[Gaunt's Ghosts 02] - Ghostmaker

by Dan Abnett

  Bodies littered the concourses and galleries of the residences, shattered glass and twisted plastic covered the ground. Intense fires blazed through some areas, and the air was full of drifting cinders, like incandescent snow.

  And flies: dark, fat-bodied flies.

  Blasting as he advanced, Corbec fired to left and right, through doorways and thin plastic-board walls, cutting down or exploding the foe all around.

  Flanked in a fire-team, Larkin, Suth, Varl, Mallor, Durcan and Billad worked in immediate support. Larkin snatched off the occasional shot, his aim as fine as usual, though Corbec knew that thanks to the storm, he was closer to snapping than ever. Suth had the squad’s melta, and seared them a path.

  Bolt fire and las-shot cut their way. Billad jerked as he was hit repeatedly, sprawling back against a wall and sliding down.

  Corbec sent a steady stream of shot into the smoke haze.

  The flies buzzed.

  Radio chatter was almost as deafening as the firefight. Guard forces had begun to pincer the city. A combined force of Royal Volpone 50th and Raymian 13th and 16th had driven a steel fist into the ore-smelter heartland of the hive, meeting the enemy’s main motorised units in an armoured battle in the vast, echoing barns of the starship yards and dry-docks. Rumours were a battalion of Lakkarii Gundogs and some Raven Guard Space Marines had punched through into the upper levels, into the Administratum tower itself.

  But an overall victory seemed so far away, especially given the psychic storm, which effectively shut off any further reinforcements. Or anything else.

  “Any joy with the air-cover?” Corbec asked over the crackle of laser fire.

  Trooper Raglon answered on the bead-link. “Marauder flights are all out of action, sir. Fleet Command recalled them because of the storm. The Chaos effects are screwing their guidance.”

  Corbec glanced up at the corrosive purple turbulence that passed for sky. Forget the aircraft, that nightmare was screwing with his guidance. This close to a manifestation of Chaos, his senses were whirling. His balance was shot and he felt nauseous, with a throbbing pain in his temple. Terror dimpled his skin and ached in his marrow. He dared not think about what was out there, waiting for him.

  And he knew his men were the same. There had been a dozen spontaneous nosebleeds already, and several men had convulsed, vomiting.

  Still, they were making headway, clawing through the grim habitat towers and the workforce residence blocks where things came down to knife and pistol, room to room, in the old, dirty tenements where the lowest level of worker had dwelt.

  The commissar would have been proud, Corbec thought. The Ghosts had done the job. He spat out a fly and listened carefully to the flow of radio traffic again for a moment. The Fleet Command channel repeated its overriding directive: unless the enemy psykers could be neutralised, the Fleet couldn’t land any more reinforcements, any more of the five million Imperial Guard troops still waiting in troop-ships in orbit. Or deploy air-cover. The fate of the entire battle teetered in the balance.

  Corbec brushed off another fly. The air was thick with them now, choked with flies and cinders and ash. The smell was unbearable. Colm Corbec took a deep, shuddering breath. He knew the signs: they were close to something, something bad. Something of Chaos.

  “Watch yourselves!” he warned his group over the link. “We’re getting into a real nest of Hell here!”

  Through the swarming clouds of buzzing flies, the fire-team edged along a corridor littered with clear plastic shards and torn paper. Out in the concourse below, a fierce hand-to-hand battle was ending in screams and sporadic pistol fire. Something blew up a kilometre or so away, shaking the ground.

  Corbec reached the turn in the hall and waved his men back.

  Just in time, his fire-team sheltered in doorways as heavy stub gun fire raked up and down the old back-stairway, disintegrating the steps and tearing down the stained wall tiles.

  Corbec looked round at Larkin, who was murmuring some Imperial Prayer under his breath, waving off the flies. It was probably the oath of allegiance to the Emperor they’d all been taught at school back home on Tanith.

  Home…

  This had once been someone’s home, thought Corbec, snapping back to the hard facts of real time. A dingy old hallway in a dingy old high rise, where humble, hardworking people came back from the shift-work at the fabrication plants in the hive and cooked meagre meals for their tired children.

  “Larks!” He gestured up the stairwell. “A little Mad Magic on that stubbed.”

