Rebellion On Kiwara
A Fall of the Censor novelette
This story is part of my Fall of the Censor series, covering the events between Swim Among the People and Trouble In My Day. It’s long enough readers may have to read it in a separate tab.
Jarnton scanned the lists of cargos to be transported from Kiwara to other worlds. There were half the usual number, and they all wanted a steep discount. Everyone was still nervous about going anywhere after the Monitor’s fleet went through, seizing anything they needed to fill gaps in their supplies.
Fortunately the Censorate refused to take zebras as recruits, or they’d have lost a thousand young men. The Censies accepted people of any color, but the alternating stripes of Kiwara’s population were too much for them.
He shook his head. At those prices, it wasn’t worth his wife Mephora’s while to take their ship into the black. The crew all did part-time work between voyages. They’d have to stick with that a bit longer.
Knocking on the door distracted him. He checked the time. Three hours past sunset. Who could be visiting at this hour?
Jarnton picked up a cricket bat from the corner before opening the door a few inches. An unhealthy-looking man stood on the doorstep, not anyone he’d seen before. “What is it?”
“Are you a friend of Niko?” asked the stranger.
A second look revealed the uneven stripes were poor makeup, not ill health. Jarnton tossed the cricket bat aside, reached out to grab the visitor by the shirt, and dragged him inside. “Get in here before someone sees you.”
Once inside it was obvious the visitor had cooperated with being yanked. He was a hand taller than Jarnton, broad shouldered, and well muscled. The white stripe makeup came off on Jarnton’s fingers as he pulled on the man’s arms.
“Where are you from?” demanded the zebra man.
Looking at him, Jarnton felt the difference of his own people’s colors. Jarnton’s skin alternated in horizontal stripes of pale pink and dark brown. At the hairline, it changed to close cropped brown and blonde hair in forward and back stripes. “Zebra” was the word everyone used for them.
“Fiera,” answered the visitor. “I’m a Pathfinder. Major Doto Ndaki.”
Jarnton impulsively hugged Ndaki. The Marine awkwardly returned the embrace.
“God’s Balls. You’re real. It’s all real. It’s been so long I was doubting. Vivant was wondering if Niko made it all up to scam us out of cheap cargo.”
“No, Niko was for real. He made it home and told us about you. I’m sorry we’re so late. The Monitor messed up our schedule.”
“You beat the Monitor? We heard he invaded Corwynt.”
“No. Not yet. But we’re working on it.”
That cooled Jarnton’s elation. “Ah. You want us to help with that. God’s Teeth. I don’t know what we can do.”
Ndaki shook his head. “We’re thinking more long term. We want to help you prepare for after the Monitor’s defeat.”
“Right. First thing we need to do is give you a better makeup job.”
The Pathfinder looked indignant. “I thought we did a good job of this.”
“God’s Toes. I’m surprised the Health Volunteers didn’t bring you in for leprosy on the way to my house.”
“Okay. We’ll need enough makeup for my team. They’re hiding out in the hills northwest of the city. There’s four of them.”
Jarnton nodded. “All your color?”
“No, two of them are pale. But we made sure everyone on the mission was one extreme or the other of monochrome.”
“Good. They sell makeup with both colors. We won’t waste much. Let me make some calls. Some friends and I can go for a campout this weekend. We’ll bring makeup and go in separate cars. Coming back with a few extra shouldn’t be noticed.”
Jarnton turned off his floater and let the vehicle settle to the ground. “We’re going to have to walk the rest of the way.”
“That’s fine.” Ndaki unbuckled his seatbelt and walked around the floater, stretching his legs. He scanned the surrounding trees, looking for anything suspicious. The little dell didn’t see much traffic. Weeds were growing high.
“Vivant and Fonnet should be here within the hour. They’ll have the tents.” Jarnton took out a gadget with a wire loop projecting from it and began running it over his floater.
Ndaki helped with the check for listening devices by hauling all the camping gear out of the back of the floater. One sleeping bag went flying when a noise startled him, but it was only a woodpecker driving holes into a dead tree.
When the other two locals arrived in their floaters, Jarnton ran the sensor over them. He didn’t find anything. “Well, Security is understaffed these days. They don’t have enough people to bug us.”
“How understaffed?” asked Ndaki.
They shouldered the packs and followed him up the hillside. The three Kiwarans explained how the Monitor’s fleet had taken a third of the planet’s Security troops for the occupation of Corwynt. Kiwara was full of conflicting rumors about the revolt on Corwynt and their occupation or liberation by the Fieran barbarians.
“The Corwyntis are running them ragged,” said Ndaki. “We’ll take advantage of the weakness.”
A bit farther upslope, Jarnton asked Ndaki to slow down. “We’re not Marines.”
“Sorry. I want to be there before sunset.” The Marine turned around and watched until they’d all caught up to him. Then he headed back up the hill at the same brisk pace.
Jarnton felt smug to be keeping ahead of his fellow conspirators. Fonnet was moving as fast, but kept slipping and losing ground. Vivant was not accustomed to this level of physical activity.
In a patch of woods which looked the same as the rest they’d been through, Ndaki called, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Fallen branches and drifts of dead leaves suddenly produced four tall, sturdy monochromes. The three locals nervously moved closer to each other.
Pointing at each one in turn, Ndaki said, “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce my team to you. Lieutenant Wadagni, Gunnery Sergeant Fufuca, Sergeant Ikonen, and Specialist Gronvall. Troops, this is Jarnton, Vivant, and Fonnet.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Jarnton, stepping forward to shake Wadagni’s hand. That broke the ice and everyone shook hands all around.
Fonnet made Wadagni and Gronvall hold their arms beside his. The Kiwaran’s arm had alternating pale and dark stripes. Wadagni’s arm was just as dark. Gronvall was even paler than the light stripes, with blue veins visible through the skin.
“I’ve met a lot of monochromes,” said Fonnet, “but none as extreme as you. We could actually disguise you.”
“Agreed,” said Jarnton. “But that can wait until morning. First, we need to talk. And celebrate.”
He set down his pack and drew out a pack of beer cans.
“Captain Landry told us about this part,” said Ndaki. “Gunny, supplies, please.”
The gunnery sergeant produced a set of shot glasses and a tall square bottle.
Ndaki began pouring for everyone. “This is Gallowglass whiskey, from the oldest distillery on Fiera. They based it on a book from Earth. To freedom!”
“To freedom!” They all drank together.
“Whoa! That’s good stuff,” said Vivant “When the Censor’s gone, I want that book.” The other locals agreed. Ndaki poured more.
Gunny Fufuca said, “Here’s to drinking by moonlight,” as he tossed down another slug.
“Oh, that’s not a moon,” said Fonnet.
“Looks like a moon,” said Gronvall.
“It does. But it’s actually a dump.” Fonnet told the story of how Censorate mismanagement led to Kiwara importing more valves than it could use. Rather than admit they’d screwed up, the planetary director dropped them in orbit. After a few hundred years the pile was big enough to provide decent light at night.
