To The Shores ...

(The Empire’s Corps – Book VI)

Series Listing

Book One: The Empire’s Corps
Book Two: No Worse Enemy
Book Three: When The Bough Breaks
Book Four: Semper Fi
Book Five: The Outcast
Book Six: To The Shores

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

All Comments Welcome!

Cover Blurb

A new mainstream novel of The Empire’s Corps!

Four years after their abandonment by the now-fallen Empire, the Commonwealth of Avalon is expanding into interstellar space and making contact with other successor states.  With suspicion high on both sides, the Commonwealth and the enigmatic Wolfbane agree to hold a diplomatic meeting on Lakshmibai, a neutral world.

But Lakshmibai’s government hates off-worlders and, with the fall of the Empire, sees its chance to be rid of the hatred intruders once and for all.  While Edward Stalker is besieged in their capital city, Jasmine Yamane must lead an untested army on a race against time to save the diplomats from annihilation.

And if she fails, the Battle of Lakshmibai may be the first shot in a new interstellar war. 

Author’s Note

Dear Reader

To The Shores is the sixth book in The Empire’s Corps and is a mainstream novel, following the adventures of the Marines stranded on Avalon when the Empire fell.  I’ve done my best to keep it accessible to readers who haven't read previous works, but honesty compels me to admit that long-term readers will probably get more out of the book.  In particular, the previous mainstream adventures are The Empire’s Corps, No Worse Enemy and Semper Fi. 

Chronologically speaking, To The Shores takes place roughly four years after The Empire’s Corps.

The story of the final days of Old Earth are told in When The Bough Breaks, although the characters on Avalon are only starting to become aware of the end of Empire.  

I hope this meets with your approval.  Please feel free to post your opinions on my website discussion board or facebook page (links above.)  And if you liked the story, please don’t hesitate to write a review.

As always, if you spot any spelling errors and suchlike, drop me a note.  I offer cameos!

Thank you for your attention.

Christopher G. Nuttall

Dedication

Ten years ago, I had my first formal introduction to the Marine Corps through Bing West, who chronicled the 1st Marine Division’s advance on Baghdad in The March Up (2003).  Since then, he has written several other books, most notably No True Glory, The Strongest Tribe and The Wrong War, all of which looked at modern war and those who fought it.

I write about fictional warriors, fictional defenders of civilisation.  Bing West writes about real defenders of civilisation, the men and women who sacrifice their rights, their freedoms and (in some cases) their lives to preserve yours.  Without the spirit of grunts, as he correctly points out, America cannot sustain itself.

This book is dedicated to him and the others who tell those stories to the world.

Chapter One

The simplest definition of diplomacy might be the art of dealing with people in a sensitive and effective way.  People use diplomacy every day, from negotiating with their partners to trying to convince their boss that they’re worthy of a raise.  However, in this article, we are primarily concerned with international diplomacy.
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

Colonel Edward Stalker, Terran Marine Corps, rose to his feet as Lieutenant Jasmine Yamane entered his office and saluted smartly.  Edward returned the salute and then motioned for her to take a seat, which she did, never taking her eyes off him.  He studied her back, looking for signs that her ordeal on Corinthian hadn't crippled her permanently.  No one became a Marine without an inhuman ability to handle pain and stress, but torture could break even the strongest minds.  

She was tall and muscular, her hair grown out slightly in the months she’d been on the beach while the medics and headshrinkers put her back together again.  Vanity was not a common Marine failing, but Edward couldn't help noticing that she’d had the scars on her face surgically removed, leaving her looking like a very dangerous predator.  She might not be beautiful in the classical sense, certainly not like the holographic stars who had dominated the arena and public viewscreens before the Empire had collapsed, but she was definitely striking.  And, he could tell, impatient to return to work.

“I received the final report from the medics yesterday,” he said, without preamble.  Marines rarely had time for small talk.  “You are cleared to return to duty.”

Jasmine nodded, slowly.  Her face seemed unreadable, but Edward picked up the subtle signs of relief that showed just how concerned she’d been, even after passing a series of increasingly difficult tests intended to weed out the unsuitable or the unfit.  Like Edward himself, she’d spent years turning herself into a Marine – and losing it might well have crippled her.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, finally.  

“However, there are other issues,” Edward admitted.  He winced inwardly as her shoulders twitched, slightly.  “I cannot return you to 1st Platoon.”

“I understand,” Jasmine said, tonelessly.  

Edward felt her pain.  Command of a Marine formation was a honour – and Jasmine had commanded 1st Platoon during the covert operation against Admiral Singh.  But she’d been taken off duty just after the operation had concluded, forcing him to place command of 1st Platoon into the hands of Blake Coleman, who still held the post.  Before the Empire had withdrawn and then collapsed, a Marine officer who returned to duty could be assigned to a different company or spend a few months attached to a headquarters platoon.  Neither one was an option on Avalon.

Traditionally, few Marine ranks were permanent – and an unsuitable officer could be reassigned without denting his pride or setting a bad example.  But Blake Coleman seemed to have matured since his shaky start and there were no grounds to deprive him of his new post, even though he’d replaced his former commander and teammate.  Besides, he did have another post in mind for Jasmine.

“Tell me,” he said, falling into the informality that Marines adopted for private discussions, “where do you see your career going?”

Jasmine blinked in surprise – and Edward smiled, amused at her expression.  It did sound like a silly question, particularly with so few Marines within the Commonwealth.  Jasmine couldn't replace Edward himself – the company’s CO – or take command of one of the five remaining full-strength platoons.  Her career, on the face of it, had nowhere to go.  

“I honestly don't know,” she said, carefully.  “I could return to the ranks ...”

“You could,” Edward agreed.  Even among Marines, it would be impolite for her to suggest that she might take his place.  If the Empire had still been in existence, she might well have been a Captain by now.  But the Empire was gone.  “I had something else in mind.”

He met her eyes.  “Have you been following the diplomatic updates?”

Jasmine nodded.  “The Wolfbane Sector?”

“Yes,” Edward said, simply.  “Governor Brown may pose a significant threat to the Commonwealth.”

The thought made him scowl.  Four years ago, there had been the Empire ... and no significant independent states worthy of the name.  Everyone had known that even a nominally independent star system wouldn't stand a chance if the Imperial Navy came knocking one day.  Now, there was the Commonwealth and a handful of other successor states taking shape among the stars.  One of them had already posed a major threat to the Commonwealth.  Another might be far harder to take down before it was too late.

Little was known of Governor Brown.  According to the files, he’d been third or fourth in line to the sector governorship of the Wolfbane Sector, a man so unremarkable that the famously-complete files gathered by the Imperial Civil Service said very little about him.  Edward could only imagine what might have happened to boost him into a position of power; civil war, a coup, perhaps even the mass desertion of his superiors.  It wouldn't be the only time that high-ranking officials had fled the chaos looming along the Rim for the bright lights of Earth, if Earth was still intact.  Some of the rumours that had reached them through the Trade Federation – another successor state – had been horrifying.  

Edward tapped a control and a holographic star chart shimmered into existence.  “We have no way of knowing just how powerful the Wolfbane Sector is,” he admitted.  “In theory, he should have five squadrons of battleships and several hundred smaller craft under his command, but we don’t know how many of them are still there – and in working order.  We do know that we want to establish diplomatic relationships and eventually determine a practical border.”

Jasmine frowned, one finger stroking her chin as she studied the chart.  “You don’t intend to try to convince him to join us?”

“We don’t know enough about him to even guess at how successful such a ploy would be,” Edward said.  It was galling to admit that his long-term objective, the restoration of humanity’s unity without the cracks in the Empire that had eventually torn it apart, might be in jeopardy, but he couldn't avoid considering the possibility.  “For the moment, we merely want to establish relations and trading links.”

He pointed to one of the stars, situated roughly midway between Avalon and Wolfbane.  “We’ve been talking to his representatives through the good offices of the Trade Federation,” he continued.  “Eventually, the Governor agreed to a conference between our representatives and his here, on Lakshmibai.  We will be sending an Ambassador with authority to negotiate on the issues that concern us, as will he.”

“That should be interesting,” Jasmine said.  “Why there?”

“Lakshmibai has nothing that anyone wants, us included,” Edward said.  “The planet is neutral by default.  According to the files, there was little contact between it and the Empire, apart from a half-hearted attempt to intervene in the planet’s civil war.  Brown ... seems to feel that it is a suitable place for two interstellar powers to hold talks.”

He shrugged.  “I would prefer to send a mission to Wolfbane, but that suggestion was rejected,” he added.  “To be fair, we rejected their suggestion of sending a mission to Avalon too.”

“Because they might be trying to spy on us,” Jasmine agreed.  “And they have the same worries about us.”

“They would be right,” Edward said, wryly.  He switched off the hologram and leaned back in his chair.  “After a great deal of argument in the Council, it has been decided that we cannot afford to refuse his offer of talks.  Accordingly, a mission will be setting out to Lakshmibai.  That mission will be headed by me.”

Jasmine scowled.  “Sir,” she said slowly, “with all due respect, it might be a trap.”

“It might be,” Edward agreed, unemotionally.  It was equally galling to realise that he might be irreplaceable on Avalon, even though he was a mere Colonel.  “But the mission needs ambassadors of considerable authority.  Professor Caesius will make up the other half of the ambassadorial team.”

He smiled at Jasmine’s expression.  No one would have expected the professor and her to have become friends, but they had.  And Jasmine was also a close friend of both of the professor’s daughters.  Having relationships outside the Corps was good for his Marines, even if civilians did have the strangest ideas of what the Marines did for a living.

“There will be a substantial security element embarked on the transport,” he continued, putting that thought aside for the moment.  “I believe that this is a good opportunity to carry out a deployment of the 1st Commonwealth Expeditionary Force, now that we have finally put most of its order of battle together.  You will be given the brevet rank of Brigadier and take command of the force.”

Jasmine stared at him, no longer able to try to hide her surprise.  It was a colossal jump in rank and responsibility – and it would have been unthinkable before the fall of the Empire, where an officer required years of seasoning or extensive political connections to rise so high.  Even in the Marine Corps, it could be decades before an officer had a chance at divisional command.  But Avalon had a shortage of experienced officers, particularly ones who had served on multiple worlds.  Jasmine was among the handful of relatively experienced officers under his command.

There were other considerations, he knew.  The Commonwealth’s constitution limited the deployable forces available to the central government.  In theory, the Marines should be able to provide reinforcements if they were needed at short notice – it had been one of their roles in the Empire – but there simply weren't enough Marines to handle the task.  Instead, they had to put together a light force from Avalon, which had its own problems.  Few Knights of Avalon had any experience operating at the end of a shoestring logistics chain.

And then there are the political faultlines between the former Civil Guardsmen and the Crackers, he thought.  And the reluctance of Avalon’s Knights to serve off-world ...

He pushed the thought aside and smiled at her.  “Hopefully, this will be nothing more than a full-scale exercise,” he informed her.  “An exercise conducted under extremely realistic conditions.  However, just in case we do run into trouble ...”

“It would be well to have a large force accompanying us,” Jasmine finished.  “What is the situation on the planet’s surface?”

“Good question,” Edward said.  “Unfortunately, the last update in the files from Lakshmibai is over seven years old.  At the time, there was a large Imperial Army garrison and supply dump on the planet’s surface.  Now ... we don’t know.”

“It's unlikely that the garrison is still there,” Jasmine said, thoughtfully.  “And the weapons in the supply dump might have been taken by one of the factions on the planet’s surface.”

Edward nodded, concealing his annoyance.  If the files were to be believed – and he knew through experience that the Imperial Army’s manifests were sometimes nothing more than elaborate works of fiction – there was enough war material on Lakshmibai’s surface to outfit several full-sized divisions of troops.  He would have given his right arm for such a supply dump during the war against the Crackers on Avalon; now, however, it wouldn't be so useful for the Commonwealth.  One of the major differences between the Marine Corps and the Imperial Army was that the former’s weapons and vehicles were lightened to make them more deployable, while the latter could take months or years to build up the logistics base for operations.  Hauling supplies from Lakshmibai to Avalon – or anywhere else in the Commonwealth – might be more trouble than it was worth.

“It is unlikely,” he agreed.  “And it’s even more unlikely that there was anything in the supply dumps that would make a difference now.  But I’d still like to know what happened to the planet, if only to add to the files.”

He shrugged.  “Assuming all goes to plan, you will have several months to run exercises on the planet’s surface while I and the professor take part in the discussions,” he informed her.  “If not ... we may have to improvise.”

Jasmine didn't look daunted, he was pleased to see.  But then, she’d never had to command such a large force on exercise, let alone in actual combat.  She didn’t really know what she was getting into, any more than Edward had truly realised it when he’d been offered command of the company.

Sink or swim, he reminded himself.

“You’ll assume command of the assembling force tomorrow,” he concluded.  “Do you have any specific requests or requirements you wish to raise?”

Jasmine hesitated, then nodded.  “I would like to request that Joe Buckley be assigned to my command,” she said.  “He ... is running out of patience on the training grounds.”

Edward smiled, rather dryly.  The Marine Corps had a proud tradition of rotating training officers through combat units on a regular basis, a tradition that the Knights had copied ... but there were still considerable shortages of experienced training officers.  It required officers and sergeants who could come across as sadistic brutes, while carefully not becoming monsters who abused their trainees or pushed them too far.  Joe Buckley had been doing an excellent job, ever since his marriage, but Edward could understand his wish to return to active duty.

“I dare say that he can be spared,” he said, after a moment’s thought.  “I’ll have a word with Howell and have him attached to your command.  He’ll have to deal with his wife on his own, though.”

“I think Lila will understand,” Jasmine said.  “She did know what she was marrying.”

Edward wasn't so sure.  Military wives might be able to deploy with their husbands – or they might be left behind, to make do as best as they could while their partner did his duty in another star system.  The military wasn't kind to married soldiers; it wasn't unknown for a soldier to return home, only to discover that his wife had left him for another man.  Even the Marine Corps had problems handling married Marines.  The stresses of never knowing when one’s husband might be called away – or die in the line of duty – placed colossal stress on even the strongest marriages.  

“Let us hope so,” he said, neutrally.  Had Lila and Joe Buckley been separated for more than a week since they’d married?  It was unlikely; Buckley was currently based at Castle Rock, where there was more than enough room for married couples.  As a training officer, he was entitled to quarters suitable for both himself and his wife.  “You should tell him that the whole deployment will take at least four months.”

Jasmine nodded.  “I’ll brief him personally,” she said.

“There is one other issue,” Edward said, diffidently.  He didn't miss Jasmine’s eyes narrowing as she registered his tone.  “You will be ... shadowed by a reporter.”

“A reporter?”  Jasmine repeated.  “Why?”

“It is important to showcase how far we’ve come since the Cracker War,” Edward said, truthfully.  “And equally important to show Avalon the importance of the Commonwealth to their security.  We cannot risk losing public support.”

He couldn't blame Jasmine for being irritated by the mere suggestion.  The Empire’s corps of reporters had been staunchly anti-military – or at least their editors, who took orders from the Grand Senate’s vested interests, had been anti-military.  Every commanding officer had learned to dread the well-connected reporter sticking his nose into military affairs, asking stupid questions on one hand and breaching operational security on the other.  Edward had heard rumours that half of the problems on Han wouldn't have occurred if a handful of reporters hadn't leaked military secrets to the rebels.  It didn’t strike him as particularly unlikely.

“This reporter does have some experience from the war,” he added, as reassuringly as he could.  “And besides, he won’t be sending live dispatches from the battlefield.”

“Good,” Jasmine said.  She still didn’t sound pleased.  “I look forward to meeting him.”

“You’ll have a chance to review some of his work tonight,” Edward said, picking a datachip off his desk and passing it to her.  “He hasn't broken any of the agreements he made when he started his relationship with the military, at least as far as we have been able to determine.  And he’s going to be under military discipline while on deployment.  If he gets in the way, feel free to put him in cuffs somewhere out of the way.”

Jasmine snorted.  In the Empire, an officer who put a reporter in irons could kiss any future career advancement goodbye, even if his peers silently cheered him on.  But Edward had written the new protocols for interacting with reporters personally.  If they did give one of his officers real trouble, they could spend the rest of the trip as a prisoner; Edward would back the officer responsible to the hilt.

“We need to have the CEF ready for deployment as soon as possible,” Edward concluded.  “I don’t know where the next threat will come from, but there will be a next threat.  We still don’t know what happened to Admiral Singh, among other things.”

“Yes, sir,” Jasmine said.  She sounded confident, he noted, although Marines were taught to sound confident at all times.  It helped reassure the civilians – and the Civil Guard, when Marines were deployed to stiffen their spines.  “I won’t let you down.”

She saluted, then turned and marched out of the office.  Edward watched her go, then looked down at the papers on his desk.  There was just more and more paperwork for him and the other senior officers, no matter how hard he struggled to keep it under control.  The rapidly-expanding military seemed to practically breed paperwork.

That’s why I have to go on the mission, he told himself.  It will be a change from paperwork.

Pushing that thought aside too, he picked up a datapad and returned to work.

Chapter Two

International Diplomacy can be defined as the profession, activity, or skill of managing international relations, typically by a country's representatives abroad.  This is, however, the simplest possible view.
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past. 

“Damn it,” Lieutenant Michael Volpe muttered as his wristcom started to bleep urgently, driving away the last vestiges of sleep from his mind.  “All right, all right.”

He picked up the wristcom from where he’d left it on the bedside table, checked to ensure that he wasn't being summoned back urgently, then clicked off the alarm.  The temptation to stay in bed was almost overwhelming, but he knew better than to delay his return to the base any longer than strictly necessary.  Instead, he looked over at where the girl was buried under the blankets and then around her apartment.  He hadn't had a chance to take in the decor when he’d picked her up last night and allowed her to take him home.

“Hey,” he said, poking the girl’s shoulder.  He realised suddenly that he didn't even know her name!  “Where’s the shower?”

“Next room,” the girl muttered, sleepily.  “What time is it?”

“Seven in the morning,” Michael said, as he pulled himself out of bed and stood upright. “I’ll leave you in bed, if you like.”

He fought down a sense of embarrassment as he padded across to the door and opened it, wishing that he’d thought to ask more questions before going to bed with her.  There was no way to know if she shared her apartment with other girls, her parents or if she was alone ... no, that was unlikely.  His memories of the previous night were a blur, but he was fairly sure that she was a student and few students could afford to live on their own.  The bathroom held enough supplies, he decided as he stepped inside, for a small army of girls.  He stepped under the shower, lowered the temperature as much as possible and closed his eyes as the cold water washed away the last remnants of exhaustion.  Just how much sleep had he gotten last night?

Not much, he thought, with a sense of heavy satisfaction.  Two weeks spent preparing the 1st Avalon Mechanized Infantry Battalion for deployment had been rewarded by four days leave, which he’d spent in Camelot.  Like almost all of the battalion, he’d spent the time looking for sexual partners and trying to relax. The girl – and he still couldn't remember her name – had merely been the last of a string of partners.

He stepped out of the shower, dried himself with a towel that was almost ludicrously small for him and walked back into the hallway.  There was a gasp from behind him and he turned to see another girl wearing a nightgown that left almost nothing to the imagination.  Michael, who had lost any sense of body modesty he might have had in training – or when he’d been a pirate captive – merely nodded to her and stepped back into his girl’s room.  She was sitting upright in bed, her bare breasts marked from their lovemaking.  Michael felt a surge of lust which he ruthlessly pushed aside.  There wasn’t time for any more fun and games.

“Look me up when you come back to the city,” the girl ordered, as he pulled on his uniform and inspected himself in the mirror.  All the nice girls on Avalon loved a uniform, he’d discovered; it was almost a guaranteed lay to wear one’s uniform on leave.  The Empire might have banned its soldiers from wearing uniforms when they weren’t on duty, but there was no such rule on Avalon.  “And thank you.”

Michael shrugged, fought down the temptation to ask for her contact code and walked downstairs, leaving her behind.  Outside, the streets were already starting to fill up with people, mainly soldiers and spacers in uniform.  He wasn't the only person who was expected to report back to base early in the morning, or the only soldier who had tried to spend his last hours of freedom with a pretty girl.  Quite a few of the men on the streets looked considerably worse for wear.  He hoped that they would have the presence of mind to use sober-up tabs before reporting for duty.  A soldier who turned up unfit would be lucky if he merely spent the next week in the guardhouse.

