by Jay Allan
“We’re going in, and I want the teams to bring those crates with us.” The boxes contained explosives, gleaned from one of the mines near the capital city. He’d taken charge of gathering supplies, and he’d dispatched teams throughout Barroux City and the surrounding area. They’d found weapons abandoned by panicked security forces, heavy industrial equipment with considerable military potential, vehicles, food. Vast quantities of food, stacked up in warehouses, set aside for the use of government officials or prepped for transport to the military. The sight of box after box of meat, vegetables, grains—all drawn from the farms south of the capital—enraged him. He thought of the meager rations assigned to his family, of his daughter looking up at him with tears in her eyes as she told him she was hungry. And every memory drove him harder, made it easier for him to accept the responsibility that had found him.
It wiped away the hesitancy, too, the guilt he’d felt at first for killing those who stood in the way. Now, the death cry of every Union security soldier was a balance for his daughter’s tears, for the sobs of every worker mourning a husband, wife, brother, sister, mother, father, dragged away in the night by Sector Nine.
He’d launched two attacks against the compound, and both had been bloodily repulsed. The security forces inside knew they were fighting for their lives. They’d seen what had happened to their comrades, shot down in the streets, and sometimes torn apart while they were still alive, mangled by the enraged mobs. They would fight to the end. This time Remy would use the explosives. His people would bring down a great section of the wall…and when they got inside, it would be over. The bloodletting would be quick, if terrible, and then Barroux would be free of the Union.
Freedom. He wasn’t even sure he knew what it meant. Right now, his ambitions didn’t stretch so far. All he wanted was vengeance. Ideals like liberty had been absent for so long, they almost seemed unreal. But he knew one thing. He would die before he would let his family live as they had, little better than slaves.
“We’re ready, Remy!” Ami Delacorte jogged up to where he was standing. Delacorte was a slender woman, who looked like just about anything other than a soldier of some kind, but she’d taken to it surprisingly well. Remy knew for certain she’d killed at least three Union security troopers.
He turned and looked out over the open plain toward the Union stronghold. There were bodies everywhere, almost all those of his own Citizen-soldiers lost in the first two assaults. He had twice as many lined up this time, with explosives, and weapons a damned sight more effective than the ones his people had taken into those initial charges.
“All right, Ami…get back to your team. We go in five minutes.” He stared at her intently. “Once we start, there’s no turning back, no pausing, no stopping to shoot back. We get up there, blow the walls, and get inside.”
“Got it, Remy.” She sounded enthusiastic, despite the fact that Remy knew she’d been part of at least one of the earlier attacks. She’d made it back, obviously, but half of those who’d started out hadn’t. Remy’s enthusiasm for the rebellion hadn’t diminished, but he was envious of Ami’s seemingly sincere urge to jump off. He was going to go this time too, and he was scared to death.
“Citizen Caron!”
Remy turned toward the voice. There was a man approaching, one of his people. He recognized the face, but he couldn’t place the name.
“There are ships coming.”
“There are what?”
“I was part of the group sent to the main control station at the spaceport. The scanners there…they’re automatic. They’re picking up ships heading down, dozens of them.”
Remy felt his stomach tighten. “What kind of ships?”
“We don’t know. Small ones we think, but none of us know how to use the equipment. I’m afraid the normal operators all fled or were…” The man let his voice trail off, but Remy knew very well what had happened to anyone with the slightest taint of being part of the Union governing class.
Small ships? Troop landers.
Remy had known all along the Union would send forces to put down the rebellion, but he’d hoped for a bit longer to prepare. Barroux was an industrialized world, a planet with the resources to defend itself, given enough time.
Time it didn’t look like they were going to get.
“Ami,” he shouted after his comrade. “Cancel that attack order. We’ve got other problems coming.”
Big problems. I just hope to hell those ships aren’t full of Foudre Rouge.
* * *
“Group A, keep firing. Group B, forward.” Remy looked out from behind the shattered masonry wall toward the vast stretches of concrete surface in front of him, an expanse now pockmarked with craters and covered small gray landing craft. The government forces had elected to come down right onto the spaceport, and their landing areas were tight and cramped together. Perfect killing zones.
Remy hadn’t known what a killing zone was a few weeks before, but taking the lives of those he’d decided were his enemies had come easy to him, and directing others to do it was even easier. He didn’t know a thing about the stratagems of warfare or infantry tactics, but somehow it just came to him. It seemed to make sense, and he snapped out orders without even thinking about them. Order which seemed to be spot on as often as not.
He hadn’t even considered how decisively he’d been commanding those around him, but then he realized they were all doing as he said, following his orders without question and looking to him for more direction. It had been a shock at first, and he’d felt a wave of uncertainty, but that had passed quickly. Somehow, the whole thing felt right, and he began to embrace his command role, however informal it might be in the ranks of the still disorganized rebellion.
