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

by Christopher Nuttall

  “We are trying to free the planet from the shackles of debt imposed on people who never went into debt,” Gaby explained, calmly. “We wish to talk to you about the true situation on this planet.”

  “You could just have asked,” Blake pointed out. “I don’t think you understand the Corps very well. They’re not going to stop looking for me, even if you cut off my balls and send them to the Captain as a warning. My life became expendable the moment you managed to get me out of the city.”

  Gaby’s eyes narrowed sharply. How the hell had he known he’d been moved out of the city? It wouldn't help him locate himself if he somehow managed to escape, yet it was alarming and a cold reminder that Blake Coleman was far from stupid. He might have been seduced by a young girl, but that proved nothing. The Doctor had said that he was among the highest-rated human population. He might be far more intelligent than he looked. No, he was far more intelligent than he looked. No one could have survived the Slaughterhouse, according to the files they’d downloaded, without having a fair degree of intelligence.

  “Your best course of action would be to return me at once,” Blake continued, calmly. He didn't shout at them, or start screaming, like so many other men she’d known would have done. “At least you wouldn't be charged as abductors when we finally caught up with you.”

  “You don’t get to lecture us,” Julian snapped. He would have taken another step forward if Gaby hadn’t caught him in time. “You’re upholding an evil system and that makes you compliant in the system’s evil. You’re a prisoner of war and we can do anything to you, anything at all. We can even inject you with some of those truth drugs you Marines find so useful and see what you tell us.”

  The Marine snorted. “Nothing,” he said. “Standard truth drugs won’t work on me.”

  Gaby looked over at Doctor White, who nodded. “It’s quite possible to immunise someone against truth drugs with the proper equipment,” he said. “The drug would either have no effect at all, or he’d had a major allergic reaction and die.”

  “He could be lying,” Julian pointed out. “And then we could always inflict pain on him...”

  He broke off as the Marine looked at him. “Do you really believe that you can inflict more pain on me than my trainers did back at the Slaughterhouse?”

  “I could have a damn good try,” Julian snapped. “You’re just a man.”

  “The recruits call the Slaughterhouse the Torturehouse, sometimes,” Blake mocked. “On my third day there, we were lined up and used as punching bags for the upperclassmen, who needed to teach us how to take a punch. The bastard who punched me struck me right in the chest, and then in the jaw. I picked myself up and then he kicked me in the groin. By my third month, I had scar tissue everywhere, but my eyes. I could take a blow to anywhere and keep going even without drugs. I saw recruits lose their legs in training and keep going, because the fighting doesn't end when someone gets a bloody nose. Do you really think that you can match that?”

  Gaby wasn't sure if she believed him or not. The documents she’d studied had gone on and on about how Marine training imbued a new Marine with a tradition that stretched back over a thousand years, but they had been curiously silent on just how that miracle was achieved. The handful of reports she had read were...oddly elliptical, as if they hadn't wanted to say anything at all. It was almost as if the Marines had something to hide.

  “I survived the Slaughterhouse without becoming one of the Slaughtered,” Blake said. “Can I offer a suggestion?”

  “No,” Julian said.

  “Go on,” Gaby said, giving him a sharp look. “What do you suggest?”

  “Open up lines of communication with the Captain,” Blake said. “You might find that you can come to an arrangement. The Council may not be ruling Avalon for much longer and their fall would create a power vacuum, one that might allow you to find a role that didn't include fighting to liberate millions of people.” His eyes narrowed. “Or are you just the kind of bastards who delight in inflicting pain and don’t care who you inflict it on? I saw terrorists on Han mowing down their own people, just for supporting the wrong side. What would you do if you actually won?”

  “I like to think that we’d find a way to live together,” Gaby said. The interrogation wasn't going to go anywhere, which left them with a dangerous liability. “For the moment, you are our guest. Behave yourself and we’ll take care of you.”

  Blake smiled. “Can I get out of these chains?”

  “I'm afraid not,” Gaby said. “And I am sorry.”

  “I’m sure that you are,” Blake said. He sounded sincere, at least to her ears. “Believe me, though; you’re going to be a lot sorrier.”

  Chapter Forty

  A Council of War is only called when the CO feels that it is time to make a major change in strategy and consists of all the senior officers and NCOs in a given unit. Although the CO is under no obligation to accept their advice, it is generally considered politic to do so, once the Council has been called. In turn, the officers are obliged to speak freely and air whatever doubts they might have.

  -Major-General Thomas Kratman (Ret), A Civilian’s Guide to the Terran Marine Corps.

  “The first Council of War on Avalon is called to order,” Gwen said, as the door was closed. “God save the Emperor.”

  “God save the Emperor,” the guests said.

