by K. J. Coble
The newcomer scrambled into the space vacated by the other sentry.
“It has been three days since last team came through, Major.”
Crozier looked up instead of meeting Hrangar’s gaze. Sunset was near. Tatters of cloud stretched across the sky, the sun’s last rays turning them into fiery streamers. A breeze stirred the branches around him and the cold, damp promise of another Lurinari night gave him a shiver.
“Just a little longer,” Crozier replied. “They’re not all in yet.”
“Three days, Major,” Hrangar growled. “Maybe there not be any left to come back.”
Three hundred and six partisans—Crozier had counted every damned one—had stumbled through this notch. Of Klein and his Sothran Rangers, there had been no sign. Crozier had begun to consider it was possible no more guerillas remained alive to return. The Movement had sustained heavier casualties in the past.
But they could not leave. Not yet. Not while there was still sunlight. He would give it until dark before conceding to reality.
Something moved below. Crozier stiffened with his weapon to his shoulder. Hrangar fell in likewise. Crozier’s helm visor lowered, bringing on the enhanced view he almost took for granted now.
The AI highlighted six figures trudging to the clearing’s edge. Only a cursory analysis of sensor data was required to confirm the new arrivals were not Korvan.
Crozier sucked in his breath.
The lead partisan entered the open space, footsteps measured and careful. He drew his hood back to reveal filth-blackened features and pinched, feral eyes that darted about. Slowly, he raised his NA-17 one-handed, a bearing of the throat for any watching to see.
A guerilla from a team nestled in the boulders let out a whistle and rose from his hiding place. The partisan newcomer visibly relaxed and lowered his weapon. He turned and waved for the rest of his companions. They began to filter into the notch, ragged, stooped figures in the building darkness.
Crozier’s eyes leapt across each one. Disappointment and acceptance of what he had feared grew as he scrutinized the dark, hungry faces. He let his face drop, his forehead touching to the cool metal of his blastrifle. You never get used to giving up, he thought. He started to get up from his spot.
A pair of partisans supporting each other brought up the rear of the small party. Crozier’s gaze went to the shorter of the two and fixed on something familiar about the one’s stance. Something about the way the guerilla helped prop the other up. A jolt leapt along his nerves.
Crozier pushed branches aside and strode down into the clearing to meet the pair. They didn’t look at him as he approached.
“Sandy?” Crozier asked softly.
The pair halted. The stronger one turned a hooded face to look at him. Bruises turned dirty yellow blotched pale skin. One of the eyes was black with hematoma. The other stared right through him. Twists of auburn hair poked out from under hide cloaks.
“Sandy,” Crozier repeated. He stepped closer.
A third partisan came back to take the injured one from Sandy’s care. Her gaze seemed to focus and her face changed with recognition.
“Devin.”
“Yes, it’s me, Sandy.” He touched her arm.
She looked down at his hand. Her face creased and her cracked lips pinched into a quivering line. Droplets formed at the corner of her eyes.
“I’m so tired, Devin.”
“I know.”
Sandy let Crozier pull her into his arms. He felt her put hers around his torso. She began to shake, but he didn’t hear sobs.
“Did it work?” she asked after a minute.
“Yeah. Damned if it didn’t.” Crozier chuckled. He held her at arms’ length, trying not to wince at the punishment done to her features. “It was worth it.”
“I don’t know about that.” Sandy pulled herself back against him. She said into his chest, “But I’m glad to be here.”
Crozier hugged her. He would take whatever victories he was offered.
EPILOGUE
Spring had brought its riot of colors back to the Coreal Valley. Greens carpeted the lowlands and crept across hill and mountain. Bursts of wild oranges, yellows, reds, and pastels spilled from the corners between trees and rocks. The sun carved rays of brilliance down across a pure azure sky.
Sandy rose from her crouch amongst tall, swaying razor grass clumped at the tree line bordering what had been the Schweppenberg family property. Her helm dangled by its chinstrap from her backpack. Her hair was longer than it had been the last time she came here, long enough to tie back in a short auburn tail. She squinted in the sun. She held her blastrifle diagonally across her chest, butt plate at the shoulder, muzzle down in a by now ingrained posture of readiness. But this place no longer held any threat.