He watched half of his people move forward as the other group covered them with their fire. It seemed like common sense to him, the way to advance into enemy fire…but he was the only one. All along the perimeter of the spaceport the former workers, now fancying themselves rebel soldiers, gathered in confused, disorganized masses. Until Remy got there.
He raced from group to group, choosing individuals based on no more than gut feel or the fact that they were close to him. He appointed them section commanders and put them in charge of fifty or sixty of their fellows, something he utterly lacked any real authority to do. But that didn’t stop him…and it didn’t stop the growing horde of rebels from following his commands.
He’d been stunned as he watched the ships come down, all converging on the single location of the spaceport. He’d never even seen a landing craft before, but somehow, he knew the strategy was…wrong. They should have spread out, forced the defenders to split up into groups, compounding their disorganization. But instead, they landed one next to the other, the troops inside pouring out in jumbled formations only slightly more organized than the rebel defenders firing at them as they formed up.
Remy knew immediately the troops coming out of those ships were not Foudre Rouge. They weren’t even second line reserve troops. They had to be local security forces, basically glorified riot police. Foudre Rouge would have been a problem, one he doubted his amateur army could have handled. But the thugs struggling to shake down into battle formation were a different matter entirely.
“Group B, halt and open fire. Group A, forward.”
He lunged ahead with the A group as the Bs opened fire. They were almost a hundred meters closer than they had been, and now, even his former factory workers were taking down enemies. Remy had ordered all his people to fire on full auto. It was wasteful of precious ammunition, but the hard truth was, not one in a hundred of them could have hit a building with a single shot, much less a moving soldier. Saving resources for the next fight was a priority well behind surviving this one, and Remy had only too good of an idea what awaited those who’d taken up arms if the Union reasserted control. The whole planet faced a nightmare, but he was one of the leaders…and Union doctrine was all about making examples. He would not only die horribly, but the bas
tards would go after his family too. The thought of Elisa and Zoe being brutalized, murdered…no, there was only one option.
Win.
Whatever it took.
“A group keep moving past the Bs.” He was going to take his people right up to those landers. The troops there were invaders, but his people were defending their homes and families. He knew it would show in the fighting, and he was determined to see every one of the Union vermin wiped off the face of his homeworld.
“A Group, stop. Open fire. Bs, forward.” He stood screaming the orders as loudly as he could. He knew the sounds didn’t reach all his people, but he could hear others repeating his commands, extending the effective area of his control.
His Citizen-soldiers surged ahead, the firing groups standing firm, the advancing forces pressing on, even as the enemy fire began to rake their line. Dozens fell, but hundreds continued forward. Remy was stunned…and proud. They were scared, he knew, almost certainly terrified, but they were standing, fighting, moving forward. Some broke and ran, of course, ten percent, perhaps twenty…but the rest held, firing their weapons, gunning down the surrounded security forces in their hundreds. And as they killed, their bloodlust increased, a howling, enraged tempest of death, surging over those who’d come to Barroux to put them back in chains.
Remy understood the fear that made some run, but as he watched the rest of his people stay in the fight, his feelings hardened. Those who fled had left their friends and neighbors to fight. They weakened the whole force, and more good men and women would die as a result of their flight. Understanding and sympathy slipped away, replaced by disgust, and then anger.
Now wasn’t the time, not until the Union invaders were defeated…but he swore to himself, those who had had fled, who had abandoned their fellows, would pay. They were traitors to the rebellion. They deserved no more pity than the Union thugs who’d come to enslave his people…and they would suffer the same fate.
He felt his feelings hardening, the soft, genial nature that had always been his personality giving way to a hardness, an unyielding force of will, and he quivered with rage.
“Forward, all of you. It’s time to finish this. Death to the invaders!” He waved his rifle in the air and then he ran toward the landers.
“And death to the cowards who ran. Death to all traitors!”
Chapter Fifteen
30,000,000 Kilometers from Fleet Base Grimaldi
Krakus System
Year 313 AC
“All stations report condition green, Captain.” Travis sat at her old station, feeling somehow as though she was back home, despite the effective demotion it represented. Something also felt right about calling Barron, “captain” again, despite his true current rank. The officers had all met before the fleet set out and agreed they would address each other by the ranks they’d held when Barron had been Dauntless’s captain. It was a simple way to avoid having multiple captains floating around the ship, but she suspected some degree of nostalgia, even superstition, was also at play. Dauntless had made it back from more than one tight scrape with a Captain Barron at the helm, and the current team at their previous ranks.
“Very well, Commander.” Barron’s tone was more troubled. Travis knew it had nothing to do with being called “captain” instead of “commodore.” It was more likely guilt at banishing her from the command chair, though she’d tried to convince him she was perfectly happy with the situation. Truth be told, though her earlier life had been a relentless climb toward her own command, she’d never been happier or more satisfied, personally and professionally, than she’d been in her years as Barron’s exec. She knew she couldn’t freeze time. Barron had a great future in the navy’s upper echelons—assuming they made it back from this mission—and she, too, had her ambitions. But she knew things would never quite be the same, and she would look back on those years as perhaps the best in her life…despite the danger and pain and hardship of war.
