Imperial Glory

by Richard Williams

  There was a smattering of laughter from the jungle and, one by one, K Company began to emerge from between the trees.

  ‘Section leaders, count up and clean up. Booth, take a squad up-trail, look out for any stragglers. We’ve got what we came for. I don’t want any surprises.’

  Carson rolled over and sat up. He unstrapped his helmet and shook out his dirty blond hair. A caterpillar dropped into the mud, righted itself, and crawled away.

  ‘Sorry for the inconvenience, I’m sure,’ he muttered. He then rested his hand on his thigh and lowered his head. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he said to himself. He did not move. ‘All right.’

  He twisted around to check on the men. Booth’s platoon had already disappeared up the trail. Carson thought it unlikely that they would be disturbed, however. The company had been scouting the jungle for two hours already and this was the only band of orks they’d encountered. Red had distributed cremator-packs to the men and they were torching the bodies. Frn’k the ogryn had instinctively returned to Corporal Gardner and was trying to carry both the ork and Gardner’s heavy autocannon at the same time, while Gardner patiently tried to get Frn’k to drop the ork.

  Carson noticed that Red was coming over to him. The company’s colour-sergeant carried his lasgun in his off-hand, while in his right he wielded ‘Old Contemptible’ his iron-black mace. It was an anachronistic weapon to wield on the battlefield, to be sure, but one that had proved its worth, in raids such as this, where prisoners needed to be taken.

  Carson did not know why they had been sent out to bring in a prisoner. The order had come to him from Major Roussell, straight from the colonel, so he could not argue against it. Perhaps it was simply habit, just as his men knew exactly how to set up the ambush without specific orders. Habit formed by many repetitions.

  But there was nothing that the commissar’s interrogators would get from the ork that Carson had not already learnt from killing its kin. He looked at the leader he had shot as a cremator turned it to ash. Its body was underdeveloped and its skin was light, not nearly as tough as the fully-matured orks he had fought in space. It was no survivor of the rok’s crash; it was a new-spawn. No matter how few orks had survived the impact, their kind was now growing within the dirt of Voor.

  Red was closing on him quickly. Carson turned away and placed one of his pistols in his lap, so that it might appear as though he was correcting some fault. Red would not believe it, though; Carson’s pair of heavy pistols had not misfired as long as he’d had them. They were beautiful pieces: each one had a rorschbone stock, customised to fit regular Guard power-packs, a sculpted antique lock and breech, and finely-etched patterns down their barrels – wings on one, vines on the other. But their true beauty was on the inside. There, embedded within, was a glistening power-amplifier that made his shots twice as deadly as a regular lasgun. These pistols had made him what he was today. They had to take some of the blame at least.

  Carson felt, rather than heard, the colour-sergeant standing over him. One expected such a big, blustering NCO to stomp around, smacking the earth with every step, but Red could be as silent as a breath, as many drowsy sentries on both sides had learnt to their cost.

  ‘Red,’ Carson pre-empted. ‘What’s the bill?’

  ‘One injured, sah. Corporal Marble.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Put his foot on some bug-hill. Twisted his ankle and split his lip. Ducky’s taking a look at him. He’ll get him walking.’

  ‘Good.’ Carson surreptitiously tested his leg again. Still nothing. He played for time. ‘Remind me to put Frn’k up for a commendation when we get back to Dova.’

  ‘A commendation, sah?’

  ‘You don’t think he deserves one?’

  ‘Of course, sah. Just think he’ll prefer a day’s extra rations over a sheet of paper he can’t eat.’

  ‘Good point. Let’s do that. And let’s see if we can’t get his commendation on some kind of rice-paper as well. Then he can have his cake and eat it,’ he said, chuckling half-heartedly. He looked up at the fearsome colour-sergeant’s stone expression and thought better of it.

  A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caused Carson to twist again to look back at the rest of the company. Mouse was there, moving quickly from body to body ahead of the cremators, checking them for anything of value.

  Red saw him as well. ‘Private Chaffey, get your miserable self back to your squad!’ he shouted.

