Rebels in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  “Can I come in?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I shifted aside, let her pass, shut the hatch, and just stood there, gawking at her.

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” she said, beaming.

  “For what?”

  “For dying, of course.” She came over to me, stroked my cheek. “I’m sorry, Scott. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re not here. I’m just dreaming. You’re still back on Exeter.”

  “Am I?”

  “You have to be.”

  “Then how’d I get here?”

  I half shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “Maybe Paul lied to you. Maybe I’m not dead. Maybe they sent a commando unit back in to get me. Maybe the machine finished healing me, and they arrived just in time. And maybe that’s why I’m here.”

  “No, I think you’re here because I need you to be here. I guess…I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know who’s right and who’s wrong. And all I really want to do is just follow the code, be a good soldier—and not abandon the people and the cause. But no one else seems to care about the code or about anything else—except winning the war.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  “I don’t know. There’s just so much bullshit out there. You kind of lose hope in the human race, you know? I keep thinking that if I perform my duty to the best of my ability, if I remain loyal to the Corps and to myself, then I won’t just know what honor means, I’ll be living it.”

  “Scott, that sounds…a little corny.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe no one can live that perfectly. Makes me think there’s something out there better than the human race, and it’s just waiting for us to find it.”

  “The Racinians?”

  “Maybe. Maybe we can learn something from them. And I’m not talking about technology. I’m talking about living without killing each other.”

  “Is this what you really want to talk about? Or do you want me to tell you it’s okay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s okay to get on with your life. Just remember me. Can you do that?”

  The hatchcomm beeped. I shuddered awake. Another beep. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Jing. Can I come in?”

  “Rooslin?” I called. Silence. He had probably gone off for that drink and who knows what with Breckinridge. I pulled myself out of the rack and dragged my feet to the hatch, opened it. “What?”

  “You look terrible,” she said, inviting herself inside.

  “What do you want?”

  She turned back, wriggled her brows, and I finally noticed the alcohol on her breath. “I was just wondering if you…if you wanted to work off some of that anxiety.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I had two drinks. It’s not like we haven’t had a hard day. Work hard, play hard, right?”

  “So you thought you’d come in here and ask if I want to have sex? Huh? Just like that?”

  “Sex? With you?”

  “Yeah, with me. What? I’m not good enough for you?”

  She chuckled under her breath. “I was going to invite you down to the low-G sphere to work on some of the arts. Work out that anxiety. Sex wasn’t part of the invitation.”

  I averted my gaze, feeling like an idiot. “Sorry.”

  “I guess we could have sex, if you really want to…”

  Gritting my teeth, I reached for the door. “Let’s go see if I can kick your ass.”

  She smiled. “Kristi told me you were a dreamer.”

  “Yeah,” I said, opening the hatch. “I definitely am.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jing flew through the air, spinning in a well-executed chak that she turned into a floating kick, counterkick, the ai. I dropped and rolled under her, stood, whirled, then launched myself headfirst toward her in the biza as she turned back.

  We had set the sphere to one-quarter G, and within the broad chamber with padded floor, we had already pounded the hell out of each other. Every time I struck a solid blow that I assumed would finish her, she’d suggest another attack.

  So I spun out of the biza, driving both boots toward her face, but she caught and spun them as though she were turning a wheel, rolling me away, off to the side. I collided with a breath-robbing thud against the wall. As I gasped for breath, she materialized right in front of me. “Maybe we should’ve had sex…” She dragged me to my feet.

  “Let’s take a break,” I said, grunting as I turned my head, working out the kinks in my neck. My right shoulder throbbed, and even in the one-quarter G, my body felt heavy, bloated.

  “Feeling any better?” she asked.

  The irony of her timing left me grinning.

  “Well, that’s good. Exercise always improves my mood. And I have to say I’ve been feeling pretty sorry for myself lately.” She went to a wall panel, increased the G setting, then sat, pulling her knees into her chest.

  “What’s there to feel sorry about? Your conditioning’s not making you grow old…seems like the Wardens are taking good care of you…”

  “It’s my parents.”

  “You miss them?”

  “They were killed on Tau Ceti Eleven. They worked in the agridomes. My father was an arborist. I don’t even know what happened to their bodies.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When I was at the academy, they showed us a holo of that attack. I’d never seen so many crab carriers.”

  Her gaze drifted to the floor. “My father was always such a pacifist. He wanted to hide from everything. Pretend the war was never going to happen.”

  “My father’s like that, too.”

  “My mother…she knew. She was always so strong. She’s the one who pushed me to go to South Point. I graduated the semester before you arrived.”

  “You got out as a second lieutenant. Not too many promotions since then, huh? Why are they holding you back?”

  “When you say ‘they’ do you mean the Seventeen or the Wardens?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “As far as the Seventeen is concerned, I’m MIA. The tac I’m wearing has been reprogrammed. I can only be traced by the Wardens. I run special ops for them, and they pay me really well. I’m saving the money, so when I get out, I won’t have to work. Rank doesn’t mean anything to me, so long as they keep the payments coming.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest. You’re a mercenary.”

