Chapter 1
THE MAN CALLED the Raider stared down from the mountain lookout at the convoy passing below. The Coalition flags fluttered in the mist. Their symbol was painted on the side of the transport vehicle—the entire galaxy encircled by a grid the Coalition called the connection, but he saw only as a snare. An air rover full of troopers to the front, another to the rear. Armed guards on top, likely more inside.
He knew the big vehicle was empty of cargo now, on the way to the landing zone. But he would have known anyway, by the way the troops acted, loose and a bit sloppy.
But once they had the cargo aboard, that would all change. The Coalition had not overtaken his world by being sloppy when it counted. They’d done it by being fast, efficient, and brutal. In their first attack, they had wiped out half of Zelos with the huge fusion cannon that now loomed over the city. They had followed up by slaughtering a quarter of the entire population of Ziem in the first month. And even on a planet that had had only a million people, that was a hideous number of deaths. Everyone still living in Zelos, or probably on the whole planet, had lost someone.
And the Raider planned to make the Coalition pay for every last grave.
“This is insane, you know.”
He didn’t look at his second in command, but kept his eyes on the oncoming column.
“Utterly,” he agreed.
“We’re outnumbered,” Brander Kalon pointed out.
“Three to one.”
“Those troopers up top have long guns.”
“Yes.”
“We don’t even know what they’re picking up.”
“There,” the Raider said, “I will disagree.”
Brander blinked. “You know what the cargo is?”
The Raider slipped a hand into his pocket, felt the folded parchment of the message he’d received this morning. “I do.”
He could almost feel Brander’s urge to ask how. But the man knew better by now. “Is it worth stealing?” he asked instead.
“Not to us.”
Brander frowned. “If it won’t even do us any good—”
“But it will do them great harm to lose it.”
There was a moment of silence as the convoy trundled on. Then, briskly, Brander said, “I’ll need some logistics.”
The Raider nodded. “Crates. Three of them. Metal. An arm’s-breadth square. And heavier than the cargo itself.”
Brander frowned. “Heavier?”
“Shielding. I strongly suggest we don’t drop any of them.”
He heard Brander’s quick intake of breath. “Fuel cells,” he breathed.
One corner of the Raider’s mouth, the corner beneath the tangle of gnarled scars that twisted the left side of his face, quirked.
“You were never slow, my friend.”
“That will make them very irritable, losing the fuel for their power generators.”
“They might,” the Raider said mildly, “even have to ration usage.”
“Then I say to them, ‘Welcome to what you’ve made of our world.’” Brander’s tone was bitter, and the Raider knew he was thinking of the hardships the people of Ziem had endured since the arrival of the booted, armored brutes of the Coalition.
He turned on his heel and strode down from the lookout, toward the band of fighters who were gathered at the base. They were known as the Sentinels, taking their name from the mountain that towered over the city of Zelos. The peak topped out above the mist that shrouded their world for three-quarters of the year. The name was a bit grand for the ragtag band, but the Raider measured stature not by looks but by courage, skill, and determination. The Sentinels had all of that, plus the stony toughness of their mountain stronghold.
He wanted no others at his back.
The wind caught the edge of his longcoat, swirled it. The mist was thin today, and he could feel the warmth as the occasional beam of light gleamed on his helmet, that bit of armor carefully crafted to conceal most of his face except the scars. He knew the image he projected, for he did it intentionally. It was against his nature, but he knew the value of symbols, the power of an icon for people to rally to.
“The mist is thin today,” he warned them, “so you will have to watch carefully for the signal.”
There were nods all around. Each detachment had at least one diviner with them, who was able to see even the slightest trace of glowmist. All Ziemites could see glowmist, the green froth that swirled when mist met heat—slight for a warm-blooded creature, brighter for fire or flare—but it was invisible to those not born here, those without the eyes that had adapted to this world.
The diviners’ glowmist vision was the most finely honed. And learning that Ziemites could see the glowmist but outworlders could not had been the key to their unexpected success—and survival—in the year since the rise of the Raider as a symbol to rally around. The Coalition and their minions had yet to understand why they were never able to sneak up on any Ziemite in close quarters.
Of course, this meant that they tended to blast indiscriminately from a distance, with their long guns and that damnable fusion cannon, but the Raider knew enough of them now to realize they likely would have done that anyway. The Coalition did not believe in finesse, only brute force.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
The cheer was loud. He wondered for an instant if it might be audible below, if perhaps some alert Coalition trooper at the tail end of the convoy had heard the sound and wondered what in hades anyone on Ziem had to cheer about.
You will see soon enough. We may have been foolish and naïve when you arrived, but Ziemites learn quickly.
He raised his left hand, which held the traditional curved Ziem saber, a symbol of their history and their world. In his right was the more practical and efficient blaster, a Coalition weapon they’d liberated on one of those annoyance raids.
The cheer went up again.
“Places,” he ordered.
They scattered, each to their assigned spot on the mountainside, following paths they’d known since childhood, and ready to strike their first real blow. Beyond ready, the Raider knew, and he could feel the eagerness hammering in his own chest as he returned to the lookout.
Until now, they had been limited to those minor strikes, harrying, harassing, occasionally winning a prize of weapons, even more precious ammunition or supplies, but not much more. But in that time they had learned, trained, and a peaceful people used to a quiet life on their misty world had become warriors. And now they would put what they had learned to the test. Deep in his gut, the Raider knew that if they failed this first test, it might well be the end of any rebellion on Ziem.
Whether that would be for good or ill, he didn’t think about. Nor did he think about what he himself would leave behind if he died in this idealistic effort. For all that mattered was that someone had to do something, and he could not live with himself if he did not try. And so he would, and if he died trying, so be it. Better to die free than live cowering in the muck waiting for the Coalition to decide you were of no further use to them.
It seemed forever yet too soon that the convoy, all snap and formation now, again came into view on the pass road. The Raider watched intently as they neared the choke point, that spot where the mountain jutted out and squeezed the road down to a single-lane passage. The first air rover came through, the troopers alert and watchful now, peering in all directions.
Then the transport.
“Now,” he ordered Brander.
His second raised his arm and fired the near silent flare down the mountain. It caught, swirled, and lit up the fog into that glowing green mist Ziemites knew well. The Sentinels, ready and waiting for that signal, charged.
The real war for Ziem had begun.