  Edward smiled as he took the seat at the head of the table. Marine Councils of War were traditionally informal, although the presence of two Civil Guardsmen and Linda – who was representing the Governor – added an odd air of formality, despite the cups of tea and coffee that had been placed on the table. He glanced from face to face, taking in his Lieutenants and Senior NCOs. A wise Captain knew when to listen to his subordinates – and, also, when the subordinates had to be ignored.

  “Please be seated,” he said. “Are there any immediate issues that need to be addresses?”

  “I spy strangers,” Jared Barr said. Edward scowled inwardly. “Why are they here?”

  “Because they were invited,” Edward said, patiently. He had expected the objection from Barr; Drill Sergeants had a far stronger sense of tradition than any other rank. Marine Councils of War were generally Marine-only, with lesser units only being told about decisions after the fact. “They are welcome here.”

  He tapped the table when no one else raised any objections. “It has been a day since Rifleman Coleman was kidnapped,” he said. Gwen and a handful of others already knew, but the remainder had to be informed and updated on the progress of the search. “We have been unable to locate him and suspect that he may have been taken out of the city entirely. His communicator implant has either been blocked or removed.”

  “It would have to have been blocked,” Doctor Leila Lopez said. The Marine Doctor met his eyes unflinchingly. Every Marine had some degree of medical training, but those who trained specifically as battlefield medics were among the most respected of the Marines. Edward had seen her perform surgery under fire on Han. “I doubt that they could remove the communicator without triggering the safeguards and killing their captive.”

  “Unless they have tried and killed him, explaining why we have not received a ransom demand,” Lieutenant Howell growled. “They might not have realised the danger in time.”

  “We will proceed on the assumption that he is alive until we have some reason to believe otherwise,” Edward said. “So far, our mystery abductors have played it very smart; the kidnap shows a degree of planning that was missing when the bandits attacked the Civil Guard. I believe that the abduction was carried out by the Crackers and that they are finally emerging from hiding, now that they have our measure.”

  “They don’t have our measure,” one of the Sergeants said. “If they had, they would have dug themselves a deep hole and hidden in it.”

  Edward shrugged. Over the weeks before the Marines had arrived, the Crackers had mounted a harassing campaign against the Civil Guard and the Planetary Government, a campaign th
at had come to an abrupt halt when the Marines had arrived. The Governor had been grateful for the peace, but Edward found it ominous. It suggested that the Cracker leadership had a far greater degree of control than he had thought possible. The peace might just be the calm before the storm.

  “Regardless, we must face up to the fact that we now have twin problems to deal with,” he said. “We hit the bandits so hard that they may not be able to recover for years – at least to the point where they can pose a major threat to law and order – but their backers remain in place, at least for the moment. We need to watch and wait for an opportunity to deal with them, while we must also move against the Crackers before they can capitalise on the Civil Guard’s sudden weakness.”

  Major Grosskopf looked uncomfortable, but didn't dispute Edward’s statement. The Civil Guard had been badly demoralised and parts of it were coming apart at the seams. Hundreds of officers, fearing what might happen if they were interrogated, had handed in their resignations or simply deserted, heading back to their powerful patrons and begging for shelter. Several units that should have been able to put up a fight had been discovered to have been starved of training time and equipment and could barely be rated a cut above civilians. The best units had held together, but they’d taken heavy casualties when the bandits had launched their ambush and their morale wasn’t particularly good. Ironically, given a few months, the Civil Guard might become stronger than it had ever been...if they had those months.

  “They may already realise that they have a window of opportunity and Rifleman Coleman’s abduction might simply be the first shot in the resumed campaign,” Edward continued. “I therefore intend to force them on the defence and take the war to their territory as soon as possible.”

  He looked over at Barr. “Sergeant Barr,” he said, “what is the current status of the training companies?”

  Barr looked uncomfortable. “We’ve spent eight weeks ramming them through a very basic training course,” he said. “Half of them would probably not survive the first month at the Slaughterhouse, but they’re definitely above most of the Civil Guard units; if nothing else, they have fewer bad habits to unlearn. I wouldn't rate them as anything above basic infantry – apart from a handful who would benefit from advanced training – but we have been pushing them hard and the chaps have responded well. It helps that they made pretty much every mistake in the book during combat training and learned from them.”

  He smiled. “And one makeshift company managed to pass Kratman’s Hill,” he added. “They did very – very – well, although I couldn't tell them that too openly. I’ve known people who went through the Slaughterhouse who wouldn't have done so well.”

  Edward smiled. “Was that through care and attention, or a lack of imagination?”

  “I think they took the lessons to heart,” Barr said. “If you’re asking if I think they’re ready to qualify as Marines, the answer is no; they don’t have anything like the level of training that was hammered into us over the two years we spent at the Slaughterhouse. They have weaknesses that would rapidly see them discharged from a standard Marine platoon and their level of ignorance is terrifying. They would make good infantrymen, but not good Marines.”

