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Hi - this is a story I wrote some time ago that I am currently revising. Any comments or advice would be very helpful.

Chris

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.

Well, I'll save some comments for later, but to sum it up:

This strikes me as being basically a combination of Honor Harington (with Marines instead of the Navy), and Foundation. The tone, characters, and plot remind me of the early Honor Harrington books, but the setting and themes of galactic collapse remind me of Foundation.

Not without its flaws by any means, but not so bad for a first couple posts.

Edited for accuracy/detail.

Even Buckley is in it, and at his usual death defying self.

Declan

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 Guard, 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 was 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 paddling. 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 forty 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 floated 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 duty 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 all of his 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 handful of 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 or corrupt. “You need to come 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 seven 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, Imperial Law said, 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 should 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?

Chapter Eleven

It is a – generally – sensible policy on the part of the Empire to ensure that a colony world becomes self-sufficient, at least in foodstuffs, as soon as possible. As a world progresses from stage-zero to stage-one, the first priority is to develop farmland and start growing a healthy crop. The intent is to grow a surplus that can cope with any unexpected demands. The rising population must be fed. This takes priority over everything else, including paying off the massive costs incorrect by the development corporation. It is therefore obvious that the local system authorities will seek to cut costs wherever possible.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

...And opened its eyes.

Jasmine caught herself, blinking in surprise as the tube started to hiss open. Surely they hadn’t been in stasis? She felt absurdly ridiculous as she stepped forward, wondering at why they were being brought out of the tubes again. Her mind caught up a second later and her head swam. Six months had passed in an eye blink. There had been no sense at all of time passing. The universe had just blinked. A wave of dizziness overcame her and she concentrated on the disciplines, banishing it from her mind and finding her centre. It was just another wonder of the modern galaxy, just something else to take in her stride.

“All right,” Gwen bellowed, marching past the tubes. “Everyone out; fall in!”

Jasmine stepped out of the tube, feeling a dull thrumming running through the ship as she stepped onto the deck. The starship was still in transit, but unless she missed her guess, they’d reached their destination and were proceeding towards Avalon at sublight speeds. It was fairly customary to bring the Marines out of the tubes, just in case a pirate decided to be stupid enough to attack them. Jasmine grinned, taking in the expressions of her fellow Marines. They’d be delighted if a pirate ship decided to attack them. Marines, who were often the first people into a ship pirates had wrecked, loathed the bastards on a visceral level. Taking them alive required immense discipline.

The line was forming in front of the tubes and she hastened to find her platoon. Her fellows were rapidly recovering from their own disorientation, snapping into position and saluting the flag hanging listlessly from one corner of the massive compartment. Gwen strode up and down in front of them, her eyes darting over their uniforms and occasionally prompting one of the Marines to fix a tiny problem. Jasmine braced herself as the Command Sergeant’s gaze swept over her body and relaxed, just slightly, as Gwen moved on to the next Marine in line. She’d passed inspection.

“Attention on deck,” Gwen said, once she’d finished her inspection. “Listen up; we are on approach to Avalon now and will be docking at the orbiting station within two hours. As soon as we dock, we will move to secure the station and ensure that there are no unpleasant surprises waiting for us before we start moving down to the surface. 1st and 2nd Platoons will take the lead; the remainder will hang back and be prepared to move in support if necessary. Questions?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Blake said, from his position two Marines down from Jasmine. “Can we not take the shuttles to board the station before the Cruz docks?”

Gwen shook her head. “The Captain wants to get us onboard the station as soon as possible,” she said. Jasmine winced inwardly. There was no reason to suspect that trouble was waiting for them, but she’d been in far too many ambushes when there had been no warning at all before the enemy had opened fire. “He is keen to begin unloading his ship.”

“I guess he can't wait to get rid of us,” Blake muttered, just loudly enough for a handful of Marines to hear. “You wouldn't see this happening on a perfectly-run ship.”

“Doubtless,” Gwen said. Jasmine privately suspected that she agreed with Blake. “However...form up in platoons and draw your armour. We dock at the station in two hours.”

Jasmine glanced down at her timepiece as it bleeped, updating itself from the starship’s master computer. The Imperial Standard date had jumped forward six months, as she had expected, while the time had moved forward three hours. Local time, displayed alongside EST, suggested that Avalon’s day was slightly longer than Earth’s. She scowled inwardly, bracing herself for the onset of starship lag, before moving forward to join her platoon. There was no time to waste. Combat armour had to be donned, weapons had to be checked and plans of the station had to be studied rapidly.

“Rules of engagement are Beta-Three,” Gwen said, when asked. Jasmine nodded in understanding. Beta-Three had been designed to allow the Marines to secure the station without making additional enemies. If the station had been in enemy hands, Jasmine and her fellows would have stunned everyone and sorted out the guilty from the innocent afterwards, but stunning harmless civilians would not endear them to the civilians after they awoke with banging headaches. “Try not to hurt anyone unless you have no other choice.”

A commotion disturbed her and she glanced down towards the handful of tubes at the bottom of the compartment. A youngish-looking man – with the attitude of an older man, suggesting that he had had rejuvenation treatments at some point in his life – was hugging a teenage girl, who wasn't enjoying the experience. Jasmine remembered when it had suddenly become embarrassing to be hugged by her own father and felt a silent moment of sympathy, although she wasn't sure who she was feeling sorry for. The girl’s older sister was openly eying some of the Marines, while her mother looked torn between disapproval and fear. She’d probably watched hundreds of reports that had made the Marines out as trained killers, rapists and looters, rather than the most highly-professional military force in the Empire. It had to be galling to be dependent on men she feared would ravish her poor innocent daughter – although, judging from the girl’s lustful expression, innocent was not a word that could be fairly applied to her.

“Nice piece of ass,” Blake muttered, as he squatted down beside Jasmine. “I could ride on her all day.”

“And then the Sergeant cuts off your nuts and wears them as a trophy,” Jasmine muttered back. The briefing they’d been given on their civilian guests had been scanty, but Gwen had left them in no doubt as to what would happen if any of them were molested. Jasmine had found that rather insulting herself – none of the men in her Company would molest a girl – but she understood the Sergeant’s attitude. A court martial would disgrace the entire Marine Corps - and generate realms of paperwork. “Besides, looking at her, I bet you she’s been had by hundreds of men already.”

“So have the whores who gather around the barracks and we don’t complain,” Blake countered. “What’s wrong with a girl who shares her charms with everyone, as long as she shares them with me?”

Jasmine pretended to consider it. “This might be why we got our asses royally fucked back on training last year,” she said. Blake had been squad leader at the time. “You were unable to risk the temptation to stick it in a convenient orifice and got us all buggered.”

“That's not what you said at the time,” Blake protested, dryly. “You were telling me what a genius I was before the first grenades started to detonate.”

“It might have been tolerable if they hadn't gloated about it afterwards,” Jasmine said, with a wink. “They kept telling us that they were sure that we wouldn't walk into that trap.”

She pulled out the armour pieces and placed them in front of her, then started to strip down to her underwear, removing anything that couldn't be worn under the armour. Blake followed her example, looking away to grant her what privacy he could. Fraternisation was forbidden within the same Company, although the rule was sometimes ignored and Jasmine was used to stripping down in front of the men. No one said anything. They all depended on each other to stay alive when the shit hit the fan.

Jasmine looked up and saw the girl staring at Blake’s torso as he pulled off his tunic. She had to admit that it was a nice torso, although the scars were a reminder of everything they’d been through together. She looked over at the girl and saw her blush and look away, her face as bright as a red stop sign. Jasmine smiled as Blake blinked at her, puzzled. He had completely missed the byplay.

“Never mind,” she said, as she started to pull on her armour. It felt good to be back in the light armour again, although she knew that some Marines had been roasted like chestnuts when their enemies had deployed weapons capable of punching through their armour. Heavy combat armour, by contrast, was almost indestructible, but those suits had to be custom made and cost as much as a frigate. It was hard enough to convince the Grand Senate to fund a few hundred suits a year. One day, she was sure, the technology would advance to the point where every Marine could have a heavy combat suit, but not for a very long time. And, by that time, heavy armour would be considered light armour. Some things never changed. “Just remember the Sergeant’s motto and you’ll be fine.”

She pulled the helmet down over her head and blinked as the suit came online, transmitting a series of signals right into her eyes. The armour’s sensors provided a complete image of what was outside, an image that could be rotated at will, while hundreds of tiny windows popped up to mark out points the suit’s onboard computers considered interesting. Blake’s armour was marked as FRIENDLY; the civilians, staring at the armoured Marines in astonishment, were marked as UNKNOWN. Blake’s armour powered up beside her and he chuckled, a noise picked up by the intercom and transmitted to her.

“Armed and armoured,” he said. The civilians thought of powered combat armour as something that clunked around the battlefield, but the truth was very different. “We’re hot and free.”

“Keep your weapons on safe until I give the order,” Gwen said. The armoured Marines were starting to form up now, allowing the civilians to walk past and out of the stasis chamber. “We just have time for some training before we board the station.”

Two hours later, the station – imaginatively named Orbit Station – came into view. Jasmine had been briefed that many early colony worlds used the same names and terminology to prevent misunderstanding, but in her considered opinion it was an excuse for bureaucratic lack of imagination. The station looked like a giant starfish; it could easily have been named Starfish Station, or even something more exotic. She’d seen a sex toy that looked rather like a station, although she was fairly certain that no colonial government would accept such a name. They’d be the laughing stock of the sector.

Orbit Station had been constructed out of prefabricated parts and should, according to the files, have been either expanded or replaced as local production came online, allowing the settlers to build their own facilities. Avalon’s Government hadn't invested in the station, however, doing only the bare minimum to keep the station running and meet their obligations to the Empire. A dozen habitat nodes had been attached to the original station, while an old tramp freighter lay in dock, affixed to one of the docking tubes. There were eight in all and only one of them was in use. Earth had thousands of starships docking and undocking every day.

“All hands, this is the Captain,” a voice said in her ear. “Prepare for docking. I say again; prepare for docking.”

Jasmine followed Blake and four other Marines through the ship’s corridors and down to the main docking section. The great advantage of the powered combat armour was that it could also serve as a spacesuit if required, allowing them to operate even if the enemy managed to depressurise the section and blast them all out into space. Captain Stalker met them there, wearing his own armour; Jasmine’s armour reported that he was exchanging encrypted messages with Gwen. She could guess at the content of the messages. He wanted to lead his Marines into the station and Gwen, quite rightly, was saying no. Captain Stalker was the senior Marine in the system and, as such, couldn't be risked unless the shit had really hit the fan.

A dull thump ran through the ship as it docked. Jasmine stepped forward as the hatch slowly swung open, carefully checking that her suit was armed and ready to go. It was a habit that had been drilled into her at the Slaughterhouse, where she’d been warned that equipment, no matter how advanced, could fail at any moment and leave her in the lurch. The Drill Sergeants had sometimes caused equipment to fail at bad times, just to ram the message home. Anyone whose suit failed had to drop out of line at once and report themselves as unfit for combat.

She smiled inwardly as the Marines advanced. The Marine Corps had hundreds of legends and one of them involved a Marine whose equipment was always going wrong. He hadn't been a coward – he hadn't lacked moral fibre, as the reports put it – yet nothing had ever good quite right for him. One day, he’d done four parachute drops and in all cases, the main parachute had failed to open. His instructor had, angrily, taken him for a final jump, carefully supervising every moment of preparation. Both of the instructor’s parachutes had failed, sending him tumbling to his death. The Marine, understandably shaken by the experience, had resigned from the Corps.

The long tube yawned open in front of her, sending chills down her spine. An enclosed area was dangerous. She checked her weapons again, making sure that the stunner was ready to fire if necessary, before the second hatch opened and they stepped into the station. A young girl, barely more than nine years old if that, stepped forward and stopped, gaping at them.

“She looks a bit young for this,” Blake muttered, on the platoon’s channel. “What’s she doing here?”

“It’s run by a family,” Joe muttered back. The girl had shrunk back. If she’d never seen a Marine before, God alone knew what she thought they were. “She’s one of their children.”

Jasmine nodded in understanding. The space-born, the men and women who had spent all of their lives in asteroid settlements, had a habit of pressing children into work from an early age. A young child could certainly carry out most tasks in an asteroid, even if it was something as minor as minding the algae farms or repairing mining equipment. Some of them, later, joined the Imperial Navy and were among the most highly-decorated combat commanders. They knew, instinctively, the realities of space combat.

“Hello,” she said, unhooking her helmet and disconnecting from the tactical gestalt. “My name is Jasmine. What’s yours?”

“Flora,” the girl said, her eyes going wide as Jasmine emerged from the armour. “Who are you?”

“My name is Jasmine,” Jasmine said. Nothing in her training had prepared her for dealing with Young Children, but she’d helped raise nieces and nephews. “We’re the Marines. Can you take us to your parents?”

“Her father is here,” a heavily-accented voice said. Jasmine recognised the accent; an ex-asteroid miner from one of the Scottish-ethnic systems. “Why have you boarded my station?”

“We have to secure it before we start unloading,” Gwen explained. Her voice echoed from her suit’s armour. Jasmine caught the undertone of annoyance. There was no threat here, just a frightened child. “We’re not going to damage anything.”

“I hope not,” the man said. “I’m Douglas Campbell, manager of this station for my sins. Would you like me to call out my family?”

“That would make life easier,” Gwen said. She changed to the Marine-only channel. “Start searching the station. Do not damage anything if possible.”

Jasmine smiled inwardly as she pulled her helmet back on and sank into the electronic universe surrounding her. Campbell’s family – seven men and women – nineteen children – came at his call, waiting in one of the massive – and empty – loading bays while the Marines checked out the station. Jasmine guessed that it was an open family, with mixed relationships rather than a single mother and father, a not uncommon pattern among RockRats. Who cared who fathered a child, or who gave birth to her, as long as the children were loved and cherished? The conservatives on her homeworld would have been horrified, of course, but Jasmine didn't care. Besides, she and every other Marine in existence were married to the Corps. She only took lovers occasionally.

The interior of the station was in surprisingly good shape, although some of the maintenance looked jury-rigged and dangerous. That wasn't too surprising. The technology in most of the station was primitive, dating from the early days of spaceflight, just to make it easy to repair. It was something that had struck her as odd when she started reviewing the histories of settled worlds, but serving in the Marines had taught her the wisdom of the practice. A piece of technology that was impossible to repair when broken was effectively useless.

“It’s clear,” Blake reported, finally. “No weapons apart from a handful of low-power laser cannons and rail guns. There's nothing here that can threaten us.”

“Good,” Gwen said, briskly. “Blake, Jasmine, Joe; report to the shuttlebay for close-protection duty. The rest of you report back to the ship and prepare to start unloading the Sebastian Cruz. The Captain wants to be rid of us and we might as well oblige.”

Jasmine smiled, delighted. Close-protection duty meant that she would be going down to the planet first. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like stepping onto a new world. It made everything else worthwhile.

Chapter Twelve

The Empire’s system of planetary government is intended to evolve as the planet itself evolves. In theory, within the first fifty-hundred years, the planet should have evolved a local council that eventually becomes a planetary government. In practice, with development corporations striving to extract every last credit from their investment, the planetary government becomes a corrupt sham. The game is rigged against the children of settlers, who never signed a contract and were never in hock to the Development Corporation.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

From orbit, Avalon looked as green and blue as Earth had looked, before the human race had come alarmingly close to killing its own homeworld. Edward watched as the shuttle started to head down towards the largest continent, admiring the green blur that hid the human settlements. Earth glowed in the night, illuminated by the lights of a thousand mega-cities; Avalon looked pristine and unspoiled. There were religions that worshipped untainted worlds and pressed for an end to colony flights, although they had never had a chance of convincing the Grand Senate to abandon their main source of wealth. Besides, the more distance between the different human sects, the better. It kept the bloodshed down.

He pressed his face to the viewport as the main continent took on shape and form. Avalon had three main continents – named Arthur, Lancelot and Galahad by the Captain of the survey vessel that had discovered the world – each one about the size of Africa and spread out across the planet. Hundreds of islands, ranging from the size of Cuba to the size of Nantucket, were scattered across the remainder of the oceans. Some of them, according to the briefings, played host to human settlements established in defiance of the planetary government. It was hardly an uncommon development on a planetary surface, but in the long run, such tiny colonies were eventually absorbed into the mainstream. The human race had learned a harsh lesson about allowing too much ethnic or religious diversity on a planetary surface.

Like almost all colony worlds developed by a corporation out for profit, development had focused on one of the continents and concentrated on building up a local farming infrastructure as quickly as possible. The survey team that had spent a year on the surface, catching and studying the wild crops and animals, had calculated that Earth’s crops could be added to the soil without risking ecological collapse. The native animals were generally edible – although there was one specific kind of animal that preferred to eat humans rather than be eaten – and fish and other creatures had been released into the sea. The blue seas below him teemed with life, including a creature that the original team had named the Jonah Whale, a monstrous creature that was the undisputed king of the food chain. They had taken to eating Dolphins and lesser fish with enthusiasm. The briefing paper had warned that hunting Jonah Whales was asking for trouble. Luckily, there weren't many of them and they tended to stay away from humanity’s ships.

The same couldn’t be said for the Gnasher. The photographs included in the briefing notes had suggested nothing more than a large black dog, one that a young boy might enjoy romping through the woods with, chasing rabbits and catching sticks. It was an illusion. The creature had a gland within its heart that somehow supercharged it and allowed it to literally rocket towards its victims, savaging them with teeth that bit though flesh and bone with equal abandon. The briefing notes had warned that the safest thing to do with confronted with one of the monsters was to shoot it at once with explosive bullets. When supercharged, they had an astonishing ability to absorb damage and somehow keep going.

He pushed the thought aside as the shuttle descended towards one edge of the largest continent. The city of Camelot lay below him, the largest settlement on Avalon, although that didn't mean very much. It was tiny to his eyes, barely holding a few hundred thousand people at most. The handful of other settlements weren't any more impressive, although the briefing papers had suggested that some of them had been built from scratch and were generally more orderly than the capital city. He pushed that thought aside too. Avalon was six months from Earth and it was astonishing how much nonsense, or downright falsehoods, could creep into the files. He’d just have to wait and see what happened when they landed.

