The other three made it to the walls and hauled their immense bulks upwards, screeching into adamantium and ceramite as they dug with their wheeled claws. One was stopped by the VPHC Commissar Vokane, who got his troops to roll munitions from the launcher dumps to the Wall head and tip them over onto the rising beast, charges set for short fuse. The spider was blown off the wall and fell backwards, crushing hundreds of Zoican troops under it. It lay on its back and burned. Vokane and fifty-seven of his men didn’t live to cheer. The explosive backwash of the spider’s death engulfed them and burned them to bone scraps.
The second spider made it to Veyveyr Gate and began to claw at the barricades. Its mighty wheels sliced and crushed rail stock apart as it pulled itself in through the gate opening. Heavy artillery and NorthCol armour units met it with a pugnacious blitz of fire as it pushed its head through the gateway and they blew it apart. It settled sideways on its exploded wheels, half-blocking the entrance.
The remaining spider clawed its way over the Curtain Wall west of Hass West Fort. General Grizmund was waiting for it. As it scattered and burned the Wall defenders to left and right, Grizmund’s Narmenian tanks, assembled in the open places of the House Anko chem works, elevated and fired, blasting the vast thing backwards off the Curtain Wall. The force of the salvo took part of the inner wall down too, but it was considered worthwhile. The spider was destroyed.
At Hass West, Gaunt’s men met the tide of Zoicans spilling from the engaged siege engine. In the narrow defiles of the ramparts, it became a match of determined close combat. Gaunt personally killed dozens with his chainsword and cut a flanking formation down towards the tower-top of the engine. Daur was with him, blasting with his borrowed boltgun, and so were a pack of more than sixty Ghosts and Vervun Primary troopers mixed together.
Squads under Varl and Mkoll joined them, and Gaunt was gratified that they seemed to be killing the storm troops as fast as the foes could stream out of the boarding tower.
Gaunt heard a yell through the confusion and looked up to see Commissar Kowle leading fifty or so Vervun Primary troops in an interception along the lower battlements.
Between them, Gaunt realised, they had the enemy pinned.
“I need explosives!” he hissed back to Daur. The captain called up a grenadier with fat pouches of tube mines and antipersonnel bombs.
“All of them!” spat Gaunt. “Into the neck of that thing! Come with me!”
Gaunt advanced through the enemy waves, his chainsword biting blood, armour shards, hair and flesh from them. He cut a space to the tower head and then yelled for the grenadier to follow up. A las-shot tore through the grenadier’s brow and he fell.
Gaunt caught him. “Daur!”
Daur ran forward and helped the commissar. Together, they lifted the corpse, laden with its strings of explosives, and carried it to the open mouth of the tower. Gaunt pulled out a stick charge, set it, pushed it back into the corpse’s webbing and together they flung the dead soldier down through the mouth of the siege tower.
The grenade went off a couple of seconds later. A bare millisecond after that, the rest of his munitions exploded as he fell, touched off by the first bomb.
The tower shuddered and broke, falling headlong into the sea of Zoicans milling at the foot of the Curtain Wall.
Kowle’s forces moved in, killing the last of the Zoicans on the ramparts.
At two in the morning, just into the thirtieth day, the Zoican assault stopped and the Zoicans withdrew into the smouldering shadows of the outhabs. Flat-crabs wallowed backwards into the smoke, escorted by files of Zoican tanks and legions of ochre troops. An Imperial victory hymn was played at full volume from every broadcast speaker in the hive.
Vervunhive had lost 34,000 troops, twenty missile emplacements, fifty gun posts and ten heavy artillery silos. The Curtain Wall was scarred and wounded and, in several places, fractured to the point of weakness.
But the First Storm had been resisted.
EIGHT
HARM’S WAY
“The first trick a political officer of the Commissariat learns is: learn to lie. The second is: trust no one. The third: never get involved with local politics.”
