“Brigadier,” Lieutenant Walter Cheney said. “The freighter is ready to depart.”
Jasmine nodded. She had twenty-five men, counting herself and Stewart, to deploy against the shipyard. It didn't seem like much, but she was sure she could use the five strike teams that gave her to cause no end of havoc. Maybe she wouldn't be trying to slaughter the workers ... it would still disrupt their work.
She keyed her wristcom. “Launch the Passing Water,” she ordered, as she stepped through the airlock and into the ore freighter. The air smelt of too many men in close proximity, even though the crew had been tiny. “And then prepare to take us to the shipyard.”
Stewart walked with her to the bridge, then sat down in front of the helm console. Jasmine took the other chair and glanced around the compartment, wondering how the vessel’s captain managed to get anything done. The bridge was cramped, stuffed with so many jury-rigged systems that there was barely enough room for two or three crewmen. It looked as though the designers had intended the ship to be operated by children. Maybe the original owners had redesigned their bodies to make themselves smaller and lighter - a common RockRat technique - and not bothered to fix the ship when they’d sold it to its next set of owners.
“Engines online,” Stewart said. “Airlock detached. Course laid in.”
“Take us out,” Jasmine ordered. She looked down at the display, watching as Medusa fell behind. The asteroid mining station looked normal ... but they’d rigged a series of charges to blow the entire complex, once the shit hit the fan. All evidence of their visit would be destroyed. “And signal for a customs ship.”
“Understood,” Stewart said. “There’s one only an hour away.”
Jasmine nodded, then worked on the laser link to Passing Water until the customs ship finally approached. She was identical to the previous ship, apart from carrying a missile pod underneath her hull that would give her some additional firepower. Jasmine puzzled over it for a long moment - adding extra mass would only make the ship less mobile - then reasoned that the missiles were probably intended to destroy any threat to the shipyard.
Pity we don’t have any ourselves, she thought, as she eyed the ship and issued orders for the boarding party to prepare to move. But we couldn’t pack enough missiles to get through the shipyard’s defences.
“Here she comes,” Stewart said. “She’s ordering us to cut engines and prepare to be boarded.”
“Good,” Jasmine said. “You have the bridge.”
She walked into the next compartment, where the airlock was already opening to admit the boarding party. They didn’t look particularly suspicious, just bored, although she had to admit they looked more competent than the last one. Their leader, a grim-faced woman with a pinched expression, eyed Jasmine in some surprise. The light spacesuit she was wearing had to be unexpected.
“Captain,” she said. Her accent reminded Jasmine of Stubbins. “Why are you wearing a suit?”
“There was a hull leak four days ago,” Jasmine said, as the hatch cycled closed behind the team. “I ordered spacesuits to be worn at all times.”
“Good,” the woman said. “Papers?”
Jasmine reached for her belt, then drew her stunner and pulled the trigger, aiming at their faces in hopes of ensuring they all fell before one of them could trigger an alert. It was a risk, but one she had to embrace. They stumbled and collapsed to the deck; Jasmine checked them quickly, then signalled her boarding party. God alone knew if anyone on the ship was monitoring the away team, but if someone was the entire mission was about to fail. She motioned them into the tube as she removed the key-card from the team’s commander, then followed them into the customs ship.
“Shoot to stun, if possible,” she ordered quietly. “But they mustn’t get a change to scream for help.”
She opened the hatch, then led the way into the customs ship. The crew clearly weren't expecting trouble; the soldiers ran through the corridors, stunning everyone they encountered, and made their way towards the bridge. Jasmine forced herself to run faster than she’d ever run in her life, then threw a stun grenade into the bridge as the hatch opened. The crew were knocked out by blue-white flashes of light.
“The ship is secure,” Cheney said, through her wristcom. “I get nineteen crewmen, all stunned.”
“There’s four more here,” Jasmine said. “Thomas, bring everyone else onto the customs ship and then reprogram the ore freighter.”
“Understood,” Stewart said. “We’re on our way.”
Jasmine rapidly secured the bridge crew, then dumped everyone but the captain out into the corridor. The customs ship was larger on the inside than she’d expected - she made a mental note to try to copy any engineering files before they left - but the bridge wasn’t particularly large. Stewart arrived and took control of the helm, then steered the ship back towards the shipyard. Jasmine watched, then took an injector from her belt and pressed it against the captain’s neck. Moments later, he jerked awake and glanced around blearily.
“I need the codes that will get us into the shipyard,” Jasmine growled, producing a sharp knife from her belt and holding it against his throat. One advantage of using stun grenades was that the victims tended to be badly disorientated for some time, even after they recovered. However, she didn't dare rely on it for long. “Give us the codes or I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
The captain shuddered, then gasped out a series of numbers. Jasmine nodded to Stewart, who fed them into the navigational system. If the Wolves had copied the Empire’s procedures, the first set of codes should get them into the shipyard, but not allow them to dock anywhere without special permission. It was quite possible that they would be expected to dock at the security complex, once they passed through the defences. Pete had made it clear that the custom ships often took bribes, then hurried back to share them with their superiors.
