First and Only

by Dan Abnett

  Standing under the stained glass oriel of the chapel, they cast the rinds aside and stood for a long while, swallowing and licking juice from their dripping fingers.

  'Tastes good,' Oktar said at last.

  'Will it always taste this fine?' Gaunt asked.

  'Always, I promise you. Triumph is the endgame we all chase and desire. When you get it, hang on to it and relish every second.' Oktar wiped his chin, his face a shadow in the gloom.

  'But remember this, Ibram. It's not always as obvious as it seems. Winning is everything, but the trick is to know where the winning really is. Hell, killing the enemy is the job of the regular trooper. The task of a commissar is more subtle.'

  'Finding how to win?'

  'Or what to win. Or what kind of win will really count in the long term. You have to use everything you have, every insight, every angle. Never, ever be a slave to simple tactical directives. The officer cadre are about as sharp as an ork's arse sometimes. We're political animals, Ibram. Through us, if we do our job properly, the black and white of war is tempered. We are the interpreters of combat, the translators. We give meaning to war, subtlety, purpose even. Killing is the most abhorrent, mindless profession known to man. Our role is to fashion the killing machine of the human species into a positive force. For the Emperor's sake. For the sake of our own consciences.'

  They paused in reflection for a while. Oktar lit one of his luxuriously fat cigars and kissed big white smoke rings up into the night breeze.

  'Before I forget,' he suddenly added, 'there is one last task I have for you before you retire. Retire! What am I saying? Before you join the men in the hall and drink yourself stupid!'

  Gaunt laughed.

  There is an interrogation. Inquisitor Defay has arrived to question the captives. You know the usual witch-hunting post mortem High Command insists on. But he's a sound man, known him for years. I spoke to him just now and apparently he wants your help.'

  'Me?'

  'Specifically you. Asked for you by name. One of his prisoners refuses to speak to anyone else.'

  Gaunt blinked. He was confused, but he also knew who the Commissar-General was talking about.

  'Cut along to see him before you go raising hell with the boys. Okay?'

  Gaunt nodded.

  Oktar smacked him on the arm. You did well today, Ibram. Your father would be proud.'

  'I know he is, sir.'

  Oktar may have smiled, but it was impossible to tell in the darkness of the chapel garden.

  Gaunt turned to go.

  'One thing, sir,' he said, turning back. 'Ask it, Gaunt.'

  'Could you try and encourage the men to stop referring to me as 'The Boy'?' Gaunt left Oktar laughing raucously in the darkness.

  Gaunt's hands were sticky with drying juice. He strode down a long, lamp-lit hallway, straightening his coat and setting his cadet's cap squarely on his head.

  Under an archway ahead, Hyrkans in full battledress stood guard, weapons hanging loosely from shoulder slings. There were others, too: robed, hooded beings skulking in candle-shadows, muttering, exchanging data-slates and sealed testimony recordings. Incense hung in the air. Somewhere, someone was whimpering.

  Major Tanhause, supervising the Hyrkan presence, waved him through with a wink and directed him down to the left.

  There was a boy in the passage to the left, standing outside a closed door. No older than me, mused Gaunt as he approached. The boy looked up. He was pale and thin, taller than Gaunt, wearing long russet robes, and his eyes were fierce. Lank black hair flopped down one side of his pale face.

  'You can't come in here,' he said sullenly.

  'I'm Gaunt. Cadet-Commissar Gaunt.'

  The lad frowned. He turned, knocked at the door and then opened it slightly as a voice answered. There was an exchange Gaunt could not hear before a large figure emerged from the room, closing the door behind him.

  'That will be all for now, Gravier,' the figure told the boy, who retreated into the shadows. The figure was tall and powerful, bigger even than Oktar. He wore intricate armour draped with a long purple cloak. His face was totally hidden behind a blank doth hood that terrified Gaunt. Bright eyes glared at him through the hood's eye slits for a moment, appraising him. Then the man peeled the hood off.

  His face was handsome and aquiline. Gaunt was surprised to find compassion there, pain, fatigue, understanding. The face was cold white, the flesh pale, but somehow there was a warmth and a light.

