by Jay Allan
But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing—there was a downside, too. The men and women would be harder, more intractable. Most of them had allowed themselves to hate their adversaries trying to kill them, just as she had hated the Eurasians. And now that they had learned to hate an enemy, would they turn that upon the rebels? The protestors in the street?
There had already been anger among her people, at the speeches that denounced them all as mindless government thugs. Most of her soldiers were from Earth, where speakers saying anything of the sort would be hauled away in minutes.
And likely sent someplace just like these mines. At least if they were repeat offenders.
The changes wouldn’t be overt. But there would be more resentment and less patience for the protestors, and even the rest of the citizenry. It was mathematical. Not every encounter would be noticeably different, but overall more of them would end badly. Arrests would increase, incidents of at least some level of brutality. It would all feed the relentless cycle of civil disobedience provoking an enforcement response. Leading to more disobedience . . . and more enforcement—with the emphasis on “force.”
And that will lead to open rebellion. War. Exactly what Governor Wells has been trying to avoid.
She looked down the hallway and sighed. There were four bodies, all prisoners. She had hoped the rebels would lose heart when her people stormed the mine, but many of them had fought with a desperation that had surprised her.
And too many of the ones that didn’t were gunned down by my people . . .
The standoff was almost over, and that meant the fallout had hardly begun. The rebel leaders would do all they could to use this tragedy and turn it into a rallying cry. Never mind these men were prisoners. Never mind that they had illegal weapons, and had taken hostages. Shut down production and hurt Alpha-2’s economy. None of that would matter to the rebels. What mattered was convincing just one more person, one more group, that the federals were evil and freedom was the only answer. And if they were successful, Alpha-2 would learn what war truly was. Slogans were easy. Marches and protests, too. But burned buildings, dead fighters—and civilians—that was something else entirely. Something few thought seriously about before they grabbed their flags and signs and poured into the streets, before they clamored for violence as a solution.
She shook her head sadly. She was surrounded by death, deep in a hellscape filled with darkness and blood, and yet all she could think was, I’m glad I’m not Governor Wells now . . .
“Fuck,” Johnson roared, staring down at his side. There was a chunk taken out of his body armor, and a trickle of blood dripping down. The wound was nothing. He was so amped up, it didn’t even hurt all that much. But if he hadn’t had his armor, the rebel might have finished him for good.
He pulled his finger tight, firing again on full auto. He’d taken the bastard down already; the shot that hit him had been the prisoner’s last. But riddling the body with bullets was somehow pleasing, as if he could hurt the offending rebel more by mutilating his body.
Johnson was wired, running on adrenaline and stims, and he felt the drive to finish things, an urgency to find the last of the rebels, and kill them all before Rennes or some other officer came along and made him take prisoners.
He wasn’t a bad-natured guy, not usually, though he was sick and tired of the abuse he and his comrades took every day. He knew it wasn’t all the people of Alpha-2; indeed, he had seen the reports showing that nearly half the colony’s population was solidly loyal to Federal America . . . and that the true radicals were actually a minority. But it didn’t feel that way walking down the street on patrol, almost feeling the hatred of the crowds. And now he’d seen prisoners—criminals—killing men and women who had been his friends. And with each one that fell, his moderation receded, and the anger grew.
“You all right there, Kenny?” It was Sergeant Ridge. Johnson’s squad leader had his own injury, a cut to the forearm he’d gotten half an hour before when a prisoner caught him from behind. He’d tied a filthy strip of cloth torn from a uniform around it, but the blood had soaked through anyway, and now it had partially dried and caked all around the makeshift bandage, making the wound look more gruesome than it was.
Johnson held back a little smile. The rebel who had inflicted that wound was dead, too.
“I’m fine, Sarge. The armor caught most of it.”
