[Gaunt's Ghosts 05] - The Guns of Tanith

by Dan Abnett

  “Caffran’s innocent, sir, I sw—”

  This man… Caffran is it? He’s a dog soldier. A common trooper. The case against him is las-proof.

  “You have more important things to be devoting your time to.”

  “With respect, lord, I haven’t. I stand where I stand today because of the common dog soldiers. I would not be me without their efforts. And so I make sure I look after every last one of them.”

  Van Voytz frowned. “Well, shame on me—”

  “Sir, I didn’t mean—”

  Van Voytz waved his hand. “I’m hardly offended, Gaunt. Actually, it’s refreshing to hear an officer remember the basics of good command. The Imperial Guard is nothing without the Imperial Guardsmen. No one should get so high and mighty they forget that. Your personal code of honour is unusually robust. I just hope…”

  “Sir?”

  Van Voytz rose and started to put his jacket back on. “I was going to say I hope it doesn’t get you killed. But, you know, it assuredly will. Eventually, I mean. That’s the curse of a code of honour as resolute as yours, colonel-commissar. Stick by it, and you’ll end up dying for it.”

  Gaunt shrugged. “I always supposed that was the point, sir.”

  “Well said,” Van Voytz replied, fiddling with the buttons of his hogging. “Your dual role is a problem, though. Say the word and I’ll transfer you out of the Commissariate. You’ll be Brigadier Gaunt… no, let’s not mess around, shall we? You’ll be Lieutenant-General Gaunt, sectioned to me, Guard and Guard alone. A full Imperial Guard officer with commissars at your beck and call.”

  Gaunt was mildly stunned.

  “The uniform would suit you, Gaunt. Lieutenant-General, Tanith First-and-Only. No more fussing over discipline matters. No more wasting command time.”

  Gaunt sat down. “I’m flattered, sir. But no. I’m happy where I am.”

  Van Voytz shrugged. He didn’t seem put out. “If you say so. But don’t dwell on this man Caffran, please. I won’t have it. Now… let me tell you my ideas about Ouranberg…”

  For all Dorden’s efforts with the powder, the lice had taken hold. While fumigation crews filled the billets with noxious chemical clouds, the Ghosts reported en masse to a grand municipal bathhouse in primary. Kit was stripped off for steam-cleaning, and the troops, shivering in their shorts and vests, lined up in the cold stone atrium to have their heads shaved. The buzz of three dozen clippers filled the air above the chatter. Servitors shunted back and forth, sweeping up the hair for incineration.

  Once shaved, the troops were sent through into the steaming shower blocks armed with cakes of tar-soap, their boots slung by the laces around their necks. On the far side of the shower blocks were halls lined with rush mats where stiffly-old but clean towels were stacked. Munitorium aides stood by at trestle tables piled with clean reserve kit that stank of yet more powder.

  Gaunt and Daur walked into the drying halls and there was a general fuss and shuffling as naked or half-dressed troops tried to come to attention.

  “As you were,” Gaunt called out, and they relaxed back to their ablutions. Gaunt nodded to Daur and the captain consulted a data-slate.

  “Listen up,” Daur called out. “If you hear your name, get dressed and assemble at the exit. I’ll only call this once…”

  Still toweling off their newly bald heads, the troops paid attention.

  “Mkvenner! Doyl! Bonin! Larkin! Rilke! Nessa! Banda! Meryn! Milo! Varl! Cocoer! Kuren! Adare! Vadim! Nour! That’s it! Fast as you like!”

  Larkin was tugging a clean black vest over his bony torso and scowled at Bragg as he heard his name called. “Oh, what now?” he grumbled. Larkin looked mean and cadaverous with his hair cropped.

  “What have you done, Larks?” Bragg chuckled.

  “Fething nothing!” snapped Larkin, struggling to pull on starch-stiff fatigue pants. Buckling his belt, he shuffled over to join the others in unlaced boots.

  “That’s everyone,” said Daur to Gaunt and the colonel-commissar nodded. Painfully aware of the shaven heads around him, Gaunt pointed to his own hair. “Don’t worry, it’s my turn next,” he said. “Lice have no respect for rank.” The Ghosts smiled. They all looked like raw recruits again, their scalps unhealthy white. Gaunt felt especially sorry for the women.

