The heat was amazing. There was no shade. The sun was so hot it seemed to crackle and buzz in the sky. Ludd felt his exposed skin tingle. A tan, he thought. It would be good to go back to the camp with a tan, after all those months of polar night.
He looked north, at the towering smoke bank, at Sparshad Mons. Now he was outside, Ludd could distinctly smell the reek of fyceline bombardment. And the Mons was a good fifty, sixty kilometres away.
He could just make out the battery flashes, but he wanted a better look. He raised his hand to his glare-shades.
“I really wouldn’t, if you’re fond of your ability to see.”
Ludd turned. A man was approaching him across the landing pad. He was tall and straight-backed, and wore the dress uniform of an Imperial commissar.
Ludd made the sign of the aquila and saluted.
“Junior Commissar Nahum Ludd, Camp 917,” he said.
The man mirrored the sign and the salute, and then offered his hand. “Commissar Hadrian Faragut. Welcome to Frag Flats, Ludd.”
Ludd shook the proffered hand.
Faragut had a commanding manner, but appeared only a few years older than Ludd. He evidently hadn’t been a full commissar for long. What little Ludd could see of Faragut’s face was lean, tanned and clean-shaven. But the black lenses of his glare-shades hid his eyes, and therefore his character and temperament. There was a slight crook to his lips, as if Faragut was amused by something.
“I’m the welcoming committee,” Faragut said. The commissar-general was going to greet you personally, but it was felt that might be too intimidating.”
“Indeed. I’m glad it’s you.”
“First time at the Flats?”
Ludd nodded. “First time on a Leviathan, too.”
“Throne, they have kept you locked away, haven’t they? Xeno. That’s a polar station, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Deliberately removed from the war zones. It’s pretty bleak.”
“Count yourself lucky. The zones are… demanding.” Faragut spoke with an increasing curve of smite, as if to suggest he had seen many things and, more importantly, done many things. Heroic, glorious things.
Ludd nodded. “I often wish for something demanding,” he said.
“Careful what you wish for, Ludd,” Faragut replied, his smile disappearing. The Sextus Zones are hell. There’s not a single man of my rank doesn’t pray for a soft posting like yours.”
Ludd bridled slightly. Not only was Faragut teasing him for being out of the fight-zones, he was teasing him for landing an easy option. Camp Xeno wasn’t easy. It was a bastard, bitter job. Thankless, punishing, relentless—
Ludd decided not to say anything.
“You were admiring the Big Smoke?” Faragut said.
“Excuse me?”
Faragut gestured towards the orange roil rising off the horizon.
“Oh, I just wanted to get a look at the Mons,” Ludd said.
“Not from here. The Big Smoke’s been a permanent fixture since the assault began three months ago.”
“It’s what… sixty kilometres away?”
Faragut chuckled. “Try two hundred and sixty. Have you any idea how big the Mons is?”
“No,” Ludd replied.
“Shame you won’t get to see it,” Faragut said, in a tone that suggested he enjoyed meaning the opposite. “Spar-shad Mons is so wonderfully impressive.”
They turned as they heard a clank and hiss behind them. A deck hatch had opened directly under the Valkyrie, and the entire cargo pod was lowering away on power hoists, disengaging from the transport and sliding down into the hull of the Leviathan.
“You’re handling them like freight,” Ludd said, disapprovingly. “It was bad enough they had to be transported that way. Won’t you even let them disembark on foot?”
“That’s not appropriate,” Faragut said. “Not until we’ve had them checked out.”
“You do know who they are?” Ludd asked.
Faragut looked at him, his eyes unreadable behind his black glare-shades. “I know who they want us to think they are, Ludd. That’s not quite the same.”
“You’ve read my report, though?”
Faragut frowned. “Yes, Ludd. And we’ve read your commanding officer’s report too. Commissar Kanow, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So… you will allow us to be cautious, I hope? Kanow was quite specific. What was his last command to you?”
“To bring the prisoners to the person of the lord general,” Ludd said.
