by Vance Huxley
Breach of Contract
The Shattered Stars - Book I
by
Vance Huxley
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
© 2016 Vance Huxley
Published by Entrada Publishing.
Printed in the United States of America.
To my Noeline and to the Joy of my life
Thank you to my editor Sharon Umbaugh,
for turning my words into a book worth reading.
My thanks to Rachel at Entrada
for all her hard work and encouragement.
Pleb
Bobby B stood in a line along the wall of the court, one of thirty defendants. Not that the defence lawyer, a lowly supervisor in the justice department, had bothered defending them. The judge banged a gavel. “Guilty. Illegal firearms were used during this attempted uprising, and a Trooper killed. An example must be made. You are all sentenced to death.”
Bobby’s head reeled. He’d waved goodbye to Mam this morning and gone out to add his voice to the protest about the layoffs at Britmine, not join an uprising! Bertram had promised him a few extra creds to buy food for his Mam if he’d stand in the line to make up numbers. Bertram’s gang were short of muscle and even at four weeks shy of sixteen, Bobby B stood almost six feet tall.
Then all hell broke loose and the Troopers had moved in, someone a couple of streets away had started shooting, and Bertram yelled for everyone to split. Bobby did, along with a group of others. They’d run down the alley, but a big armoured vehicle swung across the entrance, a voice bellowed stop, and Troopers poured out and lined up with levelled weapons. Two men had run, and were shot, so the rest knelt while the cuffs went on. Now Bobby thought he should have run and saved time.
“Silence!” The shuffling and murmuring stopped. “You are fortunate because today there are alternatives. Recruits are needed for the army, and Britmine requires volunteers for the deep levels. Each defendant will be asked and must answer clearly. Death, Army or Britmine.” He looked down and read the first name. Bobby didn’t need to think about it. Da’s bones were at the bottom of a Britmine shaft because sealing the shaft had been cheaper than digging out the miners, so he wasn’t going down there. He didn’t fancy the army much, the fighting on the news looked bloody but his chances had to be better.
The fifth man broke the one-word answers. “Can I choose navy?”
“Death.” The judge gestured to the Sergeant and a Trooper grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck.
He shouted, “No, no, I’ll take army,” as he was dragged through the door but nobody listened.
“There are three answers and I have no time to waste on pointless argument.” The judge banged his gavel. “Next.”
Seven names later the judge paused. “This one is only fifteen.” Bobby hoped again, briefly, as a clerk spoke into the judge’s ear. “He’ll be sixteen by the time they’re trained? I see.” He looked down at the papers again. “Bobby B? What is your full name?”
Bobby sighed. “Bobby B. Army.”
The judge narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got a bad attitude for such a young man. The army will knock that out of you. Next.” Using the B instead of a surname wasn’t attitude. Bobby B didn’t want his full name on the list that would go up outside the other housing blocks in the residential complex for Britmine workers. In particular, he didn’t want his name put up outside housing block 12C where he’d lived since birth. His Mam still lived there and would have a hard enough time on her own without everyone knowing her son had joined up. The Plebs, the workforce, hated the Troopers, and even if Bobby wouldn’t be a Trooper straight away he’d wear an army uniform. As the twenty-six men filed out, nearly all of them new army recruits, Bobby wondered about the three who chose death. Surely being in the army couldn’t be that bad?
* * *
Similar courtroom scenes played out throughout the United Kingdoms because unknown to the defendants, the judges had been told to increase recruitment. “Pierre Stifles, you are charged with theft of corporate property, trespass, criminal damage, and use of a deadly weapon.” The defendant, a scrawny nineteen-year-old just under 5’ 6” tall, stared in shock. The weapon consisted of a length of thin wire with a bit of wood at each end, and he’d only ever used it to throttle deer! “Because of the weapon used, you are eligible for the death sentence, but you have alternative choices. Ten years vat-cleaning in the Chemworks, or join the army.”