“We’re coming down towards the spaceport now,” the pilot said. He sounded astonished. “They built it twenty kilometres from Camelot.”

Edward nodded. “A very droll way of saying ‘fuck you’ to the Empire,” he said, dryly. “If they have to maintain the damn thing, they can at least make it inconvenient for nosey bastards from Earth.”

He snorted. By law, every planet had to maintain at least one spaceport, even the planets inhabited by agricultural communities that had settled their worlds to get away from technology and all of its evils. Most worlds, particularly the ones that were intent on building up their own technological and industrial base, didn't regard it as a burden. It was, however, a serious expense for a stage-one colony world and not something that would pay for itself quickly. It took years for a spaceport to break even.

Camelot looked untidy from the air, although he knew from experience that such measures were deceptive. Massive prefabricated buildings dominated one corner of the city – the homes of the planet’s industry, such as it was – while other buildings were constructed out of bricks or stone. People thronged the streets, some gazing up at the shuttle and wondering what it portended, while others just ambled about, looking for trouble. Camelot just didn't look dynamic at all. It looked more like a city that had never quite found itself.

The spaceport came into view as the shuttle banked towards it, heading down towards a landing pad that had been clearly marked by a beacon. A handful of other pads were dominated by aggressive-looking helicopters and aircraft, either shipped in from the Empire or built on Avalon itself. He hoped it was the latter. Shipping almost anything across interstellar distances was expensive as hell. A number of prefabricated buildings dominated one side of the spaceport, covered in grass and lichen. It looked as if the planetary government barely bothered to maintain the spaceport at all. Given how few starships visited the system, it was easy to see why they thought it wasn't worth their while.

He glanced down at the datapad, showing the latest download from Orbit Station. Gwen had copied the station's logs into the Marine databases and they told a depressing story. Avalon was visited only once every two months, at best, by a freighter and they never stayed long. Avalon just didn't have much to offer beyond cheap fuel and foodstuffs. The four freighters in-system had all lost their drives and would vanish in a heartbeat if they were repaired. Their owners simply didn't have the money to hire a repair ship, or tow their freighter to a spaceport. They worked for the planetary government because it was the only game in town.

“There are no walls,” he commented, sourly. The spaceport was supposed to be secure, but it looked as if anyone could just walk down the line of helicopters and casually toss a grenade into each one. It suggested that the Civil Guard were either firmly on their toes and ran regular patrols of the surrounding area, or they were criminally incompetent. “I want one of you to stay with the shuttle at all times.”

“That’s you, Joe,” Rifleman Coleman said. Edward had been impressed with the man’s record, although he had been less impressed with the string of demerits for smart remarks at the wrong time. Blake would not see a permanent promotion for years at this rate. “Jasmine and I will escort you, sir.”

The shuttle paused over the spaceport and lowered itself down towards the hard ground. Edward felt the bump as the shuttle touched down, smiling inwardly at the thought of how an Imperial Navy Admiral would have thrown a fit at even the slightest bump. They had no sense of proportion at all. Any landing you could walk away from, or so he had been told, was a good landing.

“Thank you,” he said, as Jasmine moved ahead of him to climb out first. “It was an excellent flight down to the ground.”

The scent of Avalon hit him as Jasmine opened the hatch, a curious mixture of greenery and the smell of petroleum-based engines spooling over in the distance. He could hear the sound of birds chirping – it was rare to see a wild bird on Earth, outside the reserves – and the sounds of mechanics working on some of the helicopters. Now that he was on the ground, he could pick out the sight of a handful of guards patrolling the field, watching for trouble. The spaceport might not be sealed up tighter than a virgin’s ass, but it was fairly secure. It would take a determined attack to destroy the facility.

“Captain,” Blake said, quickly. “We have one vehicle incoming.”

A jeep was making its way towards them. It was an old-tech vehicle, something that would have been horrendously out of place on Earth, yet it made sense on Avalon. The plans might have been shipped out in a database, but the jeep itself would have been produced on Avalon, giving the Civil Guard unrivalled mobility and, just incidentally, encouraging local industry. A jeep could be repaired easily. A Mark-VIII Hover Tank would have to be shipped off-world once the spare parts ran out.

“No trace of any heavy weapons,” Jasmine added. “They’re just carrying assault rifles and pistols.”

Edward shrugged, keeping his expression calm and composed. There was no such thing as a dangerous weapon. There were just dangerous men. A Marine Rifleman was a qualified weapons-master, capable of using almost any weapon in the Empire with neither hesitation nor delay. A man holding a weapon who didn't know what he was doing – or what the weapon could do, or what limitations it had – was no problem. Back when he’d been a mere Rifleman himself, his platoon had penetrated an Imperial Army base wearing nothing, but underpants. They hadn't even been armed and they’d managed to shut down the entire base for hours.

The jeep came to a halt and an older man jumped out, wearing a Civil Guard uniform. Like the Marines and the Imperial Army, the uniform was fairly standard, but where Marines wore their Rifleman’s Tab, the newcomer wore a stylised golden image of Avalon. The Civil Guard, unlike the senior services, owed their loyalty to their homeworld, not the Empire as a whole. There were some quite senior figures who questioned the wisdom of giving so much firepower to people who might not be entirely trustworthy.

“Welcome to Avalon,” he said. He looked rather suspicious, for which Edward could hardly blame him. No one would have informed him, or anyone on Avalon, that the Marines were on their way. No message could have reached them unless it had been carried on the Sebastian Cruz. “I am Major George Grosskopf, the commanding officer of the Avalon Civil Guard.”

“Captain Edward Stalker, Terran Marine Corps,” Edward said, saluting. Technically, he – not George – was the senior officer present, but there was no point in splitting hairs. A bad rapport with the local Civil Guard officer would not make their operations any easier. “I know that all of this was sprung on you at short notice.”

“No one told us that the Governor’s pleas for help had reached Earth,” George said. “The last help we received from the Empire was no help at all.”

Edward studied him, noted the way he held himself, and nodded inwardly. “As a former Imperial Army officer, you have to know that there are too many brushfires for us to put out,” he said, grimly. “My Company is here to help you.”

George surprised him by laughing. “And be content with what we get?” He asked. “That sounds quite like the Empire we all know and love. You’ll be pleased to hear that the Governor wishes to speak with you at once. He doesn't quite believe that you’re here to stay.”

“Believe it,” Edward said. He’d spent part of the six months in transit studying reports that would not normally have been made available to him. It was hard to think of serving in the Marines as living a sheltered existence – the very idea was absurd – but it was alarmingly clear that the Commandant had, if anything, understated the scale of the Empire’s problems. The entire system seemed to be on the verge of breaking down. Crime was on the rise, trade was falling rapidly and corruption was spreading everywhere. The official news reports were often censored to hide the true scale of the problem, leaving the general public unaware of the growing stresses tearing the Empire apart. Terrorists were mounting isolated attacks against the Core Worlds while, out on the frontier, the Secessionist League was moving from strength to strength. “We may be here to stay for a very long time.”

George was no fool. “They’re going to close the bases then?”

“It looks like it,” Edward confirmed. “If that happens, they’ll abandon a dozen sectors to their fate, including this one. We could be here permanently.”

“I won’t lie and say that I'm not happy to see you,” George admitted. “How many men do you have?”

“Eighty-one, counting the auxiliaries,” Edward said. He was tempted to mention the supplies they’d brought with them, but he didn't dare discuss them until he knew if George could be trusted or not. A former Imperial Army officer would have a file in the database back on the Sebastian Cruz. “I suppose we’d better not keep the Governor waiting.”

“Eighty-one men,” George repeated. He looked shaken. “We need far more than that, Captain. We need an entire army.”

“We have eighty-one Marines,” Edward said. Pressing auxiliaries into frontline service was frowned upon, but they were thousands of light years from the Slaughterhouse. There was no other choice. “I think that should be enough to make an impression.”

“We’ll see,” George said. He hopped back into the jeep. “Climb aboard, Captain. The Governor won’t wait for us forever.”

Edward allowed Blake and Jasmine to go first, and then followed them into the rear seat. They were all crammed together, but they could all fit, luckily. The jeep’s engine roared to life and the driver turned around, taking them right across another landing pad. Old warnings surfaced in Edward’s mind and he winced – no one on Earth would dare drive across a landing pad – but it was perfectly safe. The Marines would probably break Avalon’s record for shuttle arrivals in a single day.

“We had the indents building the road network from the start,” George explained, as they roared out of the spaceport and down a surprisingly well-maintained road. “There are roads running all around the coastline now, linking the cities together, and others reaching up into the hinterlands and towards the badlands. I hoped to have them completed this year, but the bandits or the Crackers keep shooting up the work crews. We also had to start cutting the foliage back from it after they started using it for cover, letting them get a few shots in at our vehicles. It’s a war of nerves and they’re winning it.”

The jeep raced over a bridge, showing Edward a river heading down towards the sea. “We used to have people canoeing on that river, racing up against the current or diving down towards the sea,” George continued. “We still do, sometimes, but mostly people don’t dare in the wake of a few shootings. The damned Crackers are very good at slipping through our defences and spoiling one of the few things that make living on this planet worthwhile.”

Edward said nothing, thinking hard. Clearly, the reports had understated the scale of the trouble on Avalon’s surface. There was no time to pick George’s brains, but he made a mental note to look into it as soon as possible, perhaps detailing Rifleman McDonald to investigate and catch up on what had happened since he’d left his homeworld.

Jasmine asked the obvious question. “Sir,” she said, “is there a chance that we could be shot at, now?”

“I had teams out beating the bushes, so I hope not,” George admitted. He didn't sound certain of anything, Edward realised. Marine battledress was surprisingly good at absorbing bullet impacts, but his head was uncovered and unprotected. “No one is supposed to know that you’re coming either, but I doubt that secrecy held. The only thing that moves faster than rumour here is bad news.”

Edward sat back in his seat and tried to relax. The driver was taking them into Camelot now and he concentrated on studying the city, taking in the sights. Parts of it were surprisingly respectable, other parts were little more than slums. It made no sense to him.

“They’re former indents who served their term and were released, or people who lost their farms to their creditors,” George explained, bitterly. “Put a set of ex-indents out on a farm and they’ll be dead in a couple of weeks. Either that, or they’ll make a run for the badlands and we’ll lose them. Some of them get temporary work as workers; others go into prostitution or fall even further into debt. It’s never a pretty sight.”

The jeep was pulling up outside Government House. It was easily the most imposing building in Camelot, although it would have been laughable on Earth. Edward studied it and rolled his eyes. There was a certain mindset that demanded luxury, whatever the cost, and that mindset had designed the building. It was far too elaborate for its value.

“Doubtless,” he said, wishing that he was back on a nice honest battlefield. “Come on. Let’s go meet the Governor.”

No more comments?

Chris

A few, actually.

1) Something I learned when I launched my first story here, "Proof Through the Night"- it's better to look at views than number of responses. A good number of people read but don't comment, for whatever reason. I was in that camp until now. And asking for comments just makes you look desperate.

2) I think this story line has a lot of potential, actually. Sorta like "Aliens" meets "Foundation" (I think that's been said already) with a chance to look at empire building, preserving values, and keeping the lights of civilization on when you're beset by a lot of various nasties. I think that would make a good plot for a mil sci fi story, sort of like "What if Asimov's Foundation had had to fight for its existence"? Consider my later comments in light of that.

3) Exposition so far is good- there's a bit of "data dump" feeling but you have the existing world pretty well fleshed out. Just enough variation on the "tottering interstellar Empire" trope to make it interesting, IMO.

4) I would like to see more attention paid to character development. Right now we don't know much about Stalker, the Professor, or really anyone, although there are some promising hints about his family and their chances for adapting to the new planet. I was looking forward to one of their conversations on the transport as a chance for some of that, but it can also come later.

5) The main thing that irritated me was the constant reiteration of how noble, independent, and virtuous the Marines are, and how much everyone else in the Empire sucks. I understand that there has to be some kind of relatively uncorrupted institution to provide a "cutting" of the Empire to transplant out into the wilds- if everyone's already given in and gone cynical, you're past the point of no return. But it's been hammered down on us so many times during the opening chapters that it's really crossing the line into annoyance. Everyone in the Marines is good, upright, and noble, everyone who's outside the Marines is almost ludicrously corrupt. A supply organization that builds lavish palaces for itself while combat troops go hungry like orphans in _Les Miserables_? A paramilitary organization kept around that seems to be more dangerous to the people in power than to anyone opposing them? Whose troopers are ingrates on an almost comic level, so that out of several in that barfight there's not one who felt like saying "Hey, thanks for saving our asses", and they're all down with casual molestation? The Prof is the only exception, and he comes across as almost childishly naive.

I really, really don't want to see this story turn into "Marines show up, whip civilians into shape, found new utopia". I'd like to see a lot less black and white and some more realistic shades of grey.

On the plus side, since coming to the colony world we're starting to see some non-Marines who aren't complete moral wastelands or stupid. (Yes, I'd count the Prof in this category. I don't care how many degrees he has- it shouldn't have been a surprise in a society as rampantly corrupt as the one on Terra that saying not-nice things about the man in power will get you in deep, deep shit. If the Prof couldn't figure that out by his lonesome, he really should have a guide dog to make sure he doesn't walk into any jet intakes.) More of this, please, so that the Terra we saw can fade into the background as a caricature and we can go on to more interesting things.

In summary: There are things that irritate me about this story. But on the other hand, I've just written a long post about them, rather than clicking the "close" button and going on with my life. That tells you you've got the makings of an interesting story, so drive on!

Enjoyed what I've read so far. Keep up the good work!

Just want to second point #5. While I've known enough people who were socially stupid enough to duplicate the Professor's behaviour (so he doesn't bother me), the supply corps's palace is pretty much beyond reasonable suspension of disbelief. If it had been that guy's personal abode, I'd have gone along with it just fine. But as an administrative complex? People that selfish would embezzle the money and retire early instead of building such a monstrosity imo.

Chapter Thirteen

The standard form of colonial government – at least in stage one and two colonies – is rule by the Development Corporation. The Corporation appoints a Governor and a law enforcement force, who can be counted upon to enforce the law the ‘right’ way. As time passes, democracy is introduced into the system, with the eventual replacement of the Corporation’s law with a democratic state. If only it worked out so well!
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

“So,” Linda said. “Those are the famous Marines.”

Governor Brent Roeder didn't take his eyes off the screen as the Marines stepped into Government House. Two of them looked to be nothing more than soldiers, even though they seemed more lethal than the Civil Guardsmen who were trying to convince them to leave their weapons behind, but the third looked...interesting. He couldn't say how he knew, yet he was convinced that he was looking at their leader. The other two seemed intent on protecting him at all costs.

“Don’t underestimate him,” George had warned. “He survived the Slaughterhouse and he served as a Captain of Marines for over two years. That means that he commands the respect of some very dangerous men and women.”

Brent settled back in his chair, feeling his bones ache. The Council had wanted to be included in the first meeting – unsurprisingly, the news about the Marines had leaked out to them within minutes of their arrival – but Brent had dissuaded them as best as he could. He, Linda and George would be the first official representatives of Avalon to meet their new ally. He hoped, despite himself, that the Marine walked away with a good impression of them. It was vitally important that they learned to work together.

His intercom – a locally produced piece of shit, in his considered opinion – buzzed. “Governor, this is Bill from Security,” a voice said. “The Marines are refusing to leave their weapons at the front desk.”

Brent rubbed his forehead, feeling one of his headaches coming on already. He’d banned weapons from Government House after two Councillors had fought a duel in the Council Chamber, over a political argument that had made no sense to anyone else. Government House was the most heavily defended building on Avalon. They should not have been in any danger at all – or so he told himself. It was only a matter of time before the bandits started attacking within the city itself.

“Allow them to keep their weapons,” he said, finally. If he couldn't trust the Marines, who could he trust? The list of people he trusted completely was depressingly small. “Have them escorted up here as quickly as possible.”

He settled back in his chair and waited. It took four minutes before there was a knock on the door and George stepped in, followed by a tall blonde man wearing a Marine uniform. Brent stood up to greet him, holding out a hand for him to shake, taking the time to study the Marine carefully. Captain Stalker’s bright blue eyes seemed to miss nothing. Brent had the uncomfortable sense that the Captain was used to such reactions and was giving Brent time to study him as much as he wanted. The Marine looked surprisingly average, but there was no weakness in his handshake and his eyes were steady. He might have been sent far from the Core Worlds, far from the centre of power, but there was nothing wrong with him. Or perhaps he was completely wrong. Brent’s life as a civil servant hadn't prepared him to run a military campaign, let alone judge military officers. It had never been included in the training courses he’d taken as a junior assistant civil servant.

“Captain Edward Stalker reporting, sir,” the Marine said. He had the same kind of briskly formal voice George had, although in his case it was more clipped, more precise. His accent was definitely Old Earth, yet that could mean nothing. Earth was the centre of the Empire’s culture. Everyone who was anyone tried to cultivate an Earth-style accent.

“Ah, thank you for coming,” Brent said, trying to remember what little military protocol he knew. Nothing seemed quite appropriate to this situation. “Please, take a seat. I’m delighted to see you.” He nodded to Linda. “This is my Deputy, Linda.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Captain Stalker said. He shook Linda’s hand. Oddly, he didn't look at her as a pretty girl, but as just another person. Brent found himself wondering if it was a sign of homosexuality, before realising that Stalker would have been trained to think of everyone as a possible threat first. Or perhaps he was just being polite. Brent sat back down in front of his desk and tried to think of something to say. It wasn't easy.

“We weren't expecting you,” he said, finally. “Is there some reason why you were sent to us without any notification?”

Captain Stalker smiled. It was an expression that didn't quite touch his eyes. “I believe that there are few lines of communications between Earth and Avalon,” he said. “It was decided to dispatch my unit only six months ago. There was simply no time to send you any advance notice of our coming.”

“Well, I’m still glad to see you,” Brent said. “How many Marines do you have on your ship? I believe that it can carry a Division?”

“We have eighty-one Marines,” Captain Stalker said. Brent stared at him, almost not catching his next words. “Part of our remit is to train your Civil Guard to a level where it can cope with open insurgency and warfare.”

