by Dan Abnett
Mkoll made a brief salute. “Sorry, you caught me by surprise. Sergeant Mkoll, 5th Platoon, Tanith First-and-Only.”
The captain saluted back stiffly with his left hand. Mkoll noticed he was also limping and there were sallow bruises along his forehead, cheek and around his eyes. “Captain Ban Daur, Vervun Primary. Welcome to Vervun-hive.”
Mkoll grunted a curt laugh. He’d never been personally welcomed to a warzone before.
“Can you introduce me to your commanding officer?” Daur asked. “I’ve been given the job of supervising your billet. Not much good for anything else.” He said this with a rueful chuckle and a glance down at his slinged arm.
Mkoll fell in step beside him and they moved through a commotion of men, trucks, diesel fumes and unloading work. They made small, intense, flickering shadows under the harsh lighting gantries overhead.
“You’ve seen action already?” asked Mkoll.
“Nothing to get me a medal,” Daur said. “I was on the ramparts on the first day when the shelling began. Didn’t so much as even see what to shoot at before they took my position down and buried me in rubble. Be a few weeks yet till I’m fit, but I wanted to be useful, so I volunteered for liaison work.”
“So you’ve not even seen the enemy yet?”
Daur shook his head. “Except for People’s Hero Kowle and a few others who made it back from the grasslands, no one has.”
Corbec was standing by his truck, smoking a cigar, gazing placidly around the place, oblivious to the frenzy of activity all about him. He turned slowly, taking in the sheer scale of the hive around him, beyond the glare of the sodium lamp rigs: the towering manufactories and smelteries, the steeples of the work habs beyond them, then the great crest of some Ecclesiarch basilica, and behind it all, the vast structure of the Main Spine, a mind-numbingly huge bulk illuminated by a million or more windows. Big as a fething mountain peak back home on…
On nowhere. He still forgot, sometimes.
His eyes were drawn to a vast pylon near the Main Spine which rose just as high as the hive-mountain. It seemed to mark the heart of the whole city-hub. Storms of crackling energy flared from its apex, spreading out to feed the flickering green shield that over-arched it all. Corbec had never seen a shield effect this big before. It was quite something. He gazed south and saw the rippling light flashes of shells falling across the Shield, deflecting and exploding harmlessly. Quite something indeed and it looked like it worked.
He took another drag on his cigar and the coal glowed red. The sheer size of this place was going to take a lot of getting used to. He had seen how most of his boys had been struck dumb as they entered the hive, gaping up at the monumental architecture. He knew he had to beat that awe out of them as quickly as possible, or they’d be too busy gazing dumbly to fight.
“Put that out!” a voice ordered crisply behind him.
Corbec turned and for a moment he thought it was Gaunt. But only for a moment. The commissar stalking towards him had nothing of Gaunt’s presence. He had local insignia and his puffy face was pale and unhealthy. Corbec said nothing but simply took the cigar from his mouth and raised one eyebrow. He was a good twenty-five centimetres taller than the black-coated officer.
The man halted a few paces short, taking in the sheer size of Colm Corbec. “Commissar Langana, VPHC. This is a secure area. Put that gakking light out!”
Corbec put the cigar back between his lips and, still silent, tapped the colonel’s rank pins on his shoulder braid.
“I…” the man began. Then, thinking better of everything, turned and stalked away.
“Colonel?”
Mkoll was approaching with another local, thankfully regular army-issue rather than one of the tight-arsed political cadre.
“This is Captain Daur, our liaison officer.” Daur snapped his heels together as well as any man with a leg-wound could, and saluted with his left hand. He blinked in surprise when Corbec held out his own left hand without hesitation. Then he shook it. The grip was tight. Daur immediately warmed to this bearded, tattooed brute. He’d taken Daur’s injury in at a glance and compensated without any comment.
“Welcome to Vervunhive, colonel,” Daur said.
“Can’t say I’m glad to be here, captain, but a war’s a war, and we go where the Emperor wills us. Did you arrange these billets?”
Daur glanced around at the mouldering sheds where the Tanith First were breaking out their kits and lighting lamps in neat platoon order.
