The entire space hummed with activity. Machines of various sorts were positioned, sometimes haphazardly wherever there was room, and at that equipment, men and women worked feverishly producing weapons and other high tech items. Securing the production equipment had been enormously difficult, and they’d had to take what they could get. Much of it had been purchased from smugglers and black marketeers at astronomical prices. Their output was a fraction of what a proper factory would have produced, but for a makeshift operation thrown together in a few months it was impressive. And now that unrest had progressed into war they would need those weapons.
Kara had committed most of the Sanders fortune to the cause, and she’d done so with her grandfather’s whole-hearted support. The old man was a revolutionary at heart, and as far as he was concerned, Alliance Gov would turn his beloved Arcadia into a totalitarian nightmare over his dead body. Money wasn’t the only thing he would give to the fight. Despite her best efforts, Kara had been unable to prevent him from digging out his old uniform – he’d been commander of the planetary militia for forty years – and chasing Will around, offering advice on how to forge his band of veterans, farmers, and merchants into the army Arcadia needed to win its freedom.
The old man was full of advice on another topic as well. Will and Kara had engaged in a tempestuous, years-long relationship, full of breakups and reconciliations. Neither of them was particularly emotional alone, but for some reason their escapades together were overwrought and full of drama. He was sick of it; he couldn’t think of anyone better-suited for his grand-daughter than Will Thompson, and he wasn’t about to let her throw away happiness because she’d inherited his own ornery stubbornness. She was a pain in the ass sometimes, he knew that. But he was sure Will loved her so, already an adventurer, colonist, soldier, and entrepreneur, Gregory Sanders added matchmaker to his resume. He’d been driving her crazy about it for weeks.
She knew he was right; she’d realized it a few weeks before when Arcadia was taken by newly arrived Alliance army units. Will had been in the city when the crackdown hit, and when she heard what happened at the Assembly Hall she was gripped by panic that he was dead. Grief-stricken and inconsolable, she realized what he really meant to her, what a gaping void he would leave in her life. She burst into tears when he walked into town the next day, exhausted and hungry, but very much alive.
She was proud of what they had accomplished in the year since they’d resolved to start making their own weapons. Despite increasing federal scrutiny – and finally open hostilities - they’d kept the facility a secret. Even if the Feds discovered it, they had burrowed deep into the mountainside. The installation was extremely defensible, and any attempt to take it was likely to be a bloodbath for the attackers. Will had designed the defenses himself, and even working with the limited materials available, he’d created a fortress of considerable strength.
The production equipment was a mixed lot, consisting of whatever they’d been able to obtain without drawing too much scrutiny. She’d worked around the clock to turn it all into a rational and productive facility. The workers were all locals, volunteers doing a rotation in addition to whatever other work they did. Will had gotten the schematics and other documentation from his friends at the Academy, but they’d basically had to train themselves in how to build modern weapons.
Raw materials were a problem as well. Arcadia was a beautiful world, full of valuable resources. But it was light on the types of heavy elements needed to build modern weaponry. Will had managed to get three shipments of heavy metals from his contacts on Columbia, sending back a load of finished weapons to the resistance on that world. But all contact with Columbia had stopped abruptly; no ships, no communications were getting in or out. Now Arcadia was similarly cut off. The capital and spaceport were occupied, and the interstellar communications network had been interdicted. They were alone.
We have enough material to keep going for two months, maybe three, she thought. Then we’ll have to slow to half-production at best. She’d been up nights reworking their procedures, refining them to eliminate waste. Every percentage point she reduced the loss factor saved a portion of their dwindling raw material stockpiles. That meant more guns and ammo for the troops in the field.
The work also kept her busy, with less time to think. Will had marched out with his troops, headed toward Arcadia. The Feds had been launching operations all around the city, and if they didn’t do something, morale throughout the Capital District would be shattered. They needed a victory, and they needed it badly. The more Kara focused on her work, the less time she had to think about the danger, about the chance that will would not come home. Worse, her grandfather had insisted on going along too; the old man would not be dissuaded despite both she and Will arguing against it. Everyone she loved was with that force marching off to battle, and she welcomed any distraction from the constant fear.
“Fire!” Will Thompson’s voice was hoarse, but he yelled the order loud and clear into his comlink. The ragged ridgeline erupted as his hidden heavy weapons opened up, raking the confused federal troops with fire from their flank. The guns weren’t the nuclear-powered auto-cannons the Marines used – producing something like that was well beyond the rebellion’s limited capability. But the weapons they had were still effective, especially at this range.
The Feds were well-equipped and trained in basic drill and maneuver, but it was obvious they had no combat experience. Will’s troops on the ridge were mostly veterans, retired Marines who’d had their baptisms in some of the bitterest battles ever fought. Detaching so many of his veterans was a risk; it gave him a formidable assault unit, but it left the rest of his force low on experienced personnel. He planned to make up that deficit himself, he and a few others he’d put in key positions with the main force.
Will had never intended to command the rebel army he’d helped build. He was a veteran, yes, and his service record was solid, but there were others who had done the same, and some who’d been of higher rank when they did. He’d fought on a dozen worlds and been decorated several times, yes, but he’d only been a sergeant in the field. His commission had been an honorary one, given on the eve of his retirement after he was grievously wounded in a training accident while attending the Academy. All his service in combat had been as a non-com.
But Will had lived on Columbia for over a decade, and he was universally liked and respected. After his speech, when he’d called the residents of Concordia to action, Will had been at the center of the Arcadian resistance. In the last year he’d proven himself to be a true leader. When it came time to choose a commander for the newly-formed Army of Concordia, Will was overwhelmingly acclaimed.
Now he watched as his troops slaughtered the confused Alliance soldiers. The heavy auto-gun rounds tore through the Feds’ hyperkev body armor, not just killing, but shattering bodies. The federal troops tried to return the fire coming from the ridge, but Thompson had his teams dug in, and the ragged volleys the Feds managed to deliver were largely ineffective. After a few minutes they broke and started to run away. A week before, Will would have ordered his troops to cease firing and allow the routing federals to retreat; he was a soldier and a professional, not a butcher. But the enemy had captured eleven of his troops five days before and executed them all. It was a different war for Will now, and an icy resolve chilled his soul when he imagined his unarmed men and women lined up against a wall and shot. He looked out over the panicking masses in the valley below, a harsh smile on his face. “Mortar teams, target the retreating force.” His voice was cold. “Fire.” He watched with grim satisfaction as the panicked federal troops were blown apart by his heavy mortar rounds. He muttered softy. “This was the war you chose, not me.”