by Dan Abnett
Dorden was with her. He’d come to read his statement on the examination of the body if that proved relevant. And Kolea was there too. He was sitting right down at the end of the hall on his own. She wasn’t sure why. Caff’s section leader was Major Rawne. She supposed that with Rawne busy running the regiment up to speed, Kolea had been sent in his stead as a serving officer to bear witness to Caff’s good character.
“It’ll be fine,” said Dorden, sitting down next to her. “Really,” he added. “I know.”
“Who’s that man, do you think, doc?” she added after a moment, whispering.
A hunched, elderly civilian sat on the benches opposite them.
He’d arrived a few minutes before with Commissar Hark, who’d set him on the seat and hurried into the court chamber.
“I don’t know,” said Dorden.
The court door opened and Criid and Dorden looked up expectantly. A clerk looked out. “Calling Cornelis Absolom. Cornelis Absolom. Is he present?”
The old man got up and followed the clerk into the court.
“State your name for the record.”
“Cornelis — ahm!—Cornelis Absolom, sir.”
“Occupation?”
“I am retired, sir. These last three years. Before that I worked for seventeen years as a night watchman at the vapour mill gas holders.”
“And how did you get that post Mr. Absolom?”
“They were looking for a man with military training. I served nine years in the Planetary Defence Force, Ninth Phantine Recon, but I was injured during the Ambross Uprising, and left the service.”
“So it’s fair to say you are an observant man, Mr. Absolom? As a night watchman and before that, in the recon corps?”
“My eyes are sound, sir.”
Commissar Hark nodded and walked a few paces down the stage thoughtfully.
“Could you describe to the lord commissar and the court your relationship with the deceased, Mr. Absolom?”
“Ma’am Flyte was my next door neighbour.”
“When was the last time you saw the deceased?”
The old man, who had been given a chair to sit on because of his unsteady legs, cleared his throat.
“On the night of her murder, Commissar Hark.”
“Could you describe that?”
“We had just returned to the habs. The place was a mess, a terrible mess. I wanted to sleep, but I had to sweep out my parlour first. The smell… I was in my backyard and I saw her over the fence. She was going to the outhouse. We exchanged a few words.”
“About what, Mr. Absolom?”
“The mess, sir.”
“And you didn’t see her again?”
“No, sir. Not alive.”
“Can you tell the court what happened later that night Mr. Absolom?”
“It wasn’t much afterwards. I’d filled a sack with rubbish, mostly food that had rotted in my pantry. I went out into the yard to dump it down by the back fence.
“I heard a sound from Ma’am Flyte’s outhouse. A thump. Followed by another.
“I was worried, so I called out.”
“And then?”
“A man came out of the outhouse. He saw me at the fence, and ran off down the back lane.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“He was wearing what I know now to be the uniform of the Tanith First sir. I had seen them earlier that night. They escorted us back to our homes.”
“Did you see the man’s face?”
Absolom nodded.
“Please voice your answer for the vox-recorder, Mr. Absolom,” Del Mar prompted softly.
“I’m sorry, lord. Yes, I did. I did see him. Not clearly, but well enough to know him.”
“Mr. Absolom, was it the accused, Trooper Caffran?”
The old man shuffled round to take a look at Caffran.
“No sir. The man was a little taller, leaner. And older.”
Hark looked back at Commissar Del Mar. “No further questions, lord.”
Fultingo got up at once. “Mr. Absolom. Why did you not come forward with this information earlier? You raised the alarm and alerted the authorities about the death. You were questioned, by me and my assistant, and claimed not to have seen any suspect.”
Absolom looked down the stage to the commissar. “May I be honest, lord?”
“This court expects no less, sir,” said Del Mar.
“I was scared. We’d been through weeks of hell at the hands of those heathens. Ma’am Flyte didn’t deserve what happened to her, no sir, but I didn’t want to get involved. The tough questions of the commissars, the searches… and I didn’t want to risk the man coming back.”
“To silence you?”
“Yes, lord. I was terribly afraid. Then I heard a man had been arrested and I thought, that’s an end to it.”
