The airfield came into sight and simultaneously the defending Germans opened up with considerable anti-aircraft fire, tracers flashing past, along with bursting black pom-pom like clouds of flak. Immediately, his drone warned Alexander of the approaching Messerchmidts and he instructed his flight to peel off and engage, reinforcing everyone’s opinion that he had the best eyesight of any pilot in Hornchurch. Focusing on staying alive in the swirling melee of men and machines, Alexander was unaware of the bombers lining themselves up below him and dropping their load of high explosives onto the control buildings and hangers.
“Watch out, Alex, bank to port...now!” Vimes calm voice spoke in his head, allowing Alexander to dodge a stream of white hot cannon and tracer fire as he pulled hard on the stick and turned tightly, beyond the enemies capability to match, the Spitfires wing capable of producing lighter loads than the Messerchmidt’s. Knowing he was out-manoeuvred, the German pilot peeled away to look for an easier target, not wanting to be caught out by the Spitfire’s tighter turning circle.
Alexander swung around, fortuitously catching an unsuspecting German crossing his sights, so he turned tightly to follow, giving him a two second burst, followed by another as he closed range to three hundred yards, gratified to see its engine begin to pump out black, sticky oil over the windscreen and the plane begin to slow and fall. Flashing past at high speed, his last view of the stricken fighter was the pilot pulling back the sliding rectangular canopy and levering himself out, falling clumsily as the plane began it’s death spiral to the ground.
The fighting was intense and he was grateful when it was time to head home, following the retreating bombers as they climbed and headed back to the safety of England. Sadly, he noted two of the Bostons had been shot down, along with twelve of the covering fighters, a surprisingly high toll to pay for what was supposed to have been a routine mission. The Luftwaffe’s defences had been better than anyone had expected and his people had paid the price. Of the eleven German fighters shot down, Alexander had accounted for two, although he knew he would only be able to confirm one kill once they got back to base, the other having made a forced landing several miles away and out of everyone's view.
“Careful, Alex, there’s a dozen Focke-Wulf 190’s coming in from behind and I don’t think they’re at all happy,” came Vimes concerned voice, warning Alexander of the dreaded German fighter that had proved such a threat to the Spitfire.
“Damn, and we’re down to just eight Spitfires. If just two or three of those bastards get through they’ll make mincemeat of those Bostons.” He spoke into the radio, “Twelve FW 190’s coming in behind us. Hurricanes, you escort the Bostons and intercept any we can't engage. Spitfires, you’re with me, let’s go get them.”
Knowing the advantage lay with the FW’s at lower altitudes, Alexander tried to gain as much altitude as he could before engaging. If the Germans didn’t climb to meet them, then he might have the advantage of coming down onto them at speed, but didn’t relish getting into a protracted dogfight as the enemy had both more fuel and could outmanoeuvre the Spitfire in a close turn, negating most of his advantage. At a combined closing speed of over six hundred miles per hour, it didn’t take long for the FW’s to be in range and the one-sided battle was soon joined. Alexander could see the retreating bombers and Hurricanes were taking full advantage of the low cloud and abysmal weather, making it difficult for them to be detected. The downside of this was to focus the German pilot’s minds on destroying the hated Spitfires, and quickly, three had been taken out, the pilots, fortunately, all parachuting out over the Channel, hopefully to be picked up by the waiting British Motor Torpedo Boats that patrolled the waters for just such an eventuality.
Alexander knew the remaining four Spitfires didn’t have a chance against such odds and told them to break off and head for the clouds and safety.
“I’ll cover your backs for as long as I can, lads, then I’ll break off and head for Manston. Now get going.” He thought at Vimes, “Do you think you can help me distract these bastards for long enough? …Vimes, Vimes?”
