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

by Christopher Nuttall

  It had a dark veneer, but he'd seen it before – and studied it at the Slaughterhouse. The gangs – or insurgents – would move in, slowly start chipping away at the organised government and replacing it with their own structures. Resistance would be harshly punished. A few object lessons and the remainder of the population would fall into line. How could they fight back, even with weapons, if they had no idea where to attack, or when a gang attack would be underway? It was clever, devious and almost unstoppable.

  At least until we get a new army trained up, he thought. The Civil Guard was effectively worthless. The five hundred combat effectives wouldn't be able to spread themselves out any more than the Marines could, and the remaining soldiers would be worse than useless. It was the old classical insurgent problem, with a nasty twist. As long as the insurgents were not losing, they were winning...and their victory would put the future of Avalon into the hands of men who had learned their trade in the Undercity, where government was an enemy and might made right. Avalon’s future, although precariously balanced, would be shattered.

  “Show the prisoner out,” he ordered, finally. He’d be kept in the pens until he could be moved to Camelot for his date with destiny. “Check his story with the others and let me know if they can give us more accurate directions.”

  Leaving the interrogation team behind, he walked out of the barn and across to the farmhouse, watching with calm approval as a guard shimmered into existence and checked his ID. Only a platoon of Marines had been left to guard the platoon house, but the area was so isolated that he was fairly certain that any newcomers would be bandits, looking to try to loot the farmhouse. Once word got around as to who had taken it over, there would be no more probes...or perhaps he was deluding himself. If the gangs really wanted to establish a secondary government, one that would eventually separate from Camelot’s authority, they’d have to try to evict the Marines.

  He smiled as he stepped through the door. The farm might have been overgrown, but the former owners had carefully removed all of the trees from the fields and ensured that anyone approaching the farm would be seen easily, even without the network of sensors the Marines had scattered around the area. A KEW or a long-range missile would obliterate the farmhouse and the platoon of Marines guarding it, but there was no reason to believe that the gangs possessed such heavy weapons. The interrogation had suggested that the heaviest weapons they possessed were machine guns and – perhaps – homemade mortars. The gangs on Earth had never been known for their weapons discipline either. Unless they’d learned how to take care of their weapons, they might not have as much firepower as they thought they had.

  “We need to redeploy the forward platoon,” he said, as he entered the briefing room. It had once served as a dining room, but the only trace of the former occupants was a painting someone had left on the wall. No one had had the heart to remove it and so four children, a handsome woman and an ugly man smiled down at the Marines. “We have an approximate location for the enemy base.”

  He glanced down at his timepiece as Gwen unfurled a map on the table. The badlands had never been charted properly, even after the ADC had realised that its enemies used the badlands as a base. The sudden changes in environment made charting it a difficult task at the best of times. A single rainstorm could change everything. It had barely been four hours since they’d destroyed the gang force at Eddisford. How long would it take their leaders to realise that they'd run into something they couldn't handle? If Edward had been running their operation, he would have left someone far back, in a position to watch without being seen. There had been no radio transmissions, but that meant nothing. The gang might know already.

  “Chancy,” Gwen commented. Edward nodded. The badlands couldn't compete with the Slaughterhouse, but he had too few Marines to lose any of them. “A quick raid in and out?”

  “With the Raptors on standby and missile companies set up here,” Edward said, tapping a location on the map. Marines believed in precision operations. If they located the enemy camp, a hail of missiles would soften up the enemy before the Marines moved in for the kill. “Once the operation is underway, contact the Civil Guard; they can move up two of their own companies and cover our backs. Eddisford is going to need additional protection.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gwen said. It had taken time to convince the residents to leave their homes, even if it had been for their own protection. The Civil Guard would have to see to their protection, even if it meant tying down a trustworthy company with the duty. The bandits would certainly try to punish them for their actions. “Will you be leading the operation personally?”

  Every bone in Edward’s body cried out to go forward with his Marines, but he knew he couldn't, not while he was the senior officer. “No,” he said. Gwen knew how much it hurt him to hold back and wait while others went into danger. “I will remain here.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Each planet offers its own peculiarities; its own unique features and problems. No planet can be treated as any other planet, yet the Empire tries to do just that. Thus we are left with the issue of some planets receiving aid they do not need, while others are starved of items they desperately need to survive.

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

  “It's as hot as that girl I fucked back on Capricorn,” Blake commented, through the platoon’s private channel. “This should be a fun place for a rumble.”

  Jasmine snorted, feeling the heat even though the armour. The badlands was, among other things, a suntrap, warming up rapidly until she felt as if she was baking inside her armoured shell. If she had been on her own, out for a relaxing hike around the countryside, she thought that she would have worn only a top and shorts, but she knew that there was danger all around them. The badlands was not a place to grow complacent. The enemy could be anywhere.

