The Empire's Corps: Book 04 - Semper Fi

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I’ll escort you to your room,” Sergeant Hampton said, firmly. “What sort of books do you like?”

  Jasmine shook her head in disbelief. “I’d prefer a complete outline of what happened when you decided to attack the building to free me,” she said. Part of her was infinitively relieved; part of her felt that her life might have come at the price of the mission failing. Who knew how much of their little network of rebel cells had been revealed during the brief, but violent fight? “And then ... what about Horn?”

  “Chained to a bar in the basement,” Sergeant Hampton said. “Bastard pissed his pants when he realised where he was – I had to convince Blake not to snap his neck after he saw some of the videos.”

  “We’ll get some answers out of him later,” Jasmine said. She knew Horn would break. The mere threat of torture would have had him gabbing out answers faster than she could record them. “Did his building go up in flames?”

  “Completely,” Sergeant Hampton assured her. “We got out around fifty prisoners before the flames were ignited ...”

  Jasmine nodded. Flambé – some long-dead Marine had given the compound the nickname and it had stuck – burned at a terrifyingly high temperature, setting fire to almost everything in its path. By the time the fire department had responded to the crisis, the flames would have wiped out the vast paper files, brought down the computer network and wiped out all evidence of their presence. Internal Security had not only lost its boss – and many of its senior officers – but its power base. If nothing else, the reluctance to store duplicate records away from the headquarters had just come back to bite them in the ass.

  Assuming the rumours were true, Jasmine reminded herself. The more copies of a given set of records there were, the greater the chance of a security breach – but also of replacing whatever was lost, or stolen. We dare not assume that they don’t have backups.

  She scowled. “Where are the prisoners now?”

  “Scattered over the city until we can get them out,” the Sergeant told her. “Most of them” – he shuddered – “several of them were so badly injured that the scars will be with them for the rest of their lives. A handful of others were hostages to ensure the good behaviour of their parents – we think. I’m not sure why such hostages were stored in the Internal Security building.”

  “Convenience, perhaps,” Jasmine said. “I’ll have to see the records.”

  “You’re going to bed,” Sergeant Hampton said, firmly. “Once you’ve rested, you can see the records and decide what you want to do next.”

  He half-led, half-pulled her into a small bedroom and pointed towards the bed. “The doctor prescribed you some nutritional supplements,” he added. “I’ll have them ready for you when you wake up.”

  “You don’t have to play nursemaid,” Jasmine said. “I ...”

  The Sergeant surprised her by laughing. “I know,” he said. “Every year after I retired, all of the Sergeants on Greenway would get together for the annual NCO ball – and it was always I who won the ‘who had the smartest LT competition.’ All of my Lieutenants had started life as Riflemen and knew what they were doing – they normally avoided the mistakes that other lieutenants made as soon as they got the rank. I never had to be a nursemaid.”

  Jasmine snorted. The Imperial Army’s Lieutenants often lacked practical experience before they graduated from training and were placed in command of soldiers. Normally, the NCOs had to somehow help the Lieutenants survive the first few months and learn the ropes without getting either themselves or the men under their command killed. It wasn't a problem for the Marines because Marine officers served as Riflemen first, but it hadn't stopped the jokes about Lieutenants being allowed to issue a number of stupid orders during the first few weeks on the job. Blake and Joe had retold the jokes with great pleasure after Jasmine had been promoted.

  And then they’d gone back into action and the jokes had stopped.

  “I’m sorry to break your record,” she said, as she lay down on the bed. “Wake me the instant – and I mean the instant – something happens.”

  “Of course,” Sergeant Hampton said.

  Jasmine was still trying to decide if he was being sincere when she drifted away into sleep.

  ***

  They’d taken him prisoner!

  The thought was intolerable. How could anyone take him prisoner? And yet they had.

  Horn glared around the basement and tested his bonds for the umpteenth time. Someone had handcuffed his hands to a railing, then wrapped duct tape around his wrists, just to make damn sure that he couldn't do what that wretched bitch had done – despite all the torture – and break his own bones to break free. All of his ingenuity, so very capable when it came to finding weak spots to use as weapons against people, was failing him. There seemed to be no way out of the trap.

  And that meant ... what?

  If he was dealing with outside agents, they had to be very well organised indeed to launch an attack on Internal Security. Admiral Singh was going to kill him ... if he ever saw her again. He’d failed – and she wouldn't tolerate failure, no matter what else she was prepared to tolerate from her senior officers. And most of his contingency plans for escape rather relied on him having the freedom to put them into operation. He knew how to hide from a security sweep, if one happened to be launched. He didn't know how to break free from a combination of handcuffs and duct tape.

  And what did that mean?

  He was trapped. All he had to offer them was himself. And all he could hope was that he had enough time to convince them that he could be useful before they started meting out torture to get him to talk.

