by Dan Abnett
“You have been busy.”
“Thanks. Daur’s shows the power room on the wrong level, but that is the only chart that shows an area that could be the courtyard.”
“The fabled courtyard. Dalin, we worked out that Daur’s chart was the craziest of the lot last night. Apart from a couple of details, it might as well have been made up. It might as well be a different fething site altogether.”
“Yeah, I know, but what if they’re all correct?”
Beltayn sighed. “You keep saying that. What do you mean?”
“How old is this place?”
“I don’t know.”
“But old, right? Really old?”
“Yeah,” Beltayn conceded.
“It’s probably been changed and altered and rebuilt a lot. Just suppose that all of these charts were correct and accurate… when they were drawn.”
“I thi—What?”
Dalin grinned. “Maybe each chart accurately reflects the layout of this place at the time it was made. Maybe this one—” Dalin picked a map at random. “Maybe this one is two hundred years old, and this one five hundred. Who knows? Anyway, none of them show how things are now, just how things looked when the particular map was made.”
Beltayn hesitated. “That’s actually not the maddest thing I’ve ever heard,” he began.
“Yeah, Dalin’s got a point there,” said Mkoll.
Both Beltayn and Dalin started. They hadn’t heard him approach.
“Feth, you scared me!” exclaimed Beltayn.
Mkoll nodded. “Good. I haven’t completely lost it then.” He sat down with them. His face was drawn and pale, as if sleep had been eluding him for months. He reached out and took some of the charts from Dalin.
“So you’re suggesting these were made at different times, in different periods? A gallery on this chart, let’s say, may have been built after this other chart here was made?”
Dalin nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. Bits get built, or demolished and closed off. Rooms get added or changed. Plus, of course, there may be genuine mistakes. These are hand-drawn.”
“That’s good thinking,” said Mkoll.
“The boy’s sharp,” said Beltayn.
“Takes after his dad,” said Mkoll.
“It still doesn’t explain why we were issued with them,” said Dalin.
Beltayn shrugged. “An archiving error? Tactical requested maps of Hinzerhaus for our use and someone pressed the wrong key code, so we got the history of the place in chart form, rather than a dozen copies of the most recent version.”
Mkoll nodded. “Makes sense—actual, practical, non-spooky sense. Feth alive, I’m glad something about this tomb is starting to make some sense.”
“Don’t say tomb,” said Beltayn.
“Sony.”
“So… can we use this?” Dalin asked. “I mean, can we make practical use of this?”
“Yeah,” said Mkoll. “Dalin, go wake up Bonin and get him to assemble a scout detail.”
Dalin paused. “Wake Bonin?”
“That’s right.”
Dalin swallowed. The idea of trying to rouse a Tanith scout from slumber seemed vaguely suicidal.
“All right, I’ll do it,” said Mkoll. He got up. “Meet me on west four in five. Bring the charts.”
He left the base chamber. Beltayn looked at Dalin. “You did good, Dalin. Mkoll’s impressed.”
“He is? He didn’t really show it.”
“Are you kidding? That was as close as the chief gets to whooping and thumping you on the back. Mark my words, you’ve made a good impression.”
Dalin grinned.
Beltayn got to his feet. “Well, come on, then. Grab those maps.”
Dalin began to gather up the unfolded sheets of paper. Beltayn turned to check his caster. He saw that one of the needles on an input gauge was jumping. He scooped up his headset, tuning.
“What is it?” Dalin asked.
“Got something at last. A signal,” said Beltayn, tweaking a dial. He listened.
“Are we the last ones left alive?” the vox whispered into his ear.
Beltayn froze.
“Who are you, sender? Who are you?”
“Are we? Are we the last ones left alive?”
“Respond! Please, respond!”
The voice faded. Beltayn took off his headset.
“Did you get something?” Dalin asked.
“No,” said Beltayn. “Nothing important.”
