“This is Stalker,” he said, keying the wristcom. Gwen wouldn't have interrupted the meeting unless it was something truly important...and, after years of working with her, he trusted her judgement. Anything she couldn't handle herself had to be bad. “The area is clear; report.”
He smiled at his own words. Kitty had told him, just before the Governor had returned to his office and greeted him formally, that she’d pulled no less than nine bugs out of the room. They had all been late-generation military-grade tech, which raised the question of where they had come from and who had emplaced them in the room...and why? No; the answer to that was obvious. Edward had learned the value of good intelligence over the years and it was too much to expect that the Council would have failed to learn the same lesson.
“Sir,” Gwen said, “we have a problem.”
Edward winced. The last time Gwen had spoken in that tone, it had been to inform him that the Company was being sent into action against the Nihilists, without proper protection or support. It never boded well.
“Understood,” he said, harshly. “What’s happened?”
“Rifleman Blake Coleman has failed to make his scheduled check with his platoon,” Gwen said. It wasn't – quite – going AWOL, but under the circumstances it was definitely a chewing out offence. “I attempted to raise him on his implanted communicator and received no response.”
Edward swore. A communicator implant was impossible to ignore, unless a Marine had been so badly sedated that they would sleep through anything. He had bitter memories of being woken up after he’d picked up a girl for the night and being ordered back to his station, after some military emergency had broken out. If Blake Coleman had found a girl and gone to bed with her, it would have been a minor matter; ignoring his communicator was not. There was only one circumstance in which a Marine would be unable to reply...and that boded ill.
“Ping his communicator and get a location,” he ordered. The implanted communicator would send back a signal and a DF system would track him down. “Once you find him...”
“I tried,” Gwen said, sharply. “There was no response from his communicator at all.”
He’s been abducted, Edward thought, in horror. If Blake had been unconscious or even dead, his communicator would still have been able to send back a location pulse. He had to be somewhere where a communication’s signal couldn’t reach, which meant that he was in a secure room...or a travelling compartment. Either way, this wasn't a random kidnap, but a carefully-planned assault.
“Recall all of the Marines on leave and get them to confirm their locations,” he ordered. “Scramble the alert team from the spaceport – armour and all – and get them ready to go after him as soon as we track him down. Start looking at the last place we found him and...no, belay that; get his platoon mates to accomplish that. They’ll be more motivated to find him.”
“Yes, sir,” Gwen said. “I’ll deal with it right away.”
“I’m on my way now,” Edward said. If nothing else, it would provide a distraction from worrying about the Council. A direct attempt to abduct a Marine was hardly their style. It was far more likely that it was the other enemy faction. “Get in touch with the Civil Guard and start looking at how they might try to take him out of the city. We have to get him back before they take him to the badlands or even the outlying farms.”
He mentally skimmed through the map of Camelot he’d memorised. There were only four roads heading out of the city. Perhaps they could set up roadblocks in time to be effective. He’d never had one of his people abducted before, but he knew the theory – and the Empire’s policies on hostages. If they couldn’t recover Blake Coleman in time, he would be deemed as expendable...
“Not on my watch,” he vowed, checking his weapons. His bodyguard was downstairs, waiting for him. “Not this time.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The first twenty-four hours of a kidnap/hostage situation are always the worst. The kidnappers will want to get their hostage to a safe and secure location from where they can bargain for their hostage’s life. The security forces, by contrast, will have the greatest chance of picking up a lead and locating the hostage before the kidnappers have a chance to make a clean break. This ensures that both sides are in a high state of nervousness and the hostage may be killed if one side panics.
-Major-General Thomas Kratman (Ret), A Civilian’s Guide to the Terran Marine Corps
“Jesus, look at the size of him,” Carl said, as he came into the room. “My masculinity is so threatened.”
“Big guy too,” Janice agreed. She wasn't looking at his height. “How did it feel going in?”
“Shut up and get the coffin in here,” Felicity snapped. She was going to endure a lot of good-natured ribbing from the other Crackers for sleeping with a Marine, even though she hadn't had much choice in the matter. She had lured him to her apartment with the promise of sex and seeing he had inconsiderately failed to collapse before things could get that far, she’d had to go through with it. It was hardly the worst thing she’d done for the cause...and, besides, he hadn't been all that bad in bed. “Hurry!”
Carl nodded and opened the door, pulling in the massive metal box, clearly marked USED FOOD. For some reason, the Council had ruled that any spare food from the Farmer’s Market had to be returned to the farms, rather than simply handed out to the poor or used as fertiliser near the city. It was yet another thing the Crackers intended to change, but for once it worked in their favour. Struggling, sweating and cursing, they moved the Marine’s colossal body into the box and sealed the lid.