Churchill Garrison was located to the east of Camelot, close to a small port that provided a sea link to Castle Rock, where the Marines and most of the training facilities were based.  It had expanded rapidly ever since it had been founded, during the height of the Cracker War, until it consisted of over a hundred barracks, hangers and supply deports.  A chainmail fence ran around the complex, guarded by armed soldiers with authority to shoot anyone who tried to enter without authorisation.  The Crackers might have been largely defeated and assimilated into the new order, but everyone knew that there were some factions that remained as unrelentingly hostile to the Commonwealth as they had been to the Empire.  No one expected them to remain silent forever.

At least the bandits are gone, he thought, as he signed in at the guardhouse and entered the garrison.  Thousands of uniformed soldiers were thronging over the base, most of them heading for the barracks where their sergeants would sort them out, match them up with their vehicles and equipment and then take them out to the exercise grounds.  In the distance, he could hear the sounds of shooting as the infantrymen practiced on the shooting ranges.  The sharpshooting competitions between the different units were intense, deliberately encouraged by senior officers.  Michael took some pride in knowing that his unit had taken the cup for sharpshooting several times before losing it to other units.  

His wristcom bleeped, ordering him to report to the briefing complex.  Shaking his head, he turned and walked down towards the large concrete building.  They’d been promised that there would – finally – be answers about their planned off-world deployment.  Despite his curiosity, Michael was almost disappointed.  The rumours had been fun.

***
There was a refreshing air of informality, Jasmine was pleased to note, as she entered the briefing room.  Unlike the Imperial Army, which had over three thousand years of precedent and protocol to draw on, the Knights of Avalon and the other Commonwealth military organisations were new.  Given time, Jasmine was sure that they would evolve traditions of their own, but for the moment they were not burdened by the past.  It should give them more flexibility, she told herself, than the Imperial Army had ever shown.

The officers came to attention as she took the stand, looking at her with obvious curiosity.  A gathering of Imperial Army officers would have found her beneath their notice, even though she was a Marine; she was just too junior to garner their attention.  And the Imperial Army officers would probably have been decades older than her, at the very least.  Rejuvenation treatments had ensured that officers held their posts for years before finally moving on or retiring from the service.  But the Knights were young ... even their senior officers were younger than Jasmine herself.  Only a handful had served in the military for longer than any of the junior Marines.

The Colonel was right, she realised, as silence fell over the assembly.  They don’t have the experience they desperately need.

“At ease,” she ordered, projecting as much confidence and command personality into her voice as she could.  “We have a great deal of ground to cover.”

She paused, then pushed onwards.  “We will be deploying to Lakshmibai,” she continued, knowing that few of them would have heard of their destination.  A handful of officers began to surreptitiously look it up on their datapads.  “Once there, we will provide security for a diplomatic mission and exercise as a combined unit on hostile soil, away from our logistics bases on Avalon or any other Commonwealth world.”

The officers didn't have the experience to hide their reactions, she noted.  Several of them looked confident, others looked worried at the prospect of operating away from their homeworld.  A handful definitely seemed to relish the challenge.  None of them, even the ex-Civil Guard officers, seemed to show any resentment at her being placed in command.  They knew their limits.  Besides, Avalon knew how much it owed to the Marines.

She smiled to herself as she caught sight of Michael Volpe – Mandy’s former lover – in the audience, then looked away from him.  There would be time to catch up with him later.

“We are expected to embark on the transports in three days,” Jasmine informed them.  “That gives us two days to carry out what joint planning and exercising we can before we leave.”

She’d deliberately picked a deadline she didn't expect to meet, knowing that it would encourage her new subordinates to look for ways to speed up the process.  Embarking even a relatively small military unit on a transport could take hours, particularly when it included tanks, aircraft or other vehicles.  The entire CEF might take days to embark on the four purpose-built transport starships.  Still, the only way to practice the operation was to actually do it.  Paper exercises never worked out well in real life.

“I have worked out a rough deployment plan for you to consider prior to departure,” she said.  There were officers who would have refused to consider asking their subordinates to comment on their plans, but Jasmine knew that the men who’d handled their units since they’d come into existence would know more about their operations than she did, even though she’d spent most of the evening skimming through their reports.  “However, our first priority remains the security of the diplomatic team.”

She scowled at the thought.  There was relatively little information on Lakshmibai in the databanks, even though the Imperial Library was supposed to contain exhaustive information on every world within the Empire – and she knew that it was outdated by several years, at the very least.  The situation on the ground had been nasty even before the fall of the Empire; there was almost nothing to suggest what it might be like now.  It was possible, she supposed, that peace and prosperity might have broken out, but that struck her as unlikely.  Civil war seemed a much more definite possibility.  

Which leads one to wonder why Governor Brown picked the system in the first place, she thought, sourly.  What was he thinking?

“I would suggest that you review the information on our destination once we’re on our way,” she concluded.  “I want to run a full-scale exercise tomorrow, if possible, and that must take priority.  We need to be as practiced as possible by the time we leave.”

She looked around the room, her eyes moving from face to face.  “I don’t need to tell you just how important this operation is,” she said, firmly.  “Failure is not an option.  Dismissed!”

The officers saluted, then stood up and headed for the doors.  Jasmine watched them go, feeling the weight of responsibility settling down on her shoulders.  The 1st Commonwealth Expeditionary Force was a new formation, composed largely of individual units that had barely even practiced working together.  They really needed several months to practice and prepare for their first off-world deployment.

But we need to practice rapid deployment, she told herself, remembering why the Marines had been called the Emperor’s Firemen.  A Marine unit could expect to be summoned at a moment’s notice and then thrown into battle, without time to muster a colossal logistics base to support its operations.  The 1st Commonwealth Expeditionary Force had to function along the same lines, which wouldn't stop the whole experience from being painful for everyone involved.  They’d learn lessons, all right, but they’d also be dispirited ...

Her wristcom buzzed.  “Brigadier,” Joe Buckley said, “you have a visitor waiting for you in your office.”

Jasmine nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see her.  “Understood,” she said.  Joe Buckley had politely but firmly taken a place as her aide as soon as he had arrived on the base.  “I’m on my way.”

One of Colonel Stalker’s decisions when he’d been creating the new army had been to ban comfortable offices.  Jasmine had approved, although she hadn't really understood why it had been necessary until she’d assumed command of 1st Platoon.  There had been a temptation – a very slight one - to withdraw into seclusion and leave the platoon to the sergeants.  It had to be much stronger, she suspected, if the unit she commanded was large enough to prevent her having such strong emotional ties to its personnel.  No wonder some of the Imperial Army officers had created luxurious offices for themselves and then hidden inside.  The weight of the responsibility had beaten them.

Assuming they were aware of their responsibilities, she told herself, darkly.  Some of them didn't seem to know what planet they were on, let alone which units they commanded.

Her office was a simple concrete room, furnished with a desk, a computer terminal, a handful of metal chairs, a coffee machine and little else.  One wall was covered with operational diagrams, including the CEF’s order of battle; the other three were bare, leaving her with the uncomfortable sensation that the walls were closing in on her.  Jasmine was hardly claustrophobic – and if she had been, she would have been unlikely to graduate from the Slaughterhouse – but she couldn't escape the urge to leave the office and go out onto the field.

A man was seated on one of the chairs, watched by a scowling Joe Buckley.  Jasmine studied him as he rose to his feet, quietly evaluating the reporter as best as she could.  He was of medium height and very thin, with strikingly pale skin that contrasted oddly against very brown hair and eyes.  The coverall he wore hid most of his body from her eyes, but what little she could see suggested that he was more muscular than she had expected.  Not up to Marine standards, or even those upheld by the Knights, yet hardly a weakling.

“You must be Brigadier Yamane,” the reporter said.  His accent was pure Avalon, although his face suggested a level of genetic modification that was somewhat unusual for a world settled by the Empire.  “I am Emmanuel Alves, Avalon Central.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jasmine lied, as he held out his hand.  She took it, taking the opportunity to further gauge his strength.  Definitely not a weakling.  “Welcome to the 1st CEF.”

She hadn't had to deal with reporters personally before, certainly not as a senior officer.  There had been thousands of reporters on Han, but most of them had largely ignored the junior Marines as being beneath their notice.  Besides, only a couple of the hordes had gone out into the field with the soldiers, even in the safer regions of the planet.  Most of them, from what she’d heard, had preferred to file largely fictitious dispatches from the secure zones and reap the plaudits from their fellows who hadn't even dared to go within light years of the planet.

“Thank you,” Alves said.  He sounded as though he actually meant it.  “It is a honour to be here.”

Jasmine nodded, impatiently.  “I understand that you have reviewed the operational requirements,” she said.  “Is that correct?”

“I have embedded before,” Alves assured her.  “And I do understand the value of security.  I was trying to outsmart the Council a long time before you arrived.”

“So I heard,” Jasmine said.  

She had taken the time to review his file – and she had to admit that it was impressive.  The Council that had ruled Avalon – and fought a losing war with the Crackers – had clamped down on the media, turning what few reporters lived and worked on Avalon into their propaganda department.  Alves had been one of the handful who had tried to set up an independent newspaper, something that had been technically illegal in the Empire without the proper permits.  Under the circumstances, he’d been lucky to merely be thrown in jail by the Council.  The Crackers had broken him out a few months before the Marines had arrived and he’d helped to run an underground newspaper that had gone mainstream after the Battle of Camelot and the truce that had ended the war.  

“I don’t think that you will be able to file dispatches until we return home,” she said, shortly.  One of the other requirements for the diplomatic summit was that both parties would keep their ships outside the Lakshmibai Star System, at least until there was some level of mutual trust.  “However, I must caution you that revealing any sensitive data will have the most unpleasant consequences.”

“I do understand,” Alves reassured her.  “And besides, I doubt that anyone on that world has access to a computer datanet.”

Jasmine shrugged.  The reports on the planet’s exact level of technological development were contradictory, as well as outdated.  Some of them had suggested that the world was effectively an agricultural planet, with no modern technology; others had implied that outside traders had shipped in everything from fusion power plants to modern weapons and equipment.  There was simply no way to know what they were getting into until they arrived.  

“We will see,” she said, softly.  She sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs and crossed her legs.  “I will do my best to make time for you, but when I don’t have time to talk I suggest that you stay out of the way.  You are welcome to interview soldiers who volunteer to be interviewed; you are not welcome to push them into an interview or film them without their permission.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Alves said.  “I understand perfectly.”

“Good,” Jasmine said.  She stood upright and grinned at him.  If he wanted to follow her around all day, she’d see just how long he could keep it up.  “Now that we have that clear in our minds, let’s go inspect the troops.”

Chapter Three

A rather old view of diplomacy defines it as the art of getting what one wants without a fight (and all the attendant risks.)  A rather more cynical view defines it as the art of patriotically lying for one’s country.  As we shall see, both views have a great deal of validity.
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past. 

“There isn't enough baggage allowance,” Fiona Caesius grumbled.  “Can’t you convince the Colonel to give us some more?”

“I doubt it,” Leo said, as his wife picked up one of her suitcases and shoved it down the hallway towards the door.  “We already have three suitcases and that’s more than enough.”

“Perhaps for you,” his wife snapped at him.  “But I have to look my best at the Ambassador’s Ball.”

Leo sighed, inwardly.  Life on Avalon had been good for Fiona, although she would have preferred to have her teeth pulled out one by one rather than admit it.  The woman who had lost enough weight to make him worry about her health when he’d been kicked out of Imperial University was gone, replaced by a healthy woman in her early forties.  It was strange to realise, sometimes, that both of their daughters were effectively grown adults ... but then, they’d both taken to Avalon far quicker than their mother.  They'd had to grow up quickly when they’d left Earth.

Fiona, on the other hand, had taken it badly.  She’d married a respectable professor, which had given her status in the endless social whirl surrounding the staff and students of Imperial University.  But then Leo had started asking the wrong questions and – in his naivety – started talking about his answers in the wrong places.  It was astonishing just how quickly a life could be ruined on Earth if one made powerful enemies.  If the Marines hadn't taken them under their protection, for reasons that still escaped Leo, he doubted they would have lasted much longer.

And if half of the rumours are true, he thought grimly, we might have been lucky to leave Earth before it fell.

But it had still taken Fiona years to adapt to Avalon.  She’d tried to build up status with the former Council, only to lose it when the Council was arrested and permanently disbanded.  It had shocked her badly and she’d been depressed, only crawling back out of her shell when it became clear that her husband was becoming an important man on Avalon.  But Avalon had little room for someone whose sole achievement was marrying well.  The whole experience had left his wife terrifyingly brittle.

“I think you always look beautiful,” he said, truthfully.  Fiona did look healthy, even if she had been denied the rejuvenation treatments that would have ensured that she looked younger than her daughters for several decades to come.  “And we still don’t know if there is going to be a ball.”

He’d had mixed feelings about allowing his wife to accompany the delegation, but the invitation had been made and he’d accepted, even though he knew that Colonel Stalker would be unaccompanied.  His affair with President Cracker was an open secret, but there was no way that she could leave Avalon.  Leo privately wondered why they didn't marry.  It wasn't as if anyone thought they were founding a dynasty.

“Liar,” Fiona said, crossly.  She picked up the second suitcase, opened it and tried to stick a few more dresses inside.  “I haven’t looked good for years.”

Leo was spared having to answer by the sound of a horn outside.  “I have to go now,” he said, shortly.  There was going to be one final meeting before they left Avalon and headed to the meeting with Governor Brown’s representatives.  “Can you have the final bag packed before the van arrives?”

“I’ll do my best,” Fiona said.  “You really should have hired a maid.”

Leo shrugged.  They’d had a maid on Earth – a sign of status – but he’d never really liked having a stranger in the family home.  Besides, Avalon’s economic boom meant that he would have to pay high wages just to attract a maid – or any other servant, for that matter.  

“It wouldn't look good,” he said, tiredly.  It was an old argument, one that he was tired of fighting over and over again.  “This isn't Earth.  The people here do not look up to those who hire servants to do the chores.”

With that, he walked out of the house, leaving his wife behind.

***
Edward felt vaguely guilty as Professor Caesius walked into Gaby’s office, even though he hadn't caught him exchanging passionate kisses with his lover.  Gaby and he had an agreement, of sorts, that they wouldn't be anything other than colleagues outside their bedrooms, where they were largely unobserved.  Even so, the thought of leaving her for longer than a week was distracting as hell.  He couldn't help feeling sorry for Joe Buckley, whose wife would also be left behind.  There had been no room on the transports for her.

“Please, be seated,” Gaby said, as Professor Caesius closed the door.  “I trust that you have reviewed the briefing notes?”

“Such as they were,” the Professor said.  He’d spent hours in the Imperial Library, trying to pull files on their destination out of the archives.  Edward had heard that there had been problems caused by a simple misspelling of the planet’s name.  “The Governor hasn't said much about what he wants from us.”

“He may be trying to feel out our strength,” Edward said.  “We don’t know just how strong his bargaining position is.”

The absence of intelligence made him scowl.  Just how powerful was Governor Brown?  Did he have the ships and manpower to overwhelm the Commonwealth – or was he desperately worried that the Commonwealth would overwhelm him?  Edward knew that traders from Avalon – and the Trade Federation – were probing the Wolfbane Sector, but there were no real answers to their questions.  The Governor, according to what little intelligence there was, appeared to be hiding his strength.  There was no way to know if that represented weakness or confidence.  

Gaby cleared her throat.  “At least we can talk to him,” she said.  “He doesn't seem to be another Admiral Singh.”

Edward’s scowl deepened.  A year ago, Admiral Singh had vanished into deep space with a formidable force ... and hadn't been seen since.  It bothered him more than he cared to admit; in theory, the Admiral’s fleet should have worn itself out without access to repair yards and stockpiles of spare parts, but she hadn't even tried to steal what she needed.  Where was she?  

But Admiral Singh had been focused on her own power to the exclusion of all else.  Governor Brown seemed to be very different.

“For the moment,” he said, grimly.  “But what will he do if he believes that he has clear military superiority?”

The Commonwealth was building up its Navy as fast as it could, but Edward knew that it would be several years – perhaps a decade – before he felt safe from attack.  It was simply impossible to cover every inhabited planet within the Commonwealth, which meant that worlds along the frontiers were dangerously exposed.  Even a comparable force could cause a great deal of damage if it was turned against the Commonwealth.  One of his recurring nightmares was Admiral Singh’s fleet appearing above Avalon and bombarding the world into a lifeless ruin.  The battle would be costly – and the Admiral’s fleet might not survive – but rendering the world lifeless would be relatively easy.

And there was no way to know what had happened to the hundreds of thousands of ships that had made up the Imperial Navy.  A relative handful had been accounted for, but the fog of war had descended over the Inner Sectors and the Core Worlds.  The ships might be gone, destroyed in civil war, or they might be in the hands of a warlord who intended to reclaim control of the Rim.  Who knew just how many ships were in Governor Brown’s hands?

Gaby made a face.  “We won’t discuss our own forces with him,” she said, softly.  “Instead, we will focus on establishing a border line and trade agreements.”

Edward had his doubts.  The idea of establishing a border in space was absurd.  A starship in Phase Space would remain undetected until it entered a specific star system – assuming, of course, that the star system had the sensor arrays it would need to detect an starship’s arrival just outside the Phase Limit.  Given sufficient time, any star system could be entered covertly, without detection.  Governor Brown had to know that a border line could be little more than an empty formality at best.

Trading might get them further.  But what did they have that the Governor might want?

Technology, he thought, sourly.  The Commonwealth had made a number of improvements to Imperial-standard technology ... and the researchers had promised that, given a few years, they might be able to completely revolutionise the Commonwealth’s technological base.  Edward would believe it when he saw it – he’d heard too many exaggerated claims from designers and technicians over the years – but he had to admit that some of their work showed definite promise.  But he didn't want to share anything with Governor Brown, not when his ultimate aims remained unknown.  It might end up being pointed back at the Commonwealth.

“And try to agree on a formal exchange of ambassadors,” Professor Caesius said.  “Now that we have diplomats on Madagascar, we can certainly urge the Governor to send diplomats here and accept ours there.”

Edward nodded.  The Empire had never been very diplomatic, certainly not since the Unification Wars had come to a victorious conclusion.  If the Empire wanted something, it generally took it first and came up with the excuse later.  Now, however, the whole field of diplomacy had to be re-established.  If they could open friendly relationships with Wolfbane, they might learn a great deal more about conditions in towards the Core Worlds.

If nothing else, it would be a relief not to have to worry about another war, he told himself, thoughtfully.  We don’t want to fight if we can avoid it.

“That does lead to another problem,” Gaby said, out loud.  “What if he intends to demand our surrender?”

Edward had considered the possibility, before deciding that he simply didn't know enough to come to any real conclusions.  Governor Brown did seem to be going to a great deal of trouble if he intended to merely deliver an ultimatum; besides, it would have been far more impressive if the ultimatum had been delivered by a battlefleet entering the Avalon System.  Instead, he seemed intent on keeping the Commonwealth at arm’s length ...

The analysts had argued backwards and forwards over what it might mean, but they’d finally agreed that the most likely possibility was that the Governor was satisfied with what he had and didn’t want to expand – or allow the Commonwealth to corrupt his people.  It was quite possible, Edward knew, that the Commonwealth’s economic boom would set an example for the rest of the former Empire ... and if Governor Brown was in firm control, he might not appreciate his population seeing that there was a better way. But, once again, there was no way to know for sure.

“We tell him to make some more impressive threats,” Edward said, finally.  “And to give us proof that he can actually back them up.”

Professor Caesius frowned.  “The files say that he has a formidable force under his command.”

“The files say a great many things that are outdated,” Edward countered.  “What do they say about Avalon now?”

The Professor nodded, ruefully.  Outside the sector, the files in the Imperial Library would say that Avalon was a minor colony with its own cloudscoop.  There would be nothing about the defeat of the Crackers or the birth of the Commonwealth.  Edward knew that the Professor wanted to restart the Imperial Library – or establish something new along the same lines – but that would be a very long term project.  There was just too much else that needed doing.

