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

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Look,” Briggs said, quietly. “Take a look at that, boss.”

  Andrew sucked in his breath as they cleared the mountains and peered down on the eastwards side of Pradesh. The enemy countryside was nowhere near as developed as Avalon – they didn't have the technological base that even the average stage one colony would have – but there were definitely hundreds of lights scattered across the landscape. He took a look at the map, mentally tagging the lights with names and linking them to settlements that had been identified from orbit. It was probably an illusion, he knew, but it all seemed so safe and tranquil.

  An illusion, of course, he sneered at himself. Even if we weren't here, it would be far from tranquil.

  “I’ve identified the LZ,” Briggs said, staring down at his display. “Ready to sweep the area?”

  “Take us in,” Andrew ordered.

  The attack helicopters drew ahead of the main force, heading down towards the LZ. Orbital observation had stated that it was a suitable location, but Andrew – and the mission planners – knew better than to take that for granted. There might be hidden surprises that would make it unsuitable, just waiting to surprise them. He brought up the radar, swept the location carefully, then switched it off. No return fire blazed towards them.

  “Seems clean,” he said, finally.

  He swung the attack helicopter into a holding pattern, then signalled the transports. “All clear,” he said. “Good luck.”

  ***

  Specialist Gareth Nix silently cursed the designer of the helicopter’s air filtering system as the aircraft rattled down towards their targets. The Stormtroopers each had hundreds of hours in helicopters, but most of the resistance fighters had been sick as soon as they hit their first patch of turbulence. Judging from their faces, they'd been convinced that the helicopter was about to heel over and slam straight into the ground. It was probably just as well that they couldn't see outside, given how close they’d been flying to the mountains. Some of them would probably have fainted at the sight.

  He slipped on his NVGs as the helicopter landed with a bump. “Keep your heads down,” he muttered, as he stood up, clutching his rifle in one hand. The enemy-designed rifle felt oddly unfamiliar, but carrying a MAG-47 would be a good way to betray their true identity. “Follow me out, one by one.”

  The noise of the rotor blades sent chills down his spine as he ran out of the helicopter, scanning for potential threats. Apart from a handful of wild animals – all Earth-origin, according to the briefing – there was nothing. He turned back and watched as his Stormtroopers joined him, followed by the resistance fighters. They looked shaky; a handful even stumbled and fell as they tried to run. As soon as the last fighter was out, the helicopter revved up its engines and headed back into the night sky. They were alone.

  He motioned for his Stormtroopers to spread out, keeping one eye on the resistance fighters as they fought to control themselves. The stench of vomit still surrounded them, despite the fresh night air blowing from the east. He waited, despite his growing impatience, until Singh – their leader – finally pulled them into some semblance of order. If they’d been trying to slip into a Civil Guard base, Gareth would have despaired. Surely even the Civil Guardsmen would have noticed vomit-stained idiots trying to make their way into a secure area.

  “They won’t care,” Singh assured him, when he voiced his concerns. There was a hint of bitterness in his tone, although it didn't seem to be directed at the off-worlders. “They will think that we found a farmhouse to house us for the night. It isn't uncommon.”

  Gareth didn't doubt it for a second. The ill-disciplined enemy troops seemed to spend half of their time preying on their own civilians, rather than chasing rebels and bandits across the countryside. One group had been caught in the midst of raping a pair of refugee girls, as if they’d thought that getting out of sight of the advancing off-worlders would be enough to ensure their safety. He suspected that any group that did force a farmer and his family to host them for the night would make themselves very unwelcome very quickly.

  “I hope you’re right,” he muttered. He glanced at his GPS, then pointed to the west. “Let's move.”

  The thought tormented him as they marched forward, heading towards the road leading down to Pradesh. On Avalon, a soldier who turned up late – either from leave or during an exercise – could expect to face some pretty searching questions. Gareth knew from experience that only life-threatening excuses would be accepted; being with a woman, too much alcohol or even forgetting the time were not considered acceptable. But here ... didn't they care about their military? Indiscipline in peacetime only led to indiscipline in war.

  Of course they don't, he thought. The last thing they want is an effective military, particularly not one that might be capable of overthrowing the government ...

  He pushed the thought aside as they reached the road and started to walk down it, just as the first glimmers of dawn appeared over the horizon. By the time they reached the first refugee camp – it was more like a prison – on the east side of the city, sweat was trickling down his back. The local military clearly hadn't realised that it was possible to produce uniforms that protected their men from the heat – or, if they had, they hadn't bothered to try to obtain the equipment to produce them. If the temperature had been any hotter, he suspected, the refugees would be in real danger.

  But they were in danger anyway, he knew, as they glanced into the camp. Some of the refugees looked as though they were trying to be defiant, but others looked ... beaten, as if the worst had already happened and all they could do was endure. A handful of men and women had been stripped naked, their dark skins showed the signs of multiple whippings. The children seemed to be physically unharmed, but he dreaded to think what would become of them, if they survived the war. Quite a few of the kids looked to be on the verge of starvation. The fear in their eyes when they saw the uniforms the Stormtroopers were wearing was sobering to behold.

