The Empire’s Corps – Free Sample

Christopher Nuttall

Cover Blurb

You Should Never Speak Truth To Power…

The Galactic Empire is dying and chaos and anarchy are breaking out everywhere.  After a disastrous mission against terrorists on Earth itself, Captain Edward Stalker of the Terran Marine Corps makes the mistake of speaking truth to power, telling one of the most powerful men in the Empire a few home truths.  As a result, Captain Stalker and his men are unceremoniously exiled to Avalon, a world right on the Rim of the Empire.  It should have been an easy posting…

Well, apart from the bandits infesting the countryside, an insurgency that threatens to topple the Empire’s loose control over Avalon, and a corrupt civil government more interested in what it can extort from the population than fighting a war.  The Marines rapidly find themselves caught up in a whirlwind of political and economic chaos, fighting to preserve Avalon before the competing factions tear the world apart.  They’re Marines; if anyone can do it, they can.

The battle to save the Empire starts here.

Chapter One

The Nihilists are a terrorist cult that appeared during the waning years of empire, worshipping death as a political statement – and very little else.  Nihilists have no political ambitions or demands; they simply seek to kill as many humans as possible, including themselves, in order to satisfy their lust for destruction.  Their attacks are almost always unpredictable and very destructive.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

The stench of death was in the air.

Captain Edward Stalker walked through what remained of the city-block and shuddered inwardly.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  Human bodies lay everywhere, some broken and torn, others surprisingly intact, surrounded by the blackened ruins of what had once been their home.  Four days ago, the city-block had played host to four thousand middle-class men and women, bureaucrats who had worked to keep the Empire running.  They had lived and worked and played within the confines of their block.  Their children had grown up, formed relationships with other children and started families of their own.  It might not have been a perfect life, but it had been a life.  They’d been happy.

And then the Nihilists had arrived.  They’d taken over the block and prevented anyone from leaving, taking everyone in the block hostage against the inevitable response by the Civil Guard.  The Guard had failed to dislodge the Nihilists from their positions and, in desperation, had screamed for the Marines.  The Marines had gone into the block and liberated it, at a cost.  Over three thousand hostages – and thirty-one Marines – lay dead in the rubble.  The Nihilists had never intended to bargain with their lives, or seek a political advantage; the Nihilists had simply intended to blacken the Empire’s eye by slaughtering its civilians.  They’d somehow shipped in enough weapons and explosives to blast the entire block to dust.  It had been sheer luck that they’d failed to blow the complex when the Marines went in.  Edward knew better than to rely on luck.  Marines made their own luck.

He ground his teeth together as he looked towards a billowing cloud of smoke in the distance, towards the other end of the complex.  The Civil Guard had sworn blind that there were only a hundred Nihilists within the complex, more than enough to control a city-block full of unarmed sheep, but they’d been wrong.  There had been over four hundred Nihilists within the block and over half of them had attempted a breakout when the Marines went in.  They’d hit the Civil Guard and smashed right through them, vanishing into the Undercity before the Marines could get into position to block their escape.  Retreating under fire was uncharacteristic for the Nihilists – normally, they fought and died in place, turning their deaths into a political statement – but Edward had to admit that it had worked out for them.  Their propaganda machine was already gloating over how they’d escaped the Marines.  The hundreds of media reporters now swarming through the remains of the block – after paying a bribe to the Civil Guard Superintendent – wouldn’t hesitate to take their propaganda and run it as fact.  The Empire would be demoralised, exactly as the Nihilists had intended.

“Captain,” Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson said, as Edward entered the small gym.  It, like the other rooms in the complex, had been blackened by fire, but the material used to build it could have stood up to a small nuke.  The Marines had taken it over and turned it into a prisoner holding facility.  “We have seventeen prisoners here and nine others who have been transferred to the Appleton Hospital.”

Edward nodded, taking in the sight in front of him.  The Nihilists didn’t look so threatening now.  Stripped of their weapons and combat armour, lying on the hard floor with their hands secured behind their backs, they looked terrified, as if they expected the Marines to start torturing them at any moment.  They weren’t hardcore Nihilists, Edward knew; hardcore Nihilists would never have been taken alive.  They were just young men and women who had been seduced by the Nihilists and recruited into terrorist cells, just for something to do.  They might not even have realised that their new masters considered them expendable.  It wouldn’t matter in the end.  They’d be walked in front of a judge, once their brains had been drained dry of everything they knew, and either executed or exiled to one of the frontier worlds as indentured labour.  It was one way out of the stifling boredom of the Middle City.

“Good,” he said, tiredly.  Gwen was short and surprisingly feminine.  No one would have taken her for a Marine on first glance, even though she could outfight almost anyone else within the Company.  Rumour had it that Gwen had a habit of cruising the bars in the Undercity and beating up rapists, although Edward had carefully refrained from looking into the rumours.  He might have had to take official notice of her activities.

“The Civil Guard beat up on a couple of them and raped a third,” Gwen added, her face twisting into an expression of distaste.  Marines were supposed to be perfectly controlled at all times.  The Civil Guard was really a glorified police force.  They carried weapons and acted like a military service, yet they were hardly up to Marine standards.  “They now want the remaining prisoners turned over to their custody.”

Edward scowled, staring down at the prisoners.  There was little hope of punishing the Civil Guard for their activities.  Their supervisors would hand out meaningless punishments, if they bothered to take notice at all…after all, they’d say, it had only been Nihilists who had suffered.  Edward, who’d grown up on Earth, knew just how deeply the Civil Guard were hated by the local population, but their opinions didn’t matter.  He looked towards the towering spires of Imperial City and the Grand Senate.  Only their opinions mattered in the Empire.

“Tell them that we’re taking them in for interrogation first,” he said, sourly.  The nasty part of his mind kept asking why he bothered, but he pushed it aside.  “How’s Joe?”

“Survived, again,” Gwen said, with a wink.  Joe Buckley was one of the enlisted men, with a remarkable talent for getting into situations where he should have died…and walking out of them unscathed.  This time, a group of Nihilists had jumped him and his platoon as they advanced, blowing the floor and sending both groups plummeting down to the basement.  “He was a bit stunned afterwards, but refused to allow me to send him back to the barracks.”

Her face darkened.  “We lost Lucy, though,” she added.  “The internal damage was too much for her and she died on the way to the medical centre.”

Edward nodded, refusing to let his feelings show.  Lucy had been a newcomer to the Company, but she’d fitted in well and become popular with her comrades.  He remembered a bright young girl with a promising career ahead of her, now cut short by the Nihilists and their absurd death wish.  She had been a Marine in the truest sense of the word, laying down her life to protect others.  She had died under his command.  Lucy was hardly the first trooper he’d lost, but it always hurt, like a knife in the gut.  

His earpiece buzzed before he could say anything else.  “Captain, this is Garrison,” a new voice said.  “The Grand Senate has summoned you to testify before their Emergency Committee.”

“Oh, they have, have they?”  Edward said, angrily.  He needed to pull his men back to the barracks and make the preparations for the farewell ceremonies for the dead, not speak before the political lords and masters of the Empire.  “And when do they want me to do this?”

“Now,” Garrison said.  “They were very insistent.  I kept them waiting as long as I could.”

“You’d better go,” Gwen said, her face reflecting the same distaste for politicians and their manoeuvres as he felt.  “I’ll see to everything here.”

Edward wanted to protest – he was Captain; it was his responsibility – but she was right.  “Understood,” he said.  “Semper Fi.”

“Semper Fi,” Gwen returned.

Edward walked back out of the complex, barely aware of the two armed Marines escorting him as he headed down towards the landing pad and the handful of aircars waiting there.  The press, kept back by a weak line of Civil Guardsmen, shouted questions towards him, but Edward ignored them completely.  He knew from experience that anything he said – or any other Marine said – would be mutated into something else before it even hit the broadsheets and reached the public.  In the coming days, he knew, the reporters would milk the terrorist attack for all it was worth, interviewing anyone and everyone who might know something about the disaster.  They’d probably blame everything on the Marines.

The aircar rose up into the air and headed towards the Grand Senate’s building, looming next to the Imperial Palace and the Assembly of Nobles.  Edward had always considered the building a monument to grandeur rather than good taste, but he had to admit that it was striking in the dawn, when the light from the rising sun was reflected across the city by the building.  Hundreds of other aircars were flying all over the city, most of them heading towards the scene of the terrorist attack.  The handful of aircars the Nihilists had shot down hadn’t deterred air traffic for long, but really…who would want to walk on the ground?  Outside the massive city-blocks, anarchy ruled Earth, no matter what the Grand Senate said.  The Civil Guard wasn’t up to the task of keeping the streets in order.  Earth deported – or executed – hundreds of thousands of criminals each year, yet it barely made a dent in the problem.  Edward, who’d grown up on Earth, knew the truth.  The undercity dwellers had nothing to live for.

He checked his appearance as the aircar floated down towards the priority landing pad.  He still wore the light combat armour he’d donned for the mission, even though he’d removed the helmet as soon as the fighting had ended.  The Grand Senators would probably be horrified as soon as they smelt him, the nasty part of his mind whispered, but it was their fault.  They should have waited long enough for him to have a shower and change into his dress blues.  The handful of servitors who met him at the pad looked as if they couldn’t decide if they wanted to sneer at him, or run screaming.  A Marine had no place in their world.

“Come with me,” one of the servants said, finally.  Edward smiled tiredly – she was worth smiling at, even though her face and body was probably the result of cosmetic surgery – and allowed her to lead him through the corridors towards the Senate Chamber.  The small groups of people they met on their passage leapt aside, stunned by the sight of a man wearing armour and carrying a weapon.  The MAG-74 looked fearsome even in the hands of a man who didn’t know what he was doing with it.  Edward had spent two years at the Slaughterhouse learning how to use it as a precision weapon.

They reached the antechamber and Edward stopped, looking up at the massive portrait that hung on one wall.  The Emperor’s face stared back down at him.  Emperor Roland had been crowned Emperor when he had been a child of barely two years old.  Now, he was fifteen and, if rumour were to be believed, a spoilt brat.  It didn’t matter.  Edward saluted the portrait anyway.  Loyalty to the Emperor, he’d been taught, was all that kept the Empire together.

“The Grand Senate will see you now,” the servitor said, with a bow that exposed a considerable amount of cleavage.  A massive wooden door – real wood, part of Edward’s mind noted – swung open.  “Please leave your weapon with the security guards and enter the chamber.”

Edward unslung the rifle from his shoulder, code-locked the firing trigger, and passed it to the guard.  Leaving it with them, he stepped into the chamber, wincing slightly as a spotlight shone down on him from high above.  The thirteen Grand Senators, the Grand Old Men of the Empire, stared down at him, their faces expressionless and cold.  As long as they worked together, Edward had been told, they could effectively run the Empire to suit themselves.  They dominated the Senate and the Assembly of Nobles.  The House of Representatives was hopelessly divided.

“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 Stature, 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.”

“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 deports 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 pay over the odds.  “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.”

A moment of silence fell as they raised their glasses in silent unison.  A Marine Company was a family, no matter how much they bickered and fought when off-duty.  The dead would be remembered and entered in the permanent rolls of Marines who had died carrying out their duties, their names and records recited to new Marines who had just joined the Company.  They would live on in the thoughts and deeds of their former comrades.

“No,” Joe said, softly.  “It can’t be said for them.”

The music in the bar changed and the dancers started to strip off their remaining clothes.  Jasmine watched them without particular interest, although both Blake and Koenraad were watching with lustful expressions on their faces.  The women in the bars were almost certainly prostitutes as well as dancers, selling their bodies to military personnel for credits.  She guessed, from what little she’d heard from the Earth-born in the Company, that they would never be able to aspire to anything higher in life.  They had no hopes, no dreams...no future.  Her homeworld had been socially conservative and constraining, but even there she’d had opportunities.  The lower-class women of Earth had none.  They couldn’t even find a berth on a colony ship.

“Great lookers,” Blake said, swigging down his remaining beer.  “I think I’ll go try my luck.”

“Don’t be late home,” Koenraad said, as Blake started to get up.  “You miss the briefing and the Sergeant will cut off your balls and stuff them down your throat.”

Jasmine snickered.  “Ah, if men could bend over enough to suck their own cocks, they’d be doing it all the time,” she said.  Blake gave her a one-fingered gesture.  “Have fun; try not to catch anything...”

The door swung open and nine men stepped in, wearing the yellow and black uniform of the Civil Guard.  They were unarmed, which suggested that they were off-duty and not coming to try to bust the Marines for some imagined infraction, but looked unpleasant.  Jasmine took one look at them and knew how the day was going to end.  Their leader glanced around, saw the Marines and the empty glasses in front of them, and scowled at them.  The Civil Guard hated the Marine Corps.  It was a hatred the Marines didn't bother to return.  It would have given the Civil Guard too much credit.

“Ah, assholes,” Blake said, as the waitress scurried over to the newcomers.  She had to hurry for them.  The Civil Guard, unlike the Marines, was permanently attached to the Barracks.  A word from the Guard could have the waitress thrown in the stockade or simply sacked and sent back to the Undercity.  “They’ll insist on dancing and drinking and I won’t get a look in.”

“They might have done you a favour,” Joe pointed out.  “You never know whose sloppy seconds you’re getting here.”

Blake looked as if he were going to say something cutting, when he was interrupted by a scream from the waitress.  One of the Civil Guardsmen had grabbed her ass hard enough to hurt, while one of the others had started to grope her breasts in public.  Jasmine blinked in disbelief before spotting the telltale signs of drug abuse.  A crime that would have a Marine running the Gauntlet before being dishonourably discharged from the Corps meant almost nothing to the Civil Guard.  As long as they showed up for duty reasonably sober, no one would give a damn.

“Hey, asshole,” Blake shouted, loudly enough to be heard over the din.  “You want to pick on someone your own size?”

