A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds)

by Jay Allan

  “Colonel Jarrod, report to me at once.” Merrick snapped the order into the comlink as he ran his fingers across his ‘pad, switching from a view of Thompson’s bio to a map of the area.

  “Yes, sir.” Jarrod’s response was immediate, as always. “I’m on the way, sir.”

  Preston Jarrod had been a major, and that’s as far as anyone had expected him to rise. He was a member of the Political Class, but a lowly one, his influence poor. His father had been a deputy magistrate in the Memphis Metroplex, and Jarrod had attended one of the least prestigious Political Academies. But he was smart, a born tactician. Neither of these traits would have made much difference to his prospects back on Earth. But here and now, Merrick was fighting a war…and Jarrod was the best officer he had.

  Merrick had put Jarrod into Quinn’s old command and tasked him with rebuilding the shattered brigade. Though it was a general’s posting, Merrick didn’t dare promote Jarrod more than one step, an act that was controversial enough and placed the new colonel above other officers from far better-placed families.

  “Colonel Jarrod reporting as ordered, sir.” Jarrod stood at attention, having snapped a perfect salute. Merrick was sitting at a portable table set up in the center of the encampment.

  “Thank you, colonel.” Merrick set the ‘pad down on the table, allowing Jarrod to see the map. “I believe we will fight a major battle here in the next several days, and I wanted to discuss strategy with you.” He turned to face his subordinate. “But first, I want to tell you that you have done an excellent job of rebuilding the morale of your brigade.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jarrod was a true soldier, a rarity in the Alliance Earth forces, which were generally choked with cronies and other incompetents. Merrick wondered, where the hell did he come from? Of course, though he didn’t fully realize it, Merrick himself was another such creature, very unlike his peers.

  “Colonel, this area is the heart of the rebellion, and we can expect a very difficult fight here.” Merrick was looking at the ‘pad; Jarrod’s eyes were darting back and forth from the general to the map.

  “Yes, sir, I believe you are right.” Technically, Jarrod should have remained silent until Merrick specifically asked for an opinion. But the two had been working closely together for six months now, and Jarrod knew what the general expected of him. “May I speak candidly, sir?”

  “Of course, colonel.” Merrick understood Jarrod’s hesitancy. Not too many Alliance army commanders welcomed honest commentary from subordinates.

  “I think it is going to be worse than anyone expects.” Jarrod paused, nervous at going too far. Merrick had proven to be a different sort of commander, but Jarrod had a lifetime habit of trying to keep his mouth shut. An opinionated mid-level officer was not likely to prosper in the Alliance’s army. “To be honest, sir, I believe that General Thompson is a highly gifted tactician.” He took a breath and hesitated, but decided to continue. “Other than the initial surprise, I believe he outfought us in the battle outside Arcadia City.”

  Merrick looked at Jarrod, amazed at the major’s audacity. He suppressed a brief flash of anger – he’d been in the army a long time, and he wasn’t immune to the arrogance of his class. But he had asked for honesty and, truth be told, he agreed with Jarrod’s assessment. The rebels should never have been able to fight their way out the trap. Thompson had made a mistake in taking the bait, but from that point on he’d handled his forces magnificently.

  We’re on his home ground now, Merrick thought. Don’t underestimate this man, he reminded himself. “Colonel, if we are engaged in a major battle here, I want your brigade as a mobile reserve. I am issuing orders for you to move to the rear of the formation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jarrod’s response was sharp and unquestioning, though he disliked the idea of being out of the initial action.

  “That way you will also be positioned to cover against any enemy maneuvers against our rear.” Merrick paused – he was thinking as he was speaking. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to ambush us somehow.”

  “No, sir. Neither would I.” Jarrod wasn’t entirely sure he should be offering any more opinions now; he’d already spoken out far more than conventional wisdom recommended. But he didn’t see the harm in simply agreeing with Merrick. Jarrod most definitely expected to encounter considerable guerilla activity, and the more Merrick was ready for it, the less damaging it would be.

