‘God-Emperor,’ Ledbetter breathed as the monstrous ogryn raised the hefty autocannon in his hands. It wasn’t loaded, but Frn’k didn’t need it to be. He swung it like a bat, gripping it on the barrel, striking the cavalry captain with the heavy feeder system. The impact physically lifted Ledbetter a full metre clear of the ground and sent him sprawling back, unconscious, his chainsword automatically cutting out as it left his grip.
‘Look out, he’s gone berserk!’ Frn’k heard someone shout, and then he heard the first shot being fired. It was being fired at him! He turned to face whoever had done it, but then another shot struck him in the back, struck him where Ledbetter’s sword had struck. He bellowed in pain again. Many men were running at him now. They saw Ledbetter and Gardner lying prone at his feet. They shouted things at him. Blamed him for it. Called him things. He tried to find his words, but all he could think of was that he’d hurt his friend. He’d wanted to save him, but now he was hurt. He had hurt him. And the men all around him were blaming him for it, and shooting at him. He couldn’t find his words. He couldn’t explain. He had hurt his friend. He had been bad.
Frn’k opened his mouth and wailed out his broken heart. And then he ran into the darkness, while the stinging lines of light cut around him.
‘Stop firing! For Marguerite’s sake, stop firing!’ Stanhope shouted as he came out onto the scene. He ran over to where Gardner and Ledbetter lay. Ledbetter was already stirring slightly, but Gardner was dead still.
‘Medicae!’ he called, and then cursed because they had no medicae left. ‘Anyone!’
‘Who’s seeing to him?’ Carson demanded, as Stanhope and Forjaz carried him out of the barracks.
‘One of Ledbetter’s men has some medicae training,’ Stanhope replied.
‘One of the tin bellies?’ Carson said. ‘Don’t you realise that Gardner was probably out to–’
‘I realise that. He, thankfully, did not.’
Gardner was alive and awake, but he would not remain either for long. The resigned look on the face of the cavalryman tending him told Stanhope that much.
‘A lot of his ribs are broken, and I think he’s bleeding inside as well.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Carson asked.
The cavalryman considered the question. ‘I’m going to make him as comfortable as possible.’
‘That’s it?’ Carson exclaimed. ‘If that’s what it is then get inside him and stitch him up. You’re not just going to leave him. What kind of a medicae do you call yourself?’
Carson was an imposing man, and the force of his character was in no way diminished by the fact that he’d had to be carried in and sat down on the floor. But while many men within the regiment would have been cowed before him, this cavalry trooper was not one of them.
‘If I was back in Dova, if I had the proper equipment and staff, and the proper supplies on hand… I still wouldn’t know what I was doing! Sir. I know about your reputation, lieutenant, but there’s nothing more that I can do. And I don’t call myself any kind of medicae. I used to help them look after the horses. That’s all. I don’t know how to save him!’
The cavalryman’s voice was tight with emotion. Stanhope looked at him again and realised how young he was. He wasn’t one of the veterans who had started from Brimlock, he was just old enough to be a man. He’d obviously been born on the crusade as part of one of the regimental families.
Carson was lost for words for a moment and so Stanhope took the chance to interject. ‘Thank you for your efforts, lance-corporal,’ Stanhope interjected. ‘How is Captain Ledbetter?’
The cavalryman wiped the sweat from his face. His eyes were red. ‘He’s fine, sir. He’s taken worse. There’s really nothing more I can do. I have to get back to the commissar.’
Stanhope saw Carson’s flicker of reaction at that.
‘How does he fare?’ Stanhope inquired politely.
‘The conditions… they’ve aggravated his wound… I don’t know that either.’ The crumpled look on the young man’s face spoke volumes about the weight of the responsibility that had been placed upon him. Stanhope dismissed him and he left.
Carson was talking to Gardner and Stanhope took his leave to allow them the moment. After ten minutes or so, Forjaz came out holding up Carson.