IV
034TH looked him in the face, in the ugly face. Merrt got up, gripping his las-rifle.
It was early, five twenty-five. The house was as quiet as a graveyard, but there was something in the air. Merrt had a gut feeling a vague glimmer of the old combat smarts he’d once been so proud of. Just the taste of that lost instinct made his heart sing.
He’d been awake for hours, staring at the 034TH stencil in the half-light of the billet chamber.
He walked out into the hall and waited. A figure loomed out of the shadows to his left, moving with a soft, almost silent shuffle.
It was the Nihtgane. He approached, his reynbow ready in his hands. Eszrah regarded Merrt through his sunshades.
“You too, eh?” asked Merrt.
Eszrah nodded.
“Gn… gn… gn… let’s go,” Merrt whispered. Eszrah nodded again, but Merrt had actually been speaking to his gun.
V
Bragg had sat with him for an hour or two through the middle part of the night, just like he’d always done when the pair of them had pulled night watch.
Bragg hadn’t said anything and Larkin hadn’t spoken to him. Larkin hadn’t even looked at him. Larkin had just sat there in overlook six, watching the shutters as the wind outside tugged them, aware of the presence behind him. His back had gone cold with sweat. He’d been able to hear Banda snoring from the back of the room, as well as his own amplified pulse, along with a third sound of breathing, slow and calm, comfortable.
Bragg. Definitely, unmistakably Bragg. Larkin had recognised the smell of him, the sacra in his sweat, the particular musk of his body odour. It had been such a long time since he’d seen his dear friend, part of him wanted to turn and greet him, to embrace him and ask him where he’d been.
But Larkin knew where Bragg had been, and he didn’t dare turn around for fear of what he might see. Bragg had been dead since the Phantine operation, killed by a rat-bastard monster that Larkin had finally plugged with his long-las on Herodor. Bragg simply couldn’t be there behind him in the overlook. He shouldn’t be. It was against all the laws of reason, but Larkin could smell him and hear his breathing anyway.
Larkin had missed his old friend over the years more than he could say. The idea of meeting him again was wonderful.
But not like this. Not like this, please Throne, no.
Not like this.
Just before five, Larkin had heard Bragg get to his feet with a grunt and walk out. Larkin had waited a while, then slowly turned. There was Banda, asleep in the corner. No one else.
Larkin got up and eased his leg stump. He’d been sitting far too long, pinned by fear.
He saw the bottle. It was sitting on the gritty floor of the casemate a few metres behind him. He limped over and picked it up, uncorking it.
Sacra. Sweet and wonderful, the very best. No fether in the regiment had cooked sacra this fine in years. Larkin knew what it was: a gift.
“Thanks,” he said, and took a little sip.
Glory but it was good.
Banda woke up and looked at him. “What’s going on?” she mumbled.
“This yours?” Larkin asked, showing her the bottle.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. Go back to sleep.”
She did so. She was strung out and hungover. She began to snore again. Larkin took one last little sip, then re-corked the bottle and put it into his musette bag. He sat down again.
He checked his chron. Five twenty-six.
Someone leaned int
o the casemate behind him and called out, “Get ready, then!”
Larkin looked around. There was nobody there, but he had known the voice.
Clammy fear blew up and down his spine. In his whole life, he’d only known one person who’d been that cheery and wide awake at five twenty-six in the morning; only one person who’d been up to do the rounds, prep the picket and check on sentries; only one person who had owned that voice.
That person’s name had been Colm Corbec.
VI
“It’s… it’s five minutes since you last asked me,” Ludd replied. “It’s five twenty-seven.”
“Oh,” said Hark. The field station was quiet around them. The other casualties were asleep naturally, or were mercifully drugged up against pain. From where he was sitting at Hark’s bedside, Ludd could see one of the orderlies, Lesp, asleep in a chair. Ludd knew the medicae personnel had been up most of the night.
