None of them looked very aristocratic, Michael decided, studying them. Their clothes were a cut above those worn by the average citizen of the city, made from finer materials in brighter colours, but their expressions ranged from shock to numb horror. He couldn't help wondering if Avalon’s council had felt the same way when their plans had come crashing down and they’d been arrested by the Marines. It would be worse for the locals, he decided, as he looked away from a girl who was silently weeping. They knew precisely what the rebels would like to do to them.
He looked over as a rebel messenger entered and whispered frantically to Singh. Whatever he said must have been important, because Singh called several of his men over and started to issue orders in the local language. Michael felt a chill running down his spine as he watched, unable to avoid a sense that something was about to go badly wrong. They’d already had to chase away local civilians who’d wanted to hurt or kill the aristocrats; what, he wondered, was about to happen?
Singh turned to face him. “By order of our leadership, and yours, the male prisoners are to be taken out and shot,” he said. “We are to take them now.”
Michael barely heard some of the prisoners starting to object. “No,” he said, flatly. “You cannot take them out and kill them.”
“We have agreement from your commander,” Singh insisted. The rustling from the prisoners grew louder as women clutched hold of their husbands. “We can and will take them.”
Michael keyed his handcom. “Command, this is Volpe,” he said, briskly. “We have a situation.”
He ran through the complete story, keeping a sharp eye on Singh. His men were ready to fight, but in close quarters any exchange of fire would rapidly turn into a bloodbath – and undermine relationships between the rebels and the CEF. It was two minutes before he received a response, directly from Brigadier Yamane.
“You are to hand over the adult male prisoners to the rebels,” she ordered. There was absolutely no emotion in her voice. “And you are to remain in charge of the other prisoners.”
Michael hesitated. “Brigadier ...”
“That’s an order, Lieutenant,” Yamane said. “Carry it out.”
Michael glared at Singh as he closed the channel. “You can take them out of here,” he snapped. “We’ll just stay here and watch.”
Singh nodded and directed his men to seize their targets. The male prisoners fought, assisted by their wives and children, but it was useless. Michael looked away as one of the women was knocked down, blood pouring from her mouth, and fell on the ground. The prisoners were dragged out, leaving their families behind. They looked utterly broken.
“Damn you,” Michael muttered, although he wasn't sure who he meant. The rebels, the CO ... or even himself, for doing nothing and allowing it to happen? But what could he have done? “I want to leave this godforsaken place.”
Sergeant Grieves clapped a hand on his shoulder. “So do we all, sir,” he said. “So do we all.”
***
The square, according to the translators, was called Chop-Chop Square, where the enemies of the local government were beheaded. Jasmine watched coldly as the rebels, now in possession of the space where so many of their number had died, prepared to put it to use one final time. A platform was set up, complete with a small headrest and a large axe. The only difference, according to Yin, was that the executioner wore no mask.
Jasmine refused to look away as the first aristocrat was dragged up onto the platform and forced to kneel, placing his head on the headrest. He looked to be in shock, she decided, which was probably a good thing. The executioner lifted his blade, holding it high in the air to catch the sunlight, then brought it down with staggering force. There was a dull thumping sound as it cleaved through the aristocrat’s neck and hit the headrest. The victim’s head fell off and landed on the platform, bouncing around until it fell off the side and into the crowd.
Sickening, Jasmine thought. But wasn't that a little hypocritical? Public executions were held on Avalon too. And yet, the criminals on Avalon were interrogated under lie detectors and truth drugs, then tried by a jury of their peers. The local government had executed people for trumped-up reasons ... and the rebels were executing aristocrats purely for being aristocrats.
She looked over at the reporter and saw her disgust mirrored on his face. He didn't seem to be taking it any better than her; Jasmine had a private suspicion that his report of the CEF’s deployment would be strongly negative, at least when he was covering this part of the mission. It would annoy the military, she knew, but she couldn't blame him. Her own report would strongly suggest abandoning the planet, leaving the rebels and aristocrats to kill each other on their own.
One by one, the remaining aristocrats died. One walked to the headrest with a sneer fixed on his face, which didn't even waver as the axe came down. Another cried and pleaded for mercy, offering everything from money to women if the rebels would only spare his life. A third seemed to have fainted and had to be positioned on the headrest by the guards. Finally, when the bloody business was concluded, Jasmine walked away without looking back.
“The sooner we finish this,” she muttered to Alves once they were out of earshot, “the sooner we can leave this planet.”
“Amen,” Alves said.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
During the Cold War, there was a common foe, which provided a strong incentive to paper over differences between Western Europe and America. Unfortunately, those differences did not go away. When the Cold War ended, European reliance on America ended (at least for the moment) with it. This ensured that Europe had considerable freedom of action during the run up to the invasion.
-Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.
General Bhagwandas knew that he was lucky to serve his Prince. He might have been born to the warrior caste, but he was still very low ... barely above a worker, his classmates had jeered at him during basic training. Native talent only took one so far if there were more aristocratic officers competing for promotion and if the Prince hadn't taken an interest in his career, Bhagwandas knew that he would have been lucky to be promoted at all. But the Prince had taken an interest in him and he’d become, in turn, the Prince’s loyal servant.
