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

by Christopher Nuttall

  She shook her head, tiredly. Whatever happened, whatever choices they made, people were going to die.

  “I presume,” she said, “that there has been no response to our surrender demands?”

  “None,” Buckley confirmed. He sounded faintly irked. “I would have told you at once if there had been.”

  “I know,” Jasmine said, accepting the unspoken reproof. She glanced at her wristcom – four hours to daybreak – and then cleared her throat. “Get back here as quickly as possible, then get some sleep. We advance at dawn.”

  She closed the channel, then looked over at the reporter. “Are you all right?”

  “Just tired,” Alves admitted. “And still a little shocked.”

  Jasmine didn't blame him, particularly as it seemed that the slaughter hadn't done anything to moderate the enemy government’s treatment of the untouchables. There were reports of other slaughters that had provoked the uprisings, slaughters that would have spread out of control if the enemy hadn't been forced to face the CEF. It would grow worse, Jasmine knew, before it grew better. If, of course, it ever did.

  “We should release a gene-modification virus,” Alves said. “Give all future children the same skin colour. Destroy their system once and for all.”

  It was an attractive thought, Jasmine had to admit. No matter how irrational discrimination by skin colour was, it probably wouldn't go away overnight, no matter who won the war. Why should it, when it was such an easy way to identify one’s enemies? Maybe dark skin would rule in the future, rather than light skin, but the basic system would still be the same. But changing it ...

  “It sometimes has side effects,” she said, remembering horror stories from some of the early days of settlement. There had been planets founded by ethnic settlers who had wanted to ensure that their descendents kept what they considered their authentic features. Sometimes it had worked. At other times, there had been long-term genetic damage that had blighted the lives of their descendents. One group of settlers had wanted albino-pale skin, on a planet cursed with bright sunlight for most of the year. “And it isn't our decision anyway.”

  “But can these people make such a decision?” Alves asked. “They are too hung up on the idea of skin colour determining one’s place in life to think about the advantages of changing it.”

  Jasmine considered it for a long moment. The hell of it was that she didn't really disagree with him, although the cynic in her pointed out that skin colour wasn't the only reason humans found to discriminate or kill their fellows. Maybe the planet’s population would find a new reason and then use it as an excuse whenever anyone asked. No, knowing humans as well as she did, there was no maybe about it.

  “It isn't our job to make these decisions for them,” she said, with a sigh. “That's what allowed the Grand Senate to turn Earth into a nightmare. They started making decisions for everyone and then enforcing them on those who didn't want to participate. Maybe they had good intentions, at the start. But eventually the power they claimed became an end in itself.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she added. “We cannot make such decisions for them, even though we think we know best. No matter how much they need it. We dare not open that can of worms.”

  With that, she headed over to the makeshift HQ. She needed sleep before time ran out.

  ***

  Michael watched from the open hatch as the Warrior started to make its way down the road heading eastwards from the city. The landscape was different here, he noted; long stretches of farmland and plantations, broken only by lines of trees that marked barriers between different fields. There were few people working there, he saw; instead, many of the farmhouses seemed to have been burned to the ground, their owners forced to flee or brutally murdered by their former serfs.

  “What a fucking mess,” he muttered, as he swung the machine gun from side to side, watching for threats. The trees hadn't been planted too close to the road, but there were too many places to hide IEDs. It was reassuring to know that the Landsharks were following close behind, yet the Warriors weren't anything like as armoured. An IED might be powerful enough to destroy one of them or flip it over, stunning or killing the soldiers inside. “They could be anywhere.”

  He glanced down at his terminal, then returned his gaze to scanning the roadside as they advanced onwards, heading towards the capital.

  Towards Maharashtra.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Put simply, nations that saw an advantage in remaining close to America (Britain, Poland, Spain) joined the coalition force. The nations that preferred to keep their distance (France, Germany) refused to send troops to Iraq.

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

  “They’re coming,” Edward said, as he watched the display. The shelling had only intensified as dawn rose above the city, while the drones revealed new enemy forces moving into position, readying themselves for a charge. Behind them, small armoured cars were being prepared. They’d back up their infantry ... and shoot them in the back if they retreated. “Tell them ... tell the soldiers that we will hold out as long as we can.”

  He glanced at the live feed from the CEF as Villeneuve and Flora started to issue orders to their men. Brigadier Yamane was pushing it, but Edward knew that it would be at least an hour before her forces could reach the city – and then she would have to fight her way through the defenders to reach the Residency. At best, it would be tight; at worst, she would arrive too late to save even a single one of the defenders.

  A strange place to die, he thought, as he checked and rechecked his service pistol. They just didn't have the rifle ammunition to spare for him to carry a rifle with him, not any longer. I thought it would be on Avalon.

  He’d long since come to terms with his own mortality, after seeing some of his fellow recruits die on the training range. Others had died too on a dozen worlds; it struck him that his training platoon, the twelve of them who had graduated the Slaughterhouse so many years ago, had lost half of its members between graduation and Edward’s exile to Avalon. They’d died upholding the Empire and the honour of the Terran Marine Corps, but they’d died. Only one of them – dogface, they’d called him; it bothered Edward that he couldn't recall the Marine’s name – had retired and gone out to the Rim. God alone knew where he was now.