  Time seemed to slip by so slowly. It felt like hours, or days, before the door finally cracked open, revealing a man wearing a dark mask. Horn opened his mouth, promising everything from power to wealth, as the man knelt down beside him and started to spoon something that tasted faintly like mashed-up ration bars into his mouth. It was ghastly compared to the roast beef, lamb and duck Horn had been entitled to, as one of Admiral Singh’s senior officers, but there seemed to be no choice. He forced himself to swallow as it was pushed into his mouth, followed by a small flask of water. Somehow, he hadn’t realised just how hungry he was until he’d been offered food.

  There are stories of people who died rather than eat ration bars, he thought, and other stories about where ration bars actually come from.

  All of a sudden, the stories didn't seem so unbelievable.

  The man stood up and headed back towards the door, as silently as he had come.

  “Wait,” Horn said, desperately. “I’m ready to negotiate.”

  The man ignored him. Instead, he walked out of the door, which closed behind him with a loud bang. Horn stared at the solid metal, unable to quite grasp what had happened. He had money and power and information, all of which would be very important to either spies or a criminal gang, but he was just being ignored? It had been years since he had felt utterly helpless, ever since he’d been shunned and avoided by the other children – when they hadn’t been using him as a punching bag just for existing – and he didn’t like it.

  “I can talk,” he yelled at the stone walls. “I can help you! I’m on your side!”

  There was no response.

  ***

  Jasmine glanced at the timepiece someone had left beside the bed as soon as she snapped upright, swearing under her breath as she realised that she’d overslept. It took her confused memory several moments to remember that she wasn't actually on watch – and that she hadn't really overslept at all. She’d been tortured, and broken free, and rescued and ... and she was safe. It was funny how important that seemed; no one in their right mind could describe a Marine’s job as safe.

  She climbed out of bed and studied herself in the mirror, as dispassionately as she could. There were no scars on her body, although some of her skin cells seemed to be flaking off – as, she recalled, the doctor had warned her would happen. Neural whips might not inflict any r
eal physical damage, but they sure as hell could convince someone that they’d been hurt.

  Her mind screamed at her as it remembered – finally – that her feet had been lashed too. Jasmine gritted her teeth, held herself firmly in place and concentrated hard on banishing the half-remembered pain. She had not lost her feet; she had not been permanently crippled. And she had walked halfway across the room without even realising that she was walking on her own two feet. It had just been something normal for her. And yet it still took all of her determination to walk into the shower and turn on the tap.

  Hot water washed down over her body, brushing away the last lingering memory’s of Sid’s touch as he’d sought to hurt and humiliate her. Parts of her body felt weak, but it was probably psychosomatic, rather than real pain. Or so she told herself as she turned off the water and picked up a towel, wiping the water from her body. If the pain was just a ghost, the sooner she stopped paying attention to it, the sooner she could return to duty.

  If she could return to duty.

  The thought was terrifying in a way that little else, even returning to the torturers naked and unarmed, could have been. Marines recovered quickly from anything that wasn't actually fatal, but there was always a period when they were poked and prodded by the medical staff before being returned to their units. What if she’d been too badly affected by the phantom pain to continue in her role? What if she should be placed on medical leave?

  She scowled. There was no senior officer on Corinthian, no one to tell her that she needed to remain on medical leave ... if they were on Avalon, she was sure that Colonel Stalker would order her suspended from duty until she received a clean bill of health. But they weren't on Avalon and she was in command. The mission was so unprecedented that the few grounds that existed for relieving Marine officers probably didn't apply. Besides, if Blake or Sergeant Hampton relieved her of command, where could they put her?

  In the basement, right next to Horn, her mind supplied. Part of her, she realised numbly, wouldn't even mind. She could make Horn hurt ... and lose her soul in the process.

  Stepping out of the shower, she found a shirt, a pair of panties and a skirt placed on one of the small tables. Underneath, she discovered when she picked them up, was a short blonde wig, replacing the long brown-haired wig she’d worn when she'd been captured. Unless all of the files had been destroyed, the bastards would probably have an excellent idea of what she looked like by now. She’d have to change as much as possible to fool automated data-sifting programs. Luckily, it was fairly simple to fool them as long as one didn't attract attention.

  “Welcome back to the world,” Blake called, when she walked downstairs and entered the kitchen. “We missed you, Lieutenant.”

  “You can take another shot later,” Jasmine said, dryly. There was no sign of Carl in the room. “Where is your partner-in-crime?”

  “Teaching the young men a few nastier tricks,” Blake said. “Word on the streets is confused, but no one liked Internal Security. It seems that there are several different stories about what actually happened inside the building; no one seems to know the truth. And the official channels have been keeping their mouths firmly shut.”

  “Can’t decide on a good lie to tell,” Canada said, as he turned away from the stove. “By the time they think of something, it will be far too late.”

  Jasmine smiled as he put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. It smelt heavenly.

  “The Sergeant said that you were to make sure you took your nutrients as well,” Blake said. “And that I was to witness ...”

  “Fine,” Jasmine said, crossly. “How many did we lose?”

  Blake’s face fell. “Four of the rebels died,” he said. “Thankfully, everyone was so confused – or it might well have been worse. They couldn't tell if they were coming or going.”