“These bastards put up one hell of a fight.” Ridge looked around, and he put his hand over his comm unit’s microphone and lowered his voice. “I want to clean out these bottom levels fast, Kenny.” He had a scowl on his face. “The major and the captain have a lot of shit on them from the top to take prisoners, but you and I know what needs to happen down here.”
Johnson stared back. “Yes, sir, I believe we do.”
“I hear we’ve got forty casualties, and half of them are dead. These fuckers don’t get to kill twenty of our people and walk away, you understand me?”
“Yes, Sergeant. You bet I do.”
Ridge looked over his shoulder again, then back to Johnson. “I knew you would, Kenny. I’m just afraid what will happen if we don’t handle this. The governor’s too damned soft on these people. These fuckers should all be looking at summary execution anyway, but if the governor decides to make a gesture, show leniency . . . fuck that. I’m not going to be down here only to find out our people are dead and these bastards get off with longer sentences and heavier workloads.”
Johnson’s expression hardened. “No way, Sarge. We won’t let that happen. No way.”
“All right, Private Johnson. Then let’s finish this, shall we?”
“Absolutely, Sarge.” Johnson gripped his rifle tightly. “Absolutely.”
Jamie sat on the ground, hunched over, doing his best to stay out of sight. He could hear the sounds of battle above. It had been loud for a while, a full-blown firefight, he suspected, but now the shots were fewer, more occasional.
He could feel his heart racing, the beats pounding in his ears. He’d been hiding for days, nothing but fear to ward off the intense boredom. He’d managed to scrounge up enough water, and perhaps half enough food, but the waiting had been interminable. He’d even gotten his leg braced and patched up enough to let him hobble around. He felt like he’d been down there for months, but now, as he listened to those bursts of gunfire, all he wanted was more time to wait.
He climbed slowly to his feet. He was tired, sore, and his leg hurt like fire . . . but he managed to stand with the help of a length of wood he’d turned into a makeshift cane. He had to surrender; that is, if anybody gave him a chance. Not that it would matter—if soldiers had been killed, the rioting miners would most likely face execution anyway. Rioting was one thing, but even Governor Wells would have to condemn men and women who had killed his soldiers. But he’d rather take that chance than be butchered in this godforsaken mine.
He took a few steps toward the ladder, slow, gritting his teeth against the pain. Going up didn’t seem possible. He couldn’t put any weight on the stricken leg, and he was far too exhausted to pull himself up with his arms. But if he stood right in front of the ladder—or, better yet, sat down there with his hands behind his head—he had the best chance. It was no guarantee, but it was all he could think to do.
Then he froze. There was a sound, coming down the ladder. It was loud, someone hurrying, heavy boots slamming into the metal rungs. He knelt down and clasped his hands behind his head. “I am not a rioter,” he said loudly, clearly. “I surrender. I have been down here for three days. I have not taken part in the fighting.” He stared at the ground, drawing shallow breaths and trying to control the fear and pain, to stop the shaking that threatened to take his body.
“You really are a turncoat piece of shit, Grant.” The voice was angry, caustic. And it was familiar.
Gavros.
Jamie’s head snapped up, but too late. All he saw was a shadow, and then the boot took him in the side of his head and sent him falling onto his back.
He landed hard, and he felt the wind knocked out of his lungs. The pain in his leg as it slammed to the ground hit him like a blinding light. His mind was racing, disoriented, struggling to gain control of his body, to react to the situation. Unlike last time, Gavros had a huge edge over him. And the man had to be desperate now.
Jamie was in a fight to the death, and he was halfway to losing it.
That made him desperate, too, though. His reflexes kicked in; he spun to the side, rolling painfully across the hard stone floor, barely avoiding Gavros’s boot as it stomped hard right next to his head.
He sucked in a deep breath and put all his strength into one strong lunge at his adversary’s feet, but just as he did, Gavros’s fist slammed into his back. He could feel the impact, and he’d have sworn he heard one of his ribs cracking just before he fell forward and his face hit the ground.
