The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores...

by Christopher Nuttall

  “You’re not in a good state,” the voice whispered, seductively. “Tell us one answer and you can have the medical attention you so desperately need ...”

  ***

  “Not too tough,” the Prince observed, as the first answer finally slipped out of the off-worlder’s mouth. “Not as tough as we expected.”

  Sivaganga nodded, keeping his face expressionless. The Prince seemed to find a certain pleasure in torture, but Sivaganga preferred to take his pleasure elsewhere. But it wouldn't have been wise to suggest to the Prince that there was something wrong with enjoying his pleasures, no matter how perverse they might have been. The last thing he needed was the Prince’s open enmity.

  “Let us hope that the others are just as weak,” he said, instead. It would please the Prince ... and it gave him time to think. “But we need to take more captives.”

  He didn't trust torture, certainly not when it was difficult to verify what the interrogators were being told. Ideally, they would have several prisoners, all of whom could be interrogated separately and their answers confirmed, but only one off-world soldier had survived falling into their hands. A dozen warriors had died in retribution for lynching another potential captive, yet it had been too late. If the off-worlders knew what they could expect if they fell into local hands, they would do whatever it took to prevent themselves being captured.

  And the off-world soldier had been strong. Most of the Prince’s test subjects had been untouchables, or suspected rebels, both born to lives of backbreaking labour and endless sufferings. Untouchables might be little better than beasts of burden – there were members of the higher castes who cared more for their cows and horses than for their servants – but he had to admit that there was a solid endurance about them. They had literally nothing in their lives, something that gave them some resistance to torture. An aristocrat would have folded far quicker.

  But the off-world soldier had held out for quite some time, despite serious wounds, before finally surrendering and offering an answer. Now, other questions were being thrown at him and answers were being dragged out, one by one, but he was still trying to resist. Some of his answers were obviously implausible – there was no way that the off-worlders had landed a million-man army – yet others couldn't be so easily dismissed.

  He shook his head at the expression in the Prince’s eye and tried not to shudder. Every single one of the former Residency guards had been put to the question, once they’d been caught trying to sneak away from the complex. They'd confirmed that the off-worlders were prepared to fight to the death, but they hadn't been able to say much more. The off-worlders, it seemed, were better at recognising how servants could spy than most of his own people. It was odd that they’d given sanctuary to the maids, but maybe it was for the best. He knew what had happened to the lone maid who’d chosen to leave.

  “My Prince,” he said, as the torturer approached the captive again. “I don't think we want to press it any further.”

  The Prince eyed him, an unholy gleam in his eye. “And you feel mercy for the off-world scum?”

  Sivaganga kept his voice calm, somehow. The Prince was a hothead – and he’d chosen to surround himself with hothead advisors. If he drew his sword and gutted Sivaganga before he could react, the Rajah would probably refrain from punishing him. Sivaganga’s family was important, but not as important as the lone Heir. But he had to advise the Prince as best as he could, no matter the risk. The entire planet was at stake.

  “The prisoner might make a bargaining chip,” he reminded the Prince. “Or he might have more to tell us, which he won’t be able to if he expires in the chair. He was already badly injured before your man started to hurt him. No matter how tough he seems, his endurance won’t hold out forever.”

  The Prince stared at him for a long cold moment, hopefully thinking it over. “I shall have him given time to recover,” he said, finally. “But I will not waste a doctor on him.”

  Sivaganga wasn't surprised. The city’s doctors were working hard to cope with all the higher-caste aristocrats who had been wounded in the fighting. If the Rajah hadn't ordered most of them to stay in the city, there would have been a flight to the countryside, even if there were outbreaks of violence among the farmers. The lower castes and the untouchables could take care of themselves. There was no shortage of replacements for everyone who died.

  “We can also use the captive to show the off-worlders just how firm we are in our determination to destroy them,” the Prince continued. “I shall have him prepared for his final role, once we have gained answers to all of our questions.”

  He slapped Sivaganga on the shoulder and walked off, heading back up the stairs towards the sleeping chambers he’d commandeered. Sivaganga took one last look at the off-world captive – in truth, the man looked to be on the verge of death – and then followed him, hoping to get some sleep. It wouldn’t be long before dawn broke over the city ... and the next round of attacks began.

  And then, he assured himself, the off-worlders would be destroyed.

  ***

  Mathew was barely aware of his surroundings until a sponge was pressed against his chest. His eyes snapped open, revealing a dark-skinned girl swabbing the blood away from his body and washing him clean. There seemed to be enough blood, he thought dimly through the haze, to leave him completely dry. But it had to be an illusion ...

  He opened his voice and tried to speak. “Who ...?”

  It came out badly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who are you?”

  The girl shook her head sadly, then looked at him and opened her mouth. It took Mathew a moment to realise that she had no tongue. Someone had cut it out, along with most of her teeth. He felt his stomach churn as he remembered the stories he’d heard from the more experienced soldiers who’d stormed bandit camps after the Cracker War. If a girl had proved too determined to fight, they’d knocked out her teeth to stop her biting ...