“Eighty-one Marines,” Brent repeated, dazed. “How much do you intend to do with just eighty-one Marines?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” Captain Stalker said. There was absolute confidence in his tone. Brent found himself hoping that it was not misplaced. “The Company is the single most powerful military unit in the system. Man for man, my Marines are better than any other armed force in the Empire. I think we can make an impression on the enemy.”

Brent studied him carefully, trying to divine the underlying meaning in his words. It seemed almost as if Captain Stalker was dissembling...and then he realised that dissembling wasn't something that would come easily to the Marine. It was ignorance. Captain Stalker didn't realise how bad things were becoming and how soon it would be before the planet became ungovernable. He opened his mouth and closed it again. How could he find the words to explain exactly what was going on to the young man in front of him? And he was young; Captain Stalker showed none of the signs of being rejuvenated in the past. He couldn't be much older than thirty, if that.

“Captain,” he said, slowly. “Do you have any idea how bad things are here?”

“I haven’t had a complete briefing yet,” Captain Stalker replied, calmly. “I do know, however, that we are effectively stuck out here for a very long time. We may be here for as long as five years. We could spend our time bemoaning how bad things are becoming, or we can start trying to deal with the situation. I prefer to be optimistic.”

Brent smiled, almost despite himself. He could have liked Captain Stalker under other circumstances. “Let’s see,” he said. “We have three different insurgency movements operating against us. We have a political logjam that simply won’t break. We have a Civil Guard that is weak and not particularly effective” – George snorted angrily at that – “and our local industry can barely produce what it needs to keep us going. And, if that wasn't enough, we have pirate ships using the system as a base. Can you deal with that, Captain?”

“Give us time and we can deal with anything,” Captain Stalker said, seriously. He pulled a datachip out of his uniform pocket and placed it down on Brent’s desk. “My orders from the Empire.”

Brent picked up the chip and opened one of his drawers, pulling out his datapad and slotting the chip into it. The datapad was irreplaceable. There was only a handful on the planet – when they would be dirt cheap in the Core Worlds – and Avalon’s industry couldn't even begin to produce them, not yet. The investment required to boost the local industry to a higher level simply didn’t exist. He studied the short brisk prose and blinked. The orders were vague in the extreme.

“I see,” he said, finally. It was something he would have to discuss with George and Linda, at least before they brought the rest of the Council in on it. “Do you have any immediate requirements, Captain?”

Captain Stalker didn't even blink at his tone. “I need to use the spaceport for unloading the Sebastian Cruz,” he said, flatly. “We have a mountain of supplies that we brought from Earth. We also need an isolated location near Camelot that can serve as a base of operations and a full and accurate briefing on the current political situation. Once we get everything down on the planet and organised, we can start training up the local Civil Guard.”

Brent exchanged a quick glance with George. “I recommend Castle Rock as your base of operations,” George said. “It’s actually a mid-sized island off the coast of Arthur – this continent – and it already has a landing strip built on it. There are a handful of indebted families down on the ground, but they’d be happy to move if the Governor bought out their contracts. If you have plenty of supplies, you really need an island. Your supplies are going to attract every thief in the city.”

“The Wilhelm Family owns Castle Rock,” Linda pointed out. “You may have to negotiate with them over rent or purchase.”

“Maybe not,” Brent said. For once, he could put a finger in their eye and it would be perfectly legal. “If we buy out the settlers, the island reverts back to the government and we can hand it over to the Marines if we want. They can go to hell.”

“Thank you,” Captain Stalker said. “With your permission, then, I will start moving my men down to the spaceport. The sooner we get started, the sooner Captain Yamato and his ship can leave the system.”

“I will have dispatches for them to take back to Earth,” Brent said quickly. “I’ll have them sent up this evening.”

“Of course,” Captain Stalker said. He looked out of the window, towards the mountains in the distance. He didn’t know that rebels were lurking there. “You have a beautiful planet.”

“We like to think so,” George said, dryly. “My driver will take you back to the spaceport.”

Captain Stalker saluted and left the room. “So,” Brent said, once the door had closed behind him. “What do you make of our new ally?”

“Handsome, determined and ignorant of the local realities,” Linda said. Brent looked at her in surprise. Was Linda attracted to the Marine? “It was clear that he didn't have any real idea of what is going on here.”

“That isn't actually surprising,” George said, flatly. “Earth simply doesn't care about tiny issues on faraway planets. They wouldn't have had access to any real briefing papers, certainly nothing up to date. They’ll learn, of course. Marines have the highest rating of all when it comes to adapting to new situations.”

Linda smiled. “Are they even better than your old regiment?”

“Only by a tiny margin,” George said, quickly. They shared a laugh. “Of course, my old regiment was commanded by an idiot who got his post through political connections and didn't have the slightest idea which end of a gun fired the bullet. The Marine officers have to work their way up through the ranks. It gives them a major advantage over us poor mortals in the Imperial Army.”

He paused. “Which does make you wonder,” he added. “Just what did Captain Stalker do to be exiled out here?”

Linda smiled. “Let’s see,” she said. “I was left here for refusing the advances of a superior officer. You were sent here because you won a battle by disobeying every order you were given. Half of the staff in Government House were sent here because it was cheaper than firing them. What do you think Captain Stalker did?”

“It wouldn't have been anything that rated a dishonourable, or he would have been discharged from the Marine Corps,” George said. He chuckled. “For all we know, he was caught in bed with a Senator’s daughter and her outraged father insisted on him being exiled to Avalon, along with his Company.”

“Or,” Brent said quietly, “they’re all we’re going to get.”

The room seemed to grow colder. Brent had been appealing to the Sector Capital for help for years, but nothing had ever materialised, not even an Imperial Navy destroyer. Trade was falling all over the sector. The flood of new colonists – even the involuntary settlers from Earth – had become a trickle. Captain Stalker’s men were the single largest group to land on Avalon all year. Brent didn't want to think about it – he had been a loyal servant of the Empire and had served it faithfully – but what if the Empire was on the verge of abandoning Avalon completely.

He knew the local sector fairly well, for he’d been based there for his entire career. Avalon’s sector was right on the Rim, the border of space controlled by the Empire. Beyond the Rim, there were hidden pirate bases, black colonies and strange eerie rumours about encounters with aliens, told in spaceport bars by drunken spacers. If the Empire abandoned Avalon completely, what might come out of the darkness to threaten his adopted world?

And yet, even that wasn't the real worry. The Crackers had been smashed once before by the Imperial Navy. What would happen if they realised that the Imperial Navy would never return to Avalon? They’d push forward as quickly as they could and the Civil Guard wouldn't be able to stand in their way. How long would it be before they took Camelot and put her inhabitants to the sword? The Crackers had no reason to love the Council or respect its authority. His never-to-be-sufficiently-damned predecessor had made sure of that.

“George,” he said slowly. “How much of an impact can they make on the enemy?”

George hesitated. “In the short term, quite a bit,” he said. “In the long term, perhaps nothing, unless they succeed in turning out new recruits for the Civil Guard. Even so, the Council will probably try to hobble it, if only because a stronger army is a danger to them as well.”

They shared a long look. George and a handful of other professional military officers did what they could, but the Avalon Civil Guard was an unwieldy creature. Officially, it had five thousand soldiers, yet realistically it was far fewer. Many of the senior officers were political appointees, men and women trusted by various Councillors to respect their interests. Others were deeply corrupt and – perhaps – working for the enemy. Launching any sort of military campaign against the bandits, let alone the Crackers, was impossible.

“I see,” Brent said. “I’m going to give him complete control over Castle Rock. Legally, the Council won’t be able to do anything about it, not without compromising their own positions.” He snorted at the thought. Half of the Councillors were in it for the money, what little of it there was on Avalon. The other half were in it for the power. “At least that should keep their influence off the island.”

“Maybe,” George said. He stood up. “With your permission, I have to get back out to my men. I want to do a swoop through the countryside. We might just catch a few bandits to hang.”

“Good luck,” Brent said. They both knew that the operation wasn't likely to succeed. “And good hunting.”

***
One of the little secrets the Marine Corps had somehow never got around to sharing with anyone who hadn't passed through the Slaughterhouse was that each Marine was issued a subcutaneous communicator. It was low-powered, meaning that it had very short range, but it was effectively completely undetectable outside of the Core Worlds. Marines trained endlessly to be able to speak privately to each other, without anyone on the outside having any idea of what was going on. It had been used, more than once, to give the Marines a tactical advantage.

“So,” Blake said. Anyone looking at him would have just seen him standing there, as unmoving as a rock. His jaw didn't even twitch. The two Civil Guardsmen eying the Marines warily heard nothing. “What do you make of our posting?”

“There's more trouble than they told us about,” Jasmine said, in reply. One of the Civil Guardsmen was staring at her as if she was a creature from another world. The thought made her smile. In a sense, it was perfectly true. “They took a risk when they drove the Old Man from the spaceport to here.”

She glanced at the wooden doorway leading to the Governor’s office. A wooden door would have been unthinkable on Earth, outside of the Imperial Palace itself. What few forests remained on Earth were under heavy protection, with guards authorised to shoot on sight. On Avalon, it was commonplace and a single hard kick would bring the door down in splinters.

“Or perhaps they were exaggerating the threat,” Blake said. “It wouldn't be the first time that someone has tried to convince us that matters were worse than they seemed.”

Jasmine nodded, remembering deployments where the Marines had been sucked into the maelstrom of local politics, where one side had attempted to use them to forward their own political agenda. Avalon might be barely developed, but it certainly had a political maelstrom brewing. She sighed inwardly. Wonderful; another campaign where no one knew who was the good guy.

The door opened before she could reply. “Come on,” Captain Stalker said. He looked as calm and composed as ever, but Jasmine could just see something else beneath his face. “We have to go back to the spaceport.”

Chapter Fourteen

One of the many symptoms of decline is the sudden profusion of intelligence agencies. Where once Imperial Intelligence (the dreaded Double Eyes) handled all of the Empire’s intelligence requirements, there are now dozens of different intelligence agencies. Some work for specific branches of the armed forces – Naval Intelligence, Marine Intelligence – while others work for individual Senators and even for the media. The results have not been good.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

Four hours after Edward returned to the spaceport, fifty Marines had landed and conducted a thorough sweep of the surrounding area. They’d found nothing incriminating apart from a few caches of locally-produced drugs, but it hadn't been hard to convince the Civil Guard to move their helicopters to a nearby airstrip and leave the spaceport to the Marines. There was simply nowhere else on Avalon that could be used to land so much gear so quickly. Lieutenant Howell had set up a command post in one section of the spaceport and was conducting operations quickly and smoothly, while Lieutenant Young had been dispatched to Castle Rock to carry out a quick survey. Edward wasn’t entirely happy at being based on an island – even if they were Marines – but it would provide a barrier between the Marines and the local political struggles. It would also be easy to secure.

He’d had orbital images downloaded to his terminal on the trip back to the spaceport and he’d studied them carefully. Castle Rock – and he had no idea how it had picked up that name – was a medium-sized island about twice the size of Nantucket on Old Earth. It had some good farmland and fishing opportunities and he hadn't understood why it wasn't more heavily settled, but a quick look at the survey report had informed him that there was simply much better farming on the continent itself. The settlers who had started to try to farm on the island hadn’t been very successful, something that puzzled him. They should certainly have been able to feed themselves by now.

“The remainder of the Company is assisting Captain Yamato to unlock the pods and start loading them onboard the shuttles,” Lieutenant Howell explained. “I think we’re going to have to run our own security until we get everything set up on Castle Rock. I didn't realise just how dirt poor this planet actually is until I had a good look at their local records. We might as well have landed entire mountains of gold, sir.”

“Keep two platoons back at all times to maintain guard on the spaceport,” Edward ordered. It was a dangerously thin security blanket. Marines or not, it really required at least a full Company to hold and secure a spaceport. Twenty-one Marines wouldn't be enough to stand off a determined assault. “Once we get the drones and assault vehicles unloaded and set up, we can start deploying them to the island and on random patrols.”

“Yeah,” Howell said. He didn't sound happy, but then, few logistics officers ever were. The Marines rotated such posts around the Lieutenants to ensure that they all understood how to handle logistics, yet Howell had been unlucky. Stalker’s Stalkers had never had to operate at the end of such a long supply chain before. Offhand, Edward couldn't remember any Marine unit in recent history that had. “I bet you ten credits that we’ll have locals out here soon enough offering to assist us in exchange for vital supplies. A single fusion reactor would completely change the balance of power here and we have ten of them.”

Edward nodded. “I didn't discuss what we’d brought with the Governor,” he said. “We’ll have to see who we can bring in locally to assist us. God knows, we can't handle everything ourselves.”

“No,” Howell said. “In fact...”

Edward’s communicator buzzed before he could finish speaking. “Captain, this is Rifleman Lin on the front gate,” a voice said. “You have a visitor. She says she’s from Naval Intelligence.”

Edward exchanged a brief glance with Howell. “Naval Intelligence?”

“Yes, sir,” Lin said. “She wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“How unusually polite,” Edward murmured. Naval Intelligence, in his experience, tended to issue demands and threats instead of polite requests. They considered themselves the senior military intelligence service, second only to Imperial Intelligence. “Check her, and then have her escorted into the main building. I’ll see her in the spaceport manager’s office.”

He’d inspected the office earlier. It was surprisingly simple for such a post, decorated only by a handful of posters of movie stars who had been out of fashion long before word that they were in fashion reached Avalon. The manager, he’d been told by the Civil Guard, only worked part time, unsurprising when starships only visited the system every few months. She had offered to come in and assist the Marines, but Howell had turned her down, warning her that it could be dangerous. The real reason was far darker. Spaceport managers on the frontier had a habit of assisting smugglers and thieves to supplement their limited income. It was something he felt that they could do without. He took one of the seats – the manager hadn't believed in comfort, evidently – and waited.

“Captain, this is Colonel Kitty Stevenson of Naval Intelligence,” Lin said, knocking on the open door. “She’s clean.”

“Thank you,” Edward said, standing up and holding out a hand for Kitty to shake. “Please close the door behind you.”

Kitty Stevenson was a tall redheaded woman, wearing a simple Imperial Navy tunic without rank insignia. She actually reminded Edward of Mandy and Mindy, apart from the air of quiet desperation that seemed to hang around the older woman. Her tunic was unbuttoned, showing off a certain amount of cleavage, but her gaze was sharp and direct. Edward let go of her hand and waved her to a chair, holding out a datapad to her.

“I'm afraid I’m going to have to ask you for your prints,” he said. “I wasn't briefed that you were going to be here.”

Kitty nodded and pressed her fingers against the pad’s sensor. A moment later, the pad bleeped up a file; Colonel Kitty Stevenson, Naval Intelligence, assigned to the local sector fleet and then to Avalon, for reasons unknown. Edward skimmed through the highlights and nodded inwardly. Kitty was who she claimed to be.

“I wasn't told that the Marines were going to be coming,” Kitty said. “I was just promised that Avalon would receive some support sooner or later.”

Edward felt his eyes narrow. “Who promised you that?”

“One of my superiors on Earth,” Kitty said. Her face revealed nothing. “He just told me that some form of military support would be coming soon.”

Edward frowned inwardly, thinking hard. He hadn't known that he would be heading to Avalon until just after he’d told the Grand Senate exactly what was wrong with them and their ideas, yet the Commandant had organised the transfer remarkably quickly. Had he intended to send a Marine Company out to Avalon, or had it simply been a matter of slotting a round peg into a round hole? And then there was the encryption key he’d been given. Just what, he asked himself angrily, was the Commandant up to on Old Earth?

“I see,” he said, finally. It wasn't something he could ask her. Chances were that she was just as ignorant as him. “And, now you’re here, why are you here?”

Kitty showed no offence at his brusque manner. “Officially, I am in charge of the Imperial Navy recruiting station on Avalon,” she said. “Practically speaking, the station is moribund and has been so for years. I have thousands of kids on my lists who want to enlist, but without transport to a training centre they get nowhere. Unofficially, my task is to monitor the situation on this planet and report to higher authority.”

“Sneaky,” Edward said, dryly. “What’s on Avalon that makes it so important?”

“It's not on Avalon,” Kitty countered. “It’s the cloudscoop. If the system was to be...lost, the cloudscoop might fall into pirate hands, allowing them to become more aggressive. If it fell into Secessionist hands, the results might be far less pleasing.” She snorted. “And, Captain, this world is within six months of falling into enemy hands.”

Edward jerked upright. “Hellfire,” he said, sharply. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been on this godforsaken planet for the last ten years,” Kitty snapped. “Of course I'm sure!”

“Six months,” Edward repeated. He looked up at a frayed map hanging on the wall. “What the hell is going on here?”

Kitty assumed a pose Edward recognised, the pose of an intelligence officer on the verge of impacting information to the ignorant – everyone else. “Just under a hundred years ago, there was a brutal rebellion on this planet, which the Imperial Navy terminated by striking from orbit,” she said. “The original rebellion was broken, but seeds of a new movement survived and prospered. The first two Governors didn't help...”

She took a breath. “The first Governor put heavy restrictions on the planet’s inhabitants,” she explained. “He tried to ban guns, issue ID cards...everything seemingly calculated to annoy people who might otherwise have been loyal. The local wildlife wouldn't be impressed by unarmed humans; the farmers didn't dare disarm, not when their children could be attacked and eaten by one of the local monstrosities. There was no second rebellion, but there was a great deal of discontent, passive resistance, and brief outbursts of violence. Eventually, some kindly soul put a bullet through his head and he was killed.

“The second Governor wasn't much better,” she continued. “He relaxed the restrictions, but he firmly believed that the only way to heal the planet would be to allow the inhabitants to have some say in their future, so he created the planetary council. On paper, it was an excellent idea, but in practice it was a dreadful error. By law, the only people who could vote in elections were people who had paid off their debts, and barely ten percent of the planet’s population – if that – could legally vote. The results weren't pleasant. The Council is effectively dominated by interests who don't want to extend the franchise, cancel debts, make vast new investments...or anything else that might actually help fix the world’s problems. Worse, seeing the Council has been legally formed, the third Governor cannot simply dissolve it. He has to listen to them.”