Pierre Stifles didn’t hesitate, because he wouldn’t last a year on vat-cleaning. The workers were rotated every fourteen days to stop the build-up of chemicals in their bodies. “Army.” He stumbled from the dock, wondering how he’d survive the bloody chaos he saw on the news. His Dad taught him to be a poacher, to live in shadows and move quiet enough to sneak up on a sleeping deer. But there’d be no hiding place on a battlefield and he wasn’t built for fighting.
* * *
Kris Hellis gingerly touched his swollen cheek but the bleeding had stopped. He flexed his hands to crack his knuckles, he always did when things started to go viral, but stopped because that would be a really bad idea just now. The Troopers with shock-sticks were looking for an excuse. Instead he sucked a skinned knuckle and glared at the nearest Trooper with one eye. Only one eye because the other had swollen shut. The Trooper sneered at him, safe enough with the irons Kris wore.
“Kris Hellis, you have been found guilty of affray, riot, damage to public property, resisting arrest and attempted murder.” Kris’s head snapped up and he stared. Attempted murder? When the Troopers arrived to break up the gang fight, he’d stood with the others, hands on his head, because the Troopers brought guns to a fist fight. Then one slapped him for glaring, and he’d punched the basted. Well all right, he’d pulled the basted’s faceplate up and smeared his nose all over his face, but the Trooper hit him first! Then the rest could be called self-defence because the Troopers had beaten the shite out of him.
“But…”
“Silence! Prisoner will not speak. Trooper, you may use a shock-stick if he does so again without permission.” The judge glared and Kris fought down an urge to jump out of the dock and go for the basted, because he’d not get far with the shackles on. “One Trooper with concussion, one with a broken arm and two more unfit for duty? You are lucky none died because that means you have a choice. Usually someone guilty of a serious crime has the option to undertake unpleasant work for a corporation, but with your violent tendencies that would be unwise. The sentence is death, or you may volunteer for the army.”
Kris Hellis sighed in relief. He didn’t mind the army because he liked fighting, or fighting liked him since trouble found him all the time. He’d still get women because the black market vids always showed that they liked the uniform. “Army.” He grinned at the Trooper as he shuffled out because next time he met the shite, Kris Hellis would have a gun as well.
* * *
Rokur Fenton stood quietly in the dock, patiently waiting as the defence lawyer explained why the defendant had a weapon. Not really a weapon, it certainly wouldn’t scratch a Trooper jacket or helmet but it killed pigeons and seagulls well enough. The little pellets the compressed-air rifle fired were unlikely to seriously injure anyone, and Fenton never aimed it at a person even in fun. Instead he killed the birds and sometimes
rats, to help his family get by.
He sold pigeons for food if his parents didn’t use them to feed everyone at home, and some people bought the seagulls and rats for animal food. He hoped so, there’d been rumours and Fenton wouldn’t buy burgers or fishcakes from the cheaper stalls in the market. Now someone had turned him in for having the weapon, probably jealous, and Fenton expected to get a few years hard labour in the quarry. A burly 6’ 2” twenty-year old, he didn’t mind hard labour though he would miss that rifle. Susan wouldn’t wait but they really weren’t that serious about each other anyway.
“Guilty. Because you were found with an illegal deadly weapon, a rifle, the sentence should be death or thirty years hard labour.” Fenton stared. He opened his mouth but the judge carried on. “Your expertise with the rifle allows me to offer another option, joining the army. You may speak, but only to say death, quarry or army.”
Fenton thought quickly. He wouldn’t get paid doing hard labour as a convict, but he would in the army, and they’d give him a real rifle. He stifled any qualms about aiming it at people. “Army.” He shuffled out of the courtroom, the chains between his ankles rattling. Because of his size everyone treated him as a bruiser, heavy muscle, and he already expected the same reaction from the other recruits.
* * *
A hundred new recruits stumbled off the buses and milled about in the middle of a wide expanse of concrete as the transport left. “Form lines, you bloody idjeets. You’re soldiers now, not a flock of bledrin sheep!” The man with three stripes on his arm glared, and the pair with two stripes brandished shock-sticks.
