Rebels and Patriots (Imperium Cicernus Book 3)

by A. G. Claymore

  He walked around to the boarding ramp of the first dropship. It had seen better days but, compared to the INV Dauntless, it was practically brand new.

  He heard someone moving around inside and he climbed the ramp, surprising a Marine who was looking around the floor.

  “Hello there,” the man said, moving out of the forest of stalactite-like suit clamps to get a better look at Paul. He was wearing standard battle dress uniform but his BDU’s had creases consistent with recent storage. His hair was slightly too long and he had at least two days’ growth on his face.

  Dropships didn’t carry seats because they took up too much space. Instead, the Marines stood in EVA suits. The suit clamps, hanging down from the ceiling, attached to the front of the EVA suits, leaving room for packs on their backs.

  If the landing was being done without packs, the clamps could be moved closer together and more installed to carry extra troops.

  “Hello,” Paul stepped toward him. “Lose something?”

  A nod. “My ration counter. I had it when I boarded so I figured this would be the best place to start looking.”

  As good as Marine augments were, Paul’s implants were the best that money and lucky genes would allow. He opened a discrete, short-range RFID query. It was at a low enough setting to avoid being detected by the ship’s internal systems so he figured it was minimal risk.

  He found the counter’s signature under the co-pilot’s seat. Now he just had to camouflage how he’d found it. “If your pilots are anything like the ones I remember, it would have slid forward on shield approach.”

  The man chuckled. “Marine?”

  Paul nodded. “At the end of the day…” It was a common phrase in the Imperial Marine Corps. Those who had a non-combat trade, such as military police, were still able to fight, if it came down to it.

  And, unless you were drummed out of the service, you never stopped being a Marine if you’d earned the title.

  A raised eyebrow. “What was your MOS?”

  Paul moved toward the cockpit. “Military police. I did most of my hitch out on the Rim.”

  “God,” the man exclaimed quietly. “Those were still the good old days, when we saw regular action.” He shook his head. “Now we just keep getting redeployed a little closer to the core every few years.”

  “It didn’t feel so great at the time,” Paul muttered. “Do you have any idea how many domestic disputes you have to deal with on a Rim colony? The isolation, the stunted social networks, the incredible lack of resources…” He shook his head. “Families move out there expecting to find opportunities on a growing colony only to find they’ve been duped.”

  “Just warm bodies to bolster a territorial claim, huh?” The Marine leaned over to look under the pilot’s foot pedals.

  “Pretty much.” Paul leaned over and picked up the counter from behind the co-pilot’s seat. “They end up blaming each other and it escalates until folks like me get called in. Here’s your counter.” He stood up, holding it out.

  “Thanks! Last thing I want is to get docked a day’s food for a re-issue.” He took the chip. “So what brings you to the Dauntless?”

  “Senate wants a review of the current situation with the secessionists,” Paul explained in an offhand manner. Just another boring assignment. “They want to know if they need to go to the effort of putting a response force together.”

  “So what’s your feeling?” The man’s mannerisms had changed slightly. His arms crossed.

  “Just got here,” Paul admitted. “Thought I’d come down here first and get the straight goods from the real Marines before going up to the combat information center.”

  The man nodded. He was a real Marine, after all, not some rich youngster who’d bought a commission. “It’s pretty bad,” he said, uncrossing his arms. His right hand came up to scratch at the light stubble on his neck. “We’ve just heard of an attack on the high-speed vac line down on the surface and the signal repeaters between here and the neighboring gates have been going down on a regular basis.”

  “Would you say the incidents are becoming more frequent?”

  A nod. “Oh yeah. Those guys are turning into a real pain in the ass.” He leaned against a suit brace, effectively putting an intervening brace between himself and Paul. His voice dropped in tone. “We need to deal with them.”

  Paul nodded. “Well, thanks for the honest assessment. I’ll keep it in mind as I talk to the empty shirts in the CIC.”