Shockingly, nothing came back and Alexander could sense something he’d never felt before. The normally unperturbable Vimes was confused and obviously distressed, his attention drawn somewhere else. Unable to spend any time thinking what might be the matter with his companion, Alexander found himself fighting for his life, with no less than three FW’s on his tail, cannon, and tracers streaking ever closer as he pushed the Spitfire beyond its design capabilities, hoping Jimmy’s careful maintenance and his own superior G-tolerance would prove decisive in keeping him alive. Almost in a dream, he could hear over the radio the voices of his comrades wishing him good luck. Narrowly avoiding a burst of enemy fire from the closest FW, he almost ran into another before inverting and sliding to one side, imagining that at any moment his luck would run out. Again and again, he flung his plane around the sky, desperately gaining valuable minutes for the others to make their escape. Despite his skill and with a clarity he’d never experienced before in his life, Alexander knew that this time his luck had run out and he was going to die, his final thoughts turning to Christine and what might have been…
Scene 28. Planet Wayland, Sector 2. Seven decades ago.
The courtiers, officials, and Marines all stood mutely outside Wayland’s Grand Chamber, hearing the sound of destruction inside even through the thick, reinforced walls and doors of the chamber. Duke Gallagher, his face black with anger, had shut himself in there twenty minutes earlier after receiving the terrible news of the Emperor’s death at the hands of his brother and the bombing of Capital. Despite the love and affection they bore their Duke, none was willing to risk his obvious rage by disobeying his tersely worded command for no-one to enter the chamber, so they all waited outside, casting nervous glances at each other.
Those that spoke did so in hushed tones, the Chief’s of Staff and senior Marines conversing via their command implants, taking the time to ready the fleet and try to anticipate his eventual commands, whatever they might be.
Eventually, the sounds of destruction began to subside, eventually ceasing altogether and an uneasy silence fell. No-one spoke, all eyes turned towards the large, ornate doors, waiting for what would come next. Finally, the twin doors slowly opened, revealing a scene of wanton destruction inside the hall. Numerous small fires littered the floor and walls and part of the ornate ceiling had collapsed in one corner, crushing priceless antiques in the rubble. Little in the hall remained whole and the air was laden with dust and smoke, despite the air recyclings best efforts. Fire suppression systems were already beginning to put out the numerous small fires, and all was silent apart from the random crash of debris falling from the ceiling.
In the middle of this destruction stood Duke Patrick, standing a full eight foot tall, his battle armour bulked out to its full capacity. He stomped towards them, five foot long monomolecular swords grasped in each armoured hand and some of the courtiers and officials took an involuntary step backwards, only stopping suddenly when they bumped into those behind them. The military men and women looked at each other and stepped forward, placing themselves between the door and their Duke.
Duke Patrick’s helmet receded back into the armour, his head looking incongruously small compared to the rest of the suit. No-one commented on the red eyes and obvious tracks of the tears he had shed for his life-long friend and Emperor, and all stood there silently, waiting for his command.
Patrick nodded in recognition at his officers. Voice cracking with barely suppressed emotion, there was no trace of the Duke’s normal good humour.
“Good, I see the Fleet is on full alert. Unless I order otherwise, nothing comes in or out of the system, including communications. I want all crews and ships in or outbound to be held and vetted. I want a full Council meeting in three hours, with no exceptions or apologies. Am I clear?”
Everyone nodded and a few courtiers began moving away to make the arrangements, keeping one eye on the Duke, in case
he hadn’t finished.
Patrick looked over his shoulder, back into the wrecked hall. “Leave this as it is. I might want to come back later and finish the job. No point in my wrecking it again.” He turned back and made sure everyone was watching him, before speaking again, “Keep Carmen updated. I will be in my rooms. Do not disturb me.”
He walked off, everyone hurrying to get out of the way of his armoured form, Patrick not caring if his boots took chunks out of the ancient flooring, damaging the age-darkened wood. His mood was grim, his mind still trying to fully appreciate the terrible news which Vimes had relayed to him via his avatar at the Imperial Central Bank.
