by Dan Abnett
“Air’s clean. Stale but clean. Get that hood off.”
Leyr pulled Rawne’s gas-hood off and Ledan took a look at the face wound.
“Feth!” Leyr murmured.
“Shut up. Go and do something useful,” Rawne told him. “How is it?”
“Looks a right mess, sir, but I think it’s superficial.” Ledan took out some tweezers and started removing slivers of lens plastic from Rawne’s face. “You’ve got blood in your eye from the cuts, and your eyelid is torn. Hang on, this’ll smart.”
Ledan sprayed counterseptic from a puffer bottle and then taped a gauze pad over Rawne’s eye.
“I haven’t lost the eye then.”
“No, sir. But Dorden needs to look at it.”
Rawne got up and tucked his gas-hood away in his belt. He’d had enough of it anyway. He went over to the corpse and pulled out his knife, twisting the grip to break the suction and free the blade.
Feygor was moving the platoon up. The fight on the path was over.
“We got them all,” Caffran reported.
“Any casualties?”
“Only you,” said Feygor.
“You can all lose the hoods if you want,” said Rawne. He walked down to the path. Criid, Wheln, Neskon and Melwid were examining the bodies.
“Made a mess of this,” said Neskon, indicating the charred bush and the three blackened corpses behind it. “I think they were carrying something.” Rawne knelt down and took a look, ignoring the reek of promethium and the spicy stink of seared meat. It was some kind of equipment box, scorched with soot and burned out. Rawne could see melted cables and broken valves inside.
“Sir,” said Feygor quietly. The platoon had tensed at movement from the south door, but it was more Ghosts. Captain Daur’s squad, supported by Corporal Meryn’s which had brought Commissar Hark along with it.
“This park area’s secure,” Rawne told them. Hark nodded.
“Does that hurt?” asked Daur.
“You ask some damn fool questions sometimes, Verghast,” Rawne snapped, though he knew full well that the young, handsome captain was exercising his trademark ironic wit.
“Your men are unhooded,” observed Hark, holstering his plasma pistol.
“A necessity with me. But the air’s clean.”
Hark almost ripped his own hood off. “Damn well glad to get rid of that,” he said, trying to hand-comb his thick, dark hair before putting his cap on. He smiled at Rawne. “We’ve been so busy I hadn’t even checked the gauge.”
“Me neither,” said Rawne. “Come and take a look at this. I could use a—”
“Good eye?” Daur finished for him. Rawne heard Banda and Criid snigger.
“Get the men to unhood, captain, if you please,” Hark told Daur. Daur nodded and walked away, smiling.
“Insufferable feth,” Rawne growled as he walked the commissar over to the path.
“In the God-Emperor’s illustrious brotherhood of warriors, we are all kindred, major,” returned Hark smoothly.
“A little boost from the holy primers?”
“No idea. I’m getting so good at this I can make lines like that up off the cuff.”
They both laughed. Rawne liked Hark, probably about as much as he disliked Daur. Daur, good-looking, popular, efficient, had entered the regiment’s upper command like a virus, dumped there on an equal footing to Rawne himself, thanks to Gaunt’s generous efforts to integrate the Verghastites. Hark, on the other hand, had come in against Gaunt’s will, indeed his original task had been to turn Gaunt out of rank. Everyone had hated him at first. But he’d proved himself in combat and also proved himself remarkably loyal to the spirit of the Tanith First. Rawne had been pleased when Gaunt had invited Hark to stay on as regimental commissar in support of Gaunt’s own split role.
Rawne welcomed Hark’s presence in the Ghosts because he was a hard man, but a fair one. He respected him because they’d risked their lives for each other in the final battle for the Shrinehold on Hagia.
And he liked him because, if only technically, he was a thorn in Ibram Gaunt’s side.
“You really don’t like the Verghastites, do you, Rawne?” said Hark.
“Not my place to like or dislike, sir. But this is the Tanith First,” Rawne replied, stressing the word ‘Tanith’. “Besides, I’ve only seen a handful of them that can fight as hard or as well as the Tanith.”
Hark nodded slyly over at Banda and Criid. “I see you keep the decorative ones in your platoon though.”
Now it was Hark’s turn to joke at Rawne’s expense, but somehow it didn’t matter. Rawne would have floored Daur for a quip like that.
