Layla eyed her, feeling a flicker of the old resentment. She’d failed the Crucible at the final hurdle, ensuring that she could never call herself a Marine. And yet ... she was the Captain of a heavy cruiser, an opportunity that she would never have had if she’d become a Marine Rifleman. Which one of them was truly better off? The Marine ... or the Captain?
“Perhaps,” she agreed, finally. It was a good suggestion. “We’ll assign the officers sealed cabins, allowing you a chance to work on the lower ranks. Some of them might be willing to talk if we ask properly.”
She scowled. “No drugs though,” she added, a moment later. “We have to try to keep them reasonably sweet.”
Lieutenant Yamane smiled. “They’re prisoners,” she said. “They’re not going to be sweet at all.”
Layla couldn't disagree. “We can try,” she said. “Hampton and his men can have the guest cabins – but keep them under guard. We don’t know just how much of what they’re telling us is true.”
“They might volunteer to be injected with truth drugs,” Lieutenant Yamane pointed out. “I don’t think they all have counter-interrogation implants.”
“Yes, but they might believe what they’re telling us, even under the impact of the truth drugs,” Layla said. “There might be no Admiral Singh – it isn't actually an uncommon name. For all we know, the fleet that hit Greenway might be all the fleet they have.”
“Another pirate trying to set up as a local ruler,” Lieutenant Yamane mused. “I would have thought that they were too professional to be pirates.”
“Some pirates have managed to surprise us,” Layla said. “Besides, we never quite worked out who was backing the Admiral.”
She scowled. Someone had provided high-tech support to the Admiral, someone who had remained firmly in the shadows. Commonwealth Intelligence had followed up every lead it had found while searching through the pirate bases, but they’d found nothing. Whoever had supported the Admiral remained unknown – and, presumably, planning their next move.
Her wristcom buzzed. “Go ahead,” she ordered.
“Captain, the survey team just completed their search of the enemy ship,” the tactical officer reported. “The main computers were trashed, but we recovered some secondary systems and a handful of handwritten notes. It was much cleaner than a pirate ship.”
Layla nodded. Pirates rarely bothered to even clean their ships – every pirate vessel she’d seen had smelled awful – but they also left evidence scattered around for the post-battle SSE teams to find and use. Admiral Singh’s ship, on the other hand, seemed to be clean in both senses of the word.
“Prepare to bring everything you found back to the ship,” she ordered, “then shut down the remainder of the cruiser. We’ll leave her drifting here until we can get a proper recovery tug to take her back home.”
“Let's hope that it all seems worthwhile,” Lieutenant Yamane commented. “If Sergeant Hampton was right, Admiral Singh is likely to regard us as competition.”
Layla nodded. Avalon had been lucky in many ways; the ADC had spent vast sums of money on the cloudscoop, convinced that Avalon would become an industrial nexus and a springboard for future expansion beyond the Rim. The ADC had collapsed, but the Commonwealth had inherited the cloudscoop and, combined with the supplies the Marines had brought from Earth and freedom from the Empire’s burdensome regulations, was starting to produce its own starships. Given time, the Commonwealth would even be able to start producing battleships ... hell, they'd already started to make improvements on some technology the Empire had thought couldn't be developed further.
But Admiral Singh would have a big head start ...
“See that Hampton and his people get cabins and whatever else they need,” she ordered. “We’ll be heading back to Avalon within the hour.”
“Understood,” Lieutenant Yamane said.
Layla watched her step through the hatch, which closed behind her with an audible hiss. The Marine might not have the better part of the deal after all, she decided, thoughtfully. How could command of a small unit of Marines compare to command of an entire starship?
Shaking her head, she picked up her datapad and scrolled through the final report from the damage control officer. There was some damage that really needed the attention of a yard, but otherwise Harrington had come through her first real combat test with flying colours. The designers were to be credited, he’d concluded, although there were a few issues that needed to be discussed later on, before the next class of starships was produced. Layla tapped her thumb against the scanner, confirming that she had read and approved the report, then read the tactical officer’s summery of the brief action. His conclusions were no surprise; Admiral Singh’s ships were considerably more dangerous than any pirate vessel.
