“You’re supposed to be good with your hands,” he said, to a trio of men who were unpaid mechanics. “You should have no difficulty in sourcing the material and then putting together more of these beauties for yourselves. Once ready, you can set them up in certain places and then detonate them when the time comes. Just remember, once an IED is emplaced, removing it can be damn difficult.”
Once Mad had translated his speech, he went on to explain pressure plates and even radio detonators. Unsurprisingly, they picked up the concept at once and started discussing it amongst themselves in their own language. Blake waited for them to quiet down while he put together his next trick, then held it out for them to see. The tiny fan was fashionable among the upper castes, a neat way to keep oneself cool in public, but the can of liquid he’d attached to the device didn't look friendly at all.
“The liquid here is yet another cleaning fluid,” he explained. After the bomb, no one was inclined to doubt him. “However, if you happen to superheat the liquid, it turns into gas – gas vile enough to make people seriously ill if they breath in enough of it. Useful?”
He grinned at their expressions, then pushed on. “You probably already know that basic cooking oil can catch fire,” he added. The locals used oil almost constantly, along with rice and noodles. It almost seemed to be their staple dish. “What you don't know is if you mix it with this” – he held up yet another bottle – “you get a liquid that burns hot enough to cause real damage.”
One by one, he went through his series of tricks and traps for their benefit, feeling almost like a stage magician as he unveiled them one by one. Flour could make an effective bomb, treated properly; basic gunpowder was relatively simple to make, given time. He even took a moment to outline the most effective techniques for sabotaging the defences, pointing out that dirt or sugar in the fuel tank could rot vehicle engines. It was hard to believe that untouchables were actually allowed to serve in vehicle sheds and other military complexes, even if they weren't allowed weapons. The opportunity for sabotage was remarkable.
“Make sure that you are careful where you practice,” he concluded. “If you are caught, you’ll wish that you had blown yourself up.”
He watched them go, mentally unsure if he was doing the right thing. Knowledge was power – and the right sort of knowledge could undo a government or bring down a regime. Marines didn't teach locals such tricks, not regularly. They would only have ended up being used against the Empire.
And us, he thought, sourly. What would the Crackers have done with such knowledge?
“Thank you,” Mad said, very quietly. “You gave them hope.”
Blake nodded, sourly. Once the balloon went up, many of those young men – and the young men they were going to teach, spreading the knowledge as widely as possible – would die. If the latest news from Pradesh was accurate, the CEF would be at the city walls within the week. By then, he needed to have the rebels ready to act ... despite knowing that it would cost them heavily.
I should have stayed a Rifleman, he thought, numbly. I was happy there.
Darkness fell quickly, revealing flames drifting up in the distance from the Residency. Blake looked towards it and shivered, then allowed her to pull him out onto the streets. The sheer level of despondency and hopelessness still stunned him, even though the rebels had shown him proof that not everyone had been beaten down. It was worse than Camelot’s Red Light District had been, back when they’d first arrived on Avalon. At least there the population had had booze to drown their sorrows. Here, the locals were not allowed alcohol. It was on the prohibited list.
Which didn't stop the aristocrats indulging themselves, he reminded himself. They’d discovered a crate – a full crate - of Firewater Mead in the Residency, dating back to ten years before the Empire had abandoned Avalon. Blake had hoped that the Colonel would share it out among the men, but instead it had been put aside to serve as a makeshift disinfectant. It was, in his opinion, a waste of a crate worth more than the combined salaries of the entire company.
“You handled them well,” Mad said, softly. She pulled her cloak around her face, concealing her pale skin. “They were very impressed.”
“Good,” Blake said. “I just hope they listen to me.”
Something ... changed. Finely-honed combat instincts came to the fore, warning him that there was trouble ahead. He glanced around surreptitiously, looking for a possible threat; someone was moving up ahead, moving right towards them. Several people, he realised as they came closer, wearing ragged clothes and dark expressions. Their eyes were fixed on Mad. One of them looked at Blake and made a gesture with his hands, ordering him to flee at once. Blake stared at him in disbelief. Did they really expect that he would run?
Of course they do, he told himself. Mad had said enough about her upbringing to convince him that it hadn't been a safe environment for anyone. The rebels co-existed, uneasily, with wolves who prayed on the untouchable sheep. He felt a hot flash of anger as the man threatened him with a knife no larger than his finger; it wasn't enough to be treated like dirt by the upper castes, the untouchables had to be treated badly by their own kind. It had been the same in Earth’s undercity – and a thousand other places across the Empire.
One of them reached out for Mad’s breast. They were going to rape her right out on the street, he realised, as he reached forward and casually snapped the knife-bearer’s wrist. He let out a yelp, more in shock than in pain, and started to cradle it; Blake moved forward, pulled the would-be rapist forward and slammed the palm of his hand into the man’s throat. He felt the man’s neck break; he dropped the twitching body and moved on to the next target, who was desperately trying to retreat. Blake slammed a kick into his chest and heard several ribs break. The man fell to his knees, vomiting up blood.
