“We’ll just have to get you some forged papers,” Marhanka said. He grinned, savagely. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
Jasmine frowned. “How did you send the others into the city?”
“There’s quite a flow of people going into the city looking for work,” Marhanka said. “The bastards pay quite good wages, particularly if you happen to have technical skills and facing the draft if you turn twenty-one without a job. We’ll get you some papers and money, find you a place to stay ... you should be fine, as long as you don’t do something stupid.”
“Understood,” Jasmine said. Trying to overthrow the government wasn't something stupid, was it? Not, in the end, that it mattered. She’d known the job was dangerous when she took it. “We won’t stay here with you, but lurk in the forest. You can send your daughter to look for us when the time comes to go.”
***
It was two days before Lori came stumbling back into the forest, wearing a wig that made her look like her elder sister. Jasmine intercepted her before she could start shouting or do something else that might attract attention and took her deeper into the forest, but not too close to the hidden camp. It was dangerous dealing with civilians; it was quite possible that Marhanka would sell them out, fearing for his family’s life.
“Dad’s set up transport,” Lori said, once she caught her breath. She unslung her knapsack and produced a cardboard folder. “There are five sets of documents for you and your men; you have to keep them with you at all times. They’ll tell you that you have to get a proper ID card in the city, but you can't do that. The papers won’t stand up to close scrutiny. You’ll need to find another source in the city that won’t ask too many questions ...”
Jasmine studied the papers quickly. They weren't too detailed, thankfully; there was little that could be used to trap them. The Marines would look like farmer boys from one of the smaller farms nearer the hills, the ones that were having problems meeting their quotas and paying their taxes. It would make perfect sense for them to be looking for jobs in the big city; their papers even claimed that they had limited mechanical skills. It was surprising how such skills – or, rather, the right mindset – translated into space-capable workers.
Once the other Marines were briefed, she allowed Lori to lead them down to where a small open-topped truck was parked, half-hidden in the trees. Lori’s father had provided them with some more suitable clothing – Jasmine’s shirt was loose, concealing her breasts – but hiding the weapons had been a bit more problematic. If they were stopped by a roving patrol that wanted to look inside the bags, they’d have to fight.
“The driver knows to get you into the city, where a room has been arranged for you,” Lori said, as the Marines started to climb into the back of the truck. “After that ...”
She looked up at Jasmine, then stepped closer. “Good luck,” she whispered, softly. “And bring help.”
The truck roared into life, lurching almost as badly as one of the Mammoth tanks the Imperial Army deployed whenever they wanted to really impress and intimidate the locals. Jasmine caught hold of the railing and hung on tightly as the truck roared down the dirt pathway and out onto the road. She silently compared their journey against the maps she’d memorised and relaxed when she realised that they were definitely heading towards the city.
There were more signs of civilisation as they kept driving onwards. Countless fields, some tilled by machines and some tilled by people, each one seemingly large enough to provide enough food for an entire town. Dozens of small towns and villages, some charmingly rural and hidden within the trees, others hastily put together from prefabricated components. It was a surprise to see them – normally, such buildings were only seen on newly-settled colony worlds – but it made a certain kind of sense. If Admiral Singh was trying to encourage people to work on the farms, she’d have to provide accommodation for them.
They passed a handful of other vehicles on the road before they finally encountered a checkpoint. Jasmine braced herself, ready to fight, but the guardsmen merely checked their papers, glanced into the rear of the truck and waved them onwards. Bribed ... or just incompetent? There was no way to know.
“Maybe we should have fought,” Blake muttered. “Did you see the way they were holding their weapons?”
“Or we could have just shouted BOO very loudly,” Carl added. “They would probably have shot themselves.”
Jasmine nodded. The guardsmen hadn't been very careful with their weapons at all. Clearly, their instructors hadn't taken a dim view of accidentally firing a shot ... even if no one was hurt. Marine recruits who accidentally pulled the triggers of their rifles were sentenced to extremely inventive punishment duties, or sent back a class. Fire discipline was extremely important.
But the problem with battle was that it tended to separate the incompetent from the competent. On Han, after the first surprise had faded, the Imperial Army and Marines had exterminated large numbers of insurgents. Those who had survived the punishing experience, however, were tougher and more determined – and smarter – than those who had died. The rest of the fighting had been against a smaller enemy force and yet it had been much harder.
She settled back as the truck picked up speed again, passing a dozen large buildings that reminded Jasmine of the mansions Avalon’s former Council had built for itself. They appeared to be guarded by private guards, although they looked more competent than the guardsmen they’d seen at the checkpoint. Perhaps whoever owned the mansions had offered to pay more than Admiral Singh ... it was possible. Or perhaps the mansions simply belonged to some of her cronies. She'd have to reward them somehow.
“They belong to the oligarchs,” Canada said, shortly. “They used to kiss the Governor’s ass and in exchange they controlled much of the planet. Now ... I suppose they're working for Admiral Singh instead.”
“Probably,” Jasmine said. They’d have to parse out how Admiral Singh’s administration actually worked before they started trying to jam sticks in the wheels. The Empire’s formal power structure often bore little relationship to reality. “But we will soon show them the error of their ways.”