The Civil Guardsman let go of the waitress, stood up and sauntered over to the Marines.  “You want to make a thing of a little bitchy whore?”

Jasmine rolled her eyes as Blake puffed up.  He might have looked like a thug, with a very rough and ready demeanour, but deep inside Blake thought of himself as a paladin, a man who protected the weak and helpless from the wolves.  It would be a brave man – or a fool – who picked a fight with him, yet she could see the traces of drug abuse in the man’s eye and knew that he wouldn't back down.  The day was definitely going to end badly.

“Yes,” Blake said, standing up.  The Civil Guardsman would have been wise to back down at that point – Blake was bigger and stronger than him and it showed – but he was too far gone to care.  His pride wouldn't let him back down in the face of the enemy.  “She doesn't deserve shit from you.”

“And we get too much shit from you,” the man returned.  His cronies laughed as if it was the funniest thing they’d heard in years.  “We just spent the last hour carting out the bodies from your fucking fuck-up!”

Blake’s eyes flashed murder.  “What did you just say?”

“You killed over five hundred children,” the Civil Guardsman snapped.  His cronies stood up and advanced behind him, fists balling up into readiness for a fight.  “We saw the bodies.  Many of them were killed by your fire.”

“And your people didn't help,” Blake thundered.  “Didn’t it occur to you to make sure that you got your figures straight before you wet yourselves and screamed for help?”

“Fuck you,” the Guardsman replied, bunching up a fist and throwing a punch right into Blake’s face.  Blake ducked and threw a punch back, smacking his opponent right in the jaw.  He howled in pain as he toppled over backwards, just before Blake kicked him in the head and knocked him out.  It had probably come as a relief.

“Get them,” one of his cronies said, and threw himself at Koenraad.  Koenraad stepped aside, allowed the Guardsman to slip past him, and then grabbed him and threw him into a wall.  Two more Guardsmen tried to jump Blake, only to be knocked down in seconds as Blake twisted, never quite where they expected him to be.  Jasmine sighed inwardly and stood up as another Guardsman came right at her, eyes alight with an eerie lust and fury.  There was no point in trying to reason with a stoned idiot.  She kicked him neatly between the legs and saw him crumple to the ground.

Joe remained seated until his opponent got within range, and then he picked up his glass and hurled his beer right into his enemy’s face.  Before the guardsman could respond, he lunged forward and head-butted him in the chest, knocking him down and pouring a second glass of beer over his face.  His stunned opponent seemed to think that Joe was pouring acid; he kept trying to cover his face from the liquid.  Joe dropped the remaining glass by his side and winked at Jasmine.

“I guess this stuff really is cat’s piss,” he said, and laughed.

Blake was still fighting with the last two Guardsmen, with Koenraad waiting to see if his services would be needed.  It didn't seem likely.  Even half-drunk, Blake was a far better fighter than either of the Guardsmen and seemed to find it easy to take them both one.  He punched one of them in the chest, knocking him back, and then kicked the other one in the leg.  His opponent toppled over and hit the ground with a sickening thud.  Jasmine found herself hoping that they weren't seriously injured.  The authorities might turn a blind eye to the occasional bout of fighting in the Barracks, but they’d be far less inclined to smile on actual bodily harm, even if the assholes had deserved it.

“Aw,” Koenraad said, when the final Guardsman had hit the ground.  “You could have saved one for me.”

“Get bent,” Blake said, kicking his fallen opponent.  The moaning Guardsmen didn't look happy at all.  “You’d only waste the opportunity.”

“Look out,” the waitress snapped, her voice somehow echoing over the din.  “The Patrol!”

The Marines exchanged glances.  No words were needed.  They took off as a group and raced down the corridor, heading back to their particular section of the barracks.  The Shore Patrol wouldn't hesitate to arrest anyone caught brawling and none of them could afford to spend a night in the stockade.  The Sergeants would take a dim view of any of them who missed the briefing.

“Stop,” a voice bellowed, as the Patrol gave chase.  “You...stop!”

Jasmine braced herself as she ran around a corner, half-expecting to feel a stun burst bursting over her at any second.  She almost missed seeing the man wearing Marine uniform, just before her mind caught up and realised that they’d almost run down a Captain.  Not just any Captain; their Captain.

“Sir,” she said, coming to attention.  The others followed her lead.  “Marine Rifleman...”

“You,” the Patrolman snapped.  Four Patrolmen, each one carrying a stunner, stumbled to a halt as they reached the Marines.  “You’re under arrest...”

Captain Stalker’s calm voice somehow overrode his.  “Is there a problem...ah, Constable?”

“I’ll say there is,” the Patrolman said.  He was too excited to think clearly, or he would have thought before he opened his mouth.  Insulting a Marine Captain in front of his men was not conductive to long life and health.  “These criminals assaulted twelve members of the Civil Guard!”

“They did?”  Captain Stalker said, lifting a single eyebrow.  He didn't sound as if he realised the gravity of the situation.  Instead, he sounded as if he were bored.  “These Marines in front of you?”

“Yes,” the Patrolman snapped.  “They’re going to spend the night in the stockade and formal charges will be filed against them tomorrow!”

Captain Stalker didn't sound as if he had paid attention.  “And what do they have to say for themselves?”

“They started it,” Blake said, quickly.  “They assaulted a waitress!”

“And they’re all still alive,” Jasmine added.  The Captain’s gaze switched to her and she felt her cheeks burn.  “They picked a fight and they lost.”

“Doubtless,” Captain Stalker murmured.  “These...miscreants have an important briefing to attend.  Their punishment will be handled by the Marines, Constable.”  His voice was impeccably polite.  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

“But...they’re criminals,” the Patrolman protested.  “I have to take them in and book them.”

“The Sergeant will see to their punishment,” Captain Stalker said, with a languid wave towards the Patrolman.  The Patrolman looked behind him and jumped when he realised that Master Sergeant Gary Young had somehow appeared behind him.  Jasmine wasn't so surprised – the Sergeant was the sneakiest man in the Corps – yet even she was impressed.  “You do not have to concern yourself any further.”

“I have to take them in,” the Patrolman insisted.  He broke off as he finally realised that he and his men were outnumbered, even if they were carrying stunners.  They were trained for riot control, criminal investigation and little else.  The Marines could have overpowered them with ease.  “Will you see to their punishment?”

“I assure you that they will regret whatever they have done,” Captain Stalker said, a steely note entering his tone.  “Now...Sergeant, escort these men back to barracks.”

“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said.

The Patrolman admitted defeat and led his men back to the bar.  If Jasmine knew the Patrol, they would probably take the Civil Guardsmen in and arrest them instead of the Marines.  Someone would have to take the blame for the brief fight, or the Patrol would look bad.  It was a relief to know that the Marines didn't place so much stock in appearances.

“You lot, move,” Sergeant Young growled.  On the other hand, Marines weren’t meant to be picking fights in bars, even with Guardsmen.  The Marine Sergeants had plenty of ways to punish misbehaving Marines.  “Now!”

Jasmine saluted the Captain and then followed the Sergeant back to the barracks.  Blake had been right, of course.  The Civil Guardsmen had deserved the beating, or so she told herself.  The Marines would just have to take the consequences.  She looked behind her, just for a second, and caught sight of the Captain.

He was smiling.

Chapter Four

Among the Marines, there is a culture of personal dedication, personal responsibility and service – service to the Marine Corps and its ideal.  A Marine learns to take and shoulder responsibility, or stays out of the chain of command.  Outside the Marines, it is harder and harder to find examples where power and responsibility are evenly balanced; power without responsibility is the rule.  The results, alas, are predicable.  The Empire’s rulers possess no loyalty to anything beyond themselves.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

“Attention!”

Edward was still smiling as he strode into the briefing compartment, although he had to admit that it wasn’t really that funny.  He’d downloaded the report from the Patrol and had been amused by the various attempts the Civil Guardsmen had made to avoid any kind of responsibility for the brief fight.  Their claims that the Marines had attacked them looked increasingly hollow as they kept trying to duck responsibility, leaving Edward firmly convinced that they had deserved their beating.  Their CO had lodged an official complaint, but Edward had mollified him by pointing out that the Marines were going to be leaving in a week anyway and there was no point in locking them up.  They would be dealt with within the Company.

“At ease,” he said, as he took his position at the front of the room.  The Marines relaxed with an audible noise.  “Sergeant...roll call?”

“All present and accounted for, sir,” Gwen said.  Her voice echoed in the silent room.  “We have seventy-four combat effectives in this Company, sir!”

Edward  nodded, allowing his eyes to drift from face to face.  A civilian would have been struck by how young they were, yet even the most inobservant civilian could hardly have failed to notice the shared expression in their eyes.  The youngest Marine in the compartment was twenty-one years old, yet she had spent two years at the Slaughterhouse before qualifying and being formally enrolled among the Marine Corps.  They had all been tested in the harshest of fires.  The Imperial Navy might regard the Marines as a luxury and the Imperial Army might regard them as over-paid pretty boys, but Edward knew the truth.  The Marines were, man for man, the single most effective fighting force in the Empire.

The Terran Marine Corps had come into existence after the Third World War, yet it could trace its origins far further back, right back to John Paul Jones and the birth of the United States of America, a nation now barely remembered outside the American-ethnic worlds near Earth.  The men and women in the compartment were heirs to a tradition that stretched back over a thousand years, one that placed loyalty and competence above all else.  It was no wonder, Edward thought, that the Grand Senate was nervous about them.  The Marines had far fewer opportunities for graft and corruption than any other service.  Every Marine would sooner die than fail his comrades.  

And he was their commander.  The Company was the largest permanent formation in the Marine Corps; Regiments, Battalions and Divisions were, at best, temporary formations, composed of Companies that could be mixed and matched at will.  He’d been told, back when he'd decided to aim for commissioned status, that Captain’s rank was the best and worst in the entire Corps.  The best because it was the position of ultimate trust; the worst because the lives of one hundred Marines depended upon their commander.  His mistakes could get them killed.  The Marine tradition of naming units after their commanding officer was not only a reward for good service, but a warning.  The Marines were his, in the fullest sense of the word.  Their lives were in his hands.  He felt the weight of responsibility settling down on his shoulders and he smiled.  He would not betray his men.

“Take your seats,” he ordered, calmly, and waited until the Marines were seated.  A civilian might have been surprised by how informal it was, but there was no need for him to assert his authority by acting like a dickhead.  “There has been a development on Earth.”

He paused, silently cursing himself under his breath.  His mistake, his hasty words, had condemned his Marines to exile.  “The Grand Senate wanted my opinion of what happened over the last two days,” he continued, finally.  Marines learned from their earliest days to confess their mistakes and learn from them.  Everyone, Marines included, made mistakes.  The trick was to learn from them and not to repeat them.  It wasn't quite as easy as it sounded...but then, nothing ever was.  “I told them the truth.”

“Big mistake there, sir,” Blake Coleman said, from the back.

Edward fought down a smile as Sergeant Young glowered at Blake.  Like many of the enlisted men, Blake was bored when he wasn't fighting or fucking...and he had no ambitions towards becoming a commissioned officer or an NCO.  Smart remarks were the least of his problems, although Edward privately appreciated the humour.  It helped to defuse the situation.  

“Quite,” he agreed, dryly.  “The Grand Senate rewarded me for my honesty by exiling me – and you – to Avalon, a planet on the edge of the Rim.  Our exile was my fault and I take full responsibility for it.”

“Ah, it was getting boring here, sir,” Blake said, quickly.  

There were some chuckles.  “Silence in the ranks,” Gwen thundered, with a look that promised trouble for Blake later.  Even for Marines, there were limits.  “Coleman, I’ll see you later.”

Edward spoke again before anyone else could interrupt.  “If any of you wish to seek a transfer to any other unit, speak to me or the Sergeants about it and we will attempt to honour your request,” he said.  Marines rarely moved out of their units.  It was too hard to fit them into a new unit without heavy intensive training.  “Let us know before the end of the day; tomorrow we start preparing for our journey.  I’m afraid it will be six months in the tubes for most of us.”

This time, the groans were real.  The Marines would be placed in stasis tubes once they were onboard the transport and would be taken out of the tubes when they reached Avalon.  A handful would remain awake and active, making preparations for the landing, but none of the Marines liked being helpless in the tubes.  There were plenty of rumours about colony ships being hijacked and their colonists pressed into slavery on hidden colony worlds.  Not that pirate crews would bother keeping the Marines alive, of course.  Once they realised what they had on their hands, the Marines would be unceremoniously spaced.

“There isn't an alternative,” he snapped, before anyone could make a comment.  “If you’re fighting already today, what are you going to be like after a month in Phase Drive?”

There was no answer.  “Avalon is rated as a Class-Two Colony World, so any of you who wish to invite your wives or sweethearts along should mention it to the Sergeants,” Edward continued.  Marine Riflemen – the lowest rank – rarely married, but they often formed long-term relationships.  “We can obtain permission for emigration from the Colonisation Office, subject to the usual regulations.  There are no restrictions on who may enter Avalon.”

He saw the implications sinking into their heads, a handful looking more thoughtful than usual.  Civilians thought of Marines – and soldiers in general – as dumb beasts; after all, who in their right mind would charge into the teeth of enemy fire?  Marines were encouraged to learn as much as possible, particularly history – there were millions of lessons to be learned from history – and that included the early years of human exploration and settlement.  A planet with few immigration restrictions would, likely as not, end up with a multiethnic or religious population, a recipe for trouble down the line.  The lax regulations – a brief glance at the file had suggested that the development corporation had been desperate for colonists – would come back to haunt them.  Or maybe they’d be lucky.  There were several worlds that had formed a new culture, or had simple kept the two cultures apart.

