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

by Christopher Nuttall

  And we still don’t know what happened to Polk, he reminded himself, bitterly. Losing someone in combat was bad enough, but at least they knew what had happened to him. Having a POW go missing was worse. Polk could be dead, killed in the chaos, or he might still be a prisoner. There was no way to know. His family would never receive closure, never be able to mourn their son properly. The thought nagged at his mind as he forced himself to relax.

  The tank lurched into life, taking them away from the Residency. Edward found himself wondering, grimly, what might happen to the talks now. God knew that nothing had really been decided by the time the shit hit the fan. But then, they had worked together against a common foe ...

  Time will tell, he decided. It always does.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A very wise general once remarked that one should know the enemy as well as one’s self. This is true of all fields, but very true of diplomacy. Understanding the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses – and how the enemy looks at the world - is of vital importance.

  However, a note of warning. One should never accept an enemy’s narrative unquestionably. Nor should one fail to bear in mind that, in the end, diplomats represent one country – the one that issued their credentials. To lose sight of that is to lose sight of what it means to be a diplomat.

  Unfortunately, many diplomats have done just that.

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

  “Fucking hideous mess.”

  Michael nodded, unable to find it in him to reprimand the soldier who had spoken so rudely. The sight before them was horrifying; even the grim awareness that it could have been much worse didn't soften the blow. He couldn't help thinking that they were doing the wrong thing, no matter what the CO said about there being no alternative. And yet there was a part of him that said that they should just go, abandoning the cursed world to its fate.

  The refugees were all upper or middle caste; men, women and children, uprooted from their homes and ordered to march to the camps with the clothes on their backs and very little else, not even food and drink. Their bodies were injured – some of them had been beaten quite badly – and their clothes were torn or in some cases ripped away completely, but it was the look in their eyes that haunted Michael. They’d never believed that they could lose power so quickly and completely, nor that the torments they’d inflicted on their lesser would one day be inflicted on them. And now it had happened ...

  There was a man leading a family of five; his wife and four children. The younger children seemed unaware of the seriousness of the situation, but the others were terrified, glancing at the off-worlders as if they expected to be brutally raped and murdered at any moment. Behind them, there were five or six boys who had lost all contact with their family; there was no way to know if they were alive or dead. There was a girl who had been beaten so badly that her face was unlikely to recover, another girl whose ears had been torn away from her skull ... and countless rape victims, very few of whom would receive any treatment. The medics, Michael knew, were badly overworked.

  “Sickening,” he muttered, in agreement.

  Once the first wave of looting and worse had come to an end, the rebel leadership had taken command and started sweeping the upper-caste out of the capital city. The camps had barely been set up in time to take them; no matter what the off-worlders said, the rebels weren't going to deny themselves the pleasure of uprooting their enemies for any longer than they absolutely had to. Michael and his squad had been rushed to provide some security for the camps, fearing that rogue – and not so rogue – groups of rebels would take advantage of them to exterminate their enemies in large numbers. The settlements on the islands, he'd been warned, would take months before they were ready to accept newcomers.

  Michael had his doubts about how long it would be before the upper-caste population was reconciled to the new state of affairs. Few of them had any experience with farming and even fewer were willing to learn how to actually feed themselves. They’d been pampered from birth till death; even the warriors, the ones who were supposed to fight, had had a large retinue of servants to hew wood and draw water. Maybe they could hunt on the unsettled continent, or learn how to fish, but Michael suspected that most of them would starve. The rebels might even have that in mind as the final objective ... unless, of course, the former upper-caste population chose to return and work under those they had once despised.

  His wristcom buzzed. “The algae-farms are up and running,” the CO said. “We should be able to start feeding them soon.”

  Michael nodded. The former lords and masters of the universe – or at least of this planet – wouldn't starve. But eating algae-based products ... they might consider starvation preferable, particularly when compared to the delicacies they were used to.

  Too bad, he thought, sourly. The alternative is worse.

  ***

  “So we have a basic agreement,” Leo said. “Our governments will have to ratify it, but the agreement is in line with what they wanted.”

  He smiled. Holding the remainder of the talks on the garrison’s island was inconvenient, but it was a great deal safer than the Imperial Residency. The talks hadn't progressed too far – they hadn't received some of the concessions the Commonwealth had wanted – but at least they had a rough agreement on a border. Trade, he’d decided, could wait until there was more trust between the two parties.

  “So it is,” Flora agreed. The Wolfbane Representative smiled back at him. “I believe that my government will also convey its thanks to your people, particularly the ones who saved our lives.”

  Leo nodded, as if he could take credit personally for the CEF’s last-minute rescue. “I think it should show that we are capable of working together,” he assured her. “And that we do have interests in common.”

  The interests, he knew, didn't include Lakshmibai. Lakshmibai might have served as the seat of the talks, but neither the Commonwealth nor Wolfbane was genuinely interested in providing further support to the planet. In future, if there was a need for talks, they would be held on the garrison or an uninhabited island. The rebels and their former masters could sort themselves out without further off-world interference.

