The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  But her blue eyes were haunted and her skin was unnaturally pale ...

  “The medics are trying to keep you alive,” the Commandant said. “We don’t want to lose you because you pushed yourself too hard.”

  “I have to know,” Belinda said. Giving up wasn't in her nature. Her family had seen to that a long time before she’d ever heard of the Terran Marine Corps. But, at the same time, she’d never been so weepy and upset over nothing before. It was hard to escape the sense that something was badly wrong with her mind. “Earth is gone. Is there any point in further struggle?”

  “The human race lives on,” the Commandant said. There was something in his voice that caught her attention. “Although not for much longer, perhaps.”

  Belinda looked up, surprised. “Sir?”

  “Someone attacked the Slaughterhouse,” the Commandant informed her. “The entire planet is dead.”

  Belinda recoiled in horror – and disbelief. The Slaughterhouse was more than just another badly-terraformed planet, she knew. It was the heart and soul of the Terran Marine Corps, the place where Marines were created, sent out to fight on behalf of the Empire and laid to rest when they died. If, the cynical side of her mind reminded her, there was enough of their bodies left to be buried. The Corps would do everything in its power to recover bodies, even trading with the enemy if necessary, but it sometimes wasn't possible to bring the dead home and lay them to rest properly.

  It couldn't be gone. Centuries of tradition, of iron discipline and loyalty to the ideal of Empire, couldn't be gone. But she knew the Commandant wouldn't lie to her.

  “Shit,” she said, finally.

  “Yes,” the Commandant agreed.

  Belinda looked down at her unmarked hands. She'd seen them bleeding and broken on the Slaughterhouse, when she’d forced herself to go on and on until she’d found herself unable to even think about quitting. Others had taken far worse injuries and kept going, daring the universe to try to stop them. And even those who had failed the final hurdle had found a home with the Corps. The Corps couldn't function without the auxiliaries in the background, the men and women who were still devoted to the Corps, even if they couldn't wear the Rifleman’s Tab. It was hard to escape the impression that the Slaughterhouse was irreplaceable.

  She looked up at the Commandant, feeling cold anger blossoming to life within her breast and turning to rage.

  “Who did it?”

  “We don’t know,” the Commandant said. “There’s no shortage of suspects.”

  Belinda nodded, ruefully. The Grand Senate had feared the Marines, knowing the Corps couldn't be controlled as easily as the Imperial Army and Navy. They’d done their level best to weaken the Corps long before the Fall of Earth and, she had to admit, they’d done a very good job. And then there were the countless secessionists, terrorists and other rebel factions that had good reason to want to cripple or destroy the Marine Corps. The Nihilists, in particular, would seek to take advantage of the chaos caused by the Fall of Earth.

  She took a breath. “Survivors?”

  “The planet was evacuated as soon as I sent word of the Fall of Earth,” the Commandant said, shortly. “Everyone on the planet was moved to escape ships and transported to the Safehouse, which is in another system entirely. The only people left in the system were a handful of observation staff, watching from a safe distance. They could do nothing as the planet was rendered uninhabitable.”

  Belinda swore. “Uninhabitable?”

  “They used planet-scaled enhanced radiation weapons,” the Commandant said. “It will be hundreds of years, perhaps longer, before the planet can be considered habitable once again.”

  “If ever,” Belinda said. The Slaughterhouse had started its existence as a terraforming mistake, after all. Whatever polity replaced the Empire, if any such polity came into existence, would have to invest vast resources in restoring the planet. “What about the records? And the Crypt?”

  “We have copies of the former,” the Commandant said. “The latter ... is lost to us, for now.”

  Belinda gritted her teeth in bitter rage. She’d spent time at the Crypt, when she’d been a recruit, learning about the Marines who had given their lives in service to the Empire. She’d wondered, at the time, if there was anything she could learn from men and women who had died in the course of their duties, and it had taken her some time to realise that was the lesson, that there were people who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the Corps. They hadn't fought for the Empire, in the end, but for their buddies, for the Marines on either side of them when they’d gone to war. And now their legacy was lost forever.