The remainder of the gang broke and ran, fleeing into the shadows. Blake watched them go, mentally debating whether he should give chase. They were vermin, sick monsters who preyed on their own kind, yet he knew that if he killed them all there would be replacements on the streets within the day. Shaking his head, he looked over at Mad and discovered, to his surprise, that she seemed calm. But then, she had worked for the aristocracy, where she met rapists who just happened to have titles all the time.
“We’d better move,” he said, bitterly. “Come on.”
“Thank you,” Mad said, as they made their way through the darkened streets. Now she sounded shaken. “You ... you killed them.”
“Some of them,” Blake said. The one who had come at him with a puny knife might have survived ... but not for long. The streets were unforgiving to the weak and it was unlikely that he would be able to get proper medical care. “The others got away.”
He paused. “What about the bodies?”
Mad looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. “What about the bodies?”
Blake winced, inwardly. There were so many bodies lying around that no one would notice a couple more. Even if someone did, who were they going to report it to? The untouchables wouldn't want the household troops invading their slums, would they? He smiled at the thought, then followed her back to the shack they’d been given. It was better than a Civil Guards barracks, although that wasn't saying much. And it was nicely anonymous.
“We’re going to get supplies soon, I hope,” he said, once they were inside. He’d checked the house for bugs the day they’d moved in, finding nothing. “And then we can have some real fun.”
He scowled. If only they were in time ...
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Invasion of Iraq presents an illustration of how different national imperatives can interact. America believed the invasion to be necessary for national (and global) security. France, Russia and China, however, believed that the invasion was a direct blow against their interests, thus their refusal to support the invasion.
-Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.
There had been no response from the Prince as darkness fell over
the city, convincing Sivaganga that the Rajah had succeeded in calming his wayward son. The shelling might not have stopped, but the off-world prisoner was safe and there were no immediate prospects of trying to rush the Residency. With that thought in mind, he went to bed next to his mistress and tried to sleep.
He was jerked out of a sound sleep by the sound of someone breaking down the front door, followed, several seconds later, by the sound of shooting. Jumping out of bed, he scrambled for the pistol he’d hidden in the dresser, even as his mistress moaned and tried to hide under the bed. The door exploded inwards seconds later, just as Sivaganga was trying to load the pistol; three dark-clad men led the way in, clubs in hand. He dropped the pistol to the floor, but that didn't stop them grabbing him, wrestling him to the bed and then twisting his hands behind his back so they could cuff him. A moment later, they rolled him over until he was staring into the face of one of the Prince’s personal guards.
“By Order of His Most Imperial Majesty, you are under arrest for treason against the Rajah,” the man said, in tones of heavy satisfaction. He searched Sivaganga roughly, tearing away the gold braid on his nightshirt. “And your entire family is being taken into custody.”
He pulled Sivaganga to his feet and force-marched him down the corridor and down to the lobby. His wife was already there, along with several of the servants, all handcuffed and looking miserable. He saw a handful of bodies lying in one corner and realised that some of his servants had tried to resist, although it had clearly been futile. His mistress was pushed down beside him, followed rapidly by all seven of his children. The younger ones were crying inconsolably.
Sivaganga found his voice, somehow. “I am an aristocrat of the ...”
The Prince’s guardsman slapped him across the face, hard. “You will be silent,” he snapped, angrily. “The Prince will hear your pleas later.”
He motioned for a pair of guards to keep an eye on the family, then left to coordinate the search. Sivaganga watched helplessly as a small army of guards – he couldn't understand how the Prince had amassed such a large force so quickly – ransacked the house. A number stole various pieces of art and stuck them in their pockets, daring the house’s owners to protest. The guards who stayed with the prisoners were almost worse. They both leered at the women, even the younger daughters. They’d never have another chance to see upper-caste women in a semi-naked state.
This must be how the untouchables feel, Sivaganga thought, in a sudden sharp moment of bitter empathy. How long had it been since he and his peers had gone into the untouchable shacks, pulling out the prettier girls and using them as they pleased? The untouchables had been put on the world to suffer, they’d told themselves, but in truth they’d only cared about their own pleasure. He knew now how untouchable fathers must have felt, seeing their daughters dragged away to be raped and abused. They’d been helpless ... and ashamed of their own helplessness.
It was a relief when the guardsman came back and barked orders to his men. The servants would be taken to the city’s jail, the women and children would be taken to a safe house ... and Sivaganga himself would be taken to the palace. He was dragged to his feet and forced out into the darkness, then shoved into a coach and chained to the wood. Surely, he told himself, as the vehicle started to move, the rest of the aristocracy would do something. They wouldn't stand for their wives and children being abused.
But it was hard to cling to that thought when he was all alone.
The vehicle came to a halt and he was dragged out. He caught a glimpse of the Rajah’s Palace before he was pushed forward, into the building and down a series of corridors that led to the large throne room. Somehow, it wasn't a surprise to see the Prince lounging on his father’s throne, twirling his father’s sceptre in his hands. He seemed very pleased with himself.
“You’re a fool,” the Prince said, as Sivaganga was thrown at his feet. “Did you really believe that I didn't have spies in my father’s chambers?”
His smile grew wider. “And shouldn't you prostrate yourself before me? I am your Rajah.”
