“That’s Vervunhive, chief,” Trooper Burun said from nearby.
“Feth you, clever-ass!” Corbec tossed back at the grinning soldier. “Feth knows I can barely remember me own name most days, let alone where I’m supposed to be!”
First platoon laughed.
Milo held the scope up to Corbec, who waved it off with disinterest.
“I’ll meet the place that’ll kill me when I meet it. Don’t need to look for it in advance.”
Milo gave the precious scope back to Larkin, who took a final look and then slid the instrument back into its drawstring bag.
“Seen enough, Larks?” Corbec asked, his vast arms gripping the overhead frame, his beard split by a toothy grin.
“Seen enough to know where to aim,” Larkin replied.
In the juddering load-bay of the truck three vehicles back, Third Platoon were all wagering on cards. Trooper Feygor, a dangerous, lean man with hooded eyes, had bartered a full tarot pack from some Administratum fellow on the troopship and he was running a game of Hearts and Titans.
Trooper Brostin, big, heavyset and saturnine, had lost so much already he was ready to wager his flamer, with the fuel tanks, as his next lay-down.
Feygor, a thick cigar clenched between his sharp teeth, laughed at Brostin’s discomfiture and shuffled the pack again.
As he flicked the big pasteboard cards out into hands around the grilled deck, the men of the platoon produced coins, crumpled notes, rings and tobacco rations to add to the pot.
Trooper Caffran watched him deal. Short, young and determined, just a year older than Milo, Caffran had gained the respect of them all during the beach assault at Oskray about a year before. Caffran disliked cards, but in Rawne’s platoon it paid to mix in.
Major Rawne sat at the end of the truck-bay, his back to the rear wall of the cab. The Tanith second officer, he was infamous for his anger, guile and pessimism. Corbec had likened him to a snake more than once, both physically and in character.
“Will you play, major?” Feygor asked, his hands hesitating on the deal. Rawne shook his head. He’d lost plenty to his adjutant in the last forty days of transit in the troopship.
Now he could smell war and idle gaming had lost its interest.
Feygor shrugged and finished the deal. Caffran picked up his hand and sighed. Brostin picked up his hand and sighed more deeply. He wondered if wool socks would count as a wager.
The outriders raced around the speeding trucks, gunning for the destination. Sergeant Mkoll, head of the scout platoon, crossed his bike in between two of the troop vehicles and rode down the edge-gully so he could take a look at the hive emerging out of the smoke before them. It was big, bigger than any city he’d ever seen, bigger than the bastion towns of Tanith certainly.
He roared ahead, passing the staff cars of the local commissariat, until he was leading the column down the broken highway towards the docks.
A volley of shells fell into the outhabs to the east. Dorden, the grizzled, elderly chief medic of the Tanith Regiment, heaved himself up to see. Conflagrations, bright and bitter-lemon in colour, sizzled out from the distant detonations. The truck sashayed into a pothole and Dorden was dropped on his arse.
“Why bother?” Bragg asked.
“Say again?” asked the doctor.
Bragg shifted his position in the flat-bed uncomfortably. He was huge, bigger than any other two Ghosts put together. “We’ll get there sooner or later; die there sooner or later. Why bother craning for a view of our doom?”
Dorden looked across at the giant. “Is the cup half-full or half-empty, Bragg?” he asked.
“What cup?”
“It’s hypothetical. Half-full or half-empty?”
“Yeah, but what cup are we talking about?”
“An imaginary cup.”
“What’s in it?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Does to me, doc,” Bragg shrugged.
% well, okay… it’s got sacra in it. Half-full or half-empty?”
“How much sacra?” Bragg asked.
Dorden opened his mouth once, twice, then sat back again. “Doesn’t matter.”
Bragg pulled out a canvas bottle-flask. “There’s sacra in this,” he announced.
“Thanks, not just yet…” Dorden said, raising his hands as if in surrender.
Bragg, sat opposite him in the shuddering truck, nodded and took a long swig.