  “Thank you, Colonel. You may return to your command post.” Merrick was starting to truly value Jarrod’s input. I wish I could make him second in command, he thought, but they’d roast me over a fire in Washbalt if I did that. Merrick didn’t have the authority to make those kinds of changes anyway. Even Jarrod’s promotion to colonel was provisional, a brevet appointment still subject to ratification. Merrick was pretty sure he had enough juice to push it through, assuming they both got off Arcadia alive and back to Earth. “And colonel?”

  Jarrod had saluted and turned to leave. He spun around at attention, his eyes focused on Merrick’s.

  “Be careful, especially with scouting parties. Since that idiot Quinn executed his captives the rebels have responded in kind.” Merrick would have preferred less brutality, but when Quinn started killing prisoners, the rebels went crazy and started shooting any federals they captured. In truth, the ones who were shot were the lucky ones. As far as Merrick could tell, the main rebel army restricted itself to firing squads, but the Feds who fell into the hands of irregulars or isolated groups had much more unpleasant prospects. He wished he could pull away from the brutal road Quinn had set them on, but it seemed impossible to go back. His troops demanded their own revenge, and he had little choice but to act accordingly and summarily execute at least some of the rebel prisoners. Lost in thought for a moment, Merrick suddenly realized that Jarrod was still standing at attention. “That will be all, colonel. Dismissed.”

  Sanders Dale was a pleasant valley, about 4 kilometers of gently sloping ground between two low ridgelines. Though far from the only feature on the map of Concordia named for the district’s premier family, the dale held special significance as the place old man Sanders had built his first residence on the planet. The ruins of the prefab shelter remained, partially patched up and used periodically for storage. The Sanders family had long ago moved farther north, and the valley, which had been actively farmed for some years, was mostly abandoned and left fallow.

  Now, however, an army was marching through the valley headed north, intent on pacifying the rebels in Concordia District. In its van and on the flanks came waves of light ATVs, fast scouting vehicles screening the advance.

  Next there were tanks. They weren’t the heavy battle tanks the force would have deployed on Earth, but nevertheless they were a fearsome sight, grinding their way noisily forward, heavy tracks tearing apart the mossy ground, leaving nothing but deep muddy furrows in their wake. Merrick didn’t have many tanks, only three companies. It was just too difficult to transport a larger number from Earth. He hadn’t deployed them before now, and he hoped the sight of the behemoths would sap the morale of the rebels.

  Around the tanks were armored personnel carriers, heavy ones toward the front, lighter ones farther back. There were hundreds of them, over a thousand in fact, and they stretched across the entire valley. In the rear was the artillery, four batteries of light guns, mounted on tracked vehicles. As with their main battle tanks, Merrick’s forces had been compelled to leave their heavy artillery behind when they’d shipped out to Arcadia…it was just too much to fit onto the transports.

  It was an awesome force, the largest ever deployed on a colony world save only General Holm’s 1st Corps that had fought the final battle of the Third Frontier War on the dusty hills of Carson’s World. But this formation wasn’t here to fight the Alliance’s enemies; they were here to battle other Alliance citizens, some of them veterans of Holm’s now-disbanded force.

  Every move this army made was observed. The rebels they were pursuing
knew this ground in ways an invader never could. Every vantage point, every depression in the ground, every blind spot – they knew them all, and each was used to its fullest potential. The rebels had been shadowing the federal forces for days. At first they simply scouted, monitoring the army’s movements and assessing its strength. Then they started attacking, small hit and run missions intended to pick off stragglers and sap the enemy morale. For three days they had stung the federal army, like a swarm of hornets striking then vanishing. They’d done some damage, but the federal commander had been vigilant and he had not allowed the attacks to slow the advance.

  Will Thompson was up in a tree along the western ridgeline. Quite an undignified pose for a commander in chief, he thought, as he clung to a branch with one hand and held his scope with the other. There was going to be a battle today. The sniping had failed to impede Merrick’s army, and Will simply couldn’t let them get any closer to his base of supply. He’d chosen the spot to make a stand, and this was it.

