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

by Christopher Nuttall

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Edward informed him, cursing – again – the lack of truth drugs. It was unlikely that the locals had access to treatments that would nullify them – or kill anyone who was at risk of being forced to talk. “We’re going to ask you questions, which you are going to answer. This device” – he snapped the monitor around the prisoner’s wrist – “will tell us if you’re telling the truth. If you try to lie to us, we’ll hit you. Any questions?”

  The man stared at him, his pale face flushing with rage. “Return me to my people!”

  “Not a chance,” Edward said, dryly. The captive’s Imperial Standard was poor, but understandable. There had been residents of Earth’s undercity with worse accents. “First question; who exactly are you?”

  It took thirty minutes to work out a picture of the enemy’s command structure, once the captive’s defiance had been beaten out of him. The Rajah seemed to have stepped back from control, allowing his son to take the lead; Edward puzzled over it until Leo pointed out that the Rajah was preparing a fallback position. If the whole operation went spectacularly wrong, the Rajah would execute his son and swear blind that he knew nothing about the whole plan. Edward rolled his eyes when they put it together. What sort of idiot would expect him to fall for such obvious nonsense?

  But the rest of the news was less encouraging. The locals were bringing up more experienced forces, intending to bring them to bear on the Residency. There were more guns coming, including ones that could be fired from well outside mortar range. It wouldn't be long, the captive said, before the Residency was reduced to rubble and all of the off-worlders were brutally slaughtered. He didn't seem to care about the prospect of starships bombarding the planet from orbit, utterly untouchable by anything on the planet’s surface.

  “We could go find the Prince,” Coleman suggested. He sounded confident, although Edward suspected that losing one aristocrat would have taught the rest of the locals to take better precautions. “It might make it harder for them to coordinate their operations if the Prince is killed.”

  “Might,” Edward said. He looked down at the captive. “Where would we find the Prince?”

  “He moves every night,” the captive said, nastily. A glance at the monitor showed that he was telling the truth. “You’ll never find him.”

  “We’ll see,” Edward countered, although he suspected that the captive was right. It wasn't easy to locate a single man in a teeming city. On the other hand, it should be relatively easy to locate the Rajah ... he pushed the thought aside for later consideration and stood upright. “And your people will not destroy us.”

  He ignored the snide remark from the prisoner and looked over at Coleman. “Get in touch with the intelligence staff, then keep asking him questions,” he ordered. “Concentrate on tactical information, anything that might help us – or the CEF. We don't know how long we have before they bring up the big guns.”

  The prisoner sneered at him. “Your days are numbered, off-worlder.”

  Edward looked down at him. “And what,” he asked mildly, “will happen to us when the walls fall?”

  The prisoner hesitated, then – apparently convinced of the futility of lying – answered the question. “You’ll die,” he said, shortly. He sounded absolutely convinced of the truth of what he was saying. “And all traces of your influence will be wiped off the face of the planet.”

  “We shall see,” Edward said, glancing down at his wristcom. There were five hours until the dawn, when he expected the bombardment to start again. So far, the shells hadn't inflicted any major damage, but they’d wounded his men and shaken the building’s structure. “I think you won’t find us an easy nut to chew. And besides, if your people overrun the complex, you will be killed in the crossfire.”

  With that, he nodded to Coleman and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  This can cause problems. During the lead-up to the Falklands War, the British diplomats failed to make it clear to the Argentinean Government that the British could and would fight to recover the islands. Thus believing that Britain would rant and rage, but not do anything effective, the Argentinean junta gambled on an invasion – and lost.

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

  “Wake up,” a voice hissed. Cold water splashed across his face. “Wake up!”

  Private Mathew Polk winced, trying to turn away from the water. At some point, they’d removed him from the chair and chained him to the wall, without any medical care or attention. He’d examined himself as best as he could, but all he’d been able to determine was that he wasn't going to be walking out on his own two feet. It was much more likely that he would die in the black hole chamber.

