by Jay Allan
He walked over an old wooden chest sitting against the wall and opened it, pulling out an assault rifle. He stared at it for a second and then handed it to Jones. “We’ll have to fight anyone we find down there…there won’t be any place to run. And it will be nasty, fast. If we run into UNGov troops down there, you just start shooting…and you don’t stop until they’re all down. Got it?” He looked over at the others, gesturing with his head for them to come over and take the weapons he was pulling out of the case.
Once everyone was armed, he started pulling out sacks of extra cartridges, tossing one to each of the rebels standing in a rough line behind him. He could see the hints of surprise in some of their eyes. They all knew him as ‘the captain,” the ex-Marine who was the leader of their cell. But most of them also knew him as the quiet old man, the one prone to sit off to the side, only occasionally offering an opinion. But now that things had hit the fan, he seemed a different person. His energy level had soared, and the years had seemed to drain away from his careworn face. Stan Wickes was a Marine, and as grimly realistic as he was about his peoples’ chances, he still preferred an almost hopeless fight to sitting around hiding, skulking in the darkness.
He took two more rifles from the chest, strapping one around his shoulder and gripping the other tightly as he pulled out a pack of extra clips, and threw it around his other shoulder. His eyes dropped down. There were half a dozen rifles left, and he felt a wave of regret at abandoning them…especially after they’d been so difficult to get. But he already had one spare slung across his back, and he didn’t want to load down the others. They would have enough to handle, controlling their fear, staying focused when it came to a fight.
He took a last fleeting look at the precious rifles, and then he closed the chest gently. Maybe they’ll still be here, he thought, not believing that for an instant. He knew the UNGov forces would find this spot, as they would those across the river. Indeed, they could find it any moment—it was time to go.
Wickes turned to face the other six men in the room. “I want everybody’s eyes wide open down in those tubes. If we run into a security patrol, it’s a fight to the death, understood? There’s no way to run down there, no place to escape…so don’t even try. And don’t waste an instant. If you give the other guy a second, he’s going to use it to blow your brains out, understood?” He knew he was repeating himself, but he wanted to burn it into their heads.
Wickes could see Jones out of the corner of his eye, nodding. It took the others a few seconds more to process what he had said, but they too signaled their understanding. “Okay, let’s go.” Wickes moved to the door, opening it slowly and peering out of the building. He looked both ways. The dark street seemed quiet, abandoned. There were no visible patrols, but he knew there were surveillance devices everywhere…and also UNGov security forces hiding in key spots, watching and waiting to catch rebel groups on the move. He looked up, half expecting to see the sky full of airships, flying back and forth and scanning the roads. But there was nothing.
Don’t forget the regular people, he thought grimly, his eyes pausing briefly on the windows of buildings lining the avenue. He knew his compatriots assumed the population was all on their side, cheering in their homes for the brave resistance fighters, but Wickes knew better. Downtrodden people lost their will to resist, and their thoughts went instead to survival, to living their lives quietly and avoiding the attention of their masters. It was always a small group that led rebellion…and most people only followed when they saw success, a chance of victory. The population would stream out of their homes, shouting and throwing flowers at the victory parade, but unless that day came, most of them would view the Resistance as little more than a group of dangerous lunatics.
Right now, the citizens of New York were as likely to blame the revolutionaries for bringing the UNGov forces down upon them as they were to root for the rebels. The government troops had been far from gentle, and Wickes could only guess how many hundreds of innocent civilians had been killed in the strife, and how many thousands rounded up for interrogation. No, the rebels couldn’t count on anyone but themselves. And there were a lot fewer of them than there had been a week before.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said firmly, with an authority he hoped would help his rookie soldiers, “right across the street and down the alley. We can get into the cellar of that building, and there’s a passage to the old subway station there.” He looked over the five men and two women behind him, all of them nodding with various levels of commitment. Even Carson looks like he’s ready to puke, he thought, realizing with black amusement that he’d switched places with his energetic colleague. Carson Jones had been the driving force of the peacetime resistance, urging the group to take action. But now, after a few days of hiding and fighting, the young rebel was beginning to understand just what ‘action’ meant.
He’ll be okay…he’s a good kid. Just give him time…if I can keep him alive that long…
“Go!” he snapped, leaping through the door and running across the empty street, pausing only for an instant to look north then south, his rifle at the ready. Then he dashed the rest of the way and slipped between the two buildings, heading for the basement door just up ahead.
* * *
“We’ve taken eleven rebel refuges, sir. Most of them were deserted, but three were not. We killed thirty-one revolutionaries…and captured three.” Captain Jergen paused. The Inquisitor had been clear that he wanted as many prisoners as possible for interrogation. But the insurgents weren’t stupid…they knew what awaited them if they surrendered, and across the city, they were choosing to fight to the death rather than face UNGov’s torture chambers.