Wadagni shook his head. “Damn. No matter how screwed up I think the Censies are, they keep being worse.”
After a few rounds, the Marines tried the beers which had been carried all the way up the hill. They approved, or at least were polite about them. By midnight everyone was sloshed enough for the Kiwarans to have the serious part of the discussion.
The Marines convinced them that the Pathfinder mission was real, that Corwynt was resisting the Censorate occupation vigorously, and that Fiera planned a counterattack against the Censies.
“But can we really free ourselves?” asked Fonnet.
“That’s the thing. You need to be ready when the time is right. If every world revolts at once, the Censorate won’t have enough troops to stop them all. We need to coordinate with the Fieran counter-attack, too. We do that—we’ll win.”
Smuggling the Fierans into town wasn’t hard. They could pass with good makeup. After a day to recover from the hangovers and another to make connections, Jarnton brought Ndaki to a meeting.
Lokai and Beler were suspicious. They normally did their business by the spaceport. A meeting on an island offshore from the city meant trouble. But it was the most secure spot Jarnton could find without dragging them out to the country.
The two merchants gave casual nods to Jarnton and Vivant, who they’d done business with before. They studied Ndaki warily.
“Thank you for coming,” said Jarnton. “Remember when we asked you to give that sweetheart deal to a Corwynti merchant, and promised you would be rewarded later? This is the reward. Meet Major Doto Ndaki. He’s from Fiera, the rumored barbarian world giving the Censor such fits. He and his friends are going to help us kick the Censorate off our world.”
Even for professionals trained to not let their expressions slip in negotiations, this was a shock.
Beler exclaimed, “Are you insane? Or just trying to get us all killed?” She looked ready to bolt.
“We’re perfectly sane,” said Vivant quietly. “This is the best chance we’ll have for freedom in a thousand years.”
Lokai laughed. “Did you bring enough guns for us to shoot all the Security men?”
Ndaki took him seriously. “We have a few weapons. Also some explosives. But more importantly, we have books on how to make weapons, explosives, electronic warfare devices, and more. Plus books on how to organize. Propagandize. Everything you need.”
That reduced all the locals to silence. Jarnton and his friends had selectively distributed the books shared by Niko Landry on his visit to their world. The thought of a how to guide for how to overthrow the Censorate . . .
“Oh, we brought some others, too. Fiction. History. Art.” Ndaki grinned. They’d left his lips and eyelids dark. A white stripe went across his nose and cheekbones, with others on the forehead and chin. “It lets you know what you’re fighting for.”
Jarnton held out a set of data crystals in each hand. “We made copies.”
They hastily stuffed the crystals into their pockets. “You’re going to get me killed,” muttered Beler.
“I’ve been reading those books,” said Vivant. “It’s worth it.”
“You didn’t call us here to give us books, did you?” asked Beler.
Jarnton shook his head. “No. I want a meeting. Every secret society, conspiracy, or bunch of grumblers. I want every one of their leaders or seconds to be there. I’ll send you the info.”
“In one place? That’s just begging Security to scoop us up at once.” Lokai looked over his shoulder as if blue jacketed Censies might be swooping down now.
“There’s not enough of them to catch us, if we move fast. We need to start organizing. It’ll be the only big meeting. Then we break into cells and limit communication.”
The spaceport warehouse was full of crates. Some pallets had been shifted to make a space for the meeting. Not really enough space. The chairs were all occupied. People were packed into the aisles. More sat on the crates stacked around the opening.
Jarnton stood on a crate placed front and center as a podium. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll get to the point. We all know Corwynt revolted, with the help of the barbarian world Fiera. The Monitor is trying to reestablish control. He’s been trying for nine months and he hasn’t done it. Fiera is planning a counter-attack. As part of that, rebellions will happen on other worlds. We’re the Kiwara rebellion.”
The crowd burst into noise, some cheering, some protesting.
“Shut up! We don’t have time for babble. We need to get organized and get out of here. If we sit around chatting, Security will figure out we’re up to something eventually. All of you hate the Censor. Or at least you’ve complained about him enough for us to hear about you. So no more talk. It’s time for action.”
More cheers.
A thin man, both colors of his hair stripes turned grey, stood. “You can’t make me join your rebellion. It’s suicide!”
Jarnton glared at him. “God’s Toes, Takfar, you’ve been moaning about the Censor my whole life. You’re not sitting out now. If you’re here, you’re a rebel. Anyone trying to back out will be treated as an informer.”
Some flinched. Others let out blood-thirsty shouts. Takfar sat down.
“Let me give you the good news.” Jarnton described the library of books the Fierans provided, the weapons rebels could make with their instructions, and the cell structure the rebels would use to evade Security monitoring.
Members of Jarnton’s original conspiracy passed out data crystals to the attendees.
“The cell system means you have groups of three or four. Each group reports to a leader in a higher cell. Each member of the cell leads a cell on a lower level. Right now I’m on top. I have a cell of four under me, cell A. They’re going to tag some of you to be their cells, the B level. Each member of a B cell will organize a C level cell. And so on.
“After today, you only talk about the rebellion with your cell, your leader, or the cell you lead. Information will go both ways. The crystals have manuals on how to communicate securely.”
There was rustling among the crowd. People were gathering into cells, waiting for a leader to pull them into the structure.
“We’re going to organize. We’re going to kick the Censor’s ass. And we’re going to free Kiwara!”
The crowd echoed the last words. “Free Kiwara!”
Jarnton repeated them. It became a chant. “Free Kiwara! Free Kiwara! Free Kiwara!”
A week later, Jarnton settled into bed. For once he had no clandestine meeting or secret messages to send, so his wife Mephora was still awake. He gave her a good night kiss, then lay back on his pillow.
Mephora turned on her side, looking at him. “I’m a lucky woman.”
Jarnton kissed her again. “I’m a lucky man.”
“I don’t have to worry about you drinking up all our money, or running around with other women, or gambling the house away.”
He tensed. His momentary thought that this might lead to fooling around vanished.
“All I have to worry about is Security kicking in the door and shooting you in front of me and the kids.”
“That’s . . . always a danger, under the Censorate.”
Mephora ran a finger down his bare chest. “Yes, but you complain more than most. And you associate with . . . complainers.”
“True. But lots of people do that without being killed.”
“Something’s changed. You’re behaving differently. I’ve noticed. Will Security?”
“I hope not.”
Mephora placed her hand over his heart. “I trust you. I don’t want to pry. But what are you doing?”
Jarnton thought for a few moments. If Security had their house bugged, he’d already be dead. Mephora could keep secrets. She was no fan of the Censorate. She could rant for hours about the taxes alone. He told her about the rebellion.
“God’s Hairy Quim!” she blurted.
“I know. We’re gambling everything. But think. Our children could grow up free.”