  He looked up to see a dark-skinned man bending over him. “I need your name, rank and serial number,” the newcomer snapped. “Now!”

  Mathew fought down the urge to laugh. Now they asked for his name, rank and serial number, the three pieces of information that he had been told he was allowed to tell any potential captors? They’d asked for his name, but they hadn't asked for rank or serial number ... had they wised up and decided to treat him in a civilised manner, or had they merely decided to refocus the interrogation?

  The newcomer slapped him across the face. “Your name, rank and serial number,” he repeated. “And that will be all for the day.”

  Mathew tasted blood in his mouth, although the pain seemed to blur into the numbness affecting the rest of his body. He was sure that the newcomer was lying, that there would be other questions once he’d shown another chink in his armour, but he needed sleep ... bracing himself, he answered the question.

  “Very good,” the newcomer said. He barked a command in his language as he stood upright and walked back towards the hidden door. “And thank you.”

  A moment later, the girl arrived with a bowl of ... something and started to spoon it into his mouth. Puzzled, Mathew accepted it gratefully, all the while trying to understand what was going on. Why had they suddenly demanded his name, rank and serial number? He shifted uncomfortably and the girl started, almost dropping the bowl on his exposed chest. Did they intend to tell the CEF that they’d captured him?

  There was no way to know.

  ***

  “Here we go again,” Private Tomas Leloir muttered, as dawn broke over the city. “I wonder what’s coming at us this time.”

  He gritted his teeth as warm air blew over the city, bringing with it the stench of rotting flesh and burning embers. The second day of the siege had been hellish and he had no reason to expect the third to be any better. It wouldn't be long before the enemy realised that all they had to do to win was keep bombarding the complex throughout the night, preventing the defenders from getting any sleep. Given a few days, they’d be so badly sleep-deprived that they would probably wind up shooting each other.

  Rubbing his eyes, he peered into the distance, eying the shifting piles of debris suspiciously. NVGs had revealed some people crawling through the ruins, although none of them had come close to the walls. It would be a long time before anyone at the Residency felt safe again ... assuming they survived, of course. He tried to believe that the Colonel would find a way out of the trap, but he honestly couldn't think of anything the Colonel could do. It all depended on the CEF battering its way through the enemy’s lines and reaching the city before the walls fell.

  He blinked as he heard the sound of a trumpet in the distance ... and then stared in disbelief as an odd procession came into view. Four men, all wearing red and yellow outfits, carrying a large white flag between them. The leader, the man who was blowing the trumpet, looked nervous; the others seemed to have their eyes fixed firmly on the road. They had to know that the defenders would fire on anyone who came close to the walls, certainly after the truck bombs and the would-be ninjas. And even if that was a flag of truce ...

  “Hold your fire,” the Lieutenant ordered, over the tactical network. “But prepare to take them down at m
y command.”

  There was a long moment as the strange group came closer, then the Lieutenant lifted a megaphone to his lips and started to speak. “HALT,” he ordered. “WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

  The group parted to allow one of the men at the rear to step forward. “I bring a message for your commander,” he shouted back, although his voice sounded tinny at such a distance. “I request permission to approach the gate.”

  Tomas tightened his grip on his rifle as the Lieutenant briefly consulted with the Colonel. He had no doubt that the whole approach was a ruse, something to convince the defenders to let down their guard long enough for the enemy to launch a surprise attack. But it wasn't his job to make the hard choices, merely to carry out orders. He watched the man carefully, aiming right at his forehead. If the local plotted treachery, he’d be dead before he move more than a millimetre.

  “ONE OF YOU MAY COME TO THE GATE, IF NAKED,” the Lieutenant ordered, finally. “THE OTHERS ARE TO FALL BACK.”

