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

by Christopher Nuttall

  He forced himself to meet her eyes. “What guarantees will you offer for the safety of my men?”

  “The same you offered us on Thule,” the figure said. “We will take your men into custody; they will be held in a POW camp until the end of the war or our superiors agree on a prisoner exchange. They will be treated in line with the standard conventions, provided they don’t make trouble. Officers such as yourself will be held separately from the men, but otherwise unharmed.”

  Mark wondered, grimly, just how much of that was true. The Commonwealth might want to keep its word, but there were a great many people on Corinthian who would want revenge against his men. God knew there had been far too many incidents in the last month, despite the draconian measures he’d used to keep order. None of his men went out alone, not after finding the remains of a particularly stupid soldier who’d been lured away from his post by a local woman. His killers had been particularly imaginative.

  But he knew the battle was lost. All that remained was to save as much of his manpower as possible.

  “Very well,” he said. “But I must inform Admiral Singh of my decision.”

  The figure nodded, slowly. “Order your men to surrender first,” she said. “And then you can inform your superiors.”

  “As you wish,” Mark said. The mutineers were unlikely to listen to him ... but hopefully they’d allow themselves to be rounded up without a fight. Everyone else could just march straight into a POW camp. “I’ll issue the orders now.”

  He walked over to the terminal, keying in the override code. “This is General Haverford,” he said. He’d be heard by everyone with access to a radio. “You are ordered to cease fire and surrender to the nearest enemy unit. I say again, you are ordered to cease fire and surrender to the nearest enemy unit. Obey all enemy orders consummate with the laws of war and common decency.”

  “Thank you,” the figure said. “Tell your guards to surrender too, General. We don’t want to have to fight our way out of here.”

  “Of course,” Mark said.

  He sighed, inwardly, as he was prodded back to the centre of the room. There had been no time to input a destruct command, not when he was held at gunpoint. The standard procedures for surrender allowed for the destruction of classified material, but somehow he doubted his captors would permit him to do anything of the sort. There was little classified data for them to recover, yet some of it might prove disastrous in the wrong hands. He’d just have to hope his subordinates had the wit to destroy it themselves.

  It’s over, he thought, numbly. And yet we are still alive.

  Somehow, it didn't make him feel any better.

  ***

  Rani forced herself to think, coldly and logically, as her fleet closed in on its opponents. General Haverford had surrendered, damn the man. The timing was perfect, too; there was no way she could reverse course to punish him without being defeated by the Commonwealth Navy. Had he been a traitor all along? Or was it just sheer bad luck?

  She studied the display as a dull quiver ran through the battleship, another barrage of missiles spewing from its inner tubes. She’d taken damage, but so had the enemy; she could win, if she pressed them hard. And then she could turn back to Corinthian and scorch the world clean of life. But it would come with a cost. Victory might just go to the side that had only one or two ships left. There was a very good chance she wouldn't survive either.

  I can blame the defeat on Haverford, she thought, coldly. It wasn't much, but it would keep her alive long enough to tighten her grip on Wolfbane. He can be portrayed as an enemy spy or merely a coward, a traitor who sent hundreds of thousands of men to their doom.

  She cleared her throat. “Fire a final barrage, then alter course and take us out of the system,” she ordered. A flurry of relief ran through the CIC. “Send a general signal to occupation forces in the industrial nodes. They are to trigger the self-destructs, then abandon the facilities and make their way to the pre-planned pick-up points. We’ll pick them up as we leave.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” the communications officer said.

  Rani nodded, curtly. It was a defeat; there was no way to hide the fact it was a defeat. No one but a complete idiot would think otherwise. And trying to blame everything on a damnable traitor wouldn't save her from some very hard months. Haverford had been her choice for ground-side commander, after all. Her enemies wouldn't let her forget that in a hurry.

  But at least they got chewed up, she thought, as the enemy broke contact and drove towards the planet. They took heavy losses in the fighting too.

  She scowled. The only consolation was that Corinthian was finished as a manufacturing centre, at least for a decade. She’d known precisely where to target to do maximum damage to their economy, an economy she’d been partly responsible for building the first time around. Their trained manpower might have survived, but it would be more efficient to distribute them around the Commonwealth than return them to Corinthian. The planet was looking at an economic disaster that would make them wish she’d won the war ...

  It wasn't much of a consolation, she told herself. But it was something.

  ***

  “It’s confirmed, Colonel,” Hampton said, through the communicator. “Admiral Singh’s fleet has broken contact and is heading towards the phase limit at speed.”

  Ed nodded, rather ruefully. He hadn't done much, once he’d reached the front lines. He’d merely taken command of a reserve company and directed them into battle. But at least it was something. Gaby wouldn't be pleased, when she heard about it, yet he thought she’d understand. He couldn’t allow others to go into danger without sharing it himself. If nothing else, it would keep him from becoming as useless as some of the commanders he recalled from Han. Admiral Valentine had been so fat he’d had to waddle from his princely quarters to the CIC and back again.