Faragut nodded, solemnly. “Just so. Because we do want to handle this according to Commissariat rules.”
“Absolutely,” Ludd replied. He didn’t like the way Faragut had emphasised the “do” in his last sentence. The man was condescending, patronising. And Ludd didn’t like the way Faragut was suggesting he was anything less than a true commissar because he didn’t have a warzone posting.
Ludd decided he didn’t actually like Faragut all that much.
All of which became academic when Faragut said, “Well, let’s not keep him waiting.”
“Who?”
“Why, the lord general, Ludd. Who else?”
Ludd’s stomach turned to water at the idea he was keeping such a great man waiting even for a moment.
He followed Faragut to the deck-stairs, his pulse elevated.
TWO
12.02 hrs, 188.776.M41
Frag Flats HQ
Sparshad Combat Zone, Ancreon Sextus
“Wait here,” Faragut instructed him, and Ludd did as he was told. They had descended together through the Leviathan’s vast interior and, after almost fifteen minutes’ brisk walk along armoured, air-cooled hallways and heavy, bulkheaded companionways, had come to a halt in a gallery that overlooked one of the main tactical command centres.
Ludd looked down through tinted and slightly inclined panels of glass into a massive, tiered chamber where scores of intelligence officers, Imperial tacticians and high-order servitors manned display consoles and logic engines. In the centre of the chamber, a strategium pit cast a large, pulsing hololithic display up into the air. A huddle of senior officers surrounded the pit display; evidently a briefing was just coming to an end. Ludd saw the uniforms of a dozen different divisions, including Navy Wing and Guard Armour. There was intense bustle down in the chamber, but the glass was soundproofed. Ludd could only imagine the constant racket of reports and data-chatter.
Faragut appeared in the room below, and dutifully approached a tall, striking man who wore the plain, dove-grey day-dress of a lord general. That would be Van Voytz, no doubt, Ludd thought. Lord General of the Fifth Crusade Army, commander in chief of this war-zone operation, master of this theatre. Everyone in the strategium was deferring to him. Ludd had never anticipated having to meet with a man of such staggering seniority. It was one step away from meeting Warmaster Macaroth himself.
His mouth went dry and cottony. He tried to remember his rehearsed words.
Faragut spoke to the lord general, and got a brief nod and a pat on the arm for his trouble. Oh, to enjoy such informality in those lofty circles, Ludd thought. Van Voytz finished his conversation with two Navy squadron leaders, shared the knowing laughter of old comrades, then turned and followed Faragut from the chamber.
Half a minute later, Lord General Barthol Van Voytz was standing in front of Ludd on the gallery.
“Junior Commissar Nahum Ludd,” Faragut introduced. Ludd snapped to attention and made his salute.
The lord general was flanked by Faragut and a short, stern man wearing the black-and-red uniform of a senior Imperial tactician. Behind them waited an honour guard of six veteran soldiers in full ballistic plate.
“Van Voytz,” the lord general said, as if there were some doubt as to his identity. His voice was surprisingly soft and amiable, and there was the rumour of a smile on his lips. He stepped forward and offered Ludd his hand.
Surprised, Ludd hesitated, then shook it. “Welcome, Ludd,” Van Voytz said.
Then, still clasping Ludd’s hand, he leaned closer and whispered in Ludd’s ear.
“You’re trembling, young man. Don’t. I’m not a man to be afraid of. And besides, you don’t want to show fear in front of that arse-kisser Faragut, or he’ll never let you live it down.”
Ludd felt a little easier immediately. He nodded and smiled back. Van Voytz seemed to be in no hurry to let his hand go.
“As I understand it,” Van Voytz said aloud, “I owe you a great deal, Ludd.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve read the reports, Ludd. Yours, and that of your commanding officer. Today, I will take great pleasure in welcoming back friends I had long since given up as dead. I cannot begin to imagine what they’ve been through, but it would have been a supremely tragic irony if they had been executed by mistake at Camp 917.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ve you to thank for that.”