“Look, this is too early,” said Ludd. “You should be sleeping. I can come back at a better hour.”
“No, no, sit down,” Hark replied. “I only asked because the time passes so slowly in here. It moves like a glacier. I’m glad of the company. I don’t seem to sleep much.”
“All right then.”
Hark lay face down on his bed, a thin sheet rudimentarily propped up over his back and legs to provide some warmth. Ludd could see the dark shape of soiled dressings through the sheet, and smell the odours of burn-cream and charred flesh.
“Finish your report, Ludd.”
“There’s not much left. No one needs writing up, general discipline is good, despite the situation.”
“Are they giving you a hard time?”
“What? No, sir.”
“Is that because you’re not putting yourself in a position where they can give you a hard time?”
Ludd didn’t answer immediately.
“You can’t be meek, Ludd. You’ve got to get up in their faces and keep them tight.”
“That’s… that’s my intention, commissar.”
“They’ll walk all over you if you don’t,” said Hark. “I mean it. They’ll walk all over you. You have to show them who’s in charge.”
Ludd nodded.
“What?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Oh, give me something to think about, for fern’s sake!” Hark exploded. “Give me a problem I can solve while I’m like this!”
Curth stepped into the field station and looked disapprovingly at Ludd. Ludd raised a hand to her and smiled. She frowned and left again.
“You’ll disturb the others,” Ludd whispered.
“Then talk to me.”
Ludd sighed. “You said I had to show them who’s in charge. Well, Gaunt’s in charge… Rawne… Kolea… not me.”
“The officers will support their commissar,” Hark said.
“The officers think I’m just a kid. They laugh at me.”
“Who laughs?”
Ludd shrugged.
“Rawne?”
“Yes, and he’s malicious. The others, even Gaunt, I don’t think they mean to be disrespectful, they just can’t help it. I have no authority.”
Hark shifted on his cot, wincing. “That’s just weak talk, junior commissar. Give me some paper and a pen.”
“Sir?”
“Give me some paper and a pen, and something to lean on.”
Ludd handed the items to Hark. He gave him the field journal to lean on. Hark lay on his belly, writing furiously on the slip of paper and grunting with the effort. Ludd could see raw burns on Hark’s exposed, organic arm.
“What are you writing sir? May I ask?”
“Shut up.”
Hark finished, folded the paper up and handed it back to Ludd with the pen.
“Next time you feel unable to exert your authority, give that to Gaunt.”
“May I read it?”
“No. Just give it to him.”
Ludd put the pen and the folded paper away in his coat pocket.
“Have this too,” Hark said, tossing the field journal aside.
“Ah, I wanted to ask you about that, sir,” Ludd said.
“About what?”
“The field journal, sir. I’ve been trying to keep it up to date, as instructed.”
“And?”
Ludd swallowed. “I read back, naturally, to acquaint myself with your method and style of content. I noticed… how can I put this?”
“Soon?” Hark suggested.
“I noticed some scratchings out. Some changes, where you had written and then changed your wording.”
“It’s a journal, Ludd,” said Hark, “that’s how it works. The final draft report will be clean.”
“But I couldn’t help reading… some of the things you had excised. The words were legible. About your dreams, sir.”
“They were private remarks that I deleted because they had no place in the record.”
“Still, they concern me. Your comments about the dreams, and your disquiet. You said you couldn’t sleep and—”
“That’s enough, Ludd. Forget what you read. It isn’t your concern.”
Ludd got to his feet, saluted, put his cap on, and turned to go.
Then he sat down again. “Actually, you know what? I’m going to take your advice. Yes, it is my concern. It’s my concern as the acting senior political officer that you are troubled by your dreams so much you can find no release. For the good of the regiment, I require you to explain yourself.”
There was a long silence.
“Finished?” Hark asked.
“Yes.”
“Go away.”
“No, I don’t believe I will.” Ludd leaned closer, his voice a hard whisper. “What’s going on, Hark? What’s been troubling you, from before we even got here?”
