And yet, I have no choice, he told himself. I have to be in command.
He looked down at his hands, silently. Did he need to be in command? Joe Buckley could handle the ground force, Mandy Caesius could handle the naval squadron ... there was no reason, logically, for him to be in command. And yet, the whole concept was his idea. He had to be the one charged with turning the idea into reality. Thousands of years of marine history insisted that the planner who’d come up with the plan had to be the one who made it work.
Or realised, when he came face to face with reality, that the clever plan wouldn’t actually work, Ed thought. Marines tended to learn better before they went through OCS, but he’d met a few Imperial Army and Navy officers who’d reached high rank without actually going on duty and seeing the elephant. They’d come up with some plans that would have made excellent flicks, when the scriptwriter was on their side, but gotten a lot of people killed if they’d been tried in real life. And they did get a lot of people killed.
He shook his head in annoyance. It was easy to lose touch with what was actually going on, even though he knew the dangers. God knew he’d faced the temptation to micromanage from a distance, despite knowing that micromanaging across light-years had helped bring the Empire to its knees. The Grand Senate had never learnt that matters didn't wait for their input before proceeding. Ed liked to tell himself that it would be different, that he would be different, but he knew better than to take it for granted. Losing touch with reality was all too easy.
Gwen will keep me from becoming too complacent, he told himself. But we’ll still need frequent reality checks.
He reached for his datapad and flicked through the series of updates. General George Grosskopf’s proposal for recreating the Slaughterhouse was waiting for him, silently reminding him that the original Slaughterhouse was gone. Ed had been resisting the temptation to recreate what they’d lost, even though he knew that they were running out of trained marines. Half of his original company had been killed in action or transferred to places where they could put their skills to work rebuilding the local economy. And yet ...
Recreating the Slaughterhouse would be an admission that the universe has changed, he thought, as he rose to his feet and paced towards the window. And that things will never be the same again.
He reached the window and peered out over Camelot. Darkness was slowly falling, but Camelot was still glowing with light. It looked as though the city had somehow managed to expand again, doubling or even tripling its size and population since he and his men had taken ship for Corinthian. But that was no surprise, he told himself. Even now, even with the Commonwealth seeking to expand and diversify its industrial base, Camelot was still the centre of a growing interstellar power. Thousands of young men and women were flowing into the city, looking for jobs and training that would give them a fresh start on life. And many of them - perhaps all of them - were succeeding. Camelot thrummed with an energy he’d never seen on Earth.
High overhead, lights moved through the sky. Shuttles, climbing into orbit or descending to the nearest spaceport; aircars, flying from corporate headquarters to the mansions of the newly rich and powerful. Camelot never slept, these days. It was no surprise to him, at least, that the red light district had grown bigger, even though the streets were still remarkably safe. But then, the city council had a zero-tolerance policy for troublemakers. A few months on the work farms tended to convince even the nastiest drunk that he didn't want to pick fights in Camelot.
Earth might have been a better place to live, he thought, if the Grand Senate had kicked out the troublemakers.
He shook his head. Earth had had only one punishment for anyone foolish enough to be arrested, if they couldn't pay the bribe. They were deported, dispatched to stage-one and stage-two colony worlds as indentured labour. Hundreds of thousands - perhaps millions - of young men and women had been deported. And yet, it had only been a tiny fraction of Earth’s immense population. Earth had been so heavily overpopulated that collapse - and disaster - had been inevitable for years. Policing had been impossible. Camelot, he hoped and prayed, would never become so overcrowded.
His eyes sought out the University, glowing against the skyline. Professor Leo Caesius was teaching there, trying to recreate the spirit of scientific enquiry. His seeds had taken root, Ed had heard, even though it meant that most of the students kept arguing with the teachers. But Professor Caesius had insisted that it was important. The students had to question, they had to reason things out for themselves, even if it meant irritating or embarrassing a handful of teachers. Ed doubted the professors enjoyed it, but they had no choice. Students had to learn to think for themselves.
And the technical colleges help, he thought, as he looked for the smaller buildings. Our mechanics actually know what they’re doing.
It was a sobering thought. He’d never understood, not until he’d joined the marines, just how little he actually knew. He had been ignorant of so much that he’d actually been ignorant of his own ignorance. His command of thousands of pieces of trivia and thoroughly useless fragments of information had been worthless, back then. He’d been lucky - very lucky - that the marines hadn't cared about his academic achievements. He knew - now - that they’d been worthless.
The Commonwealth will not fall into the same trap as the Empire, he promised himself, silently. We won’t let ourselves be bogged down too.
He looked up, again. The stars were clearly visible, twinkling brightly in the night sky. Sol was thousands of light-years away, so impossibly distant that he knew he couldn't hope to pick humanity’s sun out against the others. There was no reliable data about the Core Worlds now, no way to know what was actually going on. Civil war ... mass starvation and death ... or a new empire, rising from the ashes. It would be a long time before he knew anything for sure.
