by Dan Abnett
Corbec smiled. I'll try anything once. He knocked it back, savoured it, smiled again. Or twice, he said, proffering his glass.
By a roaring oil-drum fire, Baffels sat with Milo, Venar, Filain and Domor. Filain and Venar were snoring, propped against each other. Domor was spooning soup into his mouth with weary, almost mechanical motions.
I want you with me, Baffels said quietly to Milo.
Sergeant?
Oh, stop it with that crap! These pins should have been yours.
Milo laughed and Filain looked up at the noise for a moment before slumping and snoring again.
I've been a trooper for all of ten seconds. And I'm the youngest Tanith in the regiment. Gaunt would never have been crazy enough to make me sergeant. You deserve it, Baffels. No one denies it should be yours.
Baffels shrugged. You led us today. No one denied that either. You're trusted.
So are you and we worked as a team. If they followed me at all it's only because you did. They may think of me as some lucky fething charm, touched by the commissar himself, but it's you they respect.
We did okay though, didn't we?
Milo nodded.
Whatever you say, I want you at point, right up near me, okay?
You're the sergeant.
And I'm making a command decision. The men respect you, so if you're near me and with me, they'll follow me too.
Milo looked into the fire. He could sense Baffels was scared by his new responsibilities. The man was a great soldier, but he'd never expected unit command. He didn't want to fail and Milo knew he wouldn't, just as Gaunt had known when he'd made the promotion. But if it helped Baffels' confidence, Milo would do as he was asked. Certainly, through that strange, organic process Milo had observed in the firefight that morning, soldiers chose their own leaders in extremis, and Baffels and Milo had been chosen.
Where's Tanith, d'you think?
Milo glanced round, initially assuming Baffels had asked a rhetorical question. But the older man was looking up at the sky.
Tanith?
Which of those stars did we come from?
Milo gazed up. The Shield was a glowing aura of green light, fizzing with rain that fell outside. But even so, they could just glimpse the starfields pricking the blackness.
Milo chose one at random.
That one, he said.
You sure?
Absolutely.
It seemed to please Baffels and he stared at the winking light for a long time.
D'you still have your pipes?
Milo had been a musician back on Tanith and before he'd made trooper he'd played the pipes into battle.
Yes, he said. Never go anywhere without them.
Play up, eh?
Now?
My first order as sergeant.
Milo pulled the tight roll of pipes and bellows from his knapsack. He cleared the mouth-spout and then puffed the bag alive, making it whine and wail quietly. The hum of conversation died down at fires all around at the first sound.
Pumping his arm, he got the bellows breathing and the drone began, rising up in a clear, keening note. What shall I play? he asked, his fingers ready on the chanter.
My Love Waits in the Nalwoods Green, Domor said suddenly from beside him.
Milo nodded. The tune was the unofficial anthem of Tanith, more sprightly than the actual planetary anthem, yet melancholy and almost painful for any man of Tanith to hear.
He began to play. The tune rose above the yard, above the flurries of sparks rising from the oil drums. One by one, the men began to sing.
What is that? asked Bulwar hoarsely as Corbec sang softly. Across the yard, the NorthCol men were silent as the bitter, haunting melody filled the air. A song sung by ghosts, Corbec said as he reached for the sacra..
The Main Spine rang with the sound of massed voices. In the halls of the Legislature and the grand regimental chapel of House Command, victory choirs thousands strong sang victory masses and hymns of deliverance.
Crossing a marble colonnade with Captain Daur and several officers on the approach to House Command, Gaunt paused on a balcony and looked down into the regimental chapel auditorium. He sent his contingent on ahead and stood watching the mass for a while. Twelve hundred singers in golden robes, red-bound hymnals raised to their chests, gave voice to the hymn Behold! The Triumph of Terra in perfect harmony, and the air vibrated.
