Rebels in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  We nodded, saluted, got out of there.

  After a long and silent walk to the aforementioned room, Halitov and I entered. Breckinridge sealed the hatch behind us. I collapsed into a chair. “If you knew, why didn’t you tell us? Why did you let us spend a week aboard that ship, risking our lives and wasting our time?”

  “It’s not that easy, Scott. I could’ve tipped you off, then I’d be tipping off the Seventeen as well.”

  “Hey, we would’ve kept your secret,” said Halitov. “Remember, you’ve still got something we want.”

  “Yes, but we needed you to go through the motions and send that intel back to the Seventeen. We don’t want them to know we’ve been in contact with you or that we have a presence here. The situation has grown even more tenuous, I’m afraid.”

  “How can the Seventeen not know you have a presence here? I’m thinking it’s a little difficult to hide a ship this size.”

  “We’re cloaked, and this may come as a surprise, but the Charles Michael was destroyed on Sirius BI while trying to defend one of the oil rigs there—at least that’s what the Seventeen believes.”

  “How many other ships were reported destroyed and are now being used by the Wardens?”

  “I’m not a liberty to say.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “Do you people realize what you’re doing? You’re weakening the Seventeen. You’re going to make us lose the war.”

  “That’ll only happen if we don’t act. We’re the only hope.”

  “Don’t hand me that melodramatic crap. You’re getting ready to mount a coup. And I don’t want any part of it.”

  She came behind me, stuck her head over my shoulder. “You don’t know what you want anymore. If I were you, the first thing I’d want is to be reconditioned, to find out what really happened to my brother, and then, if I had to say thank you by doing everything I could to become a member of the Wardens, that’s just what I’d do. What’s so terrible about that?” She shifted around the table to face me. “Your friend Paul Beauregard has already been transferred. He’s en route to Aire-Wu right now to be reconditioned.”

  “That’s a lie. He would’ve had to stand for a general court-martial, and there’s no way they could’ve convened one this soon.”

  She shrugged. “Believe what you want.”

  I shot to my feet. “If you don’t mind, we need our tacs reactivated and a ride out to Nau Dane.” That planet was a tenth of a light-year away from Epsilon Eri III, and Rebel 10-7’s new command ship, the SSGC Greenville was, I had to assume, still in orbit there and waiting to hear from us.

  “Right now, you’re MIA. And we’d like you to maintain that status.”

  I snorted. “Translation: we’re POWs.”

  “No. I just need you to come with me to AQ-Tower.”

  “Why?”

  She started for the hatch. “Because your life depends on it.” With that, she left.

  “I’d like to do her,” said Halitov.

  I just looked at him.

  “Hey, don’t you think about it?”

  “Excuse me if right now I’m little preoccupied by the fact that we’re being held against our will.”

  He recoiled. “We’re not being held. She probably set up that meeting. We even get to see AQ-Tower. This is what we want.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore.”

  “Take a look in the mirror, then tell me you’re not sure.”

  I tapped a fist on my forehead, wishing I could drum out all the doubts, all the fears. Breckinridge wanted me to do the same thing to the Seventeen that she had done to her brother, the same thing my own mother had done to me: forget loyalty, turn your back, grasp the opportunity…

  “So, are we going to stay here? Or get something to eat?”

  “Rooslin, let me ask you something. How can you be so nonchalant?”

  He ignored my question and opened the hatch. “C’mon. Maybe they got spaghetti and meatballs…”

  I forced myself out of the chair with a groan. “Yeah, right. Anything but seafood.”

  8

  After we ate, or, more precisely, after I watched Halitov stuff down two chicken sandwiches (they didn’t have spaghetti and meatballs), Breckinridge met up with us, gave us civilian tunics and pants that were in vogue at AQ-Tower, then escorted us to the captain’s gig, a sleek, black jumpsub that seated up to ten and would get us to AQ-Tower in about four hours.

