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

by Christopher Nuttall

  Telling them who I am, Mathew thought. And yet there was an undertone of fear in their voices, a suggestion that all was not well. He looked over the city and saw smoke rising up in the distance ... and more smoke, far past the city’s walls. They’re on the way.

  His escorts led him towards the base of the statue, where he found himself staring at a number of young – and completely naked – women, their hands tied behind their backs with golden cords. They looked completely out of it, as if they weren't even aware of their surroundings; they weren't even trying to hide from his gaze. The red-clad man peered down at Mathew, then started to speak to the crowd again. They jeered and cat-called at the women, as if their punishment was deserved. But what were they doing ...?

  The first woman – a young girl, barely entering her teens – was led forward and made to lie down on a silver table in front of the statue. Mathew felt a shiver of horror running down his spine as he realised that it was an altar, a moment before a golden knife slashed down and cut the girl’s throat. The crowd let out a yell as the girl died, the red-clad man somehow chanting loud enough to be heard over the racket. A moment later, her body was removed and dumped at the base of the statue.

  Mathew tore his gaze away, looking at the other statues. None of them seemed benevolent; they all seemed to be eying the prisoners – the sacrifices – with hungry eyes. What sort of creatures did these people worship, he asked himself; why had they not found a kinder god? But, as the next girl was dragged up onto the platform, he realised that he wasn't going to be able to answer the question. He was about to die.

  He elbowed his nursemaid, who had been trying to press herself into his chest. “Go,” he hissed, pushing her away. She wasn't tied or chained; she could make her escape, even though the rest of them were doomed. “Get out of here.”

  The girl gazed up at him, her eyes fatalistic. Mathew realised, suddenly, that she'd known what was about to happen – and that she'd accepted it. Death was better than her existence as a mute slave in the prisons, she seemed to have decided; perhaps she was right. He managed to squeeze her shoulder, then stared up at the red-clad man. A third girl, who had looked old enough to be Mathew’s age, was being led forward to die. She seemed more aware than the others, trying to both fight and cover her breasts with her hair, but it wasn't enough. The priest pushed her down onto the altar, then cut her throat with a practiced motion. Mathew watched the blood drain out of her corpse and shuddered. There were only five more girls to go before it was his turn.

  “Damn you,” he shouted, finding his voice. “Kill me instead.”

  There was a pause ... and then the crowd started to jeer again, shouting and screaming as if they wanted to lunge at Mathew and tear him apart personally. The priest, if he had understood, took no heed. Instead, he had the next girl brought up and placed on the altar, ready to be sacrificed. Mathew looked away, unwilling to watch as the girl died.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, thinking of his parents. They’d been so proud of him ... would they be so proud if they knew that he was about to be sacrificed? And his girlfriend on Avalon? Would she mourn for him, he wondered, or would she simply move on to the next guy in her life? He hoped that she would be happy, whatever she chose. “I’m so sorry.”

  ***

  Sivaganga had run out of tears after watching his youngest daughter die. The Prince had held his head personally, holding his eyes open and forcing him to watch, smiling darkly at his discomfort. The deaths were almost ... exciting for the Prince, he realised; he’d been a devotee for years, without ever being allowed to revel in it openly. One by one, his daughters died ...

  “Don't kill the off-worlder,” he said, bleakly. It was hard to care any longer. Let the entire world die! His wife and daughters were dead ... and the gods alone knew what had happened to his sons. “You mustn’t ...”

  The Prince smiled at him, unpleasantly. “And if I told you that your daughters would live – sorry, your remaining daughters would live – if you condemned the off-worlder, would you do it?”

  Sivaganga shook his head, wishing that his hands were free and that he had a weapon. Any weapon. At least he could have killed the Prince before he died.

  The Prince frowned, cocking his head as if he were listening to someone. “You may have your wish,” he said, finally. He clapped his hands together, drawing the guards back to him. “Have the off-worlder and his little pet returned to the cells.”

  Sivaganga stared at him. “Why ...?”

  “That’s for me to know and you not to know,” the Prince said, nastily. He motioned to a second set of guards, who grabbed Sivaganga by the arms and pulled him forward. One of them elbowed him in the chest when he tried to spit out a last curse, finally telling the Prince what he thought of him. “Enjoy your future life as an untouchable.”

  It was impossible to fight as Sivaganga was dragged down towards the statue. His last two daughters were standing there, both weeping silently as the drugs wore off. He felt a flush of shame on their behalf, stripped naked and exposed in front of a jeering crowd of lower-caste civilians. The Prince, calculating as well as cruel, intended to humiliate them so completely that other aristocrats would think twice about open revolt. But then, given the number of private guards the Prince had brought into the city, open revolt would be quickly crushed in any case.

  He watched helplessly as his oldest daughter – she had already been engaged to another aristocrat – was dragged up and placed on the altar. This time, he managed to look away as the knife came down and ended his daughter’s life. The crowd still bayed for blood ... it wasn't every day they saw aristocrats die. And some of them probably believed that the sacrifice would help defeat the off-worlders.

  At least the Prince spared the off-worlder, he thought, puzzled. But why?

