by Dan Abnett
I opted for the latter. In writing comics, I have often deliberately seeded ideas and notions, without knowing where they would go, and come back to them when I’ve decided, making it appear as though I had a grand scheme all along. Organic narrative. It’s a beautiful and adaptable thing.
In novels, it’s much more about owning your mistakes and making the best of them. Merrt, Bonin… Lijah Cuu (who appeared without warning when I was desperately trying to rewrite a lost manuscript at short notice… and look what kind of plot he turned into! For that story, if you haven’t heard it, look online. I tell it a lot).
I’m taking the risk of showing you how this actually works. I hope you’re interested, and that you’re not disappointed. I build plots, sub-plots and storylines very deliberately, but sometimes something takes you off guard (no pun intended). You see that you’ve made a mistake, and you rectify it in the most creative way you can imagine.
To be fair to Gol and his kids, this is a mistake I recognised years ago, and I have been deliberately building upon it ever since. It has become a main thrust of the fourth arc. The correction of a mistake turned into a long-term plan. Don’t make me use the term ‘craft’ again.
I love Gol Kolea. I love all of my characters. You may not believe it, but when I do shitty or fatal things to them, I suffer. Even if it is vitally expedient to the story. Merrt? Dorden? Caffran? Bragg? Corbec?
‘Why did you kill Bragg?’ is still the single most often-asked question I get.
Because it mattered to you.
Write about war, nameless war, who cares? Write about characters locked in war, make the readers care… Then it matters.
My high horse is becoming uncomfortable, so I’ll get off it.
To all of you out there, I hope you enjoy this dark little story, which, oddly, is more about friendship and laughs than darkness. Until it gets dark.
To Gol… I’m so sorry. What happens next, to you and yours and the Ghosts as a whole, is going to be truly awful.
Organic narrative. The ‘craft’ (ha ha).
Get ready. Nothing is ever going to be the same again. For, as Aaron Dembski-Bowden always says, really reals.
Sorry. Gol, I’m really sorry…
Dan Abnett
Ghosts and Bad Shadows
Dan Abnett
Aigor 991, twenty-one days out from Salvation’s Reach, 782.M41
(the 27th year of the Sabbat Worlds Crusade)
I
For the second time that day, they were making a hole in the forests.
The first hole had been made just before dawn. The Highness Ser Armaduke, once a proud Tempest-class frigate, now an old workhorse saved from the breaker’s yard for one last, suicidal run, had dropped out of the warp six hours earlier. The ship had limped into a low orbit above Aigor 991, and hung there for a while, nose down, while the Officer of Detection mapped the northern landmass, compared the geophysical profile to Battlefleet charts, and then plotted the target resolution. As the first rays of the rising sun began to hardlight the warship’s battered starboard side, the Armaduke fired its principal batteries at the surface.
The strike – from the Armaduke’s perspective just a brief flash of light on the nightside below – annihilated six acres of rainforest, and left a smoking patch of earth that was geologically stable and operationally close enough to the destination. Then the Armaduke launched six drop-ships: four long-pattern Arvus landers, and two Falco boats.
Aigor 991, a small, uninhabited world, was almost entirely swathed in dense rainforest across the northern continent. The forestation grew very rapidly, so any sections cleared or burned back did not stay clear for long. Aigor 991 had last been visited by a Battlefleet supply tender twenty-one months earlier. No sign of that mission’s landing clearance remained.
In the pale, rising light, the six landers had thundered in over the forest canopy and made landfall on the steaming, scorched turf the Armaduke had opened for them.
II
Through the trees, Gol Kolea could hear the rasp of flamers and the whicker of industrial blades. He could smell hot smoke, which had an acid bite to it, and a reek of sap so sharp that it smelled like disinfectant.
He turned, eyeing the dense forest around him. Slivers of sunlight, slender as las-beams, speared down through the canopy. Everything else was a deep emerald gloom. He was standing in shadow.
