“Your turn, sir,” she said.
Edward stood up. Maybe there was no rank in the mess, but he still got silence quicker than the other speakers.
“When I went to the recruiting booth,” he said, “the Sergeant manning the desk told me that there were three certainties in life; death, taxes and the Terran Marine Corps. Whatever happened, the Marines would stay true to the legacy of honour and service left behind by their predecessors, a legacy that was founded in the days before humanity’s explosion across the galaxy. The Empire would be eternal – and so would we.
“It seemed so simple back then. What could shatter the Empire? Humanity’s domains scattered across hundreds of thousands of light years. There were millions of settlements, playing host to a population so vast as to be literally unimaginable. We might lose battles, we might see systems fall to rebellion or even outside attack, but we never doubted that we would win the war.
“But the Empire has fallen, destroyed by its own weight.”
He took a breath. “In its wake, we are left with a series of unprecedented questions,” he continued. “What is the proper state of affairs? Which government do we support – do we fight for? Can the Marine Corps even survive without the Empire?
“There are those who will say that even to ask such questions is treasonous. We are sworn to the Empire, but it has abandoned us – and far more than just us. What is the value of our legacy when the Empire is gone?
“We are a brotherhood, forged in war, that exists to defend our society,” he said. “That is the true value of the Marine legacy, an unbroken record of protection and service. That is what we will keep with us and pass on to the next generation. Here, on Avalon and throughout the Commonwealth, we have built a society worth protecting with our lives.
“There is a new threat on the horizon, the latest in a series that may never end,” he concluded. “But we will meet it, and defeat it, because we are Marines. The few, the proud, the faithful.”
He looked over at 1st Platoon, feeling a wave of pride as they stood straighter. “Enjoy yourselves tonight,” he said, quietly. “Tomorrow ... you will go to war.”
Chapter Ten
However, this tended to cause problems of its own. When the elected politicians lost touch with their people, they started inching towards supreme power – little caring that they were doing irreparable damage to the political system. It didn't matter if they were convinced that they were doing what was in the best interests of their people or if they were motivated by personal ambition; either way, they were damaging the system. In effect, the arbitrary power that had blighted dictatorships and monarchies could also rise to threaten the democratic system.
-Professor Leo Caesius, Authority, Power and the Post-Imperial Era
“This is going to be a hell of a mission.”
Layla looked down at the operational plan, then up at Lieutenant Yamane. The Marine had come onboard and requested a private conference in Layla’s stateroom. “I'm surprised the Colonel allowed you to request Harrington,” she added. “She isn’t actually a stealth boat.”
“Stealthy enough to sneak around a heavily-defended star system,” Lieutenant Yamane assured her. “This system isn’t guarded by a handful of half-assed pirates.”
Layla nodded. Harrington hadn’t been specifically designed for covert operations, but it was relatively easy to remain undetected as long as one avoided making any betraying emissions or moving too close to enemy sensors. Space was incomprehensibly vast and a starship, even one of the massive colonist-carriers, was nothing more than a speck of dust on such a scale.
On the other hand, they needed accurate readings from Corinthian – and they could only get those by slipping close to the planet ...
“We should be able to get the data you want,” she said, finally. “And then we’ll be there to support you if necessary.”
“If necessary,” Lieutenant Yamane agreed.
She didn't sound doubtful, Layla noticed, but Marines were trained not to show doubt or hesitation, even when a rational mind would have quailed. Even if Admiral Singh hadn't improved Corinthian’s defences after she’d taken the world for herself, it would still be tricky to get down to the surface without being intercepted and destroyed. If the sensor networks were even half as capable as the networks surrounding Earth, it would be impossible.
Shaking her head, Layla looked down at the operational plan. At flank speed, it would still take nearly a month to reach Corinthian, a month when too many things could go wrong. By now, Admiral Singh would know that she’d lost a starship – and might even have a rough idea what had happened to it. The possible scenarios kept running through Layla’s head; if Admiral Singh dispatched a squadron to retrace the destroyed cruiser’s flight path, they would encounter the Commonwealth. And then ...?
“We’ll leave in an hour,” Lieutenant Yamane said. “Did your crew get some shore leave?”
“They spent most of it in the Black Hole,” Layla said, referring to the RockRat-produced and operated entertainment facility in orbit around Avalon. It seemed an unnecessary expense, but it was cheaper than sending spacers and orbital yard dogs down to the surface at the end of their shifts. “I think they were happy when they came straggling back.”
Lieutenant Yamane grinned. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, as she stood up. “There are just a few final preparations to make and then we can depart.”
Layla watched her walk through the hatch, then looked back down at the datapad. The coolly rational part of her mind told her that Harrington wouldn't make a difference if she stayed with the Commonwealth Navy, not if Admiral Singh came knocking with her entire fleet. They’d be outgunned ... probably quite badly. But the rest of her felt bad about leaving her comrades behind, knowing that they might fight and die without Harrington. Maybe she should have urged Lieutenant Yamane to pick a different vessel as her escort.
