by Jay Allan
“Yes, Jamie, it is.” Damian paused. “But watch your back anyway.”
“Always. And you, too, Damian. But also, don’t forget, you’re not in this alone. We’re all here to help you. Let us. Share the burden.”
Damian nodded. Jamie’s friendship was important to him, but he’d taken one lesson to heart as he’d accepted the general’s stars and command of the army. All the senior officers he’d respected in his days as a sergeant and a lieutenant had borne the weight of their positions alone. He would do the same. He would put the skills of those under him to work, demand the very best from each of them. But in the end, the ultimate responsibility was his. Victory or defeat, it all hung on his actions, on whether he, a jumped-up junior officer promoted far beyond his experience, could adjust to army command. He was scared to death, not of the enemy, but of himself, of failing to live up to what the rebellion needed from him. Of letting his brave soldiers and fellow Havenites down. As much as he dreaded the responsibilities and feared he would not prove up to the task, he knew there was no one else better qualified.
“You’ll do it, Damian,” Grant said, almost as though he was reading his friend’s mind. “We all have faith in you. Haven is lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, Jamie.” Damian saw Grant begin to salute, but he leaned in and hugged his friend instead. A moment’s lapse of discipline wasn’t going to do any undue damage to the army.
“Now go, Captain. Lead your people out.”
Grant stepped back and saluted. “Take care of yourself, General Ward.”
“And you, Captain.” Damian returned the salute, and then he watched Grant walk crisply away. His friend had been nothing but sincere with his words, but they had only increased the pressure on the general. His friends, supporters, the army, hundreds of thousands of Havenites, all depending on his skills. And for all they made of his supposed skills, he’d never led more than sixty soldiers in battle before the previous year. Even then, he’d been in direct command of only his small group of veterans.
How the hell are you going to command ten thousand soldiers, and lead them to victory?
Victory against a real army, one you once served. Against old comrades, friends. Veterans.
Chapter 7
Federal Flagship Oceania
Approaching Orbital Platform
Above Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
“Well, Admiral Taggart? Is the fleet ready to proceed?” Semmes was sitting on Oceania’s flag bridge, at a spare workstation. The federal flagship was approaching Alpha-2, nearly within combat range of the orbital fortress the rebels had seized a year before. That act, as outrageously daring and seemingly impossible as it had been, was the one that had destroyed the chances to defeat the rebellion in its early stages.
“Yes, General Semmes. We must decide if we will attempt to retake the orbital facility or if we . . .”
“Destroy it, Admiral.” Semmes’s voice dripped with arrogance and frigid hatred. Normally the chain of command between an admiral and a general would be tenuous, confused. A question such as the one Taggart had asked would be answered through an exchange of pros and cons and a joint decision, or it would lead to a vicious argument that could threaten an entire operation. But Robert Semmes was also military governor, and the mandate he carried from the senate made him the effective dictator of the entire Epsilon Eridani system . . . the Alpha-2 colony, the station, and everything else, right down to the six uninhabited planets and every last comet, asteroid, and meteor drifting through the cold dark. His decisions were final, and he had the power of life and death over every man, woman, and child on the rebel planet.
“Are you sure, General? We very likely can capture it at an acceptable cost. It would be useful for a number of support purposes. And the cost to ultimately replace it will likely exceed the repair—”
“Destroy it, Admiral. As soon as your ships are in range. It is well past time we send a message to these traitors, one they won’t soon forget. We will not parley with them. We will not accept their piteous attempts at surrender. Those who have betrayed their nation, raised their arms in rebellion against their rightful government . . . they must be wiped away without hesitation.”
Semmes had raged against his lack of authority on his previous mission, repeatedly blaming Stanton and Wells for its failure. He’d started such declarations in a panicked effort to deflect blame from himself, but now he’d repeated it so many times, he believed it fully. He was in control at last, and no one could stop him. He would crush the rebellion, and he would hunt down every last revolutionary, wherever they tried to hide.
By the time I am done, no one will even be sure this rebellion ever existed . . .
“Yes, General.” Taggart’s tone didn’t entirely hide his disapproval, but Semmes didn’t care. The admiral had his orders, and that was all that mattered. He knew the spacers of the fleet, and the regular soldiers under his command, considered themselves professionals, that they bristled at being placed under him. There was significant discontent about being deployed against citizens of Federal America as well, both among the officers and the rank and file. But they would follow their orders. Semmes would make sure of that. And he would stand every one of them who didn’t up against a wall . . .
“We will be in firing range in three minutes, General. We may utilize some high-g maneuvers in battle, sir.” The naval officer paused. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in your quarters.”
Semmes glared back at the admiral. He knew Taggart didn’t think of him as a real military officer, no more than the unit commanders in his army contingents did. He was well aware that the combat effectiveness of the regular units in his expeditionary force was vastly higher than that of the security units. But he resented the veterans, despite his own scandal-plagued history as one of them. He detested what he perceived as their arrogance, and he preferred the internal security forces, men and women who’d been expressly trained to control unruly mobs. Like the rebel army. Having these career military men look down their noses at him . . .