“Give us a bleedin’ chance.” The big man stuck out his chest and sneered as the smaller uniformed figure marched towards him. Instead of arguing, the approaching soldier raised a knee, quickly, accurately, and with considerable force. The speaker screamed, dropped, and rolled about whimpering with both hands cradling his groin.
“I am a Sergeant, and you may call me Sarge but not because you are my friends. These two are Corporals, or Corps. You will not answer back, or give any of us that civvie shite, because we will hurt you.” He looked around the group, contempt in his look and voice. “The sooner you incompetent basteds all die, the sooner I can go back to real soldiering. Now get in lines.” The crowd did their best.
“Sergeant?”
“There’s always one bigmouth. Hellfire, did the Ultimate CEO lose a minion? Where did the other half of you go, to the navy for fish bait?” The sergeant looked Stifles down, and down. “What’s your name?”
“Pierre Stifles.”
“What do you want, Siflis?”
The small man considered arguing about his name, but the first victim hadn’t stopped whimpering yet. “Don’t we get uniforms, and guns and all that?”
“Not yet, Siflis. First we make you fit and healthy, or kill you. Then we’ll fit the survivors with uniforms, and introduce you to the serious part of soldiering, and kill some more of you. Then the Frogs, Krauts or Russ kill some more. With luck you’ll all cark it within a year and I’ll be done with you.”
“But aren’t we soldiers, don’t we get to fight back?” Bobby fought a sudden impulse to step back a bit as the sergeant’s glare moved onto him.
“No, you aren’t soldiers. You are Timers, first-timers, and as a hint of how much we think of you, your unit of one hundred is called a Mob. If you survive your first ten years, you’ll turn into Troopers, which are nearly soldiers. Another ten years of that and if by some miracle you haven’t carked it by then you’ll be a real soldier, a Squaddie.” The sergeant frowned. “Who are you?”
“Bobby B. Sarge.”
“What does the B stand for?”
“B. Sarge.”
“Goody, we have a comedian. Since you spoke up you must like volunteering, so go and stand at that end. You, Siflis, go to the back so nobody trips over you. Beebi, lead off towards those huts and do not try to march. That will make me angry because you’ll make a bledrin shambles of it, and you won’t like me when I’m angry.” The sergeant glared at the Timers. “Move it!” The recruits did, most of them reflecting that they didn’t like Sarge much even when he wasn’t angry.
Then they all tried to come to terms with the wooden huts and sparse facilities that were home for the foreseeable future. Within days they also started to realise just how far down the army shite-heap a Timer stood. Their Mob of one hundred had a Supervisor in charge, but a trainee Supervisor because it didn’t matter if he made a mistake and Timers ended up dead. Everyone below Supervisors seemed to be disposable, though Sarge might not be easy to dispose of.
* * *
Within a week everyone could march, or near enough not to be beaten or shocked by the Corporals for screwing up. They’d also learned to never, ever, really make Sarge angry. The poor basted who found that out left on a stretcher and didn’t come back, because Sarge stripped down to his skivvies and kicked the man around the parade ground until he lay still. The kicking wasn’t so bad, most of them had seen that in whatever housing complex they’d grown up in. What scared them were the shiny steel kneecaps that Sarge used to do a lot of the damage.
“That’s called metal.” Bobby leaned closer, listening, because this recruit seemed to know more than most. “The only way to get that is to be a good fighter, good enough so the army thinks you are worth the expense of the repairs. If not, you’ll go home a cripple.”
“Feckin hell, Google, I don’t fancy that. How do you know?”
“My father works in an office, he hears things.” Google, already called that because he seemed to know everything, sighed. “Didn’t keep me out of the army.” Nobody asked, because not prying into another Timer’s past life had already become an unofficial rule. They were all in the shite together now.
