by Jay Allan
“Understand; this is a life sentence. You have proved that you cannot be trusted in a civilised world. What you make of your life now is up to you. Form a community or kill each other, as you please. We will not interfere. Good luck.”
The image vanished. Lucas stared at where it had been, and then looked down at the supplies. Were there really enough of them to create a prosperous settlement? Or would they kill each other instead? Perhaps they’d end up fighting over the women. There were at least three men to each woman. And how long would the Knives accept his authority, now he’d led them to ruin?
He shook his head and opened the first box. Who knew? Perhaps there was a way off the island after all.
-o0o-
“That’s them all dumped on Hell Island,” Gwen reported. “The Raptors are on their way home now.”
“Good,” Edward said. He looked over at Leo. “It’s time to see just how clever we were.”
Gwen frowned. “Sir,” she said. “Are you sure that this is wise?”
“I think it’s our best hope for peace,” Edward said. “The Crackers took a blow, but they’re an insurgency based around the cell system and we didn’t identify them all. The rest of them will regroup and in a few years, we’ll just be back at square one. We have a window of opportunity and I don’t intend to waste it. The Grand Senate may scream, if they can be bothered to care about a poor world six months from Earth, but … the punishment for that will only land on my head.”
Gwen didn’t look convinced, but she nodded reluctantly. “Bring in the prisoner,” Edward ordered. “It’s time to see how well she lives up to her own words.”
-o0o-
Gaby sat on a bench in her prison cell, waiting. The Marines had been surprisingly civilised about holding her prisoner, but they had been very firm. She’d been taken to a different room, drugged and interrogated, and then returned to her cell, several times. The effects of the drugs had taken their toll, including making her lose track of time. She had no idea how long she’d been in the cell, yet she was convinced that it hadn’t been very long. They’d certainly treated her better than she’d treated Blake Coleman.
The door opened and a pair of Marines arrived, wearing the same featureless black armour that they always wore. One of them beckoned her to her feet and they escorted her out of the cell. They didn’t bother to cuff or shackle her, a gesture of contempt; there was no way she could escape from even a single armoured Marine. There wasn’t even any dignified way she could offer resistance. They led her through a series of featureless corridors and finally pushed her into a room. It wasn’t the standard interrogation chamber; it had a table, three glasses of water and two men sitting, waiting for her. One of them stood up and held out a hand. She recognised him.
“Captain Stalker,” she said, taking his hand out of habit. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but the Marine Captain was impressive, even if he didn’t have quite the same striking appearance as Blake Coleman had had. She reminded herself, as she was waved into a chair, that he commanded the respect of some very dangerous men and women and warned herself not to underestimate him. She had no idea why he had called her, but she doubted that it was good news. “What can I do for you?”
“You will be pleased to know that we recovered Rifleman Coleman from the farmhouse you had converted into a prison,” Captain Stalker said. His voice held traces of an Earth-accent, but they were fading into the melange of Avalon’s dialect. “Thank you for not abusing him.”
Gaby felt oddly relieved. She’d come to respect Blake Coleman, even if they had been enemies. “We tried to treat him decently,” she said, with a flash of guilt. They’d treated him as they had to prevent him from escaping … and few reasonable men would have called that decent. “I’m glad to hear that he is alive.”
Captain Stalker leaned forward. “You were interrogated quite heavily, as you know,” he said. “We know that you were reluctant to move ahead with Operation Headshot and that you didn’t intend to cause so many civilian casualties. We also know that you wanted to try to seek a peace deal before continuing the war. Do you still want to try to create a peace?”
Gaby snorted. “I’m in prison,” she said. “What do you think I can do to create peace?”
Captain Stalker smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that touched his eyes. “We have an offer for you,” he said. “The Council has been disbanded … and its corrupt members have been dealt with. Their possessions, including the debts they owned, have been claimed by the Government. It is our intention to simply forgive those debts. There is no way that they could ever be repaid and they just kept the planet down, preventing the development of a proper industry. Keeping them serves no useful purpose.”
“I see,” Gaby said. Desperate hope warred with fear in her breast. “You do realise that that will give the right to vote to the entire adult population? Avalon will become an autonomous world.”
“I do,” Captain Stalker said. His smile grew wider. “I understand that that was what you were fighting for all along?”
“ … Yes,” Gaby said.
“So we have an offer for you,” Captain Stalker said. “You get what you want; we get, in exchange, the end of the war. There will no longer be any reason for the Crackers to exist and fighting the Government…”
“We will be part of the government, if the elections are fair,” Gaby pointed out. “Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
“I read the transcripts of your interrogation,” Captain Stalker said. “I know that you meant every word. I suspect that not all Crackers share your … idealism, but it’s a start. Anyone who wants to carry on the fight after winning the war can be … dealt with.”
Gaby frowned. “It sounds wonderful,” she said. Captain Stalker chuckled. “And what happens when the sector capital says that you’ve overstepped your authority?”
