Imperium: Betrayal: Book One in the Imperium Trilogy

by Paul M Calvert

  At his docking point, Alexander could feel his anticipation for the coming battle grow, along with the butterfly feeling in the pit of his belly which the adrenaline buzz brought him at these times. As a young boy, before he was given over to be tutored by his Weapon Masters, he mistakenly believed this feeling was a sign of fear or cowardice. It was only when he opened up one day to Master Katana about his fear of being a coward, that he discovered it was his bodies way of preparing him for combat and quite the opposite of what he had believed. He’d experienced the real, gut-wrenching fear combat brought in the days before meeting Christine for the first time and that had brought home to him the wisdom of Hiro’s words. From that day on he welcomed the fluttering as an old friend to be embraced, rather than feared.

  “Here we go again,” Vimes said quietly in his mind before ceasing the flow of tactical information that was being continuously relayed to Alexander as the shuttles made their final approach, allowing him to clear his mind and focus on what was to come.

  Glorious’s AI, still functioning despite the aggressive IP’s that sought to take control, had determined the best entry points along the hull and transmitted them to the pilots. Two shuttles would enter portside while Alexanders would loop around to starboard. Once in place, the AI would allow them access to the interior via temporary passages in the armoured hull which would close behind them as they progressed inside.

  All was now quiet in the Marine’s helmets apart from the quietly spoken instructions and reminders coming over the intercom from the ever watchful Sergeants. As always, Alexander demurred to them when it came to combat situations, advice he’d received from his father and father-in-law many years previously. In the few seconds before the shuttles side would open to allow them access to the carrier’s hull, Alexander allowed himself a few moments to think warmly about his father. Such thoughts were still bittersweet, despite the passing of so many years. A taciturn, yet kindly man who only spoke when he had something useful or informative to say, had been taken before his time by the machinations of his murderous brother, plunging the Empire into a revolt that took many years to quell and cost billions of lives.

  Drawing his mind back from such pointless reverie, for the third and last time Alexander quickly scanned his suits status before uncoupling himself from the docking station, his suit now bulked out to full battle readiness. Not part of any squad, Alexander had the luxury of being able to select his own weapon configurations. Not wishing to blow any more holes in the ship than absolutely necessary, the bespoke heavy weaponry his suit was capable of handling had been reluctantly set aside in favour of twin swords and two shoulder mounted sets of micro-missiles that Vimes would control independently, allowing him to effectively fight three opponents simultaneously. The front of his suit took on a shimmer as its electromagnetic shielding formed, giving it the appearance of being viewed through a fine mist.

  An almost imperceptible bump and the entire starboard wall of the shuttle slid up and down, exposing the interior to hard vacuum and a correspondingly large, cavernous hole that was deepening in the carrier’s armour. Launching themselves across the small gap, the first Marine squads began moving quickly inwards, allowing the following Marines access. Within seconds, the shuttle was emptied and the smart-metal hull of the carrier began to close behind the Marines, as they moved forward towards the ships interior compartments.

  After twenty yards, the armour in front of them opened up and light from the interior flooded into their cavern-like hole. Splitting up into three groups, Alexander’s bodyguard remained with him and awaited the order to begin moving towards the Bridge. Glad to be finally moving, the surge of adrenalin was making Alexander’s legs feel light and twitchy, an uncomfortable sensation but one that moving around would soon cure.

  “Master Sergeant, I’m taking point today, no arguments please,” he instructed Lynch, forestalling any objections.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be to your right and Corporal Stopher on your left should you have need of us,” came the reply, said in a slightly disapproving tone to make a point, but at the same time moving aside, allowing Alexander to move forward.

  “So much for listening to my Father,” he thought, grinning to himself inside his helmet.

  With the route already mapped out on their helmet displays, Alexander and his Bodyguard fanned out and began to move along the corridor, turning right and walking forward for one hundred yards before reaching the main intersection and most direct route to the Bridge. The ships interior was littered with dead crew and Marines from both sides, the enemy clearly marked by the non-standard colouration of their armoured suits, displaying numerous differences from their own, some barely recognisable as power armour at all. In places, where the fighting had been heaviest, blood had pooled all across the floor, making it difficult to avoid slipping on the slick surface. Data lines, power conduits and life-support pipework all spilt out of breaches in the corridor walls and ceilings, sometimes temporarily blocking their path. The fighting had been particularly fierce in these areas.

  Their way to the Bridge was clearly marked by numerous bloody boot prints left by the attackers and retreating defenders, to which they added their own as they progressed inwards. Acrid, chemical smoke hung in patches around parts of the route, the ships air purifiers being unable to work effectively due to blast damage from where the attackers had sought to destroy on-board defence systems.

  Gaping, ragged holes in the ceilings and walls stood as mute testimony to the severity of the fighting. Mixed in with the bodies were discarded or damaged weapons. The day to day paraphernalia of ship-board life lay scattered around, spilling out from destroyed living quarters and offices along the route. Occasionally a Marine would detect signs of life from one of the many bodies and would quickly stop to inject battlefield medical nanites providing the AI confirmed it was a crew member, before moving on again, marking their location so the rescuers following later would know exactly where to go.

