First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11)

by Christopher Nuttall

  It was his lucky day. He lowered his eyes, then turned and walked away. I knew from the notes that turning one’s back was regarded as a local insult, but I didn’t feel offended. The pistol he’d carried might not pack enough punch to break through our body armour, yet the shirt and jeans he’d worn wouldn't offer any resistance to our bullets. He would have been killed before he could get off a second shot, throwing away his life for nothing.

  “Move to the right,” Singh ordered, quietly. “That pile of rubbish looks suspicious.”

  I shook my head in disbelief as we gave the pile a wide berth. It wouldn't have been hard to pick up the rubbish, transport it to a disposal centre and feed it into a disintegrator (if it couldn't be recycled) but the locals didn't seem interested in cleaning up their city. The sheer number of shootings, bombings and kidnappings probably made it hard for them to do anything; the files had warned, in great detail, that civil servants - even garbagemen - were targeted for elimination.

  And besides, a pile of rubbish was an easy place to hide an IED.

  I tightened my grip on my rifle as I heard an explosion in the distance, followed by a handful of shots. The radio net buzzed with brief updates - a patrol on the other side of the city had been hit - but we weren't directed to go to their aid. It was a relief, I felt; if we’d made a beeline there, we would probably have been sucked into a second ambush. Even so ... I glanced around, watching the handful of visible locals. One of them was quite probably a dicker, reporting our movements to his superiors.

  We walked past the remains of a building - it looked as though someone had slammed an antitank rocket into it, blowing the interior into charred debris - and into the next housing estate. It was like crossing an invisible line; I couldn't help thinking of the gang territories back in the Undercity and the places where one gang’s control was replaced by another’s, where few dared cross without permission from both sides. But the locals looked as poor and hopeless as the first set of locals. A handful of young women eyed us, their older mothers scowling at them fiercely. Below them, sitting on the sidewalk, a number of young men glared. It made no sense to me at all.

  “They’re hoping for an Exit Permit,” Lewis commented, quietly. “If they happen to marry one of us, an off-worlder, they can get permission to leave this shithole and set up a home somewhere else. There isn't much for them here, beyond marrying an unemployed lout, bearing his children and turning into a carbon copy of their mothers. The young men, of course, don’t like us threatening to take their women.”

  I blinked. “We don't ... do we?”

  “We don't,” Lewis said. “There are strict orders against fraternising with the local women - or men, if your tastes swing that way. But the regulars often do start relationships, not all of which end well. And the local men hate it.”

  I remembered some of the lessons in applied psychology from the Slaughterhouse. Sex is one of the driving urges of human civilisation; sex ... and the urge to procreate. Men wanted to spread their genes as widely as possible, so they felt the urge to impregnate as many women as they could; women wanted a man who could protect them and, in exchange, offered themselves to one man. But men also wanted to make sure the women only bore their children, hence the historical fact that female adultery was treated as more serious than male adultery. It didn't seem fair, but it made a certain kind of sense.

  “A person has a rational brain,” Professor Tomkins had said, “but he also has an emotional brain. The average man is perfectly capable of adopting, and loving, a child ... provided that he understands, rationally, that the child isn't actually his. However, discovering that he has been caring for a cuckoo in the nest, another man’s child, leads to outrage directed against the child, even though the child is obviously blameless. The emotional brain overrides the rational brain.”

  It wasn't a pleasant concept. But it might explain why my mother, who had had four different children with four different men, had never found a husband. And there had been no pressing need for her to find a husband either. She’d been fed and watered by the state as she churned out children and waited to die.

  I pushed the thought aside as we walked through the rest of the estate - it didn't look any better - and took a detour through what had once been a football pitch. The grass had been removed, somehow; it didn't look as through anyone was trying to grow food, even though it would have helped solve the problem of feeding the city’s population. We kept a wary eye on a pair of tall buildings, both easily capable of hiding snipers, as we walked past them, weapons at the ready. And then a small child - a girl, wearing a frilly pink dress and carrying a knapsack - came into view. She was running right towards us.

  “Get down,” Singh snapped.

  I hit the deck at once, training overriding the part of my mind that didn't see a real threat. A girl barely old enough to walk couldn't threaten us, could she? I was wrong. Seconds later, there was an explosion ... it took me several seconds to realise that the girl had been carrying a bomb, which someone had detonated via remote control. There was nothing left of her ... the sound of bullets cracking down around us snapped me out of my horrified trance as Singh barked orders, directing the fire team to lay down covering fire.

  “There's a sniper up there,” Lewis snapped.

  “Take him out,” Singh snapped back.

  I covered Lewis as he snapped a grenade launcher into place on his rifle, then launched a contact grenade towards the sniper’s location. There was a sharp explosion and the sniper fire stopped abruptly. Pieces of debris crashed down around our position, but luckily none came within metres of actually hitting us. I let out a sigh of relief as we searched for more targets, finding two more enemy fighters hidden within abandoned buildings. Singh snapped orders; one fire team provided cover while our fire team inched forward, then crashed into the building. Inside, three enemy fighters died before they recovered from the blast we’d used to blow down the door.