But we already know what we’re facing, she told herself, as she stood up. There were no shortage of tasks she had to attend to before they departed, if only because she didn't have a proper XO. The shortage of trained and experienced personnel forced her to act as her own XO, or pass certain responsibilities down to the lower ranks. If they’d had the manpower pool the Imperial Navy had been able to call upon ...
She shook her head. If they’d had the manpower pool Admiral Singh could call upon, they’d be controlling half of the former Empire by now.
***
No one would have considered Lightfoot beautiful. The freighter was a blocky shape built for functionality rather than elegance, studded with a handful of sensor nodes and a couple of visible weapons. They were technically forbidden by Imperial Law, but before the Empire had withdrawn from the Avalon Sector the freighter crew would have simply bribed any inspecting officials to ignore them. Even popguns could deter pirates if the freighter looked willing to fight.
Jasmine watched through the porthole as the shuttle headed down towards the docking port on the underside of Lightfoot’s hull. Up close, Lightfoot looked old; her hull was pitted and scarred by hundreds of years in space, passed down from owner to owner. The design itself dated back thousands of years, one that had never really gone out of service. But then, unlike military starships, there was no real need to continually improve freighter designs. Or so the Empire had believed.
The three starships – Lightfoot, Billy Butcher and Harrington – were holding position on the edge of the Avalon System, just outside the Phase Limit. They were far from prying eyes, but Jasmine had taken the precaution of disseminating a cover story, just in case the pirates still had eyes and ears in the system. Anyone who asked would see two freighters carrying newly-constructed farming equipment, escorted by a heavy cruiser that just happened to be going in the same direction. It was unlikely that any pirates would risk their ships – and their lives – just to steal farming equipment, particularly equipment specifically designed for a low-tech planet.
There was a dull thump as the shuttle�
�s airlock mated to the freighter’s, then a hiss as the pressure equalised, allowing Jasmine to leave her seat and step into the freighter. As always, the new ship smelt different, although nowhere near as bad as a pirate ship. But then, freighter crews tended to actually take care of their ships. They had the discipline that pirate crews often lacked, even when commanded by a truly fearsome officer.
Sergeant Harris met her as she stepped through the second hatch. “Welcome onboard,” he said, one hand saluting her. “We’ve moved most of our makeshift gear to Butcher, then set up on Lightfoot.”
He didn't sound happy about the makeshift gear. Jasmine didn't blame him. She wasn't happy either, even though it had been her idea. If they had to pose as mercenaries, something they’d done before, they couldn't use Marine equipment or uncomfortable questions would be asked. It was possible that pirates wouldn't notice the difference, but Admiral Singh certainly would if she saw the gear. They’d just have to suck it up and deal with the makeshift equipment. At least they’d managed to maintain it better than the pirates they’d taken it from.
“Good,” Jasmine said, allowing him to lead her down the metal corridor. The freighter seemed oddly barren compared to some of the others she’d seen. They’d have to do something about that or it might alert an experienced observer. “What about our other cover story?”
“Everything is set up,” Harris assured her. “If we have to make open contact, we can pose as a freighter crew or a group of mercenaries.”
Jasmine nodded. Ideally, she would have preferred to avoid all contact with Admiral Singh’s forces – they dared not assume that Admiral Singh would be as incompetent as the pirate leaders – but there might be no choice. If they had to make contact, they’d just have to hope that the cover story held up under scrutiny. At least it would be fiendishly difficult to disprove without sending a starship on a two-month round trip.
On the other hand, if they captured a copy of Marine records, they might be able to ID us, she thought, sourly. Marine records were meant to be classified, eyes-only to senior Marines, but there had been a copy at Trafalgar Naval Base. Admiral Singh could have captured the files, or simply subverted the Marines serving on the base. Jasmine had wondered why they hadn't done anything to stop Admiral Singh from taking power. Could it be that they’d joined her?
It was unthinkable. But so much else that should have been unthinkable had already happened.
She pushed the thought to one side as they stepped into the compartment that had been put aside for the Marines. It was surprisingly comfortable, certainly when compared to a more standard transport vessel, although there were no bunk beds for the Marines. Instead, mattresses had been laid on the deck and covered with homespun blankets produced on a low-tech world. They should pass for products from Gordon’s Hope. According to the files, Gordon’s Hope exported almost nothing outside its own system.
“These mattresses are very comfortable,” Blake assured her, from where he was lying on the deck. “The freighter crew must be slipping.”
Jasmine snorted. “We shall have to suffer in luxury, just this once,” she said, dryly. The platoon – she noticed, with a pang, the absence of Joe Buckley – came to attention, allowing her to inspect them briefly. “And we will have to rehearse our cover story until we have it word-perfect.”
It would be easy to pose as mercenaries; mercenary companies were famous for taking anyone with experience and not asking too many questions. Jasmine had heard that it had been common for a soldier to serve out his first five-year term in the Imperial Army and then move to join a mercenary company, where pay was better and there were fewer officers who hadn't earned their commissions on merit. The last report had suggested that entire regiments were making the shift from army units to mercenaries, although it hadn't been very clear. By now ...
If things had been a little different for us, she asked herself, would we have become mercenaries too?
