Flames of Rebellion Page 8

  He could feel his arms shaking as he struggled to hold himself on the ladder. His legs felt like dead hunks of meat as he slowly lowered himself.

  He looked down . . . just another few meters and he’d be at the bottom. He felt a wave of excitement, and he quickened his pace . . . too much. His foot slipped off the ladder, and he tightened the grip with his hands. But he was too exhausted. His grip held, for a second, and then he fell off the ladder, tumbling to the rough rock floor below.

  He only dropped about two meters, but it was enough to send a blast of pain up his leg as he hit the ground. And then the air forced from his lungs as the rest of his body slammed into the rocky floor.

  There was pain everywhere: his side, his arm, even his head. But he knew right away it was his leg that was truly hurt. He was covered with scrapes and bruises, but the pain in his leg was different.

  He stayed where he was for a few minutes, hoping to catch his breath. Then he moved his leg.

  He gasped for air.

  Pain. Tearing through his body. He tried to hold back the shout but it came anyway. He let himself fall back, felt the worst of the pain gradually subside.

  Okay, don’t do that again.

  He turned slowly, twisting as far as he could before he felt the agony coming on again. He was up on one arm, bent up at the waist. He looked down at his leg . . . and he understood the pain. There was a large bruise running from his ankle almost up to his thigh, already a dark purple, almost black. There was a cut, too, deep and throbbing with pain.

  He turned, slowly this time. It still hurt, but he controlled it, stopping when he had to. He reached out, put his hand under the stricken leg. He knew this was going to be excruciating, but he had to move himself so he could try to work on the leg.

  He took a deep breath and then he bit down hard, shoving his hip to the side, doing his best to hold up the injured leg as he did. The pain was the worst he’d experienced, almost unbearable, but he held on, forced himself to endure until he was sitting up.

  He was covered in sweat, and he realized his face was soaked not just from perspiration but from tears. The pain lessened when he stopped moving, though. At least that was something. And now he had a perfect view of the leg.

  It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  His eyes focused on the tear in the skin, the blood pouring out, oozing down his leg. He felt himself retch as he looked, and he clamped down, holding most of it back. He spit out a little foam, but he took a breath and calmed himself. He’d seen men die before, witnessed terrible injuries in the mine, men far more torn up than he was. He could handle this.

  He took another deep breath, sucking in as much air as he could. It was stale, almost certainly oxygen-deficient. Production hadn’t begun yet this far down, and even the marginal ventilation systems the prison-mine employed hadn’t been installed yet.

  One problem at a time.

  He looked down at his leg, and he knew what he had to do. The first thing at least. And the thought made him sick to his stomach again.

  He leaned forward, reaching down, gently touching the stricken limb. He couldn’t be helpless, not now. And that meant he’d need to work up some sort of bandage to stop the bleeding, and a splint, something that would let him hobble around.

  He tore off a section of cloth from his coverall, wrapping it around the gaping wound. Then the hard part—he pulled, hard, tight.

  He screamed in agony, so consumed by pain he didn’t even worry about calling attention to himself. He’d grown up in Boston’s worst slum, gotten into fights in the street, and then spent twelve years amid the frequent violence of the mine. But this was the hardest thing he’d ever faced.

  His gut heaved again, emptying completely this time, and he fell back, gasping desperately for breath. But somehow, he’d held on, endured the pain just long enough to stretch out the wounded leg and take stock of his injury. He looked down at the blood-covered limb, and he knew he’d never be able to stand, much less walk, unless he could support it with something.

  He glanced up at the ladder, eyes focused, but there was nothing. No movement . . . and no sound either. He knew how loudly he had screamed, but now he dared to believe no one had been close enough to hear.

  He took stock of his surroundings then, looking for something, anything, he could use to brace his leg. Pickings were slim, but eventually his eyes locked on a wood crate, half smashed open against the wall of the cavern. It was better than he’d hoped to find.

  It was also at least ten meters away.

  Fuck . . .

