The captive produced a series of words and finished by spitting at the maid. Coleman stuck out a hand and caught the spittle, then rubbed it into the captive’s shirt.
“Ask him again,” Edward said. If they’d thought to bring truth drugs ... but somehow it had been overlooked when they’d been making preparations for the mission. No doubt someone had worried about what would happen if the negotiators were dosed. “Tell him that if he doesn't start answering, we’ll start cutting his skin.”
The captive babbled again; the maid started talking a moment later. “They were ordered to get inside and butcher you while you slept,” she said, softly. “And then open the doors to allow the rest of their force to enter.”
“Fucking idiots,” Coleman muttered.
Edward shot him a sharp look, then turned back to the maid. “Ask him just what they think they’re doing,” he ordered. “What have they been told about us?”
There was a long moment of back-and-fourth, then the maid looked up at him. “He says that they have been told that you're going to kill them all – unless they kill you first,” she said. “Your very presence is an offense against the gods.”
“Bastards,” Edward muttered. A world that largely hated off-worlders, mostly inhabited by people who were utterly unaware of the greater universe surrounding them. No wonder it had been so easy to whip up the mob; the real miracle had been keeping it under control long enough to allow Leo and his escorts to flee. “Who’s in command of their force?”
“The Prince,” the maid said, after some more talking. “He’s been telling them that they will be richly rewarded once the Residency is destroyed.”
Edward asked a few more questions, but the captive proved largely uninformative. He hadn't been told anything useful, certainly nothing about the Prince’s future plans ... although that wasn't too surprising. The only real question was if the Prince was maintaining operational security or if he had simply decided that the lower castes weren't to be told anything. Not, in the end, that it mattered. The final outcome was the same.
“We’re going to release the rest of the guards,” he said, leading the maid out into a side room. He didn't miss the look of terror that crossed her face. She’d probably realised that she and her fellows were included in the rewards for those who stormed the Residency. “Do you wish to leave too?”
The maid shook her head, frantically.
“Then I need you to help us,” Edward said. It was a calculated risk; it was far too possible that the maids might be more than just spies, but he couldn't afford to feed them without putting them to use. The alternatives, either shooting them himself or sending them out onto the bloodstained streets, were unthinkable. “But you have to behave yourselves.”
He left the maid to talk to her fellows, promising to return in an hour to see who wanted to leave, and walked up the stairs to the roof. A dozen soldiers lay on the rooftop, sweeping the surrounding area with NVGs, while two Marines in combat armour watched the remains of the nearby buildings for enemy snipers. Edward caught the telltale whiff of one of his soldiers sneaking a cigarette on duty and looked towards the smoker, then smiled to himself as he realised that he’d been smart enough to position himself out of sight of any watching snipers. If he had exposed himself to a watching sniper, the smoker might as well have drawn a targeting crosshair on his head.
“It's quiet, sir,” Lieutenant Jaffna said.
“Too quiet,” Edward finished, although it wasn't – not completely. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of rioters and shooting. There were parts of the slums where the local government had lost control completely, particularly after the first attacks had been so comprehensively defeated. “No further attempts at breaching our lines?”
“None,” the Lieutenant said, as if Edward wouldn't have been immediately informed if another attack had been underway. “Did the prisoners say anything useful?”
“Just that we’re all going to die if they overrun us,” Edward said. He clapped the Lieutenant on the shoulder. “We’re going to release the former guards in an hour, giving them a chance to make their way out of the city. And then we’re going to hold our ground until help arrives.”
“We will, sir,” Jaffna said, with easy confidence. He didn't know how hard it would be for the CEF to punch through the enemy lines and make its way to the capital. “They don't stand a chance.”
Edward smiled to conceal his grim thoughts, then looked out over the city. In the semi-darkness – Lakshmibai’s moon was bright in the sky, casting an eerie light over the buildings – it looked fascinating, a strange mixture of styles from a dozen different eras. But several buildings were burning and he could smell smoke and human flesh on the winds. He heard someone screaming in pain, not too far away, and cursed his inability to do anything to help. The entire city – no, the entire planet – seemed to be tearing itself apart.
He spent several minutes briefly chatting to the soldiers, then walked back down into the lower reaches of the complex. The maids greeted him when he entered their chamber and explained that all but one of them had decided to remain in the complex. Edward eyed the lone dissenter suspiciously, before deciding not to object to her departure. It was unlikely that she could tell the Prince and his cronies anything more than they already knew. Edward would have been surprised if they didn't have a very good idea just what weapons and equipment had been unloaded from the shuttles before the starships had departed.
Coleman caught him as he walked back into the basement. “Do you really trust them?”
“They have as much reason to fight as we do,” Edward pointed out, mildly. “Besides, we won't be giving them weapons or anything they can use against us.”
“They’ll be preparing food,” Coleman objected. “Won't they?”
