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

by Christopher Nuttall

  Just like Earth, she thought, recalling the final nightmarish days of humanity’s homeworld. One by one, pieces of infrastructure – sorely abused and barely maintained over the last few centuries – had started to fail, setting off a domino effect that had eventually triggered riots and fighting on the surface of Earth. And then the government had collapsed, civil war had broken out and hundreds of asteroids had fallen from the skies. If there was anyone left alive on Earth, they were almost certain to die in the next few months. It was highly unlikely they would receive any help from the remainder of the Empire.

  But not quite, she added, a moment later. These attacks seem remarkably half-hearted.

  The pattern was clear when she pulled back and looked at the records. On one hand, the attacks had been mounted with an alarming level of skill, competence and stealth. The terrorists had got into position to mount their attacks without being detected and, in most cases, had managed to break contact before reinforcements arrived. Belinda had a low opinion of the Civil Guard – she didn't know any Marines who thought highly of the overpaid and undertrained bastards – but even they should have been able to capture or kill their attackers. And yet, on the other hand, only a handful of the attacks could be deemed successful, as if the terrorists hadn't expected success. They certainly hadn't made any plans to exploit their success. All they'd really succeeded in doing was alerting the security forces that they were facing a new and dangerous foe.

  Check the observed end result, she reminded herself. And determine if that wasn't meant to happen all along.

  Belinda sighed, thoughtfully. One thing civilians never grasped was that some operations were doomed from the start – and others had failed through no fault of the soldiers involved in launching them. The civilians always assumed that someone must be to blame and demanded that heads roll for the failure. It was quite possible that the terrorists had simply blundered, or assumed that the security forces would do a better job of fighting back than they’d actually done. But it was also possible that what had happened might be what had been meant to happen.

  Assuming that is the case, she thought slowly, why?

  She went through it, step by step. The attacks had done nothing more than illustrate the vulnerability of parts of the planet’s infrastructure. Indeed, reading between the lines, she had a feeling that whoever had planned the attacks had studied the fate of Earth and tailored their own attack plans to match. But all they’d managed to do was alert the security forces and get additional manpower deployed to cover everything from water purification plants to food processing centres and power stations. It would make it much harder to launch such attacks in future.

  And that meant ... what?

  A trick, she thought, coldly. Another Eudemon Station.

  She’d been in Basic Training at the time, but she still remembered the story. A military governor had intended to declare independence, yet he hadn't had the ships and men to defend his worlds against the Imperial Navy when it finally responded to the rebellion. He’d set out to create a perception of a threat, ensuring that additional reinforcements were sent to his system, which he’d then tried to subvert and use to secure his territory. His plan had come alarmingly close to success, Belinda recalled, and it would have succeeded if someone hadn't parsed out the records and realised that half of the reported attacks were fakes. But someone else might be trying to make the plan work.

  The Governor, she told herself. Who else would benefit from creating a false state of emergency?

  It was a tempting thought. She knew the Onge’s Family’s reputation. Grand Senator Stephen Onge had been intending to take supreme power for himself, in the twilight days of Old Earth. He’d once been the richest man in the Empire, controlling a vast patronage network that had reached from the lower decks of the Imperial Navy to the rarefied heights of the Imperial Civil Service. But all of his wealth hadn't been enough to save him from Belinda, she recalled, remembering how the Grand Senator had tried to capture Roland and use him as a scapegoat – or puppet. She’d killed him moments before she'd collapsed and almost died.

  But his relative might be taking over the family business, Belinda thought. Governor Theodore Onge might well have dreams of supreme power for himself, even if he was trying to organise a conference to save what remained of the Empire. And yet he already controls Terra Nova. Why would he need to launch terrorist attacks in his own cities?

  She shook her head, then started to chew her way through the data. Terra Nova, unfortunately, did have a major Nihilist threat, with a number of bloody slaughters reported in the last month alone. Her investigations led to another set of reports, one identifying a warehouse where the terrorists had been storing weapons in preparation for ... what? More brutal attacks or something worse? There had been enough weapons in the warehouse, one slightly hysterical commenter had claimed, to take over the government. Belinda was experienced enough to doubt it was possible, although the Nihilists might well have tried ...

  It would certainly cause a slaughter, she thought, but they’d get better results if they concentrated on the planet’s infrastructure.

  Once, the Nihilists had managed to take over a medium-sized planetary population. They’d managed, somehow, to worm their way into a more rational insurgency movement and take over, then seize supreme power after overthrowing the local government. And then, before the Imperial Navy had responded, they’d slaughtered over a million people directly and far more in the ensuing civil war, when saner factions had tried to take back power. But the Nihilists hadn't cared. All they’d wanted to do was kill people to prove the hopelessness of life. It was impossible to conceive of how many people would die on Terra Nova if they managed to take over.

  The files on precisely what had been captured were stored behind a firewall, she discovered with some irritation. She poked and prodded at the database, then decided she would need to either obtain more access codes or take the time necessary to crack through the security barriers. The longer she tried, she knew, the greater the chance of being detected, yet she had a feeling that anyone with access codes would be more careful than poor Julius.