  “I remember,” Joe Buckley said, dryly. “Was that the slut who insisted on you paying her first, or the one who wanted your Rifleman’s Tab?”

  “Fuck you,” Blake said, with some feeling. “She really wanted to bag a Marine for some reason.”

  “I guess she wanted to add you to her collection,” Joe said, with an evil chuckle. “She got one Marine who couldn't be bothered to keep his tackle in his trousers. What sort of bragging rights do you think she got?”

  “I’ll have you know that I lasted all night with her,” Blake said, with great dignity. “While you were off chasing that pretty boy in the bar, I was screwing her senseless.”

  “She was already senseless,” Jasmine put in. “She slept with you, didn't she?”

  A dull chuckle ran around the platoon. Despite the banter, the Marines watched their surroundings carefully, wondering when – if – the enemy would make its appearance. The badlands were closing in all around them, hemming them in. The handful of paths within the zone had to be known to the enemy. Jasmine privately suspected that the easiest solution to the problem would be to drop defoliant on the badlands and destroy the vegetation, but the Captain would never agree. The Marines didn't need another stain on their honour.

  Avalon, like many Earth-like worlds, had received the full package of plants and animals from Earth, released out into the wild to compete with the native vegetation. The badlands was a zone of perpetual conflict between old and new, with trees and vines from Earth struggling to survive in ravines and crevices opened up by massive earthquakes, thousands of years ago. A river ran from the Mystic Mountains to the north, running right through the badlands and down to the sea near Camelot, yet no one ever tried to take a boat up the rapids. The badlands and their treachery extended even to the river. The orbital images of the rapids had fascinated her, even though she wasn't fond of boating. Blake and Joe had been talking about taking canoes up there after the war and really testing themselves against nature.

  She glanced ahead as the platoon rotated around in a pattern that – to outside observers – should have been completely random. They were spread out far enough to prevent
a single mine from taking out the entire platoon, yet it worried her. The path they were using was a dry riverbed, yet it could come alive at any moment, if the ground shifted or a well-placed explosive charge broke a river’s banks. The armour should protect them, but no one wanted to test it. Marines didn't get claustrophobic – recruits who were subject to claustrophobia were weeded out at Boot Camp, long before they ever saw the Slaughterhouse – yet Jasmine understood how they must have felt. The trees were closing in. Anything could be lurking, just ahead of them.

  A tiny shape flashed across the path and into the vegetation, moving so fast that she could barely bring her MAG to bear on it. The small creature, no larger than a well-fed hamster, was harmless to armoured humans, but dangerous if it was allowed to bite bare skin. The Chatters – as the early colonists had named them, after the noise they made at night – were poisonous to humans and native wildlife alike. Some locals kept them as pets, training them up, but others put down mouse traps and exterminated them on sight. They were too dangerous to have around small children.

  “Only a tiny critter,” Joe said, as they relaxed. “Now...where were we?”

  “Blake’s one-night stand,” Koenraad reminded him. “I can't remember if we were slapping him on the back or mocking him for it.”

  “Asshole,” Blake said, crossly. He paused for a second, staring up at a very familiar bird staring down at the platoon. The red and yellow parrot eyed them disdainfully before flapping its wings and flying off into the distance. “Jasmine; what did you make of the redhead?”

  It took Jasmine a moment to realise that he meant Mandy Caesius. “A spoilt brat with an attitude problem,” she said, sourly. Chaperoning the Professor might have been interesting, but the older girl had ruined it, just by being herself. “I suggest you concentrate on more interesting girls.”

  “The Captain has to let us out on leave sometime,” Joe put in, seriously. “There has to be a few places in Camelot where Blake can get his ashes hauled.”

  “I didn't see that side of the city,” Jasmine said, before Blake could say anything explosive. “I just saw the wealthy part of it. It felt a lot like Han.”

  Silence fell as the Marines digested that titbit. Blake, Joe and Jasmine had all been new graduates from the Slaughterhouse, settling into their new platoons, when they’d been posted to Han. It had been supposed to be an easy posting, one that would allow them a chance to get settled in before the company was assigned to a more challenging position. Instead, it had been hell incarnate; Han’s autonomous government had been so repressive that when the dam burst, it had washed over everything. They’d found themselves fighting their way out of the capital city and struggling to stay alive until the Empire shipped in reinforcements. Jasmine’s view of war had never been the same.

  But before the rebellion, the NCOs and the Captain – it hadn't been Captain Stalker then, but Captain McClelland – had suspected that something was up. There had been a brittle feeling in the air, as if something was about to break and break hard. There had been a desperation that had washed away all sense of restraint or social conservatism. The newly-minted Marines had enjoyed themselves, little realising that it was the calm before the storm.

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Blake said, finally. Jasmine nodded inside her helmet. “Jesus...if we have to go through that again...”

