by Jay Allan
CHAPTER 10
CENTRAL BUSINESS DISTRICT
FEDERAL COMPLEX COURTYARD
LANDFALL CITY
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
Brevet-Corporal Johnson stood along the barricades, staring out at the crowd. The people were loud, restless, but they were staying within the blocked-off area. It wasn’t a riot, not yet at least, but he could feel the anger.
Yeah, I got anger for all of you . . . enough to blow every one of you into bloody chunks of meat . . .
Johnson was exhausted. He’d expected a trip back to the barracks, and a long rest after the fight in the mine, but instead he and his new team had been rushed to Landfall City to bolster the overwhelmed security forces patrolling the streets. The shit had really hit the fan as word spread of the hundred-plus prisoners killed when the troops retook the mine.
He didn’t give a shit about dead prisoners, and he wasn’t sure why the people did either. They were criminals. And if they hadn’t been before, as some people claimed, they certainly were when those bastards had shot at him and the other soldiers. When they had killed his friends. He was only sorry that more than half the rebels had been taken alive. For as much as he would enjoy watching their executions, he didn’t have a guess when that would be. Once more Governor Wells was showing himself for the coward he was. If he’d been governor, the prisoners who surrendered would have already been lined up against a wall—
“Kenny, er, Corporal, they’re starting to get restless along the southern end of this group. They’re still staying back, but if they don’t like what the governor says . . .”
Johnson turned toward the voice. It was Cole, the senior private on his team. He fought back a small laugh. His people were still struggling with his promotion-in-progress, uncertain what to call him. Major Thornton had handed him his stripes, changed his assignment on the spot, and sent him to help patrol the streets. But he hadn’t had time to get his uniform updated . . . and he knew none of it was official anyway until Governor Wells signed off on it.
Still, his promotion to corporal might not be official yet, but Major Thornton had already placed him in command of a five-person team, half a squad. So, somewhere between private and corporal, he tried to act like the commander of four other soldiers.
“I’ll call it in, see if we can get some backup.” He looked around, out at the crowds, with a sour look on his face. “If I had my way, we’d send them home in a heartbeat. At a dead run. A couple machine-gun blasts and these troublemakers would piss themselves.”
He turned back toward Cole. “But I don’t have my way, so do the best you can. And remember, our orders of engagement allow us to return fire, so if any piece of shit in that mob has a weapon and shoots at you, your orders are to take him out on the spot, however much force you need to use. Understood?” The rules of engagement he’d been given also required extreme care be exercised to prevent any collateral damage when engaging hostiles, but Johnson didn’t mention that.
“Yes, Corporal.” Cole turned and jogged back toward his assigned position.
Johnson looked up at the federal complex. The building was by far the largest in Landfall, twelve levels and surrounded by a high wall. He could see the sentries along the top, staring out over the crowds like soldiers on the battlement of some medieval castle. He felt a touch of jealousy for the troops deployed inside while he and his people were out with the crowds.
There were technicians working as well, completing the setup of a large screen on the side of the building. The governor would be giving an address in less than half an hour. It would be broadcast on every network on the planet, but Governor Wells had ordered screens set up throughout Landfall as well, so that the protestors and anyone else in the streets could see and hear what he had to say.
Johnson wasn’t sure he thought it was a good idea, but he was dead certain no one had asked his opinion. Still, he could see there were twice as many guards as usual on the walls of the federal complex, so it was clear he wasn’t the only one with concerns about how the crowds would react.
Part of him hoped the mob would be enraged by what Wells said, that they would try to storm the complex. It would be dangerous for him and for his troops, of course, but the thought of hundreds of vicious, ungrateful troublemakers going down under the automatic fire of the guards appealed to the part of him that craved revenge, the part that was still thinking about Clyde Billings and the twenty-five other soldiers killed in that mine. Twenty-eight actually. Two more had died in the hospital the last he’d heard.
He looked around, scanning the area, searching for the spots where he would deploy his troops when the broadcast began. If the guards on the walls opened fire, the mob would panic, stampede. And he had no intention of allowing the four troopers he’d commanded for less than an hour to get caught in that.
No . . . no way. If anybody else dies today it will be these rebels . . .
“Citizens of Federal Colony Alpha-2, I come to you today to speak of a terrible tragedy, one I tried in every way available to me to avert.” Everett Wells wore a spotless black suit, and he stood behind a nondescript podium. He’d had the seal removed, the flags of both Federal America and Alpha-2 moved offscreen. He knew he had only one chance to keep the peace, and that meant he had to reach the colonists on a personal level, not as the symbol of Federal America.
“Sadly, that has not come to pass. All attempts to negotiate with the armed prisoners failed, and I was left with a difficult choice. Order the colonial security forces to retake the facility or risk allowing dangerous armed convicts to escape. It is no secret there has been planetwide unrest and that we face challenges to maintain the peace we all cherish. But it is essential that every citizen understands that the prisoners in the mine are all convicted criminals, many of them guilty of terrible, violent offenses. They are not people in the street. They are not nonviolent protestors, nor even citizens who have ignored curfews, damaged property.