  Progressing through the devastation, Alexander’s simmering anger turned into a cold, contained rage as he noted the dead crewmen and women, a number of whom had obviously been unarmed when killed. He noted, with not a little pride, that only a few had taken wounds to the back and many had makeshift weapons still grasped in their hands.

  Up ahead, along the curving corridor, sounds of fighting could be clearly heard, amplified cries of pain and anger getting louder as they closed in on the source. Rounding a corner, Alexander took stock of the killing ground in front of him, at the same time as Vimes identified multiple armoured targets and fired two salvos of missiles which homed in and detonated before the attackers had time to even acknowledge their arrival, blowing a number apart in an explosion of gore and armour, spattering everything nearby. Noting that at least ninety-six armoured enemy remained standing, and unable to contain himself any longer, Alexander leapt forward and engaged the nearest combatant, slicing clean through the armoured form with a downwards slice of his right sword while simultaneously blocking a thrust from another with the shield on his left. One step behind, Stopher and Lynch engaged those that tried to close in on their Emperor, their swords rising and falling as they pressed forward. In an instant the corridor was a dense press of bodies, swords and battle-axes rising and falling as the two sides closed.

  Alexander’s helmet rang loudly as a mid-calibre flechette disintegrated against it, knocking his head sideways until it reached its maximum allowed movement, the blows force momentarily distracting him.

  “So much for the shielding,” he thought to himself, telling his suit to switch it off to conserve power.

  “To your left, Alex,” warned Vimes, firing another salvo of missiles and removing another four attackers from the fight, as Alexander closed with a huge armoured figure who raised its metal shield and rushed forward, hoping to capitalise on any momentary confusion.

  Their two swords clashed, the force of the blow jarring Alexander's arm, even through the protection provided by the pommel and su
it. The figure moved in, swinging its heavy shield. Alexander barely parried the blow with his left arm, feeling something give in his elbow and registering real pain for a few seconds before his suit anaesthetized the area. To his surprise, despite the force of Alexander’s stroke, the attacker had managed to retain hold of its sword, so he stepped in close and followed through with his right elbow, catching his opponent’s helmet with the serrated monomolecular blades along his forearm, then brought the hardened needle-point point of his elbow back into the face-plate, puncturing it and driving the needle through into the brain beneath.

  He took one step forward before turning and kicking the now falling body hard into the nearest wall, where it landed heavily, shaking the wall before slumping down to the floor, the legs of the suit moving as they mirrored the corpse’s dying twitches.

  Alexander flexed his left elbow a few times to test it out, wincing slightly despite the pain relief.

  Taking stock of the melee going on around him, he saw Corporal Bradley Stopher trying to defend against two large armoured figures who were slowly driving him back towards the wall. Alexander stepped forward and calmly rammed his sword into the back of the nearest of the two who had foolishly paid no attention to his approach. Stopher quickly finished off the remaining figure, before lifting his sword in salute and moved back to cover Alexander's left side again.

  The surprised boarders quickly recovered from the shock of being attacked from the rear and managed to turn a mobile heavy cannon away from the crew who had been valiantly defending the Bridge entrance and onto the Bodyguard. Before anyone could react, it began firing, blasting two Imperial Marines on the right of Alexander thirty foot backwards along the corridor, knocking, in turn, several others from their feet, before they ended up against the far wall, broken and bloodied.

  With the heavy cannon protected by its own screen, the Marines wasted no time trying to fire flechettes or missiles and simply ran forward, taking two more casualties in the process. Once through the screen they engaged with the cannons armoured crew and finished them off in short order. Now the heavy weapon was taken out, the fight immediately turned against the enemy. Tellingly, no quarter was asked and none was given and it was only a few more minutes before the last of them lay dead or incapacitated on the deck.

  Ahead, a mixed group of crew and Marines had been taking shelter behind a mobile force screen while defending the Bridge entrance. They cheered loudly as the Bodyguard signalled the fight was over.

  Alexander strode forward, swords sheathed, his faceplate retracting to expose his features to what remained of the defending crew. Those who immediately recognised him registered shock and disbelief on their faces, with several of the bolder ones moving to greet him. He raised a gauntleted hand to stop them.

  “Enough,” he commanded. “Who’s the senior officer here?”

  An armoured Marine stepped forward, his armour damaged in numerous places and, like Alexanders, splattered with blood and unidentified bits of flesh.

  “Sire,” he nodded, “I’m Corporal Jameson, the ranking Marine left here. It’s been bloody work and were all that’s left of the original cohort.” He turned back to look at the assorted defenders, made up of Marines and crew, gesturing with a tired arm in their direction.

  “Well met, Corporal Jameson. Please arrange for the walking wounded to be helped back to our shuttle. Leave the badly wounded for the medical teams. My Bodyguard will begin infusing the others to stabilise them. There, I’ve just sent you the most direct route.”

  Alexander looked around again at the scene. “Before you go, what’s your take on the attackers? Your first impressions?”

  Jameson nodded as the instructions were relayed to his suit, then thought for a few seconds before speaking.

