The Empire's Corps: Book 03 - When The Bough Breaks

by Christopher Nuttall

  “You were in the city,” Stephen said, flatly. “Just how bad is it going to be?”

  “May take a few days for it to sink in, then they’ll be eaten algae and farting in tune,” Bode said. He smirked, as if it was amusing. “And then I dare say that things will start getting worse for the poor dears. You’ll have riots on your hands.”

  “No doubt,” Stephen said, tightly. Useful or not, there was only so much of Bode he could stand before he felt the urge to throw him out of his office. “And your agitator cells?”

  “Coming along nicely,” Bode informed him, cheerfully. “God bless those ignorant student dears. They’re so ignorant that it never occurred to them to ask where I got the weapons and equipment, let alone the training. You can't get that on Earth, not outside the military. Stupid bastards.”

  He made a show of licking his lips. “But the girls ... they’re fun.”

  “Just remember that you cannot afford to alienate them too soon,” Stephen reminded him. “None of your games, not yet.”

  He’d read the sealed reports on Bode when he’d taken the man back into his service and, reading between the lines, Bode had managed to make even the hardened commanding officers of the Imperial Army sick. The Imperial Army was not unused to committing atrocities, which made the achievement rather remarkable – and alarming. If Bode hadn't had political connections, he would probably have been dishonourably discharged and then dropped on Hellhole.

  A dangerous tool, Stephen reminded himself.

  “Get the cells ready for operations soon,” he ordered, out loud. “But make sure you keep them under control until the time is right. We don’t want to act too soon.”

  Bode straightened up, tossed him a mocking salute and walked out of the door without waiting for permission. Stephen watched him go, cursing the day he needed to resort to such tools. Bode had several security implants in his head, including one that would terminate him if he turned into a threat or someone tried to force him to talk, but Stephen disliked relying on them. Such implants were not always reliable.

  But Bode was the best person for the job. Later, when he'd outlived his usefulness, the implant could be triggered. And that would be the end of him.

  Shaking his head, Stephen activated the holographic display and brought up the latest from his intelligence staff. They were primarily focused on watching the rest of the wealthy families, but he’d insisted that they keep a sharp eye on the Marines. The Marines didn't know it – he thought – yet they posed the greatest threat to his plans in the solar system. So far, their Commandant didn't seem to have realised that the ‘compromise’ the Grand Senate had offered him played into Stephen’s hands, but it was only a matter of time. No matter how often he played the buff soldier, uninterested in politics, Stephen knew that there was a sharp political mind under the facade.

  But he'd have some problems finding a reason to object to pulling the Marines off Home Fleet. Or, for that matter, opposing the change in command.

  If there was one upside to the disaster in Earth orbit, it was a chance to have Admiral Valentine brought in ahead of schedule. With such a disaster taking place on his watch, the current CO could be unceremoniously fired and Valentine could take his place. Once the newcomer was in position, the next stage of the plan could be moved forward swiftly – and it would have to move swiftly. No one had predicted the Orbital Station Seven disaster, but it had already caused problems for his final gamble. Who knew what else would happen as the repercussions of the disaster started to spin out of control?

  The Empire needed a strong and ruthless hand to save it from total disaster, but Stephen knew better than to think that anyone else would be suitable for such a role. There was no way that Prince Roland could provide leadership for the Empire, even if he hadn't had the Grand Senate subtly sabotaging his upbringing. Besides, anyone apart from Stephen might seriously consider crushing Stephen’s family to promote their own interests. No, he had to take power himself for the good of his family. And the Empire, of course.

  A new note blinked up in his implants, transmitted by one of his clients in logistics. The Marines had been requisitioning more supplies than normal – and, in fact, they’d been doing it for months. Marines often wanted more supplies than the book said they needed, but this was odd; they were ordering supplies on a far larger scale, working carefully to make it harder for someone to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Why?