  The three of us climbed aboard, and Breckinridge took the controls. Halitov made sure to sit next to her, while me and my depression sat in the back. I stared through the canopy, watched the water rush by, and listened to him ask Breckinridge about her first boyfriend and her opinions about monogamous versus open relationships. She giggled as he turned up the smooth talk, and the two of them made me more ill.

  “You’ve been quiet for a long time, Scott,” asked the devil herself.

  “Just thinking.”

  “His greatest downfall,” added Halitov.

  I almost smiled. “How much longer?”

  “ETA’s about twenty minutes,” answered Breckinridge. “Now, Scott, when we get there, my contact will get us through customs without the usual DNA scan.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out…”

  Halitov looked back at me. “Why are you being such a prophet of doom? Hey, man. I want to solve this aging problem and get on with my life, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know,” I answered, though I doubted he understood what I really meant. I knew exactly how self-centered he was being. To hell with the Seventeen. To hell with all the other conditioned soldiers who were aging like us.

  Deep down I was jealous that I could never allow myself to be like him, even though part of me kept wanting to. He gave in to it, and in doing so, carried very little guilt. I was the martyr. Perhaps the fool. But in the end, my reservations about the Wardens were not unwarranted.

  The water near AQ-Tower’s northeast docking port was so murky that we could barely glimpse the main tunnel as we neared it. Breckinridge relied upon her instruments and explained that a recent construction accident had released ten million tons of raw sewage into the ocean. The damage to the surrounding reef and sea life was so extensive that the Eri Flower herself was being called in. Her scientists and crew would assist with the cleanup.

  “The ship’ll be here in two days,” said Breckinridge. “And that’s our ticking clock. We need to be out of here before she arrives.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Halitov.

  “They’ve been calling this place a province since the beginning, but over a million people live here now, under the protection of the Seventeen. Magnesium and bromine exports are up. The place is turning a nice profit, and that money needs go to back into the hands of the alliances.”

  “They’re going to invade?” I asked.

  “Had you spent more time aboard the Flower, you would’ve learned all about it. There’s an invasion force waiting belowdecks, and they’re going to go in under the guise of the cleanup operation. That construction accident was no accident.”

  “Then we need to warn the Seventeen,” I said, grabbing the back of Breckinridge’s seat.

  “No, Scott, we don’t. All they would do is divert forces from Nau Dane and leave the colos there vulnerable to attack. That’s just what the alliances expect the Seventeen to do.”

  “So we just sit back and let them take this place? I don’t believe this. Do you know how many guardsmen and civvies are going to die?”

  “The alliances already have control of the Eri Flower. We’ve analyzed the situation and concluded that the ship is a loss. When she arrives here, the Charles Michael is going to take her out.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Halitov.

  I began to lose my breath. “We have researchers there who are POWs. You saying they’re expendable? And all of the research that ship provides is expendable?”

  “There’s no other way.”

  We reached the end of the docking tunnel, ro
se toward the pool, and glided up to break water.

  “This can’t be happening,” I muttered as I glimpsed the flashing lights and neon signs of Rifka, one of AQ’s busiest commercial ports.

  Breckinridge steered us to a low-lying pier, where her contact, a man wearing a brown-and-gray customs uniform, stood and lifted his chin at us.

  We docked, got out, and Breckinridge exchanged a few rushed words with the man before she waved us over. “We’re all set. Let’s go.”

  After double-timing it through a crowded terminal with guardsmen posted at every corner, we reached one of many long lines of people waiting to pass through customs. The guardsman nearest us looked strangely familiar, and when he noticed me noticing him, his gaze suddenly brightened. “Lieutenant? Is that you?”

  Halitov, Breckinridge, and her contact all froze as the guardsman—whom I now recognized as Jama Chopra—came toward me, looking a little worse and somewhat wiser for wear. Chopra and I had served together on Gatewood-Callista, where he had been a squad sergeant under my command. He obviously didn’t know I had been promoted to captain.