  Mouse snatched up guiltily from the body he was inspecting. With a second’s defiance, he triggered the cremator before scampering away. Carson sighed.

  ‘I do wish you’d give up on him, Red.’

  ‘He’s a parasite, sah.’

  Yes, Carson reflected, Mouse was. But on Mespots, he had traded for the promethium that prevented the company dying in the desert; and on Kam Daka, it had been he who had bribed the tribesmen to allow them past the rebels’ positions. But then again on Azzabar, the wrath of the eldar had come down on their outpost for days, until Red happened upon the large jewels that Mouse had looted from their warriors’ armour. Carson had torn a strip off the private after that. Red had made it plain that he wanted him handed over to the black-coats, but Carson had refused. There were no extra points in war for playing by the book. As much as Red detested him, Mouse was a resource and Carson would keep him as long as his worth outweighed the risk.

  Red was watching him intently now, waiting for him to give the order to move on. Carson tried his leg again. Still nothing, but he had run out of excuses.

  ‘Do me a favour, Red. Keep the men occupied for a few minutes.’

  ‘Ah, right you are, sah.’ Red twitched his moustache and pursed his lips in concern. ‘Shall I get Ducky up here for you as well, sah?’

  ‘No, no,’ Carson waved him away. ‘A couple of minutes, that’s all I need. Then I’ll be right as rain.’

  ‘Yes, sah.’ Red gave a crisp salute and turned back to the company. ‘Right, you shockers, peg your ears back and listen up!’

  Colonel Arbulaster and Major Brooce walked through the construction site of the regiment’s forward base. All around them, troopers were stripped to their shirt-sleeves, hefting, carrying, assembling and digging. Just half a day before, this part of the jungle had been indistinguishable from any other of the hundreds of kilometres around them; then in the grey dawn the Brimlocks had arrived. The down-blast of the drop-cradle’s engines had scorched and flattened the vegetation beneath it. It had landed, released itself from the DOV it held and then launched again, creating an even wider circle of devastation around it. The Navy had done their part, now it was down to the Imperial Guard.

  The DOV, or Deployable Outpost Vessel to give it its full name, was an integral part of a Brimlock campaign. No matter to what part of the galaxy a regiment might be sent, no matter what xenos world they might find themselves upon, the DOVs provided the Brimlocks with secure forward strongholds. Arbulaster had a great respect for them. It was from them that the 11th had fought off the eldar at Azzabar, from them they had beaten back the Tarellian dog-soldiers at Takht, and from them they had stamped down upon the uprising at Kam Daka, even though they had been outnumbered by over a hundred to one. And now this DOV was rising from the jungle.

  The external wall had been the first thing to be assembled and put in place. The regiment’s sappers in their worker-Sentinels had dragged the cornerstone blocks into place and drove them into the ground to provide a firm base. They’d installed the sentry guns on their tops, and supervised the men as they carried the armour plates from the DOV to create the wall. As the last section was welded into place, Arbulaster had felt a great surge of relief flow through him. The inside of the walls was a familiar place of safety. It was a little piece of Brimlock carved out far from home.

  Everything was going to schedule and Arbulaster had not heard another peep from Commissar Reeve. He was in an expansive and
generous mood.

  ‘Do you know what makes the Brimlocks the greatest of the Imperial Guard?’ he asked Brooce as they walked past the salient being erected for the landing pad.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Brooce replied.

  ‘It’s because– What?’ Arbulaster broke off mid-sentence.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Did you want to answer that one yourself?’

  Arbulaster harrumphed. ‘No, I was… Don’t horse around, Brooce. I was going to say–’ Arbulaster caught Brooce’s temperate, long-serving expression. ‘Very well. Very well. What were you going to say?’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to say ‘the men’, sir.’

  ‘The men! Marguerite’s breath, it’s not the men!’ Arbulaster exclaimed, then heard a sudden silence as the noise of the work on the salient suddenly halted. He turned and met the questioning stare of the dozen men on the scaffolding.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded of them. ‘Did your beard call a break? No? Then get back to it.’

