by Jay Allan
“They started it,” Blake said, quickly. “They assaulted a waitress!”
“And they’re all still alive,” Jasmine added. The Captain’s gaze switched to her and she felt her cheeks burn. “They picked a fight and they lost.”
“Doubtless,” Captain Stalker murmured. “These … miscreants have an important briefing to attend. Their punishment will be handled by the Marines, Constable.” His voice was impeccably polite. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“But … they’re criminals,” the Patrolman protested. “I have to take them in and book them.”
“The Sergeant will see to their punishment,” Captain Stalker said, with a languid wave towards the Patrolman. The Patrolman looked behind him and jumped when he realised that Master Sergeant Gary Young had somehow appeared behind him. Jasmine wasn’t so surprised—the Sergeant was the sneakiest man in the Corps—yet even she was impressed. “You do not have to concern yourself any further.”
“I have to take them in,” the Patrolman insisted. He broke off as he finally realised that he and his men were outnumbered, even if they were carrying stunners. They were trained for riot control, criminal investigation and little else. The Marines could have overpowered them with ease. “Will you see to their punishment?”
“I assure you that they will regret whatever they have done,” Captain Stalker said, a steely note entering his tone. “Now … Sergeant, escort these men back to barracks.”
“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said.
The Patrolman admitted defeat and led his men back to the bar. If Jasmine knew the Patrol, they would probably take the Civil Guardsmen in and arrest them instead of the Marines. Someone would have to take the blame for the brief fight, or the Patrol would look bad. It was a relief to know that the Marines didn’t place so much stock in appearances.
“You lot, move,” Sergeant Young growled. On the other hand, Marines weren’t meant to be picking fights in bars, even with Guardsmen. The Marine Sergeants had plenty of ways to punish misbehaving Marines. “Now!”
Jasmine saluted the Captain and then followed the Sergeant back to the barracks. Blake had been right, of course. The Civil Guardsmen had deserved the beating, or so she told herself. The Marines would just have to take the consequences. She looked behind her, just for a second, and caught sight of the Captain.
He was smiling.
CHAPTER 4
Among the Marines, there is a culture of personal dedication, personal responsibility and service—service to the Marine Corps and its ideal. A Marine learns to take and shoulder responsibility, or stays out of the chain of command. Outside the Marines, it is harder and harder to find examples where power and responsibility are evenly balanced; power without responsibility is the rule. The results, alas, are predicable. The Empire’s rulers possess no loyalty to anything beyond themselves.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).
“Attention!”
Edward was still smiling as he strode into the briefing compartment, although he had to admit that it wasn’t really that funny. He’d downloaded the report from the Patrol and had been amused by the various attempts the Civil Guardsmen had made to avoid any kind of responsibility for the brief fight. Their claims that the Marines had attacked them looked increasingly hollow as they kept trying to duck responsibility, leaving Edward firmly convinced that they had deserved their beating. Their CO had lodged an official complaint, but Edward had mollified him by pointing out that the Marines were going to be leaving in a week anyway and there was no point in locking them up. They would be dealt with within the Company.
“At ease,” he said, as he took his position at the front of the room. The Marines relaxed with an audible noise. “Sergeant … roll call?”
“All present and accounted for, sir,” Gwen said. Her voice echoed in the silent room. “We have seventy-four combat effectives in this Company, sir!”
Edward nodded, allowing his eyes to drift from face to face. A civilian would have been struck by how young they were, yet even the most inobservant civilian could hardly have failed to notice the shared expression in their eyes. The youngest Marine in the compartment was twenty-one years old, yet she had spent two years at the Slaughterhouse before qualifying and being formally enrolled among the Marine Corps. They had all been tested in the harshest of fires. The Imperial Navy might regard the Marines as a luxury and the Imperial Army might regard them as over-paid pretty boys, but Edward knew the truth. The Marines were, man for man, the single most effective fighting force in the Empire.
The Terran Marine Corps had come into existence after the Third World War, yet it could trace its origins far further back, right back to John Paul Jones and the birth of the United States of America, a nation now barely remembered outside the American-ethnic worlds near Earth. The men and women in the compartment were heirs to a tradition that stretched back over a thousand years, one that placed loyalty and competence above all else. It was no wonder, Edward thought, that the Grand Senate was nervous about them. The Marines had far fewer opportunities for graft and corruption than any other service. Every Marine would sooner die than fail his comrades.
And he was their commander. The Company was the largest permanent formation in the Marine Corps; Regiments, Battalions and Divisions were, at best, temporary formations, composed of Companies that could be mixed and matched at will. He’d been told, back when he’d decided to aim for commissioned status, that Captain’s rank was the best and worst in the entire Corps. The best because it was the position of ultimate trust; the worst because the lives of one hundred Marines depended upon their commander. His mistakes could get them killed. The Marine tradition of naming units after their commanding officer was not only a reward for good service, but a warning. The Marines were his, in the fullest sense of the word. Their lives were in his hands. He felt the weight of responsibility settling down on his shoulders and he smiled. He would not betray his men.