Soon they will learn what it means to oppose me.
“No, Admiral. I will be fine here.” Semmes’s face wore a determined scowl, though beneath it he was a little leery of the rough ride he suspected lay ahead.
“Very well, sir.” The admiral snapped his head around. “Commander Samuels, bring all units to battle stations.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Lock attack plan three into the nav systems, and prepare for execution in two minutes, fifteen seconds.”
“Yes, sir.”
Semmes watched, and as he did he could feel a bit of fear push its way past his anger. The orbital platform was powerful, designed to defend Alpha-2 against an invasion such as this one. He couldn’t allow himself to believe the rebels had managed to crew it properly, or that they would put up more than a token defense before they panicked and tried to surrender, but he still felt the tension in his chest as Oceania hurtled toward the fight he’d just ordered.
“Entering range in one minute, Admiral. All units report weapons stations on alert and at maximum readiness.”
“All units are authorized to fire as they enter range. Target critical systems. We are attacking to destroy, not to disable.” Taggart’s voice was cool, professional. “Repeat, all units are to shoot to destroy.”
“Shoot to destroy. Yes, sir.” Samuels turned toward his station and relayed the command. Then he turned back toward Taggart. “Thirty seconds, Admiral.”
Semmes reached behind him, grabbing the harness attached to his seat and buckling himself in. His stomach was doing flops, and the coldness of fear gripped his insides.
Fear, but also excitement.
Payback at last.
“Prepare to commence combat maneuvers, Commander. All vessels initiate thrust in ten seconds . . .”
Garabrant sat in his chair, pitched forward, his eyes locked on the targeting display. His official job was to run the station’s s
canning suite, but the new government of Haven lacked the resources to properly staff the orbital platform. The crew were all wearing multiple hats, and Garabrant’s made sense, as weapons targeting relied heavily on the station’s scanners. Still, the engineer had never fired so much as a handgun, much less the missile salvos and laser batteries of the massive fortress.
“Federal ships entering weapons range, Captain. Should I fire?”
Captain Evans didn’t answer Garabrant. Instead, he sent another transmission to the approaching fleet. “Federal vessels, this is your final warning. You are ordered to decelerate at once and turn about. This is the space of the Haven Republic, and your presence here is an act of war.”
Garabrant listened to the captain’s voice on the comm unit. Evans didn’t sound much better than he had. If the captain’s intent was to intimidate a federal fleet commander, it would have to be the reality of the situation and not his tone that did the job.
There was no response, just a touch of static on the otherwise silent comm. No refusal, no threats hurled back in turn. Nothing. It was ominous, and if the federals were trying to rattle the defenders, it was working. At least, it was working on Garabrant.
He waited for the authorization. The station’s weapons were heavier than the mobile ordnance carried by the federal warships, their range greater. And every second that passed ceded some of the advantage the defenders held. But Garabrant understood. He would simply be following orders, but someone had to make the initial decision to open fire on the federal navy.
And accept responsibility for what followed.
The time passed, slowly, each second stretching out into agonizing torment. The AI was engaged, the targeting solutions locked in and ready. All Garabrant—and Claren and the others lined up at their stations—needed was to open fire.
Then it came.
“All weapons stations, fire. All weapons stations, fire.”
Garabrant reached out, his fingers moving across a long row of switches. He flipped each of them in turn, his thoughts focused, with only a marginal realization of the megatons of destructive power he was engaging as he armed each missile.
He preferred not to think too much about it. He was as strident a rebel as any, but words and parades were one thing, and killing men and women with nuclear fire quite another. He’d just flipped the last arming switch and was about to hit the launch button when he noticed Claren sitting next to him, doing nothing.
“Kip! We’re under attack—fire, dammit.” He turned back to his own workstation for a few seconds, hitting the launch control and sending the station’s missiles toward their targets. Then he spun around, back toward his comrade. Claren was still frozen in place, staring at the screen.
“Kip, what the hell? You’ve got to activate those laser batteries!”
“That’s the federal navy out there,” Claren stammered. “We can’t shoot at the navy.”
“Kip, pull yourself together.”
“We can’t . . . don’t you understand? We can’t . . .”
“Fire those weapons, Kip.” Garabrant stood up, his hand dropping to his side, to the pistol hanging there.
Claren didn’t respond. He didn’t move.
“Now, Kip.” Garabrant pulled the gun out and pointed it at Claren. “I’m serious, Kip. Do it.”
Garabrant’s mind was running wild. The idea of shooting his comrade seemed insane. But he knew the station would be hard-pressed enough, without half its laser batteries out of action. He was scared, too, and hesitant to unleash death himself, but he had no doubts about what would happen to them if the feds regained control—if it even got that far for the people on this station. But if there was a slightest chance his actions could keep him alive—or, worst case, his new country—he had to ensure he did what he could.
Even if it meant shooting Claren for dereliction.
“Get out of there. I’ll do it myself.” He stepped forward and reached out, pushing Claren away from the workstation. But the other man reacted now, holding on to his chair, resisting Garabrant’s efforts to remove him.