—Commissar-General Delane Oktar,
from his Epistles to the Hyrkans
Processions of Ministorum Priests, the high faithful of the Imperial Cult, moved through the stone vaults of Inner Hab Collective Medical Hall 67/mv. They carried tapers and smoking censers, and chanted litanies of salvation and blessing for the wounded and dying now engulfing the place. Long, frail strips of parchment inscribed with the speeches of the Emperor trailed behind them like sloughs of snakeskin, dangling from the prayer boxes they carried.
Surgeon Ana Curth nodded respectfully to the clerics each time she encountered them in the wards and hallways of the medical facility, but privately she cursed them. They were in the way and they terrified some of the weaker or more critically injured who saw them as soul-catchers come to draw them from this life. Spiritual deliverance was all very well, but there was a physical crisis at hand, one in which any able personnel would help more by tending the bodies rather than the spirits.
The Zoican assault had brought convoys of new casualties to all the inner hive medical halls, places already barely coping with the sick and injured refugees from the first phase of the conflict. Military field hospitals and medical stations were being set up to help, and the medical officers and staff that had arrived with the Imperial Guard forces were proving to be invaluable. Curth and her colleagues were community medics with vast experience in every walk of life — except combat injuries.
It was evening on the thirtieth day and Curth had been on duty for nearly twenty hours. After the nightmare of the storm assault the previous night, the fighting had slowed, with nothing more than random exchanges of shelling from both sides across the litter of Zoican dead outside the Wall.
Or so Curth had heard from passing soldiers and Administratum officials. She’d barely had time to raise her head above the endless work. She paused to scrub her hands in a water bath, partly to clean them but mainly to feel the refreshingly cold liquid on her fingers. She looked up to see groups of dirty Vervun Primary troopers wheeling a dozen or more of their wounded comrades down the hall on brass gurneys. Some of the wounded were whimpering.
“No! No!” she cried out. “The west wards are full! Not that way!”
Several troopers protested.
“Weren’t you briefed on admittance? Show me your paperwork.”
She checked the crumpled, mud — and blood-stained admission bills one trooper handed her.
“No, this is wrong,” she murmured, shaking her head as she read. “They’ve filled out the wrong boxes. You’ll have to go back to the main triage station.”
More protests. She took out her stylus and over-wrote the details of the bills, signing them and scorching her seal-mark on the paper with a brief flash of her signet ring.
“Back,” she told them with authority. “Back that way and they’ll look after you.”
The troopers retreated. Curth turned, now hearing raised voices in Ward 12/g nearby.
Ward 12/g had been filled with refugees from the outhabs, most of them fever-sick or undernourished. Days of careful feeding and anti-fever inoculations had improved things, and she was hoping to be able to discharge many of them back to the refugee camps in the next day or two. That would make some valuable space.
She entered the arch-ceilinged ward: a long, green-washed, stone chamber with seven hundred cots. Some were screened. Other cot spaces were crowded with the families of the patients who had refused to be separated from their kin. There was a warm, cloying smell of living bodies and dirt in the air.
The shouting was coming from a cot-space halfway down the ward. Two of her orderlies, distinct in their red gowns from the grimy patients, were trying to calm an outhab worker as gaggles of other outhabbers looked on. The worker was a large male with no obvious injuries but a wasted, pale comple
xion. He was yelling and making nervous, threatening gestures at the orderlies.
Curth sighed. This wasn’t the first such incident. Like far too many of the impoverished underclass, the worker was an obscura addict, hooked on the sweet opiate as a relief from his miserable shift-life. Obscura was cheaper, hit for hit, than alcohol. He probably used a waterpipe or maybe an inhaler. When the invasion began, the workers had fled in-hive. Now many of them were regretting leaving their opiate stashes behind in their desperation. She’d had ninety or more admitted with what at first seemed like the symptoms of gastric fever. After a few days of support and food, this had turned out to be withdrawal cramps.