  “They might have made recruits,” Singh muttered, as they approached the city – and the guards on the gate. “So they uprooted them from their homes and dragged them here, planning to work them to death. If we don't get there first.”

  Gareth pushed that thought aside as they reached the gate and confronted the guards. They wore red and green uniforms that made them perfect targets; indeed, most of them simply didn't look very alert. Singh stepped forward and talked to the leader, gesturing wildly – and rudely- as he explained their delayed arrival. After he made an obscene motion with his pelvis – and passed the leader a handful of coins – the gates were opened, allowing them to enter the city.

  He couldn't help feeling a little claustrophobic at the sheer masses of people on the streets, both civilians and soldiers. There were strips of bedding everywhere where people were trying to sleep under the stars, buckets of slops being hastily removed by dark-skinned untouchables and hundreds – perhaps thousands – of children running through the streets, kicking tin cans around as if they didn't have a care in the world. They were paler than the children in the refugee camp outside, Gareth realised. Chances were that they were getting treated better too.

  Their parents looked more concerned, he noted. There was a thick scent of fear in the air; no matter the lies told by town criers and radio broadcasters. They knew that the off-worlders were massing on the other side of the wall, ready to break through and storm the city. And they knew that many of them were likely to be killed in the crossfire. He shook his head, tiredly. If the population had rebelled against their rulers long ago, it would never have come to this.

  “You spoke to the guards for a while,” Gareth observed, as soon as they were out of earshot of the guards. “What did you tell them?”

  Singh’s face darkened. “I was telling them about the charms of a young farm girl,” he said, the bitterness returning to his voice. It struck Gareth suddenly that Singh was speaking from experience. He'd been an enemy soldier, after all. “How pretty her eyes were, how small
and dainty her breasts were, how tight her holes were ... and how much fun we had with her, all night.”

  Gareth wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway. “Is that why you deserted?”

  “My family were Kshatriyas – warriors,” Singh admitted. “My father was a soldier; my mother was specially bred and trained to give birth to soldiers. My father offered to sponsor me into his old unit, one of the display formations that show off the planet’s military prowess through parades and other shows of force. I’d heard too many stories of actual fighting and protecting the population, so I managed to get myself sent to an enforcement unit instead. My father was furious and cut me off from my family.

  “The first week on patrol, we found a farmhouse and forced ourselves on the inhabitants,” he added, softly. “They weren't untouchables; they were reasonably prosperous Shudras. And they had a daughter. She was pretty, but young; barely mature. I don’t know how young. My commander grabbed the girl, stripped her bare and thrust her into my arms. He said ... he said that it would be a fine welcome to the unit.”

  Gareth shuddered. Throughout the Empire, the standard age of consent was sixteen – but there were plenty of worlds that drew the line elsewhere. On a world where lower-caste people were considered less than animals, he had a sick feeling that the line might not exist at all, providing the perpetrator was high and the victim was low. He didn't want to hear the rest of the story, but Singh went on relentlessly.

  “I tried to refuse,” Singh explained. “He turned ugly, demanded to know if I thought that I was better than him. If I didn't touch the girl, I would be hurt, maybe killed ... I broke; I took her by force, telling myself that it was better that I did it, rather than one of them. But after I was finished, they all took turns; by the time they were finished, she was dead. It wasn't what I’d been promised. I deserted shortly afterwards.”

  He straightened up. “I slipped them a bribe not to report our arrival to our CO,” he said, changing the subject. “Which is good, because our CO hasn't heard of us. As long as we don’t go too near the west wall, we should be relatively safe.”

  “Good,” Gareth said. The story had put him in the mood to kill someone. Preferably the entire planetary leadership, for starters. He'd heard similar stories from people who had been press-ganged into pirate crews, people who had been forced to commit crimes just to ensure that they could never go back to civilisation. “Let's go find out where the enemy commander is holed up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  While helpless, Germany was made to assume the blame for the war – and pay colossal (and unrealistic) reparations. Hitler was able to turn German rage to his advantage and, once elected into power, started building up to refight the war.

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

  “They’re in position,” Buckley said, quietly.

  Jasmine let out a breath she hadn't realised she’d been holding. She’d established her lines near the wall, close enough to intercept anyone trying to sneak out of the city, distant enough to avoid the worst of the sniper fire from the walls. But she knew that the coming battle was going to be bloody, whatever else happened. The enemy commander – she found herself wishing, absurdly, that she knew the man’s name – had allowed some of the refugees to sleep on the far side of the wall. They, not his people, would be the first victims of her onslaught.

  She turned and looked at him. “No response to our surrender demand, I take it?”

  “Just sniper fire,” Buckley reported. He didn't tell her that he’d already made that report, but his body language said it very clearly. “The Warrior retreated, without damage.”