“Fuck,” Edward said, mildly. He’d seen screwed up planets before, but this was something new. “And the rebels are trying to tear all of this down?”

“Yes,” Kitty said. She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. “One group is effectively bandits, without any political agenda. They’re largely composed of escaped indents who have nowhere else to go. They’re responsible for some of the worst attacks, but have absolutely no hope of surviving if the Civil Guard had the firepower and numbers to go after them. They have no support whatsoever from the locals unless they take it at gunpoint. A few hours before you arrived, one of their groups attacked a township, wiped out the men and took the women as slaves. Or worse.

“The other two groups are both descended from the original Cracker movement,” she said. “They want to get rid of the planetary government, scrap all debt and establish a new representative government. They differ in their arms slightly. One group basically wants autonomy within the Empire; the other wants complete independence. They may have links to outside forces.”

“The Secessionists,” Edward said. “Or it could be pirates.”

“Could be,” Kitty agreed. “I have no proof either way. This planet’s satellite network is barely functional and no one has bothered to put aside the funds to repair it.”

She shook her head, sending ripples running down her red hair. “You’ll get a fully military briefing from the Major, no doubt, but the short version of it is that the government is losing control over the outer settlements and may well be on the verge of losing complete control. There is almost no support whatsoever for the government outside of the main cities, because the government is seen as the enemy, the tool of the debt sharks who keep the locals in debt. The Crackers don’t have to intimidate the population, Captain; they have more friends and allies than they could possibly require. I suspect that their aim is to force the Civil Guard to come out and fight on even terms, whereupon they will crush it and march on Camelot.”

Edward considered it. “Do they have heavy weapons?”

“Not very many,” Kitty said. “A few weapons disappeared from Civil Guard storage deports and more may be coming in from off-planet, but mostly they have only what they can produce for themselves. Unfortunately, they are quite ingenious. Their industrialists show far more energy and application than the government’s show, which isn't entirely surprising. The Council has the whole system tied up, preventing any honest competition. The whole planet, Captain, is the Empire in microcosm.”

Edward let that pass. “Tell me about the Council,” he said. “Who and what are they?”

“You’ll meet them all later,” Kitty assured him. “The Governor was already talking about a formal ball to welcome you and your men to Avalon.” She shrugged, expressively. “There are twenty-one councillors in all, each one representing a specific district, at least in theory. Seven of them basically bought thousands of miles of land from the ADC when it was trying to sell off its assets. Seven more own ninety percent of the planet’s industry between them. Two of them – the Wilhelm Family – are debt sharks. They bought the debt contracts of thousands of people and used it as leverage to turn them into serfs. Markus and Carola Wilhelm have a fair claim to being the most hated couple on the planet. The remaining five were elected by the middle class, insofar as this planet has a middle class. They’re reasonably honest, but they’re not above taking bribes if they’re offered.

“The Council’s exact position related to the Governor isn't clear. The Governor is the Empire-appointed Head of State and Government, but the Council can interfere with his programs if they don’t like them. Governor Roeder isn't a bad man – he’s certainly not as bad as either of the last two Governors – yet he doesn't have the strength of will to go up against the massed opposition of the Council. He controls the Civil Guard, at least on paper, but many of the Guard’s senior officers were appointed by the Councillors. The possibility of a civil war within the Guard’s ranks cannot be completely discounted. Major Grosskopf is a good man, but only five hundred of the Guardsmen can be ranked as good soldiers. The remainder go from average down to bad. He wanted to go after the bandit gang that hit the township, but the Guard is simply not equipped or trained to take on the bandits, let alone the rebel Crackers.”

She gave him a charming smile. “Sorry you came yet?”

Edward smiled back. It would require some investigation, but he was already beginning to see possibilities in the situation. And, besides, his orders from the Commandant had been delightfully vague. The Grand Old Man of the Corps might not know everything about Avalon, but he'd granted Edward vast latitude to act as he saw fit. Perhaps the planet could be saved after all.

“Not yet,” he said, with a wink. One more question had to be asked. “Where do the indents fit into all of this?”

“They're right at the bottom of the social scale,” Kitty said, coldly. “They’re criminals, sentenced to spending at least ten to twenty years working as slave labour before being freed and granted a small patch of land. Most of them should never have been sent here. Others complete their sentences, only to discover that they’re still at the bottom of the social scale. They don’t get their land; they’re lucky not to be lynched on sight. They gravitate to the shanty towns surrounding Camelot and just...stay there. They don’t have any hope at all. If the Crackers took over, they’d all be killed out of hand. They kill indent gangs on sight.”

Perfect, Edward thought, calmly.

“Above them are the indebted, the ones who will never pay off their debt,” Kitty added. “And then we have ones who might succeed, if the screws don’t get tightened any further. And then we have the ones who are free, yet burdened by taxes intended to help pay off the planet’s overall debt. The whole planet is a mess. It is no wonder, Captain, that the Crackers are being so successful. Why should anyone outside the upper crust try to resist them?”

She stood up. “My orders from my superiors are to make myself of use to you, Captain,” she concluded. Edward smiled inwardly at how much pride she – and her superiors – had had to swallow to issue such orders, let alone follow them. “What are your orders?”

Edward considered the matter. “I want you to prepare a briefing for my senior officers and NCOs,” he said. The briefing would be recorded and shown to the enlisted men as well. “And then I want you to sit down with some of my people and start going over maps and planning operations. I don’t intend to sit on my ass at Castle Rock doing nothing.”

Kitty stared at him. “Captain,” she said slowly, “how do you intend to send a hundred Marines against an enemy you can't even track?”

“You might be surprised,” Edward said, seriously. An idea was already forming in his mind. He’d have to study the maps before he came up with a final plan, but he was fairly sure it world work. “I think the bandit gang that hit the township would make a suitable first target for our wrath, don’t you?”

Chapter Fifteen

There are two vital elements of any colonisation project that must succeed if the world is to develop properly; the farming, to provide food, and the industry. If those two elements fail, the colony world will either stagnate or collapse. It should be evident that it is vitally important to encourage those elements at all costs, yet far too many planets are concentrating merely on the short-term and neglecting the long-term health of their colony.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

Leo stepped out of the shuttle and took a deep breath. The smell struck him at once. There was a hint of jet fuel and the ionisation caused by shuttle drives, but all of that was minor compared to the fresh wind blowing across the landing strip. Earth’s atmosphere had stunk…and he hadn’t even been aware of it until he'd set foot on a starship. The pollution had been terrible. He knew, from his own private studies, that it caused massive death rates among the Undercity dwellers, but there were always more where they came from. The stink of hydrocarbons and far too many human beings pressed together had ever-present. He had just never been aware of it until he’d smelled cleaner air.

He turned slowly, stepping away from the shuttle, and caught sight of the mountains in the distance. They were like nothing he had ever seen before. They seemed to reach up endlessly into the clouds, dominating the surrounding countryside for miles around, with green flecks of trees and grass covering their lower levels. He’d seen pictures of Earth’s mountain ranges, of course, but he’d never been able to afford a family holiday to the few remaining preserved areas of Earth. That had been the playground of the rich and famous.

“Dad,” Mandy said. It was almost a whine. “Help me down, please.”

Leo turned and held out a hand to his daughter. She was shaking, overwhelmed by her new surroundings, for she had definitely never set foot outside her home city on Earth. Avalon was vast and unspoilt by the human race, a paradise for the tired and weary, yet Mandy seemed daunted by the sight. The young were supposed to be more adaptable than the old, or so he had learned in his studies, but Mandy looked doubtful. Mindy didn’t seem to have so many doubts. She ran down the shuttle’s ramp and down onto the ground, staring around in awe.

“It’s so green,” she said. “Daddy…what is that?”

Leo followed her pointing finger and saw a strange animal moving around the edge of the spaceport’s new fence. A chill ran down his spine as it sank in that he was truly on an alien world. The animal looked like a weird combination of a dog, a horse and a donkey. It gave them a disdainful glance with fish-like eyes and wandered off, grazing as it moved. He wondered, absently, what it was called or if anyone had bothered to try to tame it and its kin. Was it even good eating?

“So,” Fiona said. “This is Avalon.”

The scorn in her voice made him wince. “Yes,” he said, silently wishing that she would shut up long enough for him to work out what to do next. They had to go into Camelot and find somewhere to live, and then start seeing about jobs. He’d checked Avalon’s local net – such as it was – and found no mention of a university. The schools seemed to be mainly technical schools, designed to turn out the next generation of industrial workers. “Welcome to our new home.”

Fiona snorted again, but mercifully kept her peace. She’d been complaining all the time since the shuttle had undocked from the massive transport, demanding that the pilot take it easy as they descended down towards the planet. Leo remembered what she’d been like when they had first married and wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to the woman he’d married. It was far too easy to understand. She’d had peace, security and wealth – at least for their class – and his actions had torn it away from her. The whole family had been exiled thousands of light years from the core of the Empire.

Mandy realised that she was clutching her father’s hand and let go of it, her eyes flickering around the spaceport. Leo watched her with some concern, but she seemed to be recovering; her eyes were following a group of Marines as they unloaded another shuttle. Leo winced inwardly again. Mandy had grown up in a world where she had had no responsibility for her actions and it showed. He had a feeling that life was going to be much more serious on Avalon than it had ever been on Earth. Mindy didn’t seem to have any problems at all. She looked as if she wanted to start running all over the spaceport. Only the possible danger kept her firmly in her place.

“Welcome to Avalon,” a voice said. Fiona jumped. Leo turned slowly to see Captain Stalker and another Marine standing behind them. He hadn’t even heard them coming up to the shuttle! “What do you make of your new home?”

“It smells strange,” Mandy said, sullenly. For once, she wasn’t eying the Marine. “I don’t want to be here.”

Leo gave the Captain a glance, silently willing him to understand. “What a remarkable coincidence,” Captain Stalker said. His voice was exaggeratedly cheerful. “I don’t want to be here either. Orders are orders.”

“Yes, but that’s different,” Mandy protested. “You have to obey orders and go where they send you. I…”

Her voice trailed off. “I cannot prove this to you, not now, but you are far better off here than in the Undercity back on Earth, or dead,” Captain Stalker said. He looked up at Leo. “I understand that you intend to head into Camelot as soon as possible?”

“Yes,” Leo said. He recognised the brisk businesslike tone. “We can’t presume on your hospitality forever.”

“True enough,” Captain Stalker agreed. “I have taken the liberty of asking Rifleman Jasmine Yamane to accompany you until you get your bearings. I hope you won’t find her too much of an imposition.”

Leo, who recognised an order when he heard one, however expressed, nodded slowly. “I’m sure that we won’t,” he said, ignoring Fiona’s angry look. She couldn’t wait to be away from the Marines, if only to keep Mandy out of trouble. Leo silently wished her good luck with that. His daughter seemed determined to sleep with each and every male Marine in the Company. “How do we get into town?”

“Jasmine has a locally-produced car for your service,” Captain Stalker said. “Let me know how you get on.”

He nodded briskly to his subordinate and walked away, leaving Jasmine with Leo and his family. “If you’ll come this way,” she said, politely. If she was aware of how both of Leo’s daughters were staring at her, she didn’t show it. “I can drive you into town and help you find lodgings.”

The locally-produced car turned out to be a copy of a design that had been old when the Empire was young, large enough to carry Leo’s entire family in some degree of comfort. It was a new and strange sight to both girls and they stared in awe as Jasmine steered them out of the spaceport and onto the highway leading down towards the sea. None of the family could drive. On Earth, they had been restricted to using either the transport tubes or aircars, and the aircars had been controlled by their onboard processors. Privately-owned vehicles weren't legally banned, but they were very rare outside the wealthy. The expense was just too much.

Avalon, on the other hand, seemed to have hundreds of privately-owned vehicles. The closer they got to the city, the more vehicles they saw on the road, ranging from cars to buses and trucks. He saw a van drive past carrying live horses – Mindy stared in astonishment, clearly planning to find out where she could get riding lessons – and another carrying newly-picked fruit. Some people rode animals instead, from horses to creatures that had to be native to Avalon itself. The standard colonisation program, he’d learned while he’d been carrying out his research, always included thousands of young animals, cloned and decanted on the new world. Horses, pigs, sheep and cattle reproduced naturally. It was another measure to prevent the complete collapse of a new colony world. Offhand, he couldn’t recall a colony world, one established after the rise of the Empire, that had actually failed. They were regarded as very solid investments.

The thought made him study Camelot with a new eye. Parts of the city looked strong and prosperous, other parts looked poor and downcast. He saw men and women who strode purposefully around the city, as if they had places to go, and others who loitered on street corners, without any purpose to their existence. He spotted a line of women who had to be prostitutes, selling themselves for the best that they could get, and a line of men looking for labouring positions. Camelot looked as if it was spending its seed capital, rather than investing in the future. A chill ran down his spine. He had studied how colony worlds could go bad, but seeing it in person was different. The piles of litter in some parts of the city were a very telling sign.

“This is the finest hotel in Camelot,” Jasmine said, as she pulled up in front of a blocky stone building. It looked reasonably clean, at least. “The Governor suggested that you stay here for a week while you look for somewhere more permanent.”

“Thank you,” Leo said, as they stepped out of the car. Apart from a few bags of clothing they’d brought from Earth, they had almost nothing with them. Fiona had mourned the loss of her jewels and fashionable clothes ever since the Marines had taken them in. A mob had looted their house and burned what was left of it to the ground. He looked down at his wife and scowled at her expression. “Coming?”

Jasmine followed them as they stepped into the lobby. If it was the finest hotel on Avalon, Leo would have dreaded walking into a less-prestigious hotel. The lobby was barely clean, with paint coming off the walls and carpets that had never been washed or even vacuumed. He was sure he saw something move on the table as he walked up to the single desk, operated by a girl who looked bored. Her mouth chewed incessantly on a piece of gum.

“Welcome to the Hotel Avalon,” she said. Her voice somehow suggested that their presence was an imposition. “One room for the five of you?”

“Two rooms would be fine,” Leo said. Mandy looked as if she wanted to protest, but Fiona shot her a glance that made her shut her mouth. He looked over at Jasmine. “Ah…?”

“I’ll be returning to the spaceport tonight,” Jasmine said, dryly. “I won’t have to stay here.”

The receptionist stared at Jasmine, and then looked back at Leo. “Two rooms,” she said. She quoted a price that made Leo splutter, all in credits. Avalon’s local currency clearly wasn't very strong. He named a counteroffer and she nodded, leading him to suspect that he was still overpaying them for the rooms. “If you’ll follow me…”

The rooms weren't actually as bad as he’d feared, although the chambermaid didn’t look very competent at all. Fiona spent an hour inspecting them minutely, complaining about everything, before finally admitting that they were acceptable, for the moment. Mandy had thrown herself down on her bed while Mindy bombarded Jasmine with questions about the Marine Corps and how one joined up. Jasmine answered as patiently as she could, even when Mandy started firing off questions about what it was like to serve with so many handsome men and which one was best in bed. Fiona slapped her and sent her back to her bed in a rage.

A knock on the door revealed a messenger wearing the closest thing to a formal uniform they’d seen on the planet. “Professor, Chief Councillor Ron Friedman would like the pleasure of your family’s company at Afternoon Tea,” he said, once Jasmine had checked his identity. “He wishes to welcome you to the planet personally.”

“Excellent,” Fiona said, before Leo could say anything. “Please tell the Chief Councillor that we would be happy to attend his little meeting. We’ll be along as soon as possible.”

Leo opened his mouth to object, saw his wife’s face, and knew that it would be futile. There was no stopping Fiona when she got into one of those moods. Besides, a new social life might just help her adapt to their new home.

“Very well,” he said, seriously. “When does it start?”

He’d half-expected Jasmine to object to them going to the meeting – or get-together, or whatever it was – but the Marine Rifleman said nothing. He wasn't quite sure why Captain Stalker had assigned her to look after them anyway. The town might not be as nice as the briefings from the ADC had made it sound, but they hadn’t run into any actual danger. Fiona spent the next hour trying on dresses and insisting that the girls changed as well, while Leo donned the traditional suit worn by an Imperial Professor. He might have been fired from the University of Earth – a very rare occurrence – but no one had stripped him of his professorship. Fiona’s one suggestion that Jasmine abandon her uniform for a dress was met by a harsh stare.

Chief Councillor Ron Friedman’s house was more like a castle, built out of solid stone and guarded by a number of tough-looking men carrying locally-produced weapons. Leo would have been more impressed if he hadn’t spent time with Captain Stalker during the long voyage to Avalon; the guards struck him as thugs, rather than disciplined soldiers. They wore uniforms that made them look uncomfortably like wasps – yellow and black – to make them stand out in a crowd.

“Easy targets,” he heard Jasmine mutter. He couldn’t disagree with her assessment. “A single platoon would go through them like a knife through butter.”

The interior of the house was easily the finest building he’d seen on Avalon, even if it didn’t quite come up to the levels of some buildings on Earth. A number of men and women chatted together about nothing in particular, while children ran around or played in the pool just outside the house. Their hostess, a charming woman with a big smile, gently took Mandy and Mindy and put them in the care of her own daughter, who led them off towards the pool. Leo hoped that they’d be all right. It had been years since either of them had swum for pleasure.

“You’re from Earth,” a voice cooed to Fiona. It belonged to a woman who was quite astonishingly fat, making her way through the crowd like a battleship. “You must tell me, my dear; is that the latest fashion?”

Leo blinked, and then smiled. He hadn’t thought of it, but Avalon was so far from Earth that all of its styles would be six months out of date. It hadn’t struck him as important, of course, but it would make Fiona happy if she was suddenly one of the local fashion leaders. He watched with wry amusement as the newcomer – he hadn’t even heard the woman’s name – steered Fiona away to a cluster of other women, all of whom looked thoroughly vapid.

“And you must be Professor Caesius,” another voice said. He found himself looking at a middle-aged man, with brown hair and an oversized moustache. “I’m Councillor Friedman. On behalf of my constituents, welcome to Avalon.”

“Thank you,” Leo said. The man’s handshake struck him as limp, insincere. He tossed a nervous look at Jasmine and led him over to a smaller group of men and women. “It’s good to be here.”