  You always knew that the time would come to pay the piper, he told himself. It was an oddly liberating thought. There was no need to command an operation spread out over an entire planet, or to wait behind in safety as his Marines put themselves in harm’s way; he could and he would fight to the last, knowing that there was no longer any point in holding back. If the time has finally come ...

  Edward had never been particularly religious. It was hard to be religious in the undercity – and harder still when he’d seen countless atrocities committed in the name of one religion or another. But now, knowing that he was on the verge of death, he understood what people saw in religion. There was a comfort in believing that there was life after death, that there was an omnipotent and omniscient entity weighing each soul in final judgement ... and that good deeds would be rewarded and bad deeds punished. He thumbed the Rifleman’s Tab on his collar, wondering if he should bury it for recovery and shipment to the Slaughterhouse, before dismissing the thought. It had come at too high a price to be simply abandoned at the last.

  “Take command,” he ordered Flora, picking up the other pistol from the desk. “Let me know when they begin their offensive.”

  The shelling only grew louder as he walked down the stairs and into the infirmary. A handful of walking wounded were being organised to help fend off the final attack, but the others were largely helpless. He caught sight of the Professor’s wife and felt a sudden wave of pity for the woman. She hadn't expected to be caught in a trap when she’d joined the mission, had she? And yet her work with the medic had been good. Maybe it would even be the making of her.

  He stepped into a side room and saw the Professor, loo
king down at his terminal. Edward knew that he’d downloaded thousands of terabytes worth of files from the Imperial Library before leaving Avalon, but he was surprised that the Professor had found time to read. But then, he wasn't really able to do much else to help. And the weapon he’d been given had been passed to one of the walking wounded.

  “Time is about to run out,” Edward said, flatly. The Professor looked up sharply, then gently placed the terminal on the desk. “Take this.”

  The Professor took the pistol and stared at it, in puzzlement. “Why ...?”

  “If they break through, use it on your wife and then on yourself,” Edward told him, bluntly. The drones had picked up the most horrifying scenes as the local ruler sacrificed to his gods, including countless untouchables and even a few of the aristocrats. He had no doubt that anyone dragged kicking and screaming from the Residency would be sacrificed as well. “I suggest that you do not hesitate.”

  “I can't shoot my wife,” the Professor objected. “I ...”

  “If she falls into their hands, she will be raped,” Edward said, in no mood to dance around the subject. “And then they will cut her throat and allow her blood to feed their gods. You will be saving her from a fate worse than death.”

  “And giving her an earlier death,” the Professor muttered.

  “I know,” Edward said. He reached out and clapped the Professor on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. If I’d known ...”

  He shook his head. There was no time for musing on what might have been. All they could do now was sell their lives as dearly as possible.

  ***

  General Bhagwandas studied the plans of the Imperial Residency carefully, then contemplated the troops the Prince had assigned to the mission. The remaining aristocratic household troops would be going in first, followed rapidly by the Prince’s own soldiers, who would use the household troops to soak up bullets. In the meantime, armoured cars would sweep the walls with machine guns, providing cover for the advancing soldiers, while the shelling would grow even stronger. It should work, he told himself. The off-worlders had to be running out of ammunition by now.

  And we’re coming at them from all points of the compass, he added. Even they cannot hope to defend the entire wall.

  He picked up the telephone – no radios now, not with the enemy force heading towards the city – and gave a simple order.

  “Go.”

  ***

  “They’re coming.”

  Private Tomas Leloir braced himself as the first enemy soldiers came into view. They were wearing even more colourful uniforms – if that were possible – and advancing openly, not even trying to seek cover. A single machine gun would have scythed them all down in a second, but they were terrifyingly short on ammunition. He lifted his rifle and took aim, gritting his teeth. They’d been told to make every shot count.

  Behind the soldiers, a row of small armoured vehicles advanced forward. Tomas bit down a curse, hearing the ripples of dismay running through the line, as the other soldiers caught sight of them. The vehicles were primitive, little more than civilian cars with armour nailed over their exterior to provide some protection, but their rifles wouldn't even scratch them. And the machine guns that poked through slits in the armour would be more than enough to sweep the defenders off the walls.

  “Take aim,” the CO ordered. He sounded calm, somehow. They’d all seen the images the drones had taken of the sacrifices; they all knew what would happen to them if they fell into enemy hands. “Fire on my command.”

  There was a long pause, then the enemy opened fire. The soldiers lifted their rifles and blazed away, showing a wanton disregard for ammunition that Tomas could only envy, while the armoured cars opened fire on the walls. Bullets pitted into the solid walls, then came screaming over the top as the gunners adjusted their aim. Tomas fought the urge to cringe back as tracer blazed through the air, barely a metre over his head. The enemy were steadily finding their range.

  “Fire,” the CO ordered.