He could feel the blood filling his mouth, and he spat hard, even as he stumbled around, trying to turn over onto his back, to face his enemy. He reached out, trying to grab Gavros’s leg again, but his vision was blurry and the big man jumped back, evading the blow.
He tried to pull back himself then, to get away from Gavros’s immediate reach. As he did, the hazy image of the prisoner cleared up a little. Gavros was coming after him again, and Jamie realized he didn’t see a gun in his hand.
Must have burned through all his ammo. The only reason I’m still alive. But that gives me a chance . . .
My ass, it does. He doesn’t need a gun to finish me off.
Out of options, he reached behind him, grasped the makeshift cane, and swung it around with everything he had left behind it. Gavros saw it, but he was coming in too fast, and it was too late to avoid the blow entirely. He spun around, just as the cane took him in the back of the legs.
Gavros let out a yell as he stumbled forward, reeling from the hit. But Jamie howled as well, and clutched his leg as his momentum pushed him around, twisting the savaged limb.
Jamie fought against the pain, tried to stay focused, but Gavros recovered much quicker. The other prisoner pulled a knife he’d had shoved into his belt behind his back. His eyes were locked on Jamie’s as he moved slowly forward.
“Time to go to hell, Grant . . . with all the other traitors.” He took another step, but Jamie wasn’t about to let him pick his moment. Digging into the last of his strength, he lunged forward, reaching up and grabbing the arm with the knife with both hands. He pushed hard, trying to dislodge the weapon, but the pain was just too much, and he could feel his strength draining away. He couldn’t exert enough power to force the blade from Gavros’s hand.
Then he felt the impact—Gavros’s other hand slamming into his kidneys.
The breath blasted out of his lungs, and he dropped to his back, staring up helplessly.
Gavros kicked him hard, the man’s boot taking Jamie right in the side of his abdomen. He struggled for a few seconds, tried to marshal the strength to sit up, but it was no use. He lay where he was, staring up as the enraged prisoner moved toward him, knife in hand.
Jamie screamed at himself within, a last cry to marshal his strength, to try and pull himself together, to resist one more time. But it was over. There was too much pain, too much fatigue. He was looking at his death standing over him. His strength was gone, even his fear. There was only one feeling left in his destroyed body: sadness.
I’m sorry, Katia . . . I tried.
CHAPTER 9
CARGRAVES FEDERAL PRISON
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“Now, Jonas . . . just lie back. Relax, stop fighting the drug and the pain will stop.” Reid was standing along the wall, about a meter from where Holcomb lay on the hospital cot, restraints fastened across his arms, chest, and legs. “Resisting only makes it hurt more . . . and if you fight for too long you can cause some rather nasty side effects, most of which, I’m afraid, are permanent.”
Holcomb was still, his body almost frozen, but in his head he was fighting the greatest battle of his life. He could feel the drug working on him, draining away his inhibitions. The thoughts were there, speaking to him. Go back to your life. Give up this foolish fight.
No! his thoughts roared back to . . . himself, he realized. Reid was there, he knew, standing nearby, speaking. But the words that truly pounded at his resolve weren’t those of his jailor. No, they were his own. His weakness. His wish to leave this terrible place. To sleep in his bed again, walk the Virginia Beach coast as he had so many times . . . the cool sea breeze, the warm sun on his skin . . .
This is all my doing. I don’t need to be here. I can go home anytime I want. Federal America is merciful. They will give me my life back, even after all this. All I have to do is return to my work, to do my fair share in return for all I have received.
He moaned loudly, his response to himself coming out as a muffled cry. “No . . . no . . . never again . . .”
“Listen to yourself, Jonas.” Reid spoke softly, sounding almost compassionate, even vaguely hypnotic. “You are listening to nothing except your own thoughts, your deepest desires. Heed what they say to you. This can all end, Jonas. Now. We don’t want to hurt you. We just want you back. You are one of us. Come home . . .”