“We may be there for as little as a year, or much longer,” he concluded.  “The Grand Senate may see the wisdom in bringing us back sooner than I dare hope.  Or maybe we’ll be out there forever.  I honestly do not know.

“Our mission is threefold.  We are to provide some additional muscle for the local government, to train their version of the Civil Guard to acceptable levels and prevent pirate operations in the vicinity.  None of that is going to be easy.  I know, however, that each and every one of you will give his or her best.  Semper Fi!”

“Semper Fi,” the Marines echoed.

“I will see the Sergeants and Lieutenants now,” Edward said.  “The rest of you...try not to get into any more fights.  Dismissed!”

The Marines marched out, leaving Edward alone with his officers.  There were fifteen of them in all; five Lieutenants and ten Sergeants.  It always amazed the Imperial Army how few officers and NCOs actually wore Marine Blues, but the Marines had always believed that every Rifleman had Sergeant’s stripes in his backpack.  Edward knew of units that had lost almost all of their officers, yet had kept going and won the battle anyway.  In the Imperial Army, there were units that could only have been improved if they’d lost all of their senior officers.  They were the ones who had bought their commissions, or had been shuttled in to serve as someone’s eyes and ears.  They were, thankfully, rare in the Marine Corps.  It was yet another reason why the Senate distrusted the Corps.

“At ease,” he said, when the door had closed behind the last Marine.  “Before we start, there is an important issue we have to settle.  Do any of you wish to stay behind?”

“Respectfully suggest, sir, that you quit insulting us before I have an attack of brains to the head and realise how far we’re going from civilised lands,” Master Sergeant Young said, dryly.  “Besides, where could we go if we did decide to leave?”

Edward shrugged, although Young had a point.  A Rifleman could be transferred to another Company without serious career repercussions, but it was harder for a Sergeant or a Lieutenant.  They rarely transferred out without a very good reason, which suggested to the CO of their new unit that there was something deeply wrong with them, forcing them to work harder to prove that they were good officers.  It was a silly issue, in Edward’s view, but old habits died hard.  A really poor officer would have been reduced to the ranks or transferred somewhere where they could do no harm – or discharged, for serious offenders.

“I heard that Melville’s Murderers are looking for a replacement Lieutenant,” Gwen put in, sharply.  “If anyone wants to jump ship, now is the time.”

“The Murderers...damn it,” Lieutenant Thomas Howell said.  “What silly bastard thought that that was a good name for a unit?”

“The Murderers themselves,” Young pointed out.  “They liked the name and made it stick.”

Edward shrugged.  A Marine Company was generally named after its CO – hence Stalker’s Stalkers – and the enlisted ranks got to vote on the name.  The Corps patiently endured names like Burnside’s Bastards, Severus’s Snakes and Wilkinson’s Wankers, although the last one had probably been someone’s idea of a joke that had gotten out of hand.  Some units ended up with names that no one dared write down.  If Melville’s Murderers wanted to call themselves murderers, no one had the right to stop them.

“It hardly matters,” he said, seriously.  “The good news, as I hope Gwen told you, is that we’ve been given a blank cheque for supplies.  Thomas, I want you to go completely nuts and plan on the assumption that we’re not going to be re-supplied anytime soon.  Look up the data on Avalon, find out what they cannot produce for us, and fit as much as you can on the transport ship.  We’re going to have a whole transport to ourselves so have fun.”

“Thank you, sir,” Howell said.  A Marine Transport Ship was intended to transport an entire Marine Division.  A single Company would rattle around in its enormous bulk.  “We’re going to have it completely to ourselves?”

“There may be a few colonists coming along,” Edward said, remembering the Professor that the Commandant had told him would be coming along.  A Professor...and his family.  He hadn't had time to check up on their accommodation, but they could just be put in the tubes along with the Marines.  They certainly wouldn't want to spend six months cooped up on a transport ship.  “Plan on the assumption that we’ll need two hundred tubes and use the rest of the ship’s bulk as you see fit.”

“Yes, sir,” Howell said.  Edward smiled.  Howell was the current logistics officer for the Company, a task Edward had handled himself when he’d been a Lieutenant, and being told he could get whatever he wanted was a dream come true.  The others gathered round, offering suggestions and comments, which he listened to with half an ear.  Edward knew that he would have a wish list of supplies the Company desperately needed.  “I’ll start planning at once.”

Edward turned to Young.  “I take it that you dealt with our miscreants?”

“They saw the error of their ways,” Young said, with equal gravity.  “The four of them will be spending their time cleaning toilets with toothbrushes until they’re shining at night.”

“Have them assigned to assist Thomas with the logistics as well,” Edward added.  “He’s going to need help...”

“If only to hold the irate bureaucrats down as we take everything we want,” Howell said, with a grin.  There were some chuckles.  The Marine Supply Officers were an understanding bunch, but the same couldn't be said for the General Supply Officers, who insisted that any mere logistics officer had to have his requests signed in triplicate before they even considered considering granting them.  Edward had fought enough battles with the bureaucrats to make him glad that someone else was going to be handling it.  It was a shame that shooting bureaucrats was officially Not Allowed.  “Or perhaps to help me dig a tunnel into the supply deport and smuggling out the loot.”

“I think they’ll go to their union about that,” Gwen said, sourly.  “They’re the only ones allowed to loot military supplies.”

Edward scowled, wishing that she was joking.  In theory, the private possession of guns on Earth was forbidden, with very heavy penalties for anyone who owned a weapon.  In practice, there were literally millions of illegal weapons and weapons factories in the Undercity, where violence was common and the Civil Guard never went.  And even the more advanced weapons could be found on the black market.  Someone had sold the Nihilists enough weapons to take a bite out of a Marine Company and that could never be forgiven.  It was probably too much to hope that Marine Intelligence would track them down before the Stalkers left Earth forever, but they would find the culprit and deal with him.  The Commandant would probably send a few Marines to assassinate the bastard.

“If they give you any trouble, let me know,” Edward said.  The bureaucrats would probably not be cowed by a mere Captain, but a call from the Commandant himself – particularly after he pointed out that the Grand Senate had ordered that the Stalkers leave Earth forever – would probably loosen the purse strings.  “I can pull strings for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Howell said.  He glanced around the room.  “Is there anything else, sir?”

“We start three days of heavy training in two days,” Edward said, firmly.  “Gwen, you will supervise that if I’m not present at the time.  The Commandant said that we might get a few newcomers to the unit; if so...we’ll start working them hard and get them up to standard.  After that, we'll start boarding the transport and stocking up on supplies.  Keep a close rein on everyone.  The last thing we need is another fight at the moment.”

“The Civil Guard isn't making that easy,” Young said.  “The Pacifist League is really not making it easy.”

“If it was easy, it really wouldn’t need us,” Edward said.  He grinned.  “They may whine about us now, but they’ll be calling us back soon enough.”

“When they need us,” Young said.  “For its Tommy this an' Tommy that, and ‘chuck him out, the brute!  But its ‘Saviour of The Country’ when the guns begin to shoot...”

It was a misquote – Marines were encouraged to study Kipling, even though his poems were unknown to the vast majority of the Empire’s population – but Edward didn't mind.  “They’ll call us back soon enough,” he said, firmly.  “Until then...keep the faith.”

“Yes, sir,” Young said.

He watched as the officers filed out, leaving him alone with Gwen.  “Tell me something,” she said.  “Do you think they’ll ever call us back?”

“I like to think so,” Edward said.  He could relax with Gwen.  They’d served together for years.  She’d forgotten more about being a Marine than most of the enlisted men ever learned.  “I don’t know, though.  I really don’t know.”

“It could be for the best,” Gwen said, frankly.  “After what happened today, I doubt that Earth is going to remain stable much longer.”

“No,” Edward said, grimly.  “Forty billion people, most of them fed and watered by processes that might as well be magic as far as they’re concerned.  Upwards of twenty billion people in city-blocks who have no concept of just how bad the universe can become, or what’s waiting for them in the Undercity.  If the bomb explodes under them, all hell will break loose.  Perhaps you’re right.”

“Perhaps,” Gwen agreed.  “Or perhaps they’ll call us back to deal with the chaos.”

Edward said nothing.

“Cheer up,” Gwen said, dryly.  “It could be a lot worse.”

Chapter Five

One of the most dangerous signs of decline is the sudden reluctance to tolerate different points of view in political debate.  Questions and issues that were discussed freely are suddenly forbidden, limiting the realm of political science.  The reluctance to question the fundamental basis of our culture and society is, in itself, crippling free enquiry and freedom of speech.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

No one would have called the Sebastian Cruz beautiful.  It was little more than a two kilometre-long block of metal, with a drive section flaring out to the rear.  It was ugly, pitted and scarred by the strain of an existence right on the edge, yet to Professor Leo Caesius it – she – was the most wonderful sight in the universe.  She represented escape from Earth, escape from the horror that had gripped his family over the last year, and he would have forgiven her anything.  He’d accessed recordings of the interior of the Marine Transport – the designers, it seemed, didn’t have comfort or luxury in their dictionaries – but even though she was uncomfortable, she was safe!  He couldn't wait to climb onboard her and escape to the Rim.

“We’ll be docking in two minutes,” the pilot said, from his seat at the front of the tiny shuttle.  “When we dock, unbuckle yourselves and climb out the hatch, taking your bags with you.  Don’t look back.”

“Understood,” Leo said, nodding towards the young man.  He hadn't known if the Marine pilot knew who he was ferrying, not until now.  A direct order from the Commandant of the Marine Corps might as well have been an order from God, as far as the very junior pilot was concerned, but he might not have been enthusiastic about it.  “We won’t delay.”

“I hope that there will be some proper accommodation onboard that...thing,” Fiona chimed in, from her seat.  Her petulant tone made Leo wince.  Fiona was the same age as himself – forty-seven – but unlike her husband, Fiona had never been treated with regeneration therapies that would have restored her lost youth.  The first streaks of grey were appearing in her hair, no matter how much she tried to hide them.  They reminded Leo of his own guilt.  The entire family had been stressed to the limits, because of him.  “I could do with a long soak in the bath.”

“I'm afraid that there are no bathing facilities onboard the transport,” the pilot said, tonelessly.  Leo was sure that he was trying to hide a grin.  “The bathing compartments are restricted to sonic vibrations and the occasional sponge bath.  Water is a luxury in space.”

Leo said nothing, watching as the minnow of the shuttle slowly approached the massive whale.  Two years ago, he had been a respected academic, teaching the Empire’s history to the best and brightest students from all over the Empire.  The University of Earth, the most famous university in the Empire, had granted him tenure.  A bright future had laid ahead, one where Leo, his wife and his two daughters could make a comfortable life for themselves.  They had even been talking about having more children, or buying more comfortable accommodation away from the towering city blocks.  The whole universe had seemed to be waiting for them.

And then he’d been struck by the curiosity bug.  One of his students, a young girl from the out-worlds, had questioned the very basis of the Empire’s mandate.  Another Professor would have put her firmly in her place – it was an unquestionable fact that Earth was the political, social and cultural heart of the Empire – but Leo had been curious.  He’d started to look into the past, and then into the present, constructing elaborate models of the future of the Empire.  It had been an eye-opening experience.  He hadn't wanted to admit it, even to himself, but the Empire was starting to enter a pattern of terminal decline.  Without a strong man on the Throne – and the Childe Roland was no such man – the Empire was doomed.  The competing power bases would tear it apart.

He’d made the mistake of regarding it as an intellectual puzzle.  It had simply never occurred to him that his discoveries might have had real-life implications.  If the level of social spending was cut, he’d discovered, the Empire would have more resources free to tackle the other problems, such as the upswing in piracy or terrorist operations.  If measures were taken to limit Earth’s birth rate – expanding constantly, due to the free food and water provided by the Empire – the planet might have a chance to recover from everything humanity had done to it.  Born to a safe time and place, he had seen no harm in publicising his results and attempting to draw the Empire’s notice to the growing crisis.  He should, he knew, have seen it coming.  The elite had responded harshly.

Two months after his book had been published, and banned just as quickly, he’d lost his position in the University of Earth.  The Dean had been quietly apologetic, but very firm; there was no longer any place for Leo in the hallowed halls of academia.  Fiona had been horrified to discover that the family was suddenly without any means of support – apparently, they didn't qualify for welfare – and shocked to realise that no one else would take her husband on.  Shock had turned to fear when gangs of youths, encouraged by someone in the shadows, had started to harass the family, while their name was dragged through the mud by groups so diverse as the Pacifists League and the Crowned Throne.  They’d had to move out of their comfy home, down to the very edge of the Middle City, and yet they were still not safe.  If the Marines, for a reason known only to their leader, hadn't offered them sanctuary, Leo had no doubt that they would all be dead by now, victims of a violent adult world they had never fully understood.  The Empire’s masters guarded its secrets well.

He looked back, towards his two daughters.  An outsider might mistake them for twins, for Mandy and Mindy were both redheaded girls, wearing the same drab smocks they’d worn since they’d taken up residence in the Marine complex.  Mandy, the oldest at sixteen, had been a constant worry; she’d developed crushes on a succession of Marines, although as far as he knew she hadn't found the time to actually court one of the men.  Mindy, thirteen years old, had had to grow up fast.  Losing all of her friends and most of her family had hurt her badly, the more so because she couldn't understand why the world had changed and they had to leave their friends behind.  There had been no choice, not really.  As soon as the word had gotten around, the entire family had found themselves abandoned by their former friends, men and women fearful that the taint would somehow slop over onto them.  He should have expected that too.  It hadn't been an uncommon pattern in the past.