And the Empire is gone, he thought. We might be all that’s left.
He picked up his datapad, again. The plans were still there, mocking him. Approving them would feel like giving up, as if he’d surrendered; rejecting them would be a denial of reality itself. And he could not deny reality. It wouldn't go away when he closed his eyes.
We need more marines, he told himself. Shaking his head, he pressed his fingers against the scanner, approving the plans. We need them and there’s no other way to get them.
But it still felt, somehow, as though he’d surrendered to the inevitable.
Chapter Six
There was a moment - a long moment - of shuddering pleasure, then Emmanuel Alves collapsed on top of her. Jasmine shivered in delight as he flexed against her one last time, then wilted completely. She kissed the top of his sweaty forehead as he lay on top of her, his eyes bright and yet tired. She’d practically dragged him into bed as soon as he’d returned to the apartment. He hadn't put up much resistance.
“Thank you,” she said. “I needed that.”
Emmanuel managed a smile. “You’re going to wear me out.”
“Just take a few pills,” Jasmine said, mischievously. “Or get one of those cock-enhancing implants.”
“I don’t want anyone operating on my cock,” Emmanuel said. He rolled over, pulling out of her as he came to rest beside her. “I don’t know how anyone can do it.”
“I imagine having something to make up for their small egos helps,” Jasmine commented, rubbing her breast. He’d bitten it during their lovemaking. “You’d think they’d just want to carry an Overcompensator around.”
“I think that would be a little heavy,” Emmanuel said, dryly.
Jasmine snorted as she sat up, looking down at him. Emmanuel looked exhausted, too exhausted to do anything, save for lying on the bed and waiting for his strength to return. She was tempted to join him, but she knew her duty. There were a whole series of meetings she was expected to attend, starting in less than two hours. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding towards the bathroom. She wasn’t too surprised when she heard him stand up and lumber after he
r.
“We don’t have too much time,” she warned, as she turned on the water. She’d never really appreciated showers until she’d gone to Boot Camp, where recruits were rarely allowed to spend more than two minutes scrubbing themselves clean. “And we have to talk.”
“That sounds bad,” Emmanuel said. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her bare breasts. “Should I be worried?”
“Perhaps,” Jasmine said. She turned, pressing against him. Tired or not, he was already growing hard. Perhaps he was taking something. “But we’ll talk about it afterwards.”
She kissed him, then allowed him to push her against the wall. Warm water cascaded over them as they made love, washing them clean afterwards. Jasmine luxuriated under the water for several minutes, reminding herself that she would have to go into lockdown and then a starship sooner rather than later, then hurried back into the living room. She dressed hurriedly, pulling on her regulation underwear as Emmanuel staggered out of the shower and grabbed for a towel. It still amused her that she could get dressed while he was looking for his clothes.
Good thing he’s more organised on campaign, she thought, amused. And that he’s not foolish enough to risk lives for a scoop.
“All right,” Emmanuel said. He finished dressing and sat down on the chair, giving her a thoughtful look. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
Jasmine sat on the bed, glancing around the room. It was neater than the average bachelor pad, she had to admit, but it was messy enough to give her former Drill Instructor a heart attack. Even now, even given her rank, she would have hated to show the apartment to Command Sergeant Patterson. She didn't know if the Command Sergeant could give her additional push-ups or not, but she didn't want to find out the hard way.
“I’m going to have to go soon,” she said. “You can't come with me.”
Emmanuel winced. Jasmine felt a flicker of amusement, mingled with annoyance. They weren't going to Lakshmibai or Corinthian or some other world they could reasonably bring an embedded reporter. They were going to Wolfbane, the very heart of enemy territory. She was nervous enough about bringing auxiliaries, even though they’d been through intensive training and even combat. She couldn't bring a reporter.
“I understand,” he said, finally. “But ...”
He shook his head. Jasmine understood. Emmanuel was a good reporter - a great reporter, perhaps. But then, she was comparing him to the bottom-feeders she’d encountered on Han and Earth. The bar wasn't set very high. And yet ... he understood the problem, he understood why he couldn't go, but he wanted to go. It would be the story of a lifetime.
“I’ll see you again, afterwards,” she promised. “You can have an exclusive interview.”
Emmanuel smiled, wanly. “I don’t think there’s any market for marine romance stories.”
Jasmine snickered. A handful of copies of Marines In Bed had been passed around the barracks, back in Boot Camp. They’d been greeted with howls of laughter, from the ridiculous dialogue to the ludicrously absurd sex scenes. Jasmine knew, without false modesty, that she’d been in the top percentile even before she’d gone to Boot Camp, but she couldn't have performed such acts without breaking something. Even a contortionist would have found it impossible. The recruits had generally agreed that whoever had written the book had never met a real girl, let alone a marine.