  Stephen thought about it for a long moment, then pushed the matter aside. It could be contemplated later.

  Standing up, he deactivated the display and called for his maids. They entered, carrying the formal robes that were traditionally worn by Grand Senators to emergency meetings. It had often irritated Stephen that he, for all of his power, couldn't order the robes replaced by something more practical. Tradition had a power – and an inertia – all of its own, he’d discovered. The Grand Senators were not only the victims of their own success, but prisoners too. If he’d wanted to flee Earth, he would have had to leave most of his power and resources behind. He did have contingency plans for that ... using them might mean complete destruction. It would certainly shatter his family’s reputation.

  Accessing his implants, he checked the latest security updates. The media had yet to tell the public what had happened to Orbit Station Seven, but there had been no mistaking the debris falling through the planet’s atmosphere. Once the news got out ... even without it, the first traces of panic could be seen in a dozen megacities. No doubt they thought that Earth was under attack. Stephen had wondered that too, until it became clear that no battlefleet lurked just outside detection range, ready to engage Home Fleet. Maybe the whole issue of the Empire’s future would have been decided there and then if one had.

  He stepped outside his office and headed towards his private aircar, a small army of security specialists falling into step around him. The rewards of power were vast, but they came with risks; the tools he was hoping to use for his own purposes could easily turn in his hand, or lash out at the Grand Senator without ever knowing that he was their patron. But the game was worth playing. He had to believe that.

  The alternative was surrendering to entropy and allowing the Empire to die.

  Chapter Fifteen

  This grew worse as competent officers were sidelined by those with strong political connections. The professional officers were forced into subordination, the proud officers simply resigned ... And the ambitious officers contemplated rebellion. Why should they have any respect for the Empire when they were treated so badly? As the Empire started to break apart, discontented officers started to set themselves up as warlords. Forces that might have saved the core of the Empire were thus lost to it.

  -Professor Leo Caesius, The End of Empire

  It took four days for the Imperial Navy to clear Earth’s orbit of debris, during which time thousands of tiny pieces – the remains of Orbit Station Seven – rained down on the planet below. None of them were large enough to survive their passage through the atmosphere, but the population looked up and wondered. Belinda watched the security monitors as riots broke out in parts of the megacities and the undercity – and discontent spread through Imperial City itself.

  She hadn't really realised just how comprehensive the planetary datanet actually was, or just how much her new status as Prince Roland’s liegeman allowed her to access. The network itself was ancient, dating all the way back to the times before the Unification Wars; no one, not even the Grand Senate, could have hoped to control it all. No other world had a computer network like Earth’s. She watched as dispassionately as she could as the Civil Guard slowly brought the rioting under control, knowing that it was just the first explosion. There would be more to come.

  The Grand Senate kept the media under total control, but rumours were spreading rapidly, not helped by Admiral Van Houghton’s removal from command and dismissal from the Imperial Navy on charges of gross incompetence. Belinda would have found that amusing – Van Houghton migh
t have proved inadequate when tested, but few others would have done any better – if she hadn't known who was going to succeed him. Try as she might, she couldn't imagine Admiral Valentine serving the Empire, or anyone other than his patrons. The same patrons who had proven so eager to fight the war on Han.

  She sat in Roland’s dressing room and watched as the maids dressed him, piece by piece, until he actually looked like a Prince. By tradition, the newly-appointed CO of Earth’s defences had to receive his commission from the Emperor – and the Grand Senate, for whatever reason, had insisted that Admiral Valentine receive it from Prince Roland directly. Belinda had puzzled over their motives for hours before reluctantly deciding that they were probably trying to suggest that they were upholding tradition and nothing else, unless they also wanted Roland to get the blame for Admiral Valentine’s appointment. Given the disaster he’d caused on Han, Belinda suspected that the Grand Senate could not have made a worse choice for Earth.

