The Halls of Montezuma

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “You will continue the offensive as quickly as possible,” the director said. He smiled, humourlessly. “My family has been nagging me to recover the mansions.”

  It’ll take months to repair the damage even if the marines surrendered without a fight, Julia thought, savagely. And what will you do then? Remain there, alone?

  “Now that’s settled,” McManus said, “we have a more important matter to address.”

  He leaned forward. “My department wishes to take custody of the enemy prisoners.”

  “Out of the question,” General Gilbert said. “The marine prisoners surrendered in accordance with the laws of war ...”

  “The laws of war no longer exist,” McManus snapped. “The Empire is gone. We are not obliged to honour treaties and agreements we never signed, let alone rules handed down by the Grand Senate and enforced by the Imperial Navy. The marines are invaders who landed on our world, little better than terrorists and traitors. They can be legally put against the wall and shot! Now!”

  His eyes roamed the table. “They know things. We have to know those things. My people are experts in ... convincing ... prisoners to talk. We need to make them talk.”

  The director looked at the general. “General?”

  “There are two points that need to be raised,” General Gilbert said. “The first is that the prisoners are unlikely to know very much, even if we could convince them to talk. Troops on the front line are rarely told anything important, simply because they might fall into enemy hands. I think trying to get information out of them will be, at best, pointless. At worst, they might be conditioned to the point that a suitably ... rigorous ...interrogation will kill them before they can say a word.”

  “My people are experts,” McManus insisted.

  “There are plenty of ways to keep one’s people from talking,” General Gilbert said. “And the marines are reputed to use all of them.”

  He indicated the map. “The second point, sir, is that they’ve taken a hell of a lot of our people prisoner. They’ve swept up tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of our people. They even hold an entire megacity, complete with millions of our civilians. If we start mistreating their people, they will start mistreating ours.”

  McManus snorted. “So what?”

  “The laws of war do not rest on ... treaties and agreements,” General Gilbert said. “They rest on the ability and willingness to retaliate in kind for any breaches. The marines will be well aware of it, sir, if only because they were often charged with doing the retaliation. They will not want to risk setting any precedents, precedents that will make it harder to convince later captors not to mistreat their men. If we mistreat their men, they will mistreat ours.”

  “I ask again,” McManus said. “So what?”

  “So our people will know we don’t give a shit about them,” General Gilbert snapped. “And we, should we be taken prisoner, will be mistreated too. The marines have a long history of risking their lives so they can take people who break the rules prisoner, just so they can be properly tried and hung. Do not think for a moment, sir, that you can escape. If they win the war, they will demand an accounting and punish those who commit atrocities.”

  “If they win the war,” McManus repeated. “If.”

  Julia took a breath, then spoke. “They can be held prisoner now, without being mistreated,” she said. She could hardly do any more damage to her career at this point. “Afterwards ... things will be different.”

  “We need to know what they know,” McManus said.

  “It is unlikely, as I said, that they know anything useful.” General Gilbert spoke with icy patience. “Whatever plans they had presumably didn’t include a headlong retreat from a major counterattack. It’s clear they didn’t expect us to regroup and push back.”

  “At the very least, we need them somewhere secure,” McManus insisted. “Can we move them to the Security HQ?”

  The director raised a hand. “They are to be held within the HQ, but not interrogated or mistreated in any way,” he said. “If we have to come to terms with the marines, we can return them ... perhaps in trade for our people. If not, if the war ends victorious, we can decide what to do with them then.”

  “My people will wish to speak to them,” General Gilbert said. “I think ...”

  “The Security HQ is my territory,” McManus insisted. “My people can handle them and ...”

  “Share, children.” The director’s voice was wryly amused. “If you can’t play nicely together, you’ll have to give up your toys.”

  He stood. “Julia, come with me,” he said. “The rest of you ... you know what to do.”

