Rebels in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  “Look, I know how you feel. Of course they want to use us. You don’t have to like it. I don’t. But they fixed my conditioning. And some of the things I’m able to do now…” With that, she vanished, appeared behind my shoulder, whispered in my ear. “Did you miss me?”

  “Is this what they’re paying you to say?”

  She pulled away, crossed in front of me. “The only thing they wanted from me is that demonstration with the drones. I’m talking to you right now because we’re the same, gennyboy, gennygirl, picked on all our lives because of these fucking birthmarks. And now we get the last laugh.”

  “Is that all this is to you? Revenge?”

  “Oh, come down from your moral high ground. My sister died because of who I am. You know what this is to me? My way of saying thank you and letting her know that she died for something. I’m wanted now. I’m respected. I’ll make a difference.”

  “My brother died for nothing,” I retorted.

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Her gaze swept the room. “We’re being monitored. I can’t say anything.”

  “They’re just using my brother as bait. And I can’t tell you how much I resent it. He’s dead.”

  She shook her head, ever so slightly.

  I went to her, grabbed her shoulders. “Tell me!”

  She ripped out of my grip. “C’mon. They’re waiting for us upstairs.”

  “Just like the rest of them, huh? Know what? I’ve already heard enough. And I’m amazed that you condone this.”

  She frowned. “You’re amazed? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know you swore an oath to the Seventeen, and now you and the rest of them are just opportunists, turning your back on the Corps and breaking the code.”

  Her laughter caught me off guard. “The code? This is war. You want to play by the rules?”

  “What’s the alternative? Chaos? Anarchy?”

  “How Trout victory?”

  “You ever think that what’s going on between the Wardens and the Seventeen is a ploy by the alliances? The age-old strategy of divide and conquer?”

  “Or maybe there isn’t a coup. Maybe the whole thing’s been set up by the Guard Corps to test our loyalties.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “More ridiculous than what you’re saying?”

  “In two days the Charles Michael is going to arrive here and take out the Eri Flower. Stand there and tell me that that action has been approved by the colonial government.”

  “Scott, I don’t care what you do, but one thing’s for sure: if you don’t join us, you’re going to die way too soon. And for someone who’s just like me, that’d be a real shame. I’m going upstairs. You can come, hear them out. Or you can try running. They’ll just send me after you.”

  I might very well have tried to run, but I thought of Halitov and, resignedly, followed Jing upstairs, where Breckinridge and two gray-haired men in civilian clothes sat in a small, dingy room. Halitov lounged across from them, leaning back, hands behind his head, looking a hell of a lot more relaxed than I felt. I gave him a quick glance of reproach before I found a dusty old chair and slid it beside his.

  “Scott, this is Lieutenant Colonel James Abronoff and Major Tom Smiteson,” said Breckinridge.

  I was about to snap to and salute, then I remembered Jing’s comment about only saluting Wardens and thought I’d return the favor. I gave each man a passing nod, then leaned forward. “Gentlemen, explain to me why you don’t consider yourselves traitors.”

  Abronoff, the older of the two officers, drew his head back, eyes bulging. “Explain to me, son, just who the fuck you think you are?”

  “Easy, Colonel,” said Major Smiteson. “She said he’d be difficult.”

  I glowered at them. “Gentlemen, I start at difficult.”

  “Are you threatening us, son?” boomed Abronoff.

  “No, Dad. Just relaying the facts.” I’ll admit that my behavior was far from professional and quite uncharacteristic of me, but my patience had worn thin. I couldn’t bear to listen to any more lies.

  “Scott, shut up, man,” said Halitov. “Just hear them out. Let them show you the holos. You’re not going to believe what’s going on. We haven’t been following the news.”

  “So what’re you going to do? Go AWOL to join them?” I asked.

  “Show him,” Halitov told the officers. “Just show him.”