  Larkin wiped his mouth and shook out his neck like a pianist about to play. He took out his nightscope, a little heat-sensitive spotter he’d used back home poaching larisel out in the woods at night. He trained it up the hall, found a hub of heat emanating from the wall.

  Most would have aimed for that, thinking it the body heat of the gunner. Larkin knew better. The source was the muzzle heat of the big cannon. That put the gunner about sixty centimetres behind it, to the left.

  “A bottle of sacra says it’s a head shot,” whispered Corbec as he saw Larkin snuggle down and aim his lasgun.

  “Done,” Varl said.

  Larkin punched a single shot up the stairwell and through the wall.

  They moved forward, cautious at first, but there was no further firing.

  Covering each other, they moved up the smashed staircase, past the landing where the cult soldier lay dead across his stub gun, head half gone. Corbec smiled and Varl sighed.

  Then they entered a further landing and fanned out. There was a smell of burning flesh here, and the flies were thicker than ever.

  Larkin edged along one wall, looking at the trash and broken possessions that had been dropped in the rubble. Along the wall, under a series of Chaos markings rendered in dark paint, someone had nailed up a series of dolls and other childrens’ toys. Something in Larkin’s heart broke as he gazed on the crucified dolls, remembering a world of family and friends and children forever lost to him.

  Then he realised that not all of the dolls were dolls.

  Larkin fell to his knees, retching.

  On the far side of the gallery, Corbec, Durcan and Suth burst into a long concrete chamber that had once been a central meeting hall for the tenement block. It was dark inside. Several thousand eyes blinked in their direction.

  They all belonged to the same… thing.

  Something immeasurably vast began to coil up out of the darkness, extending the flaccid, blue-white mass of its bloated body, toxic spittle drooling from its befanged mouths. Jellied things quivered in the dark spaces of its translucent skin and flies billowed around it like a cloak.

  Corbec’s nose spurted blood and soaked his beard as he backed away, his mind seized in horror. Suth dropped the melta with a clatter and started to retch, sliding down the wall, unable to stand. Durcan seemed unable to move. He began to cry, wailing as he fumbled to raise his lasgun. Limpid, greasy coils lashed out of the dark chamber and encircled him, embraced him, and then crushed him so hard and so suddenly he burst like a tomato.

  Mallor and Varl turned and saw the horror slithering up from the chamber, saw Suth helpless and Corbec frozen, saw the pulpy red slick that had been Durcan.

  “Daemon! Daemon!” Varl screamed down the comm link. “DALMON!”

  Gaunt held up a hand and announced a ten minute rest. The group eased back and took the weight off their feet, leaning on tree trunks, hunkering down.

  Meryn took the medi-pack back to Bragg and helped him lower the stretcher-bed.

  “Oh, feth!” Milo heard him say.

  Milo crossed over as Gaunt himself approached.

  Meryn looked up, treating the ugly wounds of the two unconscious men. “It’s this place,” he explained, “hot, wet… spores in the air… insects. Their wounds gel re-infected as fast as I clean them. Obel’s fading fast. Some kind of fungus necrotizing the raw flesh. Maggots too.” He shook his head and continued with his work.

  Milo moved away. The smell ris
ing from the wounded men was not pleasant.

  Nearby stood the co-pilot. He’d pulled his flight helmet off, and was staring nervously into the green darkness around them, clutching his laspistol. Milo thought he looked young, no older than him. The flesh around his cranial implants looked raw and fresh. He probably feels just like me, Milo decided. In over his head.

  He had just considered approaching the navy cadet and speaking to him when the low whine of gunfire sang through the trees. Everyone ducked for cover, and there was a staccato series of safety locks disengaging and power-cells humming to life.

  Near to Milo, Gaunt crawled forward, tapping his micro-bead.

  “Rawne? Answer!” he hissed. The major, with Feygor, Caffran and a trooper called Kalen, had scouted ahead towards the mysterious structure.

  “F’irefight!” came Rawne’s response, Milo picking it up via his own comm-bead. “We’re pinned! Daagh! Throne of Earth! There’s—”

  The link went dead.

