By Jay Allan
Pink Worlds publication III The 3rd Frontier battle is over, and the Western Alliance is victorious. All throughout human-occupied area, colony worlds have a good time the arrival of peace.
But peace is an elusive dream, and extra difficulty is brewing. The warfare used to be dear, and the economies of the Superpowers, continuously fragile, are at the verge of overall collapse.
The Directorate, the shadowy intelligence association that has turn into the genuine energy at the back of the Alliance executive, plans to strip the colonies naked to pay the prices of struggle. Already, they're tightening their keep watch over over the freewheeling colonial governments. And the Marine Corps faces overall destruction by the hands of the worst traitor in its history.
however the colonists are a distinct breed than the passive mob in the world, and so they don't have any purpose of meekly surrendering their difficult received freedoms. On worlds all around the frontier, plans are hatched and guns hoarded. And in taverns and assembly halls the phrases of an historic textual content are uttered in hushed tones. a bit uprising, every now and then, is an efficient thing.
The red Worlds Series:
Marines (Crimson Worlds I)
The rate of Victory (Crimson Worlds II)
A Little uprising (Crimson Worlds III)
Coming March 2013 the 1st Imperium (Crimson Worlds IV)
Read or Download A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds, Book 3) PDF
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Extra resources for A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds, Book 3)
All of it in a second’s glance. God bless, too, the gentlemen who thought up the idea of these little rescue stations, stuck all over the place for just such emergencies as this. He had started to walk across the room. It was at this point that the service robot, that kept the place in repair between tenants and unloaded supplies from the ships, had moved clankingly across the floor, and with one fearful smash of a steel arm thrown Terrence across the room. The spaceman had been brought up short against the steel bulkhead, pain blossoming in his back, his side, his arms and legs.
It was my first professional sale and I was twenty-one years old. There was an English professor named Shedd at Ohio State University in 1954. He told me I had no talent, could not write, ought to forget ever trying to make a living from the craft of writing, and that even if I did manage to eke out some sort of low-level existence through dint of sheer, dogged persistence, I would never write anything of consequence, would never make a name for myself, and would sink into the dust of oblivion justifiably forgotten by lovers of properly constructed literature.
It had come to him... He paused in his moonlit hurrying and tried to bring the scene back into sharper focus. Yes, it had been when he had gone into the computer room of the ship. When he had first seen the vessel, he had tried to liberate equipment he could jerry-rig in a copter, but the parts were all heavy-poured-molded and none of them would have fit a small vehicle. So he had abandoned the ship. What good was it? The weeks following, he remembered, had been singularly annoying. More than just the emptiness of sole ownership of a whole world, those weeks had disturbed him with a thought just beneath the level of recognition.