“The blame will fall on my shoulders,” Captain Stalker said, firmly. He met her eyes squarely. “I don’t know how all of this is going to work out. There’s a lot of hatred on both sides, a lot of relatives wanting revenge for the dead. The peace may be broken within the year. We may not even be able to create a new Council by the time war breaks out again. But if we don’t try, we’ll never know.”
He held out a hand. “So,” he said. “Are you going to join us?”
Gaby took his hand. “We can, but try,” she agreed. She felt an odd flicker of … attraction deep inside, something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since she’d been pushed into a leadership position. “Welcome to Avalon, Captain.”
-o0o-
Afterwards, Edward watched as the three Raptors lifted off from Castle Rock, transporting the remaining Cracker prisoners back to the mainland, where they would be dropped off outside Camelot itself. Gaby would be going with them to pass on the message that the war could end and that the Crackers had won. Or, at least, they’d been offered what they’d claimed to be fighting for. Who knew how it would all end up?
“You took a risk,” Leo observed. “Is it really worth it?”
Edward shrugged. “This is the fourth rebellion I’ve been involved in,” he admitted. “They always get worse the longer they are allowed to drag on. Both sides decide to commit atrocities at will. If we can end this one now … it’s worth taking the chance. If not, the Crackers will be facing a united population and little support at home.”
He smiled. “And who knows?” He added. “It may all work out.”
EPILOGUE
Two months after the elections, an Imperial Navy destroyer appeared in the Avalon System. It waited long enough to confirm IFF signals with the orbital station, and then transmitted a long and encrypted message into the planetary communications network, before turning and heading back out towards the Phase Limit. It ignored all attempts to hail it and left the system before the message could be decrypted. It wasn’t encrypted according to any of the Empire’s standard codes.
On Castle Rock, Edward downloaded the message into his private termin
al and, after disconnecting the terminal from the main network, inserted the golden cross that Major General Jeremy Damiani had given him, through Leo. His hunch paid off and the message unscrambled itself, revealing hundreds of terabytes worth of data … and a single recorded message. Puzzled, Edward tapped the key and opened the record. A moment later, Damiani’s face appeared in front of him.
“Captain Stalker,” Damiani said. There was a flat tone to his voice that was curiously unlike him. It was odd to realise that the message had been created and transmitted during the fighting against the bandits. Earth didn’t know, yet, that he’d concluded peace with the Crackers, or that he’d created a new government. “I’m afraid I have bad news.
“As we talked about the last time we met, the Empire has finally made some hard decisions about funding,” he continued. “I’m afraid that they’re pulling the Imperial Navy out of both the Trafalgar and Midway Fleet Bases; Midway, in particular, which should supply Avalon with Imperial Navy support, should it be required. The assistance of some of my friends”—he held up a golden cross identical to the one he’d given Edward—“has proved insufficient to convince the Imperial Navy to swing a ship through the Avalon System to recover you, or other units scattered along the Rim. By the time you receive this message, Captain, the Imperial Navy will be shutting down Midway and placing the base’s components into long-term storage. Certain Admirals believe that they will be back within the next decade, but I would be astonished if that were true. I think that these cuts are only the beginning.
“I don’t have to spell the consequences out for you. This message includes the final Marine Intelligence report on the sectors near Avalon, with what units we believe to have been abandoned and cut off by the Grand Senate. I suspect that the Secessionists will move in rapidly and try to pick up the pieces; the systems are already facing a colossal rise in piracy and related activities. We’re not sure if the Grand Senate has bothered to inform local governments about the funding cuts and the closed bases—I had to call in a lot of favours to get this message to you—but I think that as the realisation sinks in that they’ve been abandoned, the results are unlikely to be pleasant. Just how much you tell the Avalon Government about this is up to you. I’m sorry to dump all this on your shoulders, but I have been left with no choice.
“I’ve also included your promotion to Colonel,” he concluded. Edward winced at the shame in the Major General’s voice. “I’ll try and get other support out to you, but it’s not going to be easy. All I can do is wish you luck.”
An hour later, Edward convened a meeting of the new Planetary Council.
“I decrypted the message,” he said, grimly. “I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
His gaze moved from face to face. “The Grand Senate has spoken,” he continued. “They’re pulling out of this sector. We’re on our own.”
----o0o----
About the Author
Christopher G. Nuttall http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall
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All Comments Welcome!
-o0o-
Other Books By Christopher G. Nuttall THE EMPIRE’S CORPS
Book One: The Empire’s Corps
Book Two: No Worse Enemy
Book Three: When The Bough Breaks
Book Four: Semper Fi
Book Five: The Outcast
Book Six: To The Shores
Book Seven: Reality Check
Book Eight: Retreat Hell
Book Nine: The Thin Blue Line (Coming Soon)
Find Christopher’s Books on Amazon
BONUS!
“Blake Coleman Goes Back To School”
A Short Story
From: Lieutenant Jenifer Stark, Internal Affairs
To: Colonel Edward Stalker, Terran Marine CO
Colonel.