  “It’s over,” he said, quietly.

  “It looks that way,” Hampton agreed. “The organised enemy forces are surrendering, Colonel, and the mutinous ones are offering no resistance. We should have the bastards in POW camps by the end of the day.”

  “For their own safety, if nothing else,” Ed said. He had no doubt the CEF would remain true to its training, but the Corinthian Militia was quite another story. By now, everyone knew someone who had been killed in the fighting or heard horror stories about how women had been raped and little children had been gunned down for sport. “We need to avoid atrocities.”

  “I know,” Hampton said.

  Ed nodded ruefully, staring out over the remains of Freedom City. A third of the towering skyscrapers he’d seen on arrival had been knocked down, while many of the remaining structures had taken damage and were dangerously unsafe. The suburbs on the outskirts of the city had practically been destroyed, while the spaceport had been devastated by two hours of savage fighting. He’d arranged for the shuttles to be moved elsewhere, saving them from destruction, but replacing the facilities was going to take months. Corinthian didn't have an easy time ahead of it.

  The only thing sadder than a battle lost is a battle won, he thought. He’d been taught that at the Slaughterhouse, although he’d never understood it until his first taste of combat. The battle had been won, but the war itself was far from over. And now we have to clean up the mess.

  He stood there for a long moment, watching as sergeants hastily organised men into smaller units to take and guard prisoners, then turned and headed back to the bunker. There was no time to stand around woolgathering. He needed to get the final report from Mandy, then consult with Jasmine ...

  And then plan the next step, he told himself. It will be months before Admiral Singh recovers, if she can. And that time is ours.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Randomness plays a greater role in wartime than we care to admit - or want to believe.

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

  Ryan knelt on the broken ground, hands laced behind his head.

  It was hard, so hard, to
feel anything as more and more of his former comrades were corralled together by the enemy soldiers. He knew he should feel shame, he knew he should be planning his escape, but in truth he felt nothing. He’d committed mutiny in the face of the enemy, a court martial offense if ever there was one, yet he felt no urge to run or face up to his crimes. There was a part of him that had broken, he knew now. His nerve had shattered, once and for all, in the final battle.

  He looked up at the enemy soldiers, looking as tired and battered as he felt. There were few real differences between the two sides, he saw; the only real difference was that there were a handful of female soldiers among the Commonwealth troops. General Haverford had been strongly against recruiting women, Ryan recalled, although he had no idea why. The General hadn't bothered to discuss his decision with a lowly lieutenant. Maybe, if some of the stories he’d heard about the Imperial Army were true, he’d just thought that female soldiers were more trouble than they were worth.

  A loud whistle echoed through the air. “Attention,” a tough-looking sergeant snapped, in unaccented Imperial Standard. His rank insignia, Ryan noted, was identical to Sergeant Rove’s before his death. It was far too soon for the various successor states to start taking on their own identities. “You are being separated into two groups: mutineers and loyalists. If you declare yourself when you are processed, you will be sent to the right camp; if you refuse to state a side, you will be sent to the loyalist camp by default.”

  Ryan would have rolled his eyes, if he hadn't been so tired. The Commonwealth was wise to separate the mutineers from the loyalists, although no one - not even himself - could genuinely separate one from the other. But then, a loyalist might not survive an hour in the mutineer POW camp or vice versa. He had no doubt that many of the REMFs would blame the mutineers for costing them the war. It struck him, suddenly, that there might be a chance to murder General Haverford if he went into the loyalist camp, but further reflection told him it was unlikely. The Commonwealth would probably isolate the officers from the men, both to deprive the men of leadership and prevent them from taking bloody revenge.

  He smirked as a female soldier motioned for him to rise. Getting rid of the officers will probably improve unit morale fivefold.

  The smirk refused to leave his face as she prodded him past the other guards and up to a desk, manned by a grim-looking NCO. Ryan could practically read the REMFs mind; he was pissed, very pissed, at having to register prisoners. It probably wasn't what he’d signed up for, although he wasn't sure what REMFs had signed up for, beyond committing treason by making it harder for the fighting men to actually fight. Two guards, equally grim, frisked Ryan thoroughly, then bound his hands behind his back with a plastic tie. Ryan hadn't planned to use any of the tools they’d taken, but it was still annoying. He’d scrounged them personally, back when he’d been promoted for the second time.

  The REMF eyed him nastily. “Name?”

  “Captain Ryan Osborne,” Ryan said. He’d considered declaring himself to be still an LT, but knowing his luck the enemy had seized the FOB’s records. The REMFs were supposed to have destroyed them, once they received the command to surrender, yet he wouldn't have bet a fake credit on the bastards actually doing something useful. “14th Assault Regiment.”

