by Jay Allan
She painted a dispassionate expression on her face and smiled inwardly. If the terrorists and rebels the Marines had to actually fight were so easily intimidated, the Empire would have been in a much better state. It still surprised her to realise that some parts of the armed forces were actually scared of loaded weapons, even though everyone who wore the Emperor’s uniform was supposed to have at least basic training in using weapons. Perhaps it was a holdover from the Civil Guardsmen, who were routinely cheated of their training by their superiors, who hated doing the paperwork. The Marines and the Imperial Army, by contrast, fired off more rounds in training than they did in combat.
Howell didn’t look back at her to check that she was following him; he just marched over to the first guard, who looked as if he would rather be someplace else. Jasmine could understand that impulse; she was meant to be training with the rest of 2nd Platoon and she would have been, if she hadn’t been put on punishment duty. Among the Marines, even punishment duty was meant to educate. She’d need that experience if she ever made Lieutenant or Sergeant herself.
“I am Lieutenant Howell,” Howell informed the guard, in a tone that almost broke Jasmine’s stony face. The imperious tone made her want to break out into giggles. “I have an appointment with Commander Winslow. You will provide escort to his office.”
The guard blinked at him. “Sir, I am under strict instructions to have every visitor to this building passed through security first,” he said, owlishly. “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait.”
Howell met his eyes, wiping the smile from his face. “And I have strict orders from the Grand Senate itself to ensure that the … irregularities and delays in supplying my unit are cleared up as soon as possible,” he said, firmly. “I suggest that you put your concerns aside and escort us to the Commander. What possible harm could we do escorted by your fine self?”
Jasmine didn’t, quite, snigger, but the guard looked at her nervously. If she couldn’t take him bare naked with one hand tied behind her back, she should be dishonourably discharged from the Marine Corps. A Marine on guard duty would have refused to quail and insisted that they went through a full security check, secure in the knowledge that his superiors would back him up if necessary. The refusal to allow entry would have been backed up with deadly force if it were required. The Civil Guard, on the other hand, would happily hang a mere guard out to dry if the Grand Senate chose to be displeased. Such a low-ranking guard had no protection against his superiors, or their impossible orders.
“I’ll have to ask you to check your weapons at the guardhouse,” he said, giving in as gracefully as he could. “We don’t allow weapons inside the building.”
“Yes, I suppose it would be irritating if outraged officers and men attacked the Supply Officers,” Howell said, dryly. “We’re responsible for the weapons and my superiors would not be happy if I left them in someone else’s care.”
The guard gave in. “Yes, sir,” he said, nodding to his comrade. “I’ll escort you to the Commander at once.”
Jasmine smirked inwardly as they were escorted into the building. It could have easily passed for a brothel or even a manor house, owned by a rich or well-connected family. The walls were decorated with paintings and artworks, while the carpeting was so lush and warm that she almost wanted to take off her boots and start padding. Hundreds of men and women, wearing the distinctive uniform of the Supply Corps, stared at the two Marines and scattered, like birds suddenly confronted by a hungry cat. It wasn’t the normal reaction at all.
The Supply Corps, or so she’d been briefed, had been set up to harmonise the logistics of the different armed forces. Howell had explained that, in theory, the idea had looked good. In practice, the results had been disastrous for all of the armed forces, leaving them desperately scrabbling for supplies. The attempts to improve the logistics system had caused bottlenecks and shortages at the worst possible times, with the bureaucrats in the Supply Corps demanding paperwork in triplicate before granting any requests. The armed forces had responded by setting up duplicate offices and trying to limit what they requested from the official service, but it hampered their operations and created more opportunities for graft and corruption. She had never seen a thin supply officer.
Howell had told her that it was worse out on the frontier, away from Earth. Supply Officers had a habit of selling off military supplies to pad out their wages, often leaving the soldiers and spacers in desperate trouble. The terrorists the Marines fought might well have purchased their weapons from one of the supply officers, or perhaps they’d been passed down a long chain, while the Marines and Civil Guards had to beg for supplies. She had asked why the officers were never arrested and Howell had explained that they often had friends among the Military Police, although it wasn’t uncommon for supply officers to suffer accidents. There were dark rumours of how some corrupt officers had met their ends. Exactly how one of them could have committed suicide with his hands tied behind his back was beyond her imagination, suggesting a whitewash. There were limits to what the rest of the armed forces would tolerate.
Commander Winslow’s office was just what she had expected. It was twice the size of a Marine Berthing Compartment, decorated in a gaudy style that shocked what remained of her ingrained social conservatism. Pictures of naked women were scattered all over the walls, some of them suggesting perversions that made her feel uncomfortable, others pure vanilla. Commander Winslow himself was short, bald and fishy-looking, eyeing the two Marines as if he expected them to shoot him on sight. No innocent man, even one who believed everything the Pacifist League said about Marines, could have looked so guilty.
“Commander Winslow, sir,” the guard said, and made his escape.