  “Very well,” he said. “Imperial Command has assigned an operation to us. Details later, for now it’s enough for you to know the lord general conceived it himself and considers it a critical mission. Its successful execution has priority over all other Imperial operations at this point.”

  A few eyes widened. Larkin made a soft, disheartened moan. Banda elbowed him.

  “I’ve personally selected you all for this operation, for reasons that will become obvious to each of you. The operational name is Larisel. You will not speak about it in general or specific terms to anyone, even other Ghosts outside this group. I want you all assembled at sub-hangar 117 by 18.30 with full kit gear and personal effects. I mean everything, prepped for transport. You won’t be going back to the billet.”

  “Is that because this is a… one-way mission?” asked Varl euphemistically.

  “I won’t lie, sergeant. Larisel will be ultra-high risk. But the reason you won’t be going back to the regimental billet is that I’m moving you all to secondary billet for speciality training and mission-specific instruction. Okay?”

  There were mumbles and nods.

  “Any questions? No? Okay, good. I have supreme confidence in you all: your abilities and your characters. I’ll say it again before you get underway, but good fortune to you all. The Emperor protects.”

  Gaunt glanced round at Daur. “Anything you want to add at this stage, captain?”

  “Just one thing, sir.” Daur stepped to the front, reaching one hand into the patch pocket of his black tunic jacket. “Regarding Trooper Caffran. As you know, we’ve been doing the rounds, asking questions, collecting data. I fully expect some valuable information to come out that way. Word of mouth, trooper to trooper. But from here in, you’re going to be effectively separated from the regimental main force, so there’s going to be much less opportunity to keep you in the loop as far as the ongoing investigation is concerned. Therefore, for now… I want to inspect everyone’s warknife. I want to hear from any of you who has noticed notching or damage to the warknives of any other trooper. And has anyone seen one of these before?”

  He took a small waxed envelope from his pocket, opened it and held up a gold coin.

  “Imperial crown, local issue… purposely defaced on both head and reverse. Does anyone have one like it? Does anyone know anything about its origin? Does anyone know of another trooper who has one? If you’re uncomfortable about speaking out now, see me, or the colonel-commissar, or Commissar Hark, in confidence. That’s all.”

  “Dismissed,” Gaunt said.

  The group broke up, muttering to one another. Daur and Gaunt turned together and walked off down the outer hall.

  “I’ve got hopes about the coin,” confided Daur. “We already know from a dozen Ghosts, including Obel and Kolea, that there were more of the same in the business premises of the adjacent mill sector. But all of them swear they left the coins well alone because of the markings.”

  “We’ll see. If anyone did get greedy, he’ll not want to admit it. They know how strict I am about looting. Did you check Caffran’s blade?”

  Daur sighed. “It’s notched. He said it happened during the firefight in the park at 505, but we’ve only got his word. Del Mar’s staff will be all over that like a bad rash if it gets out.”

  “Then don’t let it out,” said Gaunt. “They’ve got all the rope they need as it is. Don’t give them any more.”

  “What do we do?” Larkin whispered anxiously to Bragg as he finished lacing up his boots. Bragg leaned beside him, pulling on his vest.

  “We tell Gaunt,” Bragg answered simply.

  “We can’t!”

  “Why not?” Bragg asked.

  “B
ecause we don’t betray our own. I’ve never been a rat in my life, and I don’t intend to start now.”

  “I don’t think that’s the reason, Larks,” Bragg said. He smiled. “We’d rat if it got Caffran off. No, I think you’re scared of him.”

  “I am not!”

  “I think you are. I know I am.”

  Larkin’s eyes widened. “You’re scared of Cuu?”

  “All right, not scared exactly. But wary. He’s a mean piece of work.”

  Larkin sighed. “I’m scared of him. He’s a maniac. If we report him, and he gets off later, he’ll come for us. He’ll fething come for us. It’s not worth it.”

  “It’s worth it to Caff.”

  “I’m not crossing Cuu. Not for anything. There’s something about him. Something sick. He could go to the firing squad and then come back and haunt me.”

  Bragg laughed.

  “You think I’m joking.”

  Bragg shook his head. “Cuu’s a fething maniac, Larks. If anyone in this mob is capable of that killing, it’s him. If he’s guilty, we don’t have to worry about it. If he’s innocent, well, then he gets off. And honestly, what would he do then? Kill us? Get off a murder charge and then commit a double murder?”

