Stars & Empire: 10 Galactic Tales

by Jay Allan

  “You think that they have links with the big men in Camelot?” Koenraad asked, as he pulled on his own armour. “Wouldn’t it be nice to prove that?”

  Jasmine smiled, her mind still dark and cold. She hadn’t enjoyed the brief time at the Chief Councillor’s mansion and her opinion of most of the planetary council wasn’t high. She’d been trained to observe and she’d seen a number of men and women trying to see what advantage they could wring from the Marines, or trying to decide how the Marines would affect their own plans. Jasmine was cynical enough to know that sometimes the Marines were just sent out on missions because of a political agenda, but not even the Grand Senate had been so blatant. They had to have forgotten that she had ever been there, for they had been quite open in their assessments. The Marines could live or die for all they cared.

  “Yes,” she said. “It would be nice to prove that and hang half of the bastards.”

  Forty-one Marines marched out of the makeshift barracks and down towards the landing strip. It had originally been designed for light cargo aircraft, but Marine Raptors could use them without problems. The Raptor was a VTOL aircraft capable of landing almost anywhere, even in the middle of a forest or a sinking boat. The massive tilt-rotors were already chopping at the air. They looked primitive—the technology was almost ten centuries old—but they could do the job. The more advanced skimmers or flyers would have to wait until they were needed.

  “This is the Captain,” Captain Stalker said. Jasmine had been surprised to hear that the Captain intended to take personal command, but after dealing with the politics of Camelot, he probably felt like killing someone. “Lock your communicators to Frequency Alpha.”

  Jasmine nodded, keying the command into her suit’s processors. The Sebastian Cruz had launched a constellation of light satellites into orbit, providing the Marines with a secret—and secure—communications network. She couldn’t understand why Avalon had such a primitive communications network in the first place—there was such a thing as taking budget cuts too far—but it wouldn’t matter. The locals might know that the satellites had been launched, yet they could only guess at their capabilities. The tiny satellites not only handled communications, but they also provided astonishingly efficient reconnaissance from high above. The bandits, she knew, would wet themselves in shock if they knew just how good the system actually was.

  “Good,” Captain Stalker said, when they had all checked in. “Board the aircraft.”

  Jasmine followed Blake’s reassuring bulk as he stepped into the lead Raptor, finding a place to sit inside the aircraft’s cavernous hold. Unlike a civilian aircraft, or a ground-to-space shuttle, there were no seats for the Marines. When they landed, they would be expected to exit the aircraft as quickly as possible—and, if they were hit, they would be ejected out into the air before the aircraft could explode. Jasmine had been ejected from a Raptor during the Han Campaign and the experience had been the most terrifying of her life. The Marines had all survived, barely. The pilots had given their lives to prevent the remains of their aircraft from coming down on top of friendly forces.

  She felt the aircraft jerk as it launched itself into the sky. The Raptor was, despite its crude appearance and technology, the product of hundreds of years of research into aircraft design. It was almost completely silent, drifting through the sky without being detected, unless it was by the naked eye. The bandits, she had been informed, didn’t possess active sensor systems. It made sense to her; if they had, even the Civil Guard could hardly have failed to locate their base. The planetary ATC wouldn’t be able to track them.

  The low humming running through the aircraft almost lulled her to sleep as the Raptor crossed the coastline and headed inland. Many of the other Marines were snatching what sleep they could, knowing that they might be in action as soon as they landed, but Jasmine couldn’t quite close her eyes. She wished she could see out of the aircraft, even though she knew she would see nothing, but darkness, broken only by isolated lights. Avalon was barely one hundred and fifty years old. The human race hadn’t made much impression on the planet.

  “Four minutes to landing,” Gwen said, her voice echoing sharply in Jasmine’s earpiece. “Anyone resting their eyes had better open them now.”

