“Fine. Why don’t you introduce yourselves?” Mkoll suggested.
“Lieutenant Goseph Kersherin, 81st Phantine Skyborne,” the large trooper replied. He indicated his men in turn. “Corporal Innis Unterrio, Private first class Arye Babbist, Private first class Lex Cardinale.”
“Okay. I’m Mkoll. Tanith First. You boys’ll get the hang of the others soon enough.” Mkoll swung round and faced the waiting Ghosts. “Drop your packs for now and loosen off. Let’s get you into groups. Four teams. Sergeant Varl, you’re heading first team. Sergeant Adare, third team. Second team is yours, Corporal Meryn. Fourth team is mine. Now the rest of you… Doyl, Nessa, Milo, you’re with Adare. Mkvenner, Larkin, Kuren… Meryn. Varl gets Banda, Vadim and Bonin. Which leaves Rilke, Cocoer and Nour for me. Let’s group up so we get used to it. Come on. Good. Now, as you will have spotted, each team contains a leader, a trooper, a sniper and a scout. The bare minimum for light movement, stealth and insertion. None of us will enjoy the back-up of a support weapons section or a flamer on this. Sorry.”
There were a few groans, the loudest from Larkin.
“So,” said Mkoll with what seemed like relish. “Let’s get onto the fun bit. Lieutenant?”
Kersherin nodded and walked over to a dangling control box that hung down from the roof on a long, rubber-sleeved cable. He thumbed several switches. There were a series of loud bangs as the overhead light rigs came on one after another, quickly illuminating the entire, vast space of the hangar with cold, unfriendly light.
On the far side, rising some thirty-five metres above a floor layered with foam cushion mats, stood a large scaffolding tower strung with riser cables and pulleys.
“You see?” said Larkin to the Ghosts around him. “Now I do not like the look of that.”
FOUR
The execution yard was an unprepossessing acre of broken cement, walled in on three sides by high curtains of pockmarked rockcrete, and by the Chamber of Justice on the fourth.
The Chamber of Justice, Cirenholm’s central law court and arbites headquarters, had suffered badly during the Blood Pact occupation. The uppermost floors of the tall, Gothic revival building were burnt out, and the west end had been heavily shelled. Most of the office and file rooms were ransacked. An immense chrome aquila, which had once hung suspended on the facade over the heavy portico, had been shot away by determined stubber fire, and lay crumpled and flightless on the main steps. On one side of the entry court sat a chilling heap of dented arbites riot helmets, a trophy mound raised by the Blood Pact after their defeat of the lightly armed justice officers who had staunchly held out to the last to defend this sector of the city.
Despite all that, the prison block below ground was still functioning and it was the only true high security wing that Cirenholm could offer, and so the taskforce Commissariate had been forced to occupy the Chamber as best it could.
From a window at the rear of the first floor, Gaunt looked down onto the execution yard. The six-man firing squad, hooded and dressed in plain grey fatigues that lacked patches, insignia or pins, took absolution from the waiting Ecclesiarch official with routine gestures, and then lined up and took aim.
There was no fuss or ceremony. The hawkish commissar in charge, a black silk doth draped over his balding pate, raised a sabre and gave the command in a tired voice.
The prisoner hadn’t even been blindfolded or tied up. He just cowered against the back wall with nowhere to run.
Six las-shots, in a simultaneous flurry, spat across the yard and the prisoner toppled, rolling back to slide clumsily down the wall. The presiding commissar yelled out something else, and was already sheathing his sabre and taking off his black doth as the squad filed off and servitors rolled a cart out to collect the body.
Gaunt let the scorched brocade curtain fall back against the broken window and turned away. Daur and Hark, who had been watching from the neighbouring window, exchanged a few words and went to look for something to sit on. Half-broken furniture was piled up along one wall of the battered stateroom.
The tall, ten-panelled door opened and Commissar Del Mar strode in. He was a lean man of advanced years, white-haired and reliant on augmetic limb reinforcements, but he was still striking and imposing. A good hand-span taller than Gaunt, he wore black dress uniform with a purple sash and a long cloak lined with red satin. His cap and gloves were arctic white.
