The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps

by Christopher Nuttall

  “It’s really something,” Edward agreed. Despite himself, he liked the crusty young-old academic. The man didn’t deserve what had happened to him. “Take a seat and brace yourself.”

  The psychologists had insisted that every starship had to have some form of observation blister, even the ones that never went outside their home system. Edward had little time for headshrinkers – it was his experience that no civilian headshrinker really understood the military – but he had to admit that they probably had a point. Having a viewport out into the outside universe was good for morale. On the bigger ships, there was even a strictly regular schedule for spending an hour or so gazing out at the stars. When starships were flying in convoy, it was possible to see them all and even wave to observers in their blisters.

  “Here we go,” he said. “Brace for impact…”

  The stars seemed to leap forward, suddenly becoming agonisingly bright, just before the blister went brilliant white. The light faded – in a sense, it had never been there – revealing a tunnel of light, seemingly speeding away into the distance. It was an optical illusion more than anything else, or so Edward had been told, but it was still spectacular. He peered forward into the shimmering light, trying to make out the shape of the two destroyers, but they were hidden somewhere in the glare.

  “My God,” Leo said. He sounded shaken. “We just cracked the light barrier.”

  “Yep,” Edward said, happily. “Next stop; Avalon.”

  Leo nodded, pulling himself to his feet. “As I understand it, there is no way that we can get a message back to Earth now,” he said. “Is that correct?”

  Edward blinked, but nodded. “Not until we get to Avalon and send a message back with a starship,” he confirmed. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was told to wait until we were out of contact before speaking to you,” Leo said. He dug through his pockets and produced a golden cross. “The Commandant wanted me to give this to you once you were beyond recall.”

  Edward took it and stared down at it, puzzled. It was a simple golden Christian cross, nothing else. It meant nothing to him. His religion was the Marine Corps. He’d never been raised to follow any particular religious belief. The cross felt light, almost fragile, in his hand, yet he was perversely sure that it would be very hard to destroy.

  “Thank you, I guess,” he said. “Did he say why?”

  Leo reached for the cross and turned it over, pointing to a tiny indent at the bottom. “See?”

  “I see,” Edward said. The cross held a cunningly-disguised code key. An encrypted message, coded by a given algorithm would be impossible for anyone else to decrypt. They were illegal outside the government and military and, even for a Marine Captain, possessing one would raise questions. Very uncomfortable questions. “Why…?”

  “He said that he might be in touch,” Leo said. He keyed the hatch and it hissed open. “Good luck, Major.”

  Chapter Nine

  With only a handful of exceptions, the majority of colony worlds established during the Fourth Expansion Period were intended as profit-making enterprises. The founding company (Development Corporation) intended to use its position to permanently milk the colonists for profit, even though this was not always particularly onerous. However, as the Empire’s financial problems worsened, the various development corporations have found themselves forced to squeeze their vassals harder, setting off a chain of decline. The results have not been pleasant.

  - Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

  The seven helicopters roared out of the morning sunlight, sinking rapidly towards the small township in the distance. Four of them broke off and established a patrol pattern around the town; the other three continued to descend, the crews rapidly lowering lines towards the ground. A number of black-suited figures rapidly rappelled down towards the ground, scrambling down in fear of hostile gunfire. A transport helicopter was never so vulnerable as when it was unloading troops. No incoming fire disturbed the morning and the troops breathed a sigh of relief.

  Major George Grosskopf breathed in the morning air as his close-protection detail spread out around him. The small township might look quiet and innocent, but an experienced eye could tell that that was deceptive. Kirkhaven Township had only been established five years ago and the inhabitants had barely succeeded in taming the surrounding area and farming the land. The entire town should have been alive with people – men going to the farms, children laughing as they headed to school – and their absence was indicative of trouble. The whole area was quiet.

  It’s too quiet, he thought, as the two companies of Civil Guardsmen spread out further, walking towards the town with weapons raised and ready. The local Police Constable – a fancy name for a man who was effectively a part-time representative of law and order – had missed his daily call and no amount of effort by Camelot had succeeded in raising anyone else from the town. Avalon’s planetary communications network was primitive – it would have been a laughing stock on any other stage-two colony world – but the man had been careful to always place his call. The sudden silence suggested that someone had attacked the town. So close to the badlands, it was far too easy to guess just who had attacked – and why.

  “I'm getting live feed from the drones now,” Captain Yale said. Unlike George, he wasn’t former military; he’d spent his entire career in the Civil Guard. It hadn't prepared him for action so far from Camelot and civilisation, such as it was on Avalon. Like far too many of the other recruits, he’d joined up on the promise of three square meals a day. Still, he’d mastered some of the lingo and showed promise. “They’re not picking up anyone within the town.”