“Take your seats,” he ordered, calmly, and waited until the Marines were seated. A civilian might have been surprised by how informal it was, but there was no need for him to assert his authority by acting like a dickhead. “There has been a development on Earth.”
He paused, silently cursing himself under his breath. His mistake, his hasty words, had condemned his Marines to exile. “The Grand Senate wanted my opinion of what happened over the last two days,” he continued, finally. Marines learned from their earliest days to confess their mistakes and learn from them. Everyone, Marines included, made mistakes. The trick was to learn from them and not to repeat them. It wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded … but then, nothing ever was. “I told them the truth.”
“Big mistake there, sir,” Blake Coleman said, from the back.
Edward fought down a smile as Sergeant Young glowered at Blake. Like many of the enlisted men, Blake was bored when he wasn’t fighting or fucking … and he had no ambitions towards becoming a commissioned officer or an NCO. Smart remarks were the least of his problems, although Edward privately appreciated the humour. It helped to defuse the situation.
“Quite,” he agreed, dryly. “The Grand Senate rewarded me for my honesty by exiling me—and you—to Avalon, a planet on the edge of the Rim. Our exile was my fault and I take full responsibility for it.”
“Ah, it was getting boring here, sir,” Blake said, quickly.
There were some chuckles. “Silence in the ranks,” Gwen thundered, with a look that promised trouble for Blake later. Even for Marines, there were limits. “Coleman, I’ll see you later.”
Edward spoke again before anyone else could interrupt. “If any of you wish to seek a transfer to any other unit, speak to me or the Sergeants about it and we will attempt to honour your request,” he said. Marines rarely moved out of their units. It was too hard to fit them into a new unit without heavy intensive training. “Let us know before the end of the day; tomorrow we start preparing for our journey. I’m afraid it will be six month
s in the tubes for most of us.”
This time, the groans were real. The Marines would be placed in stasis tubes once they were onboard the transport and would be taken out of the tubes when they reached Avalon. A handful would remain awake and active, making preparations for the landing, but none of the Marines liked being helpless in the tubes. There were plenty of rumours about colony ships being hijacked and their colonists pressed into slavery on hidden colony worlds. Not that pirate crews would bother keeping the Marines alive, of course. Once they realised what they had on their hands, the Marines would be unceremoniously spaced.
“There isn’t an alternative,” he snapped, before anyone could make a comment. “If you’re fighting already today, what are you going to be like after a month in Phase Drive?”
There was no answer. “Avalon is rated as a Class-Two Colony World, so any of you who wish to invite your wives or sweethearts along should mention it to the Sergeants,” Edward continued. Marine Riflemen—the lowest rank—rarely married, but they often formed long-term relationships. “We can obtain permission for emigration from the Colonisation Office, subject to the usual regulations. There are no restrictions on who may enter Avalon.”
He saw the implications sinking into their heads, a handful looking more thoughtful than usual. Civilians thought of Marines—and soldiers in general—as dumb beasts; after all, who in their right mind would charge into the teeth of enemy fire? Marines were encouraged to learn as much as possible, particularly history—there were millions of lessons to be learned from history—and that included the early years of human exploration and settlement. A planet with few immigration restrictions would, likely as not, end up with a multiethnic or religious population, a recipe for trouble down the line. The lax regulations—a brief glance at the file had suggested that the development corporation had been desperate for colonists—would come back to haunt them. Or maybe they’d be lucky. There were several worlds that had formed a new culture, or had simply kept the disparate cultures apart.
“We may be there for as little as a year, or much longer,” he concluded. “The Grand Senate may see the wisdom in bringing us back sooner than I dare hope. Or maybe we’ll be out there forever. I honestly do not know.
“Our mission is threefold. We are to provide some additional muscle for the local government, to train their version of the Civil Guard to acceptable levels and prevent pirate operations in the vicinity. None of that is going to be easy. I know, however, that each and every one of you will give his or her best. Semper Fi!”
“Semper Fi,” the Marines echoed.
“I will see the Sergeants and Lieutenants now,” Edward said. “The rest of you … try not to get into any more fights. Dismissed!”
The Marines marched out, leaving Edward alone with his officers and NCOs. There were fifteen of them in all; five Lieutenants and ten Sergeants. It always amazed the Imperial Army how few officers and NCOs actually wore Marine Blues, but the Marines had always believed that every Rifleman had Sergeant’s stripes in his backpack. Edward knew of units that had lost almost all of their officers, yet had kept going and won the battle anyway. In the Imperial Army, there were units that could only have been improved if they’d lost all of their senior officers. They were the ones who had bought their commissions, or had been shuttled in to serve as someone’s eyes and ears. They were, thankfully, rare in the Marine Corps. It was yet another reason why the Senate distrusted the Corps.
“At ease,” he said, when the door had closed behind the last Marine. “Before we start, there is an important issue we have to settle. Do any of you wish to stay behind?”
“Respectfully suggest, sir, that you quit insulting us before I have an attack of brains to the head and realise how far we’re going from civilised lands,” Master Sergeant Young said, dryly. “Besides, where could we go if we did decide to leave?”