She rolled onto her back. “If the Censies don’t bomb the planet airless.”
“They didn’t bomb Corwynt.”
“Just because they didn’t bomb monochromes, doesn’t mean they won’t bomb us.”
“Hopefully the Fierans will stop them before they bomb any place.” Jarnton paused. “That’s the worst thing about this. Having to depend on the Fierans.”
“You don’t trust them?”
“It’s not that. I think they’re sincere. But some of what Ndaki tells me about how they liberated Corwynt—they put a Fieran government in place for a couple of years. I don’t want that.”
Mephora chuckled. “Are they better or worse than the Censies?”
“Oh, better. But we should control our own destiny. If Fieran warships are in our skies, they’re in charge.”
“Sounds like we need some warships of our own.”
That brought a laugh from Jarnton. “Oh, I wish. If we tried putting weapons on your ship, Security would be on us like fleas.”
Mephora owned the freighter Starry Sky, minus a third held by the bank against her loans.
“You’re right. You’d need to build a new one.”
“Out of what? Children’s blocks?”
Jarnton sat at the controls of the delivery van, waiting. Across the street he could see ‘KIWARA 4 ZEBRAS’ painted on a wall. That wasn’t rebellion work. Kids were picking up on the spirit of it and doing their own graffiti.
“Here he comes,” said one of the rebels in the back of the van.
Jarnton checked the mirror. Yes, a police floater with its lights flashing was hurtling down the street.
He timed it carefully. His foot slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The van surged into the street, smashing the police floater into a parked car. Jarnton turned off the gravitics. The van fell to the pavement, pinning the floater in place.
The back doors of the van opened, letting out the four rebels. Jarnton followed them.
The police sergeant was struggling out of his smashed floater. Two of the rebels—members of a G-level cell—threw him to the pavement.
“God’s Arse, what are you doing?” cried the cop. “Let me go! I have to go help an officer under attack!”
Jarnton squatted by his head. “I know. We’re attacking him. He arrested a boy for painting graffiti.”
“Of course. It’s a crime!”
A nod to one of the rebels gave him permission to swing a three foot length of rebar steel against the cop’s thigh.
The cop screamed and pulled his shockstick. Another rebel smacked his arm, the rebar sending the shockstick spinning away in a shower of sparks.
When the cop was ready to listen again, Jarnton said, “No, Sergeant. Painting rebel slogans isn’t crime. It’s rebellion. That’s Security’s job, not yours. Leave rebels alone.”
“We have to enforce—” The words became a scream as rebar slammed into his shin. More blows rained down on his limbs. Sergeant Ikonen had trained the rebels carefully—this was a beating, not an execution.
Jarnton waved for them to stop. “Arresting thieves, good, that’s your job. Someone beats his wife, go ahead and jail him. Anyone hurting Kiwarans, stop them. Don’t stop anyone acting against the Censorate. Your officer is being beaten for arresting a rebel. You’re being beaten for letting him. If more rebels are arrested on your watch, that’s on you. And on the chief.”
The cop moaned. He had bruises, one or two broken bones, but nothing which could kill him. For amateurs on their first job, the cell had done well.
“One more thing, Policeman. If you tell Security anything about this . . . that’s on your family. Do you understand?”
The man nodded frantically.
“Good. Time to go, boys.”
The cell dispersed. There wasn’t anything the sergeant could have reported about them. They wore hoods covering everything except their eyes. Jarnton’s disguise was more subtle—a wig and stripes painted in a different pattern. The cop might be able to report a general description.
But it was necessary to make the cops understand which side they needed to be on.
The A cell meeting was wrapping up. Things were going according to plan. The latest stage in harassing Censorate Security was stopping up the plumbing of their facilities. More recruits were joining the rebel organization. Security was executing cops for not supporting their efforts, but the police were still more intimidated by the rebels. The Censorate had helped by taking away a few more shiploads of Security men and other bureaucrats.
Fonnet revealed what he’d been so smug about all meeting. “We’ve tapped into the Censorate’s internal announcements network. They’re asking non-Security people to volunteer to go to Corwynt.”
Beler snorted. “Those damned amphibians are really bleeding them. I’m surprised they haven’t bombed the Corwyntis yet.”
“They did bomb one city,” Vivant reminded her.
“That’s not going to justify a new holiday.”
“I’m worried about being bombed, too,” said Jarnton.
That surprised his cell. As leader, Jarnton worked at projecting an air of confidence. Worries like that he usually hid.
“Right now we’re depending on the Fierans to show up so we’ll have the air and space support we need for a successful revolt. If there’s any Censorate warships in orbit over our world we don’t dare openly attack.”
No one disagreed. Jarnton went on, “I don’t want to owe too much to the Fierans. They took over Corwynt for years, according to Ndaki. Let’s not give them the option here.”
The members of A cell traded looks. Lokai asked, “How do you want to stop them?”
“When they arrive, meet them in space with warships of our own.”
Fonnet and Lokai laughed. Beler smirked. Vivant asked, “God’s Nose, how do you intend to do that? Hijack a Censy ship when it lands?”
“Not a bad idea, if we can pull it off. But here’s my idea. Build a ship out of modules. When the moment comes, weld the modules together and head for space. Or just hover in the air and give fire support to our troops fighting on the ground.”
They had enough respect for him they thought for a few moments before offering any objections.
“How do we hide the modules?” asked Beler.
Jarnton smiled. He’d thought through this part. “We build them in shipping containers. There’s a storage yard for containers by every spaceport on the planet. We fill a container with equipment, put the modified container under a stack of empty ones, then the crane puts them together when they’re needed.”
Vivant frowned. “Putting them together—that’s a whole bunch of welding work. Plus the cranes breaking pattern. Security will notice it.”
“Yes. We’d launch the rebellion, then start assembling our warships. I ran some numbers. With enough qualified welders, we could have one in the air in six hours. So we keep Security busy that long with hand weapons, then we bring the warships into action.”
“You could put some basic gravitic lifters in a shipping container.” Fonnet had some diagrams up on his tablet. “But that won’t get you out of the atmosphere. You need real thrusters for that.”
Jarnton pulled up a chart on his own tablet. “There’s lots of thrusters in the scrapyard. We can run a ship over there on lifters and weld on a thruster that’s prepped for it. Work in the scrapyard won’t be noticed.”
Lokai hadn’t looked up any data during the discussion. He was focused on Jarnton. “Are you wanting to be captain of this first Kiwaran warship?”
Jarnton shrugged. “Somebody has to. I’ve been Mephora’s XO for years. She’s not going to go into combat. Who’s better for the job?”
“I’m not disputing that you’d be a good warship commander,” said Lokai. “I’m wondering if you’re proposing diverting so much of our efforts into building ships because you’d rather be a captain than administrate all the paperwork of the rebellion.”
“I’m proposing this because I think we need ships to be free. Free of the Censorate—and free of the Fierans. Do you think the rebellion has better potential captains than me?”