Hark crouched down and looked at the half-melted box.
“Why do we care what this is?” he asked.
“They were moving it through the park. That way,” Rawne added, indicating the direction the Imperials had been advancing. “Must have been important because they were breaking cover to move it.”
Hark drew his blade. It was a standard issue, broad-bladed dress dagger, a pugio with a gold aquila crest. He was the only man in the regiment who didn’t have a silver Tanith warknife. He picked at the edge of the box-seal with the pugio’s top.
“Vox set?”
“Don’t think so, sir,” said Rerval, the vox-officer in Rawne’s squad.
“It’s a generator cell for a void shield.”
They looked round. Daur had rejoined them.
“Are you sure, captain?” asked Hark dubiously.
Daur nodded. “I was a garrison officer on the Hass West Fort, sir. Part of my daily duty was to test start the voids on the battery nests.”
Smug know-all bastard, Rawne thought. “So what were they doing w—”
“Sir!” Caffran called down the pathway. He was with Feygar’s fireteam at the end hatch.
They hurried down to join him. Meryn and Daur deployed their troops out across the park to cover all the access points.
The hatch was open and its arch was dim. Beyond it, Rawne could see a corridor with a grilled floor leading deeper into the dome structure.
“Cables, there, inside the jamb,” said Feygor, pointing out what they’d all missed. Feygor had notoriously sharp eyes. He had been able to spot a larisel at night at a hundred metres back home in the Great West Nals. And kill it with a dirty look. Feygor should have been in the scout section, but Rawne had worked determinedly not to lose his lean, murderous ally to Mkoll’s bunch. And it was just as likely Mkoll didn’t want Feygor anyway.
“Booby trap,” Caffran said, speaking what they were all thinking. A quick vox-check confirmed that all the accessways off the north side of the park showed similar signs of tampering.
Daur called Criid over. “Permission to risk my health recklessly,” he asked Hark lightly.
“Don’t wait on my account,” Rawne muttered.
“You have an idea, captain?” Hark asked.
“Get everyone to fall back from the doorways,” Daur said. He borrowed Criid’s lasrifle and the small, polished brooch mount she kept in her pocket. It was her little trademark, and Daur requisitioned it now, sending her back into cover.
Daur fixed the mount to the bayonet lug of the rifle as he had seen Criid do and then gingerly extended the gun out at arm’s length.
“Pray to the Golden Throne…” Hark whispered to Rawne, down in cover. “Oh, I am,” said Rawne.
The brooch-mount had been polished to a mirror, and it was a canny tool for seeing round corners without risking a headshot. Rawne knew that several Ghosts had copied Criid’s idea, realising how useful such a thing was for room to room clearance. Scout Caober used a shaving mirror.
Daur peered in via the little mirror for a few seconds and then ran back to the line.
“Thanks, Tona,” he said, handing the brooch and the weapon back to Criid.
“The door’s rigged with a void shield,” Daur told them. “It’s not active yet, but it’s charged.”
“You know because?”
&nb
sp; “Smell of ozone.”
“So they’re intending to block our advance in this section with shields. We better get in there and disable them,” Feygor said.
“Unless they’re waiting for us to try,” said Daur. “Might explain why they’ve fallen back so suddenly,” said Hark. “Bringing us forward, luring us, so they can cut us off.”
“Or in two,” said Daur. “What?” asked Rawne.
“You ever been standing in a void field when it was activated, major?”
“No.”
“It was a rhetorical question. The field edge would cut you in half.”
Rawne looked at Hark. “I say we run it. Get as many through as we can.”
“So that those who get through can be cut down with nowhere to run because there’s a void at their backs?” Daur asked sourly.
“You got a better idea, Verghast?”
Daur smiled at him without warmth and tapped the pips on his coat. “Address me as ‘captain’, major. It’s a small courtesy, but I think even you should be capable of it.”
Hark held up his hand. “Enough. Get me the vox-officer.”
Free of the damn gas-hood at last, Gaunt set his cap on his head, brim first He glanced at his watch, took a sip of water from his flask, and looked down the hallway.
Two storeys high, it was ornate with gilt and floral work, and the floor was a checkerboard of red and white plasteel tiles. Crystal chandeliers hung every ten metres, blazing out twinkly yellow light that shone from the huge wall mirrors.