  Julia sighed inwardly as she stood and followed the director through the door. She was probably in trouble. Real trouble. She was only here on the director’s sufferance and she knew, all too well, that she’d embarrassed him in front of the board. Perhaps she’d have a chance to convince him, if they spoke privately ... she shook her head, knowing it was far too late. Too many people knew she’d spoken out of turn. They’d wonder what she’d said to him, when they were alone, if he changed his mind. They’d wonder even if she hadn’t said a word to him. Bastards.

  She gritted her teeth. The marines had treated her well, when she’d been their prisoner. She hated to admit it, but things could have been a great deal worse. She’d heard the horror stories ... she’d heard the rumours, same as everyone else, about Security HQ. People went in and didn’t come out again. She wanted to believe the rumours were exaggerated, but ...

  “That was unwise,” the director said. “You shouldn’t have spoken so openly.”

  “Yes, sir,” Julia said. She braced herself for a lecture - or worse. “I understand.”

  ***

  Rachel found it hard to believe a marine division had been defeated in open battle. It had never happened before, not for hundreds - perhaps thousands - of years. Small units could be destroyed, sure, but an entire division? It was unthinkable. And yet ... the figures were exaggerated, to the point the entire corps would have been wiped out several times over, but the reports definitely suggested the marines had taken a beating. She tried to pull them together, risking everything as she accessed files and reports from the secure sections of the datanet. It looked as though the marines really had lost a battle.

  Her blood ran cold as she realised the enemy had taken prisoners. A couple were so badly wounded they’d been rushed to a military hospital - she supposed the corprats were at least trying to honour their obligations, under the laws of war - but the remainder were being shipped into the city. She swore inwardly as she accessed the transfer orders. They were being moved to the Security HQ, a grim-faced building in the middle of the government district. She’d heard the rumours, spoken in whispers, of what happened to people who were taken inside. They were never seen again.

  Their soldiers may try to honour the laws of war, she thought, numbly. But their security officers may feel differently.

  She stared at the terminal without really seeing it. The security officers would feel differently. She’d met enough security officers, on a dozen worlds, to know they felt themselves totally above any threat of retaliation. The handful who were smart enough to fear retaliation for committing atrocities were also smart enough to know their superiors would kill them for refusing to commit atrocities. Even at the Empire’s height, it was difficult to guarantee that there would be punishment. She was all too aware there was little stopping the corprats from breaking out the rack and thumbscrews. Or simply executing the captives before anyone on the outside realised they’d been taken prisoner.

  And that means we have to get them out, quickly, she thought. She readied a datapacket for Phelps. He’d have to do the heavy lifting. There were so many guards surrounding the building now that she couldn’t hope to leave and then return. Not now. I may need to get some better codes ...

  She grimaced as her shift came to an end. General Gilbert was sending orders to his staffers ... orders to
check on the prisoners. It crossed her mind to wonder if the orders were a trap - the general had deduced that elements of the datanet had been compromised - but she didn’t have time to worry about it. She stood and glanced towards Commander Archer, who was eying another young staffer. The poor girl was barely out of Basic. She wasn’t remotely secure enough to handle a predator. Rachel smirked as she winked at the commander, drawing his attention. If Phelps did his part of the operation, there was a better than even chance Commander Archer would get the blame. It couldn’t happen to a nicer person.

  Commander Archer caught her arm and half-pulled her into the corridor, pressing her into the wall. “What do you want?”

  “I need to send another message,” Rachel said. She’d do whatever she had to do to get into his office. “I’ll pay ...”

  She licked her lips, suggestively. Commander Archer eyed her for a moment, then stepped back and led her down the corridor. Rachel studied his back. The asshole probably fancied himself a predator, probably the apex predator. She knew the type. He no longer saw her as a challenge before he’d had her, as far as he knew. Rachel concealed her amusement and annoyance with an effort. She’d done her work a little too well.

  “Drop your trousers,” Commander Archer ordered. “Bend over the desk.”

