Imperium: Revelation: Book Two in the Imperium Trilogy

by Paul M Calvert

  “Do you come here regularly, Bill?” Alex asked.

  “No, this isn’t my local pub, Alex. That’s the Coopers Arms, just a few doors down from where I live in Naylor Road, but they do know me in here. This place is a bit rough at times, especially in the evening when the lads who think they are hard come here. Daft buggers.”

  Alexander nodded, his understanding of idioms having improved after being exposed to the banter between the soldiers. He was trying hard to adapt his accent to one more in keeping with Bill’s and was hopeful that in another week he could almost pass as a Londoner. “What do these hard lads do then, Bill?” he asked, “What should I look out for?”

  “For a start, don’t come in ‘ere alone at night. You’d be fair game, what with your size and all. The moment you opened your mouth they’d be one or more smart-arses trying it on with you.” Bill paused, realising Alex didn’t understand. “Look, just don’t come in here alone, alright?”

  Alexander nodded, still not completely sure. Bullying was not something he had any personal experience of, but he did know about human nature, at least from studying the learning modules, so thought he understood. He drained the last of his pint and stood up, suppressing a beer flavoured belch, to Bill’s amusement. “Will there be anything to eat at your house?” he asked, hopefully.

  “Ena will see you right, lad, don’t worry, now pick up those kit bags and give me a hand to the door, my stomachs a bit stiff after sitting down all day.”

  They left via the Commercial Way exit and turned left, almost immediately coming to another pub called the Sidmouth Arms, an imposing white stone and brick building on the corner of Bird in the Bush Road. They crossed over and passed a parade of small shops on their left, with small living quarters above them. A hundred yards further on and they came to the end of the shops. Bill indicated he wanted to go into the last one, which sold sweets and had a large painted sign over the door, Snapes, which Alex assumed was the name of its owner. He went in and jumped when a small bell rung behind him, attached to the door with a metal spring-loaded arm. Alexander looked around him at the walls. Jars and jars of assorted, brightly coloured sweets lined the shelves and on the low wooden table that was positioned opposite the door, on which a set of scales took pride of place.

  “Hello, Bill,” a loud and deep voice came from the back of the shop and out of the darkened interior an old man came out, smiling broadly.

  “Hello Mr. Snape,” Bill replied, strangely deferential. This was the first time Alexander had seen Bill act anything other than his normal, self-assured self, but here he was seeing another side to him. “Three pennyworths of the chocolate dates please and same again for the sugared almonds.”

  Mr. Snape nodded and reached behind for two jars. Covering his hand with a paper bag he dropped a number of brown sweets onto the scales, then into a larger, red and white-striped bag. The pastel-coloured sweets were poured directly onto the scales and with a flourish dropped into another bag.

  “The chocolate dates are for Ena, aren’t they Bill?” Mr. Snape asked, more as a statement than a question. “Tell her to make them last as I’ve been told by the supplier that sugar’s been rationed, along with anything else imported, and I don’t know when I’m going to get any more of the dates.” He looked at Bill closely, as if noticing for the first time he was holding himself upright with difficulty, then at Alexander. “Friend of yours?” he asked Bill, conversationally.

  Bill nodded. “This is Alex. Saved me and most of the lad's backsides over in Dunkirk. If it wouldn’t have been for him I don’t think any of the boys would have made it back.” He looked at Alexander and nodded his head, “Yeah, he’s with me. Gonna stay a while with us at my place, until he figures out what to do. He’s French, you know.”

  “They all as big as him in France, Bill?”

  “No Mr. Snape, we’re not. My mother put fertiliser in my shoes when I was growing up, which is why I grew so tall,” Alexander replied, a little irked that he was being ignored.

  Mr. Snape nodded, then laughed as the meaning of his words hit home. “Nice one, I’ll remember that. Here,” he said, reaching behind and proffering an open jar, “take a gobstopper. On the house.”