  “That’s right. And I don’t feel guilty. They owe it to me, and it’s about time someone in my family rose above the middle class. My grandparents worked in those domes until they were hunched over. My parents would’ve done the same. And even though they took a lot of pride in their work, I watched it suck the life out of them. Maybe the attack helped end their pain.”

  “You know, I used to think my life back on Gatewood-Callista was pretty bad. I figured the only future I had was working in the mines until the numox poisoning finally got me. But when I think about it now, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Just a simple life. Honest. No secrets. You’d get up in the morning and you’d know what to expect. Maybe that’s boring, but boring sounds pretty good now. I’m tired of playing these games.”

  “Yeah, I guess we’re a couple of statistics. You know, disillusioned soldiers beaten down by the system.”

  “And I keep thinking there’s a way to rise above this shit. Maybe I’m kidding myself. And that scares the hell out of me.”

  She stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “Scott, no matter what happens, no matter what you choose to do, I think we should…”

  “What?”

  Pulling away, she turned back to the wall. “Forget it.”

  “You think we should be friends?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Misery loves company?”

  She faced me, her eyes welling up. “No, because you know what it’s like to be me. You know.”

  I thought about my life, about the epi we had both endured. “I’ll b
e your friend. Just don’t lie to me.”

  “Okay.”

  Perhaps I was undermining the moment, but I saw an opportunity, and I took it. “Tell me the truth about my brother.”

  She sighed deeply. “I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. But I can’t tell you if it’s the truth.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “They’re probably monitoring us, and I’m going to get in trouble for this, but you know what? Fuck it. Here it is: even before the war the Wardens knew the Guard Corps wouldn’t be able to stand up to the alliances, especially under a new government’s direction. So they began increasing their numbers quietly, through diversions, sabotage, whatever they could come up with. The conditioning accident on Exeter that apparently killed your brother? Well, the Wardens knew the alliances would try to seize control of that place. So they sabotaged it and basically kidnapped as many cadets as they could. There was a massive cover-up. The cadets were listed as KIA, but they were given new identities and recruited into their ranks.”

  “Were they brainwiped?”

  “Most weren’t, but I heard some of the extreme cases were.”

  “How could they be given new identities? DNA forgeries last for like what? Six months? A year at the most?”

  “We’ve addressed that problem, but the details are trivial. The point is, your brother is alive. And he’s one of us.”

  “But you can’t prove that.”

  “I wish I could. He has a new identity now, but I’ve heard his old name mentioned several times. It’s Jarrett, right?”

  “That’s right. But I still don’t understand. You’re saying the Wardens staged the accident on Exeter so they could kidnap personnel, among other things.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why didn’t they take me? Doesn’t my epi make me more valuable?”

  “Yeah, and much more high-profile. They probably kept a tight watch on you. Getting you would have been a lot more difficult, so they probably didn’t bother and figured they’d use your brother to get to you later.”

  The hatch opened, and we both turned as Breckinridge and Halitov stepped inside. “Oh, you’re already finished,” said Halitov, clearly disappointed.

  “We thought we’d come by and watch the show,” Breckinridge explained, shutting the hatch and following a perimeter walkway toward us.

  “You didn’t miss anything. I kicked her ass, and she begged for mercy,” I said, deadpan.

  “That’s right,” Jing said. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

  “Are you serious?” Halitov asked.

  “You guys look drunk,” I said.

  Breckinridge winked. “We’ll be shipping out in a couple of hours. Got coordinates in Ross one-fifty-four, where Vanguard One will meet us.”

  “You still won’t let us send word to our CO?” I asked.

  “What do you want to tell him? Uh, sorry, sir, but we can’t report for duty for a while because we’re considering an offer from the Wardens. Mind if we take some time off?”

  “Our tacs have been reactivated. They can track us now.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They can’t spare anyone to come searching for you.”

  “How are we supposed to explain this when we get back?”

  “Get back? Scott, by the time you’re finished talking with the colonel, you’ll understand that working for us is what you need to do. And if the Seventeen won’t transfer you, then you might have to return to MIA status so you can work for us.”

  “Which’ll probably include brainwiping so you can turn me into a good little Warden, huh?”

  “Listen to the whiner over here,” said Halitov. “We have a chance to help ourselves and help the colonies.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with her,” I told him, widening my gaze on Breckinridge.

  “At least Rooslin’s keeping an open mind,” Breckinridge said.

  I could remain there, brooding, or get a shower. I moped over to the hatch.

  “It’s all going to work out, Scott,” Halitov called after me. “Stop worrying.”

  A few hours later, my expression long and my heart turning black, I stepped aboard an ATC with Halitov, Jing, and Breckinridge. The pilots got their clearance, and we rose and glided forward through the bay as the doors ahead rumbled apart. I gripped the safety bars pressing on my shoulders and glanced across the hold at Jing, who took a deep breath and closed her eyes. I did likewise and barely noticed the tawt drive kicking in until a sinking feeling overcame me.