  He sat for a few minutes, steeling himself for the effort.

  Working himself up, he suddenly put his hands behind him and lifted his body, pulling himself back, toward the crate.

  The pain was sharp, brutal . . . but it was tolerable. Barely. He paused, gasping in air, giving himself a moment to recover before he repeated what he had done.

  Again. Effort, pain. Then rest. He turned his head, looking toward the wall. He’d guessed he had nine and a half meters to go. Two lunges had taken him perhaps a third of a meter. That meant maybe thirty more to go.

  No, no use counting. Just keep going.

  He sucked in a deep breath and lunged, wincing as the pain came again and he flopped back to the ground. It was going to take forever to get there.

  Not like I have anything else to do . . .

  “I shouldn’t take that, Mr. Danforth. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to delay my departure. And I wouldn’t feel right accepting payment until I’m ready to go.” Nerov stared at the open case, having trouble disguising her smuggler’s greed. The box was small, and it contained an assortment of platinum items, some ten-kilo bars, as well as a pile of one-kilogram ones. There were even a few bags she suspected held ten-gram bits. It was clear Danforth hadn’t had the easiest time assembling the needed quantity, and she felt a twinge of guilt that she had to foul up the works after he’d gone to so much effort.

  “What do you mean you’re not ready to go?” It was Jacen, not Danforth, who answered first, and his argumentative tone drove back her guilt and replaced it with anger. She didn’t like Jacen, and if it hadn’t been for Danforth, she’d have told the obnoxious bastard to go fuck himself a long time ago.

  “I can’t get my consignment of ore for the return trip, not until the standoff at the mine is over.”

  “Your ore? After what we’re paying you, you want to wait here so you can add a transit fee for a few tons of ore to your take?”

  “Don’t talk to me like you can possibly understand what I do or the risks I take.”

  Jacen looked apoplectic, and it was all Nerov could do to maintain her calm for Danforth’s sake if nothing else. The older man had been as reliable a contact as she could have hoped for, true to his word on every occasion she could recall. And she considered herself a professional. But if Jacen opened his mouth one more time she was liable to close it for good. Her hand moved, slowly, almost imperceptibly, toward the pistol tucked into the back of her belt.

  As if he could read her mind, Danforth spoke up. “Cal, please. Captain Nerov has never let us down. Her willingness to brave the federal blockade puts her in a small group of people we can rely upon.” He turned and looked over at Nerov. “And if I am not mistaken, it would be problematic for a smuggler posing as a freighter to return to port with no cargo. It would risk drawing unwanted attention, would it not?”

  “Yes, Mr. Danforth, it would. Under normal circumstances, I might risk it, but with the present conditions, it is quite out of the question. Federal authorities are clearly on high alert . . . and my people face a death sentence if they are caught with weapons on board. I simply can’t risk it. Not until I get my consignment.”

  Again Jacen opened his mouth as if he was going to respond, but Danforth held his hand up, silencing his companion once more. The foul-tempered lawyer had a scowl on his face, and he looked like he’d tasted something sour, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “We understand, Capt
ain,” Danforth said. “So you are still willing to go when you get your ore?”

  “Yes, Mr. Danforth. I committed to you, and I will follow through. Unless things change drastically.”

  “Then take the platinum, Captain. Frankly, it will be easier for you to hide it than for me. Besides, if we can’t trust each other, this dangerous business of ours becomes downright suicidal, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She paused, wondering for an instant if there was some kind of veiled threat in Danforth’s words, in his use of a word like suicidal. As paranoid as she’d become in the last few days, though, she decided he was just being straightforward. The magnate may be deep in revolutionary politics, but he’d always struck her as a reasonable and honest man. And they had worked together for a long time. He had made her a rich woman. And she had always delivered. But the thought still nagged.

  Mistrust was a trait that kept a smuggler alive.

  “Very well, Mr. Danforth. I find your confidence gratifying.” The platinum was a burden now, at least until she managed to get the ship ready to launch. But Danforth had made a gesture, trusting her, and she didn’t see how she could turn it down.