And was probably still a virgin at fifty, she thought, wryly.
“Maybe not,” she said. “Although there is a market for trashy novels if you want a new job.”
Emmanuel made a face. “I have my dignity, thank you.”
“Not in bed,” Jasmine said.
She sobered. “I’ll be gone for at least four months,” she said, grimly. She suspected Emmanuel would be allowed to embed with the colonel and his unit, but she didn't know for sure. “If ... if you find someone else during that time, I’ll understand.”
“I waited for you when you were taken prisoner,” Emmanuel said. “I can wait for you again.”
Jasmine shrugged. She would have liked to believe it. She certainly wanted to believe it. But she’d seen too many relationships break up because of interstellar distances and long separations. It was harder for marines, perhaps, because they could be rushed right across the Empire at a moment’s notice. She’d been warned, time and time again, not to get too attached to anyone. Better to have a brief affair, she’d been told, or even rely on self-stimulation. Getting attached ... and breaking up ... could mean the end of her career.
Which is why so few marines actually marry until they retire, she thought, sourly. Marriage almost always meant the end of a female marine’s career. And then they move to the Slaughterhouse, if they don’t go find a nice stage-one colony ...
She shuddered. There had been families on the Slaughterhouse ... what had happened to them? She’d had friends there, friends who’d taken her into their homes and helped her to learn their ways ... what had happened to them? She knew, all too well, that she might never know.
Emmanuel leaned forward. “Jasmine?”
“It doesn't matter,” Jasmine said, a little harshly.
She rubbed her scalp. She’d cut her hair short, but it was growing out again. “I don’t know how long I will be away,” she said. It was possible they’d meet again on Wolfbane, but she knew better than to count on it. No one, not even Colonel Stalker, could hope to direct a multi-pronged operation on an interstellar scale. “If you do find someone else, I don’t mind.”
Except that was a lie, and she knew it was a lie, and she suspected he knew it was a lie too.
Things have changed, she thought, ruefully. And nothing is the same.
“I’ll wait for you,” Emmanuel said. “I promise.”
Jasmine snorted. “Thank you,” she said, feeling an odd flicker of disquiet. Civilians! “And I will see you later, I hope.”
She glanced at her appearance in the mirror, then walked out of the apartment and down the stairs to the ground. The guard on the gate glanced at her before standing aside, allowing her to head to the road. She hoped he wouldn't be quite so unwary when she wanted to go back in, if she didn't go straight into lockdown. Castle Rock was supposed to be secure, but there were too many people and aircraft coming and going for total security. No one, not even the military police, knew everyone who was meant to be on the island.
And it only takes one spy to ruin everything, she thought, as a pair of shuttlecraft roared overhead. There were other military spaceports now, but Castle Rock was still the largest on Avalon. One word of warning to Singh and we’re sunk.
She schooled her temper and banished it as she walked down the road, passing a set of new barracks and training grounds. Castle Rock had just kept expanding, pushing the limits ... she wondered, absently, just how long it would be until the older buildings were knocked down to make way for newer accommodations. She caught sight of a line of new recruits, chanting a rude cadence as they ran around the track; they looked so young, painfully young, that she couldn't help wondering why they weren't in school. It was hard to believe that the fresh-faced boys were old enough to bear arms and go to war.
They haven’t gone to war, she told herself, stiffly. Not yet.
Her wristcom pinged as she reached the gates. She glanced at it. Mandy had messaged her, asking if she’d have time to meet for dinner. Jasmine keyed her wristcom, sending a non-committal reply, then walked through the first set of gates. The guards descended on her as soon as the gates had closed, scanning her and then patting her down before checking her name against the authorised list. Jasmine nodded in approval as they allowed her to enter the building itself. As irksome as the procedure was, it had to be done. The building had to remain secure.
She undid her wristcom and dropped it and her datapad into a secure box, then walked through a second set of doors and down the corridor. The air smelt vaguely of disinfectant, reminding her of days spent cleaning the barracks as a new recruit. She saw no one until she reached the office, where Riflem
an Thomas Stewart and Rifleman Henry Parkinson were waiting for her. They both looked disgustingly cheerful. Jasmine made a mental bet with herself that they’d gone straight to the brothels, as soon as they’d disembarked from the shuttle, and not come out until she’d called them. She supposed it did have its advantages.
“Jasmine,” Stewart said. “Or is it Brigadier right now?”
“It's Supreme Overlord,” Jasmine said, sardonically. She was too tired to bandy words. “Or perhaps Your Supremacy.”
“I don’t think that either of them are recognised ranks,” Parkinson said. “You could call yourself Mistress of the Knives, instead.”
Jasmine smiled. She'd been the company champion at knife-throwing. She wondered, absently, if she still was. They hadn’t had the time to get together and have a proper series of contests. How could they?
Wolf's Bane (The Empire's Corps Book 14) Page 6