A chill passed through the room, a draught from somewhere. Someone had come in, pushing the door open quietly.
“Have you got that fething lamp?” Rawne asked, looking up.
“One last fight,” said Colm Corbec, smiling sadly down at him.
Rawne got up so fast his chair fell over backwards with a bang.
He blinked fast. There was no one there. Rawne turned around sharply, shaking, then around again. The room was empty.
“Feth!” he hissed. “What the feth…”
“Did you knock your chair over, sir?” asked Rerval mildly, walking into the room with a fresh lamp-pack in his hand.
Rawne strode right past him to the door, and glared up and down the hallway outside.
“Sir?”
“Was that someone’s idea of a joke?” Rawne snarled.
“Was what, sir?” Rerval asked, confused.
“That! The… the…” Rawne stopped talking. None of the men could have pulled that stunt. Only his mind could have played a trick like that. He was tired. That was it, just fatigue.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Rerval.
Rawne walked back to the desk and righted his chair. “Yes. Yes… just a little jumpy.”
Rerval held the lamp-pack out to Rawne. Rawne took it.
“Thanks.”
Rerval nodded. “Beltayn says your link should be set up in the next half an hour.”
“lust give me a nod when it’s ready. I’ll take it here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rerval walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Rawne sat down and turned his attention back to the folio, clicking the lamp-pack on.
As he turned the pages, he kept one eye on the door.
III
That night, although the weather had not turned, the house felt especially airless after dark. The air was dry and still, and the shadows seemed to be layered, as if they had piled up on top of one another like sheets of fine black lace.
Hark hobbled along a lower hallway, leaning heavily on his stick. His back hurt. He knew he’d been pushing himself too hard, and the pain was beginning to erode the sense of well being that Curth’s drugs had briefly provided. His burns were not healing. They were still wet and raw, and moving made them worse.
He reached a short flight of steps and lowered himself carefully down onto them. Just sit for a minute, he thought, just a minute or two.
His skin was pale and clammy and sweat streaked his forehead. He breathed heavily. He heard the footsteps of an approaching patrol. Hark had no wish for any of the men to see him so ill-taken.
He drew his sidearm. The cell of his plasma pistol had been running low, so he’d taken a back-up from his holdall—a handsome, almost delicate bolt pistol of brushed steel with a saw-grip handle and engraved slide plates. He made a show of unloading and reloading it.
When the patrol came past, they nodded to him and he nodded back. Just Commissar Hark, taking five to prep his weapon.
He waited until they had gone. It seemed to take a long time, because apparently phantom footsteps rolled up and down the brown satin floor for several minutes after the men had disappeared.
“Is there anyone there?” Hark called out.
The footsteps stopped.
Hark shook his head. Since they’d taken up occupation of Hinzerhaus, he’d heard so many reports of ownerless footsteps.
“Throne take this place,” he muttered.
He put the pistol away, noticing how his real hand was shaking, not from fear. It was the pain doing that, the pain slowly gnawing away at his strength.
He got up and climbed the stairs like an old man. The scout billet was a little way along the next gallery.
Livara was standing by the doorway when Hark approached. He nodded to the commissar. Hark went inside. Most of the scouts present—Hwlan, Leyr, Caober and Mklane—were resting. Preed was playing a solo card game on an upturned box.
Bonin was sitting in the corner, cleaning dust out of his lasrifle with a vizzy-cloth. He saw Hark, put his weapon and cleaning kit down, and got up.
The skin of Bonin’s face was raw, like sunburn. They’d had a scout out on watch at the end of the gulley since the discovery of the new gate, and Bonin had personally taken three of the shifts. The dust had scoured him relentlessly.
“You wanted to see me?” Hark asked as Bonin came over. Bonin nodded.
“On what matter?”
Bonin jerked his head and they went out into the corridor, away from the others. They walked along until they were out of earshot.
“Are you a man of honour?” Bonin asked. “I’ve always assumed you were.”
“I’d like to think so,” said Hark.
“I need to report something. I need to report it to you as a man of honour, not as a commissar.”
“The two things are not separate,” said Hark.
Bonin sniffed. “Do you understand what I’m saying? What I’m going to tell you, I won’t have you jumping on it like a commissar.”
“I’ll have to make that judgement,” Hark replied.
Bonin thought for a moment. Then he said, “I hear you’ve been looking for Mkoll.”
“You hear correctly.”
As if it gave him great discomfort, Bonin reached his right hand into his grubby jacket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it and stared at it for a moment.
“I found this tucked into my bedroll this evening. Dunno how long it’s been there. A day, maybe two.”
He handed the slip to Hark.
It was handwritten, a brief note. It said:
Mach—
There is something that must be done, a matter of honour for the regiment. It is the sword, I mean. It must be got back.
I have gone to get it. I know I have no orders to do so, but I have a moral duty. In conscience, I could not disappear without any word. I ask you to tell them where I’ve gone and what I plan to do. I hope they will understand the purpose of my actions.
The Emperor protect you.
Your friend,
Oan.
Hark read it twice. “How long have you really had this, Bonin?” he asked.
Bonin didn’t answer.
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“It says there.”