  Rachel caught his arm and kissed him hard. He let out a gasp of surprise, which turned into a groan as the drug took effect. She didn’t really want to let him fuck her if she had a choice ... and besides, there’d been hints in his tone he hadn’t intended to keep his side of the bargain. She carried him to his bed, muttered a handful of suggestions into his ear and pulled down his trousers. His imagination would, again, fill in the rest. She didn’t want to know.

  The other staffers wouldn’t be feeling sorry for me if he was into something vanilla, Rachel thought. She’d met too many staff officers to care for the breed. They had no qualms about putting out for their superiors. Hell, they’d be jealous of a young officer who won her commander’s favour. She dreaded to think what might make them feel sorry for her. I suppose ropes and chains would be a little too light for him.

  She sat at his terminal and began to work. General Gilbert seemed to have assigned a handful of officers to monitor the prisoners in the Security HQ. He hadn’t assigned Archer, even though it would be an excellent way to get rid of the bastard. Rachel wondered, idly, if Archer had hidden talents, then dismissed the thought. He was probably only kept on active service because there was a shortage of other staff officers. Here, at least, he couldn’t do much damage. She smirked at the thought as she hacked the system, added Archer’s name to the list and fiddled with his biometrics. The enemy would notice, eventually, but by the time the hammer fell it would be far too late. And, if she was lucky, it would fall on Archer first.

  Rachel forwarded the second datapacket to Phelps, then stood. She disliked the thought of relying on something outside her control, even though she had total confidence in her commanding officer. There was no way to know how long it would be before Phelps saw the message, let alone did something about it. He was on the streets, causing so much trouble the enemy honestly believed there were over a thousand infiltrators within the city. Who knew if he’d be able to react before the enemy realised they’d been tricked?

  She walked into the bedroom, undressed and clambered into bed. Archer shifted against her, a trickle of drool running from his mouth. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It would be easy, so easy, to snap his neck like a twig. Her lips quirked as she closed her eyes, opening the link to the local datanode processors. Killing Archer would be of inestimable help to the enemy. Her superiors probably wouldn’t bother with a court-martial before they shot her for treason.

  I can’t stay here much longer, she thought. She’d laid the plans for a soft coup, but ... she didn’t know how many of her allies would jump when she hit the button. It was easy to talk, harder to put one’s life on the line. And if the enemy really is close to winning the war ...

  She scowled. People didn’t switch sides if they thought they were leaving the winning side. It was absurd. Why would anyone commit suicide? She sighed as she devised the next set of messages, including a stern warning about backsliding. Too many people had pledged themselves to her. They’d have no place to hide if the corprats won the war. She’d make sure of it. The purges would keep the corprats from threatening the rest of the galaxy for a few years or so ...

  Shitty way to win, she told herself. But what other choice is there?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Indeed, smart capitalists treat their workers very well. They invest in them. They find ways to put them in places their talents can be used. A poor engineer might make a good manager or vice versa. And good workers respond to this. Good treatment leads to loyalty. Loyalty leads to a worker who will go the extra mile for his boss.

  - Professor Leo Caesius, The Rise and Fall of Interstellar Capitalism

  Gerald had expected to see the enemy troops go on the offensive, after they swept the pocket, and regrouped, but it was still unpleasant to watch a giant army advancing steadily towards his flimsy defence lines. His men had regrouped and rearmed, as best as they could, yet he was all too aware they simply didn’t have time to set up a solid defence line before the enemy overwhelmed them. The reports of unrest within the city were merely the icing on the cake. Gerald knew, for better or worse, that the city simply didn’t matter. There was no point in fighting for it when the war would be decided elsewhere.

  He watched the microburst reports from the stealthed drones as the enemy continually outraced their antiaircraft defences. They were moving with commendable speed, he acknowledged, clearly determined to pour on the pressure until the marines broke or the enemy hit something so solid they had to stop. Gerald knew it would be the former, unless the marines changed the rules. The defence lines were simply too weak to do more than slow the enemy down. It was sheer luck they were so determined to win quickly they were overlooking their flanks.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Yu said. “The latest shuttle flights report taking fire from the ground as they dropped to the landing zone.”