The shadow of trees. Gol didn’t know much about trees, as he had not been closely acquainted with them in the rockcrete halls of Vervunhive. Ironic that he, a Verghastite, and Baskevyl, a Belladon, had been chosen to head up the surface detail; any Tanith would have loved it. Maybe that’s why Gaunt had made the selection. Probably didn’t want some Tanith officer getting all misty-eyed and nostalgic about forests instead of keeping his mind on the job.
‘We’re in the right zone?’ he asked Fapes, Baskevyl’s adjutant.
‘Yes, sir,’ Fapes replied. ‘And that’s the third time you’ve asked.’
‘We’re here for a resupply,’ Gol snapped back. ‘Promethium and munitions. Seeing as we’ve precious little of either, it would be a feth-fool waste to use up tanks of prom clearing the wrong zone.’
‘Definitely would, sir,’ Fapes replied. He raised his auspex and squinted. ‘I’ve got a hard bounce off stone in there, and the coordinates are matched and confirmed. It’s the silo.’
Remote Depot Aigor 991. Secret. Hidden. An emergency cache that the Navy kept stocked and supplied to provide for out-haul missions beyond the range of secure Navy bases and planetary yards.
The mission profile was twofold. Burn off a landing strip from orbit, and then, from there, move in to manually clear the silo location proper with flamers and servitor teams. It was too dicey to try to clear the silo location directly from orbit: a slight miscalculation could risk vaporising the cache, even given the surgical precision of Shipmaster Spika’s gunnery officers. Once the silo was opened up, freight landers could come in and start loading.
‘This is the zone, right?’ asked Major Baskevyl, approaching them through the green shadows.
‘He just asked that,’ said Fapes.
‘I just asked that,’ said Kolea.
‘Because it would be a feth-fool waste of prom if we were clearing in the wrong place,’ said Baskevyl.
‘A point already well noted,’ said Fapes.
They had six platoons between them, essentially composed of three from Kolea’s C Company, and three from Baskevyl’s D. The rest of the surface team was made up of worker servitors from the ship’s engineering and cargo divisions, plus a few Battlefleet officers as supervisors.
A squad of men from one of Baskevyl’s platoons struggled past through the undergrowth, carrying fresh promethium tanks up from the landing strip. A Navy officer, impeccable in his dark blue uniform with its silver brocade, walked with them. He was carrying precisely nothing at all, probably because he had urgent dabbing-his-brow-with-a-silk-handkerchief and smoking-a-lho-stick duties to perform. Kolea didn’t know the man’s name.
‘Guard gets to do all the hard work,’ said Baskevyl.
‘That, my friend, is the entire story of the galaxy,’ replied Gol.
‘At least we get to breathe some fresh air,’ Baskevyl shrugged.
‘This is fresh?’ asked Kolea, wrinkling his nose.
‘Well, not now we’re torching the place, no,’ said Baskevyl. ‘Still, better than ship air. That’s like living in an armpit.’
‘Or a sock that someone’s still wearing,’ said Fapes. They gazed at him.
‘I’ll carry on with the… checking things, sirs,’ Fapes said.
Bask’s micro-bead beeped. He exchanged a few words, then looked back at Kolea.
‘Maggs says he’s found the silo,’ he said.
‘Let’s go take a look,’ said Kolea.
III
They walk
ed through the trees together. The occasional spears of sunlight made the green shadow all the more oppressive. Insects hummed. There had been birdsong earlier, but the roar of the flamers and the chatter of blades had sent them bursting from the canopy in startled flocks.
‘It has two moons,’ said Baskevyl.
‘What does?’
‘Aigor 991. Two moons.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Kolea.
‘Because I read the briefing packet.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because you didn’t read the briefing packet?’
‘I read the bits that Hark highlighted,’ said Kolea. ‘It was forty gakking pages long. I don’t need to know about annual rainfall, highest elevation and the lesser-spotted wood-gargler.’
‘The real reason is you can’t read long words, isn’t it, Gol?’
Kolea glared at him, then saw Baskevyl’s grin.
‘Funny man,’ said Gol.
