Stars & Empire: 10 Galactic Tales

by Jay Allan

  “Arm yourselves,” he ordered, as another group of cameras failed. The bastards had to be shooting them out as they attacked their former comrades, slaughtering unarmed soldiers before they could arm and defend themselves. By law, the Civil Guardsmen were expected to hand in their weapons and ammunition once they returned to base, a security procedure that no one had managed to change, even in the midst of an insurgency. “Get me a line outside the complex!”

  “All direct links are down, sir,” the operator reported. Watanabe realised, with a curse, that he had effectively lost control of his base. He’d condemned incompetent officers before, yet history would record him as just another incompetent, one who had allowed his base to be penetrated and subverted from within. “I can’t link into the Marine network without the right codes.”

  “Declare a state of emergency,” Watanabe ordered, tightly. The main board had looked as if the Crackers were attacking everywhere, just before it had failed along with most of the power. The Marines presumably had their hands full as well. “Warn them that men in Civil Guard uniforms are engaging loyal troops within the complex and…”

  Another explosion, this one far too close for comfort, knocked him to the ground. “Sir, we just received word from the internal security guardhouse,” the operator said. “They’re under heavy attack and…”

  The guards there couldn’t stop a determined assault, Watanabe knew. “Purge the computers now,” he snapped, “and then trigger the self-destruct protocols. If they are going to take this base, they are going to inherit a corpse!”

  The door blew open. Watanabe swung around and raised his personal weapon, but it was already too late. A spray of automatic fire cut him in half, sending blood and gore splashing all over the room. A moment later, the remainder of the operations staff were captured or shot down like dogs.

  -o0o-

  Michael and his platoon had been enjoying a moment of downtime in the R&R barracks when the attack began. They’d been called back for a few days to train with the new trainees—it seemed absurd, somehow, to think that a mere month ago he’d been more incompetent than the wide-eyed kids he’d been training—and the Drill Sergeant had finally given them a chance to catch a break. Barr seemed somehow less of a monstrous tyrant now that Michael had seen combat and understood the value—and quality—of their training. He was just mildly surprised that they’d been pulled out of the line of battle.

  “What the…”

  The second explosion, followed rapidly by heavy shooting, put paid to any illusions that it might have been an accident. Michael grabbed for his duty weapon at once—a week on duty in Sangria had taught him to have his personal weapon nearby at all times, even in the shower—and stood up, bracing himself for a fight. The Crackers had tried to infiltrate bases out in the countryside before, but had largely failed. The two explosions, definitely within the base’s perimeter, suggested that they had succeeded in the urban areas. The irony of the situation didn’t escape him.

  “Grab weapons and armour,” he ordered, tersely. The exact legal status of the Army of Avalon’s weapons was in some doubt. Marines got to keep their weapons with them at all times; Civil Guardsmen handed them in after duty. Barr had poured scorn on that concept, claiming that it only created more paperwork for the duty sergeant as well as rendering the soldier helpless, and ordered that the Army of Avalon was to keep their weapons with them at all times. The one concession they’d made to the more timorous nature of the Civil Guard was to keep the weapons unloaded. It had satisfied the bean counters, even though it took only a few seconds to reload and prepare for combat. “Secure that door and…”

  One of the soldiers had scrambled up to the window. “Sir,” he said, “the bastards are wearing Civil Guard uniforms.”

  Michael saw the problem at once. An enemy force wearing friendly uniforms would have a chance to get a shot in while the friendly force was trying to sort out friend from foe. The Army of Avalon wore different uniforms, but what if the Crackers were wearing the same uniforms as well? He considered the issue for the moment, and the dismissed it with a shrug. There would be time enough to deal with it when it came up.

  He keyed his communicator and swore at the burst of static. The 1st Avalon Infantry consisted—at present—of a single Company, although they had been promised that it would be raised to a full regiment once the men and commanders were ready. The entire Company would be needed to fend off the enemy attack, but if he couldn’t communicate with the others, how could anyone coordinate a counterattack? The Cracker plan was smart, smart enough to cripple one of the advantages the Marines had painstakingly hammered into their trainees. Communications were the key to any successful offensive, along with surprise, and the enemy had already taken both.