“No, sir,” he replied sheepishly. “I wanted better. But space is at a premium in the hive just now.”
Corbec chuckled. “In a place this big?”
“We have been overrun with refugees and wounded from the south. All free areas such as the Commercia, the Landing Field and the manufactories have been opened to house them. I actually requested some superior space for your men in the lower Main Spine, but Vice Marshal Anko instructed that you should be barracked closer to the Curtain Wall. So this is it. Gavunda Chem Plant Storebarns/Southwest. For what it’s worth.”
Corbec nodded. Lousy chem plant barns for the Tanith Ghosts. He was prepared to bet a month’s pay the Volpone Bluebloods weren’t bedding down in some sooty hangar this night.
“We’ve cleared seven thousand square metres in these sheds for you and I can annex more if you need room to stack supplies.”
“No need,” Corbec said. “We’re only one regiment. We won’t take much space.”
Daur led them both into the main hangar space where most of the Ghosts were preparing their billets. Through an open shutter, Corbec could see into another wide shed where the rest were making camp.
“My men have dug latrines over there and there are a number of worker washrooms and facilities still operational in the sheds to the left.” Daur pointed these features out in turn. “So far, the main water supplies are still on, so the showers work. But I took the liberty of setting up water and fuel bowsers in case the supplies go down.”
Corbec looked where Daur indicated and saw a row of tanker trucks with fuel clamps and standpipes grouped by the western fence.
“Sheds three, four and five are loaded with food and perishable supplies, and munitions orders will arrive by daybreak. House Command has requisitioned another barn over there from House Anko for use as your medical centre.”
Corbec gazed across at the rickety long-shed Daur pointed to. “Get Dorden to check it out, Mkoll,” he said. Mkoll flagged down a passing trooper and sent him off to find the chief medic.
“I’ve also set up primary and secondary vox-links in the side offices here,” said Daur as he led them through a low door into what had once been the factory supervisor’s suite. The rooms were thick with dust and cobwebs, but two deep-gain vox units were mounted on scrubbed benches along one wall, flickering and active, chattering with staccato dribbles of link-talk. There were even fresh paper rolls and lead-sticks laid out near the sets. The thoroughness made Corbec smile. Maybe it was the worker-mentality of the hive.
“I assumed you’d use this as your quarters,” Daur said. He showed Corbec a side office with a cot and a folding desk. Corbec glanced in, nodded and turned back to face the captain.
“I’d say you had made us welcome indeed, Daur, despite the facilities granted us by your hive-masters. Looks like you’ve thought of everything. I won’t forget your trouble in a hurry.”
Daur nodded, pleased.
Corbec stepped out of the offices and raised his voice. “Sergeant Varl!”
Varl stopped what he was doing and came across the hangar space double-time, threading between billeting Tanith. “Colonel?”
“Rejoice. You’ve won the supplies duty. Those sheds there,” Corbec glanced at Daur for confirmation, “are for storage. Raise a detail and get our stuff housed from the trucks.”
Varl nodded and strode off, calling up volunteers.
With Daur and Mkoll beside him, Corbec surveyed the activity in the billet. “Looks like the Ghosts are making themselves at
home,” he murmured to no one in particular.
“Ghosts? Why do you call them that? Where are you from?” Daur asked.
“Tanith,” Mkoll said.
Corbec smiled sadly and contradicted the sergeant. “Nowhere, Captain Daur. We’re from nowhere and that’s why we’re ghosts.”
“This is the only space available,” Commissar Langana said flatly.
“Not good enough,” Dorden said, looking around the dimly-lit hangar, taking in the shattered windows, the piles of refuse and the layers of dust. “I can’t make a field hospital in here. The filth will kill more of my regiment than the enemy.”
The VPHC officer looked round sourly at the doctor. “The vice marshal’s orders were quite specific. This area is designated for medical needs.”
“We could clean up,” Trooper Lesp suggested. A thin, hangdog man, Lesp was skulking to one side in the doorway with Chayker and Foskin. The three of them represented Dorden’s medical orderlies, troopers who had been trained for field hospital work by the chief medic himself. Gherran and Mtane, the only other fully qualified medics in the unit, were looking around behind them.
