Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  If we weren’t wearing light armor, he thought, the stench would probably drive us out on its own.

  The population itself, he noted as they walked past a water station, looked apathetic, even though they were trying to return to normal. Pat had seen hatred on Cadiz and bitter helplessness on Verdean, but this was different. Men shuffled down a long queue, heads lowered, to collect bottles of water, then carried them back to their homes. Only a handful of women were in evidence, wearing veils that concealed every inch of their bodies, stripping them of all humanity. It was no surprise, Pat thought, that the marines had had to break up a number of savage sexual assaults. When women were considered less than human, their thoughts and opinions simply didn’t matter.

  “You’d think they would be glad of the chance for a change,” Bones commented. They walked past a food station, then a registry station. The Civil Affairs teams were already going to work, registering the population and trying to assign them to work teams. “This place is a nightmare.”

  “Some of them feel the occupation isn’t going to last,” Pat said. “And others are probably unable to do anything without permission.”

  He scowled at the thought. One of his old drill instructors had instructed his boot camp platoon that the vast majority of the population on any planet wouldn’t do anything unless they were told what to do. They simply lacked the ability to think and take action for themselves, relying on the government to do all the work. Pat had harbored his doubts, given how many rewards there were on Tyre for citizens who found newer and better ways to do things, but on Ahura Mazda, the civilians seemed unwilling to do anything without permission.

  At least they’re not shooting at us, he thought. The marines had made it clear, as they took the town, that anyone carrying a weapon would be arrested and detained, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think his crew had rounded up all the weapons. That might change if their former masters start inciting trouble.

  “Stay alert,” he warned. “Things could turn violent at any moment.”

  He shook his head in bitter disbelief as they probed through an alleyway, silently noting several more bodies lying on the ground. How could anyone live like this? No wonder they were so apathetic. They’d been stripped of everything that made life worth living, denied freedom and human dignity . . . was this what the Theocracy had to offer the universe? He glanced up sharply as he saw something moving high overhead, then relaxed as he realized it was a bird.

  A red icon flashed up on his HUD. “Got a contact report,” the dispatcher said. “A mob of civilians, moving down Street Bravo-Sierra.”

  Pat sucked in his breath as the squad started to run. The Theocracy had named its streets, of course, but half of them were completely unpronounceable to his team. Naturally, the dispatchers had started assigning names and numbers to the streets as Samarian was rapidly brought under control, their constant flow of updates ensuring that the people on the ground all spoke the same language. Small groups of civilians scattered in panic as the marines ran past, clearly expecting the shooting to start again at any moment. Pat had a feeling they were right.

  “On our way,” he said. “Got any top cover on call?”

  “Three drones,” the dispatcher said. “But not armed with anything beyond missiles.”

  Pat ground his teeth in frustration. The stealth drones were about the only air support they could rely on when patrolling a city, given the dangers of dropping KEWs from orbit into populated zones, but their missiles tended to produce a great deal of collateral damage. Samarian was simply too poorly designed for the missiles to be trusted, not when several city blocks had collapsed because shells had landed too close to them. The marines would be on their own, at least until reinforcements were dispatched.

  Should be able to fly helicopters over the city, he thought. But they’re bound to have a few HVMs hidden away.

  He turned the corner and cursed under his breath as he saw a pair of clerics running for their lives. Behind them, an angry mob was moving in hot pursuit, screaming their hatred at their former masters. Pat couldn’t help thinking that the clerics looked surprisingly stout compared to the other civilians he’d seen. No doubt they’d been given a great deal of food while the rest of the population had been nearly starved. Rank had its privileges, as always.

  “Damn it, sir,” Bones said. She sounded grim. “What do we do?”

  Pat thought fast. If they’d been wearing heavy armor, they could just have waited for the mob to grow tired of trying to batter through the suit or simply stun them. But instead they were wearing light armor, armor that could be broken if it was battered enough.

  “Warning shots,” he snapped, lifting his rifle. He doubted it would be enough to stop the mob, if only because the ones at the back would keep pushing the ones at the front forward, but they had to try. “Over their heads.”

  He squeezed his trigger, firing two shots. “Stop!” he ordered. He was tempted to just let the mob have the fleeing duo, but he had orders to arrest any clerics he encountered. If anyone was in control of the remaining enemy forces within the city, it would be the clerics. “STOP NOW OR WE WILL USE DEADLY FORCE!”

  The mob didn’t stop. Pat gritted his teeth. He didn’t dare let the mob engage his men, but he didn’t want to run either. Flipping his stunner out, he played it over the crowd, watching as the first row tumbled to the ground. The second and third rows trampled over their stunned comrades, only to be pushed onwards by those at the rear. Pat and the marines kept stunning the crowd, grabbing the clerics as soon as they came within reach. The two men were swiftly thrown to the ground, tied, and searched. Pat wasn’t too surprised to discover that they’d both been carrying weapons under their cassocks.

  They didn’t try to fight, he thought, puzzled. Why not?

