The rebels had fortified Carlisle Island, just 20 kilometers northeast of Weston, and now they had retreated there, too weak to operate on the mainland exposed to the massive federal army. The rebel stronghold was heavily defended, ringed with rocket launchers and other heavy weapons, most of them seized from the militia armory or stolen from the Feds in the early months of the rebellion. The sea surrounding the island was patrolled by a fleet of submersibles, vessels that were normally employed to harvest valuable resources from the ocean but which had now been equipped for war.
But even with their fortifications, he doubted the rebels could hold Carlisle once the federals got organized enough to launch a coordinated attack. Even worse, if Admiral Compton was replaced with an officer willing to follow Cooper’s orders, the rebel stronghold would be nuked into oblivion. There was nothing Jax and his people could do about that; they would have to depend on Compton to hang on. But preventing the Feds from launching the final ground assault was their problem, and it was a tough one.
“Sergeant Sawyer, put together a scouting party.” Jax had come to rely on Sawyer over the last couple months. Sawyer had been with the special action teams on Carson’s World, with the group that discovered the alien artifact. He was a veteran sergeant who had more than once turned down the chance to go to the Academy. He liked being closer to the troops, and Jax thought he was the best small unit leader he’d ever seen. “I need to know their weaknesses. We’re going to have to hit them soon and disrupt things before they can launch an attack on Carlisle Island.” He put his hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you, Ed.”
“We’ll find something, sir.” Sawyer was a big man, though not as big as Jax…few people were. His light brown hair was closely cropped, and his face was marred by a long, jagged scar. A series of skin regens could have eliminated that, or at least dramatically shrunk it, but Sawyer was never willing to take that much time off duty for what he considered non-essential. “With your permission, I’ll pick a team of three. Any more than that and it’ll just be harder to stay undetected.”
“Whatever you feel is best, sergeant.” Jax was trying not to stare at the scar. He never realized how distracting physical features and facial expressions could be in the field. None of that was an issue in armor. You knew what everyone looked like, of course, after living with them aboard ship for weeks or months. But when you hit dirt, you were buttoned up and so were your comrades. It was somehow easier to focus on the essentials that way, at least for Jax. “I need that report right away. Be cautious, but get back here as soon as you can. No transmissions on the comlink – we don’t want them picking up any chatter.
Sawyer nodded and walked down the hillside to get his crew together. He didn’t salute; Jax had been trying to run his tiny army a bit more casually than that. They were really just a fairly well-equipped guerilla force, and they were all arguably committing treason. Military formality seemed misplaced. Besides, too much saluting in the battle zone just made an officer into sniper bait.
Jax put his scope to his eyes and panned over the valley below. I’ve got to find a weakness, he thought. There has to be a way to disrupt them before they attack Carlisle.
Jill Winton was sitting on the ground, leaning against the plasti-crete base of one of the camp’s large floodlights. She was sitting with her knees pressed up against her chest – it was a little warmer that way. The ground was cold, but not frozen – it didn’t get below freezing very often on Columbia.
The camp had been getting more and more crowded, and that was despite the steady death toll. The federals hadn’t been executing too many, not that she’d seen. But between the short rations, exposure, general abuse, and lack of medical care, there were at least a dozen deaths every day…and sometimes two or three times that many.
Jill had been in the camp from the beginning. She’d come close to getting out the night the rebel army breached the wall, but she couldn’t get through the masses of stampeding inmates. She was lucky not to get trampled to death that night; over 100 people had died in that seething, uncontrolled mass.
She had been distraught, feeling liberation slip through her fingers. Later she realized it might have saved her life. The federal troops attacked the rebels who had breached the walls, overwhelming them and sending the shattered survivors fleeing. Some of the prisoners probably escaped, but she knew a lot of them were cut down. Camp rumors were widespread that a large group tried to surrender, but the Feds shot down anyone they found outside the wall.
After that day she was changed. Her despair evolved and hardened, morphing into rage. She hated the federals for what they had done. She hadn’t been a revolutionary partisan; her dream had been a career as an officer in the Alliance navy. Her sympathies were with those who bristled against federal authority, but not to the point of rebellion. She was young and idealistic, and she thought the two sides could talk, reason with each other, solve their problems peacefully.
But that was then. Jill Winton was different now. Gone was the moderately spoiled only daughter of a doting wealthy father; in her place a cold and angry woman, longing for vengeance against those who had brought death and suffering to her world. She embraced the rebellion now, and she loathed the federals. Her hate extended from the soldiers in the field, whom she regarded as savage bullies, to those at the highest levels of a system so foul and corrupt it could perpetrate such atrocities on its citizens. Now she seethed, anxious for the chance to kill the enemy.
Her hatred burned cold and patient, not uncontrollable like the impetuous fury of fiery rage. She planned and waited. When she started, she was cautious, deliberative. The camp was infested with collaborators and informants. They were mostly normal Columbians, and their actions were driven by hunger or fear. But to Jill they were traitors, vile turncoats who needed to die. She couldn’t hurt the federals, not yet. But the sympathizers in the camp were within her reach.
Her group was small at first, just her and three others she trusted. Their first target was a woman, one who had been giving information to the guards in return for food and special treatment. She was an easy one to condemn – her loose words had gotten at least two prisoners executed.
They did it one night, very late. Their weapons were rocks; they had nothing else. Two of them grabbed her while she was sleeping, holding her tightly as she woke up and tried to escape. One held her mouth, muffling her screams. It was Jill herself, leader of the nascent resistance cell, who struck the blow. The first time felt strange; Jill had never harmed a soul before this. She could feel the jarring as the stone impacted on her victim’s skull. Her arm rose up again, swinging back down. It was the second blow - or the third, she couldn’t recall later - that broke through the skull. After that the impacts were softer, penetrating deeper into tissue. She swung her weapon nine or ten times, though her victim was dead well before she struck the last.
Jill looked down at the woman, probably an office worker from Weston. Her head was disfigured and covered in blood, lifeless eyes still open, staring into the darkness. Jill felt no remorse, no pity. She chose her path, Jill thought, as I now choose mine. She casually tossed the rock aside and slipped away with her cohorts into night.
Arlen Cooper made a face. God damned mud, he thought, as he scraped the sides of his shoes against each other, trying to clean off the gluey wet clay. Cooper usually made his commanders come to his office to discuss strategy, but this time he decided he wanted to review the troops. It sounded like a better idea in his office than it did out here, at the crack of dawn, dodging the muddy puddles and being eaten alive by mosquitoes. He’d been assured they weren’t actually mosquitoes, just a native Columbian creature superficially similar to the terrestrial insect despite enormous genetic differences. Whatever the experts said, they seemed to thrive on his Terran blood, and the bumps they left itched every bit as much as those from any Earthly bloodsucker.