by Jay Allan
The house was a two-story building, with two bedrooms upstairs and a living area on the first floor. He crept to the small staircase and peered down. There was a small rug at the bottom of the stairs. It was twisted, rolled over into a crumpled ball.
His body tightened, and a wave of near-panic came on him. Steves was a fastidious man. He’d never have left the rug like that. There was someone in the house!
He stood at the top of the stairs, unable to will himself to go down. He held the gun out in front of him, waiting. He heard footsteps now, someone trying to be quiet but not quite managing it. Then he saw a shadow in the moonlight streaming through the window. Someone was moving toward the stairs.
He felt like he was going to vomit, but he held himself in place, nailed to the top of the staircase. He waited, his arm fully extended, gun pointing down the stairs.
He realized later the whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds. But standing there, scared, waiting, it seemed like an eternity.
He watched as the shadow grew larger, the partially muffled footsteps louder. He could feel beads of sweat forming around his hairline, beginning to drip down his face, his neck.
Keep it together, Steves . . .
He felt a sudden pang of concern. What if this wasn’t some crazed rebel come to kill him? What if he shot someone else?
No, nobody else would have broken into your house. If you wait, if you give this person time, he will kill you. Then he will kill Elizabeth.
The thought stirred an anger from deeper within, one that pushed back against the fear. He disliked the rebels for what they had done, for the havoc they had wreaked on his world. He considered them traitors, but he’d never broken into any of their houses or tried to kill one of them. He’d argued ceaselessly with Isaacson, urging his comrade to refrain from the violent actions he proposed again and again. But now, his home invaded and his life in danger, Steves began to understand that way of thinking.
An enemy is an enemy. If I don’t kill this person, he will kill me. Maybe Ray is right. If I’d acted sooner . . .
Suddenly, he saw the figure at the base of the stairs. Not a shadow, not the sound of a distant footstep, but a man clad all in black clothes, standing, looking up in his direction. Steves felt he was frozen, as though he’d hesitated for a long time. But then the shot rang out, his gun firing even before his enemy fully realized he was there.
He caught the shock in the rebel’s face, the instant of realization that came just as his gun fired.
It was the first shot the loyalist had ever fired, and it found its mark. The man fell back, dropping his weapon and falling hard to the floor.
The next few seconds were almost a blur. He heard Elizabeth scream, awakened by the gunshot. And something else, downstairs. No, not something. Someone.
He didn’t think. He didn’t call back to reassure Elizabeth. He just acted. It was pure instinct driving him, the will to survive.
He raced down the stairs, knowing on some primal level that whoever else was in the house was warned now. There would be no repeat of what had happened, no would-be assassin walking blindly into his field of fire.
He heard the footsteps downstairs now, louder. All efforts of either combatant to hide had been abandoned. He spun around the bottom of the stairs, his pistol out in front of him. Then a loud crack. But it wasn’t his gun.
He heard the sound, and he felt the force of the shot hitting him. But the pain didn’t come immediately, not until later. He felt his balance slipping away. And as he started to drop, his eyes focused on his foe, standing about three meters away, aiming, about to fire again.
He whipped his own arm around, pulling his feet from the floor. He fired, one shot, without time to aim, an act of pure desperation, and as he fell he saw the other man standing there, a look of disbelief on his stricken face as the top of his head exploded in a spray of blood.
Steves landed hard, the gun slipping from his grasp as he hit the floor. He gasped for air, shouting loudly as the pain finally hit, a wave of agony like he’d never felt. He was scared, and now it came out, panic he could barely control. He wanted the pain to stop, but instead it just got worse, burning like fire.
Then a shadow over him. Was there another enemy, a third killer in the house? Was he about to die?
“Jerome . . .” The voice was familiar.
He looked up, trying to focus, the fear subsiding, just a little. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Jerome, it’s me. How badly are you hurt?”
He’d thought he was mortally wounded. Nothing else could hurt so much! But now he realized the projectile had hit him in the shoulder. He was bleeding—and my God, the pain was like nothing he’d experienced before—but he began to realize he would survive.
“I’ll be . . . okay.” He was regaining some of his senses. Were both of his assailants dead? Were there more? “Get . . . my gun. Make sure . . . no one else . . .”
He watched Elizabeth scrambling toward the pistol, grabbing it, glancing around the room. He could see her staring at each man in turn, and then she looked back at him. “They’re both dead,” she said softly. She knelt next to him for a moment, her cheeks wet with tears, but a determined scowl on her face. She held out the gun, ready for anyone else to come. But no one did.
“I don’t think there was anyone else.” She reached over to the sofa and grabbed her shirt from where she had discarded it earlier that evening. She wadded it up and pressed it against Steves’s wound.
He winced at the pressure, and the fresh wave of pain it caused.
“I’m going to call an ambulance.” She turned and started to get up.
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” She had been fairly calm at first, but now Steves could see she was starting to lose it.
“We don’t know what is going on out there.” The pain was still bad, but either it had subsided some or he’d gotten used to it. “Were these Society thugs, acting on their own? Or did the threat of the federal army drive the rebel forces to harsher measures? No, we can’t take any needless risks now. Call Ray. Tell him to get Doc Marek and bring him over here.”