“Captain, Commander Fritz reports she is ready to conduct the final test at your command.” The stealth generator had been tested, of course, both in the lab and after its installation in Dauntless. But this would be the real moment of truth. If Dauntless could change course and elude detection right under the scanners of the entire Confederation fleet, then just maybe the crazy plan had a chance of success.
“Advise Admiral Striker we will be activating the stealth generator in thirty seconds.”
“Yes, sir.” She leaned forward and sent the message to the flagship. She wasn’t surprised Striker was going along with the fleet. He’d had to override regs, of course. His condition was far from one that would normally allow a return to full combat duty, and she suspected the sight of the fleet admiral strapped into his command chair was quite a sight. Striker could walk—a little—but she wouldn’t want to bet on him making it more than a few meters without help.
But a fleet is led from the seated position.
Beyond his unquestioned tactical skills, Striker was setting the kind of example that would inspire his spacers. The fleet would do its part, she was sure of that. And if this ancient contraption worked, so would Dauntless.
“Activate stealth generator, Commander.”
“Activating, sir.” She passed the command down to Fritz in engineering.
A few seconds later, the response came back. “Generator on and functioning normally.”
She turned toward Barron. “Commander Fritz reports stealth generator activated and fully operational.” Travis looked around the bridge. She couldn’t feel anything, not that she should have. Fritz’s best guess had been the effects of the device would be undetectable to those onboard, and that had been the case in all the previous tests. But she still had a moment of tension, a fleeting worry the artifact wasn’t working.
“Bring us up to twenty percent thrust, Commander. Course 320.240.040. Black out all comm.”
“Yes, sir. Course 320.240.040, twenty percent thrust. Comm blackout.” She relayed the command to the engine room, and a few seconds later, Dauntless lurched forward. The impact of 4g thrust hit her for a few seconds, before the dampeners adjusted and restored the feeling of normal gravity.
She stared at her screen, watching the rest of the fleet. Dauntless was restricted to passive scanners while cloaked. No one had any real idea whether the active units would give away the ship’s location or simply allow other ships to know they were being scanned, but either option was a deal breaker on this mission. Dauntless had to slip in and slip out, giving the enemy the least possible indication anything was happening except for the direct frontal assault by the fleet.
Barron watched as his battleship moved slowly on the screen, a complete course change from its previous heading. He sat for perhaps two minutes, and then he turned toward Travis. “Increase thrust to eighty percent, Commander. Vector change to 210.200.180.”
“Executing,” Travis replied. Again, the increase in thrust manifested as a hard, jerking motion before the dampeners adjusted. This time, however, they only absorbed part of the thrust, and she could feel the equivalent of about 3g pressing down on her, even after the dampeners worked on full power. It was uncomfortable, but her training and experience had prepared her to function effectively in such situations, and she easily ignored the feeling.
Her eyes darted to the display, watching just as Barron was. The fleet would fire at Dauntless if they could find her, their lasers set on one percent power. Just enough to give the ship a little nudge…and tell them all the mission was a failure before it had even begun. But there was nothing, no shots, and certainly no hits.
“Full power, Commander. And charge up the forward batteries.”
“Yes, sir.” That was about all Dauntless’s reactors could handle, even at full output. If the stealth generator still hid their location, they were good to go.
She leaned back in her cushioned seat. The effective pressure from the thrust was close to 4.5g now, and training or no, that was uncomfortable.
“No sign
anyone is detecting us, Captain.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but she knew she’d let some excitement slip in. “I think it’s working.”
She could see the readings, the energy spikes as the ships of the fleet pounded away with their active scanners, but there was still no indication Striker and the fleet had any idea where they were.
Finally, the comm crackled, a wide area broadcast from the flagship. “All right, Dauntless…we give up. Not one ship in this fleet has the slightest idea where you are.”
Barron nodded to Travis, and she flipped the comm unit back to active. She turned and gestured to Barron, and he pulled his headset on. “Cut thrust,” he said softly to her. Then, into the comm, “It’s a pleasure to hear from you, Admiral. We’re no more than thirty thousand kilometers from your command ship.” He pulled his hand across his throat, a slashing signal.
Travis leaned forward and ordered Fritz to cut the generator. A few seconds later, the engineer confirmed the unit was shut down, the first indication that Dauntless was no longer cloaked.
“Well done, Tyler. My compliments to all of your people…and to that ship of yours. If Dauntless isn’t somehow sentient, she’s the damned closest thing to it I’ve ever seen in four million tons of steel and hyper-plastic.”
“Thank you, sir. What are your orders?”
“Let’s form up, Captain Barron. It’s time to do something about this Union weapon…something besides sitting here in Grimaldi and complaining about it.”