Vivant had known Jarnton longest. “You may be the best one to be captain. But right now you’re the only one in charge of the rebellion. We need you to stay focused on that. Thinking about flying a warship will distract you.”
The others nodded.
Jarnton sat back. “If one of you wants this job, I’ll trade.”
Beler chuckled. “God’s Balls, we don’t want it any more than you do. You drew the short straw when you met that Landry guy on Corwynt. I don’t want to have to explain to my B cell, or the ones below them, why somebody else is in charge of the rebellion now. That’d hurt morale.”
“Fine. We keep our jobs. If I promise to not take command of any ships, will you build some?”
More nods. Fonnet said, “I have the more technically inclined cells. I’ll put some of them to work on it.”
According to the books on revolutionary theory the Pathfinders brought, high level leaders shouldn’t peek in on the doings of lower level cells. It made them vulnerable to compromising more members if interrogated.
Right now Security was run ragged trying to keep up with graffiti, sabotaged pipes, propaganda posters, and other petty rebel activities. The members of the rebel organization were less likely to be arrested than random subjects, according to Fonnet’s statistics. Jarnton felt safe dropping in on an E cell to see the results of their work.
Specialist Gronvall gave them weapon building lessons a few weeks back. Now the cell was out in the country, testing the new devices out. They’d scattered some boxes and posts in the field as targets.
A zebra who’d given his name only as “E-One”—Jarnton wasn’t totally oblivious to the danger of compromising identities—displayed his pride and joy. “It’s called a crossbow. You need some spring steel and tough wire or cord. The base can be anything, I had some wood about the right size. You pull back the cord until it catches on this hook. That holds the potential energy in. Then put in one of these ‘bolts,’ I made them from a piece of rebar. Then aim . . .”
E-One put the device to his shoulder and looked along the bolt. His hand moved underneath it. Suddenly the bolt vanished with a soft twang sound and reappeared in a tree at the end of the field. “The nice thing is you can pull them out again and use them over and over, so you can practice.”
“If you hit,” said E-Three.
“Well, yeah. I started practicing with a barn, so I could find the bolt wherever I shot it.”
The next was a larger version of the same principle, a ‘catapult’ designed to throw a rock the size of two fists. The machine kicked. Faster than Jarnton could follow the rock, a box was smashed.
“That’s good. I’m not sure a rock would do much damage to a vehicle or building, though,” said Jarnton.
“Oh, no, sir,” said E-Three. “We’re not going to throw rocks. We’re going to throw bombs. Let me show you. This is the gravitic generator from a floatchair or grocery cart. If you short it out like so—” he just gestured instead of actually shorting it, to Jarnton’s relief “—it’ll go up with a bang.”
“God’s Arse. Yes, that would be more effective.” Jarnton resisted stepping back from the generator. It wouldn’t put him outside the blast radius.
“Really, we should be building the catapults for range, not accuracy,” said E-Four. “If we’re blasting like that we don’t need to hit the exact spot.”
“All right, what’s the problem?” demanded Jarnton.
He didn’t like short notice meetings. He didn’t like having them in the city. And having one in the warehouse district, only a mile from where they’d had the rebellion’s first meeting, was begging Security to notice a suspicious pattern of activity.
Lokai had called the meeting. He was here with several of his lower-level cells, including all of his B cell subordinates. One had his hands tied behind his back.
“We have a potential traitor in my B cell,” said Lokai. “I believe Takfar has been compromised by Security.”
“That’s a lie!” cried the old man, straining at his bonds.
“You’ve been sending your cells on surveillance missions against Security stations, exposing your own people to capture. Why?”
“We need to do that. We’re preparing to attack them when we rise up.”
“Other cells have been assigned to collect data on the Security stations. Why are yours watching them and neglecting the missions you have been assigned?” demand Lokai.
Everyone watched Takfar for his answer. Jarnton noticed how people stood—they automatically grouped into their cells. No one from Takfar’s subordinate cell was here.
The old man slumped. “Security brought in both of my grandsons. I haven’t heard anything about why. I wanted to find out where they were being held, so we could do a rescue.”
“God’s Hair, you’d use rebellion forces for a personal mission?” said Lokai in outrage.
Takfar bristled. “Isn’t the point of the rebellion to give our children and grandchildren a better life?”
“That’s enough,” said Jarnton. “I don’t need to hear any more.”
“What should we do with him, sir?” asked Lokai.
Jarnton walked up to Takfar, looking him in the eye. Then looked the man up and down. He turned and walked six paces away. “We can’t be sure why the children were taken by Security. Could be random. Could be for leverage against him.”
“I wouldn’t betray the rebellion!” protested Takfar. “You know me!”
“What kind of grandfather would you be if you didn’t sacrifice the rest of us for their lives? It doesn’t matter. We can no longer trust you. Or your cell.” Jarnton turned to Lokai. “Execute him. Execute his C cell. Ban everyone below them from contact with our organization.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lokai.
A gag muffled Takfar’s shouts. He was hauled away.
Jarnton leaned his head against a crate as the others left. This wasn’t the first execution he’d ordered of a rebellion member. It wouldn’t be the last. The longer it lasted, the more there’d be.
He needed to leave before Security noticed the activity around this building. Jarnton walked to the door.
Jarnton arrived for the A cell meeting to find Fonnet already there.
The man held up a reader. “Look at this!”
He leaned forward to see the illustration. “It’s a horse. With stripes.”
“Yes! It’s called a zebra.”
Jarnton looked from the reader to his arm and back again. “It’s close enough.”
“It’s insulting! The Fierans are calling us horses.”
Vivant and Beler walked in to the room. Fonnet presented them with the picture. They didn’t react strongly.
“God’s Toes, I can’t believe you’re ignoring this,” said Fonnet. “The Fierans are insulting us. They consider us animals!”
Beler took the reader from him and scrolled to the beginning of the book. “The Fierans didn’t write this. This is a book from Earth. It’s fourteen hundred years old. Fiera wasn’t even settled then.”
“Kiwara might not have been settled then, either,” said Vivant. “We don’t know when our sub-species was engineered.”
Jarnton said, “I’ll put up with some insults if it gets the Censorate off our planet. Maybe you need to spend less time going through their library and more working on getting the resources we need.”
“I have been,” said Fonnet, stung. “We’ve made another three thousand hand weapons and we’ve started construction on the ship modules.”
“Good, what kind?” said Jarnton. Discussing their actual agenda should wait until Lokai was also here—but if kept Fonnet from complaining about animals, he could fill Lokai in later.
“We stole a quarter million rounds of rifle ammunition from a Censorate warehouse that they were only putting a guard on during the day, so we’re making weapons to fire them. Turns out there’s some commercial pipe that works as a barrel. Not vary accurate, but the Pathfinders say they’ll be good for close in work. You just pull the trigger and spray twenty bullets, then put another box of bullets in.”