‘He was trying to kill Reeve,’ Carson said in a measured tone. ‘When they find that out, whether he’s dying or not, Ledbetter’s men are going to come for him. I am not going to allow them to take him. I’m going to get my men ready.’
‘We can’t let this happen,’ Stanhope said. ‘This is my command and I will not let us end it all fighting each other!’
‘Command then, major,’ Carson replied. ‘I suspect that Ledbetter’s men will have the same preference for your authority as mine do.’
Whether Carson was spurring him on or merely mocking him, Stanhope could not discern.
‘Is Gardner still awake? I’d like to talk to him first.’
‘Talk to him if you will. But I don’t think he’ll be inclined to reply,’ Carson finished, and Forjaz carried him away.
Stanhope returned inside and settled himself next to the dying man.
‘I know a little about what happened to your brother. Lieutenant Carson told me the night after we took the crater.’
Gardner didn’t reply.
‘He told me to talk to you if I needed to know any more,’ Stanhope continued. What Carson had actually said was that he’d had enough of Stanhope’s damn questions and that if he wanted to know any more he’d have to damn well talk to Gardner himself. ‘I need to know more now. I have to try and stop what we both think will happen.’
Gardner, though, was evidently not in the mood to talk. He sat there, sullenly, staring only at his feet.
‘I understand how it is,’ Stanhope offered.
‘Yes, sir,’ Gardner replied, his voice dripping with scorn. Stanhope felt his temper rise, but he controlled it.
‘I want you to think for a moment, corporal. Can you do that? I want you to think of everything you heard about me. Think of everything you know that I’ve done to myself, done to others, have had done to me. Think of it all, corporal, and then look me in the eye and tell me you think that I do not understand loss.’
Gardner thought, then blinked and looked away.
‘I was there. On Cawnpore. I saw what they put us through. I know why Hacher was born and why so many men listened to what he said. I know they weren’t traitors, they were just human. I saw what the Execution Boards did to people. I saw how they could lever a man open and what they could make him admit. Not for the sake of justice or truth, but simply to reinstate order and fear.’ Stanhope knelt down on one knee and moved closer to the man. ‘I know your brother wasn’t a traitor.’
Gardner nodded, tried to swallow, then took a deep breath and stared straight at Stanhope.
‘Then you know scrag all,’ he said. ‘Scrag all. That’s what you know, you bloody carcass, you bloody shell. Because he was a traitor! You hear that? Can you understand that, major?’
Stanhope, surprised, stood up to go, but Gardner’s anger pulled him up.
‘He was a traitor,’ Gardner ranted. ‘I knew it. He told me. He told me how he had heard of Hacher and what he was doing. He told me how he spread the word of what was happening in the Sixty-Seventh all through the regiment. He whispered it to me at night just to show me what he could do. He was always trouble. Always. I started calling him Trouble when we were kids. He loved it.’
Stanhope backed slowly away. He’d hit the nerve and now it was angry, raw and exposed. He didn’t need to push any more, Gardner would carry himself the rest of the way.
‘No names, though,’ Gardner carried on, ‘I drew the line at that. I didn’t want to know any names. I was too scared to know ’em. I thought if I didn’t know the names then they’d never get me. I wasn’t
part of anything if I didn’t know the names.’
Gardner gestured wildly and then froze as his memories slid on.
‘But the black-coats didn’t see it that way. After it’d all happened, I got called up before the Boards. Up in front of that one, Reeve, before he started wearing those skull-trophies of his. Back when he was just another black-coat. There were five of them. I heard they were brought in specially by Ellinor, to cut out the rot, so they said. Most of the time you hear of a mutiny, the black-coats just shoot every man still standing at the end. Sets an example to the rest, they say. Ellinor, though, the glorious bastard, didn’t want to lose a dozen regiments just to send a message. He had plans for those regiments; he had a schedule of conquests to keep and not enough men for his liking. So these black-coats, they had a different method. They told me they believed me. They believed I wasn’t part of anything. But they wanted the names of the ones who were. They wanted the rot.