  He sucked in his breath as the mob disintegrated, the remaining members turning to their heels and fleeing, leaving countless dead and wounded behind as they ran up alleyways, running as if the devil himself were after them. They might have thought the devil was after them, Pat knew. He’d listened to a handful of enemy broadcasts as the marines were securing the city, and they’d all insisted that the Commonwealth would kill the men, rape the women, and enslave the children. There was a dreadful monotony about the announcements that chilled him to the bone. A lie somehow became more and more believable the more it was heard.

  “The mob has been dispersed,” he told the dispatcher after a brief incident report. “We have the clerics safe and well.”

  “Oh, goody,” the dispatcher said. “Reinforcements are on the way. The prisoners will be taken for processing.”

  Pat shook his head, looking down at the twitching mob. Stunners weren’t always reliable, not when their targets were stunned repeatedly or simply in poor health. Some of the men in front of him would never awaken, dying or remaining in a coma indefinitely. Some might survive with proper medical treatment, but such treatment was unavailable. The medics were already working day and night trying to cope with civilians who brought their wounded and ill for treatment. No one would have time to cope with a mob.

  “We’ll resume patrol once they take the prisoners off our hands,” he said. “And we’ll see what else we find.”

  He shook his head slowly. Samarian had died a long time ago, the population reduced to husks that might as well be zombies. The mob was the exception, not the rule. And if the rest of the planet was no better off, rebuilding Ahura Mazda would take vast amounts of money and time. Would the Commonwealth agree to fund reconstruction?

  Not our problem, he thought numbly. His head jerked up as he heard a trio of explosions in the distance. We just need to finish the war.

  “So tell me, Admiral,” General Winters said, “how goes recruitment?”

  “We have quite a few government workers coming over to us,” Junayd said with little emotion. He looked down at the latest set of interrogation reports. “No one from the higher ranks as yet, but that isn’t a surprise.”

  He g
rinned, despite his tiredness. No one was more desperate to keep his position than a middle-ranking civil servant, a man who despised the commoners below him but lacked the security of his betters. The men who’d run Samarian and the other cities for the Theocracy knew they were screwed unless they came over to Junayd. They’d be killed merely for being close to the invading unbelievers. It would be months before local services could be resumed, but he was already putting together work gangs to deal with the most immediate problems.

  Paying the men for working will probably help too, he thought. There’s hardly any food or drink in the shops.

  “I didn’t realize how bad the situation had become over the last few months,” Junayd admitted. He’d been completely isolated from the commoners, even when he’d been expecting a quick show trial and quicker execution. “But it does give us an opportunity to win hearts and minds.”

  General Winters shrugged. “The civilians are largely meaningless,” he said. “What about the military?”

  “We have picked up a number of defectors,” Junayd reminded him. He was surprised at Winters’s attitude. A very Theocratic attitude. “But many of the senior officers will be closely watched. They’ll need to plan their mutinies carefully.”

  He rubbed his forehead. He’d been spending half his time making propaganda broadcasts, then encouraging other defectors to do the same. They didn’t have to promise much, not really. A hot meal, a warm drink, an end to the fighting . . . no wonder the entire front line was wavering, on the verge of disintegrating. He’d been isolated from the groundpounders too, he knew now. The men on the front lines were even worse supplied than the fleet!

  “And then they have to be vetted,” General Winters said. “Are you sure of them?”

  “Of course not,” Junayd said bluntly. “How can I be?”

  “Defectors are prone to having second thoughts, General,” Janice put in. “They may well think better of their choice after getting a hot meal and some proper sleep.”

  General Winters snorted. “Are all your people so untrustworthy?”

  Junayd bit down the hot flash of anger that threatened to overwhelm him. The men on the front lines weren’t the only ones who hadn’t had enough sleep. Watching the interrogations, then making his pitch to the higher-ranking defectors had drained him more than he cared to admit. Even with several defectors taking over the broadcasts, he was still working himself to the bone.

  “I don’t think you understand us very well,” he said. “General, there is no trust on Ahura Mazda. None at all. Everyone does his best to screw everyone below him while trying to avoid being screwed by everyone above him. The blame is dumped on the shoulders least able to handle it, General. Civil servants take bribes, military officers cheat their men, the government fucks its own population. Everyone who can’t get onto the bottom rung . . . they literally have nowhere to go.”

  “And so they take it out on their wives,” Janice said quietly.

  “Shit rolls downhill,” Junayd said.

  He’d hoped to put together a provisional government, ready to take control when the Tabernacle was finally taken or destroyed, but he was starting to suspect the Commonwealth would demand far-reaching social change. The reporters had filed hundreds of human interest stories, topics ranging from starved populations and human shields to child brides and wives who’d been repeatedly beaten to within an inch of their lives. Junayd couldn’t blame the Commonwealth for wanting to change Ahura Mazda after it won the war, but he knew global transformation wouldn’t be remotely easy. He hadn’t lied to General Winters. Corruption was deeply engrained in the planet’s society.