  Jasmine realised, with astonishment, that she had dozed off and hastily checked her weapons and supplies. Everything was as it should be, much to her relief, as the aircraft started to descend. This was always the most dangerous part of any insertion operation—a single ground-based weapon could wipe out an entire platoon of Marines with a lucky shot—and she only relaxed slightly when the aircraft touched down. No hail of fire tore through the aircraft and shredded them. The night was as dark and silent as the grave.

  “Go, go, go,” Gwen barked.

  Jasmine followed Blake and Koenraad as they raced out of the aircraft, spreading out to secure the landing zone. Their suits of armour exchanged fast signals with one another, confirming that the Marines were alone. She looked up at Merlin, hanging high overhead, yet seemingly so close that she could reach up and pull the moon from the sky. Merlin wasn’t much larger than Luna, but it orbited closer to the planet. The briefing had suggested that that might explain the badlands, or the Mystic Mountains in the distance.

  “All clear, Captain,” she reported. She carried out another sweep of the area, just to be sure. “No enemy contact.”

  “Good,” Captain Stalker said. He sounded reassuringly calm. “Move out.”

  CHAPTER 18

  There is a joke that runs ‘a nation is a group of people united by a shared delusion of the past and a hatred of their neighbours.’ Like many such jokes, there is a hard kernel of truth within the humour. Society is always a consensus, a shared understanding of right and wrong. If ‘wrong’ becomes ‘right’—i.e. behaviour tending to increase a person’s chances of survival—then society will be warped and destroyed. This is becoming alarmingly clear all across the Empire.

  - Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

  Nelson Oshiro braced himself as he led the small group of Knives down towards Eddisford. It was a larger, more prosperous settlement than the one he’d been sent to after being transported from Earth, but it was alarmingly similar for all of that. It was never certain what reception they’d receive from the farmers and their communities. Some would pay their tribute without fighting; others would refuse to submit until the Knives started to open fire. It confused Nelson, but the Knife himself had issued strict orders and he didn’t dare disobey them. There was to be no looting, raping or burning unless the township offered serious resistance.

  Eddisford was a small cluster of buildings surrounded by tilled fields and farmhouses. Some of them looked as if they were on the verge of expanding, perhaps claiming additional ground from the Land Development Office and inviting in new settlers. Others looked as if they were permanently on the verge of falling apart, marking out the less successful farmers from their rivals. He stroked the Nag’s back gently—it was almost worth being transported, and the kicks and beatings he’d received when he arrived, just to ride the strange alien beast—and urged it forward, down towards the centre of town. He saw a handful of birds rising up as the bandits rode forwards, but there was no sign of any living human beings. A sense he hadn’t known he possessed began to sound a warning at the back of his neck. There were always people. The men might be out working the fields, but the women would be at home, while the children would be at school. They should be running from his men now, trying to hide.

  His lips twitched as they rode down into the centre of town. Perhaps they were hiding, except they couldn’t … could they? Nelson had never been much of a farmer—his former master had thought that he was only fit for brute work—yet he knew that the farmers couldn’t abandon their crops. He touched the Nag’s neck and the beast obediently slowed to a halt, allowing him to slip off the saddle and down onto the ground. It hadn’t been obvious over the noise of hooves and the pounding of his
own heart, but the town was silent.

  “They’re gone,” Lucky Vin said. Nelson scowled at him. Lucky Vin was one of the former Knives from Earth, assured a high position just by being close to the Knife himself. He was also, he suspected, there to keep an eye on Nelson. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had decided to desert the Knives and set up a private operation of their own. “Where the hell have they gone?”

  “Perhaps hell,” one of the other bandits said. He threw back his head and bawled a laugh into the air, sending more birds scurrying through the air. “Perhaps some other bunch of bastards has come and taken them all away.”

  Nelson shook his head absently, staring around in disbelief. None of the bandit gangs would take an entire township. They’d take young and pretty women—or perhaps older women, if there were no younger women to hand—and children, but not adult males. They couldn’t be trusted and there was no fun in raping them. A bandit attack would have left the town in flaming ruins. Instead, it was empty.