  Smiteson retrieved a small holo projector from behind his chair and activated the device. For about fifteen minutes I sat there watching a montage of news footage shot at over a dozen colonies on half as many worlds. All of it was the same: Alliance Marines dropped in crab carriers, stormed the cities, murdered civilians, and seized territory. I watched mothers carry dead children in their arms and fathers struggle in hand-to-hand combat with Marines. I watched families get torn apart. The images brimmed with pathos, the horror pushed to its limit. When the projector finally winked out, I nodded at them. “Nice movie. Who made it for you?”

  “What you just saw is legitimate, verifiable by twenty-one sources,” said Smiteson. “We anticipated your response. If you’d like, I can take you through the verification process right now.”

  “Scott, they’re not lying about this. Eight, count them, eight of the Seventeen systems have already fallen to the alliances.”

  “What about—”

  “Gatewood-Callista?” Halitov finished. “They’ve taken it back.”

  “But rest assured, Captain, that a contingent of Wardens ran a rescue Op before that invasion. Colonel Beauregard himself saw to it that your father was among those rescued.”

  “So now you have my father,” I said, gasping with incredulity. “What’re you going to do? Kill him if I don’t join you?” I shot to my feet, hands balling into fists, my heart drumming, my mind’s eye flashing with an image of me murdering Jing, the two officers, and Breckinridge. I shuddered.

  “Your father, along with the rest of the refugees, was taken to Kennedy-Centauri,” explained Abronoff, now on his feet to meet my gaze. “We saved his life. And we’re not using him to bargain with you. We’re trying to make you understand that working with us is the right thing to do.”

  “Captain, the remaining colonies can’t support the Seventeen’s war effort for much longer. If they’re going to remain operational, they’ll need to begin a raiding campaign more extensive than they could possibly handle.”

  “You’re talking about hijacking transports and robbing alliance-held colonies…”

  “Exactly—just to get the needed supplies. But we’ve already cut deals with over a dozen minicorps sympathetic to the colos. They’ll smuggle out the materials we need. We can maintain the war effort without having to risk Guard Corps lives. It’s a better plan than anything the new colonial government has put together.”

  “Why not just go to the new government and tell them the plan? Why does everything have to be so clandestine?”

  “There are too many egos involved, and way too much partisanship. Anyway, it’s already too late for diplomacy.” Abronoff returned to his seat.

  The man was probably right. And maybe they had saved my father. Maybe they would recondition me. I suddenly felt cold and weak, and for a second, I thought I’d surrender to them. Then I remembered my father’s expression every time someone would mention my mother.

  “I won’t break the code,” I said, eyeing all of them. “I made a commitment to the new colonial government, and I won’t betray it.”

  “We’re not betraying anybody,” snapped Halitov. “The Seventeen can’t do the job anymore. So we help the team that can. Forget all that crap about your mother and the code being so important. One hand washes—”

  “No.”

  Halitov swore under his breath. “Are you nuts?” He faced the group. “I’m sorry. My friend is temporarily insane. Give me a minute while I beat some fucking sense into him.” He rose, grabbed me suddenly by the throat, and forc
ed me toward the back of the room. “What’re you doing, man?”

  I wrenched his hand away. “We have to choose sides. Again. I swore that if I joined the Seventeen, I’d remain loyal till the end. I’m not a quitter.”

  “Hey, asshole. The end’s going to come sooner than you think. We join them, get reconditioned—”

  “Get caught by the Seventeen and either brainwiped or executed,” I added.

  He lowered his voice. “We’re too valuable. That won’t happen.”

  “You don’t know that. And okay, their offer’s tempting, but we don’t really know how much of it is true. The answer is no. And we’re leaving. Right now.”

  He stared gravely. “I want to stay.”

  “No, you don’t. Not really. You’re just thinking about all the promises they’ve made and the fact that you want to screw Breckinridge. You’re not thinking about the consequences. We’re soldiers. We dig in. We don’t run away.”

  He shut his eyes, rubbed them vigorously. “I swear to God, when the time comes, I’m going to tell you so, and you’re going to say I was right, we should’ve stayed. But then it’ll be too late. And we’ll be fucked.”

