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

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I have information to offer you,” the man babbled. “But I need something from you ...”

  “You’re in no position to make bargains,” Blake snapped. “Call off the attack on the Residency.”

  “I can't,” the man confessed. The way he cringed as he said it, as if he expected to be shot a moment later, convinced Blake that he was telling the truth. “The communications network is gone.”

  He took a breath, desperately. “I know where the Prince is,” he said, his voice shaking with fear. “I can lead you to him. But you have to help me find my family.”

  Blake stared down at him in disgust. This ... utterly worthless officer had launched the assault that threatened to destroy the Residency and kill Blake’s CO ... and he was trying to bargain? The planet could have been saved if someone in a position of power had overthrown the government before it was too late, but instead they’d just gone along with their Prince and obeyed orders. And now, without the enemy communications network, it would be impossible to impose a ceasefire.

  “Take us to the Prince,” he ordered, finally. “And may your gods help you if you’re not telling the truth!”

  ***

  The door burst inward, revealing a howling mob. Private Tomas Leloir threw the first grenade into the mass of people and had the satisfaction of seeing several of them blown apart by the blast, just before the people behind them pushed through and came at the defenders. They fought desperately, but the tidal wave of rioters – driven on by enemy soldiers – was too strong. The defence crumbled and Tomas fell to the floor. Strong hands tore at his armour, ripping it away. Someone barked orders in the enemy language, including several words he vaguely recognised. They didn't intend to treat him as a lawful combatant.

  Desperately, he reached for the final grenade and pulled out the pin, just as they rolled him over. Feet came down, stamping on his legs and arms, but it was already too late.

  “Fuck you,” he whispered.

  The grenade exploded a moment later.

  Chapter Forty-One

  What, then, are the lessons from the past? First, bear in mind that countries have different geopolitical imperatives. Second, bear in mind the limits of the possible. Third, bear in mind the dangers of backing someone into a corner. Fourth, bear in mind the importance of keeping one’s own priorities at the forefront of one’s mind.

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

  “They’ve overrun the lower floors,” Flora remarked.

  Edward nodded. They’d sealed as many of the interior doors as they could, forcing the enemy to follow a specific path into the building. He knew that the remaining defenders would give a good account of themselves, but time was definitely running out. If nothing else, he told himself, Blake Coleman and Jasmine Yamane would ensure that the planetary government paid a high price for their treachery.

  ***

  Jasmine gritted her teeth as she looked down at the live feed from the Residency. The final part of the complex was under attack, the enemy – heedless of their shattered command network – pressing the assault as hard as they could. Their final death throes might bring the Residency down with them, she realised bitterly. It was time for a desperate gamble.

  “Signal the tanks,” she ordered. “They are to go to full speed and enter the city.”

  It was a gamble, she knew. There would be no time to sweep the roads for IEDs or other unpleasant surprises – and something a Landshark could just shrug off could disable or destroy a Warrior. But they hadn't come so far, through so many difficult battles, to fail at the final hurdle. They would liberate the Residency or die trying,

  “Order the helicopters to clear the path as much as possible,” she added. “I want the enemy utterly incapable of mounting any resistance.”

  ***

  Corporal Sharon Jones sucked in her breath as the Landshark went to full power, charging forward across the countryside and down towards the city. On paper, the Landshark could travel at over 100km per hour, but she'd never ridden on a tank that moved so fast outside exercises. The vehicle bucked and yawed as it raced forwards, tearing up the road as it moved. She muttered a silent prayer for the Warriors, which would be following in their wake, and then concentrated on her guns. The city walls were looming up ahead of them.

  Against unarmed untouchables or even much of the resistance force, the walls would have been an effective defence. They might not have been made of hullmetal, but they were solid, capable of absorbing bullets and even RPGs without being badly dented. But a single shell from the Landshark blew a hole in the wall large enough to drive the vehicle through. Behind it, hundreds of refugees and enemy soldiers scrambled for cover as the tanks advanced. An enemy AFV appeared briefly, its guns swinging round to open fire, before the Landshark sideswiped it. The enemy vehicle was flipped over and sent crashing into the nearest building.

