They Shall Not Pass (The Empire's Corps Book 12)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Probably not,” Colonel Stalker said. “I doubt they would give us anything, Madam President. What they’ve done, I think, is more about keeping their own people in line than making up for their crimes.”

  Hampton frowned. “And it will work too.”

  Danielle glanced at him. “How?”

  “No one has taken such losses for centuries, certainly not in a single day of fighting,” Hampton said. He nodded northwards. “I’d be surprised if their men weren't devastated by the fighting. Discipline has probably turned into a joke. Right now, I’d expect their commanders to be using every means at their disposal to restore order, even if it means shooting their own people. They cannot afford to show weakness in the face of disorder.”

  “And to think I thought the military was so disciplined,” Danielle said. She felt a flicker of bitter amusement. “Admiral Singh wasn’t so bad the first time around.”

  “It’s a balancing act,” Hampton said. “Too much discipline can lead to all sorts of problems, but so can too little discipline. In their shoes, I’d pull back a little and concentrate on regrouping my forces before I contemplated another offensive.”

  “And then we find ourselves asking a simple question,” Colonel Stalker said. “How much time does Admiral Singh have?”

  Danielle frowned. She knew, from bitter experience, that a person’s political enemies could undermine someone very quickly, given sufficient cause. Admiral Singh desperately needed to prove that the expenditure - in lives, in equipment, in time - had been justified. Danielle had faced the same problem, admittedly on a smaller scale. But she’d never had the power to shoot her enemies.

  “They’re shipping something down to the surface,” Hampton said. “We have to assume the worst.”

  “That they’ll launch another attack as soon as they feel they can get away with it,” Danielle said. “And if the attack threatens to break through the defensive lines ...?”

  “The starships will have to intervene,” Colonel Stalker said. “And then we will know the outcome, one way or the other.”

  Danielle winced. The enemy might have pulled back, but they were still lobbing shells towards the defenders on a regular basis. Every day brought a report of a shell landing within the city itself, making it impossible to strengthen the defence lines any further. And the factories weren't even remotely keeping up with the demand for ammunition. She'd heard that the soldiers had been warned to limit expenditure as much as possible, conserving everything they could for the coming holocaust. The next battle would see her world free or crushed, once again, beneath Admiral Singh’s jackboot.

  “So we wait,” she said.

  “Yes,” Colonel Stalker said. “The more men they shovel down to the surface, the better for us.”

  Danielle hoped, desperately, that he was right.

  ***

  A dull crash echoed through the bunker as a shell landed somewhere nearby, jerking the soldiers awake. Mindy cursed under her breath as she grasped for her rifle, then glanced at the chronometer mounted on the wall. 0700. They were meant to be asleep for another hour, but she doubted she’d manage to get back to sleep. Cursing under her breath as her comrades settled down, she rolled out of the bunk and stood. Her entire body was aching from too little sleep.

  Bastards, she thought, as another explosion echoed out in the distance. The enemy’s new tactic was diabolical. Their random bursts of shellfire weren't hitting anything of value, but they sure as hell were keeping the defenders awake. A few more weeks of sleepless nights, she thought, would be quite enough to have her seeing things. They could just charge the defence lines and get it over with.

  Pushing the thought aside, she paced out of the dormitory and into the kitchen. Some wag had scrawled A MESSY PLACE on the concrete wall, which Sergeant Rackham hadn't bothered to order removed. Below it, a smaller note warned the soldiers to be careful where they put their sugar, as the lower levels were infested with ants and cockroaches. Mindy wasn't too surprised, really. She recalled how both creatures - and rabbits - had proved a persistent bane during the early stages of interstellar colonisation. Her old tutors had called the introduction of rabbits a perfect piece of biological warfare.

  Sergeant Rackham was sitting at a metal table, drinking coffee as he read the latest set of updates. The Wolves had gotten better, much better, at keeping unwanted personnel out of their fortifications, as well as preventing them from leaving the city. Mindy had seen the images - everyone had seen the images - of a ship ablaze and sinking in the river, making it clear that either interfering with the enemy or outright escape was no longer possible. And now the enemy were shelling at random, repairing the defence lines was no longer possible either.

  “Trooper,” he grunted. He cut her off before she could begin to salute. “Take some coffee, then sit down.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Mindy said. Her body remembered, all too well, the mountains of push-ups that had been handed out to anyone who dared call a sergeant ‘sir.’ “Is it good news?”

  Sergeant Rackham eyed her darkly. “Do you think there’s any good news these days?”

  Mindy shrugged as she poured herself a mug of coffee. They were still alive. The first enemy offensive had been beaten back with heavy losses. Mandy was out there somewhere, no doubt working to lift the siege of Corinthian as soon as she could. And they had nearly unlimited supplies of something that passed for food, as long as they didn't look at it too closely. She took a ration bar from the pile beside the coffee machine and sat down facing him. Someone had scarred his face during the brief period of hand-to-hand fighting and he hadn't bothered to get it fixed. She couldn't help thinking that it made him look less intimidating.

