The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps

by Christopher Nuttall

  “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 trigger 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 officer. 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?”

  ***

  “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 Fifty-Two

  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 e
xplosives 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 that 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.

  “He’s out,” Grosskopf said. If he harboured any doubts about how Edward had forced the Governor out of the room, he didn't show them. “Are you coming yourself?”

  “One moment,” Edward said, and keyed his communicator. “Gwen? Gwen; come in.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Gwen said. She sounded relieved, although only someone who had known her for years would have been able to tell. “Captain; report your status.”

  Edward ran through a brief explanation. “We’re safe for now,” he concluded, although the sound of shooting suggested otherwise. “What’s going on outside Government House?”

  “An all-out attack,” Gwen said. “The spaceport, the Civil Guard bases, and even the individual platoon houses...they’re all coming under heavy attack. The Civil Guard bases took the worst of it – according to the reports we got, the attacks started inside the bases and were joined by forces from outside – and several have gone completely silent. I’ve dispatched drones to send back live footage from the bases and they report heavy and confused fighting. The spaceport is currently secure, but that will change when they get their hands on heavy weapons.”

  Edward bit down a curse. The only thing, he had come to realise, that had prevented the Crackers from just strolling into Camelot and disposing the Governor was their fear of the Imperial Navy. If they’d overcome that fear...no, they hadn’t; they’d just realised that if the Marines were allowed to continue with their program, the war would be on the verge of being lost. The thought made him swear aloud. They hadn't known it, but the Governor had been on the verge of agreeing to give them most of what they claimed to want. If they’d held off the operation for a few more days, they would have won anyway...without fighting.

  He shook his head. There was no point in worrying about what might have been.

  “I’m dispatching support to your position,” Gwen added. “It is imperative that the Governor remains alive. The Council Chamber has been destroyed and the command and control network is in tatters. They even tried to knock down our network and would have succeeded without our command protocols.”

  “Understood,” Edward said. The sound of shooting was growing louder. “We’ll try to hold out here.”

  He broke the connection and crawled rapidly out of the room, where he discovered that the Governor had been sick against a wall and was sitting down, shaking mindlessly. “There’s help on the way,” he said, to Grosskopf. “I think we’d better get down to a safer floor and wait for them to arrive.”

  “We might be safer up here,” Grosskopf pointed out. “The bastards will certainly search the lower floors first.”

  “We don’t want to be high up when the shooting starts again,” Edward countered. He reached for the Governor and helped him to his feet. The man needed a shower and at least seven hours in bed, but there was no other choice. “If they’re investing this building, they’ll move in as soon as they realise that we have help on the way.”

  He calculated it as they both half-carried the Governor towards the rear stairs. Gwen hadn't given a specific ETA, but flight time from Castle Rock was seven minutes, assuming that the Raptors loaded up with Marines on the island. He knew better. They’d have to pick up the QRF from the spaceport – Gwen wouldn't authorise stripping the island of its final defenders, even for him – and then fly over the city to reach them. That meant at least ten minutes, perhaps longer if the spaceport was under heavy attack.

  “I should have brought my armour,” he muttered, as they reached the stairwell. “A direct link into the live feed from the drones would be very useful right about now.”

  Grosskopf nodded as they stumbled down the stairs, hearing noises echoing up and down the shaft. It sounded as if someone was searching the building, perhaps a Cracker assault force. They shared a look and stopped at the first floor, helping the Governor into the suite of private offices used by the higher-ranking bureaucrats who helped run the planet. The power had failed, casting the offices into an eerie darkness, but they were still able to open one of the private offices...and came face-to-face with a pair of bureaucrats, tied to a chair with duct tape.

  “Hellfire,” Edward swore, as he moved forward. Someone had been very determined that the two bureaucrats – one male, one female – would be unable to get loose on their own, wrapping them back to back with enough duct tape to hold a dozen prisoners. He pulled out his knife and started to saw through the gag, allowing the woman to speak. “What happened?”

  She
stared up at him, her eyes wide with terror. “They just came inside after the blast and...”