  “Tawt complete,” reported one of the pilots. “Entering Ross one-fifty-four. Right on the grid. Uh, Captain Breckinridge?”

  “What is it?”

  “No sign of Vanguard One. Picking up another ship tawting into the system. Goddamn it!”

  “What?”

  “It’s the capital cruiser Rhode Island. She’s launching an attack wing. Activating her beam.”

  “Get us out of here!” cried Breckinridge.

  “Engaging emergency tawt sequence,” the pilot said. He barely finished when a thundering blow struck the ATC, slamming all of us into our bars.

  “She’s got us in her beam,” said the pilot.

  I leered at Breckinridge, who said, “You were worried about being brainwiped? Now’s the time to worry…”

  “Can’t launch a boat?” asked Halitov.

  “If this ATC can’t pull free from their beam, you think a lifeboat can?” Jing snapped.

  “Full power now,” hollered the pilot. “Captain? They got us. They got us good. Orders?”

  Breckinridge bit her lip, staring hard in thought.

  “You’re not thinking about suicide, are you?” Halitov asked her.

  “We’re carrying information that can’t fall into their hands,” she said.

  “Fuck that! Let them take us into their bay. And let’s fight them. That’s the way to go out,” he said.

  “They’ll have orders to take us alive,” she countered.

  “I’d like to see them try.”

  “If this goes bad…” She tapped an index finger on her tac, reminding us of the termination code. “So we fight. But we don’t let them take us.”

  Breckinridge looked to Jing, who nodded. Then she looked to me. I added my nod to Jing’s.

  “All right,” she said, throwing up her safety bars. “Let’s make life a bitch for the Western Alliance Marine Corps.”

  PART 3

  Defining the Code

  12

  I kept watch through a porthole while Halitov set a charge just above the ATC’s rear hatch. “Hey, nobody’s mentioned this, but, uh, I’m wondering…what the hell happened to Vanguard One?” he asked.

  “Excellent question,” said Breckinridge, returning from the cockpit. “Somebody must’ve tipped off the alliances, and the colonel must’ve found out about it. Maybe he couldn’t warn us in time.”

  “Or maybe we’ve been set up,” said Jing.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I added.

  “Thirty seconds till we clear the bay,” said one of the pilots.

  “You got all the charges set?” Breckinridge asked.

  “Yeah,” said Halitov. “And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to gear up. I understand those Marines will be carrying rifles. Nasty things. They shoot projectiles that wear down your skin and tend to get you killed.”

  “Gear up, wiseass. All of you.”

  I yanked a QQ90 particle rifle from its bulkhead clip, checked the charge, set the ID code, then strapped on a smart schrap grenade belt weighed down by two dozen of the deadly devices.

  “We have to get pumped,” yelled Halitov, as the ship suddenly listed hard to port, and, through one of the portholes, the void of space panned off into an icy, battled-scarred plain of gray alloy. “We’re inside now. And we have to get pumped! We’re going to kill ’em all, right? Right? Right?”

  Halitov’s nerves had reached his voice, and I guess working himself into a war frenzy allowed him to cope. To the rest of us, he
was just annoying, and, thankfully, Breckinridge talked him down. I went over to Jing, checked her grenade belt, then double-checked her rifle while she returned the favor.

  “Scared?” she asked.

  “Back when I was a cadet and we got attacked, the Marines caught me. But I got away. Nowhere to run now, huh?”

  She saw right through me. “I’m scared, too.”

  “We’ll work together. We’ll have to kill a lot of them. Do you understand?”

  She tightened her lips, nodded.

  “All right, they’re going to release the beam,” said one of the pilots.

  The ship lurched and hit the landing deck with a solid thud. Then…silence.

  “Signal coming through now,” reported the pilot. “On the comm…”

  “ATC Four-five-zero-niner, this is Executive Officer Haight Vanderson, Western Alliance Marine Corps. Under war declaration sixteen-B we are hereby authorized to board your vessel, seize it and all property contained therein, and place you and anyone in your charge under arrest, copy?”

  “We copy that, sir,” said Breckinridge. “And we’re prepared to surrender ourselves and this vessel. Opening hatch and sending out our pilots.”

  The two pilots shifted back into the hold, two young men staring hard at Breckinridge. One, the blond, muttered to her, “This had better work.”

  Breckinridge took a deep breath, then beat a fist on the starboard hatch control. The door cycled up and away from the bulkhead.

  With their hands raised, both pilots hopped down from the hold and started off. We needed to get them as far away from the ATC as possible, and, since they were not conditioned, they, unfortunately, walked point for our “surrender.”

  Halitov, who peered out through a nearby porthole, said, “Looks like three squads. Center and flanks. Count three grenade launchers, but I doubt they’ll use them. Okay. They got the pilots. Deactivating tacs and taking them away.”

  “Distance?” asked Breckinridge.

  “About thirty meters now. Entering the lift. Okay. We’re clear.”

  “ATC Four-five-zero-niner, we register four more occupants within your vehicle. Leave your weapons inside and come out with your hands extended above your heads.”