  I glanced at Breckinridge, who warned me with her gaze, then I faced Chopra. “No, sorry. Think you got me mixed up with somebody else.”

  “No way, sir,” Chopra said, then grabbed my hand and shook it heartily. “Man, I can’t believe it. Where’s your uniform? What’re you doing here? You on leave?”

  I scowled at Breckinridge, threw an arm over Chopra’s shoulder, then led him back toward his post. “Sergeant, you didn’t see me, okay?”

  “Sir?”

  “You didn’t see me. And Sergeant, the Eri Flower’s coming here.”

  “Yeah, everybody knows. The whole place is on alert. I’m working back-to-back shifts.”

  “They’re not just coming to help with the cleanup. They’re bringing an invasion force. Do whatever you can to get out.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, don’t joke like that.”

  “I’m serious. It’s an invasion. And it’s coming. Save yourself, buddy.” I squeezed his shoulder, then shifted off to catch up with the others, who were moving between lines. I chanced a last look at Chopra, whose eyes had grown wide and glassy as he stared off, into nowhere.

  “What did you say to him?” Breckinridge asked, as I reached her.

  “Just told him I was on leave.”

  “I hope so,” she said menacingly.

  Her contact showed several identicards to another customs officer near a side gate. That second officer waved us past the DNA scanners. Breckinridge said good-bye to her contact, then said we needed to catch a taxi and that our meeting was fifteen minutes away, in a little community known as Sobrook’s Dome.

  We were in such a rush that I barely took in the place, which, after we left the terminal, reminded me of the mining towns on Gatewood-Callista, though on my world you’d be hard-pressed to find a natural skylight that let in real sunshine. One such bubble, located nearly a hundred meters above us between two towering skyscrapers, glowed a powdery blue, and all that light pushed back some of the well-worn street’s darker corners.

  The taxi, a small ground vehicle painted yellow in the age-old tradition, carried us on a freeway built within a transparent conduit that, according to the driver, had once provided spectacular views. The sewage now formed a milky brown cloud obscuring everything. We sped toward a small group of people, tourists probably, who were standing atop a footbridge over the freeway and pointing up at all the pollution. The driver said the accident had really been bad for business. It was about to become bad for existence.

  We exited the freeway, navigated through the traffic of several narrow, garbage-lined streets, then rolled up to the curb outside a dilapidated old office building located within one of the smaller domes encircling the main tower. While Halitov and I had both longed to see the tower and its environs, we both now wore the same long expression. Sobrook’s Dome was old, dirty, and economically depressed. I guess it was off the beaten path enough for Breckinridge, who paid the driver, then told us to follow her inside.

  “Look at this place,” said Halitov, kicking a dirty water container out of his way. “I thought you said profits were up here.”

  Breckinridge glanced back at him. “Where do you think those profits have been going? Back into social programs to revitalize these cities? I think not. They’re helping to pay for the war.”

  We followed her inside, into a gloomy complex that more closely resembled a warehouse, with broad, open spaces and piles of abandoned office furniture lining the walls. Meager light from the alley outside sifted in through a long row of windows on the far wall. To the right of those windows lay the entrance to a corridor toward which Breckinridge steered us.

  “They’re really rolling out the red carpet,” Halitov quipped.

  As Breckinridge muttered something in reply, my gaze alighted on a tiny flash of reflected light coming from the opposite corner. I looked again.

  Four pale white spheres about two meters in diameter hovered at eye level and rotated once before they buzzed toward us. Small, whiskerlike sensors sticking out from their poles twitched with lives of their own, and at least a dozen particle points scattered over their hulls flared open to reveal short muzzles. My cerebroed data told me they were Alliance Anti-Personnel Drones, most frequently used for riot control and sentry duty on some of the lesser-populated colos. What they lacked in appearance they made up for in the weapons department

  “Shit!” Halitov cried. “APDs!”