  The men returned to their jobs and Arbulaster returned to Brooce. ‘You really think that that pile of rookery droppings is what makes Brimlock great? You remember home don’tcha? You remember recruitment? You think any of those pale-skinned nambies with muscles like suet could be the match of a Catachan, or a Cadian, or a Finreht Highlander?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Brooce snapped back obediently.

  Arbulaster led him over towards where the medicae and the officers’ wives were establishing the base hospital.

  ‘It’s not the men. They are what they are. Pack of grumbling old women…’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  And now Arbulaster noticed that a couple of the old wives were giving him the evil eye. He tipped his helmet to them and led Brooce back to the central bastion.

  ‘Not that I mind a bit of grumbling, Brooce. I’ll let you into a little secret, a little command insight for when you have a regiment of your own. When your men are grumbling, you know everything’s as it should be.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes. You’ve got nothing to fear from a grumbling soldier. They build up hot air and it’s just them releasing it. No, it’s when they stop grumbling that you’ve got to worry. Because when a soldier stops grumbling about his lot, it means he’s planning to do something about it! And when soldiers take action into their own hands, Brooce, it invariably ends up with someone up against a wall. Either them or you. You know, if that tight-rod Carmichael had allowed some honest Brimlock grumbling, then that whole debacle with the Sixty-Seventh might never have happened.

  ‘We might be the greatest complainers in the Guard; that would be no surprise,’ Arbulaster continued. ‘But no, we’re not the largest, we’re not the fastest or the toughest out there. What makes the Brimlocks the greatest of the Imperial Guard is this!’

  Arbulaster encompassed the entire base with a single grand sweep of his arm.

  ‘Building! We build, and we’re the best damn builders in the Guard. These other regiments, they take a place, they move on, a year later they find they’ve got to take it back again. Not us. What we take, we hold. You come back a hundred, a thousand years, and what we built will still be there, ready for us to defend. And that is what makes us the greatest.’

  ‘Very profound, sir.’

  Arbulaster shot his second a look, but Brooce maintained his imperturbable expression.

  ‘Sir,’ Brooce glanced at his chronometer. ‘You asked me to remind you when–’

  ‘Is that the time? Throne, yes, yes, let’s see what we’re up against.’ Arbulaster hastened back the way they’d come. The gate lowered at their approach and a squad of sentries joined the officers as they went out onto the scorched plain. There the Valkyries stood on their temporary landing field. The flyers were being refuelled by Trojans carrying promethium tanks and Zdzisław was giving his pilots their final briefing. Arbulaster and Brooce stood a distance away, while they concluded.

  Arbulaster noticed that their blue flight-suits were covered in flecks of paint and recalled then that they had spent the entire previous day painting over the ostentatious devotional images and battle art on their craft at Commissar Reeve’s instruction. He looked over again at the four Valkyries sitting in the midday sun, looking just as they had when they were first rolled off the assembly line, each one indistinguishable from the rest.

  ‘Was there anything you wanted, colonel?’ Arbulaster turned at the sound of the familiar, artificial voice and nearly gasped at the sight of him.

  ‘No, no…’ Arbulaster muttered, fighting the urge to recoil. He had never had a problem with Zdzisław’s injuries before. To him they were merely the mark of a determined warrior. And yet today, for some reason, he found them gruesome. Nothing had changed physically, yet there was a cold, dead look in Zdzisław’s one natural eye. For the first time, Arbulaster realised that this was not a living man before him but rather an animated corpse. ‘Just to say, good luck, the Emperor protects.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Arbulaster tried to make the best of the unfortunate situation, as was his way when his own self-interest prevented him from doing anything to change it. ‘She looks good out there, doesn’t she?’ He motioned to what he thought was Zdzisław’s craft. ‘All the ladies love a new coat once in a while, eh?’

  Zdzisław didn’t reply. Instead, he walked away, flight helmet in hand.

  ‘Commissar Reeve–’ Brooce interjected.

  ‘Yes, he has a lot to answer for,’ Arbulaster muttered.