  “We’re alive,” she said, finally.

  Sergeant Rackham smiled, although it didn't touch his eyes. “We are,” he agreed. “But there’s no way we can tighten up the defence lines.”

  “I know, Sergeant,” Mindy said. “We could sally out ...”

  “And get slaughtered,” Sergeant Rackham said. He pointed a stubby finger at her. “Be grateful, soldier, that you didn't live through the days when your commanding officers had never fought in battles themselves. Those bastards would think that was a damn good idea too. They weren't the ones who bled and died.”

  Mindy studied him for a long moment. She’d never really been sure just how old the sergeant was, although he’d clearly been in service longer than she’d been alive. There was no way she’d be able to get a look at his file. She would have placed him at forty, perhaps a few years older, but rejuvenation technology could accomplish miracles. It was quite possible he was in his sixties or even older.

  “I am glad,” she said, finally.

  She glanced up as she heard the rattle of machine guns in the distance, but ignored them as no alarms were sounding. The Wolves had started sending penal units to probe the defences, trying to determine what would and what wouldn't trigger a reaction. Part of her felt sorry for the bastards, part of her knew that trained soldiers were not sent to penal units without very good cause. Very few of them ever survived a month of clearing mines, probing enemy positions and digging ditches.

  “So you should be,” Sergeant Rackham said. “Let us just hope it stays that way.”

  He waved a hand at the concrete walls. She’d seen bunkers decorated with photographs and pornographic images on Avalon, but no one had had the heart to do anything of the sort on Corinthian. There was nothing homey about a bunker they might have to abandon when the enemy finally attacked. Pretending it was a home wouldn't do any good for any of them.

  “This is war,” Sergeant Rackham said. “This is the experience of countless men - and quite a few women - from the days when one caveman bashed another over the head with a rock until now. Long hours of boredom, followed by moments of screaming terror and months spent coping with the aftermath. And yet so many officers forget it.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Mindy said. Why was he telling her this? “I understand.”


  He met her eyes. “Have you given any thought to your future career?”

  Mindy hesitated. “I thought I would be a Stormtrooper,” she said. “And just stay a Stormtrooper.”

  “But will you be an officer or an NCO?” Sergeant Rackham asked. “You’ll have to choose soon, I think. We are short on experienced officers too.”

  Mindy hesitated. Jasmine had admitted, privately, that she wasn't suited to handle command of anything larger than a marine company. And Mindy was inclined to feel the same way too. But the Stormtroopers wouldn't allow her to stay where she was indefinitely ...

  “I don't know, Sergeant,” she admitted, reluctantly. “But it all depends on what happens after this campaign, doesn't it?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Indeed, the simple failure to train in unison would make it impossible for a large force to act as a single entity. Instead of a giant military, there would be lots of tiny units that can be defeated separately, in detail.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. The Role of Randomness In War.

  “They’re moving into position, sir,” Gwendolyn said.

  Ed nodded, watching the live feed from a sensor mounted on a skyscraper. The Wolves had taken nearly two months to prepare their second offensive, but it looked as though they were finally ready. And this time, they were being careful. His forces had problems flying drones over enemy positions, even stealth drones, but it was clear that they were moving up tanks and other armoured vehicles as well as countless new weapons. No doubt they’d devised something to break through the blockhouses too.

  He scowled, wondering if he’d made a mistake. Admiral Singh still held control of the high orbitals, allowing her to ship in reinforcements and replace her destroyed equipment. Maybe he’d miscalculated, maybe her position was stronger than he’d thought. Or maybe she was readying herself for one final attempt at the city, before retreating to save what she could from the maelstrom. There was no way to be sure.

  “It looks that way,” he said, reluctantly. “Did you get a message out to the Commodore?”

  “She’s as close as she can get to us,” Gwendolyn said. “But she warns that the odds will be far more even than we had hoped.”

  Singh must be focusing on Corinthian to the exclusion of all else, Ed thought. That should bite her hard, sooner rather than later.

  He frowned. On one hand, Singh probably had a point. Save perhaps for Thule, none of her other conquests were worth as much as Corinthian. But would her enemies on Wolfbane see it that way? Ed had far too much experience with senior officers who didn't understand that not all targets were created equally, that swatting a thousand insurgents could be less effective than picking off one or two who happened to be very well connected. It was quite possible Admiral Singh’s position was already fatally undermined.

  But there’s no way to know for sure, he thought, shortly. All that matters is holding the line.

  He looked at the display. “Are all our forces on alert?”

  “The forward units are on alert,” Gwendolyn confirmed. “Everything else is currently at stage-beta and will be snapped to alpha when the attack formally begins.”