  He headed for the hangar exit. The man was almost certainly one of the ‘Secessionists’. His modified personal grooming indicated covert work and he didn’t strike Paul as an undercover operator assigned to infiltrate a secessionist cell.

  The man had no training for that kind of work. He seemed to have no idea how strongly he was signaling his lies. His uniform, recently out of storage, indicated the man had been rotated to the ship from his ‘insurgent’ duties.

  That meant the Navy or, at least, the crews of the Dauntless and her escorts might be involved as well. It would be hard to hide a steady flow of personnel on and off the ship.

  Of course, it might just be a coincidence, or the young Marine might have been brought back for medical reasons, but his attitude had been unmistakable. He didn’t really believe there was a secessionist problem out here, but he was trying to convince Paul that there was.

  Paul felt a growing sense of alarm as he headed for the transit platform. Whatever was going on out here, it was big enough to involve not just one expeditionary force but the Navy as well. Someone senior enough to assign a capital ship and her escorting vessels was involved in this.

  The danger to Julius was even greater than he’d first thought. The risk might even extend to Hadrian himself. A man who makes himself indispensable to the Imperium also makes enemies in equal measure.

  He needed to get a coded message out as soon as possible. Hadrian had to be warned. He frowned as he stepped onto the train. That Marine had claimed the signal repeaters were being hit. He might not be able to send a signal all the way to one of the wormholes.

  Paul was headed for the forward station, ignoring the chattering crewmen grasping straps in front of him. The bridge was mounted near the bow and he had to at least check in with the captain. It would be taken as an insult if an inspector from ICI came aboard without saying ‘hello’.

  And it would look very suspicious.

  When he reached the station where he’d originally boarded, seven officers stepped into his car. The chatter in the car ended instantly as the bare-headed seven found hanger straps.

  Paul looked them over. Two women and five men, all wearing full CIC implant suites but they weren’t command and control staff. They were command-grade officers — decision-makers.

  That was a rare thing in the Imperial military. Most command officers, especially the aristocratic majority of the officer corps, preferred to rely on NCO’s for coordination. The CIC staff would advise the officer of enemy activity and the officer would reply with orders.

  The seven officers in front of Paul obviously took their jobs far more seriously. They weren’t willing to wait the precious seconds it took to pass data orally. For them, it was far more important to trim wasted time from the decision cycle than it was to look good at cocktail parties.

  Paul suspected these officers didn’t have the luxury of capital ships to buffer any inefficiencies in their methods. They either took immediate decisions or their ships and crews would suffer the consequences.

  He’d found the command staff of the 1st Gliesan Dragoons. One woman, the shorter of the two by a couple of inches, was clearly their leader. She wore the insignia of a full Marine Corps colonel and she had an air of unmistakable authority about her. A patch on her right shoulder depicted a pair of crossed, carbine-length accelerator rifles behind the Emperor’s personal sigil — the crest adopted by the new unit. They’d taken the nickname ‘Roland’s Own’ to show the nine-year-old Emperor where their loyalty lay.

  Her h
ead was shaved, like the rest of her officers, exposing the tattooed helmet-positioning glyphs on her scalp, and she had several external implants running from her chin, along the jawline, to her ears. The glyphs spoke of the kind of work they must be doing. They weren’t really neccesary unless the wearer needed an absolute perfet fit.

  It was usually only needed if you engaged in hand to hand combat while wearing the suit.

  They all had electrochromatic tattoos around their eyes, allowing the skin to be darkened at will. The tattoos allowed better visibility in bright starlight conditions and most personnel turned them off while not in combat. The seven dragoon officers seemed to prefer leaving them on full time. It gave them a dangerous, brooding look.

  Paul had to admit he was impressed, even a little awed. Most aristocrats were a waste of valuable resources, as far as he was concerned, and the women of that class were mostly simpering fools.

  Julia Urbica was hardly that. Though he knew she wasn’t from one of the leading families, she’d still left a life of almost unimaginable luxury to serve in the Marines.

