The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps (2 page)

“Captain,” Grand Senator Stephen St. Onge said, his voice echoing through the chamber. “Explain to us what happened.”

It was an order. “Three days ago, a Nihilist assault force took control of Joe Rico Block,” Edward said, firmly and precisely. He couldn’t believe that the Grand Senators didn’t already know what had happened, but perhaps they just wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth. “They successfully blocked the exits, subverted the internal security systems – along with the Civil Guardsmen in the block - and asserted their command over the civilian inhabitants. A handful of people with private communicators were able to contact the Civil Guard and inform them of the takeover before the Nihilists destroyed all of their communications systems. The block was sealed off by the Civil Guard, which mounted a rescue mission the following day. The operation failed with very heavy casualties.”

He paused, controlling himself with an effort. “The Civil Guard then called in the Marines,” he continued. “My Company was deployed to assault the building, an assault plan that had to be launched ahead of time when it became clear that the Nihilists had commenced the second stage of their plan, the mass public execution of the civilians in the block. Owing to inaccurate information from the Civil Guard, we went in and ran into a trap. Luckily, our superior training and equipment prevailed and we were able to rescue the remaining civilians.”

“But not in time to save thousands of people,” one of the Grand Senators said. There was an angry tone to his voice. “Why did you fail to save the hostages?”

Edward felt his temper rising and controlled it with an effort. “With all due respect, Senator,” he said, “you are significantly underestimating the problems involved in a hostage rescue mission, particularly one mounted against a terrorist group that is quite capable of blowing itself up along with the hostages, committing suicide to get at us.”

“And you are blaming your failure on the Civil Guard,” St. Onge said. “The Civil Guard fought valiantly in both assaults.”

Edward stared at the Grand Senator. “Sir,” he said, with icy precision, “the Civil Guard provided us with bad intelligence and refused to allow us to deploy our own sensor probes to confirm their intelligence.”

“Superintendent Gates has informed us that he refused permission for additional sensor probes because the probes might alert the enemy to the planned assault,” St. Onge said, flatly.

Edward’s temper snapped. “The Civil Guard got in way over its head,” he snapped. “The Marine Corps requested permission to deploy a Regiment of Marines, not a single Company. The request was turned down because there were only a hundred enemy fighters within the block – only there were actually
four hundred
enemy fighters, all armed to the teeth! We were denied permission to carry out our own intelligence-gathering probes that might have warned us about the enemy trap. To add to the problem, we were ordered to use the Civil Guard in a supporting role and, when the enemy came boiling out in a desperate desire to escape, they smashed into the Civil Guard and the Guardsmen ran. A second Marine Company, deployed to block their escape, would not have broken. They would have held and the Nihilists would have gotten their death wish.”

He fought to control himself. “And so we had to take the building back, step by step,” he continued. “Only sheer luck saved my entire Company from being wiped out!”

“And you are still making excuses for your failure,” St. Onge hissed. “How many civilians were caught in the crossfire and killed?”

“Too many,” Edward said, angrily. His career might be at an end, but he no longer cared. “They died because of political pressure to keep the Marine involvement in the siege as low-profile as possible. We could have brought in an entire Regiment, or a Division, and the Nihilists would have been contained and eliminated. Instead, a single Company took on a task that should have been handled by a much larger formation and succeeded, barely. Thirty-one good Marines are dead.”

St. Onge’s eyes flashed. “It is not your place to question the decisions of this body,” he snapped. “Those decisions were made for good reasons…”

“Political expediency,” Edward snapped back. “You were terrified of what might happen if you deployed Marines to the streets of Earth. Your decisions gave the Nihilists a chance to carry out their insane agenda and slaughter thousands of people. You sent my men into a death trap. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to see about their funerals!”

