The Rebel Faction

Part I. Oh Dreamer, Where art thou?



"...Lurik Enterprises is a successful manufacturer and exporter of low-grade riot gear. This building is their main office, their equipment can be found in many low-budget law-enforcement agencies..."

Commander Michael dBale sat in his ready room, watching the holo on the wall. He guessed that a good portion of Anthos' citizens were doing the same thing this moment. With his hands folded and eyes slightly lidded he watched and listened.

The reporter continued to babble, and images flashed before Michael's eyes. He had stopped paying attention several minutes ago, after the dead body had been shown. The thought of How will they react was on his mind now. He knew what he would do. Most people would have found his thoughts repulsive. He would ...

The channel died suddenly, changing from the image of a pretty human responding to a poll about the 'Lurking Horror at Lurik' to bluish snow. Frowning, Michael stood and moved over to try adjusting the set.

The coax cable was still in, and the power chord wasn't out.. The sound of someone speaking prompted him to look up at the display. The connection had been reset.

"We seem to have lost the feed from Sathora," said the made-for-TV face. "We'll do our best to get it back right away. Don't go away.."

The image faded to a commercial, and Michael hit the switch on the holo-projector. Signals didn't often drop out like that, and he knew protocol. Networks always had a backup image or video ready to jump in in a nanosecond. Unless, of course, the broadcasting base itself went down. In that case, it would take the human operators of a sister network a few seconds to realize what had happened, and act.

DBale also knew the military protocol for hostage situations. At the very least a nominal jamming system would be set up, blocking most frequently used com devices. A heavier class-jamming field could be put up if the military was present. Most military jamming systems would kill all outbound signals, including those of any ANN stations.

Sitting back down at his desk, he continued to think about the report. Terrorists had taken over the headquarters for a manufacturer of riot gear. Not exactly the most lucrative target in terms of influential people or money, nor was it the most flashy target to take. People who took hostages in a building didn't often get away with the act, the men perpetrating the crime must have known that their chances of survival were very low.

That's why most terrorists opted to takeover influential things, like low-grade nuclear bomb faculties, or presidential palaces. Things that would make reporters hit the fans in salivating excitement.

Rolling a pencil between his fingers, Michael mulled the situation over. These terrorists obviously had a statement to make. They had taken over the HQ of a riot-gear maker; they had defaced a symbol of the law. A symbol of oppression, if you thought about it long enough.

Michael sighed, and went back to work. He knew President Kaant. The man was a politician, not a warrior. He would try to talk first, rather than take the advice of someone who actually knew what he was doing. He would talk, they would talk, and after a few hours someone would either find a way to gas the place, or Kaant would let the Terrorists go and bend to their demands. Then the real work would begin. DBale and his ilk would be called to duty, to go hunting after men long since vanished.

DBale signed, and went back to his datapad. He knew what he would do.

"Twelf dayth until the netht thipment, thir." It was a heavy lisp, one which its owner had cultivated for several years. He was proud of his accent, as he called it.

"That long?" The owner of this voice sighed. "Alright, put in an order."

"That comths to thirteen hundredth and twelf credith, thir."

"There you go, keep the change."

"Alwayth good to do buthineth with you Mr. Vor," replied the businessman, as he raked the credits into his palm, and then into his pocket. No cash register was needed, as this sale had never really happened. In fact, 'Igor', as he called himself was officially dead. It had proven to be too much trouble to get him legally declared 'undead', so he had just slipped into the underground, taken up a new name, and vanished from sight of all respectable citizens.

Igor was a getter. He could get almost anything you wanted, and he could get it fast. Two weeks was the longest any customer of Igor waited, you could be sure of that.

Two weeks was a week too long for Vor, but he had little choice.

The smoking room, as it was called, was fulfilling its occupation well. The room was lit with darkish, moody lights whose effects were further enhanced by the smoke that roiled about in enormous, billowing clouds. The ventilation systems had been shut down purposely, one didn't pay fifty credits for a good cigar only to let its smoke be carried away by an industriously diligent air-conditioner.

An odd-dozen men sat in various spots, each puffing on a cigar. Nothing was being said, they were simply sitting and enjoying. Several sighed on occasion as if they had just tasted the most delectable bit of food they could have imagined.

Finally, someone broke the silence. "Perfection," said Mark Towsnend.

"I told you they were good," replied Sir Achilles. "I had them shipped in directly from Halva."