“With what?” Dorden asked. “By the time we’ve scoured this place clean, the war will be over.”
Lesp shrugged.
“You must make do. This is war,” Langana announced. “War levels all stations and makes us work with the bravery in our limbs and the ingenuity in our minds.”
Dorden turned his grizzled face to look directly into the puffy visage of the political officer. “Do you make that crap up yourself, or does someone write it down for you?”
The orderlies behind him tried to cover their sniggers. Gherran and Mtane laughed out loud.
“I could break you for such insolence!” Langana spat. Anger made his cheeks florid.
“Hmm?” Dorden replied, not seeming to hear. “And deprive an Imperial Guard regiment of their chief medic? Your vice marshal wouldn’t be too happy to hear about that, would he?”
Langana was about to retort when a strong, female voice echoed through the dirty space.
“I’m looking for the doctor! Hello?”
Dorden pushed past the seething commissar and went to the door. He was met by a short, slim, young woman in a form-fitting red uniform with embroidered cuffs. She carried a medical pack over one shoulder and was escorted by five more dressed like her: three men and two women.
“Dorden, chief medical officer, Tanith First.”
“Surgeon Ana Curth, Inner Hab Collective Medical Hall 67/mv,” she replied, nodding to him and glancing around the dingy hall. “Captain Daur, your liaison officer, was troubled by the state of the facilities and called my hall for support.”
“As you can see, Ana, it is a long way short of adequate,” said Dorden with a gentle gesture that took in the decay.
She frowned at him briefly. His use of her forename surprised her. Such informalities were rare in the hive. It was discourteous, almost condescending. She’d worked for her status and position as hard as any other hiver.
“That’s Surgeon Curth, medic.”
Dorden looked round at the woman, surprised, clearly hurt that he had offended her in any way. Behind Dorden, Langana smiled.
“My mistake. Surgeon Curth, indeed,” Dorden looked away. “Well, as you can see, this is no place for wounded. Can you possibly… assist us?”
She looked him up and down, still bristling but calming a little. There was something in his tired, avuncular manner that made her almost regret her tone. This was not some bravo trooper trying to hit on her. This was an old man with slumping shoulders. There was a weariness in his manner that no amount of sleep could ease. His lined eyes had seen too much, she realised.
Ana Curth turned to Langana. “I wouldn’t treat cattle in a place like this. I’m issuing an M-notice on it at once.”
“You can’t—” Langana began.
“Oh, yes I can, commissar! Fifth Bill of Rights, Amendment 457/hj: ‘In event of conflict, surgeon staff may commandeer all available resources for the furtherance of competent medical work.’ I want scrub teams from the hive sanitation department here by morning, with pressure hoses and steam scourers. I want disinfectant sluices. I want sixty cots, bedding, four theatre tables with lights, screens and instruments, flak-board lagging for the walls and windows, proper light-power, water and heat-links recoupled, and patches made to the gakking roof! Got it?”
“I—”
“Do you understand me, Political Officer Langana?”
Langana hesitated. “I will have to call House Command for these requirements.”
“Do so!” barked Curth. Dorden looked on. He liked her already.
“Use my hive caste-code: 678/cu. Got it? That will give you the authority to process my request. And do it now, Langana!”
The commissar saluted briefly and then marched away out of the chamber. He had to push through the smirking Tanith orderlies to exit.
Dorden turned to the woman. “My thanks, Surgeon Curth. The Tanith are in your debt.”
“Just do your job and we’ll get on fine,” she replied bluntly. “I have more wounded refugees in my hall now than I can deal with. I don’t want your overspill submerging me when the fighting starts.”
“Of course you don’t. I am grateful, surgeon.”
Dorden fixed her with an honest smile. She seemed about to soften and smile back, but she turned and led her team away out of the door. “We’ll return in two days to help you set up.”
“Surgeon?”
She stopped, turning back.
“How overrun are you? With the wounded, I mean?”
She sighed. “To breaking point.”