“That sounds fun,” quipped Vivant.
Fonnet grinned. “It is. I practiced with one box. But I didn’t want to waste ammo just for the fun of it.”
Lokai came in, looking cheerful.
“Sorry, we started early,” said Jarnton. “I’ll fill you in later.”
“That’s fine. I have something important, if you don’t mind me skipping the agenda.” He tried to look serious but his grin slipped out.
“Go ahead.”
“All that random graffiti we thought was being done by freelancers? It turns out there’s another rebel society in operation. One of my subcells tried to recruit one of their members. Contact’s gone up the chain. I managed to meet with their leadership. They’re based in Baswet City. There’s thousands of them, at least.”
“God’s Balls,” blurted Jarnton.
“They’re in touch with a third organization over by Zara Lakes. I’ve set up a meeting with them for next week.”
“Amazing,” said Jarnton. “I’m torn between thrilled we have more allies and terrified they have loose communication which will tip off the Censorate that there’s a rebellion brewing.”
“They worry about protecting themselves from the Censies. I had to go through a lot of hoops before they were willing to trust me enough to meet. They’ve been hearing a lot of rumors about our organization’s activity, and—” Lokai looked at Jarnton “—about some of us in particular.”
Jarnton smiled. “Good. Where’s this meet?”
“God’s Fist, what the hell is that?” barked Jarnton.
Fonnet said, “It’s the heart of the ship. We’re disguising it as the frame of a new building going up.”
Four steel trusses outlined a box eighty feet long. A few workmen placed sheet metal panels on top to make a roof.
“What does a modular ship need with a truss?”
Fonnet shook his head. “You can’t just slap some boxes together and expect them to hold up under stress. They’ll break up. This will hold them together. It gives you a ship solid enough you can take it into hyperspace.”
“How do you know?”
The technician looked around. “I did a stress analysis. Modeled several designs.”
“God’s Teeth!”
Fonnet held up his hands, pale palms showing. “No connection to the net. I burned the workstation and the data crystals when I was done. Completely secure.”
“Well, fine. You’re not an idiot. What’s it going to look like?”
“It’ll be a brick. We weld together ten containers, long side to long side, in a row, then lay the truss over and attach it crossing all the containers. The truss is long enough we can attach two containers end to end to each side of it. Then another four go on the outside of those. Those outer two on each side have the missile launchers. Another row of ten on top. Then we put another container up front as the bridge and add a thruster module on the stern.”
“Where are you getting the thrusters from?”
That drew a shrug from Fonnet. “Anywhere we can get them. Scrapyard ships. Grounded freighters. Harness together six air vehicle thrusters and we’ll have a decent spaceship drive.”
Jarnton laughed. “So no two ships will be alike?”
“These things are being built by part time volunteers hiding their work on a design based on a verbal description, with whatever equipment they can steal. Differences between thrusters will be the least of it.”
“You’re doing this to make me happy I won’t be commanding one.”
They exchanged grins. “Oh, they should work. We’ll get some good covering fire from them when the revolution happens. I wouldn’t want to spend a year on one.”
The meeting with the other revolutionary organizations was in a camping ground. Jarnton ordered two of his action teams—G level cells—to attack Security patrols in the nearest city. That should divert enough Censy troops to keep them from noticing the meeting before it was over.
The leaders spread out over a cluster of picnic tables. Jarnton wound up with one to himself. He sat on a bench and leaned back on the table, spreading his arms wide.
Lokai played host, introducing all the leaders to each other. The Baswet City-based group was led by a shaven-headed woman named Telaran. The Zara Lakes group was represented by a “committee member” who gave his name as Livot.
Livot had the widest stripes of anyone there. Not wide enough to be a ‘thickie,’ but still, no one sat next to him.
Jarnton’s whole A-cell was there. He’d shot down a suggestion to invite the Fieran Pathfinders. Deciding how to run the revolution should be decided by zebras for zebras.
As a gesture of trust, he gave the other leaders data crystals with all the books he’d received from Niko Landry and the Fieran Pathfinders. Even if they couldn’t combine their efforts, he wanted the others to have the tools to act effectively.
The other organizations were willing to answer his questions about how they were organized for to keep Security from penetrating their organization. It boiled down to a cell structure, but organized ad hoc rather than the strict hierarchy urged by the manual Jarnton received from the Pathfinders.
He raised the key issue. “We all seem to have a common goal and are using similar methods. Should we consider forming a common organization?”
Some looks were shared among Lokai, Telaran, and Livot. They must have discussed this already.
“We think that would be a good thing,” said Telaran. “But the question is how will this merged rebellion be led?”
“Yes,” said Jarnton. “Do you have thoughts on that?”
“We’re fighting against a system led by a single man, who commands cruelty with no one to say no to him. We should be led by a committee, people who can spot each others’ errors and correct them.”
“All right,” agreed Jarnton. He hadn’t liked the pressure of total responsibility. Sharing it could be good.
Livot added, “And the committee shouldn’t include anyone with too much blood on his hands.”
Who did he mean by that? But it was obvious. He could tell by the way Telaran stared at him, and how Lokai and Vivant shifted to sit by her. Fonnet was looking down, unhappy with the situation.
Jarnton cast an inquiring glance at Beler. She shrugged. No support for him there.
The manual for conducting revolutions the Pathfinders shared with them included a chapter on how to overthrow the leader of an organization. Lokai—or whoever organized this, maybe it was Vivant—had followed it exactly.
“God’s Balls. I’ve acted as I thought right for the success of the revolution and the welfare of all zebras,” said Jarnton. “If you opposed my decisions, we could have discussed it then. Do you want every traitor tried by the top committee? Will you have time for any other decisions if you do?”
No one wanted to answer that. He almost smiled at the looks and nudges as people tried to prod someone else to speak.
It was Beler who broke the silence. “It’s no one execution that bothers us. It’s that there’s so many. We’re—I’m afraid that it’s become easy for you as it goes on. Too easy.”
So many? Jarnton contemplated the number of executions he’d ordered. There were a few he’d carried out himself. Most were delegated to an action cell. Uncooperative policemen. Suspected informants. Those compromised by hostages. Rebels who’d lethally abused their authority. Unreliable men who knew too much. Yes, it added it up.
“Maybe you’re right. Fine. The committee doesn’t want me as a member. What would you have of me? Put me down as if I’m a dog gone feral?” He drew his knife and cast it into the middle of the tables, then leaned back again in a defenseless pose.
Faces relaxed. Hands moved away from pockets. No, they didn’t want to kill him. But they’d been ready to if he’d resisted giving up his authority. No one spoke.
Jarnton said in a less angry tone, “Is there work I can do for the rebellion?”
Before anyone else could answer, Fonnet said, “We’ve started assembling crews for the modular spaceships. It’s hard to find qualified captains. You’d be a good person for that task—and I think you’d be a good commander of the spaceships.”
“Spaceships?” asked Telaran.
