Imperium: Coda: Book Three in the Imperium Trilogy

by Paul M Calvert

  Although he knew it would happen, he had been annoyed when the communication device Vimes had given him was taken away for examination and safekeeping; no doubt locked somewhere in a vault, along with everything he had worn that day, down to his shoes and socks. What they could possibly expect to find from examining his underwear still escaped him and provided some amusement, but this was tempered by not having been given back a pair of his more comfortable shoes. On the plus side, not only had recent events resulted in his Department being allocated a massively increased budget, but the new challenges had left him feeling almost young again. Even his wife had expressed surprise at how full of energy he now was.

  He looked again at the book lying open on his desk, sitting atop a pile of papers and memos all vying for his attention. It had been many years since he had last read the book, but after that eventful day and night, he had found himself drawn back to it, locating it in his library the night before. Sir John lifted his glasses onto his head and began reading the opening lines…

  “No one would have believed in the last year of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were being scrutinised and studied…”

  The words, written over a hundred years previously, gave him pause and he marvelled how prescient H G Wells had been.

  “Even Wells, in his wildest imaginings, wouldn’t have guessed just how far off the mark he actually was,” Sir John mused, “Sentient machines that can change shape, virtual telepathy, thousands of worlds and trillions of human beings with lifespans many times our own. They seemed friendly enough but what if they ever came to harbour ill intent towards us? Is there even anything we could do to stop them taking control. Would we even know anything about it?”

  He closed the book and replaced it, turning his attention back to the three large flat screens attached to the desk which enabled him to have multiple applications open at the same time. Because of all the meetings and debriefings he’d had to endure, until two days ago Sir John had been frustrated at being unable to properly begin his own private investigations. Since then, he had been running multiple searches, looking for anything that might indicate to him just how widespread the influence of these aliens had spread. Using facial recognition software and his direct data link to GCHQ, he had begun searching the internet for any matches, along with sending a team of researchers to begin the monumental task of sifting through paper records.

  A red light in the top right corner of the screen directly in front of him began flashing, announcing the arrival of an urgent message. He opened it and began reading, his face showing the first trace of a smile, as he opened the first of several attachments, one of which was a partially faded black and white photograph taken from the archives of the Imperial War Museum, showing a group of fighter pilots lined up near their Spitfires. Appended to it, amongst other documents, was a copy of an old RAF service record from 1943.

  “Gotcha!” he exclaimed before he could stop himself, “Alexander Doone, a French pilot rescued at Dunkirk, joined RAF at recommendation of…distinguished pilot record, multiple kills…missing, believed killed in action over France in 1943, covering the retreat of his flight. Well, well, so he fought for us during the war; interesting. What’s this… married, no children. Christine, his wife, disappeared from records in 1947, believed to have emigrated abroad.”

  He kept reading, then switched to the file regarding Christine’s father, William Streeton. Again, a fine service record, career soldier, rising through the ranks to become a Major by the end of the war, at which point he retired. Believed emigrated in 1947.

  “ Coincidence? Methinks not,” he said to the empty room. He looked again at the note. “Interesting character. A plainly working-class soldier rising through the ranks to Major. Did he really emigrate?”

  He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled under his nose, letting his mind go blank, and his subconscious begin to make connections. The young fighter pilot in the picture looked exactly like Vimes, even down to his height, as in the photograph he towered a good six inches above everyone else.

  “How many more have there been, I wonder?” Sir John thought to himself, wondering how far back in time he might be able to trace the Doone family, but realising it was probably futile, given how long lived they were. “Vimes indicated a lifespan of around two hundred years or more. If Alexander’s father was tested a hundred previously, then it would have been around 1840, just fourteen years after the first photograph was ever taken. The chances of photographic verification are very slim. Damn.”

  He turned his attention back to the more practical and useful measures he had insisted on in the intervening weeks. The area around Struan in Skye had been searched with a fine tooth comb, especially the scene of the car accident and where the alien had been hit by the truck. Almost miraculously, a small lens had been found in a waterlogged ditch running along the roadside and sent off for analysis. The findings had been astounding. Not only did the lens mould itself to fit any eye shape, rectifying astigmatism and short or long sightedness, but once a volunteer had placed it on their eye, it had turned the deepest night into natural daylight and revealed an impressive magnifying capability. “Gave me the eyesight of a hawk,” had been the volunteer’s assessment. Operation of the lens appeared to be controlled by the electrical impulses from the muscles around the eye controlling focus and movement.

  Seeing the military implications, significant resources had been expended trying to reverse engineer it. Frustratingly, replicating any part was currently beyond the efforts of the MoD’s best scientists, and the latest report on progress indicated it might be fifty or a hundred years before they might get even close. He sighed, closing down the document and focused his attention on what else the photograph could tell him, letting his hindbrain flit from topic to topic.

  Sir John closed his eyes, listening to the rain hammering against the window of his study, a sound that always helped him relax and think.

