[Gaunt's Ghosts 09] - His Last Command

by Dan Abnett

  “Really? Was he a commissar?”

  “Yes, sir. Serving with General Curell’s staff at Balopolis. As far as I know, he was slain in a gas attack during the first few days of the battle.”

  “What was his name?”

  “The same as mine, sir. Nahum Ludd. Commissar Nahum Ludd. I’m Junior Commissar Ludd in so many ways.”

  Gaunt nodded. “I didn’t know him. I was up at the Oligarchy during Balhaut. I know Balopolis was a bad show. The worst. I knew Curell, though. A little.”

  “The Oligarchy,” Ludd said. “That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? You were with Slaydo?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Holy Throne. Is that where you—”

  “What, Ludd?”

  “The scar on your belly, sir…”

  Gaunt shook his head. “I won that a long time before Balhaut. In honour of my father. We have something in common then, I suppose. Following in our fathers’ footsteps.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Careful where they lead, Ludd,” Gaunt said.

  He walked back into the outer room where Eszrah was still cleaning his antique weapon. They exchanged a few words Ludd didn’t understand. Gaunt pulled his fresh, new stormcoat out of its plastek wrap and put it on. It had been bundled up so long it still had fold creases in it as it hung from his shoulders. The room was filled with the pervasive smell of new leather.

  Gaunt crossed to the main table and started to work through the dataslates and dossiers. He called up a plan of the third compartment and studied it for a while.

  “The Instrument of Order?” Ludd asked, picking the book up.

  Gaunt glanced over. “I thought I should refresh myself. I’m a rogue, Ludd. I’ve been in the wilderness for a long time. I thought it was as well that I reminded myself of the actual rules.”

  “And?”

  “They’re a nonsense. Starchy, high-minded, tediously prim. I find it hard to remember now how I ever managed to discharge my duties as a commissar without breaking down in tears of frustration.”

  “You’re a commissar again, now, sir,” Ludd said.

  “Yes I am. And not that rare beast a colonel-commissar. I’ll miss command, Ludd. Miss it dearly. Tell you what, you’d better slide that volume into your coat. I’ll need you to remind me what the feth I’m supposed to be about.”

  “Sir?”

  Gaunt laughed and shook his head. “A trooper is afraid for his life, as is quite natural in war. He breaks the line. What am I supposed to do?”

  Ludd hesitated.

  “Well, here’s a clue, Junior Commissar Ludd. It’s not speak to him, calm his fears, improve his morale and get him back in line. Oh no, sir. The correct answer, according to that vile text, is to execute him in front of his peers as an example.” Gaunt sighed. “How did we ever build this Imperium? Death and fear. They’re not building blocks.”

  “This is another example of your off-beat humour, isn’t it, sir?”

  Gaunt looked at him. “If it makes you sleep better at night, I’ll say yes.”

  Gaunt put down the dataslate. “I want to see the Ghosts.”

  “Sir?”

  “The Ghosts. They’re about to be reassigned too, right?”

  “Yes sir. In a day or so.”

  Gaunt nodded. “They’re going to be sent to join this new company?”

  “The lord general thought that made the best sense, sir. Provided the company commander agreed.”

  “I see. What’s his name?”

  Ludd thought for a moment. “Colonel Lucien Wilder, sir.”

  “Feth me,” Gaunt said. “How truth seeps into dreams.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind, Ludd. I want to see the Ghosts. Before I go—”

  “Is that wise, sir? Surely a clean break—”

  “Too much history, Ludd. Too much blood under the bridge. I have to see them, one last time.”

  “Barrack E Nine, sir. Awaiting dispersal.”

  Gaunt walked to the door. “Thanks. I’ll be back before noon. Make yourself useful and pack up my kit for me.”

  Ludd paused. “Me?”

  “I wasn’t talking to Eszrah,” Gaunt said as he opened the cabin door. “He has many fine qualities, but packing a Guard field kit as per regulations isn’t one of them. I meant you, Ludd.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s a place for Eszrah on the transport, right?”

  “He’s coming with us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll make sure of it, sir.”