  “I’m not doing it,” Larkin hissed firmly. Bragg fingered the new, pink skin healing on the gash in his shoulder. “Then I might,” he said. “He’s no friend of mine.”

  The billet hall was fairly quiet except for the occasional cough or sneeze. The sunk of the recent fumigation still clung to the air.

  Milo expertly stowed the last of his kit in his backpack, lashed it shut and then secured the tightly rolled tubes of his bed-roll and camo-cloak to it.

  Vadim, already packed and ready to go, wandered over to him. “You ever been picked for special ops before, Milo?”

  “Some. Not quite like this.” Milo pulled on his tunic, checking the contents of the pockets, and then strapped on his webbing. “Sounds… high profile,” he added, hooking his gloves to his webbing before rolling his beret and tucking it through the epaulette of his tunic. He hoisted up his backpack, shook the weight onto his shoulders and then did up the harness.

  “Sounds suicidal to me,” Vadim muttered darkly. He rubbed his sandpaper scalp. The lack of hair had altered the proportion of his head and made his strong nose seem almost beak-like. He looked like a dejected crow.

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” Milo said, cinching the sling of his lasrifle before shouldering it. He inspected his makeshift cot one last time to make sure he hadn’t left anything. “I tend not to worry until I know I’ve got something to worry about.”

  Fully prepped and weighed down with kit, Nour and Kuren moved across the billet to join them. They shook hands and exchanged banter with other Ghosts as they crossed the hall. None of them had explained where they were going and no one had asked, but it was clear they were shipping out for some special duty and that prompted numerous farewells and wishes of luck.

  Kuren had put on his drop-issue balaclava, rolled up into a tight woollen hat. “Fething lice,” he grumbled, “my fething head’s cold.”

  “Set?” Milo asked the three of them. They nodded. It was just after 18.00 and time to leave.

  Milo looked across to Larkin’s cot. The master sniper was finishing up his almost obsessive prep on his gun, packing up the cleaning kit and sliding the long foul-weather cover over the weapon. “Larks? You ready?”

  “Be right there, Milo.”

  Bragg sat down on the cot next door. “You… you have a good time now, Larks.”

  “Oh, funny.”

  “Just… come back again, okay?”

  Larkin noticed the look in Bragg’s eyes.

  “Oh, I fething well intend to, believe me.”

  Bragg grinned and held out a big paw. “First and Only.”

  Larkin nodded and slapped Bragg’s palm. “See you later.”

  He walked over to the others. Trooper Cuu, who had been lying on his back gazing at the roof, sat up suddenly and grinned at Larkin as he went by.

  “What?” asked Larkin, stopping sharply.

  Still grinning, Cuu shook his head. “Nothing, Tanith. Not a thing, sure as sure.”

  “Come on, Larkin!” Nour called.

  Larkin scowled at Cuu and pushed past him.

  “Trooper Cuu!”

  The sudden shout made the five troopers stop and turn. Hark had entered the billet with Sergeant Burone and two other Ghosts. All three troopers carried weapons. They marched down the aisle towards Cuu’s bunk.

  “What’s this?” Vadim whispered. There was a general murmur of interest all around.

  “Oh feth,” Larkin mumbled.

  Cuu got up, staring at the approaching detail, confused. “Kit inspection,” Hark told him. “But I—”

  “Stand aside, trooper. Burone, search his pack and bed-roll.”

  “What is this?” Cuu blurted.

  “Stand to attention, trooper!” Hark snarled and Cuu obeyed. His eyes flicked back and forth as he stood there rigidly. “Pat him down,” Hark told one of the men with him.

  “This is out of order,” Cuu stammered.

  “Silence, Cuu. Give me his knife.” The trooper frisking Cuu unbuckled Cuu’s warknife from his sheath and passed it to the commissar. Hark inspected the blade.

  “Nothing, sir,” Burone reported. Cuu’s entire kit was spread out across his cot, wherever possible taken apart. Burone was checking the lining of Cuu’s backpack and musette bag.

  “The blade’s clean,” Hark said, as if disappointed.

  “He had it ground and sharpened the other day.”

