First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (31 page)

“Moidart,” Joker said.  “They want me as a CROW.”

I nodded.  “Did he give you the warning about befriending the others too?”

“Yup,” Joker said.  “Be nice to our fellow CROWs - or else.”

He shrugged.  “Do you want to get our supplies now, then go back to Liberty Town?”

It was easy to get our supplies; we presented the supply sergeants with the list and ten minutes later we had a pair of knapsacks, carefully packed with everything we wanted.  I checked mine anyway, just in case; the Drill Instructors had told me to make sure of everything for myself before I signed for anything.  And they’d even issued the wrong gear from time to time, just to make sure we knew to check.  This time, everything was in order; we stowed the bags in lockers, then headed for Liberty Town.  I could hear the siren call of wine, women and song, perhaps not in that order, calling for me.

Two days later, we boarded the shuttle and were duly shipped up to MTS
Walter Gold
, a huge Marine Transport Ship.  The officer who greeted us when we stepped through the hatch pointed us to our quarters, warned us to stay out of restricted sectors and not to try to leave the ship without authorisation.  We agreed, walked to our quarters and discovered that they were nothing more than another set of barracks, complete with bunks, shared facilities and little else.

“Terrible conditions,” Joker said, deadpan.  “I’m totally writing them up online.”

“They’d sue to get you to take down the review,” I said.  Actually, it looked better than some of the apartments I’d seen in the Undercity.  Marines are clean and tidy, after all, and none of us would have
dreamed
of leaving the barracks in a mess.  “And it beats hiding in a hovel while Snowstorm Elsa rages overhead.”

Joker shivered, dramatically.  Spending three days in the midst of a howling snowstorm had been the low point of the Slaughterhouse - or it
had
been, until the Drill Instructors found something worse to throw at us.  The corps was good at preventing bullies from becoming Drill Instructors, but there were times when it was hard to tell the difference.  We’d wound up huddling together, sharing heat, as the temperature plummeted rapidly.  And it had been hard to prepare our weapons to fire afterwards.

“They couldn't sue me,” he pointed out.  “What do I have for them to take?”

“Your salary,” I countered.  Actually, I had a feeling the corps would ensure our salaries remained firmly with us, at least until we decided to spend our money, but it wasn't something I wanted to test.  “And your life, if there is nothing else to give.”

The hatch opened, revealing two more newly-minted marines.  They rapidly introduced themselves as Hatchet and Sawdust, both from a different training platoon.  We introduced ourselves, shook hands and spent the next hour swapping lies about our experience in the Crucible.  (Actually, we
then
spent the next couple of hours arguing over who’d had the worst experience (it was us, of course), but the ship’s departure from orbit interrupted before we could start trading blows.)  By then, we had been joined by Trajan and Whisper, a female marine.

“I meant to ask,” I said, when Whisper and I were alone together.  “What is Boot Camp
like
for women?”

She gave me a cross look, which relented slightly as she realised I was honestly curious.  “It’s pretty much the same as the one for men,” she said.  “We just get additional training in dirty fighting and dire warnings about what might happen to us if we fell into enemy hands.  But we lose more recruits than you.”

“So we get told,” I said.  “Why did you join?”

Whisper shrugged.  “I grew up with an uncle who liked to touch me,” she said.  “It was one of those shitty little planets where everyone knows everyone else, so there wasn't anyone who’d believe me if I complained.  My parents had died when I was six.  One night, I hid a knife in my sleeve and stabbed him when he came to my bed, then ran. The corps was the only place I could go.”

“At least you killed him,” I pointed out.

“Yes, I did,” Whisper said.  “And you can bet your ass they would have executed me, if they’d grabbed me before I was shipped off-world.  It wasn't a good place to grow up without a family.”

“You have a family now,” I said.  I couldn't help being impressed.  “Coming to spar?”

Chapter Thirty-One

Whisper’s story was not, alas, unusual.  The Empire took a dim view of any of the peons engaging in self-defence, preferring instead to urge anyone under attack to scream for help from the police.  Earth’s staggeringly high rate of theft, rape and murder sprang from a simple inability to protect eighty billion (at least) inhabitants, a reluctance to punish criminals who were caught and a refusal to tolerate any form of self-defence.  Those who did try to defend themselves often discovered that they were prosecuted for trying. 

The net result was, perhaps, inevitable.  For the last fifty years before the Fall of Earth, no female candidates from Earth made it through Boot Camp.  Indeed, the rate of men passing through Boot Camp was also dropping.  The only women who made it through - and then took on the Slaughterhouse - were women raised on worlds that took a more sensible attitude towards self-defence.

-Professor Leo Caesius

Moidart was a planet that should have worked.

