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

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Me neither,” I said. It was true enough that the spaceport was mortared on a regular basis, but it didn't really count. Thankfully, the insurgents didn't have the warheads they’d need to punch through the hardened shelters. “Put them on the streets and the rebels would win in an afternoon.”

  The burgers tasted remarkably good after weeks of nothing but ration bars. I gobbled mine down as fast as I could, then drank the milkshake Joker had thoughtfully purchased for me while I nibbled the fries. Someone said something about us not having any table manners, which was probably true; I didn't see any particular value in using the right knife or the right fork while dining, certainly not in a greasy diner. Besides, a part of me took a perverse pleasure in shocking the REMFs.

  “That girl keeps looking at me,” Joker said. “You think I have a chance?”

  I rolled my eyes. “She’s on that fat bastard’s lap,” I pointed out. “I think she’s just a little nervous around us.”

  “She shouldn't be,” Joker said. “That asshole will drop her the moment it suits him.”

  I shrugged. I never really understood why some REMFs regard us - and real soldiers from the army - as monsters, people worse than the terrorists and insurgents we fought. If they hadn't understood that war means fighting and fighting means killing, they should never have joined the army in the first place. But the Imperial Army is a colossal bureaucracy and her bureaucrats, no matter where they serve, rarely see actual fighting. They certainly never risk their lives in combat. I rather doubted they even knew how to handle a gun.

  It sounds absurd, I know, but Bainbridge had explained why. Every last round fired off during training had to be accounted for, somehow. Think about that for a moment; every ... last ... round. We burned through hundreds, perhaps thousands, of rounds when we carried out live-fire training; logically, the army should have aimed to do the same. But logic and bureaucracy come from two different worlds. Their training sergeants were so overwhelmed with paperwork that they preferred simply not to offer training at all. The results were inevitable.

  “Don't worry about it,” I said. “There’s a brothel just up the road.”

  Joker shrugged. We were just slurping down the remains of our milkshakes when a trio of armed military policemen - the dreaded Shore Patrolmen, or SPs - arrived and glared down at us, trying to look intimidating. Neither of us were particularly impressed. Bainbridge had had more intimidation in his little finger than all three of them had put together. Besides, their uniforms were clean, their boots were shiny and they weren't even ready to draw their weapons and use them. We could have taken them before they had a chance to remedy that problem.

  “We’ve had a complaint about you intimidating others,” the leader said. She sounded as though she was trying to be firm, but she didn't have the nerve to pull it off. Sif would probably have bawled her out, then told her to go grow some ovaries and woman up. “I'm afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “All right,” Joker said, leaning back on his stool. “Ask us to leave.”

  The woman blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “You said you would have to ask us to leave,” Joker said, with the air of someone explaining a punchline to a person without a sense of humour. “So do so. Ask us to leave.”

  “Very well,” the woman said. Her hand rested on her stun baton. I’m sure it was meant to be intimidating, but she still didn't have a hope of drawing the weapon before we knocked her down. “Please leave.”

  “No,” Joker said. He spoke on before the woman could say a word. “You asked us to leave and we said no.”

  “Barracks-room lawyer,” I muttered.

  Joker smirked at me, then winked at the woman. “Can I ask for your com-code?”

  Her face purpled and she started to splutter. “Leave this place now and I won’t have to arrest you.”

  I felt a flash of white-hot rage. We'd done nothing ... and yet some of the REMFs had found our mere presence intimidating? If it wasn't for us, the losers staring at the confrontation would be captured, tortured and killed by the rebels! I rocked forward, hands clenching into fists, before I could stop myself. There was nothing to fear from a few hours in the glasshouse - the spaceport’s brig - but Singh would be pissed if we started a fight. And the sergeant was not someone to anger.

  “I suppose that means you won’t give me your com-code,” Joker said. I’m not sure if he was trying to defuse the situation or make it a great deal worse. “I have it on good authority I’m great in bed.”

  “Yeah,” I said, as I rose to my feet. “My right hand doesn't have much to say to me either.”

  All eyes were on us as we stalked out of the diner. I hated them all in that moment; the bastards who did nothing while we fought, bled and died on the streets. If a gunman had appeared and opened fire ... I knew I would have stopped him, but I would have regretted it afterwards. The SPs followed us at a distance, their faces relieved. They’d known they would have come off worst if we’d started a real fight.

  “Stupid bitch,” Joker muttered. “Sif would have had her for breakfast.”

  “Her back-up wasn’t much good either,” I agreed. “What do you think Nordstrom would have said if we’d clowned around like that?”

  “He wouldn't have said anything,” Joker said, after a moment. “He’d just have dragged us into the pit and beaten a few lessons into us.”

  I smiled in fond recollection. None of us had ever managed to land a real punch on the Drill Instructor, even when three of us had tried to gang up on him. Now, even after the Slaughterhouse, I wasn't sure I could have taken him. Nordstrom had been an absolute master of Semper Fu.