“Hopefully that won’t make the situation worse,” Gaby said.  She looked over at Edward.  “Is there no intelligence from the Trade Federation that we can use?”

“They’re having problems penetrating the sector,” Edward reminded her.  “Besides, everything we have from them is second-hand at best.”

Gaby nodded.  “The Council has authorised you to serve as negotiators,” she said, producing a datachip.  “There's a formal confirmation of just how far you can go on the chip, but if you’re expected to offer much more ...”

She shrugged.  “Delay as much as you can,” she added.  “And don’t make any representations about joining the Commonwealth unless you think there’s a definite chance that he will accept.”

Edward shrugged.  The Commonwealth hadn't assimilated any multi-star political entities; even Admiral Singh’s empire had come apart after her defeat.  Her former captive worlds had entered the Commonwealth as separate entities.  But as they expanded towards the Core Worlds, they would encounter multi-system political entities that had considered themselves one entity before the Empire had come into existence.  And assimilating them would create a whole series of new problems for the Commonwealth.

“We shall see,” he said, softly.

Gaby gave him an understanding look.  She seemed to have aged in the time he’d known her, ever since she’d been elected President of the Commonwealth.  The stresses and strains of holding the Commonwealth together were taking their toll, despite the best rejuvenation treatments available on Avalon.  Edward was privately relieved that she wasn't legally allowed to serve more than one term in office, although he did worry about what would happen when the time came to transfer power.  That would be the first true test of the Commonwealth’s stability.

“I trust you both – and so does the Council,” she said.  “Good luck.”

The Professor nodded, threw them both an unreadable look and then left the room.  Edward felt a moment of sympathy, knowing that Professor Caesius was going back to a wife who didn't really deserve him.  It was beyond his understanding why the Professor stayed with the woman, unless there was genuine love there.  But who would fall in love with a woman who could be haughtily aristocratic one moment and a nervous wreck the second?

She’s been broken, Edward thought, grimly.  Not everyone could meet shifts in fortune with the internal fortitude the Slaughterhouse sought to install in its graduates.  At some point, further defiance and struggle just seemed useless and people gave up.  Fiona Caesius had gone from being a social queen to a desperate woman in poverty so quickly that she’d had no time to adapt.  And then she'd been taken away from Earth ...

“You're boarding tomorrow,” Gaby said, softly.  “Is your escort ready to depart?”

“I think so,” Edward said.  He’d skimmed over the reports from Lieutenant Yamane, but he’d purposely not kept a close eye on her.  “Loading up the shuttles will commence tomorrow, with the aim of having the entire formation embarked by the end of the day.  We’ll learn a great deal from doing it.”

Gaby nodded.  “I’ll miss you,” she admitted, changing the subject.  “Four months without you to warm my bed.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Edward told her.  It would be the longest trip he'd taken from Avalon – and it would put a strain on their relationship, even though they weren't married.  He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter if she found someone else while he was gone, but his heart refused to believe it.  “I’d take you along if you could.”

Gaby laughed.  “And what sort of example would that set for your troops?”

Edward laughed too.  He'd always hated the officers who took luxuries – and wives, lovers or concubines – with them when they went into warzones, knowing that they were taking up valuable space that could have been used for more supplies.  Besides, knowing that their officers had access to women while they didn't wasn't good for moral among the enlisted men.  There might be no shortage of prostitutes outside army bases, but there was no way they could be taken onboard ship.  

“A poor one,” he said.  He reached for her and pulled her into a hug.  Her lips met his and they kissed deeply.  “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Tell your men to take very good care of you,” Gaby said.  She fixed him with a stern expression that dared him to disagree.  “That’s a direct order, by the way.”

Edward sighed.  Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson – his senior sergeant – wouldn't be accompanying him to Lakshmibai, but that hadn't stopped her issuing strict orders to Blake Coleman.  1st Platoon was to accompany him at all times and keep him out of trouble, even if they had to sit on him.  Technically, Coleman outranked the sergeant, but few lieutenants would defy an order from the chief NCO.  

“I will,” he promised.

He kissed her again, feeling her body pressing against his.  It would have been easy to take it further, no matter what they’d privately agreed about not showing affection outside the bedroom.  He had to force down the temptation and step backwards before it was too late.

“You know,” he said slowly, “once I get back, we could get married.”

Gaby laughed, although there was an undertone of sadness in it.  “You’re already married,” she said, reaching up to tap the Rifleman’s Tab on his collar.  “The Marine Corps is a jealous mistress.  I don’t think she would approve.”

“I know,” Edward said, quietly.  Even now, with most of his duties keeping him firmly on Avalon, they could never be truly together.  And she too had her own duties.  The President of the Commonwealth couldn't marry her senior military officer without one of them surrendering their position.  “And I’m sorry.”

He kissed her one final time and walked out of her office.

Chapter Four

It may seem absurd to think of nations as people (although humans do believe in national characters), but there is a great deal of truth in it.  While most nations try to govern themselves according to geopolitical imperatives, hurt feelings and other emotions can and do affect international affairs.  
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

“He isn't doing too badly,” Joe Buckley muttered.

Jasmine shrugged.  Every soldier in the CEF – they’d avoided the Imperial Army’s concept of rear-echelon motherfuckers as much as possible – was required to undertake a two-mile run every day and she’d insisted that Emmanuel Alves join them.  She’d half-expected him to decline, or to insist on being ferried around the battlefield in a luxury vehicle, but instead he’d put his head down and run with the best of them.  His timings weren't very good – certainly not up to Marine standards – yet he wasn't as out of shape as most civilians.

“I suppose he isn’t,” she said, reluctantly.  He’d actually stayed in the background as she hammered the CEF into shape, only asking her questions when it was clear that she had time to spare.  “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.”

“Wait until he’s on the transport,” Buckley advised.  “You’ll see what he’s really like when he’s cooped up with thousands of sweaty soldiers.”

“True,” Jasmine agreed.  The best efforts of air scrubbers couldn't purge the air of the stench of thousands of men sharing the same compartment.  She'd known otherwise promising soldiers who’d been unable to cope with the thought of spending so much time in close-proximity to hundreds of others.  “But he did survive living rough while the war was waging over Avalon.”

Buckley snorted.  “But he was still out in the open air,” he pointed out.  “This time, he’ll be in an interstellar transporter.”

He gave Jasmine a rather sardonic look.  “I think he’s interested in you,” he added.  “Didn’t someone tell him that you could take him with both hands tied behind your back?”

Jasmine glowered at him.  “I don’t think that’s likely,” she said, crossly.  “I think he’s more interested in his story than me personally.”

“You could ensure he writes a good story about you, if you’re careful,” Buckley teased.  “Or perhaps if you broke up with him ...”

“Stop channelling Blake,” Jasmine ordered.  She shook her head in rueful disbelief.  “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Blake’s got his hands full right now,” Buckley reminded her.  “Someone has to take his place as regimental joker and asshole.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes.  “How come I never reached that high rank?”

“Too responsible,” Buckley told her.  He stuck out his tongue in a thoroughly childish manner.  “By the time you could be considered for the post, you were already too serious and boringly mature for the position.”

Jasmine smiled.  She’d been new to the company on Han, when the entire planet had exploded into chaos and she’d probably worked too hard to fit in.  But it had been worth it, she knew, even if she had had to put up with Blake’s sense of humour.  Playing pranks on FNGs was an old military tradition.  So was playing pranks on other units, but that was rare in the Marine Corps.  Jasmine still wondered who’d suggested it to the Knights.  

“Me and my bright ideas,” she said.  She gave Buckley a long considering look.  “How’s Lila taking the forthcoming separation?”

“Not too well,” Buckley admitted.  “She knew that I would have to leave eventually, but I think she hoped that it wouldn't be until much later.  Right now, she’s talking about returning to her family and putting our stuff into storage until I return.  Pity we can't take her with us ...”

He gave Jasmine a beseeching look that made her roll her eyes.  “I can't make those decisions,” she said, shaking her head.  She had absolute authority over the CEF – certainly more than any Imperial Army officer would have enjoyed – but she had no authority to allow anyone outside the military to accompany them.  Besides, Lila Buckley couldn’t really make herself useful.  “Ask the Colonel.”

“He doesn't want to be bothered by me,” Buckley said.  He looked down at the concrete ground for a long moment, then back up at Jasmine.  “You do realise that you technically outrank him now?”

“I told you to stop channelling Blake,” Jasmine said, tartly.  It was true that a Brigadier outranked a Colonel, at least formally, but Colonel Stalker was also the senior officer in the Army of Avalon.  Like most of the detached Stalker’s Stalkers, he held several separate posts at once.  “I don’t think I can give him orders.”

“At least not now,” Buckley said.  He elbowed her significantly.  “What about when you’re on the ground?”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” Jasmine said.  It was true that there were situations where a senior officer had to defer to a junior, something most junior officers dreaded.  Legal rights or no, they might still incur the wrath of a superior officer and their careers would suffer.  “Anyway, it isn't as if the Colonel is going to be with the CEF.”

“One would hope so,” Buckley agreed.  He elbowed her again as the men reached the end of the two-mile track.  “Look; he’s finished ... and he isn't even winded.  Much.”

Jasmine smiled, remembering her first day at Boot Camp.  They’d been ordered to run a mile and a half ... and a third of the new recruits had been gasping, wheezing and coughing by the end of the run.  She’d thought herself in great shape until she’d discovered just how far she had to go before she could even graduate from Boot Camp, let alone the Slaughterhouse.  But, for a civilian, she had to admit that the reporter had done very well.

“We’ll give him more time on the range,” she said, as the first flight of shuttles came into view, heading down towards the landing pad at the far side of the base.  “I don’t want him behind me with a weapon until I’m sure he knows what he’s doing with it.”

Buckley smirked.  “And what sort of weapon do you have in mind?”

“I’ll tell Lila you said that,” Jasmine said.  “I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.” 

“No,” Buckley said, quickly.  “Anything, but that!”

Jasmine concealed her amusement and started to walk towards the main building, pulling her datapad off her belt as she walked.  The first Warriors from the CEF were already being prepped for transfer to the shuttles – and then to the transports, waiting in high orbit.

And then they could finally start moving.
***
“All right,” Sergeant Grieves barked, as the hatch slammed open.  “Everyone out!”

Michael gripped his rifle tightly as he led the way out of the Warrior AFV.  It was a thoroughly ugly vehicle, without even the brutal elegance of the Landshark Main Battle Tanks, but he knew from experience that it was extremely tough.  The vehicles were designed to take incoming fire from machine guns, RPGs and even heavy IEDs without being disabled, let alone wounding or killing the soldiers inside.  During exercises, the only injuries the company had suffered had been aching ears; the soundproofing was far from perfect.

He knelt down as the rest of the platoon formed up in a protective circle, ready to repel attack.  For a long moment, they held the pose and then the Sergeant blew a whistle and they relaxed – slightly.  It was quite possible that the endless exercises and simulations they’d carried out over the last two days had not yet come to an end.  He looked back at the vehicle, then over at the massive shuttle waiting on the landing pad.  It seemed an odd place to carry out an ambush.

But even a main battle tank is hopelessly vulnerable in a shuttle, he thought, remembering some of the campaigns he’d been forced to study when he’d gone back to the Knights.  The Marines had been called upon to storm entire planets in the past ... and the defenders, knowing just how deadly the Marines were on the ground, had fought hard to thin out the shuttles as much as possible.  A single hit could take out an entire platoon of Marines and their support vehicles.  

“At ease,” he ordered, when he saw the signal from the Sergeant.  The exercise was definitely over.  Ahead of them, the shuttle was already opening its hatches.  “Corporal Peotone, take the Warrior forward, into the shuttle.”

He smiled as the Warrior hummed forward, weapons and sensors already retreating inside the heavily-armoured hull.  It still surprised him just how quiet the vehicles actually were, particularly when compared to the primitive designs Avalon had been forced to use before the Marines had arrived.  He hadn't believed that someone could actually sneak up to an enemy position in a tank – or an AFV – until he'd actually seen it done.  The vehicles were almost impossible to hear unless one was at very close range.

But they would probably have a sensor net out too, he told himself.  The Warrior shuddered slightly as it entered the shuttle, then carefully positioned itself in place to be secured to the deck.  Michael stowed his rifle over his shoulder and followed it into the shuttle, where two crewmen were already checking its moorings.  The driver shut the vehicle down completely and scrambled out, dogging down the hatch behind him.  Michael watched as the Warrior was secured to the deck, then checked it for himself.  He’d been warned, time and time again, to take nothing for granted.

“Good,” he grunted finally, and straightened up.  The remainder of the platoon was waiting outside.  “Come on in; the water’s fine.”

Michael smiled at their expressions.  It was odd, but he was one of a handful of officers and enlisted men who had any experience in operations outside the planet’s atmosphere.  His men were brave, naturally, yet space held plenty of terrors for those who had never experienced it before.  He recalled how nervous he’d been the first time he’d flown into space and carefully refrained from taking official notice of the more nervous soldiers.  They’d grow used to it.

Unless they’re natural-born groundhogs, he thought, remembering what the RockRats had sneered about those they called dirty-feet.  They’d believed that humanity had no place on a planet’s surface and the only place to realise humanity’s destiny was out in space.  There were times when he was tempted to agree with them, but then he went out to hike through the countryside and knew better.  The RockRat habitats lacked the natural beauty of a planetary biosphere.

The Sergeant checked the men as they sat down and buckled in, then sat down next to Michael and passed him a datapad.  Michael took it and skimmed quickly through the final series of readiness reports, confirmed that they were accurate and then pressed his thumbprint against the sensor, sending a copy to the brigade’s CO.  He in turn would report to Brigadier Yamane that the 1st Avalon Mechanized Infantry Battalion was at full combat readiness.

Or it will be once we’re on the ground, he thought.  A dull rumble ran through the shuttle as its drives powered up, then it shook violently as it lifted off and clawed frantically into the sky.  There were no portholes, unlike the civilian shuttles he’d used during his brief stint with the RockRats; he had to admit that the experience was a little unnerving, even before the gravity field began to shift slightly, compensating for the loss of Avalon’s gravity field.  As always, the artificial gravity field made him feel lightheaded as it shimmered into existence, although the technicians swore blind that it was his imagination.  He made a mental note to check how many others were equally light-headed as the shuttle left the atmosphere and then closed his eyes.  There was just enough time for a brief catnap before the shuttle docked with the Koenraad Jurgen and they had to disembark.

And then they would finally be on their way.

***
“She isn't very pretty, is she?”

Jasmine smiled at the surprise in the reporter’s voice.  Civilian starships were designed with a sense of aesthetics; military designers could hardly allow themselves such a luxury.  Koenraad Jurgen – named for a Marine who’d died in combat against pirates – was a blocky mass, studded with sensor and weapons blisters.  She would definitely not win any awards, Jasmine knew, but she would do the job.  There was no need to ask for anything else.

“She’s designed to allow us to disembark and deploy as quickly as possible,” Jasmine said.  The starship’s underside was a teeming mass of assault and transport shuttles, attached to the hull rather than being taken inside the starship.  In an emergency deployment, every second counted.  Disengaging a shuttle from an airlock was much quicker than launching it out of a shuttlebay.  “And she’s tough.”

But not battleship tough, she added, in the privacy of her own mind.  A battleship could ride out a nuke detonating against her hullmetal, but Koenraad Jurgen would be devastated by a single direct hit.  The shuttles and other attached elements would be wiped out of existence, even through the main body of the ship would survive.  We dare not take on an enemy warship in space.

The Terran Marine Corps had operated its own force of purpose-built transports, but none of them had been left at Avalon for the Commonwealth to put to work.  Instead, a new class of transports had been designed, drawing on the centuries of experience in the Marine datafiles – and, more practically, the experience of the Marines serving under Colonel Stalker.  Jasmine had never had to carry out a forced landing on a heavily-defended world – sneaking onto Admiral Singh’s capital didn’t count – but she knew that they could be hellish.  The designers had done their best to ensure that their transports were capable of getting the Marines where they were needed and then escaping before they could be destroyed.

She smiled at the reporter’s expression as the transport loomed up, suddenly becoming a wall of metal hanging against the endless field of stars.  For a long moment, it looked as though they were going to ram the transport – the reporter blanched and clutched at his seat – before they came to a halt.  A faint quiver ran through the shuttle as it docked with the transport, followed by a dull click as the hatch unlocked, allowing them to enter the ship.

“Optical illusion,” Jasmine said, softly.  “We weren't in any real danger.”

“Thank you,” the reporter said, quietly.  “It’s my first time off-world.”

Jasmine nodded as she unstrapped herself from the seat and stood upright, pulling her duffel back from under the seat and slinging it over her back.  It always struck her as strange just how few people in the Empire had been into space, even though the Empire had controlled over a third of the galaxy.  But then, not everyone had the thirst for adventure – and the desire to prove herself – that had led Jasmine to leave her homeworld and join the Marines.  

She led the way through the hatch and saluted the flag painted on the bulkhead, then led the way down to where the soldiers were flowing onto the giant transport.  The reporter followed her like a stray puppy, with Joe Buckley bringing up the rear.  Her HQ staff would finish unloading the shuttle and then take their place in their compartment, ready for the trip.

The reporter muttered a curse as they stepped through an airlock and into one of the holds.  A dozen Warrior AFVs were secured to the deck, having been transported up from the planet’s surface and unloaded into the transport.  Behind them, a pair of Landshark tanks dominated the hold, their main guns looking thoroughly intimidating even without ammunition.  Jasmine looked at their treads – which had left marks on the hullmetal that would have to be cleaned, once they were under way – and smiled to herself.  The Landshark tanks were primitive, but no one could deny that they did their duties very well.  

“I always wondered,” the reporter said, “why you don’t produce hovering tanks.”

Jasmine smiled.  She'd wondered the same thing herself, back when she’d gone to Boot Camp.  It was a far from uncommon question.

“The more complex a piece of equipment is,” she said simply, “the more likely it is to fail on the battlefield.  A Landshark tank’s treads are easier to repair than an antigravity generator.  And besides, an antigravity generator can be detected from quite some distance.  It’s much simpler to rely on something so primitive that it can be hard to detect.”

She would have continued, but they were interrupted by an all-hands announcement that echoed through the entire ship.  “NOW HEAR THIS,” a voice barked.  “DEPARTURE IN SEVEN HOURS, FORTY MINUTES.  I SAY AGAIN, DEPARTURE IN SEVEN HOURS, FORTY MINUTES.”

“That’s us told,” Joe Buckley muttered, from behind her.

“See that everything is stowed away before the loadmasters come to inspect it,” Jasmine said, turning to face him.  They shared a moment of pure understanding.  It was unlikely in the extreme that the loading would proceed without problems.  They weren't commanding experienced Marines this time, but soldiers who’d never travelled on an interstellar transport before.  “And then pass the word down the chain.  Everyone is to have time to rest before we return to the training simulations.”

The reporter looked surprised.  “You intend to keep training while en route?”

“Of course,” Jasmine said, dryly.  “What do you think this is?  A luxury cruise?”

“Hard training, easy mission,” Joe Buckley said.  “Easy training, god-awfully hard mission.”

“You need to keep up with your exercise too,” Jasmine added, before the reporter could say a word.  “You never know what might happen once we reach the ground.”

The reporter frowned.  “You really expect trouble?”

“Always,” Jasmine said.  She doubted that there had ever been a Marine deployment that hadn't attracted trouble, even if it had just been nothing more than surreptitious punch-ups with the Imperial Army.  “It’s best to be prepared.” 

Chapter Five

This should not be surprising.  One nation may control access to another nation’s supplies of raw materials; another may be a potential threat or ally when/if war threatens on the horizon.  Diplomacy may ensure that the supplies keep coming, the borders remain calm and – perhaps – there will be armed support if war breaks out.
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

Edward watched through the observation blister as Avalon fell away behind the transport, feeling a strange mixture of relief that they were finally on their way and despondency at leaving Avalon behind.  It was odd, but Avalon had become his home; despite all the warnings about becoming too attached to any one duty posting, he had wound up falling in love with his new homeworld.  Leaving Avalon – and Gaby – hurt worse than he had expected.

