by Jay Allan
“You’re reading my mind, Damian,” Tucker Jones said. He had served for a time in the same company as Damian, though they were never particularly close. “But we have come to a difficult place. It is all well to speak of allegiances and loyalty. But it seems now that war is unavoidable. Do we really believe we will be able to stand apart from it? To remain neutral even as both sides demand our participation?”
“Tucker is right, Damian,” Kerr said. “I want peace. But is that a choice we truly have, or is it just wishful thinking? Put another way: What will you do, Damian, if the rebel leadership comes to you seeking your aid? Or the governor? Would you refuse the revolutionaries, risk more attacks and vandalism? Or would you risk the wrath of the governor . . . and of this new federal observer?”
“Forget that—what if they call us back to duty?” Luci interjected. “What if we receive notice to report, to take the field to crush the rebellion? We are all on reserve status. By the papers we signed, the oaths we swore, they have every right to do so. Can you imagine donning your old uniform . . . and shooting your neighbors down if they refuse to yield?”
Damian’s head was pounding. No—I definitely don’t want the mantle. Yet, somehow, that’s exactly the position he found himself in. Everyone was asking him questions that, try as he might, he didn’t have any answers to. He said as much.
“I honestly don’t know if there are answers to your questions. At least, none with any degree of certitude. I, for one, though, will do nothing. I will conduct the business of this farm. If I am left to my own affairs, I will not interfere with events that do not concern me. If those who work on my farm wish to leave and join revolutionary forces, I shall do nothing. If they want to join the colonial forces, I would not stop them either. I will neither aid nor hinder them . . . but I will not join them.”
The room was quiet for a few seconds, nothing but the crackling of the logs in the fireplace breaking the silence. Finally, Kerr spoke. “I know you have not sought to be our leader. But we’ve placed that on your shoulders anyway. You are the one we will follow, Damian, though I suspect this fact is little but a burden to you. And I, for one, will stand with you, follow your decisions.” He looked around the room. “I suspect everyone here will do the same. And the other veterans, the noncoms and privates . . . they will look to all of us for direction. Are we agreed? That we stand together with Damian. That we remain neutral, and resist all efforts of both sides to draw us into any conflict.”
“Agreed,” Tucker Jones said.
The others in the room followed suit almost immediately. All except Luci Morgan. She sat quietly for a second and then said, “I am with you all, of course. But I ask again: How will we respond if we are called back to service? A refusal is a violation of all we have sworn. It is also a crime. Do we ignore such a call, sit on our farms, and wait to see what the governor—or the observer—does in response? Do we encourage the other veterans to do the same, to risk all they have, their very freedom even, in pursuit of a neutrality that may not be possible?”
Damian looked at Morgan. He remembered her from the war. Though they hadn’t served in the same unit, he knew her reputation as a gifted officer and a no-nonsense tactician. And now she’s cut right to the point, to the one action that would force us to choose a side.
And once more, he had no satisfying answer for her.
“I don’t know, Luci,” he said. “We will just have to proceed as we can and wait and see what happens.” He didn’t like the uncertainty of the plan, and he doubted any of the others did either. But what were the alternatives?
“And if things change, we’ll decide what to do then.”
“I am with you . . . of course. But I suggest we all consider now how we will react to changes in the situation. Being ordered to active status is only one of the possibilities. What if an army—from either side—marches across our farms? What if they raid and plunder from us? What if one side employs a level of brutality beyond that we are willing to allow? Would we stand by if extreme rebel groups continue to ambush and murder colonial regulars? Would we sit and do nothing if the federal observer sets up death camps and begins a program of genocide against all those suspected of rebel sympathies? Don’t fool yourselves—this is a war already. It’s going to happen. Don’t allow wishful thinking to replace cold judgment. And because it’s war, these are all possibilities. We may not be given actual choices in the future. We may be forced into one side or the other. Indeed, that is almost a certainty in my estimation. So we can’t just watch and see. We have to—at least—all consider this: What side would that be?”
And this is why I don’t want to be the leader. But he wasn’t one to ever shirk responsibility, and if he was their man, he’d do his duty to them.
“Luci is right. But I also worry about what it would mean for us to voice our opinions right now. I do disagree with her—there is still a chance this war might be averted. A small one, sure, but I won’t dismiss hope so easily. So I suggest we modify my original proposal. We will remain neutral, at least as long as that is a possibility that remains open to us. In the meantime, though, I strongly urge you to decide what side you expect to be on if we’re sucked in. Know that I won’t accept recriminations based on what others decide. You are to search your own conscience, and if we’re forced to make an action, we will convene one more time and decide on a new course of action. If we find ourselves opposed, I will be saddened by that, but no one who comes to this room for that meeting will be in danger from anyone here—I pledge my oath on that. After, we’ll either stay united, or go our separate ways. Until then, though, we are all in agreement to stay out of it, yes?”
A somber chorus of agreement echoed throughout the room. He didn’t know what would happen, or if they would be able to maintain neutrality, but the veterans of Haven were united with each other. For the time being at least. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew in his gut it was something.