  “Fuck,” she said, finally. She wanted to hit something. But there was nothing to hit. “Just ... fuck!”

  “Quite,” the Commandant agreed.

  He looked her up and down, his gaze contemplative rather than unpleasant. “I may have a mission for you,” he said. “It isn't one I am comfortable assigning to you. Quite frankly” – his voice hardened – “you are in no state to do anything, beyond slowly recuperating to the point you can be assigned to a line company or redirected to the auxiliaries. Under the circumstances, we would even accept your resignation.”

  Belinda eyed him, fighting down a surge of hope within her heart. “I can do it, sir,” she said, quickly. “Whatever you want me to do ...”

  The Commandant met her eyes. “Last time I assigned you to a mission, I told you that I had doubts,” he said. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes, sir,” Belinda said. “I remember.”

  She winced in memory. She’d been the lone survivor of an operation that had gone badly wrong from the start, thanks to Admiral Valentine and his cronies. The medics had told her she was suffering from Survivor’s Guilt and had urged her to take a long rest. Instead, she’d been given a mission that should have been a milk run. And it had almost killed her.

  And it did kill eighty billion people on Earth, a voice reminded her. You watched helplessly as the planet died.

  “This time, I have more doubts,” the Commandant said. “If I had another Pathfinder available, I would send him instead and keep you here, where you can recover safely. But I don’t and so I have to rely on you. If you feel you cannot complete the mission, after I brief you, I expect you to tell me so.”

  “Yes, sir,” Belinda said, already knowing she wouldn't. She didn’t know how to quit – or how to rest. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get dressed, then report to Briefing Room A,” the Commandant said. “I’ll brief you there.”

  He paused. “And you might want to consider writing a new will afterwards,” he added. “I do worry about you.”

  Belinda kept her face expressionless with an effort. The Commandant wouldn’t normally have expressed concern about any of his Marines. For him to do so, openly, suggested that he felt he had good reason to worry, over and beyond the normal call of duty. Her medical records were sealed, but she’d had a look at them once her neural link had been repaired, allowing her to hack into the computer networks. She’d come far too close to death on Earth, they’d stated, and she would never be a fully-functional Pathfinder again. There was no way to replace some of her burned-out implants without risking brain damage.

  Or more brain damage, she thought. She hadn't told anyone she sometimes heard the voices of her dead teammates. Perhaps the Commandant did have good reason to worry. But I won’t give up now.

  Sighing, she reached for her uniform as he walked out of the hatch, leaving her alone. She'd get dressed, then hear the briefing. But she already knew she wouldn't refuse the mission, even if it was certain death. She just didn't know any other way to live.

  Chapter Three

  One particularly shocking example might be ‘bride rape.’ Put simply, courting in those unenlightened times consisted of a man snatching the woman from her male relatives, then carting her off somewhere and having sex with her (presumably against her will). Once deflowered, the woman would be considered married and ever
ything would be settled.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

  “They’re waiting for you in the conference room,” Sergeant Chou said, as Glen strode through the heavy blast doors that separated the public parts of the Marshal Station from the private sections. “I thought you’d need this first.”

  He shoved a plastic mug towards Glen, who took it absently and took a swig. The coffee was strong enough to wake the dead, blended with a unique cocktail of drugs intended to keep Imperial Marshals and Police Officers awake and functional for several additional hours. It wasn't something Glen cared to use, but he suspected he had no choice. The inquest into his decision to launch a raid without consulting his superiors would need him at the top of his game.

  “The Boss wanted to give you some more time, but she was overruled,” Chou added, as he escorted Glen through the waiting room. A number of civilians, some in handcuffs, looked up at them as they passed, their faces bleak with misery. The really dangerous suspects would be held in the cells and only brought up when it was their turn to face the desk officers. “General Ramsey insisted, you see.”

