Salvation's Reach

  ‘Not all of them. Most, yes, but a few… a few malcontents, they loathe him. This isn’t one big happy family.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Blenner. He sat down facing Wilder.

  ‘I’ll deny I said it if you tell him.’

  ‘I won’t tell him,’ said Blenner. ‘Look, you expect me to have an ulterior motive. Fine. I’ll have one. If it makes you feel better, Captain Wilder, I don’t care about your pathetic existence at all. I care about the fact that my commissarial remit… my career, right now… is focused on the Belladon in this regiment. And if I have to disgrace or execute their drunken bastard of an officer in the first week, I’m never going to win them over. Make sense?’

  Wilder nodded.

  ‘They said you’d tried hard last night.’

  ‘Tried hard?’

  ‘To make a good impression. I spoke to a few of the men today. Commissars come in two flavours, the lasman’s best friend and the lasman’s worst enemy. It’s an odd fact, but in the long run, the rabble prefer the latter.’

  Blenner took off his cap and finger-combed his hair. He glared at the deck.

  ‘They saw that’s what I was doing, did they?’

  ‘They’re lasmen, commissar. Not idiots. Besides, they liked you. They’ve heard all about Hark. Gaunt too. You sound infinitely preferable.’

  Blenner looked at him.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘In the end,’ said Wilder, ‘what they need is a bit of steel. When the shooting starts, they don’t want a friend. They want someone they can absolutely depend on. The shooting’s going to start soon, commissar. Who would you want at your side? The happy clown or the cold-hearted bastard?’

  Blenner’s hands were shaking. He wanted to take a pill, but he didn’t want Wilder to see.

  ‘We could–’ he said, and faltered. He breathed deeply and tried again. ‘We could work together, captain. It seems to me we could both use a little support. A little mutual effort could clean your slate and strengthen my position.’

  Wilder nodded.

  ‘We could try that. All right. Novobazky.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lucien had an excellent working relationship with his commissar,’ said Wilder, ‘Genadey Novobazky. They were together five years. The one before, Causkon, he was useless. But Novobazky was a real rabble rouser. He could talk, you understand me? Lucien used to write to me about him. The letters home. Novobazky could win a battle, he said, just by opening his damn mouth.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Blenner.

  ‘Died on Ancreon Sextus with Lucien.’

  ‘So not every battle, then.’

  ‘Don’t be smart, commissar. Do yourself a favour and look up his service record. The text of his declarations.’

  Blenner got up.

  ‘Get your house in order, captain. We’ll speak again.’

  Wilder nodded. He didn’t get up.

  ‘I’ll take your advice,’ said Blenner at the door. ‘So take some from me. Forget about your brother.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘This is the Emperor’s Imperial Guard, Wilder. It’s about a lot of things, but family isn’t one of them. Blood ties get in the way. They just get in the way. They are a weakness. Look at Gaunt and his son–’

  ‘His what?’

  Blenner hesitated.

  ‘It’ll be known soon enough. His bastard child arrived the same time you did. Vervunhive aristo with his own lifeguard. It was a surprise to Gaunt, and he’s trying to treat it like it’s nothing, but it will affect him. Don’t let your brother do the same thing to you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The Guard is the only family you ever need, captain. Blood relatives are just a complication.’

  Wilder sat alone for a while after Blenner left. He drifted off in thought, and then realised Didi Gendler was standing in the cabin doorway, grinning at him.

  ‘You look a little the worse for wear,’ said Gendler.

  Wilder got up. Gendler exclaimed in surprise as Wilder grabbed him by the tunic front, dragged him into the cabin and slammed the door. He smashed Gendler back against the bulkhead.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Gendler stammered.

  ‘You bastards screwed with me! A friendly drink? I don’t even remember getting on board!’

  ‘I was under the impression you were a grown up, Captain Wilder,’ snapped Gendler. ‘It’s not our job to moderate your drinking. Blenner stop by to put you on a charge, did he?’

  Wilder looked away and let go. Gendler straightened himself up.

  ‘You should thank us,’ said Gendler.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You only got to your cabin because of us. When we realised how much you’d tucked away, Captain Meryn had me and Costin smuggle you aboard. We were looking out for you. You’d have been shot for disgracing the uniform otherwise.’