  The CO tapped a switch and a recorded message started blaring out of the tank’s loudspeakers, warning the civilians to get the hell out of the way. In the crush, Sharon realised in horror, many of them would never be able to leave before they were crushed or killed in the crossfire. Civilian vehicles – mostly human-powered – were smashed as the tanks rode forward, crushing everything in their wake.

  “Barricade dead ahead,” the CO said. “Sharon; one HE round, if you please.”

  Sharon nodded as the barricade came into view, fighting down the urge to snigger. It might have been effective against infantry, but against a tank it was worse than useless. The enemy gunners manning the barricade were brave enough, she had to admit, but they might as well have been firing spit balls. She fired once and watched, grimly, as the barricade vanished in a tearing explosion. Behind it, more enemy civilians ran for their lives as the tanks charged onwards. She found herself looking away from the displays as hundreds of people, unable to escape, were killed in the crush.

  “They’re trying to regroup behind us,” the CO said. “But we have to keep going. “The Warriors will deal with them.”

  Sharon nodded. The tank shook violently as it crashed into a series of stalls – thankfully, abandoned by their owners – and then clipped a house, sending the brick building crumpling over into a pile of dust. Other buildings followed, shattering into ruins as the tanks advanced onwards. The Residency wasn't that far away.

  ***

  Michael would have been impressed by the sheer scale of the devastation the tanks left in their wake if the enemy hadn't been reforming behind them. Countless enemy soldiers, unable to even scratch a Landshark, were trying their hardest to take out the thinner-skinned Warriors and the soldiers tucked up under their armour. He found himself swinging the guns around and firing madly, even as innumerable shots came flashing back at him. Sheer luck protected him from being hit.

  Explosions billowed up in the distance as fire controllers called in long-range strikes from the CEF’s mortars. It didn't seem to slow the enemy down; there were thousands of them, all seemingly intent on destroying as much as they could. He saw a Warrior explode so violently that he knew that there was no point in searching for survivors, the wreckage left behind for later recovery. The gun barrels felt hot to the touch as he kept shooting madly.

  The arrival at the Residency shocked him. He passed the gun to another soldier, then jumped off the Warrior and looked around as the rest of the squad formed up behind him. The complex was in ruins; there were so many holes in the walls that an entire squadron of tanks could have been driven through and into the complex without meeting any opposition. Luckily, the tankers had already smashed their enemy counterparts ...

  “This way,” he snapped, and led his men towards the central building. “Hurry.”

  ***

  Edward sensed the exact moment they’d won. The enemy force, the one trying to batter its way into the situation room, suddenly seemed to waver and collapse. He took advantage of their confusion to hurl his last grenade into their midst, then relaxed slightly as the CEF’s troops st
ormed the building. One by one, the remaining enemy soldiers and rioters were rooted out and captured – or killed. He fought down the urge to sag in relief as the complex was declared secure. There was too much else that had to be done.

  He climbed into the nearest tank and glanced down at the Force Tracker. The CEF held the roads leading into the city, but very little else. Blake Coleman’s resistance force was running around unsupervised, while the outside resistance fighters, their forces augmented by rebels from the eastern side of Pradesh, were streaming into the city. There were roving bands of enemy soldiers everywhere, some trying to fight, some trying to escape and some just trying to loot. Law and order, such as it was, seemed to have collapsed completely.

  “I picked up a message from Blake,” Watson said. The Marine had insisted on shadowing Edward as he left the complex, even though the area had been declared clear. “He’s intending to capture the Prince.”

  “Good,” Edward said, savagely. There were few things he wanted more than five minutes alone with the mad aristocrat who, according to prisoner interrogations, had started the war. “Ask him what support he requires, then provide it.”