She keyed her wristcom. “Memo to all senior staff,” she said, trusting the network to pick up on her words. “We will be holding additional exercises during our trip back to Avalon. Facing pirates may have made us lazy; in future, we will assume the worst of our enemies.”
Closing the wristcom, she stood up and walked to the hatch herself. At maximum speed, it would still be two weeks before they reached Avalon – and by then, who knew what would happen? But then, if they were lucky, Admiral Singh wouldn't have the slightest idea that Avalon was becoming an industrial powerhouse. She’d have the same problem that the Marines on Avalon had had when they’d been hunting pirates. The pirate base was tiny on a cosmic scale, almost impossible to find.
But that wasn't true of the cloudscoop, she reminded herself as she walked onto the bridge. If Admiral Singh studied the records carefully, she would certainly be able to pinpoint Avalon as the most likely place to develop into an industrial base. And if she combined that with sighting a new-build starship ...
We’d better get ready quickly, she thought. God alone knows how long we will have before the shit hits the fan.
Chapter Four
Throughout human history, well-meaning intellectuals have attempted to deny this fundamental truth. Gunboat diplomacy is, in their worldview, as appalling as the parent who resorts to corporal punishment. Indeed, as they say, it is incredibly easy to move from reasoned and nuanced use of force to using force in all circumstances, even if the situation doesn't really call for it. To paraphrase a very old and respected thinker, you should not behead a child for a minor mistake – but, as another thinker put it, when all you have is a hammer, every problem starts to look like a nail.
-Professor Leo Caesius, Authority, Power and the Post-Imperial Era
“As you will have noticed,” Jasmine said, “we crossed the phase limit and entered phase space an hour ago. Any hopes you might have had of being rescued can no longer be held.”
The enemy officer stared back at her defiantly, although she could see a hint of fear underlying his face. Like most of his crew, he was surprisingly young, young enough to make her wonder just what connections he possessed to be advanced so rapidly. She’d never quite overcome that habit, even though the Commonwealth Navy was also advancing competent officers as fast as possible.
She glanced through the brief physical report from the medic. The prisoners were all healthy, in reasonably good shape; there didn't seem to be any implants, apart from a couple of neural links that had been deactivated after discovery. Jasmine suspected that their superiors insisted on proper exercise, something that was mandatory in the Marines – and the Imperial Army – but somewhat haphazard in the Empire’s other services. It was just another indication that they weren't dealing with the Empire. Admiral Singh was clearly more competent than the average Imperial Navy officer.
“So it would seem,” the officer said, finally. “What are you going to do to us?”
That was somewhat problematic, Jasmine admitted silently. The Empire didn't recognise anyone fighting against it as legitimate combatants – and the Commonwealth had never come up with protocols for dealing with POWs. She’d had to do some data-mining to look up precedents, most of them
dating from the Unification Wars. The records hadn't been very precise, but she had a feeling that the POWs hadn't been treated very well once the wars had finally come to an end.
“We are going to interview you,” she said. “I think you can give us your name, rank and ID code without compromising your operational security. After that ... if you behave, we will treat you well. There are plenty of places you can be held that are reasonably civilised.”
“Instead of a penal world, I presume,” the officer said. “Will you return us to our world?”
“I think that would be a matter for negotiation,” Jasmine said. There was no point in sending back crewmen until they had a deal with Admiral Singh. She doubted that thirty crewmen would really make a difference if war broke out, but it was well to be careful. “However, I believe that our side would agree to return you once we start talking.”
“That’s good,” the officer said. He hesitated, then looked down at the deck. “I am Lieutenant George Murchison, assigned to Proud as Secondary Tactical Officer.”
