Never Surrender (The Empire's Corps Book 10)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “But you’re a strong woman,” Kailee protested. “You could have killed anyone with that punch ...”

  “I’d still be in deep shit if I had to face a male marine,” Jasmine said. “Yes, I should be able to outfight anyone without similar training and experience ... but that doesn't make me unstoppable. The trick for women, as a general rule, is to use what advantages we have to defeat the boys quickly. Aim for the balls, aim for the neck, aim for weak spots and keep moving. Don’t let them pin you down or you’re dead.”

  She shook her head. “But you also need to be proficient with weapons,” she added. “Most rules of sporting fights have been devised to ensure fairness. In reality, there’s nothing wrong with bringing a knife to a fistfight and a gun to a knife-fight. Having a weapon, and being able to use it, will even the odds between you and any attacker, no matter how strong he is.”

  “Oh,” Kailee said.

  Jasmine nodded at the bag. “Hit it,” she said. “He’s a bastard coming to rape you. Hit him!”

  Kailee hit the bag, lightly. Gary winced. It wouldn't have hurt much, he suspected, even if the bag had been a real boy.

  “Not hard enough,” Jasmine said. “He’s knocked you to the ground and is currently having his way with you. You’re dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kailee said, “but ...”

  “You have to learn to project violence if necessary,” Jasmine said. “Hit him again.”

  Gary leaned forward. “Are boys more naturally violent than girls?”

  Jasmine considered it. “It depends how you look at it,” she said, finally. “I’ve heard a great many different theories, but they range from plausible to absurd or insulting. All you really need to know is that most people can become violent, under the right circumstances.”

  “I never did,” Gary muttered.

  “You had learned helplessness battered into you,” Jasmine said. “And even then, I imagine you might have snapped one day.”

  She nodded to the punching bag, then sighed. “I want both of you to add this to your daily exercises,” she added. “Punch the bag at least ten times a day, as hard as you can.”

  Gary groaned. Jasmine supervised his press-ups, but Kailee insisted on going through everything else, from running on the spot to exercises designed to stretch his muscles further than they’d never been pushed before. It just wasn't fair ... he shook his head, knowing what Jasmine would say if he said that out loud. The universe wasn't fair.

  He rubbed his aching muscles as Jasmine strode out of the room, then looked up at the punching bag. The face seemed almost to be leering at him, as if it were daring him to take another swing. Suddenly, furiously, he drew back his fist and lashed out, hitting the bag as hard as he could. It wobbled violently, but stayed in place.

  “You’re getting stronger,” Kailee said. She looked downcast. “I couldn't hit the bag, not properly.”

  “I had problems too, at first,” Gary said, reluctantly. It was hard to overcome a lifetime of conditioning. Jasmine had told him that a marine had been born on Earth, but Gary didn't believe her. “But we are getting there.”

  “I hope so,” Kailee said, as they stepped into the next compartment. Someone had rigged up a bath, complete with hot and cold running water. “This has to be done, Gary.”

  “So you keep saying,” Gary said, as he reached for her sweaty shirt and pulled it over her head. “So you keep saying.”

  Kailee smiled tiredly at him as her bare breasts bobbed free, hauntingly lovely despite the red scars on her pale skin. They had alarmed him at first, but Jasmine had assured them that they were nothing more than stretch marks, signs her skin was expanding to cope with her developing muscles. Her arms were still smooth to the touch, yet he was sure it wouldn't be long before she grew stronger. She was more determined to proceed than he was.

  He sighed, then pulled off his own shirt and held her closely. “I don't have the strength,” he admitted. Her breasts felt wonderfully soft against his skin. “It’s hard enough to hold you.”

  “Oh,” Kailee giggled. In that moment, she sounded more like her old self than ever before. “I think I’m offended.”

  Gary shivered. In his experience, girls giggling was never a good sign. They were always giggling at him, not the muscle-bound morons who were actually dangerous. It was safe to laugh at meek little Gary, who wouldn't hurt a fly ... he wouldn't slam them against the wall for daring to show their amusement. He hated it when they giggled ...

  And then her hand reached down and slipped into his shorts. He felt himself stiffen against her, despite the aches and pains ... and then she kissed him and all rational thought faded away.

  ***

  “They’ve got a long way to go,” Stewart observed, as he paced out a circle on the deck. “I think they may still be lost causes.”

  “They have hope,” Jasmine said. “Besides, it helps to pass the time.”

  Stewart nodded, then used a crayon to sketch out the circle. “You should invite them to watch us,” he said. He looked up at her, then winked. “Does that look suitable?”

  Jasmine silently estimated the circle’s dimensions, then nodded. “It’s fine,” she said, as she checked her shirt and shorts. “Have you had a chance to warm up?”

  “Yeah,” Stewart said. He gave her a dry look. “You really should invite them to watch us.”

  “It would just scare them,” Jasmine said, flatly. “They’re not ready to see real combat.”

