursed himself for not taking care of Jacen sooner. He was trying to move, to pick up the pistol he’d dropped, but he wasn’t going to get it in time. Violetta’s sacrifice would be for naught. Jacen would succeed in his assassination, and he had no doubt the liar had a perfect story concocted already.
Damian’s hand gripped the pistol, even as he tensed, waiting for the bullet he was sure was coming. Then he heard a loud crack . . . but he didn’t feel the impact. He swung around, bringing his pistol to bear. But the man standing in his field of view wasn’t Jacen. His would-be assassin was on the ground, dead.
“We caught Zig Welch hanging around the perimeter, Damian. Evidently he was the backup if Jacen failed. He didn’t want to talk at first, but it’s amazing how much you can incentivize someone by putting a gun to their head.” John Danforth stepped forward, reaching out to Damian, the guards behind him moving quickly into the tent. “How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing. But Violetta . . .”
Damian was very afraid his aide was dead, so he was pleasantly shocked when he saw that she was breathing as he limped across the room. “Get the medics in here,” he screamed to the troopers standing around the room.
He looked down at her, pulling open her jacket. He was scared at what he might find, but then he saw the wound. It was bad enough, yet he was pretty sure it wasn’t mortal. She’d spend some time in the hospital, but her heroism wouldn’t claim her life. Damian was relieved. Violetta didn’t deserve to die, and enough people had fallen already in the rebellion. It was time for peace, for rebuilding. For creating a nation that was worth the price so many had paid to make it a reality.
Damian stood up, stepping aside as the medics came into the tent. As they started working on Violetta, he looked at Danforth. “Thanks, John. I know he was your friend, once.”
“I don’t know what he was, Damian. Was he always a monster, insane, so radical he would do anything to see his twisted ideas become reality? Or did the rebellion do this to him? I don’t think we’ll ever know.”
“And I don’t care. I never saw the good in him you did. We’re better off without him.” He paused for a few seconds. “Anyway, John, my work is almost done. Once the federals are gone, we’ll know we’ve won. There’s no way the senate could fund another expedition, especially one likely to trigger reactions from the Union and the Hegemony.”
“I am inclined to agree with you, Damian—to a degree. Yes, we are as good as free. But the work is just beginning. If Cal Jacen has taught us one thing, it’s that we must be vigilant. There are always those who would steal freedom, even in the guise of saving it.”
“That’s true, John, but your work is just starting. I’m no politician. I told you that when I took my commission, and I’m telling you now. I’ll see that the federals are gone, and I’ll stay through disbanding the army. But then I’m a farmer again, and this time I’m going to stay one.”
He paused and smiled at his friend. “You’re a good man, John, one I’m honored to call my friend, and my president. Do what I know you can do now: prove to us all that political leaders can be something other than the self-serving, power-mad vermin they’ve been throughout human history. Show us the Haven we’ve dreamed of, fought for, is actually possible. I think my work will pale in comparison to what we all hope and pray you are able to do.”
Danforth nodded. “I will try, Damian. I will give it all I have to give.”
“That is all we can ask of any man.” Damian smiled, and then he saluted the president. “To the Haven Republic. To freedom and prosperity.”
Epilogue
Jamie Grant climbed slowly from the transport, wincing as he did, more at the fatigue than any real pain he felt. The suits had been a massive success, but not without cost. He had been battered and bruised more in the last few days than he’d experienced in the prison mine, but the worst had been the radiation poisoning. Almost all of his surviving troopers had endured trying rehab periods, his own among the most arduous. He was through it now, all but the crushing exhaustion, and the doctors had assured him that would pass relatively quickly.
All things considered, though he knew he’d have some sustained side effects, he was among the fortunate ones. The rebellion had been good to him, seeing his transition from a slave-prisoner sent to the mines to die to a man with a future . . . and someone to share that with.
Katia ran around the transport, rushing over to his side, slipping her arm under his, helping to steady him as he walked toward the house. They’d had a few months there before the federals returned to Haven, but now he dared to hope their lives together could truly begin.