“Done,” Janice announced, as she put a padlock on the coffin and locked it tight. Street thieves sometimes tried to steal the leftover food and had to be dissuaded, particularly now. The thought of one of them stealing the entire box and opening it, only to discover a comatose Marine, made Felicity smile. It would be rather less funny if he was awake at the time. “Come on.”
Picking up the coffin, even between the three of them, wasn't easy, but somehow they managed to get it down the stairs to the van waiting outside. It was a local model, hired out – at exorbitant rates, of course – to one of the more distant farms, one run by a family who owed allegiance to the Wilhelm Family. If the Marines managed to trace their lost comrade that far the family – who had managed to alienate the entire district – would have to answer some tough questions from the Marines. It wouldn't be a pleasant experience for them.
“Get the van doors open,” Carl ordered. Julia, who was barely twelve years old and undersized for her age, got out of the van and leapt to open the door. The thinking had been that a preteen girl would help divert suspicion away from them, although Felicity hadn't been convinced of the value of her presence. The Civil Guard could normally be bribed to allow the van to pass without being inspected – although, after the big shake up a few days ago, even that was in doubt – but the Marines wouldn't be fooled. Julia might end up in a detention camp for small kids, even if they had to build it just for her.
Getting the coffin into the van was hard enough, but finally they managed to shove it into place. Felicity stepped into the rear of the van and picked up a small spray, using it to stink out the van. It wasn't an unpleasant smell to someone who had been born on a farm, but someone who was from the city who smelled it would recoil in disgust. It would certainly discourage an inspector from attempting to open the box. Her mind slipped to the makeshift weapons hidden inside the van and she winced. If the inspectors did try to open the van, the Crackers would have to take them out quickly and brutally...and that might be impossible.
The van’s engine roared to life as she slipped into her seat. Carl took the wheel and guided them away from the apartment and out towards the city limits. She had no idea how quickly the Marines would react – or even when they would realise that they had a missing comrade – but she had a feeling that they needed to be out of the city as quickly as possible. They had worked hard to turn her rented apartment into one that might be
used by a young scholar studying at the technical school – yet she had no idea how much of it the Marines would notice. They weren't from Avalon and it might not occur to them that she was dangling clues right in front of their face. Irritatingly, they might miss the misleading trial completely.
“We’re off,” Carl said, with more cheerfulness than Felicity could muster. She was used to acting and playing a role, but this would be the hardest role of her life. “West Gate, here we come.”
“Yep,” Julia said, with a toothy smile. She’d been born on a farm and hated the city, claiming that it stank. The city-dwellers said much the same about the farmers. One of the reasons the Council refused to do much about the bandits, or so Cracker propaganda would have it, was because the city-dwellers generally disliked the farmers more than the bandits. It made little sense to her, so it was probably the right answer. The Council wasn’t known for logic and reason. “We’re heading home!”
Felicity said nothing.
***
Jasmine had been chatting about nothing to Mandy – the girl, she had decided, could be pleasant company when she wanted to be – when her implanted communicator had gone off right in her head, sounding the general recall signal. She had been halfway to the door before Mandy’s mind had caught up with her eyes and the girl demanded to know what was going on. Jasmine gasped out an explanation, already preparing her body for the run ahead, and dived out of the door. She’d been a runner on her homeworld, years ago, but service in the Marines had honed her skills well past anything she would have believed possible. Running at top speed, she covered the distance from Mandy’s house to the rendezvous point in bare minutes. A handful of civilians stared as she ran past, a pair of teenage louts making out as if they were going to try to trip her up. She clipped them hard enough to leave them with broken bones and kept running. One of her comrades needed her.
Gwen kept speaking through her implant, updating her on the developing situation. Blake was missing...and, worse, he was not answering his communicator. Jasmine knew that that meant trouble. Being late back to base was a minor offence, one that might be punished by washing out toilets or digging field latrines, but refusing to answer an urgent call was a far more serious offence. And, if his communicator didn't respond to a ping, Blake was clearly unable to respond at all. He might not be dead – or so she kept reminding herself – but he was out of it.
She ran around the corner, not even breathing hard, and saw Joe and Koenraad standing there, waiting for her. They wore civilian clothes, of course, but no one would have mistaken them for civilians, even without the weapons they had buckled on to their belts. Marines had automatic authority to carry loaded weapons anywhere, even in purely civilian areas. It was a precaution that Jasmine had never fully understood, until now. Whatever trouble Blake had run into hadn't been prevented by whatever weapons he’d been carrying, but his team-mates might still be able to find him.
