by Jay Allan
He glanced down at the datapad, showing the latest download from Orbit Station. Gwen had copied the station’s logs into the Marine databases and they told a depressing story. Avalon was visited only once every two months, at best, by a freighter and they never stayed long. Avalon just didn’t have much to offer beyond cheap fuel and foodstuffs. The four freighters in-system had all lost their drives and would vanish in a heartbeat if they were repaired. Their owners simply didn’t have the money to hire a repair ship, or tow their freighter to a spaceport. They worked for the planetary government because it was the only game in town.
“There are no fences,” he commented, sourly. The spaceport was supposed to be secure, but it looked as if anyone could just walk down the line of helicopters and casually toss a grenade into each one. It suggested that the Civil Guard were either firmly on their toes and ran regular patrols of the surrounding area, or they were criminally incompetent. “I want one of you to stay with the shuttle at all times.”
“That’s you, Joe,” Rifleman Coleman said. Edward had been impressed with Coleman’s record, although he had been less impressed with the string of demerits for smart remarks at the wrong time. Blake would not see a permanent promotion for years at this rate. “Jasmine and I will escort you, sir.”
The shuttle paused over the spaceport and lowered itself down towards the hard ground. Edward felt the bump as the shuttle touched down, smiling inwardly at the thought of how an Imperial Navy Admiral would have thrown a fit at even the slightest bump. They had no sense of proportion at all. Any landing you could walk away from, or so he had been told, was a good landing.
“Thank you,” he said, as Jasmine moved ahead of him to climb out first. “It was an excellent flight down to the ground.”
The scent of Avalon hit him as Jasmine opened the hatch, a curious mixture of greenery and of the smell of petroleum-based engines spooling over in the distance. He could hear the sound of birds chirping—it was rare to see a wild bird on Earth, outside the reserves—and the sounds of mechanics working on some of the helicopters. Now that he was on the ground, he could pick out the sight of a handful of guards patrolling the field, watching for trouble. The spaceport might not be sealed up tighter than a virgin’s ass, but it was fairly secure. It would take a determined attack to destroy the facility.
“Captain,” Blake said, quickly. “We have one vehicle incoming.”
A jeep was making its way towards them. It was an old-tech vehicle, something that would have been horrendously out of place on Earth, yet it made sense on Avalon. The plans might have been shipped out in a database, but the jeep itself would have been produced on Avalon, giving the Civil Guard unrivalled mobility and, just incidentally, encouraging local industry. A jeep could be repaired easily. A Mark-VIII Hover Tank would have to be shipped off-world once the spare parts ran out.
“No trace of any heavy weapons,” Jasmine added. “They’re just carrying assault rifles and pistols.”
Edward shrugged, keeping his expression calm and composed. There was no such thing as a dangerous weapon. There were just dangerous men. A Marine Rifleman was a qualified weapons-master, capable of using almost any weapon in the Empire with neither hesitation nor delay. A man holding a weapon who didn’t know what he was doing—or what the weapon could do, or what limitations it had—was no problem, at least not to anyone on the opposite side. Back when he’d been a mere Rifleman himself, his platoon had penetrated an Imperial Army base wearing nothing, but underpants. They hadn’t even been armed and they’d managed to shut down the entire base for hours.
The jeep came to a halt and an older man jumped out, wearing a Civil Guard uniform. Like the Marines and the Imperial Army, the uniform was fairly standard, but where Marines wore their Rifleman’s Tab, the newcomer wore a stylised golden image of Avalon. The Civil Guard, unlike the senior services, owed their loyalty to their homeworld, not the Empire as a whole. There were some quite senior figures who questioned the wisdom of giving so much firepower to people who might not be entirely trustworthy.
“Welcome to Avalon,” he said. He looked rather suspicious, for which Edward could hardly blame him. No one would have informed him, or anyone on Avalon, that the Marines were on their way. No message could have reached them unless it had been carried on the Sebastian Cruz. “I am Major George Grosskopf, the commanding officer of the Avalon Civil Guard.”
“Captain Edward Stalker, Terran Marine Corps,” Edward said, saluting. Technically, he—not George—was the senior officer present, but there was no point in splitting hairs. A bad rapport with the local Civil Guard officer would not make their operations any easier. “I know that all of this was sprung on you at short notice.”
“No one told us that the Governor’s pleas for help had reached Earth,” George said. “The last help we received from the Empire was no help at all.”
Edward studied him, noted the way he held himself, and nodded inwardly. “As a former Imperial Army officer, you have to know that there are too many brushfires for us to put out,” he said, grimly. “My Company is here to help you.”
George surprised him by laughing. “And be content with what we get?” He asked. “That sounds quite like the Empire we all know and love. You’ll be pleased to hear that the Governor wishes to speak with you at once. He doesn’t quite believe that you’re here to stay.”