  “We could not brand them as Marines anyway, not without passing them through the Slaughterhouse,” Edward admitted. If communications were reopened between Avalon and the rest of the Empire, he’d be able to recommend some of the local recruits for the Slaughterhouse, allowing them the chance to earn a Rifleman’s Tab of their own. “But as part of the new Army of Avalon, they’d have a chance to earn real honours.”

  “Yes, sir,” Barr said. “They need practical experience and the only way to get that is to actually go out on patrol.”

  “That does lead to another question,” Howell said. “Do we give them a Last Night?”

  “I hardly think that we should deny them the chance of taking part in a grand old tradition,” Gwen said, with an evil grin. “What are we going to give them in place of a Rifleman’s Tab?”

  “A Knight,” Edward said. He glanced over at Howell. “The fabricators we brought along can produce individual badges for each of the new soldiers. They won’t be Rifleman’s Tabs, but one day they will be as famous.”

  “The Knights of Avalon,” Grosskopf said. He smiled in droll amusement. “I like it.”

  “Good,” Edward said. He stood up and stepped over to the map on the wall, his finger marking out small towns and homesteads. “Once the new recruits have graduated, we’re going to establish bases here, here and here. The Civil Guard stopped patrolling that area because they kept coming under heavy attack; we’re going to go there and dare them to do their worst. They will either have to attack us or accept that we are in a position to impede their activities. Once we get established, we will start offering help and support to the locals.”

  His eyes swept around the room. “It's not going to be easy,” he said. “We cannot offer them – yet – the one thing that will win us their hearts and minds. We can offer quite a bit, including paying for everything in cash, whatever the Council may say. I expect everyone to remember the ultimate rule of counter-insurgency warfare; softly, softly until we are hit...and then give them hell.

  “We’ll partner with one of the Civil Guard units and maintain joint patrols,” he continued. “As new recruits graduate, we'll add them into the patrols and keep sweeping upwards towards the Cracker strongholds in the Mystic Mountains. We will keep applying pressure until we can separate them from their people, the source of their support. I do not expect to win quickly, but I do expect to win. Now...”

  He smiled. “The floor is open,” he said. “What do you all say?”

  ***

  On a command from Barr, the recruits were summoned from shooting practice and ordered into the parade ground, where they stood to attention. Michael, wearing the stripes of a Training Corporal, led his platoon into the ground and lined them up in order, very aware that if the Sergeant inspected his men and found anything wrong with them, it would be Michael who got his ass chewed out for it. There were times when he loved being a Corporal – although he'd been warned that a Training Corporal had no authority over graduated Marines – and times when he hated the responsibility. Being publicly humiliated for his own mistakes was bad enough, but being publicly humiliated for someone else’s mistakes was dreadful.

  And yet, he’d been taught that Marines looked after one another and supported each other. He’d learned how to check a person’s battledress and weapons, while trusting them to perform the same check for him. The lessons and tests – including some he suspected had been designed for them to fail, on the grounds that they learned more from failures than from successes – had hammered trust and cooperation into them. A test where they had each been given part of a map – and, to add to the confusion, half of them had been given false maps – had been insolvable until they’d compared the maps and realised that they’d been mislead. Barr hadn’t been too impressed by their complaints, pointing out that false intelligence was part of the game and they shouldn't take anything on trust.

  On command, the recruits snapped out a salute as Captain Stalker strode onto the parade ground. He was wearing his dress uniform, which meant...he didn’t know what? The last time they’d seen him in dress uniform had been during the funeral, but no one else had died. There were no black banners or armbands in evidence. The Captain stepped up on the podium and stared down at them, his face carefully composed.

  “It has been eight weeks since we accepted your applications and brought you to Castle Rock,” he said, calmly. “During that time – and the tests beforehand – we weeded out the ones we felt would be incapable of completing the course.” Michael blinked. How had he missed that? Far more recruits had come to the spaceport than he’d seen on Castle Rock? Had a few hundred of them been rejected, or gently urged to wait until the next time? “You have all completed the course.”

  His voice darkened. “If it were up to us, we wo
uld have given you a far longer training period,” he continued, “but it is no longer up to us. We have decided that you have all graduated and are ready to take up positions in the Army of Avalon.”

  Michael felt a burst of pride...and then fear. The training course had been harsh, but there had only been a handful of accidents and only two of them had been fatal. Back on Avalon, deployed as part of a unit, they would be shot at with live ammunition and perhaps killed. The Crackers – the ones who had interfered with food supplies to the cities often enough, threatening his family with starvation – had to be taken the offensive. He couldn't think of anything else that required the Marines to graduate the first class ahead of time.