Councillor Friedman laughed, too loudly. “Excellent,” he proclaimed, slapping Leo on the back. “Now, you must tell us all about Earth and Imperial politics. We hear so little out here.”

And, for the next twenty minutes, Leo did.

***
Jasmine had once been told that the Marine uniform was not only a sign of achievement, but also a barrier. She was uncomfortably aware of the gazes being tossed at her by people who thought that they were being subtle, as if they weren't quite sure what to make of her. She stayed close to the Professor and listened, pretending to be isolated in her own little world.

Captain Stalker had given her two sets of instructions. The first was to keep an eye on the Professor and his family and effectively act as their bodyguard, should one be needed. The second was to gain what intelligence she could about Camelot and the true state of affairs on the ground. She hadn’t objected to going to the Afternoon Tea because it offered a priceless opportunity to carry out her second set of instructions…and it was proving very educational. The men and women gathered around the Professor, she was sure, were most of the Councillors of Avalon. They were systematically picking his brains.

A young man was giving her the eye. Jasmine met his and gave him what Marines called the Stare, a wordless challenge to do battle. He lowered his eyes and walked away, with his metaphorical tail between his legs. Jasmine would have preferred to go out drinking with her platoon, or even to have undergone another punishment duty, rather than spend time at such a party. Everyone was just being painfully polite to one another. There was very little love lost between them.

Slowly, she inched closer to Leo and listened carefully. He hadn’t mentioned his own disgrace, but he was talking about some of the Empire’s problems. Jasmine silently memorised the reactions, carefully placing names to faces. The briefing notes had warned her that some of the most hated men and women on the planet were on the Council. And now, the most dangerous ones were gathering intelligence, for what?

She shook her head. The deployment was going to be very interesting.

Thanks to everyone who commented. I just need feedback.

Thanks

Chris

I've been lurking sd for the past 2 years and only your story pulled me out to finally comment to say. PLEASE CONTINUE. I'm hooked, and I'm trying to find a way to download it to iphone so I can read it prior to work xD

UrusaiKaimuki wrote:I've been lurking sd for the past 2 years and only your story pulled me out to finally comment to say. PLEASE CONTINUE. I'm hooked, and I'm trying to find a way to download it to iphone so I can read it prior to work xD

Thank you

Chapter Sixteen

What motivates resistance to the Empire? There are simply too many reasons to list; political, economic, and even personal. The real problem, however, is that the number of anti-Empire groups has skyrocketed in the last five decades. None of them pose a threat on their own. The real danger is that they will get organised as a group if we give them time to develop.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

Lucas Trent laughed aloud as he shot his load deep into the girl, and then pulled out of her, ignoring her protests and cries of pain. She didn’t have any right to protest, not as far as he was concerned. The stuck-up bitch had once been the daughter of a paid-up settler family, looking down on indents like himself because she’d been lucky enough not to be shipped to Avalon as an indentured labourer. Lucas had suffered more than enough abuse from such bitches – and their families – in the six months he’d spent as an indent to want to spend the rest of his life punishing them for their crimes. And, besides, it was fun.

He stood up and wiped himself, using water from a bucket, before pulling on his clothes. The girl had stopped whimpering and was staring up at him, fearful of what the future might hold. It had only been two days since she’d been snatched from her homestead and she’d been raped at least seven times, slowly breaking her sprit and turning her into a girl any bandit could be proud of. She’d spend the rest of her life in one of the refuges in the badlands, hidden from any search parties that came out so far from civilisation, servicing the gang until she grew old and died. He reached out and pinched her nipple, savouring her scream as if it were a fine wine, and then walked out of the room. The door banged closed behind him and one of the guards locked it. The girl wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“Yah, Boss,” Steven said, looking up as Lucas strode into what he liked to think of as his operating room. In reality, it was just another hidden room, with a pair of maps spread out on the table. “Good ride?”

Lucas leered at him. “The best,” he said, with a sneer. “Go try her out yourself sometime.”

Steven shook his head. “Wrong plumbing,” he said. “You should try out the buck I have in my storage bin.”

Lucas laughed, part of his mind marvelling at how relaxed he was around Steven. Back on Earth, he’d hated homosexuals, considering them weak and disgusting pieces of shit. His gang had fought homosexual gangs in the Undercity and never even considered making peace with them, even if they were one gang that would never be fighting over women. On Avalon, so far from the Undercity that it seemed like a dream, old hatreds didn’t matter. Steven was tough, dependable and loyal. He made an excellent deputy for the bandit gang.

Earth’s authorities didn’t know it, but they’d made a serious mistake when they’d send Lucas to Avalon, rather than simply dumping him on a far less Earth-like world or executing him on the spot. His deportation papers stated that he’d been nothing more than yet another gang member, but the truth was very different; he’d been their leader. Lucas had been born to a mother in the Undercity – he had no idea who his father had been, or that of his brothers and sisters – and he’d never even had a hope of climbing out to the shining towers of the Middle City. At five years old, he was already a vicious fighter, working for one of the gang lords in his city-block. At nine, he started to run whorehouses, pimping girls to his fellow gang members and to richer people from the Middle City, who wanted tastes of things they couldn’t have high above. At fifteen, after a brief and bloody gang war, he’d been the undisputed ruler of his city-block and a terror to anyone who knew him.

Lucas had been born with a talent, one that might have taken him far had he been born elsewhere. He instinctively understood how to build an organisation – the Knives - that supported his primacy, and how to maintain it. His Lieutenants had known that he would support them as long as they were loyal and that if they were disloyal, there was nowhere they could run to that would keep them safe. He’d bribed the Civil Guard and forced them to turn a blind eye to his people as they raided along the edges of the Middle City. At nineteen, he’d been expanding his power into other city-blocks and considering ways and means of making an assault on the Middle City. It wouldn’t be the first time a gang lord had become respectable.

And then it had all come crashing down. The first he'd known of it was when a Civil Guard assault squad had come crashing into his city-block, apparently looking for someone else! The irony hadn’t amused him as he’d sat with the other Knives, chained up and awaiting what passed for a trial in the Empire. They hadn’t known who they were dealing with. It had been the only thing that had saved him. Like almost everyone else born in the Undercity, Lucas was unregistered. The Civil Guard hadn’t made the link between him and the dreaded Knife, leader of the Knives, and merely transported him and some of his men to Avalon.

They had been promised opportunities. They had come, all right; the opportunities to be kicked, beaten and treated like dirt. Lucas had had quite enough of it very quickly and he’d planned their escape with care. They’d escaped one night and slipped into the badlands, encountering other bandits as they fled. And Lucas, formally a gang lord of Earth, had risen to become a bandit chieftain. The irony was not lost on him.

He shook his head, changing the subject. “Has there been any sign of pursuit?”

“Nothing,” Steven said. “The spotters reported that the Civil Guard merely swept the area around the township and went home. We haven’t monitored any communications that suggest that they’re planning an offensive.”

Lucas nodded. It would have horrified the Civil Guard to know that one of their officers had quite happily sold the bandits one of their tactical radios, but as far as he knew, they had no idea that it had happened. The officer in question had been waylaid as he came out of a brothel and knifed to death. At least he’d died happy.

“The other report, however, is more worrying,” Steven said. One of the other reasons Lucas tolerated him was because Steven was a great organiser. Lucas knew that it was important to be carefully organised, but it bored him and most of his men. “The men who landed at the spaceport are definitely Marines.”

Lucas looked down at his hands. “How much damage can a single Company of Marines do to us?”

Steven shrugged. “Our sources in Camelot claimed that the Marines were the most dangerous men on the planet,” he said. “It’s hard to know for sure. But then, they do have a good reason to go after us.”

Lucas smiled, thinly, thinking about his growing power. He had realised, at a very early age, that there was no difference between the Empire’s government and his own gang. The Knives took money or beat up the people who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. The Empire’s tax collectors took money or jailed the people who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. Hell, a third of Avalon’s population was so deeply in debt that their great-grandchildren would be working to pay off the interest. There was no moral difference at all. The thought had led to another thought, one that could be applied in full to Avalon.

There were hundreds of homesteads and townships scattered around the badlands, most of them rarely capable of standing off a bandit raid. He’d sent representatives to each of them, offering them the choice between paying tribute and being raided. Some – like Kirkhaven, which no longer existed – had refused, or screamed for help from the Civil Guard. Others, the vast majority, had swallowed their pride and knuckled under. A vast web of fear and servitude was slowly being woven around the townships, holding them all under his thumb. It was a direct challenge to the government in Camelot. They had to respond, if they knew that it was taking place.

“I suppose that they do,” he agreed. “Get back in touch with our sources in the Civil Guard. Tell them that I want to know in advance if the Marines so much as fart publicly.” Steven snickered. “And then send the tax collectors” – another joke, one with a nasty sting in the tail – “around to warn the townships not to cooperate with the Marines. We can hand out another object lesson if necessary.”

He glanced down at the map, considering. “The Marines will be gone soon enough,” he added, “and we will still be here.”

“Perhaps,” Steven said. “Or perhaps our allies at Camelot will try to betray us.”

“They’d be fools to try,” Lucas said, with a leer. They hadn’t kept all of the women and children they’d taken on the raid. A handful had been assigned to a far darker fate. “With everything we have on them, they’ll be lucky if they’re only beaten to death by an outraged public.”

He winked at his friend and headed back out of the room. There were other newly-enslaved women in the complex and they wouldn’t deflower themselves. Lucas was on top of the world, the real power in the badlands and in much of the surrounding area. His power was intangible, barely seen unless it was time to give some stupid bastard a clout, but none the less real for all that. What could the Marines, no matter their reputation, do against him?

***
“Our sources in the Civil Guard were quite clear on the matter,” Rufus said. There was a bitter tone in his voice. “Our esteemed Governor’s pleas for help have finally brought the Marines.”

Gabriella Cracker blinked at the hopelessness in Rufus’s tone. The older farmer had been her father, to all intents and purposes, ever since her real father had died when she was very young. He and his family had brought Gaby up as their own, along with their own children, and he’d always been a reassuring presence in her life. To hear him sound broken was startling.

“One Company of Marines,” Julian pointed out. His handsome face twisted into a sneer. “We are legion.”

Rufus eyed his son with an expression that would have promised a belting, if Julian had been younger. Rufus had survived successive attempts by the Civil Guard to exterminate the Crackers and had learned caution. Julian – and many of the others from the younger generation – was keen for action. They thought that the thousands of Crackers – in both movements – could take on the might of the Empire and win. Gaby knew better. Peter Cracker, her grandfather, had lost his life when the Empire had dispatched a tiny destroyer to Avalon and dropped kinetic weapons on his army.

“We are winning when we are not losing,” Rufus said, coldly. “If we attempt to take on the Marines on their own ground, we lose. It’s as simple as that.”

Gaby stared down at the map, wishing that they would both shut up and let her think. Her father had been young – barely entering his teens – when he’d become the Cracker, the head of the family and head of the movement. He’d had rejuvenation treatments at a very young age, but he’d lived out most of his extended lifespan without making any real progress. He’d married late, had her late….and, when Gaby had been four years old, he’d gone down fighting against the Civil Guard. No one had been more surprised than Gaby when she’d been declared the movement’s leader, although she had eventually realised why. The Crackers had split into two factions already. A second set of fissions would destroy the movement more completely than anything the Empire could do.

They didn’t dare face the Empire in open combat, no matter what some of the younger fools said about the honour of open battle. They’d be slaughtered. Gaby might have grown up on a farm, but she was far from ignorant about the realities of the Empire’s power. The Imperial Army alone included more men than existed on the entire planet of Avalon. If the Empire wanted to crush the Crackers once and for all, they could do it. Gaby believed that while complete independence was impossible, they might be able to work out an agreement that would leave Avalon as an autonomous world. End the debts, end the indenture program, end the endless series of bureaucratic regulations that were killing local industry…Avalon might become a world to remember.

She looked up at Julian and winced, inwardly. She had had to learn the techniques of underground warfare on the job, but she’d learned quickly. Julian had never learned at all, but then, as an officially unregistered child, he’d never had to learn. He’d moved from his father’s farm to the base camps in the badlands and up in the mountains, confident that he could handle anything that the Empire might throw at him. Gaby knew that it was a delusion, but it was hard to convince him otherwise.

“Leave the argument for now,” she said, firmly. She’d told the movement’s council that she had no intention of being a figurehead, even if there were some people who questioned the wisdom of appointing a sixteen-year-old girl as leader. She wouldn’t have absolute authority – that was asking for trouble – but she would be respected and obeyed. “Are the Marines likely to come after us?”

She saw the faint smile on Rufus’s face and her lips twitched. He was proud of her, although she didn’t know why. She hadn’t done anything yet! “I think that that is very likely,” Rufus said, finally. “They now represent the single most formidable combat unit on the face of the planet. The Governor will insist that they do something about us very quickly.”

“They may go after the bandits first,” Julian put in. “Major Grosskopf has been shitting bricks about them, according to our spies.”

Gaby nodded. Major Grosskopf was an uncomfortably capable officer. If the Civil Guard had been a real army, she had a nasty suspicion that the Crackers would have been in serious trouble. Even so, he’d pulled off a number of unpleasant surprises, convincing the movement’s council to try to have him assassinated. It hadn’t worked so far.

“We can only hope,” she said. The bandits were the other real enemy. When Avalon belonged to her people, they would be ruthlessly hunted down and destroyed. “That should give us a chance to learn just what they can do.”

“Definitely,” Julian said, with a grin. It reminded her of the embarrassing times they’d shared when their hormones had gone into overdrive, back when they’d both been teenagers. He’d been attracted to her, but she hadn’t been attracted to a boy she’d known since she was a baby. His crush had faded when he’d fallen for someone else, yet there were times when being with him was uncomfortable. “And perhaps we can steer them towards the bandits.”

Gaby looked up, impressed. “Devious,” she said. She wouldn’t shed a tear if the Marines massacred the bandits. The Civil Guard might not be able to track the bandits very well, but the Crackers knew roughly where their bases actually were. “I like that thought.”

“On the other hand,” Rufus said, “anything that ties the Marines up is going to help us in the long run.”

Gaby nodded. “Perhaps we can slip them information through our moles in the Civil Guard, get them more trusted,” she said. The Crackers had supplied quite a few men for the Civil Guard, although Major Grosskopf’s efforts had limited their effectiveness. “That might even things up a bit.”

“Perhaps,” Rufus said. “The bad news is that the Marines are going to be moving to Castle Rock. We don’t have any sources there.”

“We could probably get a few fishermen to take a look at the island,” Julian suggested. “Some of them do use it as a harbour during stormy weather.”

“They won’t be able to stay,” Rufus said. “We’ll have to give the matter some thought.”

Gaby nodded. It would have upset the Governor to know just how badly Camelot had been penetrated by the Crackers, or just how many spies there were operating within the planetary government. Good intelligence was one of the keys to victory – or so she had been told as a young girl learning at the feet of men and women who had fought for years – and she had that. The Marines might be impossible to penetrate – or so legend had it – but they’d need help from the mainland.

“We can afford to play a waiting game,” she said, standing up. “We’ll watch and wait, maybe pull our horns in a bit and see what they do. Perhaps they’re overrated after all.”

“Perhaps,” Rufus said. “And what if they’re not?”

“We could always strike now,” Julian said. His voice became more eager as he outlined his new thought. “We have assets in place in Camelot. We could move now and obliterate the planetary government before they called out the Marines.”

“Too risky,” Rufus said. “We’d stand to lose too much if we lost.”

Julian looked unhappy, but nodded.

“Our objective is to win,” Gaby reminded them. “Our objective is a free and independent Avalon. That is our goal. We don’t need to launch a desperate attack to win. All we have to do is carry on with the plan.”

Chapter Seventeen

The Civil Guard is, in theory, meant to provide a local force capable of handling most disturbances. In practice, the Guard is often heavily corrupt and completely useless. Promotion is based on political reliability rather than military competence. This is endemic to almost all of the Empire’s combat arms, but the Guard is almost certainly the worst.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

“Attention on deck!”

The Marines stood to attention as Edward strode into the briefing room. It had once been a warehouse for storing dried fish and hints of the smell still lingered, but it was usable and far from the worst accommodation the Marines had used. The Governor had been apologetic about the living quarters – the owners of the island hadn’t bothered to install more than the basics – but Edward hadn't cared. It would have surprised and horrified the Governor if he'd known that his former Captain had once commanded an operation, quite literally, from a muddy hole in the middle of the battlefield. That had been a clusterfuck to remember!

“At ease,” he ordered, as he took his position at the front of the warehouse. Someone had pinned a large paper map of Avalon on one wall and a chart showing the local government officials on another, but the remainder were thankfully bare. It wouldn't be long before the Marines started turning the makeshift barracks into home. “We have been here one week and the Governor is already asking when we intend to take the field against the bandits.”

A low mummer ran through the room. They had all seen combat and few of them enjoyed it for its own sake, but they’d heard enough about the depredations of the bandits to want to wipe them out. They had been brought up to understand that the credo of the Marine Corps – and the Imperial Army and Navy, for that matter – was to stand between civilians and those who sought to do them harm. And, besides, they were all bored of unpacking the shuttles and setting up prefabricated barracks and training grounds. The shortage of trustworthy civilian labour was forcing the Marines to work overtime. It was starting to take a toll on the Company’s morale.

The former owners of Castle Rock – who had apparently sought to charge the Governor through the nose for the use of their island – wouldn't have recognised it. It had been transformed from a windswept island with only a handful of farmers to a primitive, but effective military base. The Marines had loaded most of the supplies into a set of prefabricated warehouses and had placed them under heavy guard, even though no one outside the Marine Corps was supposed to set foot on the island. With some local labour, which Edward intended to bring in once the island had been properly secured, they could expand the base to the point where they could begin training new recruits.

Over the last week, the Marines had explored the island carefully, poking their noses in everywhere. With the exception of a number of wild pigs and sheep, the island was deserted now that the farmers were gone. Given time, the Marines would possess an intimate knowledge of their new base, one that would serve them well if the Crackers ever sought to attack them at home. It would be suicide if they tried, but Edward knew better than to assume that the enemy would know it. Untrained insurgents could be very dangerous, if only because they would sometimes try things that no trained officer would dare. Sometimes they even succeeded.