“Believe it,” Edward said. He’d spent part of the six months in transit studying reports that would not normally have been made available to him. It was hard to think of serving in the Marines as living a sheltered existence—the very idea was absurd—but it was alarmingly clear that the Commandant had, if anything, understated the scale of the Empire’s problems. The entire system seemed to be on the verge of breaking down. Crime was on the rise, trade was falling rapidly and corruption was spreading everywhere. The official news reports were often censored to hide the true scale of the problem, leaving the general public unaware of the growing stresses tearing the Empire apart. Terrorists were mounting isolated attacks against the Core Worlds while, out on the frontier, the Secessionist League was moving from strength to strength. “We may be here to stay for a very long time.”
George was no fool. “They’re going to close the bases then?”
“It looks like it,” Edward confirmed. “If that happens, they’ll abandon a dozen sectors to their fate, including this one. We could be here permanently.”
“I won’t lie and say that I’m not happy to see you,” George admitted. “How many men do you have?”
“Eighty-one, counting the auxiliaries,” Edward said. He was tempted to mention the supplies they’d brought with them, but he didn’t dare discuss them until he knew if George could be trusted or not. A former Imperial Army officer would have a file in the database back on the Sebastian Cruz. “I suppose we’d better not keep the Governor waiting.”
“Eighty-one men,” George repeated. He looked shaken. “We need far more than that, Captain. We need an entire army.”
“We have eighty-one Marines,” Edward said. Pressing auxiliaries into frontline service was frowned upon, but they were thousands of light years from the Slaughterhouse. There was no other choice. “I think that should be enough to make an impression.”
“We’ll see,” George said. He hopped back into the jeep. “Climb aboard, Captain. The Governor won’t wait for us forever.”
Edward allowed Blake and Jasmine to go first, and then followed them into the rear seat. They were all crammed together, but they could all fit, luckily. The jeep’s engine roared to life and the driver turned around, taking them right across another landing pad. Old warnings surfaced in Edward’s mind and he winced—no one on Earth would dare drive across a landing pad—but it was perfectly safe. The Marines would probably break Avalon’s record for shuttle arrivals in a single day.
“We had the indents building the road network from the start,” George explained, as they roared out of the spaceport and down a surprisingly well-maintained road. �
��There are roads running all around the coastline now, linking the cities together, and others reaching up into the hinterlands and towards the badlands. I hoped to have them completed this year, but the bandits or the Crackers keep shooting up the work crews. We also had to start cutting the foliage back from it after they started using it for cover, letting them get a few shots in at our vehicles. It’s a war of nerves and they’re winning it.”
The jeep raced over a bridge, showing Edward a river heading down towards the sea. “We used to have people canoeing on that river, racing up against the current or diving down towards the sea,” George continued. “We still do, sometimes, but mostly people don’t dare in the wake of a few shootings. The damned Crackers are very good at slipping through our defences and spoiling one of the few things that make living on this planet worthwhile.”
Edward said nothing, thinking hard. Clearly, the reports had understated the scale of the trouble on Avalon’s surface. There was no time to pick George’s brains, but he made a mental note to look into it as soon as possible, perhaps detailing Rifleman McDonald to investigate and catch up on what had happened since he’d left his homeworld.
Jasmine asked the obvious question. “Sir,” she said, “is there a chance that we could be shot at, now?”
“I had teams out beating the bushes, so I hope not,” George admitted. He didn’t sound certain of anything, Edward realised. Marine battledress was surprisingly good at absorbing bullet impacts, but his head was uncovered and unprotected. “No one is supposed to know that you arrived in the system, but I doubt that secrecy held. The only thing that moves faster than rumour here is bad news.”
Edward sat back in his seat and tried to relax. The driver was taking them into Camelot now and he concentrated on studying the city, taking in the sights. Parts of it were surprisingly respectable, other parts were little more than slums. It made no sense to him.
“They’re former indents who served their term and were released, or people who lost their farms to their creditors,” George explained, bitterly. “Put a set of ex-indents out on a farm and they’ll be dead in a couple of weeks. Either that, or they’ll make a run for the badlands and we’ll lose them. Some of them get temporary work as workers; others go into prostitution or fall even further into debt. It’s never a pretty sight.”
The jeep was pulling up outside Government House. It was easily the most imposing building in Camelot, although it would have been laughable on Earth. Edward studied it and rolled his eyes. There was a certain mindset that demanded luxury, whatever the cost, and that mindset had designed the building. It was far too elaborate for its value.
“Doubtless,” he said, wishing that he was back on a nice honest battlefield. “Come on. Let’s go meet the Governor.”
CHAPTER 13
The standard form of colonial government—at least in stage one and two colonies—is rule by the Development Corporation. The Corporation appoints a Governor and a law enforcement force, who can be counted upon to enforce the law the ‘right’ way. As time passes, democracy is introduced into the system, with the eventual replacement of the Corporation’s law with a democratic state. If only it worked out so well!
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).
“So,” Linda said. “Those are the famous Marines.”
Governor Brent Roeder didn’t take his eyes off the screen as the Marines stepped into Government House. Two of them looked to be nothing more than soldiers, even though they seemed more lethal than the Civil Guardsmen who were trying to convince them to leave their weapons behind, but the third looked … interesting. He couldn’t say how he knew, yet he was convinced that he was looking at their leader. The other two seemed intent on protecting him at all costs.