  “We can't count on that again,” Jasmine said. Even the Civil Guard had learned from experience, although it normally only lasted until the educated officer was transferred elsewhere. “Next time it’s going to be a great deal harder.”

  “Well, if it was easy, it wouldn't need us,” Blake said. He held up a datapad. “The Sergeant thought that you should work on the questions for Horn. And then you can go ask him personally ...”

  It probably wasn't a good idea, Jasmine knew, but she found it hard to care.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  There were also other limits. Although each member state was required to make a contribution towards the central government’s funds, the central government was not allowed to actually collect those funds – or, for that matter, have more than a minimal oversight role in other matters. In effect, we set out to create a government that was both strong and hobbled. Time would tell how well we had succeeded.

  -Professor Leo Caesius, Authority, Power and the Post-Imperial Era

  Rani was no stranger to bloodshed. Every time a starship had died at her hand, it had taken lives ... even if they had just been the helpless captives on a pirate ship. Later, after she had taken power, hundreds of thousands of people had been killed on her command. She’d long since lost any inhibitions she might have had about killing people who got in her way.

  But this was different. The framework of the Internal Security building was still intact – it was constructed from hullmetal, almost impossible for planet-side weapons to do more than scorch – but the interior had been completely destroyed. Dead bodies, some half-burned, lay everywhere. The stench was appalling, very different to the clean aseptic space warfare she’d learned and practiced in the Imperial Navy. There was something about the violent end of the building – and so many lives – that chilled her to the bone.

  She stood, surrounded by bodyguards, and watched as disaster recovery teams probed the remains. The basements that had once housed the prisoners and hostages alike were gone. And the flames had been so intense that there was little point in looking for DNA traces. The only way she had to know that some people were dead was because they hadn't been recorded escaping the chaos before it was too late. And...

  ... Horn was dead. Rani considered the thought and found it not altogether unpleasing. There would have come a time, she knew, when his usefulness would have been at an end – and at that moment, she would have ended his life. He was a monster – a useful monster, to be sure, but a monster. And yet, the timing was suspicious as hell. He had been mounting a power play to expand his power base. Why would he die at such a time? Rani knew better than to believe in coincidence. The odds were vastly against his death being unrelated to the insurgency in the countryside.

  And yet, with Horn dead, who should take over Internal Security?

  “Take me back to the Governor’s Mansion,” she ordered. “And bring the highest ranking survivor of the fire to me.”

  It was nearly an hour – and she was safely back in her office – before her bodyguards brought Johan Patterson to her. Rani vaguely remembered meeting him and discovering, much to her private amusement, that Patterson was considered a weird man for not enjoying torture and the other perversions Horn had used as rewards for his men. Patterson was simply too calm and focused on his work to engage his emotions, which wasn't really a bad thing. Not everyone had the stomach for Internal Security, after all. Those who were honest about it were simply transferred to a less unpleasant department.

  Patterson looked understandably nervous to be facing her. His suit was mussed, stained with sweat and dust from the fire. Rani studied him and he cringed under her gaze, suggesting that he feared that she was going to blame him for the fire. That wasn't too likely, Rani knew. The reports were contradictory, but it seemed that insurgents from outside the city had blown up a car as a diversion, then neatly attacked the Internal Security building when the guardsmen were running towards the scene of the first explosion. It had been an admirable operation in many ways. If only the planner was on her side!

  “Be seated,” Rani said, brusquely. One of her bodyguards pushed Patterson into his seat. “What happened
to your superior?”

  “I don't know,” Patterson said, after a moment of wild staring. “I was ... I was assigned to work on some of the security files, to see who might be aiding and abetting the insurgents. When the shooting began, I climbed out of the window and escaped ...”

  “Which leaves you as the senior surviving officer with more than one or two brain cells,” Rani interrupted. She had no idea what had happened to any of Horn’s other senior officers, but apart from one who had been sent into the countryside to ‘support’ External Security there had been no other survivors. Horn had kept his department at daggers drawn, believing that it would secure his position ... and it had, until his death. Right now, there were few people who could step up into the higher positions without extensive retraining.

  Patterson swallowed. “Yes, Admiral.”

  Rani considered him, grimly. It had been useful to have Horn so ... deeply involved in his own perversions. He would never truly be able to leave – or betray her, not when it meant cutting off the source of his pleasures. Patterson wasn't so inclined to indulge himself, which meant that he was what she needed right now – but might be less useful in the future.

  And perhaps he will be less interested in rounding up preteens for sadistic fun, she thought, sourly. Maybe she'd let Horn go too far after all.

  “You will assume command of the remains of Internal Security,” she ordered. Patterson’s mouth dropped open. “No, don’t argue. None of the other survivors are anything like as qualified as you to rebuild and reorganise the department. Forget the requirement to provide support to External Security; concentrate on repairing the damage Internal Security took. And I want to know just what Horn was doing before he died.”

  Patterson nodded, although he was still very pale. “Yes, Admiral,” he whispered. The promotion had to have surprised him – and, also, painted a target on his back. If Horn could be targeted, so could he. “I’ll do my best.”