He watched her sauntering out and smiled, inwardly. Linda would have been horrified if she’d known what the chair she was sitting on had been used for, only a few days ago. Abigail had been his lover as well as his secretary for years. His wife didn’t know, as far as he knew, and wouldn’t have cared if she had. She hated him for dragging her to Avalon when she thought that she should have been presented at Court. Poor Hannalore had been born into the wrong class and caste.
“We need to focus on the bandits,” Linda said, firmly. She waved a sheaf of paper – there were few datapads on Avalon – under his nose. “I have here reports from seventy different townships. Our...operatives report that many of them have been threatened and coerced into providing support to the bandits. How many more will just...give in after the news of the latest attack gets out?”
“Too many,” Brent said. “And how many Civil Guardsmen do you intend to tie up on a fruitless bandit-chasing mission?”
“As many as necessary,” Linda said, shaking the papers to underline her words. “Or we start issuing heavy weapons to the townships. God knows, they need them.”
Brent snorted. “And how many of them will end up being pointed at us?”
“If the bandit gangs, to say nothing of the Crackers, keep pushing at us like this, we’ll see their weapons aimed at us within five years,” Linda said, sharply. “Fuck the Council, Governor; just do it.”
“I think you know better than that,” Brent said, coldly. Linda met his eyes and he had to look away. “We cannot just tell the Council that their views don’t matter to us.”
“Then perhaps we should hold proper elections,” Linda retorted. “Who knows? You could hardly end up with a worse problem.”
Brent looked down at his hands, and then up at the political map of Avalon. Linda was right, in a sense; his predecessor’s stroke of insanity had come home to roost with a vengeance. He’d created the Planetary Council – a development normally held back until a world reached stage three or four – in hopes of preventing another rebellion. Unfortunately for him, the Council was dominated by the conservatives, the wealthy – insofar as that term meant anything on Avalon – and those who owned the debt. They had no interest in changing the planet and every reason to oppose easing the restrictions on arms sales. They knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were on the Cracker death lists.
“The Council would have to approve that,” he reminded her. “I cannot put the Council aside, not now. They’ll complain to the Sector Capital and they’ll remove me and put someone more pliable in my place. That will be the end of any hope of reform.”
Linda sniffed, loudly enough to be clearly audible. “And what hopes would those be?”
Brent scowled at her. The subtext had been easy to read. “Maybe the Marines will stay for a few months,” he said, although he knew better than to believe it. Avalon barely rated a mention on the Sector Capital. Who on Earth, outside the Indenture Program, knew about Avalon’s existence? “Perhaps we can make progress without the Council.”
Linda sniffed again. “Don’t count on it,” she said. “The bandits aren't going to be scared of a few Marines. The Marines will be gone soon enough and what will happen then?”
She stood up, placed the papers on his desk, and marched out of the room, leaving Brent alone with his thoughts. Slowly, almost against his will, he looked down at the images taken by the Civil Guard, just before they’d buried the dead. Linda was right, he knew; there was no other defence against the bandits. They had to burn them out...but how?
Chapter Eleven
It is a – generally – sensible policy on the part of the Empire to ensure that a colony world becomes self-sufficient, at least in foodstuffs, as soon as possible. As a world progresses from stage-zero to stage-one, the first priority is to develop farmland and start growing a healthy crop. The intent is to grow a surplus that can cope with any unexpected demands. The rising population must be fed. This takes priority over everything else, including paying off the massive costs incorrect by the development corporation. It is therefore obvious that the local system authorities will seek to cut costs wherever possible.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).
...And opened its eyes.
Jasmine caught herself, blinking in surprise as the tube started to hiss open. Surely they hadn’t been in stasis? She felt absurdly ridiculous as she stepped forward, wondering at why they were being brought out of the tubes again. Her mind caught up a second later and her head swam. Six months had passed in an eye blink. There had been no sense at all of time passing. The universe had just blinked. A wave of dizziness overcame her and she concentrated on the disciplines, banishing it from her mind and finding her centre. It was just another wonder of the modern galaxy, just something else to take in her stride.
“All right,” Gwen bellowed, marching past the tubes. “Everyone out; fall in!”
Jasmine stepped out of the tube, feeling a dull thrumming running through the ship as she stepped onto the deck. The starship was still in transit, but unless she missed her guess, they’d reached their destination and were proceeding towards Avalon at sublight speeds. It was fairly customary to bring the Marines out of the tubes, just in case a pirate decided to be stupid enough to attack them. Jasmine grinned, taking in the expressions of her fellow Marines. They’d be delighted if a pirate ship decided to attack them. Marines, who were often the first people into a ship pirates had wrecked, loathed the bastards on a visceral level. Taking them alive required immense discipline.