  Besides, it was worth it just for the expression on Jacen’s face. The rebel was a loudmouth, argumentative and inclined to talk over anyone else present. But he also clearly needed Danforth. The whole rebel movement needed Danforth. Whether they stared Federal America’s government down and obtained the freedoms and guarantees they were demanding in the form of a revised constitution—or if the open rebellion everyone had been fearing for the past few years actually broke out—Danforth’s money was critical.

  Nerov stood for a moment, looking at the two men. She only made an effort to tolerate Jacen because of the older man. If it had been just the two of them, Nerov would have put a bullet in the bastard’s head long ago. But she’d never understood why Danforth seemed to trust Jacen. They shared an agenda certainly, at least to a point. For while Danforth wanted to secure freedom for his home world, the liberty the people of Federal America on Earth had long ago lost, he was at least somewhat open to seeking that goal through negotiation. Only in failing that did he seem ready to support outright revolution. Overall, though, there was moderation in him, and she knew he considered the humanitarian cost of his goals.

  Jacen was different—half cold fish, half incendiary bomb-thrower. She’d never discussed politics with him, but it was apparent he was far more radical than Danforth . . . and much less concerned with how many people died in the pursuit of his agenda. She knew rebellion would be a nightmare for Haven, but she shuddered to think of it with someone like Jacen in charge.

  I hope Danforth keeps an eye on him. There isn’t much I don’t think he’d do to get his way . . .

  She pushed the thoughts aside. Danforth was an intelligent man, and if he was okay with Jacen, then she wouldn’t question his judgment. And as long as Jacen needed the media mogul, that should be enough to keep him under control.

  “We’d better be going, gentlemen,” she said. “Nothing good can come from increasing the risk of being found here.” She moved toward the box of platinum, closing it slowly and pulling the small grav sled. The box and its contents weighed over two hundred kilos, but she had no trouble pulling it along behind her.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Danforth,” she said, nodding and offering her client a quick smile as she moved toward the door. “Mr. Jacen,” she added, trying to keep her voice even, but suspecting some of her disdain leaked out.

  “Stay safe, Captain Nerov,” Danforth said, moving to slide the door open for her. “With any luck, the crisis at the mine will be over soon, and you will be able to get your ore.”

  “Let’s hope.” She paused for a few seconds, and then she walked out of the small farmhouse and into the night.

  She was troubled, worries about Jacen still nagging at her. She trusted Danforth, as much as she trusted anyone, but she felt an urge to wait outside and simply end the radical revolutionary after Danforth left. She put the thought aside, but she couldn’t shake the idea that she’d save everyone a lot of pain and trouble if she just killed the bastard now.

  CHAPTER 7

  ALACOMARA MINE

  FEDERAL PRISON CAMP TWO

  FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)

  EPSILON ERIDANI II

  “All units report ready, Major.” Will Rennes stood next to Thornton, clad in light body armor. It was light, at least in comparison to the gear the two of them had worn in the war. Rennes was another veteran, a former corporal who had retired alongside Thornton and followed her into a new profession commanding colonial security forces.

  “Very well, Captain. We move in exactly ten minutes.”

  Rennes nodded. “Yes, Major.” He moved his hand, halfway to a salute, and then he paused. Thornton understood his confusion. You didn’t salute on the battlefield. Never. It was a gift to snipers, an easy way for them to spot officers. Targets. But service on Alpha-2 was different, less intense, even with the unrest sweeping the planet. And saluting was standard practice. Nevertheless, this standoff felt a lot more like a real battlefield than anything she’d experienced on Alpha-2.

  Rennes stood unmoving for a few seconds. “This reminds me of Beta-9.”

  Thornton turned back toward her exec. “Let’s hope not, Captain. That was a hard day.” Beta-9 was a moon surrounding a gas giant in the Algol system. Over a thousand federal soldiers had assaulted the colony there, seeking to liberate it from Eurasian control. The final battle was fought in a large refining and manufacturing facility.