“Dammit, Claren. Don’t make me kill you.” Garabrant stepped back a meter or so from the chair and re-aimed the pistol, pointing it right at the other man’s head. The two other engineers in the room looked on in stunned horror.
“Focus on your jobs!” Garabrant barked at them, and they went back to activating the platform’s defenses. He turned back to Claren, but the man still hadn’t responded. He didn’t attempt to attack Garabrant. He didn’t do anything. He just stayed where he was.
“I’m not messing with you, Claren. I will shoot you.” He hoped he sounded convincing, because he was far from sure he could pull the trigger.
His eyes darted down to the screen on his workstation. The missiles he had launched were halfway to the incoming fleet. The federals had picked off perhaps a third of them so far. He knew they would intercept far more of the deadly weapons, but with luck, a few would get through. Yet without the station’s heavy lasers opening fire and taking full advantage of their longer range, he knew there wasn’t a chance to defeat the fleet. He had to fire those lasers, and if that meant he had to kill Claren, so be it.
He stared at the other man, his eyes pleading for an alternative. But Claren didn’t even look at him. He just sat where he was, unmoving.
Garabrant’s finger tightened slowly. He felt as though he was lifting a great load rather than simply pulling a trigger. The sweat was pooling around his neck, and each breath felt like a thunderclap. He struggled to maintain his aim, but his hands were shaking.
You’ve got to do this . . .
He resolved to fire, and he squeezed the trigger . . . and then he stopped. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t a soldier, not really. He suspected he might be able to shoot an enemy approaching him, one firing back. But he didn’t have what it took to shoot the man next to him, even if that comrade’s inaction jeopardized the entire battle.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Garabrant jumped back, startled by the figure suddenly bursting into the room. “Why aren’t those lasers firing?” Jacob North was one of Pat Killian’s rangers, assigned to the station.
And just as certifiably insane as his chief.
North was second-in-command of the defense forces tasked with facing any boarders, but right now he was clearly more concerned about the lack of laser fire.
“Captain—” Garabrant began. He paused for a second, but before he could continue, North roared again.
“Claren, fire those guns right now, or I shit you not, I will blow your fucking brains out and do it myself.”
Claren didn’t move. He didn’t even respond.
“Captain, he’s out of it. Something snapped inside him. He needs help.”
“He needs to fire those lasers.” North pulled the gun from his side. It was a pistol, but it was at least twice the size of the small sidearm Garabrant carried.
“Sir, please . . .”
“Get him out of that chair and fire those lasers, Lieutenant.” North stared at Garabrant, his voice like ice. “Or I will.”
“C’mon, Kip . . .” He leaned in, but the instant he touched Claren’s shoulder the other man swung his arm wildly around, his fist catching Garabrant in the side of the head. He stumbled back toward his own chair.
“We don’t have any time for this shit,” he heard North say.
“No, sir, no . . .”
Crack.
“No!”
Garabrant’s mind was still trying to process what had happened when he felt something warm against his face. He was confused for a moment, but then horror set in as he wiped his cheek and stared down at his hands, covered with blood. Claren’s blood.
The workstation was spattered with red, and with small gray chunks his rational mind told him were bits of brain, even as every other part of him rebelled against the knowledge. He retched, trying to hold back the vomit, but failing, at least somewhat. He leaned forward and spit out the acidy bile, strug
gling to keep what remained in his stomach where it was.
“Garabrant, get the hell over here and fire these lasers.” North was standing behind the chair, grabbing the fabric of Claren’s coat and pulling the dead man off the seat and down to the floor.
Garabrant stood back up, but he found it difficult to move. He was stunned, staring around him only half-aware of what was happening.
“Doesn’t anybody understand we’re under attack?” North reached out and grabbed Garabrant by the collar, pulling him hard and shoving him into the chair.
Garabrant didn’t respond, but he reached out robotically and flipped the switches, activating the lasers. Then he engaged the AI targeting system.
“Good,” North growled. “Now make sure we’re firing everything we’ve got at these fed bastards.” He turned and walked briskly back out into the corridor.
Garabrant sat where he was, not moving, not exchanging a glance with any of his other comrades. He was just trying not to think about the feeling underneath him, the warm wetness soaking through his pants from the seat.
Chapter 8
Landfall Spaceport
10 Kilometers Outside Landfall City
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
“Sasha, are you sure you can pull this off?” Damian stood on the open concrete of Landfall’s spaceport, under the looming shadow of Vagabond’s form rising above. The raider wasn’t large as ships went, but it seemed massive to two people standing on the ground next to it.
“I’m sure I’ve got to try, Damian. Those are our people up there. The battle is hopeless. It’s only a matter of time before the station is gone. How can we just leave them up there?”
Damian had watched the reports coming in as the fight above Haven progressed. He wasn’t an expert in naval fighting, but he’d never really believed the station and its crew could beat back the fleet the federals had sent. Still, the early reports had spawned some ill-conceived hope around headquarters, and on the station itself.