She looked like she might argue for a few seconds, but then she nodded, and she got up and ran into the other room, to the communications unit.
Fear had filled Steves’s mind, and pain, distress. But now there was something else. Anger. He’d been a moderate, a voice against the loyalist elements arguing for more active resistance. He had urged his fellow loyalists to refrain from escalation, to hold back from violence. He had argued that General Ward was a reasonable man, that he would protect the rights of those still loyal to Federal America.
But no more.
He was with Isaacson and his allies now. All the way. It was time to see this destructive rebellion end, to return Alpha-2 to its proper and legal place as a colony of Federal America.
Whatever it took.
Chapter 13
Army Headquarters
Landfall City
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
“Colonel Killian, I want you to find Cal Jacen right now. If he resists, if he so much as looks at you with an expression you don’t like, shoot him.”
Damian Ward was angry. No, more than angry. For the first time in his life he was quivering with uncontrolled rage.
“No, Colonel. Don’t even bring him here. Just find him and shoot him.”
“Yes, sir.” Killian looked rattled staring back at Damian—and for someone with his reputation, that was a surprising reaction. When the colonel spoke, his usual unshakable tone seemed tentative. “Are you certain you don’t want me to arrest him? I’m not sure how shooting him down in the street will be received. We’ve got a lot of Society members in the army, sir.”
“If they don’t like it, I’ll find a brick wall for them, too.” Damian had spent most of the last year trying to maintain order in Landfall, to prevent rebel and loyalist forces from tearing each other apart, an
d to hold together a coalition that had elements that mistrusted each other as much as they did the federals. Now, perhaps hours before the federal attack they all knew was coming, he had to deal with the entire city in an uproar. Thirty-one murders, in the middle of the night, over a period of three hours. Thirty-one loyalists killed in their homes. But that wasn’t the end of it. The enraged federal sympathizers had struck back, just before dawn. At least a dozen rebels were dead, including two Society members who’d been found burned alive, their charred bodies thrown in the street. The rapidity of the response told Damian that the loyalists were better organized than he’d thought. And that was the last thing he needed right now.
“Damian, wait.” John Danforth came rushing into the room. “We don’t know Cal was behind this.”
Damian turned abruptly to face his friend. “We don’t? Who has been trying to move against the loyalists all year? Who heads the biggest pack of bloodthirsty lunatics on Haven?”
“Damian—”
“No, John. No. You’ve convinced me more than once to let that psychopath off the hook, but he’s just pushed me too far.” He turned back toward Killian. “Why are you still here, Colonel? You have your orders.”
“Yes, sir,” the ranger replied, but he still stood where he was.
“Damian,” Danforth said, a hint of pleading in his voice. “Please don’t do this. Not this way. You don’t have the authority to order a summary execution of a member of the Haven Congress. It would be murder, pure and simple.”
“Authority? Of course I have the authority. This is a war zone, and I’m the commanding officer. Do you realize what has happened? We’re going to be attacked here any day, and now we’ve got every loyalist in the city out screaming for blood. We can’t hold Landfall, you know that, and if angry mobs in the street interfere with our withdrawal, your revolution could end right here.”
He slammed his hand down hard on the table he was standing next to, so hard he felt pain radiating up his arm. “Cal Jacen is dangerous. I know you let him slide because he was there in the early days, when you formed the Guardians, but he is not one of the good guys, John. Tonight proves that. How much has he already set back our defenses? He’s going to cause worse trouble than this. A bullet in his head now will save a lot of lives down the road.” Even as he said the last part, the intensity of anger in his voice waned slightly. He was still incensed, but his rationality was coming back, slowly reestablishing its usual control.
“Damian, you’re not the kind of man who acts against someone without proof. Cal Jacen is more radical than you, or me for that matter, but we don’t know he was behind this. We just suspect it.”
Damian shook his head. Danforth, for all his intelligence and his devotion to the cause, had a naïve streak in him, at least where Cal Jacen was concerned. His friend viewed the leader of the Society as someone who pushed too far sometimes, perhaps, a well-meaning zealot, or something of the sort.
His friend was wrong.
They would all be sorry if Damian didn’t kill Jacen now. But he’d gained control over the fury that had taken him, and he realized he just couldn’t. He knew Jacen was responsible, but he didn’t have any real evidence. And if the fight against Federal America was supposed to have true meaning, Haven’s congress—even its army commander—had to conduct themselves according to the ideals they claimed to represent. Otherwise, he’d be no better than Robert Semmes or Asha Stanton.
“John,” he said, his voice deadly serious. “I want you to find Jacen yourself.” He stared right at Danforth, his eyes boring into his friend’s with a relentless intensity. “Tell him when the rebellion is over, if he was involved in this, I will see that he is prosecuted for his crimes, and that he hangs for them. And if he does anything further, if his people cause any trouble or harm to more civilians, I will hunt him down myself, and I will put a bullet in his brain, Haven Congress and its laws be damned. He’d better stay out of trouble, and he better damned well tell me if anyone else is planning anything, because if there is another incident, I’m going to blame him, and the hell with evidence or due process. Do you understand me?”