He turned and stormed out of the chamber, recovering his weapon from the guards and marching back towards the landing pad so fast that the servitor had to struggle to keep up with him. The hot rage was fading, now that he was away from the political leaders of the Empire, yet he didn’t regret what he’d said. The politicians would be furious and would scream for his blood, but the Marines were a world apart. The worst they could do to him was discharge him from the Marine Corps. He’d regret leaving the Marines – they were his real family – but there were hundreds of frontier worlds that would be happy to take him as an immigrant. Perhaps, out on the frontier, he’d be away from the corruption that surrounded the Imperial City.

It was no surprise when, an hour later, he was summoned to the Commandant of the Terran Marine Corps.

Chapter Two

Throughout the Empire, decay and corruption has sunk into every service, with only one exception. The Terran Marine Corps remains the only military service to be pure, free of the stench of self-serving agendas. It is perhaps unsurprising that various prominent figures in the Grand Senate are working to marginalise and/or disband the Corps
.

- Professor Leo Caesius,
The Waning Years of Empire
(banned).

The office of the Commandant of the Terran Marine Corps was located in Imperial City, attached to the Admiralty and the other military headquarters, although Edward knew that the Marines were a completely separate service from the Imperial Navy. Unlike the other services, the Marines maintained most of their headquarters on another world – Slaughterhouse, the Marine training world – yet even they had to maintain a presence on Earth. Edward had spent a few months as a Lieutenant on Slaughterhouse, but he’d never visited the Earth-based headquarters before. Marines were only summoned there if they’d screwed up by the numbers.

Major General Jeremy Damiani, the Commandant of the Terran Marine Corps, was a tall man, wearing a Marine dress uniform. He was completely bald – he’d even removed his eyelashes – and had mismatched eyes, the result of having one of them removed and replaced with a bionic eye, after a disastrous mission against a pirate base on the Rim. Edward had studied his career and had been impressed; he'd held the position of Commandant for fifteen years. Even with rejuvenation therapies, that was a long time to hold such an important position.

“Captain Edward Stalker, reporting as ordered, sir,” Edward said, standing to attention. The Marine Corps had fewer formalities than the Imperial Navy or the Imperial Army, but what formalities it did have, it took seriously. The chain of command was vitally important to maintaining discipline, particularly when Marine junior officers and NCOs enjoyed a degree of freedom and initiative alien to the other services.

“You fucked up, son,” Damiani said, without preamble. “You will probably not be surprised to hear that I spent the last forty minutes listening to a series of outraged complaints about your conduct. They started by demanding your scalp and moved down to demanding your discharge. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Edward didn’t relax. “I told them the truth, sir,” he said, flatly. “I told them just what went wrong with the operation and why.”

“You did,” Damiani agreed, coldly. His voice was very flat. “You grew to manhood among us, son. You didn’t realise that speaking truth to power is not appreciated outside the Marine Corps. It may interest you to know that a third of the Grand Senate would like nothing better than to see the Corps disbanded and the Slaughterhouse scorched down to bedrock. Your little outburst today, no matter how accurate or justified it was” – he held up a hand before Edward could say a word – “has not helped our image. I had to call in favours from people I would prefer never to talk to at all in order to maintain the balance of power.”

“Sir,” Edward said, “why…?”

Damiani fixed him with a gimlet stare. “You’re not thinking,” he said. “The Terran Marine Corps reports directly to the Emperor. We’re one of the weapons in his scabbard. There are…parties within the Grand Senate that would prefer to see the Corps disbanded to prevent the Emperor from using us against them. Our existence is guaranteed by Imperial Statue, yet they can cut funding and interfere with our operations. Your little outburst may provide enough justification to cut more of our budget.”

He looked up, as if he’d just realised that Edward was still standing at attention. “At ease, Captain,” he ordered, dryly. “I do understand why you told them what you told them. I also understand that we cannot afford another power struggle over our existence and mandate. The vultures are already gathering. The latest round of budget cuts is already underway and we will almost certainly be targeted.”