You knew that was a possibility, he told himself, sternly.  He’d never resigned himself to spending the rest of his life on a single world, but somehow an ... acceptance had crept up on him when he hadn't been watching his own thoughts.  Unlike his subordinates, he hadn't been able to leave the planet frequently, even to visit the other Commonwealth worlds.  Now ... he was paying the price.  

Marines weren't supposed to be become attached to any specific world, not even Earth.  It was vanishingly rare for a Marine unit to remain on a single world longer than a year or two – or, rather, it had been vanishingly rare.  Edward had wondered, during the sleepless nights he’d had when they’d been told that they were on their own, just what had happened to the rest of the Marine Corps.  It was a question that had never been fully answered.  Surely, the Commandant had set up other bastions of civilisation – Avalon couldn't have been the only one – but Edward hadn't been told anything about them.  Operational security had to be maintained.  He touched the golden cross the Commandant had given him and scowled, remembering the last time he’d seen him.  Who knew where the Commandant was now?

He caught sight of a light cruiser effortlessly holding pace with the transport and smiled to himself.  Civilians believed that a Marine transport starship could operate on its own, but only a fool would risk so many soldiers when it wasn't absolutely necessary.  A small escort squadron would be enough to deter pirates, without seeming an overwhelming threat to Governor Brown and his subordinates.  And they could hold the line long enough for the transport to escape, if they ran into serious trouble.

The hatch hissed open behind him.  He turned to see Professor Caesius.  The Professor looked tired and wan, but surprisingly enthusiastic about being on the way at last.  Edward had a sudden flash of Deja Vu, remembering their departure from Earth.  They’d spoken in the observation blister then too.

“Leo,” he said, welcomingly.  “How are you?”

“Just finished writing a letter to Mandy and Mindy,” the Professor said, as he joined Edward in front of the transparent blister and stared out into space.  “Just in case ... you know.  I wanted them to know that I was proud of them.”

Edward nodded.  Both of the Professor’s daughters had been brats when they’d been shipped to Avalon – and bitterly resented having to leave Earth, even though they’d had little real hope of a life even before their father had wound up in hot water.  Now, Mandy was a Captain in the Commonwealth Navy and Mindy was working her way up through the Knights of Avalon.  They would never have achieved that on Earth.

“So you should be,” he said, shortly.  “And Fiona?”

“She doesn't like the cabin,” the Professor admitted.  “I told her that there weren't any bigger ones available.”

“There aren’t,” Edward said.  “This isn't a battleship – or a flagship.  My cabin isn't any larger than yours.”

“But there’s only one of you,” the Professor pointed out.  “I have two people in my cabin.”

“It could be worse,” Edward pointed out.  He grinned, relishing the opportunity to tease the older man.  “You could be sharing a compartment with a hundred soldiers.  Some of them will snore, some will take a really stinky dump in the middle of the night and some will be jerking off under the blankets.  Compared to that, sharing a room with one’s wife might be heaven.”

He smiled at the Professor’s expression.  The Professor had admired the whole ethos of the Marine Corps from a distance, but he hadn't actually met a Marine until he’d been exiled from Earth.  Or, for that matter, anyone else from the military, even the Civil Guard.  But then, that hadn't been uncommon on Earth or the rest of the Core Worlds.  The gulf between the military and the civilians they defended had been light-years wide even before the Empire had entered its final downward spiral.  The reality ... had been a mild shock for the Professor.

“I know,” the Professor admitted.  He scowled.  “But the cabin is still very small and I ... needed to get out.”

“I am not the best person to ask for relationship counselling,” Edward warned.  “And I wouldn't really trust anyone who thought they could help you.”

He gave the older man a sympathetic look.  “Perhaps you need to help her find something to do,” he said.  “Something that allows her to develop herself.  Something that would win her respect for being herself.”

“I know that,” the Professor muttered.  “But what is there that she can do?”

Edward understood his dilemma.  A civilian from Earth, no matter how many degrees he or she might have earned, would have real problems finding a post on the Rim.  Most of Earth’s emigrants found themselves working as grunt labour – or winding up in real trouble when they tried to act as if they were entitled to accommodation and food without actually working for a living.  And Fiona Caesius was too old to try out for the military, or start working on a farm, or even take care of children.  If, of course, she was trusted to take care of children on Avalon.  She'd been born on Earth, after all.

“Medicine, perhaps,” Edward said, finally.  “There are quite a few training courses she could take that might help her to build her own career.  And a word in someone’s ear would at least give her the chance to try.”

“That might work,” Caesius said.  “But what if she doesn't succeed?”

“She won’t succeed if she doesn't try,” Edward pointed out.  A thought struck him and he frowned.  “Can she read?  And write?”

“Yes,” the Professor said.  He didn't seem surprised or insulted by the question.  “I thought she might actually be able to work in the Imperial Library, but she’s from Earth ...”

Edward nodded.  Earth’s illiteracy rates had been the worst in the Empire, with an estimated sixty percent of the population – the officially-acknowledged population – being unable to read or write.  It was blamed on Earth’s pathetic schooling, he knew; it was possible to get a reasonably decent education, but someone had to really work on it.  The kids on Earth generally found it far easier to sink into a morass of ignorance, amply fuelled by public entertainments on the datanet.  And they tended to be thoroughly awful human beings.  

“They won’t hold that against her if she works hard and becomes a medic,” Edward assured him.  He gave the Professor a long considering look.  “Do you love her?”

The Professor hesitated.  “I think so,” he admitted, finally.  “But there are times when I feel as if we’re doomed to lose what remains of our relationship.”

“I think you need to concentrate on finding something for her to do that will give her life meaning,” Edward said.  “She is going to be the hostess while we’re planet-side, isn’t she?”

“That’s true,” the Professor said.  “But will she do a good job?”

Edward shrugged.  “No one has hosted a diplomatic meeting between equals for centuries,” he pointed out.  The meetings with the Trade Federation had been as informal as meetings with the RockRats.  “I think no one will notice any minor errors.”

He looked back out towards the stars.  “And it will definitely boost her confidence,” he added.  “Having something to do will definitely help her.”

***
“Is now a bad moment?”

Jasmine rubbed her eyes as she looked up from the desk.  Emmanuel Alves was standing in the hatchway, looking quizzically at her.  Jasmine hesitated, remembering the endless paperwork she had to do, then put the datapad aside.  Anything, even talking to a reporter, was better than reading the same documents time and time again.

“It shouldn't be,” she said, waving for him to enter the compartment and close the hatch.  If anything, her office on the transport was smaller than her office on Avalon, with barely enough room to swing a cat.  The meetings she had to host for her senior officers had to take place in a briefing compartment.  “What can I do for you?”

“Call me Emmanuel,” the reporter said.  “And I was hoping for some background information.”

Jasmine scowled.  “All the background information I can give you on the CEF is already on the open-access datanet,” she pointed out.  At least the reporter – Emmanuel, if he insisted – hadn't tried to hack into the secure databanks.  That had happened on Han, if rumour was to be believed.  “And I don’t have time to go through it with you.”

She grimaced down at the latest fitness reports.  Her subordinates were taking advantage of the passage from Avalon to carry out a battery of health and general fitness tests.  Thankfully, no serious problems had cropped up, apart from one soldier who seemed to have developed a taste for Crazy Juice.  Jasmine had chewed him out thoroughly and assigned him to punishment duties for the next two weeks – and she devoutly hoped that was the end of the matter.  Crazy Juice wasn't illegal, but it was banned from military units.  Bringing several doses of the stuff onboard ship was a court-martial offence.

“I was hoping for some background information on you,” the reporter said, diffidently.  “My readers wanted to know what made someone a Marine.”

Jasmine frowned, remembering Joe Buckley’s comment that the reporter was interested in her.  It had struck her as nothing more than the regular teasing exchanged between Marines – platoon mates were brothers and sisters – but was he actually serious?  Or was she reading more into the situation that was actually there?  It was difficult to know for sure.

“I don't think my life is that interesting,” she said, after a long moment.  “And ...”

“Come on,” the reporter interrupted.  “I did some research.  There’s only four female Marines in Stalker’s Stalkers, nine if you count Auxiliaries.  Of course you’re fascinating.”

“Matter of opinion,” Jasmine said, feeling oddly uncomfortable.  She hadn't felt so ... exposed since the first time she’d taken part in a live-fire drill, with very real bullets hitting the ground all around her.  Stripping down with the rest of the platoon had been nothing in comparison.  “There isn't much about my life I chose to remember.”

The reporter quirked an eyebrow.  “You ran away from home?”

Jasmine shook her head, running one hand through her hair.  She’d meant to have it cut, but there just hadn't been time.  “My family thought I was a little odd,” she admitted, reluctantly.  “I was always out and about, roaming over the countryside ... it wasn't something they considered strictly appropriate for a young girl.  But I just couldn't have stayed there for the rest of my life.  I signed up with the Marines when I was eighteen and never looked back.”

The thought made her wince.  She’d had brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, and she hadn't the faintest idea what had happened to any of them.  The last she’d heard had been while the company had been on Earth.  They’d still thought of her as odd, she knew from their recorded messages, but they’d been proud of her.  And there were times when she missed them terribly.

“My world was boring,” she added.  “And I wanted to see the rest of the universe.”

The reporter smiled.  “And have you?”

Jasmine smiled back.  “I’ve seen the Slaughterhouse, Earth, Han and a dozen other worlds along the Rim,” she said.  “I think I’ve seen something of the universe.”

But it was a tiny fraction of the whole of the Empire, she knew.  There were people who just travelled from world to world, working long enough on each world to build up the funds to buy another starship ticket and head onwards.  They’d seen much more of the universe than herself, yet even they hadn’t seen everything.  There was always something else to see.

She chatted back and forth with Emmanuel until her wristcom bleeped, reminding her that she had an appointment with Colonel Stalker.  When she looked at it, she was surprised to realise that she’d been talking for nearly an hour.  She hastily ended the conversation, shoed him out of the room and bellowed for Joe Buckley.  He was grinning from ear to ear when he entered her office and closed the hatch.

“You could have rescued me,” she said, without heat.  “Bastard.”

Buckley’s grin grew wider, somehow.  “But you were having a good time,” he said.  “And you needed to relax.”

Jasmine snorted as she stood up and pulled on her jacket.  “This isn't a bar on the surface,” she said, sharply.  “I have work to do ...”

“You’re spending too long on it,” Buckley said.  “Ask Sergeant Harris if you don’t believe me.”

Jasmine snorted, again.  “And how would you know that I was spending too much time on it?”

“I did a few months on flypaper duty,” Buckley reminded her, using the slang term for being attached to an HQ staff.  “You have to learn what is important and what isn't.”

“Splendid,” Jasmine said, evilly.  “You can read through this shit” – she pushed one of the datapads into his hand – “and tell me what I actually need to know.”

She was still smiling as she walked out of the hatch and headed up towards the briefing room.

***
“This is all fantastically complex,” Fiona said.

Leo nodded.  It had taken him a week to download everything the onboard library had on diplomatic meetings between equals, almost all of which dated back to the Unification Wars.  Logic told him that there should have been a great deal more from the time before the Empire, but someone had scrubbed it out of the datafiles – if it had been there in the first place.  The Empire had worked hard to try to create the impression that it had always been in existence, even to the point of censoring history textbooks and barring research into the deep past.

“It's the only precedents we have,” he said, softly.  “Everything else we have is for meetings between superiors and inferiors.”

Fiona smiled as she worked her way through the protocols.  “We have a place in the city, they have a place in the city ... and we hold the talks somewhere else, also in the city?”

“Yes,” Leo said.  He could see the logic in it; there’d be a distance between the two delegations, allowing them to withdraw if discussions became too heated.  And it would allow the locals to serve as mediators, as well as providing local security.  “And you’ll have to be our hostess.”

He looked down at the datapad, which was displaying the files that Governor Brown’s representatives had sent to the Commonwealth.  There would be two senior representatives from the Wolfbane Sector, along with a relative handful of troops; Leo couldn't decide if that was a gesture of confidence or an admission that the talks were meant to be kept in confidence.  Beyond that ... there was a note that accommodation would be arranged by the planetary government and that no troops would be permitted in their capital city, apart from a handful of armed guards.  The Colonel had told him that those guards would be a full company of Knights and a platoon of Marines.  

“I won’t let the Colonel down,” Fiona assured him, quickly.

Leo had to smile, seeing the girl he’d married emerge briefly from under the bitter older woman she'd become.  Fiona had enjoyed the social whirl of being married to a Professor far more than he'd enjoyed being a Professor; given time, perhaps she could work as a diplomat.  It seemed absurd, but managing a large dinner party involved a lot of diplomacy ...

He pushed the thought aside and gave his wife a hug.  “And there’s something else,” he said,. softly.  “Would you like to train for a medical career?”

Fiona tensed against him.  Doctors from Earth had a ghastly reputation, although Leo knew from his research that much of it came from the conditions the bureaucrats forced on them or the poor quality of medical supplies on Earth.  Those who could afford off-world doctors did; everyone else took their chances or chose to go without treatment.  And Fiona already keenly felt the discrimination against Earth-born settlers along the Rim.  

The Colonel’s from Earth, Leo thought, with a flicker of resentment.  Why doesn't he face it too?

But he already knew the answer to that.  Colonel Stalker had proved himself, while Fiona had tried to cosy up to the old Council.  It didn't encourage the settlers on Avalon to take her very seriously, or to treat her with respect.

“You’d be studying here,” he said, keeping his voice calm.  “They’d know that you weren't trained on Earth.”

“I’ll do this first,” Fiona said, finally.  She looked down at the datapad.  “This is going to be enough hassle for the moment.”

Leo nodded.  At least she wasn't dismissing the idea out of hand.

“We have three weeks before we arrive,” he said, giving her another hug.  “You’ll have plenty of time to revise.”

Chapter Six

There is a general perception that all treaties are negotiated between equals.  This is simply not true.  As a general rule, some countries are considerably more powerful than others.  The more powerful countries have a stronger negotiating position than the weaker countries.
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

“Normal space in twenty seconds,” the helmsman said.  “All systems report full readiness.”

“Weapons and point defence grid online, ready to engage,” the tactical officer added.  “Sensors powering up, ready to go to full power.”

“Good,” Captain Hardy said.  He keyed his console.  “All hands, prepare for return to normal space; I say again, all hands prepare for return to normal space.”

Edward settled back in his chair, resisting the impulse to take command and give orders.  It would have been a severe breach of protocol; he might be the force’s nominal commander, but Captain Hardy was the ultimate authority onboard his ship.  Instead, he counted down the seconds until Koenraad Jurgen returned to normal space and the display filled up with new icons.

“Holding station at waypoint,” the helmsman reported.  “FTL drives spooling up; jump readiness  in six minutes, fifty seconds.”

“Nine contacts in detection range,” the sensor officer added, as the yellow icons of unknown starships turned green.  “All Confederation; I say again, all Confederation.”

Edward let out a breath he hadn't realised that he’d been holding.  The worst nightmare of any spacer was coming out of Phase Space right into a carefully-prepared ambush, with the enemy ships armed and firing before their victim’s sensors had even registered their presence.  It was almost certainly impossible – even if potential aggressors had known the exact coordinates they’d intended to arrive, there would be no guarantee that they’d arrive in precisely the right location – but that didn't stop officers and crew worrying about the possibility.  The entire squadron could be wiped out before it knew that it was under attack.

“Hold the drive at thirty seconds,” Captain Hardy ordered.  It would place considerable wear and tear on the equipment, but the military-grade systems could take it.  “Can you detect anything within the inner system?”

“Negative,” the sensor officer said.  “Wait ... picking up a handful of radio beacons, unknown origin.”

Smugglers, perhaps, Edward thought.  Lakshmibai had no space industry at all, unsurprisingly.  The system had no gas giant or asteroid belt to attract investment, or even a hidden RockRat colony.  According to the datafiles, the original settlers had wanted a planet where they would be undisturbed by the rest of the universe.  They’d been largely disappointed.

“Colonel,” the Captain said, catching Edward’s attention.  “I believe that we should proceed into the inner system.”

“Agreed,” Edward said.  There was nothing to be gained by lurking along the edge of the system, not when they had an appointment in orbit around Lakshmibai itself.  “Take us into the system.”

He settled back and forced himself to relax as the small squadron headed into the inner system, its sensors picking up four rocky worlds and a bare handful of comets.  The system was surprisingly empty; Lakshmibai didn't even have a moon to provide illumination when it rotated away from the sun.  Most of the radio beacons seemed to be mounted on the comets, apart from one orbiting the outermost rocky world.  A standard challenge received no answer.

“There are a handful of signals coming from Lakshmibai itself,” the communications officer reported, “but they’re all very primitive.  I don’t think they’ve even detected our presence.”

Edward shared a long look with the Captain.  It wasn't uncommon for a world along the Rim to have no deep-space tracking arrays, but Lakshmibai was light-years in towards the Core Worlds.  But then, it’s founders had wanted to turn their back on the universe.  No doubt they’d thought that the universe would oblige by ignoring them in turn.

“Contact,” the sensor officer snapped.  “Captain, I'm picking up seven medium cruisers, holding station near the planet.  They just brought their drives online!”

“Send them the prepared greeting,” Captain Hardy ordered.  They’d known that they would meet Governor Brown’s representatives near Lakshmibai.  “And launch a flight of probes in their direction.”

It was nearly forty minutes before they picked up a response from the newcomers.  “They’re welcoming us to Lakshmibai,” the communications officer said, “and informing us that we may take possession of the orbital station at our leisure.”

“Thank them,” Edward said, shortly.  “Can you ID the ships?”

“Not at this range,” the sensor officer said.  “Their drive fields suggest Proctor-class medium cruisers, but two of them seem to have unusually enhanced drive emissions.  They may have been extensively refitted.”

“Or they might be new-build,” Captain Hardy said.  “Wolfbane has a shipyard, doesn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” the sensor officer said.

Edward put the matter to one side as the planet grew closer.  It was quite possible that Wolfbane was producing its own starships, just like the Commonwealth – and Admiral Singh.  Unfortunately, there was no way to know just what had come off the slips since Avalon had lost contact with the Empire.  Even the most astute intelligence officer had had to admit that all he could do was guess.

“The orbital station is still powered up,” the sensor officer reported.  “They’re pinging us, inviting us to dock.”

“We don't need to,” Captain Hardy said.  “Colonel?”

“Send 1st Platoon to sweep the station,” Edward ordered.  Finding it intact, let alone powered up, was a surprise.  The Empire had installed it decades ago, but he’d assumed that it would have been abandoned along with Lakshmibai itself.  It wasn't as if the planet had shuttles it could use to keep the station functional.  “And then take us into high orbit.”

***
Jasmine felt a flicker of envy as she listened into the conversations between 1st Platoon as they boarded and swept the station for potential surprises.  The station should have been unarmed, but it would have been relatively simple to bolt a handful of missile launchers or plasma cannons to the hull – and understandable, in a system where there would be no help if pirates arrived to ransack the station.  But nothing showed up, apart from a handful of ex-Imperial Navy technicians who wanted to go somewhere else.  Anywhere else.

“That can’t be right,” the reporter said, as Blake Coleman reported to the Colonel.  “They just abandoned the techs?”

“Why not?”  Jasmine asked, dryly.  “They abandoned us.”

“It seems that they do have some links to the former garrison,” Colonel Stalker said, through the intercom.  “From what they’re saying, the base is still manned.”

Jasmine considered it, briefly.  It seemed hard to imagine a caretaker crew keeping the locals out, but stranger things had happened.  Besides, if half of the files were accurate, the locals feared and hated off-worlders.  The garrison’s crew might have decided that it was better to keep themselves isolated rather than surrender to the planet’s inhabitants.  

“Then we have to check it out,” she said, calmly.  “I suggest that the 3rd Avalon Infantry Battalion be dropped on the garrison to provide security.”

She could practically hear the Colonel thinking it over.  The Knights needed to practice disembarking onto potentially-hostile landing zones, even though 1st Platoon would probably be able to carry out the mission quicker.  But then, it would take time to bring the Marines back from the orbital station ...

“Make it so,” the Colonel ordered.  “We’ll try to raise the garrison first, then drop the infantry if they refuse to answer.”

Jasmine nodded.  “Understood,” she said.  “I’ll prepare them for deployment.”

