The Empire's Corps: Book 04 - Semper Fi

by Christopher Nuttall

  She closed her eyes and meditated until she fell asleep. Tomorrow, she would have to make contact again, with her first series of instructions. And they would have to monitor Patterson to ensure that nothing had gone wrong.

  And if it does, she thought, before the darkness descended, we’re dead.

  Chapter Thirty

  Indeed, as I have noted in my earlier works, the distance between the governed and the governors was so great that almost anything could be made legal. If a corporation with the Grand Senate’s ear demanded specific mining rights, on a world that was already settled, it was merely a matter of pushing the Grand Senate into passing a specific law – and the colonists would wake up to discover that their world was no longer their own. It was no surprise that the Empire fragmented as soon as the power holding it together could no longer do so.

  -Professor Leo Caesius, Authority, Power and the Post-Imperial Era

  Horn allowed himself a tight smile as Director Tomas faced the wrath of Admiral Singh. The sour-faced man was responsible for safeguarding the garrisons in the countryside, away from the cities ... and he'd dropped the ball quite spectacularly. He looked up at the display, with nearly a hundred red lights glowing to mark where attacks had been launched by the insurgents, and shook his head in grim amusement. The attacks had been mere pinpricks compared to the sheer size of the edifice Admiral Singh had assembled, but they had thoroughly embarrassed his rival.

  “We didn't have a word of warning,” Tomas protested, trying to defend himself. “The first we knew about it was when the convoys came under attack.”

  Horn shrugged, enjoying his rival’s discomfort. The attacks had clearly been carefully planned, showing a mindset that suggested someone with real military experience had done the groundwork before the insurgents had shown themselves. They’d started by overrunning a handful of guardposts, capturing and subverting the guards, then used their radios to lull the convoys into a false sense of security ... which had come to an end when the insurgents had thrown in their main attacks. They had shown a degree of professionalism that they hadn't shown since Admiral Singh’s forces had overwhelmed the planet’s defences, two years ago.

  Maybe they found someone living alone and convinced him to help them, Horn thought, wryly. There had always been rumours of great military leaders hiding out in the backcountry, although Horn had always known them for wishful thinking. Quite a few insurgent cells they'd broken back in the early months of occupation had claimed that they were supported by a vast group – and they’d believed it too, because the leader had told them the lie to keep their spirits up. It had taken considerable effort to disprove it.

  “But then there was an entire series of attacks,” Admiral Singh snapped. “Why did you fail to respond in time? Or to call for assistance from the orbital weapons platforms?”

  Tomas hesitated. “I thought we could handle it,” he said, finally. “I was wrong.”

  Horn kept his smirk from growing any wider, but it was an effort. Tomas had probably also felt that it would disgrace him if he called for help, suggesting that he couldn't handle everything himself. And he would be right. Horn wouldn't have hesitated to capitalise on his rival’s weakness – but now he had a far greater opportunity to expand his own power base.

  “So you were,” Admiral Singh snapped. “And now we have a problem.”

  She looked up at the display. “Our intelligence network has either been compromised or was simply kept out of the loop,” she snapped. “You failed us.”

  Horn jumped into the silence. “Internal Security would be happy to offer help, Admiral,” he said, quickly. “We have trained interrogators who are very capable of breaking resistance.”

  “Of course you do,” Tomas snapped. “You don’t have to worry about leaving the farmers alive afterwards. We cannot kill the experienced farmers without ensuring a major drop in food production.”

  “Then perhaps we should ramp up our own algae-bar production vats,” Horn countered. “Do we really need the farmers?”

  “Unless we want a mutiny, we do,” Admiral Singh said. She scowled at Tomas, who lowered his eyes. “I want you to identify a number of possible insurgent supporters and pass their names to Internal Security. They are to be interrogated to ensure that they don’t know anything about the insurgents” – she shot a glance at Horn – “a non-rigorous interrogation, if you please. Use drugs and lie detectors.”

  Horn scowled. Where was the fun in that?

  “If you find some of them to be guilty, you may take their families into custody,” Admiral Singh added. “I will decide what to do with them afterwards.”

  She looked over at Tomas. “You will surge forward additional troops and reinforce the garrisons,” she ordered. “Your forces will remain linked to orbital surveillance and weapons platforms; if they need help, they are to call for it. If there are further attacks on such a scale, there will be consequences.”

  Tomas looked grim, but he didn't dare argue.

  Horn smiled to himself. Admiral Singh was tolerant of everything, but failure and incompetence. If there was a second series of such attacks, it would prove Tomas incompetent ... and he would be removed from his position. As one of her supporters, it was unlikely that he would be executed or exiled to Penance, but he would never wield true power again. And, given some work, Horn could probably make Tomas look incompetent. It was unlikely that the Admiral would look too closely at the methods he used to get answers out of his victims.

  There had been a fire, several months ago, that had killed a number of girls. The girls had been hostages, in all but name. Their parents lived near the zone where the largest attacks had taken place. Had the parents known what had happened to their daughters? It was quite possible; Tomas was supposed to ensure that the girls sent messages home every week, just to reassure their parents that they were still alive, but those messages wouldn't have been sent from the grave. Even if Tomas hadn't told their parents the truth, they must have suspected it when the messages came to a halt.