  A quick touch set the communicator to scanning for a rotating frequency, hunting for any other Marine-issue communicators in the area. A moment later, one result popped up; Sergeant Hammersmith, one of the few locals who had been promoted as a result of his service in the countryside. Michael didn’t know him that well—they’d been in different training units—but he had a good reputation.

  “Sergeant, report,” he ordered. “What is the current situation?”

  “Our barracks have been attacked after having been infiltrated by groups of armed men,” the Sergeant reported. “We have barricaded the building and are trying to hold on as best as possible, but we’re short of ammunition and other supplies. The bastards can’t get in, but they can keep us from getting out for resupply or escape.”

  Michael summoned up a mental map of the complex and nodded. The Civil Guard had never anticipated operating within its own bases and hadn’t exactly designed them to withstand an assault. As long as they held the Army of Avalon trapped within their barracks, they could starve them out or destroy them with high explosives or mortar fire. Relieving the remainder of the Company would be the first priority, a task that would be complicated by an unknown amount of enemy fighters roaming the base. If they got their hands on the armoured vehicles, they’d practically control the entire complex.

  “We’re moving out,” he ordered, glancing from face to face. There were no doubts or hesitations on their faces, just a grim determination to live up to the trust placed in them—and their own self-image. “Grab your weapons and follow me.”

  The enemy seemed to have missed the R&R barracks in their initial attacks, although doubtless they would have attended to them in due time. Outside, Michael could hear shots being fired in an endless wave of sound rolling across the base, broken only by screams and the sound of explosions echoing up in the distance. The command building seemed to be on fire, with smoke billowing up towards the sky. Dead bodies lay everywhere, many clearly showing signs of shock and disbelief just before they died. They hadn’t expected an attack from within.

  “If we come across any of the Civil Guard, one warning and then shoot to kill,” he ordered. There was no way of separating out the genuine soldiers from the fakes, an issue complicated by the fact that some of the enemy would be traitors, rather than just fighters wearing an enemy uniform. Someone had either smuggled explosives into the base or raided the armoury and either one proved the existence of at least one traitor, perhaps more. “Don’t let them get the drop on us.”

  The sound of shooting grew louder as they crept towards the barracks, watching carefully for signs of an ambush. A group of armed men—wearing a mixture of Civil Guard uniforms and civilian clothes—were gathered at one side of the building, firing slow precise bursts towards the doors. The answering fire was weak and patchy, suggesting that the defenders were running out of ammunition or had been wounded. Michael glanced at the traitors quickly and realised that they all had one thing in common, a black armband wrapped around their right arm. It brought back a memory of the funeral he’d attended on Castle Rock and he felt a surge of anger. How dare they pervert an ancient tradition like that?

  “One warning,” he muttered, even though he wanted to just squeeze the tr
igger and hold it down until the traitors were all chunks of bloody gore on the ground. He raised his voice to a parade ground bark. “Throw down your weapons and surrender!”

  The Crackers reacted with astonishing speed, swinging around to bring their weapons to bear, but it was already too late. Michael shot the first one in the head as he was still turning and the rest of the platoon followed suit a moment later. The enemy barely managed to get a shot off before they were all dead on the ground, suddenly clearing one side of the barracks of enemy soldiers. Michael ran forward, trusting in speed and his armour to protect him, and peeked around the corner. The Crackers were completely surprised to see the newcomers and were scattered before they could react. A handful ducked back, only to be shot down by quick precise bursts from inside the barracks. The defenders were still on their toes.

  Michael split the platoon into two sections and advanced rapidly towards the final Cracker position. The man who seemed to be in charge was screaming into a radio, warning his high command that everything was going to hell, but it was too late. He was shot down before he could escape, or even try to surrender. The troops who had been trapped in the barracks emerged and added their own firepower to the mix, wiping out the remaining Crackers quickly and brutally.