  “Indeed we do,” Flora agreed. She took her copy of the treaty and stood up. “And I hope that you and your wife recover from your experience. Being under siege is never pleasant.”

  Leo felt his smile widen. He’d never seen Fiona more animated in years. Even though they were safe now, she was still helping the medics with the thousands of refugees, trying to provide some medical care before they were transported to their new home. She’d even talked about becoming a full-fledged doctor when they returned home. And she’d accepted Avalon as home.

  “I think we’ll be fine,” he said. He rose to his feet and held out a hand. “And thank you.”

  ***

  “There is no way we can get you back to Earth,” Edward said, addressing General Joseph Raphael and his handful of officers. “You know as much as we do about conditions between Wolfbane and Earth.”

  He scowled. The Commonwealth Navy had talked, time and time again, about sending a mission from Avalon to Earth – or at least to the Slaughterhouse – in hopes of finding out what was going on in the Core Worlds. But it would take six months for a heavy cruiser to make it to Earth and nothing smaller could hope to do it, at least not without refuelling. And there was no certainty that they would locate operating cloudscoops along the way.

  But it would have to be done, sooner or later.

  “The Commonwealth is prepared to take you into its service,” he continued, “or allow you to retire to one of our worlds. I believe that Wolfbane will be happy to take you too. The choice is yours.”

  Raphael frowned. “Can we take the women with us?”

  “If they want to come, they can come,” Edward said. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of taking them back to Avalon, but they’d definitely earned a chance to try out for Commonwealt
h citizenship. And, without them, the garrison would probably have collapsed and fallen into local hands long ago. “But we need your answer by the end of the day.”

  He watched them go, then looked down at the final report from the capital. A team of SIE experts had combed what was left of the city, but they hadn't been able to answer the two most important questions that nagged at Edward’s mind. Had the Prince received off-world support for his mad uprising? And what had happened to Private Polk?

  They had found hints that the Prince had had access to more advanced off-world tech than the rest of the planet, but Edward knew that proved nothing. There was no reason why the Prince couldn't have simply purchased it from a trader – Edward had yet to meet the trader who had moral or ethical qualms over selling advanced technology to repressive regimes – rather than receiving help from an off-world faction. And yet ... the Prince had seemed convinced that someone was helping him. Madness ... or a sign that something had begun on Lakshmibai that they had yet to comprehend? There was no way to know.

  And Private Polk?

  It was clear that he had been threatened with becoming a sacrifice ... and then had been reprieved. That was out of character for the Prince, so much so that some of the prisoners had commented on it. But again, it proved nothing. The destruction of the Rajah’s palace had wiped out every last trace of those they’d known to be in the building, as well as those they hadn’t. In the end, like the other unanswered questions, there was no way to know.

  “Damn it,” Edward muttered, as he closed the terminal. “Damn it to hell.”

  ***

  The tropical beach had been a favourite resort for the garrison’s staff, even during the worst of their isolation. Jasmine had been amused to discover that the small island was surrounded by sharp rocks, each one capable of tearing a local boat open and throwing the crew out into the sea to drown. It provided a security that reassured the stranded garrison’s staff, as the only way to reach the island was through helicopters – and they could intercept any helicopter the locals sought to send to the island.

  Colonel Stalker had ordered her to rest and relax after they’d buried Blake Coleman – as per his last wishes, they’d carved a memorial for him on another uninhabited island – but Jasmine found it hard, almost impossible. There had been a time when the chance to relax, to wear a bikini and enjoy the bright sunlight, would have been very welcome, but now she found it almost impossible to decompress. As a Marine, she had moved from trouble spot to trouble spot, following orders ... and then moving away. Now, she’d been responsible for thousands of young men, some of whom would never see Avalon again. If the Colonel hadn't threatened to dump her on the island and leave her there for a week, she wouldn't have gone on leave.

  “I made drinks,” Alves said, passing her a tall glass. It felt cool to the touch; she sniffed it suspiciously, before deciding that it was unlikely to be able to harm her. “The base liquid was in the garrison; I just brought it out and added fruit.”

  Jasmine snorted. They’d found plenty of stuff in the garrison’s immense stockpiles that seemed to serve no useful purpose. Compared to that, alcohol – even alcohol so expensive that the Imperial Navy could have bought a corvette for the price of a crate – was almost normal. The only surprise was that it hadn't been drunk by the officers and men who’d been left behind when the Imperial Army pulled out.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking a sip. It tasted faintly of coconut ... and something she couldn't identify. Being unable to get drunk, like all Marines, had deterred her from developing expensive tastes in alcohol. “This is good.”

  Alves smiled as he sat down next to her. “My small skill at making people feel at ease is confirmed,” he said, warmly. “I had to download the recipe from the garrison’s database, though. I confess!”

  Jasmine surprised herself by giggling. “Why was that in the database?”

  “God knows,” Alves said. He looked over at her, gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?” Jasmine asked, although she had a pretty good idea. “And why?”

  “It can be good to talk,” Alves pointed out. “And, for what it’s worth, I won’t breathe a word of whatever you say. You’d kill me.”

