by Dan Abnett
Raglon nodded, but he still seemed unsettled. “I just hate the responsibility—”
“Of the deaths?”
“And the mistake…”
Gaunt paused. “Raglon, this is your first real test of command. Not the fight, not the actions afterwards. Truth is the test. If it all went off the way you say it did, fine. If you’re covering for someone, then it’s not. If you want to be an officer in my regiment, then you have to deal in the truth, right from the start. So… is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“I was in command, sir.”
“Yes, you were. So who fethed up?”
“I did. I was in command.”
“Sergeant, the mark of a good squad leader is that he or she recognises weaknesses and brings them to the attention of his commanding officer. Take it on the chin by all means. Feth knows, you’ll have to live with the pain. But if there’s a loose link, tell me now.”
Raglon sighed. “I think we’d have run into the raiders anyway, although I’m told Scout Suth had advance warning. I had allowed myself to be spaced too far back in the file. As I understand it, Trooper Costin blew our cover.”
“How?”
“He was drinking on duty, sir. He gave away our position by failing to observe proper stealth discipline.” Gaunt nodded and got to his feet.
“For the God-Emperor’s sake, sir!” Raglon moaned. “Don’t!”
“Sergeant Adare, may the Emperor rest him, advised me of Costin’s unguarded drinking last year. Adare should have come down on it. I should have come down on it. At the very least, I should have warned you about it when you took over seventeen. This is my fault, primarily, and then Adare’s, long before it’s yours. First and foremost, it’s Costin’s.”
“Sir…”
“Speak?”
“I only got half my platoon out of that trench. Please don’t reduce the number of survivors.”
Gaunt put a hand on Raglon’s shoulder. “See to your duty and regret nothing. I’ll see to mine. You’ll make a first class platoon leader, Raglon.”
Gaunt walked through the mill. Mkoll hurried up to him.
“Sir?”
“In a moment, Mkoll.”
Gaunt reached the dingy alcove of rockcrete where Costin was lying. Dorden was changing the dressings of the trooper’s shattered hand.
The doctor looked up, and recognised the grim set of Gaunt’s face.
“No,” he said, rising. “No. No way, Gaunt. Not now. He’s half bled to death and I’ve spent the last twenty minutes saving his hand.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gaunt.
“Fething no! No, I said! I will not stand by and let you do this! Where the feth is your humanity? I respected you, Gaunt! I’d have followed you to the ends of the worlds, because you weren’t like the others! That shit at the triage station… that I understood! I hated you for it, but I forgave you! But not this.”
“He confessed to you, then?”
“It all came out,” Dorden looked down at Costin. “He told me about it. He’s traumatised. Remorseful. Suicidal, probably.”
“Suicide is no option. His laxity caused the death of several Ghosts.”
“So what? You’ll shoot him for it?”
“Yes,” said Ibram Gaunt.
Dorden stood in front of Costin. “Through me then. Go on, you bastard. Do it.”
Gaunt slid his bolt pistol from its holster. “Stand aside, Doctor.”
“I will not. I fething well will not.”
“Stand aside doctor, or I will have you stood aside.”
Dorden leaned in, standing on tip-toe so his eyes were level with Gaunt’s. “Shoot me,” he snarled. “Go on. I’m defying your orders. If Costin deserves the bullet for breaking your orders, so do I. So, shoot me. Or have everyone know you as an inconsistent leader… one rule for one, another for another.”
Gaunt didn’t blink. He slowly raised the bolt pistol until the muzzle was pressing at Dorden’s adam’s apple.
“You’re forcing an issue that shouldn’t be forced, doctor. You are the backbone of the First, depended on by everyone. You are loved by the men. I consider myself lucky to count you as a friend. But if you choose to take a stand on this, I will shoot you. It is my duty. My duty to the Guard, to the Warmaster and to the God-Emperor of Mankind. I cannot make exceptions. Not Costin. Not you. Please, doctor… stand aside.”
“I will not.”