The line was forming in front of the tubes and she hastened to find her platoon. Her fellows were rapidly recovering from their own disorientation, snapping into position and saluting the flag hanging listlessly from one corner of the massive compartment. Gwen strode up and down in front of them, her eyes darting over their uniforms and occasionally prompting one of the Marines to fix a tiny problem. Jasmine braced herself as the Command Sergeant’s gaze swept over her body and relaxed, just slightly, as Gwen moved on to the next Marine in line. She’d passed inspection.
“Attention on deck,” Gwen said, once she’d finished her inspection. “Listen up; we are on approach to Avalon now and will be docking at the orbiting station within two hours. As soon as we dock, we will move to secure the station and ensure that there are no unpleasant surprises waiting for us before we start moving down to the surface. 1st and 2nd Platoons will take the lead; the remainder will hang back and be prepared to move in support if necessary. Questions?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Blake said, from his position two Marines down from Jasmine. “Can we not take the shuttles to board the station before the Cruz docks?”
Gwen shook her head. “The Captain wants to get us onboard the station as soon as possible,” she said. Jasmine winced inwardly. There was no reason to suspect that trouble was waiting for them, but she’d been in far too many ambushes when there had been no warning at all before the enemy had opened fire. “He is keen to begin unloading his ship.”
“I guess he can't wait to get rid of us,” Blake muttered, just loudly enough for a handful of Marines to hear. “You wouldn't see this happening on a perfectly-run ship.”
“Doubtless,” Gwen said. Jasmine privately suspected that she agreed with Blake. “However...form up in platoons and draw your armour. We dock at the station in two hours.”
Jasmine glanced down at her timepiece as it bleeped, updating itself from the starship’s master computer. The Imperial Standard date had jumped forward six months, as she had expected, while the time had moved forward three hours. Local time, displayed alongside EST, suggested that Avalon’s day was slightly longer than Earth’s. She scowled inwardly, bracing herself for the onset of starship lag, before moving forward to join her platoon. There was no time to waste. Combat armour had to be donned, weapons had to be checked and plans of the station had to be studied rapidly.
“Rules of engagement are Beta-Three,” Gwen said, when asked. Jasmine nodded i
n understanding. Beta-Three had been designed to allow the Marines to secure the station without making additional enemies. If the station had been in enemy hands, Jasmine and her fellows would have stunned everyone and sorted out the guilty from the innocent afterwards, but stunning harmless civilians would not endear them to the civilians after they awoke with banging headaches. “Try not to hurt anyone unless you have no other choice.”
A commotion disturbed her and she glanced down towards the handful of tubes at the bottom of the compartment. A youngish-looking man – with the attitude of an older man, suggesting that he had had rejuvenation treatments at some point in his life – was hugging a teenage girl, who wasn't enjoying the experience. Jasmine remembered when it had suddenly become embarrassing to be hugged by her own father and felt a silent moment of sympathy, although she wasn't sure who she was feeling sorry for. The girl’s older sister was openly eying some of the Marines, while her mother looked torn between disapproval and fear. She’d probably watched hundreds of reports that had made the Marines out as trained killers, rapists and looters, rather than the most highly-professional military force in the Empire. It had to be galling to be dependent on men she feared would ravish her poor innocent daughter – although, judging from the girl’s lustful expression, innocent was not a word that could be fairly applied to her.
“Nice piece of ass,” Blake muttered, as he squatted down beside Jasmine. “I could ride on her all day.”
“And then the Sergeant cuts off your nuts and wears them as a trophy,” Jasmine muttered back. The briefing they’d been given on their civilian guests had been scanty, but Gwen had left them in no doubt as to what would happen if any of them were molested. Jasmine had found that rather insulting herself – none of the men in her Company would molest a girl – but she understood the Sergeant’s attitude. A court martial would disgrace the entire Marine Corps - and generate realms of paperwork. “Besides, looking at her, I bet you she’s been had by hundreds of men already.”
“So have the whores who gather around the barracks and we don’t complain,” Blake countered. “What’s wrong with a girl who shares her charms with everyone, as long as she shares them with me?”
Jasmine pretended to consider it. “This might be why we got our asses royally fucked back on training last year,” she said. Blake had been squad leader at the time. “You were unable to risk the temptation to stick it in a convenient orifice and got us all buggered.”
“That's not what you said at the time,” Blake protested, dryly. “You were telling me what a genius I was before the first grenades started to detonate.”
“It might have been tolerable if they hadn't gloated about it afterwards,” Jasmine said, with a wink. “They kept telling us that they were sure that we wouldn't walk into that trap.”
She pulled out the armour pieces and placed them in front of her, then started to strip down to her underwear, removing anything that couldn't be worn under the armour. Blake followed her example, looking away to grant her what privacy he could. Fraternisation was forbidden within the same Company, although the rule was sometimes ignored and Jasmine was used to stripping down in front of the men. No one said anything. They all depended on each other to stay alive when the shit hit the fan.