  Alexander did so, putting it into his pocket for later, once he’d figured out what to do with it and what gobstopper meant. “Thank you, Mr. Snape.”

  “Polite too,” Snape nodded approvingly, taking the coins from Bill. “Say hello to Ena for me, won't you,” he called out as they exited, the doorbell ringing again as it opened.

  They were standing on the corner. Behind them, and to the left and on the other side of the road they’d just come down, was a red brick school building. Low rise terraced house lined the roads as far as Alexander could see and he was relieved that having Vimes in his mind would ensure he’d never get lost. Above him and fixed into the grimy brick wall, a road sign proclaimed they were on Naylor Road, a long street that went off into the distance. The pavement was narrow, but fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic here with only a few motor vehicles visible. In the distance, attached to a cart piled with what looked to be broken and discarded objects, a horse could be seen idly nibbling on someone’s hedge.

  Bill interrupted his musings. “Here we are, number nine. My humble abode.” He pointed to a flat-roofed brick built house with two upstairs windows, the front door opening directly onto the pavement, literally a dozen yards from Snape's. Bill knocked on the door, having left his house keys along with much of his gear in France. In his peripheral vision, Alexander could see a net curtain twitch then an excited squeal could be heard coming from inside, followed by footsteps running to the door, which was pulled open and a young woman leapt out, but not before Alexander had quickly stepped in front of Bill, taking the full force of the impact and probably saving Bill from having several stitches reopened.

  Before either of the two men could say anything, Alexander's world exploded into one of pain, as a sharp knee impacted with his groin and he doubled over, part of him expecting to be struck again at any moment.

  “STOP, he’s with me, Ena!” called out Bill in his loudest Sergeant parade voice, forestalling her fist from connecting with Alexander exposed neck. “He didn’t want you hurting me, that’s all. I’ve had a little accident in France that's not quite healed yet.” He slowly reached down and helped Alexander gingerly straighten up. “Take some deep breaths lad, it’ll help a bit,” trying unsuccessfully to stop himself from laughing. Bill looked at his daughter. “Come here and give your old dad a hug, love, but be gentle,” he said, opening his arms wide and enfolding his daughter in a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you. There were times I didn’t think…” Bill stopped himself from saying any more, feeling Ena tense. Changing the subject, he continued, “the chap you just kneed in the whatsits is Alex. He helped me and the lads get home from Dunkirk. Proper hero he is and you just kneed him in the hows your fathers by way of a greeting.”

  Alexander nodded, now leaning against the wall by the door, still not feeling capable of completely straightening up. “Nice to meet you, I’m sure.” Alexander looked carefully at who had just felled him almost to the floor. Bill was right, she was tall compared the locals, a good few inches more than her father, but considerably shorter than Alexander. Still slightly bent over, he held out his hand, using the greeting he’d seen Bill and the other soldiers use on numerous occasions.

  Ena shook it warmly. “I’m sorry about that, you took me by surprise and I thought you were one of those…never mind. Oh, your hand’s warm,” she said, changing the subject, “Cup of tea?” and with that she went inside, holding the door open for Bill to walk through into the front room, following behind him like a mother hen. Alexander, finally managing to straighten up, walked slowly and gingerly after them, wondering what other surprises he would have to face this day and whether they would be just as painful.

  Scene 20, Planet Loki, Sector 9

  Marine Colonel Phil Smith ducked as another stick of smart mis
siles smacked down several hundred yards from his current position, exactly where they had hidden decoy drones. The frequency of attacks had been lessening as the rebel Marines began conserving supplies following the destruction of their orbital supply facilities three days previously. Both sides had been fighting non-stop for two weeks over the same city, the front lines ebbing and flowing as one side suddenly found itself with a temporary advantage. Loki was a colony planet, only fifty years into its colonisation by an independent group of mercantile corporations under license from Duke Vali, hence everything was centered around the one and only city of any size or note. The other settlements that were beginning to spring up along tube routes in farming or mining areas were little more than small townships .