***
“Quite a few local women on the station,” Blake Coleman reported, flatly.  “They were sent up as comfort women, without any men.”

Edward scowled.  That didn't sound good.

“It seems that the garrison used the station to threaten the locals with planetary bombardment, if they tried to get across the causeway,” Coleman continued.  “They’re being a little cagey about their strength, sir; I’m not sure they can bombard the planet.”

“It’s unlikely, unless they shipped the weapons in from outside the system,” Captain Hardy put in.  “This system has a shortage of asteroids that can be mined for cheap weapons.”

“Picking up a response from the planet’s surface,” the communications officer said.  “Sir?”

“Put it through,” Captain Hardy ordered.

“This is General Joseph Raphael, Imperial Army Commandant of Manikarnika Garrison,” a thickly-accented voice said.  “Please tell me you’re coming to take us away.”

“This is Edward Stalker, Terran Marine Corps,” Edward said.  They could explain about the Commonwealth later.  “I require a full SITREP and permission to land my men.”

“Granted,” the voice said.  “I’ll have the landing beacons powered up for you.  But what are you and the others doing here?”

Edward frowned.  “It would be easier to explain on the surface,” he said, tightly.  Had the garrison not communicated with Governor Brown’s ships?  Or had the ships simply maintained radio silence and waited for Edward’s arrival?  “What’s the local security situation?”

“Tense,” Raphael said.  “Your forces are cleared to land at the garrison spaceport.  Be advised that some rebel forces have access to HVMs and other antiaircraft weapons; I strongly advise you to come in over the ocean and not overfly the land.  The garrison is relatively safe, but that may change at any moment.”

“Understood,” Edward said.  “How long has it been since you heard anything from the Empire?”

“Five years,” Raphael said, after a pause.  “We haven’t even been able to pick up any news from trader ships.”

Edward blinked in surprise.  Five years?  The planet would have been abandoned before Avalon!  

“Something about this doesn't quite add up,” Captain Hardy mused, too quietly to be picked up by the microphone.  “Sir ...”

“I have to go down,” Edward said, equally quietly.

He raised his voice.  “Bring back 1st Platoon,” he ordered.  “They can follow the Knights down to the planet’s surface.”

***
“Prepare the remainder of the CEF for rapid deployment,” Jasmine ordered, grimly.  The Colonel should send her or another senior officer, not go down to the planet’s surface – and into a possible trap – himself.  “And get the first deployments down there as quickly as possible.”

The planet was too primitive for communications intercepts to provide anything useful, but orbital observation was filling in some of the gaps.  Manikarnika Garrison was on an island – not unlike Castle Rock – linked to the mainland through a long causeway that was only usable for an hour or two every day.  There was a colossal city on the other end of the causeway, surrounded by rolling hillsides and countryside that would be ideal for an insurgency ... they’d already picked up a string of what had to be military bases scattered across the countryside.  Hundreds of thousands of armed men were scattered across the countryside, watching farmers who seemed to be struggling to grow crops.  It didn't look very reassuring.  

“The first shuttles are on their way,” Joe Buckley assured her.  “And we’re loading up the others now.”

“Good,” Jasmine said.  She looked over towards the near-orbit display.  Governor Brown’s ships were keeping their distance, but she knew that could change at any moment.  If they decided to turn hostile, they might well catch her forces while they were deploying.  “But hold them until we get confirmation that the LZ is secure.”

***
Manikarnika Garrison looked fairly typical for an Imperial Army garrison, although it was larger than the files had suggested.  Edward studied it thoughtfully as the shuttle descended towards the landing pad, noting the handful of automated weapons systems that had been deployed around the island.  Clearly, whatever forces had been abandoned on the planet were insufficient to hold the base against a determined assault.  A handful of remote drones seemed to be on constant patrol, watching for infiltrators who tried to land from the ocean.  

He tensed as the weapons tracked them as the shuttle came in to land, then relaxed slightly as they touched down without incident.  The hatch cracked open a moment later, allowing Blake Coleman and the rest of 1st Platoon to disembark and fan out around the shuttle, looking for possible threats.  Edward gritted his teeth – training and experience told him that staying near the landing craft wasn't always a good idea – and waited as patiently as he could for the all-clear.  When it came, he was out of the shuttle like a shot.

The warm air struck him as soon as he stepped out of the hatch, blowing in from the ocean and smelling vaguely of salt water and fish.  Edward took a deep breath – after spending four weeks cooped up on a transport, it was refreshing to smell fresh air – and then looked down towards the nearest building.  The base seemed eerily deserted at first, then he saw a trio of men appearing from the doorway and heading towards the Marines.  They all wore Imperial Army dress uniforms.

“Welcome to Manikarnika Garrison,” the leader said, as he stopped in front of the Marines.  He wore the uniform of a General.  “I had almost given up hope.”

Edward grimaced.  “I know the feeling,” he said.  “Can I ask for a briefing?”

The General grinned, toothily.  “If you tell us what’s going on,” he said.  “We’ve been frantic since the first ships arrived.”

He paused, then pushed onwards.  “There was a peacekeeping operation on this planet,” he added, ruefully.  “They pulled most of the troops out five years ago and promised that we’d be relieved within a couple of months.  We’ve been here since then.”

Edward shook his head in disbelief.  “Absurd,” he said, softly.  “How have you managed to hold the base?”

“With difficulty,” Raphael explained.  “There’s only seventy of us, so we set up guns along the causeway and engaged anything that tried to advance towards the base.  They tried sending boats and we blew them out of the water, then ... well, local political developments convinced them that leaving us to our own devices was a good idea.  I think they thought that we could be starved out.”

“But you’re sitting on top of a mountain of supplies,” Edward said.  The Imperial Army would have brought along enough MREs to feed hundreds of thousands of men.  Seventy soldiers would be bored stiff after five years of MREs, but they’d be alive.  “And weapons and suchlike?”

“Enough to hold the line,” Raphael explained.  “We took in a handful of local women to help with the chores and ... other purposes, but apart from that we've kept ourselves isolated.  And now I’ve told you our story, you can tell me what’s really going on.”

Edward hesitated, then started to explain.

“The Empire is gone?”  Raphael asked, when he had finished.  “Gone completely?”

“We haven’t seen any trace of organised Imperial power since they pulled back and abandoned us,” Edward said.  “Right now, a handful of successor states are organising themselves.  If there's anything left of the Empire, it isn't likely to return any time soon.”

He winced at Raphael’s expression.  The Marines on Avalon had had time to adapt to being on their own, even if most of them hadn't really accepted – emotionally – that the Empire was no more and they’d been abandoned.  But they’d also had a great deal of work to do, while Raphael and his handful of men had been cooped up on an island base, surrounded by locals who would kill them as soon as look at them.  They’d clung to the thought of the Empire returning to take them away, a thought that had been cruelly betrayed.

“We can take you with us when we leave,” he commiserated, softly.  “But right now we have other reasons to be here.”

“I don’t see why this ... Governor Brown couldn't have communicated with us,” Raphael muttered, darkly.  “We didn't have the slightest idea what those ships were doing.”

“We’ll have to ask him,” Edward said.  “For the moment, I have to land my force.  Would that be acceptable?”

“I don’t think we have any objections,” Raphael answered, dryly.  “We only have two barracks currently in service; you’ll have to help us reopen several more, unless you want to sleep out in the open air.  I wouldn't advise sending anyone on leave either, no matter how much firepower you have.  Off-worlders are not popular on this world.”

“Hard to blame them,” one of the other officers commented.  “The locals had their planet turned upside down by the Empire.  They never stood a chance.”

“But they deserved it,” the third officer said.  Edward had the feeling that it was an old argument  “There’s little worth preserving in their society.”

Raphael held up a hand and his two subordinates fell silent.  “Land your men,” he said, to Edward.  “They can have full use of our supplies, as long as you take us with you when you go.  None of us want to stay here.”

“I quite understand,” Edward said.  The sooner they carried out the talks, the better.  Perhaps they could arrange the next set of talks to take place in deep space or somewhere safer than a potentially hostile world.  “I’d also like a set of briefings on local conditions, just in case we have to fight.”

“It shall be done,” Raphael assured him.

Edward nodded and keyed his wristcom.  “Start bringing down the remainder of the troops,” he ordered.  “And then prepare the ships for departure.”

Raphael made a face.  “Is that necessary?”

“It’s part of the agreement,” Edward said, although he had his own doubts now.  Perhaps he could convince Governor Brown’s representatives to renegotiate the agreement.  “We weren't given an alternative.”

He watched as the second flight of shuttles came in to land on the landing pad, then started unloading their troops.  It would be irritating if they were cooped up permanently on the island; perhaps they could deploy to the mainland and carry out exercises.  But they’d have to come to some agreement with the locals first.  The analysts suspected that the civil war on the planet’s surface was still underway.

“And now,” he requested, turning back to the General, “you can tell me more about this damned world.”

Chapter Seven

This puts them in a position where ‘diplomacy’ may boil down to an ultimatum that runs ‘give us what we want or we’ll beat the hell out of you and take it anyway.’
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

“Welcome to the new base, same as the old base,” someone muttered.

“As you were,” Michael snapped, as they followed the Warrior out of the shuttle.  The AFV rumbled across the tarmac and headed towards the vehicle park next to the empty barracks.  “We don’t know just what’s going to happen here.”

But the soldier had a point, he had to admit.  The garrison didn't look that different from the bases on Avalon, apart from having a name he struggled to pronounce.  Indeed, there was something strange about such a large base having a tiny population.  The garrisons on Avalon that trained and based the Knights were thrumming with activity at all hours of the day, but this base had hardly anyone in view, apart from the newcomers.  And there was a very different scent in the air.

The barracks smelt musty, he discovered, as they opened the doors and peered inside.  Everything that might decay had been removed, leaving only the frameworks of hundreds of bunks, shower stalls and tiny compartments for the soldiers to stow their possessions.  There were a handful of pieces of graffiti on the walls, but nothing else to suggest that the barracks had once played host to hundreds of soldiers.  Someone had cleaned up the compartment thoroughly.   It struck him as odd; the brief SITREP they’d been given as the shuttle descended through the atmosphere had suggested that there were only a handful of personnel on the base.  But then, if they’d been isolated for over five years, even a relatively small crew could have cleaned up everything.

He reached for his pistol as a door at the far end of the barracks banged open, then relaxed as he saw a dark-skinned woman carrying a colossal pile of pre-packaged bedding on her head.  One of the soldiers wolf-whistled as she entered, even though the robes she was wearing hid her body’s curves quite nicely.  She was followed by several more, all carrying bedding of their own.  Michael remembered that some of the locals had been recruited to help maintain the base and relaxed, slightly.  It seemed odd to have servants doing any of the work – normally, they were expected to take care of themselves – but the base had clearly allowed standards to slip.

Sergeant Grieves evidently agreed.  “Don’t just stand there, you lugs,” he barked.  “Each of you take a piece of bedding, then set up by the numbers.  Move!”

Michael allowed himself a smile as he took a package from the lead woman.  She lowered her eyes, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit, if only because it reminded him of the women on the pirate-operated asteroid.  They’d learned to keep their heads down too, knowing that the slightest hint of resistance would result in a savage beating – or worse – from their masters.  He felt sick as he unwrapped the package, then spread the inflatable mattress out on a bunk close to the doors.  It was alarmingly easy to forget some of the stories he’d been told about life in the Imperial Army – or the Civil Guard.

He looked down at his wristcom as it bleeped.  “Briefing at 1700, local time,” a voice said, shortly.  The device had already adapted to the local time – Lakshmibai had a twenty-seven hour day, something he suspected would cause confusion when they started operating – and linked into the garrison’s datanet.  “All armoured vehicles are to be paraded on the grounds immediately afterwards.”

“Understood,” Michael said, dryly.  They weren't going to get any time to relax, although he wasn't too surprised.  If half of the muttered rumours in the shuttle were accurate, they were landing on a very rebellious and unwelcoming world.  “We’ll be ready.”

He closed the connection, then looked over at the mechanics.  The Warriors should be in perfect condition – after all, they hadn't been moved at all while they’d been in transit – but he knew better than to take that for granted.  It would be much better to discover any problems before they went into operation.  

“Pass out the MREs, then we can start working on the Warriors,” he ordered the Sergeant.  “I need to attend the briefing.”

“Understood,” the Sergeant said.  He lowered his voice.  “And you might want to ask about the local women too.”

Michael blinked in surprise, then understood.  Were the women servants, prostitutes or the wives of the garrison’s maintenance crew?  It would probably be good to know before there was an incident.  His men had been starved of female company on the transport and the handful of local women he’d seen had been beautiful.  Of course, if half the stories he'd been told were true, there hadn't been a garrison or army base at the height of the Empire that hadn't been surrounded by bars, brothels and other institutions intended to separate a soldier from his monthly pay.

“I’ll ask,” he said, softly.  The Imperial Army had no regulations banning sexual contact with the locals, merely banning marriage until someone had several years of service under his belt.  “And you can supervise until we know.”

***
The briefing room was surprisingly ornate for a garrison on a world the sector government couldn't have considered very important, no matter how many people had seriously believed that the Empire could keep the peace right across the universe.  Jasmine rolled her eyes as she saw the computer screens, holographic maps and even a near-space orbital display, each one more expensive than a Landshark tank.  And there was no need for a communications system that could allow the CO to monitor the operations of an entire army ... when she considered just how starved the combat arms had been for funds in the last days of the Empire, it made her more than a little mad.

“They don’t seem to be working either,” Joe Buckley pointed out, when she said her thoughts out loud.  “There’s no communications nodes out there for them to draw on.”

Jasmine nodded.  Apart from a handful of drones, the garrison had no presence at all on the mainland.  There was a live feed from the orbital station, providing additional coverage of the sea around the island and the causeway – currently under the waves – but little else to justify such an expensive investment.  She could have purchased enough equipment to raise a light infantry regiment for the price of everything in the garrison.  

There was a paper map pinned to the wall, right at the front of the compartment, showing the countryside near the garrison.  Someone had been marking on it with pencil, trying to keep track of the political situation.  It looked oddly familiar, but it took her several seconds to place it; the maps she’d seen of Avalon, during the height of the Cracker War, had looked quite similar.  The political situation shifted then, she realised, shifted so quickly that it was impossible to produce any permanent maps.  

“At ease,” Colonel Stalker ordered, as he entered the compartment.  “Take some coffee or water if you want; this is probably going to be a long session.”

Buckley motioned for her to stay where she was, then headed over to the coffee machine.  It wasn't common for drinks to be served during Marine Corps briefings, although Jasmine could see some advantages when the briefer was too tedious to keep her attention.  Some of the briefers she’d had to listen to on Han – the ones on loan from the Imperial Army in particular – hadn't known to focus on the important details.  She’d even had to pretend to pay attention during a briefing on the ecology of the region they were going to use as a base.

She took the cup of coffee and sniffed it, feeling an odd sense of Déjà Vu.  The Imperial Army had had, according to rumour, a whole series of worlds devoted to producing coffee that was foul-tasting, but very good at keeping soldiers awake.  Jasmine hadn't tasted it in years, ever since supplies of pre-packaged foodstuffs on Avalon had run out.  The stuff they produced on Avalon just wasn’t the same.

“That’s why we’ve come,” Buckley muttered.  “They want us to pick up the coffee.”

Jasmine smiled, then suppressed it as one of the garrison’s officers stepped forward.  “I am Colonel Cindy Macintyre, Imperial Army Intelligence,” she said, as the room quietened down.  “As punishment for my sins, I was told to remain here with the garrison and monitor the local situation.  This has been an immensely difficult undertaking and I cannot guarantee the accuracy of much of the following data.  The situation simply changes too rapidly.”

“Give her points for honesty,” Buckley whispered.

“True,” Jasmine whispered back.  Intelligence officers, in her experience, tended to assume that they knew everything and that their conclusions were always correct, often ignoring facts that contradicted their theories.  There had even been a handful of officers who had claimed that Han wasn't on the verge of exploding, even when Imperial Army garrisons and patrols had been coming under increasingly heavy attack.  “But then, her career isn't going to go any further.”

“To sum up a very long story, Lakshmibai was founded by a group of exiles from Hindustan, some seven hundred years ago,” Colonel Macintyre said.  If she’d heard Jasmine and Buckley whispering, she gave no sign of it.  “These exiles believed that the key to paradise was to return to the caste system of their ancestors – or how they chose to interpret the caste system – and, after a brief civil war on their homeworld, they were transported here and dumped on the planet’s surface, where they started to build their own perfect society.

“Everything went relatively well for them until some bureaucrat in the Imperial Civil Service, looking for a place to put refugees, decided that Lakshmibai would be an ideal destination,” she continued, smoothly.  “The refugees refused to fit into the caste system and civil war broke out, a situation made worse by an uprising among the lower-caste members, who were confronted by people who didn’t care about birth.  Their lives were so hopeless that they kept on fighting even after the Imperial Army landed a garrison to assist the local government in dealing with the mess.  Right now, large parts of the countryside are effectively under rebel control.  Only the weapons and equipment supplied to the central government have allowed it to remain in power.”

Jasmine winced.  Avalon, even during the rule of the Council, would be preferable.  At least Avalon hadn't had seven hundred years of population growth and development to fuel the fighting, or ensure that the hatreds were too deeply embedded to be removed by anything other than major bloodshed.  In some ways, Lakshmibai even sounded like a rerun of Han ...

But Han was a sector capital¸ she reminded herself.  This world isn't even remotely important to anyone else.

“The caste system is outlined in your briefing notes,” Colonel Macintyre said.  “What you need to know is that there are five prime castes, ranging from rulers and warriors to those who do the shit work.  There are actually gradations within the castes – some are more important than others, even though they share the same caste – and you’ll be lucky to find someone who isn't intensely aware of his status.  As a general rule of thumb, higher caste – or position within the caste – trumps everything else.  The lower castes have few legal rights.”

Buckley stuck up a heavily-muscled arm.  “And they just accept it?”

“Their religion states that everyone starts out in the lowest caste and, assuming they have lived a good and blameless life, are reincarnated into a higher caste after they die,” the Colonel explained.  “They climb up the ladder until they pass through the very highest caste and then graduate into paradise.  As you can imagine, that is actually quite an effective tool of social control.”

Jasmine nodded.  If the lower castes genuinely believed that they had to work hard to rise, they would; if the higher castes thought themselves entitled to their power – and that the lower castes existed for their use – they’d become monsters.  And those who didn't believe, who questioned the very basis of their society, would be shunned by all of the castes, although for different reasons.  Believers wouldn't want any truck with non-believers, for fear that it would rub off.

“Despite – or perhaps because of – their population density, conditions in their cities are actually quite wretched,” the Colonel added, returning to her subject.  “There is almost no social mobility at all, no way to make a living outside the castes; the vast majority of the population is really little more than property.  Vast resources are lavished on temples and palaces for the elite, or military formations assembled from the warrior caste, but almost nothing is spent on the common people.  They exist permanently on the verge of starvation, which helps keep them under control.  It isn't uncommon for hundreds of lower caste servants to die during winter.”

“Just like Earth,” Buckley said.

“In many ways, yes,” Colonel Macintyre agreed.  “But while Earth has several safety valves – people could sign up with a colony development corporation or join the military – Lakshmibai has almost none.  If you happen to be born to the untouchable caste, you’ll spend half of your life shovelling shit and the other half scavenging for food.  And you’ll be a permanent victim.  Should someone from a higher caste decide that he wants to rape or kill you, no one will stop him.  Life will grind you down and you’ll be lucky if you live past fifty.

“The rebels generally want to destroy the caste system and replace it with something else,” she added.  “However, they have several different visions of what they expect to put in its place; several of the rebel groups, I suspect, merely want to reverse the order of the caste system rather than destroying it altogether.  Others would be happy if they could declare independence from the local government.”

Colonel Stalker leaned forward.  “Do you have any contact with the rebels?”

“We have tried to keep ourselves completely isolated from both sides,” Colonel Macintyre said.  “We didn't want to be drawn into the fighting – or to make it worse by handing over weapons and equipment from the garrison.  However, we do know that Jhansi – the settlement on the other side of the causeway – is caught between rebels and the central government.  I’ve been expecting them to start fighting for months now.”