  One hand dropped to the flare pistol at his belt. A single red flare would bring the remainder of the force out of hiding and get them into the town, but for what? A green flare would tell them to back off and wait, but they had never considered what might happen if the entire town was deserted. The mystery nagged at him. Had the town decided that they didn’t want to live near the bandits anymore and had simply packed up and left?

  “Hey,” Lucky Vin said, suddenly. Nelson snapped his head around and saw … nothing. “I saw something.”

  “I bet you did,” Nelson sneered. He pushed as much disdain into his voice as he could, if only to cover his own unease. “What do you think you saw?”

  “A shimmer in the air,” Lucky Vin admitted, uncomfortably. A handful of bandits jeered and others looked as if they wanted to join in. “It was just … there, just for a second.”

  “Right,” Nelson drawled. “And a shimmer is going to hurt us?”

  Lucky Vin flushed. His position was at least partly dependent on respect, and that would be comprehensively lacking after today. Even if someone didn’t put a knife in him, he wouldn’t be able to issue orders to junior Knives. He could beat up as many Knives as he liked and still no one would ever forget.

  “It’s odd,” he persisted. “It could be important.”

  Nelson turned away from him, deliberately looking towards the church the settlers had built … and froze. Just for a second, he saw a heat shimmer in the air, a distortion that had to be concealing something. The moment of horrified realisation came too late.

  -o0o-

  One of the other interesting—and classified—attributes of Marine Combat Armour was the chameleon effect. It had its limits, but it allowed a Marine—walking slowly and very quietly—to be effectively invisible, as long as the enemy didn’t know what they were looking for. Edward had considered it a worthwhile gamble. The bandits might know about the Marines, but they wouldn’t be looking for high tech equipment, allowing 1st Platoon to get to almost point-blank range before the enemy realised that they were in trouble. On his command, the shimmer faded away, revealing no less than seven Marines standing almost within touching distance of the bandits.

  The bandits froze for a second, too long. Four of the Marines carried stunners and played them over their targets, knocking them to the ground. Their horse-like steeds—Nags, according to the briefing files he’d memorised—howled under the impact of the stun rays, but weren’t badly affected. One of them lifted its hooves and tried to kick its tormentor, only to break its spindly legs on the armour. The remaining bandits opened fire with their chemical-projectile weapons, only to see the shots bounce off the combat armour and ricochet away. They were rapidly stunned, apart from one who was cuffed to the ground by a Marine and kicked in the chest. Edward smiled inwardly as the Marines cuffed their targets and piled them up in a corner. By the time they recovered, they’d be held back at the platoon house, spilling everything they knew to the interrogators.

  “Mission accomplished,” Master Sergeant Young said, over the private channel. He’d dreamed up the plan and insisted on leading it personally. Edward had seen the common sense at once. Stunners had only limited range and using them too early might have given the bandits a chance to flee. “We have nine hostiles captive, sir.”

  Edward nodded. Convincing the townspeople to hide in their basements had been simple enough, once he’d explained who and what they were. Not all of them had been eager—he’d seen expressions that reflected fear of the bandits and fear that the Marines would desert them—but they’d complied. The bandits had walked right into the trap.

  “Excellent work,” he said, relieved. Whoever the enemy leaders trusted to carry out a raid had to be pretty high up in their organisation. Such a person could normally be relied upon to have learned as much as possible about their gang, if only to use as blackmail information. “Take them back to the platoon house and…”

  The sound of shooting breaking out interrupted him.

  -o0o—

  Horace Netherly had never trusted Nelson, the slimy son of a bitch. He was all puffed up because he was smart and clever, yet he wasn’t really one of the Knives. How could he be? He’d been brought up in a mega-city on the other side of Earth and his original gang had been small fry compared to the Knives. The Knife could keep telling and telling them how important it was that they learned to think big, but Horace knew that that was a bad idea. The larger the organisation, the more outsiders; the more outsiders in the organisation, the greater the chance of a betrayal. One of his most trusted lieutenants had quietly followed Nelson and his men into the deserted town, reporting back from the very edge of Eddisford. The town was completely deserted.