  ***

  Blake allowed himself a sigh of relief as the news came in from the Residency. The CEF had reached there in time, saving seventy men and women from a dreadful fate. Now, he told himself firmly, as he led his group towards the Rajah’s palace, it was time to catch the person responsible for the nightmare that had claimed so many lives.

  The streets were surprisingly clear, he discovered, as they walked onwards. Most of the local population seemed to have fled, while the rioters seemed to have decided to take on the remaining enemy soldiers rather than loot. Or maybe there was something else going on ... he pushed the thought aside as they reached the Rajah’s palace and examined it thoughtfully. There was no guard, even at the guardpost. The entire complex looked deserted.

  Maybe he’s fled, Blake thought, coldly. It would hardly be unprecedented for an enemy commander to flee, leaving his men to their fate. God knew that there were plenty of officers exactly like that in the Imperial Army, men and women who cared more for their positions than for the lives of their troops. But the Prince had nowhere to go. If their babbling captive was correct, his life was forfeit no matter who captured him. His fellow aristocrats would be the least forgiving of all.

  No guards appeared to block their path, no shots were fired, as they advanced up the road and entered the palace. Inside, it was almost more luxurious than the last palace, although it was a little more tasteful. A low growl startled them, revealing the presence of a giant tiger who eyed them disdainfully and then strolled off down the corridor. Blake stared in disbelief, then shot the animal in the head. It had been a magnificent creature, he knew, but they couldn't have it wandering the streets and developing a taste for human flesh.

  They took every precaution as they slipped up the stairs, but it seemed unnecessary. The building was as dark and silent as the grave. Blake felt his senses tingling in alarm as he peered into a side room, then he almost swore out loud as he saw the bodies. There were over seventy girls – the oldest couldn't have been more than twenty – lying on the ground, quite dead. They’d arrange their gorgeous outfits around themselves as they’d fallen, presenting an image of true beauty even in death. Blake had seen horror, but this ... this was true horror.

  Blake rounded on the captive. “Who are they?”

  “The concubines,” the captive stuttered. “Each one comes from a noble family, each one competes to see who can bear the child of the Rajah. Those who become pregnant are taken from here and given the very best of treatment until they give birth. Should they give birth to a boy, their status is assured.”

  Blake stared at him. “And if they give birth to a girl? Or never give birth at all?”

  “The girls can be married off to the Rajah’s favourites,” the captive insisted. “But those who don’t give birth have earned the displeasure of the gods.”

  “I can guess what that means,” Blake snarled. He stared down at the captive until the man wilted. His fear seemed excessive until Blake realised that he must look like the captive’s worst nightmare, an untouchable with a gift for violence and a complete lack of mercy. “Why are they dead?”

  “They must remain pure, untouched, so that the Rajah can sow his seed in them,” the captive admitted. “Faced with the risk of capture, they took poison rather than remain alive to face disgrace.”

  “You sicken me,” Blake hissed.

  He took one last look at the girls, then led the way down towards the Throne Room. A second set of dead bodies greeted them as they entered the antechamber; a hundred young men, wearing nothing apart from tight loincloths. There was something about them that was badly wrong, Blake realised, but it wasn't until he took a close look at one of them that he realised that they’d been castrated. The disgusting sight made him want to close his legs protectively. No doubt losing their manhoods had been the price for serving in the Rajah’s palace. The faint stench that hung in the air, no longer obscured by perfume, suggested at least one of the other prices they paid for being his servants.

  The Rajah wanted to be really sure that he was the father of his mewling brats, Blake realised, shaking his head in disgust. The guards had died by poison, just like the concubines. Those guards couldn't fuck anyone.

  The doorway to the Throne Room was wide open, a faint mist – Blake’s implants stated that it was harmless – drifting out into the antechamber. Blake lifted his rifle as he stepped inside, then paused as he saw the Prince seated on the throne. Not entirely to Blake’s surprise, the Prince was definitely alive. Someone like him would have insisted that others commit suicide, but chosen to avoid ending his own life.

