by Jay Allan
“Then don’t waste time trying. Work your ass off for me making this farm a success . . . and use the chance at a life well. Make something of it. If you do that, I will consider us even.” He held out his hand and smiled.
“Thank you, Damian.” Jamie reached out and took his friend’s hand. “I will. You have my word.”
“Lieutenant . . .” It was Withers. He’d just come back into the room, and even in his ecstatic state, Jamie could tell something was wrong.
“What is it?” Damian asked as he turned to face his aide.
“One of the barns is on fire, Lieutenant.”
Damian turned back toward his friends. “Katia, stay here. Jamie, come with me.” He rushed through the door, out toward the house’s main entrance.
Jamie nodded, and he flashed a quick glance back at Katia. Then he followed his friend, limping but still managing to keep up.
Into fire . . .
The soldier walked down the street. It was a routine patrol, the same one he’d walked every night for the last three months. He and his partner were lucky. Their sector was a quiet area, one that saw little protest activity. Some of the other patrol teams had gotten into sticky situations, sometimes getting into altercations with colonists. He was grateful he’d been spared that, not just because that kind of thing could get dangerous, but because the red tape involved with arresting protestors was a serious pain in the ass.
On Alpha-2, the bureaucratic BS was even worse. That was mostly the governor’s fault. He had insisted on meticulous records being kept when bringing charges against the colonists. The soldier had understood that at first, but the more he’d seen his comrades dealing with the reports and depositions and trials, the more he thought things should be streamlined. Due process was one thing, but so was practicality. When a patrolling trooper arrested someone, they had good reason, and they didn’t deserve to be questioned endlessly about it. Unfortunately, no one asked him his opinion and there was nothing he could do about it, so he was just glad his beat didn’t involve him in that mess very often.
“Quiet tonight,” his partner said, looking around as they continued down the street. Their assigned area was rarely a trouble spot, but now it was almost eerily silent.
“Yeah, the governor’s speech really calmed things down. It’s amazing what you can accomplish by selling us out and giving these colonists everything they want.” The soldier hadn’t lost any close friends in the fight at the mine, but he knew all the names of the dead . . . and his mind cycled through the times he’d crossed paths with each of them: in the mess, the barracks, in the streets.
“Be cool, man,” the other soldier said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I agree with you, but shootin’ off your mouth ain’t gonna get you nothin’ but trouble.”
“Maybe so, but it still ain’t right.”
He continued walking, his partner about a meter to the side. It was late . . . another half hour and they’d be off-duty. The thought of grabbing a meal and hitting his bunk was pretty appealing. He’d drawn a double-patrol—there’d been a lot of those lately—and he was dead tired.
He turned and looked off to the right, down the empty, quiet street. The he heard something. Or felt it. Either way, he spun around toward his partner . . . but no one was there. He twisted around, sliding his rifle from his shoulder, acting on pure instinct. His partner, down on the street surface, looking up at him with a shocked expression . . .
And a huge circle of blood on his midsection, growing larger with each second.
He saw a shadow behind him, and he rushed to bring the weapon to bear, but before he could turn he felt a blow to his side, something hard, a rod or a club.
He dropped to one knee, gritting his teeth against the pain. He almost panicked, but he caught himself. The attack was a surprise, but now he knew he was fighting for his life.
He ducked forward, using the momentum to turn and lunge back to his feet, to try and find his attacker. He shouted as loudly as he could for help—not sure if any of the other patrols were close enough to hear.
He fired his weapon blindly as he moved around, spraying automatic fire into the darkness. Then he sensed something behind him, and he swung his arms backward, slamming the butt of his rifle into something. Someone.
He heard the yell, felt the movement as whoever was there stumbled back, away from the blow. He turned as quickly as he could, fumbling to get his finger back on the trigger . . . but he never made it. There was a flash of movement from the other side. Another assailant. Then pain in his back. Not a punch this time.
A knife.
He froze, holding himself up for a few seconds. The panic he’d fought off came back, and it took control.
Run . . . I have to run . . .
But there was no time. He was weak; he could feel the blood pouring from the wound, the rifle slipping from his hands. Then pressure, and arm around him, grabbing his head, pulling back.
“Die, federal scum.”
Then he saw the hand move, felt cold on his neck, then warm. Not pain, not really. Just a slight awareness. Then wetness, of blood pouring out from his slit throat.
And darkness taking him.
Damian stared at the sign, his rage growing with every passing second. His eyes were fixed, and though he tried he couldn’t force himself to look away. He just read the words, again and again.
TRAITOR.
FED-LOVER.
At first, he’d thought the fire was an accident, an errant spark igniting the bales of hay stacked in the barn. But then they’d found the canisters of flammable liquid, discarded carelessly around the perimeter of the building. Arson, he realized, thinking whoever had done this was careless, stupid.
Then he saw the sign, and he knew. No, not careless. They wanted him to know it was deliberate. And they’d left him the sign so he had no doubt why they had targeted him.
Even if it’s a fucking lie.
