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

by Christopher Nuttall

  And three men missing, unaccounted for.

  She'd wondered if they might be prisoners, but none of the enemy commanders had known about any prisoners. The prisoners they had taken had died in their custody, apart from one who had been shipped up to the capital. Jasmine had almost killed them personally when she’d heard their confession. Mistreating prisoners was a precedent they could not allow to stand. But the standard response, reprisals against captured enemy POWs, was pointless when it was clear that the enemy commanders cared nothing for their men.

  “When you write your book about this whole affair,” she said, turning to face the reporter, “make sure you tell the universe that they died bravely and well.”

  “I will,” the reporter promised. He didn't seem to have any difficulty looking at the bodies, even the ones who had been seriously mutilated in the fighting. “And I’m sorry for their loss.”

  Jasmine nodded and led the way out of the warehouse. The bodies would be shipped back to the garrison, where they would be placed in stasis or simply frozen until the starships returned. Some of the dead had probably requested burial in space, a Marine tradition that had been copied by the Knights, but the others would probably need to be returned to Avalon for proper burial. Shaking her head, she headed towards the other warehouse, noting with some twisted amusement the line of local civilians snaking into the building. The offer of basic medical care had done more to win hearts and minds than smashing their town into a pile of rubble.

  Inside, all was bedlam. Mothers clutched their children tightly, while the medics briefly glanced at them and then offered what advice they could. The trucks were bringing more supplies up from the garrison, Jasmine knew, but she doubted that it would be enough to help everyone. In the corner, a handful of men sat with their hands bound behind their backs and cloth stuffed in their mouths. Jasmine looked over at Joe Buckley, who had taken over security for the medical centre, and lifted her eyebrows.

  “They decided that they had the right to force their way to the head of the queue,” Buckley explained, shortly. He nodded to a pair of Knights who had also been assigned to guard duties. “We had a little discussion with the assholes and taught them the error of their ways.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Jasmine said, dryly. “And the other prisoners?”

  “Being cuffed and shackled at this moment,” Buckley said, bluntly. “The locals may not want them in their town, but someone has to clear up the bodies.”

  He paused. “There may be a problem,” he added. He looked over at the reporter doubtfully, then motioned for Jasmine to follow him into an office. “We found a number of bodies in the town.”

  Jasmine scowled. “The whole place is practically littered with bodies,” she pointed out, sharply. She still remembered watching in horror as the drones revealed the bodies of a number of human shields, all killed by incoming fire. “The surprise would be not finding bodies.”

  “These bodies were killed after the fighting,” Buckley said. “They were all young men, middle-caste; as far as we can tell, they didn't take part in the defence of the town. And I have a pretty good idea of who killed them.”

  “The rebels,” Jasmine said, darkly.

  “No one else has a motive,” Buckley warned. “Jasmine” – he rarely called her by her first name, at least since they’d both left 1st Platoon – “the rebels might be laying the groundwork for their takeover, once the war comes to an end.”

  Jasmine fought down the urge to bang her hand against the wall – or summon Yin and wring his scrawny neck. Oh, she could understand the desire for revenge – and the practical aspects of eliminating the castes that would be most likely to fight against any restructuring of society – but it would only make it harder for them to take Pradesh. Hell, the local government wouldn't even have to lie to muster local resistance.

  “Brilliant,” she snarled, finally. “And we weren't even planning to hold the town ourselves.”

  She shook her head. “What do we do about it?”

  Buckley didn't answer. She tossed possible options around and around in her head; they could threaten the rebels, even warn them that they might stop providing arms and support from the garrison ... but Yin would know that she was bluffing. They needed the rebels, just to smash their way to the capital and raise the siege. Or she could ask him politely to stop, allowing him to claim that it was someone acting without his authority ... which might very well be true. Insurgent groups rarely had straight chains of command.

  “I’ll speak to him,” she said, although she knew that she wasn't in a strong position to bargain. The most she could threaten him with, realistically, was abandoning the planet altogether after recovering Colonel Stalker and his people ... and that probably wouldn't bother him in the slightest. “And then we need to talk about Pradesh. I’ve had an idea.”

  “Get some sleep too,” Buckley advised. “We won’t be able to advance forward for another day or two, at the very least.”

  Jasmine nodded. Her forces had burned through a considerable amount of ammunition – and the rebels had spent it as if there would be no tomorrow. They would need time to prepare, time to bring up new weapons and vehicles from the garrison ... and time to reinforce the makeshift bridges the engineers had constructed over the river. And to bring up more bridging equipment, as a second river lay between them and Pradesh. Thankfully, there was no dam to allow them to trigger a second flood.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. “But I won’t sleep easy.”

  ***

  “Guard duty,” Michael muttered to himself, as the Warrior sped along the road. “I’m a bloody guard.”

  He’d taken over the top-mounted machine gun by dint of superior authority, allowing him to feel the wind in his face. The convoy was kicking up dust and mud as it moved westwards, taking hundreds of prisoners back to the POW camps, but he was fairly safe from breathing in anything apart from the stench of decomposing bodies. It was still stunning just how much damage the flood had actually done – and just how little effort any of the locals had put into clearing up the mess.