“Gentlemen,” he said immediately, “sorry to keep you waiting. Today is full of punishment details and each one requires my authority and seal. You’re Gaunt.”
“Sir,” Gaunt saluted and then accepted Del Mar’s handshake. He could feel the rigid armature of Del Mar’s artificial hand through the glove.
“We’ve met I believe?” said Del Mar.
“On Khulen, the best part of a decade ago. I was with the Hyrkans then. Had the pleasure of hearing you address the Council of Commissars.”
“Yes, yes,” Del Mar replied. “And also on Canemara, after the liberation. Very briefly, at the state dinner with the incoming governors.”
“I’m impressed you remember that sir. It was… fleeting.”
“Oktar, God-Emperor rest his soul, had nothing but praise for you, Gaunt. I’ve kept my eye out. And your achievements in this campaign have brought you recognition, let’s face it.”
“You’re very kind, sir. May I introduce my political officer, Viktor Hark, and Captain Ban Daur, acting third officer of my regiment.”
“Hark I know, welcome. Good to know you, captain. Now, shall we? We’ve a busy morning of what might be described as testimonial sifting to get through. Tactician Biota is here along with a whole herd of staff officers, and Inquisitor Gabel is ready to present his working party’s findings.”
“One extra matter I’d like to deal with before we get down to business,” said Gaunt. “The case of Trooper Caffran.”
“Ah, that. Gaunt, I’m surprised that—” Del Mar stopped. He glanced round at Hark and Daur. “Gendemen, perhaps you’d give us a moment? Fultingo?”
Commissar Fultingo appeared in the doorway. “Show the commissar and the captain here to the session hall, if you would.”
Commissar Del Mar waited until they were alone. “Now then, this Trooper Caffran business. I’ll be blunt it’s beneath you, Gaunt. I know I’m not the first person on the senior staff to caution you about this. Commissar or not, you’re an acting field commander, and you should not be occupying your time or thoughts with this. It is a minor matter, and should be left to the summary judgement of your commissar.”
“I have Hark’s support. I’m not going to back down. Caffran is a valuable soldier and he’s innocent. I want him back in my regiment.”
“Do you know how many individuals I’ve had shot since we arrived, Gaunt?”
“A half-dozen. That would be the average for a taskforce this size.”
“Thirty-four. True, twenty of those were enemy prisoners who we were done with interrogating. But I’ve been forced to put to death seven deserters, four rapists and three murderers. Most of them Urdeshi, but a few Phantine too. I expect that kind of statistic. We command killers, Gaunt — violent, dangerous men who have been trained to kill. Some snap and desert, some attempt to slake their violent appetites on the civilian population, and some just snap. Let me tell you about the murderers. One, a Phantine private, wounded, went berserk and killed two orderlies and a nurse in the tertiary hospital. With a gurney. I can’t begin to imagine how you kill someone with a gurney, but I guess it took a great deal of rage. The second, an Urdeshi flame-trooper, decided to ignite a public dining house in secondary and toasted four members of Cirenholm’s citizenry who had every right to believe the danger was now past. The other, another Urdeshi, shot a fellow trooper during an argument over a bed-roll. My justice was swift and certain, as the honourable tradition of the Commissariate dictates and Imperial law demands. Summary execution. I’m not a callous man, Gaunt.”
“I didn’t presume you were, commissar. Neither am I. As a swo
rn agent of the Commissariate, I do not hesitate to dispense justice as it is needed.”
Del Mar nodded. “And you do a fine job, clearly. The Tanith First have a nearly spotless record. Now one of them steps out of line, one bad apple. It happens. You deal with it and move on. You forget about it and put it down as a lesson to the rest of the men. You don’t tie up my office with demands for grace periods and the constant deliberate interference of Commissar Hark.”
“Hark plagued you on my instruction, sir. And I’m glad he did. Caffran is innocent. We managed to buy enough time to identify the real killer.”
Del Mar sighed. “Did you now?”
“He was arrested last night, sir. Trooper Cuu, another of my regiment. A Verghastite.”