‘So, anyway, it has two moons–’
‘Why? Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because you can’t read.’
‘Bask–’ Gol growled.
‘Because we’re getting a day out, that’s why,’ replied Baskevyl, ‘and I want you to enjoy the sights and natural wonders of the world, and I want to be able to explain them to you in painstaking detail.’
‘Couldn’t you just club me to death with a log?’
‘Two moons. I want you to appreciate the sights.’
Kolea halted and stared up at the sky. Baskevyl did the same. All they could see were soaring tree trunks, coils of creepers, and a sea of green leaves, all locked in shadow.
‘Sights?’ Kolea said. ‘It’s not going to really fething matter if there are two moons, is it?’
IV
The stink of smoke and promethium grew stronger. Kolea felt the wet of sap vapour in the air.
The work teams had cleared a decent stretch. Kolea saw Lyse and Zered moving into the dense undergrowth, hosing curls of yellow flame from their burner units. The noise of other flamers roared from nearby. Servitors hacked into foliage with whirring cutting blades or raked away cut or burned greenery.
Kolea’s adjutant Rerval was waiting for them at the edge of the clearance area, with Luffrey, the sergeant in charge of Baskevyl’s second platoon, and Caober, Kolea’s chief scout.
Rerval flipped out a data-slate, slapped it to stabilise the flickering screen, and then scrolled open a schematic. In the shadow, the screen underlit his face.
‘Definitely the right zone, sirs,’ he said.
‘Fapes will be delighted,’ said Kolea.
‘Beg pardon, major?’ asked Rerval.
‘Go on,’ said Kolea with a ‘never mind’ gesture.
‘The silo is here,’ said Luffrey, leaning in to point to the slate. ‘Large structure. Out front is a broad rockcrete apron, the landing platform. That’s what we’re clearing now.’
‘Estimates?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘Providing we don’t hit any snags,’ said Caober, ‘and the tanks don’t run out, I think we’ll have it open by nightfall.’
‘You’ll get to see the moons after all,’ Baskevyl said to Kolea.
‘Moons?’ asked Luffrey.
‘There are two–’ began Baskevyl.
‘Don’t get him started again,’ warned Kolea. He looked at Caober. ‘Let’s get a look at this silo.’
‘Maggs is waiting for you,’ said Caober.
‘Luff,’ said Baskevyl, ‘lead us over. Caober, go find the senior Navy man and bring him to join us at the silo. He’s got the access codes.’
‘Which one is the senior Navy man?’ asked Caober.
‘Tall,’ said Kolea. ‘Dark blue tunic, silver brocade, walks like he’s got an RPG lodged in his rectum.’
‘Pretty much describes them all,’ said Caober.
‘Well, he probably isn’t doing very much except standing around,’ said Kolea.
‘Still much of a muchness,’ said Caober.
‘Then use your improbably acute Tanith scouting skills and locate him,’ said Kolea.
‘On it,’ said Caober.
V
Led by Luffrey and Rerval, Kolea and Baskevyl headed into the clearance area. They passed Lyse, kneeling to connect up a fresh promethium tank, her goggles pushed up onto her sweaty forehead.
‘How are you doing?’ asked Kolea.
‘It’s fething hot,’ said Lyse. ‘Hot and wet and nasty.’
‘Good to see morale at a high,’ said Kolea.
‘And the shadows–’ began Lyse.
‘The what?’
‘The shadows, sir,’ she said, snap-fitting the last hose and rising to her feet. ‘The shadows here are really dense.’
‘Dense?’
‘I don’t know. It’s creepy here, isn’t it?’
‘It’s verdant,’ said Baskevyl.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Lyse.
‘It’s lush and green and beautiful,’ said Baskevyl, ‘and the shadows are just part of its dark, primordial grace. Also, it has two moons.’
‘The feth?’ asked Lyse, blankly.
‘You got that from the briefing packet, didn’t you?’ Kolea said to Baskevyl.
