by T J Mott
The sounds of weapons fire rang out within the freighter as Thad’s men boarded ahead of him. The distinctive pop of laser supercapacitors discharging echoed within as his Marines engaged the freighter’s crew, soon followed by a few supersonic cracks of traditional explosively-propelled slugs.
Gripping his carbine tightly, Thaddeus stood up from his jumpseat and left the shuttle. As he stepped through their makeshift entry point, the noise of gunfire quietened a bit, sounding more distant. The freighter’s interior already smelled of smoke, ozone, and burned flesh. One of his own Marines lay dead just a few meters away, oozing blood from a bullet hole in his exposed neck. Thad frowned. Their opposition was more well-armed than he’d expected. Light armor could protect vital organs from laser beams or glancing blows from firearms, but there were still well-exposed weak points.
He stepped in further, staying behind four of his men as the other squad of Marines advanced down the freighter’s main deck. He looked around, realizing that the ship was in shambles. It was dusty and dirty, with exposed cabling and power conduits running haphazardly to and fro, most likely hasty repair jobs done just well enough to keep the ship operational. Patches of rust and corrosion adorned the bulkheads and much of the deck plating, in some places eating holes all the way through and exposing other rooms, decks, the main cargo bays, and even some of the ship’s frame.
He brought his carbine up to a ready position and continued down the corridor. The four Marines marched ahead of him, standing in formation to protect him from any stray fire that might venture in his direction. Gunfire, along with heated shouts and screams of pain, continued somewhere in the compartments ahead of them.
They began to step over a steady stream of bodies as they approached the ship’s forward sections. The enemy had no common uniform or loadout, and were of all ages. Some of them were only teenagers. He stepped over the body of a very elderly man who lay sprawled out in the center of the corridor, still clutching a heavy laser pistol in one hand, his eyes and mouth open wide in shock. A scorched half-centimeter kerf stretched from his left hip up to his sternum, where the beam from one of the Marines’ heavy gunners had burned completely through him, nearly cutting him in half.
They advanced a few more meters, stepping past two downed Marines. One of them sat on the deck, leaning against the wall and groaning in pain as he clutched at his armored chest. Blood squirted out between his fingers, rapidly pooling up on the deck around him, and Thaddeus knew he did not have long to live. Next to him, another Marine laid on his back, clearly already dead, with a laser hole punched into his chest. His armor was scorched and smoldering around the wound. A few small flames licked around the entry hole and a finger of noxious smoke streamed up, collecting at the ceiling like a cloud. His face was completely hidden by the light-duty security helmet he wore.
I wasn’t expecting this much resistance, not from civilians. This was supposed to be quick and easy. Get in, lock the crew up, and take their cargo. They weren’t supposed to shoot back. Not like this. Scowling, he studied the weapons of the fallen. The opposition had nice small arms weapons despite the inadequacy of their starships’ laser turrets. They were not armed with the cheap, low-powered laser pistols often used for close-range personal defense with just enough charge for a few shots. His Marines’ light armor would have easily protected them from that. No, they had military-grade weapons.
They were nearly to the bow section of the Ailonian freighter now. The door to the bridge was open ahead of them, and as they approached the sounds of gunfire finally ceased. His point Marines entered first with Thaddeus following closely behind. He nearly stepped on their heels as he eagerly entered the freighter’s smoke-filled bridge to claim his prize.
Chapter 20
The Rebel leadership had set up a sort of secret command center in a Council member’s basement. The small house belonged to Culper, a quiet, unassuming man who now led up ARF’s intelligence wing. Thad had worked with him quite a bit to train his spies and filter through their reports, and their meetings in his basement had gradually included more and more Rebel leaders until it became a natural command center.
A set of waist-high crates were arranged in the middle of the room, serving as an ad-hoc table. On top of it lay a two-dimensional display, its data and power cables snaking haphazardly across the floor to a computer system in the room’s corner, presenting a trip hazard. Most of the display was showing a map of Orent and its surrounding areas. Thaddeus studied the map quietly, examining all the locations and routes showing the regime’s logistics systems.
He also kept an eye on the inset showing the phi-band feed from the Zhale Spaceport. So far, hyperspace traffic seemed very limited. Most days saw fewer than five hyperspace events, mostly civilian-operated Avennian freighters that carried away much of Ailon’s economic output.
More telling, though, was the data they had been receiving from the starships’ phi-band transponders. It appeared that Avennia had three warships patrolling the system. The transponders did not announce make or model, but a few Rebels with a telescope had managed to get a glimpse at the group during a pass through low orbit above the world. They appeared to be small warships, probably considered patrol craft or light corvettes.
A number of Rebel leaders stood throughout the basement. A few of them engaged in side conversations, but overall the room was solemn and quiet. Soon, their actions would be crossing a new threshold. One that would free Ailon, or destroy it for good.
Rhena, Abram, and Culper all stood near the table, representing the Council. Abram, as always, seemed supremely uncomfortable by Thad’s presence. Abram had continually tried to push things out of Thad’s control, only to have the Council overrule him. Abram’s knowledge of military and logistics was naive and incomplete, based on his brief experience as an officer in the previous war. Thad, though, was in command of a large, secretive, highly-compartmentalized organization, one that partially tied together much of the Independent Regions into a shadow empire. Though his identity was still secret, most of the Council realized he had much more experience than Abram.
