The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps (8 page)

Edward smiled. “You place me in an uncomfortable position,” he said, dryly. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” McDonald said. There was no give in him. “I'm sorry, sir.”

Edward considered the matter. “Tell me about Avalon,” he said. “Who are the Crackers?”

“Long story,” McDonald said. He paused, gathering his thoughts. “The short version of the story, sir, is that the Development Corporation that owned the planet – and most of the settlers and their contracts – overextended itself badly and ended up having to squeeze the planet tightly, just to pay their creditors. There were a series of...incidents that ended with Peter Cracker, one of the original colonists, leading a rebellion against the Development Corporation’s puppet planetary government. They didn't have anything left to lose. If they stayed and bowed to the corporation, they’d be in debt for the rest of their lives...and so would their grandchildren. They came far too close to destroying the Corporation once and for all.”

Edward nodded. It wasn't an unfamiliar pattern. In order to settle a planet, Development Corporations paid settlers to settle on the planet, giving them land in exchange for their efforts. The settlers would, if all went well, spend around ten-twenty years paying off their debts before breaking even and becoming freeholders. The contracts, however, had hidden clauses that actually made the colonists liable for the debts of the overall corporation, forcing them to remain in hock longer if the Corporation needed to keep squeezing them. Even if they avoided that trap, there were others. The Corporation was often the only source of tools and farming equipment, creating a legal monopoly that forced the colonists to spend their hard-earned credits on newer and better equipment. It didn't take much to unbalance the equation and set off a rebellion, or an outright revolution. It never ended well.

“The Avalon Development Corporation called in the Navy and the Navy smashed the main rebel army from orbit,” McDonald continued. “Peter Cracker himself was believed killed in the attack that slaughtered his army. The ADC landed tens of thousands of mercenaries and restored order to much of the planet, but thousands of former Crackers went underground and launched an insurgency against the new Imperial Governor. The survivors were convicted of rebellion and parcelled out as convict gangs, working side by side with the damned indents. It wasn't the planet’s finest hour.”

Edward scowled. The Empire’s solution to Earth’s massive overpopulation problem was to depot anyone convicted of even a minor crime. The indentured colonists – slaves in all, but name – were depoted to new colony worlds and put to work, carrying out the hard labour that was needed to break the ground and turn an Earth-like world into a new colony. They were mistreated and generally regarded with suspicion by the settlers who had paid their way, or even signed contracts with the Development Corporation. They had no stake at all in their new homeworld.

“I see,” he said, finally. “And what is the political situation now?”

McDonald laughed, humourlessly. “The Empire put in a Governor after the ADC collapsed and took direct control of the planet,” he said. “There’s a planetary council that basically does whatever the Governor tells it to do, although that may have changed. There’s a simmering insurgency in the backcountry. Many of the planet’s independent farmers pay as little lip service to Camelot as they can get away with. The Civil Guard cannot be trusted to do anything other than fill its pockets with bribes. The planet itself is still in debt and has little hope of ever climbing out of the trap.”

Edward frowned. “Why can’t they pay the Empire off?”

“The ADC had a grand plan to turn Avalon into a core world for the sector,” McDonald explained. “They built a cloud-scoop for the gas giant years ahead of its market. The scoop now has to be maintained, according to Imperial Law, but it doesn’t pay for itself. They barely get a handful of ships each year. Oh, it might have changed...”

“It
might
have changed?”

“I left the planet twenty-one years ago,” McDonald admitted. Edward had to admit that he had a point. “My family...my family are all dead. All of my knowledge is twenty-one years out of date.”

Edward strokes his chin, feeling the first bristles of stubble. “I see,” he said, coming to a decision. “You’re welcome to transfer. Report back to Sergeant Patterson and tell her that you’re...assigned to 2
^nd
Platoon, at least until we run through the first training exercises. If you fit in with them, I see no reason why your transfer shouldn't be made permanent.”

