The same sort of idiot who thinks he can pass the Crucible without a year of intensive training, she thought, wryly. And the same sort of idiot who drinks himself into a stupor the night before entering Boot Camp.
She pushed the thought to one side as she tramped up to the hut, opening the door and stumbling into the antechamber. The heat greeted her at once, sending sweat trickling down her back as she hurried to take off her shoes and remove her outer layer of clothing. She dumped the shoes by the door, then pushed open the inner door and stepped into the hut. A faint smell - she had never been able to identify it - greeted her as Emmanuel Alves rose to his feet, leaving a datapad on the table beside him. Jasmine gave her boyfriend a tight hug, then kissed him lightly on the lips.
“I heated up some soup,” Emmanuel said, as she let him go. “Do you want some now?”
“Yes, please,” Jasmine said. She’d spent the last week pushing her limits by climbing up and down the nearby mountains, but Emmanuel didn't have anything like the training he needed to accompany her. She didn't really begrudge it, even though it would have been nice to have the company. “It looks like it’s going to snow again, later in the day.”
“Joy,” Emmanuel said. He walked over to the wood-burning stove and checked the heavy pan on top. “Should we be worried?”
Jasmine shrugged. Truthfully, the prospect of being trapped in the hut, buried under tons of snow, didn't bother her as much as it should have done. Years of training and experience had removed any tendency she might have had towards claustrophobia; months spent on various starships in cramped sleeping compartments had taught her how to endure even unendurable people. They could dig themselves out, if they wished, or signal for help. But she knew he might feel differently about it.
“Probably not,” she said, finally. The hut’s owners had sited it carefully, according to their brochure. Their guests could enjoy being in the midst of the mountains with minimal risk, although there was no way the risk could be eliminated entirely. “But it’s worth keeping an eye on things if the snow starts to fall faster.”
Emmanuel nodded as he ladled the soup into two bowls, then carried them over to the wooden table. Jasmine followed him, glancing around the hut and silently admiring the effort the original builder had put into his work. There wasn’t anything that wasn't handmade, even the knives and forks. Even the water came from a stream and had to be heated on the stove, rather than warmed in a boiler. And it was more comfortable than anywhere she’d slept on the Slaughterhouse.
“Thank you,” she said, as she sat down and started to sip the soup. “It’s very good.”
“All my own work,” Emmanuel preened. “I opened those packets and mixed them myself.”
Jasmine laughed. Trying to make military rations taste better had excited the imagination of countless soldiers, but there were limits to how much the addition of hot sauce or other flavours could improve the taste of recycled cardboard. She’d disliked marine ration packs until she’d tasted army ration packs, which were worse, and Civil Guard packs, which were unspeakably vile. It explained a great deal about the Civil Guard, she felt, that their officers couldn't be bothered attempting to source food from their postings, although they might well have a point. The Civil Guard was so loathed that it was quite possible that anyone selling them food would poison it first.
“You could probably get away with adding more sauce,” she said, as she opened the breadbin. “It would add a little more kick.”
Emmanuel rolled his eyes. “This isn't a Tabasco-swigging contest.”
“A good thing too,” Jasmine agreed. “I lost the last one.”
She shook her head, feeling a strange mixture of pride and grief. Blake Coleman had challenged a trio of Imperial Navy crewmen to see who could eat the hottest sauce, just after the deployment to Han. She had no idea how he’d managed to swallow an entire bottle of Extra-Strong Chilli sauce, but he’d won the contest handily. She’d had to give up after trying to swallow something made of green chillies. And then Blake had died ... she missed him, more than she cared to admit. It wasn't right that he’d died on a shitty little world, ruled by shitty little people who lorded over peasants who were just waiting for a chance to take power for themselves. No doubt the peasants had purged the aristocracy and then started fighting over the scraps of remaining power.
Emmanuel met her eyes. “Are you all right?”
Jasmine shrugged. Death was a fact of life. Blake Coleman had died well, unlike so many others she could mention. She knew he wouldn't want his friends to mourn him indefinitely, although he would have taken a perverse pride in the number of women who’d appeared, afterwards, to claim they’d been his soulmate. And yet, she missed him ...
Maybe I shouldn’t have let the Colonel promote me, she thought. He wouldn't have counted it against me later on, would he?
She snorted and pushed the thought aside as she finished her soup. Blake wouldn't have wanted her to be morbid either, she knew; he'd have teased her, endlessly, about taking a reporter to bed. But Emmanuel wasn't one of the paid shrills who’d blighted military operations from Earth to Han, getting soldiers killed by revealing classified information ahead of time. Indeed, Jasmine had to admit that Emmanuel was a genuine reporter, more interested in ferreting out the truth than spreading lies to push a political agenda. He always put his news in context.
“I think so,” she answered, finally. She made a show of glancing at her watch. “Are you ready to go out this afternoon?”