  Morale among the rebel forces was strong, and most of his officers and men were spoiling for a fight. He wondered how they would feel later that night, after that fight was done. Win or lose, thousands of Will’s troops would die today. He’d been in enough hard battles to know that much. However good the cause, war itself was always dirty business, and victory and freedom had a high price. Will had seen that cost; he had paid it. Most of his troops had not.

  He couldn’t believe the size of the army he commanded. Over 18,000 rebel soldiers were deployed in a broad U-shape on the ridgelines and in the valley between. And soldiers they were – Thompson’s long months of tireless training and effort had paid off, turning his bands of undisciplined irregulars into a cohesive and well-organized army.

  The rebel army was indeed formidable, but the forces it faced were stronger still. The federals had been reinforced since the early days of the rebellion, and now two full divisions were advancing through the valley - over 30,000 troops, plus artillery, personnel carriers…and worst of all, tanks.

  Will was worried about the tanks. His force was light on heavy weapons, and taking out those monsters was going to be difficult. He had a few ideas, and they’d prepared as well as they could, but he was far from sure it would be enough. He was just about to climb down from his perch when he heard gunfire from the south.

  The rebel army – more properly now, the Army of the Republic of Arcadia – had a significant amount of its strength deployed on the two ridgelines flanking the valley, with most of the rest entrenched directly to the front of the invading federal force. Will’s plan was to hit the enemy on both flanks while they were engaged with his dug in forces in the lowlands. But General Merrick was neither careless, nor a fool, and Will knew he would scout the ridgelines as he advanced. To screen his own deployments, Thompson had deployed strong forces along the south of the ridges, blocking any enemy advance before it reached his main positions.

  “Lieutenant Logan, place all commands on full alert.” He was working his way down the tree, yelling to his aide standing just below. He dropped the last two meters to the ground and flipped on the comlink. “Colonel Warren, report…what is going on down there?

  Chapter 16

  CS Adam Richter

  Eta Cassiopeiae System

  Inbound from YZ Ceti Warp Gate

  Sarah Linden sat in the small wardroom deep in thought. It was past midnight, ship’s time. The Richter operated on Martian time, which was pretty close to the Earth normal clock used on Alliance vessels. Her team was asleep, at least most of them. Their bodies were still operating on Armstrong time, and on Armstrong it was 4am.

  She hadn’t done much sleeping anyway, not recently at least. Not since she’d said goodbye to Erik. She remembered every instant of those last few minutes, standing in front of his shuttle in the cold drizzle, the feeling of him pulling from her embrace, walking to the sleek white ship waiting a few feet away…the last instant before he disappeared from her view. She’d never forget that image; she’d never let herself forget. She was deathly afraid that was the last time she would ever see him.

  She was going into danger; Jax and General Holm and all of them were. They’d lived most of their lives in the line of fire, doing what had to be done. But in her mind, Erik wasn’t just going into danger – he was committing suicide. Everyone in the Alliance, all those born on Earth, at least, feared Alliance Intelligence. Real dissent or civil disobedience was rare in the Alliance, but still there were stories – many of them deliberately spread by the intelligence agency itself. People who were taken to that building didn’t return.

  The thought of actually breaking into Intelligence HQ was unthinkable – a modern version of passing through the gates of hell. Yet that is just what Erik was going to do – break in, find the most guarded prisoner in the Alliance, and escape…not just from the building, but from Earth itself.

  Why him? Her thoughts were bitter, though she tried to control it. She knew intellectually that they had to try to rescue the admiral, and she was sure no one had a better chance than Erik. But logic and rationalizations didn’t change the fact that the odds were long - very long indeed. The fact was, she would most likely never see the love of her life again.