Edward shrugged, although Young had a point. A Rifleman could be transferred to another Company without serious career repercussions, but it was harder for a Sergeant or a Lieutenant. They rarely transferred out without a very good reason, which suggested to the CO of their new unit that there was something deeply wrong with them, forcing them to work harder to prove that they were good officers. It was a silly issue, in Edward’s view, but old habits died hard. A really poor officer would have been reduced to the ranks or transferred somewhere where they could do no harm—or discharged, for serious offenders.
“I heard that Melville’s Murderers are looking for a replacement Lieutenant,” Gwen put in, sharply. “If anyone wants to jump ship, now is the time.”
“The Murderers … damn it,” Lieutenant Thomas Howell said. “What silly bastard thought that that was a good name for a unit?”
“The Murderers themselves,” Young pointed out. “They liked the name and made it stick.”
Edward shrugged. A Marine Company was generally named after its CO—hence Stalker’s Stalkers—and the enlisted ranks got to vote on the name. The Corps patiently endured names like Burnside’s Bastards, Severus’s Snakes and Wilkinson’s Wankers, although the last one had probably been someone’s idea of a joke that had gotten out of hand. Some units ended up with names that no one dared write down. If Melville’s Murderers wanted to call themselves murderers, no one had the right to stop them.
“It hardly matters,” he said, seriously. “The good news, as I hope Gwen told you, is that we’ve been given a blank cheque for supplies. Thomas, I want you to go completely nuts and plan on the assumption that we’re not going to be re-supplied anytime soon. Look up the data on Avalon, find out what they cannot produce for us, and fit as much as you can on the transport ship. We’re going to have a whole transport to ourselves so have fun.”
“Thank you, sir,” Howell said. A Marine Transport Ship was intended to transport an entire Marine Division. A single Company would rattle around in its enormous bulk. “We’re going to have it completely to ourselves?”
“There may be a few colonists coming along,” Edward said, remembering the Professor that the Commandant had told him would be coming along. A Professor … and his family. He hadn’t had time to check up on their accommodation, but they could just be put in the tubes along with the Marines. They certainly wouldn’t want to spend six months cooped up on a transport ship. “Plan on the assumption that we’ll need two hundred tubes and use the rest of the ship’s bulk as you see fit.”
“Yes, sir,” Howell said. Edward smiled. Howell was the current logistics officer for the Company, a task Edward had handled himself when he’d been a Lieutenant, and being told he could get whatever he wanted was a dream come true. The others gathered round, offering suggestions and comments, which he listened to with half an ear. Edward knew that he would have a wish list of supplies the Company desperately needed. “I’ll start planning at once.”
Edward turned to Young. “I take it that you dealt with our miscreants?”
“They saw the error of their ways,” Young said, with equal gravity. “The four of them will be spending their time cleaning toilets with toothbrushes until they’re shining at night.”
“Have them assigned to assist Thomas with the logistics as well,” Edward added. “He’s going to need help…”
“If only to hold the irate bureaucrats down as we take everything we want,” Howell said, with a grin. There were some chuckles. The Marine Supply Officers were an understanding bunch, but the same couldn’t be said for the General Supply Officers, who insisted that any mere logistics officer had to have his requests signed in triplicate before they even considered considering granting them. Edward had fought enough battles with the bureaucrats to make him glad that someone else was going to be handling it. It was a shame that shooting bureaucrats was officially Not Allowed. “Or perhaps to help me dig a tunnel into the supply depot and smuggling out the loot.”
“I think they’ll go to their union about that,” Gwen said, sourly. “They’re the only ones allowed to loot military supplies.”
Edw
ard scowled, wishing that she was joking. In theory, the private possession of guns on Earth was forbidden, with very heavy penalties for anyone who owned a weapon. In practice, there were literally millions of illegal weapons and weapons factories in the Undercity, where violence was common and the Civil Guard never went. And even the more advanced weapons could be found on the black market. Someone had sold the Nihilists enough weapons to take a bite out of a Marine Company and that could never be forgiven. It was probably too much to hope that Marine Intelligence would track them down before the Stalkers left Earth forever, but they would find the culprit and deal with him. The Commandant would probably send a few Marines to assassinate the bastard.
“If they give you any trouble, let me know,” Edward said. The bureaucrats would probably not be cowed by a mere Captain, but a call from the Commandant himself—particularly after he pointed out that the Grand Senate had ordered that the Stalkers leave Earth forever—would probably loosen the purse strings. “I can pull strings for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Howell said. He glanced around the room. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“We start three days of heavy training in two days,” Edward said, firmly. “Gwen, you will supervise that if I’m not present at the time. The Commandant said that we might get a few newcomers to the unit; if so … we’ll start working them hard and get them up to standard. After that, we’ll start boarding the transport and stocking up on supplies. Keep a close rein on everyone. The last thing we need is another fight at the moment.”
“The Civil Guard isn’t making that easy,” Young said. “The Pacifist League is really not making it easy.”
“If it was easy, it really wouldn’t need us,” Edward said. He grinned. “They may whine about us now, but they’ll be calling us back soon enough.”
“When they need us,” Young said. “For its Tommy this an’ Tommy that, and ‘chuck him out, the brute! But its ‘Saviour of The Country’ when the guns begin to shoot…”