Shells wailed down, half a kilometre from the road, close enough to be uncomfortable. Dorden reached out for the flask. “Ah well, if it’s there…”
Sergeant Varl, gripping the iron hand-loops of the truck’s flatbed with his whirring mechanical limb, tried to rouse the spirits of his platoon by encouraging a song. A few of them joined unenthusiastically with a verse or two of “Over the Sky and Far Away” but it soon faltered. When Varl tried another, he was told to shut up, to his face.
Sergeant Varl handled people better than most of the officers in the regiment and he knew when to reprimand and when to back off. He’d been a dog-soldier himself for long enough.
But the mood in his platoon was bad. And Varl knew why. No one wanted this. No one wanted to get in the middle of a hive-war.
The Magnificat was waiting at the northern docks as the column rolled in out of the firelit night. All the Hass ferries were working full-stretch to keep the river open and convoy after convoy of military supplies and ammunition were arriving each hour from the Northern Collectives. Troops from Vervun Primary — in blue greatcoats, grey webbing and the distinctive spiked helmets — along with VPHC men, servitors and a good few red-robed clerks and overseers from the Administratum were now controlling the river freight, much to the fury of the regular longshoremen of the Dockmaster Guild. Ecclesiarchy priests had also arrived on the third or fourth day, establishing a permanent prayer-vigil to protect the crossing and make the waterway and the viaduct safe. The hooded clergy were grouped around a brazier at a pier end, chanting and intoning. They were there each time Folik drew the Magnificat back to the northshore wharves. It seemed they never slept, never rested. He got into the habit of nodding to them every time he slid the ferry in past them. They never responded. On this night run, Folik expected to take on more supply vehicles and crates, but the house troopers running the dockside had drawn the North-Col freight trucks aside so that troop transports could move round them and roll down the landing stages.
Folik nursed the ancient turbines into station-keeping as Mincer dropped the ramp.
The first two trucks growled and bounced aboard. Mincer directed them to their deck spaces with a pair of dagger-lamps.
A tall, long-coated figure dropped from the cab of the first truck. He approached longshoreman Folik.
Folik was almost hypnotised by the commissar badge on the peaked cap. An awed smile creased his oil-spattered face and he took off his wool cap out of respect.
“Sir, it’s an honour to have you aboard!”
“The pleasure’s mine. What’s your name?”
“Folik, Imperial hero, sir!”
“I… I had no idea my reputation preceded me this far. Greetings, Folik.”
“It’s a true honour, sir, to be able to transport your reinforcement column to Vervunhive.”
“I appreciate the honour, Folik. My first vehicles are aboard. Shall we proceed?”
Folik nodded and shuffled away to get Mincer to unlap the rope coils.
“Commissar Kowle himself uses our boat!” gasped Folik to his crew mate.
“Kowle? Are you sure? The People’s Hero?”
“It’s him, I tell you, in the flesh, bold as all bastardy, right here on our tub!”
At the rail, Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt gazed out from the deck of the Magnificat and smiled as he overheard the words.
The Magnificat was in mid-stream when the eastern sky lit up brightly. There was a sucking shudder, like a wind-rush over the water. The eastern horizon blazed with a midnight sun.
“What was that
?” Mincer cried. A commotion rose from the troops.
Gaunt raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare as a heat-wash rolled down the river. He knew the blast-effects of a nuclear detonation when he saw it.
“That was the beginning of the end,” he said.
FOUR
HIVE DEATH
“Insanity! Insanity! What kind of war are we fighting?”
—Marshal Edric Croe, on hearing
the news from Vannick
Kowle went directly to House Command when the news was voxed to him. He had been touring the South Curtain and it took him almost an hour to cross the hive back to the Main Spine.
The control auditorium was a chaotic mess. Munitorum clerks, regimental aides and other junior personnel hurried about, gabbling, panicking, relaying reports from the operators manning the main tactical cogitators banked around the lower level of the large, circular chamber. Many Vervun Primary officers and even some VPHC troops were clogging the place too, anxious to find out if the rumours were true.
Kowle pushed past the onlookers at the chamber door and sent many back to their stations with curt words. None argued. They saluted and backed off from him quickly. He crossed the wide floor and then hurried up the ironwork staircase onto the upper deck of the auditorium, where the chiefs of staff were gathered around the vast, luminous chart table. Junior aides and technicians, many bearing important vox reports, made way for him without question.
