Imperial Glory

by Richard Williams

  ‘There it is,’ Arbulaster breathed. There were the orks. There was a settlement. It was indisputably defended and fortified. But here it was, all laid out before them.

  The room crackled as the vox-net reactivated. This time, though, it was not the mechanical, yet so human voice of Zdzisław.

  ‘This is Flight Lieutenant Plant in D Doctrine requesting permission to recover G Galaxy.’

  Arbulaster cleared the roughness in his throat. ‘This is the colonel. Is G Galaxy within the interference radius?’ he asked, though they all knew the answer. They had all seen it happen before them.

  There was silence on the vox-net for a few seconds, then: ‘Yes, it is, colonel, but we’re willing–’

  ‘Then your request is denied, flight lieutenant. Valkyrie flight is to return to Dova at once. Objective has been accomplished.’

  ‘Colonel,’ Plant began again, ‘please reconsider, we are–’

  ‘Brooce, cut the vox-net,’ Arbulaster interrupted, and Plant’s words died in mid-air.

  Now, Arbulaster looked around at each of his officers.

  ‘Here we are then,’ he told them. ‘Here is the face of the enemy and here are my orders. We will proceed here, we will annihilate them and then we will be done. Gentlemen, you all have work ahead of you. Get to it and make it happen.’

  His officers all concurred and Arbulaster watched them as they began to plan the offensive. There was one man there he did not regard, however; the man who had no role in their planning and who excused himself shortly after. That man was Commissar Reeve.

  Chapter Eight

  Jungle Trail, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 17

  ‘Kay-Vee!’ Stanhope heard the shout as the whine of the lascutter shut off. ‘Kay-Vee!’

  At the front of the column, the beard shouted again, as the ancient tree he had cut through groaned and shifted a fraction to one side. ‘Kay-Vee!’

  The tree, slowly at first but gathering speed, fell to one side, as stiff as a well-trained trooper passing out during parade. Stanhope watched the men fall upon it with their machetes and hatchets, stripping it of its leaves and branches, so that it might be hauled out of the column’s path.

  Kay-Vee, Stanhope remembered. It meant ‘Beware’. Cadets for the Brimlock officer corps learned it in their first weeks at schola and they took such phrases with them on their regiments’ journeys through the galaxy. Words once whispered after lights-out to warn their bunk-fellows of an approaching magister were shouted loud as the enemy’s shells fell on them, or terrible monsters burst through flimsy walls and tore men apart.

  That fraction, that tiny fraction of cadets who survived to return to Brimlock as colour-guard and perhaps become magisters themselves, brought new words back with them. Exotic, mysterious words that laced their speech and fired the imaginations of the cadets of the next generation. Most did not catch on, some took a grip but then were forgotten with the changing fashion, but the best became so deeply ingrained, that within a few years they were as traditional to Brimlock as Saint Marguerite herself.

  Such development was not limited solely to words. Tanna itself was a Valhallan beverage brought, so the story went, to Brimlock by a returning officer of a colour-guard, who had fought alongside the ice warriors. So too were the fell-cutters. The first auxilia recruits from the tribute world Marguerite were not intended to be soldiers at all, only labourers. They had been unarmed, except for some local chopping blades called falcatas, which a regimental commander had purchased for them so they could cut back the woods around his camp. Yet when that regiment was ambushed by the enemy and surrounded, far from safety, the margoes had gone to their rescue and assaulted the foe’s positions with only their blades, allowing the regiment to break out and escape. None of the margoes had survived their sacrifice, but that commander took the blades and their story to their home. After that, Brimlock never recruited the men of Marguerite as labourers again. They were only ever raised as soldiers, issued with lasguns and flak armour, and carrying those same chopping blades that had brought their people such honour. And so the fell-cutters were born.

  The Imperium valued Brimlock solely for its industry: its skill at making guns, the men to fire them and the vehicles in which they could be transported. But truly what was great about Brimlock was that its regiments went and found the best the galaxy had to offer, brought it home, distilled it and then spread the result with the next generation.

  The best the galaxy had to offer, and sometimes the worst as well. Stanhope felt the need again. His fingers shook a little as he eased them into the small slit in his jacket. He took something from its hiding place and slipped it into his mouth, as he pretended to mop his brow. Then he relaxed and went back to watching the jungle, as it slowly retreated before the might of the Imperial Guard.

  Carson walked down the line of his men. They all had the equipment contents of their packs laid out in front of them on their groundsheets: lasguns, pistols, spare power packs, fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, bayonets, ration cans, canteens, cremators, toilet articles, mess kits, fire-lighters, medicae treatments and more. It was an oft-repeated witticism amongst the armoured fist companies that the light infantry carried the most and travelled the slowest. There was an element of truth in it; while the other companies could rely on their Chimera transports to carry their heavy gear, a light company were most often deployed in terrain where the Chimeras could not operate, so anything they needed they had to carry themselves. Still, it did not mean they had to become beasts of burden and, as he went down the line, Carson tapped those extraneous items that would weigh his men down and make them less effective on the raid he was about to lead.