  A sheet of fire roared into the air from the landing pads, over on the other side of the base. Michael swore under his breath, realising that the Crackers had probably destroyed the helicopters and other aircraft that the Civil Guard had based at Armstrong Base. His training wondered if it might be a good thing—at least his men wouldn’t have to face the helicopters in battle—but it was also worrying. The enemy was clearly intent on wrecking as much of the base as they could.

  “Sergeant,” he said. Hammersmith looked far too young to be a Sergeant—Barr was old enough to be his father and had forty years of experience besides—but he’d held up well. “Who’s in command here?”

  “The Captain was off at a briefing at the spaceport,” Hammersmith said. The Marine Lieutenant who had taken on the dual role of Avalon Captain until a local could be promoted into the post was absent. “I think you’re in command.”

  Michael stared at him. He was just a lowly Corporal … but there was no one else. The burning wreckage of the command building suggested that all of the senior officers might have been killed. Cold logic suggested otherwise, yet he was the senior NCO. A chill ran down the back of his neck, despite the heat of the fires and sun burning down from high overhead. He knew how to command a platoon. Eighty-three men were too much. And yet, who else was there?

  “We’re going to take our base back,” he said, grimly. One of Barr’s favourite sayings came to mind and he smiled. “Come on, you apes. Do you want to live forever?”

  -o0o-

  “Scramble, scramble!”

  The Raptor lurched alarmingly as it made a combat launch, right into the air. Flying Officer Jessica Barrymore winced as the first bursts of tracer rose up to harass her craft, before her co-pilot gave the bastards a taste of the Raptor’s heavy machine gun. The tracer stopped long enough for her to climb high above the spaceport, looking down at a scene from hell. A Civil Guard convoy had arrived … and the next thing the defenders had known was that they were under attack. The Crackers had launched a massive offensive.

  “This is Charlie-Four, looking at a right Charlie Foxtrot,” she said, as they settled into orbit around the spaceport. They weren’t carrying a full weapons load. They’d only just flown back from the front. “My sensors count at least seven truckloads of armed men … I think the Civil Guard is revolting!”

  “They don’t smell very good either,” her co-pilot quipped. “What do they want us to do about them?”

  “Remain in orbit and await orders,” the controller said, from the ground. Jessica scowled. It was easy for her to say. “Sergeant Patterson is taking command now.”

  “This is Patterson,” a new voice said. “You are ordered to fly over Camelot itself. The Captain may need recovery.”

  Jessica looked at the towering pillars of smoke rising up from the city. The entire city seemed to be on fire.

  “Understood,” she said. This wasn’t going to be easy. “We’re on our way.”

  CHAPTER 52

  You are better off trusting a man who is openly selfish—i.e. places his interest in how he can benefit—than a man who believes in a Cause. That Cause can be used to justify anything.

  - Sergeant Howard Ropes, Wisdom of the Terran Marine Corps.

  “Stay down,” Edward snapped. He could hear shooting in the distance, growing closer all the time. It sounded as if an entire regiment of Crackers were advancing on the remains of Government House. “Don’t even think about moving.”

  “Get under the table,” Major Grosskopf advised. The Governor was looking pale and wan, terrified of the sudden outburst of violence. Edward didn’t blame him. For all that the Governor had been in his position during an insurgency, Camelot had never been hit so hard by the Crackers. The Council had weakened the Civil Guard immeasurably and none of the Crackers would have wanted to convince the Council that perhaps neutering their bodyguards wasn’t the smartest idea in the world. “The roof doesn’t sound stable.”

  “It should be stable,” the Governor insisted. Edward recognised the sound of a man trying to avoid falling into shock and scowled inwardly. Chances were that they were about to be attacked and probably killed; the Governor, at least, would be kept alive long enough to broadcast a surrender order and then killed. “We spent enough money on it.”