A number of people he didn’t recognize were also present. Many of them were leaders of different ARF groups and resistance cells, who led truck convoys or medical clinics by day yet trained their staff into paramilitary squads and platoons by night.
Also present, and of course standing not even a full step away from him, was Ria, looking almost ghostly in the room’s dim light. She almost never left his side anymore, unless absolutely required to.
“Five more days,” Thaddeus said. “The regime is really struggling with their logistics situation, and almost half of their supplies are being moved around by the Foundation now. I want five more days to continue our sabotage and theft. Then, we dedicate as many of our own trucks as we can to Avennia…but this time, we keep everything. No delivery, no minor skimming. Just one huge heist, taking it all.”
“What about the escorted trucks?” Abram asked.
“We have enough weapons stored up now to begin arming our truck crews,” Thaddeus answered. “If we’re really lucky, we’ll collect even more on that final run.”
“And then what? How do we handle the garrison’s response?”
“That,” Thaddeus began solemnly, “is when the war begins. I expect their initial response to be confused. They will not have a clear picture of what’s going on or who to counterattack, especially since I want us to immediately go into hiding. I expect them to put the city on lockdown. Armed patrols, vehicle checkpoints everywhere, random inspections of traffic and buildings, curfews. But while they’re deploying this, I want our fighters to make small strikes at their heels. They outnumber and outgun us, but if we can find convoys or troop movements that are small or unsupported, we strike those with minimal losses on our side.”
Abram stared at Thad coldly. “That’s it? That’s your big plan? What about the Governor? Or the spaceport? Or the warships? How do we deal with them?”
“At f
irst, we don’t,” he answered. Abram had pushed for a decapitation strike, not understanding that the new rebel fighters were far too inexperienced to storm the capitol and simply take the governor hostage. Nor could they launch a direct attack against the garrison.
He turned to address Rhena, as he often did when Abram became obstinate. “Attrition is our best option, until some opportunities arise. We need to sow confusion. Find and exploit weaknesses. Feint, get them to commit resources in the wrong direction, and then strike elsewhere. We only launch direct attacks on our own terms where we know we can win, retreating and evading conflict otherwise. Wear them down and keep striking at their logistics. If we can continue to weaken their supply lines, their forces will not fight at full strength.”
“And then what?” Abram asked. “Hope they surrender? What if they call for reinforcements from Avennia?”
“What good are reinforcements if they have no logistics and supply for them?” Thad replied mildly. “Our goal is to control the city. Make it very difficult for Avennia to operate here. Meanwhile, we continue to re-evaluate our strategy as things change and we gain more intel. We’ll have plenty of options…we just won’t know what they are until the opportunities present themselves. Eventually, they will wear thin and we’ll gain effective control of the planet.”
“This isn’t a strategy!” Abram said angrily. “This is a vague plan with no goals and too much hope!”
Inwardly, Thaddeus actually somewhat agreed. He saw no path to the quick, decisive victories he preferred. If he had his own forces present, he’d simply knock out key infrastructure with corvette strikes, land troops around the city, threaten the garrison with orbital bombardment, and demand the Avennians’ immediate surrender and retreat from Ailon. If they refused, keep bombing the regime’s facilities and killing their soldiers.
But he didn’t have his own forces here. Despite their recent training and stockpiling, the Ailonian Rebels were not an army. Not yet. He had a rag-tag collection of relief volunteers with no practical military experience, a few stolen weapons, and no starship support whatsoever. He expected their first battles to be disastrous. Those who survived could quickly become respected fighters, but the initial losses were certain to cause morale problems.
But, importantly, behind that rag-tag collection was an entire population of slaves, relief workers, and free-but-second-class Ailonians who longed for true independence. A few small victories against Avennia would go far towards rallying that population against their overlords. If that happened, Avennia would lose its control over the world. It was a simple economic equation, and Thad’s ultimate goal here was to tip that equation so far from Avennia’s favor that holding the world was just too expensive. Then, they’d have to withdraw.
“It’s called a guerrilla war,” Thaddeus answered back. “And as long as you pay close attention to the enemy’s actions and force them to make mistakes you can exploit, you can accomplish much with vague plans and a bit of hope.”
“What about the warships?” Culper asked softly. “I’m greatly concerned by the possibility of orbital strikes against our forces.”
Thad nodded grimly. “We need to pay close attention to the warships’ positions and avoid any overt action if they’re overhead. The way we’ve compartmentalized our men will help, too. Each of our platoons has its own secret base somewhere in the city. I don’t think even Avennia would raze the entire city from space to wipe out the resistance, which means they’ll have to go door-to-door to find us. But I still want to find a way to take that surface-to-space gun, just in case the warships do become a problem.”
Culper frowned, looking disappointed. “All we have is hearsay and some pictures. The gun is manned by Navy personnel, not Army, and my men have had no luck at inflitrating anything.”
