by Jay Allan
“And they’re hitting us hard.”
“All right, Major. I’m sending you two more companies to strengthen your force, but that’s all I have to send you. With the encircling maneuver, we’re spread too thin to pull more off the line.
“Thornton, I’m counting on you to wipe out these attackers. Hold them at bay, and we’ll crush the main rebel force within an hour.”
“Yes, Major.” Thornton disconnected the comm. She looked down the line. A good third of her people were down already, at least along the section of line she could see . . . and she could feel the second rout coming. Half her survivors were frozen in place, their rifles silent as they struggled with their fear. And she could see movement, sense the veterans moving closer, using the cover well as they pressed their attack.
If I’m right, Damian is out there. And they haven’t had time to organize. If I can find him . . .
She knew what she had to do, but even as it came to her she could feel the knot in her stomach, the resistance to do what had to be done.
But Thornton was a veteran, too, and she had fought her way through hell and back. If one man dying—even Damian—could end this, she knew what her job required.
“You!” she said to a sergeant a few spots down the line.
“Me?” His eyes were wild, but at least he was still in the line. And he was the only person she could see that had any kinds of stripes or bars. One fucking NCO to help me hold off a wave of seasoned fighters.
But it’s what she had, and so she was going to use it.
“Yes. Come here.”
Swallowing, the man crawled over to her.
“You’re in charge, Sergeant—”
“Alonso, Major.”
“You’re in charge, Alonso. You fucking hold this line, you hear me? I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t care if you have to shoot our own people if they run, but you’re a goddamn sergeant, and I expect to find you and the rest of this line right here when I get back.”
“Yes, Major.” He said it with at least something resembling conviction, but she didn’t expect much. Not really . . .
Which is why I have to do this . . .
Her eyes scanned the woods. Nothing. She lunged to the side, crossing a small open area before plunging into a clump of trees, leaving one bewildered sergeant to try and hold the line.
She worked slowly forward, pausing every few meters to scan the area around her. She reminded herself she wasn’t a lone wolf sniper anymore; she was a major, in charge of the entire sector of the field, and second in command of the army. But she knew the battle rested on what happened now. And she could do more as a sniper in the next few minutes than she could as a major.
He has to be here somewhere.
She clutched her rifle tightly in her hands, leaning down, hiding behind the dense undergrowth of the forest. She moved forward, silent, almost undetectable, working her way toward the flank of the attacking column. Her eyes were sharp, and she saw movement in the leaves off to the side. She held her fire, though—it wasn’t Damian. Shooting would give away her position, so until she saw Damian, the only weapon she could use was stealth.
She paused, waiting for the soldier off to her flank to move forward. Then she continued on, turning inward, toward the center of the enemy force.
He will be close to the front line.
She knew Damian. Probably better than anyone in his own force, she suspected. He was calm in normal conditions, but she’d seen him before on the battlefield, and he was courageous, almost stupidly brave.
He was also a deadly warrior, she knew. A crack shot, cool and calm under fire.
But this isn’t a normal battle situation. Something pushed him to action, and he will still be conflicted. That’s my advantage.
She moved forward, passing several other troopers. For an instant, she thought one had spotted her. She froze, not moving at all, her hands tight on the assault rifle, ready to fire if there was no other choice. But the soldier only stopped for a few seconds. Then he resumed his advance.
She turned inward, looping around, moving toward what she suspected was the center of the enemy formation. Then she saw. Four troopers. No, five. They were clustered together, discussing something. They were wary—of course they are—every few seconds, one of them would look around before turning his attention back to the group. But it was clear they thought they were back from the main combat area.
She stopped, crouched down behind the dense bushes under the trees, watching the five men—no, four men and a woman—talking. It took a few seconds, perhaps half a minute, to spot her target. But then one of the soldiers moved to the side, and she could see him.
She stared at Damian even as she moved her rifle up slowly, careful not to rustle any leaves or bushes. In the last war, she’d killed three dozen enemy soldiers, mostly in situations like this. She’d served as a sniper for two years before she’d gotten command of her own section. It had been almost six years since then, but it felt as natural as ever . . . save for the fact that she was targeting a friend.
More than a friend.
Alex Thornton was a creature of duty. It was all she understood, the force that had driven her life, made her what she was. But now she could feel it faltering. There was no question about what duty required now, no doubt that killing Damian was the greatest blow she could strike to secure the federal army’s victory—not just in this fight, but in the rebellion as a whole. It could all end today, with the rebels crushed before they could grow their ranks and turn the uprising into a full-scale war. But for once, duty was failing her.
Despite the internal conflict, she still moved her face toward the rifle, positioning her eye in the sight. The weapon wasn’t the AI-assisted sniper’s rifle she used in the war, but it was good enough. It wasn’t even a difficult shot. Damian was less than two hundred meters away, standing in the open. It was better than she had hoped . . . a hunter’s dream.
But then she hesitated.