Del Mar had been scribbling a few notes. He put the holo-quill back in its power-well. “Your answers have a ring of truth to them, Mr. Absolom. Except for one thing. Why did you come forward now?”
“Because Commissar Hark came to see me. He said he thought they might have the wrong man. When he showed me this lad’s picture, I knew he was right. You hadn’t caught the killer at all. I came forward today so that justice would not let this young man down. And because I was afraid again. Afraid that the real killer was still at large.”
“Thank you, Mr. Absolom,” Del Mar said. “Thank you for your time and effort. You are excused.”
“Lord, I—” Fultingo began.
Del Mar held up a hand. “No, Fultingo. In the name of the God-Emperor of Terra, whose grace and majesty is everlasting, and by the power invested in me by the Imperial Commissariate, I hereby declare this case concluded and the accused cleared of all charges.”
From the court doorway, Gaunt watched Criid hugging Caffran, and Dorden shaking the young man’s hand. He turned to Daur and Beltayn.
“Thanks for your efforts, both of you. Beltayn, take Caffran back to the billet and see he has a good meal and a tot of sacra. Give him and Criid twelve-hour liberty passes too. He’ll want to see his kids.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ban, escort Mr. Absolom back to his home and repeat my thanks.”
“I’d like that duty, Ibram,” Hark said. “I promised the old man a bottle of beer and the chance to tell me his war stories.”
“Very well.” Gaunt faced Hark. “You pulled it off.”
“I did what was asked of me, Ibram.”
“I won’t forget this. Caffran owes his life to you.”
Hark saluted and made his way over to the old man.
“The clerk tells me Cuu’s trial has been set for tomorrow morning, sir,” said Daur. “They want that cleared away too. Shall I prepare the defence notes?”
“I won’t be defending.”
Daur frowned. “Sir?”
“Cuu’s guilty. His crimes nearly cost us Caffran. The Commissariate can deal with him. I’ll have Hark cover the formalities.”
“I see,” said Daur stiffly.
Gaunt caught his arm as he began to move away. “You have a problem, captain?”
“No, sir. Cuu’s probably guilty, as you say. I just thought—”
“Ban, I regard you as a friend, and I also expect all my officers to be open with me on all matters. What’s on your mind?”
Daur shrugged. “You just seem to be dismissing Cuu. Leaving him to his fate.”
“Cuu’s a killer.”
“Most likely.”
“He’ll get justice. The justice he deserves. Just like Caffran did.”
“Yeah,” said Daur. “I guess he will.”
Down at the end of the hallway, Kolea watched the people spilling out of the court. He saw Caffran embracing Criid and the smiles on the faces of Daur and Gaunt.
He sighed deeply and went back to the billet.
Gaunt pushed open the hatch to sub-hangar 117 and went inside. The cargo servitor escorting him followed, carrying the munition crate. The servitor wore the painted insignia o
f the Munitorium on its torso casing.
It was cold inside the hangar, and for a moment, Gaunt thought he had come to the wrong place. There were a few equipment packs and lasrifles heaped up along one wall, but no sign of anybody.
Then he looked up.
Twenty human figures were floating and bobbing up in the rafters of the hangar.
One saw him, turned and swooped down. As he approached, Gaunt heard the rising whine of a compressor fan. The man executed a decent turn and landed neatly on his feet, taking a few scurrying steps forward to slow himself. Gaunt recognised him as Lieutenant Kersherin.
Keeping his left hand on the jump-pack’s control arm, the Skyborne specialist threw a neat salute.
“Colonel-commissar!”
“Stand easy, lieutenant. You seem to be making progress.”
“At a variable rate. But yes, I’d say so, sir.”
“I’d like to talk to them. If they’re not too busy.”
Kersherin said a few words into his micro-bead and the floating figures began to descend. The three other Phantines made perfect, experienced landings. The Ghosts mostly made hesitant groundfalls, though Vadim, Nessa and Bonin reached the ground like experts. Varl and Adare thumped down hard and clumsily and made Gaunt wince.
They helped each other off with their jump packs, and the Skyborne trainers went round to double-check all the circuits had been shut down properly.
