Rebels in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  “Hey, Scott? What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get back?” asked Halitov, as we glided toward Vanguard One, her starboard docking port wide-open and already admitting dozen of tubes.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Sleep, I guess.”

  “Okay, Halitov, what is it you’re going to do,” said Jing. “I know you’re dying to tell us.”

  Before Halitov could answer, the Marine corporal threw off his straps and unclipped his particle rifle from the wall. In zero G, he floated around, leveling the rifle on Jing. “It’s a goddamned shame these tubes don’t have a self-destruct, ’cause I’m thinking I’d rather be dead than brainwiped. And I’m also thinking you people are too valuable to be in the wrong hands. So now we’re all going to see Jesus.”

  I reached for my own strap.

  The corporal swung his rifle, pointing it at his own men. He opened fire, spraying them before turning his bead toward Breckinridge, rounds flashing and flying in the bizarre ballet of zero G. Through a storm of floating blood, I saw Jing materialize in front of the corporal, drive his weapon up—but not before a pair of rounds punched Breckinridge in the shoulder. She flinched and swore, putting a hand on the wound as Halitov shouted her name and wrestled with his buckle.

  I threw off my strap, pushed forward, even as a stinging cut across my thighs. Jing managed to pull the corporal’s hand from the trigger. The firing ceased as I crossed behind him, took his head into my hands and, with a faint crunch, broke his neck. I yanked the rifle away from Jing and began batting the corporal until someone, I think it was Halitov, kept shouting for me to ease down while someone else, probably Jing, took back the rifle. I just hung there, groping for breath, the droplets of blood all over the cabin, the pain in Breckinridge’s eyes screaming as loud as my own.

  “What he did,” Jing finally began, “is what we should’ve done.”

  “No. I don’t give a fuck what the Alliance knows now,” said Halitov. “Being a good soldier has nothing to do with suicide. Nothing at all.” He looked at me, as though expecting my nod of approval. I winced.

  They hoisted us onto gurneys, rolled us out of the life tube, then hauled us down to Vanguard One’s sick bay, where surgeons addressed Breckinridge’s wounds while a special team worked to remove the bracelets that had kept us drugged. I heard someone call for synthskin repair as I lay back on the bed, not really caring what they did. I was feeling too damned sorry for myself to realize that I could still show people what it’s like to be loyal and honorable. I just lay there as they worked on me, ignoring any question that wasn’t related to my injuries.

  I slept for several hours, then stirred to find Jing stroking my cheek. “How do you feel?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t want to feel,” I said, pushing her hand away. “I don’t want to feel anything, anymore,”

  “Scott, feeling it is remembering. And the worst thing we can do is forget.” She looked up, across the room. “There’s someone here to see you. I’ll check back later.” She headed for the hatch.

  Paul Beauregard moved past the foot of my bed and strode to my side. He looked young, fit, wearing crisp utilities and Warden insignia on his breast. “Last time I saw you, I was the one who looked like shit. Finally, some symmetry, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I gave him the once-over for his benefit. “So everything they told me about you is true? You’re a Warden?”

  He bit his lip. “I know. I should’ve told the old man I wanted out. But I was facing a general court-martial. He got me the best defense attorney, and he took me to be reconditioned. I couldn’t just leave him after all that.”

  “Is your transfer legal? Or did you have to go MIA?”

  “It’s legal. He got me reassigned. I know that they’re doing everything they can to make your transfer legit, but if you don’t put in a request, it’ll never happen, and if you do want to join us, then you’ll have to go MIA.”

  “I didn’t know I still had a choice,” I said. “Or is making me think I have a choice part of the plan?”

  “Scott, I don’t like any of this either: but my old man seems to think he can win this war, and he tends to get what he wants. He even promised to get me back to Exeter to recover Dina’s body.”

  “How are you, uh, doing with that?”

  “I’ve been talking to a couple of shrinks, but I’m not sure it helps. You have to heal on your own. I don’t know how long it’ll take. Maybe never.”

