by Jay Allan
“Has Captain Nerov reported in yet?”
“Not since Vagabond lifted off, sir.”
Damian had thought Nerov was crazy when she’d told him her idea. He was no expert on piloting spacecraft, but he’d have thought what she suggested was impossible. The ship captain had a way of explaining things, a strange concoction that mixed confidence and a little performance art to make the insane seem plausible, if not downright routine.
In the end, though, he’d given her the go-ahead. He wondered if she was really as confident as she’d seemed, or if she had just been desperate to find an alternative to scuttling her beloved ship, but he had to admit, the idea of hiding Vagabond, of maintaining even the hope of a tenuous link with anything beyond Haven’s surface, had its appeal.
He’d never thought about hiding a spaceship in the ocean but, of course, Vagabond was proofed against the vacuum of space and the pressures of liftoff, so a hundred or so meters of water shouldn’t be any real problem.
“General, we’re picking up more landing craft. Two more waves.”
Another eight hundred federals.
Damian hated sitting in an underground hideout while his people were fighting. It took everything he had to keep himself from running through the door and rushing down to the spaceport. If the fight there had been his only responsibility, he’d have been in the line already. But he had troops stationed throughout the capital and all around it, and his place was here, coordinating everything.
“Get me Colonel Morgan, Major,” he said, struggling to hide the tension in his voice. “Now.”
“It’s confirmed, General: they’re regulars. Full exos and everything. These guys are picking off anything that even pokes its head out, so I’m guessing it’s a crack outfit.”
Morgan was crouched low, looking out from the foxhole. She’d moved forward, much farther than Damian had intended for her to go. But her people were hard-pressed, and they needed her. She’d lost track of her losses, but at least fifty of her people were down, and maybe double that.
“We’ve got two more waves coming in, Colonel. I want you to begin your withdrawal.”
“Sir, my position is good. We can hold. Request permiss—”
“Denied, Colonel. You are to pull back now.” He paused. “Luci, we’ve got at least eight hundred more federals coming down. You said it yourself, these are veteran regulars, and you’re about to lose the advantage of numbers. Get out of there. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Damian was right, but she hated to give ground. Her people had inflicted heavy losses on the federals, so far giving out worse than they’d gotten. That had more to do with the fact that her forces were defending from cover while the feds were landing and launching attacks across a killing ground her people had prepared in advance than anything else. But that wasn’t nothing, either, and she felt confident she could cause even more damage. Yet the federals were still gaining ground, pushing her troops from their forward positions, and the cost was getting higher and higher. When they were reinforced, they would slice through her lines, and if she didn’t get her people out, there was a good chance they’d be trapped.
Shit.
She reached up to the comm controls on her helmet, switching to her forcewide channel. “Third regiment, fall back by odds and evens. Fourth regiment, hold your position.”
Her commanders already knew where to go. She’d gone over the retreat plan three times, pounding it into their heads until she was sure they could recite it back to her. She’d seen what confusion could do to forces on the battlefield, and she was determined to avoid paying that blood price.
She looked around her current position. She was in a foxhole with a platoon of the third regiment, men and women she’d just ordered to pull back. “All right, you all heard the order. Odds, hold your positions and maintain fire. Evens, withdraw to the next line.”
She moved toward the front of the trench, informally nominating herself as an “odd.” She peered out at the enemy positions in the distance, a line of roughly dug pits. The cover wasn’t a match for her troopers’ more extensive works, but it was enough to turn the ongoing firefight into an exercise in keeping heads down.
The federals had made one attack already, but it had been hastily launched, and her people had beaten it back. She suspected whoever was in command over there had underestimated her troops, expecting them to flee at the approach of federal line soldiers. She suspected, too, that was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. The next assault would be better coordinated and executed, and if she pulled this off, none of her people would even be there.
She slid her rifle from her back and stepped up to the firing line along the lip of the trench. Her fire wasn’t needed, not yet at least, but she was sending a message.
She turned and looked back, seeing that the evens were almost in place. “Odds, let’s move. Fall back, past the evens, to the next position.” She leaned forward and took a few shots, and then she turned and followed the platoon over the top of the trench’s rear wall and out into the field beyond.
She moved quickly, crouching forward, staying low. She’d reminded her troopers to keep down, but some of them stood up to run, and more than one fell, the victims of federal fire.
She didn’t have the communications network to keep close track of her losses, but they could only be increasing. Even the part of her that resented Damian’s orders to withdraw now saw the wisdom in pulling back.
“Colonel, the federals are advancing again.”
She stopped and went prone, snapping her head around to look across the field. It was no surprise. It made perfect sense for the enemy to move forward and take the trenches she’d abandoned.
She watched the federals coming on, their formation tightly organized, their speed impressive, even as they utilized every shell hole and ripple in the ground for cover. Her thoughts pulled at her, trying to drift back to her days as a federal soldier.
God, their precision . . .