Yes . . . just agree. Say you will go back, that you will use the education the government gave you for the national good. Your weapons protect the people, they provide national security.
“No,” he said, his voice a soft, ragged whisper. “The weapons were misused, turned on the people . . .”
He could feel the drug, twisting his thoughts. He struggled, tried to hang on to his true beliefs . . . but somehow he knew what Reid had said was the truth. The thoughts were all his. He didn’t want to make more weapons, see them ill-used. But he wanted to go home. He wanted to go home so badly . . .
He twisted and pulled against the restraints, babbling incoherently, arguing with himself. His face, his entire body, was covered with sweat. He could taste something metallic. Blood, he realized. He’d bitten his lip.
Home, he thought again. Sleeping in a soft bed, breakfast on the terrace overlooking the ocean. He’d lived a privileged existence. Was he really right to resist Federal America, his country that had given him all he’d ever had? How ungrateful was he?
He felt himself weakening as Reid’s words drifted into his mind. “Come back to us, Jonas. Take your life back. You will be forgiven your mental breakdown. You will be welcome back to the life you led before . . .”
He wanted to scream out, “Yes,” to embrace what he was offered. His resistance was weakening. If he refused he knew he would go back to his cell, to the cold that cut through him every night, making sleep almost impossible. To the Pit . . .
But there was strength still, somewhere deep within, and he felt it pouring out, taking charge.
“No,” he said, his voice firmer. “Never.” He could feel his hands balling up into fists. “No,” he repeated, louder. “No!”
He could see Reid standing against the wall, hear his tormentor’s sigh. “Take him back to his cell,” the federal said, the frustration clear in his tone. Then, softer: “I’ll have to give him a higher dose . . . but I need approval before I risk it. Besides, he needs to rest first. If we administered it now, it would kill him.”
Holcomb listened to it all, but the meaning was hazy, unclear. There was just one part he heard. “Take him back to his cell.”
He took a deep breath, and a weak smile slipped onto his face.
Take him back to his cell.
He had not given in. They had not broken him. Yet.
Gavros stood looking down at Jamie, a jagged smile on his lips. He held the knife tightly in his hand as he moved forward. “Time to die, traitor.”
Suddenly, Gavros’s head spun around, his body following an instant later, shifting to the side of the ladder. Jamie watched, groggy, struggling to maintain consciousness. He was confused at first, but then he heard. And understood.
<
br /> Someone else was coming down the ladder.
Gavros slid around, ducking off to the side as a pair of legs dropped into view. Jamie could see the brown uniform pants. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but right then he’d have taken anything.
He could also see Gavros lying in wait, though, and his hope once more warred with uncertainty. He wanted to shout out a warning, to alert the soldier. But he hated the federals as much as any prisoner who had joined the rebellion. If he stayed quiet, though, Gavros would kill the man . . . and then turn that knife back on him. And if he saved one of the soldiers, he had a much better chance of successfully surrendering.
And yet . . .
The idea of aiding the soldiers, of betraying a prisoner to them, even a psychopath like Gavros, made him sick. Gavros was his enemy, but the fight between the two of them was their own, and they were more the same than different, both opponents of the federals. The soldiers were his true enemy, the armed henchmen of those who had stolen his life.
For an instant, perhaps half a second, he paused, wondering if he wouldn’t prefer death to truly earning the turncoat title the others had given him. Then he decided he wanted to live, whatever it took.
It might have been half a second, but that turned out to be too long.
Gavros lunged at the soldier, grabbing the man’s legs and pulling him from the ladder. The trooper fell hard to the ground, landing with a dull thud.
Jamie lay on the ground with his mouth open, but no words came. He could hear sounds from the upper level, the soldier’s comrades, no doubt. They were shouting down, calling to the trooper. A second later there was another sound, more feet on the metal rungs.
Gavros lunged after the fallen soldier, pulling him up and grabbing his hair, yanking his head back and moving his blade to the man’s throat.