Jasmine looked up at the map, then frowned.  “Are they worried about you intervening?”

“It’s a possibility,” Colonel Macintyre said.  “But if they have an accurate idea of our strength, they’d know that we couldn't hope to intervene if fighting did break out again.”

Major Lobo Villeneuve snorted.  “How ... capable are the local government’s forces?”

“Generally, a very mixed bag,” Colonel Macintyre said.  “Those born to the warrior caste will generally be accepted into the military, regardless of their other qualifications.  Some of them are very tough, capable fighters; some are little better that ceremonial units, prancing around in fancy uniforms and shiny vehicles.  Right now, they don’t have the force to eradicate the rebellion, while the rebels don’t have the force to push them back and destroy the central government.  

“However, they are capable of the most shocking atrocities,” she added, grimly.  “Even the Butchers of Bullhorn would blanch at some of their crimes.”

Jasmine shuddered, a reaction shared by almost all of the experienced officers.  The Butchers of Bullhorn had been an Imperial Army unit with a reputation for putting down uprisings and rebellions with shocking cruelty.  Their CO, a man with enough friends in high places to shield him from any punishment, had actively encouraged his men to loot, rape and burn their way across a dozen worlds.  By the time they’d finally been disbanded, they’d been responsible for thousands of needless deaths ... and rumour claimed there had been millions more.

“Which leads to a different issue,” Colonel Stalker said.  “Why did Governor Brown choose here as a place for talks?”

“If I had to guess,” Colonel Macintyre said, “he believed that this world’s neutrality would allow it to serve as a meeting place.  Besides, the locals wouldn't dare pick a fight with either side; they have absolutely no orbital defences at all.  A single corvette could carry out punitive strikes that would bring the local government down in an afternoon.”

Jasmine exchanged a long look with Buckley.  It sounded plausible, but she knew that expecting religious fanatics to act rationally was asking for trouble.  Besides, if the population on the planet’s surface was so isolated from the external universe, they might not really comprehend what the outsiders could actually do to them.

“One other thing,” Colonel Macintyre said, when she’d finished the rest of the briefing, “I’d advise dark-skinned personnel to lighten their skins and female personnel to pose as men.  As a general rule of thumb, the darker the skin, the lesser the caste; they’re not likely to take a dark-skinned officer seriously.”

“Hell with that,” Buckley muttered  “I’d like to see Blake’s reaction when they refuse to take him seriously.”

“He can wear his battlesuit,” Jasmine said, quietly.  She looked down at her own skin, wondering if she should lighten it.  Principle was all very well and good, but if she had to work with the locals ... luckily, Marine BDUs could conceal her breasts, particularly if she wore proper body armour.  “But I’m glad I don’t live here permanently.”

“Me too,” Buckley agreed.

The meeting broke up, but Colonel Stalker called for Jasmine to remain behind.  “You seem to be handling the CEF well,” he said, once they were alone.  “But we may have to rethink carrying out operations on the mainland.”

“Perhaps it would help remind them of our power,” Jasmine said, although she understood his concerns.  “And maybe that would head off trouble at the pass.” 

Chapter Eight

However, this approach can be costly or backfire.  In some cases – the Russian invasion of Finland in 1939, for example – the weaker party may still be capable of inflicting considerable harm on the aggressor.  Or other weaker parties may collectively stand up to the stronger party, forcing the aggressor to fight on several fronts at once.  
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

Sivaganga Zamindari barely noticed the servants prostrating themselves as he stepped into the Imperial Palace.  They were beneath his notice, men and women whose sole role in life was to carry out orders, no matter what those orders happened to be.  He allowed one of them to take his cloak, then walked up the stairs and down the long corridor towards the throne room, pausing every so often to study a piece of particularly ornate artwork.  The palace had been crammed with golden trinkets by the Rajah’s predecessors, men who had founded their society and then worked hard to maintain it.  He reached the final set of doors and stepped into the antechamber.

A dozen women, wearing the red and yellow robes of Imperial courtesans, threw themselves to their knees and placed their heads to the floor at once.  Their pale skins marked them out as Brahmins, women whose breeding made them suitable to carry the Rajah’s children to term.  It was a sign of prestige, he knew; no one else, even the Rajah’s heir, was allowed courtesans from the highest caste.  It was a grave insult for anyone else to even suggest the possibility.

The four guards at the far end of the room – also Brahmins – didn't prostrate themselves.  Instead, two of them stepped forward and carried out a brief search, then ran a sensor the palace had purchased from an off-world trader over his body.  The sword he carried as a mark of his rank was removed and placed on a table, just to ensure the Rajah’s safety.  Once the search was completed, the guards nodded for him to enter the throne room.  

He sucked in his breath, as always, as he stepped inside.  The throne room was covered in gold and silver leaf, casting an eerie light over the chamber.  At the far end of the room, the Rajah lounged on his throne, watching his subordinates with a gimlet eye that belayed his indolent appearance.  Rajah Gangadhar, the absolute ruler of Lakshmibai, had survived a power struggle with his brothers after his father had died, eventually claiming the throne for himself.  It would be dangerous to underestimate him.

Sivaganga bowed, then lowered himself to his knees and pressed his head against the carpeted floor.  It was a display of respect he found more than a little humiliating, but failing to prostrate himself could have resulted in his immediate beheading.  The Rajah might decide that Sivaganga’s family was too powerful to irritate by beheading their patriarch, or he might decide that he could endure their displeasure.  It was never easy to tell which way he might jump, if pushed.  And Sivaganga had no shortage of enemies who would drip poison in the Rajah’s ear, given half a chance.

“Rise, my loyal servant,” the Rajah ordered, in his high-pitched voice.  “It is Our pleasure to speak with you.”

“I thank you, Most Honoured Rajah,” Sivaganga said, feeling his bones creak as he stood upright.  One day, he suspected, he was going to be unable to rise when commanded, despite the rejuvenation treatments he’d purchased from an off-world smuggler.  Rumour had it that off-worlders lived for thousands of years, but they’d never offered those treatments to his world.  “It is my pleasure to attend upon your person.”

The door opened again, revealing Mirza Khwaja – the Rajah’s oldest son and heir – and Ramnad Zamindari, one of the interior ministers.  The Rajah’s son bowed shortly to his father, but didn’t prostrate himself, even though his father could order him beheaded.  But then, he was the only grown son the Rajah had.  He was immune to his father’s rage until his younger brothers reached adulthood.  Sivaganga had a feeling that the boys would never see their twenty-first birthdays.  

“The off-worlders have arrived,” Sivaganga said, once the formalities had been completed.  “They have announced their intention of heading to the capital in two days, where they will move into the old Imperial residence.”

The Rajah scowled, his chubby fingers playing with the sword he wore at his belt.  “It does not please Us to have interlopers in Our city,” he said.

“Then we destroy them, father,” his son said.  “I have heard that the rumours have been confirmed.  The Empire is gone.”

“Then they are vulnerable,” Ramnad said.  “We could wipe them and their influence off our world, permanently.”

Sivaganga kept his face expressionless.  Like his fellow minister, he wouldn't shed a tear for any off-worlders who happened to die on his world, not after the Empire had turned their society upside down.  The introduction of new ideas from the damned refugees – they should have just slaughtered or enslaved them all – had convinced the lower castes that they didn't have to be patient and work their way up the ladder to paradise.  And then the Empire hadn’t succeeded in exterminating the rebels.  And sold the warriors weapons they barely knew how to use ...

... He hated the Empire and all other off-worlders.  But he also had a healthy respect for their power.  

“They have brought heavy forces with them,” he warned.  “Destroying them may not be easy ...”

The Prince rounded on him.  “We have them heavily outnumbered,” he hissed, lifting one hand as if he intended to slap Sivaganga across the face.  “They can be destroyed!”

“And then their influence can be purged,” Ramnad added.  “We can rebuild our society along proper lines.”

Sivaganga had his doubts.  Even now, whispers of rebellion were making their way from city to city, suggesting to the lower castes that there might be another way to live.  The priests and warriors were doing their best to keep it under control, but he suspected that it would take years to remove the poison from their society.  If nothing else, they needed to exterminate the rebels to prove that open resistance was futile.  But the warriors had been unable to carry out even that task.

“Most Honoured Lord and Master,” he said, addressing the Rajah, “the off-worlders are powerful – and their worlds are beyond our reach.  We should merely allow them to hold their summit and then depart in peace.”

“But that would not be the victory we need,” the Prince said, coldly.  “We need to show our people that the off-worlders can be beaten.”

Sivaganga understood.  The Prince wanted – needed – something that would secure his position in the event of one of his younger brothers reaching adulthood.  A victory over the off-worlders would make him untouchable.  He might even be able to push his father into honourable retirement and take the reins of power for himself.  And it would also solidify the position of the Imperial Family against challenges from the aristocracy.  

But it might also cost them everything.  

The Rajah’s face became a blank mask.  “We shall lure them into a position of overconfidence,” he said, softly.  “They will come to our city and they will hold their talks.  And then we shall strike.”

He looked over at his son.  “It will be led by you, a rogue operation,” he added.  His voice lightened and became mocking.  “If you wish to take it.”

The Prince flushed angrily.  “I shall, father,” he said.  “And I shall purge our world of outsider filth.”

Sivaganga smiled, inwardly.  If the whole operation went badly wrong, it would be blamed on the Prince – who would never survive to be handed over to the off-worlders.  The Rajah wouldn’t be overthrown or forced to pay colossal reparations.  Once he was dead, the Prince would make a convenient scapegoat – and anyone who knew better would have a very strong motive to toe the party line.  The off-worlders would never know the truth.

“They have also requested permission to deploy their forces away from the garrison,” he said, smoothly.  “Would that suit our plans?”

“It would indeed,” the Prince said, touching his belt where his sword should have been.  Even he wasn't allowed to carry a weapon into the throne room.  “The garrison is not an easy place to attack.  But on the mainland, away from the sea, they can be overwhelmed and destroyed.”

“Yes, My Prince,” Sivaganga agreed.  

It was frustrating, but they had to face up to the facts.  The garrison had been effectively impenetrable.   All the attempts to get a force over the causeway or land from the sea had been ruthlessly smashed.  He’d worried that the off-worlders would intervene in the rebellion, either by providing fire support or weapons to the rebels, but so far they’d done neither.  Indeed, they hadn’t even received any shuttles for nearly five years.

But if the off-worlders happened to be in the countryside, they could be targeted.  They could be destroyed.

“Then We shall grant them Our permission,” the Rajah said.  “Let them come.  Let them be treated as honoured guests.  Let them suspect nothing until we strike.  And then let them be exterminated like the vermin they are.”

Sivaganga bowed his head.  He still had concerns about the whole idea, but he knew better than to say them out loud, not now that the Rajah had made up his mind and his son was definitely rising to power.  It would merely get him beheaded and accomplish nothing, nothing at all.  

“I will have the Imperial Residence prepared for our guests,” he said.  If there was one thing all off-worlders seemed to have in common, it was that they wanted food, drink and women – and someone to take care of the laundry work.  He’d provide them with all they wanted, knowing that his people would spy on the outsiders for him.  “And, once they arrive, do you wish for them to be presented at the Palace?”

The Rajah grimaced.  “We do not wish to set eyes on them,” he said.  No doubt he remembered how his honoured father and grandfather had been humiliated by envoys from the Empire.  What sort of barbarians believed that a mere demand was sufficient to approach the Rajah in all his glory?  “You will inform them that we will receive them after they have settled their own differences.”

“Yes, Most Honoured Rajah,” Sivaganga said.

“Go,” the Rajah said.  “Give them Our word.  Ensure that they suspect nothing.”

Sivaganga bowed again, then backed out of the throne room.  He didn't turn around until after the doors had slammed closed, blocking his view of the Rajah.  The guards returned his sword, then motioned for him to leave the antechamber.  He couldn't help noticing that the women had vanished, probably afraid of spending too much time near the Prince.  The guards had been fixed to prevent them from taking any interest in the women – assuming they dared, knowing that it would mean a painful death for both of them – but the Prince would inherit the harem after taking power.  

But until then, they would be killed if they shared their favours with anyone else, Sivaganga thought, as he walked out of the Palace and down past the gardens that countless monarchs had built up over the centuries.  He would have liked to spend a few hours merely contemplating the wonders of the gardens, which included a number of plants imported from off-world, but there was no time.  The Rajah would not be understanding if he delayed purposefully.

He stepped through the gates and into the litter waiting for him.  The four porters picked it up as soon as he sat down, carrying him back towards his own palace.  Shaking his head, he pushed the curtains to one side and peered out into the city, marvelling – yet again – at the network of palaces and temples that made up the inner city.  Outside the walls, he knew, there were countless hovels belonging to the untouchables, but they weren't really part of his home.  No one cared about them.  They existed to work and nothing else, to lead blameless lives that would see them start climbing towards paradise.  It was something the off-worlders would never understand.

But it was the off-worlders who called it into question, he thought, as the litter lurched onwards.  He allowed the curtain to fall back and leaned back into the cushions, forcing himself to relax.  The die was about to be cast.  They didn't care about what they did to our world.

***
Michael couldn't help feeling nervous as the Warrior nosed its way along the causeway, even though he knew that it was perfectly safe.  Imperial Engineers had designed the road along the line of rocks, ensuring that it could take the weight of tanks and heavy transports, let alone a relatively-light AFV.  Even so, every time he looked towards the rolling waves he had the unpleasant sense that they might slip off the road and fall into the water, trapping them in the vehicle.  The atmosphere filtering systems would keep them alive, if they battened down the hatches in time, but it still bothered him.

“Coming to the end of the causeway now,” he said, pushing his fears aside.  “Driver, take us onto the beach and hold us there.”

The Warrior lurched slightly as it drove onto the sand.  Michael wasn't sure what he had expected from the coastline – perhaps something like a fishing village on Avalon – but it was more than a little shocking to see the desolation.  The beach was littered with debris, the remains of boats damaged or destroyed during the first attempt by the locals to force their way along the causeway, but the damage seemed far more extensive than he would have expected.  A number of buildings at the far side of the beach had clearly been burned to rubble.

“The locals didn't want fishermen to live here,” Sergeant Grieves suggested.  “They destroyed their own fishing industry during the fighting.”

Michael grimaced.  The briefings they’d heard in the day since they’d landed had made it clear that the local government didn't really give a damn about its own people, but it was still shocking to realise the degree of malice they’d shown towards anyone who might just have been a rebel or a rebel supporter.  He picked up his binoculars and looked around, hunting for signs that someone was alive nearby, yet he saw nothing apart from wild animals and birds.  The sound of the second Warrior, approaching over the causeway, sent them fleeing for their lives.

His radio buzzed.  “You are cleared to advance to the first waypoint,” Brigadier Yamane said.  “Keep a careful watch for any signs of trouble.”

“Understood,” Michael said.  The Warrior lurched back into life and advanced towards the road leading inland.  “We’re on our way.”

The landscape only became stranger as they advanced towards the city.  He could see it in the distance now, a towering mass of strange buildings that were brightly illuminated by the sunlight, yet there was still no sign of people.  There were more and more hovels by the side of the road, but half of them appeared to have been destroyed and the other half appeared to be deserted.  He caught sight of a pig nosing through a bucket of scraps and felt a hint of pity for anyone who had to live in such conditions.  No doubt they were hiding from the newcomers.  The briefing had made it clear that most of the locals feared and hated off-worlders.  

It wasn't until they reached the very edge of the city that they saw their first locals.  Most of them looked beaten down and dispirited, staring at the Warriors as if they expected to be crushed under their treads – and not moving, as if they would placidly accept that fate if it were written in the stars.  He couldn't help noticing that the locals seemed almost painfully thin, their bones clearly visible against their darkened skin.  The stench of sick or dying humans hovered in the air as he took a long breath.  He had to fight down the urge to don his mask.

“We should help them,” he muttered, as he caught sight of a young girl who was missing an arm and one eye.  Someone had removed it, leaving a sightless socket that chilled him to the bone.  It was sickening, particularly when he knew that replacing a damaged eye was relatively simple.  As it was, he had a nasty feeling that the girl wouldn't survive for much longer.  The briefing had hinted that the ill or crippled – or the elderly – were often simply exposed to the elements and left to die.  Their relatives just didn't have the food to keep them alive when there would be no return.  

“If we handed out every MRE in the garrison,” Sergeant Grieves said, equally quietly, “it wouldn't keep the population of this city alive for more than a few weeks.”

“And to think I thought that the pirates were bad,” Michael snarled.  “Look at this!”

He keyed his radio.  “Holding position at Point Beta,” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm.  “No visible threats; I say again, no visible threats.  Should we enter the city itself?”

“Negative,” Brigadier Yamane said.  “Hold position and wait for reinforcements.”

Michael nodded, then looked back at the people outside.  Some of them were clearly begging, others were offering themselves ... he swallowed hard as he saw a young girl undoing her tattered skirt and exposing herself to his men.  It was impossible to be sure – she was all skin and bones – but he would have been surprised if she was of legal age.  But how else could she survive?

“We can’t feed them,” the Sergeant said, softly.  “They’d all come after us, demanding food.”

“I know,” Michael said, bitterly.  It didn't make looking at such poverty any easier.  “I know.”

Chapter Nine

To some extent, this also took place after Hitler broke his word in 1939 and annexed the Czech Rump State (after poor Czech diplomacy had ensured that the Czechs were largely defenceless.)  It underlined the fact that Hitler (and thus Germany) simply couldn’t be trusted and provided the impetus for a unified front against the aggressor.
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

“Sickening,” Leo muttered.

He stared down at the live feed from the advance forces, the drones and the orbiting platforms and shuddered.  The Empire tried to ensure that each Earth-compatible world could feed itself before anything else – hell, a healthy surplus was something that could be used in trade with off-world colonies – but politics and war could interfere easily.  Here, it was clear that most of the local population was starving.

It was worse than it seemed, he realised, as he parsed his way through the images.  The higher castes were clearly eating well, while leaving the lower castes to struggle to survive.  He knew that politics often had as much to do with food shortages as anything else; here, there wasn't any practical reason why Lakshmibai couldn't feed its own population.  If nothing else, they could have set up an algae-plant and produced ration bars for the lower castes.  

He gritted his teeth as the shuttles flew onwards towards Maharashtra.  If it had been up to him, he would have removed the local government and replaced it with something more humane.  But he knew that the Commonwealth would never sanction such an operation, no matter how much the targeted government deserved to be removed.  They’d had too much experience of the Empire’s meddling in planetary affairs to allow themselves to go the same route.  

“We could set up an algae plant,” Colonel Stalker said, when Leo suggested it.  “But how long do you think it would last?”

Leo frowned in puzzlement.

“The starving area just happens to be the most rebellious part of the planet,” the Colonel explained.  “I’ll bet you anything you want to put forward that the government is trying to starve the locals so they are incapable of fighting when their soldiers finally march in and suppress the rebellion.  Resistance will be difficult if the population has nothing in their bellies.”

Leo glared at him.  “How can you be so calm?”  He demanded.  “Don’t you know what’s happening down there?”

“I know precisely what’s happening down there,” Stalker said, softly.  “The government has been starving people, destroying crops and infrastructure and trying hard to exhaust the rebels or force them into surrender.  I know that countless innocents are dying because of this damned policy.  I also know that there’s no point in ranting and raging about it.  If we had a mandate to intervene ...”

“But we don't,” Leo snapped.  Even if the Commonwealth did agree to allow an intervention, they were on the border between the Commonwealth and the Wolfbane Sector.  It was quite possible that Governor Brown would object to an intervention that would boost the Commonwealth’s standing in the region.  “And politics would get in our way.”

Stalker nodded, grimly.  “It always does,” he said.  “It always does.”

Leo nodded and turned his attention back to the live feed from the shuttle’s sensors as Maharashtra came into view.  It would have been charming, he realised mutely, if the spectacular temples and palaces – and even beautifully-crafted apartment blocks – hadn't been surrounded by a sea of shacks and hovels.  They were all on the wrong side of a colossal stone wall, preventing them from entering the inner city except under carefully-controlled conditions.  He could almost smell the stench rising from the districts.  It seemed impossible that anyone could live in such an environment.