  With half of his original starting force either dead or injured and no longer able to fight, he was fighting a battle of attrition and hoped things were just as grim for his opposite number on the rebel side. The rebel’s original attack had been coordinated to begin the moment the Jump Point was destabilised, although they’d only discovered this after the event. Fully two-thirds of the orbiting fleet and the sole weapons platform had fallen to the rebels without a shot being fired, so effective had their infiltration been. The rebels were not unstoppable, however, for Colonel Smith had led his force of Marines through to the command deck of the Indomitable Class battleship they’d travelled in-system with and convinced the AI to accept his authority, then used its powerful armament to take out the planet’s single orbital weapons platform, before either it’s AI or commander could react. That done, he’d turned his attention to the rebel ships but not without regret, as he was sure there must have been many loyal Marines and crew still aboard them. However, necessity demanded he destroy the ships and he did his level best to do so, joining in with the handful that had remained loyal. The ensuing battle had been bitterly fought and at its end, in testament to the ferocity of the fighting, none of the ships were in any state to continue the fight or be salvaged. This included his own, which had sustained severe damage and had been abandoned in orbit around Loki’s single moon. Colonel Smith had given the order to abandon ship and joined with the other crews in taking escape shuttles down to Loki’s major continent, where he then spent several days locating and bringing the loyalist forces together just outside the only major city.

  Unfortunately, his opposite number on the rebel side had the same idea and mustered his forces on the opposite side of the city. At first, neither of them wanted to begin fighting in the city itself, mindful of the inevitable civilian casualties, but as supplies of food began to dwindle, both sides began to search the same places for resupply, inevitably resulting in skirmishes which escalated into full-out battles. This, in turn, accelerated the movement of civilians away from the city to shelters or second homes in the countryside, the frightened and confused citizens hoping to get far away from where the fighting was heaviest.

  Colonel Smith had watched them depart via tubes or ground vehicles, slowly at first then speeding up as fighting around the city began to encroach towards the centre. After a week the city was almost deserted, with a few stray pets and the occasional human all that was left of the original hundred thousand strong population. Little food remained in the city, the bulk of it having been taken by the fleeing inhabitants. Marines soon found what remained and proceeded to destroy what they couldn’t take away so as to deny it to the enemy. The two main power stations had been the first buildings to be destroyed, each side having destroyed the one nearest to the enemy. A few buildings had their own independent power supply and these too were destroyed once located, again to deny them. The result was that each side now had to conserve power and rely on their suits own recharging capabilities from sunlight or whatever backup capabilities they had brought down with them. The shuttles on both sides had been destroyed early on, once all the troops and survivors had disembarked. They were too great an asset to be left without using and it wasn’t long before the last four had crashed and burned following a furious dogfight over the city, destroying each other in a Phyrric victory for both sides.

  A message from Master Sergeant Nbao came in on Smith’s private channel, breaking his train of thought.

  “Colonel, you asked to be told when we got down to two hundred smart missiles and fifty decoy sensors. Well, we’ve just reached that number and at our current rate of fire that will last us another half a day. After they’re gone we are down to suit weapons only.”

  Smith considered what he’d been told for a few moments before responding, “What are supplies of smart-metal like?”

  “Sufficient for now, about five tons plus whatever we can salvage from damaged or surplus suits. That’ll soon dwindle in an intense and protracted firefight,” came the reply, “but if it’s any consolation I don’t think the rebels are any better off than we are.”