The structure that had been first the walled manor of the Schweppenbergs, then an Invader outpost was now crumbled ruin. The main gate gaped in jagged disrepair, vines and overgrowth had begun to creep up the walls, and the interior buildings were blackened and caved in upon themselves.
The last weeks of winter had seen independent bands of partisans—bandits, really—take advantage of the Invaders’ deteriorating presence to launch a firestorm of raids through the Valley. This outpost had been among the first victims, bombed out and its small garrison butchered. The Invaders had come, cleaned up what they could, and abandoned a position they longer saw as tenable in a region gone lawless.
Sandy stepped downhill from her hiding place. A widely spaced screen of partisans emerged from the woods behind her. Others remained out of sight, vigilant. Sandy glanced at Sten, to her right. His unshaven features looked tight under the shade of his battered Militia-issue forage cap. He was pissed about the detour. He didn’t know what this place was. None of them did.
Devin would be pissed, too, bless him.
Sandy’s strides lengthened, carrying her steadily ahead of the other partisans’ careful prowl. Her pulse quickened as she drew near the walls. Moss had not had quite enough time to grow over the scorch marks of blaster hits or the blackened holes left by shaped charges.
Insect racket greeted Sandy from uneven shadows as she stepped through the main gate. She might have smelled the faintest bite of explosives and propellant where it not for the heady scent of blossoms clustered amongst the rubble. Slabs of collapsed concrete looked still and seemingly ancient. Weeds choked the main yard. She could see her grandfather frowning in disapproval. The place was receding into the bones of the world.
Sandy took care as she made her way through the wreck of the inner buildings. The walls were blackened here and the odor of soot was unmistakable. She reached the space she estimated had held the main family room and paused. Sunlight angled down into her face. The floor was gone, grass jumbled with rocks and the rusted frame of what might have been furniture.
She shouldered her weapon and kneeled. Her hands clawed into the ground, uprooting grass and dirt until she had excavated a small hole. She paused, took a long breath. Her eyes began to sting. Her hands went shaking to the back of her neck where they fumbled with and unclasped the necklace there.
Sandy drew her mother’s crucifix out from under her blastisteel chest plate. For a moment she looked at the symbol, cupped in muddy hands and gleaming in the sun. She blinked away tears. She felt a surf wall of emotion building beneath her chest.
Rubble crackled nearby. Sten.
Sandy put the crucifix into the soil and piled the dirt back over it. She patted the spot once and wiped at her eyes.
Sten emerged from the shadows into the shaft of sunlight.
“There’s nothing. I told you.”
Sandy hid the moisture about her eyes with a glare. “You were right. Want do you want? A freakin’ medal?”
Sten frowned, recoiling from the unexpected anger.
Sandy stood, forcing a gruff tone. “Waste of time. Let’s go. There’s still a war waiting to be won.”
Sten’s frown faded and he shuffled through the rubble ahead
of her. Emerging into the open, he waved to the other partisans. They turned and scurried for the trees.
Sandy followed on their heels, not bothering to look back.
She had said her good byes.
THE END
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Did you love Ashes of Freedom? Then you should read Hell's Jesters by K.J. Coble!
The Grand Galactic Alliance rots from within, and now the disease is terminal.
As interplanetary governance deteriorates, the mega-corporations sweep into the vacuum with their own form of order, propped up by brute, paramilitary force. Lives mean nothing. Profit overrides peace. And everyone is out for themselves.
The people cry out for heroes. They find them in the Hell's Jesters, once marauders of the space lanes, now outlaws with a cause. This motley band of crusaders and criminals, human and renegade AI, will speak truth to power with firepower.
Laughing at death, fighting like hell, they might be enough to free the galaxy.
About the Author
Born too strange for a normal world, K.J. Coble endures adulthood through long-distance running, rock ’n’ roll guitar, and his writing. A love of history, weird fiction, and explosions fills his world-building. In his stories the righteous may suffer, but the corrupt get their comeuppance, and evil always receives its justly-deserved kick in the teeth.
Lairing somewhere in the Midwest, he is tolerated by his wife, three kids, and a very opinionated coonhound.