Gaunt raised the bolter a little so that Dorden was forced to tilt his head back. “Please, doctor. Stand aside”
“I will not.”
“We are mirrors, Tolin, you and me. Mirrors of war. I break them. You put them back together. For every gramme of your soul that wishes war would end, mine matches it tenfold. But until the killing ends, I won’t back down from my duty. Don’t make the next round I fire be the one that kills Tolin Dorden.”
“You really would shoot me,” Dorden marvelled softly, “wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Holy feth… then that just makes me want to stand here all the more.” Gaunt’s finger tightened on the trigger. Tighter. Tighter.
He turned away and lowered the weapon, clicking on the safety.
“Tolin,” he said quietly. “You’ve just undermined me in front of my men. You’ve just weakened my authority. I’m glad to the bottom of my heart that I couldn’t shoot you, because of our friendship. But I hope you’re ready to cope with the consequences.”
“There won’t be any consequences, Ibram,” Dorden said. “Oh yes, there will,” said Gaunt. “Oh, most certainly there will.”
Mkoll stood nearby, alarmed by the confrontation. For a minute, he’d thought Gaunt was going to ask him to step in and bundle Dorden away.
He should have known better. Gaunt would never involve another man in a personal fight.
But it was bad. There wasn’t a trooper in the First who’d take a gun to Doc Dorden. The idea was criminal. Time would tell what Gaunt’s loss of face would lead to.
The stand-off had shown Gaunt was human. Ironically, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Even more ironically, most of the First probably knew it already.
Gaunt stood alone for a few minutes. Around the mill, troopers whispered to each other. The Colonel-Commissar suddenly turned and walked back towards Costin. A hush fell. Dorden looked up from treating another man and saw where Gaunt was heading. He rose, but Milo stopped him.
“Don’t,” whispered Milo. “Not all over again.”
“But—”
“Milo’s right,” said Mkoll, stepping closer to the pair. “Don’t.”
Gaunt crouched down by Costin and took off his cap. He smoothed out the brim.
Costin lay against the pock-marked wall, fear overlaying the pain in his face.
“This is a regiment to be proud of, Costin,” Gaunt said finally.
“Yes, sir.”
“We stick up for one another. Look out for one another. That’s the way we’ve always done it. It’s the way I like it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The doctor is my friend. We don’t see eye to eye on some things, but that’s the mark of friendship, isn’t it? I think you deserve to be executed. Right here and now, because of your neglect. The doctor believes otherwise. I’m not about to shoot him. It turns out in fact, I couldn’t even if I thought it was the correct thing to do. So that puts me in a hard place. I have to be fair. Even-handed. If I don’t shoot him for breaking orders, I can’t very well shoot you for the same, can I? So you should consider yourself lucky.”
“I do, sir.”
“You should also know I hold you in the deepest contempt for what you did. I can never trust you. Your comrades can never trust you. Many, in fact, may hate you for this. You better watch your back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gaunt put his cap back on. “Consider this your first and only chance. Clean up your act. From this moment onwards. Become the model of the perfect trooper. Prove Dorden right. If I see you take
another drink, ever, or if I learn from others that you have, on duty or off, I will come down on you with the fury of a righteous god. It’s all up to you.”
“Sir?”
“What?”
“I’m… I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”
Gaunt got to his feet. “Words, Costin. Just words. Actions speak louder. Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Be sorry.”
Good advice, Gaunt mused to himself as he rejoined Mkoll. Deeds not words. Time was getting on and they were in danger of losing the lead they’d gained earlier. Either they moved on the Shadik lines now, or packed it in.
Gaunt called Golke, Beltayn and the platoon leaders to join them.
“I estimate from the light flashes the target guns are about seven kilometres away, sir,” Mkoll said. “North-east It could be more, given their range, but their firing lights are brighter than the last time I saw them so they’ve like as not moved up.”
“They’re heavy. Rail-mounted. Do the Shadik have tracks in that area, count?”