  It had been ten days since the Valkyrie flight over the crater. Ten days since Commander Zdzisław went down. Though he had been a Navy man, he had been attached to the 11th as long as anyone could remember. But, as ever, there was no time for mourning or regrets. The images of the crater showed exactly what the colonel had expected. The ork survivors had established a fortified position around the rok, and that meant he would not risk sending his infantry in unsupported, they would have to get their tanks there, and that meant cutting a path through the jungle.

  The beard, Mulberry, had reckoned it would take five or six days to cross the fifty kilometres from Dova to the crater. Now, ten days later, the crater still loomed in the distance, taunting them. Van Am had been right. It hadn’t been the trees, they fell quickly enough to the lascutters and plasma fire; it had been the ground. It was relatively flat around Dova, but as they tore the jungle away further in, the beards found the terrain a mess of rocky slopes, sudden valleys and concealed pits. Even the tree roots themselves were stretched out across the surface, the oldest ones as tough as stone. The largest were as thick as a man was tall and had to be cut through to allow the tanks and trucks to pass. The advance continued, with little for Carson’s company to do but stand and watch the jungle, guarding the beards from an ork attack that had yet to emerge.

  Carson did not know what game the orks were playing. If he had been in their position, he would have been harassing the column ever since it left Dova. The colonel knew how exposed they were and was taking every precaution to ensure they were not surprised. Infantry patrols constantly circled the head of the column, and Drum’s tanks and Rosa’s heavy artillery stayed close at hand. But Carson had fought orks before, and knew that they did not shy from a fight, even when their enemy was ready for it.

  To relieve the tedium, Carson asked for and was granted permission to lead raids far further from the column, deeper into the jungle ahead. He had no shortage of volunteers for his raids from the men either, as the beards were a dab hand at roping in any man standing idle. The prospect of scouting into the unknown, and maybe biting it from an ork or a jungle beast, became far more appealing after one had spent a day trying to push a Leman Russ battle tank up a debris-strewn slope. All of his own company
stood up and, as soon as word got around, the men from other companies started putting themselves forward as well.

  Carson accepted as many as he thought the company captains might allow; he knew he had an imposing reputation amongst them, but he was still a second lieutenant and that rank would only ever allow him so much liberty. His own company captain, or rather major, had the rank but did not appear inclined to do anything with it.

  The first day after he had taken command, Stanhope had spent ‘engaged.’ Carson had assumed that Stanhope was involved in Arbulaster’s planning sessions, but Mouse reported back at the end of the day that the major hadn’t left his room. Then Carson thought that perhaps Stanhope was looking to ease the transition for him, to allow him to continue to command as he had done before, until the campaign proper began. But then the morning came when the regiment was due to march, and a message came that Carson should retain command.

  Stanhope appeared before they left, his uniform stripped down so that, aside from the fell-cutter, he appeared almost as a regular private. Carson had inquired about his dress and Stanhope had curtly replied that regulations permitted officers to remove identifying rank markings as required where enemy snipers were suspected to be operating. If Stanhope’s face had not been deathly serious, Carson would have laughed in it. It was true, the regulation was there, but their enemy were orks, who fought only with blood-curdling charges, deafening roars and noisy guns. After that, Carson thought Stanhope might simply be cripplingly paranoid, but that was not the truth either.

  It was on the fourth day, when Mouse told Carson what he had noticed about the plants Stanhope kept in his room, that Carson realised the truth. Stanhope had surrendered. He had given up. Not to the enemy, but to the war. He was a leader who no longer wished to command. He was an officer who did not want to give orders, or have others look to him for them. He was a soldier who had no interest in living; yet one’s service to the Guard was for life, and the Brimlock mindset did not allow the self-curtailment of that term.

  When first Carson realised, he had been annoyed at having such an officer foisted upon him. Then he had been sympathetic. Then he had appreciated the advantages in having a commander who wished to be nothing more than a private soldier. The company had Stanhope’s name upon it, but it stayed Carson’s in all but that name and he did not have to struggle with another Blunder to keep it. That appreciation had lasted three days before, as is the way with all humankind when given what they want but not what they need, his mood had soured back into irritation. What gave Stanhope the right? Carson asked himself. Why was he allowed to call it quits, to surrender his duty, when all around him were expected to uphold theirs?

  Carson’s patrol was ready. He had chosen second platoon to come with him today and the men sat, packed and loaded. Van Am and a half-dozen of her Voorjer scouts were coming as well. He had consulted her before undertaking his first long patrol and she had told him that if he planned to find his way back at all, then he should ask her to go with him. And so he had. In truth, the Voorjers had limited knowledge of this area; it was a tiny part of a vast jungle that the colonists had barely scratched. But her scouts, hunters mainly, could move quietly enough and Van Am was determined to maintain her worth and so took every opportunity to be of use, from identifying the less pleasant fauna to demonstrating the crampons the Voorjers used to climb trees, pick fruit and get their bearings.

  Van Am wandered over to him, her hunting rifle carried in the crook of her arm.

  ‘Are we waiting for the major?’

  Carson saw Mouse approaching and directed Van Am towards him. Mouse presented himself to his lieutenant and saluted.

  ‘What’s the word?’ Carson asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  ‘Major Stanhope sends his compliments, sir, and entrusts you with command of the company for the day.’