  “Providing I’m warm and dry,” he thought, opening his eyes again and looking around the room, unable to reach the usual meditative state in which he did his best thinking. He opened Alexander’s service record again, re-reading the sparse contents, then began writing instructions to one of the many support staff which the MoD had seconded onto his typically much smaller team, instructing them to trace any living relatives of the pilot’s wife and where they were now.

  He pressed the send button. Moments later, he raised an eyebrow when an error message pinged up from the secure server advising that the message couldn’t be delivered. Re-checking the recipient’s address, Sir John sent it again and became frustrated when it pinged back into his in-box again. Before he could do anything else, a sound told him of an incoming Skype call. Normally, only his grandchildren Skyped him, so he accepted the call without checking, then nearly swore out loud when the face of Vimes/Alexander greeted him.

  “Good morning, Sir John, nice to speak with you again,” came the voice and a part of Sir John’s mind noticed how amused and smug the avatar sounded.

  Recovering his poise, Sir John rallied almost instantly, putting two and two together.

  “Good morning to you, too. So, I take it you don’t want me checking up on Christine’s family?” he responded, “Why is that, Vimes, or should I say, Alexander?”

  The smile on Vimes’s face grew wider and nodded. “Well done, that man. I am impressed. It remains Vimes. I only used Alexander’s image so Karen would immediately recognise me when I came to rescue her, although it wasn’t really necessary as who else could it have been? I also see you managed to persuade everyone to keep to their side of the bargain, leaving her aunt and uncle on Skye alone, although from what I have gathered, it was touch and go at times.”

  The smile faded but didn’t altogether vanish. Vimes continued speaking, “Christine’s family know nothing about what re
ally happened to her, and for those alive now, she is nothing more than a faded memory. Before you ask, she kept in contact with them for a few years, writing regularly or coming back from time to time, until it was impossible to hide her lack of ageing, then told everyone she was emigrating to Australia as a Ten Pound Pom. You know the reference?” Sir John nodded. “Good. I keep watch on them from a distance, so to speak, and ensure they are kept safe. Christine herself used to visit from time to time and watch them from afar. Actually, I think she wanted an excuse to come back to Earth and enjoy her humanity again for a while.”

  Sir John nodded, “I take it that any attempt to contact them would not be welcomed. I understand. Are there any other things you feel I need to be made aware of? What about the lens we found; do you want that back?”

  The image of Vimes shook its head. “No, I see you have realised it will be many years before you can replicate the technologies involved. Really advanced technologies often look so simple in use. Please, keep it with my blessing.”

  “How are things in the Empire, Vimes? Has the Emperor sorted out his problem yet or is it still ongoing?

  Vimes hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before responding, Sir John understanding that in computer terms it was an age.

  “Not yet, Sir John, but I believe matters are moving on apace. You will understand if I don’t elaborate. Now, if there is nothing else…?”

  Thinking quickly, Sir John asked Vimes the first question that came into his mind, “After the war, did Major William Streeton leave Earth and join with his daughter? It seems rather too much of a coincidence.”

  “What do you think? Five years of total war, almost dying and having your mind opened to possibilities beyond the experience of almost anyone else on the planet. From your own Service record, you know better than most how such things can change a man. Let us leave it at that. One last thing, I see that you have instigated a programme of keeping ultra-secret information away from any computer networks. Very wise, for you never know who might be watching. A very good day to you, Sir John; please extend my compliments again to Her Majesty next time you see her.”

  The image of Vimes vanished, leaving behind an afterimage that quickly faded. Sir John weighed up for a few moments whether he should report this latest conversation but finally decided against it.

  “It’s not as if we didn’t know he was watching or could hack into our computer systems at will,” he reasoned to himself, “nor did he divulge anything we couldn’t have worked out for ourselves, given time. He was non-committal about the rebellion, but on balance, I think that means things haven’t worsened.”

  A loud knock on the heavy oak door brought him back, quickly followed by the familiar face of his wife bringing him a cup of tea and several biscuits. He looked at the clock.

  “Heavens, is that the time? Sorry dear, I didn’t realise.”

  She came in and placed the tray on the floor next to him, then bent down and lightly kissed him on the cheek, resting her hand on his shoulder.

  “Anything interesting?” she asked, knowing better than to look at the screen.

  Sir John shook his head. “No, not really, just the usual stuff.” He covered her hand with his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “What time is dinner?”

  “An hour, give or take. I’ll give you ten minutes warning so you can finish up.” She stroked his hair then left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Sir John watched her leave, smiling to himself and thinking how fortunate he was to have found someone to put up with his ways. He left the cup of tea where it was, knowing it would be too hot for his liking, and opened yet another document from the long list that required his attention. He began reading, then leant back in his chair and took a deep breath, exhaling loudly.

  “I wish these people would learn to take no for an answer,” he said to himself, feeling his frustration level rise again and undo his earlier attempts to relax. Trying to keep news of what had occurred from the other members of the Five Eyes agreement had been difficult, but the decision to keep everything appertaining to it in paper form or on computers not linked to any network had meant it was not impossible.