So why, he asked himself, did entering the throne room feel as though he was entering the den of a dangerous animal?
The Prince was seated on the throne, chewing a piece of unidentifiable meat from a tray that had been set up beside him. Bhagwandas bowed, then prostrated himself, wondering just what the meat actually was. It hadn't been until the sacrifices had begun that he’d realised that the Prince was a Thug, a devotee of Shiva ... and that he’d formed most of his private army out of Thugs. Such worship, officially frowned upon if not banned, accounted for their devotion to the Prince. He was one of them in a way his honoured father could never be.
And rumour had it that the Thugs devoured human flesh and drank human blood ...
“My Prince,” he said, without rising. “I bring news.”
“Speak, General,” the Prince said. There was a faintly unstable tone in his voice, a hint that he might have slipped into madness. “What are the off-worlders doing?”
“They have secured Pradesh and are probing eastwards,” Bhagwandas said, wondering if he was about to be dragged out and placed on the sacrificial altar himself. Two days after the sacrifices and the city was still quivering in fear. The Prince had wanted to intimidate the aristocrats and he’d succeeded, magnificently. “We believe that they are bringing up supplies now, reinforcing their forces, before they resume their advance. Once they begin ...”
“They will be on us,” the Prince whispered.
“Yes, My Prince,” Bhagwandas said, staring at the floor. “They will reach the walls of the city within two days at the most, perhaps less.”
He scowled. He’d dispatched soldiers to lay traps and set ambushes, but there were no convenient rivers on the near side of the mountains. And the road network was much
better; the off-worlders would find it much easier to advance, spreading out their forces to prevent ambushes from giving them bloody noses.
And the untouchables are revolting, he thought, silently. The security forces had lost control of dozens of plantations, allowing the untouchable serfs to slip away into the countryside or start aggressively attacking their higher-caste masters. And they were no doubt watching his men as they tried to hide IEDs along the roads. The off-worlders and their rebel allies would have plenty of help when they finally advanced on the city.
“I have seen it,” the Prince said. “You may rise.”
Bhagwandas straightened up, rocking back on his haunches. There was an unholy gleam in the Prince’s eye, a suggestion that he hadn't – yet – lost the game. Bhagwandas knew that the forces he’d raised and trained for the Prince would fight hard, but they didn't have the firepower to do more than slow the off-worlders down. They would be rapidly wiped out if they fought the invaders in the countryside.
“Pull all of our forces back into the city,” the Prince ordered. “We will fight them here, in the sight of the gods. Here, we will not lose.”
“My Prince,” Bhagwandas said, carefully, “the city will be devastated.”
“There must be a sacrifice,” the Prince insisted. “We will stand ready to offer our city, the jewel of our world, to the gods. They will heed us at the last. I have seen it.”
Bhagwandas watched in horror as the Prince produced a smoking pipe and held it to his lips, taking a long breath. The smell was chillingly familiar; in small doses, it caused euphoria, but in large doses it tended to cause hallucinations. A smart man would know better than to allow himself to become addicted to such a drug. But the Prince ...
He’s mad, Bhagwandas realised. But there was nothing he could do about it. The Thugs patrolling the city wouldn't hesitate to kill him if the Prince ordered it. He was their Prince, after all. And Bhagwandas’s family were the Prince’s hostages, ensuring his good behaviour; he couldn't even flee the city and find somewhere to hide. All he could do was obey.
“And assemble our forces for a final attack on the Residency,” the Prince ordered. “This time, it will fall!”
***
Andrew peered down from high overhead as the four helicopters made their way east, heading towards the glow on the horizon. The landscape seemed dark, but every so often there was a fire burning brightly where someone had set fire to a plantation house before fleeing into the darkness. From time to time, the threat receiver picked up hints of enemy radio signals, but they never stayed active for very long. It seemed that most of them were heading back towards the city.
“I’m picking up the Marine beacon,” Briggs said. “They’re two miles from the city.”
“Take us lower,” Andrew ordered. It was a gamble; the capital city was lit up brightly and it was possible that they would be seen as light reflected from their hull. “And keep one eye out for trouble.”
The LZ was a clearing in the midst of a small forest of trees. Andrew disliked it on sight, but he had to admit that he understood why the Marines had considered it a suitable landing space. It would be difficult for the enemy to bring more than light infantry to intercept the helicopters, if indeed they had been betrayed. And the helicopters carried more than enough firepower to make intercepting them a very dangerous exercise.
He smiled as the sensor revealed the hidden beacon, followed by a signal that was utterly invisible to anyone without the right equipment. Bracing himself, he moved the helicopter to one side, then sent the signal to the two transports. They started to settle down into the clearing while the attack helicopters patrolled, watching for trouble. The signal was right, but it was easy to imagine how the operation might have been betrayed ...
***
Blake watched from his hiding place as the two transport helicopters settled down into the clearing, their rotor blades whipping through the air. The noise was overpoweringly loud; it seemed impossible that they hadn't been heard in the city, even though it was two kilometres away. But the enemy had far too much else to worry about to allow them to interfere.
