by Jay Allan
The regs he’d used to justify ending their relationship, the prohibition on sexual relations between officers and noncommissioned personnel, were valid, but they were also widely ignored in the service. He had believed he was just following the rules, or at least he had convinced himself of that, but now he realized he’d used his promotion as an excuse to end the relationship.
She spared my life . . . but would I have done the same? Or would I have seen the enemy commander, understood the effect her loss would have on her soldiers?
Would I have killed her, this woman who was once so close, this loyal friend . . . and old lover?
“Alex, I am so sorry,” he said again, knowing it didn’t come close to conveying what he was feeling. “The medic is coming.” It was a lame thing to say, he knew, but it was all he could manage.
“I don’t need a medic, Damian. We both know that.” There was sadness in her words, but mostly quiet resignation.
He looked down at her, squeezed her hand. His mind was reeling, his emotions swirling. Affection, at least, for her, if not love. Guilt. Sorrow.
She turned her head slowly, looking up at him.
“Do not cry for me, Damian . . . do not grieve. We are soldiers, you and I—warriors. It is what we were born for. We may crave peace, imagine quiet sunsets and lives filled with joy and love, but that stuff isn’t for us. We’re good at fighting for them, not living them. We hear the horn of war blowing. It calls to us and we can’t ignore its summons. It’s why I joined the colonial forces, when I might have followed a civilian path. It led you to this field today. We are not destined to die in soft beds, surrounded by children and grandchildren, Damian, as much as we might want that. It is here, in the red-tinged mud of the battlefield, amid the cries of the wounded that we will meet our ends, me today . . . and you, my friend, my old love . . . I would have it be many years from now for you.”
He’d lost friends before, watched comrades die on the battlefield, but this was the worst, the hardest to endure.
It gutted him.
“I was a fool, Alex. Please forgive me. We should have been together. I . . .
“I love you.”
She looked up at him, but the focus was gone again from her eyes. Her lips curled into a tiny smile. “You were never a good liar, my love.”
Then she laid her head down, took a deep breath . . . and fell silent.
Alexandra Thornton was dead.
CHAPTER 26
FEDERAL BUILDING
LANDFALL CITY, GOVERNMENT DISTRICT
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“You can’t allow this! We can still salvage the situation. We don’t have to behave like animals.”
Everett Wells stood in front of his old desk—technically still his, on loan, more or less, to the federal observer. His face was red, and there was sweat beading along his hairline. He flashed a glare at Semmes before returning his gaze to Stanton.
“Please . . . reconsider this. It is just this kind of heavy-handed action that drove the veterans into the rebel camp . . . and cost you the victory at Dover. And now you want to escalate further?”
Stanton sat silently for a few seconds. She felt tired—not surprising since she’d been up two nights straight. “I’m sorry, Everett, but things have gone too far. I was sent here to restore order on Alpha-2, and I intend to do just that. I would have preferred to see it done with a minimum of bloodshed, but it is clear that is not going to be the case.” She stared right at Wells.
My God, he looks more exhausted than I am . . .
“And I have no intention of being stuck here for years as you have been, nor of letting this place destroy my career.”
Stanton didn’t relish approving the measures Semmes had brought to her. They were brutal, the plan of a man who had been born a sadist. But she didn’t share Wells’s optimism that the rebels could be contained by negotiation, and she knew damned well the senate would never agree to pardon colonists who had risen in armed revolt and killed federal soldiers. Especially not after the losses at Dover. The rebels had set the agenda; they had left her no choice. She had to see it through, however . . . uncomfortable . . . that would be.
“Asha . . .”
“I’m sorry, Everett, I really am. But this has gone too far. My God, Major Thornton was among the dead at Dover. She served under you during your entire term here. Are you content to allow those responsible for her death to walk away unpunished?” She held up her hand. “Don’t answer—it doesn’t matter. The die has been cast. What comes next is out of my hands.”
She looked down at the tablet in front of her, and then up at Semmes. She pressed her thumb against the screen, and then she handed it to her military commander. “Your requests are approved, Colonel.” She stood up, moving slowly toward the door. Instead of opening it, however, she looked back at Semmes. “I’ve given you the tools and political cover to do what you must. But I expect to see this rebellion crushed as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“And Governor Wells is correct about one thing. Your issuance of recall notices to the veterans was a foolish mistake, one that cost us a chance to end this destructive conflict at Dover. No more mistakes, Colonel. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. I understand.”
His scowl on his face told a different story.
Pout all you want, Semmes. You might have the family pedigree, but I have command. And I’m not going to sit here and let you sabotage it. I need you—your decisiveness, even your brutality. But you’re just a weapon in my arsenal like any other. And we’re going to break this rebellion.
“One more cheer—for our friends, our neighbors, who came to our aid, who allowed us to win the victory!” John Danforth stood on top of a tractor, shouting out to the crowd clustered around him. There were Guardians there, and the others who had rallied to their cause . . . and there were veterans, too, the men and women Damian Ward had led to save the rebellion from destruction.