“This is Stalker,” a voice said, in her head. “Track his movements and see if you can locate him. Inform me if you find anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Jasmine said. The rest of the platoon, a quick check revealed, were still on their way. Jasmine doubted that they’d run into anything that three Marines couldn't handle, but it was well to be careful. “Blake was in that bar, trying to drink them out of horse-piss. We’ll check there first.”
She walked in as if she owned the place, one hand on her pistol. A handful of young bucks that had seen her civilian outfit and sweat-stained blouse took one look at the weapon and headed out in the other direction. Jasmine glanced around the bar, looking for possible threats, and then walked right over to the bartender. A number of customers decided that they had urgent business elsewhere and left at great speed. The room had probably never been so quiet since the bar had been opened.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Jasmine said, clearly. The bartender looked as if he would have liked to start running, but didn’t quite dare. “A massive black man, very tall, very well built...”
“He went out with a girl,” the bartender said, clearly relieved that she had asked a question he could answer. Jasmine scowled inwardly. What was it with Blake and girls of easy virtue? “She’s one of the whores who have rooms in a nearby apartment block, where they take their men for everything they can get.”
Somehow, Jasmine doubted that it was that simple. “Where does this girl...take her men?”
The bartender rattled off an address. Jasmine exchanged glances with the other two and they departed. She didn't think that he was lying, but if they found nothing, a team of Marines could arrest the bartender and put him through a formal interrogation. She had considered holding him prisoner, yet there was really no point. He couldn't take the bar with him if he ran from the city.
“A girl couldn't block his communicator,” Joe said, as soon as they were outside and walking towards the apartment building. Even from a distance, it didn’t look welcoming, as if it was permanently on the verge of collapsing and a single strong gust of wind would blow it down, smashing lesser buildings in its wake. “It’s more serious than that.”
Jasmine updated Captain Stalker and kept walking. If Blake was still alive, if Blake was there, they’d find him. If not, they’d find clues to his location. The search would go on as long as necessary. Marines didn't abandon their comrades, ever.
***
“Inspectors,” Carl warned, as they headed out of the city. The Civil Guard normally established a roadblock on each of the four roads, if only to ensure that the farmers didn't take anything in or out of the city they hadn't bought legally, but this group seemed thin on the ground. The shake-up at the supply base must have been worse than the Crackers had realised. Perhaps it had been a wasted opportunity for an attack. “Remember, stay calm and we’ll get through this alright.”
The Civil Guard didn't bother waving down every vehicle that tried to get in or out of the city, but they normally checked out farmers and their vehicles. Felicity wasn't entirely surprised when the van was pulled over and forced to stop by the edge of the road. Two Civil Guardsmen, their faces untroubled by any alert from within the city, sauntered over, allowing the farmers to get a good look at the guns they carried. They wouldn’t want to encourage any trouble if it could be avoided, but relations between the farmers and the Civil Guard had never been very good. It wasn’t unknown for unlucky inspectors to wind up stabbed to death.
“Get out of the van and kneel down, hands on your heads,” one of them ordered. Felicity shrugged and complied, watching grimly as Carl explained to Julia what she had to do. The little girl was treating it as a game, but it was one that could turn deadly serious at any moment. “This won’t take a moment.”
They were surprisingly professional as they ran their hands over Felicity’s body, something that bothered her. She didn't like being groped, any more than any other girl enjoyed it, but a grope would have reassured her that she wasn't dealing with professionals who might obey any orders to inspect the van’s contents, despite the stink. Julia protested loudly as one of the Guardsmen searched her gently, until Janice warned her to be quiet and wait until it was all over. It was humiliating, but it was also as gentle as it could be, a far cry from some of the horror stories Felicity had heard. There had been one teenage girl who, after having been rude to a Guardsman, had been strip-searched – even including her cavities - in public, or so the story went. It could just have been propaganda.
“You’re all clean,” the lead Guardsman assured her. Felicity shrugged inwardly. Kneeling on the ground, she had the uncomfortable feeling that someone intended to shoot her in the head. “We’ll just check the van and then you can be on your way.”
He pulled open the van’s door and recoiled. “Fuck me,” he said, loudly enough for Julia to hear and giggle nervously. “What the hell do you have in here?”
“Rotting fruit,” Carl explained. If he was nervous, he didn't show it. “The Council insists that we take it back for disposal.”
>
“No wonder they all stink,” the second Guardsman said, with a disdainful glance at Felicity. “The stench has gotten into their very skin.”
The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps Page 38