“Don’t underestimate him,” George had warned. “He survived the Slaughterhouse and he served as a Captain of Marines for over two years. That means that he has earned the respect of some very dangerous men and women.”
Brent settled back in his chair, feeling his bones ache. The Council had wanted to be included in the first meeting—unsurprisingly, the news about the Marines had leaked out to them within minutes of their arrival—but Brent had dissuaded them as best as he could. He, Linda and George would be the first official representatives of Avalon to meet their new ally. He hoped, despite himself, that the Marine walked away with a good impression of them. It was vitally important that they learned to work together.
His intercom—a locally produced piece of shit, in his considered opinion—buzzed. “Governor, this is Bill from Security,” a voice said. “The Marines are refusing to leave their weapons at the front desk.”
Brent rubbed his forehead, feeling one of his headaches coming on already. He’d banned weapons from Government House after two Councillors had fought a duel in the Council Chamber, over a political argument that had made no sense to anyone else. Government House was the most heavily defended building on Avalon. They should not have been in any danger at all—or so he told himself. It was only a matter of time before the bandits started attacking within the city itself.
“Allow them to keep their weapons,” he said, finally. If he couldn’t trust the Marines, who could he trust? The list of people he trusted completely was depressingly small. “Have them escorted up here as quickly as possible.”
He settled back in his chair and waited. It took four minutes before there was a knock on the door and George stepped in, followed by a tall blonde man wearing a Marine uniform. Brent stood up to greet him, holding out a hand for him to shake, taking the time to study the Marine carefully. Captain Stalker’s bright blue eyes seemed to miss nothing. Brent had the uncomfortable sense that the Captain was used to such reactions and was giving Brent time to study him as much as he wanted. The Marine looked surprisingly average, but there was no weakness in his handshake and his eyes were steady. He might have been sent far from the Core Worlds, far from the centre of power, but there was nothing wrong with him. Or perhaps he was completely wrong. Brent’s life as a civil servant hadn’t prepared him to run a military campaign, let alone judge military officers. It had never been included in the training courses he’d taken as a junior assistant civil servant.
“Captain Edward Stalker reporting, sir,” the Marine said. He had the same kind of briskly formal voice George had, although in his case it was more clipped, more precise. His accent was definitely Old Earth, yet that could mean nothing. Earth was the centre of the Empire’s culture. Everyone who was anyone tried to cultivate an Earth-style accent.
“Ah, thank you for coming,” Brent said, trying to remember what little military protocol he knew. Nothing seemed quite appropriate to this situation. “Please, take a seat. I’m delighted to see you.” He nodded to Linda. “This is my Deputy, Linda.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Captain Stalker said. He shook Linda’s hand. Oddly, he didn’t look at her as a pretty girl, but as just another person. Brent found himself wondering if it was a sign of homosexuality, before realising that Stalker would have been trained to think of everyone as a possible threat first. Or perhaps he was just being polite. Brent sat back down in front of his desk and tried to think of something to say. It wasn’t easy.
“We weren’t expecting you,” he said, finally. “Is there some reason why you were sent to us without any notification?”
Captain Stalker smiled. It was an expression that didn’t quite touch his eyes. “I believe that there are few lines of communications between Earth and Avalon,” he said. “It was decided to dispatch my unit only six months ago. There was simply no time to send you any advance notice of our coming.”
“Well, I’m still glad to see you,” Brent said. “How many Marines do you have on your ship? I believe that it can carry a Division?”
“We have eighty-one Marines,” Captain Stalker said. Brent stared at him, almost not catching his next words. “Part of our remit is to train your Civil Guard to a level where it can cope with open insurgency and warfare.”
“Eighty-one Marines,” Brent repeated, dazed. “How much do you intend to do with just eighty-one Marines?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” Captain Stalker said. There was absolute confidence in his tone. Brent found himself hoping that it was not misplaced. “The Company is the single most powerful military unit in the system. Man for man, my Marines are better than any other armed force in the Empire. I think we can make an impression on the enemy.”
Brent studied him carefully, trying to divine the underlying meaning in his words. It seemed almost as if Captain Stalker was dissembling … and then he realised that dissembling wasn’t something that would come easily to the Marine. It was ignorance. Captain Stalker didn’t realise how bad things were becoming and how soon it would be before the planet became ungovernable. He opened his mouth and closed it again. How could he find the words to explain exactly what was going on to the young man in front of him? And he was young; Captain Stalker showed none of the signs of being rejuvenated in the past. He couldn’t be much older than thirty, if that.
“Captain,” he said, slowly. “Do you have any idea how bad things are here?”
“I haven’t had a complete briefing yet,” Captain Stalker replied, calmly. “I do know, however, that we are effectively stuck out here for a very long time. We may be here for as long as five years. We could spend our time bemoaning how bad things are becoming, or we can start trying to deal with the situation. I prefer to be optimistic.”