  The train slid to a halt at the bridge terminal and he followed the seven out onto the platform, hearing the excited chatter grow behind him as Urbica’s imposing presence no longer affected the crewmen so strongly.

  They passed through the security checkpoint at the bridge/CIC and Paul simply fell in behind the seven officers, scanning his hand for the guards and lowering his hand to allow a polite sniff from the guard’s German Shepherd. He was rewarded with a friendly lick.

  The dragoons were standing in the middle of the space, looking over at a small knot of officers. Paul recognized Romanus Kinsey from the files he had in his CPU implant. The superior sneer in his file image was, presumably, his everyday face.

  Kinsey glanced at the newcomers for half a second, then turned his attention back to the junior officer in front of him.

  Paul recognized the game. Kinsey wanted to make Urbica wait. Both were full colonels in the Imperial Marines but he was trying to send a subtle signal about who was more important.

  Colonel Urbica already knew the answer to that and she was accustomed to making quick decisions. She nodded toward a situation room walled in ballistic glass on the port side of the bridge and led her officers across the deck.

  Paul fell in with them, waving down a mess steward who was just on his way toward Kinsey with a carafe. “In the situation room,” he ordered peremptorily. He caught the lad’s nervous glance toward Kinsey and deduced he was stealing the colonel’s coffee. “I’m pulling rank,” Paul warned him casually.

  He caught up with the dragoons as the last man stepped through the door. Paul stood in the opening, keeping the door from sliding shut while he waved the hapless steward in. “Just on the sideboard is fine,” he told him. “We can serve ourselves.”

  When the young man left, Paul stepped all the way in and the door slid quietly into place. He locked it and turned to grin at the staring officers. “Paul Grimm,” he announced. “ICI.”

  If Urbica’s expression changed, Paul hadn’t seen it. She continued to stare at him in silence. It was hardly surprising she might be suspicious. She’d taken what might be described as excessive liberties with the local Sector Defense Units, welding them into a new unit without authorization.

  Paul might have been sent to take her into custody.

  Paul looked out the window. “Nicely done, by the way,” he nodded toward Kinsey, who started and turned back to the junior officer he’d been talking to. “Now he needs to come to you, after he’s done with his fake conversation. You’ve turned his little tactic on him.

  “But now he’s probably reluctant to barge in here while you’re talking to the Eye, especially an inspector you seem to have brought in with you.” Paul chuckled darkly. “He looks nervous.” He turned back to Urbica, seeing the other six dragoons resting their hands on the butts of their personal weapons.

  “Don’t you think he looks nervous?” he asked her.

  She made a subtle gesture and her comrades relaxed slightly. She walked over to the sideboard and poured herself a cup. “You stole this from Kinsey?” She turned to lean against the low cabinet, keeping her eyes on him while she took a sip.

  Paul nodded.

  She sighed in appreciation of the dark liquid. “Well, that’s a point in your favor, so I suppose I can unbend enough to answer you.” She glanced through the glass wall at her rival. “Yes, he does look rattled.”

  “And you don’t look the least bit nervous,” Paul mused. “Even though you have to be wondering if I’ve been sent out here to bring you in for trial.”

  “Trial for what?” a major to her left blurted indignantly.

  “Reorganizing Imperial forces without prior authorization,” Paul began, “engaging in combat against dangerous species like the Grays or,” he nodded at Urbica, “most damaging of all, being a competent officer. The military can hardly afford having officers who know what they’re doing.”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Makes idiots like that look bad.”

  He was sure he detected the faintest hint of a smile from Colonel Urbica but, if it was real, she’d quickly covered it by taking another sip.

  He started moving around the large central table, suddenly craving coffee. “I’m not here for you, Colonel. I’m here because I think there’s a very good reason why Kinsey looks so nervous.”

  He filled a cup, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he’d had any sleep. He poured half the steaming liquid down his throat in one gulp, his throat accustomed to such punishment from his years as a cop.