  Glen sighed. General Ramsey was the Civil Guard CO for the entire planet, a man on such a rarefied level that he normally wouldn't have anything to do with Glen – or even his immediate superior. But using the Civil Guard’s assets to mount a raid had clearly been reported up the chain and their commander was not happy. Four of his men were dead and two more were badly injured. Heads were likely to roll.

  “I see,” he said, feeling a sudden burst of energy as the cocktail did its work. “Shall we go into the lion’s den?”

  The conference room was guarded by a pair of armed Civil Guardsmen, who scowled at Glen and waved scanners over his body before grudgingly allowing him to enter the compartment. Glen kept his thoughts off his face – there was no reason for General Ramsey to bring bodyguards into the station with him – and forced himself to remain calm. Inside, General Ramsey, Marshall (Superintendent) Patty McMahon and two people he didn't know were waiting for him. He saluted, then took the chair positioned in front of the table.

  “Marshal Cheal,” General Ramsey said. He was a heavyset man, his muscles slowly turning to fat, with red hair and a beard that was largely against regulations. “We have called you here to demand answers. Why – exactly – did you launch a raid without requesting permission from your superiors?”

  Glen met his eyes, evenly. “The tip-off we received suggested that time was not on our side,” he said, reaching for his terminal. “I was led to believe that the stored weapons would be moved at any moment, which would make it difficult to track them further, particularly once they were distributed. Therefore, sir, I decided that an immediate raid was the best possible solution.”

  The General scowled at him. “You put a lot of faith on your source, Marshal?”

  “This source, General, has been hidden within the Nihilists for several years,” Patty McMahon said. She gave Glen an encouraging smile. “We had no reason to doubt his word.”

  “We still don’t,” Glen said. He had no idea what game General Ramsey was playing – Glen had done nothing outside his authority and they both knew it – but he was too tired for any form of verbal sparring. “The raid netted hundreds of weapons, General, including some rather more dangerous than simple projectile weapons. In the wrong hands I believe they could have been used to put together a serious challenge to the military.”

  “I doubt it,” the General snorted. “We still control the high orbitals, don’t we?”

  “You would have had to fire on our own cities, causing massive civilian casualties,” Patty said. Her voice was very droll. “I think the evidence suggests that Marshal Cheal acted in the best traditions of the Imperial Marshals.”

  “The fact remains that we should have been consulted,” General Ramsey said. His piggish eyes fixed on Glen. “I shouldn't have to remind you, Marshal, that we are in dangerously uncharted waters. The merest spark could set off a bloodbath. This should have been put before the Emergency Council.”

  Glen took a breath. “And how many people would have known something was up before we even had a chance to launch a raid?”

  “The Emergency Council is above suspicion,” General Ramsey snapped.

  “Are all their aides above suspicion?” Glen countered. “Their advisers? Their speechwriters? Their mistresses? The more people who knew, the greater the chance that something would have leaked out onto the datanets. And one of them could easily be a Nihilist operative.”

  The General snorted again, but didn't argue.

  “I believed that speed was our only hope of capturing the terrorists and seizing their weapons,” Glen said, pressing his advantage. “And we successfully captured a vast amount of weapons that could do real damage in the wrong hands.”

  “I still have to write letters to the families of those who died on the operation,” the General said. “And I would like to tell them something about how their loved ones died.”

  If you are actually going to write the letters, Glen thought, sardonically. It was Major Dempsey who would have the task, if any of the dead had friends or family outside the Civil Guard. There were some guardsmen who lived up to the propaganda, but too many others were nothing more than thugs in uniform. And why are you even holding this meeting?

  “They did their duty,” Patty said. She gave the General an understanding smile. “I think you have good reason to be proud of your men.”

  The General tossed her a sharp look, then looked back at Glen. “You will answer a barrage of questions from the staff,” he said. “And then I would suggest a few days on leave.”