The auditorium's high, arched roof was adorned with company banners and house flags, and censer smoke billowed into the candlelit air. A procession of Ministorum clerics carrying gilt standards and reliquary boxes, their long ceremonial trains supported by child servitors, shuffled down the main aisle towards the Imperial Shrine, where Intendant Banefail and Master Legislator Anophy waited. There were hooded Administratum officials in the procession and three astropaths from the guild, their satin-wrapped bulks bulging with tubes and pipes and feed-links. The astropaths were carried on litters by adult servitors, and many of the tubes and pipes issuing from the folds of their cloaks were plugged to cogitator systems built into the silver-plated litter-pallets.
It lifts the heart, does it not? a voice from behind Gaunt asked.
Gaunt turned. It was Kowle.
If it lifts the morale of Vervunhive, so be it. In truth, it is premature.
Indeed? Kowle frowned, as if not convinced. I am going to House Command. Will you walk with me?
Gaunt nodded and the two grim, black figures in peaked caps strode together down the marble colonnade under the flickering ball-lamps strung along the walls.
This day has seen victory, yet you seem low in spirit.
Gaunt grunted. We drove them off. Call it a victory. It was bought too costly and the cost was unnecessary.
May I ask on what you base that assessment, colonel-commissar?
They strode under a high arch where banners flapped in the cool air. The choir echoed after them.
Vervunhive's command and control systems are inadequate for a military endeavour of this magnitude. The system broke down. Deployment was crippled behind the front and devastated at the sharp end. There is much to be criticised in the command structure of the Vervun Primary itself.
Kowle stopped short. I would take such criticisms personally. I am, after all, the chief disciplinary officer of this hive.
Gaunt stopped as well and turned back to face Kowle. There was an immoderate darkness in the man's face. You seem to excel in your duties, Commissar Kowle. You understand, better than any man I have ever met, the uses of propaganda and persuasion. But I wonder if you hold the officer ranks in place by force of will and fear rather than sound tactical order. The commanders of Vervun Primary have no experience of war on this scale. They know what they know from texts and treatises. They must be made to acknowledge the experience of active field officers.
Such as yourself and the other Guard commanders like General Grizmund?
Just so. I trust I can count on your support in this when we meet with House Command. I want you with me, Kowle. We can't be pushing from different angles.
Of course. I am of one mind with you on this, colonel-commissar.
They walked on. Gaunt could read Kowle's soothing tone and he despised it. He was well aware of the two dozen requests for transfer back into the active Guard which Kowle had made in the past three years. A master politico, Kowle was clearly courting Gaunt's favour, assuming Gaunt could make a good report and effect him that transfer.
I understand you executed Modile, Kowle said matter-of-factly.
A necessary measure. His negligence was criminal.
It was, as you described, his inexperience, that let him down. Was summary execution too harsh for a man who might yet learn?
I hope you would have done the same, Kowle. Modile caused many deaths by his inaction and fear. That cannot be conscienced. He ignored both pre-orders and direct commands from above.
Kowle nodded. Where a seasoned Guard commander would have held fast to the chain of command.
Indeed.
Kowle smiled. It was an alarming expression on such a cruel face. Actually, I applaud your action. Decisive, forceful, true to the spirit of the Commissariat. Many have feared the great Gaunt has grown soft now he has a command of his own, that his commissarial instinct might have been diluted. But you disabused that notion today with Modile.
I'm glad to hear it.
They had arrived at a set of great doors ornate with golden bas-relief. Vervun Elite troops in dress uniforms crusted with brocade, with plumes sprouting from their helmet spikes, opened the doors to admit them.
Beyond the doors, the audience theatre of House Command was seething with voices and commotion.
General Nash was at the lectern, trying to speak, but the noble houses were shouting him down. Junior Vervun Primary officers were stamping in their tiered seats and jeering, and Roane Deeper adjutants were yelling back at them, urged on by officers from NorthCol, the Narmenians and the Volpone.
Vice Marshal Anko rose to his feet, slamming his white-gloved hand into the bench-head for silence.