So, Lokai hadn’t revealed all their secrets.
After a brief explanation from Fonnet, the new committee agreed that Jarnton should command the ships.
Jarnton thanked them with as little irony as he could manage.
Now that Jarnton was intimately involved in the construction of the spaceships, Fonnet revealed many things which he’d previously kept from Jarnton to protect secrets.
One was how he was arming the ships. He didn’t tell that one to Jarnton. Instead the two took a floater to the edge of the city. Fonnet parked it, then led them on a four block walk to another parking lot surrounded by storage sheds. A few men were entering one of the sheds.
Jarnton and Fonnet followed them. The shed had a trap door covering the entrance to a dirt-walled tunnel. It sloped steeply down for thirty yards, then went level for another hundred or two. Jarnton was focused on not tripping on the uneven floor. He regretted not counting his steps. There was no way to tell how far the tunnel went. All he could see was Fonnet and a few men in front of him. One carried a cold light, which was barely enough for them to see each other.
It was a relief when the tunnel started sloping up. Fonnet turned around and put a finger to his lips, emphasizing the gesture until Jarnton matched it to show he understood.
The tunnel came out in a warehouse. A big one. The cold lights weren’t bright enough to show the ceiling. All Jarnton could see was two dozen rebels and rack after rack of standard Censorate Navy ship missiles, stacked high enough he couldn’t see the top.
Men were pairing up, unclipping a missile from its rack, and carrying it into the tunnel. Jarnton watched them, learning how to work the mechanism. He and Fonnet took a missile between them.
Fonnet insisted on walking in front. Jarnton appreciated it. He could hold on to the back end of the missile and walk at a normal pace, but Fonnet had to twist to hold the nose of the weapon to his side without smacking it into the tunnel wall.
His arms were shaking by the time they reached the far end of the tunnel. He could hold that much weight in a backpack, but stretching out his arms to grip a rough cylinder was rough on them.
Emerging from the tunnel, they went right out the door of the shed. A float-truck with a canvas cover over its bed was waiting. Men in the truck grabbed the missile as it was handed up and stacked it with the rest. Theirs was the last. As soon as the tie-down strap went over the stack, the truck zoomed away.
Men gave Fonnet nods and waves, then dispersed. Fonnet started walking back to their floater. “Okay, it’s safe to talk now.”
“God’s Balls, how are you getting away with stealing their ammunition under their noses?”
Fonnet grinned. “Personnel records. The Censies for inspecting inventory have been transferred to Corwynt. The only ones working that warehouse now are the guards standing at the door. As long as we’re quiet, they won’t notice.”
“God’s Sweaty Balls. So once the ships are assembled . . .”
“A truck shows up with seventy-two missiles, or however many that ship has tubes for. We load them and take off.”
Jarnton laughed loud and long. “We may win this rebellion after all.”
The order didn’t say why Jarnton was to report to this building, but it came from one of the members of the Revolutionary Committee, so he obeyed. The room number was in the basement. He took the stairs down.
Two guards stood at the bottom of the stairs. He recognized them from one of his action groups. They stiffened, imitating vids they’d seen of soldiers coming to attention.
“Sir,” said the one on the left.
He gave them a nod and moved past. He might not be leader of the rebellion any more, but he was still famous enough among the rebels to not need to be identified.
Beler was in the hallway, talking to one of her flunkies. She dismissed the man. “God’s Arse, you’re here. Thank you. We caught an informer. He’s being stubborn about telling us what he passed on. Could you talk to him for us?”
“Yes.” He went in the door she indicated.
It was the standard interrogation setup from the books. Prisoner tied to a chair. Interrogator behind a table, sitting in a more comfortable chair. A light positioned to shine on the table and into the prisoner’s eyes.
The prisoner was barely more than a boy. He was thin-striped and had the aristocratic arrogance which went with it, even with a blackened eye and bleeding lip. There were some other bruises. From when he was captured, or a from a frustrated interrogator? Better not to ask. He seemed to wear them like trophies, proving how tough he was.
The boy smirked. “God’s Nose, you need another guy to ask stupid questions? I told you, I didn’t tell the Censies anything.”
Jarnton came around the side of the table, letting the light reveal his face.
Pale stripes went from pink to faint grey. “Jarnton?” whispered the boy.
Jarnton nodded, keeping his expression grim. There were many rumors about him. The worst was that he’d soaked an informer in hydrocarbons and lit him on fire. Untrue. Jarnton wouldn’t hesitate to kill a man if it had to be done, but that kind of cruelty he couldn’t stomach.
He wondered what rumors the boy had heard.
“I’m sorry. I—I talked to the Security man, yes, but I didn’t tell him anything important. Just trivial shit. Nothing that mattered.”
“A trivial fact could be the missing piece to let Security discover an entire operation. It depends on how much they already know. And you didn’t know how much they knew.” He spoke in his deepest voice, as if pronouncing a death sentence already.
“It—they—I’ll tell you everything. Just please, don’t hurt me.”
“Everything. Until she—” he waved at the interrogator “—has no more questions. If you do, I’ll ask the committeewoman to be merciful.” He walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Beler was waiting.
He said, “The boy’s talking.”
“Good. Thank you. That’s all we needed.”
“Happy to help.” Jarnton headed up the stairs. So he’d gone from judge to boogeyman, scaring boys into behaving. He needed to get off this planet. When the ships were ready, he’d take them to hyperspace and fight the Censorate there.
Maybe that would let him create a new reputation.
Fonnet didn’t hold meetings of his subordinate cell. Instead he’d circulate, having chats with the members individually. Jarnton usually chatted with him over some pastries picked up at nearby bakery as they sat in a park. It was normal behavior for businessmen, not something to draw Security’s attention.
The man couldn’t hide when he had big news. Jarnton watched his expression change as they walked to the park. Fonnet put on a poker face, kept it straight for a minute or two, then a smile would peek out and broaden as he remembered whatever he was going to talk about. Then he’d realize he was revealing his thoughts and stiffen up again.
“You could just act cheerful,” Jarnton suggested. “Pretend you have a new girlfriend or something.”
Fonnet shook his head. “Talat wouldn’t like that. She has a jealous streak.”
“That’s what you get for dating someone with thinner stripes than yours.”
His boss didn’t rise to the bait. He stayed silent until they found a picnic spot free of eavesdroppers, and hopefully microphones. A blanket gave them a place to sit for their breakfast.
Jarnton didn’t ask what the news was. He just waited. And not for very long.
“The Monitor’s been beaten.” He whispered, but he wanted to shout.
“A space battle? Or just thrown off the planet?”
“Something in space. There’s no details, but the Censies took a lot of casualties. Their ships are retreating from Corwynt.”
Jarnton swallowed a bite of his pastry. “God’s Teeth. That’s splendid.”
“There’s still going to be some warships here. The current squadron is going to be replaced by another one.”
“How many ships in the new one?”