A dull thump ran through the shuttle as it docked neatly with the massive transport.  Leo unbuckled himself and stood up, feeling slightly queasy in the artificial gravity.  He had never left Earth before, not even to visit the halo of asteroid stations and industrial nodes surrounding the planet, and the feeling was new and unwelcome.  The Marines had assured him that it was perfectly normal, but it only underlined his own weaknesses.  He was a husband and a father who couldn't even protect himself, let alone his family.  He was dependent upon a military force many of his former colleagues wouldn't have given the time of day to, had they been asked.  Leo had never shared their opinion – although, if the truth were to be told, it was because he’d never had to think about it – yet it was humiliating.  He helped Mandy to unbuckle, sighing inwardly at her too-tight shirt that showed her breasts to best advantage, and pushed her towards the hatch.  Fiona was already there, her face pale and wan.  She was no longer the woman he’d married.

“Go,” the pilot snapped.  “I can’t stay here for long!”

The hatch hissed open and Mindy led the way into the Marine transport.  Leo felt the gravity field twisting around them as the transport’s gravity generator took over, smiling at Mindy’s clear delight.  Fiona looked as if she were going to be sick.  Like him, she had never been off Earth, believing implicitly that barbarians and monsters lurked outside Earth’s solar system.  She preferred to look down on the colonists and their worlds, even though Leo knew perfectly well that the colonists were just human, as human as his family.  A thousand years after the human race had started to expand into space, they had encountered no intelligent alien life forms at all.  The highest creature the human race had discovered barely rated higher than a Chimpanzee.

“Welcome onboard,” a man said.  Leo looked up and saw a short man wearing a shipsuit and a Marine Rifleman tab on his collar.  The entire crew of the transport, he’d been assured, were Marines.  The Sebastian Cruz was not, technically, part of the Imperial Navy, but part of the Marine Corps.  “Professor, the Major would like to speak with you as soon as possible.  I have orders to escort you to his cabin and Specialist Nix will escort your family to the stasis tubes.”

“Not stasis,” Fiona objected, at once.  Nix, a tall dark-skinned man with a scarred face and roguish eyes, blinked at her.  “I can't stand being frozen.”

“You won’t feel a thing,” Nix assured her, with a generous smile.  “I’ve been in stasis many times and I never feel anything, not even time passing.  You’ll just blink and you’ll be on Avalon before you know it.”

Leo winced at his wife’s expression.  When she’d heard that the family was being moved off-world, she’d tried to bargain for one of the older worlds, the ones settled directly from Earth before the Empire had been formed.  The Marines had been quiet, but firm; the family’s tormentors would follow them to their new home and keep up the pressure until they were all dead.  It was far safer to travel to a world on the edge of the Rim.  He suspected that the Commandant had had some other purpose in sending them to Avalon, but he hadn't even been able to guess at it.  How could the Marines possibly benefit from his presence?

He saw Mandy eyeing Nix and winced inwardly.  Ironically, seeing that seemed to calm Fiona down.  She caught hold of her daughter and waved imperiously to Nix to lead them towards the stasis tubes.  Leo wanted to follow her, just to make sure that everything was all right, but there was no point.  His guide was waiting for him.

“I’m ready,” he said, as a hatch clanged shut behind his wife’s ass.  He caught his own thought and smiled inwardly.  Spending time with the Marines had made him crude, clearly.  “Please can you escort me to the Major?”

“Of course,” his guide said.  “Follow me.”

Leo had never been onboard a real starship before and, despite the gravity of the situation, found himself intrigued by the Marine Transport.  Hundreds of men and women bustled about, performing tasks he couldn't even begin to understand, while small dedicated robots prowled around, carrying out maintenance work on the ship’s interior.  Senior officers were shouting orders that might as well have been in another language, for all the sense they made to Leo, ignoring his presence.  Hatches and bulkheads lay open, exposing incomprehensible circuitry and components to his gaze.  It was fascinating.  It almost made him wish that he had applied for the Imperial Navy, rather than seeking a career in the academic world.  Here, on the ship, men and women were doing things that mattered.

“It is not a good idea to wander alone on this ship,” his guide said, when Leo asked.  “If you want a tour, the Major will have to clear it with the Captain.  The Captain has supreme authority on this ship, answerable only to the Commandant.”

They reached a hatch marked OFFICER COUNTRY, which opened when the guide touched a key hidden in a bulkhead, revealing drab corridors and better lighting.  “Normally, a commanding officer would bunk down with the men, but while on ship they get cabins,” the guide explained, misinterpreting Leo’s questioning look.  “It isn’t something the Corps fully approves of, sir.”

“Thank you,” Leo said.  He’d sort it all out later.  They reached another hatch marked STALKER.  “Where now...?”

The hatch hissed open, revealing a small metal cubicle, barely large enough to hold a desk and a portable terminal.  Seeing it, Leo was struck by the disparity between the University and the Marine Transport Ship; the Dean, back on Earth, had had an office large enough to hold a hundred students or lecturers, finely decorated with paintings and small artworks.  The only decoration in the Marine’s office was a tiny picture of a pretty dark-skinned girl.  There was nothing else.  A week in the compartment, Leo knew, would have had him begging for mercy.

“Welcome onboard,” a man said, rising up from behind the desk.  He held out a hand for Leo to shake.  “I’m Captain Stalker.”

Leo blinked at him.  “I was told I was going to meet a Major,” he protested.  “Why...?”

Captain Stalker laughed.  “Onboard ship, there is only ever one Captain and he’s the person in command of the ship,” he explained.  “Any other Captain who happens to set foot in his realm is automatically given a courtesy promotion to Major or Commodore.  There’s no extra pay, of course, just a new responsibility.”

“Ah,” Leo said.   “Thank you for clarifying that.”

He sat down on the bunk when the Captain waved to it and studied his host.  Captain Stalker was tall, with short blonde hair and bright blue eyes.  He was wearing a Marine standard uniform and wore a Rifleman’s tab at his collar, the same as the other Marines he’d seen.  He had an air of brisk competence and determination that suggested that anyone in his way was in for trouble.  Leo, no great fan of the military until it had saved his life, was privately impressed.  Perhaps everything was going to be all right after all.

“My orders are to escort you to your new home and then see to your security, among other things,” Captain Stalker said.  “I have other orders to carry out and, of course, there may be problems involved in balancing all of those responsibilities.  The Commandant was, however, quite keen that you be preserved alive.  Why, if I may be blunt, has an academic attracted so much interest from so many different factions?”

Leo paused, gathering himself.  Somehow, the direct question cut right to the heart of his problems.  “I spoke truth to power,” he said, honestly.  “They didn’t like it.”

Stalker laughed.  “So did I,” he said, seriously.  “That’s why they sentenced me to exile.”

He leaned forward, his eyes meeting Leo’s.  “I have never read your book, although I'm sure that you have a copy or two in your luggage,” he said.  “I do know that I will do my best to protect you and your family, subject only to carrying out my other orders.  I don’t believe that your enemies will chase you as far as Avalon, but if they do, they will regret it.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Leo said.

“Major,” Stalker corrected.  He grinned, suddenly.  It completely transformed his face.  “As a fellow political exile, you can call me Edward.  Now, tell me; just what did you tell them to get yourself marked for death?”

“The truth,” Leo said, flatly.  It still hurt to remember how all of his comforting illusions had been torn away, revealing the naked truth that underpinned the Empire.  “I told them that if they continued on their current path, the entire Empire was going to explode like a powder keg underneath them.  As for the specifics...” – he shrugged, expressively – “where would you like me to start?”

Stalker lifted an eyebrow.  “I started looking into the conditions in the more....recently established colonies, the ones established since the Tyrant Emperor was killed,” Leo clarified.  “Most of them suffer under levels of taxation and debt they can never hope to pay off, not ever.  Their children’s children will still be paying it off hundreds of years in the future.  It made no sense to me so I started tracing the money and realised that most of it was being spent on social welfare to keep the underclass happy.  Yet there were limits to how much the Empire could extract from its subjects and there were already small rebellions popping up, all over the Empire...”

“I fought on Han,” Stalker said, dispassionately.  There was a haunted note in his voice that made Leo shiver.  The realities of violence, despite everything he’d been through, were still largely alien to him.  “There was no time to think about how, or why, or if they had a cause worth dying for.  It was kill or be killed.”

“I know,” he said.  It was scant comfort, but what did one say to a man charged with upholding an edifice that would come toppling down one day and bury them all under the rubble?  “There are a thousand more such rebellions just waiting to happen.”

“We’re going to be talking about this on Avalon,” Stalker said, slowly.  “I want you to get into your tube now, Professor.  We’re about to start loading the ship and we don’t need you getting in the way.”

Leo shook his head.  “I’d prefer to stay out of the tubes until we’re underway,” he said, slowly.  He couldn't tell the young Captain why, not yet.  “Please...”

Stalker stared at him for a long moment.  “We’ll assign you a bunk,” he said.  “It won’t be pleasant sailing, but it’s the best we can do.  Stay out of everyone’s way.”

“Of course,” Leo said.  “Thank you for taking care of us.”

Chapter Six

It is a curious fact that humans are capable of forming bonds with only a limited number of people; the ‘group’ becomes more abstract as the group becomes larger.  At one end of the scale, with the trillions of humans in the Empire, it is very different to truly put the Empire first.  Why not, one might ask, put my own interests first?  Is that not for the good of the Empire?  The largest number of humans that can be considered a real group, from the point of view of its members, is around one hundred and fifty men.  It is for that reason that the Marine Company, generally composed of one hundred men, is the building block of the higher Marine units.  Within the Company, loyalty is absolute.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

Edward smiled to himself as Professor Leo Caesius was escorted down to one of the bunks, a tiny compartment that would give him the same level of privacy as any Marine Rifleman would have, which was very little.  Marines practically lived in each other’s pockets and shared equipment and private entertainments regularly.  The Professor would probably want to jump into his tube after a day or two in orbit, although Edward would be sorry if he did.  Based on his brief meeting, Leo would be an interesting conversationalist during transit.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought, and scowled down at the portable datapad.  The Marine Corps might have embraced all the possibilities opened up by new technology, but there was still an inordinate amount of paperwork to be carried out by the unit’s commanding officer.  Edward was responsible for his men and keeping the records in order was one way of ensuring that, if the worst happened, his successor would be able to take over without hassle.  It was also a way of ensuring that there was a proper record for posterity.  If Stalker’s Stalkers went down in the history books, the historians would have a record for each of his men, although God alone knew what they would make of it.  He’d been paying more attention to the hundreds of entertainment channels broadcasting to Earth’s population recently and he'd been shocked by just how badly the Marines were being slammed.  The entire Corps seemed to be taking the blame for the Nihilist attack and the massive death toll.

The Pacifist League had informed the planet that the Marines had gone in hot, shooting at suspected terrorists, and triggered half of the explosives quite deliberately.  The League seemed to believe that it was possible to negotiate with the Nihilists and, by listening to their spokesmen and granting their demands, the massive death toll could have been avoided.  Edward knew better than to believe it.  The Nihilist wanted death, nothing more, and simply didn't care what their enemies could offer them.  They wouldn't have released the hostages for anything.  Taking them all down as quickly as possible was the only way to prevent the Nihilist from detonating their explosives and destroying the entire block.

Pure Humanity, a group that had been among Leo’s tormentors, had taken the opposite track.  Their version of events claimed that the Nihilists had been allowed to get into position because of Marine weakness and that if the Marines had showed strength and determination – and courage, they didn't quite say - the Nihilists would never have been able to take hostages in the first place.  It made no sense at all, not to anyone who actually knew what had happened.  The Marines hadn't been called in until the Civil Guard had fumbled the ball and, by the time they’d gotten into position and had been briefed, the hostages had already started to die.  There had been no choice left, but to move.

He stared down at the datapad, not seeing the words displayed on the screen.  One of the duties of a Marine Captain was to write to the families of those killed under his command and he’d had to write just under thirty letters in the last few days.  They couldn't even use a form letter; tradition demanded a letter handwritten by the Captain personally.  It had brought back memories of the dead men and women in happier times.  One of the dead men had been up before Edward only a month before he died, charged with being drunk and disorderly on Mars.  Edward had thought little of it at the time.  The Marine had been visiting his family and, afterwards, had gone out drinking with his mates.  And, a month later, he was dead.

It was a relief when his communicator buzzed.  “Major” – Gwen used the courtesy promotion as if it were a real rank – “Drill Sergeant Jared Barr has just come onboard and is requesting permission to meet with you.”

“Very good,” Edward said, after he’d placed the name.  Barr was one of the Marines who had requested a transfer to the Stalkers.  Edward had learned from his previous CO that it was better to interview such people before approving their transfer.  Even among the Marines, there were details that never made it into the personal files.  “Have him brought to my office now, please.”

Two minutes later, the hatch hissed open and Drill Sergeant Jared Barr marched in.  He stood to attention and saluted as Edward rose to his feet, eyes skimming over Barr’s uniform.  Everything was perfect; he wore a handful of combat awards, including badges that marked proficiency in over a dozen different specialities.  Even for the Marines, Barr was an overachiever.  The ribbons on his left arm, marking campaigns he’d served in since graduating from the Slaughterhouse, suggested a long and very active career.  His face showed the signs of too many regeneration treatments, a certain lack of movement that suggested plastic surgery.

“Drill Sergeant Jared Barr reporting, sir,” Barr barked.  Even his salute was perfect.  Marines were not sloppy - sloppiness could not be tolerated among the Marines – but perfection was rare.

“At ease,” Edward said.  He had a good feeling about Barr, right from the start, but he wanted to talk to the man.  It wouldn't be easy.  “I don’t have time to beat around the bush, Sergeant.  Why do you want to transfer to my unit?”

Barr didn't relax, much.  “I understand that you will be training local Civil Guardsmen and raw recruits,” he barked.  “If that is the case, I would like to take part.”

Edward smiled inwardly.  A competent Drill Sergeant – and Barr’s record showed that he was very competent indeed – was worth his weight in gold.  It took a special kind of man to act like a sadist without actually being a sadist, for a real sadist in a Drill Sergeant’s uniform could inflict immeasurable harm on raw recruits.  If he'd served a term as a Drill Sergeant on the Slaughterhouse, he would be very well prepared to train new recruits on Avalon.