  She had to admit, however, that Rennes was right. The mine, at least the aboveground portion, resembled the Beta-9 complex. She hoped the similarities ended there, because there had been four hundred Eurasian commandoes dug into the Beta-9 complex, and the assault forces saw half their number killed or wounded before the battle was done.

  Her people now weren’t a match for the soldiers who fought on Beta-9, but she was also sure they would get the job done. She was equally certain they would suffer heavy losses, and she wondered how that would affect the survivors. Would it harden them, begin to turn them into veterans—“real” soldiers? Or would it unnerve them, fatally demoralize them just as the planet was sliding closer to open rebellion?

  Because, while the prisoners were untrained, poorly organized, they were also well-armed . . . and defending. A lot of my people are going to die, and if it breaks the survivors’ spirits, then a lot more people could die as well. She made a note to herself—a promise, really—that she would take vengeance for every man and woman she lost in the operation when she found whomever had supplied the miners with weapons. She was a creature of duty, but that day she would set her hat and her major’s clusters aside. It would be personal.

  The present had her attention now, though, and it was hard not to be a little worried about how her troopers would react to real combat conditions. Thornton had acquired as many military veterans as she’d been able to manage, but it still wasn’t a lot, maybe a dozen total. Most of her troopers were recruits from Earth, half police and half soldiers. They were more accustomed to situations where they outmanned and outgunned their opposition, but this assault felt a little too much like real war to her. And she knew just what war was like.

  Her eyes dropped to the small tablet in her hand, checking the position of each assault group. They were back from the perimeter fence, and that meant another hundred meters to travel once they stepped off. But it also provided some cover, keeping the prisoners in the dark about exactly what they faced. When she gave the word, her people would advance from all sides . . . and they would go in and finish things.

  She looked at the upper corner of the tablet, to the countdown clock.

  Six minutes, thirty seconds.

  Twenty-nine.

  Twenty-eight . . .

  “Wake the fuck up. What do you think this is, a vacation?” Gavros kicked Lopez hard in the ribs. The stricken prisoner howled, and he jumped up, looking like he wa
s ready for a fight. Until he saw it was Gavros.

  “Oh, uh, sorry, Ron,” he stammered. “I’m just fucking tired, man. We’re surrounded—there’s no way we’re gettin’ out of here, is there?” The arrogance Lopez had shown Jamie was long gone. “Maybe we should see if we can negotiate somethin’. ’Cause otherwise—”

  “Shut your mouth, Lopez, or I’ll shut it for you. We ain’t surrendering, you got that? We’re armed as well as those jackboots out there, or close to it. If they’re so ready to come in here, where the hell are they?”

  “They don’t have to come. They can just starve us out. We’re almost out of food already.”

  Gavros glared at his shaken companion. “Get that shit out of your head, now.” His voice dripped with menace. “If they come, we’ll send them runnin’ back with their tails between their legs. And then we’ll bust outta here while they’re still on the run, get to the woods and disappear.”

  Lopez swallowed hard. He could see now. Gavros had lost it. He was insane, believing his own foolishness. He cursed himself for being blind earlier, for getting himself into this mess.

  The thing was, he’d bought into the excitement when the uprising started. He didn’t know what had set things off, or how weapons had gotten into the mine, but now he was realizing it was all a trap. There was no way they were getting out of here. And if they scragged a bunch of guards and colonial troopers in the fight, they were finished. That wasn’t an extra year tacked onto a sentence; it wasn’t an increase in workload or decrease in rations. It was a death sentence. Assuming the soldiers didn’t just shoot them all down while they were retaking the facility.

  He had to admit: he was scared.

  He wanted to drop his gun, run out with his hands up, and beg for his life. But he knew Gavros would kill him if he took a step toward the exit. And it wasn’t just Gavros. All the ringleaders were watching.

  He took a deep breath, trying to keep his nerves in check. He wished he’d listened to Jamie Grant. Grant wasn’t a bad guy, and he was smart.