  There was a hasty consultation among the newcomers, which ended with all but one of them heading back the way they had come. The remaining newcomer slowly removed his robe, followed rapidly by a pair of underclothes that looked decent enough to pass for daily wear on Avalon, then stood upright naked. Leaving his clothes behind, he started to walk towards the gate.

  “I think I've seen better strippers,” one of the soldiers muttered.

  Tomas couldn't help himself. He snickered. The sound broke the tension, even though a dozen rifles were still tracking the newcomer. Two of the guards at the gate left their posts and advanced forward, poking the newcomer roughly in delicate places. Tomas felt a flicker of sympathy as they even stuck a medical probe up his anus, before half-dragging him back through the gate and up towards the Residency building. He had grown to hate the locals intensely during the time he’d spent on the planet, but he had to admit that the man had nerve.

  “No tip,” another soldier commented.

  “Keep your eyes on the surroundings,” the Sergeant growled. “The show is over.”

  ***

  “He’s completely clean,” the guard reported, as they escorted the newcomer into one of the smaller rooms. Edward had chosen it because it was completely empty; the newcomer, if he was a spy, would see nothing of importance. “There wasn't even a wire.”

  Edward nodded, examining the newcomer for himself. He was tall, but his body had run to flab, even if he wasn't really fat. This was not a man for whom physical exercise was important, he decided, and probably also a man whose ancestors had been the lucky recipients of a considerable amount of genetic modification. He motioned for the guards to remain outside, then leant against the wall, trying to project an air of informality. It wouldn't do for the newcomer to realise how worried he was about surviving the next few days.

  “I am Sivaganga Zamindari,” the newcomer said. “With your permission, we will put aside the conventions of diplomacy.”

  Edward nodded, impatiently. A Zamindari was an important official, probably the equivalent of a local mayor. But then, no official on the planet could hope to command the sheer power of one of the Empire’s officials, even if they weren't – nominally – aristocrats. It was probably why they affected so much pomp and circumstance ... and the offer to put it aside, he suspected, was more significant than it seemed.

  “I will be equally blunt,” he answered. “What do you want?”

  A smile twitched at the corner of the Zamindari’s mouth. “We know that you are holding one of our people captive,” he said. “We wish to trade for his recovery.”

  Edward was surprised, although he knew that he shouldn't have been. It was unpleasant to realise that the locals hadn't even tried to bargain for the maids, but when one of their aristocrats were taken hostage they promptly started trying to make bargains. But then, maybe they’d assumed that the maids were damaged goods or that they’d been executed out of hand. Who knew what went through aristocratic minds?

  “Very well,” he said. “What are you prepared to offer? Safe conduct back to the coast? A supply of fresh food and drink? Gold bars?”

  “We have one of your people captive,” the Zamindari said. Edward felt a flicker of horror, even though he kept his face under strict control. “Private Mathew Polk.”

  He recited the man’s serial number from memory, giving Edward a chance to check it against the files on his terminal. It did match – and Polk was one of the men reported as missing, presumed dead or captured. They’d moved him up from the coastline astonishingly quickly, Edward realised, although it wasn't as if they had to worry about IEDs themselves. But then, they’d probably feared the CEF overrunning their base and liberating the captive.

  “I see,” Edward said, finally. “And you’re prepared to trade him for your aristocrat?”

  “Yes,” the Zamindari said, simply.

  Edward thought fast. No man left behind was one of the core principles of the Marine Corps; if they couldn't count on one another, who could they count on? But their captive was a priceless source of intelligence and if they sent him back, who knew when they’d have another chance to ask questions?

  Coleman was putting together a plan to go after the Prince, he thought. What would they offer for him?

  He leaned forward, tapping his terminal to record the conversation. “Do you have any other captives?”

  “No,” the Zamindari said. His words would be analysed by the intelligence staff, searching for signs of a lie. “And the terms of the bargain are as we have stated them.”

  “I want our man back and a ten-day truce,” Edward said. It was worth an attempt at trying to bargain, although he doubted that he could trust them to stick to any agreement once they could wiggle out of it. “And how – exactly – do you intend to trade him for your man?”