  He waited, patiently, as the REMF worked his way through the files. They wouldn't find anything, Ryan was sure. The Empire had had a passion for recording everything and distributing copies of the files to every last planet in known space, but he hadn't been a serving soldier until after the Collapse. If what the old sweats said was true, he had good reason to be grateful. Unless he’d joined the marines ...

  “We have no record of you,” the REMF said, finally. “As an officer, you will be directed into the officer detention centre.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Ryan said. He pushed as much sarcasm into his voice as he could. “Do we get lobster dinners and wine with our breakfast?”

  The REMF ignored the sally. “You will be held in the detention centre until the end of the war or until a prisoner exchange swap is agreed,” he said. “If you wish to declare yourself a mutineer, or are willing to turn into a usable asset, now is the time to do so.”

  Ryan considered it for a long moment. Interrogating POWs, or attempting to induce them to defect, was technically illegal. But then, it wasn't as if anyone had much experience in coping with POWs prior to the Collapse. He thought about it, wondering just what he should do. There was nothing waiting for him on Wolfbane, save a death sentence if Admiral Singh knew he’d started the mutiny. And if he declared himself a mutineer, it would make damn sure of his death if he ever returned home.

  “You want me to defect,” he said, finally.

  He wondered, absently, why the thought didn't bother him. No, he knew why the thought didn't bother him. He couldn't face the thought of returning home, let alone going back into combat. Intellectually, he knew he should be reluctant to switch sides so casually; emotionally, he no longer had any attachment to anyone. And if the Commonwealth was prepared to help him ...

  “I need medical assistance,” he said. “In exchange for a new pair of balls, I’ll defect.”

  The REMFs expression darkened. “This is no time for joking around ...”

  “I’m not joking,” Ryan said. He nodded to the guards. “Get your pet goons to pull down my pants and you’ll see.”

  He found it hard not to start giggling as the guards did as they were told, recoiling in shock when they realised he hadn't been joking. What competence! One could hardly pass through a checkpoint without being groped in a staggeringly unprofessional manner, yet the guards behind him had completely failed to notice his missing cock! Or had they thought he was simply a small-breasted woman? It was possible ... he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud at the thought. If the guards were like any of the HQ troops he’d seen back home, they’d probably been contemplating a little more than a grope while they marched him to his new home.

  “Very well,” the REMF said, finally. His face was very pale. Losing one’s manhood was every man’s worst nightmare. “I’ll put you on the list for medical treatment.”

  Ryan lost it. He started to giggle inanely.

  “And I hope you’ll be useful,” the REMF added. “Welcome to the Commonwealth.”

  And pray the Commonwealth doesn't lose the war, Ryan thought, as he was marched to the camp. I’ll lose more than my balls if I get recaptured now.

  ***

  Ed nodded curtly as he stepped through the door and into the small chamber. General Mark Haverford sat in a chair, his hands cuffed to the armrests and his feet shackled together. It was paranoid, Ed had to admit, but he’d seen docile prisoners turn violent when they thought there was a chance to inflict some real damage. Killing the Commonwealth’s highest-ranking military officer might be worth the deaths of every last POW.

  “General,” he said, curtly. “You wanted to speak with me?”

  Haverford looked up. He was a short man with brown hair and an unshaved face, wearing a simple uniform. Ed silently applauded the touch, knowing it would appeal more to professional soldiers than REMFs. Haverford had been making a statement all along, although it was largely meaningless. He hadn't surrendered his men until Jasmine had shoved a weapon into his face.

  “Colonel,” Haverford said. He sounded tired, tired and relieved. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m very busy,” Ed said. There was no point in moderating his tone. “I assume you had some reason to want to see me?”

  “Admiral Singh has gone mad,” Haverford said.

  “And yet you did nothing to stop her from sending hundreds of thousands of men to their graves,” Ed snapped. He wasn't in the mood for self-pity. The collective death toll - both military and civilian - was well over two hundred thousand. It would be higher still, he suspected, before the planet recovered from the war. “Why did you even join her?”

  “I believed in Governor Brown,” Haverford said. “He offered me
a chance to shape the army for genuine combat missions.”

  Ed shrugged. “Get to the point.”

  “I’m offering you my services,” Haverford said. “Admiral Singh has to be stopped.”

  “You’re offering to defect,” Ed said. It wasn't as if Haverford had much choice. Swapping him in a prisoner exchange would only put him in Admiral Singh’s hands, assuming he survived captivity. He’d been isolated from everyone else for his own protection. “That’s ... quite an interesting choice.”

  Haverford leaned forward, despite the cuffs wrapped around his wrists. “Colonel, Wolfbane was a joke,” he said. “The army was a joke. You know that to be true. Governor Brown gave us back our dignity, our confidence that we could be more than colonial enforcers ...”

  “And then led you in battle against the Commonwealth,” Ed sneered. “Forgive me for not being enthusiastic about him.”