  'I am Defay,' the Inquisitor said in a low, resonating voice. 'You are Cadet Gaunt, I presume.'

  Yes, sir. What would you have me do?'

  Defay approached the cadet and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him before he spoke. 'A girl. You know her.'

  It was not a question.

  'I know the girl. I… saw her.'

  'She is the key, Gaunt. In her mind lie the secrets of whatever turned this world to disorder. It's tiresome, I know, but my task is to unlock such secrets.'

  'We all serve the Emperor, my lord.'

  'We certainly do, Gaunt. Now look. She says she knows you. A nonsense, I'm sure. But she says you are the only one she will answer to. Gaunt, I've performed my ministry long enough to recognise an opening. I could… extricate the secrets I seek in any number of ways, but the most painless – to me and her both – would be to use you. Are you up to it?'

  Gaunt looked round at Defay. His stern yet avuncular manner reminded him of someone. Oktar – no, Uncle Dercius.

  'What do you want me to do?'

  'Go in there and talk to her. Nothing more. There are no wires to record you, no vista-grams to watch you. I just want you to talk to her. If she says what she wants to say to you, it may provide an opening I can use.'

  Gaunt entered the room and the door shut behind him. The small chamber was bare except for a table with a stool on either side. The girl sat on one. A sodium lamp fluttered on the wall.

  Gaunt sat down on the other stool, facing her.

  Her eyes were as black as her hair. Her dress was as white as her skin. She was beautiful.

  'Ibram! At last! There are so many things I need to tell you!' Her voice was soft yet firm, her High Gothic perfect. Gaunt backed away from her direct stare. She leaned across the table urgently, gazing into his eyes.

  'Don't be afraid, Ibram Gaunt.'

  'I'm not.'

  'Oh, you are. I don't have to be a mind reader to see that. Though, of course, I am a mind reader.'

  Gaunt breathed deeply. Then tell me what I want to know.'

  'Clever, clever,' she chuckled, sitting back.

  Gaunt leaned forward, insistent. 'Look, I don't want to be here either. Let's get this over with. You're a psyker – astound me with your visions or shut the hell up. I have other things I would rather be doing.'

  'Drinking with your men. Fruit.'

  'What?'

  'You crave more of the sweet fruit. You long for it. Sweet, juicy fruit…'

  Gaunt shuddered. 'How did you know?'

  She grinned impishly. The juice is all down your chin and the front of your coat.'

  Gaunt couldn't hide his smile. 'Now who's being clever? That was no psyker trick. That was observation.'

  'But true enough, wasn't it? Is there a whole lot of difference?'

  Gaunt nodded. 'Yes… yes there is. What you said to me earlier. It made no sense, but it had nothing to do with the stains on my coat either. Why did you ask for me?'

  She sighed, lowering her head. There was a long pause.

  The voice that finally replied to him wasn't hers anymore. It was a scratchy, wispy thing that made him start backwards. By the Emperor, but it was suddenly so cold in here! He saw his own breath steam and realised it wasn't his imagination.

  The whisper-dry voice said: 'I don't want to see things, Ibram, but still I do. In my head. Sometimes wonderful things. Sometimes awful things. I see what people show me. Minds are like books.'

  Gaunt stammered, sliding back
on his seat. 'I… I… like books.'

  'I know you do. I read that. You liked Boniface's books. He had so many of them.'

  Gaunt froze, tremors of worry plucking at his spine. He felt an ice cold droplet of sweat chase down his brow from his hairline. He felt trapped.

  'How could you know about that?'

  'You know how.'

  The temperature in the room had dropped to freezing. Gaunt saw the ice crystals form across the table top, crackling and causing the wood to creak. Gooseflesh pimpled his body. He leapt up and backed to the door. That's enough! This interview is over!'

  He tried the door, making to leave. It was locked. Or at least, it would not open for him. Something held it shut. Gaunt hammered on it. 'Inquisitor! Inquisitor Defay! Let me out!'