Her sniper’s instincts were on fire, the predatory nature of the job ready to take over. Her mission had always been to seek out the highest value targets, and right now Damian was the most dangerous man on Haven. He’d cultivated the mild-mannered farmer image, but she had seen him in battle before, witnessed his tactical brilliance. If the rebel army escaped the fight she knew Damian would turn them into a powerful force. Her duty, her oath . . . they all demanded that she end that threat now.
But she saw more than the man who could lead the rebellion. More than a significant threat. The man in her sights was an old comrade, a friend. They had fought together, shed blood together. Shared battlefields . . . and bedrolls. She knew this man. Every scar on his skin, the way his hands felt on her body. The way his mind worked. His dreams. His fears.
Could she kill him now, this man she had loved—still loved—without warning, without mercy?
She gripped the rifle tightly, and brought Damian into the crosshairs. She had to do it. Duty . . . it was her, the driving force that made Alex Thornton the person she was. She had killed before in the service of the federal cause even when she’d had her doubts. This was no different.
It couldn’t be different.
But she knew it was. She gritted her teeth, held herself rigidly as she tightened her finger. She had to shoot now. She’d managed to get around the enemy flank, to sneak up this close, but she knew her luck wouldn’t last. She’d be spotted sooner or later, and she was deep behind the enemy line, far from any support.
Shoot . . . and use the chaos to get away before they can react. Do it now . . .
Yet she continued to stare through the scope, the crosshairs dead in the middle of Damian’s head. She tried one more time to pull her finger back, to do the deed. To do her duty.
But she couldn’t. She sighed softly, and her grip on the rifle loosened. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill Damian. She still loved him . . . and for the first time in her life, duty just wasn’t enough.
CHAPTER 2
4
WOODS SOUTH OF DOVER VILLAGE
THE BATTLE OF DOVER, FINAL PHASE
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“Okay, you all have your orders.” Damian Ward stood in the small clearing, snapping out commands to the cluster of officers surrounding him. They didn’t look like the leaders of an army. They wore civilian clothes and, save for the odd piece or two of body armor a few of them wore, looked more like a group of farmers than soldiers.
Which is exactly what we were just a few hours ago.
“Now, let’s get back to the front. We’ve got to keep up the intensity. We have to break through before the rebels are defeated.”
There was a quick chorus of “yessirs,” and the group began to disperse, each of them heading off toward their makeshift commands.
Damian took a step forward and then a shot rang out, followed by another. And another. He could feel his heart pounding, the surge of adrenaline flowing through his bloodstream at the new danger.
Even as he processed what was going on, his instincts had taken over, and he was already running for the cover of the nearby trees. It only took a few seconds, but it seemed like forever. He’d made a mistake, been careless, allowed himself to underestimate the enemy. Despite his attempts to control his pride and arrogance, he was no different from most of the other veterans in viewing the federal security forces as something less than “real” soldiers.
“Sniper!” he heard coming from the woods to the west. Then more gunfire.
“Ben!” Damian crouched behind a large tree, staring over at his longtime aide as he did. “Take a squad and clear those woods.” He felt a moment of guilt. Going after snipers was dangerous business, and Withers was one of his oldest friends. But the soldier’s instincts were coming back to him, and on the field, need trumped friendship.
“Yes, sir!” Withers turned toward the small group of troopers standing behind him. “Let’s go,” he ordered.
Damian watched them move off. Then he turned and continued up toward the front. He didn’t like leaving Withers and the others behind, but he needed to be at the head of his soldiers.
He hurried his pace, jogging toward the front. He could hear the gunfire behind him increasing in intensity.
C’mon, Ben . . . make it through this . . .
Alex was running now. She knew she was making noise, drawing attention to herself . . .
But I’m pretty sure they already know I’m here.
Whoever was leading the troops hunting her damned sure knew what he or she was doing. She’d picked off one of her pursuers, but the rest had moved around, almost encircling her.
Not completely, though.
She hurried her pace, her eyes darting down every second or two, trying to spot the roots and branches in her path. She’d almost tripped twice, but she’d managed to regain her balance each time. It wasn’t ground for jogging, much less sprinting. But her only chance at escape now was a dead run.
She heard the gunfire. She was ahead of the enemy troopers, moving back and forth as she ran forward, denying her pursuers an easy target. She was breathing hard, from fear as much as exertion. She’d taken a crazy risk sneaking around the enemy force alone. It had paid off—or it would have if she’d pulled the trigger. She hadn’t, though, and now all she could do was run for her life.
Her heart pounded, and the sweat on her neck was pouring down her back. She was putting more distance between her and the soldiers on her tail—at least, she thought so. And she was close, she knew, to reaching her own lines. To relative safety. But then she heard it, a sound just off to her right.
She spun around, perceiving the threat and bringing her rifle around.
Too late.
The man was less than thirty meters from her, with a clear line of fire even through the woods. And he shot even as she was bringing her own weapon to bear.
The first round took her in the side of her chest, almost in the shoulder. She perceived the impact, but she didn’t feel the pain, not at first.