  “Ready,” Roland said, finally. He sounded irritated at having to wear an outfit that made him look rather like a peacock, complete with feathers in his cap. “Is the Admiral here?”

  “You will be meeting him in the receiving room,” Mr. Harris said, patiently. He never seemed to get angry with Roland, but then – he had been training young children for years in how to conduct themselves in high society. “Your liegeman will escort him in.”

  Belinda took her cue, winked at Roland when the maids weren't looking at her and then turned to walk out of the room. The maids would see to it that he moved to the receiving room, while she had to greet the Admiral personally. As she walked, she accessed the palace network and realised that the Admiral hadn't been given a proper search by the close-protection detail. His uniform and pass from the Grand Senate had been enough to let him into the Summer Palace. Gritting her teeth, Belinda walked into the waiting room. This was not going to be pleasant.

  Admiral Valentine didn't recognise her, unsurprisingly. The last time they’d met, she’d worn a helmet and a full urban combat uniform, her hair cropped so close to her skull that she might as well have been bald. He certainly hadn't been to visit her in hospital, even if his staff had been the ones responsible for the false intelligence that had wiped out Team Six. But she remembered him; short, overweight, with more political patrons than brain cells ...

  That wouldn't be very many brain cells, she thought, wryly.

  “On your feet,” she snapped, producing a sensor rod from her belt and activating it. The Admiral started to his feet and opened his mouth, but Belinda ran the belt over his head and down his uniform tunic, monitoring the feed through her implants. He had command-level implants, she noted, although she would have been surprised if he ever used them properly. He’d never commanded a real fleet action in his entire career.

  “Stretch out your arms and spread your legs,” she barked. “Now!”

  The Admiral was too stunned to do anything, but obey. Belinda concealed a smile and finished sweeping his legs, holding the rod near his bottom just long enough to worry him. The rod revealed a standard terminal, a Navy-issue pistol - that should have been removed – and a pair of datachips. One of them carried the Grand Senate’s insignia, the other was unmarked.

  “This is outrageous,” the Admiral finally managed to say, as she confiscated his pistol and removed the single clip of bullets. Like most Navy officers, he didn't bother to carry spares unless he had some reason to think he was going to need them. “I am an Admiral in the Imperial Navy ...”

  “And I am a liegeman to Prince Roland, Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne,” Belinda snapped back. “Do you know that you could be arrested for trying to bring a weapon into the Summer Palace?”

  She dropped the pistol and terminal in a secure box and transmitted an instruction to Senate Security, ordering them to give the box back to the Admiral when he left. The datachips would have to be inserted in a terminal designed specifically for the Summer Palace, but isolated from the network, just in case someone was trying to be clever. A sealed network could still be brought down if someone inserted a chip carrying a virus or a subversion program.

  “I have orders from the Grand Senate,” the Admiral stammered. “I ...”

  “They cannot order you to take weapons into the Prince’s chambers,” Belinda informed him. It would have been an illegal order, although she had a feeling that the Admiral wouldn't have recognised an illegal order if it had bitten him on the rear end. “Now, with your permission, I will escort you to meet with the Prince.”

  The Admiral glared at her as she turned to lead him through the corridor. “I should be greeted by the proper servant,” he grated, “not just a bodyguard.”

  “As a liegeman, I outrank the other servants,” Belinda assured him, sweetly. “Not being met by me would be an insult in itself.”

  She kept her expression under control as she led the way into the receiving room. The Commandant hadn't replied to her short report informing him that she was now a sworn liegeman, although the crisis in orbit had probably distracted him from dealing with her. She wasn't looking forward to that conversation ... or the row she’d get when the Admiral had finished complaining about her to the Commandant. Or should he be screaming to the Prince instead? Did her status as a liegeman override her status as a Marine? There was no precedent, as far as she knew. They were in uncharted waters.