  “And do you have any ideas that might explain his nervousness?” Urbica took another sip, then gave one of her dragoons a meaningful glance, raising the cup. The man grinned and left the room.

  “You’re thinking of stealing Kinsey’s personal stash of coffee!” Paul exclaimed in surprise.

  “Inspector,” she replied in mock reproof, “my dragoons are punished severely for getting caught stealing.”

  Paul laughed. “For getting caught, not for actually stealing, yes?”

  She tilted her head to the side, giving him a polite nod of approval. “A soldier who gets caught is a careless soldier. A careless soldier gets himself and his comrades killed. I would be careless indeed if I didn’t press you to explain why you think Kinsey should be nervous of you.”

  Paul took another look out at Kinsey before he answered. “You didn’t serve with the 538, did you?”

  She shook her head. “No. I was with the ‘trip eight’.”

  “Well, Kinsey has a lot of the 538 with him out here.”

  Urbica looked out at the colonel. “A few hundred, maybe, but…”

  “Try thirty-seven thousand,” Paul cut her off. “He’s been sneaking them out here for two years, and he’s been snatching a matching number of citizens from Irricana to make it look like the Marines are actually locals. Their equipment’s still back on home-world, but the troops are mostly out here.”

  He had everyone’s undivided attention now. “They’re the ‘secessionists’.”

  “But what the hell for?” Urbica demanded.

  “If they can engineer a big enough incident, they can justify the dispatch of an intervention force, get their gear shipped out.”

  “But it wouldn’t be the 538,” Urbica pointed out. “The 488 has that shiny new LHV; they’d call Senator Nathaniel back into uniform and send them out here.”

  Paul shook his head. “A few days ago, his son Julian was drugged, infected with the ‘happy ending’ virus and turned loose on a diplomatic shuttle.”

  “Oh, hell,” the major exclaimed softly. “Are you saying he’s susceptible?”

  Paul nodded. “I was the one who told him to get tested when we were serving together on TC-465. He knew what would happen if he ever engaged one of those courtesans.”

  “How bad was it?” Urbica set down her mug.

  “Killed everyone aboard. They found him wearing
the skin from one of his victims. Hadrian’s been severely damaged, needless to say.”

  “So no 488,” she said quietly.

  “Clever scheme,” the major said, grudgingly. “Sneak the troops out here to create the pretext, then have orders cut to send them officially to put down the trouble they caused in the first place.”

  “So why are you telling us all this?” Urbica’s dark brows knit together. “We could be a part of this incomprehensible scheme.”

  “You are part of it, unfortunately.” Paul finished his cup and set the mug on the table. “I think the low-level stuff they’ve been doing is just background noise meant to create a believable backdrop for the really big incident that’ll light a fire under the Grand Senate.”

  “Hold on, you son of an indent,” one of the two lieutenants nearly shouted, “if you think we’re a party to what’s…”

  “Stow it, Lars.” Urbica put a calming hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think that’s where he’s headed.”

  Paul nodded. “I think Kinsey will try to set you up as sacrificial lambs. The loss of the brave Gliesan Dragoons would be enough to dispatch a full intervention.”

  He looked over as Kinsey started moving toward the door to the situation room. “I’m afraid my presence here will likely accelerate that scheme. He’s definitely nervous so he’ll be anxious to see the lot of us dead.”

  Kinsey reached the door, but it was still locked.

  Urbica glanced at him then looked at Paul. “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is what they hope to accomplish out here. They can certainly seize a world or even an entire sector, depending on how much force they can get their hands on, but they can’t hold any of it for very long.

  “Sooner or later, CentCom will scrape together enough force to come out here and crush them.”

  Paul spread his hands “It’s the one thing that makes no sense in all this. We can see how they plan to put their pieces in place, but we have no idea what they plan to do with them.”

  “So maybe we aren’t seeing all the pieces yet,” Urbica suggested.