  Bitch, she told herself. What you did to him was far from fair.

  Life isn’t fair, Pug’s voice mocked her. You should know that, sweetheart.

  “Shut up,” Belinda muttered, and sat upright. “Shit!”

  Belinda rubbed her face, tiredly. She hoped she wasn't being observed – or, if she was, her unseen watcher had assumed she’d woken from a nightmare. One of the other reports she’d seen on the datanet had stated that planetary prescriptions for tranquilisers, antidepressants and other drugs had skyrocketed over the last month, after the Fall of Earth had been confirmed. The drugs had always been freely available – a drugged population was a docile population – but even the civil service thought the new trend was alarming. For once, Belinda had to agree. A drugged population wouldn't be able to react to any sudden change in their status.

  She glanced at the clock and muttered another curse as she realised it was eight o’clock in the morning and that she hadn't slept a wink all night. Duty was definitely a harsh mistress, but she'd once gone several weeks without sleep, relying on her implants to cleanse her body of fatigue poisons. Now, she’d barely been awake for – she had to check her implants to be sure – forty-eight hours. And she wanted to go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day.

  Still better than human norms, Doug’s voice said. Her former commander sounded pleasantly amused in her head. You should be proud of yourself.

  Belinda grabbed a towel, then walked out of the room and marched down towards the swimming pool. It wasn't anything like as big as the swimming pool on the Chesty Puller, nor did it have the various modifications designed to make life interesting for Marines practicing swimming against waves or strong currents. Belinda had always been a strong swimmer, but even she had struggled with the water phase of Boot Camp. It always surprised and depressed her just how many recruits washed out
, sometimes literally, when they discovered what they were expected to do.

  The hotel had provided free swimwear, carefully branded with the hotel’s name. Belinda pulled on a swimsuit, discovering to her amusement that the swimwear was barely modest, then dived into the pool and swam as hard as she could. As she had hoped, the cold water woke her up, but the pool was nowhere near large enough for her to swim properly. She made a mental note to look up other swimming pools in the city – there was bound to be a number large enough to suit her – then cursed herself under her breath. The mission was to make sure the conference went ahead, not to waste time enjoying herself.

  You really need some leave, Pug’s voice said. The Commandant wouldn't begrudge you a few months holiday before you went back to duty.

  Belinda shook her head, feeling water running through her hair as she reached the end of the pool and swam back towards the far side. She didn't want to go on holiday, even if it was possible, but she was damned if she knew how much good she'd be to the Corps. There was no way she could fit into another Pathfinder unit, nor could she really go back to the infantry and serve as a Rifleman. She’d simply lost too many habits in her quest to be the best Pathfinder she could possibly be.

  It wasn't your fault, Doug said. You can't be blamed for our deaths.

  Belinda reached the edge of the pool and stopped, blinking away tears. She had never really come to terms with her team’s death on Han, let alone her guilt for being the only survivor of the brief, but savage engagement. And it had all been for nothing. Han had been nothing more than a brushfire war compared to the chaos that had swept over Earth ... and, she knew, would be coming in the future. As news of Earth’s fall spread through the galaxy, countless independence movements would take heart, while ambitious military officers would start sharpening their swords ...

  “Darling,” an elderly voice said. “Are you all right?”

  Belinda looked up. An old woman, easily old enough to be her grandmother, was standing by the edge of the pool, looking down at Belinda. Her face was kind and open, without any attempt to hide her feelings or her deeper character. She was old enough, Belinda realised, not to care what happened to her.

  “I’m fine,” Belinda said. “It’s just been a long day.”

  She looked past the elderly woman and saw an equally old man, following his wife with worshipful eyes. They were still very much in love, she saw, despite their age. Something tore at her heart as she wondered, suddenly, if anyone would ever look at her like that. And then she cursed herself under her breath for such sentiments. She couldn't imagine settling down with anyone.

  “My daughter was just the same,” the elderly woman said, as she lowered herself into the pool. “She would always stay out all night and never listened to me when I told her to concentrate on her studies. And when she was upset, she would never tell me about it.”

  “My mother always listened,” Belinda said. The thought bothered her more than she cared to admit. What had happened to Greenway, now the interstellar economy had come to a crashing halt? Would she ever see her parents again? “I could tell her everything.”

  The woman smiled at her. “And where is she now?”

  “A long way away,” Belinda said. She looked up as the elderly man joined his wife in the water, then sat up and pulled herself out of the pool. “Thank you for your time.”

  “My name is Clarissa, Clarissa Woodpecker,” the woman said. She reached up and squeezed Belinda’s hand, then smiled at her. “If you need to talk, you can just find me in my apartment.”

  “Thank you,” Belinda said, surprised. On Greenway, everyone knew everyone else. It was rare to not have someone to talk to, if she’d needed to talk. But in the Core Worlds, it was vanishingly rare to have someone just open themselves up and offer to serve as a listening ear if necessary. She was almost tempted to join Clarissa and talk. But what could she tell the elderly woman? “If I have time, I will.”