  Gaunt walked away down the hallway, under the harsh bars of the lumin strips. He knew what was coming and he hated it. He’d never imagined, never at all, that he’d have to do what he was about to do…

  Say goodbye.

  He passed various fresh-faced young officers as he strode along. Most pretended not to look at him, but he could feel their eyes as he went by.

  Scared. Wary. Unsettled.

  Damn right. They should be scared.

  Right then, Ibram Gaunt felt like the most dangerous fething bastard in the whole Imperium.

  The Ghosts rose as he came in, but Gaunt waved them back down. They looked strange in their clean, black fatigues, like newly-founded draughtees. Only their faces betrayed their experience. All of them except Criid had shaved scalps. On various bare forearms, Gaunt noticed medicae skin-plasts, little adhesive patches that were releasing drugs into their systems to clean them of parasites and lice.

  Gaunt sat down on one of the bunks, and they formed a casual huddle around him.

  “I’ve been routed, and I’ll be leaving this morning,” Gaunt began. “So I probably won’t see any of you again for a while.”

  There was little comment. Rawne just nodded his head gently. Beltayn stared at the deck.

  “Well, don’t go all mushy on me,” Gaunt said. Varl and Brostin laughed. Bonin murmured something.

  “Mach?” Gaunt said.

  Bonin shrugged. “Nothing. I just said… it’s not how you expect.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Feygor.

  “He’s talking about the end,” Mkoll said, his voice low.

  Bonin nodded. “You never think about it,” he said.

  “Except for the times you do,” Larkin whispered.

  “Yes, except then,” Bonin agreed. “And then all you can imagine is… oh, I don’t know. A glorious last stand, maybe. Or a triumphal parade and a Guard pension. One or the other.”

  “Dead or done,” Varl said, raising his eyebrows mockingly. “Some choice.”

  “Mach’s right,” said Larkin. That is all you ever imagine. The two extremes. Not this.”

  “Not this,” Bonin echoed.

  “It all just seems so…” Beltayn began. “So… mundane.”

  “This is the real world, Bel,” Rawne said. The life of the Guard, hey ho. Forget the glory songs. Slog and disappointment, that’s our lot.”

  “Well,” said Gaunt. “Now I’ve raised morale to a fever-pitch…”

  More of them laughed, but it was generally hollow.

  “You know where you’re going?” Gaunt asked Rawne.

  “We’re waiting for despatch,” Rawne said, getting to his feet. He crossed over to his field pack and started rummaging inside it. “But we know roughly. And we know what we are.”

  He pulled a waxed paper pouch out of his kit and tossed it to Gaunt. It was heavy and it clinked. There was a Munitorum code-stamp on the wrapper. Gaunt shook the contents out into his palm. Shiny silver pin badges marked with the emblem 81/1(r).

  “I don’t know much about them,” Gaunt said, studying one of the pins. “But the Munitorum will have tried to make sure that any mix of leftovers like this makes field sense. And Van Voytz gave the mix his personal approval.”

  Someone snorted disparagingly.

  “All right, I know he’s not your favourite person. But I think he’s still on our side, even now. I’ve been given to understand your new commander
is a decent sort.” Gaunt looked over at Criid. “His name’s Wilder.”

  Half-hidden behind her mane of hair, Tona Criid’s eyes widened for a second.

  “Yes, I wondered if you’d remember that, Tona.”

  “What?” asked Varl.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Gaunt slid the badges back into the pouch and handed it back to Rawne. He got up. “I’m not going to make goodbyes, because that’s a sure way to jinx us ever meeting again. And I’m not going to make any grand speech. This isn’t the place, and it’s not really in me anyway. And I don’t want you thinking you’ve got to go out there and make me proud. You don’t owe me anything. Not a thing. Do it for the Throne, and do it for yourselves.”

  He walked to the barrack room door. He wasn’t even going to look back, but at the threshold, something made him turn one last time. Silently, the Ghosts had risen to their feet. They hadn’t formed a rank, or any kind of formal row, but they were all facing him, standing stiffly to attention.

  Gaunt saluted them, and then walked away.