  Hark glanced round. Kolea stood prominently in the group of Ghosts who had gathered to watch. “I saw him, sir,” Kolea said. “You can check with the knife grinder.”

  Hark looked back at Cuu. “True?”

  “So fething what? It’s a crime to keep your blade sharp these days?”

  “That insolence is pissing me off, trooper—”

  “Sir…” the trooper frisking Cuu called. He yanked up the top of Cuu’s left pant leg. A tight cloth bag was taped to his shin above the top of the boot.

  Hark bent down and pulled the tape off. Coins, heavy and gold, spilled out into his hand.

  Turning the coins over, Hark rose again. He looked at Cuu.

  “Anything to say?”

  “They were just… no.”

  “Take him in,” Hark told his detail.

  Burone’s men grabbed Cuu. He began to struggle.

  “This is unfair! This is not right! Get off me!”

  “Behave! Now! Or things will get even messier!” Hark warned him.

  Cuu stopped thrashing and the men frog-marched him forward. Hark and Burone fell in behind. As they swept past Milo’s group, Cuu’s cat-eyes found Larkin. “You? Was it you, you gak?” Larkin shuddered and looked away.

  Then Cuu was being taken past Bragg. Bragg was smiling.

  “You? You gak! You filthy gak! Big dumbo’s set me up! He’s set me up!”

  “Shut up!” Hark roared and they swept him out of the hall. Bragg looked across at Larkin and shrugged. Larkin shook his head unhappily. “Well that was interesting,” Vadim said. “Yeah,” said Milo. He checked his watch. “Let’s go.”

  Sub-hangar 117 was low down on the west skirts of Cirenholm secondary, close to one of the dome’s main recirculator plants. There was background throb in the air, and a constant vibration. Extractor vents moved warm, linty air down the access corridor and across the entrance apron.

  By the time Varl arrived with Cocoer, it was almost 18.30 and most of the others were already there. Banda and Nessa stood talking to the Tanith sniper Rilke, and Corporal Meryn and Sergeant Adare sat on their kit-packs with their backs to the wall, smoking lho-sticks and chatting. Doyl, Mkvenner and Bonin, the three scouts, lounged over near the other wall in a huddle, conversing privately about something. Secret scout lore no doubt Varl thought.

  “Boys,” he nodded to them and they retur
ned his greeting.

  “Hey, Rilke, girls,” he said approaching the snipers. He threw a brief wave over at Adare and Meryn.

  “We’re a few short, aren’t we?” said Cocoer, setting down his pack.

  “Not for long,” Rilke said. Milo, Larkin and the others were approaching along the rust-streaked tunnel.

  “Well, what do we think, eh?” asked Varl. “Think Gaunt has arranged a nice day out and a picnic for us?”

  Banda snorted. Nessa, who had been deafened on Verghast, had to lip-read and so smiled gently a heartbeat after Banda’s derisive noise.

  “Let’s see… three scouts, four snipers, and eight dog standards like me and Cocoer,” Varl said, looking around. “What does that sound like to you?”

  “It sounds like an infiltrate and sanction detail,” said a voice from behind him. Mkoll strode purposefully up onto the apron, his field boots ringing on the metal plating. “And it’s four scouts, actually. I’m in this too.” Like all of them, Mkoll wore full matt-black fatigues and high-laced boots, and heavy-pouched webbing, with a full field kit and weapons on his back. The sleeves of his tunic were neatly rolled up past the elbows. He did a quick head count and then consulted his wristwatch. “Everyone here and it’s bang on 18.30. We got the first part right then.”

  They followed him through the hatch into the hangar. It was cold and dim in the echoey interior, and they could see little except for the area just inside the hatch which was illuminated by a bank of overhead spots. Four men were waiting for them in the patch of light.

  They were all big, powerful young men wearing cream-coloured quilted jackets and baggy, pale canvas pants bloused into the tops of high jump-boots. The sides of their heads were brutally shaved, leaving just a strip on their crowns. Not as a result of lice treatment, Varl thought. These men kept their hair that way. They were Phantine troopers. Skyborne specialists.

  Mkoll greeted them and the four Phantines snapped back smart salutes.

  “Major Fazalur sends his compliments, sir,” said one with a silver bar on his sleeve under the Phantine regimental patch. “He asked us to wait for you here.”