  She watched, for a long moment, as the elderly couple swam together, then walked away, feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur. They were still very much in love – Clarissa’s husband hadn’t snuck glances at her, despite the revealing swimwear – and she didn't want to disturb them. People like them were what the Marine Corps existed to defend. Shaking her head, she dried herself in the changing room and then headed back to her apartment. There was no shortage of data to study ...

  All work and no play makes Belinda a dull girl, Pug said.

  I dread to imagine what Doug would have done to someone stupid enough to goof off on active service, Belinda thought back. Rumour had it that the MPs hadn't found all the body parts of a young operative who’d done just that, although it was probably exaggerated. And where would I go to play here?

  She stopped as a thought occurred to her. Thomas Augustus had bragged of his connections – and he’d given her a business card. She could call him, ask him for a date and pump him for information, perhaps even additional access codes of his own. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but she had far fewer qualms about using him and then discarding him than she’d had about Julius. And besides, Pug’s ghost was right. She needed to do more than stay in her hotel room and drown in torrents of information.

  That’s right, girl, Pug said. You go show him how it’s done.

  Belinda smiled. Pug had been legendary for chasing everything on legs; male, female and anything in-between. She knew precisely how he would have tried to gather information – and he might well have succeeded, too. And so had she.

  Walking back to her room, she opened the hotel datanet terminal and typed out a quick message, then opened her implants and started to probe through the network once again. This time, she looked specifically at the Governor’s military deployments and his ongoing recruitment effort ...

  ... And swore, under her breath, as a very disturbing pattern began to emerge. It wasn't clear, from the official reports, but as she started to cross-check the files the pattern simply leapt out at her.

  He’s building an army, she thought, and rounding up everyone he can. But why?

  Chapter Twelve

  Consider, for example, the precise issue of when a child becomes legally adult, legally able to have sex. If we set it at sixteen, we will face the problem of children becoming sexually mature before reaching legal age and, driven by hormones, having sex with one another.

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

  The Vestries Shipping Firm was based well away from the spaceport, somewhat to Glen’s amusement. It was understandable – the firm owned hundreds of warehouses as well as storage space in the orbital towers and transhipment stations in orbit – but it still amused him enough to make him smile as he walked in the door. If he’d been running the firm, he would have preferred to keep everything under his control.

  But then, that would be impossible, he thought. He’d spent enough time unpicking the firm’s publically-declared properties that it had become clear they owned more than could fit into the spaceport or an industrial estate. And besides, they own a dozen smaller companies too, just to create the illusion of competition.

  He strode up to the desk, ignoring the handful of armed guards, and smiled down at the young girl on the desk. If he was any judge, she was an intern, paid minimum wage in exchange for looking pretty and acting as a shield between her employers and the outside world. She couldn't really be more than five or six years older than Helen. Glen held out his ID card and saw her eyes widen, then glance towards a communications panel half-hidden under the desk.

  “Call your manager,” Glen said. “I need to speak to him.”

  The girl hesitated, then reached for the panel and tapped a button. There was a long pause, then the far door sprung open, revealing an older man wearing a suit that didn't – quite – manage to hide the bulge of his chest. Glen suspected it was a statement, either that the man didn't care about his appearance or that he was wealthy enough not to have to care, but he didn't have tim
e to worry about it. And besides, he didn't really care.

  “I am Marshal Cheal,” he said, mentally comparing the man’s face to the files he’d accessed on the shipping firm. “Director Doyle?”

  “Yes, Marshal,” the man said. “Ivan Doyle.”

  “Then we can go into your office,” Glen said, before the man could object or start threatening him with lawyers. “We need information from you.”

  “Our files are sealed,” Ivan said. “It would require a court order ...”

  Glen reached for the sheet of paper he’d taken from the station and passed it to Doyle. It was a blanket warrant for information, signed by the Governor himself after the warehouse had been located and raided. There were lawyers who would probably try to argue that it wasn't legal, but Glen had a feeling they wouldn't get very far. The Governor had considerable powers to handle terrorism, including detaining suspects without trial and seizing records if necessary. Besides, even if they did win the case, it would be enough to blacklist them with the Governor and the military, which would utterly destroy their business.

  Doyle read it carefully, word by word. “I will have to consult with my lawyers ...”

  “And you can, afterwards,” Glen said, firmly. “I don’t have time for you to try to hide records while your lawyers stall.”

  He looked around the office, resisting the temptation to make a snide remark. Patty’s office was bare, apart from a handful of photographs and awards. Doyle’s office was large, decorated in a fashion that suggested the occupant had money to burn and crammed with various artworks, several of which had to be copies. Glen wasn't sure if the whole design was meant to demonstrate Doyle’s taste, or lack thereof, but he wouldn't have trusted anyone who crammed so much fancy decor into his office. It reeked of someone trying to pretend that he was more important than he actually was.