“I see.”
“Those Tanith that are alive today, sir, are alive because I plucked them from their home world before it died. I consider them a precious resource. I will not give up any of them unless I know for sure it’s right. This isn’t right. Caffran’s blameless. Cuu’s the killer.”
“So… what are you asking me, Gaunt?”
“Release Caffran.”
“On your word?”
“On my recognisance. Try Cuu for the crime. The evidence against him is far more damning.”
Del Mar gazed out of the window. “Well, now… it’s not that simple anymore, Gaunt,” he said. “It’s not that simple because you’ve made an issue of this. One crime, one suspect, that’s routine. One crime, two suspects… that’s an inquiry. A formal one. You’ve forced this, Gaunt. You must have realised.”
“I had hoped we might skip the formalities. Proceed to Cuu’s court-martial and have done.”
“Well, we can’t. We now have to depose this Caffran first and clear him and then try the other one. And given the impending attack on Ouranberg, I don’t think you can afford the time.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Gaunt said, “for victory at Ouranberg… and for my men.”
Gaunt escorted Commissar Del Mar to the session hall where Inquisitor Gabel’s briefing was set to begin. Gabel had been interrogating the captured Blood Pact since the first day of occupation and was now ready to present his findings so that the Taskforce’s senior officers and the strategic advisors could deliberate how the data might impact the plans for the assault on Ouranberg.
The session hall was a badly ventilated room packed with bodies, smoke and bad odours, but it was the only room in the Chamber of Justice large enough to contain the officers and support a large grade tactical holo-display.
Gesturing through the press of bodies, Gaunt brought Hark over to him.
“You’re excused this. I’ll stay and record the findings.”
“Why?” Hark asked.
“Because Del Mar’s not going for it. He’s insisting we clear Caff formally before they commit Cuu. I need you out there, working up the case on my behalf.”
“Ibram—”
“Dammit, Viktor, I can’t not be here now. They keep telling me I should depend on my staff. Feth, you keep telling me. So go do it and do it well. I want to expend no more than a morning on Caffran’s deposition. I can’t afford any more. Van Voytz’s been talking about going on Ouranberg in less than a week. Make a watertight case for Caff so we can get it done with quickly and I can turn my full attention to the invasion.”
“What about Cuu?”
“Cuu can go to hell, and I wash my hands. Caffran’s my only concern. Now get along and do it.”
Hark paused. There was a strange expression on his face that Gaunt had never seen before. It was strangely sympathetic yet baffled.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Hark. “They’re starting. I’ll go. Trust me, Ibram.”
“I do, Viktor.”
“No, I mean trust me to do this. Don’t change your mind later.”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Okay, then.” Hark saluted and pushed his way out of the room.
Gaunt shouldered his way over to Daur. “Everything okay, sir?”
“I believe so.”
A hush fell as Inquisitor Gabel, a cadaverous monster in matt-rose powered plate armour, stalked to the centre of the room and activated the tactical desk with his bionic digits. A hololithic display of Ouranberg city flickered into life.
“Soldiers of the Emperor,” Gabel rasped through his vox-enhancer, “this is Ouranberg, the primary vapour mill city on this world, a vital target which we must recapture intact It is held by a minimum of five thousand Blood Pact warriors under the personal command of the brute Slaith. We believe at least three packs of loxad mercenaries support him. Now, here is what we have learned from the interrogated enemy prisoners…”
Varl was falling to his death.
He yowled out in terror, tried to address his fall and snagged so that he ended up dropping side on. Two metres from the ground, the counterweight pulley began to squeal as it rode the cable and bounced him to a halt upside down, with his head mere centimetres from the mat.
Lieutenant Kersherin walked over to him and knelt down in front of him.
“Know what that was, sergeant?”
“Uh… exhilarating?”
“No. Hopeless,” Kersherin rose and gestured to the waiting Unterrio to clear Varl from the harness. Then he looked up at the figures perched on the top of the tower.
“Next one in sixty seconds!”