  “You’ll be okay.”

  “We both will. So, we’re heading to Aire-Wu to get you reconditioned. That was one thing that made me feel better.”

  “Jing told me something—”

  “About your brother?”

  “She said—”

  “I know what she said. And I can’t confirm any of that. Only my father can.”

  “Then I want to talk to him.”

  “You’ll get your chance. In a few hours we’re all having dinner in the captain’s quarters.”

  “Good. Let me ask you something else. Does your father know they scanned us?”

  “He knows. The Rhode Island’s skipper tried tawting out a chip. We took out the probe.”

  “They could’ve sent a conventional signal.”

  “If they had, we would’ve intercepted.”

  “I’m sure the information reached somebody.”

  “That’s not your problem, Scott. You got captured. I wouldn’t have committed suicide either. There aren’t enough people who would care that I did, you know? This war’s about land and money. Get used to that, and you’ll start feeling better.” He crossed toward the hatch. “I’ll come back for you in a little while.”

  “You see Rooslin?”

  “He’s over in the next bay with his new love. I think he’s rubbing her feet.”

  I frowned a second before I conjured up an image of the big guy caressing Breckinridge’s feet while fanning her with a giant leaf as she plucked grapes from a tray and told him, “A little lower, yes. Just a little lower.”

  “Hey, Scott?” Paul called, tugging me away from the image.

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell anybody, but I think you’re smiling.” He headed off.

  The captain’s quarters were huge and lavishly decorated in a nautical motif that Jing explained represented Terran seafarers of the sixteenth century who sailed in the Caribbean. She said they were the original pirates. I’m not sure what she meant by “original,” but I assumed these pirates were famous for their great feasts, since at the rear of the dining area lay a half dozen tables arranged in rows and jammed with more food than I had ever seen collected in one place. I found Halitov and Breckinridge filling their plates to capacity with meats and fresh vegetables and fruit and whipped cream.

  “Scott, man, how ’bout this spread?” asked Halitov. “Finally, some real food. No spaghetti and meatballs, but look at this!” He grabbed a piece of baked chicken, stuffed it in his mouth, and chewed, then narrowed his gaze in ecstasy.

  Jing took a plate and drifted over to a tray filled with steamed broccoli, corn, carrots, and what had to be Tau Ceti asparagus. I joined her there. Beginning to feel a bit giddy—and the feeling was good—I loaded up my plate and crossed to the main dining table, a rectangular affair that seated at least thirty. I took a high-backed, ornately carved wooden chair between Jing and Halitov. Well-dressed officers, mostly department heads who seemed quite used to the atmosphere of ostentation, slid casually into most of the remaining chairs.

  Of course, Halitov was the only one who spoke with his mouth full, repeatedly commented on how good everything was, and asked twice why the colonel and the ship’s captain still hadn’t appeared.

  “They’re on their way,” Paul replied, taking a chair opposite us and setting down a moderately filled tray. “There was a little action around Aire-Wu, but it’s all been taken care of.”

  “What do you mean by ‘a little action’?” I asked.

  “Just that,” he said curtly, then eyed
the others. “So, is everyone enjoying the meal?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Halitov. “Best food I’ve eaten in my entire life.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, but it’s really good,” said Jing.

  “The best, as always,” added Breckinridge.

  Paul winked at us all, then waved a finger at me and Halitov. “You know, sitting here with you two reminds me of all those days back at the South Point, remember? We’d be sitting in the mess, studying for exams.”

  I nodded. “You want to talk politics?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, here we go,” Halitov groaned. “Can’t we just eat instead of turning this into a debate?” Then, noting Jing’s and Breckinridge’s confusion, Halitov explained how Beauregard and I had often engaged in some intellectual sparring during lunch while he would just watch, cringe, and feed his machine.

  “I assume your father’s going to lean hard on me to join the Wardens,” I told Paul. “But how does he justify breaking the code? Everything you’re doing undermines the new colonial government, yet you people still maintain that you’re not attempting to seize control?”