  “Send three platoons in to investigate and warn them not to get complacent,” George ordered. Avalon’s Civil Guard had never been lavishly equipped, even after local production lines had started to produce homebuilt weapons. The drones were third or fourth-generation military surplus, probably originally owned by a third-rate regiment from the Imperial Army. Their sensors were hardly modern mil-grade systems. “The enemy could have left a trap in place to hurt us when we arrived.”

  The Guardsmen didn't need telling twice. They were all veterans of the simmering war that was being fought out for Avalon’s future and, even though they lacked proper training, they had learned from experience. They slipped into the village, keeping well away from anything that could serve as a trap, or hide an improvised explosive device. The rebels, bandits and terrorists who hid out in the badlands had set up their own production plants, converting an astonishing variety of civilian produce into weapons and explosives. The Civil Guard could barely keep a lid on the violence. Indeed, although the Governor would never admit it, several provinces were effectively under the control of the enemy.

  George followed his men as they checked out the various domiciles, wincing inwardly at the frail shacks many of the town’s populace had had to use. There was no shortage of wood or stone near the town, but apart from the early settlers, few of the town’s population had proper homes. He saw a wooden barracks block in the distance and scowled. It was a fitting irony that the indents, the town’s local work gang of imported criminals from Earth, had better accommodation than most of the free population. The indents themselves had probably not appreciated it. They’d all been minor criminals from Earth and they’d never worked a day of hard labour in their lives until they reached Avalon. Revolts and small mutinies were not uncommon.

  But the township had been improving, he told himself, as they finally found a row of new-built homes. They’d been built from stone, suggesting that the locals had finally started to mine for stone and use it to improve their lot. The official policy of the local government was to force the new settlers to become as self-sufficient as possible, even though it meant many of them suffering until they built proper homes and learned to till the fields, a policy that long history encouraged. It didn't make it any easier to watch generations of settlers making the same mistakes time and time again. There w
ere times when George wondered if the Crackers had a point; after all, it would be fairly simple to assist the colonists to prevent them from making the same old mistakes. He caught sight of a simple wooden church and smiled inwardly. The influence of the Reformed Church of Christ the Pacifist, which had purchased ten percent of the original ADC stock, had ensured that their priests always had good homes. It was official policy.

  George had been on Avalon – and a hundred other worlds before it – to know just how badly life was screwed up on the frontier, courtesy of people back on Earth or the Core Worlds who didn't have the slightest idea of what life was really like. The Cracker Rebellion would never have happened if the ADC had treated the settlers as anything other than human cattle, while the ongoing simmering war could be brought to an end if the Governor had made some basic concessions to the rebels. The vast majority of the Crackers, at least, would be happy if the more idiotic regulations were withdrawn and the planetary government became more accountable to the population. It wasn't going to happen. Over a century of mismanagement, first by the ADC and then by the Empire, had seen to that. It was easy to be cynical.

  “Major,” Sergeant Evens called. He was one of the few Guardsmen who, like George himself, had some military experience. George kept a sharp eye out for new settlers with military experience and tried to convince them to join the Civil Guard. The locals were either enthusiastic and inexperienced, or corrupt. “You need to come and look at this now.”

  The warehouse sat on one edge of the town, a testament to the power of political lobbies back at Camelot. Every township was supposed to send a certain level of foodstuffs back to the main cities, yet it would be years before Kirkhaven started to produce enough food to pay the tax. It hadn't mattered. The warehouse had been built – of modern materials, naturally – and left empty until it was time to start filling it with supplies. The town’s council had petitioned to be allowed to use it for other affairs, but the planetary government had refused. It was their warehouse and that was the end of it. No one in power cared what a bunch of hicks near the badlands thought. George strode towards it, suddenly aware of an unpleasant smell drifting towards his nostrils, and shuddered. The smell was becoming alarmingly familiar.

  “Here,” Evens said. He was a short man with an air of calm competence. He’d been in the Imperial Army for just over seven years before being discharged without cause, at least according to his service record. George had kept a sharp eye on him, just in case he’d been discharged for a criminal offence, but over the years he had relaxed his vigil. Evens had given him no grounds for suspicion. “Look what they did, sir.”

  It was dark inside the warehouse – the lighting elements seemed to have failed – but the Guardsmen had brought torches with them. George unhooked his from his belt and shone it ahead of him, recoiling at the sight. The town’s missing population lay in front of him, piled on top of one another, their hands bound tightly behind their backs and their throats slit. Blood had poured down, pooling on the ceramic floor, washing against the waterproof walls. He fought down the urge to vomit – the younger inexperienced Guardsmen were throwing up helplessly – and staggered backwards. Whoever had done that, he vowed, would pay. If – when – they were caught, they would discover the true meaning of hate.