According to the briefing notes, it had been founded three hundred years ago by a wealthy nobleman who’d invested in a great deal of development before the first colonists had landed on the surface.  The combination of settlement opportunities - including interest-free loans from a local bank, rather than one of the interstellar corporations - and the prospects for skipping a couple of colonial developmental stages attracted thousands of settlers, all of whom eagerly pledged allegiance to the nobleman, who crowned himself King Henry I.  By the time Henry died, leaving a controlling interest in the planet to King Fredrick (the son he’d considered most like him), Moidart had a growing population, a handful of major industrial estates and even a handful of tiny asteroid mining operations.

And then disaster had struck.  A routine survey mission had found traces of a dozen rare elements - including several used to make Phase Drives - under populated farmland.  Fredrick, in need of money for various reasons, sold mining rights to one of the interstellar corporations, which promptly landed a large number of miners and displaced thousands of farmers from their fields.  The farmers didn't take it calmly and began a revolution, aided and abetted by Prince George, Fredrick’s older brother, who bitterly resented being passed over by his father.  King Fredrick, feeling the noose tightening around his neck, had screamed for help from the Empire, which had responded by dispatching a regiment of imperial troops to back up the locals.  Just to complicate matters, the Hammersmith Corporation, which had bought the mining rights, also shipped in a vast number of mercenaries, which promptly made themselves even
less
popular than the royal troops. 

Fifty years of intermittent warfare later, the planet was a horrendous mess.  King Fredrick controlled his capital city (and very little outside it,) Hammersmith controlled the mines, the Imperial Governor (appointed after Fredrick had failed to pay back his loans) claimed to control the entire planet and the warlords, operating outside the capital, controlled everywhere not heavily garrisoned by the off-worlders or the royal troops.  The briefing notes had concluded with a grim observation that Hammersmith, which was getting tired of being unable to carry out its mining operations in reasonable safety, had urged the Grand Senate to do something.  After a considerable number of bribes had exchanged hands, the Grand Senate had detailed two companies of marines to reinforce the Imperial Army.

“Looks a right fucking mess,” Joker commented, as the starship approached Moidart.  “Are you sure we're on the right side?”

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  King Fredrick had betrayed his people, Hammersmith had forced them to leave their farms (while poisoning the land for miles around), but the warlords weren't any less brutal.  Fifty years of warfare had left a mark; they were quite prepared to do anything, anything at all, to win.  There were reports of entire villages and towns wiped out for refusing to send men and supplies to the rebel armies, women kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery to fund the war (and keep the soldiers entertained) and far worse.  Whatever ideals the warlords had started with, they’d lost them long ago.

I wasn't surprised.  We’d studied the subject intensely at the Slaughterhouse.  The longer a rebel faction had to fight, the greater the chance its leaders would become ruthless men (or were replaced by ruthless men).  By the time they won, if they won, they no longer had any respect for the rule of law; indeed, they’d lost sight of why they’d started the war in the first place.  They tended to impose dictatorships rather than democracies.

And the Governor’s forces weren't much better.  The orders they’d been given were masterworks of contradictory mealy-mouthed evasion.  I wasn't a JAG - there were hardly any JAGs in the corps - but no matter how I looked at the orders, they seemed written to allow the Governor to suggest that the outcome, whatever happened, was what he’d been ordered to do all along.  On one hand, he was to suppress the rebels and support the corporation; on the other, he was to create the framework for a lasting peace.  (It took me some time to realise that Hammersmith’s enemies had helped write the Governor’s orders, as any lasting peace would involve Hammersmith being kicked off the planet.)  Faced with such indecision, the Imperial Forces had occupied most of the remaining towns and cities, then tried to exterminate the rebels.  So far, they were failing miserably.

Not that you would have known it, I realised, from the official news bulletins.  The contrast between the marine briefings and the Governor’s bombastic statements could hardly be more pronounced. 
He
claimed that hundreds of thousands of rebels had been killed, or brought over to support the royal forces; the
marines
claimed that, if anything, the rebellion was growing stronger.  The warlords might have disliked each other just as much as they disliked King Fredrick, but the prospect of being snuffed out by off-world forces pretty much condemned them to work together.

“They can't win the war, but they don’t dare lose either,” Whisper commented.  I’d come to know her pretty well over the three weeks we’d spent in transit, along with the others.  She had a cynical view of the universe that was pretty close to my own.  “So they keep spinning every little engagement as a victory and hope they get relieved before it’s too late.”

I suspected she was right, but before we could continue the discussion we were called to the shuttlebay.  Us CROWs - and a number of engineers who had been summoned to Moidart - were going to be the first down to the surface.  Judging from the reports of rebels launching HVMs - which they shouldn't have had - at shuttlecraft, I had a feeling it wasn't really a honour at all.  I considered, briefly, suggesting we jumped through the atmosphere, then dismissed the thought.  We didn't have the equipment that would make a jump possible.

“When you get down, move into the nearest hardened shelter,” the crew chief told us. 
That
didn't sound encouraging.  “You’ll be collected as soon as possible.”