  “Stand up and step away from the Throne,” Blake ordered. There was a dark glint in the Prince’s eye he didn't like at all. He activated his communicator, ensuring that the Colonel would be able to see what was happening. “You are in our custody.”

  “They told us that we could best you,” the Prince whispered. His Imperial Standard was precise, almost perfect. “They promised us support.”

  Blake leaned forward. “Who promised you support?”

  “They did, of course,” the Prince said. He smirked, reminding Blake of a naughty little boy. In some ways, the Prince had never really grown up. “But perhaps we just did not go far enough to earn their favour.”

  Blake thought fast. Who had promised the Prince support? An off-world faction? Wolfbane, pirates ... or someone else? Or was he mad enough to believe that his gods had promised him support? If that was the case, Blake knew, there would be no point in trying to draw anything out of the Prince. He was quite mad.

  “Stand up and step away from the throne,” he snapped, activating the laser sight on his rifle. A beam of red light appeared, targeted on the Prince’s forehead. “I won’t ask again.”

  “I sacrificed thousands,” the Prince mused. He didn't even seem aware of the threat. Blake couldn't help wondering if he was drugged – or worse. “I sent countless untouchables to the gods. I sent nearly a hundred aristocrats to the gods. But the gods saw fit to reject my sacrifice. I understand now.”

  He looked up, his dark eyes meeting Blake’s. “I sent unwilling victims to the gods,” he said, loudly. “The gods did not accept them. A willing victim must go to the gods.”

  There was a click. Blake realised, too late, that the Prince had been waiting for them before committing suicide himself.

  “Through my sacrifice,” the Prince insisted, “the world will be cleansed in fire and made whole.”

  Blake grabbed Mad and started to run, but it was already too late.

  Seconds later, the world exploded into fire.

  ***

  Edward swore out loud as the Rajah’s palace disintegrated into a colossal fireball, rising up high above the city. The last few moments of Blake Coleman’s meeting with the Prince made it far too clear what had happened. He’d mined the ent
ire building, then waited for someone to come drag him off the throne ... and then blown the entire building sky-high.

  “Blake,” Brigadier Yamane said. “Sir ...”

  “He’s gone,” Edward said, gently. He’d seen too many good men and women die in his time, but there was something worse about losing Coleman. The battle had been won; he’d died through treachery, when he should have been able to retreat and join the rest of his comrades. “Pass the word; the CEF is to pick up everyone in the Residency, then pull out. We’ll establish a FOB a kilometre from the city itself.”

  He wanted to do something about the chaos enveloping the city, but he didn't even begin to have the manpower necessary to stop the rioting, looting, raping and killing. The oppressed and downtrodden wanted revenge, while their former masters were desperate to escape; Edward doubted that the rebels would honour the agreement to send their former masters overseas, even if it would end up helping them in the long run. Instead, he had a feeling that the revolution would eat itself rather than find a compromise everyone could live with.

  “Understood, sir,” Yamane said. She’d evidently had the same thought. “We have troops along Route One; I’ll have them reinforced, then we can pull them out along with the rest of the Residency staff.”

  Edward nodded. There would be time to mourn Blake Coleman in the future, once they were out of danger. Now, all that mattered was pulling their people out of the city and away from the chaos. Shaking his head, he picked up a terminal and inspected the live feed from the drones. It was unlikely, he realised, that many buildings would be left untouched by the time the rioting ran its course.

  He smiled as the hatch opened, allowing the Professor and his wife to climb into the colossal tank. Leo looked pale, but his wife seemed more assured of herself ... being a medic, being useful, had done wonders for her. Edward promised himself, silently, that she would have her chance at training to become a proper medic, then he looked back at the terminal. There were more enemy forces moving towards Route One, with uncertain intentions. Without the Prince, there was no one who could say stop.