While I welcome the aid our off-world kin have rendered us, I find this an affront. General Nash condemns our military organisations and says we are ill-equipped to deal with this fight. An insult, no less, no more! Does his highness General Sturm share this view?
Sturm rose. War, honoured gentlemen, he began in soothing, mellow tones, is a confusion. Emotions run high. It is hard to say if a system is right or wrong until it is found wanting in the fire of battle. The Vervun Primary are exemplary soldiers, well-drilled and highly motivated. Their bravery is beyond question. That our command channels clashed during today's engagement is simply unfortunate. It is not the fault of Vervun officers. I have already issued standing orders to range the vox-channels so that there will be no further overlap. Any deaths that have resulted from this misfortune are greatly regretted. Such incidents will not recur.
What about discipline? Gaunt's voice cut across the great hall and all the faces turned to look. Gaunt walked to the end of the chamber and stepped up to the lectern. Kowle took his place on the front bench next to Anko.
Colonel-commissar? Marshal Croe rose and looked down the vast hall into Gaunt's eyes. Is there another matter? General Nash has already been unkind enough to reprimand Vervunhive for its weakness in command. Do you share that view?
In part, marshal. The communication problems General Sturm has referred to were only a piece of the crisis we faced today. We were lucky to survive the Veyveyr assault.
Anko jumped to his feet. And have we not our own hero, Commissar Kowle, to thank for turning that crisis around?
The hall broke out in ripples of applause and cheers, mainly from the Vervun majority. Kowle accepted the applause with a gracious, modest nod. Gaunt knew better than to point out the cosmetic nature of Kowle's involvement.
Commissar Kowle's actions are a matter of record. History will record the nature of his contribution to the Vervunhive war. Gaunt couched his response carefully. But the line of command failed severely during Veyveyr. Field commanders of the Vervun Primary, whose bravery is beyond question, failed to relay strategic orders or were unable or unwilling to redirect their forces in the face of the assault.
leers and boos thundered down at Gaunt.
I understand you have already exacted discipline, colonel-commissar, Anko said stiffly.
And I will do so again, Gaunt raised his voice above the background roar. But that simply punishes the symptoms of the problem. It does not address the heart of it.
That problem being a failure to obey direct orders? Kowle asked, rising to his feet amid more cheers.
Gaunt nodded. Chain of command must be observed at all times. Any who break it must do so knowing they risk the highest penalty. Without such order and control, this war will be lost. I trust Vervun Primary will respect this philosophy from now on.
So all who transgress must be punished? Kowle asked.
He wants his transfer badly, Gaunt thought. He's supporting me every step of the way.
Of course. Without the threat of sanction, insubordination will continue.
Then you will support the punishment of General Grizmund? asked Vice Marshal Anko.
What?
General Grizmund who broke orders this day and began his own deployment of the Narmenian armour? Now the Narmenian staff booed and heckled.
Gaunt faltered. I I was not aware of this. It must have been a mistake. General Grizmund has my complete confidence and
So, one rule for the locals, another for the Guard? sneered Anko.
I didn't say that. I
General Grizmund defied direct orders from House Command and redeployed his tanks through noble house territory. Forgetting the collateral damage he caused, is not his action worthy of the most severe censure? Tarrian of the VPHC looked across at Gaunt. That was the philosophy you were advocating, wasn't it?
Gaunt looked away from the hooded eyes of the VPHC commandant and found Kowle's face in the throng. Kowle smiled back at him, unblinking, soulless.
He knew. He had known about Grizmund even before they had reached the chamber. He had manoeuvred Gaunt right into this trap.
Gaunt realised in an instant he had underestimated Kowle's ambition. The man was after more than a simple transfer off Verghast. He was after glory and command.
Well, colonel-commissar? What do we do with Grizmund? asked Anko.
Gaunt stepped away from the lectern and strode down the hall to the exit, yells and cat-calls showering over him.
Outside, he grabbed one of the Vervun Elite minding the door by the brocade and slammed him into the wall.