  “Thank you, Nboa. Anything in from our scouts?” he enquired, concerned about the Marines he’d sent to pinpoint the ever-changing rebel positions. Both sides had kept on the move, never staying too long in any one place, thereby denying the enemy the ability to concentrate their fire on one point. “Of course, they can always get lucky,” he thought to himself but knowing deep down that they, like him, couldn’t afford to waste too many missiles or energy in random attacks. Now almost reliant on what armament they carried within their armour, his Marines were reduced from being state of the art warriors to little more than old fashioned foot soldiers. Without space, air or artillery support and left with little more than line of sight intel and limited ammunition, he and his men could no longer rely on the high-tech support that modern warfare took for granted and had to look to their basic soldiering skills. Electronic counter-measures and the nastier, smart anti-personnel weapons effectively cancelled each other out, hence his reliance on scouting to determine the enemies position.

  Nboa responded,“Yes, they encountered scouting parties similar to our own but didn’t engage, as per orders. It looks as though they are following the same rule book as us, which isn't surprising considering the bastards probably learnt at the same training camps we did.”

  “Sadly true, Master Sergeant,” Smith replied, then went silent for a few moments, thinking through the implications, then continued, “So we need to do something that isn’t in the rulebook. That’s given me something to think about.”

  Sergeant Nboa’s image nodded in his helmet then vanished as they broke the link, leaving Colonel Smith with his own thoughts again. “We’ve become too reliant on our superior technology,” he thought to himself, “and have forgotten how to wage a ground war without our fancy aides. I need to think like a soldier from pre-empire days.” He checked the sensor data from the short-range drones. Too small to be easily shot down by the enemy at long range, they would give a few minutes advance warning of any ground attack, either by being disabled by the enemy as they advanced or, if left untouched, by locating them as they advanced on his Marine’s position.

  He looked around at his surroundings. On his left waited an aide, checking on the power status of his suit and rechecking his weapons. To his right was a jumble of partially destroyed buildings, the tough structural supports sticking out through the mass of weaker rubble like skeletal ribs from a partially eaten carcass. “That’s what we are,” he thought, sadly, “nothing more than vultures picking over the bones of what’s left over of this city.” Ahead of him, what was once a small park and meeting ground was now little more than an open killing ground, guarded by a small number of sentry guns linked into the observation sensors overhead. He knew the rebels were out there somewhere, for if his sensors moved too far forward, they were knocked out by electronic counter jamming which was just as effective as his own. Apart from the subdued murmur coming from the Marines around him, the city was deathly silent, other than from occasional animals moving in from the wilderness around the city, seeking to take over the areas where humans had left. Of birds, there was little sign, the alien chemical smells from burnt housing and office bui
ldings keeping them away.

  Despite his confident words to Nboa, Colonel Smith was stumped. Try as he might, inspiration was not forthcoming apart from guerilla tactics he’d read about decades before that wouldn’t work effectively on armoured Marines. Deadfalls, tours de loup and punji sticks were all a waste of time. Mines capable of piercing armour or the regular, more exotic weaponry, were not possible to build with the resources currently available to him. Unfortunately, in the absence of reinforcements, as far as he was concerned it looked as though the war of attrition would come down to old fashioned single combat with shields, swords, and flechettes. Perhaps for the first time, he truly appreciated why these were the staple weapons of the Marines.

  “Incoming signal, Colonel,” interrupted the voice of a Marine tasked with monitoring communications, “I have a partial intercept from the Jump Station to the rebels here. They have suddenly come under sustained attack and are warning of failure.”

  “Anything on the attackers? Is it loyalist forces and if so, why haven’t they contacted us?” the Colonel asked.

  “I can’t say for certain but I believe the Jump Station is blocking communications. Obviously, these signals are five hours old, Colonel, so we may be hearing something shortly, once the Jump Station falls.”

  Smith signalled his thanks, then sent out a general order for everyone to begin getting ready to move to the next temporary camp site and to equip their suits with a full weapons load. He feared the potentially bad news received by the rebels might prompt an attack and he wanted to keep them off guard and unable to predict his forces whereabouts. Just as he was going to do the same himself and load up on additional smart-metal for his suit, the furthermost drones began to fail and the sentry guns began registering targets as the expected attack became a reality.