  Ed nodded. Unless the Wolves had decided to unleash starship-level weapons on the defence line, in which case the entire city was doomed, it was hard to imagine anything that would break through the forward units in time to catch the rear units on the hop. There was no point in pushing his men too hard, not when the constant shellfire was a major hassle. The field hospitals were already warning that there were too many reported cases of shellshock for them to handle.

  “All we can do now is wait,” he said.

  He peered at the sensor feed, wondering just what the enemy had invented. He’d worked out dozens of possible scenarios, but they were in uncharted waters. They might have hastily designed weapons intended to crack the bunkers open, one by one, or they might just have decided on another charge. It would be utter madness, but the ammunition shortage might just give them a chance of actually winning. They’d take hideous losses - again - yet they might just come out ahead.

  And their victory may yet lead to total defeat, he reminded himself. They would have to be insane to take the risk.

  “Yes, sir,” Gwendolyn said, practically. “All we can do is wait.”

  ***

  “The advance units are in place,” General Haverford said. His image flickered backwards and forwards on the display. The enemy, damn their souls, had been experimenting with new jamming systems. “The offensive will be ready to go tomorrow morning.”

  Rani leaned forward. “I want the offensive to jump off now,” she snapped. “They’ll be hurriedly making preparations of their own!”

  “Yes, they will,” Haverford said. He sounded tired, tired and bitter. Rani silently added him to the list of people who would be purged, after she had won the war and recaptured her former base of operations. She’d had too many reports of his growing discontent with her decisions. “There’s nothing to be gained by pushing forward now, Admiral.”

  He was right, damn him. Rani forced herself to think clearly. The losses were staggering - and, according to her agents, word was already beginning to leak out on Wolfbane. She’d done what she could to hide it, by withdrawing troops from other worlds instead of summoning them from Wolfbane, but it was nowhere near enough. Word was spreading and, if she didn't find a way to justify the losses, she was staring a coup or a civil war in the face.

  “Very well,” she said, finally. “Once the attack begins, General, you are not to stop for anything.”

  “I understand,” Haverford said. “I also request permission to move my command post closer to the front lines.”

  Rani considered it for a long moment. She’d been reluctant to let him move earlier because he’d be under the shield, ensuring she couldn't intervene if his command post came under heavy attack. And, she admitted in the privacy of her own thoughts, because it would make it impossible to bomb the FOB from orbit if he betrayed her. But if he happened to die, or betray her, she could use him as a scapegoat and no one could object. Haverford’s death would secure her position once and for all.

  “Very well,” she said, finally. “But I don’t want you in range of enemy guns.”

  Haverford looked irked. “I need to be as close as possible, Admiral,” he said. “I need to have a feel for the battle.”

  “I don’t want you to die,” Rani lied. “And we can't risk command confusion at the worst possible time. Go close, General, but stay away from their guns.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Haverford said. “With your permission, I’ll make the preparations now.”

  Rani inclined her head, regally. General Haverford’s face vanished from the display, leaving her alone in her quarters. She took a long moment to compose herself, then turned her attention to the orbital display. Five battleships were more than enough to turn Corinthian into a slagheap, if its inhabitants rejected her once again. Let them hide under their shield, if they wished. She could render the entire planet uninhabitable within minutes. If she couldn't have Corinthian, no one else could have it either.

  She sighed, then keyed a switch to summon her agents. It was time to start making a few contingency plans of her own.

  ***

  “You need to keep your fucking head down,” Ryan bellowed. “Don’t worry about getting mud on your fancy uniform, you shithead! Keep your head down!”

  He ground out a series of oaths as the platoon ducked down and crawled forward, ignoring the mud staining their uniforms. His company was a joke, a scratch unit consisting of a handful of combat veterans and a number of green reinforcements from various peaceful worlds. Hell, a number of them had actually been REMFs before they’d been thrust into a combat role. He would have found it amusing if he hadn't faced the prospect of taking them into combat. As it was, he was torn between fear of returning to combat and a desire just to put an end to it all.

  And I would sell my soul for a sergeant, he thought. Or two. Or th
ree.

  A month of work hadn't done much for his men, he had to admit, although he hadn't really been trying that hard. He’d nearly strangled one man after he’d cracked jokes about officers who sat down to piss, which hadn't made winning their respect any easier. And yet, he found it hard to care. His condition hadn't really improved; he verged between fits of rage and a deep depression that made it impossible to move. He knew, on some level, that he was merely storing up trouble for himself, but he didn't care. Being relieved of duty would be something of a relief, even if it did lead to his execution.

  “They reached their destination,” Lieutenant Gordon said.

  Ryan glowered at him. Lieutenant Gordon was so perfectly turned out that he could have stepped off a recruiting poster. His hair was neatly trimmed, his uniform was clean and his disposition was perfect. It hadn't taken long for Ryan to discover that the younger man had absolutely no combat experience at all, although he had earned a Purple Heart at some point in his career. The details were lacking, which made him wonder if Gordon had suffered a paper cut or some other ghastly malady. No one looked so good after weeks on the front lines.