“Thank you, sir,” McDonald said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Edward said. He smiled, thinly. “I intend to pick your brains of everything you know about your former homeworld. If we’re going to be assigned there, I want to know everything about it before we get there.”

“Yes, sir,” McDonald said. “Sir...just what does the Commandant expect us to do on Avalon?”

Any other service wouldn’t have tolerated such a question, but the Marines were different. “He expects us to do our duty,” Edward said, seriously. “We are ordered to deal with pirates, and insurgents and all other threats to the Empire. Who knows where that will take us?”

They shared a long look of perfect understanding. “Report to Sergeant Patterson,” Edward ordered. “She will see to your induction.”

“Yes, sir,” McDonald said. “And thank you.”

Edward smiled as the hatch closed behind the Rifleman. Finding McDonald was a stroke of luck. Avalon wouldn't have changed that much since he’d left his homeworld, not a stage-two colony world. They rarely changed quickly, unless something happened to overthrow the balance. And they always had opportunities, if one were quick to seize them. He checked his timepiece and stood up, snatching his jacket and pulling it over his shirt. There was just time for some exercise in the training bay before he returned to Earth.

Chapter Seven

It is impossible to exaggerate the levels of corruption present at all levels within the Empire. Senators routinely accept bribes from contractors; civil servants frequently steal or ‘mislay’ vital supplies for their own purposes; military officers cheat their men of their wages, or vital training hours...it is a problem so deeply rooted within the Empire that it may be impossible to even begin to eradicate it. And yet, just by existing, corruption breeds corruption; juniors see their seniors feeding from the trough and wonder...why can't they do the same? The answer is, always, that they can.

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

Jasmine followed Lieutenant Howell out of the aircar and down onto the steps in front of the Supply Corps headquarters. She wasn't particularly surprised to see that the Supply Corps had built themselves a massive and elaborate building, almost a palace among the duller buildings belonging to other sections of the armed forces. The pair of Civil Guardsmen on duty took one look at the two Marines and winced. The Marines, wearing full battledress and carrying their assault rifles slung over their shoulders, were hellishly intimidating.

She painted a dispassionate expression on her face and smiled inwardly. If the terrorists and rebels the Marines had to actually fight were so easily intimidated, the Empire would have been in a much better state. It still surprised her to realise that some parts of the armed forces were actually scared of loaded weapons, even though everyone who wore the Emperor’s uniform was supposed to have at least basic training in using weapons. Perhaps it was a hangover from the Civil Guardsmen, who were routinely cheated of their training by their superiors, who hated doing the paperwork. The Marines and the Imperial Army, by contrast, fired off more rounds in training than they did in combat.

Howell didn’t look back at her to check that she was following him; he just marched over to the first guard, who looked as if he would rather be someplace else. Jasmine could understand that impulse; she was meant to be training with the rest of 2
^nd
Platoon and she would have been, if she hadn’t been put on punishment duty. Among the Marines, even punishment duty was meant to educate. She’d need that experience if she ever made Lieutenant or Sergeant herself.

“I am Lieutenant Howell,” Howell informed the guard, in a tone that almost broke Jasmine’s stony face. The imperious tone made her want to break out into giggles. “I have an appointment with Commander Winslow. You will provide escort to his office.”

The guard blinked at him. “Sir, I am under strict instructions to have every visitor to this building passed through security first,” he said, owlishly. “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait.”

Howell met his eyes, wiping the smile from his face. “And I have strict orders from the Grand Senate itself to ensure that the…irregularities and delays in supplying my unit are cleared up as soon as possible,” he said, firmly. “I suggest that you put your concerns aside and escort us to the Commander. What possible harm could we do escorted by your fine self?”

Jasmine didn’t, quite, snigger, but the guard looked at her nervously. If she couldn’t take him bare naked with one hand tied behind her back, she should be dishonourably discharged from the Marine Corps. A Marine on guard duty would have refused to quail and insisted that they went through a full security check, secure in the knowledge that his superiors would back him up if necessary. The refusal to allow entry would have been backed up with deadly force if it were required. The Civil Guard, on the other hand, would happily hang a mere guard out to dry if the Grand Senate chose to be displeased. Such a low-ranking guard had no protection against his superiors, or their impossible orders.