“It is my intention to start deployments tonight,” Edward continued. The Marines sat up straighter as they confronted the prospect of action. Hands unconsciously checked weapons and utility belts for equipment. “1st, 2nd and 4th Platoons will take the field against the enemy; 3rd and 5th will remain at the base and continue to unpack our supplies. 6th and 7th will serve as reserve. We will move fast and get into position to confront the enemy as soon as possible.”

He felt Lieutenant Tom Faulkner’s wince beside him and carefully concealed his smile. Faulkner had not only passed the Slaughterhouse, but he’d spent two years of his career earning his Combat Engineer’s badge. If he hadn't been so eager to transfer into a fighting company, he would probably have remained on Earth, or deployed out to one of the fireman deployments in the core worlds. The Imperial Army maintained separate Combat Engineering departments, but the Marines preferred to blur them together, if only to ensure that they had a reasonable blend of skills on hand. It would take weeks, at best, to bring in a Combat Engineering unit from the nearest military base. Faulkner would have to remain at Castle Rock until the base was properly up and running.

“We will depart tonight under cover of darkness,” Edward said. Avalon, thankfully, wasn’t covered in cities. It was quite possible to move even a relatively large number of Marines under cover of darkness without someone noticing. The planet’s ATC was a part-time operation. They could barely track the Civil Guard’s aircraft, let alone the Marines. “We will board the Raptors and move out to the platoon house. Major?”

He looked over at Major George Grosskopf, who looked up. His reaction to the Marines had been slightly disappointing, for he’d taken them in stride. Edward had had to remind himself that Grosskopf had served in the Imperial Army and had a good idea of the capabilities of Marines and their supporting units. The Civil Guardsmen who had never served off Avalon would be in for a shock.

“This is Avalon,” Grosskopf said, nodding to the big map on the wall. “You will notice that there are only five main cities on the planet, all concentrated on Arthur, the main continent. Those cities hold around half of the planet’s population. The remainder of the population is scattered over the countryside in townships, which are effectively farming communities intended to develop the planet. Some of them are friendly towards the local government, some are deeply hostile and some are under permanent threat by the bandits, forcing them to pay tribute and keep them informed of our movements. It has so far proven impossible to dislodge the bandits from the countryside.”

He pointed with a long stick towards an area of the map that had been shaded red. “The badlands,” he said. “The badlands are easily the worst terrain on the planet, perhaps the worst outside an H-Class world or even the Slaughterhouse.” Edward smiled at some of the chuckles from the Marines. “Some thousands of years ago, there was a massive series of earthquakes and the ground is all broken up into canyons, underwater pools and exposed mineral deposits. The deposits, in particular, make it hard to use sensors or even primitive navigation devices within the badlands. The terrain is so bad that it is very hard to locate or destroy bandit camps. There could be hundreds of thousands of bandits in there and we wouldn't know a thing about it.”

Edward saw his face twist, bitterly. “There are a large number of townships scattered near the badlands, for reasons best known to the ADC,” he continued. “In theory, those towns are armed and capable of looking after themselves. In practice, everyone has to work hard to give the town a chance of surviving and it is quite easy for a bandit raid to get into town before the inhabitants have time to react. You cannot imagine the scenes of horror; the bandit gangs loot, rape and burn before escaping back into the badlands. We – the Civil Guard – have been unable to get a force into position to block their escape in time.”

“A question,” Gwen said. “How many bandit gangs are there?”

“No one knows,” Grosskopf said. If he was surprised at her question, he didn't show it. Marines always asked questions during briefings. “Our intelligence suggests that there are many small bands, but some of them cooperate with each other and others try to wipe out their fellow bandits while also raiding us. There have been reports of a super-gang emerging, one that has absorbed or destroyed the smaller gangs, yet we have been unable to obtain confirmation.”

Edward frowned inwardly. The Civil Guard had had an astonishing round of bad luck, which suggested that another factor was involved. It hadn't taken more than a quick glance at their records to realise that they never carried out background checks on any of their recruits, particularly the poor bloody infantry. It wouldn’t be hard for a bandit gang to slip a few of their members into the Civil Guard, or simply apply large sums of cash for information. If they received advance warning of a raid, they could simply pull up stakes and vanish into the badlands.

“We have, however, been granted an opportunity,” Grosskopf said. “My Intelligence Officer has been running a source in one of the bandit gangs, trying to pin down their next move. She believes that the bandits intend to attack Eddisford, a large-sized township five miles from the outer edge of the badlands. Eddisford is lucky in that most of the settlers were actually able to pay off their debts and reinvest in equipment they need – in short, they’re not the kind of people to pay tribute to the gangs. We need to catch those bastards in the act and wipe the fuckers out.”

“We need to take as many of them alive as possible,” Edward injected, quickly. “Now...”

He pointed a long finger at the map and tapped a handful of locations. “This is what we’re going to do...”

***
“Now this is real activity,” Blake said, as they checked their weapons and armour. The thin humming sound of the Raptors spooling up could be heard in the distance. “How many bandits do you want to bag?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joe Buckley said. “I think it’s a bit of a comedown after hunting pirates and storming rebel fortresses.”

“The Captain said to take them alive,” Jasmine reminded them. She pulled on her armour and studied the refection in Blake’s armour. “That means stunners only at first; lethal force only authorised if they fight back.”

“Of course they will,” Blake said, turning slightly so he could check his own armour. “Imperial Law demands the death penalty for their crimes. We may take them alive, but only so we can beat the crap out of them for information and then hang them from a nearby tree. What do they have to lose by fighting us?”

“The chance to help our gallant Empire grow and develop,” Koenraad said, dryly. “How could any self-respecting bandit pass up on that chance?”

Jasmine chuckled to herself. “They’re not interested in chances,” she said. “They’re not even interested in a political cause. They’re just interested in what they can take off other people. They’re the worst kind of scrum.”

She scowled down at her helmet, thinking furiously. They’d been shown some of the pictures that the Civil Guardsmen had taken of the aftermath, after the bandits had invaded a town, had their fun and headed off again. There had been bodies everywhere, burning buildings and desecrated churches. Worst of all, at least to her eyes, had been the handful of dead women left on the ground, stripped naked. It hadn't taken much imagination to know what had happened to them. She’d thought about rape, even acknowledged that it could happen to her, yet coming face to face with the reality was sickening. Blake was right. The bandits deserved to die.

Cold discipline, the result of three years on the hardest training ground known to man, forced her emotions down into the small compartment in her head. Yes, the bandits would die, but only after they’d betrayed their friends and allies. They might think themselves tough, yet they were nothing compared to the puniest Marine in the entire Marine Corps. And, when they did die, Jasmine intended to volunteer for the hanging squad. Let the bastards see her tying the knot and yanking them up to break their necks.

“You think that they have links with the big men in Camelot?” Koenraad asked, as he pulled on his own armour. “Wouldn’t it be nice to prove that?”

Jasmine smiled, her mind still dark and cold. She hadn't enjoyed the brief time at the Chief Councillor’s mansion and her opinion of most of the planetary council wasn't high. She’d been trained to observe and she’d seen a number of men and women trying to see what advantage they could wring from the Marines, or trying to decide how the Marines would affect their own plans. Jasmine was cynical enough to know that sometimes the Marines were just sent out on missions because of a political agenda, but not even the Grand Senate had been so blatant. They had to have forgotten that she had ever been there, for they had been quite open in their assessments. The Marines could live or die for all they cared.

“Yes,” she said. “It would be nice to prove that and hang half of the bastards.”

Forty-one Marines marched out of the makeshift barracks and down towards the landing strip. It had originally been designed for light cargo aircraft, but Marine Raptors could use them without problems. The Raptor was a VTOL aircraft capable of landing almost anywhere, even in the middle of a forest or a sinking boat. The massive tilt-rotors were already chopping at the air. They looked primitive – the technology was almost ten centuries old – but they could do the job. The more advanced skimmers or flyers would have to wait until they were needed.

“This is the Captain,” Captain Stalker said. Jasmine had been surprised to hear that the Captain intended to take personal command, but after dealing with the politics of Camelot, he probably felt like killing someone. “Lock your communicators to Frequency Alpha.”

Jasmine nodded, keying the command into her suit’s processors. The Sebastian Cruz had launched a constellation of light satellites into orbit, providing the Marines with a secret – and secure – communications network. She couldn't understand why Avalon had such a primitive communications network in the first place – there was such a thing as taking budget cuts too far – but it wouldn't matter. The locals might know that the satellites had been launched, yet they could only guess at their capabilities. The tiny satellites not only handled communications, but they also provided astonishingly efficient reconnaissance from high above. The bandits, she knew, would wet themselves in shock if they knew just how good the system actually was.

“Good,” Captain Stalker said, when they had all checked in. “Board the aircraft.”

Jasmine followed Blake’s reassuring bulk as he stepped into the lead Raptor, finding a place to sit inside the aircraft’s cavernous hold. Unlike a civilian aircraft, or a ground-to-space shuttle, there were no seats for the Marines. When they landed, they would be expected to exit the aircraft as quickly as possible – and, if they were hit, they would be ejected out into the air before the aircraft could explode. Jasmine had been ejected from a Raptor during the Han Campaign and the experience had been the most terrifying of her life. The Marines had all survived, barely. The pilots had given their lives to prevent the remains of their aircraft from coming down on top of friendly forces.

She felt the aircraft jerk as it launched itself into the sky. The Raptor was, despite its crude appearance and technology, the product of hundreds of years of research into aircraft design. It was almost completely silent, drifting through the sky without being detected, unless it was by the naked eye. The bandits, she had been informed, didn't possess active sensor systems. It made sense to her; if they had, even the Civil Guard could hardly have failed to locate their base. The planetary ATC wouldn't be able to track them.

The low humming running through the aircraft almost lulled her to sleep as the Raptor crossed the coastline and headed inland. Many of the other Marines were snatching what sleep they could, knowing that they might be in action as soon as they landed, but Jasmine couldn’t quite close her eyes. She wished she could see out of the aircraft, even though she knew she would see nothing, but darkness, broken only by isolated lights. Avalon was barely one hundred and fifty years old. The human race hadn't made much impression on the planet.

“Four minutes to landing,” Gwen said, her voice echoing sharply in Jasmine’s earpiece. “Anyone resting their eyes had better open them now.”

Jasmine realised, with astonishment, that she had dozed off and hastily checked her weapons and supplies. Everything was as it should be, much to her relief, as the aircraft started to descend. This was always the most dangerous part of any insertion operation – a single ground-based weapon could wipe out an entire platoon of Marines with a lucky shot – and she only relaxed slightly when the aircraft touched down. No hail of fire tore through the aircraft and shredded them. The night was as dark and silent as the grave.

“Go, go, go,” Gwen barked.

Jasmine followed Blake and Koenraad as they raced out of the aircraft, spreading out to secure the landing zone. Their suits of armour exchanged fast signals with one another, confirming that the Marines were alone. She looked up at Merlin, hanging high overhead, yet seemingly so close that she could reach up and pull the moon from the sky. Merlin wasn't much larger than Luna, but it orbited closer to the planet. The briefing had suggested that that might explain the badlands, or the Mystic Mountains in the distance.

“All clear, Captain,” she reported. She carried out another sweep of the area, just to be sure. “No enemy contact.”

“Good,” Captain Stalker said. He sounded reassuringly calm. “Move out.”

nore please! I love this world build. You've made a cool idea. The only thing I don't understand is the creation of the Empire

UrusaiKaimuki wrote:nore please! I love this world build. You've made a cool idea. The only thing I don't understand is the creation of the Empire

I just need more responses. It's hard to write without some feedback.

Chris

Not much to add to ChaserGrey's comments, save that the throwaway line about mixed-race colonisation being the cheap option whilst doing it properly requires a monoculture... Might want to ditch that, unless you're hell-bent on being published by Baen.

Chapter Eighteen

There is a joke that runs ‘a nation is a group of people united by a shared delusion of the past and a hatred of their neighbours.’ Like many such jokes, there is a hard kernel of truth within the humour. Society is always a consensus, a shared understanding of right and wrong. If ‘wrong’ becomes ‘right’ – i.e. behaviour tending to increase a person’s chances of survival – then society will be warped and destroyed. This is becoming alarmingly clear all across the Empire.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

Nelson Oshiro braced himself as he led the small group of Knives down towards Eddisford. It was a larger, more prosperous settlement than the one he’d been sent to after being transported from Earth, but it was alarmingly similar for all of that. It was never certain what reception they’d receive from the farmers and their communities. Some would pay their tribute without fighting; others would refuse to submit until the Knives started to open fire. It confused Nelson, but the Knife himself had issued strict orders and he didn't dare disobey them. There was to be no looting, raping or burning unless the township offered serious resistance.

Eddisford was a small cluster of buildings surrounded by tilled fields and farmhouses. Some of them looked as if they were on the verge of expanding, perhaps claiming additional ground from the Land Development Office and inviting in new settlers. Others looked as if they were permanently on the verge of falling apart, marking out the less successful farmers from their rivals. He stroked the Nag’s back gently – it was almost worth being transported, and the kicks and beatings he’d received when he arrived, just to ride the strange alien beast – and urged it forward, down towards the centre of town. He saw a handful of birds rising up as the bandits rode forwards, but there was no sign of any living human beings. A sense he hadn't known he possessed began to sound a warning at the back of his neck. There were always people. The men might be out working the fields, but the women would be at home, while the children would be at school. They should be running from his men now, trying to hide.

His lips twitched as they rode down into the centre of town. Perhaps they were hiding, except they couldn't...could they? Nelson had never been much of a farmer – his former master had thought that he was only fit for brute work – yet he knew that the farmers couldn't abandon their crops. He touched the Nag’s neck and the beast obediently slowed to a halt, allowing him to slip off the saddle and down onto the ground. It hadn’t been obvious over the noise of hooves and the pounding of his own heart, but the town was silent.

“They're gone,” Lucky Vin said. Nelson scowled at him. Lucky Vin was one of the former Knives from Earth, assured a high position just by being close to the Knife himself. He was also, he suspected, there to keep an eye on Nelson. It wouldn't be the first time someone had decided to desert the Knives and set up a private operation of their own. “Where the hell have they gone?”

“Perhaps hell,” one of the other bandits said. He threw back his head and bawled a laugh into the air, sending more birds scurrying through the air. “Perhaps some other bunch of bastards has come and taken them all away.”

Nelson shook his head absently, staring around in disbelief. None of the bandit gangs would take an entire township. They’d take young and pretty women – or perhaps older women, if there were no younger women to hand – and children, but not adult males. They couldn’t be trusted and there was no fun in raping them. A bandit attack would have left the town in flaming ruins. Instead, it was empty.

One hand dropped to the flare pistol at his belt. A single red flare would bring the remainder of the force out of hiding and get them into the town, but for what? A green flare would tell them to back off and wait, but they had never considered what might happen if the entire town was deserted. The mystery nagged at him. Had the town decided that they didn't want to live near the bandits anymore and had simply packed up and left?

“Hey,” Lucky Vin said, suddenly. Nelson snapped his head around and saw...nothing. “I saw something.”

“I bet you did,” Nelson sneered. He pushed as much disdain into his voice as he could, if only to cover his own unease. “What do you think you saw?”

“A shimmer in the air,” Lucky Vin admitted, uncomfortably. A handful of bandits jeered and others looked as if they wanted to join in. “It was just...there, just for a second.”

“Right,” Nelson drawled. “And a shimmer is going to hurt us?”

Lucky Vin flushed. His position was at least partly dependent on respect, and that would be comprehensively lacking after today. Even if someone didn't put a knife in him, he wouldn't be able to issue orders to junior Knives. He could beat up as many Knives as he liked and still no one would ever forget.

“It’s odd,” he persisted. “It could be important.”

Nelson turned away from him, deliberately looking towards the church the settlers had built...and froze. Just for a second, he saw a heat shimmer in the air, a distortion that had to be concealing something. The moment of horrified realisation came too late.

***
One of the other interesting – and classified – attributes of Marine Combat Armour was the chameleon effect. It had its limits, but it allowed a Marine – walking slowly and very quietly – to be effectively invisible, as long as the enemy didn’t know what they were looking for. Edward had considered it a worthwhile gamble. The bandits might know about the Marines, but they wouldn't be looking for high tech equipment, allowing 1st Platoon to get to almost point-blank range before the enemy realised that they were in trouble. On his command, the shimmer faded away, revealing no less than seven Marines standing almost within touching distance of the bandits.

The bandits froze for a second, too long. Four of the Marines carried stunners and played them over their targets, knocking them to the ground. Their horse-like steeds – Nags, according to the briefing files he’d memorised – howled under the impact of the stun rays, but weren’t badly affected. One of them lifted its hooves and tried to kick its tormentor, only to break its spindly legs on the armour. The remaining bandits opened fire with their chemical-projectile weapons, only to see the shots bounce off the combat armour and ricochet away. They were rapidly stunned, apart from one who was cuffed to the ground by a Marine and kicked in the chest. Edward smiled inwardly as the Marines cuffed their targets and piled them up in a corner. By the time they recovered, they’d be held back at the platoon house, spilling everything they knew to the interrogators.

“Mission accomplished,” Master Sergeant Young said, over the private channel. He’d dreamed up the plan and insisted on leading it personally. Edward had seen the common sense at once. Stunners had only limited range and using them too early might have given the bandits a chance to flee. “We have nine hostiles captive, sir.”

Edward nodded. Convincing the townspeople to hide in their basements had been simple enough, once he’d explained who and what they were. Not all of them had been eager – he’d seen expressions that reflected fear of the bandits and fear that the Marines would desert them – but they’d complied. The bandits had walked right into the trap.

“Excellent work,” he said, relieved. Whoever the enemy leaders trusted to carry out a raid had to be pretty high up in their organisation. Such a person could normally be relied upon to have learned as much as possible about their gang, if only to use as blackmail information. “Take them back to the platoon house and...”

The sound of shooting breaking out interrupted him.