“As governor, I simply could not risk allowing any of these dangerous men and women to escape, especially heavily armed as they were. The chance of innocents being hurt—or killed—was simply too great. So, with extreme reluctance, I issued the order for the security forces to retake the facility. I did this on my own authority after exhausting all other options.”
He paused, staring into the camera. He was maintaining an air of authoritative calm. He had discussed it with his advisors, and they suspected most of those listening would consider any stronger hints of anguish to be a bit of theater intended to enhance his persuasion. But the occasional hesitation, the mild faltering in his voice . . . it was all real. Wells knew how perilously close Alpha-2 was to disaster, and he also realized if he didn’t get through to enough people now, that catastrophe could begin in minutes. And he was genuinely shaken, upset for the soldiers he’d lost, but also for at least some of the prisoners. Those who’d been intimidated into accepting exile and a work period in the mines. Now dead, alongside the murderers and violent criminals.
“I can say that I am sorry for the loss of life resulting from that decision. I can tell you all I believed the troops could retake the mine with far lower losses on both sides. All that is true. But none of it matters now. The dead are dead, and what happens next, whether tragedy escalates—or whether we take this event and learn from it—is up to us. We have this one opportunity, perhaps a last chance, to pull back from the brink, to work together to prevent anything like this from happening again. And I, for my part, am prepared to take the first step.”
He paused, taking a deep breath. “There will be no punitive actions against the general populace following this terrible event. No new restrictions, no expanded curfews.”
He hesitated again. He’d decided what he was going to do, a last-ditch effort to defuse the situation. It might work with the people, but it would give him another problem, this one with his own personnel. He hadn’t even told Major Thornton what he was planning. He�
��d intended to, but he knew she wouldn’t like it, and he couldn’t afford her trying to dissuade him from this course of action. The fact was, he respected her too much, that there was a good chance she might have done just that.
He continued.
“Further, there will be no punitive actions against the prisoners who surrendered, even those who were apprehended with weapons in their possession. They will serve the rest of their existing terms, and then they will be released.” He felt his stomach tighten, imagining the blowback he would get from his own people. “This was a difficult decision, one made more so by the tremendous loss of life, among the soldiers who fought to quell this rebellion . . . and the prisoners as well. I ask that you all consider this, and accept it as a true expression of my desire to maintain the peace.”
He could imagine the soldiers stationed around the city, all over the planet, the wave of anger they would feel. They would see this as a betrayal and would speak out against him among themselves. But he saw things differently—it was part of the burden of his position. He considered how many of them would die if the planet erupted into full-scale rebellion. He was thinking about the soldiers, about how to save hundreds of them . . . thousands. He’d rather have them hate him, though, than the people they were supposed to protect.
“Now I would like to bring out a man most of you have heard of. Damian Ward is a winner of the Federal Medal of Honor, a true hero of the last war, and a retired warrior all citizens of Alpha-2 are proud to count as one of their own. Damian Ward.”
Wells moved slowly to the side, making room at the podium. Damian walked out, wearing his uniform as Wells had requested. It had been a few years since he’d worn it, a period devoid of the physical intensity of war and military training, and he’d had to squeeze himself into it, especially the pants. But he managed it, and now he looked the part.
Wells knew his own internal security forces were symbols of federal power, and that they were widely resented—if not outright hated—by many of the citizens. But he also realized that the actual military forces, those that had fought against the union and the hegemony, who had died defending many colonial worlds, were still popular. He’d always thought it strange that people on the verge of rising up in revolt could maintain an odd sort of patriotism.
And if I can use that to avert tragedy, that is exactly what I will do.
He stood silently and watched as Damian stepped up to the podium.
“Fucker.”
Johnson cursed softly as he stared up at the giant screen. He was so angry he could feel his body shaking. He’d been worried Wells might delay punishing the miners who had rebelled, or that he might spare them the trip to the scaffold they had earned.
Criminals who murdered twenty-eight loyal soldiers . . .
But he had never in his wildest nightmares thought the governor would refuse to punish them at all. He’d shaken his head when he heard it, convinced for a moment he’d misunderstood. But then he looked out over the crowd, saw the response. Silence. Approval. Even scattered applause. And as he watched, his rage grew.
You fucking turncoat . . .
He turned his head back toward the screen. The governor was barely visible now, off to the side. Damian Ward was speaking. Johnson knew well who Ward was, though he’d never met the man. He had mixed feelings. Respect for the war hero certainly, tempered by resentment, bitterness at how the frontline soldiers were lauded as heroes while he and his comrades in the internal security battalions were considered second class, and hated by the people. But more than that, he hated that this man was standing next to that bag of shit who called himself governor.
His hands gripped his rifle tightly, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire. He’d checked the cartridge at least three times, confirming he was fully loaded, that the clip was firmly seated in the weapon, but he did it again, just to keep his mind engaged. He’d been ready for a fight, anxious even. He’d imagined the crowd going berserk during the address, surging over the barricades, toward the federal complex in a wave of mass hysteria . . .