“Stay here,” he muttered, and stepped forward. One of the attack helicopters moved overhead, its weapons trained on him as he advanced. They’d be ready in case the enemy had somehow forced him to work for them. He raised his voice to be heard over the rotor blades. “Advance.”
“Retreat,” a droll voice shouted back. “How are you, you old bastard?”
“Joe,” Blake said, in delight. “What are you doing here? I thought that you were holding Jasmine’s hand.”
“She let me take a break,” Buckley said. He nodded to the helicopter crew, who started unloading the heavy crates onto the ground. “Do you have people standing by?”
Blake nodded, reached into his pocket and produced a small flashlight, flicking it on and off once. Moments later, a handful of untouchable resistance fighters appeared, ready to pick up the priceless cargo. Buckley motioned to the boxes, allowing them to take them into the forest, where they would be emptied and the contents smuggled into the slums. There was enough light weapons and ammunition to fight a small war, Blake noted with some relief. Despite what he’d told his students, military weapons were more effective than civilian makeshift bombs.
“We brought a handful of trained fighters from the west,” Buckley informed him, as four dark-skinned men jumped out of the helicopter. A fifth looked pale enough to pass for warrior caste. “They know how to use the antitank rockets and heavy machine guns.”
“Good,” Blake said. Teaching the insurgents how to use the Imperial Army’s standard-issue rifles and pistols would be easy; teaching them how to use more advanced weapons would take some time. Having people who knew what they were doing and could speak the local language would speed matters up a little. “And the advance?”
“We’re pushing down gently into the eastern side of Pradesh now,” Buckley said, as the last of the crates was dumped onto the ground. “Once dawn breaks, we'll pick up speed; ideally, we'll be at the walls of Maharashtra within a day. But there is no way to be sure.”
Blake nodded. At full speed, the Landsharks and Warriors could be at Maharashtra within hours at most, but the enemy could easily have deployed mines and IEDs to slow them down, even if there weren't any natural barriers the enemy could turn into a death trap. But all of the reports from his spies suggested that the enemy forces were withdrawing into Maharashtra itself, preparing for another urban fight. He knew that his insurgents would make that a deadly gamble for the enemy CO, but it was still going to be a bloody slaughter.
“We should be ready to assist you by then,” Blake said, instead. It was astonishing just how thoroughly the untouchables pervaded the city. Didn't the enemy realise what a security breach they were allowing? But then, untouchables did all the shit work. If they were barred from the city, the aristocracy would have to get their lily-white hands dirty. “But the matters on the ground are not good. We don’t know what happened to the Rajah, yet his son is very firmly in charge.”
“Not for long,” Buckley said. He stepped backwards, into the helicopter. “Have a good one!”
“You too,” Blake said. “And give my love to the CO.”
He turned and walked away from the helicopter, hearing the noise of their rotors grow louder as they started to lift off the ground. Part of him wanted to contemplate the prospect of leaving the world behind, but he knew there was no time. Their supplies had to be moved back to the city before daybreak. The humans who would carry the load were already in place, ready to move.
“There’s a lot here,” Mad said, in awe. She was staring down at an opened crate, inspecting a series of pistols. Judging by their shiny appearance, they had either belonged to headquarters staff or had simply never been issued to a user. Blake was inclined to suspect the latter. “But is it enough?”
“It should be,” Blake assured her. He closed the crate, then hefted it into the air. “Let’s move.”
***
“That’s the supplies dropped off,” Buckley said, over the intercom. “Blake’s forces should be a great deal more formidable in a few hours.”
“Let’s hope so,” Jasmine said, watching grimly as a Landshark was manoeuvred through the narrow streets of Pradesh. They’d had to knock down several dozen surviving buildings just to provide room for the massive tanks to make their way through the pass. No doubt the locals would have yet another reason to complain about the CEF after the war. “We’re going to be there soon.”
The drones over the city had revealed that Blake was right; two-thirds of the enemy force seemed to be digging into Maharashtra. But the rest of their force seemed to be mustering for yet another assault on the Residency, an assault that the defenders were ill-prepared to resist. Time was definitely running out, as if the enemy had decided that if they couldn't win the war, they might at least spite the CEF by destroying the Residency. Jasmine knew that they had to move – and move fast.
“They should be able to hold out long enough for us to get there,” Buckley reassured her. He understood her feelings, even if she didn't dare say them out loud. “And the rebels have been very helpful.”
Jasmine smirked. The slaughter had convinced the great mass of untouchables that they had to kill or be killed. Not only had they risen up against their oppressors, but they’d been removing IEDs or warning the CEF of where they were hidden. She knew that they would still have to be careful, but the uprisings would make it much harder for the enemy to interfere with their advance ... at least until they reached the city walls. Maharashtra had a population of over seven million, according to the Garrison’s database ... and it had only been increased by refugees fleeing into its walls. There might have been more room to manoeuvre, but hitting the city would turn into another bloodbath like Pradesh, only bigger.
The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores... Page 36