***
Horace Netherly had never trusted Nelson, the slimy son of a bitch. He was all puffed up because he was smart and clever, yet he wasn’t really one of the Knives. How could he be? He’d been brought up in a mega-city on the other side of Earth and his original gang had been small fry compared to the Knives. The Knife could keep telling and telling them how important it was that they learned to think big, but Horace knew that that was a bad idea. The larger the organisation, the more outsiders; the more outsiders in the organisation, the greater the chance of a betrayal. One of his most trusted lieutenants had quietly followed Nelson and his men into the deserted town, reporting back from the very edge of Eddisford. The town was completely deserted.

It didn't take long for Horace to realise what Nelson had done. The bastard had warned the townspeople himself, warning them to run and hide. It was the only alternative that made sense to him. The Civil Guard wouldn't have been able to even fart without the Knives hearing of it, while the Marines...well, if the Marines were so good, why hadn't they been ordered to clean up the Undercity? Nelson was trying to set up his own organisation in direct opposition to the Knife. It could not be allowed.

He passed his orders down the chain of bandits, each one carrying rifles and grenades, as well as their signature knives. They’d take Eddisford quickly and occupy the town, before torturing Nelson to discover where the locals had gone. They would be found, punished and left in no doubt that defiance led only to death. And then Nelson would die and the Knife would be pleased with him.

“Go,” he shouted, and fired a single red flare into the air. A stream of bandits poured out of hiding and started to run towards the town. “Kill the fuckers.”

He followed his men down the long road, cursing Nelson’s nags under his breath, and watched as they approached the outskirts of the town. Nelson could ride out of the other side of the town and vanish if he acted quickly enough, although he had yet to see a nag that could outrun a bullet. A Gnasher, maybe...the thought was banished from his mind as he saw the black-clad figures standing in the centre of town. He had only a second to realise that he'd been wrong before a single bullet smashed through his head and killed him instantly.

***
Jasmine had lain in her position for over three hours, alternatively cursing and blessing her armour for its protection. They’d allowed the first group of bandits to enter the town, but she was damned if she was going to allow a second group to enter...and, now that they had prisoners, there was no need to avoid slaughtering them. The bandits seemed completely insane – they were charging right at the Marines – but to be fair, they had no way of knowing the Marines were there. The first group of bandits would have been horrified to know that the Marines had tracked them with their scopes all the way.

The order, when it came, was almost an anticlimax. “Open fire,” Gwen said. “Kill them all.”

Jasmine squeezed the trigger on her MAG-74 and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the bandits die, his head exploding like a grape. A MAG-74 was designed to shoot through light combat armour. A human head was nothing to it. Other bandits were falling as the other Marines fired themselves. She switched her rifle to another target and serviced him as well, shooting a neat hole in his forehead. A third man jumped up, for some reason best known to himself, and her shot caught him in the throat, blowing out the back of his neck.

The bandits, acting more on instinct than any plan, threw themselves to the ground and tried to fire back. It was pitiful. They couldn't even see where the shots were coming from – the MAG-74 was smokeless - and most of their firing went wild. A handful of more self-possessed bandits threw grenades towards the Marines, but most of them fell uselessly in the gap between the Marines and their targets. They didn’t stand a chance. Jasmine pushed that thought to the back of her head, squeezing her trigger time and time again. It was a point of honour not to miss with a single shot. The sharp-shooting badge she’d won at the Slaughterhouse still meant something to her.

We should have set up a MAG-54 and swept them away with a single burst, she thought, as she picked off another bandit. Their line had come completely to pieces. Some had thrown down their weapons and were trying to surrender; others were turning and fleeing, only to be shot down in the back. Jasmine saw an overweight man running with a speed that surprised her and placed a shot right in the back of his head. He threw up his hands and crashed to the ground. She didn't smile, but moved on to the next target.

“Men talk about fair fights,” her Drill Instructor had thundered. For various reasons, new recruits at Boot Camp and the first year of the Slaughterhouse were segregated by sex. “Men are fools and morons who cannot remember that the purpose of war is to win. You are not being trained to fight a fair fight; you are being trained to defeat the enemies of the Empire! The best chance to give your enemy is none at all. A fair fight is a losing fight. Shoot him in the back, kick him in the balls, play dead till he has his pants around his ankles and then give him hell!”

Jasmine’s lips twitched as she saw a bandit who had somehow managed to hide himself behind a tree and was popping away desperately at the Marines with a little hunting pistol. It was more powerful than she would have expected – but then, Avalon’s wildlife tended to be dangerous – but it hardly mattered. His shots weren't going anywhere near the Marines. She targeted him carefully, wondering if she was aiming at one of the rapists who had left small and broken bodies behind, and placed a shot directly on his nose.

And, suddenly, it was all over.

“Cuff the survivors and prepare to take them back to camp,” Gwen ordered. Her voice was as cold and dispassionate as ever, but Jasmine could have sworn she heard a note of satisfaction hidden behind the commanding tone. If half of the rumours about Gwen’s activities were accurate, the dead bandits were the lucky ones. “I want 4th Platoon to sweep the area towards the badlands. Now!”

Jasmine exploded out of her hiding place, half-expecting to feel a bullet slamming into her armour. There was nothing, but a bloody field full of cooling bodies. A handful were still moving, suggesting that they were alive, even though they had lost the will to fight. Jasmine didn't blame them. After six months of boot camp, she had thought she was good. The very first battle exercise they’d done at the Slaughterhouse had been a bloody defeat for the new recruits, a humbling and pointed reminder of how inexperienced they were. She smiled at the memory – defeat always taught more lessons than victory – and reached the first captive, a young boy barely out of his teens. He stared up at her, his eyes wide with terror.

She rolled him over with her boot, then grabbed his hands and cuffed them behind his back. He cried out at the new pain, but she ignored him, leaving him lying there for the recovery team to find. The next bandit was clearly too badly wounded to live for long, even with the best of medical care. It was tempting to leave him there to bleed out and die, but what little mercy remained in her pushed her into putting her foot on his head and crushing the remains of his life out of him. It had probably been something of a relief.

The next captive had been playing possum, holding a pistol to his chest until she got too close for him to miss. Jasmine watched with detached amusement as he levelled it at her chest and pulled the trigger four times. Four heavy punches slammed into her chest – the armour couldn't block everything – but it was nothing, not compared to what she’d been through without the armour. She reached forward, snatched the pistol out of the bandit’s hand, and crushed it in one armoured fist, before rolling the suddenly-subdued bandit over and cuffing him. He didn't offer any more resistance.

“Nineteen prisoners,” Captain Stalker said, over the general channel. Jasmine caught herself breathing heavily as she started to come down from the high of battle and carefully forced her breath into steady gulps. “Well done, all of you.”

Jasmine shrugged, staring around at the devastation. It had been the single most one-sided battle she’d ever taken part in. Her old Drill Sergeant would have been impressed. Of course, she'd also been a bloodthirsty bitch who had once told her trainees that the quickest way to a man’s heart was with ten inches of a monofilament blade, stabbed right through the chest. There had to be nearly a hundred bandits lying dead, yet there was no way to know for sure until a forensic team got out to Eddisford and started putting the pieces together.

“We done good,” Blake said, over the platoon’s private channel. “We sure kicked some ass today! Even Unlucky over there didn't get into trouble.”

“Fuck you, with the greatest of respect,” Joe said, crossly. “You want to bet that the next time won’t be so easy?”

Jasmine privately suspected that he was right.

Chapter Nineteen

The fundamental problem with human rights is that there is no such thing as a human right. By definition, a right is something that is not only self-evident, but impossible to remove. Few, if any, of the human rights cited by lawyers across the Empire meet that definition.

Regardless, it is self-evident that rights come with responsibilities, yet the vast majority of the Empire’s population demands the former without the latter. Such a system cannot survive for long.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

The small barn had once belonged to the homesteaders, before they had abandoned their farm to fear or threats or debt. Edward’s Marines had spent a day fixing it up and turning it into a makeshift prisoner interrogation centre – the prisoners themselves would be held in another barn, one that had originally been used to hold pigs or sheep – before setting out on their mission. The Governor had questioned the expense when Edward had notified him of what he was doing, but Edward had reassured him that they’d take prisoners. The entire battle plan had been based around taking prisoners. The Governor’s reluctance to consider the possibility had surprised him, although Gwen had pointed out that most prisoners taken by the Civil Guard were probably released by their captors, upon the payment of a substantial bribe.

“Bring in the prisoner,” he ordered, as he took one of the two chairs in the barn. The other one had been rapidly turned into a holding chair. It had been splashed with blood when they’d found it in the corner of the barn, leading him to wonder just what had happened to make the original owners flee for their lives, if they had managed to escape at all. The records had suggested that the homestead had been abandoned and no one had bothered to move in to take over the farm. The owners had simply vanished.

Two Marines, wearing full body armour, marched in the first prisoner. Edward studied him with cold dispassion, noting how the fight had fallen out of the thug as he’d realised that he was up against genuine soldiers. He and his gang had been used to terrorising farmers and their families; the idea of determined opposition had come as a complete surprise to them. The first battle on Avalon’s soil – the Marines first battle, he reminded himself – had been easy. The others wouldn't be anything like as simple.

The prisoner was thrown into the chair and cuffed to the metal. Edward smiled thinly as he recognised the man’s features, the racially-mixed features of Earth’s Undercity. Edward’s own father had been the same race as his mother, but several of his half-siblings had had differently coloured skins and odder features. There were even families down in the Undercity where the taint of incest had begun to take hold, the taboo broken long ago under the pressures of living in such conditions. The whole concept made him sick, yet how could he condemn people who were doing only what they had to do to survive? He’d broken out of the Undercity and never looked back; the young man – boy, rather – facing him had not.

He was tall and badly bruised from his fall, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. The Marines had poured cold water over him to shock him awake, after they’d stunned him and transported him to the platoon house, hopefully disorientating him before they started to ask questions. Edward knew that stunners were unreliable weapons – a simple layer of body armour could neutralise their effects – yet they seemed to have worked perfectly in this case. The prisoner had been taken alive. Edward doubted that he would have the nerve to suicide in any case; still, they had all been bound and gagged, just in case. The prisoner’s eyes rose to meet his and then flinched away, bitterly. This one, Edward decided, would not have made a good Marine.

Edward leaned forward and reached out towards the prisoner’s chin, lifting it up to face him. The prisoner flinched away, but he couldn't prevent Edward from touching his face. Edward held his eyes, watching as the prisoner mentally cowered away from him. He knew what to expect, all right, even if he didn't know who’d captured him. The competent Civil Guardsmen would probably quietly dispose of him rather than putting him in jail and watching helplessly as one of the jailors freed him.

He spoke, finally, and watched as the prisoner flinched again. “Do you know who I am?”

The prisoner swallowed hard. “Fucking Wasps,” he said, in a futile gesture of defiance. He cringed, expecting a blow, but Edward only smiled. Wasps was an old nickname for the Civil Guard, who wore yellow and black dress uniforms while on parade. “You can't do this to me.”

Edward allowed his smile to grow wider. “I am Captain Edward Stalker, Terran Marine Corps,” he said. “My men have slaughtered most of your friends. You are thousands of miles from any hope of rescue” – a flat lie, but one that would be believable to a man who had no idea how long he’d been out of it – “and you are our prisoner. I trust that you are comfortable?”

The prisoner looked as if he wanted to spit, but didn't quite dare. “I want you to understand something,” Edward continued. “You have been taken prisoner while engaged in an act of terrorism. Your guilt has been proven beyond all reasonable doubt. Under the Terrorism Act, I am authorised to use any methods required to extract information from you, before summarily executing you for crimes against Avalon and its residents. Do you understand me?”

He held the prisoner’s gaze until the man finally nodded bitterly. The prisoner knew what he and the rest of his gang had done to the settlements near the badlands; he knew that he could expect no mercy from the Marines, or the Civil Guard, or the local population. His gaze flickered across the array of farm tools placed against one wall, his imagination convincing him that they could – that they would – be used to torture him. Edward took no pleasure in breaking the man, even if there was no need to actually hurt him physically, but there was little choice. They needed information urgently.

“Good,” Edward said. “There is no way that you will be able to lie to us. The device on your wrist” – he pointed to a wristwatch-sized gadget that one of the Marines had attached to the prisoner, after they’d cuffed him to the chair – “serves as a lie detector. So far, no one has managed to fool it, even with the best training. They lied so convincingly that everyone listening believed them, but the machine wasn't fooled. Do you want to tell me a lie, just to test it?”

The prisoner shook his head. Edward smiled inwardly, even though the fear in the man’s eyes showed that there was no reason to believe that the interrogation would fail. It was a pity in many ways. A few words from him would allow the lie detector to calibrate itself, learning the precise biofeedback patterns the prisoner possessed. The lie detector, like other learning software, grew more accurate as time went on. There was no reason for the prisoner to know that, of course. The more accurate he believed the lie detector to be, the less reason there would be to lie.

“Good,” Edward said. “Now...the first time you try to lie to us, we will hurt you. The second time, we will inject you with truth drugs and get our answers that way. And if we have to do that, we will have no reason to be merciful when it comes to handing out the sentences. If you refuse to cooperate, we’ll just use you as an object lesson and hang you in Camelot City. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” the prisoner said. A sour smell wafted across Edward’s nostrils and he winced inwardly, showing no trace of his feelings on his face. The prisoner had urinated on the seat. “You can't do this to me...”

“Yes, I can,” Edward said, flatly. He found the whole concept distasteful, but a field interrogation was the only real alternative. He had no prisoner holding pens on Castle Rock. “Now...start talking. Tell us everything you know.”

The lie detector had one weakness; it couldn't detect when a prisoner was holding something back. The prisoner might succeed in misleading the Marines even without lying to them, although a skilled interrogator could generally tell when the prisoner was attempting to lead them up the garden path. If the prisoner talked freely, without answering questions, he might suggest new lines of enquiry without ever knowing that that was what he had done. The interrogators would record the conversation, play it back in their helmets and ask follow-up questions. And, once the prisoner had been drained of everything he knew, they’d put him back in the holding pens and start interrogating the next prisoner.

He listened as the prisoner stumbled through a life story that was, more or less, what Edward had expected. He’d been arrested on Earth, walked past a judge whose assistant had reviewed the case file and sentenced him to indentured servitude on a faraway planet and exiled to Avalon, where he’d eventually joined up with the gangs. It was hard to show no reaction as a sickening list of atrocities starting to pour out of the prisoner; looting, rape and mass slaughter. The gang – the Knives, the prisoner called them – had been busy. They’d infested the landscape like vermin. They would, Edward resolved, be wiped out like vermin.

“So, tell me,” he said, breaking into a story about how the prisoner and one of his mates had kidnapped and raped a farm girl, “where is your base?”

The prisoner blanched. Edward didn't need the lie detector to know that the prisoner was agitated. If he betrayed the location of his base to the Marines, his fellows wouldn't hesitate to kill him when they got the chance. The gang was definitely organised on the same system as was used on Earth, where betrayal was punished by a horrible death and there was no such thing as safety, even if the betrayers got away at first. Edward’s own childhood had been marred by memories of how gangs had punished their wayward members, in one case systematically torturing a former member’s family to death before finally crushing his skull. The prisoner knew he didn't dare answer the question...

“Please don’t be a fool,” Edward said, coldly. “We have ways of making you talk.”

“They’ll kill me,” the prisoner screamed. Raw panic was written on his face. “You don’t understand. They’ll kill me!”

“And I will hurt you until you answer the questions,” Edward said, dispassionately. The fear ran deep, unsurprisingly. Gangs were held in line by fear and the sheer numbing horror of life. A resident of the Undercity who wasn't in a gang had no safety at all. They were effectively fair game for anyone. His own sister...he shook his head and pushed the thought aside. “You will talk to us, one way or the other.”

The prisoner tried to pull himself together. “And if I tell you,” he asked, “will you protect me?”

“Your leaders will never get their grubby little paws on you,” Edward assured him. It was even true. After hearing the list of crimes, he had no intention of allowing the prisoner to walk free. His hanging would serve as an object lesson, all right. “Now talk, or do we have to start getting creative?”

He waved a hand at the tools on the wall. “I’ll talk,” the prisoner said. Sweat was pouring off his face. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Edward listened carefully as the prisoner started to outline the location of the gang’s camp, a sinking feeling spreading through him as he realised what he was dealing with. The gang had a number of bases in the badlands, but the prisoner they’d caught only knew the location of one of them. The gang was operating under operational security. The more he listened, the more he wondered if their leader had greater ambitions than simple banditry. They almost seemed to be developing a separate government near the badlands. If they played their cards carefully, they’d have the townships paying tribute rather than be raided. A few generations and the gang might be running the entire area.

It had a dark veneer, but he'd seen it before – and studied it at the Slaughterhouse. The gangs – or insurgents – would move in, slowly start chipping away at the organised government and replacing it with their own structures. Resistance would be harshly punished. A few object lessons and the remainder of the population would fall into line. How could they fight back, even with weapons, if they had no idea where to attack, or when a gang attack would be underway? It was clever, devious and almost unstoppable.

At least until we get a new army trained up, he thought. The Civil Guard was effectively worthless. The five hundred combat effectives wouldn't be able to spread themselves out any more than the Marines could, and the remaining soldiers would be worse than useless. It was the old classical insurgent problem, with a nasty twist. As long as the insurgents were not losing, they were winning...and their victory would put the future of Avalon into the hands of men who had learned their trade in the Undercity, where government was an enemy and might made right. Avalon’s future, although precariously balanced, would be shattered.

“Show the prisoner out,” he ordered, finally. He’d be kept in the pens until he could be moved to Camelot for his date with destiny. “Check his story with the others and let me know if they can give us more accurate directions.”

Leaving the interrogation team behind, he walked out of the barn and across to the farmhouse, watching with calm approval as a guard shimmered into existence and checked his ID. Only a platoon of Marines had been left to guard the platoon house, but the area was so isolated that he was fairly certain that any newcomers would be bandits, looking to try to loot the farmhouse. Once word got around as to who had taken it over, there would be no more probes...or perhaps he was deluding himself. If the gangs really wanted to establish a secondary government, one that would eventually separate from Camelot’s authority, they’d have to try to evict the Marines.