But it didn’t happen. Wells had come on the screen, and within a few seconds he had yielded entirely. He had decreed the murderers from the mine would go unpunished, that no one would be held responsible for what had happened. And the governor’s pandering, his moral cowardice, had defused the mob’s anger.
He stood, watching as the silent crowd looked up at the screen. There were no more chants, no shouts of anger. Just silence. Even the signs, the red flags of rebellion, were mostly lowered.
No, Johnson thought. These people can’t get away with this. My friends didn’t die only to be betrayed by a man in a fancy suit sitting in a fancy office.
These people will fucking pay.
“Thank you, Governor Wells.”
Damian stared into the camera, looking stiff, he supposed. He didn’t like this, not at all. Neither the message he was about to give, nor the fact that he was about to give a speech at all. Public speaking had never been his thing, and he could practically feel the millions of eyes on him. But he had given his word, and Wells had held up his end of the bargain. Besides, he wasn’t a rabid revolutionary, not even close. He had his problems with how Federal America managed Haven, and especially about the newest restrictions and curtailments of freedoms the senate had implemented, but he had fought for the federal flag, bled for it. And he wasn’t ready to stand against it.
I’ve faced down enemies with guns. I can look down the barrel of a camera . . .
“I want to add my voice to the governor’s. We do not agree on everything, certainly. But as one who has seen the face of war, endured the nightmare of armed conflict, I want to say it must always be a choice of last resort.”
Getting those first words out, he had managed to steady himself, and his voice became stronger and more authoritative as he continued.
“I have seen colonies like ours virtually destroyed by war. I have seen the dead in the streets, ashes where houses once stood, where families had lived their lives.
“Rebellion, revolution—whatever we choose to call it—make no mistake: if it comes, it will come on the wings of war. Those dead bodies could be here, on Haven,” he said, deliberately using the colloquial name. “And if not you, it will be your neighbors, your friends. Your children. Those ashes could be our own homes, the businesses you’ve built in our neat, pleasant cities. We can’t allow this to happen. We can’t allow for such darkness to come to our world. We must resolve our differences peacefully, and only when every attempt has failed, only when the outrages become too much to endure, to consider that last terrible step. Thank you.”
Wells wasn’t going to like that last bit.
Tough.
He was supposed to tell them revolution was never an option. But though he meant all he had said about avoiding violence any way possible, he knew if he was pushed hard enough, he, too, would take up the rifle. And while he would support the governor, at least to a point, he would not lie to his friends and neighbors . . . and the rest of his fellow Havenites.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Ward.” Wells stepped back toward the center of the podium. “Before I conclude I would like to take a moment to introduce you to a second individual.” He turned and motioned toward the side of the stage.
A tall man walked on, clad in tattered clothes, his blond hair long and filthy, hanging around his face is a twisted clump of knots.
“This is James Grant, one of the prisoners from the mine.”
Damian stood to the side, his eyes on Jamie. He knew his friend had strong rebel sympathies. But Jamie had proven he could control his impulses during the uprising, and Damian believed he could now.
“Mr. Grant not only did not participate in the armed insurrection, he actually saved one of the soldiers sent to restore order by attacking the rioter about to kill him.”
Damian winced. He knew Jamie would be ashamed of what he had done, not proud. He wished Wells had told him what he’d intended to say so he could ha
ve warned him off.
C’mon, Jamie. Just smile and say something noncommittal. Don’t argue now, not this close to freedom . . .
But he couldn’t read the young man. Jamie just stood at attention, rigid, as if everything he had was going into remaining calm.
“And now, I will show my own good faith. It is with great pleasure that I hereby commute Mr. Grant’s sentence to time served. At the conclusion of this speech, he will leave this facility a free man, and begin a new life.” Wells turned to face Jamie, gesturing toward the podium.
Jamie hesitated, just for a second or two. Then he walked slowly toward the microphone, favoring his still-sore leg. “Thank you, Governor,” he said, hoarse and uncertain. He stood in place for a few seconds, and then he turned and walked to the side of the stage.
Wells was startled. The governor had clearly expected Jamie to speak for longer—Damian certainly had—but Wells recovered quickly and slid behind the podium.
“In closing, I urge patience, and I promise an honest effort to reach out, to listen to the various voices of Haven, and come to an understanding that solves the disagreements that plague us. Good night.”
He held in place, staring at the camera until a technician told him he was off the air. Then he turned toward one of his aides. “Status? The crowds?” Damian heard the tension in his words. He had listened, and it was clear to him Wells didn’t have the slightest idea how to solve Haven’s growing problems. Empty political rhetoric wasn’t something that tended to sway his own opinions, but he was different from most people.
The aide stared down at her display, holding her hand over her earpiece, obviously listening to some incoming information. A few seconds later she smiled. “It’s good, Governor. No reports of any violence, and in several locations the crowds are beginning to disperse.”