‘If I hadn’t been gagged and bolted down I’d have laughed then. Give them names? They took the gag out and I gave them the name of every man who’d crossed me, every sergeant who’d chewed me up and spat me out, every officer who’d looked down his nose at me. They might all have been as pure as priests, but I didn’t care. Let them defend themselves, it’d get me off.
‘Then Reeve thanked me for my helpfulness, and he told me that he was certain my allegations would all be corroborated by the others. Because if they weren’t, he said, they would have to conclude that I was naming innocent men because I was one of the mutineers. And if I was one of those, then it would be the cannon mouth for me… after they had finished a more detailed questioning.
‘That was how they worked it. That was how they rooted out the traitors. They didn’t accuse us, we accused ourselves. Everyone had to say a name, and if we refused then we were dead. If we said a name and others said the same, then we were safe. If we were the only one, we were dead again. Who was I supposed to choose? Who would everyone else pick? Who did I think someone else would accuse?
‘Reeve asked me if I wanted to reconsider the list I had given him. I nodded and he ripped it clean through the middle. Then he asked me for the name. I should never have let Trouble get into it on his own! If I’d have been with him, I’d know the others, I’d have been able to save him. I told Reeve nothing. I said I didn’t know anyone.
‘Reeve went quiet at that and then I was unstrapped and taken out of the room. They took me out into the courtyard and showed me the cannon. I didn’t say anything. They showed me the straps, showed me what was left of the one who’d come before me. I kept silent. They tied me over the mouth and lifted the barrel up. I pissed myself, but my mouth stayed shut. They called the order to fire and I waited, I waited the long seconds before I would feel the ball strike and tear me to pieces.
‘The moment came, the cannon roared. I opened my eyes and I was still looking at the sky. They lowered the barrel and let me hang there on the straps, my trousers soaked, my face wet. Now I knew how it would be, I knew I couldn’t go through it again. I said my brother’s name. I said it, then they made me repeat it. Then they cut me down and took me back in front of Reeve and they made me say it again. Then they cleaned me up and took me back to my cell. And that’s where I stayed until it was over. Fed, watered, and with nothing to do but listen to the cannon fire.’
Stanhope sat quietly while Gardner gasped and coughed at the exertion of telling his story. He knew there was nothing he could say. At Cawnpore, after he’d lost his regiment, there was nothing anyone could have said to him. They had trusted him; they had attacked that fortress because they had believed him when he had said the next wave was coming. He had betrayed them, just as Gardner had betrayed his brother.
But while Gardner had found a target for his guilt and turned it outwards, Stanhope had kept it in. The only vengeance he had sought was against himself. He had not had the courage to defy the order to attack, nor had he the courage to end himself afterwards. Instead, he stepped out. He stepped out of his rank, stepped out of the Guard, stepped out of his life as far he could and waited for anyone to notice. He had held the gun to his head and waited for someone else to pull the trigger, but no one ever had. In his lucid moments, he had realised that someone was protecting him. Protecting, or maybe punishing him, by refusing him what he thought he deserved. It had taken him a year or so to finally realise who it was.
Of all those regiments on Cawnpore, there were only two that weren’t brought up before the Execution Boards. The first were the storm troopers who had dropped into the citadel and caught the men who had called themselves Hacher. The second was the 1201st, or at least the only man who remained of it. The report of the display of loyalty by his men at that parade, their sacrifice on the slopes of the citadel, kept him safe, meant he was high above any suspicion. His men had protected him still, even after they were dead.
He had met Reeve then only in passing; he was one of the five that had questioned him, but that was all. The Board had told him that, because of the stigma that Cawnpore would forever hold, the 1201st would have it expunged from their record and instead it would show that they had given their lives fighting the xenos on Ghilzai. Stanhope, in his grief, could not have cared less.