  “So we can’t trust your folks,” General Winters said. He smiled, rather unpleasantly. “Can the Tabernacle trust its own commanders?”

  Junayd shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. “Any officer on the ground who reported the actual truth would be executed. I would be astonished if they knew just how much territory you control.”

  “They did keep lying about the number of superdreadnoughts blown out of space,” Janice agreed. “And about everything else too.”

  “They can’t possibly fight a war like that,” General Winters said. “They need accurate information.”

  “But subordinates will be punished for providing it,” Junayd reminded him. “So they lie, either to make themselves look good or simply to keep their heads on their shoulders. If they can say they’ve taken out a hundred of your tanks, who’s going to believe otherwise? They think God is on their side. Of course they’re going to win.”

  General Winters eyed him. “Did you ever act like that when you were in command?”

  “I like to think I didn’t,” Junayd said. “But then, I saw myself as a military officer, first and foremost. God rewarded those who worked hard for His cause. I couldn’t allow myself to cling to delusions.”

  “But you believed the Commonwealth was weaker than it was,” Janice pointed out snidely.

  “If 6th Fleet hadn’t been in position to reinforce 5th Fleet,” Junayd said, “things would have been different.”

  He pushed his frustration aside. Mistakes and miscalculations happened. There was no point in going over and over what could have been different, what should have been different, when the past was impossible to change. Mistakes needed to be acknowledged, then learned from. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, but his former masters had not. They’d preferred to blame their failures on him.

  “And what would have happened if you had won?” Janice asked. She waved a hand towards the nearest wall, indicating the world outside. “Would you have imposed this on all of us?”

  Junayd didn’t bother to deny it. But, in a sense, an invasion and occupation of Tyre would have been a great deal worse than anything on Ahura Mazda. Tyre’s population hadn’t been ground down by decades of oppression, nor had they been kept largely ignorant of the outside universe. The high orbitals could have been taken, he was sure, but suppressing the entire planet would have cost millions of lives and more treasure than the Theocracy could afford. They might have decided to merely burn the entire planet to ash rather than try to convert the population. It would have been sinful, but they’d justified other sins to themselves in the past.

  He dismissed the thought. “We are also building up a better picture of the enemy’s tactical deployments,” Junayd added. “And looking for a way into the Tabernacle that doesn’t include a forced landing.”

  “If they know you’re alive,” General Winters said, “will they not start purging your allies?”

  “It depends,” Junayd said. Nestor had confirmed that there had been no general purge, although many of his former clients had found new patrons. “They may not believe it’s me, for a start. I’ve done everything to convince them otherwise, but I may not have been successful. If they do, they’ll tear their own command network apart if they launch a new set of purges. It might trigger a civil war.”

  “Which you’re counting on,” Janice said. “A civil war might just give us a chance to put an end to the real war.”

  “Yes,” Junayd said. “But nothing is truly guaranteed.”

  “Of course not,” General Winters said. “And you cannot even guarantee the loyalty of the men coming over to us.”

  “The higher their rank,” Junayd said, “the more focused they’ll be on their own position and power. You can trust them to uphold their own interests. It’s the common soldiers you have to watch. They’re the ones who might switch sides for a second time.”

  General Winters looked oddly pleased. “So we have to rely on our cold steel,” he said. “For all your cleverness”—he shot an unreadable look at Janice—“we still depend on the marines.”

  “Yes,” Janice said. “I think that was always true.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “The cloudscoops are coming into range, Captain,” Cecelia said. “Missiles locked.”

  William nodded as the enemy stations appeared on the display. They didn’t look th
at different from Commonwealth designs, although they were bunched up rather than dispersed around the gas giant. The concept struck him as poor planning, if only because a storm below could disrupt all the cloudscoops, instead of just one. But he had to admit that the positioning did make it easier to keep the engineers under control. The skimming he’d seen in facilities elsewhere probably wouldn’t be a problem here.

  “Communications,” he said. “Send the surrender demand.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Ball said.

  William tensed. The attempts to board the enemy shipyards had largely failed, the Theocrats blowing up the facilities rather than allowing them to fall into Commonwealth hands. Thirty-seven marines had been lost before Kat Falcone had vetoed any further attempts to capture the shipyards, choosing instead to blow them up from a safe distance. It was frustrating, William felt, but there was no choice. If nothing else, the shipyards and industrial nodes could no longer turn out a stream of weapons to be turned against the Commonwealth.

  The Theocracy is dead, he thought. But it refuses to die.

  “No response, Captain,” Ball said. “I don’t even know if they heard the message.”

  “Understood,” William said.

  He felt a bitter surge of hatred mingled with disgust over the wastefulness. Didn’t the Theocrats realize that whoever controlled Ahura Mazda after the war would need fuel? But they seemed determined to make sure that any survivors on the planet’s surface suffered as much as possible. The marines had reported everything from water contamination to jammed sewers and destroyed pumping stations. The doctors had warned that diseases unseen since the human race had learned how to improve their immune systems were going to make a reappearance. The entire population might be doomed to a lingering death.