Grizmund! Where is he?
In the s-stockade, sir! Level S-sub-40!
Gaunt released him and strode away.
The rousing hymns of the great choirs shivered the air around him. Their sentiments sounded all too hollow.
The sunrise was an hour away.
A file of Ghosts moved up from trucks parked on the eastern hab expressway and entered the manufactory depots that backed on to the Spoil.
Thirty men, the cream of the Tanith scout cadre. The Vervun troops occupying the location, soldiers of the so-called Spoilers unit, greeted them in the undercroft of an ore barn. The air was thick with rock-dust and the light was poor, issuing from a few hooded lamps nailed to the wall.
Gak Ormon, the major in command of the Spoilers, saluted as Mkoll led his men in. He was a big, bulky man with bloodshot eyes and a flamer-burned throat.
I understand you have good snipers and stealthers, Ormon said to Mkoll as he walked over to a chart table with him.
Mkoll nodded. He surveyed the chart. The Spoil, a vast heap of slag, was a real vulnerability for Vervunhive. They knew as much, otherwise they wouldn't have formed a dedicated defence force, but the battle of the day before had decimated the Spoiler unit.
General Sturm has acknowledged the Tanith ability in such endeavours. We're here to support you.
Gak Ormon's great bulk was clad in the blue greatcoat and spiked helmet of the Vervun Primary. He looked down at the wiry off-worlder with his faded black fatigues and curious piebald cape. He was not impressed.
All of the Spoilers present, including Ormon, carried long-barrelled autoguns with scopes dedicated to sniping. Their faces were striped with bars of black camo-paint. Several had fresh wounds bound tightly.
Sergeant Mkoll called up his men so they could all study the chart. The Ghosts grouped around the table, making comments, pointing.
Why don't you just give them orders? Ormon asked disdainfully.
Because I want them to know the situation and understand the terrain. How can they defend an area effectively otherwise? Don't you do the same?
Ormon said nothing.
Mkoll broke his men into work-teams and sent them away in different directions, though not before checking they had set their micro-beads to the same channel.
Ormon joined Mkoll as the sergeant led his group of MkVenner, D
omor, Larkin and Rilke up shattered internal stairways to the third storey overlooking the slag heap. Nine Spoilers were stationed at the shattered windows up here, using scopes to watch the sleek slopes of the Spoil.
The Ghosts took position amongst them.
Larkin and Rilke, both armed with sniper-variant lasguns, set themselves up carefully. Rilke used a length of pipe to disguise the end of his gun as it protruded from the wall. Larkin covered his own gun down to the muzzle under loose sacks.
Domor took Mkoll's scope, set it up on a tripod stand in the shadow of a window and linked his mechanical eyes to the sight. He could now see further and clearer than anyone in the fortification.
Ormon was about to ask Mkoll a question when he realised he and the Ghost called MkVenner had vanished.
Mkoll and MkVenner moved invisibly down the Spoil slope, their capes spread over them. The coal-like ore-refuse was wet and slimy underfoot. They were outside the protection of the Shield and the night rain fell around them, making puddles amongst the rock waste.
They raised their scopes. Beyond the Spoil, two kilometres away, they saw the open, flat land and the blasted habs beyond. The heavy rain was creating standing water on the flat soil and the water was rippling like dimpled tin with the rainfall. Visibility was down and cloud cover was descending.
There was a sound. MkVenner armed his lasgun and Mkoll crawled forward.
It was singing. Chanting. From out in the enemy positions, via loudhailers and speakers, a foul hymn of Chaos was ringing out to answer the triumph hymns of the hive.
It grew louder.
Mkoll and MkVenner shuddered.
In the ore-works behind them, Ormon felt his bladder vice and hurried away.
At his position, Larkin tensed. He was weary from the day's nerve-shredding battle and had only been sent in with Mkoll's men because of his skills as a sniper.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the face, the face of the Zoican.