  I suppose they know that everything they do might be knocked down again, he thought, charitably. The farmers on Avalon had done much the same thing, after watching their farms burned down and their daughters kidnapped by the bandits. They hadn't had any faith in the planet’s future until after the Marines had defeated the bandits and forced the Crackers to agree to terms.

  They’d been promised a rest, once they returned to the FOB, although he doubted that it would be very long, Instead, it was much more likely that they’d be detailed to run a second set of escort missions within a few hours. He was still thinking about it when the first shot bounced off the vehicle’s armour, far too close to his position.

  “Incoming,” he snapped, swinging the machine gun around to blaze at the source of the fire. The enemy had taken up position along a ridgeline, allowing them to pour fire down into the convoy. It wasn't enough to protect them from machine gun fire, he noted with some relief; the massed fire of four Warriors wiped the enemy soldiers out before they could do any real damage. He briefly considered ordering his men to dismount and scout for other surprises, then dismissed the thought. They had to get back to the FOB.

  “Probably thought we were defenceless,” one of his soldiers suggested. “Or maybe they just wanted to remind us that we can't guarantee our safety.”

  “There are no guarantees in this line of work,” Michael reminded him, dryly. “And keep your eyes peeled for surprises. That may not be the only ambush they have in mind.”

  Surprisingly, the rest of the journey went without incident, although Michael refused to relax until they were actually within the outer wire surrounding the latest POW camp. The more dangerous prisoners had largely been sorted out and isolated in the early moments after capture, but he would still have been happier if the camp had been a little more complex than a few hundred square metres of ground surrounded by wire fencing. But the prisoners – naked, w
ithout tools or leadership – should be unable to escape. Besides, it was the only place where they were going to get fed.

  “All right, you lot,” he called, once he and his men had dismounted. “Out you come.”

  One by one, the enemy prisoners were unbound and then shoved through the gate into the camp. None of them looked as if they were planning to resist; indeed, they looked broken and relieved to find that they were still being guarded by off-worlders. Everyone had heard the rumours about what happened to prisoners who fell into rebel hands; Michael had allowed the prisoners to find out, hoping that it would keep them from causing too much trouble or trying to escape. It seemed to have worked.

  “Good work, Lieutenant,” a female voice said. He turned to see a woman who’s eyes looked older than her face, wearing a faded Imperial Army uniform. She had to be from the garrison, he decided, if she was wearing that uniform. The Commonwealth had designed its own uniforms after being abandoned by the Empire. “Do you have time for a debriefing?”

  Michael yawned. “My men and I require food and rest,” he snapped, too tired to be diplomatic. “God alone knows when the CO will want us heading back to the front lines. I really don’t have time to be debriefed ...”

  “Unless he means having his briefs removed,” a soldier said, just loudly enough to be heard. “That would be ...”

  “Silence,” Sergeant Grieves thundered. Judging by his tone, the soldier was going to regret opening his mouth. “Sir ...”

  “Never mind,” Michael said. He looked back at the officer. Imperial Army or not, surely she deserved a little respect. “Can you hold off until we’ve eaten and slept?”

  “There’s food in the mess,” the officer said. “And if you need to rest, I won't keep you.”

  Michael watched her go, then turned around and led the way back to the warriors. There would be a place to rest in the FOB. And then they’d be heading back to the front.

  ***

  Jasmine’s implanted communicator buzzed, awakening her from a sound sleep.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Buckley said, “but Yin’s here, asking for you.”

  Jasmine sat upright, relieved that she hadn't done anything as stupid as stripping off before going to sleep. Yin still thought her a young man and she’d decided, after watching how even the rebels interacted with local women, she wasn't going to do anything to convince him otherwise. She was mildly surprised that he hadn't realised that something was odd about her – unlike the men, she couldn't grow any stubble on her chin – but perhaps he felt that off-worlder men removed their stubble completely.

  It wouldn't be the stupidest rumour they have about us, she told herself, as she pulled her jacket over her shirt and then checked her pistol. Implanted weapons were useful, but sometimes a more visible weapon made a proper deterrent. Besides, she preferred to keep her implants as a nasty surprise for potential enemies.

  “I’m on my way,” she said. A quick glance at her wristcom revealed that she had slept over seven hours, right through the night. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Whatever objection the locals had to working at night no longer seemed to apply, she discovered, as she stepped out of the tent. There was still a line of locals heading to the medical tent and another line heading towards where ration bars were being handed out. It had caused no end of friction when the locals had realised that the bars were only being handed out to people who came to the centre, rather than one person being allowed to take away a dozen bars. But she knew that the rebels would have tried to starve the less welcome parts of the community if they’d been given half a chance.

  She’d set up a makeshift operational command centre in one of the few truly intact buildings at the outskirts of town. A handful of portable terminals, a generator to provide power and a processor to produce water and food ... all the comforts of a Marine FOB, she’d told herself, once it was set up. And besides, she had no intention of staying in the town for one moment longer than necessary. They were already shipping up ammunition and other supplies to allow them to continue the offensive.