Strung out, some addicts demanded medicinal drugs to ease their agonies. Others got through the withdrawal phases. Still others became violent and unreasonable. For a few — the chronic, long-term users — she had been forced to prescribe ameliorating tranquillisers.
Curth stepped between her orderlies and faced the man, her hands raised in a gesture of calm.
“I’m chief surgeon,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”
The worker snarled something inarticulate, foam flecking his chin as his jaw worked. His eyes showed too much white.
“Your name? What’s your name?”
“N-Norand.”
“How long have you been using obscura, Norand?”
Another squeal of not-words. A stammering.
“How long? It’s important.”
“S-since I was a j-journeyman…”
Twenty years at least. A lifelong abuser. There could be no reasoning here. Curth doubted the worker would ever be able to kick the habit that was destroying his brain.
“I’ll get something for you right now that will help you feel better, Norand. You just have to be calm. Can you do that?”
“D-drugs?” he muttered, chewing at his lips.
She nodded. “Can you be calm now?”
The worker quivered his head and sat back on his cot, panting and raking the sheets with his fingers.
Curth turned to her orderlies. “Get me two shots of lomitamol. Move it!” One of the orderlies hurried off. She sent the other away to encourage patients back to their cots.
There was a pause in the background noise of the ward, just for a second. Curth had her back to the worker and realised her oh-so-very-basic mistake. She turned in time to see him leaping at her, lips drawn back from his rotting teeth, a rusty clasp-knife in one hand.
Wondering stupidly how in the name of the Emperor he’d got that weapon into the hall unchecked, she managed to sidestep. The worker half-slammed into her and she went over backwards, overturning a water cart. The bottles smashed on the tiles. The worker, making a high-pitched whining sound, stepped over the mess while trying to keep his balance. He stabbed the knife at her and she cried out, rolling aside and cutting her arm on the broken glass. She scrabbled to rise, expecting to feel him plant the blade in her back at any moment.
Turning, she saw him choking and gagging, held in a firm choke-hold from behind. Dorden, the Tanith medical officer, had his left arm braced around the addict’s neck, his right hand holding the knife-wrist tightly at full length away from them both. The addict gurgled. Dorden was completely tranquil. His hold was an expert move, just a millimetre or two of pressure away from clamping the carotid arteries, just a centimetre away from dislocating the neck. Only a brilliant medic or an Imperial assassin could be that precise.
“Drop it,” Dorden said into the worker’s ear.
“N-n-nggnnh!”
“Drop. It,” the Ghost repeated emphatically.
Dorden dug his thumb into a pressure point at the base of the man’s palm and the addict dropped his knife anyway. The rusty weapon clattered to the floor and Curth kicked it aside.
Dorden increased his chokehold for a fraction of a second, enough for the man to black out, and then dropped him facedown onto an empty cot. Orderlies hurried up.
“Restrain him. Give him the lomitamol, but restrain him all the same.”
He turned to Curth. “This is a war now, you know. You should have guards in here. Things get dangerous during wars, even behind the lines.”
She nodded. She was shaking. “Thank you, Dorden.”
“Glad to help. I was coming to find you. Come on.” He picked up a clutch of data-slates and paper forms he had dropped in order to engage the man, and he led her by the arm down the length of the ward to the exit.
In the cool of the corridor outside, she paused and leaned against the stone wall, taking deep breaths.
“How long have you been working? You need rest,” Dorden said.
“Is that a medical opinion?”
“No, a friend’s.”
She looked up at him. She had still to get the measure of this off-worlder, but she liked him. And he and his Tanith medics had been the backbone of the combat triage station.
“You’ve been up as long as me. I saw you working at midnight last night.”
“I nap.”
“You what?”
“I nap. Useful skill. I’d rate it slightly higher than suturing. I know all the excuses about there being no time for sleep. I’ve used them myself. Hell, I’ve been a doctor for a lot of years. So I learned to nap. Ten minutes here, five there, in any lull. Keeps you fresh.”
