Rebellion at Ailon

by T J Mott

Thad gave his sedan a look-over as he exited it. It was scraped up, dented, and scorched by laser fire, with dozens of laser holes burned all over the body. Had Poulsen delayed even another minute or two, they’d all be dead.

  Her gunship didn’t look much better. The hull was scorched and blackened, covered in meter-deep pockmarks where sections of the armor plating had simply boiled away. It no longer glowed, but from twenty meters away he could feel its intense heat radiating on his face. Loud clicks and ticks emanated from the starship as it cooled.

  “Stay here a minute,” he told the other Rebels. He watched as Ria knelt on the pavement and took her son in a tight hug. Chet was busy with the radio, talking to leadership. The other surviving car from his platoon parked alongside his, and five weary-looking Rebel fighters climbed out.

  Poulsen and two other Blue Fleet officers stood in waiting beneath the gunship, highlighted from above by its landing floodlights. Above them, the gunship’s laser turrets swiveled around menacingly, and he hoped they’d have no reason to fire. It was pretty small by starship standards, but starship-grade lasers were not to be underestimated by ground forces. Even standing within a few meters of a beam as it flashed by could be deadly to infantry.

  “Admiral Marcell,” Poulsen greeted as he approached, keeping her voice low enough that the sounds of coolant pumps and the drone of the idling reactor easily prevented the other Rebel fighters from overhearing her. “I see you’re staying out of trouble.” Her eyes refocused somewhere beside him. Thad turned to see Chet carefully approaching.

  “Abram’s diversion is over,” Chet reported. “But Avennia is on the counter-attack as our fighters retreat. And it’s not going well.”

  Thad turned back to Poulsen. “Can you fly this into the city?” he asked. “If you stay at treetop level, I doubt the railgun can depress far enough to shoot at you.” And if it tried, and missed, the collateral damage would be beyond awful. Hopefully the Avennians wouldn’t risk firing upon their own city.

  Chet eyed the gunship in awe. “That’s about our only option left,” he said. “If we can’t take the heat off our remaining fighters, it’ll all be over very soon.”

  Poulsen nodded. “I can do that. That low, our thruster wash will do some heavy damage to the city, but…” She trailed off as she scanned the city behind Thad, and sighed. “Large portions of the city are already on fire. At this point I guess it won’t matter.”

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” Thad started. “We’re all boarding and getting back in the air. Fly into the city. Chet, coordinate with the Rebels to get a rally point, then we’ll fly cover and try to get everyone safely there. If the rest of the squadron can keep space clear for us, and we can get the Rebels gathered up and covered by the gunship, that should give us time to breathe and figure out what’s next.”

  ***

  The motley group of tired and dirty Rebel fighters assembled within the gunship’s small bridge, laser carbines slung across their chests in a not-quite-ready position, eyeing the blue-uniformed starship crew with unease.

  Chet felt a bit uneasy, too. Who were these people, and why should he trust them? Yet they had just saved his life, and the remnants of his platoon had nowhere else to go, anyway.

  Chad Messier seems to trust them, he thought. I suppose that’s good enough for now.

  Ria and Rin quickly found a corner of the room and settled into it, sitting on the deck with their knees drawn up to their chins. She wrapped her arms around her son and whispered something into his ears. But if the young boy was upset or disturbed by everything that had just happened, he was far too tired to show it. He leaned his head into his mother’s shoulder and was seemingly asleep seconds later.

  Chad and the very tall blonde woman in the blue uniform were the last into the bridge. “Clauncy, get us airborne again and head towards the city,” the woman ordered. “Max altitude twenty meters. Exira, you’re in charge while the adm—Messier and I comm the rest of the squadron and figure some things out.” She pointed at Chet. “Gunners: weapons free, follow his lead. He has comms with the Rebel fighters. Defend them and help them regroup. Stay at least three klicks away from the surface-to-space gun.”

  “Aye, Commander,” said a young man standing at a console to the bridge’s starboard side as the woman and Chad exited the bridge. He walked over to Chet. “Lieutenant Exira, Chief Engineer and First Officer of Ghost 1. Welcome aboard.”