  Carson nodded perfunctorily, then rose and swung his pack over his shoulders.

  ‘Any reply, sir?’

  ‘Tell him…’ Carson started, his irritation catching his tongue. Then he paused for a moment and took a breath. ‘You know what to say, Mouse. Tell him the usual.’

  With that, Carson called his men to their feet and Van Am and her voorjers led them into the jungle.

  The command Salamander vehicle hit another of the beards’ makeshift ramps and the jolt very nearly made Brooce bite through his tongue.

  ‘Have a care, Parker,’ he admonished his adjutant at the wheel.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the driver replied without thinking, his focus on the circumnavigation of the barricades and the men constructing them ahead. Brooce looked out the side at the troopers as they dug and cursed, and then looked over to his passenger.

  ‘It appears as if the transit camp is well on its way, sir. Once we’re through the rest of the trees it should be close enough to act as a launching point for the main attack.’

  Arbulaster glanced over in the direction Brooce was indicating with little interest. He then returned to looking out his own window. He’d been nursing this mood for days now, ever since the Valkyrie went down over the crater. He’d been acting very oddly as well. After the senior officers had had their fill of analysing Zdzisław’s pictures and retired, Arbulaster had asked Brooce to gather the service dockets for all the men in the regiment. Brooce offered to have them summarised if the colonel could give him an idea of what he was looking for, but Arbulaster waved him away, saying that he had no fear of bumph.

  Two days later, Brooce had delivered a half-dozen boxes full of records to his quarters. The colonel had spent the next three evenings dining in private, poring over the dockets. On the fourth morning he told Brooce to remove the boxes and instead compile for him all correspondence related to Carson’s company since the last campaign. He then went out on inspection. Brooce went to accompany him, but he said he wanted to keep it informal this time around. Brooce had the correspondence ready by that evening and handed it over to the colonel anticipating some kind of explanation. There was none.

  Two days after that, Arbulaster asked Brooce to convene a field advancement panel to consider any and all proposed promotions, decorations or commendations. The promotions at least would only be temporary, subject to consideration and confirmation by Crusade Command, but he’d said plainly that they shouldn’t go into battle with gaps in the command structure.

  When the findings of the panel were issued, Brooce went through them, hoping for some clue as to what had obsessed his colonel. There was only one matter relating to that company, the approval of the application to commend one ogryn called Frn’k. And it was that commendation that Brooce now held in his hand as they bumped along the track towards the head of the trail.

  Brooce was not the kind of man who worried. If he was a worrier then ten years with the 11th’s officer corps and six years as Arbulaster’s second-in-command would have finished him off long ago. No, Brooce was not a man raised to worry. He was a man raised to be concerned, however, and such behaviour from his colonel in the midst of a campaign had him more concerned than he had ever been.

  Whatever it was, Zdzisław’s death was the spur. It had triggered something in the colonel’s mind which had caused him to divert his attention from the ongoing operation and led him on this peculiar quest. Brooce knew it was down to him to say something. It was his duty, both as his second and his fellow officer. Arbulaster might be putting not only the operation but his own life in great danger if Reeve grew suspicious. Brooce had been able to deflect the commissar over the last few days, but Reeve would act on little more than suspicion if he decided that Arbulaster was not fit to command. The hundreds of little skulls upon Reeve’s coat were ostentatious, but effective, and Brooce had the unerring feeling that they watched him whenever he was in Reeve’s company.

  He had to say something, but he could not just come out with it. Brimlock men, and their women as well perhaps, simply did not discuss such things. Whe
n, during the invasion of Gandamak, Major-General Macnaughten learnt that a column of camp followers had been ambushed by a tribe of treacherous allies and that his wife and children were dead, they gave him a gun and an armoured division to wipe that tribe from the face of the planet. No one had tried to talk to him about his feelings!

  ‘Have you had a moment to review the notification for the Navy, sir?’ Brooce decided to open with. ‘Over their loss?’

  Arbulaster looked over and focused on his second, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Over the loss of Commander Zdzisław and his flight officer?’

  ‘Oh,’ Arbulaster remembered. ‘No, not yet.’

  Brooce continued: ‘I tried to be circumspect with the wording. After all, we don’t know what we might find when we reach the site. He might still be alive.’

  Arbulaster dismissed the thought out of hand. ‘He crashed ten days ago, right in the heart of them. If he hadn’t died then, he would have done so by now.’

  Now for the plunge. ‘Yes, sir. And I’ve made it clear in the notification the importance of the mission and that he understood and accepted the risks. There certainly shouldn’t be any blame attached to the regiment or to your command, sir.’

  That last sentence caught Arbulaster’s attention. ‘Me? Why should anyone blame me?’

  It was not the reply Brooce had expected. ‘I’m saying there certainly shouldn’t be any blame attached to you and that the notification makes that clear…’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, major,’ Arbulaster said without a hint of doubt. ‘Zdzisław said it himself, the Valkyrie was fighting him. It doesn’t matter if you believe in that claptrap or not. He believed, and his confidence was shot. That’s what killed him, and I know exactly who’s to blame for that.’