Edward shook his head. It had taken the enemy several hours to think of turning off the water and electricity supplies, long enough to allow them to fill every container they could find with water. Combined with the processors they’d taken from the shuttles, they shouldn't run out of water any time soon. Power was a more worrying concern; the batteries they’d brought with them wouldn't last indefinitely. If they could get some items flown in from the garrison, they’d have to include a portable generator in the list. And mortar shells.
And ammunition for everything else too, he reminded himself. It's too easy to forget the little details.
He caught himself yawning and covered his mouth with a sigh. “Get some sleep, sir,” Coleman advised. “You’ll need to be fresh when they launch their next attack.”
Edward gave him a sharp look, then looked down at his wristcom. It was five hours until local dawn, when the enemy would probably resume their offensive. If he’d been in command, he would have been attacking at all hours of the clock, but the locals probably doubted their ability to command a battle at night. Judging from the ninja debacle, they were probably right.
“I’ll get some rest,” he said, finally. “Wake me the moment anything – and I mean anything – happens.”
“Yes, sir,” Coleman said. He paused. “And I’ll finish putting together my operational plan.”
“Please do,” Edward said. All his objections to using the Marines in the city had faded away when the CEF had been so comprehensively repelled. Brigadier Yamane might be able to put together a combined force to make a second attempt, but Edward was too old a campaigner to take it for granted. Anything they could do to slow down the enemy’s operations would be very welcome. “See how many likely targets you can find.”
Coleman grunted. “There’s the Rajah himself,” he mused. “Wouldn't he make a good target?”
“Maybe,” Edward said, reluctantly. “Or there's the Prince...”
He yawned again. “We’ll discuss it in the morning,” he said, heading to where he’d left his blanket. “And remember ...”
“Wake you if anything changes,” Coleman said. There was a hint of reproof in his voice. “I won’t forget my orders.”
***
“We took two prisoners,” the warrior reported. The message had been sent via landline, rather than by radio transmissions. “One died during transport; the other is on his way to the capital.”
“Good,” Sivaganga said. He felt an odd burst of hope in his heart. Surely, if they could best the off-worlders in combat, they weren't so fearsome after all. “I shall inform the Prince personally.”
He dismissed the warrior, then paused to consider what he’d been told. The first attacks on the Residency had failed spectacularly and the sneak offensive, which he’d been promised would succeed, didn't seem to have resulted in anything at all. It was possible that the Prince’s elite had just sneaked off and deserted, but that seemed unlikely. The Prince was well-known for punishing any deserters heavily. Besides, with the streets as unsafe as they were, they’d be safer attacking the off-worlders.
But they had beaten back the off-worlders in open combat. That could not be denied.
I opposed this adventure because I felt that we couldn't win, he thought, but we did beat them back. They’re not invincible. They can be beaten.
He looked out over the city, towards the darkened shape of the Imperial Residency. The battle had already been costly, both in lives and in their control over the population, but they had lives to spare. Indeed, eliminating many of the fancy troops that normally kept order in the city might improve the quality of the rest of the army in the long run. And besides, the enemy had to be running out of ammunition. Once their wondrous weapons were dry, their defeat would quickly follow.
The thought was seductive, but unavoidable. And, in truth, he didn't want to avoid it.
Perhaps they could win after all.
Chapter Nineteen
This leads neatly into the fourth requirement. Speaking softly and carrying a big stick (rephrased; speaking politely and respectfully, but firmly) works because it leaves feelings as undamaged as possible. Speaking loudly, without a big stick, merely irritates or amuses potential enemies – if nothing else, it convinces them not to take one seriously in future. The appearance of weakness can be dangerous because it can so easily become reality.
-Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.
He had never been in so much pain in his life.
Private Mathew Polk struggled to move as the vehicle bounced its way into the capital city. His hands and feet were so tightly tied that he’d lost all feeling; a quick glance had revealed that the skin had swollen up around the ropes. Even if he somehow managed to break free, he realised, it would be impossible to move. He was a helpless prisoner.
How long had it been? There was no way to tell. They’d beaten him, drugged him and then left him to recover on his own. He’d been warned that not everyone would take care of prisoners, even when it was clearly in their best interests to do so, if only to avoid reprisals against their own prisoners. The Conduct After Capture course he'd attended on Castle Rock had made it clear that he might be treated well – or he might be tortured for information. And, despite all the training, he’d also been warned that he might break.
The vehicle lurched to a halt. Moments later, the doors opened, revealing a trio of men in dark purple outfits and sneering expressions. One of them caught hold of Mathew’s leg and dragged him out of the vehicle, dumping him on the hard muddy ground and searching him roughly. The other two produced a long shaft of wood and carefully inserted it between Mathew’s hands and feet, then hoisted him up into the air. They were carrying him, he realised numbly, as if he was an dead animal being carried home by a hunter.
Voices assailed his ears as they carried him away from the vehicle and down the middle of a road. He glanced from side to side, despite the delirium, and saw crowds of men and women howling words at him in the local language. Their faces were twisted with hatred, as if they wanted to charge forward and tear him apart with their bare hands. His escort lashed around them with whips whenever the crowd came too close, but they chose to ignore a handful of rotten fruit and vegetables that were directed at Mathew’s head. He could only grunt as something the size of a small apple cracked into his arm. For a long chilling moment, he thought the arm was broken.
