The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps (3 page)

“Yes, sir,” Edward said.

“It could well be that the Grand Senate saved your life by having you exiled to Avalon,” Damiani said, with a trace of amusement. “When the crash comes – and I believe that it will come soon – Earth isn’t likely to survive. I’m taking some precautions, along with a few others in high places, but…there’s no guarantee of anything. We could be staring right down the barrels of a nasty little civil war.”

Edward winced. Earth’s population had exploded once the Empire’s massive welfare state had eliminated the costs of raising a child. Edward’s own mother had had nine children, feeding them all on the algae-based foodstuffs that had been discovered centuries ago. The massive expansion of city blocks hadn’t been able to keep up with the flow of human beings, nor had the government been able to find work for them. It was no wonder that crime was their occupation of choice, or that almost everyone convicted of a crime, no matter how small, was permanently exiled from Earth to one of the colony worlds. It was still barely a drop in the bucket of Earth’s teeming multitudes.

The vast majority of people who were middle or upper class didn’t comprehend just how bad life was in the Undercity. They didn’t realise how easy it had been for the Nihilists to create an army of young men and women prepared to kill themselves to kill others, or worse. Religious extremism and dangerous cults bred like rabbits in the Undercity, in places where the Civil Guard never ventured. One day, perhaps when the money ran out and the food no longer flowed freely, there would be an explosion.

“Yes, sir,” Edward said, finally. “Thank you, sir.”

Damiani snorted. “You’re getting a…charge as well,” he said. “There is a person who is being…exiled from Earth to a frontier world. You are to escort him to Avalon and protect him, at least until he reaches the planet. What happens after that is up to you.”

“Sir?”

“Professor Leo Caesius and his family,” Damiani explained. “The Professor used to teach at the Imperial Academy, until he wrote a book about the decline and coming fall of the Empire. It didn’t go down well with the Grand Senate; the book was officially banned and the Professor lost his job. The Civil Guard kept harassing him and his family until he applied for an emigration permit. I decided to offer him protection within this complex and provide transport from Earth.”

“Yes, sir,” Edward said. “May I ask why?”

“Not now,” Damiani said. “You can talk to the Professor while you’re on the voyage to Avalon, if you like. We’re keeping the fact that he’s under our protection to ourselves.”

“Yes, sir,” Edward said. “Will there be any problems getting him to the transport ship?”

“There shouldn’t be any problems,” Damiani assured him. “We’ll put him on a Marine shuttle and move him directly to orbit. The Civil Guard won’t get a sniff of his presence.”

Edward put the issue aside, for the moment. “Yes, sir,” he said. “When do we depart?”

“The
Sebastian Cruz
is currently in orbit and I will cut orders for her skipper to take you to Avalon,” Damiani said. “The
Cruz
is an entire Marine Transport Vessel, so you can take as many supplies as you can fit into the ship. I suggest you fill the ship up completely. Avalon isn’t going to be producing much in the way of Marine-grade equipment and I can’t guarantee getting additional supplies out to you. If the Grand Senate decides to close the New Hampshire or Armstrong naval bases, you’ll be cut off from Earth.”

“Sir,” Edward said slowly, “is that likely to happen?”

Damiani sighed. Just for a moment, Edward saw a very tired man staring back at him. “I wish I knew, Captain,” he said. “I’d like to believe that the Grand Senate can scrape up the money from somewhere to keep the bases open, if only on a shoestring, but the most optimistic projection we have said that it won’t happen. Even if they do, the Imperial Navy is going to be hard-pressed to keep running patrols through the outer sectors and the Rim, which leaves the area vulnerable to pirates and warlords.”

“They’ll appeal to the Emperor,” Edward said.

“Emperor Roland won’t care,” Damiani said. Edward remembered the portrait of the Childe Roland and shuddered. “The Grand Senate appointed his tutors, after all. The Emperor’s practical power is very limited. As long as they keep him happy, he’ll give them his blessing to do whatever they want to do. He should never have been crowned Emperor, but he was the person with the strongest claim to the Throne and the youngest. There are lots of years of life in our young Emperor.”