  Wilder didn’t reply.

  ‘In fact, the captain sent me to check on you. He told me to give you this.’

  Gendler held out a small glass bottle.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A cure-all. Knocks back the effects of a hangover. From the captain’s own supply.’

  Wilder took it.

  ‘This is from regimental stores,’ he said, reading the label. ‘Medicae supplies.’

  ‘Don’t be naive, captain. If you know the right people, you can get anything you need.’

  ‘And who do you know, Gendler?’

  ‘The right people.’

  Wilder looked at the bottle again, and then unstoppered it and drank it.

  ‘It’s good stuff,’ said Gendler. ‘Costin swears by it. He’s been functioning on it for years.’

  ‘I take it you and Captain Meryn are businessmen,’ said Wilder.

  ‘We provide unofficial services. Someone has to. There’s a demand. We’re good at it.’

  ‘It takes money. And organisation.’

  ‘We have both,’ said Gendler. ‘Like I said, we’re good at it. Time was, Rawne was the biggest noise in the shadow trade.’

  ‘The second officer?’

  ‘Right, you’ve met him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Wilder.

  ‘He’s rather more legitimate these days,’ said Gendler. ‘Legitimate and busy. Captain Meryn thought it was only fair and helpful to take some of the hard work off his plate.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Wilder.

  ‘Oh, don’t be dense,’ said Gendler. ‘There are winners and losers in any regiment. Rawne’s becoming a bit of a winner. And he’s always made sure Meryn lost out. Promotions. Advancements. Sometimes, you have to take charge of your own destiny. Meryn, me… you. We see a kindred spirit in you.’

  ‘Someone to join your losers club?’

  Gendler laughed without smiling.

  ‘Thwarted men with ambition can do great things, Wilder. They can rise and make others fall. The privilege of rank, of opportunity. Failing either of those, the simple comfort of riches.’

  ‘Is this about getting on, or revenge?’ asked Wilder.

  ‘Why can’t it be about both?’ smiled Gendler.

  Wilder was feeling better. The cure-all had certainly been effective. He laughed.

  ‘What do you and Meryn really want from me?’ he asked.

  ‘Cards on the table?’ asked Gendler. ‘All right. Friends help each other. And everyone’s got an angle. What’s your angle? The most useful commodity is protection. Any shield that will let us operate unseen. It’s early days, but you already seem to be on good terms with Blenner.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’s a soft touch. A soft touch commissar. The best protection a Guardsman could ever ask for.’

  ‘I don’t know him at all,’ said Wilder.

  ‘That’s not true. Besides, you could know him better. You could cultivate him. Find a weakness. Find his angle. Find leverage.’

  ‘Could I?’

  ‘It’s what friends do,’ said Gendler.

  Wilder didn
’t reply. Gendler shrugged and turned to leave.

  ‘I think he’s got a habit,’ said Wilder quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pills, I think. Anxiety is my guess. So, a narcotic.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Gendler, smiling.

  ‘I’ve seen the habit before. He had a bottle. Didn’t want me to see. Then he was twitchy. He wouldn’t have tried to hide it if it was on the level or something he wasn’t ashamed of.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Wilder. ‘It sounds like persecution to me. Is that the angle you were looking for? What will you do? Expose him? Control his supply and make him your puppet?’

  ‘He’s only useful if he stays in play,’ said Gendler. ‘We wouldn’t want to strangle his supply. We would want to increase it. Become the friends he can rely on.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Gendler,’ said Wilder.

  ‘An effective bastard.’

  ‘You must feel right at home here,’ said Wilder, shaking his head. ‘Everyone’s a bastard, one way or another. Even the mighty Gaunt has a bastard of his own.’

  Gendler stopped, his smile vanishing.

  ‘What did you just say?’ he asked.

  The woman’s name was Galayda. She was one of a group of Verghast intake that Juniper stopped in the laundry halls. Everybody was perspiring from the warm damp air. There was a hard chemical stink of ultra-processed water and cleaning chemicals.

  ‘Ban Daur?’ Galayda said. She was from Hass West, Vervunhive, a hab girl who had lost everything in the war and ended up attached to a scratch company man called Herzog, who was a sergeant in Major Pasha’s brigade.