Gaunt glanced back. His platoon was in cover down the length of the hall, using the architraves and pillars for shelter. Wersun and Arcuda were guarding a side door which led into a section of staterooms that had already been swept. There was a scent in the air. Fading perfume.
Cirenholm had been a rich place once, before Gaur’s Blood Pact had overrun it. Here in the palatial halls of the secondary dome, the elegance lingered, melancholy and cold.
Caober reappeared, coming back down the hall, hugging the shadows. He dropped down next to Gaunt. “Shield?”
Caober nodded. “Looks like what Commissar Hark described. It’s wired into the end doorway, and to the pair adjoining. There was a staircase, but I didn’t fancy checking that without a fireteam.”
“Good work,” said Gaunt and took the mic Beltayn held out.
“One, four?”
“Four, one,” Mkoll replied. “All exits north of 651 are wired for shields.”
“Understood. Stay where you are.” Gaunt looked at his chart, and ran a finger around a line that connected the sites his men had reported as covered by shields. They’d all found them: Corbec Burone, Bray, Soric. Sergeant Theiss’ squad had actually passed one, and then fallen back rapidly once Gaunt had alerted them. Only the spearhead formed by Obel, Kolea and Varl had gone beyond, too far beyond to call back now.
“What are they up to, d’you think, sir?” asked Beltayn. “Something’s awry.”
“Yes it is, Beltayn.” Gaunt smiled at the vox-officer’s use of his favourite understatement. He looked at the chart again. His company — with the exception of the spearhead — had penetrated about two-thirds of a kilometre into the dome and had all come up against prepared shield emplacements, no matter what level they were on. Soric’s mob were six levels lower thanks to a firefight and the chance discovery of a cargo lift. It was as if the enemy had given up the outer rim of the dome to lure them in against this trap.
But what kind of trap? Was it meant to stop them dead? Cut their force in half? Pull them on and trap them without hope of retreat?
Gaunt took the mic again. “Boost it. I want Zhyte and Fazalur,” he told the vox-man.
“1A, 3A… this is 2A. Respond. Repeat, 1A 3A, this is 2A…”
White noise. Then a burp of audio.
“…A… repeat this is 3A. Gaunt?”
“Confirmed, Fazalur. What’s your situation?”
“Advancing through the tertiary dome. Low resistance.”
“We’ve found shields here, Fazalur. Void shields laid across our path. Any sign there?”
“Active shields?”
“Negative.”
“We’ve seen nothing.”
“Watch for them and stay in contact.”
“Agreed, 2A I stand advised. Out.”
“1A this is 2A respond. 1A respond this channel. 2A to 1A respond…”
“I’ve got Commissar Gaunt on the primary channel, sir,” Gerrishon called.
“Tell him I’m busy,” snorted Zhyte, waving the next squad forward. His unit was now a kilometre into Cirenholm’s primary dome, exploring the marble vaults and suspiciously derelict chambers of the sky-city’s commercial district. Ten minutes before, he had linked up with Belthini’s group, and together they’d begun sectioning the outer dome. There was still no sign of the enemy. No sign of anyone, in fact, apart from his own puzzle-camoed troops. His skin was starting to crawl.
“He’s quite insistent, sir. Says something about shields.”
“Tell him I’m busy,” Zhyte repeated. His men were executing bounding cover as they played out down the wide hallway, passing under vast holo-portraits of Phantine’s great and good.
“Busy with what, sir?”
Zhyte stopped with a heavy sigh and turned to look at his suddenly pale vox-officer. “Inform the stubborn little pool of canid-piss that I’m taking a masterful dump down the neck of Sagittar Slaith and I’ll call him back when I’ve finished the paperwork.”
“I, sir—”
“Oh, give me that, you limpoid!” Zhyte spat and snatched the mic, cuffing Gerrishon for good measure. “This had better be good, Gaunt,” he snarled. “Zhyte?”
“Yes!”
“We’ve found shields, Zhyte, dug into doorways along marker 48:00 which would correlate to 32:00 on your map—”
“Do you have a point or are you calling for advice?”