  The other eating places didn't look any more welcoming. I shook my head at a place that boasted of fresh lobster - I hoped they’d caught them in the ocean, although only an idiot would eat something pulled from Earth’s polluted waters - and sighed as I saw the senior officers clogging the tables. It looked very much like a demented birthday party; I’m sure several of them were rat-assed drunk. One of them staggered outside, threw up in the gutter and then bellowed thankfully incoherent orders at a waitress. She looked revolted - she hid her feelings well, but I could tell - as she helped him back inside.

  “If she wasn't a rebel before coming here,” Joker muttered, “she sure as hell is now.”

  I looked into the entertainment complex as we walked past, but there was nothing to catch my interest. A handful of gambling machines, a collection of primitive gaming consoles and a giant projector for watching flicks; I rolled my eyes at the cartoon on display, then walked past. There were just too many people on Earth who remained glued to the viewscreens, no matter what happened. The lives of virtual people on the display were more important to them than their partners and children. My mother had done that too, when she hadn't been banging random men. I had no intention of wasting my life away like her.

  “This looks promising,” Joker said. “A brothel. Coming?”

  I looked at the building. A long line of men, mainly REMFs, stretched out of the doors and around the block. The signs advertised male as well as female prostitutes, but there didn't seem to be many women standing in line. I supposed the female personnel found it easier to pick up a partner for the night without going to a brothel. Just for a moment, I was tempted to wander through the bars and see what I could find ...

  “They’ll probably try to get you off quickly,” I said. I’d seen brothels on Mars; the pimps worked hard to keep customers moving, threatening the girls to force them to hurry up. “Sure you want to go here?”

  “We can find someone else tomorrow,” Joker said. He dragged me into the back of the line, behind a pair of actual combat soldiers from the army. “But for tonight, I just want to get laid.”

  “Good idea,” one of the soldiers said. He looked tough; not as tough as us, of course, but tough enough to earn respect. “Ask for Mary, if she’s available. She’s ugly, but damn if she isn't good in bed.”

  “She’d ha
ve to be,” Joker said.

  “Just don’t go for Bella,” the other soldier said. “She just lies there and takes it.”

  “Probably doesn't want to be here,” I said.

  I never found out, but I was fairly sure that was the answer. The prostitutes were mainly women who’d managed to get into debt, then discovered that the only way to get out was to sell their bodies. And the debts would be carefully managed to ensure they never got out of debt, no matter how hard they worked. The pimps wouldn't hesitate to brutalise any whore who started demanding her freedom ... or kill her, if she pushed too hard. There was no shortage of others where she came from.

  Yes, it was a shitty war. And all we'd really done was make it worse.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  As always, Edward understates the situation. It is hard to be sure, but during the fifteen years of imperial involvement with the Moidart Civil War, over twenty thousand young women were press-ganged into service as waitresses, cleaning women, maids and prostitutes. Horrific as it may seem, this was one of the better situations; there were a number of worlds where the entire population was effectively indentured in payment of their debts to the Empire. Indeed, the (limited) involvement of the imperial military helped prevent worse atrocities. Even so ...

  It is perhaps not surprising, therefore, that prostitutes turned out to be one of the better sources of information available to the rebels.

  -Professor Leo Caesius

  The remaining three days of shore leave really seemed far too long. It was almost a relief - despite picking up a sweet filing clerk in a bar on the second day and spending almost all of the third day in bed with her - to be heading back to the FOB. The enemy welcomed us with a handful of mortar shells, then rocketed out of town before our counter-battery fire could take them out. As always, when we reached the mortar sites, we found nothing apart from a handful of IEDs.

  It was an even bigger relief, therefore, when Captain Webb called us into the briefing room.

  “We’re being redeployed,” he said, once we assembled. “General Gordon has determined that Warlord Douglas, a former clan chief whose father was evicted from his lands when the corporations arrived, has grown far too powerful to be tolerated. Accordingly, he has decided to reinforce our bases in the Western Hills and then start operations to prune the warlord down to a more manageable size.”

  I winced, inwardly. Urban combat had its dangers, but it tended to favour us; rural combat, on the other hand, gave the insurgents a considerable number of advantages. It was going to be nasty, all the more so as we’d be offering a challenge to the warlord he couldn't refuse. He would have to come after us if he didn't want his allies to start slipping away. But, on the other hand, there would be fewer civilians to get caught in the crossfire.

  “The General has assigned us, and five companies of imperial troops to the operation, which he’s termed Operation Rampaging Lion,” Webb continued. “I'm sure you know what this means.”

  There was a collective groan. Operation Rampaging Lion - honestly, I couldn't imagine what idiot had come up with that name - would be known to the rebels already, before we or the imperial troops had been told what was expected of us. And six companies ... if the route wasn't already determined, it wouldn't be hard for the enemy to guess. We’d be better off flying in, but I already knew we were alarmingly short on helicopters or transport aircraft.