  Horn allowed his smile to widen. No matter the names Tomas threw at him, he thought he knew where to begin.

  He looked over at Tomas, who was sweating under the Admiral’s gaze, and considered the man’s future. There was no point in trying to dicker with him; the man was just as bloody-minded an empire-builder as Horn himself. But it was unlikely that Horn would simply be ordered to take command of External Security as well as Internal Security. Admiral Singh wouldn't allow him to concentrate that much power in his hands. However, he knew the most likely candidates for that role and he was fairly sure that he could dominate them.

  And who knew where that would lead?

  “Run additional checks in the city as well,” Admiral Singh ordered, dragging his attention back to her. “And then instruct your agents to watch out for rumour-mongers.”

  Horn nodded. “Admiral,” he said, “what are we going to tell the public?”

  “That we lost a handful of soldiers to treacherous attack,” Admiral Singh said, coldly. “And that we killed a number of terrorists in return.”

  Tomas frowned, yet he said nothing.

  Horn understood. One thing all of his agents agreed upon was that few people trusted the official statements on the news. With very good reason, he had to admit. Admiral Singh’s newscasters lied more than the Empire’s had done. Rumours would already be spreading through the city, no matter the security the Admiral had ordered slammed down on anyone who might talk. And then the underground might take heart.

  He ignored that thought as the Admiral dismissed him, allowing him to head back to his office. Once there, he called for the files on the dead farm girls and made careful note of their names. If he was very lucky, Tomas would be too distracted covering his ass to notice that Horn had jumped ahead of him. And once he had the farmers in custody, they’d talk, even if he had to write the script himself.

  There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he ordered, looking up. A young man, his featur
es so bland that they were utterly unnoticeable, stepped inside. “What do you want?”

  “There have been developments,” Zed said.

  Horn blinked in surprise. Zed was one of his very special agents, charged with keeping an eye on the rest of Internal Security. Horn had happily backstabbed his last superior to get his rank in Imperial Intelligence and he had no illusions about how many of his subordinates wanted to be in control of his little empire. And, given the kind of people he’d been careful to recruit, it wouldn't be long before one of them allowed desire to overcome prudence. He gave them so much freedom, after all.

  “Developments,” he repeated. Zed was loyal; he had to be loyal. It wasn't as if he could ever take Horn’s place, not when hardly anyone knew him as anything more than a lowly office worker. “What sort of developments?”

  “Patterson’s son didn't go to school today,” Zed said. “His mother apparently had to go out of the city.”

  Horn felt his eyes narrow. Outside the city, now?

  “I see,” he said. “What happened?”

  “Good question,” Zed said. “I made enquiries. The brat was apparently in some trouble yesterday; today, the father called the school and said that the boy was being transferred. There was no sign of either of them at the house when we inspected it ...”

  Horn felt an odd stab of disappointment. He’d known that Tallow, or Alec, or Melvin would eventually try to stick a knife in his back. They were utter degenerates who craved the power to make their fantasies reality – just like Horn himself, he acknowledged inwardly. Sooner or later, they would grow tired of being at his beck and call and try to take power for themselves. On that day, he would know how good his precautions really were.

  But Patterson? The man never seemed to show any ambition, or the depraved tastes that powered most of Internal Security. He was just a civil servant, carrying out his orders – if there was anyone Horn could rely on in the department, it was Patterson. And the man was clearly up to something. His wife and son were gone. What, Horn asked himself did that mean?

  He tapped a command into the terminal and brought up the internal security system. He’d never really told any of his subordinates how closely they were monitored at work, although he suspected that the smarter ones probably knew. There were no blind spots in the office, no place where someone could hold a covert conversation; no wonder his people always seemed to be busy when he looked at them. They suspected that they were probably always under observation.

  Patterson looked ... wrong. On the surface, he was the same imperturbable bureaucrat he seemed, someone who could take a dinner order one moment and an instruction to commit genocide the next, but there was something odd about his demeanour. He was ... afraid. Paterson was never afraid.

  “Interesting,” he said, slowly. “And what have you deduced?”

  “Patterson is either making a play for power or someone else is using his love for his family as a tool to control him,” Zed said. “The latter is the most likely option.”

  Horn nodded. Patterson wasn't stupid. He might know that Horn didn't keep a close eye on what his people did in their homes, but something as revealing as hiding his family would probably be noticed. Besides, if he made a bid for power and failed, his family would be slaughtered when they were found. No, someone else had found his weak point and used it against him.

  It was odd, Horn considered. Love was an alien concept to him, no matter how many husbands had been willing to break and confess all when confronted with their wives on a torture rack. Sentiment was certainly not something he wished to encourage among his people; it might start them thinking in unfortunate or unprofitable directions. But there had been something oddly reassuring about Patterson’s family. Horn’s own wife had as little to do with him as she could.