  “I am only authorised to offer your man,” the Zamindari insisted. “Truces are outside my authority. If you are insistent, I will have to return to the Prince and ask him.”

  Edward – once again – cursed the price of high command. Every emotion in his body demanded that he accept the bargain, that he liberate one of his men from enemy captivity. But cold logic told him that it would be worthless. Even if Polk was taken into the Residency, the complex might still be overrun ... and he'd be giving up his sole source of actionable intelligence. He was mildly surprised that the Prince had agreed to surrender his source of intelligence. No doubt their captive was more important than they’d realised.

  The decision was his. Sure, Polk’s immediate CO – Villeneuve – was also in the Residency, but Edward was the one charged with overall command. He couldn't allow his emotions to interfere with his judgement. Fighting back an urge to hit the man in front of him, he stood up and started to pace the room. The local eyed him nervously, but said nothing. He seemed a more experienced diplomat than Edward would have expected to find on an isolated world.

  “Your offer is rejected,” he said, finally. The words tore at his soul, but he forced himself to stay firm. “We would prefer not to trade at this moment.”

  He forced a cold smile onto his face. “After all, you must realise that we would be getting little out of the exchange,” he added. “Don't you?”

  The Zamindari showed no direct reaction. “I should warn you,” he said, instead, “that our captive may fall into the hands of those who hate off-worlders at any moment ...”

  Edward lunged around and grabbed the man by the throat, hauling him upright and pressing him against the wall. It would have been easy, so easy, to close his fist and crush the man’s neck, or simply zap him with his implanted nerve disruptor. But instead he held himself under control, somehow.

  “I know that you all hate off-worlders,” he snarled. “I know that you will probably have tortured him, just as you have tortured your own people whom you think have been contaminated merely by touching something from off-world. And I know that you cannot win this fight. Even if you destroy the Residency, even if you overrun the Garrison, you cannot sto
p the starships from reducing your world to ash. Do you really believe that Governor Brown would act to prevent the Commonwealth from punishing you for your betrayal? Or that we would act to prevent him from punishing you?”

  A foul stench reached his nostrils as the Zamindari lost control of his bowels. Disgusted, Edward let go of his neck and let him fall to his knees.

  “Take this back to your Prince,” Edward hissed. “If he hurts or kills his captive, there will be nothing left of his world, but dust and rocks floating in space. We will destroy him. Tell him that, make sure he understands. There is no way out for him, other than abandoning this senseless war.”

  He stepped backwards and glared down at the cowering man. “Get up,” he ordered, curtly. “And go.”

  The guards came in at Edward’s command and hustled the Zamindari towards the door. Edward briefly considered keeping him as a prisoner, then dismissed the thought. As tempting as it was, it would be a sign of bad faith that would make it harder to hold further talks later on. Instead, he watched the man go, then turned and walked back to the situation room. He needed to speak to Villeneuve.

  ***

  Sivaganga had never felt so intimidated in his life. Even when facing the Rajah or his son, he'd known that rational calculations would suggest to his ruler that wanton killing of aristocrats would undermine his throne far more than anything else. The Prince, as crude and unpleasant as he was, would understand that too. But the off-worlder ... shame and rage burned through Sivaganga as he remembered the brief moment of absolute helplessness and fear. The off-worlder had been so strong! He could have snapped Sivaganga’s neck as if it had been a twig.

  He found his clothes where he’d left them, pulled them on and then stumbled away from the Residency, trying hard to keep his trembling under control. The Prince needed a report; he had to know that the off-worlders had refused the bargain ... and that they’d threatened the entire planet. It was hard to comprehend, but Lakshmibai’s isolation was as much a danger as it was a help. He knew, deep inside, that they had nothing to offer any of the new interstellar powers, nothing that they couldn't just take. And now the Empire was gone, even land wouldn't be particularly valuable.