  “Chet Savoy,” he replied. “Platoon Sergeant, First Platoon, with the Ailon Rebels.” He hesitated. “What’s left of it, that is,” he added sadly.

  “This way,” said Exira, motioning towards his console a few footsteps away.

  Chet followed him cautiously. The young man manipulated the display, and a second later the console’s main screen showed an incredibly-detailed map of Orent, reminding him of just how outdated Ailonian technology was compared to the rest of the galaxy. It was nearly photographic. Some of the color-coding highlighted the smoke clouds that blanketed parts of the city. A giant no-go zone stretched around the surface-to-orbit railgun up near the spaceport and garrison. It even showed ground traffic in real-time. Icons identifying army trucks and personnel carriers slowly spread out from the garrison, and high speed units—probably AFPF cruisers, Chet thought—zoomed around the city’s major roads to flank the fleeing fighters.

  He removed his backpack and dropped it at his feet. A thin coiled cable snaked out from it, attaching the radio to his earpiece and lapel mic. “Radio check, radio check,” he said.

  “Copy,” came the fuzzy, muffled response typical of their low-bandwidth comm system.

  “Hang on a moment!” said Lieutenant Exira. “Bosel, take Chet’s radio and get our comm systems configured to use the same channel. I want comms with the fighters on the ground!”

  “Aye, sir!” Across the bridge, a young brunette woman stood from her seat on the port side. She quickly crossed the room. Chet removed his earpiece and mic and handed her the radio bag. She returned to her station and worked for a minute. “This is really archaic. But I patched it in to our speakers and pickup.”

  “This is Chet, First Platoon,” he identified himself. “Radio check, please.”

  “We still copy,” a voice buzzed, this time over the bridge speakers. “This is Culper. I have Sal and Abram here, too. Is Messier there?”

  “He’s here but not on the radio. Listen. We’ve made contact with the mercs. We’re aboard a starship approaching the city at treetop-level from the south. I want all units to rendezvous at the old Foundation Headquarters. I want position and status updates from all platoons. The starship ‘Ghost 1’ will provide support from the air. Also be advised we have a strict no-go zone for three klicks around the gun. Over.”

  “Copy. We have several comm groups open with the cells scattered throughout Orent. We’ll coordinate with them to move everyone towards the old Headquarters, and send you orders, that work for you?”

  Exira nodded. “That sounds great,” Chet relayed.

  “Okay. First up. Eighth Platoon is pinned down two klicks west of the garrison. Army to their east and police to the west. See if you can free them up. We’ll have them switch to this frequency.”

  “We’re on it,” replied Exira, pinpointing the Army garrison on his console. “Clauncy, set heading fifteen degrees, stay at twenty meters altitude. Bosel, infrared scans on our flight vector. Find these guys and mark enemies for our gunners.” Exira did something to his console, and the display split up. The city map and sensor feed shrank, making room for a second screen with views from the infrared sensors and boresight cameras.

  “Got them!” Bosel announced. Chet studied the infrared view. Around twenty Rebel fighters were caught up in a tight alleyway. Just as many warm spots had taken up position to their east, and the exchange of laser fire was quite obvious in the infrared spectrum. Four cars were parked to the west of the alley, with men crouching behind them and spitting lasers at the trapped fighters.

  “Eighth Platoon, take cov
er!” ordered Chet. “Airstrikes incoming.” He watched the men in the alley drop into the prone position, and all outgoing laser fire ceased. He glanced at Exira. “Take out those police cruisers, then focus fire on the troops to the east while our men escape to the west.”

  The infrared feed flashed, the entire display saturated and showing only white. It cleared a fraction of a second later, and Chet saw one of the police cars glowing white-hot on the feed. It no longer looked like a car, now it was a molten blob with a geyser of flames erupting from what used to be a hydrogen fuel cylinder. The screen flashed again, and the second car was destroyed. Two more flashes, and then the trapped fighters had nothing to worry about from their west.