  I pushed past him, regarded Abronoff and Smiteson. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but we’re commissioned officers in the Seventeen System Guard Corps assigned to Special Forces Unit Rebel ten-seven, and we were just leaving…”

  “If you leave now, Scott, you’ll never find out what’s happened to your brother,” said Breckinridge, her voice full of false sympathy.

  “My brother is dead.” I gestured to Halitov, and we started out.

  “Captain St. Andrew,” called Abronoff. “I’m sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement.”

  As I reached for the door, I muttered to Halitov, “Get ready. They won’t let us go.”

  9

  To my surprise, Halitov and I were able to slip into the hall without being stopped.

  “See, you were wrong about them,” he said, as we hustled toward the stairwell. “They were being honest. And they’re letting us walk right out of here…”

  Had we been back in the room, we would’ve heard Abronoff order Jing to stop us. The order made perfect sense. They couldn’t allow what we knew to fall into the Seventeen’s hands. Before the meeting, I had been unsure how forthcoming they would be, and I didn’t want to believe they would hold us against our will. As we hit the stairs, I wondered if my mistake would cost us our memories at the least, our lives at the most.

  I reached for my tac, wanting to skin up. A chill struck me as I remembered the tac had been deactivated.

  “This can be simple or difficult,” Jing hollered from the top of the stairwell.

  “I take it back,” Halitov shouted to me. “You were right about them. Shit. You were right.”

  “Wish I were wrong.”

  We reached the ground floor, burst through the rickety old door, and raced through the corridor, venturing into that warehouselike room.

  Jing was waiting for us at the front door, arms outstretched, hands clutching her pistol. “Geez, how’d she do that?”

  Halitov attempted to skin up, grimaced at his deactivated tac, then slowly raised his hands.

  “We just want to help,” said Jing, sounding remarkably earnest. “Don’t do this. Don’t let them brainwipe you.”

  Tingling with the bond, I willed myself behind Jing, and even as the wave of dizziness washed over me, I grabbed the muzzle of her pistol and forced her hands up as a round exploded from the weapon. “Go!” I ordered Halitov.

  He charged past us as Jing leaned forward, then yanked me into the air, over her back. In doing so, she lost her grip on the pistol, and I tumbled to the floor with the weapon in my hand. I rolled, faced her, aimed the pistol with a shaky hand.

  She shrugged.

  I looked at the pistol, saw the flashing red light that indicated the weapon was set to user-specific mode. But even if I could have fired, she would have skinned up. I was about to throw away the gun, then realized she could still use it, and tucked it into my boot.

  In that instant, Halitov, who should have been running his ass off in escape, launched into a dirc, the somersault and kick, from behind Jing. His boots caught her squarely in the back of her head, and down she went as the rest of him collided with her back. He had executed the move rather sloppily, but the distraction bought me time enough to launch forward, sliding in the shoru until, with one leg bent back, I came down and thrust out my boot, slamming Jing’s head back into the floor.

  Halitov clambered away from her, and we both got to our feet and dashed for the door. I repressed the urge to look back, but I imagined her recovering and sprinting after us.

  Once on the street, we darted to the next intersection, turned right, and passed a row of machine shops with their garage doors open. We ducked inside one, drawing the confused stare of an old man in a soiled work uniform. “You,” I called, shifting behind a workbench cluttered with the parts of some big machine, perhaps a jumpsub’s engine. “Do you know where the Seventeen’s garrison HQ is?”

  He just looked at us.

  “Do you understand?” demanded Halitov.

  Whether the guy did or not, we didn’t have time to wait. We crossed through the shop, found a rear exit, and rushed into a back alley where a small group of young people, early teens from the looks of them, were lying with long tubes attached to their arms. Drug users, no doubt. Even as we left them, I heard that rear door slam open, chanced a look back, and saw Jing. Our gazes locked for a second, then I joined Halitov in a mad rush up the alley.