She shook her head and smiled.
“Where do you nap?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’ve found there’s a particularly comfortable linen cupboard on the third floor. You should try it. You won’t be disturbed. They never change the beds in this place anyway.”
That made her laugh. “I… thank you for that.”
He shrugged again. “Learn the lessons, Surgeon Curth. Make time to nap. Trust your friends. And never turn your back on an obscura addict with a rusty knife.”
“I’ll remember,” she said over-solemnly.
They walked down the hallway together, passing two crash-teams racing critical cases to the theatre.
“You were coming to find me?”
“Hmm,” he said, reminded, sheafing through the documents he was carrying. “It’s nothing, really. You’ll think it stupid, but I have a thing about details. Another lesson, if you’re in the mood for more. Take care of the details, or they’ll bite you on the bloody arse.”
He stopped, looked at her and coloured. “My apologies. I’ve been in the company of foul-mouthed soldiers for too long.”
“Accepted. Tell me about this detail.”
“I was in Intensive Ward 471/k, reviewing the situation. They are mostly inhab citizens up there, injured in the first raid. We’ve got blast wounds, shrapnel-hits, burn-cases, crush-injuries — a world of bad stuff, actually. They were all in the Commercia district when the bombs fell. Specifically,” he consulted the slates, “Carriage Station C4/a and the eastern barter houses.”
She took the slate from him. “Well?”
“I was checking to see if any could be discharged or at least moved to a non-intensive ward to make room. There are maybe twelve who could be shifted to the common wards.”
“Well?” she repeated. “Was that it? An administrative suggestion?”
“No, no!” he said and leafed to another sheet. “I told you the sort of injuries we were getting up there: mostly from the shelling, a few from panic stampedes. But there were two others, both in comas, critical. I… I was wondering why they had gunshot wounds?”
“What?” She snatched the slates and studied them closely.
“Small calibre, maybe a needle gun. Easy to mistake it for shrapnel wounding.”
“It says ‘glass lacerations’ here. The station canopies all blew out and—”
“I know a needle-gun wound when I see it. And I’m seeing over a dozen shared between the two of them. They were shot at close range. I checked the records. Twelve others were brought in from the same site with identical wounds. But they were all dead on arrival.”
“This is the Commercia?”
“A subtransit sta
tion: C7/d. Not actually hit by direct shelling, so the records state. But there were at least twenty bodies recovered there.”
She read the forms again and then looked up at him.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?” he smiled. “Hundreds of thousands, dead and dying, all needing us and I’m worried about just two of them. I shouldn’t care how they were hurt, just that they need me.”
She paused. “Yes, I am thinking that… but…”
“Ah: ‘but’. Useful word. Why were they shot? Who was opening fire on helpless citizens in the middle of a raid?”
Despite her hours on duty, Ana Curth was suddenly awake again. Dorden was right: this was small compared to the scale of the general human misery in Vervunhive. But it could not go unmarked. The Scholam Medicalis had trained her to value every single life individually.
“Vervunhive is being murdered,” she said. “Most of the murderers are out there, wearing ochre armour. Some, I have to say, are sitting pretty around the chart tables in House Command. But there is another — and we will find him.”
Gaunt straightened his cap, smoothed the folds of a clean leather jacket and left his escort of six Tanith troops at the elevator assembly. The escort, led by Caffran, stood easy, gazing around themselves at the lofty, gleaming architecture of the upper Spine. None of them had ever expected to see the inside of a hive’s noble level.
“Even the fething lift has a carpet!” Trooper Cocoer hissed.
Gaunt looked round. “Stay here. Behave yourselves.”
The Ghosts nodded, then congregated around an ornamental fountain where foamy water bubbled from conches held by gilt nymphs into a lily-skinned, green pool. Some of the Ghost guard rested their lasguns against the marble lip. Gaunt smiled to see Caffran check that the seat of his pants was clean before sitting on the marble.