‘No indeed,’ said Baskevyl. ‘As a man unafraid of long words, I composed it myself, in order to reassure Trooper Lyse here that this isn’t the kind of death hole we usually end up with as a working environment.’
‘To be truthful, it didn’t really work,’ said Lyse. ‘And now I think you’re creepy as well.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Kolea told her. ‘Major Baskevyl will be dead by nightfall. By my hand. With a log. Carry on with your work.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The quartet moved on as Lyse started burning again. They passed two hacking servitors, then reached the lip of the stone apron Luffrey had mentioned. It rose about two metres above the forest floor, and the ancient rockcrete was scabbed with lichen, as well as scorch marks from flamers.
Kolea wondered how long the place had stood, and which long-dead Navy architect had commissioned it. The Navy had been building remote depots and supply drops for thousands of years. They were like ancient reliquaries. Like tombs.
Now I’m creeping myself out, Kolea thought.
They hauled themselves up onto the apron. Baskevyl, first up, reached out a hand to haul his friend Kolea. More flamer teams were working up there, led by Neskon, Dremmond and Lubba, brought in from other companies because of their fire expertise. Kolea raised a hand to Neskon, and the flame-trooper nodded back as he hosed liquid flame into the undergrowth. They had cleared part of the apron, and Kolea could already see some of the chevron markings on the platform emerging.
Caober’s estimate had been generous, though. There was a lot to clear. They would be working into the night, until morning perhaps, as the vegetation was so thick.
Now they were standing in a cleared patch, with hard sunlight falling on them, it made the shadows of the forests and undergrowth seem darker. Creepy, just like Lyse had suggested. Bad shadows. Where had he heard that phrase? Bad shadows. Too dark. Too dense. The air was bright, the sun was strong, and the sky was pale blue, but where the forests stood, the shadows were as thick as Old Night.
‘Hey, Gol,’ said Baskevyl. He pointed up at the soft, blue sky. ‘I told you.’
Two moons, vague as smudges of white chalk dust, one larger than the other, were just visible in the daylight sky, faint as ghosts.
‘I imagine you’re feeling terribly pleased with yourself right now,’ said Kolea.
‘It’s a moment I’m going to cherish,’ said Baskevyl grinning. ‘Me and my old pal, under the ghost moons, contemplating the natural glories of the universe.’
Kolea sighed.
‘Do they h
ave names?’ he asked.
‘What?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘The two moons? Do they have names?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Baskevyl. ‘Does it matter?’
‘A sight so beautiful, one should know the names.’
Bask paused.
‘You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘He really is,’ said Rerval, sniggering.
‘I really fething am,’ growled Kolea. ‘Now let’s get on with the job.’
VI
They moved across the cleared part of the apron and back into the overgrowth. It was like stepping behind a curtain, from a lit room into a lightless one. Bad shadows surrounded them again. They seemed darker than before, deep green and black like the abyssal depths of an ocean, but Kolea reminded himself their eyes had become accustomed to light out in the cleared space.
‘This way,’ said Rerval, and immediately tripped over a creeper root. He picked himself up, and had to slap the data-slate a few times to get it to relight.
‘Classy,’ said Luffrey.
‘This thing,’ said Rerval, brandishing the data-slate, ‘works even better when it’s been pushed up someone’s arse sideways.’
‘Classier,’ laughed Luffrey.
Kolea ignored the banter. Luff and Rerval were good friends. They often sparred like this.
‘Give yourself a moment,’ said Baskevyl quietly. ‘Let your eyes get used to the darkness again. Just a moment, and then no more falling down like an idiot.’
They paused.
‘See? Better, right?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘Sure,’ said Kolea, but he didn’t think it was. The shadows seemed just as dark as before.
Bad shadows. Who had said that?
Kolea pulled out a lamp pack and switched it on. The lance of white light illuminated tree boles and snaking creepers as he played it around.
‘Come on,’ he said.
They crunched and clambered through the undergrowth. After a few minutes, they came upon the rusted skeleton of a Valkyrie gunship, entombed in a tangle of branches and leafy suckers.