“We require more captives than that, Captain.” The Inquisitor didn’t raise his voice, nor was there any significant emotion in his tone. But Jergen still felt a chill. UN Inquisitors had a fearsome reputation, even among their own underlings. Indeed, that was their entire purpose, and the very mention of an Inquisitor spread fear and despair among UNGov’s enemies. Often the mere suggestion that one of these terrible agents might be dispatched was enough to quell any disorder. Judge, jury, and executioner by government mandate, all an Inquisitor had to do to pass a death sentence was point at the victim.
“Yes, Inquisitor.” Jergen answered as firmly as he could manage. “We’ve issued stun cannons, but it’s hard to get the troops to use non-lethal ordnance when the enemy is firing at them with assault rifles.
“Yes, Captain. I understand. Perhaps you had best remind them that I am expecting them to take at least fifty percent of these rebels captive.”
The Inquisitor stood before the officer with the arrogant bearing of a man born to power, but Jergen knew that his commander, so diligently embracing his role as a fearsome hammer of UNGov power, had only held his rank for a few months. Michael Poole had been a colonel in the security forces before that, and he owed his promotion to the mysterious losses the Inquisitor corps had suffered over the past several years. There were rumors everywhere that at least a dozen had been killed in action out on Portal planets, presumably by the Tegeri.
That seemed strange to Jergen…Inquisitors were usually used to maintain order among the populace. The soldiers on the Portal worlds were trapped there, fighting for their lives against the enemy, and their obedience was usually secured with a somewhat lighter touch.
And I suspect combat veterans are a little more difficult to intimidate than terrified civilians…
So, what would Inquisitors be doing out there?
He put such thoughts out of his mind. They had no bearing on what was happening in New York, and in the world’s other big cities. And he also knew that recently-promoted Inquisitors tended to be the most dangerous, especially to their own subordinates, more prone than those with longer experience to careless use of the awesome powers they had relentlessly pursued for so long. Poole seemed to be handling his new authority fairly well, but Jergen wasn’t going to take any chances.
“I w
ill see to it personally, Inquisitor.” Jergen hesitated. “I also have reports on our own losses, sir. They are…somewhat higher than we’d anticipated…ten dead, twelve wounded.”
Poole stared down at his subordinate. “Perhaps if our troops could capture more of these rebels, we would benefit from better intel and cut our losses.” The Inquisitor didn’t sound like he cared at all how many of his troops were lost, as long as the rebels were crushed. UNGov was always prepared to expend a few lives for its version of the public good, and Jergen knew the Inquisitor’s rewards would be based on destroying the resistance movement in New York and not on keeping his casualties low.
“Yes, Inquisitor. With you permission I will see to it.”
Poole nodded silently.
Jergen snapped back, “Sir!” Then he turned and trotted down the street, feeling his stomach unclench a little with each step he took from the Inquisitor.
* * *
Wickes moved cautiously forward, staring ahead into the darkness. He had a portable lamp, all his people did. But using it would simply advertise the presence of the rebel group. It was dark, but there were a few spots where light from outside made its way in through partially-open accessways or cracks in the street above. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
It still got dark as hell between the old stations, and Wickes had flicked his lamp on a few times, looking around to get his bearings, to make certain they were heading in the right direction. But for most of the way he had moved slowly, checking the way with his foot before taking another step. The tunnels were damp, and in places the filthy water came up to his knees. Twice he’d stopped and whispered to those behind him to take care, to move as quietly as possible and to keep the sloshing sounds to a minimum.
He felt a little claustrophobic in the tunnels. Wickes had endured a few bad experiences during the Pacific War. The battles around Seoul had been brutal, and his unit had fought more than one action against the enemy’s infiltration teams, often pursuing them into their tunnels. The remembrance of combat in such close quarters had stuck with him his entire life, as had the feeling of shoving past and climbing over his dead comrades. The ancient images included more than soldiers who’d been killed…the twisted faces of the dead civilians were even more vivid, men and women—and children—who had sought refuge in the tunnels only to get caught in the most savage fighting.
He tried, with limited success, to put old nightmares out of his mind, but he could still feel the sweat dripping down his back, and a bit of nausea in his stomach. Focus, Wickes, focus, he thought to himself. He knew if his people encountered a group of UNGov troops, it was likely whichever side saw their opponents first would win. The UN troops sent to put down risings in cities were not the combat veterans fighting on the Portal worlds. They were trained bullies, used to intimidating unarmed civilians. He knew the men and women at his back weren’t veterans either, but they were courageous, and committed. And they knew their alternative to victory was death. That was a potent motivator.
Wickes stopped suddenly, stretching his arms out, reaching back to signal his people. “Stop,” he whispered, holding his rifle out at the ready. He stood still, listening carefully. The men and women behind him froze in place…he’d told them at least half a dozen times he wanted them silent when he signaled, and they had listened.
He held his breath, trying to hear something, anything, up ahead. He’d thought he heard a splash, but now there was nothing. You must be hearing things, old man, he thought to himself. But something held him in place, his boots bolted to the submerged floor, legs rigid lest he send ripples across the knee deep water.
He didn’t hear anything, but there was a something, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time, but one he remembered well. He didn’t know what to call it—combat instinct?—but he knew what it was. He knew it was real. And he knew it was telling him there was trouble ahead.