Sivaganga felt his blood run cold. The Prince had killed his father?
“It’s a little hard to prostrate when one’s hands are cuffed,” he managed to say, desperately. The Prince seemed to have gone completely off the rails. “What have you done?”
“My father had a great deal of faith in his precautions for selecting guards and servants,” the Prince said, with some amusement. “And the faith was well-placed, I must admit. Not a one of them were prepared to share even snippets of information with me. But there are other ways to listen to secrets, if you know how to do it. And if you happen to be in charge of most of the security department.”
“You bugged your own father,” Sivaganga said. Of course ... the Prince might have hated off-worlders, but he’d also had a childish fascination with their technology. And his father had even encouraged him. “So you know ... what?”
“I know that you urged him to make peace with the off-worlders,” the Prince said. “I know that you none-too-subtly urged him to forsake me. I know that you crossed the line from giving advice to outright treason. Your life is forfeit.”
Sivaganga suddenly felt very tired. “You’re a fool,” he said. “The war against the off-worlders is going badly. You should know just how close they are to our city. Our power totters on a knife-edge ...”
“My power,” the Prince snapped. “I am the divinely-anointed Rajah, descended from the man who led our people to a world where they could replant the faith and grow towards perfection. I am the apex of the ladder that climbs towards heaven. You, for all your breeding, are as far below me as the lowly earthworm, striving towards the sun.”
He’s cracked, Sivaganga realised. A chill ran down his spine. Defeat and the threat of being handed over to the off-worlders has unhinged him.
“You have to listen to me,” Sivaganga insisted. “This war is unwinnable. Surrender now and they might just let you live ...”
“We surrendered when they told us that we had to take in refugees,” the Prince thundered, sitting up straighter on the throne. “We surrendered when they insisted on landing a peacekeeping force to keep the rebels under control. We surrendered when they demanded an island they could use as a permanent base, then installed a space station so they could keep a permanent eye on us. And we even surrendered when they told us that the island would never be returned.”
His eyes blazed fire. “We will not surrender again!”
Sivaganga desperately turned his head, trying to meet the Prince’s eyes. “Even if it means the destruction of everything? The entire planet?”
“The gods will not let us die,” the Prince insisted. “We have allies, powerful allies. We will never perish.”
Allies? Sivaganga stared at him in disbelief. The Commonwealth? Wolfbane? Another off-world faction? Or was the Prince simply making it up? It was certainly possible that he was demented enough to convince himself that he had allies who would even the gap between his forces and the enemy starships. Without them, the Prince’s regime would last until the starships returned to orbit, whereupon it would be destroyed from high overhead.
He stood up and used his foot to roll Sivaganga over, until he was lying uncomfortably on his back. “Your treachery will not go unpunished,” he hissed. “You and your family will anoint the altars of our gods with blood.”
Sivaganga felt his blood run cold. “You’re going to sacrifice them?”
“You have always claimed to be of high blood,” the Prince informed him, leering. “What finer food could we offer the gods? And your daughters, according to my doctors, are virgins. They will make appropriate sacrifices for when the time comes.”
“No,” Sivaganga said. His daughters were virgins ... he’d preserved them, restricting their lives to ensure that they went unsullied to their husbands. He’d never dreamed that it would ensure that they went to the alter tables instead. “Please, no ...”
The Prince reached down a
nd grabbed his nightshirt, yanking him upwards. “I have heard enough of your objections,” he snapped. “Your death will show the rest of the aristocrats that I am not to be toyed with, merely obeyed. And if they don’t ... their household troops will be badly outmatched by my own forces. Resistance will be crushed.”
He looked up at the guard. “Take him to the cell,” he ordered. “And leave him there to wait for daybreak.”
***
“They’ve stopped firing,” Edward observed. There had been breaks in the enemy fire before, but never something so all-encompassing. And dawn was slowly breaking over the city. It was strange to see them halting at daybreak. “Are the drones showing anything interesting?”
“Negative,” Villeneuve said. “They just seem to have stopped.”
Edward looked over at Flora, who looked back. She looked as puzzled as he felt.
“Get the ready squads primed,” Edward ordered. If the enemy were preparing a rush, he’d be ready to meet them. “And then start prepping the mortars too.”
***
Mathew was half-asleep, the girl curled against his chest, when the door burst open, revealing four black-clad men. They picked him up, chained his hands and feet, and then half-carried him through the door and down the long corridor. One of them caught the girl and pulled her along behind him, holding onto her arm tightly. She didn't try to struggle, despite the obvious pain. Mathew felt a pang of bitterness, then puzzlement; they’d treated him – finally – and then they’d chained him up again?
Bright sunlight greeted them as they stepped out of the building, reflecting off a colossal golden statue. Mathew stared at it, trying mentally to guess it’s height; he would have said that it was at least fifty metres high. The goddess – he assumed that the statue represented a woman, as there were faint bulges on her chest – shone brightly in the morning light. It was surrounded by crowds, all staring at him. A man in a red robe pointed to Mathew and said something in the local dialect. The crowds started shouting abuse at him a moment later.
The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores... Page 34