  “Three tangos down,” Lewis reported. There was a shot from overhead which narrowly missed Rifleman Atwell. I snapped up my rifle and picked the terrorist off, sending his body crashing down to the concrete floor. “Correction; four tangos down.”

  We searched the building, but found nothing else. The other fire team, which had attacked the other enemy position, reported that the terrorists had fled, leaving behind an IED which hadn’t been set up properly. There didn't seem to be any point in taking it back to the FOB, so Singh ordered them to blow the IED in place and then leave the building alone. The remaining bodies were left where they’d fallen.

  I looked at Singh. “Sergeant, shouldn't we be calling in an SSE team? Or a WARCAT unit?”

  Singh shook his head. “If we were in command of the war effort, Stalker, that would be a good idea,” he said. “But as it is, no one really gives a damn.”

  I wanted to argue, to point out that we’d been schooled in gathering intelligence to use against the enemy, but it wasn't the time or place. Instead, we rejoined the rest of the platoon, did a quick check for injuries and then resumed our patrol. I couldn't keep myself from looking at where the girl had died, unable to comprehend such evil. Even the Undercity hadn’t been so vile ...

  ... But that wasn't really true, was it? I’d known parents who’d sold their children into slavery - or worse. They’d justified it to themselves, no doubt, by believing that the children would have a better life, although there was no way in hell that was true. The lucky ones would be shipped out to a colony world, where they would be assigned to adoptive parents; the unlucky ones ... I didn't want to think about it. At least the girl had died instantly, probably without ever knowing what had happened to her.

  I ground my teeth in cold hatred. Someone had given her the knapsack. Someone had loaded it with a bomb and a remote detonator. Someone had told her, a girl too young to understand the danger, to run towards us and ... and do what? Hug us? It didn't matter; the only thing that mattered was that they’d pushed the detonator as soon as she was close enoug
h and blown her to hell. They’d killed an innocent child, for nothing. The worst we’d suffered was a handful of bruises.

  “That happens a lot,” Lewis said, grimly. “The local religion frowns on suicide, so the rebels use children or mentally-disabled people to carry bombs. Or drivers who don’t know what they’re carrying ... I saw a woman pass into a checkpoint, as cool as you please, then die when the bomb under her car exploded. We later found out that she hadn't known that she was a suicide bomber.”

  I felt sick. Who could do that to an innocent child?

  When war is fought to the knife, I reminded myself, the rules of war go out the window.

  We heard the shouting and screaming as we kept moving forward; Singh ordered two fire teams to provide cover, while leading his fire team forward to see who was making the noise and why. I covered him as we entered an alleyway; a woman was leaning against the wall, blood dripping from her nose, while a man was leaning over her, shouting something about having to keep his head down. The woman opened her mouth to say something and he punched her, right in the chest. She spewed up blood as she doubled over.

  Singh didn't have to say anything. We lunged forward, as one, and took the man down effortlessly. He cowered at once; it wasn't enough to save him from a series of punches that didn't inflict permanent harm, but hurt. I knew they hurt, all right. I’d been on the receiving end at Boot Camp. We swung him over and tied his hands while Rauls - the team medic - attended to the woman. She was babbling something about her daughter ...

  It struck me as I looked at her. “Sergeant,” I said, “do you think she’s the mother of the girl ...?”

  “Perhaps,” Singh said. The woman seemed scared of us, but there was something in her eyes ... a spark of anger that overrode fear. “If we take her back to the FOB ...”

  He spoke to Rauls, then to the woman. I couldn't hear what they said, but when they were finished he produced a plastic tie from his belt and secured her hands behind her back. Her husband was hauled to his feet, a gag was stuffed in his mouth, and then he was shoved forward. The woman followed him, looking downcast.

  “They’ll be watching,” Lewis said. “It would be better for both of them if the rebels think they weren't taken willingly.”

  We headed back to the FOB, watching carefully for additional surprises. An intelligence officer was already waiting for the prisoners; the man was marched off to the makeshift brig, while the woman was taken elsewhere. Singh told us to grab some rest, then headed off to report to Captain Webb. I didn't envy him the discussion he was about to have ...

  “You did well, Stalker,” Lewis said. Rauls and Atwell, the other fire team members, nodded in agreement. “Welcome to the Weavers.”

  Despite myself, I glowed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As I have discussed before, it is unlikely in the extreme that insurgent movements will shrink from breaking the laws of war. There is little for them to gain by challenging a vastly superior force to an open battle, even though it would allow them to claim the moral high ground. Using children as suicide bombers is far from the worst tactic; they’ve done worse, far worse. The Empire’s flat refusal to consider that the early insurgents might have a point only ensures that the later insurgents use any means necessary to win.