Landing City’s towers were slowly coming into view. It was clear that the planet had been settled for much longer than Avalon; normally, skyscrapers took a couple of hundred years before they started to emerge on a newly-settled world. Small flotillas of aircars buzzed through the air, barely visible even to her enhanced eyesight, suggesting a far more developed infrastructure. Or maybe Admiral Singh allowed the pilots to fly their own aircars ... no, that didn't seem likely. Everything she'd done seemed to be about controlling her captive population.
“Another checkpoint,” Carl hissed. “Here we go again.”
Jasmine scowled, but held herself at the ready again as the guardsmen examined their papers, before passing them back to the driver and allowing them to go onwards. None of them seemed very competent either, even though they were driving into the city itself. The outer edge of Landing City was composed of more prefabricated buildings, but it was still clearly part of the city. Or maybe the Admiral didn't care if there was trouble in the outskirts. It was the core of the city that was truly important.
The district sent chills down her spine, although it took her a moment to realise why. It reminded her of Han; the same utterly characterless buildings, the same air of hopelessness ... and the same lack of anything to do, apart from work. There were children kicking balls through the streets – all boys, she couldn't help noticing – and a handful of young teenagers, but most of the people were old. And quite a few of them were clearly as alien to the planet as Jasmine herself.
“This wasn't here when I was conscripted,” Canada said. “I don’t know who these people are.”
Jasmine could guess. Camelot had had to build living quarters for immigrants quickly, once the economic boom had taken off; Corinthian would probably have had to do the same. Except Admiral Singh hadn't tried to produce nice apartments; she’d simply deployed prefa
bricated buildings and told the immigrants to put up and shut up. There were no gardens, no parks, no swimming pools ... nothing for the children to do, apart from schooling. And when they grew up, they’d be conscripted into the Admiral’s growing military machine.
Bitch, she thought, coldly. God damn you to hell.
The truck rumbled to a halt in front of an apartment block, as anonymous as the rest. “Your rent has been paid for a week,” the driver said, once he’d jumped out of the cab and motioned for the Marines to join him. “After that, you’re on your own. Good luck finding some employment around here.”
Jasmine suspected that he had a point. Given how Admiral Singh had deployed her security network, it was quite likely that they would be detected if they stayed in the building – or if they didn't have any clear source of food or money. They would have to figure out what they were doing very quickly, starting with finding a place to hide that wasn't known to anyone else. She suspected that she could trust Lori’s father, but how far could she trust his associates?
Blake led the way into the apartment block, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Inside, it was as barren and unprepossessing as its exterior, without even children’s paintings to brighten up the walls. It didn't smell as bad as a pirate ship, but judging by the stains on the walls the only real difference was someone attempting to wash the hallway out from time to time. The dull metal that had been used to build the block was waterproof, allowing someone to use a hose to cleanse it. It still left unpleasant traces of human activity.
They walked up a flight of metal stairs and into the apartment. It was almost completely empty; the toilet seemed broken, while the bedding they’d been promised was nothing more than a pile of mouldy blankets. Jasmine had a sudden vision of what life must be like for the average person in Admiral Singh’s world, even though she had to admit that it was a hell of an incentive to find a job. Anyone who was content to live in such a shithole probably wouldn't be able to handle a job in any case.
“Could be worse,” Carl said, unconvincingly.
“Yeah, we could have fallen into the shit again,” Blake said. He didn't sound any happier. They’d been in worse, but that didn't mean they had to like it. He held up his hands to signal a question. “Eyes and ears?”
The Marines searched the apartment quickly and carefully, finding nothing. If there was one advantage to the empty set of rooms, it was difficult to hide bugs, even ones so tiny that they couldn't be seen with the naked eye. Jasmine would have been surprised if the security forces had bothered to bug such apartments, but she swept anyway, just in case. If there had been bugs, they would have to be very careful what they said out loud.
“Clear,” she said, finally. The Marines relaxed, then started pulling at the blankets. “We’ll start exploring the city tomorrow.”
She scowled down at her hand as she walked over to the plastic window and peered down onto the street below. It wasn't going to be easy to locate the underground, let alone make contact without being observed by the security forces – assuming, of course, that they were monitoring the underground. But they had to be, unless there was no underground ... she dismissed that line of thought as unprofitable and joined Blake in his search for cleaning utensils. There was nothing, apart from a bucket with a hole in the bottom.
“I’m surprised they’re not coming down with the galloping shits, all the time,” Blake said, as he reconnected the toilet. “This place stinks worse than the field toilets we ...”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said, hastily. “I don’t want to know.”
He was right; field sanitation was important, but no one seemed to have mentioned it to the apartment’s previous inhabitants. Her imagination formed a picture of them dropping dead before she decided that it was unlikely. Maybe they’d just been pushed to make something of themselves and go up in the world. Maybe.