  “We’re going to be heading up the main highway,” Webb warned. “The General wants to prove that his forces can go anywhere, while the insurgents can do nothing to stop us. I expect you all to remember that the enemy knows which way we’re coming ... and will go all-out to stop us. They won’t be any match for our firepower, but that may not matter when they have ample time and warning to set ambushes.”

  It wasn't a cheerful bunch of marines that headed out to prep the vehicles for deployment, even though the Rangers looked envious at our departure. We all knew it was going to be dangerous; hell, we would have preferred to carry out the operation ourselves. There might be some advantage in displaying our ability to go where we please to the rebels - and to everyone sitting on the fence - but I doubted it would be decisive. The rebels would melt away from us, after firing a few shots for honour’s sake, and then pressure the locals to refuse to have anything to do with us.

  After all, I thought sourly, we’ll be leaving soon enough and the rebels will be ever-present.

  An hour later, we drove over to the regimental HQ ... and waited. H-Hour was 1000 precisely, but it was 1300 when we finally left. Someone, I gathered later, had been finagling readiness reports; two of the five companies that were meant to be backing us weren't remotely ready for a deployable operation. Their training was poor, their vehicles were nether fuelled nor properly maintained and their ammunition stocks were low. And their commanding officer - I never caught his name - stormed backwards and forwards, wearing himself out screaming at his men. I wouldn't have been surprised to discover he was the one playing games with the readiness reports.

  “Move out,” Webb ordered, finally.

  General Gordon was determined that the rebels should have no opportunity to miss our advance, I realised, as we crossed the ring road and headed into the countryside. There were fifty AFVs and light tanks, a hundred trucks transporting men and supplies and a dozen attack helicopters hanging overhead, just searching for targets. I was grateful that we were at the front, even though it was fairly certain we’d come under fire first. Everyone else got a shitload of dust in the backwash as we churned up the roads.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for IEDs,” Singh ordered. “They’re very good at hiding them.”

  I’ll say one thing for the planet’s government; they knew how to build highways. It would have been hard for someone to conceal one on the road itself, while there wasn't much concealment to either side of the tarmac. Even so, we spotted a handful of suspicious objects and halted the whole convoy while Lewis and his fellow EOD officers inspected the devices, then blew them in place. There was no point in trying to disarm them. I scanned the horizon as the mountains grew closer, a cold wind blowing down towards us. We were moving outside territory controlled by the planetary government, whatever they (and the General) claimed. This was warlord country.

  A handful of shots rang out. Parker swung the machine gun around and fired a short burst towards the shooter’s position. I don’t know if the shooter was killed or not, but there weren't any more shots from that position. One of the helicopters broke off and swept over the countryside, searching for additional trouble; nothing, as far as anyone could tell, appeared to threaten our passage.

  “Could be worse,” Lewis said. “Maybe they’re just waiting for us to reach the base and then split up.”

  It was possible, I agreed. The local government had managed to maintain control of a number of firebases - mainly through superior firepower - but the warlord held the rest of the countryside in an iron grip. We wouldn't be remaining together for long, either. He'd know that we’d be splitting up, once we reached the FOB. Smaller units would make easier targets ...

  A missile lanced out of nowhere and slammed into the lead helicopter, which exploded in a colossal fireball. Moments later, mortar shells started crashing down around us, taking out several trucks and badly damaging an AFV. I cursed and knelt down for cover as bullets pinged off the AFV, the driver picking up speed to get us out of the ambush. But behind us, all hell had broken loose. Several of the drivers had hit the brakes - precisely the wrong thing to do - and other vehicles had crashed into them. Another helicopter vanished in a ball of fire, pieces of flaming debris crashing down around us. The enemy had somehow got their hands on HVMs!

  Either that or they saved them for the best possible moment, I thought, as I searched for targets. The enemy had prepared well; the only way to see them was through picking out the muzzle flashes. Parker opened fire, sweeping bullets across the side of the road, as the helicopters turned and started to launch missiles from a safe distance.
But it wouldn't really be safe if the enemy had more HVMs ...

  “Dismount,” Webb ordered, as the machine guns chattered away. A third helicopter was blasted out of the sky, forcing the others to retreat. “We’re going to have to push them away, now!”

  “Prep grenade launchers,” Singh added. “Fire on my command.”

  I glanced at the rest of the column as I snapped the launcher onto my rifle and loaded a grenade. It was absolute chaos; the better soldiers had taken cover, while the undertrained and underprepared had thrown themselves to the ground or were running in all directions, screaming their heads off. At least one idiot had been run over by an AFV; he clearly hadn’t recognised the danger until it was far too late. It would definitely have gone better if we’d been the only ones involved; hell, we hadn’t even had time to work together.

  (Later, I found out that the General was under a great deal of pressure from the Governor, who was in turn under a great deal of pressure from the Grand Senate, which was itself being pressured - confused yet? - by Hammersmith Corporation. He wanted to produce something that could justify the immense cost of the military deployment to Moidart. I don’t think he got what he wanted, but that explains why the whole operation was launched with literally less than a day’s notice.)