  He would have been sick, if there had been something left in his stomach. Instead, he felt his head spinning. The girl didn't seem to be a doctor, or anything other than a worker. They weren't going to give him any medical attention at all. It was true that the whip wouldn't inflict any permanent harm, but the injuries he’d taken during the fight would fester if they were left untended. He might not last the night.

  And he’d talked, he remembered, with a sudden burst of shame. The pain had grown unbearable and he’d snarled out an answer, only to open a chink in his armour. He’d been bombarded with question after question, each answer only leading to more questions ... by the time they’d finally left him alone, he’d told them far too much. He wasn't even sure just how badly he’d managed to mislead them. It had been hard to keep remembering what lies he’d told as they’d kept altering the questions, or moving from topic to topic ...

  He grunted as the girl moved behind him washed his hands, even though they were still in the cuffs. It hurt when he tried to breath, which suggested that he’d broken several ribs. Even if she freed him, it seemed unlikely that he could do more than crawl. She walked back in front of him and stared at him for a long sad moment.

  It struck him, then, just how young she was. The clothes she wore were rags, revealing enough of her body to suggest that she was in her early teens ... or that she was simply too malnourished to enter puberty. He felt sick as he stared at her, wondering why anyone would do that to an innocent young girl. But he’d heard enough to know just how unpleasant the universe could be to innocents who were mashed in the gears.

  The girl turned and walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Mathew shook his head, despite the pain; he was alone, trapped and a traitor. The thought kept running around his head. Even if they knew he’d been captured, they wouldn’t bother to rescue him. He closed his eyes, feeling despair reaching up to overwhelm him. It was impossible to be optimistic. No matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise, it was unlikely that he’d live long enough to be rescued.

  But who wo
uld want to rescue a traitor?

  Chapter Twenty

  The other most dangerous possibly is amply summed up by Yosemite Sam, who once declared that ‘well, I speak loud! And I carry a BIIIIIIIIGGER stick!! And I use it too!’

  -Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

  Dawn broke over Maharashtra like a thunderbolt, heralded by chanting from the hundreds of temples in the city that blended together into an oddly melodious harmony. Corporal Paul Howard clutched his rifle tightly and tried to blink sleep from his eyes, fighting down an urge to yawn. The defenders – both Commonwealth and Wolfbane – had stood to as dawn approached, expecting a new round of attacks. But nothing had materialised. Even the probes under cover of darkness had stilled.

  “All clear,” he reported, as he peered down the street. No one had come to remove the bodies, even though he hoped that the higher-ups would agree to a limited truce to allow the besiegers to do just that. In the heat, they were already starting to stink. “There are no signs of enemy movement.”

  “Understood,” the CO said. “Remain on guard.”

  Paul rolled his eyes, although he understood why the CO was nervous. The company that had been assigned to protecting the diplomats had been newly-raised, with most of its soldiers – including Paul – conscripted after the first wave of chaos had swept over the Wolfbane Sector. Paul didn't mind serving in the military – it certainly beat joining his brothers in the free labour pool – but he hadn't expected to be assigned to a thoroughly hostile world, let alone forced to work with another military to defend the diplomats. Indeed, the company had never been combat tested at all.

  Until now, he thought.

  The first attacks had been repelled with ease, but the sneaks trying to make their way up to the walls were a clear and present danger. It was all-too-easy to imagine one of them managing to knock down the walls, allowing the mobs to storm forward and pillage the Residency. Indeed, most of the supplies from both sides had been moved into the central building, where there was slightly more room to defend them if attacked. But if one of the walls fell, Paul doubted they could hold out for long.

  He stopped as a motion caught his eye, snapping his rifle up to take aim. A moment later, he relaxed as the dog came into view, blood and flesh dripping from its snout. He felt sick as he realised what it had been eating and found himself wondering if he should shoot it out of hand, seeing that it had developed a taste for human flesh. But they’d been told in no uncertain terms to conserve ammunition as much as possible. The dog would be someone else’s problem.

  Maybe it will bite the enemy commander, he told himself, although he knew it was unlikely. There was just too many dead bodies on the ground for the dog to go hungry. He winced as a second dog came into view, followed rapidly by a third. They seemed to have gone feral very quickly.

  The chanting faded away, leaving an unearthly silence echoing over the city. Paul shivered, wondering just what it portended. The old sweats had talked about facing religious fanatics, warning the new conscripts that they could convince their followers to do anything, even charge into massed machine gun fire. Some of them had even believed that their prayers could turn away bullets, although they’d learned that mistake very quickly. But people would seemingly believe anything if they were told it firmly enough.

  There was a dull roar in the distance, snapping him back to full awareness. He muttered a brief update into the intercom, then peered down the road as the dogs scattered, heading back to their lairs amid the ruined buildings. Behind him, he heard more soldiers running out of the buildings or reinforcing the men on the rooftops. If trouble was coming, they'd be ready to deal with it.

  The sound grew louder as a large vehicle came into view. Paul stared at it; at first glance, it seemed like an AFV ... and then it became clear that armour had been bolted over a civilian vehicle. The driver gunned the engine and drove right at the guardhouse; Paul lifted his rifle and started to fire, realising that they intended to ram the gates. A moment later, a grenade was launched from the roof and detonated just underneath the vehicle. There was a colossal explosion, powerful enough to shake the entire complex; Paul felt himself picked up by the blast and flung across the grounds, right into the Residency wall. If it hadn't been for his armour, he realised numbly, he would have broken his back on impact.