“Keep moving,” she shouted into her comm. “Evens, get ready to move as soon as the odds are in position.”
She looked back for a few more seconds. Then she spun around and continued toward the waiting trench line ahead.
One step at a time.
Chapter 12
Spacer’s District
Landfall City
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
Violetta marched down the street, trying to stay close to the man in front of her. She’d been a soldier of the revolution for less than a week, and she was already in the field, getting ready to face the federal forces when they attacked.
She’d known nothing about being a soldier when she’d joined, and her knowledge had grown only marginally since then. She’d had no idea what to expect when she had walked into the makeshift recruiting office, but she’d envisioned some kind of training program, weeks of boot camp and instruction on all manner of skills. Instead, she’d gotten a uniform of sorts—no more than a coarse brown shirt and pants that more or less matched those of her comrades—and a rifle with a bag of ammunition cartridges. Even the weapons were irregular. She’d seen at least three different kinds of assault rifles just in her platoon. She’d had few thoughts in her life about military logistics, but she imagined the variety of weapons would make supplying ammunition a challenge.
As far as training was concerned, three days was all she got, a hurried, disorganized affair during which she’d fired her weapon a grand total of eleven times. She’d been on two runs as well, the longer of which had left her doubled over and vomiting in a ditch. A quick lesson in loading and maintaining her rifle and a review of rank insignia rounded out her training. Her graduation had been an order to grab her pack and jump on a waiting transport.
She was regretting her decision already, especially the fact that she’d signed the new enlistment papers, which set her term of service as the duration of the war. The fervor she had felt for the revolution, the emotional response that had driven h
er to reject her father’s entreaties and remain on Haven, was still there, if a little shakier than it had once been. But the reality felt quite different than the romantic notions she’d nursed before.
She tried to keep up with the troops in front of her, but she struggled with her pack, and she kept falling behind. The sergeant had yelled at her half a dozen times, and she could see him looking her way again, but it didn’t make her legs move any faster. She’d expected to be assigned to a unit of new recruits like her, at least, but Colonel Morgan’s battered regiments had streamed into the city just as she’d completed her brief training program, and she’d ended up assigned to help replace losses. So instead of serving alongside comrades as raw as herself, she was surrounded by the closest thing the Haven army had to hardened veterans.
The buildings all around were ramshackle structures, run-down and filthy. She’d never been to the Spacer’s District before. It wasn’t the kind of place the governor’s daughter tended to frequent, but she hadn’t expected it to be this bad.
Most of the . . . establishments . . . were closed, some of them shuttered with metal screens or boarded up. No one knew what General Ward planned to do to counter the federals massing at the spaceport, at least no one in her current circles, but it was clear the local business owners wanted no part of it.
Neither did she.
“Halt. Fall out . . . ten-minute break.” The lieutenant’s voice was music to her ears, and she stumbled a few meters to the front of the nearest building, sitting hard on one of the steps. She slid the pack off her shoulder, and she rolled her neck around, wincing at the soreness.
She shivered as she sat there, feeling the fall chill more harshly now that she’d stopped moving and struggling with the heavy kit. She wondered where her father was, how he had dealt with the repercussions of all that had happened. She missed him, and though she hated herself for the weakness, part of her wished she had gone back with him. She still supported the rebels, but now she felt lost, and so alone. Her days had become one misery after another, and she remembered her old life, the comfort, when all she’d had to do if she wanted something was to call for it.
You are weak, Vi. Pathetic. All your education, the opportunities open to you, and you are nothing but a wealthy man’s spoiled daughter.
The thoughts came from within her, from some deep place she hadn’t known before. She saw herself, reflected in her own mind, and she didn’t like the image. She had taken a stand, finally done something meaningful with her life, and now she was proving too weak to see it through.
No, I am not weak. I will not be.
She felt a burst of determination, a stubbornness that hadn’t been there before. She could do this. She could be something more than a politician’s privileged offspring.
“All right, up, up, up. Time to get moving.”
The lieutenant’s words cut through her thoughts, and the reality of resuming the march slammed into her new enthusiasm. Her legs were cold now, stiff, the pain of the march wracking her entire body. She wanted to stay still, to run off down one of the alleys and hide until the platoon had gone. But even as she thought about wanting to flee, she began to pull herself to her feet. She reached down and grabbed her kit, hauling it with a moan over her shoulders. She felt a sharp pain as the straps moved against the bruises they had caused earlier, but she ignored it, shuffling forward, one small step after another, until she was back in line.
“Platoon . . . forward.”
She stood for a few seconds as the column started to move from the head. Then she followed the man in front of her, her feet moving almost on their own, without conscious thought.
She wanted to cry at the pain, the fatigue, but she didn’t. She just took one step and then another, keeping pace, ignoring the stiffness in her aching legs and back.
She wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet, at least. And that was a victory of sorts.