I have attached a transcript of the ‘lecture’ given by Rifleman Blake Coleman during his visit to Camelot High School, two days ago. (Comments made by the children have been edited out.) Several school administers have filed complaints on the grounds that Rifleman Coleman’s remarks were ‘inappropriate’ and unsuited for young children. I believe that we may have a case for disciplinary action against Coleman and would therefore appreciate your permission to have him questioned prior to filing formal charges.
Hi, everyone, my name is Blake and I’m supposed to tell you young and impressionable minds what it’s like to be a Marine. This is an impossible task, because none of you have any real experience of high-intensity combat. What? You’ve taken exams? I bet you didn’t get blown to pieces when you lost? Have your comrades mourn you while slimy fat-arsed pollutions—yes, I know it’s pronounced politicians—make hay out of your deaths?
Your dad smacks you if you get less than a B? At least he gives a damn about your schooling. My father used to say I’d be out of the door the moment I turned sixteen and to hell with Imperial Law. They always said I’d go to hell, so I went to the Slaughterhouse. I no longer fear hell because I have marched through the Slaughterhouse and passed the Crucible with flying colours. The devil wets himself whenever another Marine dies because one day there will be enough of us in Heaven to storm the gates of hell and free the captives souls.
Anyway … so, being a Marine. You wake up in the morning with someone screaming at you to GET THE BLEEP OUT OF BED, YOU LAZY BEEP. No, they don’t actually say BEEP, I’m just trying to edit out some of the words they actually use. I don’t want people claiming I taught you how to swear. What? Your dad says fuck all the time? Well … fuck! Um … I think your teacher is looking at me as though she wants to paddle me, so I think I better hadn’t say fuck any more.
So we get kicked out of bed and chased ten miles from the barracks to wherever they’re serving food at the time. The catering course is the hardest MOS—that’s a Military Operational Speciality—in the Marine Corps. It must be, because no one has ever actually passed it. We get served scrambled eggs, meat and fish that look like they’ve been fed to a group of seagulls and then vomited up before they’re fed to us. And we have to endure dirty looks from the cooks whenever we ask for some more. I once drew a picture of Mr. Bumble on the cookhouse door and they were NOT amused. The CO yelled at us all for hours afterwards, but he was trying not to smile as he demanded to know who was responsible for the picture. I could tell.
Mr. Bumble? He’s that fat guy from Oliver Twist. You know, the evil geezer on a colony world who took in a few hundred orphan kids and fed them on bread, water and gruel. That’s a better diet than we had on some of our postings, let me tell you. I recall a day when it was so hot we were pissing in old bottles, just to try to keep the stink under control. Along comes the CO and he takes one of the bottles and drinks it! Yes, it was pretty yucky, but we were in the middle of a war zone so we just pissed ourselves laughing. The CO saw the funny side, yet I couldn’t help noticing we were all volunteered for something called Operation Certain Death shortly afterwards. Luckily for us, it wasn’t.
So we stuff our faces with crappy food, then get chased by the Sergeants to the Rifle Range, where were are expected to make perfect scores every damn time. It’s nothing like the range you use in the school, let me tell you. We have holographic targets and everything, then we go into the Shooting House, where we’re meant to practice house-to-house combat against a ton of enemy holograms and civilians. You shoot one civilian and the Sergeants beast you from one end of the training ground to the other; you shoot two or more and the CO calls you into his office for a little chat. And by a little chat I mean a lecture that can be heard for miles around.
Between you and me, someone told us that a few of the civilian holograms have been caught having … err, engaging in adult situations. But I’ve never seen one, so I think it’s just a rumour the brass started to keep us enthusiastic about cha
rging into the Shooting House. They’re wasting their time, really. If we weren’t brave or stupid enough to advance into danger, we would never have joined the Marines. We’d have joined the Catering Corps instead and spent our time killing our own men by poisoning them.
What? You think us making jokes about them is why they don’t like us? But it’s their own stupid fault for serving us awful food. I’ve never met anything the Catering Corps can’t ruin, with a little help from their superiors. We’re lucky, really; our commanders all came up from the ranks, so they know the score. I once knew an Imperial Army unit that starved to death on garrison duty because one of their senior officers pocketed the money that was meant to feed them, while they were given strict orders not to buy anything from the locals. And then the brass wondered why the garrison practically went over to the enemy. We had to go in and bust heads just to get that sector back under control.
Kids, here’s a tip for you. Never join the Imperial Army unless you have a chance of becoming an officer. The common soldiers are in more danger from their commanders than they are from the enemy. Half the sergeants couldn’t find their own asses without a map and … oh, god; don’t get me started on the dangers of allowing a lieutenant access to a map. It’s a safe bet that whatever way he chooses will be the wrong way. The only time I ever heard of a non-Marine green LT taking his men in the right direction was when he was trying to desert. He ended up accidentally making a smashing frontal attack on the enemy rear and got the Medal of Honour, which is awarded for what we call Extreme Cleverness in the Face of the Enemy. And he still deserted. This time, he must have solved the riddle of map-reading, for he made it out. The bastard.