She tried to ignore it, channeling all her strength and focus into aiming her own weapon. Her only chance was taking out her attacker, but her enemy had a massive advantage now. He was only a second faster than her, but Alex Thornton had seen enough war. A second was enough. She was beaten, finished. Or she should be.
But it wasn’t in her to give up.
Another round slammed into her, forcing the breath from her lungs. She definitely felt the pain this time, and she stumbled back, struggling to stay on her feet. She finally fired her own rifle, but she’d lost her aim, and her bullets flew far above her target.
Then another shot, in the chest again. She felt her breath pouring from her lungs. Her legs went numb, and she could feel herself falling, the pain as she slammed onto the cold ground.
She tried to hang on to her rifle, but her grip was weak, and it skittered away as she fell.
She gasped for air, feeling the pain, struggling to keep the fear at bay. She’d been wounded before, but this was different. She was in bad shape, every breath an agony . . . and she was behind enemy lines, far from help.
She looked up at the sky, a small patch of blue visible through a gap in the forest canopy. It was blue, as blue and perfect as any Earth day.
I’ve been here four years, and I never noticed how wonderful Haven really is.
Such a waste . . .
She felt an instant of panic, but then the fear subsided. She’d always known she could end up like this . . . and she was damned if she’d face it crying. She’d seen enough young men and women like that, panicking, bawling for their mothers. She’d never thought less of them; indeed, she’d tried to comfort as many as she could. But that wasn’t her.
Enemy soldiers were moving on her even now. Her side might lose the battle, and she might die where she lay. But whatever happened, she would face it like a warrior. She would keep her dignity.
That was the duty she owed herself.
Crack.
Damian’s rifle spat out death. Then again. And again. The federal troopers were running now, even the few who had stood firm at first were now routed, throwing down their weapons and running for their lives.
“Keep moving!”
He advanced as he shouted out the order. A sound to the right caught his attention, and he whipped his rifle around and fired, dropping another federal. He didn’t like shooting at fleeing soldiers, but he’d seen too many forces rally and return to the fight. And he knew the federal army was still larger than his force and Danforth’s Guardians combined.
He looked around, moving carefully from one covered position to the next, but always pressing forward. There was almost no enemy fire, but he was a veteran, and he knew carelessness got soldiers killed.
“Keep moving!” he shouted, turning his head and screaming in the other direction.
He stopped suddenly, listening. He could hear shooting up ahead, a soft rumble through the dense woods.
It’s time . . . either we roll up the federal army and send them fleeing back to Landfall . . .
Or we get caught in the center, surrounded alongside the Guardians . . . and end up just another three hundred dead, extinguished along with the spark of revolution . . .
“Let’s go!” He held his rifle in the air as he shouted the command. “To victory.”
Then he plunged forward, rushing to the final fight.
The overturned trailer was good cover, large, heavy enough to stop at least a normal round. Danforth crouched behind, pulling cartridges from the ammunition box and handing them to his fighters. He was proud of his Guardians, of the courage these ordinary farmers and workers had shown. They had no real training, just the few exercises Danforth had managed to arrange. Few of them had ever been shot at, at least before Vincennes, but they were holding their own against the federal forces that surrounded them.
For what that was worth.
Because the battle was all but lost. Worse, it had beco
me a fight to the death. He’d ordered the Guardians to surrender, to throw themselves on the mercy of the victorious federals . . . but the enemy had refused them quarter.
The fact was, he was scared to death. He was also ashamed, especially when he admitted to himself he was handing out ammo partly because it let him stay behind the trailer, back at least a few meters from the front line.
He considered himself an honest man, and the work he had done to prepare the Guardians, to push Haven toward taking a stand against federal tyranny . . . it had all been sincere. He truly believed his home world would be better without the tight controls Federal America imposed, that its people would flourish if they were allowed freedom to do as they chose. It was a dream, one full of optimism and high-minded ideals.
But now he had seen men and women die—people he had essentially ordered to their deaths. He had watched his own cousin slip away, bleeding to death from his wounds. He still believed in liberty, but his idealism had all but faded, replaced by a grim cynicism. The cost of liberty was just too much blood.
If it was even possible anymore.
I understand Damian better now, I think. He’s seen war, watched men and women die in the hundreds. Would I still have pushed for rebellion if I had truly comprehended what it was like? It is one thing to speak of war, of heroic death on the field, quite another to see . . . this.
He grabbed the last few cartridges, handing them to the next trooper. She was young, perhaps eighteen . . . and perhaps not. She had her brown hair pulled back tightly, and her face was twisted into an angry scowl. There was no youth left there, no optimism. Only the cold-blooded eyes of a killer.
A killer I created.
Is this what you wanted? To unleash such fury on this world?
But intentions mattered little now. What mattered was that he had opened Pandora’s box, and he was responsible for the monsters that now stalked Haven.
Danforth shoved the empty crate aside, waving to a pair of his people carrying another over. He turned and looked out at the thinning line of his people. They were behind trees, barricades, piles of shattered brick and stone. There were bodies everywhere, some of them clearly dead, others wounded, moaning in pain, crying to their comrades for help. Those who could move were staggering toward the rear.