His eyes darted over toward Jamie. His friend had remained respectfully silent, but Damian could see his inner torment writ large across his face. Jamie had been outraged at the observer’s speech, and if Damian had to guess, he’d say the young man was struggling with himself, as he had in the mine, fighting the urge to take up arms, to strike back at Federal America’s tyranny.
To atone for the perceived sin of selling out to save his own skin.
It wasn’t true, of course, but no matter how many times Damian tried to point that out, it hadn’t penetrated the shield of guilt and resentment surrounding his friend. He’d keep trying, though, because that’s what he promised Jamie he’d do. He would counsel calm, and he knew Katia would do the same. All the same, though, if Jamie decided to go, he would not stand in the way. He had meant what he’d said to the room. He’d made his own decision, but he also knew, if he’d been in Jamie’s position, if he had gone through what his friend had, he would be just as anxious to strike back.
“I was told I could load my shipment as soon as the stalemate at the mine was over. It is almost two weeks later, and you are still telling me there is no ore.” Sasha Nerov was trying to remain calm, but the tension burned in her gut like fire. Things had been bad enough before, but now with the federal observer in charge and the new soldiers patrolling the streets, the planet was a powder keg. Her run would be dangerous enough, and she wanted to get on her way before open war broke out.
“I am sorry, Captain Nerov. Mine production is delayed until further notice. The facility was badly damaged in the fighting, and there are inadequate staffing levels to resume full operations at present.”
Maybe if you hadn’t killed all the prisoners, you’d have a goddamn mining staff!
Nerov felt the frustration bubbling up inside her, but she swallowed it down. Hard. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself.
The clerk behind the desk looked down at a small screen for a few seconds, then back at Nerov.
“I’m afraid there is another problem as well, Captain
. Pursuant to the orders of the federal observer, a hold has been placed on your vessel pending further investigation. You will be required to appear for an interview at which you will be compelled to present your records documenting your last three ports of call.”
Nerov felt her stomach clench, and not out of anger this time. She’d been worried about an increased level of port security in the wake of the institution of the blockade. Now those fears took shape, morphed into reality.
Granted, she had all her documents in order, and her ship’s records and security logs as well. They were all fake, of course. Good fakes, too. But there was no such thing as a perfect forgery. Enough scrutiny would turn something up that raised questions. And that would be the end. It wouldn’t take more than suspicion to get her and her entire crew arrested as smugglers.
And it might not take more than suspicion to get us all hanged either . . .
Nerov was a quick thinker, though—you didn’t survive long in this business if you weren’t. So if Vagabond wasn’t lifting off anytime soon anyway, she figured she’d rather be aggressive and push to get her review right away in order to deflect suspicion. “That is no problem. I will assemble the required documents immediately. When can I schedule the interview?”
“We can do it immediately, Captain Nerov. If you will just wait here, I will . . .”
And they called my bluff.
Shit.
Nerov felt a controlled panic taking hold. Her mind shifted, the clerk’s words slipping away as she focused on the reality.
“I don’t have the records with me. Perhaps we can—”
“That is not a problem, Captain Nerov. You can provide the records after the interview.”
Her mind focused like a laser. She was about to be arrested. She knew she had to do something. She looked behind her. There were two guards in view, both on the other end of the open concourse, at the security station. And the man behind the desk was staring down at a screen, his hands hidden from her view, obviously moving over a keyboard.
The clerk is calling for soldiers. You have to make your move now . . .
She nodded to the clerk, as if agreeing. Then she turned and took off, running down toward the door. It wasn’t an elegant plan, certainly, but she knew every second she waited was time for more troops to appear.
She was unarmed—she’d had to leave her pistol outside of the building, on the other side of the security checkpoint. So she wasn’t going to fight her way out, not against any real numbers.
All she could do then was keep moving. She did so as quickly as she could, pushing several people out of her way as she headed for the exit. She had gotten halfway there before she heard the sound of the alarm. Her eyes darted toward the two guards at the entrance. The exit was to the side, perhaps five meters from the entry checkpoint. One of the guards was moving to intercept her.
She kept going, ignoring the soldier’s yells for her to stop. She watched as he pulled up his weapon, and she realized he’d shoot her long before she got to him. There was no way she was going to escape just by running.
She slowed her pace, put her arms up in the air as she got closer to the guard. He had his rifle on her, and he was barking out angry commands, telling her to lie down on the floor.
She kept moving forward, though, slowing and keeping her hands up, but not stopping. He repeated the command, but he had waited too long. She was less than a meter in front of him. Close enough . . .
“I surrender.”
She leaned forward, looking as though she was dropping to the floor as he’d commanded. Then she stopped abruptly and took a gulp of air before lunging up with her knee, slamming it into the soldier’s gut.
The man howled in pain and fell back a step, doubled over. Nerov swung to the side, reaching out and grabbing the soldier’s rifle, wresting it from his hand.