He looked back at the files he’d downloaded from the garrison’s datanet.  The locals did have some genetic modifications – luckily for them, or disease would have wiped them out centuries ago – but they were still suffering the effects of their environment.  Even for the higher castes, life expectancy was little more than eighty years – and the lower castes rarely lived more than forty.  How could anyone live like that?

“Impressive,” Stalker muttered, as a giant statue of a god – over fifty metres tall – came into view.  It looked to be made of solid gold, shining out as sunlight streamed down on it from high overhead.  “And to think that they made it without antigravity systems.”

Leo shook his head in disbelief.  The statue was impressive, even if it was tiny compared to Earth’s towering cityblocks or the orbital installations surrounding Avalon and the other major worlds in the Commonwealth.  But it must have cost thousands of credits – or the equivalent in local currency – to build, when so many people were starving.  He couldn't help feeling that the government was thoroughly sick.

The impression didn't get any better as the shuttles descended over the capital city.  There were five other statues positioned on the walls, glaring out over the countryside, while countless smaller ones studded the buildings.  It looked as if the city’s developers were competing to see how many statues they could produce; he shivered as he caught sight of one that looked like an angry angel, showing teeth and claws.  Inside the walls, the city looked bright and clean, but there was still something about it that put his senses on edge.  The locals didn't seem to care about the sea of human misery surrounding them.

He was still mulling it over when the shuttle touched down in the Imperial Residency, the complex the Empire had insisted that the locals produce for its representatives.  It was surprisingly modest, compared to the rest of the city; it took him a moment to realise that it was intended as a studied insult to the off-worlders who had disrupted the peace and tranquillity of a very strange world.  A handful of locals appeared on the edge of the landing pad as the hatches hissed open, then prostrated themselves in front of the first Marines.

“Curious,” Stalker observed, as 1st Platoon surrounded the shuttle.  “That’s not the reaction we normally get.”

Leo nodded, studying the locals through the shuttle’s sensors.  They were a mixture of male and females, all wearing fine clothes that seemed to signify wealth and power ... but if they were aristocrats, why would they prostrate themselves?  The files he’d taken from the garrison had seemed to suggest that the local aristocrats only bent the knee to their Rajah, never to anyone else.  

“They’re servants,” Leo said.  “And if you decide to reject them, they might be significantly punished.”

Stalker scowled.  “They offered us servants on Han too,” he admitted.  “Most of them turned on their masters when the shit hit the fan.”

***
The air smelt of perfume, Edward was surprised to discover as he stepped out of the shuttle, rather than the stench of unwashed humanity from outside the walls.  He looked down at the locals, who were still prostrating themselves, and coughed, feeling rather awkward.  A life in the Marine Corps hadn't prepared himself for dealing with servants of any kind, particularly ones who seemed to be completely submissive.

“You may rise,” he said, wondering vaguely what the protocol was for addressing such servants.  It hadn't been covered at the Slaughterhouse, an oversight that he doubted would ever be corrected.  “Now, if you please.”

He watched as the servants sat upright, a middle-aged man rising to his feet while the others – male and female – remained on their knees.  Up close, it was clear that the women were wearing translucent garments that hid almost nothing, while the men were more modest with silken pants and shirts.  They all refused to look him or any of the other Marines in the eye.

“Welcome to the Residence,” the leader said, in oddly-accented Imperial Standard.  “We have prepared your rooms for your stay and assigned guards to spare you intrusions and servants to care for your every want and need.  Should you require anything, just ask.”

Edward heard someone – probably Coleman – suck in his breath behind him.  He fought down the temptation to reprimand him and, instead, nodded in agreement.  

“We will have to inspect the quarters,” Edward said, instead.  “And our guards will be happy to work with your guards.”

“All is prepared,” the leader assured him.  “We are at your service.”

“Thank you,” Edward said.  He keyed his wristcom.  “Disembark – but don’t go beyond the walls.”

The servants looked faintly surprised as the soldiers of 1st Company, 3rd Avalon Infantry Battalion flowed out of two of the shuttles and headed into the residency, while the Marines remained on guard near the shuttles.  Edward listened to the brief snippets of conversation as the soldiers inspected their living quarters, then started to search the building thoroughly.  If he’d been hosting a diplomatic meeting on Avalon, Edward knew, he would have been careful to have the residency bugged, looking for whatever advantages he could muster.  He had no doubt that the locals would have done the same thing themselves.  

“All blue-tango clear,” Major Lobo Villeneuve reported, once the soldiers had finished their search.  He’d been resistant to the idea of sending only a single company to provide protection for the capital, but Edward had overruled him.  The locals would probably object if he’d tried to insist on landing the entire CEF in the city.  “And a great deal of luxury.”

Edward nodded.  Blue-tango meant that they’d picked up bugs, but nothing actually lethal.  

“Understood,” he said.  “Check the gates, then start unloading the shuttles.”

The servants straightened up at their leader’s command, then headed towards their own accommodation at one end of the compound.  “I can give you a personal tour,” their leader said, seriously.  “It would be a honour.”

“Please,” Edward said, motioning for Coleman and two of the other Marines to escort him.  They would hardly have let him go on his own, not after Gwendolyn had issued such dire threats about what would happen if they let a single hair on his head be hurt.  “And I’m sure the Professor would like a tour too.”

On the outside, the Residency was a long low building that was utterly overshadowed by the nearby palaces.  Inside, it was spectacularly luxurious – and tasteful.  The rooms that had been put aside for the soldiers were equipped with proper beds, baths and even curtains to ensure what privacy they could, while the rooms intended for himself and the Professor were staggeringly luxurious.  There was a bed large enough for four or five people, a fridge full of delicacies and a colossal bath, all illuminated by a chandelier hanging down from high overhead.  Just looking at it made Edward roll his eyes.  Did they think that he could be seduced into relaxing so easily?

But it would be so easy to have a bath, he thought, ruefully.  Marines took showers, if they had the time; Boot Camp had taught them how to wash themselves within two minutes and then leave before the water turned itself off automatically.  Hell, they’d often preferred to use sonic showers rather than water, knowing that sonic showers didn't force one to undress before using them.  But he’d always liked a hot bath.  There had been a time when he’d booked a hotel, during his first official leave after graduating from the Slaughterhouse, and merely soaked in the water for hours.  

He pushed the thought aside and inspected the remainder of the rooms.  There was a conference room, a bare room of uncertain purpose and a large dining room that could have sat several hundred people at a dozen tables with ease.  Below, there was a handful of rooms for the servants and a large kitchen.  It was alarmingly clear that the servants weren't given anything like luxury apartments in the residence.

“Pass the word,” he ordered, as he met Major Villeneuve in the conference room.  “The servants, male or female, are not to be bothered.”

The Major nodded.  “That will upset some of the lads, sir,” he said, “but I think they’ll see the sense of it.”

He sighed as he passed Edward a datapad.  “This building is heavily wired,” he added.  “We found about four hundred bugs, mostly outdated crap.  A handful were actually mil-grade from the last two decades or so.  I’m not sure where those came from.”

“They might well have slipped into civilian hands,” Edward pointed out.  It was clear that trader ships visited from time to time, even if the Empire hadn't transferred the bugs to the local government directly.  The locals might not have wanted any cultural contamination, but they sure as hell wanted technology they could use to keep their population under control.  “Is there anything completely new?”

“Nothing,” the Major said, shaking his head.  “I don’t think that Governor Brown’s representatives had a chance to bug our accommodations for themselves.”

Edward studied the datapad.  If anything, the Major had understated the situation.  The locals had emplaced enough bugs to allow them to hear even subvocalised whispers, unless their guests were very careful.  Hell, they'd be able to track everyone inside the building, an unacceptable security risk.

“Remove them all,” he ordered, shortly.  The locals would know that the bugs had been discovered, but he doubted that they would bother to complain.  It was, he’d been told, an unspoken truth of diplomacy that everyone spied on everyone else.  “Melt them down into scrap.”

“Yes, sir,” Villeneuve said.  “I have teams ready to remove them.”

“Good,” Edward said.  Villeneuve had clearly been thinking ahead.  “And our security?”

“The walls are tougher than they look,” the Major reported.  “On the other hand, it wouldn't be too difficult for someone to get over them with the right equipment.  The guardhouse is nice and solid; the local guards, however, look good but I don’t think they could actually fight, if pressed.  I’ve put a platoon on each of the three gates, with two more patrolling the ground and the remainder in reserve.  You can keep your Marines as a close-protection force.”

“Remember to rotate the scheduled patrols,” Edward reminded him.  “We don't want to fall into any patterns they can exploit.”

He scowled.  “And remind everyone that the servants, no matter how submissive they look, are probably primed to report everything we do to the local government,” he added.  “I want them kept out of our storage areas – hell, I want them escorted whenever they’re outside their rooms.”

“We could bug their rooms,” the Major suggested.  “Just to keep an eye on them.”

“Possible,” Edward agreed.  He would have preferred not to have the servants at all, but he suspected that getting rid of them politely would be difficult.  And besides, they would probably be punished if they were evicted from the Imperial Residency.  “In fact, see if we can turn them into sources.  We really don't know enough about what’s going on here.”

“I’ll spread the word,” Villeneuve assured him.

The Professor leaned forward.  “What about our counterparts?”

“They’re in the other set of buildings,” Villeneuve said.  “They have guards of their own on the west gate, so we merely exchanged salutes and kept our distance.  I must say that their guards look professional, much more than the locals.”

Edward smiled.  He’d seen a handful of images of local soldiers in the city and they actually managed to make the Empire’s Civil Guard look professional.  Most of them wore fancy uniforms that made him wonder how they avoided getting them dirty while under fire ... assuming, of course, that they ever were under fire.  It was quite possible that the city, for all it was surrounded by a sea of poverty and misery, was relatively secure.

Or that they’re sitting on top of a minefield, he thought, sourly.  Han looked relatively safe until it exploded into fire.

His wristcom buzzed.  “Colonel, this is Yamane,” a voice said.  “The Koenraad Jurgen is requesting permission to depart, along with the squadron and our new friends.”

Edward had expected it, but it still left him feeling exposed.  “Permission granted,” he said.  “Tell them to return to the system in four weeks – and make sure they run a full recon first.”

He shook his head as he walked over to the window and looked out at the towering spires of the city.  “And keep a sharp eye on your own security,” he added, grimly.  “You’re far too close to rebel-held territory.”

“Aye, sir,” Yamane said.  She sounded nervous, although it would be difficult for anyone to tell if they hadn’t had the right experience.  “Good luck with the talks.”

The Professor caught his attention as he closed the channel.  “When do we start the talks?”

“Tomorrow,” Edward said.  He grinned, suddenly.  “You and your wife can have a long rest in your quarters” – he didn't begrudge the Professor some luxury – “and then you can join me tomorrow morning.  It's time to finally discover just what Governor Brown actually wants from us.”

***
“Well?”

The operator looked up as Sivaganga entered the chamber, then scrambled to his feet and fell on his knees as he realised just how important his visitor actually was.  Sivaganga waved impatiently for him to get upright, then barked at him to report.  The operator hesitated, then reported that the off-worlders had found and disabled most of the bugs.  His voice made it clear that he expected to be beheaded for this failure.

“Not too surprising,” Sivaganga mused, instead.  “We knew that they kept some equipment for their own use.”

He scowled down at the final reports.  There were just over one hundred off-worlders from the Commonwealth and seventy from the Wolfbane Sector, all presumably heavily armed.  He knew too much about the power of the Empire’s weapons to be sanguine about the chances of eliminating them without heavy bloodshed.  But they were in the Imperial Residency, caught like rats in a trap.  And the trap was about to be sprung ...

“I want full reports from the spies,” he ordered, softly.  “Let us find out all we can before it is is too late.”

Chapter Ten

It can get worse if the stronger party doesn't appear strong – or willing to back up its threats.  If the weaker party believes that the stronger party doesn't have the will to carry out its threats, those threats will simply be disregarded.  
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

Leo couldn’t help feeling a twinge of excitement as he followed Colonel Stalker through the gates and into the third and final section of the Imperial Residency.  The pre-meeting briefings had made it clear that they were going to be meeting their counterparts formally and opening talks – talks that might lead to permanent diplomatic relations and a treaty between the Wolfbane Sector and the Commonwealth.  He smiled as he saw the third building – another low building, guarded by a handful of local soldiers – and the statues surrounding the walls.  If nothing else, the location was remarkable.

The Colonel stepped through the door and into a large room, easily large enough to hold both delegations and their escorts without cramming people together.  There was a large table in the centre of the room, illuminated by portable lanterns hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by a handful of high-backed chairs.  On the other side of the room, two more people were stepping inside, both wearing modified Imperial Navy uniforms.  It made him feel rather shabby in his academic suit and tie, although he suspected that he was more comfortable than the naval officers.  He’d had to sit through hundreds of lectures before finally reaching a level where he could pick and choose where he went to be bored.

Nothing was said until Colonel Stalker and his counterpart had swept the room with security sensors.  They found nothing, somewhat to Leo’s surprise; he’d expected the third building to be as heavily bugged as their living quarters.  He’d been disquieted to discover that there had even been surveillance devices in the bathroom, in prime position to watch as they went to the toilet or have a long bath.  Colonel Stalker hadn't been surprised – he’d pointed out that most people who thought they were under surveillance used the sound of running water to conceal their words – but Leo hadn't taken it too calmly.  He’d also been careful not to mention it to Fiona.  After all, the bugs had been removed.

“Please, be seated,” General Flora O’Donnell said.  “There is little need for formality here.”

Leo nodded.  According to the notes provided by Governor Brown during the long pre-negotiation negotiations, she was his military representative – although there had been no trace of her in the files.  General was an Imperial Army or Civil Guard rank, but she wore the uniform of an Imperial Naval officer with the rank stripes removed.  It was impossible to tell if she was trying to confuse them or if she had absolutely no right to claim to be a military officer at all.  

She looked formidable, he had to admit.  The General wasn't as muscular as Jasmine or any of the other female Marines, but she was definitely no slouch.  Her hair, cropped close to her skull, was brown; her eyes were sharp and moved restlessly from Leo to Colonel Stalker and back again.  It was impossible to be sure of her age, yet it was clear that she was old enough to be quite self-confident in herself.

Alistair Lockhart – her companion - wore his uniform loosely, as if it wasn't something he was used to wearing.  He was a paunchy man, although there was a glint in his eye that reminded Leo of the Dean of Imperial University, a shrewd man who had made himself the master of a small bureaucratic empire.  Leo had to tell himself, firmly, not to confuse the two men; the Dean had been an ambitious little toad, incapable of looking beyond his own interests, but Lockhart might be very different.  Governor Brown had trusted him to negotiate a treaty, after all.  The man had to be trustworthy.

Unless Governor Brown doesn't have many people he can trust, he thought, remembering his studies of the empire Admiral Singh had built.  She’d sat on top of an edifice built of human misery and fear, ensuring that anyone who dared step out of line was reported at once by their fellows, who were rewarded for their betrayal.  But when cracks appeared in her foundations, her structure had shattered remarkably quickly.  Governor Brown might be no better than her, merely more willing to consider co-existence as a viable possibility.

He wondered, vaguely, just what they knew about the Commonwealth’s two representatives.  The Empire’s famously-complete files probably included references to Colonel Stalker – although they would probably identify him as a Marine Corps Captain rather than anything connected to Avalon – but he doubted there would be anything on him personally.  All of his work had been wiped from the Imperial Datanet when he’d been unceremoniously sacked from Imperial University; it was quite possible that he was a non-person as far as the remnants of the Empire were concerned.  It still irked him that all of the copies of his first papers, including his own personal copies, had been destroyed.  No matter what he did, he was unlikely to be able to reconstruct his first pieces of work.

“That is good to hear,” Colonel Stalker remarked, dryly.  “Particularly as few people have any idea how to carry out a diplomatic meeting these days.”

Flora gave him a smile that made her seem years younger.  “Very true, Colonel,” she agreed, lifting a hand to indicate the chairs.  “Shall we be seated?”

She waited until they were all sitting down before continuing.  “I meant to ask,” she added, smoothly.  “Was your promotion confirmed by the Promotions Board or was it merely handed out by the Commandant of the Marine Corps?”

Colonel Stalker smiled, although his eyes were very cold.  “Honesty compels me to admit that I do not know,” he replied.  “I assume that the paperwork was handled in line with regulations.  Even if it wasn't, the Commandant would have the authority to promote someone up to the rank of Major without requiring the Promotions Board to sign off on it.”

“It is hard to tell these days,” Flora said.  There was a rueful note in her voice as she leaned forward, placing her hands on the desk.  “Far too many people have been promoting themselves in the wake of the Empire’s fall.”

Lockhart cleared his throat.

“But my companion wishes me to proceed,” Flora continued, without missing a beat.  “I believe that we should start with an assessment of the current situation.”

Leo studied Lockhart as covertly as possible.  One of the other details the briefing papers had forgotten to mention – and he would have bet half his savings that it wasn't a simple mistake – was which of the two representatives was actually in charge.  He’d assumed that the General was in command, but was it really Lockhart?  And, if he was clearly no military officer, what was he?  Secret Police?  Or merely a trusted ally of the Governor?

“We have only heard rumours of the Fall of Earth,” Colonel Stalker said, unable or unwilling to disguise his interest.  “It would be interesting to hear what you know about it.”

“The planet collapsed into chaos two years ago,” Lockhart began.  He spoke in an accent that dripped of Earth.  “Details are scarce; apparently, there was a food shortage, followed rapidly by a breakdown into civil war.  There was a major exchange of fire above the planet’s atmosphere, ending when debris fell down and struck the planet’s surface.  It was the end of the world.”

Leo shuddered.  Earth had been building up its orbital installations for over five thousand years, a project that had started long before the Unification Wars.  If a handful of the larger stations or habitats, particularly the ones built out of asteroids, had fallen out of orbit and impacted against the planet’s surface, the results would have been disastrous.  Earth’s towering cityblocks would have fallen like ninepins as earthquakes swept over the planet.  The death toll would have been utterly immeasurable.

There were eighty billion people on Earth, he thought.  He’d known it was a possibility that Earth was gone – he’d worked out just how dependent Earth was on supplies from beyond the planet’s atmosphere – but he’d shied away from considering the possible consequences.  Eighty billion – officially.  God alone knows how many actually died.

Colonel Stalker leaned forward.  Only someone who knew him very well would have heard the hint of ... fear in his voice.  “And the Childe Roland?  The Grand Senate?  The Commandant?”

“We do not know,” Flora admitted.  She gave Stalker a long considering look.  “We do know that the Grand Senators started fighting before the fall – and that civil war raged through many of the Core Worlds.  However, we do not know any specifics.”

Or are unwilling to share, Leo thought.  The concept of keeping information private was not something that sat well with him, but he knew enough to know that it was done on a regular basis.  After all, sharing one’s information with someone else might allow them to steal a lead and move ahead – and claim all the credit.  Besides, if the situation in the Core Worlds was really as bad as they claimed, it was quite possible that they didn't know anything for sure.

Flora smiled, although it didn't quite touch her eyes.  “As the Governor sees it, the Empire is gone and it won’t be coming back,” she continued.  “That leaves us effectively independent of any central authority – and you too, of course.  Do you agree with our position?”

“We certainly have no intention of challenging your independence,” Colonel Stalker assured them, calmly.  He made a motion that suggested that he was laying something on the table.  “We agree that the evidence suggests that the Empire is gone and that we’re effectively on our own.”

“Good,” Flora said.  “It is our intention to agree on precisely-delimited spheres of influence between Wolfbane and Avalon.  We do not wish to have any other form of treaty at this time, merely an agreement on borders and ... and on which worlds fall within which sphere.  In particular, we wish to limit trading contacts between our worlds and your own.”

“The Commonwealth Government does not limit the activities of independent traders,” Colonel Stalker pointed out.  “And, in any case, we do not control the Trade Federation.”

“The Trade Federation is a different issue,” Flora countered.  “If you please, we need to discuss borders ...”

***
Endurance was one of the prime requirements for passing the Crucible and donning the Rifleman’s Tab that separated a recruit from a qualified Marine.  Edward had marched and fought and marched again for days during the final examinations, somehow forcing himself to keep going when flesh and bone demanded rest.  Few civilians really appreciated just how long a Marine could keep going, even without limited enhancement.