"Straight from Halva?"

"Yes."

Silence picked up again, and the men continued puffing on their cigars. In the corner, away from the main body of men sat Michael dBale. He was the newest member of the 'Dozen', as the group of men called themselves. As the newest member, he preferred to sit to the side and listen, rather than actively take part of any discussion that was underway. Being an actual member of the Dozen gave him a certain amount of prestige, and the right to speak at any moment, but the advice of his Father on clubs and intimate circles of people still rang true to him. Listen, and learn.

Today's discussion, prior to the Halva Cigars being presented, had been the terrorist attack on Sathora.

"Interesting result to a climatic few moments," had been the general consensus.

Sir Achilles had been the only one vocally supporting the terrorists, or as he called them, the activists. "Notice how their side of the story is never really published?" he asked. "And I don't mean just the people from this incident, but rather, activists from all over the galaxy. Their side of the story gets relatively little airtime."

"Noone wants to listen to the sobstory of some obscure little race of aliens that th'Empire or whatever penny-shop government is oppressing," a short man named Andrew had said. "Every'n has their own troubles."

"And because history is written by the winners, chances are quite low that the real reason behind most activist actions will ever be heard," continued Sir Achilles.

"Why, Achilles, you're not supporting these people, are you?"

"No, not entirely," Achilles had replied thoughtfully, after a short chuckle. "I don't condone their course of action, but then, who are we to say that this isn't the last action on a long list of choices for them?"

"Explain yourself Achilles."

Sir Achilles had stood, paced a bit before continuing. "Lets just say that, because history is written by the winners, let's just say that ... for example, the Rebellion, before they became the New Republic. It's well documented that they tried some manner of diplomatic measures against the Empire before embarking with violent military measures, correct?"

Everyone agreed with him, and told him to continue.

"Well, who's to say that these activists aren’t doing the same thing? Who's to say that they too have tried to get the attention of the public with diplomatic measures, but as Andrew here said, no one would listen because no one wants to hear a sad story about some small nation of aliens that compromises a millionth of the galactic population."

"Achilles has a point," Mark had said. "But, are actions against civilians really necessary? Couldn't these people just target the military of the government they're ticked off at?"

"Killing grandma in the town square may not be nice," Achilles had said, "But it certainly gets more attention than shooting Army Archie in his fatigues, on a small outpost no one has ever heard of."

"Yes, I'll admit that you have a point Achilles, but these terrorists did give a listing of demands. They weren’t the usual "Stop hurting our people or we'll spit on you" drivel that usually gets given." The man who had spoken answered to the name of Ing, and only Ing. His race earned a second name when they had distinguished themselves greatly.

"Oh, Ing? Read something interesting at work today?" Ing was an intelligence analyst for the Central Anthos Intelligence Agency, CAIA, or simply AI for short.

"You know I can't say anything Achilles." Ing grinned slightly. "But I will say that the demands were very, very political. Nothing small here, these are demands that the Empire would probably make to the Galactic Coalition once the GC is down for the count."

"Ship destruction, leader resignation, constrained territory, heavy taxes, that sort of thing?"

Ing just grinned. "Hey," he suddenly said, "Achilles, you had mentioned cigars when you came in?"

"Oh, yes," said Achilles. "Here, try one..."

Isjhe Kaant, president of the Anthos Republic, accomplished politician, was having a rather bad dream.



The five men were sitting in a bar, one of Clakor's famous floating bars --one of the few buildings on Clakor that was actually anchored to the surface of the planet--, and were talking.

"It's a surefire plan," said a man who looked like just like Isjhe.

"Well, surefire in that it'll get us all killed," replied one of the other men, a man who called himself named Cecil Lash.

"Maybe," replied the Isjhe-lookalike, grinning. "But isn't that how it's supposed to go? Blaze of glory, dying for a cause you believe in?"

"No," replied Lash. He pulled a cigar out of his mouth, and puffed some smoke toward Isjhe. "No, we're supposed to perform the coup, and live to enjoy its benefits."

Isjhe blew at the smoke wreathing around his head, and grinned again. "I suppose you have a better idea?"

Lash just winked. He puffed on his cigar again. Suddenly one of the other men at the table screamed, and his face became a bloody mess. An eyeball fell out, into his drink. The Isjhe gasped, and jumped as one of the other men slumped forward, leaning on the Isjhe's shoulder. He had a small, dark hole in the center of his forehead, and it was beginning to bleed. Yet another man cried out in pain, and his head fell off of his shoulders, rolled across the table, and fell into the Isjhe's lap.