The sound was loud, though, almost deafening. Hundreds of rebels raised their hands above their heads, and shouts of “Victory!” filled the air. The veterans were scattered throughout the multitudes, and all around, the Guardians reached out to them, offering hands and hugs, and speaking personal words of thanks.
Victory. What victory? More like survival . . .
Danforth continued. “And now, the commander who led these veteran warriors to our aid, one of our own all Havenites know, a war hero and a man I am proud to call my friend: Damian Ward.” Danforth looked down from his perch, gesturing for Damian to join him.
Damian took a deep breath. His thoughts were elsewhere: with Alex, with the reawakened beast inside him. He was imagining what Semmes was doing, what response the psychopath would devise to avenge his humiliation.
“Damian . . .”
He wanted more than anything to be left alone, to brood on what had happened, and on what was likely to come. But Danforth knew how to handle a crowd, and the rebels were chanting Damian’s name, urging him to address them.
He climbed up the tractor, moving next to Danforth. The crowd’s volume rose, hundreds of men and women shouting his name again and again. He raised his hands, gesturing for the crowd to be silent, but they just continued screaming his name, cheering wildly.
“Please . . . please . . .” He waved his arms as he spoke, and slowly, gradually, the shouting died down.
“Thank you, thank you all. I—we—are honored by all this. As you know, many of us have been reluctant to join the rebellion. But we’re here now, ready to fight alongside you. And that means we must all move forward. Reluctant or not, we are all rebels now. There is no other way to secure freedom for Haven, no path that leads to anything but destruction and tyranny.” Damian glanced at Danforth. “I applaud the efforts of my friend John Danforth—and I urge all of you to remember always those who have sacrificed all they had to our cause. Tyler Danforth . . . and the
hundreds who died in battle here at Dover and at Vincennes.”
And Alex Thornton, who was nothing but a loyal soldier and a woman who deserved better than to love me . . .
“I also thank all the men and women who followed me into the fire today,” he said, addressing the veterans. “My gratitude for your help today, for your skill and courage—I have no words. But please know: you are under no obligation. You have sworn no oath to join the rebellion. You each risked your life in battle, but if you wish to leave, know you go with all our thanks. If you stay here, I know the Guardians will gladly welcome you and your expertise, and the chances for a free Haven will be that much greater because of your presence.
“And I swear this now—I will be right here with you! I am with you, all of you, and I shall fight until Haven is free!”
He looked back at Danforth and turned to climb back down, but he felt a hand grabbing his arm, holding him in place. John Danforth stood there, smiling, waving. The crowd was cheering loudly, but Danforth wasn’t done.
“Damian Ward!” he said, and the cheering escalated. He looked at Damian, then back out over the mob.
Damian caught a look in Danforth’s eye, and he felt a rush of discomfort.
What is he doing now?
Danforth spoke. “I have done all I could to enable this rebellion, to provide it what it needs to succeed. And I am forever a patriot—forever a Guardian of Liberty—of Haven! But . . . but I am no military leader.”
No . . .
“I don’t have the skills, the strength, to lead our army to victory.”
Please, no.
“There is one here, though, who has those skills. Who has that strength. Who has shown, today, that he is a natural leader.”
John . . .
“I hereby propose that we appoint him the commander of all rebel forces, the general in chief of the army of Haven! By acclamation, I ask you to approve our new commander, Damian Ward!”
The crowd roared its assent. Damian just stood there, numb. He wanted to refuse, to slip back into the crowd, to serve as a soldier, even an officer. Anything but commander. But then he saw his own people, the veterans . . . and they were cheering even louder than the others.
He stood still, silent, trying to decide how to refuse . . . but then he realized he was trapped. But there was no refusing. There was no scenario he could envision where he didn’t take command. There was no way out, none that wouldn’t threaten the future of the army, of the rebellion.
So finally, he just raised an arm into the air, nodding his assent . . . and he stood atop the tractor looking out at the soldiers of the rebellion—his soldiers now. He felt the turmoil inside, the hopeless need to escape. But he knew what he had to do.
“To victory!”
Johnson felt sick. He’d left most of his lunch on the tray, eating only a dry piece of bread, but now even that threatened to come back up.
Kendrick Johnson was a federal soldier, loyal to his oath and to his comrades. Until a few days before, he’d boiled with rage, anger at the citizens of Alpha-2 for the friends he’d lost in the mine, and at the governor for attempting to deny the fallen soldiers justice. He’d craved vengeance against the rebels, and he’d longed to make them pay in blood for all they had done.
Now he’d seen enough of blood. Too much. He was choking on it. He’d fought at Vincennes, and at Dover, too. He’d lost more comrades in both those bloody fights . . . but he’d seen the rebels paying the same price, watched as his enemies showed their courage, their own devotion to their cause and comrades. He still felt anger at them for causing the war, but there was something else there now, too. Respect, or at least the beginnings of it. He disagreed with their politics, opposed the “right” they claimed to cast aside their nation and government. But he knew now they would fight, that many of them would die, before they would surrender their ideals.
War was bad enough—and he had to admit to himself he’d never been so scared to death as he had been at Vincennes and Dover—but this duty was a nightmare.