  It didn’t take long for Horace to realise what Nelson had done. The bastard had warned the townspeople himself, warning them to run and hide. It was the only alternative that made sense to him. The Civil Guard wouldn’t have been able to even fart without the Knives hearing of it, while the Marines … well, if the Marines were so good, why hadn’t they been ordered to clean up the Undercity? Nelson was trying to set up his own organisation in direct opposition to the Knife. It could not be allowed.

  He passed his orders down the chain of bandits, each one carrying rifles and grenades, as well as their signature knives. They’d take Eddisford quickly and occupy the town, before torturing Nelson to discover where the locals had gone. They would be found, punished and left in no doubt that defiance led only to death. And then Nelson would die and the Knife would be pleased with him.

  “Go,” he shouted, and fired a single red flare into the air. A stream of bandits poured out of hiding and started to run towards the town. “Kill the fuckers.”

  He followed his men down the long road, cursing Nelson’s nags under his breath, and watched as they approached the outskirts of the town. Nelson could ride out of the other side of the town and vanish if he acted quickly enough, although he had yet to see a nag that could outrun a bullet. A Gnasher, maybe … the thought was banished from his mind as he saw the black-clad figures standing in the centre of town. He had only a second to realise that he’d been wrong before a single bullet smashed through his head and killed him instantly.

  -o0o-

  Jasmine had lain in her position for over three hours, alternatively cursing and blessing her armour for its protection. They’d allowed the first group of bandits to enter the town, but she was damned if she was going to allow a second group to enter … and, now that they had prisoners, there was no need to avoid slaughtering them. The bandits seemed completely insane—they were charging right at the Marines—but to be fair, they had no way of knowing the Marines were there. The first group of bandits would have been horrified to know that the Marines had tracked them with their scopes all the way.

  The order, when it came, was almost an anticlimax. “Open fire,” Gwen said. “Kill them all.”

  Jasmine squeezed the trigger on her MAG-74 and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the bandits die, his
head exploding like a grape. A MAG-74 was designed to shoot through light combat armour. A human head was nothing to it. Other bandits were falling as the other Marines fired themselves. She switched her rifle to another target and serviced him as well, shooting a neat hole in his forehead. A third man jumped up, for some reason best known to himself, and her shot caught him in the throat, blowing out the back of his neck.

  The bandits, acting more on instinct than any plan, threw themselves to the ground and tried to fire back. It was pitiful. They couldn’t even see where the shots were coming from—the MAG-74 was smokeless—and most of their firing went wild. A handful of more self-possessed bandits threw grenades towards the Marines, but most of them fell uselessly in the gap between the Marines and their targets. They didn’t stand a chance. Jasmine pushed that thought to the back of her head, squeezing her trigger time and time again. It was a point of honour not to miss with a single shot. The sharp-shooting badge she’d won at the Slaughterhouse still meant something to her.

  We should have set up a MAG-54 and swept them away with a single burst, she thought, as she picked off another bandit. Their line had come completely to pieces. Some had thrown down their weapons and were trying to surrender; others were turning and fleeing, only to be shot down in the back. Jasmine saw an overweight man running with a speed that surprised her and placed a shot right in the back of his head. He threw up his hands and crashed to the ground. She didn’t smile, but moved on to the next target.

  “Men talk about fair fights,” her Drill Instructor had thundered. For various reasons, new recruits at Boot Camp and the first year of the Slaughterhouse were segregated by sex. “Men are fools and morons who cannot remember that the purpose of war is to win. You are not being trained to fight a fair fight; you are being trained to defeat the enemies of the Empire! The best chance to give your enemy is none at all. A fair fight is a losing fight. Shoot him in the back, kick him in the balls, play dead till he has his pants around his ankles and then give him hell!”