“Gather in,” said Gaunt. He slid a chart out of his pocket and began to unfold it. They grouped around in a half-moon.
“First of all, I thought you’d like to know that Caffran was cleared of all charges this morning.”
There were appreciative claps and cheers from the Ghosts.
“Next thing. More important to you. The time’s come to tell you a little more about Operation Larisel. You’ve worked out by now that it’s going to involve a grav-drop. And I’m sure you’ve guessed the target.”
Gaunt opened out the chart and laid it on the floor.
“Ouranberg, the primary target here on Phantine. A city five times larger than Cirenholm. Well defended. Strongly garrisoned. Not an easy target, but that’s why they give us shiny medals.”
The Ghosts peered in to get a look at the chart of Ouranberg’s sprawling, multi-domed plan.
“You’ll get copies of this soon, and the chance to get decent familiarisation on a holo-simulation. For now, this is the target. Or rather, where the target can be found. Operation Larisel, as the name doubtless suggests to the Tanith amongst you, is a hunting mission. A grav drop, a stealth insertion and then a hunt.”
“What for?” asked Varl.
“In about a week, the taskforce will begin its assault on Ouranberg. The strength of resistance will depend on the morale and spirit of the Blood Pact and their allied units. At the moment, that’s very high. Unbreakably high, perhaps.
“The rumours you may have heard are true. The enemy forces at Ouranberg are personally commanded by the Chaos General Sagittar Slaith, one of Warlord Urlock Gaur’s most trusted lieutenants. His foul charismatic brand of leadership inspires almost invincible devotion and loyalty from his troops. If we move against a dug-in force under his command, the cost will be high, punishing. Even if the assault is successful, it will be a bloodbath. But if Slaith is removed from the equation, we face a much more vulnerable foe.” Gaunt paused. “The purpose of Operation Larisel is to locate Slaith and eliminate him in advance of the invasion. To decapitate the enemy forces and break their spirit right at the start of the main military advance.”
No one said anything. Gaunt looked at their faces, but they were all taking this in and their expressions gave nothing away.
“Briefings on how to locate and identify Slaith will follow in the next day or so. We have a lot of data that we think will be invaluable to you. Operation Larisel will take the form of four teams — I believe you’re already divided up - that will deploy to different insertion points in the city. Four mission teams, coming in from four different angles. Four times the chance of success.”
Gaunt turned to the crate that the waiting servitor was carrying and popped open the lid. “One last thing for now, something to factor in to your training. It’s been confirmed, I’m sorry to say, that loxatl mercenaries are active under Slaith’s command at Ouranberg. Tac reports and battlefield intelligence have shown that these alien scum are particularly resistant to las-fire.”
Gaunt lifted a bulky weapon from the crate. It was an autorifle, almost a small cannon, with a heavy gauge barrel and a folding skeleton stock. He slapped a fat drum magazine into the slot behind the gnurled metal of the foregrip.
“This is a U90 assault cannon. Old, but powerful. Fires .45 calibre solid rounds at semi and full auto. Kicks like a bastard. The drum-pattern clip holds forty rounds. I’ve borrowed these four from the Urdeshi. They’re manufactured on their home world. Not a terribly good weapon and prone to fouling, but with plenty of stopping power and the best trade-off of power against weight we could manage. Each team should assign one member to carry one in place of his or her standard las. The drums marked with a yellow cross carry standard shells.” He took another out of the crate and held it up. “The ones with the red cross are drummed with explosive AP shells. We think these old solid-slug chuckers, firing armour piercing, will be your best chance against the loxad. Designated troopers should get practice with them as soon as possible.”
Gaunt put the weapon and the spare drum back in the crate.
“I’ll be back to continue briefing tomorrow. We’ll deal with DZ specifics then, and begin a survey of the target landscape. Until then… keep up the good work.”
“Oh feth,” Larkin said, “this keeps getting better and better.”
For three days, supply barges from Hessenville had been arriving to dock in the hangars along Cirenholm’s skirts. Those that arrived under escort on the morning of the 221st were accompanied by the drogue Skyro, carrying two Urdeshi and one Krassian regiment to bolster the invasion forces.