  She stepped into the circle, then ran through a series of warm-up exercises. Her body was far fitter than Kailee’s - indeed, it was highly unlikely Kailee would ever match her physically - but she had let herself go a little, back when she’d been trapped behind a desk. She might be teaching Kailee and Gary, yet she also had to take care of herself. Shaking her head, she stood upright and watched as Stewart stepped into the circle and bowed to her.

  “Normal rules,” he said. “And damned be the one who fucks up first.”

  Jasmine smiled. A sparring match could be lost in two ways, either by being beaten ... or by accidentally stepping out of the circle. Hell, pushing one’s opponent out of the circle was considered a legitimate way to win. Blake Coleman had been large enough to use it regularly, once he caught hold of someone, but she’d never been able to make it work against an equally skilled opponent.

  “Of course,” she said. “On three?”

  “On three,” Stewart confirmed. “This will hurt you more than me.”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes, then dropped into a crouch. “Three ... two ... one,” she said. “Go.”

  Stewart didn't hesitate; he came forward, readying himself to launch a dizzying series of kicks and punches at her. Jasmine ducked backwards, careful not to step over the circle, and punched back, aiming at his weak spots. Stewart hissed, then lashed out with stunning speed, hoping to catch her before she could get in close. Jasmine darted backwards, then closed in, hitting out at him. He caught her blows and kicked her in the chest, hard. Jasmine staggered backwards, then fell over the circle. Stewart instantly stopped and raised his hands.

  “Damn it,” Jasmine said. She looked down at her shirt, then lifted it to see a nasty bruise. If she hadn't been moving backwards when he’d kicked her she probably would have broken a few ribs. “Too slow.”

  “Too much paperwork,” Stewart said. He held out a hand, offering to help her to her feet. “I think you need more practice.”

  Jasmine brushed aside the hand and rose to her feet. “I know,” she said. “I trust you will be ready to spar every day?”

  “Of course,” Stewart said. “There’s ten days to go before we get there.”

  He paused. “I’d recommend a return to active duty, myself,” he added. “I was pretty flabby when I returned to the company, after two years on detached duty.”

  “We’ll see what happens when I get home,” Jasmine said.

  Stewart held her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know how the
Colonel does it,” Jasmine admitted. “He’s handling everything without showing any sign of strain.”

  “I think they teach officers never to show weakness to the lower ranks,” Stewart said, affecting a plumy accent. “You never went through OCS, did you?”

  Jasmine scowled. “How could I?”

  “There’s a lot you probably needed to learn that you had to pick up on the job,” Stewart said, as he led the way into the shower. “Your career has been a little eccentric since we were exiled, hasn't it?”

  “Yeah,” Jasmine said. She stripped off her shirt and examined the mark, then pulled off her shorts and stepped into the shower. “Rifleman, Platoon Commander, Mission Commander, CEF Commander, Prisoner of War ... you could say that.”

  “And you were tortured on Corinthian,” Stewart added. “And then you were taken prisoner for a second time. I’m not surprised that you’re doubting yourself. Your confidence would have been gravely shaken.”

  Jasmine nodded, wordlessly, then scrubbed herself down thoroughly. She hadn't had a chance to build up a layer of sweat, but she’d been taught to wash herself from a very early age. Her hair felt odd under her fingers, now it had had a chance to grow out again. She made a mental note to have it cut as soon as she could, if only because it would get in the way when she tried to don a helmet. There was no way she could grow shoulder-length hair like Kailee.

  “I wasn't much better off,” Stewart admitted. “To be taken prisoner ... it was quite humiliating. Part of me doesn't want to go home, to explain to everyone else that we were the dumb bastards who got ourselves captured. But we have no choice. Once we hit Wolfbane, we head home.”

  “I know,” Jasmine said. She stepped out of the shower, then reached for a towel and dried herself. “And then ... the Colonel will be the one to decide what happens to us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The problem can be argued both ways. In the end, matters are settled by victory. If the terrorists lose, they are terrorists; if they win, they are freedom fighters. To paraphrase an old saying, terrorism never prospers, because if it prospers, none call it terrorism.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. The Empire and its Prisoners of War.

  Avalon, Year 5 (PE)

  The key to following someone covertly, Kitty had learned long ago, was not to make it blindingly obvious. Ideally, a small team of operatives should be assigned to the mission, alternatively picking up and discarding the subject before the subject realised that she was seeing the same faces time and time again. Imperial Intelligence had practically made a game out of shadowing someone on Earth, although it was a great deal harder on less-developed worlds.

  She kept one eye on Hannalore Roeder as she made her way through the shopping district, popping in and out of dozens of shops. There was no way to know if she was trying to shake off any tails or if she was merely enjoying a day out on the town, but it was hellishly difficult to keep an eye on her. Kitty had five men and seven women assigned to the task and even then it was hard to watch her at all times. She was grimly aware that Hannalore might well have some counter-surveillance training of her own.