  A second fireball billowed up from the other side of the complex. The truck bombs had to have been targeted on all sides, he realised, just to prevent one group of defenders from reinforcing the other. As long as they broke through one set of defences, he told himself as he staggered to his feet, they would win the fight. There were no defences facing the Commonwealth’s side of the Residency.

  “Four more vehicles,” he croaked, as the sound of fighting intensified. “They’re coming in from the north.”

  “Understood,” the CO said. “Are they truck bombs?”

  Paul bit down the response that came to mind. How the hell was he meant to know? The only way to be sure was to hit them with a grenade or an antitank rocket and see just how big the explosion was. Two of the vehicles were hit in quick succession, both of them exploding violently enough to wipe out a handful of enemy soldiers who had been following in hopes of exploiting the expected gap in the walls. Paul felt a moment of hot satisfaction, then lifted his rifle and opened fire on the remaining soldiers. They fell back in some disorder.

  “Stay alert,” the CO instructed the squad. “The day is young.”

  ***

  “The day is young,” Villeneuve said.

  “Shut up,” Edward ordered, not unkindly. The truck bombs had been a nasty surprise, even if they had been engaged far enough from the gates to leave the walls intact. No doubt the enemy could keep rigging them up until the defenders ran out of grenades. “What else do we have coming at us?”

  “Enemy troops are massing here, here and here,” Flora said. She looked as tired as Edward felt; neither of them had dared take a sleeping pill as the dawn approached. “They seem to have deduced our reluctance to use our mortars.”

  Edward couldn't disagree. The enemy troops were massing barely three kilometres from the Residency – well within mortar range – yet he knew he didn't dare waste their handful of shells to take them out. No doubt the enemy CO was hoping that he'd do just that; his men were cheaper and easier to replace than Edward’s shells. Edward couldn't understand why anyone would throw away his own men so casually, but he had to admit that it was working out for the enemy. Edward’s ammunition stockpiles were gradually being worn down.

  He looked down at the live feed from the orbiting station and swallowed a curse. The vast majority of the enemy’s professional forces were digging in along the route to Maharashtra, which would force the CEF to fight its way through a series of strongpoints before they could relieve the Residency. And they were doing whatever they could to slow down the CEF; taking out bridges, mining fields and emplacing other surprises along the route. But they were also bringing sizable numbers of troops to Maharashtra, as if they believed that they would need reinforcements to overwhelm the Residency and its defenders.

  “We’ll have to send out a raiding party,” he said, looking over at Coleman. “Do you still want to volunteer for a daring commando raid?”

  Coleman grinned. “Do bears shit in the woods, sir?”

  “Take one volunteer and go,” Edward said. “Sniping only. I can't afford to lose you.”

  Coleman saluted curtly and left the room.

  ***

  Blake Coleman knew that he wasn't one of the Marine Corps’ intellectuals. He’d joined up because he liked action and the Corps had seemed a good place to get it ... and he had to admit that he’d been right. And he liked women and, on Avalon at least, a Marine uniform was a sure-fire ticket to a pleasant night of very little sleep. Sure, there had been one or two embarrassments along the way, but he enjoyed his life. The only downside was that the Colonel had promoted him in the wake of Lieutenant Yamane’s period on me
dical leave. He would have happily surrendered 1st Platoon back to her, if he’d been given a choice. She could issue orders and he would carry them out.

  He nodded at Rifleman Carl Watson and led the way out of the door and over to the wall. As far as they could tell, the enemy didn't have spotters in the rubble surrounding the Residency, although Blake knew that there were plenty of ways to keep an eye on the building without being obvious about it. Slipping over the wall was easy enough, once they’d informed the defenders that they were on their way. The real danger was accidentally being shot by the defenders when they tried to make their way back into the Residency.

  “Disgusting,” Watson subvocalised, using his implanted communicator. The intelligence techs had been fairly certain that the locals wouldn’t be able to detect the transmissions, not if top-of-the-line Imperial equipment had problems. “They should at least clear away the bodies.”

  Blake nodded. He’d seen worse on Han, but there was something uniquely callous about the caste system and how the upper castes treated the lower castes. Even pirates didn't seem to have the sense that their victims were lower than animals. He pushed the thought to one side as they slipped through the rubble, watching carefully for dogs and refugees who might have hidden in the ruins. It was quite likely that some of the attackers who’d been forced back had chosen not to try to report to their superiors.

  The damage grew less extensive as they reached an apartment block, one of the largest buildings within ten kilometres of the Residency. Blake had studied all the drone footage and concluded that no one had remained inside, but the two Marines swept it carefully as they made their way up to the roof. It was clear that none of the occupants had expected to find themselves in the midst of a shooting war; their apartments showed signs of having been abandoned in haste, even with food and drink left on the table. He found himself hoping that they’d made it away safely, although he knew that it was unlikely. The locals didn't seem to have made any provisions for refugees at all.