He looked up and looked directly at Edward. “I’m not giving you an easy task,” he warned, “but it has to be done. Concentrate on securing the planet and maintain some level of civilisation out there. Under the circumstances” – his lips twitched – “we’ll give you broad latitude to decide what needs to be done and do it. Do you have any other questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Edward said. “My Company is currently understrength. Can I put out a call for replacements?”

“Yes, but you may not get many,” Damiani warned. “Your unit isn’t the only one with a shortage.” He stood up. “Good luck, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir,” Edward said, saluting. “
Semper Fi
!”

***

As soon as he climbed into the aircar and programmed the navigational computer to take him back to the Barracks, he keyed his earpiece and linked directly to Gwen.

“We’re being shipped off-planet,” he said, without preamble. There would be time for fuller explanations later. “We’re due to leave in a week, so put out a general muster and explain to the troops that I want to brief them all at the Barracks in four hours. Make sure they all get some downtime first. We’re going to be very busy over the next week.”

“Yes, sir,” Gwen said. If she was curious about why the Company had been suddenly transferred off-world, she didn’t ask any questions. Edward was silently grateful for her discretion. He would have to explain to the Riflemen why they had all been banished to the Rim – Marines, unlike the Imperial Navy or the Civil Guard, admitted to their mistakes – and then see if anyone wanted to jump ship to a different Marine unit. The Grand Senate probably wouldn’t notice as long as Edward himself went to Avalon, even if Edward went alone. “You get some downtime as well, sir.”

“Yes, mother,” Edward said, although he took her point. Sergeants were responsible for the health of their superior officers as well as for the Riflemen under their command. As senior Sergeant within the Company, Gwen was partly responsible for supervising Edward himself. They’d worked together long enough to be comfortable with each other. “I’ll get a drink in one of the bars and then head back to the barracks and catch a nap.”

“At least two drinks,” Gwen said, firmly. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Can you pass the word to Lieutenant Howell,” Edward said. Lieutenant Thomas Howell handled the unit’s logistics. “Inform him that we have been granted unrestricted access to the storage depots in the system and that he is to go nuts, as long as we can fit it into the transport. I want him to pick up anything we might conceivably require. We may not be in line for resupply for a long time.”

“Yes, sir,” Gwen said. The aircar banked and came down to land at the Barracks, the massive complex that housed most of the military forces stationed near Imperial City. “I’ll let him know.”

Edward signed off and stepped out of the aircar, passing through a brief security check before entering the Barracks. Unsurprisingly, the Barracks were surrounded by reporters, each one trying to get a quote from the men and women who were trying to get in and out of the complex. Talking to the media was officially forbidden without prior permission, but he saw a number of Civil Guard officers being interviewed, each one taking the time to put their own views across to the public. They had to have powerful political patrons to risk breaking regulations like that. Edward would have bet good money that the Civil Guard Superintendent who had supervised the deployment of his Company had
very
powerful political patrols.

He shook his head and walked down the corridor towards the bars. The Barracks provided entertainment for soldiers and marines, saving them the trouble of leaving the military complex to sample the nightlife of Imperial City. Edward, in his younger days, had left the complex with his buddies, but now he had too many responsibilities to leave the complex behind.

He was nearly at the bar when he heard the commotion.

Chapter Three

If there is one issue that can be traced as causing the decline of Empire, it is the lack of civil virtue within the ranks of the government and military. Instead of facing unpleasant truths, government officers and irresponsible bureaucrats – who are never held to account – allow the problems to grow larger. On a smaller scale, given opportunities to enrich themselves, soldiers and policemen have become incredibly corrupt, destroying the trust in Empire that made the Empire work.

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

Rifleman Jasmine Yamane took a sip of her beer and leaned back in her chair, taking in the surrounding bar as her comrades argued over whose round it was. Being Marines coming off their combat high, the argument sounded as if it were going to explode into violence at any moment, but Jasmine knew better. Besides, she’d bought the last round and knew perfectly well that it wasn't her round. The other three were still trying to keep track of which rounds they’d bought.

