---
The right,
honourable magistrate Paulus Atter watched with glee as the chaos unfolded on
the other side of his third floor office window. From his perch in the South
Retale parliament building, he could see with amazing clarity how Stronach, the
regional capital of South Retale, exploded into fire and flames. He observed as
throngs of protestors swarmed the lines of the DSC military police, as they
threw rocks and Molotov cocktails, and as more and more policemen were called
onto the scene. He knew, from reports he had gotten, that similar such protests
had started up all around the continent, all against DSC authority in South
Retale. It had started as a dispute over the Caroe Islands, but would certainly
end in open insurgency against the Deep Space Confederacy.
He turned away from the window, his hands in each other
behind his back. He exited his finely crafted magistrate’s office and moved
towards the stairwell through the hallways of the deserted parliament building.
He hadn’t called any sessions since the protests started. As he drew further
away from the window, the noise of screaming men and woman, the pifs and pafs
of rubber bullets and the sharp cracks of glass breaking grew more and more
dull. But then, as he came back to the window of some minister’s second floor
office, the noise returned. A man carrying a burning DSC flag behind him was
running at full speed from a group of riot police, who eventually caught up to
and tackled him. Those officers were soon surrounded by other protestors, who
in turn were set upon by even more policemen. He saw armoured trucks pulling up
around the edges of the civilian mob, and troops carrying actual rifles
exiting. The crowd pulled back. Paulus stood silent.
He did not know who had fired the first shot, or how
many on each side had been killed. But, at the end of this bloody day, only two
weeks after the first reports of disturbances on the Caroe islands, the South
Retale insurgents had pushed out the DSC from Stronach. The first city, on a
DSC planet, free from DSC regulations in a hell of a long time, as far as
Paulus knew. Now, he stood on a pedestal, and gathered before him were the
hopes for the new free state of South Retale, in the forms of thousands of
armed citizens.
“My people!” He shouted, to a cheering crowd. “You
have been treated as second class for too long! The DSC is corrupt and
traitorous, seeking to break the backs of those unlucky few stranded on the
outskirts of their dictatorial empire! They wish to use Retale as a planet of
the slaves, to fund their unjust wars and further conquest of a galaxy that they
have no right to own!”
The crowd was delirious. Shots were fired into the
air from looted weapons.
“And our brothers to the north, instead of joining us in rightful
combat, heeled to their corrupt masters, wishing to willingly continue in their
slavery! They are blind, and, like the rest, they must be made to see the
truth!”
Paulus’ arms were
raised, his chest heaving. He squinted in the bright sunlight, the sky all
blue, and no clouds. The innumerable people of Stronach cheered at his every word.
He felt reinvigorated, a new man. Deep down, he had always resented the
Confederacy, but he had never actually expected this to be happening. Some
would call him a madman, he thought. Others, a visionary.
---
“Henry, you’re
small blind. Jay, big blind.” The fat man grunted as he dealt each member at
the table two cards. Jay dropped in his twenty Retale dollars. The light of the
lamp in the middle of the table flickered, the wind blowing the flame this way
and that. It was a warm, spring night, and pitch black besides. The other
players at the table checked their cards and placed their bets. As the flop was
turned, the grey haired man to Jay’s right spoke up.
“Y’all hear about
them rebels in Stronach?” Jay raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Rebels? The hell
are you talking about?” Said the dark skinned man across from Jay.
“Them ones in
Stronach, that’s who I’m talkin’ about.”
Reiterated Grey-hair. “They kicked out them DSC boys there just yes’urday.
Saw ‘t on th’ news.”
“Shit man, you
serious? I wanted to get over there tomorrow and pick up some stuff.”
“Not a chance of
that.” Said the man with gold rimmed glasses. Jay’s eyes darted every which way
as he kept track of the conversation. “The DSC has the place locked up tighter
than a nun on a Sunday.”
“Damn. Partner’s
gonna be pissed.” Dark-skin cursed beneath his breath.
Jay was staying at
a “trailer park” just outside of the small town of Caulfield, South Retale.
Trailer parks were illegal on Retale under DSC edict, as they allowed for
illicit gatherings of civilian spacecraft. As of some five-odd years ago, civilians on
Retale were forced to land their ships at spaceports. Jay opted for the illegal
but more discreet option.