  “So someone is,” he said, smoothly. He pressed his fingertips together and smiled. “I think we should find out who, don’t you?”

  ***

  Jasmine scowled as she slipped through the side-streets and alleyways, trying to stay out of sight. The rumours about what had happened in the countryside had been spreading throughout the city – the last rumour she’d heard had suggested that over ten thousand of Admiral Singh’s men had been wiped out in a single ambush – and the population was restless. Admiral Singh’s forces had responded by moving additional forces onto the streets and imposing a curfew at sunset. Right now, they were trying their hardest to actually enforce it.

  There were fewer patrollers in the richer part of town, much to Jasmine’s silent relief, yet there was still too much chance of being observed. The other parts of the underground had been warned – using the innocuous codes they’d developed for the datanet – to keep their heads down, but Jasmine had to make contact with Patterson. If nothing else, they had to be sure that he hadn't aroused any suspicion.

  She heard the sound of gunfire in the distance and winced, inwardly. Many of the poorer parts of the city would be harder to control, at least until the rumours had been discredited – and Jasmine suspected that quite a bit of information on how to produce makeshift weapons had leaked out onto the streets. It was astonishing how easy it was to produce a working IED with a few chemicals and a certain disregard for the dangers ... she had ordered her cells to remain underground, but there would be others who wanted to riot. The rumours that suggested that the next class for conscription would be called up early had sparked a terrifying amount of discontent.

  Maybe it’s something we can use, she thought, coldly. Many of their cells were composed of young men who would be conscripted next year – or earlier, if the losses rumour spoke of were anything like accurate. Get them in position, get them access to weapons ... and then hit the Admiral as hard as we can.

  She slowed as she reached the edge of the street and peered around the corner. There was a small APC at one end of the street, with two guards patrolling around the heavily-armoured vehicle ... one of them, she realised with a hint of contempt, smoking a cigarette while on duty. A sniper would have had no difficulty picking him off from long range, then vanishing into the shadows while the idiot’s comrades were still wondering what had happened. About the only worse thing would have been to salute one’s superior in a combat zone, identifying them for enemy snipers.

  Jasmine slipped back into the shadows, then moved down the back alleyway until she reached the back of Patterson’s house. If she’d been in command of the APC, she would have made damn sure that someone was using a pair of NVGs at all times. A normal combat suit would have camouflaged her heat signature, even without a proper armoured battlesuit, but it would have been too revealing if someone had caught her. Instead, she clambered up and over the wall, then dropped down into his garden. A faint light from inside the house announced his presence.

  The back door was locked, unsurprisingly, but it was easy enough to pick. Inside, Jasmine’s enhanced eyes adapted rapidly to the darkness, revealing a corridor decorated with scattered paintings. It reminded her of some of the entertainment programs from Earth – Lives of the Mega-Rich, if she recalled the title correctly – that had eventually been banned for causing social unrest. That shouldn't have been a surprise. The Grand Senators had all been so wealthy that they could purchase a planet, a freighter of valuable artwork or a small fleet of starships with pocket change. Whatever they wanted, they got.

  Unless the rumours are true, she thought, grimly. Some of them claimed that the entire Grand Senate had been ritually tortured to death by the Nihilists. It seemed unlikely, but there was little hard data to go on. Who knows what might have happened on Earth?

  She heard the sound of someone moving in the next room and stopped, listening carefully. One person, she decided, after a long moment. Patterson, she hoped; unlike some of his fellows, Patterson hadn't seen fit to fill his large house with servants. No doubt, given how easily some of them had been corrupted by Wolf and the other crime lords, it was a very smart decision. The hired help often shared their employer’s secrets with
anyone willing to meet their price.

  Carefully, Jasmine opened the door ... and stared. It wasn’t Patterson, but someone else, a man she didn't recognise. For a moment, she considered demanding answers from him, before it clicked in her mind. Someone had discovered what had happened to Patterson and taken precautions. The entire operation had been blown. No, she told herself; the only part that had been blown was Patterson’s conversion. The rest of the operation was still good.

  She lifted her pistol, then dismissed the thought and jumped backwards. The mask would keep her face hidden; she could dump it and her outfit once she got some distance from the building. But a second after she stepped back into the corridor, the world seemed to vanish in a blue-white blaze of light. A stun field, part of her mind realised, as she staggered and crashed to the floor. Someone had rigged the corridor to trap an intruder ... and she’d walked right into the trap. Her remaining implants triggered, but too late to save her from another blast. Pain flared through her mind ...

  ... As she plunged down into darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  And yet the Empire possessed a certain legitimacy. As paradoxical as it may seem, given its nature, the Empire represented power to its subjects. This was both lucky and unlucky, as when the Empire started to weaken, it wasn’t challenged immediately. Lucky, because the disaster might have come sooner; unlucky, because the Empire might then have been capable of evolving to regenerate itself and meet the new challenges. But it fell.

  -Professor Leo Caesius, Authority, Power and the Post-Imperial Era

  Horn looked down at their captive and rubbed his hands together with glee.

  “Excellent,” he said to Zed. “A perfect operation.”