“I mean how and which direction?”
Bonin shrugged. “There was rope gear and pegs missing from the store. North, I’d guess.”
“Why north, do you think?” asked Hark.
Again, Bonin didn’t answer.
“He’s gone after the sword,” said Hark, “and the sword didn’t leave by itself.”
“It doesn’t say who took it,” said Bonin.
“It doesn’t,” Hark agreed, “but Mkoll’s not the only one missing.”
Bonin looked sharply at the commissar. There was a long silence.
“What will you do?” Bonin asked.
Hark folded the paper up and put it in his coat pocket. “I’ll have to decide. This is troubling. By his own admission, Mkoll has abandoned his post and his duty. He’s left the regiment’s side without orders or permission. That’s called desertion.”
“Feth you!” Bonin growled. “I asked you if you were a man of honour! I didn’t have to tell you this!”
“Oh, you really did.”
Bonin stared at Hark. “Not his duty.”
“What?”
“You said he’d abandoned his duty. He hasn’t.”
Hark sighed. “I know full well that there was no one more loyal to Gaunt than Mkoll, but we can’t afford to be sentimental. Gaunt’s dead, his sword’s gone, and we really, really needed Mkoll here, not away on some idealistic quest.”
Bonin shook his head sadly. “You don’t know the old man like I do. Since we arrived here, he’s been off his game. Told me that himself. Hated the fact that he felt sloppy and ineffective. When… when Gaunt died, he took it personally. A personal failure. He doesn’t believe he’s any use to us here, not
any more. A liability, more like. This is his way of making amends.”
“I will consider this carefully and decide what action needs to be taken,” said Hark. “Without wishing to sound pessimistic, it may be rather academic. If Mkoll’s gone north, alone, we’ll probably never see him again. If that’s the case, I won’t tarnish his memory by going public with this. But I have to tell Rawne. I imagine he’ll want you to take command of the scouts. He’ll probably send for you before the night’s out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hark looked up at something.
“What?” asked Bonin.
“I thought I heard…” Hark began. “No, my mistake.” He looked back at Bonin. “As you were,” he said, and limped away.
IV
A choke-hold was the last thing he expected.
Weary of the stifling air in the shuttered overlook, Larkin left Banda on watch and stepped out into the connecting hallway. It was no better out there. The air was cold, but still, unmoving, even though the wind crooned outside. Shadows clung to the walls, and the baleful white lights glowed and faded in a slow rhythm.
Larkin paced up and down, rubbing his hands. He took a sip of water from his flask, and was about to put it away again when an arm locked around his throat.
“You’re dead, Tanith,” said a voice in his ear.
Larkin struggled but the grip did not slacken. He tried to speak. Who…?
“You know who I am, Tanith,” the voice whispered. “Sure as sure.” Something cold and sharp pressed against Larkin’s throat.
“We got Gaunt, so we did. Now I get to settle things with you.”
Larkin snarled and rammed backwards against the hallway wall, crushing the figure on his back against the brown satin panels.
Larkin landed on the ground.
“What the gak are you doing, Tanith?” Banda demanded, appearing at the door of the overlook. Larkin looked around. He was alone. On the floor beside him, his unstoppered water flask slowly glugged out its contents.
“Musta slipped,” he said.
Sure as sure.
Banda shook her head and went back to her post. Larkin struggled back up onto his feet.
A strong hand helped him up.
“I can’t watch you all the time,” said Bragg.
Larkin turned. Bragg was just there, large as life. There was a great sadness in his genial eyes. He reached over and brushed dust off Larkin’s shoulders and sleeves with his huge, gentle hands.
“I can’t watch you all the time,” he repeated. “You have to be careful, you know? Be careful, Larks, or the fether will get you.”
“Bragg,” Larkin whispered. He stretched out his hand, but there was nothing to touch. Bragg had gone, like a bubble bursting, like dust settling to nothing as a bad rock storm blew out.
Larkin bent over, his fists against his forehead.
“No, no, no, NO!”
He couldn’t feel the headache or the nausea yet, but he knew they were coming.
It was the only explanation, the only explanation Larkin could tolerate, anyway.
V
“Do I have to stay here?” Criid asked, toying with the bandage on the side of her head.
“You asked that the other day,” replied Dorden, unwrapping the blood pressure strap from her bared arm, “and look what happened when I let you walk around.”
Criid shrugged and sat back on her cot. The field station was quiet. Far too many Ghosts lay silent and broken in the bunks on either side of her.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
“It’s concussion,” said Dorden.
“And?”
“Just concussion. But it’s bad, and if you move around, you’re going to feel ill and pass out. So you stay there, please, until I say otherwise.”
“Really? That’s all?”
Dorden sat down on the edge of her bed. “I won’t lie to you, Tona. If we were in a proper medicae facility, with decent equipment, I’d run a deep scan to assess for oedema, meningial bleeds and pieces of skull pushing into your brain, just to be safe. But we’re not, so I can’t. And I am confident in my diagnosis: concussion. You still have pain?”
“It comes and goes.”
“Now?”
She nodded.
“I’ll get you something,” he said.