“I understand you.” It was impossible not to—Damian’s tone left no room to doubt his words. None. Danforth nodded slowly. “I will find him, and I will keep him out of trouble. Whatever I have to do.”
Damian just nodded. It was a waste of Danforth’s time, but Damian wasn’t going to succumb to savagery if he could help it. Then he turned back toward Killian. “Colonel, you can focus on getting your people ready. I’m going to order the withdrawal as soon as we detect enemy forces approaching. With any luck, they will assume the entire army has fled. Then your people will strike from their hiding places.”
“Understood, General.” Damian caught a glint of anticipation in the ranger’s eyes and was reminded how much Killian enjoyed his work.
“Remember, Colonel, you’re just here to attrit the enemy, to cause as much damage to their equipment and supplies as you can. This is not a fight to the death, and your people are not expendable. I don’t question your courage or your will to fight, but I want you to look me in the eye right now and swear to me you will withdraw once the federals regain their balance. The mission is to inflict casualties and damage equipment. If you stay too long, you won’t win the battle, you’ll just give back what we gain in the early stages. And I do not want to see Landfall reduced to rubble.”
“I understand completely, General.” Killian looked right back at Damian. “You have my word, sir. We will inflict as much damage as we can, and then we will slip away.”
Damian nodded. “Very well, Colonel. We will probably lose contact with you after the army withdraws. I don’t know what jamming capability the enemy has without the orbital platform, but they’ll almost certainly block comm in and out of Landfall, especially when they realize they’ve got an entrenched force to deal with.” He paused for a few seconds. “You know what to do, Colonel. Good luck.” Damian extended his hand.
“Thank you, sir. We won’t let you down.” Killian reached out and took the general’s hand. “We’ll make them pay, sir, and then we’ll get out and take position in the woods around the city.”
Damian nodded. Killian was a capable officer, probably the best fighter he had. He trusted the ranger to do his best, but something about his tone when he said “pay” gave Damian a shiver.
“What you did was not only brutal and criminal, it was stupid. What the hell are you trying to do? We’ve got thousands of federal troops ten kilometers away, and you choose now to kick up a firestorm in Landfall?” Danforth was mad, perhaps not as murderously enraged as Damian had been, but still angry. It had taken him hours to find Jacen, and when he did the Society’s leader had admitted at once to being behind the events of the previous night. Danforth wasn’t surprised, not really, but he’d been trying to convince himself his suspicions were wrong, that Jacen was aggressive and dedicated to the revolution, but not someone who would do something like this.
“John, you and I have been in this since the beginning. Do you remember those days? How many people have we lost? How many good freedom fighters died in the mines? Or on the scaffold? We nursed this rebellion from its tentative birth, and we fed it with the blood of true patriots, often because someone ratted us out. How do you stand there, with hundreds dead in battle a year ago and more almost certain to die now, and tell me we should leave traitors in our midst, waiting until they stab us in the back?”
Danforth was repulsed by what his ally had done, but there was sincerity in the man’s hard voice. Jacen clearly believed what he had done was right, and as much as Danforth’s emotional response was negative, he couldn’t argue that his colleague had not acted as he thought best for the rebellion.
Still, it didn’t make it right.
Did it?
Jacen wasn’t finished, though. “John, you saw what happened a year ago. Loyalist groups were forming military units of their own to support the federal forces. The seizure o
f the orbital station ended the fighting before they saw any action, but do you think the federals will be so easily driven away this time? Because unless you do, these loyalists, these innocent civilians, will end up in the field, killing our soldiers. Killing your Guardians.”
“Cal, I understand your anger. Your desire for revenge. And I am also aware that many of those killed last night were dangerous to the cause.” He paused for a moment, his tone turning even more serious as he continued. “But this can never happen again. Never.” He had some loyalty to Jacen, driven by memories of the tough spots they’d been in together, and the dangerous work they’d shared for so long. But as convincing as the man could be, Danforth wasn’t as blind to his cohort’s radical tendencies as Damian believed he was. He’d always considered Jacen’s extreme views to be a concern, and this last incident had him worried . . . more so than he’d admitted to Damian. Still, he wasn’t ready to give up on his old friend, especially when the rebellion needed every able man and woman if it was to survive.
Jacen just stood silently for a moment. Then he said, “John, you know there is no one more dedicated to Haven’s freedom. I did what I thought was necessary, what General Ward wouldn’t do. You know as well as I do the harm those people could have caused, especially when we leave Landfall.”
Danforth shifted his feet uncomfortably. “That’s not the point. You’re right—many of those loyalists would have been key organizers of support for the federals. But there are simply things we can’t do . . . and extremes to which we cannot allow ourselves to resort.”
“How many have died? Are the men and women from last night more dead than the hundreds killed in last year’s fighting? Or those who went to the scaffold before the rebellion even began? We both lost friends, John, men and women who worked with us, and who paid the ultimate price. With so much death, so many brave allies gone, are the deaths of a few dozen traitors to the cause really of such concern?”