Marshal Croe presided over the group at the chart table. His eyes were blacker than ever and he had removed his cap, as if the weight of it was too much now. His personal bodyguard, Isak, dressed in an armoured maroon body-glove and carrying a shrouded gun, hovered at his shoulder. Vice Marshal Anko, wearing a medal-heavy white ceremonial uniform, stood glowering nearby. He had been attending a formal dinner thrown by House Anko to welcome the Volpone. Sturm and his aides stood alongside him, clad in the impressive dress uniforms of the Volpone. Also present were Xance of NorthCol — looking tired and drawn, along with several of his senior staff — the Narmenian Grizmund and his tank brigadiers, Nash of the Roane Deepers and his adjutants, and a dozen more senior Vervun Primary officers, as well as Commissar Tarrian of the VPHC.
“Is it true?” Kowle asked, removing his cap but making no other formal salute.
Croe nodded, but remained silent.
Tarrian coughed. “Vannick Hive was destroyed ninety minutes ago.”
“Destroyed?”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept, Kowle,” Croe said flatly. “It’s gone.”
“Zoica has levelled it. We have no idea how. They got inside the Shield somehow and used a nuclear device—”
Croe cut Anko off mid-sentence. “How is not the real issue here, vice marshal! There are any number of ‘hows’ we might debate! The real question is why.”
“I agree, marshal,” General Sturm said. “We must consider this may not have been deliberate. I’ve known emplacements destroyed accidentally by the over-ambitious actions of those attacking. Perhaps Zoica meant to take the hive and struck… too hard.”
“Is there any other way of striking when you use atomics?” a calm voice asked from the head of the stairs. The group turned.
“Gaunt…” Colonel Gilbear of the Volpone hissed under his breath.
The tall newcomer wore a commissar’s cap and a long, black leather coat. He stepped towards them. His clothing was still flecked with dust from his journey. He saluted Marshal Croe smartly.
“Colonel-Commissar Gaunt, of the Tanith First. We arrived to reinforce you just as the event occurred.”
“I welcome you, Gaunt. I wish I was happier to see you,” the white-haired giant replied respectfully. “Are your men billeted?”
“They were proceeding to their stations when I left them. I came here as soon as I could.”
“The famous Gaunt,” Anko whispered to Tarrian.
“You mean ‘notorious’, surely?” Tarrian murmured back.
Gaunt stepped up to the chart table, pulling off his gloves and studying the display. Then he looked up and nodded a frank greeting to Nash.
“Well met, general.”
“Good to see you, commissar,” Nash replied. Their forces had served alongside each other on Monthax and there was a genuine, mutual admiration.
Gaunt greeted the Narmenian officers too, then looked over at Sturm, Gilbear and the other Volpone, who stared icily at him.
“General Sturm. Always a pleasure. And Major Gilbear.”
Gilbear was about to blurt out something but Sturm stepped forward, offering his hand to Gaunt.
“Gilbear’s bravery on Monthax has earned him a colonel’s pips, Gaunt.”
“Well done, Gilbear,” Gaunt smiled broadly. He shook the general’s hand firmly.
“Good to know we have more brave, reliable Guard forces here with us, Gaunt. Welcome.”
Gaunt smiled to himself. The last time he had met Sturm in person, back on Voltemand, the pompous ass had been threatening him with court martial. Gaunt had not forgotten that Sturm’s callous leadership had resulted in heavy losses in the Ghost ranks from friendly artillery.
You’re only putting on this show of comradeship so you can look good in the eyes of the local grandees, Gaunt thought, returning Sturm’s gaze with unblinking directness. You are an unspeakable wretch and I regret this place has the likes of you to look after it. But Gaunt was a political animal as well as a combat leader, and he knew how to play this game as well as any runt general. He said, “I’m sure our worthy brothers of the Volpone could handle this alone.”
Sturm nodded as the handshake broke, clearly trying to work out if there had been some cloaked insult in Gaunt’s compliment.