  “Organise a work party,” he ordered. His voice sounded strange to his ears. “No; organise two work parties. One to get the bodies out and into the light; the other is to start digging graves in the fallow field. Get to it now!”

  His men, stung by his tone, started to work. It took nearly an hour to get the bodies out and place them in the open, but it didn't take that long to realise that only half of the town’s population had been murdered and abandoned. The township had– officially – a population of over seven hundred souls. There were only three hundred and seventeen bodies in the warehouse. Most of them were male. There were no children and only a handful of women.

  “Around three hundred and fifty people completely unaccounted for,” Sergeant Evens reported. His terminal contained a complete database of the town’s population – at least, a complete database of those who had registered with the government. George knew, as well as anyone else, that there were thousands of people who had simply dropped off the system, or had never been on it in the first place. “Two hundred and seventy of them are young women between the ages of sixteen and forty. Forty of them are male indents. The remainder are young children, born to the townspeople or brought in with their parents. There may well be more children who were never registered.”

  George scowled bitterly. Avalon had had rare promise when the first settlers started to land, lured by the ADC’s promises of cheap land and shares in the growing system economy. If the ADC hadn't run into stormy economic waters, it might even have kept its promises, but instead it had been reduced to trying to extract as much from its settlers as possible. Debts that should have been paid off within ten years had been extended and passed on from father to son. Children had been born, registered with the government and discovered that they were heirs to a growing debt. The unregistered children suffered no such handicap. God alone knew how many free settlements there were out in the badlands, or simply miles from any official settlement. As they grew up, they knew that they would be cheated, that they would be slaves forever...why the hell should they not rebel? The only thing that kept most of the townships and settlers in line was the threat of overwhelming force.

  The irony might almost have been amusing, under other circumstances. If the settlers had registered their children, the Civil Guard would have known who to look for, but instead they’d never know if they’d recovered all the children or not. The bandits would probably bring them up as bandits themselves, or sell the children into slavery themselves. The missing indents suggested that the bandits had been former indents too, rather than Crackers. They’d probably attacked the town, freed their fellows and slaughtered the population.

  “Start putting them in the grave,” he said. The settlers deserved better than a mass grave where they had once placed their hopes and fears, but there was nothing else he could do for them. A more developed world would have summoned a forensic team, but there was no point on Avalon. Cataloguing the full depths of the atrocity was pointless. “I have to make a report to the Governor.”

  He headed back towards the helicopters, staring towards the mountains rising up in the distance. They might get lucky. The bandit gangs were hated and feared by the civilian population, unlike the Crackers. The Crackers could count upon a friendly reception almost anywhere. The bandits would be shot at on sight. Who knew – perhaps the Crackers would encounter the bandits and dispose of them. Stranger things had happened.

  The radio buzzed with static as he keyed it and began to make his report. Like everything else on Avalon, it was either built in an inferior factory on the planet or imported second-hand from the Empire. George was morally certain that the Crackers, at least, had developed the ability to listen in on their communications, but there was no other alternative. The planet-wide datanet – intended to link all the settlements into a coherent whole – was a joke. The Crackers, no doubt, had infiltrated that too.

  ***

  Two hundred miles to the south, Governor Brent Roeder stood in his office, looking down towards the blue ocean and the harbour that the early colonists had constructed. The ADC’s original plans for settling Avalon had placed a high priority on developing a maritime transport network, linking the three continents together without having to import much in the way of heavy lifting craft from outside the system. It hadn't worked out as well as they’d hoped – settlement on the other two continents had barely begun – but he had to admit that sailing was one of the few perks of living on Avalon. Local fishermen had been quick to start building sailing boats and setting off to challenge the waves; Brent himself had even learned to love sailing on a natural boat, so different from a starship or a shuttle. It almost made up for his posting.

  Avalon’s exact po
litical state was a mess, thanks to his two predecessors. Not a day went by when Brent didn't curse them in seven different languages, for whatever lofty ambitions they had, they had never realised just how fragile the entire planet actually was. The first Governor – appointed after the ADC had lost control of the planet, after the Cracker Rebellion – had tried to crack down hard on the semi-independent settlements, including banning the private ownership of guns. He had been – quite reasonably – concerned about another rebellion, but the settlers had simply ignored the order. The wild animals that roamed the interior of the continent thought of humanity as just another species of game. No one in their right mind wanted to come face-to-face with a Gnasher armed only with a knife. The Civil Guard had completely failed to carry out his orders. The second Governor had been worse. He’d tried to make political concessions and had managed to create a Planetary Council, without ever considering the implications. The settlers had known all along that the game was rigged. The second Governor had rubbed their noses in it. The results had not been pleasant.