Hours earlier, Emperor Thomas’s younger brother, Marcus, had staged a carefully planned revolt, wiping out nearly all of the Marine Bodyguard while they slept in their barracks on Capital, then attacking the Imperial Palace itself to capture and kill the Emperor and his family. By all accounts, the fighting in the Palace had been swift but bloody, with Empress Isabella and the children killed as they tried to reach the safety of the underground command centre, their path blocked by rebel Marines. Emperor Thomas and the surviving remnants of his personal bodyguard had unsuccessfully tried to cover their escape, but had been killed in the vicious hand to hand fighting, the rebels obviously trying to take him alive or at least keep his body intact for identification purposes. Vimes had relayed the distressing images of the fighting, taken from his security cameras, which cruelly exposed how the Palaces’ internal security was not designed or capable of combatting a revolt from within.
Marcus had made no secret of his rebellion, knowing that the Imperial Navy and Conclave of Nobles was sworn to the office of Emperor, not the person that held it. Upon the death of Thomas and his heir's, even though Marcus was the murderer, as next in the line of succession, he automatically became the new Emperor and immediately above the law. The rebellion had been well planned, with Marcus’s placements already making themselves known and assuming positions of power within Capital. Orders were being sent to every Duke and Duchess instructing them to immediately attend Capital and renew their vows of loyalty to the Emperor, disturbingly without their normal fleets.
“Over my dead body,” Patrick said to himself on entering his private quarters, walking over to a docking station emerging from the floor, and allowing his armour to reduce to a more practical and room-friendly configuration.
“I never did like him and could never understand why Thomas never slapped him down in Council for his reckless plans to accelerate the Empire’s growth,” Patrick said to Carmen, his Palaces AI, “but never in a million years did I ever expect him to do something so…so evil as this. His own brother, nieces and nephews too, poor things.”
He went silent, fighting the urge to start smashing things again. The uncharacteristic display of temper hadn’t brought him the satisfaction or release he had sought and the thought of having to bend the knee and pledge fealty to the man that had killed his closest friend and Godchildren was almost too much for him to bear. Patrick pictured the faces of the children and Isabella, trying to fix them in his memory forever as he had known them, instead of the bloodied rags and shredded flesh from the security footage which had been displayed across the Empire as both proof and as a warning, albeit their bodies were almost too badly damaged to identify from the images alone. Although Thomas’s body had been horribly mutilated within its armour, his face was instantly recognisable to those that knew him closely, his dying expression one of impotent rage and despair.
Patrick was trapped within a dilemma. If there was any chance that the succession hadn’t been broken in favour of Marcus, he would be the first to take up arms and rally around him the many nobles who looked to Patrick for guidance and support in the Council, however, the same oath which would have seen him lay down his life in service to the Emperor was now forcing him to accept the killer of his friend. He also suspected that once he left the relative safety of his Sector, Marcus would ensure he never returned back to it, either by orchestrating a convenient “accident” or blatantly falsifying evidence of his disloyalty and having him executed. Many years ago, Patrick had prepared himself for the eventuality of dying in the Empire’s service and was not afraid of death, but to do so now, in the knowledge that his beloved family would inevitably soon follow him into the long night, was almost more than his spirit could bear.
With a groan, he sat down heavily on a chair, the material beneath him creaking ominously at the weight.
“What to do, what to do,” he kept repeating to himself, but the answer stubbornly refused to come and his impotent anger threatened to subside into black despair. By blocking all communications in and out, Patrick was trying to buy himself some time, but the formal summons to appear before the Council could only be ignored for so long, the time measured in days rather than weeks, for non-appearance would simply provide Marcus the excuse he needed to turn the might of the Imperial Navy onto his Sector and Wayland itself. Fortunately, to allow for the different travel times within systems, he had four days before having to begin the fateful journey to Capital and arrive with the other nobles from all over the Empire.