“I’m not sure about that, sir,” Ludd said.
“You listened. You listened when others did not. Kanow will hear from me about this. Later on, I’d like you to tell me all the details, the things you left unsaid in your report.”
“I wouldn’t wish to betray Commissar Kanow’s authority, sir,” Ludd said.
“That was an order, Junior Commissar Ludd.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kanow clearly overstepped the mark. That much is evident even from your very diplomatic account. I won’t have behaviour like that in my army, Ludd.”
“With respect, lord general,” said a voice from nearby, “if Kanow needs to be reprimanded, that office will fall to me.”
A figure had joined them on the gallery deck, a woman of medium height and build who possessed quite the most austere face Ludd had ever seen. Her skin was white and drawn tight around her high cheekbones, her mouth a prim slit with a thin top lip. Her right eye was violet and keen, her left a compact augmetic embedded into a snowdrift smooth fold of scar-tissue that ran down across her brow onto her alabaster cheek. She wore the long black leather robes and cap of a commissar-general.
“Hello, Balshin,” Van Voytz sighed.
Ludd hadn’t needed the name to know who this was: Viktoria Balshin, Lady Commissar-General of the Second Front theatre, one of the few women ever to ascend to such a rank in the Commissariat. She was a legend and, if the stories were true, a scourge to friend and foe alike. It was said that in order to thrive in such a male-dominated service, she had compensated for her gender by being the most ferociously hard-line political officer and disciplinarian imaginable. If Ludd had realised who Faragut meant when he’d referred to the “commissar-general” he’d probably have just got straight back aboard the Valkyrie and fled.
“We will see for ourselves if Kanow overstepped the mark,” Balshin said. “Personally, having reviewed the intelligence, I don’t believe he did. You’re fooling yourself, my lord general, if you believe that the individuals escorted here by this young man are… how did you put it? Your friends.”
“I know who they are, Balshin,” Van Voytz retorted, bristling slightly. “I’ve known Ibram and his boys for years. I sent them off on this damn mission personally, and by the Throne, they have done me proud. I won’t have them coming home to mistrust and accusation. They’re heroes of the Imperium.”
Balshin smiled. “Barthol, I don’t refute any of what you say. Fine soldiers, yes. Brave souls who undertook a vital and thankless mission, yes. Heroes, why yes, that too. But precisely because of what they have endured, they may no longer be the soldiers you knew. I advise caution.”
“Noted,” Van Voytz said.
“And I advise you dispense with fond sentiment. You must think with your head, not your heart.”
“In that, Balshin, I’ll follow your example,” Van Voytz said. “How is your heart, these days? Still in a drawer somewhere, gathering dust?”
Balshin snorted.
“I’m not going to let you spoil this moment, Viktoria,” Van Voytz said. “A great hour of victory has just been reported by the senior commanders. The fifth compartment of Sparshad Mons has just been breached, and we are advancing to the gates of the sixth.”
“Praise be the God-Emperor,” Balshin nodded. That is wonderful news.”
“Indeed,” Van Voytz said. And to top it off, a courageous friend of mine has just come back from the dead, when all hope was gone. So don’t you go pissing on my parade, lady commissar-general.”
There was a frosty moment. Ludd dearly wished he was somewhere else. Then the Imperial tactician stepped forward and said, “Senior staff in forty-five minutes, my lord.”
Van Voytz nodded. “Indeed, Biota. Then let’s get on with this. Ludd? Take me to greet your charges, please.”
* * * * *
The freight silo, deep in the bowels of the Command Leviathan, was unnaturally cold. Vapour from the landing jets was still swirling out of the overhead extractor vents. The cargo-pod from the Valkyrie sat quiet and still in its hoist supports.
“If you please, Ludd,” Van Voytz said.
Ludd hurried forward to the pod’s hatch. Faragut went with him. The commissar eased his laspistol out of its holster.
“There’s no need for that,” Ludd said.