Golke shrugged. “There was a rail line up the east side of the Naeme Valley, years ago, but these days? No one from the Alliance has seen past the Shadik front in decades. Even our aerial obs is limited. Of course, they may well have purpose-built something.”
“So how do we get there?” Gaunt said, inviting opinions.
“It’s straight across no-man’s-land,” said Domor. “About a kilometre and a half from here. There’s some decent cover apart from the last few hundred metres. We’d have to go slow, the Ghost way.”
“What about this dugout Criid?” Gaunt asked.
She walked them to the back of the mill and showed them the pile of blast-collapsed rabble that marked the tunnel mouth. “I’ve every reason to think this runs right back to their lines,” she said. “A covered arterial route for getting obs patrols back and forth from the mill. I’d have checked it if there’d been time last night, but there wasn’t, so I sealed it.”
“Something Raglon and his boys are grateful for, no doubt. You used a single tube?”
“Yes sir.”
“So, if we clear this opening, the rest of the ran should be sound?”
“They’ll have it guarded,” Golke said. “They may well even be trying to clear it now.”
Mkoll shook his head. “I can’t hear anything. No sounds of picks or shovels. I think they’ve just assumed we hold the mill now. Either that, or they haven’t had time to detail sappers in.”
“If we go that way, we can be on them a lot quicker,” Gaunt mused. “It’s going to get nasty at the far end, whichever way we go. I think I’d rather come up through a guarded tunnel and take my chances. The alternative, as Domor said, is a ran at the lines, and that could get messy.”
“We’d still have to clear it,” said Golke.
Gaunt smiled. “An opportunity for the Verghastite element of the First to shine. Arcuda… round up every man you can find who used to be a miner or an ore worker. We need six or seven. Any more and they’ll be getting in each other’s way Move Dremmond and Lubba in to cover them. We’ll flame the hole the moment anything moves.”
Arcuda nodded and hurried off.
Gaunt looked at the rest of them. “Once we go, we’ll have to work to fluid plans. This is going to be hit and run. Opportunistic. We’re going to need everyone ready to improvise. Best case, we find these weapons and throw a rod in their spokes. Worst case, we simply find them and relay their precise location back to the Alliance. Everyone clear on that? Minimum result is locate. Any questions?”
“What about the wounded?” asked Mkoll. There were seven men from seventeen unfit to move.
“They stay here. Zweil stays with them, along with a backstop team. I’ll select it. Anything else?”
“One thing that might be useful, sir,” said Beltayn. “I’ve been monitoring vox traffic. About five minutes ago, the Alliance distributed the signal ‘rogue behj’.”
“By which they mean?”
“There’s another assault due,” said Golke. “The counter-push must have produced results in the 57th. GSC must have decided to capitalise on that, and send out a second wave. What was the qualifying code, Beltayn?”
“Eleven one decimal two, sir.”
Golke nodded, impressed. “They’re coming on force. Right across 57th and 58th. We can expect a serious bombardment to start with, and then skirmishers followed by main assault. This part of the front is going to be lively tonight.”
“Works in our favour,” said Gaunt. “Confusion, line assault. We couldn’t want for better distractions. And being underground during the bombardment can’t hurt either.”
“Unless a stray shell brings the roof down,” muttered Criid.
Her pessimism made Gaunt laugh.
“Let’s get set,” he told them. “The clock’s running. I want to be coming up on the Shadik lines during or after the first assault. Then we play it as it comes.”
Arcuda had rounded up six Verghastites with mine experience: Trillo, Ezlan, Gunsfeld, Subeno, Pozetine and, of course, Kolea. Stripped down, they got to work with their nine-seventies and their bare hands. Other troops were brought in to form chains and clear the rabble the Verghastites were digging out. Lubba and Dremmond, their flamers ready, stood by to hose the opening if anything stirred.
Gaunt stood and watched the work for a while. He was fascinated by Gol Kolea. Criid had had to explain to Kolea what was needed, because his mind lacked even the most basic memories of his long years as a miner in Number Seventeen Deep Working, Vervunhive. But his body had not forgotten the skills. He set to work, relentless, inexhaustible, clearing the rabble and dirt with expert efficiency. He wasn’t just a powerful man mucking in, he knew what he was doing. He was able to advise on clearance and support measures. He set up the work chain so it moved effectively.
