Culture Shock

by Christopher Nuttall

  Culture Shock

  (The Empire’s Corps – Book XII)

  Christopher G. Nuttall

  http://www.chrishanger.net

  http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/

  http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

  Cover by Alexander Chau

  (www.alexanderchau.co.uk)

  All Comments Welcome!

  Series Listing

  Book One: The Empire’s Corps

  Book Two: No Worse Enemy

  Book Three: When The Bough Breaks

  Book Four: Semper Fi

  Book Five: The Outcast

  Book Six: To The Shores

  Book Seven: Reality Check

  Book Eight: Retreat Hell

  Book Nine: The Thin Blue Line

  Book Ten: Never Surrender

  Book Eleven: First To Fight

  Book Twelve: They Shall Not Pass

  Book Thirteen: Culture Shock

  Culture Shock Cover Blurb

  Arthur’s Seat had never sought a galactic role. A relatively new colony world, a mere three hundred years old, the planet was always isolated from the galactic mainstream. But with the Empire crumbling after the fall of Earth, and other planets taking advantage of the chaos to make their own bids for power, Arthur’s Seat suddenly finds itself playing host to tens of thousands of unwanted immigrants, refugees who have been kicked off countless other worlds.

  But as the planetary government struggles to integrate the newcomers, powerful factions plot to take advantage of the situation and the refugees struggle to carve out a place for themselves, it becomes clear that the entire planet is on the verge of anarchy ...

  ... And outright civil war may not be far away.

  Author’s Note

  “I am, of course, not a lover of upheavals. I merely want to make sure people do not forget that there are upheavals.”

  -General Aritomo Yamagata, Imperial Japanese Army, 1881.

  Like the other odd-numbered books in the series, Culture Shock is completely stand-alone. You do not have to be familiar with the other books to read and (I hope) enjoy it. However, historically, it takes place roughly six months after When The Bough Breaks, at roughly the same time as No Worse Enemy. You can download samples and suchlike from my website.

  If you enjoy the book, please leave a review.

  Prologue

  The tension in the air as darkness fell over the estate was so thick, Steward Joel thought as he paced the lines, that one could cut it with a knife.

  Earth was gone. And so was the government that had protected the Forsakers against their enemies. Tarsus was still reeling after the news had finally arrived from Earth, its government trapped in endless debates over what should be done, but some of its population had already taken matters into their own hands. The attacks had begun almost at once, targeting isolated Forsakers on the streets and killing them. And the government had done nothing.

  Of course they did nothing, Joel thought, bitterly. There are no votes in protecting us.

  He gritted his teeth as a cold wind blew over the estate. The Forsakers had never been popular, not on Tarsus. They’d been moved from world to world by the Empire, seeking out a home that had never materialised. Joel had no doubt his people could have made a go of it, if they’d been given land and support, but no one had been interested in actually helping them. Instead, they’d been shoved into an estate and told to stay there.

  It was no place for a Forsaker community, he thought, as he turned to walk back towards the warehouse. The estate was grey and soulless, despite their best efforts. No amount of work could hide the fact that it wasn't designed to hold people, not for long. The facilities were poor, privacy was very limited and opportunities for employment were non-existent. Some of the young men had tried to work, in hopes of earning enough money to buy land, but they’d been cheated and robbed by their employers. It was technically illegal, yet the government hadn't given a damn even before the economy had collapsed. They might have been forced to take the Forsakers, but the government felt no obligation to make them welcome.

  He stepped into the guardhouse, his eyes flickering over the five young men on watch. They were armed, but only with baseball bats and other improvised weapons. Tarsus had strict laws forbidding the private possession of firearms and the Elders had forbidden the Stewards from seeking out illicit weapons. They’d warned of the dangers of provoking the government, but Joel found it hard to care. The government had made its feelings on the matter quite clear. They wanted the Forsakers gone.

  “My brother hasn't returned,” Steward Joshua said. He sounded grim. “He and his wife never came back.”

  Joel winced. Joshua’s brother hadn't quite been Fallen - the Forsaker term for men who left their community - but he’d loudly argued that they’d reached the end of the line. He’d been beaten for his heresy, of course, yet no one knew just how many other Forsakers quietly agreed with him. And now he was gone. He might have been caught by a mob and killed ...

  ... Or he might have decided to vanish into the planet’s population, forsaking his heritage in exchange for a safe place to live.

  And his wife probably encouraged him, he thought, sourly. She never quite fit in either.

  “I’m sure he will be back,” he lied, smoothly. Joshua’s brother had taken his wife and left the community. It suggested he had no intention of returning. “And you can rebuke him then, if you wish.”

  He kept his real thoughts to himself. The Forsakers didn't look any different from the rest of the planet’s population, not really. Their clothes might have marked them as outsiders, but it wasn't as if changing one’s outfit was difficult. And Tarsus was cosmopolitan enough to accept a newcomer if that worthy made a definite attempt to blend in. He closed his eyes in pain as he turned back to the door. Joshua’s brother was merely the latest Forsaker to forsake his heritage.