  The Prince’s laughter echoed over the field as Sivaganga was dragged forward by the guards. He caught sight of his daughter’s body, then looked away as he was pushed down onto the bloodstained altar. The priest leaned forward, whispered a very ancient curse in his ear, then raised the knife high above his head. It glittered in the sunlight as he held the pose, playing to the crowd. A moment later, he slashed down ...

  ... and Sivaganga knew no more.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Americans regarded the general European unwillingness to assist (although more European countries supported the invasion than opposed it) as a betrayal of American support for Europe during the Cold War. From an emotive point of view, they were right; from a cold-blooded real politic view, they were wrong. Geopolitics dictated Europe’s response to the operation.

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

  The devastation stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Jasmine refused to allow any emotion to appear on her face as she walked through the remains of Pradesh, followed by the reporter, Yin and Joe Buckley. There was barely a building left standing in the westward side of the city, while even the eastward side had dozens of shattered buildings and countless bodies scattered around. The enemy had fought hard before finally breaking, killing thousands of civilians in the crossfire. Pradesh was no longer habitable.

  Teams of POWs, their legs shackled, were working to clear the roads running through the heart of the city. The family that had owned the city had started out poor, but clever; controlling the sole sizable path through the mountain range had allowed them to levy a tax on every shipment that crossed their territory. By the time Pradesh had been reduced to rubble, they’d been one of the richest aristocratic families on the planet. Now, Jasmine wondered idly, it was hard to say what would become of them. The remains of Pradesh would be handed over to the rebels, once the CEF had resumed its advance.

  “Over forty thousand bodies so far,” Buckley reported, consulting his terminal. “Mostly enemy males, but quite a few women and children too. And a number of suicides too.”

  Jasmine shuddered. The locals didn't seem to believe that women should fight, b
ut there had been incidents where women had charged the advancing soldiers during the fight for Pradesh. Perhaps it wasn't too surprising, she reminded herself; the local government had told the women that the off-worlders would rape and kill them if the city fell. Maybe it explained the suicides too; local women were rarely taught how to fight back if confronted by a would-be rapist.

  The soldiers of the CEF hadn't raped anyone, as far as she knew, and would have been executed if they had, but the same couldn't be said for the rebels. Quite a few rapes had been reported, leaving her with the dire suspicion that there were plenty of others that had gone unremarked. The untouchables had been treated as human animals for so long, with their masters claiming free access to their wives and daughters, that it was perhaps unsurprising that they’d taken the opportunity for some revenge. Even so, it was still sickening, all the more so because their victims were innocent. She’d complained to Yin, but he hadn't been too concerned.

  “Keep moving the bodies out to the mass graves,” she ordered, tiredly. At this rate, they were going to leave mass graves studded all over the planet – and the Commonwealth would be about as welcome as Admiral Singh had been on Avalon. “And our own losses?”

  “Seven hundred deaths or serious combat injuries,” Buckley told her. “Plus a large number of minor combat injuries that have been treated, but with the victim returning to duty at once.”

  Jasmine nodded, brusquely. The Marines had invested a great deal in devising medical treatments for their people, treatments that they’d tried to duplicate for the Commonwealth’s ground forces. If someone made it to a medic, he was likely to survive, even if they had to shove him into a stasis tube until they could get him to a proper hospital. But the garrison’s limited medical facilities were being overwhelmed and they simply didn't have the medics to keep up with the wounded.

  “Reconfigure our units so they can be redeployed,” she ordered, knowing that it would provoke resentment. Soldiers who fought as part of a specific unit became very attached to the unit, something that promoted brotherhood among the men. But several of her units had taken serious losses, enough to render them combat ineffective. Their remaining troops would have to be assigned to other units before they could return to the fight. “What about the untouchable camps.”

  “There was a slaughter,” Yin snapped. His voice was bitter; the rebels had hoped that they could liberate their fellow untouchables before it was too late. “They just ...”

  Jasmine nodded. She'd seen horror, but watching enemy soldiers carrying out a mass rape and slaughter – while being utterly unable to do anything about it – had been hellish. They’d seen children crushed under tanks, men killed by nerve gas and women literally raped to death. And then the enemy soldiers had melted away into the eastwards countryside, long before her forces could catch up and exterminate them. Instead, they’d had to remove the few survivors from the camps and burn the rest.

  The real mystery was why the enemy hadn't unleashed nerve gas against the advancing CEF. Her troops did have the standard Imperial-issue immunisations that would handle some nerve gases, but the rebels would have been wiped out if the gas had been deployed carefully – or at least forced to retreat while the CEF cleared the way. And the enemy might have got lucky and picked a gas that did affect her troopers. The only answer she could think of that seemed even remotely plausible was that the enemy had been worried about gassing their own troops at the same time.

  But that would be out of character, she thought. They’ve never shown the slightest hint of concern for their own people before.

  “I want the higher-caste prisoners to be executed,” Yin said, breaking into her thoughts. “They have got to learn that we won’t let this pass without retaliation.”