Jamie had become a more successful soldier than he’d dared to dream, but he’d had enough of war. More than enough war—he’d gotten his fill of revenge against the federals who had so unjustly imprisoned him all those years ago. The blood he’d let in the woods . . . he never needed that experience again. He craved little more than hard and satisfying days in the fields, helping Damian get the farm back in shape . . . and quiet evenings with Katia. Perhaps even children one day.
Haven was free, and so was Jamie . . . and he intended to gratefully embrace all that offered him.
Jonas Holcomb sat quietly in his lab, staring at the piles of data chips and bits and pieces of circuitry. His suits had played a vital role in the battle that had led to Haven’s independence, something he’d hoped for, but still surprised him. The whole operation had been so shoestring, so much of the tech specified on his original plans jury-rigged and half-assed. But it worked.
It actually worked.
He looked down at the schematics on the table, drawing after drawing, his original designs re-created in their entirety, and much more. He’d been dedicated to his work for most of his life, and he’d thought he had lost that forever. There was no way he would ever design more weapons for Federal America’s political masters. But he would finish the designs of the suits, and he would see them produced, properly this time and not thrown together in a bunch of sheds. His disillusionment was gone now, his disgust at serving Federal America replaced by loyalty to a new home, and a determination to do all he could to ensure Haven’s independence and its ability to defend itself.
If Federal America tried to come back in a few years to retake their lost colony or if any of Haven’s new “allies” decided to try anything, they would have a rude awakening.
His creations would be waiting for them.
Asha Stanton sat in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames, her thoughts drifting over the events of the past few months. Haven was free, Robert Semmes was dead . . . and Alistair Semmes had been hard-pressed to hold his senate seat when the word came out about the true scope of the resources he’d funneled to his son’s failed attempt to crush the rebellion. The old power broker had survived, barely, but his influence was greatly diminished. She had nothing to fear from him, not with her family’s money behind her.
She thought of Everett Wells, of his death in prison. She’d never considered him a man of particular courage, but now she reconsidered that assessment. He’d done what she’d asked, sacrificed himself to keep alive the effort to defeat Semmes and ensure Violetta’s safe
ty. She found herself grateful . . . and guilty, too. She wondered if there had been any way to rescue him instead of getting him to commit suicide. There hadn’t been, not really, but that didn’t keep some doubt from plaguing her.
She’d kept her word at least, reaching out to Violetta on Haven and offering to help her return to Earth and establish herself, but the girl had refused. She was a Havenite now, through and through, and with her father gone, she had nothing left on Earth. Asha had offered her currency, which she’d also refused, so then Asha had set up a trust—as much of one as she could in Haven’s new financial system. Violetta wouldn’t even know about the money, not for five years or until the executor determined that she needed it. Asha told herself she was just keeping a promise, but the extended effort to look out for Wells’s daughter was also her way of dealing with the guilt over all that had happened.
She let herself dream that when the senate shakeup was complete, her own disgrace would be washed away, that her dream of becoming a member of the august body could be reincarnated. She wasn’t sure if such thoughts were realistic or just wishful thinking. But there was no question, her situation had improved. Only time would tell how much.
John Danforth stood on the hillside, looking out over the workers moving all around, pulling out charred chunks of what had once been his home. Danforth Hall would be rebuilt. That was the easy part. Dealing with all those lost in the war and their dependents, and forging a new nation worthy of such sacrifice, that would be the truly difficult task. So many Havenites had lost loved ones, himself included. His brother had worked with him in the years leading up to the rebellion, but he’d been fated not to survive long after the outbreak of open hostilities.
He felt pressure now, pressure to make good on so many promises and expectations. He’d prepared for revolution for so long, and then the battle had been so terrible. He’d come to doubt what he had done, wondered if anything could be worth such horrendous losses. He wanted to say yes, to thrust his arm into the sky and declare that Haven would be a model for the future of mankind. But he knew history better than that, enough to realize the odds were against the fledgling republic. Corruption and oppression in government were so endemic—almost the default in human society—constantly encroaching on freedom. He would try to prevent that from happening to Haven, but there were a thousand ways even he could become the seed of liberty’s downfall. Cal Jacen had been only a warning. How many others were out there, waiting for their chance to grasp at power, to mold Haven in the image they wanted?