  Traitor, he thought.

  ***

  The attack began at midnight.

  Joel had been sitting in the guardhouse when he heard the sound of several people moving outside. The patrol had only just gone out to sweep the edge of the estate. They shouldn't have been back so soon. And yet ... he grabbed for his baseball bat as the door burst open, a trio of black-clad men smashing into the room. He barely had a moment to recognise the stunners in their hands before there was a flare of blue-white light and his entire body jerked violently. His legs buckled beneath him and he hit the ground face-down, utterly unable to move.

  “Clear,” a voice said. “Only one guard.”

  Joel tried to struggle as he felt strong arms rolling him over, but his body felt as limp and powerless as a sack of potatoes. A man, his face hidden behind a mask, patted him down, then rolled him back over and cuffed his hands behind his back. Joel fought a wave of bitter helplessness as the men walked out of the room, leaving him there. No matter how desperately he struggled, he couldn't move a muscle. His body was completely useless.

  He heard shouts and screams, male and female, as the policemen worked their way through the estate. Rage flared through his mind at the violation of their most sacred spaces, but there was nothing he could do. His body was starting to twitch uncomfortably, a pins-and-needles sensation almost driving him insane ... the stun blast was wearing off, he realised numbly. But his hands were still cuffed. It was hopeless.

  A man strode into the room, caught hold of Joel by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet. Joel stumbled, his legs still feeble, but somehow he managed to force himself to stagger though the door. Outside, he saw a nightmare. Hundreds of men and women were sitting on the ground, their hands cuffed; dozens of armed policemen were watching them, weapons at the ready. And, right at the edge of the estate, a mob of angry locals,
shouting and jeering as the police completed their task. Joel had no doubt of what would happen, if he somehow managed to get away. The mob would beat him to death, then dump his body in the gutter.

  His cheeks burned with humiliation, for himself and his community, as he sat there, forced to watch as the estate was searched and their possessions confiscated. God alone knew what would happen to the tools, the motley collection of hand-powered devices they’d preserved ever since they’d been forced to leave their last home. They needed them, damn it! But the policemen didn't seem to care ...

  It felt like hours before they were ordered to their feet and marched towards the lorries. The crowd’s jeering grew louder as they were pushed into the lorries, the doors slamming shut as soon as each vehicle was crammed. Joel heard the engine roar into life as he struggled to find a comfortable position, the lorry shaking as it turned and headed out of the estate. He wished he could see outside, but there were no windows. All he could do was wait.

  “They’re going to kill us,” Joshua said. He sounded as though he was on the verge of outright panic. “They’re going to kill us!”

  Joel found his voice. “They’re not,” he said, although he wasn't sure of it himself. “They can't kill us.”

  But he wasn't sure of that either. The Empire was gone. All the old certainties were falling everywhere. The Imperial Navy was fragmenting, planetary governments were bidding for independence ... and Tarsus, which had resented the Forsakers from the moment they’d been ordered to take them, might have decided to rid themselves of a nuisance.

  We should have fought, he thought, savagely. We could have learned to defend ourselves.

  The lorry lurched to a halt. Moments later, the doors banged open and the Forsakers were pushed and prodded outside. Joel had half-expected a detention camp or a firing squad, but instead ... it took him several moments to realise that he was looking at a spaceport. A dozen shuttles sat on landing pads, surrounded by heavily-armed guards. Behind them, there were more lorries and more guards ... had the police rounded up every last Forsaker on Tarsus? It was starting to look like it ...

  He glanced at the nearest policeman. Experience had taught him that it was dangerous to talk to policemen, but there was no one else to ask. “What’s happening to us?”

  The policeman’s face was hidden behind the mask, but there was a hint of heavy satisfaction in his voice. “You are being deported.”

  Joel stared. “Deported? To where?”

  But the policeman said nothing, merely nodded towards the shuttles.

  Joel swallowed, hard. Tarsus hadn't been a friendly place, but ... but where would they wind up next? The entire community had just been uprooted without a fight, men, women and children yanked out of their beds and transported to the spaceport. And then ...? Who knew where they were going next? Cold bitter rage throbbed in his breast as he watched the shuttle hatches opening. They looked like the gateways to hell.

  Never again, he promised himself silently. He should never have listened to the Elders when they’d forbidden him to buy weapons. They could have fought. Whatever happens, never again.

  Chapter One

  In theory, unlike pre-space Earth, the Empire should have had no problems with ethnic, racial and cultural conflict. As a noted philosopher of the times pointed out, what cultures needed to learn to get along was distance and space - enough space for everyone. Naturally, it didn't work out like that.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.

  “Premier?”