Thad looked down at the map again, staring at the gun emplacement outside the city. “If it comes to it, we might just have to toss a few platoons at it and hope someone can get inside.”
“Five days it is,” Abram cut in. “At that point, we steal every bit of Avennian materièl that’s aboard Foundation trucks, go to ground until the dust clears a bit, and begin fighting.” His eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice menacingly. “And then we hope that this outsider can do what he says he can do.”
***
“Wait.” A small, freckled hand suddenly appeared, swiftly intercepting Thad’s before it could reach the truck’s door handle. He smiled and turned to face the hand’s owner. She looked up at him with sparkling green eyes, with an expression that caused him to momentarily forgot about his mission and take her into his arms. A long kiss, and an even longer embrace, in complete silence. They didn’t need to say anything. Right now was the final calm before the storm. Words would only ruin the moment.
Together, they boarded one of the Foundation’s larger trucks, this one with three rows of seating in the cab and a sturdy but empty cargo box over the rear axles. They had the truck to themselves; most trucks only had one or two Foundation members except for certain cases.
Both wore the bright-orange ARF-issue jacket. And both were zipped up, to hide the laser carbines—smaller models stolen while shipping them for the Army, later cut down to make them even more concealable—both were carrying. If their cargo run included Army escort, Thad and Ria could be firing some of the very first shots in the new war.
They completed the trip to their destination—an Army supply warehouse—in silence. Once there, some Army grunts directed them to a loading dock. Ailonian slaves obediently packed the back end of the truck full of nondescript boxes.
And then four Army soldiers hopped into the truck. Thad shot a glance at Ria, whose eyes were wrinkled with worry. This is both good and bad, he thought to himself, wishing he could somehow reassure her without alerting their escort. Good because it means our cargo is worth guarding, which means it’s worth stealing. Bad, because Ria and I need to dispose of our guards. Ria is not a soldier, and we’re outnumbered.
She had been through the small-arms course Thad had been secretly teaching in the Foundation warehouses, and she’d done well enough. But there was a huge difference between practicing weapons handling on a controlled firing range, and shooting at live people in a combat situation.
The soldiers’ team leader ordered him on, and Thad grimaced as he restarted the engine and pulled away from the dock. He followed their instructions, and soon they were traveling down an Ailonian highway.
Every now and then, he stole a glance at Ria. She was tense and alert, attentively watching Thad out of the corner of her eye and waiting for the signal to act. He unzipped his jacket, as if getting hot, and she did the same a few seconds later.
I don’t want to do this inside the truck. But I don’t think we have a choice. They had to shoot first, without making any action that could risk alerting their enemy. The two-to-one ratio mandated it. Thad would have preferred to somehow get the soldiers out of the vehicle and either leave them behind or engage them someplace other than in the tight confines of a truck cab, but he didn’t see any way of doing that without alerting them and raising the risks.
Taking the steering wheel with his left hand, he “accidentally” bumped the ignition controls, and then cautiously reached into his jacket with his right hand. The engine stalled instantly. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and knew Ria was also reaching for her weapon. Then, he quietly activated the quick-release on the carbine’s sling, freeing it so he could pull it out, and wrapped his hand around the grip.
“What’s going on?” one of the soldiers said as the truck began losing speed.
Thad let off a curse. Just for show. “The engine just died again. This truck’s been nothing but problems lately. Sorry, I gotta pull over and give it a look over.”
He heard a collective groan from behind him as he pulled off to the side of the highway and brought the truck to a stop. Fortunately, there was very little traffic. There won’t be many witnesses.
He started to withdra
w his carbine. “You two, you worthless Ailonians,” the team leader said from behind, “step out of the truck, stay out of the way, and let us look at this. Ackers, Lance, step out and keep an eye on them.”
The rearmost cab doors opened. Thad let off another curse, mentally this time. They’re alert. They must know that the Foundation has been stealing supplies, even if they haven’t witnessed it firsthand. The Foundation had tried to only skim small amounts of supplies from the enemy, but someone somewhere surely must have figured out that not quite everything was making it to its destination. He shook his head almost imperceptibly in Ria’s direction as he snapped his carbine back onto its sling and exited the truck.
“Over there, by him,” one of the soldiers ordered Ria once the vehicle was empty, and she shot a worried look at Thad as she approached him.
Thad looked the soldiers over. Two of them were closely watching him and Ria. The other two set to work, popping the truck’s hood open as the other jumped into the driver’s seat. A moment later, the truck’s engine rumbled to life. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” the soldier declared. “You damn Ailonians can’t even drive a truck without stalling it out!”
And right then, all four soldiers had their attention directed away from Thad and Ria, unconsciously looking towards the truck in response to the sounds of engine startup. “Now!” he whispered loudly towards Ria. He reached into his jacket, withdrew his carbine, and quickly fired two shots. The first violet-colored beam struck the closest soldier in the neck. His eyes opened wide in shock as he began to collapse. The second beam connected with the next soldier’s sternum. That soldier blinked, looked down in surprise, and crumpled to the pavement.
Meanwhile, Ria fired four shots through the open driver door. The soldier in the cab screamed after the first two shots, but he was limp and lifeless by the fourth.