  Roland’s receiving room hadn’t been used since his father had inhabited the Summer Palace, but the maids had done an excellent job cleaning it up, bringing out new tapestries to hang along the walls and preparing Roland’s throne. As Crown Prince, he was entitled to a smaller throne than the Emperor – the Imperial Throne itself was in the Imperial Palace, hidden behind a curtain when the Grand Senate used the throne room as a debating chamber – but it was perched on a dais, allowing him to loom over the Admiral. Belinda opened the door, waved the Admiral through and then took up position behind him.

  Admiral Valentine seemed to hesitate before advancing towards Roland and going down on one knee, just before the dais. Roland studied him for a long moment and then nodded and stood up. Admiral Valentine clasped his hands, then stood up himself. Roland sat down on the throne and waited.

  “Crown Prince,” Admiral Valentine said. His voice was flatter than Belinda remembered, but the last time she’d met him he’d been barking orders to his social and military inferiors. She’d never seen him with a social superior. “I seek your confirmation of my position as Commander of Earth’s defence force.”

  Roland pretended to consider. In truth, Belinda knew that his confirmation would be meaningless. The Grand Senate had already decided on the person it wanted to take the post and Roland’s confirmation would be nothing more than a rubber stamp. Even if he didn't confirm Valentine, Belinda suspected that the media would simply say that he had – and produce faked footage to back up the claim. The thought made her wonder why they were bothering to insist that the meeting took place at all ...

  “We are concerned with recent events, Admiral,” Roland said, as grandly as he could. He had taken to pretence, once he'd gotten the idea, like a duck to water. “The rioting on Earth has caused many problems for Our loyal subjects.”

  Valentine looked surprised – and then tried to hide it. “The rioters will be dealt with, Your Highness,” he said, reassuringly. “Those who try to test our patience will be crushed and then exiled.”

  That was true enough, Belinda knew. For most of the riots, the Civil Guard had moved in with stunners and stunned the ones who didn't manage to run away fast enough. Once they'd restored order, the captured rioters had been transported to the orbital towers, where they were waiting in holding pens for the next starship heading out of the system. They would never see Earth again.

  “But there are others who will suffer as a result of the recent disaster,” Roland said. “How long will it be until you restore food supplies to Our world?”

  The Admiral hesitated, then tried to answer. For someone who
had insisted on countless briefings, often pulling officers away from vital duties just so they could brief him, he hadn't come very well briefed. Belinda guessed that he’d expected – or had been told – that Roland would do nothing more than give Valentine his blessing and then let him go. He hadn't taken the Prince seriously at all. Belinda, on the other hand, had prepared Roland carefully.

  “My office believes that we can restore a full supply of foodstuffs within two weeks,” the Admiral hazarded, finally. “We are, however, working on ways to ensure that the disaster never happens again ...”

  “Such security precautions will mean more delays,” Roland pointed out. He quirked an eyebrow at the Admiral. “Will they not?”

  Belinda felt a flicker of pride. She hadn't pointed that out to Roland. He’d thought of it for himself.

  “It may, Your Highness,” the Admiral conceded. “However, we must prevent another disaster and that means additional security precautions.”

  He was understating the case, Belinda said. The investigation had barely gotten underway, but she'd downloaded the preliminary report, which had suggested that a freighter captain had simply rammed his freighter into the orbital station. Reading between the lines, it was clear that the captain had been about to lose his ship. An emotional reaction upon discovering that was about to happen was not uncommon. Often, repossessing bureaucrats took the ship, only to discover that the ship’s computer had been wiped, rendering it useless. It had been a random act, utterly unpredictable, that had pushed the Empire one step closer to the abyss.

  It was going to get worse. There had been ten orbital transhipment stations in Earth orbit; now there were nine, with a huge backlog of freighters to deal with. System Control would have to deal with delays under the best of circumstances, during which time many freighters carrying perishable goods would discover that their cargo was rapidly becoming unsellable. They’d be hit with penalty clauses in their contracts, which would probably start them heading down the road to bankruptcy ...