The bar was dark and smoky, inhabited only by a pair of dancers on the stage and the four Marines. It wasn't too surprising, although the Barracks were normally inhabited by thousands of soldiers, spacers and their supporting officers. The Civil Guard and the local regiments of the Imperial Army had been called up to deal with the fallout from the terrorist attack, leaving the Marines of Stalker’s Stalkers to their own devices. Jasmine had heard – from rumour central – that someone high up had made the decision to keep the Marines off the streets, after the media started to blame the Marines for the recent disaster. It had hardly been the fault of the Marines that the Nihilists had decided to slaughter thousands of people to make their point that all existence had to come to an end one day, but people grieving their dead weren’t very rational. Jasmine knew – she’d been there – that the Marines had done their best to limit civilian casualties, yet with the Nihilists involved, it was often impossible to prevent them blowing themselves and their hostages sky-high. The bastards turned their own bodies to bombs and blew themselves up in the midst of their victims.

She took another sip of her beer and winced at the taste. For a beverage that cost each Marine four credits, it tasted suspiciously like something that had been poured out of the wrong end of a horse. Her experience with beer was limited – her homeworld was an officially dry world, for religious reasons – but she’d learned to drink since she’d joined the Marines and she was quite sure that it was the worst beer she had ever tasted. It was typical of spaceport bars. Merchant spacers would come off their ships, desperate for some alcohol after spending weeks on their ships, and the locals would quite happily cheat them out of their wages. They saved the good stuff for their regular customers.

“All right, all right,” Rifleman Blake Coleman said, pulling out his credit chip. His dark face twisted as he contemplated his empty glass. “I guess it’s my round.”

“Nice try,” Rifleman Koenraad Jurgen said, sticking out his tongue in a surprisingly childish gesture. Or perhaps it wasn't so childish at all. For two Marines who made up one of the best fire teams in the Company, they seemed to spend most of their off-duty time picking fights with each other. Jasmine had long since given up trying to understand the pair of them. “Try and get them to keep the cat’s piss out of it this time.”

“Nah, she only gives the cat’s piss to you,” Blake said, as he waved to the waitress. “I think the chances of you scoring tonight are minimal.”

“The chances of anyone scoring tonight are non-existent,” Jasmine said, shaking her head when the waitress offered to take her beer and replace it. There was no chance of decent beer unless she was prepared to overpay. “We’re getting called into a briefing, remember?”

“Fuck,” Koenraad said, with feeling. “You want to bet that the Old Man decided to piss us off just for the hell of it?”

“No bet,” Jasmine said, before Blake could say anything. “Chances are that they tracked down the death-worshipping masterminds and they want to send us after them before they escape.”

“I doubt it,” Blake said, as the waitress put a full glass of beer in front of him. Jasmine caught him eying the waitress’s breasts and shook her head at him. “If they found the headshrinkers behind the fucking cult, they’ll send the Civil Guard jerk-offs after them. They won’t let us get into them until the Civil Guard runs into trouble.”

“Which will be about ten seconds after they launch their assault,” Koenraad said, dryly. “Those assholes couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery.”

“With beer like this, I don’t think they would try,” Rifleman Joe Buckley said, swallowing half of his glass of beer in one gulp. “Why not organise a gang-bang in a brothel instead?”

“They couldn't get them up,” Blake said. He chuckled, rather nastily. “Has no one told you why the Civil Guard wears brown underwear?”

Joe shook his head. “No,” he said. “Why...?”

“It’s so that the stains won’t show when they run away,” he said. “They shit themselves when they go up against anyone who might actually put up a fight.”

Joe looked down at his battledress and then up again. “Does this explain the brown underwear you gave me on my birthday?”

Blake hesitated. “Well...”

“Of course not,” Koenraad said, quickly. “They suited you.”

“Asshole,” Joe said, without heat. “I’ll have you know that I wore my lucky red shirt today and got away with nary a scratch.”

“Lucky bastard,” Jasmine said, wryly. Joe had a remarkable talent for getting into scrapes that should have killed him, but somehow managing to escape with his life. He had been known to claim that he had nine lives. Jasmine was tempted to believe it. “A pity the same can't be said for the others.”