  -Professor Leo Caesius

  They didn’t give me any time to brood, which wasn't a bad idea. I’d known horror - or so I’d thought - but using an innocent child as a suicide bomber? The Undercity dwellers, at least, had the excuse of being raised in the Undercity; here, where there was more than enough land to spare, there should have been no call for any war. But that was hopelessly idealistic, the result of long-buried envy for the upper-blockers. They had their own reasons to fight.

  We chattered briefly, sharing notes about our lives, then got about two hours of rest before we were summoned into the briefing room. It wasn't much - a handful of chairs, a table, a paper map of the city hanging from the wall and a computer terminal that was switched off - but it was better than I’d expected. I later learned that the computer terminal was only used when the brass turned up to demand briefings on just how many insurgents we’d killed in the last month or so. But we couldn't kill our way to victory ...

  “We may have had a lucky break,” Webb said, once we were seated. “3rd Platoon took a woman into custody, a woman whose daughter was used as an unknowing and unwilling suicide bomber. The woman was quite happy to tell us where the bomb-maker is hiding out, although he may no longer be there. They presumably know she was taken into custody.”

  I nodded. It might have looked like we were taking prisoners, but the insurgents would assume the worst. The woman wouldn't have had any treatments designed to neutralise truth drugs; willing or unwilling, she’d talk within a few minutes of being cuffed to a chair and shot with something designed to make her talkative. But as long as the rebels thought she was an unwilling captive, they might not punish her for daring to betray them.

  “We’re going to raid the complex and take everyone into custody,” Webb continued. He pointed to the paper map, where a building was marked with a red flag. “2nd and 3rd Platoons will carry out the raid itself, while the other platoons will take up positions here, here and here” - he pointed to a number of crossroads on the map - “and block any line of retreat. No one, and I mean no one, is to leave without permission. Once we have the site secured, I’ll call for an SSE team to go through the building and recover what they can.”

  I frowned. Why not have a team on alert right from the start?

  “Prisoners will be shipped back here for interrogation,” Webb said. “We need to take the bomb-makers alive, so use minimum necessary force. These people are classed as High-Value Targets and I don’t want any of them to enter the local POW camps; if someone turns up and demands that they’re handed over to the locals, tell them to piss off and direct any further complaints to me. Any questions?”

  There were none. “I’ll be calling for mobile fire support once the raid gets underway,” Webb told us. “Good luck.”

  I caught Singh as we headed outside, checking our weapons as we moved. “Sergeant,” I said carefully, “why not have the SSE team on alert now?”

  “They’re not based here, Stalker,” Singh said. He sounded irked; asking questions wasn't discouraged, at least not when we weren't under fire, but I was dangerously close to questioning his commanding officer. They’d served together for several years. “To call them, Captain Webb would need to speak to General Gordon, perhaps even Governor Pritchett. By the time they came to a decision, the entire planet would know we were planning a raid on a sensitive site. The bombers would put two and two together, guess they were the intended target and bugger off.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Quite,” Singh said. He gave me a leer. “And for every one of the bastards we kill, capture or otherwise put out of business, another one will spring up to take his place. Now, grab your gun and get ready to move.”

  I’d been wondering how Captain Webb intended to keep the enemy from realising that we were on the way. An entire company of marines - a hundred men - was hard to miss, certainly in the middle of a crowded city. But Webb had developed a habit of running random patrols through our Area of Responsibility, just to keep the rebels on their toes - and, more importantly, to keep from building up repetitive patterns they could use to hit us. They wouldn't see anything particularly surprising in ten platoons making an advance into the city, ready to provide mutual support if necessary. Indeed, unless they were feeling particularly reckless, they’d be likely to batten down the hatches and stay well out of sight.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” Singh ordered. “There’s no shortage of idiots around here.”

  Should try to get them to fight for the royalists, I thought sourly, as a bunch of young men came into view. What would these young men have made of themselves if they’d had half a chance? They could hardly have ended up in a worse place than Charlie City, where the opened sewe
rs stunk of piss, shit and decomposing flesh and disease was rampant. But why would they risk their lives for their king?

  The young idiots in question shouted a handful of taunts, which we ignored, and then fell behind as we crossed from one housing estate to the next. This one looked a little neater - the rubbish, at least, had been piled up in one place - and the private security guards seemed a little more professional. But I had a feeling the enemy had feelers everywhere, even inside the secure housing estate. And who lived there, in any case?

  “God knows,” Lewis said. “But they have money.”

  I pushed the thought away as we turned and headed down the street, towards the bomb-maker’s hideout. It looked like every other house; a cold concrete block, utterly soulless, without even a pretence at a garden in front. Officially, such houses were normally intended to serve immigrants who would then move on to something better, but in reality they’d long since become permanent dwellings. I saw eyes peering down at us, half-hidden behind curtains, that vanished as the owners realised I could see them. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business, which raised the question of precisely how the bomb-makers had managed to remain there for so long. But I knew the answer; the locals either hated the government or were terrified of the insurgents. And they had good reason for both.