The army gave them an explanation about metal during one of the lectures that started soon afterwards. Google had the gist of it right. If the army thought the man worth the expense, he would be repaired. The use of Kwikheal and the fitting of a permanent bio-steel interface between the new metal and the flesh meant the additions could be clipped on and off, and few interfaces were rejected. Google explained that Kwikheal had been developed so the rich basteds could have their new hearts up and running in no time. The bio-steel interface came from the last gasps of the space programme before the corporations closed the lot down as uneconomic.
More official lectures followed on army regulations, politics in both the UKs and the wider world, weapons, and a plethora of seemingly unrelated subjects. Though some subjects didn’t need an official lecture. “Timers will refrain from using the usual filthy language civvies think is normal.” Sarge stood above yet another moaning Timer. “You will use less objectionable terms such as bledrin or sodit. You will refer to women of loose morals or those you’d like to have loose morals as Divas. The usual terms for carnal knowledge are not allowed. Because you are Timers and think with your nuts, it is impossible for you to just stop talking about sex, so you will say Pooch.”
“Even in the barracks, Sarge?” Bobby frowned. “Most of us don’t talk dirty anyway, its mainly the gangs that use the worst words.” He stopped, because the chances were a good few of the Timers were from gangs.
“The gangs use those sorts of words to pretend they are big rough types. The army doesn’t use them because we don’t need to prove anything. We don’t spout filth because the Supervisors and higher officers are not Plebs. Our Supervisor has been raised far from the housing complexes, with a nanny and three nurses, and will probably break out in a rash if you use bad language within a thousand metres.”
“The gangs use pooch as well, but I don’t see why.”
Sarge laughed. “It’s to make them look tough like Troopers.”
Bobby was still lost. “So why pooch, isn’t that a dog?”
“Pooch as in screw the pooch, because we can’t expect you to remember a long posh word like fornicate. You will Pooch the Diva instead of spouting the filth that comes naturally to you, so tha
t none of you sully the ears of your Supervisor. Though you won’t be doing that until you’ve had your first taste of action.”
“When is that, Sarge?”
“Hells Bells, I should have known it would be you wanting to know about Divas. When you finally learn all the really interesting shite in those lectures you’ll learn to hurt people, and then actually go and try to do it. Eventually, Bells, you will go to a palace and meet the Divas, and hopefully cut down on the self-abuse.” Sarge smiled at Hellis and the rest tensed but the lesson had finally gone in and Hellis accepted Hells Bells, or Bells, as a name. Since Sarge had already beaten him up four times for objecting, that was overdue. “Now since everyone has so much spare breath, thirty push-ups and yes, you as well, Siflis. It’ll be easier for you because a decent breeze will do most of the lifting.”
* * *
Bobby hated lectures, not just because of the boring drone of the voices but because the training meant all the Timers were always tired, and sitting comfortably meant he usually drifted off to sleep. “You, that Timer, third in, sixth row. Yes, you. Name?”
“Bobby B, sir.”
“What does the B stand for?”
Bobby winced inside. “B, Sir.”
“Your sergeant is supposed to knock that sort of insolence out of you. I will encourage him to try harder. Now, since you find my explanation boring, perhaps you can find a more interesting way to tell the others how the United Kingdoms came about?” The Line Supervisor’s mocking voice stirred a worm of resentment because the snide basted hadn’t been marching all morning, but Bobby squashed it. The last Timer to get snotty with a Supervisor had been lashed bloody.
“Sorry sir.”
“Sergeant, three stripes with the strap to help this Timer stay awake.” That would sting, but the strap didn’t cut the skin and scar like the lash did. Bobby stood and stripped off his shirt, then braced against the wall with his hands up and legs spread while the Corporal administered the punishment. “Now if everyone is awake, I’ll start again?” A round of muffled complaints followed that because the time would come out of their meal break. Several glares were directed at Bobby, then all the Timers tried to look as wide-eyed as possible as the Line Supervisor turned back to his screen and pointer.