  His voice sounded blunt and hollow in the tiny confines of the freezing room. He was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He looked round. The girl was crawling across the floor towards him, her eyes blank and filmed. Spittle welled out of her lolling mouth. She smiled. It was the most dreadful thing young Ibram Gaunt had ever seen. When she spoke, her voice did not match her mouth. The utterances came from some other, horrid place. Her lips were just keeping bad time with them.

  Cowering in a corner, watching her slow, animalistic approach across the icy floor, Gaunt managed to whisper: 'What do you want from me? What?'

  'Your life.' A feathery, inhuman voice.

  'Get away from me!' Gaunt murmured, struggling with the door handle, to no avail.

  'What do you want to know?' the horror asked, suddenly, cal-culatingly.

  His mind raced. Maybe if he kept it talking, he could slow it down, figure a way out… 'Will I make commissar?' he snapped, hammering on the door, not really caring about his question.

  'Of course.'

  The lock was straining, starting to give. 'A few moments more. Keep it talking! Tell me the rest,' he urged, hoping she would cease her crawl towards him.

  She was silent for a few seconds as she thought. Her eyes went blacker. The tremulous, thin voice spoke again. 'What I told you before. There will be seven. Seven stones of power. Cut them and you will be free. Do not kill them. But first you must find your ghosts.'

  Gaunt shrugged, fighting with the lock, still not really listening. 'What the feth does that mean?'

  'What does ''feth'' mean?' she replied plainly.

  Gaunt hesitated. He had no idea what the word meant or why he had used it.

  'Your future impinges on you, Ibram. Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts.'

  Gaunt turned. He'd fight if he had to. The door wasn't giving and the slack-mouthed freak was getting too close. 'In my profession I make plenty of those. Tell me something useful.'

  You're an anroth.'

  'A what?'

  She hissed and stared up at him. 'I haven't the faintest idea what it means, but I know you are one. Anroth. Anroth. That's you.'

  Gaunt scrabbled across the room to the far wall to put more space between them. She crawled around slowly. 'This is all madness! I'm leaving,' he said.

  'So leave. But one thing before you go.'

  He looked back and she smiled terrifyingly at him under her veil of loose black hair.

  The Warp knows you, Ibram Gaunt.'

  'To hell with the Warp!' he barked.

  'Ibram, there will come a day… far off, far away, when something coloured in vermilion will be the most valuable thing you have ever known. Chase it. Find it. Others will seek it, and you will defend it in blood. The blood of your ghosts.'

  'Enough with this!'

  She shuffled forward on her knees like an animal. Spit from her mouth splashed the floor.

  'Remember this! Ibram! Ibram! Please! So many will die if you don't! So many, so very many!'

  'If I don't what?' he snapped, trying to find a way out of this hell.

  'Destroy it. You must destroy it. The vermilion thing. Destroy it. It makes iron without souls.'

  'You're insane!'

  'Iron without souls!' She clawed at his legs, scratching and pulling at the ice-rimed cloth.

  'Get off me!'

  'Worlds will die! A warmaster will die! Don't let any of them have it! Any of them! It is not a matter of the wrong hands! All will be wrong hands! No one has the right to use it! Destroy it! Ibram! Please!'

  He threw her off and she fell away from him, sprawling on the frozen floor, crying.

  He reached the door, his hand on the latch. It was suddenly unlocked. He turned back to her. She rose from the floor, her dark eyes wet with tears. Her voice was her own again now.

  'Don't let them, Ibram. Destroy it.'

  'I've never heard such rubbish,' Gaunt said diffidently. He took a deep breath. 'If you're truly gifted, why don't you tell me something real? Something I might actually want to know. Like… like how did my father die?'

  She pulled herself up onto the stool. The room went cold again. Fiercely cold. She looked deep into his eyes and Gaunt felt the stare pressing into his brain.

  Despite himself, he sat down again on the stool. He looked at her dark eyes. Something told him what was coming.

  In her own voice, she began. 'Your father… you were his first and his only son. First and only…'

  She fell silent again for a second, then she continued: 'Kentaur. It was on Kentaur. Dercius was commanding the main force and your father was leading the elite strike.'

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  Document ID: 8528247b-221e-4d90-ae92-975d4b2bd1d1

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  Document creation date: 24.1.2011

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