“I suppose we might just find a decent restaurant somewhere up here,” Emmanuel said, deadpan. “Snow for starter, rocks and ice for the main course, iced snow for pudding ...”
“I meant going for a long walk,” Jasmine said. Emmanuel was surprisingly fit, for a civilian, but he couldn't keep up with her. And yet he was light years ahead of the reporters on Han, who’d eyed her as if she was a dangerous animal permanently on the verge of breaking her leash. “A very long walk.”
Emmanuel groaned, theatrically. “Must we?”
“There’s a big reward on the far side,” Jasmine said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I’d be happy to chase you over the mountains,” Emmanuel said. “But catching you might be tricky.”
Jasmine smiled. Her mother had once told her that the secret to catching the right sort of man was to run away, yet not to run very fast. She’d never been quite convinced of the logic, personally, but she’d been a tough little scrapper even before she’d joined the marines. And her homeworld had a thoroughly practical attitude towards both firearms and personal defence. If she was caught by the wrong man, she could castrate him before she shot him ...
Her wristcom bleeped, once. Jasmine frowned, then keyed the switch.
“Yamane,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“Brigadier,” a calm female voice said. Jasmine straightened automatically. Technically, she outranked Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson now, but she wouldn't dare to take liberties with the older woman. “I trust you had a pleasant vacation?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Jasmine said. She had the feeling her vacation had just come to a sudden halt. “The mountains are quite challenging, even in summer.”
“Good, good,” Gwendolyn said. “I’ve dispatched a Hummer to pick you and your boyfriend up for immediate transfer to Castle Rock. The colonel wants you back here ASAP.”
“Understood,” Jasmine said. She felt a flicker of the old excitement, despite her concerns about the past and her fears for the future. This was another deployment, she was sure. It couldn’t be anything else. “ETA?”
“The Hummer should be with you in thirty minutes,” Gwendolyn said. “Be ready to depart when it arrives.”
The connection broke. Jasmine stared at the wristcom for a long moment, then looked up at Emmanuel. “We’re being recalled,” she said. “Both of us.”
“It sounds that way,” Emmanuel agreed. He didn't sound angry, but she knew he understood the realities of the job. Both of t
heir jobs. “We’d better pack.”
Jasmine nodded and hurried into the bedroom, picking her rucksack off the floor and dumping clothes and equipment into it willy-nilly. A lifetime in military service had taught her to travel light, thankfully. Emmanuel didn't have the same experience, but he’d learned rapidly. There were strong weight restrictions on what could be counted as personal baggage, at least on Commonwealth Navy starships. The Imperial Navy had been so keen to please the reporters that officers had often classed overweight reporter baggage as essential requirement, even though it was nothing of the sort. A reporter who tried that on the Commonwealth Navy would be lucky if his baggage was shipped home from the terminal, instead of merely being dumped.
“I don’t suppose we have time for anything special,” Emmanuel said, as he finished stuffing items into his bag. “Do we?”
“Not when we have to shut the hut down,” Jasmine said. She’d had the same thought, but duty came first. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Emmanuel said. “You come far too close to breaking my bones.”
Jasmine gave him a one-fingered gesture, then hurried back into the living room and turned off the water pipe, then glanced around to make sure they’d left nothing lying around. It was unlikely they’d have time to return to pick up anything, once the Hummer collected them.
“I thought we had another two days,” Emmanuel added. “What do you think this is about?”
“The colonel said that his staff were working on a plan,” Jasmine said. She’d been surprised when the colonel had agreed to her taking a week’s leave, even if it did suggest he had a mission in mind for her. “It might be something very interesting.”
Emmanuel leaned forward. “And decisive?”
Jasmine frowned. She’d hurt the Wolves badly, she knew, even if it had come at a terrible cost. She still had no idea what had happened to either Carl Watson or Paula Bartholomew - and killing Governor Brown had only elevated Admiral Singh to power. Jasmine had no illusions about the future. They might have won a battle, and embarrassed the Wolves, but the war was far from over.
“We will see,” she said, as she heard the sound of the approaching aircraft. New-build Hummers weren’t quite as fast as Raptors, but they’d be back at Castle Rock in less than thirty minutes. “We will see.”
Chapter Two
This is perhaps best illustrated by an observation by the Imperial Marshals, in their handbook. A story that hangs together perfectly is almost certainly a premeditated alibi. The very flawlessness of the story is its flaw!
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Role of Randomness In War.
Colonel Edward Stalker sat in his chair in the War Room and studied the starchart as he waited for his guests to pass through security and enter the compartment. There was no way to avoid realising that the situation was dire. The red and orange stars - stars owned or occupied by Wolfbane - were closing in on the green stars, despite savage and desperate fighting around a dozen stars at the edge of the Commonwealth. No matter how frantically Ed switched forces from star to star, Wolfbane had a very definite advantage.