  “So they’re still there, like a cork shoved up someone’s ass,” Jasmine said, taking refuge in the vulgar language. Her own reluctance to attack wasn't helping, she knew. The last report from the Imperial Residency suggested that the Colonel was running out of time. She braced herself, silently damning the cruel necessity, then keyed her wristcom. “Begin Operation Pony; I say again, begin Operation Pony.”

  ***

  Gareth had surveyed the enemy CO’s headquarters several times before the orders came in; despite himself, he had to admit that the enemy commander had shown more tactical acumen than his predecessors. The building he’d chosen as a base was tough – and nowhere near as much of a target as the palaces and temples at the heart of Pradesh. And it was surrounded by soldiers in full battledress, rather than the ridiculous uniforms worn by some of the household troops. But it was still their target.

  “As soon as the shooting starts,” he ordered, keying his communicator, “we move.”

  ***

  Michael braced himself as the order came in, then issued his first command. The Warriors revved up their engines and prepared to move, just as the Landsharks swivelled their main guns around and unleashed a devastating barrage towards the enemy wall. It shattered under the impact in a dozen places, cascading inwards as the high explosive shells ripped it to pieces. He said a silent prayer for the helpless civilians, caught up in the midst of the fighting, then issued his second command.

  “Advance.”

  As one, the Warriors started to advance towards the city. The infantry followed behind the AFVs as their machine guns started to chatter, throwing enemy snipers off the walls and ripping them to shreds. There was a long pause, then the Landsharks fired again, smashing what remained of the west wall. He saw hundreds of people running, some badly wounded, and muttered another prayer for them. The sound of shooting grew louder as some of the enemy troops finally began to respond, firing from secure positions. Michael issued additional orders, calling for rockets to shatter their bunkers, then followed his men into the city.

  And then he turned his thoughts to staying alive.

  ***

  “They’re coming, Most Honoured General.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” General Abhey sneered. The noise from the west would have been quite enough to inform him, even if shells and guided rockets hadn't been falling into the city, shattering some of his hidden guns. They’d definitely been spying on his forces, although he wasn't quite sure how. There was so much about their technology that he didn't even begin to understand. “Inform the front lines that they are to fight to the death.”

  “They will, Most Honoured General,” his aide said.

  General Abhey gritted his teeth. The man had been assigned to him by the Prince, supposedly as a sign of respect. How many others of the warrior caste were entitled to issue orders to a Brahmin? But he knew better. The aide’s real job was to spy on him and report back to the Prince. And he was a shameless ass-licker who couldn't have fired a gun to save his life.

  “Good,” General Abhey growled. A thought struck him and he smiled. “Order the refugee brigade to be sent in. And I want you to go in person to see that it is done.”

  The aide blanched, then tried to hide it. “General, I ...”

  “I need someone I can trust to handle it,” General Abhey said, watching as the younger man tried to find an excuse to stay away from the fighting. “You’re a respected aristocrat. They’ll listen to you. Go.”

  The young man hesitated, then left. General Abhey allowed himself a secret smile, then turned back to the table and gazed down at the chart of the defences. The young fool – and his patron – hadn't realised that he’d concluded that there was no point in actually trying to command the battle, not when the enemy was advancing with such power. He’d merely issued orders that all of his people were to resist until they could resist no more.

  And now all he could do was wait. Wait and see how well his planning matched up against the sheer power of the off-worlders.

  ***

  The guards on the gate were jumpy, but they didn't take much notice of Gareth and his men until it was far too late. Clearly, although they didn't bother to fight by any civilised standards – insofar as warfare was civilised – they'd never considered the possibilities of someone else wearing their uniforms.
Skin colour was all they had to separate friend from foe and, as Singh proved, it really wasn't good enough. The guards on the gate were rapidly dispatched without loss to his forces.

  “Get in there,” he snapped, pulling the grenade launcher out of his bag. It was enemy-issue, several generations behind the weapons on Avalon, but it seemed simple enough. He fired a grenade right into the guardhouse and watched it explode into a fireball. “Clear the building!”

  Leaving a third of his team to hold the ground floor, he led the way down into the basement, rolling grenades ahead of him. There was no time to take prisoners, according to the briefing – and besides, after seeing what they’d been doing to their own civilians, he didn't want to take prisoners. Explosions shook the building, clearing the way. He crashed through a door into a large staff room, glanced at the map on the table ... and then ducked as an officer wearing an absurd uniform opened fire on him. The officer was shot down a moment later by one of Singh’s men.

  Singh poked him, suspiciously. “You think he was their commander?”

  “I hope so,” Gareth muttered. He checked the man’s uniform for rank stripes, but the locals didn't even seem to have evolved a common system for denoting rank. The Marines, Imperial Army and Civil Guard all shared the same basic system; he honestly couldn't understand why the locals didn't have one of their own. “He’s certainly wearing enough gold braid.”