Dorden walked down the length of the field station and crossed the hall into the side room where they had secured the drugs and dressing packs. It was gloomy, and poorly lit. He took out the lamp-pack he’d taken to carrying on his belt and clicked it on. It came on, then faded, as if the battery was drained. He clicked it on and off.
“Lesp!” he called.
He started to rummage in one of the dispensary cartons, looking for high dose tranq/anti-inflammatories.
He could hear something dripping.
“Lesp! Get in here! Bring a light!”
The orderly appeared in the doorway with a shining lamp.
“Doctor?”
“Get some light on me, I can’t see a thing.”
Lesp shone his lamp down obediently.
“What’s that sound?” he asked after a moment. He turned the beam away.
“Feth’s sake, Lesp! I can’t see!”
“Doctor?” Lesp murmured. “Look.”
Dorden looked up. Lesp’s lamp beam was illuminating the back wall of the little room. The wall was streaming with blood. It glistened black in the hard light.
“What in the name of—” Dorden stammered. “Who did this? What fething idiot thought it would be funny to waste precious blood supplies?”
“It’s coming out of the wall,” said Lesp.
“That’s ridiculous! It’s—”
Dorden stared. The blood was quite clearly oozing out between the brown satin panels.
“Get me a pry-bar,” said Dorden.
“What?”
“A pry-bar! A pry-bar!”
“What’s going on in here?” Zweil snorted, entering the room behind him. “You’re waking the patients. Is that good medical practice? I don’t believe so—”
“Get out, Zweil!”
“I will not!”
“Father, get out of this room now!”
“What are you staring at?” Zweil asked, pushing past them.
“The blood!” Lesp blurted. “The blood on the wall!”
“What blood?” the old ayatani asked, touching the wall. “It’s just dust.”
Dorden snatched the lamp from Lesp’s quivering hand and stepped closer. He could see it clearly. It wasn’t blood running down the wall, it was dust, fine trickles of dust seeping out around the panels.
“Throne take me for an old fool,” Dorden muttered. He looked around at Lesp and punched him on the arm. “And you for a young one.”
“It looked like blood,” said Lesp, ruefully.
It really had.
“Get me a ten mil dose of axotynide and shut up,” Dorden replied.
He walked back into the field station, aware that his pulse was still racing.
Criid’s cot was empty.
“Where is she?” he asked, looking around. “She was just here. Where is she?”
In a nearby cot, Twenzet shrugged. “She just got up and went out. I told her not to. She said—”
“What did she say, trooper?”
“I dunno,” Twenzet replied.
“What did she say?” Dorden snarled.
Twenzet’s eyes widened. “I… I think she said something like ‘He’s calling me’. I thought she meant her boy.”
Dorden didn’t believe that for a moment. He hurried back into the hallway. “Tona!” he shouted. “Tona!”
VI
Ludd started to hurry the moment he heard the angry voices up ahead. Then there was a rattling crack of gunfire and he broke into a run.
He burst into the billet hall, into the middle of a riot. On all sides, troopers were shouting, backing away, waving their hands. Wes Maggs stood with his lasrifle in his hands in the ce
ntre of the room. He was shaking, his eyes wide, his teeth clenched. Scorched holes in the wall panels ahead of him showed where his shots had gone in.
“Give me the gun, Wes,” Varl was saying calmly, moving round to face Maggs, his hands extended.
“She was right there! Right there! You all saw her, didn’t you?”
“Give me the fething weapon, Wes!” Varl ordered.
“She was right there!” Maggs yelled. “Right in fething front of me! I must have hit her!”
“That’s enough,” said Ludd. No one paid him the slightest attention.
“I said, that’s enough!” Ludd bellowed.
“Give me the gun!” Varl repeated, facing Maggs down.
“Stand back, sergeant,” said Ludd, trying to interpose himself between them.
“Get out of the way,” Varl warned him.
“That’s not how this is going to work,” Ludd replied.
“She was right there!” Maggs insisted, his voice strangled with tension.
Varl lunged at Maggs.
“No!” Ludd cried.
Varl got his hands around Maggs’ weapon and they grappled. Varl’s augmetic strength forced the barrel up. A flurry of rounds fired off into the ceiling.
Nahum Ludd was neither especially large nor especially strong, but the Commissariate had trained him well in methods of self-defence and disarmament. Training took over.
He leapt forward, scoop-kicking Varl’s legs out from under him. Simultaneously, he took hold of Maggs’ weapon in his left hand, and chopped Maggs in the throat with the side of his right. Varl crashed down on his back to Ludd’s left, and Maggs went over, gasping, to his right. Ludd was left standing between them, Maggs’ lasrifle in his hand. He swung it around deftly and aimed it at Maggs.
“Stay the feth down!” he instructed.
“I didn’t do any—”
“Stay down! Varl, don’t even think of continuing this.”
“Hey,” said Varl, getting up, his hands raised. “I was just trying to help.” He looked at Ludd, impressed. “That was pretty fancy stuff, Ludd.”
“Commissar Ludd.”
Varl nodded, grinning. “Fancy fething stuff, eh?” He looked around.
The Ghosts around them began to cheer and clap.
[Gaunt's Ghosts 11] - Only in Death Page 24