  Jasmine eyed him suspiciously. There were horror stories from the Imperial Army about experienced soldiers who had spoken to the wrong person and round up banned from combat operations ... or, worse, treated as having mental problems. The Marines didn't have that problem, but they still found it hard to open up to someone outside their brotherhood. How could they understand?

  “When you go into a new platoon,” she said, finally, “the old sweats will give you a very hard time until you prove yourself. They don’t know if they can trust you. If you weren't already hardened by the Slaughterhouse ... but you’d be alone, just you against your new teammates. Blake ... rode my ass hard. It wasn't until after my first real test that he lightened up and we became friends as well as comrades.

  “He liked to fight,” she added, after a moment. “When he wasn't fighting the enemies of the Empire, he was picking fights with other soldiers and guardsmen. He was never interested in promotion, never tried out for becoming an NCO ... all he wanted to do was fight. And fuck. I lost track of the number of times he got yelled at for spending too much time with women when he should have been with us. And when he got promoted ... his heart wasn't really in it.”

  She shook her head. “We all die, sooner or later, but Blake’s death was ... senseless,” she concluded. “One more of us gone. How long will it be before there are no Marines left?”

  “There will be others, surely,” Alves said. “You can rebuild the corps ...”

  “Maybe,” Jasmine said. “But it would take us years to rebuild the Slaughterhouse.”

  “Your boss told you to relax,” Alves said, finally. “So lie back and relax.”

  Jasmine snorted again. “You started it,” she pointed out. “But you’re right.”

  She looked at him, thoughtfully . He’d never been unhealthy and now, after two months on the hostile world, he was fit and wiry. Carefully, she reached for him and pulled his body towards her, careful not to pull too hard. At least he didn’t seem to be flinching away ... she kissed him and, after a moment, he returned the kiss.

  “Lie down,” she ordered, sitting up. A moment later, she was straddling him. “This definitely counts as relaxation.”

  Carefully, she undid her bikini and leaned forward until she could kiss him again.

  ***

  Mathew opened his eyes.

  He was lying on a soft bed, staring up at the ceiling. The glowing lights overhead suggested, very strongly, that he was on a starship. But the restraints around his wrists suggested that he was still a prisoner.

  “Ah,” a voice said. “You are awake.”

  Mathew turned his head, trying to find the speaker. She was a middle-aged woman, wearing an Imperial Navy uniform. The red cross over her right breast, he knew, marked her as a medic. But who was she?

  “I’m afraid that you’re still a prisoner,” the woman informed him, “but we did take the liberty of repairing the damage the barbarians inflicted on your body. You were in quite a mess when we took possession of you.”

  Mathew hesitated, listening carefully. The dull background throbbing suggested that the starship was in Phase Space, heading ... he had no idea where. But if he was a prisoner, it was clear that they weren't heading to the Commonwealth. Wolfbane? Or somewhere else?

  He found his voice. “Who ... who are you?”

  “My name doesn't matter,” the woman said. Her voice hardened. “But I am sure you will have heard of my commanding officer. Her name is Singh.

  “Admiral Singh.”

  The End

  Afterword

  The Boxer Rebellion (or Uprising, depending on which terminology you use) is not considered politically-correct history. I certainly never learned about it in school. It is a fascinating story with many lessons
for the present-day world, yet in the West it is regarded with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. After all, didn't we oppress the Chinese to the point where they rose up against us?

  To summarise a complicated story, the Boxers were a secret society in China dedicated to throwing out the ‘Foreign Devils’ – the Westerners (and Japanese) who had attacked China, forced concessions out of the weak government and seemed bent on eventually carving up and partitioning up China between them. They believed that they had magic powers which could be used against the outsiders; more importantly, several members of the Chinese Government also believed them (and feared that the Boxers might become an anti-Manchu movement too.) In 1900, with China suffering under the combination of a drought and outside interference, they struck. A series of attacks on foreigners culminated in the siege of the foreign embassies in China’s capital, Peking (Beijing). To some extent, those attacks were aided and abetted by the government.

  In response, the major Western powers (and Japan) put together a multi-national force, which marched into China and eventually saved the embassies before they could fall to the Chinese (which didn't stop newspapers at the time reporting that the embassies had fallen and printing obituaries for the various ambassadors). The force then rampaged through Peking, looted heavily and forced the Chinese to pay reparations for the uprising. In the long run, the Boxer Rebellion helped weaken the Chinese Government still further, to the point where it collapsed a few years later.

  It is something of a mystery just how serious the Chinese Government was about the affair. On one hand, it would be hard to find a Chinese official who actually liked the Westerners; on the other, the balance of military power should have ensured the destruction of the embassies a long time before the relief force arrived in Peking. Is it possible that the Chinese Government, having realised that the Boxer claims to supernatural protection were bunk, decided to ensure that the Westerners were not wiped out? The destruction of the embassies would certainly have galvanised Westerners who wanted to divide China up between them, destroying the local government completely. In truth, we will probably never know.