  So far, the topic of sharing the intelligence had come up at almost every meeting, with the participants almost evenly split. He was on the side of keeping quiet, but some influential figures in the military continued to press for it to be shared in the hope of improving access to American assets and technology. Sir John remained vehemently opposed. Much as he admired his American friends, he feared the sheer bulk of their machine would push the UK aside and demand total control. He doubted whether they would agree to leave Karen or Christine’s family alone and feared the consequences should the apparently ever watchful Vimes become annoyed or concerned for their safety.

  “I suppose in some way it is useful to know Vimes is monitoring key players, including myself, just in case I need to contact him. With the communicator he left me being kept in a high-security vault, at least I know how I can quickly contact him directly if the situation warrants,” he thought to himself, pleased he no longer needed to go through official channels.

  The Americans obviously knew something of importance had occurred, probably through their network of spy satellites. Sir John wasn’t naive enough to believe the official line that members of the Five Eyes didn’t spy on each other, and had enjoyed fielding questions from his opposite number in their Intelligence community over a fine lunch at his club in London, leaving him with the impression they remained unaware of the important details, just curious why the UK’s armed forces had gone onto high alert. The cover story of it being a routine drill had unsurprisingly fallen onto deaf ears.

  Reaching down for his cup of tea, Sir John thought back to what Vimes had told him and wondered what really happened to Major Streeton...

  SCENE 18, WINTER LINE, MONTE CASSINO, ITALY, LATE 1943

  Alexander’s cloaked yacht Jumped into orbit around Earth, and Vimes immediately began moving them to their ultimate destination. Below, this half of the planet was swathed in night. Only a few cities were bright with light, the majority blacked out as war continued on relentlessly across the Mediterranean. Scattered pinpricks of brightness in the dark gave away the positions of towns and villages too unimportant to be bothered by the fighting. It was here that the people tried to go about their lives as they had done for generations, ignoring the tides of war.

  Alexander looked across at his wife, who was sitting in the command chair next to him and smiled, reaching out with his hand to gently caress her arm with a simple gesture of affection that spoke volumes.

  “Here we are, love,” he said quietly, “right back where we started out from, give or take a thousand miles.”

  He looked at her face carefully. “Are you alright with this?” he asked, the concern evident in his voice, making Christine smile. She covered his hand with her own.

  “Just a bit nervous, Alex, that’s all. I’ve not seen Dad for quite a while and,” she hesitated for several heartbeats, “well, I don’t know how he’s going to react when we see him,” she replied, giving his outstretched hand a squeeze in return. She instructed the harness to release her and got out of the chair. Alexander followed suit and followed her towards the command deck’s exit.

  The voice of Vimes interrupted them both. “Christine, I’ve updated myself with the avatar I sent to impersonate you here on Earth after you left for Capital. It reports everything is fine and no-one has any inkling you are not what you appear to be. It will remain in place until such times as you and Alexander have decided what to do about your father.”

  “Thank you, Vimes,” Christine replied, turning around to watch as the chairs they had used for the Jump finally vanished into the floor. After spending many months in the Empire, Christine was starting to take these modern miracles for granted as the novelty began to wear off. The one thing which didn’t change, however, was her love for Alexander and how blessed she felt for having him come
into her life. The two of them made a formidable couple, and she had learnt so much from him since leaving Earth. Although their marriage and relationship had not been officially announced due to the vagaries of war, it was becoming apparent to those around them that Alexander had found his life partner.

  Despite the risks to her by following him, Christine had refused to let Alexander leave her behind when he went out campaigning. They’d argued over this, but to win the argument she simply had to remind him about his last, ill-fated Spitfire flight and timely rescue by Duke Gallagher. “If you are going into harm’s way again, I’ll be by your side when you do,” she’d forcibly insisted on numerous occasions until Alexander had given up trying to persuade her otherwise. He had, however, insisted she learn how to fight properly, so she found herself being privately tutored by Alexander’s Weapons Master, Hiro Katana.

  Far beneath them on the ground, the morning was still several hours away. Inside, Christine and Alexander walked over to their respective docking stations to form fighting suits, even though they didn’t expect there would be a need to use them. Christine smiled to herself and let her mind drift, thinking that the pain from hundreds of practice sessions with Hiro was perhaps Alexander’s way of getting his own back for her having won the argument. Despite the almost constant training and discomfort, she had to admit to herself that since starting Hiro’s training regime she had never felt fitter or better in her entire life. Having taken to the fighting suit like a duck to water, even Hiro was beginning to find it difficult to cope with her sometimes unorthodox fighting style; a dynamic mix of street fighting, unarmed combat learnt from her father and the scientific methods Hiro was instilling into her. When mixed together with the muscle memory taken from several combat veterans, at times she felt invincible, something Hiro had picked up on and chided her about.