Praise for The Rebellion's Last Traitor "Nik Korpon's The Rebellion's Last Traitor is a mesmerizing mix of post-apocalyptic F/SF, war/adventure, criminals dealing in memories, and black-as-hell noir. It's full of attitude and atmosphere, and I couldn't put it down." - Paul Tremblay, author of A Head Full of Ghosts and Disappearance at Devil's Rock; "The Rebellion's Last Traitor is an explosive tale of betrayal and revenge in which allegiances prove as dangerous and unreliable as the memories the citizens of Eitan City buy and sell. Korpon crosses genre lines with ease, and imbues this post-apocalyptic tale with the rhythm and immediacy of crime fiction." - Chris Holm, Anthony Award-winning author of Red Right Hand and The Killing Kind; "Soldiers and memory. Memory thieves. What you can and can't recall, what you wish could forget, what you wish you had back. Nik Korpon takes you there and back, in writing as fine as I've seen and with a story you'll remember." - Stephen Graham Jones, author of Mongrels; "The Rebellion's Last Traitor is a delicious dark delight of sci-fi noir, with an atmosphere that virtually drips from every page and an ingenious story that will hook you from the very start." - Adam Christopher, author of Made to Kill; "Dark but compelling, with a plot that pulls you into turning page after page needing to know what happens next." - Jena Brown Writes; "A sharp and clever novel that manages to discuss difficult themes without ever being sneaky about it." - Dead End Follies; "A layered, smart novel that has something in it for just about any reader. 10/10" - Pen Boys Review; "Korpon's take on speculative fiction is unique." - Crimespree Magazine; "'Reach off the page and grab you' characters and brutally intricate world building... a well paced, challenging read." - SFF World; "A fun and interesting take on the aftermath of a rebellion and what might cause a new one to rise up." - The Bibliotaph; "With 'reach off the page and grab you' characters and brutally intricate world building, this isn't a book you can multi-task with. To get all you can from it you need to give it your full attention, and it is worth it." - SFF World; Praise for Nik Korpon; "Stay God, Sweet Angel is what happens when a story breaks loose from its moorings, burrows into the reader's psyche, and lives there, throbbing like the delirious ghost of William S. Burroughs." - Rayo Casablanca, author of 6 Sick Hipsters and Very Mercenary; "The pop culture apocalypse is now, and Nik Korpon is one of its darkest new voices." - Anthony Neil Smith, author of Hogdoggin' and All the Young Warriors

“A mesmerizing mix of post-apocalyptic F/SF, war/adventure, criminals dealing in memories, and black-as-hell noir. It’s full of attitude and atmosphere, and I couldn’t put it down.”    Paul Tremblay, author of A Head Full of Ghosts and Disappearance at Devil’s Rock

1. HENRAEK   They took their time dying. After the water distribution center collapsed, before the flames of the Gallery were even smoldering, the Tathadann declared Eitan under riot law, allowing their troops to use any force necessary – including lethal – to subdue the rebels. It should have been a death knell for us. It should have crushed the nascent uprising. It should have set the streets of Eitan City awash in blood. And it did. But not with our blood. Citizens of all ages, colors, races, abilities, we armed ourselves with pistols, knives, rocks, rebar, pieces of wood. Everyone drew on anything within their means and ability to strike a blow against the Tathadann and reclaim the city as our own. The Tathadann’s soldiers were massively outnumbered, yet we were just as massively outgunned. Still, although technology and armaments gave them a tactical advantage, there was nothing they could use to compensate for our heart. All of this, six months’ worth of battles and operations and bullets and bodies runs through my head as I crouch behind the chest-high crumbling rock wall that rings Lady Morrigan’s estate, the last vestige of the Tathadann’s rule, inside of which cower the remaining Tathadann soldiers, driven into hiding by a Ragjarøn squad. “Estate” is a generous term for the place – I’ve seen bigger farmhouses back in Westhell County – but it’s a term propagated by the party for stature’s sake. Although the rest of the Tathadann has been destroyed and we could walk away from this place, let these soldiers run off to whatever hollow they choose, we need the sense of finality, in the same way that you cut away all of the gangrenous flesh, lest the smallest portion of disease begins to multiply again and rot away the rest of the body. I press on the comm device in my ear. We took them from a group of soldiers we captured two weeks ago. As much as I loathe the party, I have to say their toys make fighting a hell of a lot easier. “Are you in position yet?” I say to Emeríann. “Yet?” She laughs. “Me and Lachlan already ordered food. We needed something to do while you all were taking your sweet-ass time.” Yeah. She’s taken to the whole revolution thing pretty well. “Once you’re done eating, care to finish this?” “We’ve got your cover.” I smile to myself and motion for the four people in my squad – one from Eitan, three from Vårgmannskjør, Ragjarøn’s base – to advance. We hoist ourselves up over the wall, digging the toes of our boots into the gaps between stones, and roll down the other side. Bullets from Tathadann soldiers ricochet off the nearby surfaces, plumes of dust sprouting around us, but they’re quickly pushed back into the house by suppressing fire from Emeríann’s squad, hidden behind the burnt husk of a military transport vehicle that sits on a slight hill to the east of the estate. We duck behind the statues dotting the yard, spreading out over the area to ensure we can cover Emeríann’s squad as they advance to take over the house. Macuil had these