  “I told you we’re trying to give the new government a polite nudge,” said Breckinridge. “Of course, there are some senators who will never listen to reason.”

  Paul nodded. “Scott, do you think if we were really organizing a coup that we could keep it a secret? If we were, the word would’ve gotten out, and we would’ve been disbanded a long time ago. We’re just trying to navigate around the Colonial Congress, which, I have to say, is as corrupt as it is ineffectual.”

  “This ‘navigating’ as you put it. You don’t believe you’re breaking the code? Come on. By operating without the direct approval of the Colonial Congress you’re ignoring the oath you swore to the Seventeen and the colonies we protect. You’re breaking the code. More than that, we’re talking treason.”

  His lip twisted. “In the end, Scott, the mission is still the same: protect the colonies. Eight have already fallen. Nine left. If something doesn’t give soon, we’re all going to be wiped. You can sit there and worry about whether you’re being a good little soldier and whether all the warrants of your argument make sense, but in the end, like I said, the mission is still the same. And if you abandon us, you’re abandoning the mission.”

  I snorted. “That help you sleep at night?”

  “No, but it reminds me how much I hate this, how much I’d rather be home. But that’s never going to happen if I don’t wind up on the winning team. So good or bad, that’s the bottom line. You can go back, work for the Seventeen, for Rebel ten-seven, but you’ll do that knowing we can’t be stopped…we won’t be stopped…and we’ll save all our lives. I know you, Scott. You can’t sit by. You need to join us.”

  I glanced away from him, shook my head fiercely.

  “I know,” he went on. “You think we’re breaking the code. What if breaking the code has to be done in order to save lives and complete the mission? The code was created to that end, and if it’s no longer useful, then why follow it? Misplaced loyalty isn’t any good. You’re not giving up on the colonies, you’re helping them. You’re not doing what your mother did.”

  I tensed at the mention of my mother. “I don’t want to be like you: people who swear oaths, then turn their backs on them.”

  “You turned your back on the alliances when you joined the Seventeen.”

  “You know I was rushed into that. But now I see how it is. There’s nothing important anymore. Oh, excuse me, I forgot. There is one thing: winning the war, right? Who gives a fuck about anything else? People don’t matter. Just win, win, win. Fuck the code.”

  “The code must be broken. And whether any of us likes it or not, the Wardens are going to keep us free. And you’re right. That’s what it’s about. Winning. Because winning equals freedom. And it’s going to happen our way, and eventually, the new colonial government will thank us.”

  “Or have you put to death for treason.”

  Someone hemmed at the head of the table, and all gazes turned as Colonel J.D. Beauregard arrived, bringing with him the ship’s captain, a man named Lindemann who looked much too young and nervous to hold that station. On the other hand, the colonel (looking for all the world like an older clone of his son) possessed the gait and sharp stare of man who had commanded respect for most of his life—even when he had been as youthful as the Vanguard’s skipper. I guess some people were born to command. And while my name seemed to be fading from that list, the colonel’s blazed brilliantly at its top. He took a seat to the captain’s right, where the XO should have been, but that man now sat to the captain’s left, in deference to the legendary colonel.

  Captain Lindemann stood. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. And I’d like to extend a special welcome to Captain Kristi Breckinridge, Lieutenant Katya Jing, Captain Rooslin Halitov, and Captain Scott St. Andrew. If there’s anything any of you need during your stay aboard, don’t hesitate to contact me directly. Now then, before I interrupt your dinner any further, I’d like to propose a toast. To Colonel J.D. Beauregard, a man whose vision has once again resulted in another resounding naval victory for the colonies.”

  The other officers snapped to their feet, raised their glasses. Breckinridge and Jing followed quickly, as did Halitov and Paul. Begrudgingly, I stood and held a glass—but refused to lift it.

  “To the colonel!” the captain cried.

  “To the colonel!” the others shouted, then swigged hard.

  I set my glass down and returned to my seat.