  Two rockets lanced towards the armoured cars, followed by a salvo of mortar fire ... and then nothing. Tomas realised, even as he picked off his first target and moved on to the second, that was the end of the mortars. They’d destroyed a dozen armoured cars, but more were pushing forward behind the burning wreaks, threatening to run over their own people in their eagerness to get to grips with the enemy. Behind them, a second force of soldiers appeared, all clad in black. This group seemed to be more professional, using the debris and burning vehicles as cover as they advanced forward.

  One of the vehicles seemed to jerk to one side and then come to a halt; the others kept coming, lowering their muzzles until they were pointed almost directly at Tomas and his comrades. He wanted to crawl backwards as fire blazed only millimetres above his head, but somehow he kept himself still. Moments later, there was a colossal explosion in front of them. Risking a peek, he saw that the gatehouse had been destroyed and one of the armoured cars was inching its way into the compound. Black-clad men thronged around it, looking for targets.

  “Prepare grenades,” the CO ordered, as the first armoured car was joined by another. Two more explosions shook the ground, both on the other side of the complex. A third, seconds later, blew another chunk of the wall to dust. The enemy were definitely inside the compound. “And throw!”

  Tomas threw his grenade, trying to roll it under one of the armoured cars. Several other soldiers had the same idea, leaving five more armoured cars nothing more than burning debris. Dozens of enemy soldiers were caught in the blasts, but the enemy seemed to have an unlimited supply of manpower. A quick glance from side to side told him that four of his comrades had been hit, three of whom were definitely dead. The fourth would almost certainly die if they didn’t get him into a stasis tube.

  “All units, pull back to the centre,” the CO ordered. His voice still seemed calm, somehow. “I say again, all units pull back to the centre.”

  Throwing a second grenade to cover their retreat, the soldiers picked up their wounded comrade and headed towards the passageway into the central compound. Behind them, the enemy forces rallied and continued their advance.

  The Commonwealth side of the Imperial Residency had fallen.

  ***

  “They’ve just punched out the north gate’s defenders,” Flora said. There was a grim note to her voice as she struggled to coordinate her people. “My forces are falling back.”

  Edward nodded. Given the sheer weight of firepower the enemy had flung at both sides of the compound, it was no surprise that they’d broken through. Both the Commonwealth and Wolfbane forces had spent the last few days rigging traps for the enemy forces, but the callous disregard for their own people the enemy commanders had shown suggested that the traps wouldn't do more than slow them down a little.

  “Get them into the central compound,” he ordered, “and fire off our last mortar shells. Let them think that we have plenty more in reserve.”

  Somehow, he doubted that it would be enough.

  The temptation to second-guess himself was overwhelming. What if he’d convinced the diplomats to agree to a meeting in deep space? Or if they’d kept the starships in orbit? Or if they’d held the meeting in the garrison? Or if Wolfbane had brought along its own military force, instead of just the Residency guards? Or what if ...

  He pushed the thought aside. It was futile and pointless. All he could do now was fight.

  ***

  Leo sat on the blanket, his head between his legs as the sound of explosions grew louder and louder, until they merged together into a single never-ending sound that seemed to reach inside his head and twist. Pain throbbed in his temples as he stared at the gun, the gun the Colonel had given him. He couldn't shoot his wife; he couldn't kill his wife ... and yet cold logic told him that the Colonel was right, that Fiona might have cause to be grateful if he killed her. But he couldn't force himself to kill her ...

  Shaking, he covered his head and prayed that it would all be over soon.


  ***

  Tomas heard the sound of firing grow louder as the enemy came up behind them, but all of his attention was fixed on the gateway into the central compound. A handful of guards were providing covering fire, forcing the enemy to fall back in disarray, but he knew that it wouldn't be long before they ran out of ammunition too. He led the way through the gate and watched as it was slammed closed, then they kept running towards the central building.

  They made it inside and he stopped, gasping for breath. The medic was already looking at his comrade, but from the expression on her face he knew that they were too late. If the bullets hadn't been enough to kill him, the race into the central compound had definitely finished the job. Another one of his comrades was dead.

  “Get to the next location,” a voice ordered.

  Tomas looked up and saw Colonel Stalker – their CO, despite his rank. He hesitated, then asked the question he knew that he would never have dared ask if they were not about to die.

  “Sir,” he said, “why are you still a Colonel?”

  Colonel Stalker smiled, surprisingly. “It never seemed right to promote myself,” he explained. “And the Empire is unlikely to promote me in the future.”

  His smile grew wider. “Go to the next location,” he repeated. “We may as well hold out as long as we can.”

  Tomas nodded and led his three remaining comrades towards the window they’d been assigned as a firing slot. It was far from perfect, but whoever had designed the Imperial Residency had obviously never thought about creating fortresses. If he had, Tomas was sure, the entire complex would have been built out of hullmetal and would have been completely impregnable to anything short of a nuke. And the locals had no nukes.

  He caught sight of two of the maids carrying ammunition and hastily grabbed a pair of magazines for his rifle. Both of the maids looked terrified ... and yet there was a certain resolve about them, a willingness to see the fighting through to the bitter end. Tomas hoped, as he noticed the knives they carried on their belts, that they were prepared to cut their own throats if the compound fell. He knew precisely what the local troops would do to them before they were sacrificed to the gods.