“You have no right to ask—”
“I have authority, Hark, over you. You gave it to me, remember? Now start talking!”
Hark began to chuckle. “That’s good. That’s actually quite good, Nahum. I’m impressed. That’s how you stand up to Rawne and the others.”
“Thank you. I’m still waiting.”
Hark went quiet.
“Do I have to write you up?” Ludd asked.
Hark turned his head and looked sidelong at Ludd. His dark eyes were darker still from lack of sleep and something else.
“I haven’t slept well in years, Nahum. On and off, five years, at least. Dreams come to me and ruin my sleep.”
“Nightmares?”
“No, nothing so grandiose or obvious. Just a bad feeling. The pattern has varied. There have been periods without it—wonderful, clear patches, months on end. But it’s been back again of late, these last few months, and it’s grown worse since we put into Jago, worse still since we got here, to this damn place.”
“Go on. Can you remember anything about the dreams?”
“No,” said Hark, closing his eyes. “It’s like… when you remember a dream, hours after you’ve woken up?”
“I know that feeling.”
Hark nodded. “Like that. A sudden memory of sadness and pain.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“I’ve talked to Dorden. He thinks it’s a trauma effect from when I lost my arm.”
“How did that happen?”
Hark opened his eyes and stared at Ludd again. There was a brooding misery in his pupils. “The battle of Herodor, fighting alongside the Saint. We were jumped by loxatl mercenaries. They blew it off.”
“Oh.”
“You never asked me before, Nahum.”
“I never liked to, sir.”
Hark shifted on his belly, looking away. “Well, anyway, it’s not that. It’s not the arm. I wish it was. It’s something else. Sometimes, more frequently in these last few weeks, it’s come when I’m awake too. Out of nowhere, while I’m awake. That’s when I hear—”
“Tanith pipes?” Ludd asked.
“You’re sharp, Ludd. Did I tell you that?”
“W
hen you were drowsy from the drugs, sir.”
“Tanith pipes,” Hark sighed. “I hear them, and when I hear them, I know that killing is about to start.”
There was a long silence. One of the casualties across the station aisle woke up and started to moan.
“What’s the time, Ludd?” Hark asked.
“Five thirty-one,” said Ludd.
“Go do your rounds.”
Ludd got up.
“Before you go,” Hark said. “Give me back that piece of paper.”
Ludd took the slip out of his pocket, unfolded it, and read it.
It read, in scratchy handwriting, “To Colonel-Commissar Gaunt. If Nahum Ludd gives you this note, it indicates he is hopelessly unable to execute his duties as your regimental commissar. Please shoot the sorry fether through the head and throw his miserable carcass out for the carrion birds. Yours, V.H.”
“That’s funny,” said Ludd.
“I meant it,” Hark replied.
“That’s why it’s funny.”
“Give it to me.”
“Oh no,” said Ludd. “I don’t want you passing it to anyone else. I think I’ll keep it. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t write you up for it.”
Ludd could tell Hark was laughing, even though his head was turned away.
“I’m going to give you an order,” Ludd said, bending down over Hark.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. By my authority as regimental commissar, I order you to stay here. Think you can do that?”
Hark told Ludd exactly where his order might be inserted.
Ludd smiled. “Good. I think we both know where we stand,” he said, and left the chamber.
VII
The tripwire pulled tight for a moment, then slackened. It pulled tight again. Wes Maggs rolled over to find a more comfortable part of the wall he was sleeping against.
VIII
Mkoll raised his lamp and shone it ahead of them. The wall lights in that stretch of the house seemed to have died completely. “Well?” he asked.
Dalin and Beltayn rifled through the charts they were carrying by the light of the lamp-pack Dalin held in his hand.
“Hold on,” Beltayn said. “Something’s awry.”
“Again?” asked Bonin, stifling a yawn. “You woke me up for this?”