“I’m calling to warn you, colonel. Secondary dome is wired for shields and tertiary may be too. Watch for them. Slaith, Emperor rot him, is no fool, and neither are the Blood Pact. They’re planning something, and—”
“Do you know the name of my regiment, Gaunt?”
“Say again?”
“Do you know the name of my unit?”
“Of course. The Urdeshi Seventh Storm-troop. I don’t see w—”
“The Urdeshi Seventh Storm-troop. Yes, sir. Our name is woven in silver thread on an honour pennant that hangs amongst the thousand flags beside the Golden Throne on Terra. We have been an active and victorious unit for a thousand and seventy-three glorious years. Is the Tanith First marked on an honour pennant. Gaunt?”
“I don’t believe it is—”
“I know for a damn fact it isn’t! You were only born yesterday and you’re nothing! Nothing! There’s only a bloody handful of you anyway! Don’t you dare presume to tell me my business, you piece of shit! Warning me? Warning me? We are taking this bastard city piece by piece, hall by hall, with our blood and our sweat, and the last thing I want to hear is you whining about something that’s making you soil your britches because you’re too scared to do a soldier’s job and get on with it! You hear me, Gaunt? Gaunt?”
Gaunt calmly handed the mic back to Beltayn. “You get him, sir?”
“No. I got some fething idiot who’s about to die,” said Gaunt.
Zhyte cursed and threw the mic back at his vox-officer. The handset hit Gerrishon in the face and he fell down suddenly.
“Get up, you pile of crap! Gerrishon! On your feet!”
Zhyte paused abruptly. There was a widening pool of blood spreading out across the floor under Gerrishon’s head. The vox-man’s face was tranquil, as if he was sleeping. But there was a blackened hole in his forehead.
“God-Emperor!” Zhyte howled and turned. A las-round hit him in the shoulder and slammed him to the floor.
Everything, every last damn bloody thing, was exploding around him. He could hear screams and weapons fire. Laser shots spluttered along the w
alls, shattering ancient holo-plate portraits out of their frames.
Zhyte crawled round. He saw three of his advance guard topple as they ran. Mists of blood sprayed out of them. One was hit so hard his left leg burst and came spinning off.
His men were firing. Some were screaming. All were yelling. A grenade went off.
Zhyte got up and ran back down the hallway, firing his weapon behind him. He ducked behind a pillar and looked back to see Blood Pact troopers spilling into the hall from all sides. They were bayoneting the Urdeshi men in cover, and firing wild but effective bursts at those trying to retreat.
“Regroup! Regroup!” Zhyte yelled into his micro-bead. “Hatch 342! Now!” Three four two. There was a gun nest there. Support fire.
He turned and fell over a corpse. It was Kadekadenz, his recon man. His carcass had been messily eviscerated by sidelong las-fire, and ropes of steaming entrails spilled out of it like the tentacles of some beached cephalopod.
“Singis! Belthini! Group the men! Group them, forg—”
A blow to the shoulder slammed him over. Zhyte rolled, and saw the iron mask of a Blood Pact trooper grinning at him as he plunged his bayonet down.
The rusty blade stabbed through the flesh of Zhyte’s thigh and made him shriek. He fired twice and blew the Chaos soldier off him, then tore the blade from his leg. Blood was squirting from a major artery.
Zhyte got up, and then fell over, his boots slipping in his own blood. He grasped the Blood Pact soldier’s fallen rifle, the smeared bayonet still attached, and rolled over, firing.
He hit one, then another, then a third, swiping each one off his feet with the satisfying punch of a solid las-hit.
Singis grabbed him and began to half-drag, half-carry him back towards the hatch. There were corpses all around. Down the hall, Zhyte could see nothing but a mob of charging Blood Pact troopers, chanting and howling as they came on, firing, guns at belly height.
He saw his men, littering the marble floor of the hallway. Zofer, on his back, jawless. Vocane, doubled-up and hugging the belly wound that had killed him. Reyuri, his legs in tatters, groping at the air. Gofforallo, just upper body and thighs attached by a smouldering spine. Hedrien, stapled to the wall by a broken bayonet blade through the chest. Jeorjul, without a face or a left foot, his gun still firing in spasming hands. He saw a man he couldn’t recognise because his head had been vapourised. Another that was just pieces of meat and bone wrapped in burning shreds of puzzle-camo.