“You don’t have an appointment,” Winslow said. He had a nasal voice that reminded Jasmine of how her little brother had used to whine when he couldn’t get something he wanted. “You should have confirmed your appointment with my secretary…”
“I attempted to make an appointment two days ago,” Howell said, taking a seat and crossing his legs in a deliberately nonchalant manner. “Your mistress”—Winslow jumped and tried to look as if he hadn’t—“was most unhelpful. The earliest appointment she could give me to see you was two weeks from today, which would have been … tricky. We are meant to be leaving this planet in three days. My commanding officer was most upset.”
“I can’t help you,” Winslow protested. “The system has to be respected. I’m sure that your commanding officer will understand.”
“He was not very understanding about my failure,” Howell said, touching a scar on his cheek. Jasmine, who knew perfectly well that Howell had been scarred two years ago during hand-to-hand fighting with a terrorist, had to fight to hide a smile. The thought of Captain Stalker cutting Howell as punishment was absurd. “My punishment was quite … harsh.”
Winslow looked as if he were going to be sick. “I wish I could help you, but I really need the paperwork,” he said. He waved a hand at his empty desk. “This is a very busy time and we’re working overtime to fill countless requests from hundreds of different units that are about to depart Earth, or start intensive training cycles or…”
Howell slapped the desk, hard enough to sound like a shot. “My commanding officer’s next act was to consult with the Grand Senate, who ordered that his unit be deployed to Avalon as soon as possible,” he said, as Winslow jumped again. “The Grand Senate was not happy. They want us off the planet yesterday.”
“Then go,” Winslow said. His voice betrayed his fear. “Half of your requests … they’re hardly necessary.”
“I’m very much afraid that they are,” Howell said, firmly. There was no give in his voice at all. “I would hate to have to go back to the Grand Senate and explain that the reason we couldn’t depart on schedule was because the Supply Corps was throwing up barriers. I don’t think that even your career would survive their displeasure.”
“But … you’ve requisitioned billions of credits worth of
supplies,” Winslow protested. “How am I supposed to account for them all?”
Howell smiled. “You’re supposed to do your duty and supply them to the officers who need them,” he explained, as if he were talking to a child. “I, not you, am responsible for justifying them. You are responsible for supplying them if possible … and I know that you have the items I have requested in storage. I want all of the red tape cut out and the items transferred to the Sebastian Cruz today.”
“Safety regulations prohibit transferring so many dangerous items within such a short space of time,” Winslow said, quickly. “We don’t have the manpower on hand…”
“Hire it from the orbital industrial nodes,” Howell said, sharply. “Let me worry about the safety. Your job is to make the funds available for their services. Once the pallets are onboard the transport, we can handle the rest.”
“But … all these supplies,” Winslow said, despairingly. “Fusion generators, portable fabricators, advanced machine tools, databases of colonial production systems and so much else. Why do you even need advanced machine tools?”
“We are going to be operating a long way from any base that can repair our equipment,” Howell explained, dryly. “Setting up a local production plant will only improve our logistics and, in the long run, save money. I would have thought that you would be in favour of it.”
“With everything you’re taking, you could set up a starship manufacturing plant in a few years,” Winslow said. Jasmine blinked in surprise. She hadn’t realised that that was even possible. Normally, it was at least three hundred years before a colony world started producing its own starships. Only a handful of new colonies, carefully planned by wealthy and independent foundations, developed an Empire-grade industrial plant within the first fifty years. “This is going to ruin my budget!”
“It will ruin your career if you don’t provide them now,” Howell warned. “The Grand Senate will be displeased. My commander will give them me as a scapegoat. I’ll give them you. You won’t be able to pass the buck to anyone else. It needs your signature, and your signature alone. I suggest that you get on with it.”
Winslow looked almost as if he were on the verge of fainting. The sudden menace in Howell’s voice was unmistakable. His eyes slipped to Jasmine’s face, ran over her uniform and weapons and then fell to the floor. He didn’t see her as a woman, but a deadly threat. She was almost insulted. Winslow was probably used to women who would be happy to do whatever he wanted, as long as he saw to their promotions. A woman who could actually look after herself would be alien to him.
“I’ll make it happen,” he promised, finally. He pulled a datapad out of a drawer and pressed his thumb against the scanner. “You’ll have the relevant permissions in an hour.”
“Good,” Howell said, leaning back in his chair. His voice hardened suddenly. “Because I promise you that I won’t be coming back again, Commander. I shall merely allow events to take their course, leaving us stranded here and you with the blame. I would hate to be in your shoes when the Grand Senate catches up with you. You’ll spend the rest of your life on a planet where back-breaking labour is the only way to survive.”
He stood up and saluted. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “We can find our own way out.”
Jasmine followed him down the stairs, past the guardhouse and back to the aircar. She didn’t dare speak aloud until they were back in the air, heading back to the Barracks. The Supply Corps might have surveillance devices scattered everywhere, just to record everything that was going on in their building. Or perhaps she was just being paranoid. No one in their right mind would want a record of everything that took place in there. It might be used against them at their trial.