Jasmine looked up and saw the girl staring at Blake’s torso as he pulled off his tunic. She had to admit that it was a nice torso, although the scars were a reminder of everything they’d been through together. She looked over at the girl and saw her blush and look away, her face as bright as a red stop sign. Jasmine smiled as Blake blinked at her, puzzled. He had completely missed the byplay.
“Never mind,” she said, as she started to pull on her armour. It felt good to be back in the light armour again, although she knew that some Marines had been roasted like chestnuts when their enemies had deployed weapons capable of punching through their armour. Heavy combat armour, by contrast, was almost indestructible, but those suits had to be custom made and cost as much as a frigate. It was hard enough to convince the Grand Senate to fund a few hundred suits a year. One day, she was sure, the technology would advance to the point where every Marine could have a heavy combat suit, but not for a very long time. And, by that time, heavy armour would be considered light armour. Some things never changed. “Just remember the Sergeant’s motto and you’ll be fine.”
She pulled the helmet down over her head and blinked as the suit came online, transmitting a series of signals right into her eyes. The armour’s sensors provided a complete image of what was outside, an image that could be rotated at will, while hundreds of tiny windows popped up to mark out points the suit’s onboard computers considered interesting. Blake’s armour was marked as FRIENDLY; the civilians, staring at the armoured Marines in astonishment, were marked as UNKNOWN. Blake’s armour powered up beside her and he chuckled, a noise picked up by the intercom and transmitted to her.
“Armed and armoured,” he said. The civilians thought of powered combat armour as something that clunked around the battlefield, but the truth was very different. “We’re hot and free.”
“Keep your weapons on safe until I give the order,” Gwen said. The armoured Marines were starting to form up now, allowing the civilians to walk past and out of the stasis chamber. “We just have time for some training before we board the station.”
Two hours later, the station – imaginatively named Orbit Station – came into view. Jasmine had been briefed that many early colony worlds used the same names and terminology to prevent misunderstanding, but in her considered opinion it was an excuse for bureaucratic lack of imagination. The station looked like a giant starfish; it could easily have been named Starfish Station, or even something more exotic. She’d seen a sex toy that looked rather like a station, although she was fairly certain that no colonial government would accept such a name. They’d be the laughing stock of the sector.
Orbit Station had been constructed out of prefabricated parts and should, according to the files, have been either expanded or replaced as local production came online, allowing the settlers to build their own facilities. Avalon’s Government hadn't invested in the station, however, doing only the bare minimum to keep the station running and meet their obligations to the Empire. A dozen habitat nodes had been attached to the original station, while an old tramp freighter lay in dock, affixed to one of the docking tubes. There were eight in all and only one of them was in use. Earth had thousands of starships docking and undocking every day.
“All hands, this is the Captain,” a voice said in her ear. “Prepare for docking. I say again; prepare for docking.”
Jasmine followed Blake and four other Marines through the ship’s corridors and down to the main docking section. The great advantage of the powered combat armour was that it could also serve as a spacesuit if required, allowing them to operate even if the enemy managed to depressurise the section and blast them all out into space. Captain Stalker met them there, wearing his own armour; Jasmine’s armour reported that he was exchanging encrypted messages with Gwen. She could guess at the content of the messages. He wanted to lead his Marines into the station and Gwen, quite rightly, was saying no. Captain Stalker was the senior Marine in the system and, as such, couldn't be risked unless the shit had really hit the fan.
A dull thump ran through the ship as it docked. Jasmine stepped forward as the hatch slowly swung open, carefully checking that her suit was armed and ready to go. It was a habit that had been drilled into her at the Slaughterhouse, where she’d been warned that equipment, no matter how advanced, could fail at any moment and leave her in the lurch. The Drill Sergeants had sometimes caused equipment to fail at bad times, just to ram the message home. Anyone whose suit failed had to drop out of line at once and report themselves as unfit for combat.
She smiled inwardly as the Marines advanced. The Marine Corps had hundreds of legends and one of them involved a Marine whose equipment was always going wrong. He hadn't been a coward – he hadn't lacked moral fibre, as the reports p
ut it – yet nothing had ever good quite right for him. One day, he’d done four parachute drops and in all cases, the main parachute had failed to open. His instructor had, angrily, taken him for a final jump, carefully supervising every moment of preparation. Both of the instructor’s parachutes had failed, sending him tumbling to his death. The Marine, understandably shaken by the experience, had resigned from the Corps.
The long tube yawned open in front of her, sending chills down her spine. An enclosed area was dangerous. She checked her weapons again, making sure that the stunner was ready to fire if necessary, before the second hatch opened and they stepped into the station. A young girl, barely more than nine years old if that, stepped forward and stopped, gaping at them.
The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps Page 11