  Two blocks later, with Jing narrowing her gap, we reached a thoroughfare with ground traffic backed up in both directions. A few taxi drivers had already exited their vehicles and sat on their hoods, shouting obscenities. Halitov and I ran straight up the middle of the street, weaving between the transports and leaping over doors twice as they swung open.

  We neared the next intersection and saw what was holding up traffic. About two hundred or so antiwar protesters had filed into the middle of the street. Some sat cross-legged and weren’t going to move, while others carried makeshift signs, a few of which read STOP THE BLOODSHED! WE BELONG TO THE ALLIANCES! and SEND THE GUARD CORPS HOME!

  We couldn’t help but slow as we neared the crowd, and to our right, a wall of guardsmen dressed in orange riot gear and gripping opaque shields advanced toward the protesters. I shot a look behind us, saw Jing weaving forward, and when I turned back, a young woman with blue hair and yellow eyes was shoving signs into our hands. “Come on,” she told us. “Show them we mean business!”

  I thought I was dreaming, thought that perhaps I had been transported back in time to the war protests on Earth during the 1960s or the Martian revolt during the 2270s. Halitov and I were thrust into the crowd, our elbows forced up so we could wave signs demeaning the very force we served.

  Jing reached the edge of the crowd and stopped, saw the wall of guardsmen, saw the hundreds of witnesses all around us, and I assumed they were why she did not pursue us. But before she turned and left, she met my gaze and…winked.

  I returned a confused look as she jogged off.

  “She’s leaving?” asked Halitov, lifting his voice over the shouting protesters.

  Maybe her wink meant nothing. Or maybe the Wardens had staged the whole thing and had deliberately fed us information they knew we would take back to the Corps. I would get a headache trying to consider all of the possibilities.

  “Let’s talk to one of those corporals,” I told Halitov, pointing to a pair of soldiers on the other side of the intersection.

  He nodded, and we elbowed our way through the picketers, not realizing that the situation had already turned violent. Just ahead of us, the shouts had become screams as a chaotic thumping followed by multiple whistling sounds drove our gazes skyward.

  “Fuck, Losha Gas,” yelled Halitov, as we watched the pellets explode into crimson chemical clouds that would render us unconscious within sixty seconds. Peo
ple ran in all directions, and Halitov and I got swept toward the corner, where we fell over two women screaming and crawling to get away.

  I got my first whiff of the gas and retched over its sulfurlike odor. Halitov’s face swelled like a balloon. The streetlights exploded with color. The street turned into an oily black river, and I had forgotten how to swim.

  A voice sounded from the darkness, an unfamiliar voice, deep and presumably male, with a strange accent I had never heard before: “It’s the water, the water, the water, you think it’s not the water, but it’s the water, the water, the water, because it’s wet, you know, too wet to comprehend.”

  I opened my eyes. Leaning over me was a young woman, maybe nineteen, her head shaven, a fine layer of what might have been salt covering her entire face like a weird mask. She widened her eyes. “It’s the water, right? The water.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  That voice I recognized as Halitov’s. I sat up, and there he was, standing near a force fence that encompassed a huge, vacant lot between a string of office complexes. The curving ceiling indicated we were still somewhere in Sobrook’s Dome, I didn’t know where. We were two among the hundreds milling about or coming to behind the fence.

  “Welcome to paradise,” said Halitov. “I tried talking to one of those grunts over there. He won’t listen.”

  “Did you show them your tac?”

  He brightened over the idea. “No, I didn’t. That’s why I got you to do the thinking.” He helped me to my feet.

  The bald, salt-covered woman rushed to me, put her hands on my shoulders. “It’s the water. You can tread it. But don’t drink it.”

  Halitov pulled me away from her. “Fucking place has gone crazy.”

  I looked back at her as Halitov shoved me forward. She made a drinking gesture with her hand, then waved her index finger in warning.

  The grunt posted at our corner of the fence wouldn’t give us the time day, even after we showed him our tacs. He dismissed us and the devices with a word: “Forgeries.”

  “Who’s your CO, private?” I demanded.