  Gerald nodded, curtly. He’d expected that, too. The enemy was throwing everything at the marines, up to and including the kitchen sink. He was mildly surprised they hadn’t used nukes. His forces were in no position to duck and cover, even if they realised what was coming before it was too late. The enemy knew the marines couldn’t retaliate in kind, not as long as the PDCs remained intact. They probably didn’t want to turn the aristocratic estates into radioactive nightmares ... the thought galled him. He told himself he should be grateful. The marines had quite enough problems without adding nukes to the mix.

  “Understood,” he said. It was a shame they hadn’t had time to rig up more dumpsters. “Tell the shuttles to halt resupply, at least for the moment. We should have enough in place on the ground.”

  He concealed his irritation as Yu turned back to his terminals. There was a second reason to cancel the shuttle flights, one the younger man probably hadn’t realised. The division was standing on the cusp of victory or total defeat. If the plan failed, if the lines broke, the entire division would be shattered beyond repair. Gerald had no doubt his men would fight to the last, exhausting their ammunition before finally surrendering, but it wouldn’t matter. The war would be lost and ... they’d have to save what little they could. Gerald had already rewritten his logs, accepting complete responsibility for the disaster. It was the least he could do.

  “Order the marines to keep falling back, as planned,” he added. “We’ll let them keep moving into the trap.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yu said.

  Gerald nodded, thinking of the pistol at his belt. He knew too much to fall into enemy hands ... he knew too much and there was no guarantee he couldn’t be forced to talk. If the lines broke, he’d have no choice but to destroy as much of the command network as possible before putting the pistol to his head and pulling the trigger. Suicid
e was rare amongst the corps - it had only happened once in his career, to an officer who’d been relieved of duty for being insufficiently aggressive - but he might not have a choice. His rank came with responsibilities.

  You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, he told himself, calmly. And that your life might be on the line if you fucked up.

  He turned his attention to the display and forced himself to wait. He’d issued all the orders he could. His men knew what to do. There was no point in trying to micromanage them, not when he didn’t know precisely what was going on. All he could do was wait and hope.

  And pray, he thought. There’s nothing else to do.

  ***

  Captain Dylan Hiller had heard stories of fast-moving tank battles, but he’d never actually taken part in one. The training ground - and endless exercises - had made it clear the modern tank had nothing more than a very restricted role on the battlefield. An infantryman could take a tank out with a rocket, if the armoured behemoth wasn’t lured onto an IED or simply bogged down. The bold strokes, driving hard into the enemy’s flanks, had seemed a thing of the past. And yet ...

  He felt a thrill of excitement as his tank roared onwards. The Defender had a maximum speed of fifty kilometres per hour, but it felt as if they were moving faster as they crashed through the remains of towns and crushed the fields under their treads. A handful of bullets cracked into the hull and bounced off harmlessly, barely noticed by the crew. The machine guns traversed automatically, unleashing hell towards the snipers before they could run. The marines didn’t seem so tough, now they were in retreat. Dylan laughed in delight as the driver managed to put on even more speed. The marines had taken several days to fight their way from Roxon to the cauldron. He was going to be in Roxon by the end of the day.

  His terminal bleeped, flashing up a string of alerts. The tanks had roared right past a handful of marines, their guns snapping at them in passing. The follow-up units - the mounted and unmounted infantry - would deal with the bastards, if they didn’t have the sense to surrender. And if the infantry could be bothered to take prisoners. Dylan had orders to accept surrender, but he intended to be the first to get to the megacity. There were few chances for promotion in the armoured divisions. He was damn sure he wasn’t going to waste time when he had a chance to put his name in lights. He’d be rewarded and promoted and ... he’d finally reach the level he deserved.