  Glen opened his mouth to protest, but Patty got there first.

  “I believe that would be wise,” she said, standing. “Glen, you’re with me.”

  She led the way out of the chamber and down the corridor towards her office. Glen wanted to demand answers, but he forced himself to keep his mouth shut until they were safely inside her chamber, which was swept for bugs on a daily basis. Competition between the various law enforcement agencies had always been intense, even before Earth had died and waves of chaos had started to spread across the Core Worlds. Now ... there were times when Glen found himself seriously considering trying to get on one of the colony ships that were still departing Terra Nova. A world on the Rim would be safer than anywhere else.

  “You did well today,” she said, as soon as the door was shut. “Don’t let Brian Ramsey tell you any differently.”

  “I won’t,” Glen said. Patty had always been a good boss to her Marshals, standing up for them when necessary. “But why was he so determined to demand answers so fast?”

  “Someone managed to get a report off to higher authority,” Patty said. She sat down behind her desk and motioned for Glen to take the chair facing her. “The General was caught by surprise and ended up looking incompetent in front of the Governor. And so he came here to look as though he was Doing Something. Politics.”

  “Politics,” Glen repeated, treating the word as though it was the vilest of obscenities. “And you let him do it?”

  “I had no choice,” Patty said. She shook her head, sadly. “The Civil Guard has been agitating to take over the Imperial Marshals for years, Glen, and now, with Earth gone, some of them think they have a chance to make it work. And our superiors are gone.”

  Glen winced. The Civil Guard had offices on each and every planet with a population large enough to support a Civil Guard force. They tended to develop local allegiances fairly quickly, no matter how often their superior officers were rotated in and out to break up the corrupt networks that seemed to spring up in their wake. Either they found themselves more concerned with the planet than the Empire, which happened when the planet’s local government was paying the bills, or they became the enforcers of the local rulers.

  But the Marshals had always been an interstellar force, intended to serve the interests of the Grand Senat
e and the Emperor, right across the Empire. It hadn't made them popular, Glen knew, even with the general public. There was so much corruption in the Empire’s law enforcement systems that the Marshals were tainted with the same brush, even though they had a better record of dealing with corruption than any of the other agencies. And now Earth was gone. The Civil Guard on Terra Nova had their chance to take over the Marshals for themselves.

  “I see,” he said, tiredly. “Did I make a mistake?”

  “I think not,” Patty said. She rubbed her tired eyes with her hands. “I am so sick of all the damn politics, Glen.”

  She sighed. “Go see the debriefing officers,” she said. “Get everything recorded, then go home and snatch a few hours of sleep. I’ll try and do something about the suspension, because you damn well don’t deserve it, but I think Brian will insist you go through with it to salvage something of his pride. The man can be quite petty on occasion.”

  Glen took a breath. “We still don’t know how they got those weapons down to the surface,” he objected. “And we have to find out where they were going ...”

  Patty held up a hand. “You have a partner, who is perfectly competent, and dozens of supporting officers who will do the legwork,” she said. “The case won’t be lost because you took a few days off work.”

  “I suppose,” Glen said, sourly. He hated leaving an investigation in someone else’s hands, even Isabel’s. For one thing, it had been his decision to launch an immediate raid. It had been the right choice – he would have believed it was the right choice even if they’d found nothing, but an empty warehouse – and he should bear the blame for anything that went wrong. “You’ll keep me informed?”

  “Of course,” Patty said. She pointed at the door. “Go.”

  Glen obeyed. He liked Patty, even though she’d spent much of the last five years playing politics rather than running investigations, arresting suspects and everything else the Imperial Marshals were expected to do. But politics, he knew, were important, even though most of the politicians he’d met had been self-indulgent assholes. Patty had a harder task now that Earth was gone, taking with it the Marshal Headquarters and her direct superiors. It was easy to believe, no matter how hard he tried to think otherwise, that the Marshals on Terra Nova were completely alone.