They’re showing you what you can expect when you escape, he thought, remembering some of his training. A person from Avalon would stick out like a sore thumb on this world.
There was a clang as a pair of gates opened in front of him, revealing a fairy tale palace made out of white marble. Mathew couldn't help wondering if he was seeing things; the palace seemed far too pretty to be real. His escorts carried him through the gate and up a long path towards the main doors, allowing him to see perfectly-designed gardens, fountains sprouting up water into the air and even a handful of peacocks wandering through the grounds. It had to be a dream, he told himself. They’d drugged him while they were transporting him from the coast.
His escorts paused as a group of black-clad men appeared, carrying rifles in a manner that suggested that they’d had some proper military training. There was a brief discussion between the two groups – he found himself wishing that he knew just what they were saying – and then he was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. The shaft was removed and one of the newcomers cut away the bonds on his feet, then yanked him upwards into a standing position. Mathew’s ankles screamed in pain and he collapsed the moment the newcomer let go of him.
The newcomer shouted at him, then helped him back to his feet and half-pushed, half-carried Mathew through the door and down a long flight of stairs. It was hard to believe that the interior of the palace was real; it seemed so fragile, like a glimpse of heaven. Tasteful artworks and paintings were scattered everywhere, while the air smelled sweet; he caught sight of a handful of girls in scanty costumes staring at him as he was taken down into the bowls of the building. They seemed too beautiful to be real too.
They stopped outside a heavy metal door – he vaguely recognised it as a blast door – which opened to reveal a darkened room. There was nothing inside, apart from a metal chair placed in the exact centre of the chamber. He was pushed inside, guided to the chair and forced to sit down. A moment later, metal cuffs were slipped around his wrists and ankles. His escorts cut off his clothes, leaving him naked, then walked away. He was alone.
“Welcome,” a voice said, in oddly-accented Imperial Standard. It was toneless, as if it was generated by a computer. No matter how he strained his ears, he couldn't identify its source. “Do you know where you are?”
The advice he’d been given for use in the event of capture had been clear. Try to avoid talking to the enemy as long as possible. When forced to talk, say as little as possible; ideally, stick to name, rank and serial number. Try not to lie, but mislead the enemy as long as possible. And don't believe a word they say.
He said nothing, but the voice continued anyway.
“Your force has been battered into uselessness and most of your friends are dead,” it continued. “You are one of a handful of prisoners; alone, hundreds of miles from any potential rescuers. There is no escape.”
There was a long pause. “Cooperate with us, answer our questions and your life will be spared,” it concluded. “Or refuse to talk and suffer as we make you talk.”
Mathew felt a cold hint of despair at the words, even though he knew that the enemy was almost certainly lying. The CEF might have been battered – it had been clear that they had been forced to retreat – but he knew that it wouldn't have been rendered completely useless. They’d been trained to react, adapt and overcome; if they lost one fight, they would learn from the experience and come back loaded for bear the next day.
But it was hard to convince himself of that when he was so clearly alone.
Surreptitiously, he tested the metal cuffs binding him to the chair. They were solid, utterly unbreakable by anything short of an enhanced human. Indeed, the locals must have heard the
standard exaggerated rumours about what enhanced humans could do, for they’d cuffed him far more than they needed to if they wanted to keep him in place. Or maybe they just wanted to underline his status.
Or maybe they’re just sick bastards, he told himself.
“This is your one chance to talk,” the voice reproved him. “If you refuse to talk, we will make you talk.”
Mathew swallowed hard, wondering if he was in any state to be tortured. It was possible that the shock alone would kill him. But he’d seen enough of the enemy’s treatment of their own population not to place any faith in their promises of safety. Even if he hadn't had his duty, he’d stay alive longer if he kept his mouth firmly closed.
“Very well,” the voice said. He heard the sound of someone moving behind him, but he couldn't turn his head to see who it was. “How many soldiers are in your force?”
There was a faint whooshing sound ... and then a whip cracked across his back. Mathew howled in pain, unable to believe that it could hurt so badly. The pain didn't fade either; his entire body seemed to be aching for long moments after the first stroke. A dark-clad figure moved into view, carrying a long whip that was sparkling with eerie blue light. Mathew felt a shiver run down his spine as he realised that it was no ordinary whip. It was a device designed to trigger the pain nerves, inflicting pain without causing any permanent damage. Pirates and slavers were fond of using them on their human cargo, just to keep them in line.
“I believe I asked you a question,” the voice said, as the whip was raised for a second time. “How many soldiers are in your force.”
Mathew screamed as he was lashed again, and again. It was hard to think, hard to focus his mind and remember why it was so important to resist. The voice kept encouraging him, pointing out just how harmless it would be to tell his interrogators one little thing to make them happy and stop the pain. His entire world seemed to have become nothing, but pain.
The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores... Page 18