  “Damn!” Gaunt hissed. Tie clambered to his feet. “Meryn! Bragg! Guard the wounded! You, Navy boy! Stay with them! The rest with me, fire-team spread!”

  The Ghosts moved forward and Milo moved with them, checking his pistol was cleared to fire. Despite the fear, he felt pride. The commissar had needed all the men he could muster. He had not thought twice about including Milo.

  Corbec was sure: his life was over when Larkin started shooting. Driven over the edge by what he had seen nailed along the wall, Larkin just went crazy; mindless, oblivious to the otherwise transfixing image of Chaos in that old tenement. Larkin simply opened fire and kept firing. “Larkin! Larkin!” Corbec hissed.

  The little man’s howl was drying away into a hoarse whisper. A repetitive clicking came from the lasgun in his hands, the power cell exhausted.

  The lashing tentacles of the vast thing in the hallway had been driven back by the hammerblow of relentless laser fire.

  They had a moment of grace, time to retreat.

  Corbec led his scrambling fire-team back down the tenement hall, half-carrying Larkin.

  “Oh feth! Oh feth! Oh feth!” Larkin repeated, over and over.

  “Shut up, Larks!” warned Corbec. “Contact Fleet Command!” he yelled to Raglon over his bead. “Tell them what we’ve found!”

  In the cover of a slumped tree-stump, Trooper Caffran sighted his lasgun to his shoulder and loosed a burst of laser shot that sliced explosively through the foliage ahead. Bolter fire returned, smacking into the wood around him, blasting sprays of splinters and gouts of sap.

  “Major Rawne?” Caffran yelled. “Comm link’s dead!”

  “I know!” spat Rawne, dropped down against a tree nearby as metal shot exploded the bark behind him. He threw down Gaunt’s chainsword and swung his own lasgun up to fire.

  Feygor took up a prone position, blasting with his own weapon, Kalen to his side. The four Ghost lasguns blasted an arc of fire into the dense trees, the dim grove flickering with the muzzle flashes.

  Rawne span, his gun lowered, but dropped his aim with a curse as he saw Gaunt moving in behind them, the men in fire-team line.

  “Report!” hissed Gaunt.

  “We just walked into heavy bolter fire. Enemy positions ahead, unseen. Feels like an ambush, but who knew we were coming?”

  “Comm link?”

  “Dead… jammed.”

  “Would help if we could see what we were shooting at,” Gaunt remarked. He waved a “come here” to Trooper Brostin, who hurried over, cradling the single flamer they’d pulled intact from the troop-ship.

  “Positions!” Gaunt yelled, and fanned his men out so that all could take a clear shot once the target was revealed. “Brostin?”

  The trooper triggered the flame cannon and a volcanic spear of liquid fire spat into the dense undergrowth. Maintaining the spurt, like a horizontal fountain of fire, Brostin swept it left and right.

  The trees, horsetails and giant ferns ahead flared and blazed, some of them igniting as if their sap was petrol, some wilting and withering like dust. In twenty seconds, a wall of jungle had been scorched aside and they had a clear view sixty metres into an artificially cleared area.

  Silence. Not even the bolter fire which had got them ducking.

  “Scope!” called Gaunt, and took the instrument as Milo offered it up.

  “Looks like we have…” Gaunt paused as the self-focus dials on his scope whirred and spun. “An Imperial installation. Three armoured, modular cabins, two larger hardened shelters… they’ve all had the insignia spray-painted out. Communicator-array and up-link mast for a voxcaster, that’s probably what’s jamming us… perimeter defence net… slaved servitors mounted into autoloader bolt cannons. You must have tripped a sensor as you came in, major. Triggered them off. I think we’ve fried a couple of them.”

  “What is this place?” Caffran murmured.

  “A way out… a chance we never thought we had. If we can get in there alive, that is.” Gaunt fell silent.

  “But what’s it doing out here in the middle of this jungle?” Milo found himself asking. Gaunt looked round at him. “Good question.”

  The word wasn’t good. All ground forces were stretched to breaking point maintaining the gains they had made. There was no one to move in to support the Ghosts.

  “How can we fight that kind of stuff?” stammered Suth.

  Corbec shook his head. He’d pulled the entire battle group back to the embankment overlooking the highway and the tenements beyond. Tenements that held the most abominable thing he’d ever seen.