installed not long before he died, each monument a variation on himself or Fannae, depicting selected accomplishments throughout the Tathadann’s history, ensuring they’d live on long after he was gone. However, the one above me is currently missing half its head, a bird’s nest now occupying the space where the left side of Macuil’s face should be. I glance up and down the line, make sure everyone is safe. “Now would be a great time for a power outage,” says Vanda, the boy crouched two statues away. “Though I never thought I’d be wishing for one.” “I was thinking the same.” Vanda’s skin is still shiny from the burns he sustained in the alleyway six months ago. I feel a little bad, for how slow his healing has been and for the amount of scarring that remains, but he and his friends were trying to murder me before that lagon father immolated himself. Once the uprising began, and Vanda realized his father and I fought together during the Struggle, he changed his tune pretty damn quick. He’s not a bad kid, aside from giving his friends more credit than they deserved. If only we could marry the passion of the young with the experience of the old. When everyone is ready, I radio Emeríann. “We’re in place.” “Time to pull up your socks,” she says. We all peer around the statues, our rifles ready, waiting for the report of gunfire, the bright points of light from the soldiers trying to pick off Emeríann’s squad while they’re in the open, but the Tathadann soldiers must be waiting for perfect shots, conserving their ammo in preparation for a prolonged fight. I’m surprised they haven’t surrendered yet, thrown themselves on the mercy of the rebels, but perhaps they don’t realize they’re the last of the Tathadann. I heard a story once, about soldiers who had been stationed on a remote island during a war. They lost radio communication with the mainland and stayed isolated for forty years. The whole time, they operated under the assumption they were living in wartime, unaware that their country had surrendered within months after their last transmission. It made me wonder if those forty years were pleasure or purgatory. Vanda lets out a long breath and looks over at me. I can’t get a clear read on his expression, but he doesn’t look good. “You’re going to be OK,” I reassure him. “Take cover behind me if you’re unsure.” “I’m OK.” “You look scared.” “I am a little worried,” he says. I cock my head. His words are wavering but his voice is steady, strong. He nods toward the house and says, “I’m worried because I don’t know what I’m going to do when this is over. This is what I’m best at.” “What, killing?” “No,” he says. “Fighting.” I can’t help but smile at him. “Don’t worry. Even when this is all over, the real fight will just be starting.” Vanda considers this for a minute, but as he opens his mouth to reply, I see a shadow in the window nearest Emeríann’s squad. “We’ve got movement,” I say into the comm device. “Second floor, third window from the edge. Advancing toward you.” “You got him?” Lachlan says through my earpiece, his voice a low whisper. I can hear the other rebels grunting in the background as they advance on the house. The shadow moves back from the window, staying out of the line of fire. I fix my rifle sight on the spot where it had been. “As soon as he appears, he’ll disappear.” “Keep them off us. We’re almost to the house.” And he no more than says the words when the shadow appears at the edge of the window. I set my crosshairs on him, then exhale as I pull the trigger. Shattering glass. An agonized scream. Bursts of gunfire. A bullet smacks the statue, chipped cement hitting my face. Emeríann’s squad stays tight to the house, a few feet below the bottom of the windows, unable to point up and return fire. “We need to advance. Stay low,” I say to my people, then pop off a few shots before we move to get a better position. We leave the statues, running at a crouch, and slide behind one of the two ornate fountains in the yard. A small puddle remains in the bottom, the last bit of water after six months of evaporation. I wager a glance around the corner and see no barrels sticking out of the windows. Then a bright explosion near the base of the house makes me take cover. White stars float before my eyes. I blink as quick as I can, trying to clear my vision. “Everyone OK?” I ask the other squad. “That was too close,” Emeríann says, her voice strung tight. “We need to end this.” “We’ve got you,” I say. “Wait for our cover.” “Hurry.” “Get ready to move,” I tell my people. I point at the three on the end. “You give us cover. Vanda and I will draw fire, taking pressure off the others. You understand what I’m saying?” “It’s insulting that you keep asking us,” one of the men says in heavily accented English. “I’m sorry, but now’s not the time for something to be lost in translation.” I turn to Vanda, clap my hand on his back. “Now’s your time. Keep moving and don’t go straight.” “Got it.” We set the rifle butts against our shoulders and break from the fountain. Bullets pepper the ground around us but we zig and zag and make abrupt turns on our way to the other fountain. As I strafe across, I take three potshots in the general direction of where the fire is coming from but hit nothing. Behind me, I hear the rattle of my people’s guns, punching scores of holes in the exterior walls. One of them screams when he’s hit and the rattling dampens slightly. Vanda pauses a moment, sets his feet to aim. I start to yell at him to keep moving, but before I can, a soldier appears in a second-story window. I imagine Riab all over again. His blood splashing on my lips, his death hanging on my shoulders. Then the soldier’s head explodes in a red bloom, his body toppling forward and crashing through the window. Vanda doesn’t react, just turns two ticks to the left and fires again, killing another soldier I hadn’t noticed.