Still, it wasn’t the first time he’d been called those things. He’d seen it on his trips into town, hushed whispers, people pointing toward him as he walked by. His only concern was for his home, and for its people. But some of them didn’t see it that way. They just saw him standing next to the governor.
He looked down at the charred body lying just outside the burned building. It was too badly disfigured to tell who it was, but there wasn’t much doubt. Marv Irving was one of his hands, and he’d been working in the barn alone . . . and now he wasn’t responding to any of Smithers’s calls.
“Anybody see who did this, Ben?” For years, Damian had been the model of a friendly farmer. A bit standoffish perhaps—he’d even been classified an introvert on one of his psych profiles—but never cold. Always a good neighbor. But that’s when his biggest concern was bugs. Frost. A broken farm machine.
Now, after being attacked . . .
The Damian Ward who was a war hero was coming up from deep inside.
And that wasn’t the sort of person you invited over for a barbeque.
A calm had come over him. Passionate anger was for civilians. Cold, calculation—that was Damian’s mind-set now.
He did not take well to being attacked.
And that is exactly what had just happened. Arson would have been enough to flip the switch—maybe. But murder? Of his friend? He didn’t give a shit whether the people who did this had known Irving was there, or if it was just an added tragedy. When he found those responsible, he vowed he would see them mount the scaffold.
Or I will kill them myself.
“No, sir,” Withers replied, seething. Withers was a veteran who had served alongside Damian throughout the war, and his expression left little doubt it was the grizzled noncom standing there and not the assistant to a gentleman farmer.
Damian looked around, his eyes pausing on the surrounding buildings. The barns were all metal prefab units. Even the burned out one was still standing, though Damian suspected the heat had compromised the strength of the metal, making the structure a total loss. Th
ere were two cameras on one of the other barns, but there had been none on this one, nor on the one adjacent.
And that means we have almost nothing to go on.
He cursed his decision to skimp on the security system. It hadn’t seemed necessary when he’d first started building up the farm complex. Haven didn’t have a lot of crime, and what disturbances the planet experienced were almost all political . . . and never directed at him.
Damian hadn’t been a wealthy man when he’d arrived on Haven. His mustering-out bonus and the cash donatives that had come with his medals were all he had, and that meant early expenses on the farm were ruled by necessity and productivity. Even now, when he had things running at a healthy profit, there were always more needs than resources.
He turned abruptly. “I want cameras on all these barns, Ben. Immediately. Take the money from the reserve fund.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I will see to it.”
Jamie stood a few meters away, his eyes as fixed on the sign as Damian’s had been. “This is because of what you did for me, isn’t it?” His voice was soft. “That stupid speech. I’m sorry, Damian.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about, so stop that foolishness right now. You did nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong. Whoever did this is a criminal, nothing more. No doubt they consider themselves rebels, justified in such actions. But they are just cowards and murderers. So I will find them.
“And then I will kill them.”
Cal Jacen sat and listened. The leaders of the Society were gathered to hear the fruits of the most recent campaigns to destabilize Haven.
The others had been a bit surprised, even shocked, at the scope of what he had ordered. What he had seen done. But after he laid it out for them, they were all nodding in approval.
In two nights, seven soldiers had been murdered, in several cases tortured, their bodies left in the streets as open symbols of defiance.
There had been fires, too, and ransacked property, mostly in Landfall. They all knew the key to planetwide rebellion was the capital. If the residents of Landfall rose up, Jacen had no doubt the rest of Haven would follow.
There had also been specific warnings to those individuals who might stand in the way of revolution. Damian Ward had been sent such a message, a taste of the consequences of siding with the governor. Jacen felt his message couldn’t have been clearer: there would be more where that came from, too.
There was no mark of the Society at any of the scenes—indeed, he had gone to great lengths to ensure nothing could be traced back to his organization, or even to the Guardians of Liberty or any of the other groups. These acts had been carried out in the name of the people of Haven. With no specific target, the governor would have no choice but to strike back at the planetary population at large. And when that happened . . .
“I believe the day we have awaited is near.” Zig Welch looked across the table at Jacen. “I must commend your zeal, Cal. I had doubts we could do so much so quickly, especially after the disappointment of the operation at the mine.”
“Thank you, comrade. It is crucial that we all do whatever must be done. It is time. First, the cleansing revolution, to drive the federals from Haven.”
There was a rough series of nods around the table.
“Here, here!” Zig said. “Now we wait for the fruits of our efforts . . .”
“No.” Jacen stared across the table at Zig. “We are too close for that. There can be no slacking off. We will continue to press the attacks, pressure the governor to strike back even harder. And when the entire planet is ready to explode, we issue the final blow, one that will force Danforth, the Guardians, and every freedom-craving Havenite into the streets, weapons in hand. And then we’ll have the fruits of our efforts: revolution.”
“Revolution,” the others repeated in a ragged chorus.