  Premier William Randolph Huntsman cursed under his breath as he opened his eyes. He wasn't sure how long he’d slept, but it felt as though he had barely closed his eyes when his butler stepped into the bedroom. It had been yet another late-night Cabinet meeting, debating precisely what - if anything - Arthur’s Seat could do about the news from Earth and the economic crisis it had brought in its wake. And, as always, nothing had been decided. They knew too little to make any long-term decisions.

  Sitting upright, he rubbed his eyes. The clock on the wall insisted that it was 0445, local time; 1445, Galactic Standard Time. Sykes, the butler, looked coolly professional, wearing a suit even though it was the middle of the night. William didn't know how he did it, although he had a theory. Sykes, damn him, didn't have to worry about anything, beyond serving the Premier. He’d serve William’s successor as well as he’d served William himself.

  “Yeah,” he said, finally. “What is it?”

  Sykes held out a mug of steaming coffee. “We have received an alert signal from the Orbital Guard, sir,” he said. “An Imperial Navy cruiser - ISS Harley - has dropped out of Phase Space and transmitted a text-only FTL message. Her commander wishes to speak with you as soon as his ship reaches communications range.”

  William blinked in surprise, torn between relief and shock. Arthur’s Seat had no real defences, save for a pair of destroyers so old he sometimes thought they predated the Empire itself. They certainly predated his homeworld! The ships were enough to deter pirates, but he had no illusions about their ability to stand off a real attack. If one of their neighbours decided to launch an invasion - and they might, now the Empire was gone - Arthur’s Seat’s ability to resist was almost non-existent. Commodore Charles Van Houlton had made the point very clear during the planning sessions, when he’d asked for more money for the Orbital Guard.

  But we can’t build warships for ourselves, William thought. And no one is likely to sell them to us.

  He pushed the thought aside, savagely. “Did Harley say why she’s here?”

  “No, sir,” Sykes said. “Merely that it’s urgent.”

  William contemplated the problem as he sipped his coffee. It was excellent, as always ... and yet, it was growing increasingly rare. The Jamaica Blue blend came from Earth ... and Earth was gone. Arthur’s Seat grew its own coffee beans, of course, yet it didn't quite seem to live up to Jamaica Blue. But William suspected he would have to get used to drinking it soon, whatever happened. The price of anything from outside the star system had already skyrocketed. It wouldn't be long before there wasn't a single can of Jamaica Blue available for love or money.

  “How long until she enters communications range?”

  “Two hours, as of the last communication,” Sykes informed him. “She's red-lining her drive.”

  William gritted his teeth. He was no spacer, but even he knew that trained engineers and spare parts were in short supply. Harley’s commanding officer was taking a considerable risk in pushing his ship so hard. Whatever was going on - and his imagination provided too many possibilities - it had to be urgent. There was no way Arthur’s Seat could repair an Imperial Navy cruiser.

  “Inform the Cabinet that I want an emergency meeting in three hours,” he said, finally. “And then prepare a breakfast for when they arrive.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sykes said.

  William finished his coffee, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His head swam for a long moment, reminding him that he hadn't had anything like enough sleep. He glanced at the bedside cabinet, where he kept a small collection of painkillers and stimulants, then dismissed the thought. He had a feeling he’d need to keep his wits about him for the coming discussion and stimulants could be dangerous. Sykes fussed about him, wiping his face with a hot towel before producing a neatly-pressed suit and shirt. William shook his head in tired amusement as his butler helped him to dress, then peered into the mirror. As always, Sykes had ensured that there wasn't a single hair out of place.

  But I still look old, he thought. Too old.

  He studied his reflection for a long moment, feeling a twinge of dismay. He’d been Premier for two years, elected just in time to face the decline and fall of the Empire ... and it had changed him. His brown hair was now grey, his face was lined ... he looked more like a bureaucrat or an accountant than a planetary leader. He honestly wasn't sure he wanted to stand for re-election, even though he was midway through his first term. The j
ob was taking a toll.

  And if it does this to me, he thought, what does it do to other Heads of State?

  It was a bitter thought. Arthur’s Seat was not an important world and never would be. She lacked the economic and military base necessary to reach for greatness. And really, she didn't want greatness. William had never dreamed of building an empire of his own, even though he knew that at least two of the neighbouring worlds were planning their own conquests. Arthur’s Seat was a quiet sleepy backwater ...

  ... And yet, serving as her leader had drained him more than he cared to admit.

  He pushed the thought aside as he walked through the door to his office and sat down at the desk, keying the terminal to bring up the latest briefing notes. His staff had done their usual efficient job, yet they had very little information to draw on. ISS Harley had been attached to the sector fleet, they’d noted, but there was little else about her in the files. Even her commander’s name was a mystery. William shook his head slowly, then started to write a quick letter to his ex-wife. If trouble was coming, he wanted her to be aware of it.