He’d been frozen in place for two minutes, perhaps three. Then everything happened all at once. He heard the sound again, a soft splash just up ahead in the darkness. Boots in the water!
“Against the walls,” he said, as the sounds of his rifle echoed loudly through the confines of the tunnel. “Fire…everybody fire.”
His people responded quickly, and in an instant they were all shooting down the tunnel, the sounds of half a dozen assault rifles on full auto almost deafening in the confined space. Wickes had told them all to make sure they knew where their comrades were in the dark, and he’d promised to skin anyone who shot one of their own.
His instincts had served him. His people had gotten off the first shot. But it was only an instant, a second perhaps, before the return fire came. Wickes’ combat experience had saved the lives of his people, his command for them to move toward the walls saving them from the initial enemy volley as the inexperienced UNGov troops fired right down the center of the tunnel.
“Keep firing,” he shouted, as he reached down and grabbed another clip, ejecting the spent one and jamming the replacement home with barely a pause to his fire. The enemy shooting was definitely lighter than it had been, but there was nothing to do but stand in the open and fire into the darkness until one side was wiped out. He was focused on the enemy, and he could hardly hear anything but the fire. Still, somehow he knew his people had taken losses as well as the enemy. Their fire had also diminished, if less so than the enemy’s had. And he just knew. Maybe a splash as one of his comrades fell into the murky water. Or some kind of sixth sense, a battlefield presence. But there was no time for that now. There was nothing in the world, no concern at all save hosing down the enemy position with fire.
He was still shooting thirty seconds later when he realized there was no return fire. “Cease fire,” he snapped. “Cease fire,” he repeated more forcefully when half his people kept shooting.
He reached back behind him, pulling a flare from where he’d hooked it to his shoulder strap. He twisted it and threw it down the corridor. The light was almost blinding to his dark-sensitized eyes, but he resisted the urge to look away. He moved his head quickly, checking everything before the flare sank in the murky water and went out. His body tensed, and he snapped up his rifle, firing three times as he saw movement in the pile of bodies. One of the UNGov troops twisted and pitched forward, face down into the water.
“Let’s go…now. You find anybody moving, breathing, you kill them, you got it?” Wickes’ voice was harsh, almost brutal. He knew some of his people might find it difficult to gun down a wounded trooper, to put two rounds into the head of an injured man, gurgling on his own blood. Wickes didn’t like it either, but he knew even a dying man could pull around a pistol, and one sudden, unexpected move was enough to kill one of his people. If he had to choose between the UNGov troops and one of his own…that was no choice at all.
Besides, you have to kill them all anyway. You can’t let anyone survive and report your location. Bad enough someone will come looking for them when they don’t return to base.
He ran up toward the enemy, splashing wildly through the water he’d so recently moved through with great caution. The flare had sunken into the water, and he had pulled out his flashlight, aiming its focused beam straight ahead. He reached the enemy position, the others just behind him, and he moved the flashlight around taking a look at the whole area.
Eight, he counted to as he looked all around. “Nine,” he whispered to himself as he shoved one of the bodies with his foot, uncovering another, mostly-submerged trooper below. He took another few seconds, satisfying himself there were no more enemies around. Then he turned. Two men and a woman stood behind him. Jones’ faced was twisted into a painful grimace, his right hand holding his left arm, with blood oozing through his fingers. Wickes could see right away it wasn’t mortal, but he was damned sure it hurt like hell.
He felt a pit in his stomach. Had only three of his people survived? Then he saw another, Lees, hobbling forward through the murky water. “Hall and DeVito are dead,” she said, her voice heavy
with pain.
Wickes’ eyes snapped down to her thigh, to the massive—and spreading—slick of wetness. She was bleeding…badly. His mind raced back to his training, to his experience on the battlefield. If they didn’t get a tourniquet on that leg, Lees wasn’t going to make it. But they’d just had a firefight, and the sounds would have carried far down these tunnels. If there was another UNGov force behind them, and he paused here…
“Alright, Lees,” he said, sliding his rifle over his shoulder and pulling his knife from its sheath. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Emily…this is going to hurt like a motherfucker. But I need you to stay quiet, okay? We have to get you patched up and get out of here.” He leaned forward, looking into her eyes. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice a mix of fear and feigned toughness. “I’m with you, Cap.”
Wickes nodded, taking his knife and cutting a long strip from his jacket. Then he moved toward Lees. “Okay, Emily…I need you to hang on for me. I know this is going to hurt.”
She nodded, and he leaned forward, moving the knife toward the wound and slipping it under the torn fabric of her pants. She squirmed, and her face went pale, but the only sound she made was a barely audible squeal. “That’s good, Emily. Stay with me…it’s going to get worse, I’m afraid.” He cut off a section of the cloth strip, folding it up a few times and putting it over the wound. Lees recoiled a little, and then, when he pushed down hard, she lurched wildly. She struggled to stay silent, but she cried out despite her best efforts. Then she gasped for a deep breath and gritted her teeth without another sound.