Fonnet shook his head. “The local Censies don’t know yet.”
“If it’s just a few—we have over twenty ships in various stages of production. We might be able to take them on ourselves.”
“Amateurs with no training or experience in kludges that have never been to space before, fighting against trained professionals in real ships?” Fonnet was waving his hands with enough excitement that a few bits flew off of the breakfast bun he held.
“Why not? If we have the numbers on our side, we can pull it off.” Jarnton plucked a handful of grass, throwing it in the air to illustrate his fleet overwhelming a few oppressors.
“God’s Eyes. So there you are, winning your battle against three Censy ships, and who’s going to be the next to drop out of hyperspace? Our Fieran friends? Or some Censorate heavy cruisers, with enough firepower to destroy the planet if they see we’ve rebelled?”
“What a worrywart you are. Fine, we’ll wait until we see some Fierans arrive.”
“Thank you.” Fonnet turned to finishing his breakfast.
The new Censorate squadron’s arrival was reported in Security’s internal newsletter. No zebras spotted the ships passing overhead. Fonnet reported on Revolutionary Committee debates on whether the ships existed or were just a bluff.
Jarnton focused on getting his ships—or potential ships—ready for action. Crew were recruited, sometimes without telling them what they’d be serving on. Welders and other workers needed for assembling the ships were identified. Missiles were cached near each ships assembly point. Supplies were laid in.
Spacesuits were the hardest shortage. Good ones were custom fitted to their wearer. Ordering hundreds of them for people not working on known freighters would draw Security’s attention, even in its current understaffed and harassed state.
He resorted to faking an order from an off planet company for a thousand survival bubbles. That would let crew without suits survive a leak on their ship, though they wouldn’t be able to do their work while huddled in a tiny sphere.
The ship he’d command was scattered among the stacks of containers next to the Nikto spaceport. Seventeen more had their parts in place, ready to be assembled. Rebels were working on making more containers full of the systems necessary to make a working ship. Jarnton monitored them, trying to make sure they had complete sets instead of thirty containers of missile launchers and none with the life support gear.
When possible, he traveled to other cities and spot checked the new made modules. Ninety percent of the time they were good. With twenty-nine modules per ship, that made for grim odds on all of them working. Jarnton prayed there was enough redundancy in the design for most of the ships to be ready for action.
Jarnton jerked awake. Mephora snarled, “God’s Ears,” beside him.
His tablet was playing a brutal tune from a brass instrument, something the Pathfinders had supplied as their wake up call. The rebellion used it to—Jarnton answered the call.
Fonnet’s face appeared, nervously grinning.
“Are we doing it?” Jarnton demanded.
“Yes. The Censies spotted a Fieran squadron dropping out of hyperspace. We have a couple of our own people who saw it, too. The Committee ordered the revolt. We’re doing it just like you wanted.”
That made Jarnton grin, too. He’d proposed the revolt be timed that the Fierans would find free people on Kiwara, instead of being the rescuers. Now they had to do it.
“Right. I’ll get to work.” He cut the call. Next he triggered a routine he’d prepared, sending messages to everyone he’d tapped for the ships. Crew, welders, and crane operators would be reporting to the container yard in the middle of the night, most with no idea why they’d been ordered there.
Mephora said, “Is this it?” Her smile couldn’t hide the terror she was feeling.
“Yes.” He jerked on his spacer coveralls, normally worn when he was acting as her XO on the freighter.
Two little boys burst through the bedroom door. “Mommy, what was that noise?”
She intercepted them to let Jarnton finish dressing. “Boys, your daddy is going to war. He’s going to chase the Censor off our world.”
They cheered. Too young to understand what war meant, they just knew what their father did should be celebrated.
Jarnton zipped up the second boot and stood. “Come give your daddy a hug.”
The eight year old hopped up on the bed, then gave his younger brother a hand up to join him. They wrapped their arms around their father.
He hugged back, squeezing them hard. “Hey. I love you. I’ll be back soon. When I do, I’m going to read you a bedtime story you’ve never heard before. A story from Earth.”
“Wow!” said the older boy.
The collection of fairy tales, dating back to before space travel, was in the collection the Pathfinders had passed out. Maybe they’d intended it for just this kind of moment.
“Mommy’s going to be lonely while I’m gone, so you sleep here tonight.” He tucked the boys in where he’d lain.
Mephora hugged him as he reached the door. A firm kiss followed. “You come back,” she ordered in her captain voice.
“I will. I love you.” Jarnton kissed her again, then left the house without looking back.
The night shift crane operator was part of the rebellion. He’d pulled the containers from the stacks they were hidden in to stand ready for assembly. The ten for the lower level were in place side to side, ready to be welded.
A couple of welders were working on them. Not enough.
About a hundred people were standing around, arguing over what they should be doing and expressing their shock over the rebellion.
Jarnton drove his float car up to them. There weren’t any handy crates around, just lots of nine foot high containers. He climbed onto the roof of his car. “Good morning!” he shouted.
That drew attention. People started drawing in, some hoping he’d have instructions, others just following the crowd.
“Welcome to the revolution! I’m Jarnton.”
That made a few people flinch.
“Today we’re kicking the Censor off Kiwara!” Some cheered. “Our part is to build and fly a ship to fight the Censy heavy weapons. I know some of you want to go off and burn down a Security station, but there’s plenty of people doing that. I need you to build this ship.”
Jarnton waved at the containers waiting for assembly. Holes were cut in their sides and tops for hatches and cable runs. “We need to weld those containers together.”
He went on to explain how the ship would be assembled. Some looked dubious, but no one complained. “Welders, work the structure. Electricians, make the connections on their tops.”
A man in the crowd raised his hand.
“What?”
“I left my welding rig at home.”
“Well, go get it! You, go with him and help.” Better to have them in pairs, in case one was an informant.
The rest started on their tasks. The rest closed in him, asking questions about their crew roles.
A few experienced spacers, recruited from merchant ships, realized they wouldn’t be needed until assembly was finished and found a corner to nap in.
Naming the department heads of the crew and having them take charge of their people brought the chaos under control. Some were put to work helping the welders. Anything that wasn’t heating metal, a helper should be doing instead of a welder.
A cheer went up when all ten containers were connected. The crane lifted the pre-assembled truss and set it on top. Workers began fastening it to the connectors already installed in the containers. Electricians ran wires over the beams of the truss, ready for the next set of containers to arrive.
Before that was finished, a Security floater came up. It was one of the three man kind, two sitting in seats up front and a third standing on the back of it aiming a heavy blaster. This one had a Security man driving and someone in a different uniform on the blaster. A tax collector.
Was Security drafting accountants to fill out their ranks in the emergency?
A loudspeaker announced, “A curfew is in effect! Everyone go back to your homes! Obey the curfew! Lethal force is authorized to enforce the curfew!”