  “As you were,” said the captain. “Eat. Enjoy. Because it never lasts long…”

  Keeping my gaze on my plate, I ate in silence, listening to Breckinridge and Jing discuss the attack on the Rhode Island with one of Vanguard’s weapons officers. Paul left his seat to go discuss something with his father, and Halitov found great interest in two thick slices of something called New York cheesecake.

  As I was about to rise and fetch my own dessert, a tap came hard on my shoulder, and I looked up to find Paul standing beside the colonel. I liked Paul and didn’t have the heart to disrespect him or his father by not bolting up and saluting.

  “At ease, son,” said the colonel. Interesting how to all older officers, we are always “son.” Even more interesting is how I now carry on this silly tradition by calling male cadets in my counsel “son,” as I was called.

  “Scott, this is my father.”

  The colonel offered his somewhat wizened hand, the grip solid and telling. “Mr. St. Andrew, I’ve been watching your career quite closely, ever since my son told me you were in his squad back at the academy. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take you up to my quarters for a brandy.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I understand what it is you want from me, and I just…I just can’t do it.”

  “Captain, I insist. I’d rather you hear me out before you make a final decision.”

  “Sir, with all due respect. I’ve been going along with this little game and actually pretending that I have a choice. But I know I don’t. Let’s get to it. You want me to join. If I don’t, you wipe me. End of story. Question number one: why is it so important that you get me to join willingly?”

  “Sir, I’m—”

  Paul was about to apologize to his father for my outburst, but the colonel cut him off with the wave of a finger. “Captain, your real combat experience is much more valuable than you know. Yes, we’ve had to wipe many individuals, cerebro them, and put them back out with a set of memories that were processed for them, not forged through real experience. Of course, we’ve had difficulties, you know, the same doubt you feel about your own cerebroed data. We’d rather not wipe anyone, anymore. Someone like you has far too much to offer. As long as I’m alive, none of you will be wiped. Now, please. Come with me to my quarters.”

  I looked to Paul for some reassurance, something, but he just turned away. “All right, sir. Lead the way.”

  We strolled out of the dining
hall, into the corridor, and picked up a lift. Inside, the colonel asked, “Captain, if we could change the subject a moment. Tell me, how is my son?”

  “Sir?”

  “He doesn’t talk to me anymore, at least not the way we used to. Yes, he told me all about Dina and the machine on Exeter, but I’m getting the feeling that he doesn’t want to be a soldier anymore. Funny, all his life he’s dreamed of becoming an officer. That’s all I ever heard. And I’ve tried so hard to set a good example for him.”

  “Sir, I think Paul is an excellent officer. I’d serve with him anytime, anywhere. But there’s a side to him that scares me. Still, we’ve been through a lot together. And if there’s anything wrong with him now, it’s probably the same thing that’s bothering me. There’s no one you can trust anymore. All we have left is the war. We give, it takes. And I guess we’re all starting to run dry.”

  “You’re a poet, Mr. St. Andrew, if not a dour one.”

  The lift doors parted, and he led me three hatches down to his quarters. Once inside, he took a brief call in the bedroom, then showed me to a spacious sitting room with a faux fireplace. I took a seat in a well-padded antique chair. He went to a small dry bar, poured us brandies, lit up a pipe, then took the chair opposite me.

  I’d never had a glass of brandy before and winced over the taste. “Thank you, sir.”

  We just sat there, him smoking and sipping his brandy, me nervously rubbing the chair’s arms. I figured he’d begin the conversation, but after five minutes of nothing, I finally asked, “Uh, excuse me, sir. But you wanted to talk?”

  “That’s right.”

  I repressed my grin. “Uh, sir, would you care to initiate the conversation?”

  “No.”

  “Sir, did I say something back there in the lift that—”

  “No, you did not.”

  “Maybe I forgot to say that I know Paul cares for you very deeply. And I know he’s very proud of you. When we were at the academy, he talked about you all the time.”

  “Some people think I’m an abomination created by the military. I think my son agrees with that assessment.”