Fucking idiots, Jasmine thought. She knew precisely what Colonel Stalker would have done to someone who had accepted a bribe and it wouldn't have been pretty. On the other hand, guard duty was always boring ... unless the shit hit the fan. They’re probably so used to being away from danger that their reflexes have faded.
“I’ve told them that the ore freighter has been ordered to go to the refinery facility instead,” Stewart said. “She won’t be coming into the shipyard.”
“Good,” Jasmine said. She hadn't been able to come up with a workable plan to get the ore freighter into the shipyard without raising red flags. “If we can keep them from realising there’s a connection between the ore freighter and us, it might work in our favour.”
She smirked in memory as the customs ship drew nearer to the outer layer of defences covering the shipyard. Once, during her first tour, her platoon had been ordered to slip through the defences surrounding an Imperial Army base and take the commanding general hostage. It had been surprisingly easy, even though the defenders had known the attack was on the way. There had just been too many people in the area for excellent security. One hand hadn’t even known what the other hand was doing.
And so we just posed as one of them, she thought. The after-action debriefs had been hilarious, although the Imperial Army hadn't appreciated the joke. Here we can do the same.
“We’re being pinged,” Stewart snapped. “They want more codes.”
Jasmine clutched the captain tighter. “Give us the codes to get through the next layer of defences,” she said, pressing the knife against his throat. “Now!”
The captain gabbled out a second set of codes. Stewart keyed them in and waited, his face grim. Marines were tough, but a single missile would vaporise the customs ship as well as her entire crew. There was a long pause, then the acknowledgement arrived. Jasmine allowed herself a moment of relief as they slid through the defences, knowing they were committed now. They were deep in the heart of enemy territory.
She glanced at the timer on her wristcom - by her estimate, Watson should be preparing to move by now - and then fought down the butter
flies in her chest. Why was she nervous when she’d been a Marine for over six years? The moments before combat were always the worst, yet ... she shook her head in bitter understanding. She’d been forced to risk everything on a plan that had far too many moving parts, without any solid way to keep one part of the plan interacting with the other. A single error in timing could be disastrous.
The complex seemed to grow larger as they approached, a nightmarish mixture of industrial production nodes, giant habitation modules and starship construction slips. Thousands of suited workers and dozens of shuttles drifted everywhere, while the airwaves were full of radio chatter. She took control of the sensors and peered down at a battleship, her rear end wide open and hundreds of workers swarming over her like flies on honey. It looked as though she dated back to the days when Wolfbane was a member of the Empire, but it was impossible to be sure. The Commonwealth had not only started to produce new starships, it had developed ways of speeding up the whole process. Wolfbane might have done the same.
She glanced at Stewart. “How long does it take to build a battleship?”
“The Empire could do it in ten years,” Stewart said. “They were bloody great ships. Now ...”
He shook his head. Jasmine understood. The Empire had never needed to speed up the process, not like either of the two successor states. Could a battleship be built in less than a year? If a new cruiser could be turned out every two months in a Commonwealth yard, it seemed quite likely.
“I’ve got the armoury located,” Stewart said. “It's right at the far end of the shipyard.”
“Good,” Jasmine said. She keyed her wristcom. “Is everyone ready?”
She waited long enough for everyone to check in, then smiled to herself.
“Get ready to jump,” she ordered. “Thomas?”
“Everything is programmed in,” Stewart said. “The crew?”
Jasmine winced, then placed the captain on the deck. “I’m sorry,” she said, as she injected him with a sedative. His crew would have no time to wake up before the end came. “But I don’t have a choice any longer.”
She glanced at the body, then hastened towards the airlock. If the timing was right, they would be away from the customs ship before it declared an emergency, then exploded. There would be no trace left of their presence, while - if the Empire’s policies were any guide - there would be so much confusion that they would have no difficulty slipping into one of the installations. Like the military base she’d infiltrated on Han, no one could hope to know everyone assigned to the shipyard.
“Alright, everyone,” she said, as she secured her helmet. “Let’s go.”
“Opening the airlock now,” Stewart said. The team of suited soldiers followed him, with Jasmine waiting to bring up the rear. “Ready to move.”
Jasmine nodded, then took a glance at the handful of stunned figures in sight. They would die, die without ever knowing what had hit them ... she had no choice, but it didn't make it any easier.
I’m getting too old for this shit, she thought, as she walked through the airlock and out onto the hull. Her suit’s HUD was already tracking dozens of suited workers as they made their way over the complex. I’m really getting too old for it.
She shook her head, cursing herself. What she needed was a long holiday, but she knew she was too stubborn to get one. The Colonel would practically have to order her to go on vacation ... and even then, she was damned if she would be relaxing. There were quite a few extreme sports she wanted to try.