  “Quiet,” Joe snapped. The platoon snapped instantly to combat awareness. “Mine!”

  Jasmine followed his gaze, seeing the subtle clues marking the location of a hidden minefield. The bandit camp, according to the prisoners they’d interrogated, should be just over the ridge. The presence of the minefield suggested that – for once – intelligence had gotten it right. It wasn't a fair attitude – Jasmine knew that Captain Stalker and trained interrogators had handled the interrogation – but it was one she held close. Back on Han, intelligence had kept assuring everyone that everything was fine, just before the entire planet had exploded into rebellion.

  “I can get through that no bother,” Joe muttered. The Marines were spreading out slowly, testing the minefield with senses honed at the Slaughterhouse. The bandits hadn't been particularly subtle. They’d simply strewn a few hundred mines around their base. With a little care, they could probably find a safe path and slip through the net. “Can I try?”

  “No,” Master Sergeant Gary Young said, firmly. He held a small portable sensor in his hand. “There’s a safe path there” – he pointed – “and we’re going to take out the guard and slip through it. Jasmine...you’re up.”

  Jasmine nodded and crept forward. The guard looked to be half-asleep, which suggested that he wasn't aware of what had happened to the raiding party the Marines had destroyed. She didn't take chances, but kept moving slowly, watching him carefully. The armour’s stealth mode had its limitations and anyone watching closely would notice a slight shimmer in the air.

  Good thing we’re not wearing heavy armour, she thought, grinning inwardly. They’d have heard us coming from miles away.

  The guard sat up suddenly, as if he’d sensed something, but it was too late. Jasmine was on him in a second. One hand clamped over his mouth, stifling a scream, while the other twisted his neck and snapped it like a twig. She held him close until the life had faded from his body, and then carefully lowered him to the ground. The others slipped up beside her and advanced towards the ridge, watching carefully for other ambushes. There were none. She peered over the ridge and smiled inwardly when she saw the bandit camp. It looked as if they’d been hiding tents and even small huts under the foliage. No one would have seen anything from high above. The iron ore and other minerals in the area would disrupt sensors and even Civil Guard communicators.

  She keyed her throat mike with an effort. “Captain; bandit camp located,” she said, knowing that her words were being relayed through a microburst transmitter to one of the orbiting satellites. It was a risk – the enemy would not be able to break the Marine encryption algorithms, but they might well be able to detect that transmissions were being made – yet it had to be taken. “I estimate seventy-plus bandits...”

  Something touched her ear and she winced. “And I hear female screams,” she added. “The camp isn't just inhabited by bandits, sir.”

  “Understood,” Captain Stalker said. Bombarding the camp first was no longer an option. In some ways, it worked in their favour, as they’d have a better chance of catching someone important. “Sergeant Young...?”

  “We can take them, if the Raptors give us some covering fire,” Young said, calmly. He had over forty years of experience in the Marines and had forgotten more than Jasmine and her generation had ever known. “There are three antiaircraft weapons platforms in the camp. We will take them out and then the Raptors can hit their other defences. I’m uploading targeting specs now.”

  Jasmine felt a moment of pity for Captain Stalker. Twenty-one of his Marines were about to assault the enemy...and he was seven kilometres away, back at the platoon house. She’d served as squad leader several times, long enough to know what responsibility meant, and she didn't envy her commander at all.

  “Got them,” Captain Stalker said. “The Raptors are in holding orbits. Tactical command is now yours. Call when you need them.”

  “Lock and load,” Young said. His voice was as calm and steady as ever. “Jasmine, Blake, Sally...take out their heavy weapons. Everyone else; cover them.”

  Jasmine twisted her MAG, selecting the sniper option. The weapon linked into her helmet, with targeting crosshairs appearing in front of her vision, allowing her to target the enemy bandit manning the guns. Her vision focused in on him, showing him laughing and joking with a friend. Her lips twisted in distaste. He showed no sign of discipline at all. The bandits clearly weren't worried about being attacked.

  “Fire,” Young ordered.

  Jasmine squeezed the trigger and the MAG fired a single hypervelocity pellet towards her target. Even if he had heard the shot, and the MAG was silent except at very close ra
nge, he could not have hoped to move in time. Only lasers and plasma cannons were faster than MAG-launched bullets. Her target’s head exploded in a gratifying burst of blood and skull fragments as the bullet spread out on impact, punching right through his head. Jasmine didn't stop to congratulate herself. She switched to the next target and calmly serviced him as well.

  The bandits were caught in a blind, helplessly confused. There were no flashes of gunfire for them to fire back at and no sign of where the Marines were at all. Given time, someone would deduce their location from the firing pattern, but that would require time...the enemy were firing in all directions, as if they hoped to discourage the Marines through sheer firepower. It wouldn’t have worked, not even against the worst Civil Guard unit in existence. The Marines were just too well prepared.