They can pull their ships from the line for repairs, if necessary, while we have to keep our ships in combat, he thought, darkly. He’d never commanded a naval force, but the basic principles were identical to infantry warfare. A regiment, if pushed to the limits of its endurance, would eventually break under constant enemy attack. And some of our ships are starting to break down.
He scowled at the datapad containing the latest - highly classified - reports. The newer starships were holding up well - they’d been built by designers who no longer needed to stay within the limitations set by the bureaucracy - but the older ships were starting to break down under the pressures of warfare. A dozen ships needed urgent repairs, which they weren't going to get. They were irreplaceable along the battle line ...
And yet, if they break down in combat, we lose them anyway, he thought. We need some way to tip the balance in our favour.
He looked up as the door opened, allowing his guests to hurry into the room. Gaby Cracker, President of Avalon and First Speaker of the Commonwealth, gave him a tired smile as she took her seat, all professional despite the fact they’d been lovers for the past four years. She was followed by Brigadier Jasmine Yamane - looking better after a week’s leave - and Colonel Kitty Stevenson, Commonwealth Intelligence. And, running a few minutes late, Commodore Mandy Caesius and Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson. Ed had been surprised when the two women had developed a friendship - two more different women would be hard to imagine - but he was glad of it. Gwendolyn’s position had always isolated her from the other marines.
“Close the doors,” he ordered, as Commander Hiram Simpson entered the compartment. “I shouldn't have to tell any of you that this is a secret meeting. No one is to hear the details until we are ready to release them.”
He glanced from face to face, knowing they would understand. Gaby had been an insurgent leader before she’d become part of the government. She understood the value of keeping information to a very limited circle, particularly when it was of tactical or strategic importance. The others were all career military, even Mandy. She might have started life as a bratty teenage daughter, but she’d grown up on Avalon. They’d all changed a great deal since they’d been cut off from the Core Worlds.
“First, a briefing,” he added. He concealed a smile at their reactions. Gaby looked irked - she received too many briefings - while the others leaned forward, ready to hear just what Ed had in mind. “Commander?”
Simpson nodded, shortly. Ed could practically taste his nervousness. He was the lowest-ranking officer in the room and knew it. But he also knew his duty.
“As of the last report, Wolfbane has halted its offensive against Taurus to consolidate its position in the wake of Governor Brown’s death,” Simpson said. “Long-range scouts report that they have been bringing repair ships forward, trying to prepare as many ships as possible for the next offensive. Fighting continues on a number of worlds, but we consider it unlikely that any of the insurgencies can push Wolfbane off their world.”
Ed frowned. They’d worked hard to arm and train stay-behind forces, but he was under no illusions about their chances of success. Wolfbane could call down fire from orbit on any insurgent position, if the insurgents showed themselves so blatantly. Holding an entire world didn’t require vast numbers of troops, merely a starship or orbital bombardment platform ready to hammer targets at a moment’s notice. The stay-behinds could sting, but it wouldn't be enough to do more than annoy their enemies.
“Our own forces are in critical condition,” Simpson continued. “Our pre-war planning greatly underestimated the operational tempo we have to maintain and our supplies are starting to run out. Only our technological superiority gives us any advantage at all and ... and that might come to an end, if Wolfbane obtains samples of our technology or has a breakthrough of its own. They now know that a great many things believed to be impossible are actually possible - and knowing is half the battle.”
“True,” Ed agreed. “We cannot assume we will maintain technological superiority indefinitely.”
He waited patiently, silently gauging reactions as Simpson continued the briefing. Gaby looked concerned, despite herself; Jasmine was leaning forward, as if she was eager to get to grips with the enemy. Mandy looked worried - she’d skirmished with Wolfbane’s fleet too many times - while Gwendolyn showed no visible reaction. But then, she wouldn’t. A sergeant could not afford to show the slightest hint of doubt to subordinates, either in her own abilities or in the competence of superior officers. And then the briefing finally came to its inevitable conclusion.
“Assuming the operational tempo continues at its current pace,” Simpson stated, “we will lose the war within the next two years.”
Gaby choked. “That can't be right!”
“It is hard to predict the course of a war, Madam President,” Simpson said. “There are too many random variables invol
ved. One of our older ships might suffer a critical failure in combat, allowing Wolfbane to win a battle they would otherwise have lost. Or we may develop something that negates Wolfbane’s numerical superiority. But, in many ways, two years is quite optimistic. If they push the tempo harder in the next six months, we may lose the war by the end of the year.”
“We need a game-changer,” Ed said, calmly.
“We could strike directly at Wolfbane,” Mandy suggested.
“We’d never get a fleet through their defences,” Ed said. “And we’d have to nuke the entire world. Quite apart from any moral considerations, Wolfbane would certainly do the same to Avalon and every other Commonwealth world.”
They Shall Not Pass (The Empire's Corps Book 12) Page 2