Many of the barges had been lugging aerial ordnance and parts to strengthen the taskforce’s air wing, along with some eighteen Marauders and twenty-seven Lightnings. Since the afternoon of the 215th, the strike wings had been flying sorties north of Cirenholm to wrest air superiority from the Ouranberg squadrons, and now long-range night raids had begun on the city itself. Admiral Ornoff’s intention was to soften the city’s defences and neutralise as much of the enemy’s air power as possible prior to the main assault, “O-Day” as it was called.
The effect of the bombing raids was difficult to judge. In three nights of missions over three hundred thousand tonnes of explosives were dropped on Ouranberg at a cost of four Marauders.
The fighter sorties were somewhat easier to evaluate. Unless scrambled to meet a detected raid, which were few and far between, the Lightnings went up in four-ship patrols, hunting enemy traffic as directed by Sky Command Cirenholm’s modar, astrotachographic and long range auspex arrays. Twenty-nine enemy planes of varying types were claimed as kills during the first five days, for a loss of two Lightnings. On the afternoon of the 220th, four wings of Phantine Lightnings were rushed up to intercept a mass raid by fifty enemy dive bombers and escort fighters. Eight more Lightnings and six Marauders were fast-tracked up to join them as the battle commenced. The northern perimeter guns of Cirenholm blistered the cloud cover with flak.
The engagement lasted forty-eight minutes and was punishingly hard-fought. The enemy was utterly routed before they could land a single item of munitions on Cirenholm. They lost a confirmed tally of thirty-three planes. The Phantine lost six, including the decorated ace Erwell Costary. Flight Lieutenant Larice Asch personally shot down four enemy aircraft, raising her career score to make her one of the few female Phantine aces, and Pilot Officer Febos Nicarde succeeded in notching up seven kills. Ornoff awarded him the Silver Aquila. It took hours for the twisted contrails and exhaust plumes created by the vast air battle to dissipate.
Inside the
Cirenholm hangars, Munitorium workers, Imperial Guardsmen and volunteer citizens alike toiled in shifts to unload, process and store the vast influx of material. Some of the Hessenville barges also brought food and medicae supplies for the wounded population.
Mid-afternoon on the 221st, just about the time Caffran was being discharged, five platoons of Ghosts under the supervision of the Munitorium were off-loading crates from a barge’s cargo hold and wheeling them on trolleys through to a sub-hangar.
Rawne had put his adjutant Feygor in charge, partly to ensure that the Ghosts got the pick of the inventory for their support weapons and rocket launchers. The air was a racket of clattering carts, raised voices, whirring hoists and rattling machine tools. The Ghosts were stripped to their vests, sweating hard to heft the laden trolleys up through the arch of the sub-hangar and then riding them back down the ramp empty with whoops and laughs. The sub-hangar was beginning to look like a mad warlord’s pipe dream. Across the wide floor, rows of ammo crates and munition pods alternated with rows of carefully lined-up rockets. Along one wall, rack-carts with thick, meaty tyres carried fresh-painted bombs and missiles destined for underwing mounting. Some of the men had not been able to resist the temptation of chalking their names on the warheads, or writing such taunts as “One from the Ghosts” or “Goodbye fethhead” or “If you can read this, scream”. Others had drawn on fanged mouths, turning the missiles into snarling predators. Others, touchingly, had dedicated the bombs as gifts to the enemy from fallen comrades.
“Running out of floor space,” Brostin told Feygor, mopping the perspiration from his brow.
Feygor nodded. “Don’t break your rhythm. I’ll see to it.” He went in search of a Munitorium official, who agreed to open up the next sub-hangar along.
Feygor took Brostin with him to open up the sliding metal partition into the next sub-space. They passed Troopers Polio and Derin wheeling a cart of grenade boxes out into the back corridor.
“Where the feth are you going with that?” Feygor asked.
“The hall,” Polio replied as if it was a daft question. “We’re getting too full in here…”
Feygor looked out into the gloomy access hall behind the hangar. Already, work crews had lined up nine carts of munitions along one wall.