There was a harsh knock on the door. Jasmine tensed; the plastic window was too small to allow any of them, even her, to climb out. She motioned the other four into the kitchen, then strode over to the apartment door and pulled it open. A dark-skinned young man was standing on the other side, looking at her as if she was something he’d scraped off his shoe, with three others standing behind him. His gaze flickered across her chest before he stepped forwards, into the apartment.
“I’m ... calling on behalf of the neighbourhood welcoming committee,” he said, as soon as the door was closed. “There are tithes to pay as long as you live here.”
Jasmine sized him up. A thug, someone who thought using the word tithe instead of protection money made him sound smart. Probably nowhere near as important as he thought he was. And too used to bullying people to realise when he’d caught a tiger by the tail.
She gave him a completely sweet, completely fake smile. “And dare I assume that if we don’t pay you ... tithes, we will regret it?”
The thug blinked at her. “Yeah ... right?”
“My associates and I will be happy to discuss it with you,” Jasmine said. “If you’ll look at this for one second ...”
Chapter Nineteen
This also tends to lead to a focus on matters of immediate importance. If, for example, it will cost the taxpayers a considerable sum of money to modify the mass-transit system – and the work does not need to be done immediately – the political leadership will do its best to avoid having to pay for the work, passing it on to their successors. The fact that the cost often increases doesn't deter them – why not, when they don’t have to pay?
-Professor Leo Caesius, Authority, Power and the Post-Imperial Era
The fight lasted barely seven seconds. Jasmine slammed a punch into the leader’s chest, sending him doubling over in agony, while Blake and Carl dealt with his two friends. None of them were ready for true violence, she noted, as she put her foot on the leader’s throat to keep him quiet. They certainly hadn't realised who they were facing.
Although maybe that shouldn’t have been a surprise, she thought, once the gangbangers had been knocked down. They’re so used to picking on people who don’t dare attract attention that they don’t realise that some people might fight back.
“Knock them both out,” Jasmine ordered, as she studied the gang leader. The other two looked like dumb muscle, living proof of the theory of evolution. In some ways, their appearance reminded her of the hints from Earth’s undercity that incest was becoming socially acceptable down there. “This one can be made to talk.”
The gangster stared up at her in absolute horror, mixed with pain. Jasmine felt a flicker of wry amusement – and horror. Was this what Admiral Singh considered acceptable? The gangsters living in the shadows, preying on those who could not defend themselves ... were they a symptom of how corrupt her society was becoming or were they part of her plan to motivate people to work for her? Probably the former, Jasmine decided; given how regimented society had become, there was plenty of room for criminal organisations to flourish.
“Done,” Blake said, banging one gangster’s head on the floor until he went limp. “You want us to kill them, boss?”
The gangster looked even more horrified. Somehow, Jasmine doubted that Admiral Singh’s security forces would pay much attention to a handful of dead bodies, particularly if they were part of the grey or black economy instead of working for the Admiral. It would be easy to slit their throats and drop them some distance from the apartment, even though some prying eyes might see them and alert the authorities. But that was unlikely. Corinthian’s poorest districts, like all of the others Jasmine had seen, probably wouldn't want to do anything to attract the authorities. Besides, they might be grateful that someone had killed the gangsters.
But they will be replaced, Jasmine thought, remembering how hard it had been to eradicate the criminal gangs operating in Camelot, a far smaller city. Scum like them always are.
She picked up the gangster by the throat and held him up in front of her. He started to shake, terrified out of his mind. Jasmine sighed, produced a knife fro
m her belt and held it just in front of his right eye. There was a sudden unpleasant smell as the gangster wet himself with fear.
“This is how it’s going to be,” Jasmine said, keeping her voice deadly calm. “You’re going to answer our questions. Once you’re done, you will be released.”
She smiled at him, feeling his entire body shudder, then dropped him on the floor and pressed her fingers against his neck. “There’s a nerve here that twitches if you lie,” she lied, smoothly. The gangbanger was too shaken up to question her words. “For every lie you tell us, you will lose one of your fingers. Do you understand me?”
The gangster nodded, desperately. “Good,” Jasmine said. “Tell me; what do you actually do here?”
It took nearly thirty minutes to get a series of straight answers out of the gangster. They took turns shouting questions at the young man; he seemed to find Blake more intimidating, something that made Jasmine roll her eyes. A very typical attitude for a very typical male thug. The gangster ran what was effectively a protection racket; those who paid his tithes were allowed to operate freely, but those who didn't were harassed and eventually beaten bloody until they surrendered. Their writ ran over a single housing estate; they didn't seem to have any authority outside the estate at all. They didn't think they had any connections to the government, but they did have links with larger criminal organisations.
They didn't seem to do much else beyond the protection racket, Jasmine realised, which surprised her. If they were in command of the illicit part of the economy, at least in one small set of apartment blocks, why didn't they trade in drugs or prostitution? Or theft? No, that made sense; the people living here simply didn't have very much worth stealing, apart from small amounts of money and food. The gangster, when pressed, admitted that they were kept out of those criminal networks; they were handled by senior gangsters, who barely had anything to do with the street thugs.
The Empire's Corps: Book 04 - Semper Fi Page 18