  TEN

  09.03 hrs, 193.776.M41

  Fifth Compartment

  Sparshad Mons, Ancreon Sextus

  Twice in half an hour, they had pushed the enemy back from the top of the hill. Support weapons and well-disciplined rifle drill had done most of that work, but in places it had been brutal. Callide reported casualties from a face-to-face scrap where Blood Pact troops had come up along a blind defile and flanked his second section.

  Wilder sensed they’d reached the tipping point in this particular scrap. Was the enemy going to break, or was it going to force a third attempt at the slopes?

  It was hard to tell. Daylight had come, heavy and white, but the visibility was cut drastically by the waves of smoke running off the hill crest. Reports said his own line was still in position, but where the enemy stood was a matter of guesswork.

  Wilder was finding it difficult to see anyway, because of the blood in his eyes. He’d been halfway along the escarpment when a nearby Hauberkan Chimera had taken a rocket. The vehicle had gone up like a demolition mine, and Wilder had been flung forward by the blast, gashing his forehead against the bole of a dead, splintered tree.

  Now he had to keep blinking away the drops, dabbing his head. He could taste the salt in his mouth.

  He reached the position commanded by one of the Tanith company officers, a Captain Domor, and his own Captain Kolosim. Throne, he had to stop thinking like that. They were both his own now.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Domor asked as Wilder scrambled up. Domor was a solid, four-square man with a reliable air about him. His eyes had been repaired at some point in his career by heavy augmetic implants. The Tanith had a nickname for him, but Wilder couldn’t remember it.

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “What have we got?”

  “They’ve pulled back to the stream down there,” replied Kolosim, a burly redhead. “Lot of cover sweeping that way. Lot of rocks. We’ve got a line of sight overlap with Sergeant Buckren’s troop, but neither of us can determine what they’re doing.”

  “I’ve pushed two units down the flank,” Domor said. “Raglon’s and Theiss’. In case they suddenly stab that way, across the ditch.”

  Far away to their left, the meaty chatter of an auto-cannon throbbed the air.

  “Think they’re coming back for another go, sir?” Kolosim asked.

  “How stupid do they look, Ferdy?” Wilder grinned.

  “Stupid enough we could be here all day,” replied Kolosim.

  “What about those tankers, sir?” said Sergeant Bannard, Ferd Kolosim’s adjutant. “Coward-bastards!”

  “We’ve all got our own words for the tank-boys, Bannard,” Wilder said, “and I’ll be having most of them with that leper-brain suck-pig Gadovin the moment I find him.” Wilder held up his hand suddenly. “What was that?”

  A low note, a machine noise, had just reached them.

  “That’s armour,” one of the Belladon troopers said with some confidence. Some of the men crawled forward to try and spot enemy vehicles in the smoke.

  “It’s behind us,” said Kolosim.

  “No, that’s just the echo roll. Backwash,” Bannard said.

  Captain Domor had turned, and was gazing up into the smoke bank pluming off the hill behind them. “Kolosim’s right,” he said.

  “What?” Wilder said.

  “Oh feth!” Domor said suddenly, and grabbed the voice-horn from his vox-officer. “Inbound, inbound, report your position!”

  Static.

  “Inbound, I say again! Report your position! If you are on approach, be advised we have troops in the grid!”

  More static. A pause, then: “Inbound at two minutes. We are hot for strike on grid target.”

  To Wilder’s eyes, the smoke was just smoke, but Domor’s augmetics, enhanced beyond human vision, had picked up the heat trails chopping in at low level. He glanced at Wilder.

  “Order retreat. Right now!” Wilder said. Domor started yelling into the vox. “Up and back! Now!” Wilder yelled. “Double time it! Get off this hill!”

  Grabbing kit and weapons, the men started to scramble back down the slope, running between the burning shells of Hauberkan machines. All along the saddle of the hill, the troops of the Eighty-First First began a frantic pull-back towards the trackway.

  About a minute later, with the men still running, the gunships slammed out of the smoke. The roar of their turbojets preceded them like the bow-wave of a ship. Twenty-five Vulture attack ships, boom-tailed, jut-jawed and painted in cream and tan dapple, burned in through the smoke-bank at tree-top altitude. Their vague shadows slid over Wilder’s men in the hazed sunlight. He heard the hiss-whoosh as their underwing rocket pods began to fire. Spears of vapour shot out ahead of the thundering Vultures and the top of the hill disappeared in a necklace of fireballs that quivered the ground.