“Do your job, Junior Ludd, and I’ll do mine.” Like Ludd, Faragut had removed his glare-shades upon entering the command crawler, and now Ludd saw his eyes clearly for the first time. Cold, white-blue, uncompromising.
Ludd glanced nervously back at the lord general, Bal-shin, the Imperial tactician, and the veteran escort waiting on the deckway behind them. Van Voytz nodded, encouragingly. Ludd tapped the numeric code into the hatch lock.
Nothing happened.
He tapped it in again.
Still nothing.
“Do it right, for Throne’s sake!” Faragut hissed. “This is embarrassing!”
“I am doing it right!” Ludd whispered back. “There’s something wrong with the lock.”
He tapped a third time. The readout remained blank.
“Stand aside,” Faragut said. “You must be making a mistake. What’s the code?”
“Ten-four-oh-two-nine,” Ludd replied.
Faragut pounded the numerals in with the index finger of his left hand. Still nothing.
Faragut reached out and tugged at the heavy hatch. It swung open, free, unlocked.
“What the hell?”
The veteran guards immediately raised their weapons and prowled forward.
Pistol braced, Faragut peered into the open pod.
“Lights!” he commanded, and the bank of glow strips along the pod’s ceiling flickered on, bathing the interior with a hard white glare.
The pod was empty.
“Oh, God-Emperor…” Ludd murmured.
“Sound general quarters!” Balshin yelled. “Full security lock down, my authority! Now!”
The Leviathan’s internal klaxons began to whoop.
THREE
12.29 hrs, 188.776.M41
Frag Flats HQ
Sparshad Combat Zone, Ancreon Sextus
“You checked the pod was sealed when you departed Camp Xeno?” Balshin demanded as she strode along.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ludd replied, struggling to keep up with her pace. “The security detail locked the container, but I double-checked it before it was stowed on the transport.”
“And it was locked?” Balshin asked dubiously.
“It was, ma’am. On my life it was.”
“Bad choice of words,” Faragut muttered privately to Ludd. Your head’s going to roll for this.”
They were rushing down one of the inner companionways behind Van Voytz and Balshin. As security squads swept the Leviathan deck by deck, Balshin’s priority was to get the lord general safely sequestered in his private quarters.
“We didn’t even have time to bio-scan them,” Ludd heard Balshin say over the noise of the blaring alarms.
“The intruders could be anyone, posing as the missing guard team to gain entry.”
Ludd was sweating. This was down to him, just as Faragut had taken pleasure in noting. Not only had Ludd been in charge of the transfer, he’d also been the one to advocate trusting the prisoners.
Had he just facilitated getting a team of archenemy assassins into the lord general’s central command post? Everything will be all right, he tried to assure himself. The Leviathan was swarming with armed, vigilant troopers. Everywhere he looked, he saw fireteams running point-and-cover searches down hallways and along through-deck walks, or conducting stop-and-search examinations of passing crew members. No intruder, no matter how determined, was going to get far under these conditions.
The hurrying party reached the heavy blast hatch of Van Voytz’s quarters. “Stay with his lordship,” Balshin told Faragut, and then marched away to take direct charge of the manhunt. Faragut followed Van Voytz and Tactician Biota in through the blast hatch.
“Come on,” he said, beckoning impatiently at Ludd. Ludd hurried after them. The guard escort took up station outside, and the heavy hatch sealed and locked. The air pressure changed immediately. Amber runes lit up to show that the lord general’s chamber, a virtual bunker at the heart of the huge crawler, was locked down and running on its own independent systems.
They were in an ante-room, well-appointed with seating and a table for debriefing sessions. An inner hatch led into Van Voytz’s office, and they followed the lord general in that direction. The office was functional and service-issue, but piled with books, pictures and trophies from Van Voytz’s worthy career. There was a desk with a high-backed chair at the far end, a couple of couches, and a side door into the sleeping pod.
“Dammit,” Van Voytz muttered. “Dammit all.” He glanced at Ludd. “Locked, you said?”