  Edward shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. There was nothing he could do about it if the Governor was wrong. The roof might fall on their heads and crush them all, yet if it happened … it happened. There was no point in wasting energy worrying about something he couldn’t help, not when everything had gone so badly wrong. The first blast, if he was any judge, had detonated far too close to the building. There was a good chance that his close-protection detail was dead, along with most of the Civil Guardsmen. The seventy-odd civilians who worked in Government House were suddenly exposed and very vulnerable. “Just stay under the table and keep your mouth shut.”

  The Governor, for a wonder, obeyed, leaving Edward to peer out of the window gingerly, looking down towards the main gates … or where the main gates had been. There was now a massive crater and no sign of the gates, just a pile of rubble. Bodies were scattered everywhere, some seemingly undamaged, others barely recognisable as human at all. Edward had seen worse, back on Han, but the Governor wouldn’t have seen anything like it in his entire career. The Imperial Civil Service dealt in numbers and abstracts. The concept of real death and destruction was alien to them.

  A shot cracked through the window, missing Edward’s head by bare millimetres and he swore. The Crackers had not only used a truck full of explosives to blow the main gates and most of the guard force to hell, but they’d also positioned snipers in locations where they could hit anyone still alive within the building. It was a tactic Edward recognised, suggesting that someone had been reading standard Imperial Army combat manuals, although both the Imperial Army and the Marines frowned on suicide attacks. Perhaps the Crackers had decided that, this time, the goal was worth sacrificing one of their men.

  “But what do they want?” The Governor demanded, his previous silence forgotten. “What are they doing?”

  “Killing us, if we don’t get lucky,” Grosskopf growled. He looked shocked and angry, a better combination than shock and fear. His military career hadn’t actually been an undistinguished one and the Imperial Army had been sorry to see him go. “We need to get out of here.”

  “No argument,” Edward said, wishing that he knew just what weapon the sniper was using. If it was a standard hunting rifle, they could probably crawl out of the room and into the corridor without being shot, but if it was a military-grade sniper rifle, it would have all kinds of sensors to track targets as they moved. The fact that the sniper hadn’t tried to shoot through the wall suggested t
hat he didn’t have an advanced weapon, but perhaps he hadn’t felt like wasting bullets on the stone walls. Taken at face value, Government House was the single toughest building on Avalon—and the most costly. It had very definitely survived a formidable explosive blast. “Major, you go first and check that the corridor is clear.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grosskopf said, and started to crawl forward. Edward tensed as he entered the danger zone, but the sniper didn’t take the shot. Grosskopf might not be first on his target list, but Edward would have been very surprised if he wasn’t in the top three. “I seem to have made it.”

  “Check the corridor,” Edward said, tersely. The thought he didn’t want to say aloud—for fear of panicking the Governor still further—was that the Crackers were already within the building. The plans for Government House were a matter of public record. The only proof that they weren’t within the building was that they hadn’t come storming up and killed the Governor … and that proved nothing, not to someone who had been trained to be careful. The only people he could rely on at the moment were the Governor and Major Grosskopf. He had a nasty suspicion that the remainder of his force had its own problems. “Make sure it’s clear.”

  “It’s clear,” Grosskopf said. He was holding a heavy-duty custom pistol in one hand, glancing up and down the corridor rapidly. “There’s no sign of any movement.”

  “Good,” Edward said. “Governor … you’re moving next.”

  “I can’t,” the Governor protested. Edward heard the fear in his voice before the smell touched his nostrils. The Governor had wet himself. “You can’t make me.”

  Edward leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the Governor’s nose. “If you don’t move, I’ll pick you up and throw you across the room and out the door,” he said, and waited for the Governor to realise that that would mean being visible to the sniper. “Your choice; move under your own power or be thrown out.”

  The Governor stared at him and started to crawl, shaking as he moved. Edward winced inwardly, even though he wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. There were men out there, good and true, who weren’t cut out for combat. It was men like that that the Terran Marine Corps existed to defend. The Marines studied war so that the rest of the Empire wouldn’t have to, yet … was that truly wise? The Empire had been turning away from the military for years and the wolf was at the door.