  Chet waited for the first shot on the Army troops before ordering the platoon to move west. And as they escaped the alley, Ghost 1 rained death from above with the starship-grade laser turret on its belly. It seemed somewhat unfair to Chet. The Avennian Army soldiers never even knew what hit them. I think we’ve just won the war. Now to make Avennia realize it.

  “Squadron status?” Exira asked.

  “Hovering point-five light-seconds above us,” Bosel replied. “The railgun has given up firing on them at that distance, and the Avennian starships have taken cover on the other side of the planet.”

  “So we’re unopposed right now?” asked Chet. Exira nodded silently, and Chet heaved a sigh of relief. Right now, Ghost 1 could have the entire city locked down in the Rebels’ favor, except for the no-go zone around the railgun.

  “Ghost 1, new orders. Fifteenth Platoon is holed up in the old Foundation G warehouse and surrounded by Avennian Army…”

  ***

  “We’re going to have some serious political problems,” said Thaddeus. “The Ailonians actually had a record of the Lynx’s transponder signal, and they recognized it when it arrived.”

  “But we’re here to help,” protested Poulsen, now a Lieutenant Commander and in charge of a Blue Fleet squadron—quite a promotion since the last time he’d seen her aboard the Caracal. She sat across from him in the gunship’s tiny galley, where they were alone and far from any Rebel ears. The thrum of the reactor continued to rise and fall in pitch as the gunship maneuvered, and periodic thumps from the laser turret on its belly reminded them that they were hovering over a battlefield.

  “I think I’ve underestimated the Ailonians’ hatred of me,” Thad added. “There are people who would rather lose the war than accept my help.” He shuddered as he remembered his last conversation with Ria. When the Rebels had finally located their missing convoy, they’d pulled sensor logs of the raid, including audio and video records from inside the freighters. That’s how the Rebels had recognized the Lynx, and that’s why Ria was taking it so personally. She’d seen the video. She’d watched as his masked, armored form had killed her husband on the freighter’s bridge. His heart ached.

  “They still don’t know who you are?”

  Thad shook his head. “No. But my alias is getting pretty thin right now, and people are bound to start asking questions when they have a chance to stop and think.”

  “What should we do, Admiral?” asked Captain Laraby over the comm channel. His voice was crystal-clear, as if he were in the room with them, a stark contrast to the buzzy and distorted voices Thad was used to hearing over the Rebels’ low-frequency radios.

  “I think our best bet is to pretend you’re two different groups, for now. Ghost Squadron is an independent mercenary company that responded to my call from help. And Laraby, you also received the message, and just happened to be in the area. You jumped here looking for easy credits.”

  “But what about your Marines?” Poulsen asked. “The Lynx is practically overloaded with infantry. It’s far too small to just happen to have that many Marines aboard. And no one will ever believe we had an entire company of infantry stashed aboard Ghost Squadron.”

  “And there’s still the issue of how to land them,” Laraby pointed out. “The Marine transports can’t land anywhere near Orent while that railgun is operational. They could approach from the other side of Ailon and land well outside the city, but we don’t have troop carriers for them.”

  Thad nodded. “What about a strafing run on the railgun?” he suggested. “Bring your gunships down to ground level, and attack it.”

  Poulsen shuddered visibly. “It only took one shot for that railgun to destroy Ghost 3. We’ve figured out the gun’s firing arcs and established a no-go zone around it. Any closer than that and it will be able to fire upon us, and my squadron will be massacred.”

  “Strike from orbit then?” he countered. “Far enough from Ailon that you can still dodge its shots?”

  “Laser weapons are too weak at that range,” she said, sounding slightly annoyed. The speed at which she was shooting down his suggestions meant they’d already considered—and rejected—those options. “Especially with atmospheric dispersion. We’d risk lots of collateral damage and still might not disable the gun.”

  “I agree,” Laraby said. “Admiral, we can’t do anything about it from up here.”