“I’ll have to ask you to check your weapons at the guardhouse,” he said, giving in as gracefully as he could. “We don’t allow weapons inside the building.”

“Yes, I suppose it would be irritating if outraged officers and men attacked the Supply Officers,” Howell said, dryly. “We’re responsible for the weapons and my superiors would not be happy if I left them in someone else’s care.”

The guard gave in. “Yes, sir,” he said, nodding to his comrade. “I’ll escort you to the Commander at once.”

Jasmine smirked inwardly as they were escorted into the building. It could have easily passed for a brothel or even a manor house, owned by a rich or well-connected family. The walls were decorated with paintings and artworks, while the carpeting was so lush and warm that she almost wanted to take off her boots and start padding. Hundreds of men and women, wearing the distinctive uniform of the Supply Corps, stared at the two Marines and scattered, like birds suddenly confronted by a hungry cat. It wasn't the normal reaction at all.

The Supply Corps, or so she’d been briefed, had been set up to harmonise the logistics of the different armed forces. Howell had explained that, in theory, the idea had looked good. In practice, the results had been disastrous for all of the armed forces, leaving them desperately scrabbling for supplies. The attempts to improve the logistics system had caused bottlenecks and shortages at the worst possible times, with the bureaucrats in the Supply Corps demanding paperwork in triplicate before granting any requests. The armed forces had responded by setting up duplicate offices and trying to limit what they requested from the official service, but it hampered their operations and created more opportunities for graft and corruption. She had never seen a thin supply officer.

Howell had told her that it was worse out on the frontier, away from Earth. Supply Officers had a habit of selling off military supplies to pad out their wages, often leaving the soldiers and spacers in desperate trouble. The terrorists the Marines fought might well have purchased their weapons from one of the supply officers, or perhaps they’d been passed down a long chain, while the Marines and Civil Guards had to beg for supplies. She had asked why the officers were never arrested and Howell had explained that they often had friends among the Military Police, although it wasn't uncommon for supply officers to suffer accidents. There were dark rumours of how some corrupt officers had met their ends. Exactly how one of them could have committed suicide with his hands tied behind his back was beyond her imagination, suggesting a whitewash. There were limits to what the rest of the armed forces would tolerate.

Commander Winslow’s office was just what she had expected. It was twice the size of a Marine Berthing Compartment, decorated in a gaudy style that shocked what remained of her ingrained social conservatism. Pictures of naked women were scattered all over the walls, some of them suggesting perversions that made her feel uncomfortable, others pure vanilla. Commander Winslow himself was short, bald and fishy-looking, eyeing the two Marines as if he expected them to shoot him on sight. No innocent man, even one who believed everything the Pacifist League said about Marines, could have looked so guilty.

“Commander Winslow, sir,” the guard said, and made his escape.

“You don’t have an appointment,” Winslow said. He had a nasal voice that reminded Jasmine of how her little brother had used to whine when he couldn’t get something he wanted. “You should have confirmed your appointment with my secretary…”

“I attempted to make an appointment two days ago,” Howell said, taking a seat and crossing his legs in a deliberately nonchalant manner. “Your mistress” – Winslow jumped and tried to look as if he hadn’t – “was most unhelpful. The earliest appointment she could give me to see you was two weeks from today, which would have been…tricky. We are meant to be leaving this planet in three days. My commanding officer was most upset.”

“I can’t help you,” Winslow protested. “The system has to be respected. I’m sure that your commanding officer will understand.”

“He was not very understanding about my failure,” Howell said, touching a scar on his cheek. Jasmine, who knew perfectly well that Howell had been scarred two years ago during hand-to-hand fighting with a terrorist, had to fight to hide a smile. The thought of Captain Stalker cutting Howell as punishment was absurd. “My punishment was quite…harsh.”