“I see,” he said, and waited.

Barr took the bait.  “I was detailed to New Charleston to assist in training their Civil Guard to cope with an insurgency on their planet,” he said.  “I believe that my experience will be useful to you.  My record speaks for itself.”

“So it does,” Edward said, straightening up.  “You are aware, of course, that you will be Junior Sergeant within the Company?”

“Yes, sir,” Barr said.  Sergeants were always Sergeants, but they often held different titles and responsibilities.  Barr might have been entitled to call himself a Drill Sergeant, yet he would not always be serving as a Drill Sergeant.  The Slaughterhouse rotated its instructors in and out of frontline units to keep them up to date on the latest developments...and to keep them thinking of themselves as Marines.  “I have been Junior Sergeant before.”

“Of course,” Edward agreed.  “Welcome to the Stalkers, Sergeant.  Report to Command Sergeant Patterson for induction, and then we’ll drop you in at the deep end.  We have a great deal of training to catch up upon and very little time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Barr said.  He saluted again.  “It will be my honour.”

Edward smiled as he marched out of the small compartment.  “Gwen,” he said, keying his communicator, “I have accepted Sergeant Barr into the Stalkers.  Give him the standard welcoming tour and then put him on the duty roster.”

“Yes, sir,” Gwen said.  “Sink or swim.”

An hour passed slowly as Edward completed his paperwork.  There would be little else to do until he reached Avalon, where at least delay was acceptable.  With six months between Avalon and Earth, no one would care if the reports were a week or so late, not when starships could be lost so easily, along with their reports.  He filed it in a datachip, pulled it out of the datapad and marked it for transfer by courier to the Marine Headquarters on Earth.  The Commandant would take care of it personally.  Whatever he’d had in mind – and Edward had a private suspicion that there was more to his operations than just preserving a few people from the mob – he’d deal with the reports.  He was about to head down to the training compartment when his communicator buzzed.

“Sir, Rifleman Aaron McDonald is here,” Gwen said.  It took Edward a moment to place the name.  A Rifleman who had requested a transfer to the Stalkers, something unusual for a mere Rifleman.  A Drill Sergeant might request a transfer and no one would think much of it.  A Rifleman should stay with his parent unit.  “He is requesting permission to speak with you.”

“Have him escorted up here,” Edward said, realising that he probably wasn't going to have a chance to get some exercise before heading back down to the Barracks on Earth.  It was just something else to do while they were in transit.  “And then send me the training rotas.  We don’t have much time left to complete matters.”

Rifleman Aaron McDonald turned out to be middle-aged, older than the average Rifleman, although that wasn't too uncommon within the Marine Corps.  If McDonald hadn't been interested in promotion – his record showed that he’d severed as a Corporal at least twice, but that had always been a brevet promotion – he would probably have been allowed to remain as a Rifleman, although he would probably have been quietly encouraged to become an NCO.  He’d survived ten years in the Corps, which suggested that there was nothing seriously wrong with him.  His file, which Edward had skimmed briefly, hadn’t thrown up any red flags.

“All right,” Edward said, studying him carefully.  McDonald looked to be a combination of ethnic traits, not uncommon among some of the other colony worlds.  Despite the name, he looked vaguely Chinese.  “Why do you want to become a Stalker?”

McDonald met his eyes levelly, a good sign.  “I understand that you are being transferred to Avalon,” he said.  “Avalon is my homeworld.”

Edward silently cursed himself under his breath.  That particular titbit would have been in the files, but he’d missed it.  Marines, wherever they were born, went through the Slaughterhouse and came out as Marines.  Their pasts didn't matter.  Unlike the Imperial Army, which was careful not to allow its soldiers to serve on their homeworlds, the Marine Corps didn't care, as long as they were Marines.  A career Marine like McDonald shouldn't have been attached to his homeworld.  He was half-inclined to refuse the transfer on those grounds alone, yet...the prospect of having someone who actually knew Avalon attached to his command was tempting.  Very tempting.  It was tempting enough to suggest that he should overlook the irregularity.

“I...see,” he said.  “And you want to go back there?”

“I’ve put eighteen years into the Corps,” McDonald said, honestly.  “I expect to go on inactive status when I reach twenty years of service.  I don’t have fond memories of Avalon, sir, but if we build up a proper Civil Guard and deal with those damned Crackers, it might be...liveable.”

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 to 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 deport anyone convicted of even a minor crime.  The indentured colonists – slaves in all, but name – were deported 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 2nd 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, picking up 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 2nd 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.”

Winslow looked as if he were going to be sick.  “I wish I could help you, but I really need the paperwork,” he said.  He waved a hand at his empty desk.  “This is a very busy time and we’re working overtime to fill countless requests from hundreds of different units that are about to depart Earth, or start intensive training cycles or…”

Howell slapped the desk, hard enough to sound like a shot.  “My commanding officer’s next act was to consult with the Grand Senate, who ordered that his unit be deployed to Avalon as soon as possible,” he said, as Winslow jumped again.  “The Grand Senate was not happy.  They want us off the planet yesterday.”

“Then go,” Winslow said.  His voice betrayed his fear.  “Half of your requests…they’re hardly necessary.”

“I’m very much afraid that they are,” Howell said, firmly.  There was no give in his voice at all.  “I would hate to have to go back to the Grand Senate and explain that the reason we couldn’t depart on schedule was because the Supply Corps was throwing up barriers.  I don’t think that even your career would survive their displeasure.”

“But…you’ve requisitioned billions of credits worth of supplies,” Winslow protested.  “How am I supposed to account for them all?”

Howell smiled.  “You’re supposed to do your duty and supply them to the officers who need them,” he explained, as if he were talking to a child.  “I, not you, am responsible for justifying them.  You are responsible for supplying them if possible…and I know that you have the items I have requested in storage.  I want all of the red tape cut out and the items transferred to the Sebastian Cruz today.”

“Safety regulations prohibit transferring so many dangerous items within such a short space of time,” Winslow said, quickly.  “We don’t have the manpower on hand…”

“Hire it from the orbital industrial nodes,” Howell said, sharply.  “Let me worry about the safety.  Your job is to make the funds available for their services.  Once the pallets are onboard the transport, we can handle the rest.”

“But…all these supplies,” Winslow said, despairingly.  “Fusion generators, portable fabricators, advanced machine tools, databases of colonial production systems and so much else.  Why do you even need advanced machine tools?”

“We are going to be operating a long way from any base that can repair our equipment,” Howell explained, dryly.  “Setting up a local production plant will only improve our logistics and, in the long run, save money.  I would have thought that you would be in favour of it.”

“With everything you’re taking, you could set up a starship manufacturing plant in a few years,” Winslow said.  Jasmine blinked in surprise.  She hadn’t realised that that was even possible.  Normally, it was at least three hundred years before a colony world started producing its own starships.  Only a handful of new colonies, carefully planned by wealthy and independent foundations, developed an Empire-grade industrial plant within the first fifty years.  “This is going to ruin my budget!”

“It will ruin your career if you don’t provide them now,” Howell warned.  “The Grand Senate will be displeased.  My commander will give them me as a scapegoat.  I’ll give them you.  You won’t be able to pass the buck to anyone else.  It needs your signature, and your signature alone.  I suggest that you get on with it.”

Winslow looked almost as if he were on the verge of fainting.  The sudden menace in Howell’s voice was unmistakable.  His eyes slipped to Jasmine’s face, ran over her uniform and weapons and then fell to the floor.  He didn’t see her as a woman, but a deadly threat.  She was almost insulted.  Winslow was probably used to women who would be happy to do whatever he wanted, as long as he saw to their promotions.  A woman who could actually look after herself would be alien to him.

“I’ll make it happen,” he promised, finally.  He pulled a datapad out of a drawer and pressed his thumb against the scanner.  “You’ll have the relevant permissions in an hour.”

“Good,” Howell said, leaning back in his chair.  His voice hardened suddenly.  “Because I promise you that I won’t be coming back again, Commander.  I shall merely allow events to take their course, leaving us stranded here and you with the blame.  I would hate to be in your shoes when the Grand Senate catches up with you.  You’ll spend the rest of your life on a planet where back-breaking labour is the only way to survive.”

He stood up and saluted.  “Thank you for your time,” he said.  “We can find our own way out.”

Jasmine followed him down the stairs, past the guardhouse and back to the aircar.  She didn’t dare speak aloud until they were back in the air, heading back to the Barracks.  The Supply Corps might have surveillance devices scattered everywhere, just to record everything that was going on in their building.  Or perhaps she was just being paranoid.  No one in their right mind would want a record of everything that took place in there.  It might be used against them at their trial.

“Sir,” she said, slowly.  Marines were encouraged to ask questions outside of combat, yet she wasn't sure that she knew what question to ask.  “Why was he so reluctant to give us anything?”

Howell snorted, staring down at the city below.  A mass of protesters were marching along one of the main streets, demanding…something.  She couldn’t read the banners from high above, but it didn’t look pleasant.  The Civil Guard were working overtime to move in reinforcements from around the planet.  The Marines wouldn’t be called in to handle crowd control, thankfully.

“Winslow is a petty little man who thinks his main priority is to build an empire of his own,” he said, finally.  “He thinks that possessing an item gives him power over it.  He’s forgotten that the ultimate purpose of the Supply Corps is to make sure that the armed forces get the weapons they need.  If he gave them the weapons, he wouldn’t have them any longer, would he?”

Jasmine blinked in disbelief.  “I don’t understand,” she admitted.  “Why would he care?”

“Think about it,” Howell said.  “A Marine Company is supposed to have at least two hundred MAG-74 assault rifles, with at least five hundred thousand standard rounds.  If those rounds are actually fired off…well, the Company wouldn’t have five hundred thousand rounds any more.  Winslow and those who think like him believe that the sole purpose of having the inventory is to have the inventory.  They are reluctant to use their weapons because that would lower what they have in their inventory.”

“Madness,” Jasmine said, finally.  “They’re insane.”

“It makes perfect sense, from their point of view,” Howell pointed out.  “An inspection might show that their inventory wasn't complete, which would mean an investigation, perhaps even career death.  In order to protect their careers, they delay as long as they can before sending out anything we might requisition.”

“But they could just order a new batch of supplies,” Jasmine said.  “Or…would that cost them money?”

“Of course,” Howell said.  “They don’t want to look as if they’ve recklessly spent their department’s budget, do they?  Think what their political enemies would have made of it.  I bet you that by the time we return to Earth, Winslow and his friends will have been purged because they handed over billions of credits worth of equipment to us.  The internal auditors will hold them to account for it.”

“But we requested the supplies,” Jasmine said.  “They can’t blame Winslow for that.”

“You’ll be amazed how logical illogical thinking sounds when it’s done by a committee,” Howell said, lightly.  “The more divorced from practical reality any given theory is, the greater its fascination for those who are also divorced from reality.”

He smiled as the aircar came down to rest near the Barracks.  “Anyway, time to get back to work,” he said.  “I want you to report to the shuttles in twenty minutes.  We need to start supervising the loading before someone manages to mess it all up.”

The next four hours passed slowly, but Jasmine barely noticed.  A Marine Transport Ship was designed to allow pallets to be slotted in easily, yet they all had to be carefully logged and tracked so that supplies could be pulled out in transit if necessary.  It never failed to amaze her just how much could be crammed into a single hull…and how tiny their requirements were compared to the vast stockpile built up in the Sol System.  Winslow had had nothing to complain about, really; the Supply Corps had enough supplies stored in the Sol System alone to keep the Imperial Army operating for years.  She was tired beyond measure when the loading was finally completed, thinking of her bunk and a long rest before she returned to the training ground.  Everyone would be ahead of her.

She walked down to the shuttle hatch and stopped, staring out of a viewport towards Earth.  Humanity’s homeworld had once been green and blue, but now it was a mixture of blue and a muddle brown colour.  The lights of the massive mega-cities could be seen from orbit, lighting up the sky.  Humanity’s homeworld was dying, killed by the race it had spawned.  Jasmine’s homeworld, for all of its faults, was kinder than Earth.  There were places where no one dared venture without a suit of heavy armour.

And yet, somehow, the sight left her with a lump in her thought.  No one had said so directly, but everyone in the company had realized that this wasn't going a short posting.

She might never set foot on Earth again. 

Chapter Eight

It may seem paradoxical, but despite having mastered faster-than-light spaceflight, it still takes time to send a message from one end of the Empire to the other.  Humanity has spread out so far from Earth that it literally takes six months to send a message from Earth to the Rim, leaving planets on the edge of known space barely represented in the Senate.  In the absence of FTL communicators, messages have to be transported on starships, while it can take years to reinforce the Imperial Navy detachments on patrol…
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

Edward stood at one end of the tubing facility on the Sebastian Cruz and watched dispassionately as his Marines started to enter the compartment.  It could be a daunting sight for civilians, but the Marines took it in their stride; they’d been placed in the tubes before, sometimes hundreds of times over the last few years.  The compartment held hundreds of tubes, yet only a handful would be required for his men.  The transport was intended to hold thousands of Marines.

He glanced at one of the tubes, seeing the young teenage girl frozen in the eerie light.  Leo’s daughter had been terrified of the stasis field, a common reaction.  Time might stop within the confines of such a field, but people feared – irrationally – that thought would go on, leaving them frozen like a fly in amber, yet awake and aware.  Edward knew from experience that the universe would just seem to blink and they’d be there.  Mandy – or perhaps it was Mindy – wouldn’t have to experience the boredom inherent in any long voyage under Phase Drive.  Edward had a private bet going with himself that her father would seek to enter stasis himself after he realised just how boring the journey was going to be.