“Yes, sir,” Edward said. “If you wish to court-martial me for my outburst…”

“It’s not that simple,” Damiani admitted. “A court-martial would require an open discussion of just what went down over the last week. The Grand Senate wouldn’t be happy with hanging their dirty washing out for everyone to see. They may think that they control the House of Representatives, but there are factions just waiting for them to show a sign of weakness. Your trial would serve as one such sign, Edward. They would prefer to see you exiled from Earth, along with your men.”

“Sir,” Edward protested, “with all due respect…”

“Quiet,” Damiani ordered. He met Edward’s eyes. “You and Stalker’s Stalkers will be assigned to Avalon, a world right on the edge of Imperial Space. The Governor has been desperate for reinforcements from the Core Worlds and you and your men should suffice. We’ll run you in on a transport ship, along with a final convoy of colonists and indentured settlers. Once you’re there, you’ll be well away from the politics tearing the Empire apart. We might even manage to bring you back in the next few years.”

He hesitated. “Or maybe not,” he added. “The Empire is going through a very rough patch right now.”

Edward blinked. “Sir?”

“There are things you need to know,” Damiani said. “It isn’t apparent to the common herd of civilian sheep, but the Empire is in serious trouble. The Grand Senate effectively controls the Empire and, in turn, is effectively controlled by a cabal that owns most of the corporations in the Empire. They wrote the laws that allow them to operate with only minimal supervision and taxation…and, just incidentally, make it hard for anyone to compete with them. In order to keep the civilians happy, they’re also operating a massive welfare net that is little more than a black hole for credits.

“The net result of their policies is that the Empire is actually very short of cash” – he smiled bitterly – “and that they have no choice, but to start making massive painful budget cuts.”

He nodded towards the holographic starchart. “They’re already talking about disbanding several regiments from the Imperial Army and scrapping a number of ships from the Imperial Navy,” he said. “They should be cutting welfare payments, but that is politically unacceptable. Cutting welfare will unite the House of Representatives against the Grand Senate and collapse their little house of cards. Worse, they’re actually talking about closing several bases along the Rim and pulling out of those sectors entirely.”

Edward was genuinely shocked. The Empire’s mandate – its main reason for existence – was to unite the human race and prevent a war that might exterminate humanity once and for all. In theory, every human-settled world was part of the Empire, although most enjoyed some degree of internal autonomy and there were some settlements that barely acknowledged the Empire’s mere existence. The thought of abandoning hundreds of worlds to pirates and local warlords was unbearable. It should have been unthinkable.

“The problems are bad enough as they are, but they’re going to get worse soon,” Damiani predicted. “The Grand Senators know that their house of cards isn’t going to last forever. When the crash comes, they’re going to get hurt. They’ve been countering this process by building up influence among the Navy and Army, trying to build up a power base that will survive the crash and perhaps put one of them on the Throne. Over the last few decades, they have been quite successful at penetrating both services.

“And, if that wasn't bad enough, the colonies are going to get squeezed harder over the next few years,” he added. “They have resources to be taxed and they don’t have the representation within the government to avoid it. There are already at least a dozen lunatic fringe movements out there demanding everything from autonomy to complete independence. Marine Intelligence estimates that if taxation levels increase radically, there will be an explosion. The Imperial Navy will have to put it down, hard. The expenditure involved in putting down a rebellion may tip the balance on Earth and cause the crash.”

He rubbed his bald head. “The Corps is the only service free of their penetration,” he said. “Do you understand, now, why they’re scared of us?”

Edward nodded. A Marine always started life as a rifleman; every Marine went through the same training on the Slaughterhouse and spent time as an enlisted man before being considered for promotion. A man with political ambitions – or political masters – would have problems surviving the Slaughterhouse. Marines were loyal to the Emperor and the Empire. Very few Marines went bad and betrayed their comrades. Those who might betray their fellows were weeded out during training.

“Yes, sir,” he said. There was nothing else to say. “They’re scared we might be turned on them.”

“True,” Damiani agreed. “We were never created to serve as a Praetorian Guard. It isn’t our responsibility to choose who sits on the Throne, or wields power over the Empire.”