He smiled as he stepped through the door. The farm might have been overgrown, but the former owners had carefully removed all of the trees from the fields and ensured that anyone approaching the farm would be seen easily, even without the network of sensors the Marines had scattered around the area. A KEW or a long-range missile would obliterate the farmhouse and the platoon of Marines guarding it, but there was no reason to believe that the gangs possessed such heavy weapons. The interrogation had suggested that the heaviest weapons they possessed were machine guns and – perhaps – homemade mortars. The gangs on Earth had never been known for their weapons discipline either. Unless they’d learned how to take care of their weapons, they might not have as much firepower as they thought they had.

“We need to redeploy the forward platoon,” he said, as he entered the briefing room. It had once served as a dining room, but the only trace of the former occupants was a painting someone had left on the wall. No one had had the heart to remove it and so four children, a handsome woman and an ugly man smiled down at the Marines. “We have an approximate location for the enemy base.”

He glanced down at his timepiece as Gwen unfurled a map on the table. The badlands had never been charted properly, even after the ADC had realised that its enemies used the badlands as a base. The sudden changes in environment made charting it a difficult task at the best of times. A single rainstorm could change everything. It had barely been four hours since they’d destroyed the gang force at Eddisford. How long would it take their leaders to realise that they'd run into something they couldn't handle? If Edward had been running their operation, he would have left someone far back, in a position to watch without being seen. There had been no radio transmissions, but that meant nothing. The gang might know already.

“Chancy,” Gwen commented. Edward nodded. The badlands couldn't compete with the Slaughterhouse, but he had too few Marines to lose any of them. “A quick raid in and out?”

“With the Raptors on standby and missile companies set up here,” Edward said, tapping a location on the map. Marines believed in precision operations. If they located the enemy camp, a hail of missiles would soften up the enemy before the Marines moved in for the kill. “Once the operation is underway, contact the Civil Guard; they can move up two of their own companies and cover our backs. Eddisford is going to need additional protection.”

“Yes, sir,” Gwen said. It had taken time to convince the residents to leave their homes, even if it had been for their own protection. The Civil Guard would have to see to their protection, even if it meant tying down a trustworthy company with the duty. The bandits would certainly try to punish them for their actions. “Will you be leading the operation personally?”

Every bone in Edward’s body cried out to go forward with his Marines, but he knew he couldn't, not while he was the senior officer. “No,” he said. Gwen knew how much it hurt him to hold back and wait while others went into danger. “I will remain here.”

Chapter Twenty

Each planet offers its own peculiarities; its own unique features and problems. No planet can be treated as any other planet, yet the Empire tries to do just that. Thus we are left with the issue of some planets receiving aid they do not need, while others are starved of items they desperately need to survive.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Waning Years of Empire (banned).

“It's as hot as that girl I fucked back on Capricorn,” Blake commented, through the platoon’s private channel. “This should be a fun place for a rumble.”

Jasmine snorted, feeling the heat even though the armour. The badlands was, among other things, a suntrap, warming up rapidly until she felt as if she was baking inside her armoured shell. If she had been on her own, out for a relaxing hike around the countryside, she thought that she would have worn only a top and shorts, but she knew that there was danger all around them. The badlands was not a place to grow complacent. The enemy could be anywhere.

“I remember,” Joe Buckley said, dryly. “Was that the slut who insisted on you paying her first, or the one who wanted your Rifleman’s Tab?”

“Fuck you,” Blake said, with some feeling. “She really wanted to bag a Marine for some reason.”

“I guess she wanted to add you to her collection,” Joe said, with an evil chuckle. “She got one Marine who couldn't be bothered to keep his tackle in his trousers. What sort of bragging rights do you think she got?”

“I’ll have you know that I lasted all night with her,” Blake said, with great dignity. “While you were off chasing that pretty boy in the bar, I was screwing her senseless.”

“She was already senseless,” Jasmine put in. “She slept with you, didn't she?”

A dull chuckle ran around the platoon. Despite the banter, the Marines watched their surroundings carefully, wondering when – if – the enemy would make its appearance. The badlands were closing in all around them, hemming them in. The handful of paths within the zone had to be known to the enemy. Jasmine privately suspected that the easiest solution to the problem would be to drop defoliant on the badlands and destroy the vegetation, but the Captain would never agree. The Marines didn't need another stain on their honour.

Avalon, like many Earth-like worlds, had received the full package of plants and animals from Earth, released out into the wild to compete with the native vegetation. The badlands was a zone of perpetual conflict between old and new, with trees and vines from Earth struggling to survive in ravines and crevices opened up by massive earthquakes, thousands of years ago. A river ran from the Mystic Mountains to the north, running right through the badlands and down to the sea near Camelot, yet no one ever tried to take a boat up the rapids. The badlands and their treachery extended even to the river. The orbital images of the rapids had fascinated her, even though she wasn't fond of boating. Blake and Joe had been talking about taking canoes up there after the war and really testing themselves against nature.

She glanced ahead as the platoon rotated around in a pattern that – to outside observers – should have been completely random. They were spread out far enough to prevent a single mine from taking out the entire platoon, yet it worried her. The path they were using was a dry riverbed, yet it could come alive at any moment, if the ground shifted or a well-placed explosive charge broke a river’s banks. The armour should protect them, but no one wanted to test it. Marines didn't get claustrophobic – recruits who were subject to claustrophobia were weeded out at Boot Camp, long before they ever saw the Slaughterhouse – yet Jasmine understood how they must have felt. The trees were closing in. Anything could be lurking, just ahead of them.

A tiny shape flashed across the path and into the vegetation, moving so fast that she could barely bring her MAG to bear on it. The small creature, no larger than a well-fed hamster, was harmless to armoured humans, but dangerous if it was allowed to bite bare skin. The Chatters – as the early colonists had named them, after the noise they made at night – were poisonous to humans and native wildlife alike. Some locals kept them as pets, training them up, but others put down mouse traps and exterminated them on sight. They were too dangerous to have around small children.

“Only a tiny critter,” Joe said, as they relaxed. “Now...where were we?”

“Blake’s one-night stand,” Koenraad reminded him. “I can't remember if we were slapping him on the back or mocking him for it.”

“Asshole,” Blake said, crossly. He paused for a second, staring up at a very familiar bird staring down at the platoon. The red and yellow parrot eyed them disdainfully before flapping its wings and flying off into the distance. “Jasmine; what did you make of the redhead?”

It took Jasmine a moment to realise that he meant Mandy Caesius. “A spoilt brat with an attitude problem,” she said, sourly. Chaperoning the Professor might have been interesting, but the older girl had ruined it, just by being herself. “I suggest you concentrate on more interesting girls.”

“The Captain has to let us out on leave sometime,” Joe put in, seriously. “There has to be a few places in Camelot where Blake can get his ashes hauled.”

“I didn't see that side of the city,” Jasmine said, before Blake could say anything explosive. “I just saw the wealthy part of it. It felt a lot like Han.”

Silence fell as the Marines digested that titbit. Blake, Joe and Jasmine had all been new graduates from the Slaughterhouse, settling into their new platoons, when they’d been posted to Han. It had been supposed to be an easy posting, one that would allow them a chance to get settled in before the company was assigned to a more challenging position. Instead, it had been hell incarnate; Han’s autonomous government had been so repressive that when the dam burst, it had washed over everything. They’d found themselves fighting their way out of the capital city and struggling to stay alive until the Empire shipped in reinforcements. Jasmine’s view of war had never been the same.

But before the rebellion, the NCOs and the Captain – it hadn't been Captain Stalker then, but Captain McClelland – had suspected that something was up. There had been a brittle feeling in the air, as if something was about to break and break hard. There had been a desperation that had washed away all sense of restraint or social conservatism. The newly-minted Marines had enjoyed themselves, little realising that it was the calm before the storm.

“I hope you’re wrong,” Blake said, finally. Jasmine nodded inside her helmet. “Jesus...if we have to go through that again...”

“Quiet,” Joe snapped. The platoon snapped instantly to combat awareness. “Mine!”

Jasmine followed his gaze, seeing the subtle clues marking the location of a hidden minefield. The bandit camp, according to the prisoners they’d interrogated, should be just over the ridge. The presence of the minefield suggested that – for once – intelligence had gotten it right. It wasn't a fair attitude – Jasmine knew that Captain Stalker and trained interrogators had handled the interrogation – but it was one she held close. Back on Han, intelligence had kept assuring everyone that everything was fine, just before the entire planet had exploded into rebellion.

“I can get through that no bother,” Joe muttered. The Marines were spreading out slowly, testing the minefield with senses honed at the Slaughterhouse. The bandits hadn't been particularly subtle. They’d simply strewn a few hundred mines around their base. With a little care, they could probably find a safe path and slip through the net. “Can I try?”

“No,” Master Sergeant Gary Young said, firmly. He held a small portable sensor in his hand. “There’s a safe path there” – he pointed – “and we’re going to take out the guard and slip through it. Jasmine...you’re up.”

Jasmine nodded and crept forward. The guard looked to be half-asleep, which suggested that he wasn't aware of what had happened to the raiding party the Marines had destroyed. She didn't take chances, but kept moving slowly, watching him carefully. The armour’s stealth mode had its limitations and anyone watching closely would notice a slight shimmer in the air.

Good thing we’re not wearing heavy armour, she thought, grinning inwardly. They’d have heard us coming from miles away.

The guard sat up suddenly, as if he’d sensed something, but it was too late. Jasmine was on him in a second. One hand clamped over his mouth, stifling a scream, while the other twisted his neck and snapped it like a twig. She held him close until the life had faded from his body, and then carefully lowered him to the ground. The others slipped up beside her and advanced towards the ridge, watching carefully for other ambushes. There were none. She peered over the ridge and smiled inwardly when she saw the bandit camp. It looked as if they’d been hiding tents and even small huts under the foliage. No one would have seen anything from high above. The iron ore and other minerals in the area would disrupt sensors and even Civil Guard communicators.

She keyed her throat mike with an effort. “Captain; bandit camp located,” she said, knowing that her words were being relayed through a microburst transmitter to one of the orbiting satellites. It was a risk – the enemy would not be able to break the Marine encryption algorithms, but they might well be able to detect that transmissions were being made – yet it had to be taken. “I estimate seventy-plus bandits...”

Something touched her ear and she winced. “And I hear female screams,” she added. “The camp isn't just inhabited by bandits, sir.”

“Understood,” Captain Stalker said. Bombarding the camp first was no longer an option. In some ways, it worked in their favour, as they’d have a better chance of catching someone important. “Sergeant Young...?”

“We can take them, if the Raptors give us some covering fire,” Young said, calmly. He had over forty years of experience in the Marines and had forgotten more than Jasmine and her generation had ever known. “There are three antiaircraft weapons platforms in the camp. We will take them out and then the Raptors can hit their other defences. I’m uploading targeting specs now.”

Jasmine felt a moment of pity for Captain Stalker. Twenty-one of his Marines were about to assault the enemy...and he was seven kilometres away, back at the platoon house. She’d served as squad leader several times, long enough to know what responsibility meant, and she didn't envy her commander at all.

“Got them,” Captain Stalker said. “The Raptors are in holding orbits. Tactical command is now yours. Call when you need them.”

“Lock and load,” Young said. His voice was as calm and steady as ever. “Jasmine, Blake, Sally...take out their heavy weapons. Everyone else; cover them.”

Jasmine twisted her MAG, selecting the sniper option. The weapon linked into her helmet, with targeting crosshairs appearing in front of her vision, allowing her to target the enemy bandit manning the guns. Her vision focused in on him, showing him laughing and joking with a friend. Her lips twisted in distaste. He showed no sign of discipline at all. The bandits clearly weren't worried about being attacked.

“Fire,” Young ordered.

Jasmine squeezed the trigger and the MAG fired a single hypervelocity pellet towards her target. Even if he had heard the shot, and the MAG was silent except at very close range, he could not have hoped to move in time. Only lasers and plasma cannons were faster than MAG-launched bullets. Her target’s head exploded in a gratifying burst of blood and skull fragments as the bullet spread out on impact, punching right through his head. Jasmine didn't stop to congratulate herself. She switched to the next target and calmly serviced him as well.

The bandits were caught in a blind, helplessly confused. There were no flashes of gunfire for them to fire back at and no sign of where the Marines were at all. Given time, someone would deduce their location from the firing pattern, but that would require time...the enemy were firing in all directions, as if they hoped to discourage the Marines through sheer firepower. It wouldn’t have worked, not even against the worst Civil Guard unit in existence. The Marines were just too well prepared.

“Incoming blue,” Young said, still unruffled. Jasmine’s audio-discrimination system in her helmet picked up the noise of the Raptors as they swooped overhead, launching a handful of precision weapons towards their targets on the ground. A handful of weapons emplacements exploded in sheets of fire, tearing the defenders apart, while gas started to billow out of gas canisters, knocking out anyone who even caught a whiff of it. There were laws against using it on Earth, Jasmine knew, but out on the colonies...no one would even care. “Blue is withdrawing; go, go, go!”

Jasmine leapt up, following Blake and Joe as they raced down towards the camp. The handful of defenders who were still standing barely saw them coming; the Marines slashed through them before they knew what had hit them. Jasmine tracked another target as she came staggering out of one of the makeshift huts, before she breathed in some of the gas and collapsed on the ground. The target had been naked and unarmed, suggesting that she was a hostage rather than a bandit, but she’d still be checked carefully before she was released. It wouldn't be the first time a bandit or terrorist tried to escape trouble by claiming to be nothing more than a hostage.

Red icons flared up in front of her as a blast of blue-white fire flared out in the distance. Someone with a quicker mind than she had expected had covered their mouth and nose with a gas mask, firing on the Marines with a handheld plasma rifle. God alone knew where it had come from – Avalon’s home-grown industry could barely produce primitive computer chips and equipment, let alone plasma weapons – but it was real. Joe’s icon in her display was flashing red and blue lights, warning her that he’d been hit and hit badly.

“Marine down,” she snapped, as she snapped off a shot towards the newcomer. It wasn't a perfect shot; it went through the plasma weapon before slicing into the newcomer’s chest. The plasma weapon exploded in a blinding flash, sending white-hot plasma blazing through its owner’s body. Jasmine watched him burning, wrapped up in his own weapon’s death throes, and felt nothing. “Cover him!”

“His armour took most of the blast,” Sally said, as the Marines swept away the remaining opposition. The relief in her voice was all too clear. They’d all feared losing their lucky mascot. “He’s alive, if burned. Its a few days in a regeneration tank for him.”

“Blue-one, land for medivac,” Young ordered, calling down the Raptor gunship. “Blue-two; provide overhead cover and watch for trouble.”

Jasmine pushed the thought to one side as she followed Blake towards one of the huts, covering him as he kicked down the door and burst in, weapon at the ready. He stopped dead a second later, allowing her to see the remains of a man, killed by the four naked women in the hut. Their eyes were alight with a savage fury that eclipsed the scars and bruised on their bodies. They showed no sign of guilt, or remorse, merely a heartfelt relief that it was all over. Jasmine could understand just how they felt.

“Stay down,” she said, as gently as she could. The Marines had to be a terrifying sight in their armour. “We’re here to get you out of here.”

She stepped back outside and realised that the fighting was over. A handful of bandits had tried to flee into the jungle, only to be shot in the back as they ran. Others lay on the ground, having breathed in some of the gas, waiting to be picked up and transferred back to the holding pens at the platoon house. Marines moved among them, cuffing their hands with plastic ties, just in case they proved to have only inhaled a tiny amount of the gas. The former prisoners were treated more gently – they’d be separated from their captors – but they were secured as well. Jasmine didn't complain. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to sort out just who was who.

A second Raptor orbited low overhead, allowing a third platoon to jump down to the ground, reinforcing the Marines already present. Jasmine smiled tiredly, doubting that the bandits would try to catch the Marines on the ground, although she was grateful for the help. Joe would be evacuated back to Castle Rock, while his buddies cleaned up the mess. The remains of the bandit camp would be thoroughly searched before it was burned to the ground. There would be nothing left for any of their successors.

“Good work, all of you,” Captain Stalker said, on the general channel. “The medic reports that Rifleman Buckley will be fine in a few weeks.”

There was a general cheer. “I guess he was still wearing his lucky red shirt,” Blake said. He sounded relieved. He might have argued with Joe and the others from time to time, but Marines always looked out for one another. And, on a more practical level, they couldn't afford to lose anyone. Joe Buckley would have been missed even by those who didn't like him. “Did we get enough prisoners?”

“Over fifty,” Captain Stalker said. Jasmine smiled. There was a good chance they’d taken one of the bandit leaders alive, then. “And we’ve captured plenty of their weapons and deprived them of one of their bases. It was a very good day’s work.”

For those interested, I have another ongoing story under way on CF.NET - http://counter-factual.net/upload/showthread.php?t=9801. Comments would be welcome.

Chris

Excellent, I'm surprised the marines don't have gauss-style weapons. Or coil guns, those things got some power!

Chris wrote:The prisoner was thrown into the chair and cuffed to the metal. Edward smiled thinly as he recognised the man’s features, the racially-mixed features of Earth’s Undercity. Edward’s own father had been the same race as his mother, but several of his half-siblings had had differently coloured skins and odder features. There were even families down in the Undercity where the taint of incest had begun to take hold, the taboo broken long ago under the pressures of living in such conditions.

Did you just equate interracial relationships with incest‽

Zaune wrote:

Chris wrote:The prisoner was thrown into the chair and cuffed to the metal. Edward smiled thinly as he recognised the man’s features, the racially-mixed features of Earth’s Undercity. Edward’s own father had been the same race as his mother, but several of his half-siblings had had differently coloured skins and odder features. There were even families down in the Undercity where the taint of incest had begun to take hold, the taboo broken long ago under the pressures of living in such conditions.

Did you just equate interracial relationships with incest‽

No. The Undercity pushes all kinds of races together and mixed-race families are common. Incest is rarer, but it does happen. They're two completely seperate things.

Chris

I think you might have missed my point. Are mixed-race families only common in the Undercity?

Zaune wrote:I think you might have missed my point. Are mixed-race families only common in the Undercity?

Ah. That makes more sense.

No, basically. Edward just comes from the Undercity and thinks of it in such terms.

Chris

Oh, right. That desperately needs either some clarification or to be dropped completely, because that kind of sentiment does not work coming from the hero.