“This is it.” He looked at the house, glancing down at the tablet in his hand. He hesitated for a few seconds before he nodded at one of his troopers.
The soldier moved forward, holding a thick metal cylinder. He stopped at the door, gesturing with his head to the trooper standing behind him. The two men gripped the ram and swung it against the door of the farmhouse.
The cylinder slammed against the wood with a loud crash, breaking through in one section and sending a large crack running down the length. They pulled it back and swung again, this time sending the shattered door back, shards of splintered wood flying everywhere, leaving a small remnant hanging from the upper hinge.
Johnson stood where he was, listening to the sound of a woman screaming inside. “Go!” He waved to the line of armed soldiers, standing with their rifles ready.
The corporal at the head of the detachment nodded. “Yes, Sergeant!” His rifle snapped down, held out in front of him. “Detachment, forward.”
His detachment of the soldiers ran into the house, and he stood and listened to the screams, a woman inside shouting and also the cries of children. He closed his eyes, and just for a moment he was somewhere else . . . anywhere. But orders were orders.
His soldiers came out of the house, pushing the woman forward. She was bleeding from her mouth, her face covered with a bruise almost certainly caused by the impact of a rifle stock. She’d been screaming before—and most likely fighting with his soldiers—but now the will to resist was gone, and she just whimpered as the troopers pushed two children through the wreckage of the door.
“Please . . .” The woman turned toward Johnson, tears flowing down her face as she spoke. “We haven’t done anything . . . we’re just farmers. Please . . .”
Johnson wanted to let her go; he wanted to tell her to take her children and find someplace to hide.
God do I want that.
“Where is Henry Rivers?” he said again, trying to sound as emotionless as possible. It would do no one any good—not him, and not this woman—if he gave the impression he could be swayed from carrying out his orders.
He wondered if he was even close to hiding his emotions.
“He’s . . . working in the fields . . .”
Johnson winced. It wasn’t even a good lie.
“Really? Working in the fields? The fields we passed on our way here? The deserted ones, that look like they haven’t been tended to in weeks?” He paused. “You mean he’s not with the rebel army? He did not take up arms against his rightful government? He didn’t shed the blood of federal soldiers? He is not guilty of high treason?”
Johnson stared at the woman. He wasn’t waiting for answers. He knew all he needed to know.
“Take them.” His voice was cold, but it was more from the emptiness he felt inside than from any hatred for these colonists. His orders left him no latitude. He’d been provided with suspects, lists of residences of men and women suspected of fighting with the rebel forces . . . but he’d also been directed to arrest any members of a household with people missing. The absence of any documented adult member of a household was to be considered proof of rebel activity. It was one of Colonel Semmes’s directives—the families of all men and women in armed rebellion were to be arrested at once. And any who resisted were to be shot.
“No, please . . . my children . . . we haven’t done anything . . .”
“Take them to the transport.” He gestured toward the large truck his people were using as a mobile jail. There were a dozen people in there already, mostly elderly and children.
He turned and walked back toward his own transport, trying as hard as he could to ignore the woman’s continued cries.
“Jamie!” Damian ran to his friend, his gloom momentarily fading.
“Damian!” Jamie leapt to his feet, wincing as he turned too quickly. Damian could see why: he had bandages in three different places.
“I’m glad to see you, you crazy fool.” Da
mian embraced his friend, loosening his grip when Jamie winced once more. “Sorry . . .”
“It’s nothing. Just a few scratches.” Jamie paused. “I was surprised when I heard it was your people attacking the federals. I didn’t think you’d change your mind.”
“I won’t lie to you, Jamie: I would have stayed out of it if I could have. But in the end I had no choice. None of us did.”
“Damian—Katia . . .”
“She’s fine, Jamie. She’s safe at least. And her father. He’s still in rough shape, but he’s going to make it.”
Jamie sighed hard. “Thank you so much, Damian. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“Damian . . .” It was Danforth, running up from the half-standing building they’d chosen as the army HQ.
“What is it, John?”
“We’re getting reports . . . it’s terrible.”
Damian looked around. There was clearly a disturbance in the camp, rebel troops moving around, gathering in groups.
“General Ward . . .” A small cluster of troopers moved toward Damian, the woman at their head calling out to their new commander.
“What is it?” he asked, not sure if he would get used to being called “general.”
“We got word from home, sir. It’s the federals. They came to my house. They took my mother, my father, my little brother . . .”
“And my wife . . . and my children . . .”
“They came to the village where I live, too, sir . . . and they hauled everyone away. My son here—” a man pointed to a boy of perhaps twelve standing at his side “—he was out in the woods. He managed to escape, but he saw everything . . .”
Damian stood and listened to the accounts, almost a dozen of them. The weight pressed on him with each telling. It was as he’d told Danforth: the war was starting to suck in the innocent.
He turned toward Danforth. “We’ve got to get out the word, send out parties, warn the people. We have to get to the rest of the towns and villages around Landfall before the federals. We’ll bring the civilians here. They must grab what they can quickly and come at once.”