The Isjhe duplicate jumped from the table, blood covering his hands. He cried out for help, for a doctor, for anyone, but no one heard him.

A puff of smoke surrounded his head, and the Isjhe looked up. Lash was sitting at the bar, a red line forming in the middle of his chest. Lash grinned, and puffed on the cigar.

"See what I mean?" He winked, laughed, and then he too died.



Isjhe Kaant, president of the Anthos Republic, accomplished politician, sat up in bed, and was violently sick.

<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->Another man was brooding at approximately the same time as Thomas was. Sitting in the smoking room, Michael steepled his fingers, and looked over the tips of them, as if examining his fingernails, or signing down a gun.

"Don't shoot!" said Mark Townsend in mock horror. "I give up, I swear!" He held his hands up, and grinned. His bewiskered chin bobbed slightly as his lips spread his face into the grin. It was the grin of a shark.


<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->"Give me your valuables first," said Michael in a harsh, low voice. He held out a palm.


<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->"Honestly now, cannot a man even walk through his own club without being mugged?" said Mark as he delved into his pocket, and withdrew a Cigara. He placed the tube in Michaels palm, and then let out a laugh.

"I told your father more than once that you should have gone to acting school, Michael."


DBale grinned slightly at the comment before pocketing the pilfered goods. "Da didn't have a very high opinion of actors."


"Nor of actresses, but he married one."


"Well," began dBale, but Mark interrupted him. "Yes, I know. Your mother ... a special woman, Michael."


Michael blinked. "Yes."


Mark looked pointedly at Michael, and then pointed his own smoking cigar toward the Commander's chest. "Don't let the past weigh you down, boy. Let it go. Your parents chose what appeared to be the best path, at the time."


Michael turned from Townsend, and started to walk down the middle of the smoking room. The last of the rest of the dozen had left twenty minutes ago, leaving Mark and Michael alone. He looked at the grue leather chairs, the ornate oaken tables, the towering walls and the extravagant drapes covering them.


"This, what is this?" he asked suddenly, turning on his heel. "This ... this utter infatuation with extravagance? What is it? Why? What purpose? To enjoy oneself?"


His voice rang out through the room, the only response was the echo.


"Why do we spend millions of credits per year on this building, expanding it, building more and more pleasurable things onto it, while not twenty kilometers from here people die on a daily basis because they lack the most basic of necessities?"


Again, only his echo greeted him.


"My father ... My father spent his life amassing wealth. He fought to the bitter end to maintain it. We moved twenty-seven times, from planet to planet, in an attempt to find the 'nirvanic balance between profit, and taxes' as he put it. What he meant was, to find the best place to rip people off .


"He spent his life hoarding cash. I remember spending two days trying to convince him to loan me the cash to buy a speeder so I could race my friends. Loan, note you, not give. I eventually had to agree to 20% interest. Mum said it was robbery, Da said it would teach me the value of money.


"What did it get him, I ask you, Mark? What did my Father gain from spending his life getting money?"


Michael stared hard at Mark, demanding an answer.


<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->"It was what he liked to do," replied Townsend, shrugging slightly. "What else would he do?"


"NOTHING!" barked Michael. "It gained him NOTHING! He gained the world, yes, but I believe he lost his soul in doing so."


Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Michael held up a hand.


"Did you know that in the Clakor endeavor, the one with the Radian? Do you remember?" Achilles nodded. "Father's efforts there resulted in the death of three hundred people. They contracted that dam, and then skimped on the materials so badly it cracked last week, and killed everyone in the valley below.


Micheal stopped suddenly. "My apologies, Mark. I've ... I've been thinking about that too much lately." He laughed, his voice sounding slightly maniacal. "I offered to rebuild the entire town, the dam, and set up a support fund for those who lost loved ones, and they are still suing me. ME, not the company Da contracted, or the men who purchased the goods, or the men who designed the dam, but me personally! Money, all they want is money. They just lost over half of their settlement, and all they want is money."


"Money doesn't heal wounds, Achilles. Money is like drinking saltwater. You only want more."


Mark opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it. He rememberd what day it was.


"Anything I can do for you, Michael?"


"No, no.. I'll be alright. I should go home."


"I'll drive you."

[font=Verdana]"Thanks."[/font]