We exchanged glances, checked our weapons and boarded the shuttle.  The flight down to the surface was hellishly unpleasant, although not as bad as some of the flights on the Slaughterhouse.  I think the pilots must have known the dangers, because they kept jinking from side to side and launching flares every time their sensors squealed an alert.  We didn't come under fire - a HVM might have killed us before we knew we were being attacked - but we didn't miss any of the experience.  By the time the shuttle crashed to the landing pad, we were feeling unwell
despite
our training.

The hatch banged open, allowing us to take our first step onto Moidart.  I took a breath and shuddered as I tasted strange - and unpleasant - scents in the air.  Hammersmith
claimed
its mining operation wasn't polluting, but the marine briefing had made it clear that they
were
causing untold amounts of ecological damage.  They
could
have cut down on the pollution, simply by shipping in more expensive equipment ... if, of course, someone had thought the long-term investment was worthwhile.  Given the situation on the ground, I rather doubted that
anyone
would consider Moidart a decent investment opportunity.  Chances were the corporate sharks running the operation were among the worst of the worst, sent to Moidart merely to get rid of them.

We sprinted for the nearest shelter as alarms howled over the spaceport, announcing the arrival of a hail of mortar shells.  Laser defence units opened fire, swatting most of the shells out of the air, but a handful made it through and struck the runway.  The damage seemed to be minimal, from what I could tell - the runway was designed to soak up a great deal of damage and be easy to repair - yet it was only a matter of time until the rebels got lucky and hit a moving aircraft.  I’d learned enough about logistics to be sure there was no way to replace any helicopters without shipping them in from out-system.

“I don't think much of their security,” Joker said, as the alarms finally wound down.  A pair of attack helicopters passed overhead and out of sight, but I didn't hear them launching any weapons.  The rebels might just have preset the mortars to fire - the spaceport was large enough that the shells would be bound to strike home - and then legged it.  “In fact, I feel rather exposed.”

“There's only one major spaceport on the planet,” Hatchet pointed out.  In the distance, I saw an explosion rising into the air.  “Everything we need to maintain ourselves has to be shipped through here.”

We paused to contemplate the problem.  There was no shortage of shuttles that could land without a dedicated spaceport, but the heavy-lift craft that carried most of our supplies needed a proper set of landing facilities.  If the spaceport happened to be overrun, the forces on the ground would find it much harder to call on reinforcements and eventually run out of ammunition.  Moidart
could
produce simple ammunition - the factories were heavily guarded, according to the briefing notes - but anything more complex than a simple RPG was beyond them.  I could easily see the royal forces deserting the moment they ran out of ammunition.

“Fuck me,” Joker said, finally.

“Not on duty,” a new voice said.  We straightened to attention as a newcomer, wearing the combat uniform of a Command Sergeant, strode into the shelter.  “Welcome to hell.  I am Command Sergeant Singh, Webb’s Weavers.  I understand that three of you are bound for the Weavers and the other three are assigned to Robertson’s Rangers?”

“Yes, sir,” we said.

“The Rangers are currently on deployment to Kilkenny,” Singh said.  In all my career, I never learned his first name.  It should have been in his file, but when I looked it turned out that it was marked as restricted.  He’d probably served in one of the more secretive units before transferring back to a conventional company.  “You three” - he looked at Hatchet, Sawdust and Whisper - “will be assigned to perimeter security until they return.  The others will start their service as soon as we reach the FOB.  Follow me.”

He turned and strode out of the shelter, heading straight for a large armoured car.  We followed him and, at his command, climbed into the rear of the vehicle.  It was uncomfortably cramped with six marines and their gear, but I had a feeling it was better than trying to walk to the FOB.  Singh started the engine and drove past a set of hangers onto a throughway, then right past a man in a red uniform who shook his fist at our retreating backs.

“Traffic warden,” Singh said.  I thought he was joking at the time.  It wasn't until later that I realised he was deadly serious.  “They have a habit of bitching when we drive past the speed limit.”

The spaceport grew more crowded as we reached the gates.  Armed soldiers watched, nervously, as a convoy entered; they waved us through without hesitation, clearly more concerned about anyone trying to get into the spaceport.  A long line of local workers were being searched before they were allowed to enter, their faces set in expressionless masks that told me they were as resentful as hell.  I didn't blame them - some of the guards were clearly enjoying themselves - but what choice did we have?  A single suicide bomber who got through the gates could cause a great deal of trouble if he blew up the right building.

“We’re based some distance from the regulars,” Singh said, as he gunned the engine.  “Their security sucks shit through a straw.  Don’t trust anyone who isn't a marine and you might just stay alive long enough to learn what you’re doing.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the environment.  The fields surrounding the spaceport might have been pretty once, but someone had cut down every last tree and bush within five miles, just to prevent them being used for concealment.  It looked very much as though they’d followed up by spraying the area with something that had killed the plants, leaving it barren even at the height of summer.  Or maybe it was just the pollution drifting through the air.  The road itself was solid workmanship, easily wide enough to take three tank transporters running abreast.  I doubted anyone could place an IED in position without it being noticed.  It would be much harder to see them once we got off the roads.