Jasmine nodded, recognising his reluctance to talk at all. There was always the risk of telling the captors something that would prove useful in the coming war – and he dared not assume that there wouldn’t be war. Name, rank and ID code weren’t particularly informative outside POW camps and exchanges; it was, she suspected, why the protocol had been developed in the first place.
“Thank you,” she said. “Would you like to tell us more about Admiral Singh?”
Murchison shook his head, still looking at the deck. “No,” he said, finally. There was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Name, rank and ID code is all that you are getting.”
Jasmine understood. Without counter-interrogation implants, it wouldn’t be hard to make Murchison talk – or condition him into a willing slave. Murchison could be made to betray his leader, to spill everything he knew to the Marines ... and he had to know it. His defiance could prove completely meaningless.
“You will be returned to your cabin,” she said, instead. “I hope that the ration bars are remotely edible.”
Murchison couldn't help a smile. Ration bars might be edible, but they were never tasty, even though it would be easy to make them pleasing to the palate. Earth’s famed algae farms pumped out millions of the bars every day, trying to keep ahead of Earth’s endless demand for food. Maybe they didn't have time to improve the flavour, but Avalon should have had the time ...
“Edible,” he repeated. “I would like to talk to the rest of my people.”
“Once we’ve completed our survey, you can meet and talk with them,” Jasmine assured him, honestly. If all of the prisoners decided to keep their mouths shut, it would be one thing, but she was fairly sure that some of them would start to talk after the shock of losing their ship and being taken captive. If Murchison had a chance to stiffen their spines, however ...
“Thank you,” Murchison said, stiffly.
Jasmine called for Blake and ordered him to escort Murchison back to his cabin. Captain Delacroix had assigned him a cabin intended for a junior officer; a small box, barely larger than the compartments put aside for crewmen. But it would keep him away from the rest of the captives, in the hopes that it would make the rest of the POWs more tractable. She reminded herself, as Blake took Murchison out of the compartment, to remember that might not be accurate. Senior officers had overlooked the value of NCOs more than once in the past.
The next three captives were hardly more informative, although one of them managed to tell Jasmine that she’d been born on Trafalgar itself before being conscripted into Admiral Singh’s Navy. That was odd; the Imperial Navy had never had to use conscription to fill the ranks, even when the budget had been slashed badly by the Grand Senate. There was no shortage of people willing to enlist ... or there hadn't been. Jasmine asked a few probing questions and managed to learn that Trafalgar had heard that Earth had been destroyed, before the crewwoman shut up and refused to talk any more.
“Maybe the rumours you heard are more accurate than the ones we heard,” Jasmine said, and recounted a couple of the more absurd ones. Who would have believed that Sol had gone supernova? Earth’s sun wasn't the type of star to go supernova and destroy the inner system. “Can’t you tell us what you heard?”
The crewwoman shook her head, despite the fear in her eyes.
Jasmine dispatched her to a different cabin and called for the next captive. Joe escorted him in; a young man, wearing a torn uniform and a fearful expression. Jasmine suspected that he had had some bootleg rejuvenation treatments from a very early age, retarding the aging process; there was something about his face that made it impossible to guess at his age. Young, obviously, but beyond that ... Jasmine made a mental note to ask the medics to take a longer look at the prisoner. Bootleg treatments sometimes caused problems that emerged in later life.
“Please, be seated,” she said, and introduced herself. “I need to ask you for some details ...”
“You’re from the Marines?” The young man asked. “The Empire hasn't forgotten us?”
Jasmine blinked in surprise. “I’m a Marine, yes,” she confirmed, tapping the Rifleman’s Tab on her shoulder. “And you are?”
“We had almost given up hope,” the young man gushed. “Ever since she arrived ...”
Jasmine held up a hand. “I think you’d better start from the beginning,” she said. “Who are you and what happened when Admiral Singh arrived?”
“I’m Crewman 2nd Class Elliott Canada,” the young man admitted. “And she took my homeworld for her own.”