Her head spun around, toward the other soldier. He was responding to what she had done . . . but his surprise at her sudden move slowed him. Nerov brought her weapon around and fired. Then again.
And now he was slowed even more.
The guard fell, blood pouring from both his legs. Nerov was a crack shot—another vestige of her shadowy past—but she knew actually killing a guard could only make her position worse, so she’d disabled him instead.
She turned back toward the first soldier. He was pulling himself up, reaching toward the rifle in her hands to try to grab it. She pulled back hard, but he managed to grab hold, and the two struggled for control of the weapon. She knew he was stronger, that eventually he would wrest it from her. And time wasn’t on her side—she could already see other security forces approaching. If she was going to escape, she had about five seconds . . .
She lunged forward, letting go of the weapon at the same time and slipping around the soldier, positioning herself to his side, almost behind him. She lashed out with her arm, connecting with the guard’s neck. It was a move she knew well, one she’d learned long ago as part of her martial arts training. It wasn’t a death move, but if it was done correctly, it would render the target unconscious. And she had done it perfectly.
The soldier collapsed, and she took off again before he even hit the ground. Her path was clearer now. The crowd had scattered in response to the disturbance, running away from the fight, toward the other end of the concourse.
Nerov pushed herself harder, racing through the doors and out into the midday sunshine. She moved to the side, to a trash receptacle just outside the entrance. She kicked it over, dumping its contents on the walkway and fishing through them for a second.
She reached down and grabbed the weapon she’d stashed there before entering the spaceport. It was a small pistol, military grade, relatively easy to hide yet powerful, with considerable hitting power. She wrapped her hand around it, feeling the grip she’d worn smooth over years of use.
She looked behind her, and then around. She’d fight if she had to, but she knew running was her only real chance. So that’s exactly what she did. Sasha raced along the walkway, out into the crowds on the street, slipping the pistol inside her jacket.
Once in the open, she changed to a quick walk. She moved to the intersection ahead and turned onto the cross street. There were cameras everywhere, she knew, but it would take some time for her pursuers to access the network. She simply had to be gone by then, out of sight.
Yes—real simple.
She kept moving, turning again onto a small side street, one populated mostly with trashy bars, serving the crews from the ships in the spaceport. She passed half a dozen of them and then slipped quickly inside a door under a sign that read Louis’s.
The place was mostly deserted. It was late morning, early even for the most die-hard spacers to drink themselves into a stupor. She flashed a glance at an old man standing behind the bar.
“I’m in trouble, Louie. They’re looking for me.”
The man nodded, his expression noncommittal. “You’re the last one I expected to have to hide, Sasha.”
“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes.”
You knew you should lie low, she thought, wait and not push so hard. But you let your sympathies for the rebels control your judgment. All that platinum hadn’t helped.
Fool.
She moved behind the bar as the man pulled open a small trapdoor. “You can’t stay down there. It’s too risky. You’ll have to slip out through the sewers, Sash. The way things have been going, if they come in here, they’ll search every millimeter of the place.”
“I’m gone, Louie. I’ll be out of here in thirty seconds.” She stepped down into the opening, her legs moving around, finding the rungs of the rickety wooden ladder leading down to the storeroom. She lowered herself halfway down and paused, looking up. “Thanks, Louie.”
“Anytime, Sash. I owe you more than one, that’s for sure.” He reached under the bar, grabbing something and handing it down to her.
She flipped on the flashlight he’d given her and continued down, her feet landing on the
rough concrete floor just as the bartender closed the door above her.
She moved across the dimly lit area, slipping around stacks of crates. She reached the far wall, and she put her free hand out, feeling around for the lever. It was well-hidden, one of the best-constructed secret doors she had ever seen. She could hear her heart beating, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before her pursuers tracked her down to the Spacer’s District. As far as she knew, there weren’t any working street cameras in the area—the smugglers and other rogues who frequented the bars and brothels destroyed them as quickly as the authorities could replace them. But the soldiers would search all the establishments on the block. If they caught her here, she knew Louie would go down with her. And however dark and shady her past, Sasha Nerov did not sell out her friends.
Click.
There it was. She pushed harder, and the device clicked again. Then a small panel on the wall slid open. A wave of stench came blasting out at her. Most of Landfall had modern utility systems, neatly laid out underground passages with enclosed sewer pipes alongside power conduits and communications lines. But the Spacer’s District had grown up over the initial settlements, streets, and buildings built before Haven’s settlers had access to large quantities of high-tech materials, and its infrastructure had as much in common with seventeenth century Paris as it did with a modern city.
She took one last breath of the stale but comparatively refreshing air of the cellar, and then she climbed through the passage, sealing it closed behind her.
It was pitch-black in the sewer, and she turned on the small light Louie had given her. It was bright enough to illuminate her way, but she knew it could just as easily give her away if anyone was down here looking for her. But she’d risk that—she had no desire to be stuck down here without light.
They won’t get to the sewers for a while. I’ll have time to get out of here.