  “But it has to die!” Larkin whispered. “Don’t you see? It’s causing the storm. Unless it dies, we’re all stuck here!”

  “You can’t know that, larks!” Varl sneered.

  Corbec wasn’t so sure. Larkin’s gut instincts had always been good bets. “Emperor save us all!” Corbec said, exasperated. He thought hard. There had to be something… something… what would Gaunt have done? Something arrogant, no doubt. Pulled rank, broken the rules, thrown the strategy books out of the window and used the resources he knew he could count on…

  “Hey, Raglon! Over here, lad!” he yelled to his comm-officer. “Patch me a link to the Navarre!”

  Executive Officer Kreff cleared his throat, took a deep breath and stepped into the Strategium, the captain’s armoured inner sanctum at the centre of the Navarre’s bridge. Captain Wysmark sat in dark, contemplative silence on a reclined throne, quietly assessing the flickering overlays of runic and schematic data that flowed across the smoothly curved walls and roof of the room.

  He turned in his chair slightly. “Kreff?”

  “I have, um, this is unorthodox, sir, but—”

  “Out with it, man.”

  “I’ve just spoken with Colonel Corbec, the acting chief of the Tanith First. His battle group is assaulting the western edge of the Nero Hive. He requests we… activate the main batteries and present on a target he has acquired.”

  Wysmark sneered, the glow of the readouts flickering across his face in the gloom.

  “Doesn’t this idiot know anything about Naval tactics?” he chuckled. “Fleet weapons will only engage a surface target from orbit before troop deployment. Once the ground forces are in, air-strikes are the responsibility of the attack squadrons.”

  Kreff nodded. “Which are grounded due to the psychic storm, sir. The colonel is aware it is counter to usual tactics, as orbital bombardment is not known for its… um… finesse. However, he claims this is a critical situation… and he can supply us with pinpoint co-ordinates.”

  Wysmark frowned, thoughtful. “Your assessment, Kreff? You’ve spent more time with these footsloggers since they’ve been aboard than anyone. Is this man mad, or should I grant his request?”

  Kreff dared a little smile. “Yes… and yes, sir.”

  Wysmark grinned back, very slightly. He rotated his chair to face Kreff. “Let’s see those co-ordinates.”

  Kreff jumped forward and handed him the data-slate.

&
nbsp; Wysmark keyed his micro-bead intercom. “Communications: patch me to Fleet Command. I wish to advise them of our next action. Fire control, energise the main batteries… I have a firing solution here. All stations, this is the captain… rig for main weapon firing.”

  All so very neat and civil, Kreff smiled. This really was the only way to fight a war.

  There was a blink of light, an astonishing shockwave that knocked them all down, and then a deafening roar that hammered across them.

  Corbec rose, coughing dust and picked Raglon up.

  “Right on the button,” he remarked jovially to his astonished men.

  They scrambled up to the top of the slope and looked over the balustrade. Below them, the ruinous expanse of a ten-lane highway stretched into the dark industrial high rises of the hive. Across the highway, a vast blazing crater stood where the tenements had been.

  “Holy Throne of Earth!” Varl stammered.

  “Friends in high places,” sniggered Corbec. He glanced down the slope at the hundreds of waiting troops below, troops who could already sense the change in the air. There was smoke, and fumes and cordite — but the stink of Chaos was retreating. The storm was blowing itself out. “Let’s go!” he yelled into his bead.

  The comms officer saluted Kreff as he crossed the polished deck of the serene bridge.

  “Signal from the surface, sir.”

  Kreff nodded.

  “Standard Guard voxcaster encryption, data and time as now, orbit lag adjusted. Message reads: ‘Ghostly gratitude to the Navarre. Kreff, you bastard, we knew you had it in you.’ Message ends. Sorry about the vulgarity, sir.”

  The comms officer looked up from the slate.

  “I’ll take that,” Kreff said, trying to hide his grin as he sauntered away.

  Gaunt moved in close to the cabins, bolt pistol in hand. Behind him came Feygor and Caffran, edging slowly.

  There was a low whirr and one of the servitors nearby detected the movement and swung around, bringing its automated weapon to bear.