Patrick’s personal nightmare continued for two more days, Carmen ensuring the most distressing news and scenes from across the Empire were not being relayed to the general population out of respect for his friend. It was plain Marcus and his cronies were consolidating their hold over the Empire, with show trials of alleged traitors and terrorists having been scheduled suspiciously quickly. Patrick’s wife, a gentle and kind woman, was talking about fleeing the Empire with their family, seeking refuge either in the Marches along the Felidae border or seeking safety in the family’s secret off-planet bolt-hole. Unfortunately, Patrick was painfully aware that everything Thomas and Vimes had known, so in time would Marcus. He’d had no secrets from Thomas, including his plans for a worst-case scenario, having no reason to hold anything back from his friend, the two of them closer than brothers. At that ironic thought, Patrick laughed bitterly.
“No,” he told himself, finally coming to a decision, “the only thing I can do is present myself as ordered and somehow try to persuade Marcus to spare my family, perhaps offering hostages to guarantee my heirs good behaviour,” despite knowing deep down that his chances of success were at best, slim.
Decision made, he instructed Carmen to make the travel arrangements, then began putting into order such of his affairs that needed attention. Concentrating hard on the task, Patrick was surprised to receive a personal message direct from Vimes, which was completely bypassing Carmen.
“Patrick, have you made a decision yet?” came the familiar voice, bitterly reminding him of happier times. Answering his own question, Vimes continued, “Knowing you as I do, I suspect that was a rhetorical question. Please forgive this unorthodox means of communication but I don’t want this traced or recorded.”
Intrigued, Patrick remained silent, suspecting the wily old AI was up to something.
“I would have spoken to you sooner, but needed to give you time to go through all the options available to you. I don’t know anyone to trust apart from you.” Vimes went silent, his voice indicating he wanted Patrick to say something.
“OK, Vimes, you have me. Trust me with what, exactly?” he thought back.
“Take one of your personal yachts and fly at high-G to the dark side of Wayland’s largest moon. I’ll meet up with you there in two and a half hours. Obviously, don’t tell anyone who you are coming to see, not even your wife. I know you’ve always thought there was more to me than just a semi-sentient AI, so just trust me.”
“How do I know this isn’t a trick of Marcus to arrange an accident with no witnesses, eh Vimes? Nothing’s come into the system for days, so how could you have gotten here without my knowing. It’s obvious you’ve been here all along,” Patrick thought back, warily.
“Of course, I’ve been here all along, you stubborn, suspicious man. I have an avatar at the Bank as you well know and you’ll be meeting
another one. Trust me, please Patrick. I don’t completely trust even this means of communication, so have to speak to you in person, away from everything I can’t directly control. You will be back in time to leave for Capital, I promise, if that is what you still want to do after we have spoken.”
Vimes voice took on a pleading tone that Patrick had never heard before and despite his misgivings, found himself intrigued and curious in equal measure.
“All right, Vimes. Give me the coordinates and I’ll see your avatar shortly.”
A few hours later, Duke Gallagher’s personal yacht had almost finished decelerating when a new message arrived from Vimes. At the same time, his ship’s sensors confirmed a large yacht had decloaked at the rendezvous coordinates. He zoomed in the screens magnification and let out an involuntary gasp of surprise when he recognised the ship was the late Emperor’s favourite, despite the lack of transponder signals identifying it as such. For an instant, Patrick’s heart was filled with hope that somehow his friend was here and the past few days had been an awful nightmare from which he was just awakening, but these were dashed when Vimes told him to come alongside and dock.
Ten minutes later, Patrick, again in full armour, walked across into the familiar yacht and was greeted by one of the ships servitor droids and escorted into the main reception room. The floor formed a seat strong enough to accommodate his armoured bulk and he sat down, every sense and weapon system in his suit on high alert.
“Well, Vimes, I’m here,” he called out, “What was so damned important and secret to bring me a quarter of a million miles?
Imperium: Revelation: Book Two in the Imperium Trilogy Page 31