  Wilder saw men on the slopes knocked down by the shockwave. “They’re coming in short!” he yelled at the nearest vox-man. “Tell them they’re coming in short!” The man started shouting into his link.

  A second wave drummed over, rippling the hanging smoke with their powerful backwash. Another salvo of fragmentation rockets squealed out over the hill. Another riot of fire and hurled soil chewed up the landscape.

  “I’ve got strike control,” the vox-officer reported. “I think I’ve persuaded them to redirect beyond the hill.”

  A third wave came in, or maybe it was the first on its reprise, Wilder couldn’t tell. The third rocket strike went in behind the hill, detonating down the far slope. The thick black smoke from the first strike eddied in wild patterns as the Vultures travelled through it.

  Wilder clapped the vox-man on the shoulder. “Nice piece of fast-talk, my friend. What’s your name?”

  The man looked at him in surprise. “Esteven, sir. It’s Esteven.”

  It was. Esteven, Belladon born and raised, vox-man in Baskevyl’s troop. Wilder had become so overcautious about correctly identifying his new mix, he failed to recognise a man he’d known for years. Esteven’s face was smeared with soot, but it was no excuse.

  “Of course it is,” Wilder said. “I was just testing,” he added, trying to joke it off. Esteven just laughed, and scooped up his vox-caster to head for the nearest ditch. It was indeed a laughing matter, but Wilder hadn’t felt much like laughing all day.

  “Hey, Esteven!” Wilder called. “Did strike control explain the grid error to you?”

  Esteven nodded. “They said it wasn’t an error. They were locked on the plot the Hauberkan had given them.”

  They got the signal to retire about half an hour later, and moved back down the trackway road to post 36, four kilometres back down the compartment. It was mid-morning by the time the Eighty-First First began to reassemble.

  Post 36 was one of the field HQs set up at the friendly end of the fifth compartment. It lay close to the west wall and within sight of the gargantuan gateway leading back into the
fourth compartment. The post covered about two square kilometres, most of which was taken up with supply dumps and field tents. Some of the post facilities, including the field hospital, had been set up in the crumbling house the Imperials had found as they pushed into the fifth. The house was a single storey stone structure, as old and ragged as the Mons walls themselves. Ruins like it could be found throughout the explored compartments of the step-city, some just wall-plans proud of the dirt, others still upright and flaking. No two were alike, and no purpose for them had yet been decided. There was some talk that they were the remains of primitive domiciles, that the compartments had once been filled with populated cities. Others said the houses were shanty relics built by local tribes who had come to scrape a living and dwell inside the walls long after the Mons itself had become a ruin. A third theory ran that the compartments had always been open areas of contained wilderness, constructed with some mystical purpose, and the houses were the temples and shrines left behind by the original builders of the Mons.

  Wilder didn’t much care. The place made a decent enough foothold camp from which the exploration and clearance of the compartment could be run.

  Several regiments of infantry were gathered at post 36. On the high road up to the great gate, others could be seen moving in. An armour column. Supply vehicles. Valkyrie drop-ships were swinging down onto a wide table-rock of basalt, west of the post, dropping off wounded from the field. Some of those bodies on the stretchers were Wilder’s men. Once they’d dropped, the Valkyries either lifted off and headed back out into the compartment for a second run, or flew on south, through the massive arch of the gate, heading to their landing fields at the fourth compartment forward posts.

  Wilder walked off the roadway track and up the dusty slope into the post. Sunlight was burning off the grasses and the islands of scrub behind him, and the far wall of the compartment rose like a desert cliff. He looked up as a flight of cream and tan Vultures went over, heading home.

  There was a bunch of armoured vehicles parked by the roadside, most of them black-drab numbers from a regiment Wilder didn’t recognise. But amongst them were at least five Hauberkan treads, and other Hauberkan units were grumbling up the winding track out of the valley floor.