But if that were true, he asked himself dryly, why can't I endure more than a couple of hours of talks?

It was a relief when they finally separated for lunch, if only because the talks were going nowhere fast.  The Commonwealth was going to be disappointed, Edward knew, if the representatives were telling the truth about wanting nothing more than delineating spheres of influence.  He knew that the Council would accept that Wolfbane had political influence – just like the Commonwealth itself – but without diplomatic relationships it was hard to imagine it lasting.  Besides, they knew almost nothing about the Wolfbane Sector’s internal structure.  There was no way to know if Governor Brown was barring them from worlds he controlled or worlds he intended to take under his wing.

There was another possibility, he acknowledged, as they walked back to their section of the Imperial Residency.  Governor Brown might be trying to parse out the worlds controlled by the Commonwealth.  After all, there were quite a few worlds that had chosen to remain independent – or join the Trade Federation instead.  The Governor might be quietly assessing their potential strength before launching an invasion – or merely satisfying himself that they didn't pose a threat.

“I wonder how many times we can go over the same ground,” the Professor mused, once they were back in the secure room.  “They told us the same thing time and time again.”

Edward heard the disappointment in his voice and felt a pang of sorrow.  The Professor had been one of life’s innocents, back when he’d been working at Imperial University.  He’d learned hard lessons since, including the bitter truth that being right was no defence when someone wanted to shoot the messenger – or that power came out of the barrel of a gun.  The Professor deserved much better ...

... But if he’d been on Earth, if the representatives had been telling the truth, he would be dead by now, along with his family.

Edward’s first deployment, after graduating from the Slaughterhouse, had been to a planet that had been struck by an asteroid.  The civilisation had been nowhere near as compressed and integrated as Earth’s and it had still been torn apart by the impact.  Millions had died in the first moments; millions more had perished over the following weeks and months as the effects raged around the globe.  And that had been one asteroid, tipped onto the planet by a revolutionary cell.  If all of Earth’s vast orbital network had been dumped onto the planet, everyone on the surface would die.  They’d said that there were so many in orbit that they blocked out the sun, although Edward knew that was nothing more than hyperbole.  Not that it would have mattered.  Anyone who survived the first strikes would starve to death when the food supplies ran out.

“We can hold out for diplomatic relations as the price for considering establishing a border,” he said, pushing his morbid thoughts aside.  Who knew what had happened to the Slaughterhouse?  The Marine Corps had had enough enemies to guarantee that at least one of them would try to destroy the training world, once the Empire collapsed into chaos.  “But we really need to know more about what territory Wolfbane actually controls before we agree to a fixed border.”

“And the traders won’t stick to a border in any case,” the Professor commented.  “Mandy said that they’d go anywhere and do anything.”

Edward smirked.  They’d said that about the Marines too.

“They may well be trying to assert their own authority over the traders too,” Edward theorised, pushing that thought aside too.  “Or they may wish to separate us from the Trade Federation.”

He shook his head, tiredly.  The Commonwealth had a small tax on HE3 and interstellar trade, but the constitution had been carefully written to prevent the formation of shipping cartels like the ones that had done so much harm to the Rim’s economy.  Small traders were less efficient, but they weren't used as weapons against the colonies by interstellar corporations.  Most of the corporations were gone now, or reduced to their local stations, but it was quite likely that others would form in the future.

But there was no attempt – there could be no attempt – to control the independent traders, let alone the Trade Federation.  The Commonwealth could advise them not to enter space controlled by Governor Brown, but it couldn't forbid it.  And, even if it could, Edward wasn't inclined to do it.  The traders might be their only source of true intelligence.  

He shook his head.  “We've invited them to a formal dinner tomorrow evening,” he reminded him, instead.  “By then, we should have time to go over everything they said and make our counterproposals.  If nothing else, they should be amenable to using this planet as a permanent point of contact ...”

“If the locals don’t object,” the Professor noted.  He’d taken the evidence of poverty and near-total neglect badly.  “Or maybe we should set up a base in interstellar space we can use as a diplomatic station, now that we’re actually talking.”

Edward nodded as they reached the Residence and stepped through the doors.  Lieutenant Coleman saluted, then ran a scanner over their bodies, looking for bugs or other unpleasant surprises.  There was nothing, something that both pleased and worried Edward.  It pleased him because it suggested that the representatives, for all their stubbornness, were being honest; it worried him because he hadn't been trained to be optimistic.  He had to admit that it was quite possible that they were missing something.

“Get some rest,” he suggested, once the scan was complete.  “We’ll discuss progress later.”

The Professor nodded and started to walk towards the corridor leading to his quarters.  “And tell your wife to plan out a dinner for them,” Edward called after him.  “She can source foodstuffs from the locals if she wants.”

“I’ll tell her,” the Professor said.  “Can she go out into the city?”

“If escorted,” Edward stated, firmly.  The planetary government would have to be insane to pick a fight with either diplomatic mission, but it wouldn't be the first time some rogue actor saw an opportunity and did something stupid.  “Take a squad of Marines with you and have them escorting you at all times.”

The Professor didn't bother to argue, although Edward suspected that his wife would complain once she realised that she wouldn't be free of the Marines until after she returned to Avalon.  Camelot had been a relatively safe environment; he rather doubted that Maharashtra was safe for anyone, even the higher castes.  

He watched the Professor go, then looked over at Coleman.  “Is there any update from the garrison?”

“They’re deploying most of the CEF near the causeway,” Coleman reported.  “Apart from that, nothing specific.”

“No news is good news,” Edward said.  Still, he had to admit that he felt nervous about being so distant from most of his command.  “Anything else?”

“Private Doncaster was caught having his knob sucked by one of the servants,” Coleman reported.  “The Major took a dim view of it and ordered administrative punishment.”

Edward rolled his eyes.  Why was he not surprised?

Chapter Eleven

This requires an accurate understanding of the balance of power.  Imperial China, for example, never really grasped the disparity between the Chinese army and the invading Westerners.  Instead of using diplomacy to buy time and refit their armies, they followed a course that brought them into inevitable conflict with a vastly superior foe.  
-Professor Leo Caesius.  Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

“This place,” Jasmine muttered, “is far too like Han for comfort.”

She looked around her as the small patrol made its way through Jhansi, wondering – again – just how anyone could live in such conditions.  Vast piles of rubbish were scattered everywhere, flies buzzing angrily over food and human wastes.  The stench was appalling; she’d had to admit defeat and order her escort to don their masks, just to allow them to keep walking through the city.  The older buildings looked decayed, as if they were permanently on the verge of falling down; the only buildings that seemed reasonably clean were a handful of temples and a couple of large mansions for local government officials.

The sea of human misery was horrifying.  Jasmine saw hundreds of young men wandering listlessly around the city, many of them carrying makeshift weapons and trying to look tough and nasty.  There were few young women; the handful they’d seen had clearly been prostitutes or beggars.  The majority, she guessed, were kept firmly indoors by their parents, something that had also been common on Han.  There was no hope of bringing a rapist to justice in such an environment, assuming the girl survived the experience.  It was much more likely that she’d be blamed for the heinous crime of being raped and killed by her own family.  Jasmine found the concept sickening beyond belief.

From what the garrison’s intelligence staff had said, Jhansi was technically under the control of the local government, but the rebels had a strong presence within the city’s boundaries, priming the local population for an uprising.  Jasmine suspected that they were right, although the more she looked around, the more convinced she became that resistance had been ground out of most of the population.  Even if there had been some fire left in them, the near-starvation – she had yet to see a well-fed person outside the upper castes – would ensure that their uprising wouldn't last long.  

But then, Han turned into a nightmare very quickly, she reminded herself.  This world might explode too.

She looked across at Emmanuel Alves as they made their way down the road and out of the city, towards where they had set up their Forward Operating Base near the causeway.  The reporter had been silent ever since they’d entered the city, barely taking the time to take photographs of their surroundings and what few people could be seen.  Jasmine wondered, absently, if he’d been shocked into submission by the sight, or if he was trying to understand just what sort of people would do this to their fellow men.  Even the Nihilists didn't try to grind an entire population’s face in the dirt.

“This place definitely feels like Han,” Buckley agreed, breaking his own silence.  “As if it’s on the verge of a final explosion.”

Alves looked up at him.  “Do you think that that’s likely?”

“It’s possible,” Jasmine admitted, reluctantly.  “But all we can do is stay on alert and pray that nothing goes wrong.”

Once, she would have looked for a way to help the locals.  But now she couldn’t think of anything that would help, beyond removing their government and providing enough support to help them build up a new and better government.  The task would be far beyond the Commonwealth, she knew, even if the remainder of the Knights were shipped to join them; the sheer level of hatred that burned through the population was terrifyingly powerful.  When the lid blew off, the planet would dissolve into mass slaughter and starvation.  

The FOB was little more than a handful of tents and prefabricated buildings, each one guarded by an armed soldier.  Jasmine had issued explicit orders that no locals were to be allowed into the camp, even though she knew that someone would probably try to sneak in a local prostitute or two when they thought their superiors weren't looking.  It wasn't uncommon on Avalon, where the prostitutes might try to drain the soldiers of their wages, but they wouldn't be actually dangerous.  Here, it could be lethal.  The medics had added to her orders by issuing dire warnings about the possibility of catching something nasty from the local environment.

“Brigadier,” Captain Royce said, as they passed the tanks she’d positioned at the entrance to the base.  The Landshark tanks were hellishly intimidating, perhaps enough so to discourage the locals from trying anything stupid.  “We have a visitor.  He wishes to speak with our commanding officer.”

Jasmine gave him a sharp look.  “And who, precisely, is he?”

“He claims to be Yin, the leader of the rebel forces,” Royce informed her.  “I’ve checked with the garrison and they’ve confirmed that there is a rebel leader by that name, but they don’t have any ID data we can use to identify him for sure.”

“Typical,” Jasmine said, crossly.  Thrust intelligence officers to know nothing when it really counted.  But perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise.  Even on Earth, millions of people – perhaps billions – had been excluded from the census.  “Where is he now?”

“I put him in the guardhouse,” Royce said.  “He said he could wait until we were ready to speak to him.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Jasmine decided.  She looked over at Alves.  “Do you want to come?”

The reporter nodded, once.

Yin was an old man, with bronzed skin, sharp dark eyes and a white beard that reminded her of her grandfather.  His body was thin, although he was clearly in a better condition than most of the people in the nearby city.  Jasmine wasn’t too surprised; in an unstable location, like Han, everyone knew that the men with guns got to eat first.  The Crackers hadn't stolen food from farmers on Avalon, but other insurgents had preyed on their fellow countrymen when they weren't fighting the government’s forces.  Why should Yin be any different?

“Two hundred years ago,” Yin said, in poor Imperial Standard, “my grandparents were dumped on this world.  Why were we then abandoned?”

Jasmine took a closer look at him.  The locals – the original locals – shared the same genotype, with the only major difference  being skin colour.  Indeed, she’d seen thousands of mixed-caste children and adults within the city.  But the refugees the Imperial Navy had dumped on Lakshmibai had introduced new genes to the planetary population.  Up close, it was clear that Yin had inherited traits from both sides.

“The Empire lost interest in what it was doing,” Jasmine said.  She’d seen it before, a pattern that had become more and more common as the Empire approached the end of its lifespan.  It would start on a project with the noblest of goals, then it would become a pork barrel for graft and corruption ... and then it would finally be abandoned, leaving nothing but wreckage behind.  “And I’m sorry about that ...”

“We do not have long before they destroy us,” Yin interrupted.  “Please will you help us?”

Jasmine would have loved to help the rebels, but she knew that her hands were tied.  The Commonwealth couldn't even ship in weapons and food-production facilities.  She mentally cursed her helplessness, wishing that she’d declined the offer of command.  All it meant was that she had to turn Yin away, without even giving him something for his trouble.

“I cannot,” she said, softly.  “There’s nothing we can do.”

“You have supplies in your island,” Yin said.  “If you gave them to us ...”

Jasmine scowled.  He was right; if they provided the rebels with weapons, the rebels would have a chance to take the local government out before it could adapt.  But it was also possible that it would merely make the fighting worse, slaughtering thousands upon thousands more people before it finally came to an end.

“My wife died giving birth to my fifth child,” Yin pleaded.  “Three of them died before reaching their fifth year.  We’re being exterminated by the” – he spoke a word Jasmine didn't recognise, a word that sounded thoroughly unpleasant – “and we can't last much longer.  I know what the Empire can do, young man; it can help!”

“The Empire is gone,” Jasmine said.  “There’s just us now.”

“Help us and we will help you,” Yin offered.  He leaned forward.  “There has to be something we can do ...”

“There isn't,” Jasmine said, feeling her words tugging at her heartstrings.  If there was something ... but she knew there wasn't.  They couldn't intervene and save the planet from itself.  All they could do was provide security for the diplomats and then withdraw from the world.  “I am sorry.”

Yin stared at her for a long moment, as if he wanted to find the words that would force her to change her mind – or simply curse her for being so unfeeling – but nothing came out of his mouth.  Instead, he turned and walked through the door, looking neither left or right as he passed the guards and headed out into the countryside.  It struck Jasmine, suddenly, just how disgracefully healthy she and her subordinates must look to his eyes, a small army of men who were properly fed and trained, who could expect the best of health care if they were injured while on deployment.  And three of his children had died in infancy.  

She shuddered.  Whatever else could be said about Avalon – or Earth - the infant mortality rate had been very low.  But then, even Earth had been able to provide most of the population with food, although it had mainly been bland and boring ration bars.  Lakshmibai didn't even try.

“That was sickening,” Alves said.  “When the people find out about it, they’ll want to help.”

Jasmine swallowed the first response that came to mind.  “Maybe they will,” she said, half-heartedly.  “But will they be prepared to pay the costs of intervening here?”

Alves blinked.  “The costs?”

“You’d need to deploy a small army to ensure security – and to take out the local government, if you didn't want to bombard the capital city from orbit,” Jasmine informed him.  “And then you would need to set up algae-production plants and then start handing out the food, while somehow preventing the locals from becoming dependent upon your produce.  And you would have to keep the downtrodden masses from brutally slaughtering all of their oppressors.”

“Would that,” Alves asked, “be such a bad thing?”

Jasmine nodded.  “These people tell caste status by skin colour,” she reminded him.  “If the lower castes rise up, they’ll kill everyone with lighter skin – men, women and children, all of them.  And then they’ll start killing those unlucky enough to be born to mixed-caste relationships.  And then ...”

She shook her head.  “They’ll smash the government, but they’ll also wipe out those who know how to produce foodstuffs,” she added.  “It will take them time to learn the skills – and the food shortages will make them more dependent upon algae or simply cause most of them to starve.  The newer government will start trying to take control of the food production systems and end up a tyranny just as bad as its predecessor.”

Alves scowled at her.  “How can you know that it will be that bad?”

“It’s happened before,” Jasmine said.  “On countless worlds, all of which look very different ... but share the same fundamental structural weaknesses.  If the Crackers had won, would they have created a new government that encompassed all of society or would they turn on other enemies?”

“I don’t know,” Alves admitted.  “But it would have been a better world.”

“Probably,” Jasmine agreed.  “The question, however, is simple; better for whom?”

***
“There are some worrying signs,” Colonel Macintyre admitted, two hours later.  “We knew that the rebels were under intense pressure, but the local government has definitely been moving additional troops into the region.  Mainly infantry, we believe, yet they’re backed up by tanks and helicopters.”

Jasmine winced.  The memory of the sheer hopelessness in Yin’s face refused to fade from her mind.  If there was something they could do ... it would be relatively easy to provide ration bars, she knew, yet even that would commit them to taking a side in the struggle.  

“We can ask the local government to hold back until after the talks are completed,” Colonel Stalker said.  He given them a brief outline of the talks and their progress – or lack of it – as soon as they’d established the connection.  “But I don’t know if they would listen to us.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference, sir,” Jasmine pointed out.  “The rebels are dying.  So is most of the local population in this region.”

The Colonel gave her a long considering look.  “There's nothing we can do,” he admitted, bitterly.  “Even if we started distributing food now, even if we set up a full-scale production plant, what would happen after we left?”

Jasmine winced.  The locals would crash back into starvation, made worse by the fact they’d had enough food to eat ... if they had had enough food to eat.  There were so many of them that providing food would be tricky until they could ramp up production.  

“We could hand the production plant over to the rebels when we leave,” she offered.  It was unlikely that any of the former garrison’s staff would want to stay on the cursed world a moment longer than they had to.  “Or we could leave a small team of volunteers on the surface ...”

“Which would make them a greater target,” the Colonel pointed out, not unkindly.  “The garrison might be tough, but it isn't invulnerable.  We’d be involving ourselves directly in this world’s affairs.”

Colonel Macintyre cleared her throat.  “With all due respect, sir,” she argued, “we are already involved.”

“We do not have the resources the Empire possessed at its height,” Colonel Stalker said, firmly.  “There is no way that we can make a long-term commitment to Lakshmibai, even if we didn't have to worry about our relations with Governor Brown and the Wolfbane Sector.  I know; this world is heartbreaking.  But there is nothing we can do that will do anything other than make the problem worse in the long run.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Jasmine said, feeling oddly like she’d disappointed her father.  “But Emmanuel is intent on convincing the Commonwealth to intervene.”

The Colonel smiled.  “It's Emmanuel now, is it?”

Jasmine made a face to cover her blush.  

“It would be nice to think that ... Emmanuel could convince the Commonwealth to support a long-term intervention,” the Colonel agreed.  “But I think that it would be beyond our power, even if we had complete freedom of action.  And we don’t, because of Governor Brown.”

“You could ask the representatives what they think,” Jasmine suggested, slowly.  “Perhaps we could agree not to install any orbital defences, or anything that would make this world a strategic target or a potential threat.”

“I could,” the Colonel agreed, “but right now the talks are ... delicate.  We don't want to upset them more than strictly necessary.”

On that note, the discussion ended.

***
Prostrating himself in front of the Prince was humiliating – it wasn't as though he was his esteemed father – but Sivaganga Zamindari knew better than to omit the ritual, not when the Prince had formally taken command of the operation.  He needed to maintain what influence he could over the younger man, even if it meant swallowing his pride and kowtowing before him.

“You may rise,” the Prince ordered.  “Is everything in place?”

“It is, My Prince,” Sivaganga confirmed.  The Prince had wanted to mount a headlong assault into the Imperial Residency, but Sivaganga had managed to discourage him, pointing out that it would make it far too clear who the aggressor had been.  If the Rajah was wrong about the off-worlders leaving their homeworld alone, they needed something to make it seem as though the off-worlders on the surface had brought their fate on themselves.  “We are ready.”

The Prince smiled, darkly.  “They suspect nothing?”

“Our spies have reported that they are cautious, but do not realise that there is a major threat,” Sivaganga said.  “One of them attempted to seduce an off-world soldier, but learned nothing of value.”

“Of course not,” the Prince sneered.  “Who would tell a common soldier anything?  Why are they not trying to seduce the diplomats?”

“One of them has brought his wife,” Sivaganga explained.  “Two others are clearly in a relationship; the fourth is seemingly uninterested in women or boys.”

“Women,” the Prince repeated.  He’d laughed when he’d heard that one of the diplomats was a woman, pointing out that it proved that the off-worlders were truly effeminate.  Even higher-caste women had no right to issue orders to higher-caste men.  “Do they actually wish to come to any agreement?”

“There is a matter of some concern,” Sivaganga told him, carefully.  “One of the rebel leaders visited the camp which the off-worlders have established near their garrison ...”

The Prince swore vilely.  “What did he say to them?”

“We do not know,” Sivaganga admitted.  “It is possible that he sought their aid in waging war on us.”

“He would have sought their aid,” the Prince snapped.  He glared down at Sivaganga, who hastily bowed his head.  “They might already be shipping food and weapons to the rebels.  We must stop them before it is too late.  The operation is to begin tomorrow!”

“Yes, My Prince,” Sivaganga conceded.  The Prince was probably right; there was little else the rebels would want from the off-worlders.  If there was an alliance between the two forces ... it was hard to see how they could be prevented from overthrowing the Rajah and imposing a new government on the planet.  “I will obey.”

And with that, he knew, the die was cast.