“From your opening remark, may we presume you believe the loss of Vannick Hive is deliberate?” Kowle stepped forward to face Gaunt. The Imperial commissars nodded a stiff greeting to each other.
“Commissar Kowle, the People’s Hero. It’s been a long time since Bal-haut.”
“But the memories never fade,” Kowle replied.
Gaunt turned away from him. “Kowle judges my words correctly. The enemy has destroyed Vannick Hive deliberately. Can there be any other explanation for a nuclear event?”
“Suicide,” Grizmund said. “Overrun, overwhelmed, perhaps a last act of desperation in the face of a victorious foe. A detonation of the hive’s power plant.”
Several Vervun officers expressed dismay.
“You are new to Verghast, general, so we will not think badly of your comment,” Tarrian said softly. “But no Verghastite would be so craven as to self-destruct in the face of the enemy. The hives are everything, praise the Emperor. Through them and their output, we hallow and honour him. Vannick Hive would no more destroy itself than we would.”
Many around the chart table averred.
“Brave words,” Grizmund said. “But if this hive was conquered, Emperor save us… Would you let it fall into the hands of the enemy?”
Various voices rose in anger, but Gaunt’s words cut them to quiet. “I’m sure the general here is not questioning any loyalties. And he may have a point, but I think it doubtful Vannick Hive succumbed to anything other than an invader’s wrath.”
“But why?” barked Croe. “Again it comes back to this question! Invasion, conquest… I can understand those things! But to destroy what you have fought to take? Where is the sense?”
“Marshal, we must face the darkest truth,” said Gaunt. “I have studied the data sent to me concerning this theatre. It seems that Commissar Kowle here has reported millions of foe, an assessment that beggars belief, given the proportional mustering capacity of a hive the size of Ferrozoica. The answer is there. Vervunhive can raise half a million from a forty million population. Zoica can only be raising millions from a population a third the size… if the entire population itself is being used.”
“What?” Anko barked, laughing at the idea.
“Go on, commissar,” Croe said.
&
nbsp; “This is not a war of conquest. This is not a hive-war, a commercial spat, a new ‘Trade War’, as you refer to it. Zoica is not massing, arming and rising to conquer and control the hive production of this planet or to subjugate its old rival Vervunhive. They are rising to exterminate it.”
“A taint,” murmured General Nash, slowly understanding.
“Quite so,” Gaunt said. “To turn not just your potential fighting men into an army but your workers and hab families too, that takes a zealot mindset: an infection of insanity, a corruption, a taint. The vile forces of Chaos control Zoica, there can be no doubt. The poison of the warp has overrun your noble neighbour and set every man, woman and child in it on a frenzied path to obliterate the rest of this world and everything on it.”
FIVE
CLOSE QUARTERS
“In war, best know what enemies are around you in your own camp, before you step out to face the foe and wonder why you do so alone.”
—Warmaster Slaydo, from A Treatise
on the Nature of Warfare
A party of local troops in blue greatcoats waited for them at the entrance to a dingy shed complex, under the stark-white light of sodium lamps. Their weapons were slung over their shoulders and they wore woollen caps, their spiked helmets dangling from their webbing. They flashed the convoy in through the chain-link gate with dagger-lamps.
Sergeant Mkoll was first into the compound, slewing up his motorbike on the greasy rockcrete skirt and heeling down the kickstand. The heavy machine leaned to the left and rested, its throaty purr cutting off. Mkoll dismounted as the Tanith troop trucks thundered into the yard after him.
Mkoll looked at the manufactory sheds around them. This was a dismal place, but the Tanith had billeted in worse. Despite the thunder of engines and shouts, he sensed a presence behind him and spun before the other could utter a word.
“Steady!” said the figure approaching behind him. He was a tall, well-made man in his twenties, dressed in the local uniform. A captain, his collar pins said. His right arm was bound up tight to his chest in a padded sling, so he wore his greatcoat on one side only, draping it like a cape over the other. Mkoll thought he was lucky that empty sleeve was not a permanent feature.
[Gaunt's Ghosts 03] - Necropolis Page 6