She had a sudden vision of Imperial Army units becoming mercenaries, moving from world to world and fighting on behalf of their paymasters, even fighting their former comrades. Mercenaries had been big business before the Empire’s withdrawal from the sector; now, without even the thin veneer of law the Empire had enforced on the companies, it would only get worse. In some ways, it would be preferable if they just seized power for themselves.
“As long as they don’t look too closely,” Hampton pointed out. “We don’t all look as if we’d come from Gordon’s Hope.”
Jasmine nodded. Gordon’s Hope had been founded, like so many other low-tech colonies, by a single ethnic group, a religious sect that disdained contact with the outside universe. They would all have the same skin tone ... and her platoon did not. It was quite possible that other refugees would have been stranded there, but it might be hard to convince suspicious customs officials that was what had actually happened. Gordon’s Hope would be very much a last resort for spacers. The world had nothing that outsiders would actually want.
Apart from food and women, she thought, sourly. Quite a few low-tech worlds had been brought into line by the Admiral and forced to pay tribute – protection money – to his forces. The Marines had liberated several dozen girls from various pirate bases, only to discover that they were no longer welcome on their homeworlds. Most of them had eventually wound up settled on Avalon.
“We can tint our skin, if necessary,” Jasmine said, finally. She cleared her throat. “We will also be running exercises every day, as best as we can, starting tomorrow. Get plenty of sleep.”
She smiled at their expressions. It was difficult to carry out proper exercises without the right equipment, but Marine-grade systems would be far too revealing. She’d had a heavily-modified VR entertainment system installed on the ship – she hadn’t been surprised to discover that half of the pre-installed entertainments were pornographic – yet it had its limits. But they’d just have to make do with what they had.
“And we’ll also have to work through the files,” she added. The more eyes reading through the files, the less likely it was that they’d miss something important. “They’re on the ship’s datanet and will be accessible from tomorrow.”
She dismissed the platoon and looked over at Sergeant Hampton. “Are your people settling in all right?”
“Kate and Steve seem to be doing fine,” Hampton said. “The Captain was kind enough to assign them small cabins; they’re not used to bedding down with other people. Even in the militia they never shared sleeping compartments with the opposite sex. I’ve also done my best to prep them for exercises, but ...”
He allowed his voice to tail off suggestively. Jasmine understood; the militiamen wouldn't have had the years of experience enjoyed by even the rawest Marine. It wouldn't stop them being capable – she’d seen some semi-legal planetary militias that looked better than the Civil Guard – but it would take them time to blend in, if they ever did. On the other hand, if they were posing as mercenaries, they shouldn’t show the polish of a Marine unit. It might raise too many questions.
“We’ll see how they do,” Jasmine said. In her experience, militiamen didn’t do so well away from their own homeworlds. “And Mr. Canada?”
“Has a cabin of his own,” Hampton said. “He was interrogated pretty thoroughly. I think we can trust him, at least to some extent.”
Jasmine scowled. Trustworthy was not a word she had been taught to apply to defectors, no matter how useful they were. She knew that the interrogators had gone through Canada’s brain with a fine-toothed comb, checking for everything from dishonesty to conditioning and memory modification, and they’d found nothing. And she couldn’t blame Canada for wanting to see Admiral Singh defeated. But trusting him completely still went against the grain.
“We’ll add him into the exercises too,” she said, reluctantly. They’d need him when the time came to make contact with the underground on Corinthian, assuming it still existed. Admiral Singh’s forces might have clamped down so hard that resistance was futile.
“And you can keep an eye on him.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Hampton said. “Babysitting is always fun.”
Jasmine recalled a handful of reporters who had been attached to the Marines on Han and smiled. None of them had been prepared for the war ... and very few of their dispatches had ever been distributed around the Empire. It hadn't been until much later that she’d learned that the reporters had no control over what was actually broadcast as news. Articles, footage and suchlike that didn't fit the official story was simply discarded, no matter how much effort the reporters had put into filing it.
But the reporters had had to be babysat at all times. They hadn't known the simplest things about being on a battlefield; she’d heard that one of them had even tried to pick up an unexploded mortar shell the insurgents had fired into a military base. God alone knew how many of them had been seriously injured through simple ignorance; Jasmine had even heard that one particularly stupid reporter had tried to get an interview with an insurgent and had been raped, tortured and murdered for his pains.
“Matter of opinion,” she said. She looked over at Harris. “I’ll be on the bridge.”
The freighter bridge looked far less orderly than a military starship’s bridge, she couldn't help noticing. There had originally been an order to it, but years of refits and equipment updates had changed it beyond recognition. Consoles were scattered everywhere, attached to systems that had been added to the hull or simply placed inside the bridge. The freighter’s small crew, wearing an assortment of uniforms and shipsuits, looked just as disorderly.
Mandy was standing in front of a console, studying it thoughtfully. “We can replace that system while we’re in phase space,” she said, as she saw Jasmine. “Everything ready?”
“Yes,” Jasmine said. “We can depart now.”
Mandy smiled. “Making the ship look like it has been poorly maintained without actually damaging anything isn't easy,” she said. “But we wouldn't have access to proper supplies on Gordon’s Hope.”
The Empire's Corps: Book 04 - Semper Fi Page 10