  “This is One,” she whispered, keying the subvocal processor in her mouth. “Target has gone into Motherwell’s; I say again, target has gone into Motherwell’s.”

  “Understood, One,” Three said. “I’m following her now.”

  Kitty sat down on a bench and watched as Three, who looked like an elderly lady, walked across the road and into the shop. Motherwell’s specialised in producing baby clothing, although there were quite a few offerings for infants and young children too. There didn't seem to be any reason for Hannalore to be interested in the shop - as far as anyone knew, she had no children - but it was possible she just wanted to browse. Or she wanted to see who might follow her into the shop.

  Twenty minutes later, she emerged, carrying a bag under her arm. Kitty watched her unobtrusively as Three followed, then headed down the road in the other direction. If Hannalore was suspicious, she probably would find Three’s departure reassuring. Besides, Three looked old enough to start nagging younger women about their duty to have children.

  “She bought a couple of outfits for children,” Three said, through the communications network. “I didn't get near enough to have a close inspection, but they looked like spacer suits. I’d say they were for children no older than six.”

  “Noted,” Kitty said. “Four; take point.”

  “Understood,” Four said. “She’s heading down towards the orphanage.”

  Kitty rose to her feet and hurried into the alleyway, flanking Hannalore without ever letting her see her shadow. Four kept her updated as Hannalore walked up to the orphanage and knocked on the door, then stepped inside as soon as the door opened. Kitty cursed under her breath, thinking hard. Hannalore probably had some charitable reason to visit the orphanage, but what? It wasn't as if it was hard to find foster families for children who had been orphaned by the war.

  “Check the records,” she ordered, slowly. She had never paid much attention to the orphanages, save for keeping an eye out for children who might be worth training into something useful. “Who lives in that orphanage?”

  “Most of them are kids from the Old Council,” her coordinator said. “The babies could be adopted, but the middle-aged kids had nowhere to go. They were having some problems getting employment, according to the files.”

  And probably little chance of being adopted, Kitty thought. She couldn't help a stab of sympathy. If they picked up bad habits from their parents, no one would want them.

  She drifted past the orphanage, eying the building darkly. It hadn't been intended to be a permanent residence for anyone and it showed. Chances were, the entire district had been marked for demolition and only the orphans stood in the way. Kitty sighed inwardly - something had to be done about the kids, even if it was just a homestead somewhere well away from civilisation - and then frowned as she saw a young man hastening out of the orphanage. Her instincts told her she should pay attention to him.

  “Here’s a picture,” she subvocalised. “Tell me who he is.”

  “William Garston,” her coordinator said, after a long moment. “Nineteen years old; his tax return claims he works at the Rodeo Dwell. That’s a datanet cafe ...”

  “I know it,” Kitty said. She kept walking, thinking hard. “Five, Six; go after Garston and keep a sharp eye on him. I want to know what he’s doing.”

  “Understood,” Five said. Six echoed him a moment later. “We’re moving after him.”

  “Target has re-emerged from the orphanage,” Four put in. “She’s heading back towards the heart of town.”

  “Good,” Kitty said. “Is she still carrying her packages?”

  “Negative,” Four said.

  Kitty frowned. The youngest kid in the orphanage had to be at least fourteen by now, unless more had slipped through the cracks than she’d realised. It had been six years, more or less, since the Old Council had been defeated. Their children couldn't have been so badly contaminated that it was better to keep them in an orphanage, could they? Or was there something else going on?

  “See if you can find an excuse to take a look at the orphanage,” she ordered. Perhaps Emmanuel could do another puff piece, if she couldn't organise an official inspection. The hell of it was that it was unlikely she could, unless she placed her cards on the table and prayed for a sympathetic judge. Avalon’s laws were designed to prevent official busy-bodies poking their noses into private affairs. “And see if you can also give me a complete list of its occupants.”

  She walked back towards town, thinking hard. Hannalore had gone to an orphanage, dropped off a set of clothes that were really too small for any of the children, then made her way straight home. The bit of her mind that was prejudiced against the great and the good had no trouble believing that Hannalore was stupid enough to buy the children clothes that were far too small for them, but the rest of her had too many doubts. Hannalore simply wasn't that st
upid.

  “One, Garston has entered his workplace,” Five sent. “He’s taking a computer and going to work.”

  “His boss looks a little surprised to see him,” Six added. “You want me to go sit next to him?”

  “Please,” Kitty said. Six looked young enough to be a teenager - and was wearing an outfit guaranteed to lower the male IQ to single digits. “But keep your voice down until he leaves.”

  She hesitated, then hurried around until she could cross Hannalore’s path as she walked home. The woman barely looked at her, unsurprisingly. It was astonishing just how much difference a wig and a change of clothes could make, particularly when the human eye was lazy enough not to look under the facade. Kitty got a long look at her and frowned, inwardly. It looked very much as though Hannalore had relaxed a little, which suggested she’d done whatever she’d set out to do.