Dec 17 2008
Imperialism, Book One: Chapter Two
The dry sand cracked under the feet of the Imperial soldiers as they leapt out of their flying vessel. Impossibly immense, it towered above the myriad of blue-clad figures that littered the beach. Beside them, waves gently lapped against the shore, driven onward by some unknown force inside the fairly benign and peaceful lake. The lake, too, was large, stretching out across the whole expanse of land that made up the borders of the town of Silverage, and then running to join multiple rivers, which in turn branched out into various tributaries. The lake was called Lake Planelia, and its colossal proportions were made second by only one other body of water, the ocean. The ocean stretched on for a seemingly indefinite time, and, to almost everyone, it did. Only select people were made privy to the information that beyond the ocean, there existed another land, with other people.
But the Imperials on the beach, mere privates, led by a sergeant, did not know this. To them, their life was comprised of carrying out the orders of their ruler. The ruler’s name was not known, but his titles included master, leader, and king. Few Impe-rials, and even fewer commoners, had ever seen him. Tales of his grandeur and power were spread wide about the land, along with the fear perpetuated about his deadly ser-vants, the Exterminators. Rumored to be armored in solid, impenetrable metal, they pos-sessed inhuman strength and advanced weapons.
The only weapons the Imperials in Silverage had were swords and spears, at least for the most part. The sergeant fingered the cylindrical object strapped to his belt. Though it appeared harmless, it was the most destructive weapon the Imperials had cre-ated. This was a relatively small cylinder, so its explosion would be correspondingly small, but it was still devastating enough to blow up an average sized house, killing all of the residents within it instantly. When twisted, a small flame inside was ignited, which then took several seconds to reach the thin layer of dust that coated the interior. The dust was the true weapon here. Indeed, it was called Firedust by many, especially by the min-ers who were forced to unearth it.
The sergeant’s name was Calvin Lixon. Small in stature, he had a waxy complex-ion and dark, brooding eyes. His shoulders were weak, but his chest was thrust out proudly as he commanded his subordinates. Only recently promoted, he took joy in his newfound power. Though his fighting skills were not extraordinary, his tactical genius was praised by many captains, and it was expected that he would pilot his own midship soon. This particular vessel was not truly his, just given to him to complete this mission. The mission in question was particularly dull and boring, and Lixon craved a better as-signment. Still, he dared not say anything, lest they decide to demote him.
Holding his sword loosely in his right hand, his left secured firmly on the cylin-der, Lixon reflected upon the fact that military force was not even needed in this situa-tion. His “mission,” if it even deserved that title, was to ensure that the residents of Sil-verage paid all their taxes and to collect their corn. It was expected that the citizens would attempt to protest or actively rebel, but Lixon highly doubted this, even if a trusted source had informed the Imperials.
Silverage was a peaceful town, and so their protests, if any, would be peaceful. A strike had already been crushed several weeks earlier with ease. It was strange that workers insisted upon striking, when they knew very well that would be replaced within minutes by better, more efficient laborers who were actually thankful and grateful for their job and the generous amounts of money offered to them for their job.
“This whole idea of dying for their beliefs is inherently foolish,” muttered Lixon aloud. “It accomplishes nothing in the end.”
“What’s that, sir?” asked a nearby soldier, glancing at Lixon.
“Nothing you need to know, private. Keep marching!” snapped Lixon.
The soldier rolled his eyes and made a show of over exaggerating each step, smirking to his friends. A wave of hot anger, the source of which Lixon could not deter-mine, welled up in his stomach, and he felt the blood rushing to his face. Enraged, he stepped forward, grasped the soldier by the arm, and pressed the point of his sword against the private’s neck.
“I may just be a sergeant, but I deserve more respect than you will ever receive in your sorry life,” snarled Lixon.
The soldier looked at him with wide, fearful eyes, and then nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Lixon released him in disgust, feeling a mix of emotions wash over him. Part of him felt oddly violated, but his brain rejoiced in this show of power.
Looking ahead, past the mass of at least fifty Imperial soldiers, Lixon saw the town of Silverage. Humble and simple, its agricultural roots were displayed plainly in the modest homes and expanses of cornfields.
Lixon smiled to himself. This was going to be easy.