It hadn’t always been so simple, he knew.  Back in the early days of spaceflight, humans had hibernated like rodents and snakes, their body temperatures lowered to the point where they could be safely frozen and preserved over the years.  It hadn’t always worked.  The early mortality rate had shocked him when he'd researched the period in OCS.  It made the Slaughterhouse look like one of the safest worlds in the galaxy.  The march of science had, thankfully, removed the need to risk so many of his Marines.  If the power failed, as it had on many of the early interstellar colony missions, they would just come out of stasis.  They might even be able to survive the aftermath of whatever disaster had cut the power.

He looked back towards the girl, and then looked away.  Mandy was too young to be attractive.  The confidential reports from the Commandant had warned him that both of the girls had been sulking during their stay in the Marine Headquarters, suggesting that they wouldn’t adapt well to Avalon.  The Professor’s wife had been worse; after all, there was no hope of her ever receiving rejuvenation treatments now.  They simply didn’t exist outside Earth and the Core Worlds.  There were treatments that were offered to colonists who were willing to settle specific worlds, but Fiona was simply too old to take one and live.  The Professor wasn't going to have a happy married life.

A line of Marines marched past him, pausing long enough to salute.  He was pleased to see that they looked calm and composed, rather than the near-panic that most civilians showed when they came face-to-face with the stasis tubes.  A claustrophobe would hate them, even just for the handful of seconds that they’d be in the tube and aware that they were in the tube.  But then, a claustrophobe would never have made it through Boot Camp, let alone the Slaughterhouse.  Edward remembered crawling through tiny passageways, barely wide enough to admit him, and shivered inwardly.  The Slaughterhouse more than lived up to its name.

“All present and accounted for,” Gwen informed him.  Edward nodded, relieved.  Being late for muster was a disciplinary offence, but it happened more often than the Marine Corps liked to admit.  Marines would go off on leave, find a girl – or a boy, if their tastes ran that way – and lose track of time, aided by alcohol or recreational drugs.  When they returned to awareness, they would be horrified to discover that they had overslept and they were late for muster.

“Good,” he said, looking over at the Marines.  They looked ready for anything, carrying their weapons and survival equipment with them.  There was no need for them to be naked or unarmed within the stasis tubes and so they carried their weapons, just in case of trouble.  He raised his voice, hearing it echoing all over the compartment.  “You may enter your tubes.”

***
The compartment was nothing, but stasis tubes, each one large enough to hold a good-sized Marine and his or her equipment.  Jasmine was reminded, helplessly, of early days at the Slaughterhouse, battling through carefully-designed environments that simulated combat all over the Empire.  The tubes still seemed sinister to her, even though she had been through stasis before and never felt anything.  She had taken part in an insane charge against rebels in the Han System, something that no one in their right mind would have done, yet it was hard to walk up to her tube and key it open.  

She caught sight of a frozen girl, barely entering her teens, and smiled inwardly as she stepped into the tube.  If a teenage girl could endure it, so could she.  The cold air struck her bare skin and she shivered as she checked her weapon and emergency supplies.  The real nightmare was the ship suffering a disaster and losing power, leaving them stumbling their way out of a stasis tube, completely confused and without the slightest idea what was going on.  She’d heard of ships that had lost main drive and yet somehow retained the stasis tubes, allowing their crews to be rescued years later, but few of the stories had any basis in fact.  If something happened to the Sebastian Cruz, they were all going to die without ever knowing what had hit them.

The tube hissed closed and she braced herself, as if she were expecting a physical blow.  Back on the Slaughterhouse, she had been hit repeatedly in order to teach her how to take a blow, yet this was different.  She felt sick, unsure of her ground, almost as if she were on the verge of panic.  She hadn’t fallen to panic since she’d entered her teens.  Indeed, her self-control had been remarkable, or so she’d been told.  There had been no need to enter a stasis tube on her homeworld and even crawling through tight spaces had still had her in control and aware of her surroundings.

“Stasis field activating in three,” a voice said.  She could hear a thumping sound in her ears and it took her a moment to realise that it was her own heart.  How many other Marines, she wondered, were nervously waiting for the moment of stasis?  How many others were on the verge of panic?  “Two…one…”

The universe blinked…

***
“Stasis field activated,” a crewman said.  He had been a Marine before mustering out and transferring to the auxiliary section, taking up a position on the transport ship.  The Corps used it as a way of circumventing the restrictions on the Corps’ deployable strength, although it had been too long since the crewman had served as a Marine.  “Major?”

“Good,” Edward said.  It still felt odd to be called by a superior rank, even though he understood the practicalities of the situation.  On his first deployment, he’d earned a punishment duty for calling his Captain by his actual rank while onboard ship.  “Check the power systems and then prepare to seal this deck.”

He walked down the compartment, glancing into several of the tubes as he moved.  His men hung suspended in eerie light, an unearthly shimmer playing over their faces, frozen in a single instant.  They wouldn’t endure the boredom of the voyage; they’d come out of the tubes on Avalon, feeling as if no time had passed at all.  He would have joined them if it had been permitted, but there was too much work for him to do.  The final tube, gaping open invitingly, waited for the Professor.

The massive airlock hissed closed as they stepped out of the compartment, leaving the Marines frozen in darkness.  He felt the dull clang running through the ship as the docking clamps were released, allowing the transport to start powering up her drives and start heading out of the system.  A pair of Imperial Navy destroyers had been assigned to escort them, although he knew that they wouldn’t be remaining at Avalon once they’d tanked up from the orbiting fuel deport.  It was a shame, but there were too many other planets that needed starships and Avalon just didn’t rate as important.  The entire planet and its population wouldn’t even be noticed among the massive sea of the Empire.  The ADC’s creditors hadn’t even been able to convince prospective colonists to gamble and accept a homestead on the planet.

His communicator buzzed.  “Major, this is Captain Yamato,” a voice said.  “Would you care to watch the departure from the bridge?”

Edward hesitated, and then realised that it might break him out of his funk.  “I’m on my way,” he said, hearing a dull thrumming beating through the ship as the drives slowly came up to full power.  “Thank you, Captain.”

The Sebastian Cruz’s bridge was massive, large enough to serve as a CIC on a battleship, although only a handful of consoles were operated.  Edward had been a Lieutenant during the Han Campaign and he’d seen how a transport had served as the headquarters of the Major-General in command of the operation, allowing him to issue overarching orders from high orbit.  He’d been chewing tacks at being unable to go down to the surface, but with the planet in open revolt and enemy-crewed starships in the system, he’d been deemed too vital to be risked.  He would probably have been happier as a Captain, even when the rebels had started launching nukes towards the Marines and the Imperial Army regiments backing them up.

“Please, take a seat,” Yamato invited.  He was a tall Japanese-ethnic man, with a quiet air of competence.  Ethnic Japanese were rare among the Marines – the legacy of the Third World War had cast a baleful shadow over the Terran Federation, and the Empire – but those who did pass through the Slaughterhouse were renowned for being among the best.  “We’re just clearing the high orbital defences now.”

Earth floated at the centre of the display, surrounded by enough tactical symbols to almost obscure the planet itself.  As humanity’s homeworld, Earth was the best-protected world in the Empire, surrounded by over a hundred orbital battle stations and thousands of automated orbital weapons platforms.  Hundreds of asteroids, space stations and industrial nodes circled the planet, part of an industrial base that was second to none.  The Sol System, with massive orbiting factories around all of its planets, hundreds of cloudscoop facilities and a combined population of over seventy billion humans was the greatest concentration of industrial might in the Empire.  It took five of the oldest colony worlds, settled for over seven hundred years each, to amount to Earth’s massive industry.  The sight of Earth’s halo of industrial stations never failed to fill him with pride.

And yet it was limited.  The Terran Federation had had an even greater advantage over its enemies and it had never been able to put down the revolts that threatened its very existence.  The Empire, which had replaced the Federation at the height of the Age of Unrest, had made deals with most of its opponents, offering them autonomy within a united human Empire.  The remaining ones had been ruthlessly crushed.  Yet, still, the Empire couldn’t hope to hold down all of its worlds if they all rose against it.  Leo had been right.  The Empire was more dependent than ever on its population’s goodwill…and that was increasingly lacking.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, as they passed the final orbital battle station.  Earth’s defences were probably rated as overkill.  In theory, the entire massed might of the Imperial Navy couldn’t break through the defences.  In practice…Earth hadn’t been attacked since the end of the Age of Unrest, at least not directly.  Terrorists and independence movements had attempted to launch covert strikes in the past.  “It is a spectacular sight.”

“It is,” Yamato agreed, seriously.  He settled back into his command chair as the two escorting destroyers took fore and aft positions in the tiny convoy.  Edward was mildly surprised that they hadn’t been asked to escort some freighters as well, but perhaps it was understandable.  There was no direct traffic between Earth and Avalon.  “It is the safest world in the galaxy.”

There was no detectable irony in his voice.  Edward had grown up on Earth.  Unlike Leo, he’d been aware from a very early age just how thin the veneer of civilisation was over the planet, no matter what the Empire spent on welfare.  Hundreds of thousands of people left Earth every year, willingly or unwillingly, yet it was nothing more than a drop in the bucket.  He knew how block gangs could hold thousands of people to ransom, or how terrorist cults could pop up, carry out their merry slaughter and vanish again, or how the services could sometimes cut off for hours on end.  For someone born in the Undercity, Avalon would be paradise itself.  Somehow, Edward doubted that they would appreciate it.

“Depends where you live,” he said, finally.  He’d signed up for the Marines on his eighteenth birthday and never looked back.  “How long until we cross the Phase Limit?”

Yamato made a show of checking his timepiece.  “Nine hours,” he said.  “You are welcome to stay and observe, if you wish.”

Early human experiments into faster-than-light travel had all failed, without exception.  It had taken years of experimenting before the human race realised that it was simply impossible to generate a phase field inside a star’s gravity well, no matter how much power was applied by the engineers.  The first phase ships had triggered their drives light months from Sol; now, with advanced gravimetric sensors, it was possible to locate the precise moment when it was possible to leap into Phase Space.  It had opened up the stars to human settlement.

“Thank you,” Edward said, “but I have paperwork to be getting on with.  I’ll watch it from the observation blister.”

Nine hours later, he stepped into the observation blister and was surprised to see Leo standing there, staring out into the darkness of space, lit only by the unblinking glow of a thousand stars.  Sol itself, the star that had illuminated Earth since before the human race first crawled out of the sea, was little more than yet another point of light, perhaps slightly brighter than most.

“Major,” Leo said, in greeting.  “I just wanted to see the transition for the first time.”

“It’s really something,” Edward agreed.  Despite himself, he liked the crusty young-old academic.  The man didn’t deserve what had happened to him.  “Take a seat and brace yourself.”

The psychologists had insisted that every starship had to have some form of observation blister, even the ones that never went outside their home system.  Edward had little time for headshrinkers – it was his experience that no civilian headshrinker really understood the military – but he had to admit that they probably had a point.  Having a viewport out into the outside universe was good for morale.  On the bigger ships, there was even a strictly regular schedule for spending an hour or so gazing out at the stars.  When starships were flying in convoy, it was possible to see them all and even wave to observers in their blisters.

“Here we go,” he said.  “Brace for impact…”

The stars seemed to leap forward, suddenly becoming agonisingly bright, just before the blister went brilliant white.  The light faded – in a sense, it had never been there – revealing a tunnel of light, seemingly speeding away into the distance.  It was an optical illusion more than anything else, or so Edward had been told, but it was still spectacular.  He peered forward into the shimmering light, trying to make out the shape of the two destroyers, but they were hidden somewhere in the glare.

“My God,” Leo said.  He sounded shaken.  “We just cracked the light barrier.”

“Yep,” Edward said, happily.  “Next stop; Avalon.”

Leo nodded, pulling himself to his feet.  “As I understand it, there is no way that we can get a message back to Earth now,” he said.  “Is that correct?”

Edward blinked, but nodded.  “Not until we get to Avalon and send a message back with a starship,” he confirmed.  “Why do you ask?”

“I was told to wait until we were out of contact before speaking to you,” Leo said.  He dug through his pockets and produced a golden cross.  “The Commandant wanted me to give this to you once you were beyond recall.”

Edward took it and stared down at it, puzzled.  It was a simple golden Christian cross, nothing else.  It meant nothing to him.  His religion was the Marine Corps.  He’d never been raised to follow any particular religious belief.  The cross felt light, almost fragile, in his hand, yet he was perversely sure that it would be very hard to destroy.

“Thank you, I guess,” he said.  “Did he say why?”

Leo reached for the cross and turned it over, pointing to a tiny indent at the bottom.  “See?”

“I see,” Edward said.  The cross held a cunningly-disguised code key.  An encrypted message, coded by a given algorithm would be impossible for anyone else to decrypt.  They were illegal outside the government and military and, even for a Marine Captain, possessing one would raise questions.  Very uncomfortable questions.  “Why…?”

“He said that he might be in touch,” Leo said.  He keyed the hatch and it hissed open.  “Good luck, Major.”

Chapter Nine

With only a handful of exceptions, the majority of colony worlds established during the Fourth Expansion Period were intended as profit-making enterprises.  The founding company (Development Corporation) intended to use its position to permanently milk the colonists for profit, even though this was not always particularly onerous.  However, as the Empire’s financial problems worsened, the various development corporations have found themselves forced to squeeze their vassals harder, setting off a chain of decline.  The results have not been pleasant.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

The seven helicopters roared out of the morning sunlight, sinking rapidly towards the small township in the distance.  Four of them broke off and established a patrol pattern around the town; the other three continued to descend, the crews rapidly lowering lines towards the ground.  A number of black-suited figures rapidly rappelled down towards the ground, scrambling down in fear of hostile gunfire. A transport helicopter was never so vulnerable as when it was unloading troops.  No incoming fire disturbed the morning and the troops breathed a sigh of relief.