Thirty-five metres up, Milo stood on the tower’s unnecessarily narrow and flimsy stage, holding on to the rail with one hand. He was next. Banda, Mkvenner and Kuren were waiting on the back of the stage behind him for their turns.
The Phantine trooper with him, Cardinale, beckoned Milo over as the pulleys were reset and the counterweight balanced.
He checked Milo’s harness and tightened one of the straps.
“Don’t look so worried. You’ve done this three times already. Why so unhappy?”
“Because it’s not getting any better. And because I only own three pairs of undershorts and we’re going for a fourth try.”
Cardinale laughed and hooked Milo up to the running line. “Remember, face down, limbs out, even if that mat looks like it’s coming up really fast Then curl in and roll as you land. Come on, show that loudmouth Varl how it’s done.”
Milo nodded and swallowed. Holding on to the riser wires, he set first one foot and then the other at the lip of the stage. What had they called it, back in drop instruction? The plank? That had been bad enough, and those practice towers had only been half the height. This tower was five metres higher than the longest possible rope drop they could have made. Also, this wasn’t roping. This was jumping. Jumping out into space, hands empty. No one, not Mkoll, not Kersherin, had said anything to them yet about what Operation Larisel was specifically about, but they were clearly training for more than a long rope. The wires and cables and pulleys involved in this training were simply there to provide the simulation. Where they were going, it would be rope free.
And that, not the mats thirty-five metres underneath his toes, was the truly alarming prospect.
Babbist, a dot below them, flashed a green bat-board.
“Go!” Cardinale said.
Milo tensed.
“Go! The Emperor protects!”
“I—”
Cardinale helpfully shoved him off the plank.
“Better,” noted Kersherin, watching Milo’s drop from a distance below. Beside him, Mkoll nodded.
“Milo’s picking it up. Some of the others too. Nessa. Bonin. Vadim.”
“That Vadim’s a natural,” Kersherin agreed.
“He has a head for heights. Apparently used to work the top spires of Vervunhive. That’s why Gaunt picked him for this. Meryn and Cocoer aren’t too shabby either. And to my complete surprise, Larkin’s getting it too.”
“Self preservation, I think. Fear is a wonderful concentrator.”
“That much is certain.”
Milo was picking himself up and taking a jokey bow to the scattered app
lause of his comrades. Banda had taken her place up on the plank.
“The weakest?” Mkoll asked.
“Oh, Varl and Adare, by a long way. Doyl is too stiff. Banda tries way too hard and it throws her out. You could do with pulling your knees up.”
Mkoll grinned. “Duly noted. Can we get them ready in time?”
“Tall, tall order. Skyborne training was six months. We’ve got barely as many days. We’ll do what we can. No sense in cutting any out now in the hope of nosing out better candidates. We’d be starting over with them.”
“Here she goes,” Mkoll said, pointing.
They watched as Banda leapt off the tower and whizzed down on the tension of the pulleys. It was cleaner, though she bounced hard on landing.
“That’s a lot better,” Kersherin remarked. “She’ll get there.”
A little later, once Mkvenner and Kuren had also made their fourth drops, Kersherin gathered them round and sat them down on the mats in a semi-circle. Water bottles and ration wraps were passed out. There was a lot of chatting and joking as adrenalin fizzed its way out of them.
“Listen up!” Kersherin said. “Theory time. Private Babbist?”
Babbist came forward to the front of the semi circle, and Unterrio hurried in to deposit a field-kit sized crate in front of him before backing out.
Babbist opened the crate and lifted something out for them all to see. It was a compact but heavy metal backpack with a fearsome harness that included thigh loops, and a hinged arm with a moulded handgrip on the left side. The backpack sprouted two blunt, antler-like horns from the shoulders that ended in fist-sized metal balls. It was painted matt-green.
“What we have here, friends and neighbours,” said Babbist, patting the old, worn unit, “is a classic type five infantry jump pack. Accept no imitations. Formal spec, for those that need it, is Type Five Icarus-Pattern Personal Descent Unit with dual M12 gravity nullers and a variable-vent compressor fan for attitude control. Which, I gather, many of you need.”
There were some laughs, but the Ghosts’ attention was fixed on the device.