  She pushed the painful thoughts back, trying to focus on how she would manage things once they were on Columbia. Her team was small; they were taking a big risk going to Columbia, and she’d only approached people she really trusted. At least ones she thought would keep their mouths shut if they turned her down. She didn’t have to worry about that, at least – no one turned her down. Not after she showed them the video from Columbia. She wasn’t sure how much difference they would make in the overall conflict, but she knew they could save some lives. Hopefully they wouldn’t save them just so they could mount the scaffold – a real possibility if the rebellion was defeated.

  It was quiet in the wardroom, not a sound except the ever-present hum, the background noise of the ship’s systems so familiar to space travel veterans. She had been sitting there alone for hours, and she jumped when the hatch opened.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” Jax’s deep voice was unmistakable. He walked into the room, ducking as he always had to on spaceships to fit through the doorway.

  She turned around and managed a quick smile. “I like the quiet.”

  “Ash,” he said, walking over to the small refreshment bar. “I’m glad it’s just that and not the fact that you’re so worried you can’t sleep.” His tone was soft, relaxed. The last thing he wanted was to get her even more stressed out.

  She smiled again, though like the first, it only lasted a few seconds. “I was worried when you guys were cut off on the Lysandra Plateau. I can’t even imagine what a nightmare that must have been for you.” She paused, thinking about the inferno of Carson’s World, about the fear she’d felt even as she drove her medical staff beyond normal human endurance. “But this is crazy. Ten of them against Alliance Intelligence and all the security in Washbalt?”

  He looked over at her. “Sarah, Erik is my best friend.” His voice came out more emotional than he’d intended. “He’s my only real friend, the only one I’ve ever had.” His face had been serious, but he flashed her a labored grin. “Except for you, of course.” He winked at her, trying, with partial success, to get her to smile again. “But the two of you are kind of a unit to me, anyway.” She didn’t laugh…quite, but she did manage another brief grin.

  “I’m worried about him too.” He was serious now, looking right at her. “But I have never seen anything in the field like him, Sarah.” Behind his eyes the memories of a dozen battles were flashing by. “You know the kinds of places I’ve been with him. He’s a survivor. He’ll come back.”

  She looked over at him, not sure if she wanted to smile again or cry. “Do you really believe that?” Her question was sincere, though it wasn’t clear if she really wanted honesty, or just an answer that would make her feel better. She wasn’t sure herself.

  “Abs
olutely.” He didn’t know if he was lying to her or telling the truth, but he delivered the line with authority.

  He turned back to the bar. There were a number of beverage dispensers, and a screen with an extensive menu of hot and cold drinks. “Coffee? Anything?” He looked over, but Sarah just shook her head. He punched the touch screen for coffee, and chose one of the six flavors offered. A cup popped into one of the dispensers, and steaming hot coffee poured into it.

  He took the cup in his hand and walked back to the table, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting down. They’d been aboard for three weeks now, and they were only a day out from Columbia. The Richter was a Martian ship, appearing on the outside to be just what its registry said it was - an old freighter. Inside, however, was a different story, a state of the art ship, fully-armed and equipped with the very best ECM suite the Confederation could produce…and the Confeds had the best technology of any of the Powers.

  So far, Roderick Vance had been true to his word. The Richter was packed to the proverbial rafters, filled with weapons and supplies…and Jax’s 500 Marine volunteers. The Richter’s official course was straight through the Eta Cassiopeiae system, bound for Fomalhaut to pick up a load of ores. The stop at Columbia was unofficial, to say the least.

  “How are your people doing?” Sarah thought a subject change would do them both some good.

  “Not bad. They’re a little cramped, but they’ve all had it worse before.” He took a small sip from the piping hot coffee. “I hope we can make a difference. Vance has equipped us well, but we still won’t have our powered armor. The rebels are outnumbered five to one, and maybe more. We’re just a drop in the bucket.”

  “You’ll make a big difference. You’re going to have the best troops on the planet…by a large margin.” She looked over at him, putting her hand on top of his. “And they’ll be the best led too. I know Erik’s your friend, Darius, but you should know how much confidence he has in you. He told me once he thought you were the best field commander he’d ever seen…and he included himself in that.” She smiled and repeated herself: “You’ll make a big difference.”