  Jasmine gritted her teeth. Most of the city’s aristocrats had left before the fighting began, but a number had been captured. For the moment, they were isolated from the rest of the POWs; Jasmine had intended to let the intelligence officers talk to them and see if the prisoners knew anything useful. She doubted it – half of them were women and children – but it had to be tried. But she hadn't even considered that Yin might want to use them to send a message.

  It was generally agreed in military theory that retaliation was the only way to deter atrocities such as civilian slaughter or prisoner mistreatment. Certainly, the strict ROE normally issued to the Marines made an exception for such actions. But it relied upon facing an enemy who gave a damn what happened to his own population and she would have bet half her salary that the local government wouldn't care what happened to the rest of their population. They certainly hadn’t bothered to moderate their approach when the rebels started taking vast stretches of land.

  “I understand your reluctance to act,” Yin said, into the silence. “But there are millions of untouchables left under their control. We have to make it clear that if they want a war of extermination, the gods will make sure that they have one!”

  “Perhaps you could threaten your prisoners,” Buckley suggested. He smiled at Yin, although Jasmine – who had known him for over five years – saw a hard edge to the expression. “The problem with killing hostages is that they’re useless after you kill them.”

  Yin snorted, rudely. “Our mere existence threatens them,” he pointed out. “They never stopped trashing our women or killing our men.”

  Jasmine wasn't so sure. The rebels had been largely concentrated on the westward side of Pradesh; there had been few uprisings on the eastward side, where most of the ruling caste lived and ruled. To some extent, the rebellion had been out of sight and out of mind, particularly as it was far too close to the Imperial Garrison. But now, the rebels were breaking through the mountains and heading down onto the plains, rumours of their arrival spreading from plantation to plantation. Their advance might concentrate a few minds.

  Particularly if they do see aristocrats dying, she admitted, silently. The problem with terrorism – and killing the POWs would be an act of terrorism, no matter how justified it seemed – was that it was easy to miscalculate. Jasmine had seen terrorists intimidate their victims into abject submission, even when the victims grossly outnumbered the terrorists, but she’d also seen the victims of terrorism lash out, intent on exterminating the terrorists once and for all. And if a few thousand innocent people were also exterminated ... in the heat of their rage and fury, they wouldn't care until it was too late.

  She held up a hand. “You can kill the adult men,” she said, finally. “And you can make it clear to the enemy that you have done so. But the women and children are to remain alive.”

  “They are not innocent,” Yin snapped. “My wife was scalded because her mistress poured boiling water on her, just to remind her of her place. Maids have been beaten for failing to take care of the aristocratic brats ...”

  “That is not negotiable,” Jasmine said, coldly.

  Yin locked eyes with her for a long moment. “I could pull back my men,” he said, in a tone that matched hers. “See how far you get without us?”

  Jasmine quirked her eyebrows. “On the very edge of victory?”

  It was an effective threat, she knew – and she knew that he knew it. If the rebels melted away into the countryside, the CEF’s supply lines would be cut by the enemy insurgents. At the very least, she would have to detail her infantry to provide extra escorts for the convoys, which would limit her ability to advance. Her forces were already short on ammunition after taking Pradesh.

  But she couldn't become partner to a massacre.

  “Very well,” Yin said, folding. “But understand this; once the war is won, the aristocrats will be exiled. They can live on their own on the other side of the sea.”

  Jasmine nodded. There were three continents on the planet and only two of them were inhabited. The third could easily become a home for refugee aristocrats, a place where they could try and build a civilisation of their own. Jasmine knew that it would be hard – few of them knew how to farm, or even hunt without proper w
eapons – but it was better than being lined up and executed after they lost the war.

  “We can provide transport,” she said. “And you will be rid of them.”

  She watched Yin go, then sighed. Taking Pradesh had also given them access to one of the enemy’s radio broadcasting towers, allowing them to bombard the enemy lines with propaganda. Yin would have to announce the death of the male aristocrats on the radio, just to ensure that the enemy knew that it had happened ... and to offer them a chance to end the war without devastating the countryside any further. But somehow she doubted that the enemy just intended to surrender.

  “Check in with the scouts,” she ordered. “Have they reported anything new?”

  Buckley worked his headset, then shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “The enemy force just seemed to have melted away.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Jasmine said. “Are the helicopters ready to leave at last light?”

  “Yes,” Buckley informed her. “They can make it to the capital and back before the sun rises.”

  ***

  The warehouse was used to store rice, much to the delight of the rebel fighters. Michael had been astonished when they’d started to clear it out, even though the rice seemed to be infested with small ant-like creatures that suggested that it was contaminated. Singh had assured him, while directing parties to take the rice to be cooked, that it was still perfectly safe to eat. And it had looked clean when his men had been offered it, but he’d still declined. He would sooner stick with ration bars and MREs.

  Once the warehouse had been cleared – the resistance fighters had wanted to feed the surviving civilians as well as themselves – it had been turned into a makeshift prison for twenty-seven men, women and children. Michael was surprised that they had been assigned to guard duties, even though he had lost a third of his men in the desperate fight for Pradesh, but Sergeant Grieves had pointed out that the pale-skinned men and women were probably aristocrats. Their safety could not be guaranteed if rebel forces took them into custody.