The accountant waved the heavy blaster back and forth. Fortunately he had it angled high enough to pass over everyone’s head. A bolt from it would pass through a dozen bodies.
“Everyone go to your cars,” called Jarnton. “Obey the curfew!”
Some of the crewfolk gave him confused looks, but no one openly objected. The Security man looked satisfied.
As he walked behind the crowd streaming toward the parking lot, Jarnton opened his backpack. One of Fonnet’s toys was in there. He maneuvered toward the Security floater, keeping other people between him and the Security man.
Dropping the backpack exposed the ‘grease gun’ Fonnet had made for him. Jarnton pivoted it up, firing as soon as the muzzle was pointed near the floater. Three seconds of fire emptied the weapon. The Security man sprawled in his seat. The accountant fell off the back.
He ran forward, shoving in another tube of bullets. The Security man didn’t need to be shot again, but he put a few into the accountant to be sure. He’d missed the gravitic generator, but the floater was sparking from the holes he’d put in it.
“All right, everyone, back to work!” Jarnton called. He spotted the crewman assigned to handling the missiles. He wouldn’t have any work for at least an hour. “You, take your team, get rid of these bodies and the floater. Get the blaster to a rebel street unit.”
With some hasty “Yes, sirs” they went off. The floater was damaged enough it had to be towed away.
The middle level was the hard part of assembly. The crane had to hold containers next to the truss until enough connections were made to support them. The outer two containers on each side were harder—they were attached to the inner containers, which wasn’t as easy to fit as the truss. Jarnton slapped down a suggestion to skip them—those were the ones with the missile launchers.
Smoke was visible in multiple directions. Mobs and rebel troops were attacking Security stations. Security was being careless in fighting back. Both sides were setting buildings on fire.
The top row was easy. By the time the crane brought the next module to place in line, the previous one was welded airtight and locked into place. The electricians were running lines into them almost as fast.
The last container to go on was the bridge. It stood out from the rest by having one side replaced with a clear panel so the officers could see where they were going and what they were shooting at.
Jarnton messaged the other captains to check where they stood. Some were almost ready to fly. Most were going to need a few more hours. A few, but not as many as he’d feared, had discovered they were missing an essential component of their ships. He put the last group into a separate conference and told them to see how many ships they could make from what they had.
He ordered everyone on board, crew and workers. There was a thruster waiting for them at the junkyard. There were enough gravitics working to put the ship in the air. Another half hour’s work and they should be able to fight.
A spacer was blocking the ramp in to the ship. “We can’t take off yet. We have to name her!”
“God’s Balls,” snapped Jarnton. “Don’t you think we have more important things to worry about?”
“No! It’s bad luck to fly on an unnamed ship!”
“Fine. Everyone, you’re the crew of the Free Ship God’s Balls. Get on board!”
No one protested. He could see a dozen fires through the city while making the hop to the junkyard. No Censies took a shot at them. At least not with any weapons powerful enough for him to notice.
The junkyard workers had the thrusters pried off an old freighter and suspended from a crane. God’s Balls set down with her back to the thruster. The crane moved forward on its treads to put the thruster in position. Then workers swarmed out to make the connections.
Jarnton stayed on the bridge. They knew what they were doing. Him watching them wouldn’t help. Everyone knew what was at stake.
When the word came the thrusters were ready, he made another set of calls to update the status of the other ships. He marked the status of each on his tablet.
He counted. Five ships over the planet. Not enough to take on a Censy warship, but there were battles raging in every city. It was time to do their part. “All ships, lift off and head for the fighting.”
There was another ship on the other side of Nikto. Jarnton called the captain. “Hedron, meet me at the spaceport. We’ll take control there and attack any Censy positions which are still resisting the troops.”
“Got it, boss,” answered Hedron.
“By the way, what’s your ship named?”
“Uh . . . haven’t given it one yet.”
“Come up with something.”
He kept God’s Balls just above the roofs as they flew over the city. He didn’t want to draw Censy fire until he’d met up with Captain Hedron.
Hedron didn’t have the same worry. He’d taken a higher, faster route and was hovering over the spaceport. Jarnton could see the ship, hanging there like a brick not falling.
Then a blast of light from east of them struck the ship. Containers ripped apart, sending panels and crew flying through the air. A second blast struck it. Hedron’s ship dropped straight to the spaceport pavement.
“Brekar, do you have a position for that blaster?” demanded Jarnton.
“It must be the space defense unit at the port east gate.”
“Give the coordinates to missiles. Put two there.”
It took a minute of fumbling with their computers for the bridge crew to coordinate the shots. Jarnton turned God’s Balls to put her broadside toward the Censy target. ‘Whooshes’ sounded in the ship as the missiles were ejected. Then their thrusters energized and they sped to the target.
They hit close enough together it looked like just one explosion. “I think we got them, boss,” said Brekar.
“Good. Contact Fonnet, see if there’s any other targets we need to hit.” Jarnton watched the smoke streaming up from where the missiles hit. They must have wiped out four city blocks. Hopefully people had fled from there when the fighting started. If anyone had stayed in their homes . . . well. This was why the Pathfinders tossed around terms such as ‘collateral damage.’
Jarnton didn’t want to use the fancy terms. He’d just killed innocent people because they were too close to the enemy, and he’d have to live with it.
“Sir, there’s a battle at Longbridge where they need help,” said Brekar.
“Good. Pass the word for our people to retreat. We’re going to make a big boom when we fire at the enemy.”
Five hours later there were no Censy facilities still putting up a fight. There might be some in rural areas which the rebels hadn’t gotten to yet, but Jarnton would wait until someone asked for help with them.
Every site which fired at one of the rebel ships had been destroyed. Traffic Control didn’t see any Censorate ships in action. The Fieran rebel squadron which had triggered the rebellion was almost to Kiwara.
Jarnton ordered the other ships to gather at Nikto to form up with God’s Balls. When they went out to meet the Fierans, he wanted them to go together, looking like a real force.
It wouldn’t be a formation, just a loose cluster. God’s Balls was hard enough to maneuver in atmosphere. Jarnton wanted his crew to have real practice flying her before trying to do coordinated maneuvers.
“Sir, priority message from Fonnet,” said the comm officer.
“Put him on.”
The committee member’s face appeared on Jarnton’s console. “That Censy naval squadron? They really were here. They were hiding out in the valve moon. They’re ambushing the Fieran ships.”
“How many of them?”
“Not sure. It looks like about the same number the Fierans have.”
“Then let’s see if we can tip the balance. Out.” Jarnton cut the call, then opened the all ships channel. “Spacers of Kiwara! Our allies are fighting a space battle with the Censorate. We’ve beat them on the ground. Let’s go beat them in space!”
The story of Jarnton and the other rebels against the Censorate continues in Trouble In My Day. Marcus Landry must take his ships behind Censorate lines, fighting to find a way home and find new support for the rebellion. It’s available now on Amazon.
There are prices to be paid, even when fighting for a good cause.