“Sir,” she said, slowly. Marines were encouraged to ask questions outside of combat, yet she wasn’t sure that she knew what question to ask. “Why was he so reluctant to give us anything?”
Howell snorted, staring down at the city below. A mass of protesters were marching along one of the main streets, demanding … something. She couldn’t read the banners from high above, but it didn’t look pleasant. The Civil Guard were working overtime to move in reinforcements from around the planet. The Marines wouldn’t be called in to handle crowd control, thankfully.
“Winslow is a petty little man who thinks his main priority is to build an empire of his own,” he said, finally. “He thinks that possessing an item gives him power over it. He’s forgotten that the ultimate purpose of the Supply Corps is to make sure that the armed forces get the weapons they need. If he gave them the weapons, he wouldn’t have them any longer, would he?”
Jasmine blinked in disbelief. “I don’t understand,” she admitted. “Why would he care?”
“Think about it,” Howell said. “A Marine Company is supposed to have at least two hundred MAG-74 assault rifles, with at least five hundred thousand standard rounds. If those rounds are actually fired off … well, the Company wouldn’t have five hundred thousand rounds any more. Winslow and those who think like him believe that the sole purpose of having the inventory is to have the inventory. They are reluctant to use their weapons because that would lower what they have in their inventory.”
“Madness,” Jasmine said, finally. “They’re insane.”
“It makes perfect sense, from their point of view,” Howell pointed out. “An inspection might show that their inventory wasn’t complete, which would mean an investigation, perhaps even career death. In order to protect their careers, they delay as long as they can before sending out anything we might requisition.”
“But they could just order a new batch of supplies,” Jasmine said. “Or … would that cost them money?”
“Of course,” Howell said. “They don’t want to look as if they’ve recklessly spent their department’s budget, do they? Think what their political enemies would have made of it. I bet you that by the time we return to Earth, Winslow and his friends will have been purged because they handed over billions of credits worth of equipment to us. The internal auditors will hold them to account for it.”
“But we requested the supplies,” Jasmine said. “They can’t blame Winslow for that.”
“You’ll be amazed how logical illogical thinking sounds when it’s done by a committee,” Howell said, lightly. “The more divorced from practical reality any given theory is, the greater its fascination for those who are also divorced from reality.”
He smiled as the aircar came down to rest near the Barracks. “Anyway, time to get back to work,” he said. “I want you to report to the shuttles in twenty minutes. We need to start supervising the loading before someone manages to mess it all up.”
The next four hours passed slowly, but Jasmine barely noticed. A Marine Transport Ship was designed to allow pallets to be slotted in easily, yet they all had to be carefully logged and tracked so that supplies could be pulled out in transit if necessary. It never failed to amaze her just how much could be crammed into a single hull … and how tiny their requirements were compared to the vast stockpile built up in the Sol System. Winslow had had nothing to complain about, really; the Supply Corps had enough supplies stored in the Sol System alone to keep the Imperial Army operating for years. She was tired beyond measure when the loading was finally completed, thinking of her bunk and a long rest before she returned to the training ground. Everyone would be ahead of her.
She walked down to the shuttle hatch and stopped, staring out of a viewport towards Earth. Humanity’s homeworld had once been green and blue, but now it was a mixture of blue and a muddle brown colour. The lights of the massive mega-cities could be seen from orbit, lighting up the sky. Humanity’s homeworld was dying, killed by the race it had spawned. Jasmine’s homeworld, for all of its faults, was kinder than Earth, where there were places no one sane dared venture without a suit of heavy armour.
And yet, somehow, the sight left her with a lump in her thought. No one had said so directly, but everyone in the company had realized that this wasn’t going to
be a short posting.
She might never set foot on Earth again.
CHAPTER 8
It may seem paradoxical, but despite having mastered faster-than-light spaceflight, it still takes time to send a message from one end of the Empire to the other. Humanity has spread out so far from Earth that it literally takes six months to send a message from Earth to the Rim, leaving planets on the edge of known space barely represented in the Senate. In the absence of FTL communicators, messages have to be transported on starships, while it can take years to reinforce the Imperial Navy detachments on patrol …
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).
Edward stood at one end of the tubing facility on the Sebastian Cruz and watched dispassionately as his Marines started to enter the compartment. It could be a daunting sight for civilians, but the Marines took it in their stride; they’d been placed in the tubes before, sometimes hundreds of times over the last few years. The compartment held thousands of tubes for Marines, yet only a handful would be required for his men. They would have plenty of room for supplies.
He glanced at one of the tubes, seeing the young teenage girl frozen in the eerie light. Leo’s daughter had been terrified of the stasis field, a common reaction. Time might stop within the confines of such a field, but people feared—irrationally—that thought would go on, leaving them frozen like a fly in amber, yet awake and aware. Edward knew from experience that the universe would just seem to blink and they’d be there. Mandy—or perhaps it was Mindy—wouldn’t have to experience the boredom inherent in any long voyage under Phase Drive. Edward had a private bet going with himself that her father would seek to enter stasis himself after he realised just how boring the journey was going to be.