  The room fell silent for several long seconds, except for the occasional series of thumps as the ship’s lasers opened fire. Thad was certain the war was about to stalemate, at least for a time. Ghost Squadron’s presence would keep the Rebels from being wiped out. But the railgun meant Thad’s Marines couldn’t land, and without additional infantry, the Rebels would never succeed at overthrowing Avennia. That damned surface-to-space railgun was a lynchpin that needed to be pulled…

  But a stalemate would be a massive improvement to their condition, compared to the previous month or so of the war. And he knew everyone in the Rebels would welcome a few days of rest before moving on to the next phase of the war. “Let’s continue as-is for the moment,” he said. “Ghost 1 will stay on the ground to help gather up the Rebels. The rest of you, continue to keep the Avennian starships away from our side of the planet. I’ll see what we can do about that gun.”

  “Aye, Admiral.”

  Chapter 37

  Ghost 1 had reached the old Ailon Relief Foundation headquarters campus, along with several platoons of Rebels it had escorted. And that battle had been a rout—the Avennian ground forces had left in a hurry once they saw the gunship. As a bonus, the Rebels had acquired quite a bit of matèriel the Army had left behind in their hurry to evacuate.

  Rebels were still trickling in, rapidly turning the campus into a stronghold. And the war practically stalemated, just as Thad predicted. Avennia’s troops didn’t dare take to the streets where Ghost 1 could pick them off, while Ghost 1 couldn’t even consider approaching the garrison or the government centers of Orent due to their proximity to the railgun. Meanwhile, in space, the rest of Ghost Squadron stayed on Orent’s side of the planet and kept the Avennian patrol ships away, but they were forced to keep their distance due to the railgun and couldn’t provide any direct support to the Rebel ground forces.

  It seemed that only a quarter of the original Rebel group remained. The rest had either died in battle, been captured, or had given up and gone into hiding. The company of elite and well-equipped Marines aboard the Lynx were badly needed on the ground, if they could somehow be landed.

  They were safe for the moment, with Ghost 1 standing guard over the campus, and almost everyone took the opportunity to get cleaned up and rested.

  And, for better or for worse, Thad suddenly had the time to think about how he was going to end things with Ria. Several times over the past few months, he’d wondered about simply telling her the truth. But that was no longer an option. He couldn’t reveal his identity to her. Not after what she’d told him. Not after the pain he’d caused her.

  He finally decided to just be vague. Ria often said he was a mystery. Maybe he should remain a mystery.

  But she’d found him first, and before he could say anything, she’d said she had a surprise for him. It turned out to be his damaged prosthetic hand. She was ready to re-install it for him.

  H
e stayed silent as she worked, successfully deflecting her few attempts to make conversation, filled with a sense of dread at what he had to say when she was done. Soon after, Ria reached into the framework of his prosthetic forearm with nimble fingers and activated the power switch. A couple seconds later, he felt a rush of familiar—but still strange—sensations from its sensors. He twisted his arm around a bit, flexed his fingers carefully, and rubbed his hands together. It seemed to move correctly, and it could sense touch again. “You have no idea how good that feels,” he said.

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” said Ria. “Our medical supply lines have been a mess and I just couldn’t get what I needed. But the crew of that gunship was able to make repairs for me.” She took his prosthetic hand and held it between hers.

  “Thanks,” Thad muttered.

  “Everyone thinks Ghost Squadron and the Lynx are from different groups,” she said softly. “But I heard the comm chatter during the fight, right after we first boarded it. Marcell’s ship was reporting directly to that Poulsen woman.”

  Thad felt a sudden chill down his spine.

  “I guess that means he isn’t actually here, then,” she added. “Else he’d have been giving the orders, not Poulsen.”

  He pulled his hand away from her and stood up.

  “That was your secret all along, wasn’t it?” He felt a sour taste in his mouth. “You’re associated with Marcell somehow. Maybe you’re one of his officers. And you called him for reinforcements when the war started going badly.”

  The chill spread throughout his torso and began trickling into his arms and legs.

  “You knew what he did to us.” She didn’t seem even slightly angry, or disappointed. Just…very sad. “And you couldn’t live with it, and that’s why you came here. That’s why you had a cover story. That’s why you lied to us.”

  Staring down at his feet, he clenched his jaw and turned away from her. He started to leave without speaking.