  ‘–is here, sir.’

  Arbulaster felt the silence behind him. ‘Afternoon, commissar.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Reeve replied. Zdzisław stopped by the Valkyrie’s nose and made to hold out a hand to touch it, to caress it as he had done before each flight hundreds of times before. But then he dropped it, as if there were no point and stepped perfunctorily up onto the ladder.

  Colonel Arbulaster, who had seen villages and crops put to the flame, who had seen fathers and mothers blown apart going to their children’s aid, who had seen men forced to shoot their comrades caught on razor-wire, still found his heart quickening a fraction as he watched Zdzisław haul himself, without ceremony, into the cockpit of his Valkyrie and pull the canopy down.

  ‘I should have had him flogged,’ Reeve said suddenly, ‘but there seemed little left of him that would feel it, and the Navy can be so precious about their pilots. Still, an example should have been made.’

  ‘Of course, commissar,’ Arbulaster found himself agreeing. The rest of his words were lost as the engines of the Valkyries ignited and Zdzisław led his flight into the sky to get the regiment’s first proper look at their enemy.

  Chapter Seven

  Arbulaster had had the company commanders gather on the shooting deck. It was close to the top of the bastion, with only the vox tower and the flagpole flying the Brimlock colours above it. It was designed to give a commanding view of the area, whether for sniping the enemy or the local wildlife. Here on Voor, though, all it gave was a commanding view of the limitless green that stretched off to the horizon in every direction. Armies of orks might be encircling the outpost and an observer wouldn’t have an inkling.

  As he had requested, his officers were already assembled by the time he, Brooce and Reeve arrived. Most of them had been taking their ease in the canvas chairs, but they shot bolt upright as soon as he entered.

  ‘Stand easy,’ he told them, quickly scanning the room. All his company commanders were there, with one exception for which he was most grateful: Major Stanhope. He saw the Voorjer girl, Van Am, standing apart from the rest, wearing the same unimpressed look she seemed to have every time Arbulaster met her.

  ‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ Arbulaster began. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met en masse before. I hope you’ve been using the time to get to know the new arrivals.’

  There was a respectful chorus of agreement tha
t Arbulaster had long ago learnt meant that they hadn’t so much as said a word to them.

  ‘Good,’ he said firmly. ‘Captain Ledbetter here is joining us with the two companies of horse left from the Fifty-Sixth and Lieutenant Mulberry has already been doing great work taking charge of our sappers. Captains Ingoldsby, Tyrwhitt and Wymondham will be reporting to Major Brooce who commands the line companies and lastly Major Stanhope, who unfortunately has other duties and cannot be with us, will be under Major Roussell who commands the light.

  ‘To you new bugs, I hope you will have already made yourselves known to Captain Drum, who commands our armoured detachment, and Major Rosa, our artillery. If you wish to avoid having your troops either run over or shelled I recommend you keep on good terms with both of them.’

  There was a chorus of polite laughter and the veterans exchanged nods of acknowledgement with the newcomers, both sides assessing their relative positions. Arbulaster ignored the wisp of tension in the air and double-checked his own officers. The dark-skinned giant Colquhoun was staying quiet in the corner next to the diminutive red-haired Fergus. Gomery had fortunately not brought Mister Emmett on this occasion, the plump and smiling Rosa for once was not snacking, and Drum, the spindly clean-shaven tank commander, had mercifully confined his war-paint to a discreet white line across his nose and cheeks on this occasion. Roussell appeared sober, but was still stealing glances at Van Am. She had noticed and shifted her stance. Her long coat gaped open and Roussell’s eyes flicked down to glance at what might be revealed, only to see a heavy machete on her hip and a holstered autopistol behind it.

  Arbulaster sensed Reeve make his presence felt beside him.

  ‘And, of course, we all recognise our new officer of the Emperor, Commissar Reeve.’

  Reeve paused a moment before addressing them.

  ‘Ranks and privileges are not my interest, only the fortitude and vigour by which His servants enact His will. There is only one authority on this world, and that is His.’