Major George Grosskopf breathed in the morning air as his close-protection detail spread out around him.  The small township might look quiet and innocent, but an experienced eye could tell that that was deceptive.  Kirkhaven Township had only been established five years ago and the inhabitants had barely succeeded in taming the surrounding area and farming the land.  The entire town should have been alive with people – men going to the farms, children laughing as they headed to school – and their absence was indicative of trouble.  The whole area was quiet.

It’s too quiet, he thought, as the two companies of Civil Guardsmen spread out further, walking towards the town with weapons raised and ready.  The local Police Constable – a fancy name for a man who was effectively a part-time representative of law and order – had missed his daily call and no amount of effort by Camelot had succeeded in raising anyone else from the town.  Avalon’s planetary communications network was primitive – it would have been a laughing stock on any other stage-two colony world – but the man had been careful to always place his call.  The sudden silence suggested that someone had attacked the town.  So close to the badlands, it was far too easy to guess just who had attacked – and why.

“I'm getting live feed from the drones now,” Captain Yale said.  Unlike George, he wasn’t former military; he’d spent his entire career in the Civil Guard.  It hadn't prepared him for action so far from Camelot and civilisation, such as it was on Avalon.  Like far too many of the other recruits, he’d joined up on the promise of three square meals a day.  Still, he’d mastered some of the lingo and showed promise.  “They’re not picking up anyone within the town.”

“Send three platoons in to investigate and warn them not to get complacent,” George ordered.  Avalon’s Civil Guard had never been lavishly equipped, even after local production lines had started to produce homebuilt weapons.  The drones were third or fourth-generation military surplus, probably originally owned by a third-rate regiment from the Imperial Army.  Their sensors were hardly modern mil-grade systems.  “The enemy could have left a trap in place to hurt us when we arrived.”

The Guardsmen didn't need telling twice.  They were all veterans of the simmering war that was being fought out for Avalon’s future and, even though they lacked proper training, they had learned from experience.  They slipped into the village, keeping well away from anything that could serve as a trap, or hide an improvised explosive device. The rebels, bandits and terrorists who hid out in the badlands had set up their own production plants, converting an astonishing variety of civilian produce into weapons and explosives.  The Civil Guard could barely keep a lid on the violence.  Indeed, although the Governor would never admit it, several provinces were effectively under the control of the enemy.

George followed his men as they checked out the various domiciles, wincing inwardly at the frail shacks many of the town’s populace had had to use.  There was no shortage of wood or stone near the town, but apart from the early settlers, few of the town’s population had had proper homes.  He saw a wooden barracks block in the distance and scowled.  It was a fitting irony that the indents, the town’s local work gang of imported criminals from Earth, had had better accommodation than most of the free population.  The indents themselves had probably not appreciated it.  They’d all been minor criminals from Earth and they’d never worked a day of hard labour in their lives until they reached Avalon.  Revolts and small mutinies were not uncommon.

But the township had been improving, he told himself, as they finally found a row of new-built homes.  They’d been built from stone, suggesting that the locals had finally started to mine for stone and use it to improve their lot.  The official policy of the local government was to force the new settlers to become as self-sufficient as possible, even though it meant many of them suffering until they built proper homes and learned to till the fields, a policy that long history encouraged.  It didn't make it any easier to watch generations of settlers making the same mistakes time and time again.  There were times when George wondered if the Crackers had a point; after all, it would be fairly simple to assist the colonists to prevent them from making the same old mistakes.  He caught sight of a simple wooden church and smiled inwardly.  The influence of the Reformed Church of Christ the Pacifist, which had purchased ten percent of the original ADC stock, had ensured that their priests always had good homes.  It was official policy.

George had been on Avalon – and a hundred other worlds before it – to know just how badly life was screwed up on the frontier, courtesy of people back on Earth or the Core Worlds who didn't have the slightest idea of what life was really like.  The Cracker Rebellion would never have happened if the ADC had treated the settlers as anything other than human cattle, while the ongoing simmering war could be brought to an end if the Governor had made some basic concessions to the rebels.  The vast majority of the Crackers, at least, would be happy if the more idiotic regulations were withdrawn and the planetary government became more accountable to the population.  It wasn't going to happen.  Over a century of mismanagement, first by the ADC and then by the Empire, had seen to that.  It was easy to be cynical.

“Major,” Sergeant Evens called.  He was one of the few Guardsmen who, like George himself, had some military experience.  George kept a sharp eye out for new settlers with military experience and tried to convince them to join the Civil Guard.  The locals were either enthusiastic and inexperienced, or corrupt.  “You need to come and look at this now.”

The warehouse sat on one edge of the town, a testament to the power of political lobbies back at Camelot.  Every township was supposed to send a certain level of foodstuffs back to the main cities, yet it would be years before Kirkhaven started to produce enough food to pay the tax.  It hadn't mattered.  The warehouse had been built – of modern materials, naturally – and left empty until it was time to start filling it with supplies.  The town’s council had petitioned to be allowed to use it for other affairs, but the planetary government had refused.  It was their warehouse and that was the end of it.  No one in power cared what a bunch of hicks near the badlands thought.  George strode towards it, suddenly aware of an unpleasant smell drifting towards his nostrils, and shuddered.  The smell was becoming alarmingly familiar.

“Here,” Evens said.  He was a short man with an air of calm competence.  He’d been in the Imperial Army for just over seven years before being discharged without cause, at least according to his service record.  George had kept a sharp eye on him, just in case he’d been discharged for a criminal offence, but over the years he had relaxed his vigil.  Evens had given him no grounds for suspicion.  “Look what they did, sir.”

It was dark inside the warehouse – the lighting elements seemed to have failed – but the Guardsmen had brought torches with them.  George unhooked his from his belt and shone it ahead of him, recoiling at the sight.  The town’s missing population lay in front of him, piled on top of one another, their hands bound tightly behind their backs and their throats slit.  Blood had poured down, pooling on the ceramic floor, washing against the waterproof walls.  He fought down the urge to vomit – the younger inexperienced Guardsmen were throwing up helplessly – and staggered backwards.  Whoever had done that, he vowed, would pay.  If – when – they were caught, they would discover the true meaning of hate.

“Organise a work party,” he ordered.  His voice sounded strange to his ears.  “No; organise two work parties.  One to get the bodies out and into the light; the other is to start digging graves in the fallow field.  Get to it now!”

His men, stung by his tone, started to work.  It took nearly an hour to get the bodies out and place them in the open, but it didn't take that long to realise that only half of the town’s population had been murdered and abandoned.  The township had had – officially – a population of over seven hundred souls.  There were only three hundred and seventeen bodies in the warehouse.  Most of them were male.  There were no children and only a handful of women.

“Around three hundred and fifty people completely unaccounted for,” Sergeant Evens reported.  His terminal contained a complete database of the town’s population – at least, a complete database of those who had registered with the government.  George knew, as well as anyone else, that there were thousands of people who had simply dropped off the system, or had never been on it in the first place.  “Two hundred and seventy of them are young women between the ages of sixteen and forty.  Forty of them are male indents.  The remainder are young children, born to the townspeople or brought in with their parents.  There may well be more children who were never registered.”

George scowled bitterly.  Avalon had had rare promise when the first settlers started to land, lured by the ADC’s promises of cheap land and shares in the growing system economy.  If the ADC hadn't run into stormy economic waters, it might even have kept its promises, but instead it had been reduced to trying to extract as much from its settlers as possible.  Debts that should have been paid off within ten years had been extended and passed on from father to son.  Children had been born, registered with the government and discovered that they were heirs to a growing debt.  The unregistered children suffered no such handicap.  God alone knew how many free settlements there were out in the badlands, or simply miles from any official settlement.  They knew that they were cheated, that they would be slaves forever...why the hell should they not rebel?  The only thing that kept most of the townships and settlers in line was the threat of overwhelming force.

The irony might almost have been amusing, under other circumstances.  If the settlers had registered their children, the Civil Guard would have known who to look for, but instead they’d never know if they’d recovered all the children or not.  The bandits would probably bring them up as bandits themselves, or sell the children into slavery themselves.  The missing indents suggested that the bandits had been former indents themselves, rather than Crackers.  They’d probably attacked the town, freed their fellows and slaughtered the population.

“Start putting them in the grave,” he said.  The settlers deserved better than a mass grave where they had once placed their hopes and fears, but there was nothing else he could do for them.  A more developed world would have summoned a forensic team, but there was no point on Avalon.  Cataloguing the full depths of the atrocity was pointless.  “I have to make a report to the Governor.”

He headed back towards the helicopters, staring towards the mountains rising up in the distance.  They might get lucky.  The bandit gangs were hated and feared by the civilian population, unlike the Crackers.  The Crackers could count upon a friendly reception almost anywhere.  The bandits would be shot at on sight.  Who knew – perhaps the Crackers would encounter the bandits and dispose of them.  Stranger things had happened.

The radio buzzed with static as he keyed it and began to make his report.  Like everything else on Avalon, it was either built in an inferior factory on the planet or imported second-hand from the Empire.  George was mortally certain that the Crackers, at least, had developed the ability to listen in on their communications, but there was no other alternative.  The planet-wide datanet – intended to link all the settlements into a coherent whole – was a joke.  The Crackers, no doubt, had infiltrated that too.

***
Two hundred miles to the south, Governor Brent Roeder stood in his office, looking down towards the blue ocean and the harbour that the early colonists had constructed.  The ADC’s original plans for settling Avalon had placed a high priority on developing a maritime transport network, linking the three continents together without having to import much in the way of heavy lifting craft from outside the system.  It hadn't worked out as well as they’d hoped – settlement on the other two continents had barely begun – but he had to admit that sailing was one of the few perks of living on Avalon.  Local fishermen had been quick to start building sailing boats and setting off to challenge the waves; Brent himself had even learned to love sailing on a natural boat, so different from a starship or a shuttle.  It almost made up for his posting.

Avalon’s exact political state was a mess, thanks to his two predecessors.  Not a day went by when Brent didn't curse them in seven different languages, for whatever lofty ambitions they had, they had never realised just how fragile the entire planet actually was.  The first Governor – appointed after the ADC had lost control of the planet, after the Cracker Rebellion – had tried to crack down hard on the semi-independent settlements, including banning the private ownership of guns.  He had been – quite reasonably – concerned about another rebellion, but the settlers had simply ignored the order.  The wild animals that roamed the interior of the continent thought of humanity as just another species of game.  No one in their right mind wanted to come face-to-face with a Gnasher armed only with a knife.  The Civil Guard had completely failed to carry out his orders.  The second Governor had been worse.  He’d tried to make political concessions and had managed to create a Planetary Council, without ever considering the implications.  The settlers had known all along that the game was rigged.  The second Governor had rubbed their noses in it.  The results had not been pleasant.

He stared down at Camelot, keeping his expression dispassionate.  Camelot would have vanished without trace in one of Earth’s teeming mega-cities.  The core of the city had been laid down according to a plan drawn up by a soulless machine – it was far too neat and tidy – while the remainder of the city had just grown up around it, like a pearl forming around a grain of sand.  The city, through, was hardly a pearl.  There were areas that were almost respectable and areas that the Civil Guard wouldn’t go without heavy armed backup.

Brent took a final look at the city and turned back to face his Deputy.  “George won’t be back until tomorrow,” he said, with a hint of quiet pleasure.  Major Grosskopf took his duties seriously, too seriously.  He wanted to wipe out the rebels, yet mounting such a campaign would be far beyond Avalon’s limited resources.  He’d placed a request at the Sector Capital for additional regiments from the Imperial Army, but nothing had been promised or delivered.  “That leaves us with an important question.  What do we do about the bandits?”

Deputy Governor Linda MacDonald leaned forward.  A tall blonde with impressive breasts, Brent had never really understood why she hadn’t been offered the post of Governor, although he could make a few guesses.  He’d been given Avalon as a reward for over sixty years of dedicated service in the Imperial Civil Service; Linda, as a native daughter of Avalon, would be unacceptable to the ICS as a Governor, although she could be transferred to another world if she wished to rise higher.

“They’re indents, of course,” Linda said.  Her voice was low and husky.  If Brent had been a few years younger, he would have tried to court her.  She wouldn’t have been interested in a small dumpy bureaucrat, though.  “We should send the Civil Guard after them.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Brent said.  “Most of those indents should never have been sent here in the first place.”

He scowled.  Earth’s solution to its population problem was to deport everyone convicted of even a minor crime.  Most of the indents who were transported to Avalon found themselves working in the fields in chain gangs, hated and feared by the people they were supposed to be helping.  The Crackers made much political capital out of indent gangs and the crimes they committed against innocent settlers.  The endless flood of new criminals was yet another factor in the growing civil unrest.

“We cannot let this pass,” Linda said, flatly.  She was too young for a post like Deputy Governor, Brent decided.  She just didn't understand the problems involved in sending the Civil Guard on a wild-goose chase.  “We have to act...”

There was a knock at the door.  “Governor, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we just received a message from Orbit Station,” his secretary said.  Abigail had been with him for years and he trusted her judgement and discretion implicitly.  “A Marine Transport Ship and two destroyers have just entered the system.”

Chapter Ten

Although the Empire likes to claim that planetary development corporations are free to operate without supervision or obligation to the Empire, that is actually very far from the truth.  Every settled planet, for example, must build – out of its own pocket – an Orbital Transhipment Station and a spaceport - and maintain a fleet of shuttles for swift and efficient transfer of materials from orbit to ground, or vice versa.  More advanced colony worlds – stage-three or higher – are generally encouraged to build a cloudscoop and maintain a stockpile of starship fuel for the Imperial Navy.  To put all of this in context, an orbital station alone costs twenty billion credits, a significant chunk of any development corporation’s budget.  That has to be repaid by the settlers.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

The tunnel of light suddenly faded into darkness, a darkness so complete that Edward felt his soul crying out in agony.  He stared into the darkened viewport and was unable to withhold a sigh of relief as the stars started to twinkle back into existence.  Six months of flight, six months with only a handful of crewmen and Leo for company, were almost over.  He couldn't wait to get down to the planet.