Then, a few weeks later, he was transferred to the 99th and met Reeve again for he was the senior commissar for the regiment. Stanhope had thought nothing of it, and his slide began in earnest. Then he was transferred again, to the 263rd and there Reeve was again. Each time Stanhope was bumped from regiment to regiment, Reeve appeared as well. He thought that Reeve had him under watch in case the mutinous virus should suddenly spring from him to his new regiments, and that belief made him sink lower and lower. But now, he looked back at those same events with an unclouded mind. Was it perhaps that Reeve was not following him, rather that he was taking him? Was he was carrying him from regiment to regiment as he was reassigned, ensuring as only a commissar can that Stanhope was not persecuted?
It seemed ridiculous. Amongst all the death on Cawnpore, why would Reeve pluck him out to save? He did not know. The two of them had never even spoken in private. But now here they were close to the end. The commissar was only a few metres away, perhaps dying, perhaps already dead; any answers he had already gone. And Stanhope was sitting with the man who had thought to kill him.
‘How’s Reeve?’ Gardner asked, his voice weak.
‘I’ll have someone check,’ Stanhope said and stepped out and gave the order.
‘Wherever I’m going...’ Gardner said when he returned, ‘I better not see him there.’
Gardner was even paler than before, his lips going blue. Stanhope could see that he did not have long.
‘You won’t. Everyone knows that commissars don’t go into His light.’
‘Where...’ Gardner croaked, ‘...then?’
‘They stand in His shadow,’ Stanhope said gently. ‘So as to make sure of His loyalty.’
The corner of Gardner’s mouth turned up in amusement and the two of them waited in silence for what news would come.
‘Tell Trouble I’m sorry,’ Gardner said suddenly, and then was drowned out by the noise of the rain as the tent flap opened and Blanks stepped inside. Stanhope looked round at him.
‘Commissar Reeve is dead,’ he reported.
Stanhope turned back to Gardner, but Gardner’s eyes had unfocused and dimmed. They would not see anything again.
Stanhope released his breath and whispered a prayer. A prayer for them both. A prayer for them all. Emperor knew he had watched enough men die in the past, even die slowly before him. Here was the truth, the truth he would have told the next generation of officers had he ever been chosen to go home. The first is not the hardest. It’s the last.
But Gardner would not be the last if his men and Ledbetter’s now tore each other apart.
‘Tell Carson to keep the men alert,’ he told Blanks. ‘I’m going to talk t
o Captain Ledbetter, and I will pray that his feelings towards us are gentler than ours towards him.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fort Eliza, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 21
Ledbetter had already taken the initiative. One of his cavalrymen appeared in his path, saluted, and then politely requested that he follow. His guide led him to the far end of their makeshift barracks. Stanhope entered and saw the body of Commissar Reeve. They had lifted it on its stretcher and put supports underneath almost as though it were the body of an Imperial hero, lying in state. Which, Stanhope supposed, Reeve almost was to these men.
A squad of the cavalrymen stood around him, reading softly from their prayer-books. Ledbetter was amongst them. He saw Stanhope, closed the small volume in his hands, crossed over to him and slowly saluted.
‘Captain,’ Stanhope said as he returned the salute.
‘I wanted you to see him like this,’ Ledbetter began, gesturing behind him. ‘It is the best we can do, but a commissar of the Emperor deserves much more.’
Stanhope did not comment as he scanned the interior, trying to count the men, trying to discern the weapons they carried, trying to sense whether there were any in hiding waiting to cut him down at a given signal.
Ledbetter had paused, waiting for a response.
‘These are straitened times,’ Stanhope finally produced. ‘I am certain that he would understand that.’
Ledbetter stared coldly at him for a time, and then slowly nodded. ‘You are right, major. He would have approved. For all his unshakeable faith, he remained a practical man. But I, in my faith, cannot leave him like this.’
Forty-two of them, Stanhope concluded, at least of those he could see. With Gardner dead, Carson immobilised and Frn’k gone, it would be a nasty fight. He had no certainty that his men would win. Of course, the faithful needed no such certainty.
Imperial Glory Page 30