“I see,” Jasmine said. Had they hit the jackpot? “The Empire has not forgotten you.”
“We heard so many rumours,” Canada admitted. “Earth had been destroyed, Earth had been sacked, Earth had dropped into phase space and vanished ... we didn't know what to believe until the Admiral’s fleet arrived. She told us that she was in charge of the sector now and crushed us when we tried to protest.”
Jasmine lifted an eyebrow. “Us?”
“I was part of the Democratic Underground on Corinthian,” Canada said. He hesitated, then gave her a searching look. “Don’t you know anything about us?”
“Very little,” Jasmine said, honestly. Corinthian was the sector capital, a mere ten light years from Trafalgar Naval Base. She’d never looked at the records in great detail, but if it was the capital it would have a large population and a considerable industrial base – a valuable prize for Admiral Singh ... or anyone else, for that matter. “The Empire has been very disorganised lately.”
Canada, once he had started to talk, seemed unable to stop. “She took over the high orbitals with her troops and started to conscript our population,” he said. “We tried to fight and she crushed us; the Democratic Underground was scattered and our very own oligarchies turned traitor and signed up with the bitch. And then ... they must not have realised that I was part of the Democratic Underground, because they told me to report for duty.”
Or they simply didn't care, Jasmine thought, silently.
“It’s been over a year since she arrived,” Canada added. “The entire planet is held in the grip of fear. You have to do something!”
Jasmine nodded, thinking hard. The Democratic Underground had had links to the Secessionists, but they preferred to agitate for free democracy rather than the violent separatism advocated by the Secessionists. It was, technically, an illegal group of subversives, yet the Empire’s attitude to them had been one of amused tolerance, rather than outright repression. Jasmine had heard, before she’d moved to Avalon, that the Empire tolerated them because they were so ineffectual, which didn't prevent the security services from drawing up files on every known member. If Admiral Singh had decided to repress them, she would have had the information she needed to do it at hand.
“We’re going to do something,” she assured him. “What happened at Greenway?”
“The Admiral has been expanding her little empire, from what I heard,” Canada explained. “We
have orders to round up experienced personnel, collect industrial equipment and anything else that might be useful. If the planet’s leaders agree to accept her as their ruler, they get to stay in power. If not ... they get killed and the planet is bombarded into submission. Greenway was just the latest planet on the list.”
Jasmine lifted an eyebrow. “And you did nothing?”
Canada stared at her. “What could I have done?”
Mandy sabotaged an entire heavy cruiser single-handedly, Jasmine thought. But it wasn't a fair comparison at all. A ship manned by a crew that was actually competent, capable of working together without planning to kill their fellows at the earliest opportunity, would be far harder to sabotage. Besides, if Canada had managed to destroy Proud, what good would it have done beyond costing Admiral Singh a light cruiser?
“Good point,” Jasmine said, finally. “How many ships does Admiral Singh have?”
“I’m not sure,” Canada admitted. “I know she has at least three battleships and several dozen smaller ships, but I don’t know the precise figures.”
“Pity,” Jasmine said. “Do you know how the Admiral selects her targets?”
Canada shook his head.
Jasmine wasn't too surprised. Outside the Marine Corps – if there was anything left of the Marine Corps, apart from Stalker’s Stalkers – it was uncommon for junior officers and crewmen to be totally briefed by their superiors. Canada had been lucky to learn as much as he had; normally, he wouldn't know more than what his superiors thought he should know. It struck Jasmine as an odd way to run a military organisation, but it did make a certain kind of sense. The Admirals wouldn’t want junior officers fretting over grand strategy when they were supposed to be doing their jobs.
“I do know that we were meant to be assigned to scout out another potential target,” Canada added, softly. “If we hadn't been in position to intercept that freighter ...”
“You might never have found us,” Jasmine said, quietly. She came to a decision. “Are you prepared to cooperate completely?”
The Empire's Corps: Book 04 - Semper Fi Page 4