“Could you use six more trained staff?” Dorden asked. He waved casually at his fellow medics and waiting orderlies. “We have no wounded yet to treat, Emperor watch us. Until we have, we would be happy to assist.”
Curth glanced at her chief orderly. “Thank you. Your offer is appreciated. Follow us, please.”
Varl supervised the store detail, carrying more than his share thanks to the power of his artificial arm. With a team of thirty, he ordered the stacking and layout of the Tanith supplies. There was plenty of stuff in the barn already, well marked and identified by the triplicate manifest data-slates, but there was still more than enough room for the supplies and munitions they had brought with them.
Another truck backed up to the doorway, lights winking, and Domor, Cocoer and Brostin helped to shift the crates of perishables to their appointed stacks. Varl allocated another area for the munitions he had been told would arrive later.
Caffran looked up as the sergeant called to him. “Sweep the back,” Varl ordered. “Make sure the rear of the barn is secure.”
Caffran nodded, pulling his jacket and camo-cape from a nearby crate-pile and putting them back on. He was still sweat-hot from the work.
Lifting his lasgun, he paced round the rear of the supply stacks, moving through the darkness and shadows, checking the rotting rear wall of the hangar for holes.
Something scurried in the dark.
He swung his gun round. Rodents?
There was no further movement. Caffran edged forward and noticed the edge of a crate that had been chewed away. The plastic-wrapped packets of dried biscuit inside had been invaded. Definitely rodents. There was a trail of crumbs and shreds of plastic seal. They’d have to set traps — and poison too probably.
He paused. The hole in the crate’s side was far too high to be the work of rodents. Unless they bred something the size of a hound in the sewers of this place. That wouldn’t surprise him, given the giant scale of everything else here in Vervunhive.
He armed his lasgun and slid around the edge of the next stack.
Something scurried again.
He hastened forward, gun raised, looking for a target. Feth, maybe the local vermin would be good eating. They’d had precious little fresh meat in the last forty days.
There was a movement to his left and he dro
pped to one knee, taking aim. Beyond the supply stacks, there was a pale, green slice of light, a jagged hole in the back of the barn through which the glow of the Shield high above leaked in.
Caffran shuffled forward.
A noise to the right.
He spun around. Nothing. He saw how several more crates had been clawed into.
Something flickered past the slice of light, something moving through it quickly, blocking out the glow.
Caffran ran forward, pulling himself sideways through the gap in the rotten fibre-planks of the hangar’s rear wall and out into the tangled waste of debris and rubble behind the storage barn.
He crawled out, got down, raised his gun…
And saw the boy. A small boy, eight or nine years old it seemed to Caffran, scampering up a mound of nibble with a wrap of biscuits in his hand.
The boy reached the summit and another figure loomed out of the dark. A girl, older, in her late teens, clad in vulgar rags and decorated with piercings. She took the wrap from the boy and hugged him tightly.
Caffran got up, lowering his gun. “Hey!” he called.
The child and the girl looked round at him sharply, like animals caught in a huntsman’s light.
Caffran saw for just a moment the strong, fierce, beautiful face of the girl before the children ducked out of sight and vanished into the wasteland.
He ran up the slope after them, but they were gone.
In a foxhole a hundred metres away from the back of the storage barns, Tona Criid hugged Dalin to her and willed him to be quiet.
“Good boy, good boy,” she murmured. She took out the biscuits and tore the wrap open so he could have one.
Dalin wolfed it down. He was hungry. They were all hungry out here.
Nutrient clouds pumped into the Iron Tank fed the dreaming High Master of Vervunhive. He rolled in his oily fluid womb, pulling at his link feeds, feet and hands twitching like a dreaming dog. He dreamed of the Trade War, before his birth. The images of his dream were informed by the pict-library he had studied in his youth. He dreamed of his illustrious predecessor, the great Heironymo, haughtily spurning the rivalry with Ferrozoica, arming for war. How wrong, how very foolish! Such a grossly physical stubbornness! And the hive held him in such esteem for his heroic leadership! Fools! Cattle! Unthinking chaff!