Except he didn’t know what he was doing. It was all automatic. The physical memory of mining practices informed his limbs. His eyes were vacant.
Gaunt considered that of all the men the First had lost, Kolea was the one to be most dearly mourned. A superb soldier. A fine leader. If it hadn’t been for Ouranberg, Kolea might have made serious rank in the Ghosts.
Most of all, Gaunt missed Kolea’s quiet, insightful character.
When men died, you simply mourned their absence. The lack of them. You missed their presence. He could think of many like that: Baffels, Adare, Doyl, Cluggan, Maroy, Cocoer, Rilke, Lerod, Hasker, Bam, Blane, Bragg…
God-Emperor! That was just scratching the surface.
But with Kolea it was worse. He was still there, in body, in voice. A constant reminder of the warrior they’d lost.
Gaunt walked back from the tunnel mouth and found Milo.
“Got a duty for you,” he said. “Ready and willing, sir,” said Milo.
“I want you to hold this mill. Zweil’s staying, and the wounded need looking after. I also want a team here in case we come back in a hurry. You and four men. You’ve the command, so you pick.”
Milo looked crestfallen. He was clearly disappointed not to be advancing with the main mission.
“Isn’t there someone better suited for the job, sir?” he asked.
“Like?”
“Arcuda? Raglon? They’ve both got rank. And they’re—”
“They’re what, Milo?”
Inexperienced, Milo wanted to say. “Good choices,” he said, uncertainly.
Gaunt sighed and nodded. Milo had turned out to be a first class soldier, with a real promise of leadership qualities, despite his age. Either of the suggestions — Arcuda, green and nervous, and Raglon, shaken and tired — would make more sense. Indeed, Gaunt knew he’d rather have Milo in his fire-team than either of the sergeants.
There was another reason for his choice, one that had been nagging at him for days. He wanted to tell Milo about the old Sororitas woman in the forgotten woodland chapel, but every time he turned it over in his mind, it sounded stupid. He didn’t really even believe it himself.
&nbs
p; She’d said Milo was important. Not here, important elsewhere. Then again, she’d been barking mad.
If, he acknowledged to himself, she’d even been there at all. That whole incident had taken on a very dreamlike quality in his head.
But Ibram Gaunt had been alive long enough to know that the galaxy moved in ways far stranger than he could ever divine. His whole life had been bisected and intercut with mysterious truths and consequences. Coincidences. Destinies. Truths that didn’t seem to be truths until years afterwards.
He could not risk it. He could not risk Milo. “I want you to do it,” he said. “I trust you. Think of it as a test.”
“A test, sir?”
“Maroy’s dead, Milo. Sixteen platoon needs a new sergeant. I’m considering you for that. Get on with your duty, and I’ll consider you more seriously. Pick your four.”
Milo shrugged. He was quite taken aback by the prospect of a promotion and a command. At Vervunhive, it had been a toss up between Milo and Baffels, and Gaunt had given the command to Baffels on the basis of age and experience. Milo was so very young. But war had aged him since then. So had experience. Gaunt knew that if he offered the rank to Milo now, it wouldn’t be turned down. He wasn’t a boy anymore. Vervunhive, Hagia, Phantine and Aexe Cardinal had turned him into a soldier.
“So?” said Gaunt. “Your four?”
“I’ll need a sniper, Nessa.”
That made sense. Milo and Nessa had formed a good bond during the Ouranberg raid.
“A flamer to cover the tunnel. Dremmond. Beyond that… I dunno. Mosark? Mkillian?”
“You’ve got them. Do me proud. If we’re not back by dawn, retreat towards the line if you can. Identifier from me is ‘piper’, challenge is ‘boy’. Failing that, one long tap and two short ones. Make sure it’s not us before you get Dremmond to roast the tunnel.”