“All hands, this is the Captain,” Yamato’s voice said, echoing over the ship’s intercom.  “We have returned to normal space.  Prepare for heavy acceleration.  I say again; prepare for heavy acceleration.”

Edward looked over at Leo as the background noise slowly started to rise.  Avalon itself lay five light minutes from the local primary, four and a half hours from the Phase Limit.  Any system in the Core Worlds would have had a handful of destroyers lurking along the Phase Limit, watching for pirates and starships that had suffered a catastrophic drive failure, but Avalon had no ships capable of maintaining its security.  It didn't even have powerful sensor arrays that would provide warning of a new arrival.  It would be almost laughably easy for any pirate ship to slip up to the planet and open fire.

I guess that that’s one advantage of being dirt poor, he thought, sourly.  Avalon’s development corporation had been wealthy, but the planet itself had very little that could be picked up and carried away.  Pirates might try to raid the system’s deep-space facilities, such as they were, but there was little point in raiding the planet itself.  The only thing they could reasonably take from the planet was people.  It wasn't unknown, yet the records suggested that no such raid had been mounted against Avalon.

Leo looked up at him, his face pale and wan in the starlight.  They’d become friends, of a sort, during the six months of enforced company.  Edward had introduced Leo to Kipling – the Marine Corp’s favourite poet – and, in exchange, Leo had given Edward a copy of his banned book.  Edward had read it over a few nights and had understood just why it had been banned.  It was political, social and religious dynamite.  The Empire’s Grand Senate would not have enjoyed reading about how they were destroying the Empire.

“We’re here,” he said.  He sounded rather surprised.  The boundaries of his world had shrunk to the confines of the Marine Transport Ship, most of which was off-limits to civilians.  “Is there any chance of us being attacked by pirates?”

“I rather doubt it,” Edward said, dryly.  He smiled.  He’d been trying to educate Leo about Marines and the realities of combat, but it had been uphill going.  Leo knew details about the Marines without understanding what they really meant.  Edward privately likened him to an intellectual who had read a few books and privately considered himself an expert.  What did the dreaded March of Death, or the Watery Grave, or even the Crucible itself mean to a man who had never experienced anything like them?  He had never walked across a desert, carrying a wounded comrade on his back, let alone fought to hold off rebels from sweeping over a spaceport and destroying all hope of rescue.  There was a difference in their perspectives that could never be bridged.  “Pretend you’re a pirate.  Would you dare attack a ship full of armed Marines and escorted by two destroyers?”

“No,” Leo said, finally.

“Of course not,” Edward said.  “Most pirates – who are among the worst kind of scrum you’ll ever meet – don’t want to pick on targets that can fight back.  They want helpless little merchant ships they can board, loot and capture, or simply scuttle once they’ve taken whatever they want from the hull.  They go for passenger ships for kidnap victims, transport ships for manufactured components and tools and other civilian ships, but going after a military ship isn't healthy for them.  Even if they win the battle, and most pirate ships are poorly maintained and armed, they still have to repair their ship.  It’s just not cost-effective.”

“I see,” Leo said.  “It’s just a business, isn't it?”

“Exactly,” Edward said.  “They want to maximise their gain and minimise their risk.”  He shrugged.  “There’s a good chance that we will encounter pirates in this system, sooner or later.  The looted supplies have to be sold and planets along the Rim, ones without any kind of manufacturing capability, are ready markets for stolen goods.  You take a bunch of mega-city dwellers from Earth and put them in a farming town and they’ll be desperate for whatever help they can get.  They’re not going to ask too many questions about where the modern tools or devices came from, are they?”

He grinned.  “You’re lucky, in a way,” he added.  “You’re going to be going down to a world where most of the hard work has already been done.  The pathfinders, the people who start the first settlements on a new world, are the ones who have the hardest tasks.  You’ll be able to find a place to live, perhaps a teaching position at their local schools...you won’t have to indenture yourself to live.”

His communicator buzzed before Leo could answer.  “Major, please could you come to the bridge,” Yamato’s voice said.  “We’re entering the system now.”

“On my way,” Edward said.  He looked over at Leo.  “Enjoy the view from out here.  We’ll probably start unfreezing people in the next few hours, trying to get organised before we enter orbit and dock with the Orbit Station.  At least we should be able to land without someone shooting at us.”

Leo frowned.  “Does that happen often?”

“Often enough that this ship is heavily armoured and is designed to get us down to the surface as quickly as possible,” Edward admitted.  “A landing on a hostile planet can be the most dangerous operation in history.  It’s not unknown to lose half of the attacking force in the first ninety seconds.”

Leaving Leo with that thought, he made his way back to the bridge.  The main display caught his eye as soon as he entered, showing almost no sign of any human activity.  Earth’s system had been buzzing with starships and in-system spacecraft, but Avalon’s system was almost empty.  A pair of tactical icons on the display marked the presence of two ships – the sensors suggested that they were light freighters – making their way towards the planet, yet there was nothing else.  The entire system looked as dark and cold as the grave.

Edward shivered inwardly.  It was an illusion, of course.  It was simple to hide a starship’s drives from passive sensors.  The entire 1st Fleet could be hiding within the system and the transport would have no idea it was there until it was jumped.  A starship was tiny on a cosmic scale.  A starship that wasn't burning with energy might as well be a rock as far as hostile sensors were concerned.  Edward’s old CO had told his junior officers about boarding a pirate cruiser that had taken the risk of stepping down its drives to nothing in hopes of avoiding detection.  A few minutes either way and they would have gotten away with it.

“We have reached the Avalon System,” Yamato informed him.  “I have already transmitted our IFF signal to System Command.”

“Such as it is in this system,” Edward commented.  Yamato nodded flatly.  A Core System would have a single unified authority controlling operations and authorising everything, with armed starships on call to back it up if necessary.  A colony world along the Rim might not even have someone manning the stations in orbit, watching for incoming ships.  It wasn't as if they could do anything about it when they appeared.  Avalon’s ability to interfere with pirate operations in their system was almost non-existent.  “I take it that there has been no response?”

“No,” Yamato said.  “They should have replied at once, but we have not yet received anything, even a simple acknowledgement.”

Edward nodded.  Gravity pulses could be used to send FTL signals over very short ranges, allowing a limited degree of FTL communications within any given system.  A Core System would have relay stations to pick up and repeat the original transmission, preventing it from fading away and being lost in the background gravity field.  Avalon had nothing of the sort and probably wouldn't have for hundreds of years.  It was quite possible that their response had simply been lost in the background noise.  The Empire had poured literally trillions of credits into developing a method of extending range over light years, but so far the experiments had all been complete failures.

“Maybe they think we’re pirates,” he said, dryly.  “They couldn't get a good read on us at this distance, could they?”

“No,” Yamato said.  “I have reviewed the files on their equipment.  They barely have standard civilian-grade shit.  They may not even be aware of our presence.”

Edward frowned.  “I see,” he said.  “I wonder...”

“Captain,” one of the naval ratings said, “we have received a response.  They are welcoming us to Avalon and request that we make orbit as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Yamato said.  “Helm; take us in.”

Edward smiled.  “I’m going down to see to my men, with your permission,” he said.  “Let me know when we enter standard communications range.”

***
“The Marines?”  Brent repeated.  He wouldn't have been more astonished if an entire squadron of Imperial Navy starships had shown up in the system, escorting an entire Imperial Army Division.  “Why are the Marines coming here?”

Linda smiled, her white teeth shining in the sunlight.  “Perhaps someone read your messages requesting support and decided to dispatch the Marines,” she said.  “Or perhaps they’re just calling long enough to tank up and then they’ll be on their way out again.”

Brent ran his hand through his thinning hair.  He’d had the standard rejuvenation treatments when he’d joined the Imperial Civil Service, yet somehow his hair felt as if it was on the verge of falling out completely, or going grey.  No one had told him about the stresses involved in running a colony world when he’d been offered the post.  They’d talked about the great honour the Empire was doing him by giving him so much trust.  It hadn’t taken him long to start wondering if the only reason he’d been given the job was because no one else wanted it.

“Abigail,” he said.  “Didn’t they tell you anything?”

“It was a standard gravity-pulse transmission,” Abigail said.  She saw his blank look and hastened to explain.  “You cannot actually send much information in a gravity pulse, sir.  They pushed it right to the limits just to send us as much as they did.  We won’t know more until they reach radio range and that won’t be for several hours yet.”

“They wouldn't want to burn out their transmitter,” Linda added.  She smiled thinly at him, stoking her long golden locks.  “We can wait a few hours to learn what they have in mind.”

Brent paused.  Another nasty thought had occurred to him.  “How do we know that these are the Marines?”

“They had the right codes,” Abigail said.  She looked down at the ground for a long moment, her eyes worried.  “They could be pirates pretending to be Marines, sir, but I don’t see why they would bother.”

“Of course,” Linda agreed, dryly.  “What could we do to stop them if they decided to attack one of the asteroid mining platforms?”

Brent winced at the caustic tone in her voice, for the asteroid mining program was a sore spot between the two of them.  The ADC, under the delusion that Avalon had a chance to jump two colony levels in one bound, had invested in a cloudscoop and a large asteroid mining project, bringing in RockRats from across the Empire to set up one of their mining systems.  They’d succeeded, just in time for the economy to take a downturn and leave them lumbered with a massive white elephant...which, according to Imperial Law, they had to maintain in perfect working order.  The RockRats, at least, could maintain themselves, but they insisted on being paid in cash.  There was no trust to the relationship.  There was also little point to it.  The planned orbital industrial nodes had never materialised.  What industry Avalon had had been built on the ground.

But she was right.  In theory, Avalon’s Civil Guard had three gunboats and a handful of armed shuttles to stand off any threat.  In practice, two of the three gunboats had been cannibalised to keep the third operating, while the armed shuttles couldn't even threaten an armed merchantman.  A pirate ship could operate with impunity outside of Avalon’s gravity well and all the planet’s government could do was watch.

“Nothing,” he said, wishing that Major Grosskopf had been in Camelot when the Marines announced their arrival.  The former Imperial Army officer would have known the difference between real Marines and posers, or even pirates posing as Marines.  His advice would have been useful as well.  “All we can do is wait and see what happens.”

“Yes, sir,” Abigail said.  “Do you wish me to advise Orbit Station to prepare berths for the Marines?”

“Yes, please,” Brent said.  Even if the Marines weren't staying, they could show the flag near the badlands, perhaps scare some of the nastier bandit gangs further away into the mountains.  “I’ll discuss the other matter later.”

He watched her sauntering out and smiled, inwardly.  Linda would have been horrified if she’d known what the chair she was sitting on had been used for, only a few days ago.  Abigail had been his lover as well as his secretary for years.  His wife didn’t know, as far as he knew, and wouldn’t have cared if she had.  She hated him for dragging her to Avalon when she thought that she should have been presented at Court.  Poor Hannalore had been born into the wrong class and caste.

“We need to focus on the bandits,” Linda said, firmly.  She waved a sheaf of paper – there were few datapads on Avalon – under his nose.  “I have here reports from seventy different townships.  Our...operatives report that many of them have been threatened and coerced into providing support to the bandits.  How many more will just...give in after the news of the latest attack gets out?”

“Too many,” Brent said.  “And how many Civil Guardsmen do you intend to tie up on a fruitless bandit-chasing mission?”

“As many as necessary,” Linda said, shaking the papers to underline her words.  “Or we start issuing heavy weapons to the townships.  God knows, they need them.”

Brent snorted.  “And how many of them will end up being pointed at us?”

“If the bandit gangs, to say nothing of the Crackers, keep pushing at us like this, we’ll see their weapons aimed at us within five years,” Linda said, sharply.  “Fuck the Council, Governor; just do it.”

“I think you know better than that,” Brent said, coldly.  Linda met his eyes and he had to look away.  “We cannot just tell the Council that their views don’t matter to us.”

“Then perhaps we should hold proper elections,” Linda retorted.  “Who knows?  You could hardly end up with a worse problem.”

Brent looked down at his hands, and then up at the political map of Avalon.  Linda was right, in a sense; his predecessor’s stroke of insanity had come home to roost with a vengeance.  He’d created the Planetary Council – a development normally held back until a world reached stage three or four – in hopes of preventing another rebellion.  Unfortunately for him, the Council was dominated by the conservatives, the wealthy – insofar as that team meant anything on Avalon – and those who owned the debt.  They had no interest in changing the planet and every reason to oppose easing the restrictions on arms sales.  They knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were on the Cracker death lists.

“The Council would have to approve that,” he reminded her.  “I cannot put the Council aside, not now.  They’ll complain to the Sector Capital and they’ll remove me and put someone more pliable in my place.  That will be the end of any hope of reform.”

Linda sniffed, loudly enough to be clearly audible.  “And what hopes would those be?”

Brent scowled at her.  The subtext had been easy to read.  “Maybe the Marines will stay for a few months,” he said, although he knew better than to believe it.  Avalon barely rated a mention on the Sector Capital.  Who on Earth, outside the Indenture Program, knew about Avalon’s existence?  “Perhaps we can make progress without the Council.”

Linda sniffed again.  “Don’t count on it,” she said.  “The bandits aren't going to be scared of a few Marines.  The Marines will be gone soon enough and what will happen then?”

She stood up, placed the papers on his desk, and marched out of the room, leaving Brent alone with his thoughts.  Slowly, almost against his will, he looked down at the images taken by the Civil Guard, just before they’d buried the dead.  Linda was right, he knew; there was no other defence against the bandits.  They had to burn them out...but how?