“I submit we must consider one other thing now.” The others seemed to lean forward, drawn in by Jacen’s words. He felt the energy in the room, and reveled in it. “The federals will be defeated, overwhelmed by the army of the people. But they are not the only enemy. There are Havenites, too, loyal to federal tyranny. Traitors to their own people. We must have lists, names, addresses. We must rid ourselves of this cancer, the threat that could eat away at us from within. And then the new order will reign supreme . . . and the purge of all those who would stand in the way shall cleanse our republic.”
“Yes!” Zig said. “When the federals are gone, we shall turn the fury of revolution on them . . . and paint the way to the future with the blood of traitors.”
“Yes,” Jacen said, slamming his fist on the table. “Let nothing stop us.”
CHAPTER 12
LANDFALL SPACEPORT
TEN KILOMETERS OUTSIDE LANDFALL CITY
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“Well, now, isn’t this . . . rustic.” Asha Stanton walked down the steps from the shuttle, stopping as she reached the bottom and looking behind her at the vessel that had brought her down from orbit.
Quaint little craft.
It was just past planetary noon, and Epsilon Eridani was high in the sky. She held her hand over her eyes to block the brightness as she turned to face her companion. “It’s not quite like Federal Spaceport in Washington, is it, Colonel?”
“No, Your Excellency, it most certainly is not.”
Colonel Robert Semmes stood next to Stanton, clad in full dress uniform. It seemed a bit over the top, even to Stanton, but she’d come to realize Semmes was an odd sort in more than one way during the voyage. For one thing, Semmes had a stiff demeanor. For another, he spoke like an aristocrat, which in essence he was. Being the son of Senator Alistair Semmes, the head of the senatorial subcommittee on colonial affairs, Robert’s assignment as Stanton’s military aide had been no random circumstance. He had two older brothers to follow in the patriarch’s footsteps as a political power broker, so Robert had been destined for a military career from an early age. But service in the real army had proven to be a bit too dangerous for a senator’s son, third in line or not, so Semmes had been commissioned into the internal security forces immediately after graduation.
Alpha-2 was a crucial colony, and Stanton suspected that as soon as Semmes returned from successfully commanding the forces that crushed the unrest sweeping the planet, his father would arrange for his son to obtain his general’s stars . . . and a plum position commanding internal security someplace like Washington or New York.
Makes sense. Alpha-2 is important enough to get attention, but defeating these rebels will also be easy enough. We’ll take some losses, but I imagine Semmes can manage to keep himself out of the line of fire. He gets to play at commander, build up plausibility for his potential promotion . . . all without having to face a truly dangerous enemy.
Stanton couldn’t be too critical. Her reasons for accepting the assignment were similar. She had her own political ambitions, no less than one day acquiring a seat in the senate. She came from money, and from a family that had been slowly expanding its political influence for three generations, ever since her grandfather had struck it rich selling weapons to the government during the Great Civil War. But unlike Semmes, she wasn’t truly anointed. And despite her wealth and the work she’d done to get to where she was, the senate was a lofty goal for someone not from an old-line political family. It had been a long time since there had been any elections in Federal America that were more than a sham, and her path to the senate was more about her ability to win over enough government functionaries and not the population at large.
She stared around the spaceport. It was small, a fraction of the size of Federal, and it lacked the amenities as well. Disembarking down a ladder onto the tarmac seemed like something out of a movie, not the way someone of her stature traveled.
Unless one ventures to the frontier . . .
Still, for all Granddad’s money, and the senatorial orders she carried granting her near-vice-regal authority, she didn’t have
the political power behind her Semmes did. If she was going to wear a senator’s regalia one day she needed to be a star. And quelling the trouble on Alpha-2 would certainly be a point on that star.
There was a small carpet laid out about ten meters from the shuttle, with a few soldiers and a small group of officials waiting.
My, what a regal reception.
“Well, Colonel, shall we get this over with?” She began walking without waiting for an answer. She stopped just on the edge of the carpet, her eyes moving over the group.
“Observer Stanton, please allow me to be the first to welcome you to Alpha-2.”
Her eyes locked on the speaker, a man she would have guessed was in his early fifties if she hadn’t known he was fifty-eight. She’d studied the file on Governor Wells. Indeed, she had read it through completely. Twice. She believed in being prepared . . . and there had been precious little else for her to do on the voyage.
“Governor, it is a great pleasure to meet you at last. I have been an admirer from afar for many years.” There was truth to the platitude. Everett Wells had masterfully advanced through the civil service, considered somewhat of a “whiz kid” in his early years for his creative solutions to problems. But his carefully constructed career was in shambles now—all courtesy of the backwater rock she now stood on. Stanton had taken it as a warning. Wells had been too soft on the colonists, and now he was the butt of jokes back on Earth. She would not make the same mistake.
She would not be a punchline.
Wells inclined his head at her polite words before saying, “May I introduce you to Major Thornton, the commander of my colonial forces?”
“Major, I have heard wonderful things about you as well. You served in the Third Regiment at Beta-9, did you not?” Stanton hadn’t known Alexandra Thornton existed until she’d reviewed the dossiers of Alpha-2’s key personnel. But she was a politician at heart, and she knew how to work people who could be useful to her.
