“It might have changed?”
“I left the planet twenty-one years ago,” McDonald admitted. Edward had to admit that he had a point. “My family...my family are all dead. All of my knowledge is twenty-one years out of date.”
Edward strokes his chin, feeling the first bristles of stubble. “I see,” he said, coming to a decision. “You’re welcome to transfer. Report back to Sergeant Patterson and tell her that you’re...assigned to 2nd Platoon, at least until we run through the first training exercises. If you fit in with them, I see no reason why your transfer shouldn't be made permanent.”
“Thank you, sir,” McDonald said.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Edward said. He smiled, thinly. “I intend to pick your brains of everything you know about your former homeworld. If we’re going to be assigned there, I want to know everything about it before we get there.”
“Yes, sir,” McDonald said. “Sir...just what does the Commandant expect us to do on Avalon?”
Any other service wouldn’t have tolerated such a question, but the Marines were different. “He expects us to do our duty,” Edward said, seriously. “We are ordered to deal with pirates, and insurgents and all other threats to the Empire. Who knows where that will take us?”
They shared a long look of perfect understanding. “Report to Sergeant Patterson,” Edward ordered. “She will see to your induction.”
“Yes, sir,” McDonald said. “And thank you.”
Edward smiled as the hatch closed behind the Rifleman. Finding McDonald was a stroke of luck. Avalon wouldn't have changed that much since he’d left his homeworld, not a stage-two colony world. They rarely changed quickly, unless something happened to overthrow the balance. And they always had opportunities, if one were quick to seize them. He checked his timepiece and stood up, snatching his jacket and pulling it over his shirt. There was just time for some exercise in the training bay before he returned to Earth.
Chapter Seven
It is impossible to exaggerate the levels of corruption present at all levels within the Empire. Senators routinely accept bribes from contractors; civil servants frequently steal or ‘mislay’ vital supplies for their own purposes; military officers cheat their men of their wages, or vital training hours...it is a problem so deeply rooted within the Empire that it may be impossible to even begin to eradicate it. And yet, just by existing, corruption breeds corruption; juniors see their seniors feeding from the trough and wonder...why can't they do the same? The answer is, always, that they can.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).
Jasmine followed Lieutenant Howell out of the aircar and down onto the steps in front of the Supply Corps headquarters. She wasn't particularly surprised to see that the Supply Corps had built themselves a massive and elaborate building, almost a palace among the duller buildings belonging to other sections of the armed forces. The pair of Civil Guardsmen on duty took one look at the two Marines and winced. The Marines, wearing full battledress and carrying their assault rifles slung over their shoulders, were hellishly intimidating.
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 hangover 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 coul
d 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…wel
l, 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.”
The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps Page 7