“Let’s go. You’ve all got your lists. We’ve got a couple hours maximum. Then the patrol changes, and our people are off duty.” Zig Welch stood in front of a dozen men and four women, Society members all. They’d come by different routes, sneaking through the quiet late-night streets of Landfall. They were here for one reason. The federals had been landing shuttles for over a week, and the entire area around the spaceport had turned into one giant armed camp. The fight for Landfall would begin any day. And before it did, they had unfinished business to complete.
“What you do tonight must be done. We cannot leave loyalists in our midst, traitors lurking in the shadows behind our brave soldiers, waiting to strike. Tonight, we cleanse Landfall.” Jacen had been standing in the darkness next to Welch, but now he stepped forward and looked over at his people. They were all loyal Society members, and he’d handpicked them for the operation. It was one thing to protest, to shout and chant and slam fists on tables, and quite another to act. And the sixteen people standing in front of him would do what they had come to do. He was sure of it.
There was a voice calling softly from the street. Jacen turned and walked over, one hand behind his back, gripping the small pistol shoved in his belt.
“It’s me, sir,” the voice called again, a hushed whisper he barely heard.
“What is it?” Jacen snapped back, the annoyance in his voice clear. “You are supposed to be patrolling the streets.”
“I am. But I needed to reach you. There are units moving through the streets all over the city. I didn’t hear about it earlier, or I would have gotten word to you.”
“Units? What units? Where are they going?”
“I don’t know. Whole regiments, marching through. It looks like they’re leaving the city and heading north.”
“Leaving the city?” Jacen couldn’t understand. The fight for Landfall was about to begin. Why would units be leaving?
“Yes, Mr. Jacen. They’re heading up the Old North Road.”
Welch came up behind Jacen. “Maybe we should call off tonight’s operation. If there are troops moving around, it might be too dangerous.”
“We’re not calling anything off, Zig. I don’t know what General Ward is up to, but we’ve got to deal with these loyalists while we can, and we’re almost out of time. If we leave them, the feds will arm them and they will raise battalions.”
He turned back toward the sentry. “Return to your position. Don’t do anything to draw any attention to yourself.”
The soldier nodded and turned abruptly, walking briskly down the street.
“Are you sure about this, Cal?”
“No choice, Zig. If we wait until the fighting starts, it will be too late.” He paused. “We have to go tonight.”
He walked back down the alley, and he waved to his people. “Okay, let’s go. All of you. You know what to do. And keep an eye out for army patrols. Just get where you’re going, and do what you have to do. Don’t hesitate. These are our enemies, as much or more than any federal soldier.”
He watched as they all moved forward, each pair pausing at the end of the alley to check and confirm that the street was clear. Then they disappeared into the darkness.
Jerome Steves couldn’t sleep. He turned over on his side, trying without success to get comfortable. He could see the silhouette next to him, the tuft of red hair sticking out from the covers.
It was a mistake, he knew, to let things go so far. He and Elizabeth Mullen were allies, dedicated to seeing Alpha-2 returned to its rightful place as a colony of Federal America. That promised, in every way he could imagine, to be a dangerous endeavor, one that required prudent thought and caution. Sex would only complicate things, not to mention anything else that was going on between the two of them. He told himself he’d just given in to normal lust, but he had to admit he’d been lonely in the six years since his wife had died. He enjoyed Elizabeth’s company, and it felt good to have someone there, next to him. But he was still worried.
He heard something. He was a nervous sort by nature, but now he froze, not moving, not making a sound.
He listened, trying to disregard Mullen’s loud breathing. There it was again. A scratching sound.
Someone is outside the house . . .
He’d been called paranoid before, and he’d roused himself more than once for a false alarm. But he knew Alpha-2 had become a dangerous place, especially for those who considered themselves loyal citizens of Federal America. General Ward had enforced a policy of tolerance, his army maintaining order and keeping the rebel and loyalist elements of the population from coming to open war. But now the federals had landed, and the soldiers were busy. By all accounts, Ward’s army had lost over two hundred men and women in the fighting at the spaceport. Steves knew such things could breed resentment. He wondered if the soldiers would still restrain the radical rebel elements, or if they would look the other way when acts of violence were perpetrated against loyalists.
Or if they would join in.
He moved slowly to the side of the bed, careful not to wake Elizabeth. He turned and reached over to the nightstand, slid open the drawer, and pulled out a small pistol. He’d kept it there since the federals had withdrawn, sure he’d need it one day. He’d never shot at anyone before. He’d never even fired the weapon, but he was sure he could pull the trigger if someone was trying to harm him.
He stood up and walked slowly toward the door, the floor cold under his bare feet. He stopped suddenly. Another noise, louder this time. The others had been outside, but this one sounded like it was in the house.
He tensed up, his hand tightening around the gun. He took a deep breath, frozen in place for a moment. Finally he pushed on, continuing toward the door. His heart was beating rapidly, so loud he was sure anyone else in the house would hear it. He paused at the door, gripped again by fear, but then he got ahold of himself and walked out into the hall.