  Yin met her in a side room, with Buckley standing by the door and trying hard to pretend to be invisible. He seemed to be succeeding, Jasmine decided; Yin was acting as if the Marine wasn't there at all, despite his immense bulk. She sat down facing the local and gave him a tired smile, then narrowed her eyes. Maybe Yin wasn't to blame for the deaths ... but she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

  “Brigadier,” he said. “My men are in position to take over the town.”

  Jasmine stared at him, refusing to blink. “We found people who had been executed,” she said, without bothering to be diplomatic. “Why did your people kill them?”

  Yin rocked back in surprise, too much surprise. The overacting convinced Jasmine that he wasn't surprised at all. He knew about the murders, even if he hadn't ordered them.

  “They were” – he spoke a local word Jasmine didn't know – “and deserved to be purged,” he said, finally. “I cannot blame some of my people for taking the law into their own hands.”

  Jasmine kept her eyes on his. “And why, precisely, did they deserve to die?”

  “They fawned on the aristocrats,” Yin said. “It was them, more than anyone else, who upheld their rule. They dreamed of becoming aristocrats. If we kept them in the city, they would pose a security risk.”

  Jasmine scowled, remembering the true nature of the local religion. The middle castes were close to becoming aristocrats through reincarnation ... and, for that matter, a particularly successful middle caste trader might be offered a chance to join the aristocracy. It was a safety valve built into their society, although it was really too small to prevent tensions eventually tearing the system apart. She could see why Yin might want to purge them ... but she also knew that it could not be allowed.

  “If the enemy find out what you did,” she said, not bothering to pretend that she thought that he had nothing to do with it, “they will use it as a rallying cry. They will no longer surrender, but they will fight to the bitter end. And they will turn on your people too.”

  She showed him the images the drones had collected from the other side of Pradesh, over the mountains. Untouchables were being rounded up and sent to concentration camps, or chained up in barns for the night. It wouldn't be long before the locals started massacring untouchables outright, just to prevent them becoming a fifth column. If they heard about the slaughter of middle-caste men, they’d use it as an excuse.

  “I think you should wait until after the war is over to reshape your society,” she finished, hoping that he would listen to her. “Because we cannot tolerate you risking our ultimate success just because you want a little revenge.”

  Yin stared at her for a long moment, then bowed his head. “We will leave them alone, as long as they do not threaten us,” he said. He stood up and headed to the door. “But we are your allies, not your servants. You do not command us.”

  Jasmine watched him go, hoping – praying – that he meant what he said. If the enemy became reluctant to surrender, the fight would be far harder – and they might not reach the capital in time.

  Chapter Thirty

  Or, more significantly, the ending of the first world war was a diplomatic disaster. While Germany was prostrate, allowing the Allies to deal with the country as they saw fit, this state of affairs was certain not to last.

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

  “Day Five of the siege,” Edward mused, as he wrote in his command journal. The ground shook violently as another shell landed to the north of the complex, but he ignored it. “Supplies of weapons and ammunition critical. Medical supplies and food not too far behind.”

  He scowled at the book with some irritation, silently cursing the long-dead Marine Commandant who’d insisted – and had it written into the regulations – that every CO had to keep a personnel command journal as well as the unit’s log. Thankfully, a later Commandant had ensure
d that the journals were kept sealed until the writer was dead, but it was still a nuisance. Edward had never cared for writing his thoughts down on paper, certainly not in the middle of a war zone. And yet it wouldn't have felt right to unilaterally countermand the regulation. He was still a Marine.

  “Wolfbane forces have fought well beside ours, with most integration problems ironed out by the desperate need to cooperate,” he added, scratching out the letters one by one. He hadn't even known how to write until he’d joined the Marines. The Undercity didn't really offer any education to its inhabitants, save the school of hard knocks. “It leaves me certain that their ultimate commander is at least as competent as Admiral Singh. I sincerely hope that we can agree on borders we can both accept.”

  Another explosion, closer this time, set the light bulb swinging over his head. He glanced upwards, then closed the book and returned it to the box he’d brought with him from Avalon. It had been given to him on the day he’d been promoted to Captain and assumed command of Stalker’s Stalkers, one of three gifts that came directly from the Commandant. The box was sealed, utterly impossible to open without either Edward’s DNA or knowledge of the override code. It should be stored safely in the Slaughterhouse, where the box would be sent after Edward’s death.

  Or it should be sent there, he thought. The Wolfbane representatives hadn't known what had happened to the Slaughterhouse – or, indeed, about many other worlds apart from Earth itself. It was impossible to know what might have happened in the Core, with Earth gone. Many of the Core Worlds were just as overpopulated as Earth. They might well be overwhelmed by civil chaos of their own.

  There was a tap on the door. “Come,” he ordered. The door opened to reveal Blake Coleman, with a maid following him. “Success?”

  “Yes, sir,” Blake rumbled. “Mad here has agreed to assist with my proposal.”