  As the drones issued a thundering report of automatic weapons fire, we charged toward the corridor, the wall behind us exploding in showers of shattered wood and metal.

  “Are they the welcoming committee or what?” screamed Halitov.

  As we reached the corridor, Breckinridge stopped short and turned back. “Look!”

  A lithe young woman of Asian descent, with black hair braided into a ponytail that reached her waist, plunged down through a ceiling panel and landed just behind the drones. She wore nondescript black utilities and brandished a QQ60 particle pistol. As she rebounded from the floor, she leveled her weapon on the far left drone and fired. The machine took the hit, then wheeled back to charge her, as the other three arced high over her head. One drone remained at her twelve o’clock, while the other two found positions about three meters away from her, at her flanks.

  The drone she had struck continued forward. She pumped one, two, three rounds into the thing, but it kept coming.

  I reached out, into the bond, figuring I’d move in to assist, but she had found the bond herself and, with the world shifting slowly around us, she leapt up, dropkicked that relentless drone out of the way, even as she reached up and latched on to the whiskers of the drone above her head. Swinging it like a balloon on a string, she batted the other two drones away, then kept spinning like a top, spinning faster and faster, turning herself into a bizarre propeller that whirred across the room and smashed apart the three drones, along with the one in her hand. She broke out of the spin, then tumbled forward, launching into a series of one-handed cartwheels that abruptly ended just a meter from my face. I jolted, took a step back.

  She stood there, panting, her brows raised, the teardrop-shaped birthmark on her lower left cheek glistening with sweat. She gave me the once-over, her gaze hanging a second on my own birthmark before she looked to Breckinridge. “Good enough?” she asked sarcastically.

  “That was…weird,” answered Breckinridge. “But yeah, good enough.”

  “So this is him,” the Asian woman said, cocking a thumb at me. She eyed Halitov. “Then who’s he?”

  “I’m Captain Rooslin Halitov,” he said, matching her sarcastic tone. “Who are you?”

  “Gentlemen, this is First Lieutenant Katya Jing, Colonial Wardens.”

  “Guess you owe us a salute,” Halitov told the lieutenant.

  “Yeah, right,” she said, not bothering to lift her hand. “I only salute Wardens.”

  Halitov and I tr
aded a look, then I twisted my lip and faced Jing. “So this is her,” I said, tossing a quick glance back to Breckinridge. “I’m unimpressed.”

  “You are?” Jing asked.

  “You got more attitude than skill.”

  A grin flickered across her lips. “I’ll show you what I have.” With that, she grabbed my shoulders and hurled me into the air.

  I couldn’t believe the force she had mustered, and I found myself halfway across the room before I tapped into the bond, regained control of my body, and back-flipped onto my feet—

  Only to find her standing right in front of me, smiling a second before she broke into a move I had never seen before. She lifted her elbows to her ears, then abruptly somersaulted to bring those elbows down onto my shoulders. I crumpled to my knees as stinging pain shot through my neck and chest.

  Then she just booted me in the forehead, knocking me onto my back. She pinned my arms to the floor with her knees, and bond or no, I could not pull myself free.

  Breckinridge called out from the corridor: “Like I said, Scott. Her conditioning is flawless, and her assimilation is complete.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a little talk with him,” said Jing, bolting to her feet.

  “Then meet us upstairs,” Breckinridge answered. She and Halitov headed into the corridor.

  I sat up, rubbing my arms and shoulders, sensing the throbbing pain in my head.

  “Do I still have more attitude than skill?” she asked, striking an exaggerated yet sexy pose, with hands on her hips, medium-sized breasts thrust out.

  “You’re mostly attitude. But you just happened to have enough skill to kick my ass.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It’s not.” I stood, groaned off the pain.

  “Getting too old for this shit?” she asked, then reached up to stroke my graying temple.

  I grabbed her wrist. “How many other freaks like us do they have working for them?”

  “Just us.”

  “Just you.”