“DSC’s going crazy
around the whole planet. Got one or two frigates floatin’ round here.”
Grey-hair said.
“Two, and a Battlecruiser.”
Said Gold-glasses. “They got the place fully surrounded. No one’s getting out
of here.” Jay winced at the words. No one saw behind his red-tinted goggles.
“Damn!” Dark-skin
cursed again. “I have another partner on New Pallas who’s expecting me next
week.”
“Was thinkin’,
though,” Chimed in Grey-hair, “Ain’t two weeks a bit short t’ get enough guys
for in-sur-gen-cy? Whachu think, Jay?”
Jay shrugged.
“You lived here
all your life?” Gold-glasses asked Grey-hair.
“Sure have. Well,
I done a lot of travelin’ and I ain’t lived in this trailer park, but South
Retale, born n’ raised.”
“Then you should
know the days here are fifty-fives hours long. Back where I’m from, days are
twenty hours. Two weeks mean different things here and there.”
“I ain’t stupid, I
know that. When I say two weeks, I know two weeks.”
“Are you guys
gonna play or what?” Barked Fat-man. The other men muttered their various agreements.
He turned to Jay, and Jay nodded.
---
DSC Colonel
Garrett Scott received a message, delivered to him by an exhausted DSC soldier
from the third floor. General Tybalt upstairs had been killed by a South Retale
sniper and you, sir, are the new ranking officer. Also, “upstairs” is no longer
safe and everyone from there is here on the second floor. Yes sir, thank you
sir.
Garrett had been
ducked beneath the window of the police station at the time. He was on his way
to Stronach to respond to a minor civil disobedience issue. He was travelling
through the lowland town of Armstrong, South Retale, halfway to his
destination, when he received word the capital had been overtaken by
insurgents. They stopped in town, awaiting further orders, and were attacked.
New orders had not arrived for the last two hours.
Garrett crawled on
all fours away from the front face of the police station. Three soldiers were
ducked in front of the other three windows, waiting for the latest bout of
machine-gun fire to end. There were ten other soldiers on this floor, all
except two at other windows. The two were at the station’s armoury, looking for
weapons.
On the third floor
there were another ten men, all arranged at windows. There were nine, now, with
the Lieutenant dead, and they were all down in the stairwell to the second
floor.
Down on the first
floor there were twelve men batting down the hatches, for a full platoon of 36
DSC soldiers. Garrett’s men were veterans, taken straight from the inner rim of
the Confederacy. He had no information on how many were outside, but they had
surrounded them in the police station and had a machine-gun set up at the
front. His men on the second floor had managed to stay hidden until the gun
stopped firing, and were now firing back. Garrett crawled into the armoury.
The two soldiers
there, a woman and a man were digging through a weapons closet. There were
fifteen or so pistols on the floor and three or four rifles or shotguns. All
firearms these days were misnomers, as they didn’t use “fire” at all: just like
the MAC cannons in space, they shot magnetically accelerated projectiles, so that
they could be used anywhere, even in space or on planets with volatile
atmospheres.
“Hey.” Garrett
said. The two turned around. The woman was private Torr and the man private
Valkyn. Their features except for their eyes were hidden behind their uniforms
and helmets.
“Colonel Scott.”
Garrett pointed out. “I’m your new CO. What’s in there?”
Garrett pointed to
a barred, metal weapons closet.
“No idea.” Said
private Torr. “It’s locked up tight, though, so it must be good.”
“Alright.” Garrett
said. Something exploded outside. “Open it up. I’ll be back.”
Back down on his
hands and knees, Garrett crawled back over to the window. The machine gun had
not started up again. In fact, all was quiet as Garrett peeked out.
A shot out grocery
store stared back at him, a car burning in front of it. The store’s windows had
been shot out. He couldn’t see anyone or anything except smoking holes all
around the bullet ridden main street. Both
ways down, the main street was deserted. A dog barked somewhere in the
distance. It was a bright afternoon, without a cloud in the sky. No one else
had been shot, so the Sniper must have been behind the police station. Far
away, Garrett heard the whir of helicopter blades.
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