But would they be anything like as extreme as being a Marine? She asked herself dryly. A parachute drop from low-level or plunging from high orbit down to a planetary surface ...?
“Go,” Stewart ordered.
Jasmine braced herself and jumped, once again, into the inky darkness of space.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Unsurprisingly, this provoked hatred and resentment on a towering scale. The insurgencies might have been shattered, but the hatreds that fuelled them remained - and, if anything, were sharpened by watching helplessly as the Empire subverted and eventually destroyed the whole pre-war order.
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Empire and its Prisoners of War.
Wolfbane City, Wolfbane, Year 5 (PE)
Carl Watson hadn't been sure if he should be impressed by Wolfbane City or not. On one hand, it was clearly prosperous; on the other, it lacked the charm and elegance of Camelot, to say nothing of the thriving economic scene. Avalon had countless small businesses opening and closing, all of the time, while all of the businesses he saw on Wolfbane were subsidies of bigger corporations. Indeed, he had a feeling that some of the interplanetary corporations that had played such a vast role in the fall of the Empire were still open for business on Wolfbane.
Getting around hadn't been too difficult either, once he’d mugged a couple of men for their uniforms. The security forces seemed more concerned with potential riots and rioters than spies; indeed, the more he looked around, the more he became aware of a vast sullen underclass that only needed a spark to explode into fire. If there had been more time, he would have made contact with the underground and recruited their assistance, but time had not been on his side. He walked around the city, making a mental note of everything from the location of the Governor’s Mansion to a handful of military and security bases within the city, then started the walk back to the hotel. Night was starting to fall - a glance at his watch told him that H-Hour was only three hours away - and hundreds of workers were starting to make their way home.
They didn't look happy, Carl thought, as he blended in with them. Most of them wore uniforms - the entire planet seemed to have a mania for uniforms - and almost all looked downtrodden. He couldn't help being reminded of Gary, who had flinched every time Carl had even looked at him; they were too battered down to be able to stand up for themselves in the future. A regular job had been one of his worst nightmares, before he’d decided to join the Marines, and looking at the workers was enough to tell him why. The sullen mass, so quiet even as it made its way home, lacked any spark of humanity.
They’re a mass, he thought, as he cast his eye over a trio of young teenagers who seemed to be starting their first jobs. The boy would have been handsome, if his hair hadn't been cut close to his scalp, while both of the girls wore shapeless uniforms that obscured the curves of their bodies. Their hair, too, was cut into a regulation bowl cut, while their faces had been scrubbed clean of make-up. They’re a mass of zombies, without individuality of their own.
It wasn't a pleasant thought. Boot Camp was all about breaking down the recruits and then building them up again, in the shape of Marines. By the time the second or third week was done, the recruits - having shed half of their number - looked practically identical, wearing the same outfits and with the same haircuts. But he’d agreed to go to Boot Camp willingly, knowing it would be hell. He didn't think that any of the Wolves before him had made any such agreement. Their planet was almost as closely regulated as Earth.
Maybe more so, Carl thought, as he reached the hotel and stepped inside. Earth’s government never had the power to police the CityBlocks as much as it wanted, no matter how many laws and regulations it made. Here ... the government might be able to police the entire world.
Stubbins - and Paula - had called Governor Brown a corporate rat. Carl hadn't understood, until now, just what that meant. Governor Brown had built the ideal corporate state, where everyone had a role in society and God help them if they stepped away from it. Even the underclass had its role to play, both as a warning of how far someone could fall and as a threat, to justify endless police measures. Maybe they were even allowed to commit a certain number of crimes a year, just to keep the population scared. A scared population would cling to their government and its promise of protection.
He narrowed his eyes in disgust as he opened the door to the hotel room ... and stopped, dead. There was no sign of Paula. Alarm bells ringing in his mind, he slipped forward and checked every last inch of t
he suite. She wasn't in the bed, hiding under it or in the shower, washing herself clean. The whole suite was empty ... he slipped a hand into his bag, checking that the weapons and tools were still there, then took one final look around the room. She'd known not to leave, nor were there any signs of a struggle. It was all too easy to realise she’d left of her own free will.
Get out, you idiot, his thoughts snapped at him.
Carl scooped up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and headed for the door, out onto the corridor. It was as silent as the grave, illuminated only by a flickering light hanging from the white ceiling. He paused, listening, then hurried down to the staff staircase. It was locked, but a quick fiddle with a multitool opened it up, allowing him to hurry down to the rear exit and out into the back alley. It smelled of rotting food and spilled drink, but there was no sign of any guards or soldiers waiting in ambush. Checking that his pistol was still within easy reach, Carl set off, moving through a disorienting stream of dark alleys until he reached a main road. It was darker now, but a stream of cars were still making their way out of the city.
Never Surrender (The Empire's Corps Book 10) Page 33