  “This lot here were well organised, Sire, but it was a mixed bunch at the start. Very savage, almost like they sent in wild shock troops first. We held our own pretty well against those but as we whittled them down the ones that followed had better discipline and training. It really showed. They fought us back to here.”

  Jameson kicked at the armoured boot of a dead boarder. “Yeah, this last lot certainly weren't wall fodder.”

  “Two distinct groups then, in your opinion?”

  “Yes, Sire. Different tactics, weapons and armour quality too.”

  Alexander tilted his head slightly to the left, before responding and dismissing the Marine. “Thank you, Corporal Jameson. That will be all.”

  Jameson nodded and began calling over the survivors to help carry out his instructions. Alexander walked forward, towards the locked and sealed bulkhead door leading to the Bridge section. Everyone silently moved out of the way to let him pass and he looked enquiringly at Corporal Stopher who had been talking quietly to several Marines trying to unseal it.

  “We’ve managed to get through to the Bridge Officers, Sire, and they are OK. We are having trouble opening the door as they made a damn good job when they sealed it from the inside. A few more minutes and we’ll have it open.”

  It actually took a further ten minutes before the doors could be opened, by which time all of the severely injured had been cleared from the corridor. Alexander noted that the air was not being properly scrubbed and with the damage reports coming in from the ships AI, suspected that all INS Glorious would be good for going forward was as a source of smart-metal salvage for what was left of his task force.

  The Marines stood back, allowing Alexander to walk through into the Bridge area, where he was met by a tousled looking Captain Cooke and her officers. He retracted his gauntlet and she accepted the outstretched hand with a tired smile, before introducing her First Officer who’d stepped up behind her.

  Letting go of her hand, he took stock of what he was seeing around him. The false normality of the Bridge was offset by numerous blank screens and empty stations, a testament to the myriad non-functioning parts of the Carrier. Everyone’s faces were turned towards both Alexander and the Captain, a number also seeing their Emperor in person for the first time and also not quite believing that he had personally come to their aid.

  He held Cooke’s gaze for a moment and smiled warmly, seeking to reassure her. Looking around, and speaking loudly so all on the Bridge could hear, he began, “Well done, Captain. Your crew and ship fought bravely, despite the less than auspicious start. I know the reasons and hold you all blameless. Your reports will no doubt make for interesting reading.”

  He looked back down to the clearly tired Cooke. “Your first command certainly was in interesting one, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sire, it was that,” she responded, “but it certainly was a short Commission.”

  “Ah yes, about that. Admiral Frith will have the final word, but between you and me I think your field commission will be confirmed as permanent, Captain Cooke, just don’t make a habit of losing your command.”

  “Thank you, Sire. What’s next?”

  Pleased she wanted to bring the conversation back to the matters at hand, Alexander confirmed what Captain Cooke already knew and had been dreading hearing.

  “This ship isn’t going anywhere without the kind of repairs that can’t be effected out here in our weakened state. Arrangements are already in hand for the AI’s memories and experience to be downloaded and preserved. What’s left of the crew will be split between Dauntless and the surviving ships. Dauntless is already moving closer and will dock shortly to effect the move. Once everyone’s off she will begin absorption of those parts that can be reclaimed.”

  Sympathising with the look of sadness in her eyes, Alexander moved a little closer and spoke again, this time more quietly so only she and her First Officer could hear what he was saying. They both brightened at hearing his words, then Alexander saluted and turned away, heading back to where a new shuttle had docked with the hull, letting Vimes control his suit as he looked through the reports coming in from the rest of what was left of his Task Force.

  The moment Alexander left the Bridge, the no
ise level rose several notches which necessitated Captain Cooke having to remind everyone to get back to work. Quiet restored, she began liaising with Dauntless to arrange the transfer of all essential equipment to its new home, before heading off to what was left of her quarters to retrieve her personal possessions. As she did so, the Emperor’s last words still played through her mind.

  As he’d bent forward, Alexander confirmed he would personally ensure that another carrier would bear the name of Glorious and he would look favourably on any future request from her if she wished to be its Captain.

  Striding along the damaged corridor towards his exit point, Vimes confirmed to Alexander the list of casualties from amongst his Bodyguard and that arrangements would be made for their families. Despite the brief moment of satisfaction he was able to obtain by promising Captain Cooke a new carrier, Alexander was beginning to feel the post battle depression that invariably descended on him, especially when the fighting had been up close and personal. In no way denying the necessity of his actions and feeling no hint of pity for those he’d killed, the waste of life and material depressed him now the euphoria and excitement of battle were over. It both annoyed and saddened him in equal measure and currently all he wanted to do now was spend some time alone in his quarters to recharge. Like his wife, Christine, he needed regular time to be alone with his thoughts, after which he would be back to his normal self.

  Reaching the newly fashioned entrance in the hull, which served as a gateway to the waiting shuttle, Alexander was about to pass across and allow the smart-metal to form behind him, when an urgent message came through on his private channel from Admiral Frith. He stood still, paying attention as an image of the Admiral, talking from her ready-room, formed in his helmet. Both her look and tone of voice was grave.