  ‘He was PDF,’ said Juniper.

  ‘I didn’t know any Hive Defence,’ said Galayda. ‘I fought for a while in the scratch company after I lost my ma and pa in the bombing. Gak, we all did. That’s where I met Herzog.’

  ‘But you put away the gun after the Zoican War?’

  ‘I’m no soldier. A scratch company isn’t soldiers. It’s desperate people. A soldier’s wife, though. That’s more me.’

  She looked at Juniper. Her sleeves were rolled up and her arms were stained and sore with chemical soaps.

  ‘Sorry I can’t help your friend.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Juniper. ‘I’ll find someone who can.’

  ‘Stavik might know,’ said the woman next to them.

  ‘Yes, he might,’ said Galayda.

  ‘Stavik?’ asked Juniper.

  ‘He’s one of the squad leaders under Major Pasha,’ said Galayda. ‘I think he was Hive Defence.’

  ‘He was,’ said the other woman. ‘He was at the wall fort.’

  ‘Or you could always ask Zhukova,’ said Galayda.

  ‘As if,’ laughed Juniper.

  ‘Yes, you want to watch Zhukova,’ said the other woman, lifting another tub of sheets. ‘She’s awfully pretty, but she’s a hard-nosed bitch.’

  ‘Kolea,’ said Galayda. ‘He’s one of the regiment, isn’t he?’

  ‘Major Kolea?’ asked Juniper. ‘Yes, he’s the senior Verghastite officer.’

  ‘The scratch company hero,’ said the other woman. ‘They still talk about him in the hive, like they talk about Gaunt.’

  ‘You knew him?’ asked Juniper.

  ‘Only by reputation,’ said Galayda. ‘I think my Herzog might have met him a few times in the final days. But I knew his poor wife and her kids. Well, my ma and pa, they lived in the same hab block. I always thought that must have driven him on to be such a hero, losing his family. They died, didn’t they? Her and her kids. They died a few days before the bombing took my ma and pa.’

  ‘She died,’ said Juniper. ‘The children actually survived.’

  ‘They did?’ asked Galayda. She seemed genuinely amazed.

  ‘They’re with the company,’ said Juniper. ‘Captain Criid as she is now, she found them, looked after them. Adopted them, basically. It was only later we all found out that Kolea was their father.’

  Galayda looked like she might cry.

  ‘Oh, it’s like a blessing from the Emperor,’ she exclaimed. ‘All this pain and sadness, and in the middle of it, a happy story! They both lived? I can’t believe it!’

  ‘I know them,’ smiled Juniper. ‘I look after the youngest sometimes. The boy is now a trooper himself.’

  ‘The eldest, you mean?’ asked Galayda.

  ‘The boy,’ said Juniper. ‘Dalin.’

  ‘They were both boys. Two boys,’ said Galayda.

  ‘No, a boy and girl,’ said Juniper.

  ‘I could have sworn they were both boys,’ said Galayda. ‘Oh well, isn’t a happy ending a lovely thing?’

  ‘I should never have come here,’ said Meritous Chass.

  ‘It’s your birthright,’ replied Maddalena.

  They were on a walkway overlooking a holdspace reserved for drill. Chass was watching the men parade. The great banks of lamps around them kept fizzling and fading in and out.

  ‘I’m not really interested in that,’ he said. ‘This is dire. He doesn’t want me here.’

  ‘He’s just surprised, Meritous.’

  ‘I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, Maddalena, I hate that name. One of those stupid family traditions. Felyx, or sir.’

  The lifeguard shrugged.

  ‘He’s just surprised,’ she said. ‘He has a child. He didn’t know. He will need to process it.’

  ‘How long will that take? What if he processes it and decides he’s better off without me?’

  ‘You’re depressed.’

  ‘It’s hard not to be. Have you seen this rotting hulk? It’s falling apart. We’ll be lucky if the warp doesn’t claim our souls. And the Tanith, I mean, the real Tanith. I know they helped defend the hive, and our House owes them, but they’re like barbarian auxiliaries.’

  ‘That’s probably because they are barbarian auxiliaries,’ said Maddalena. She suddenly snapped alert, her hand close to her weapon.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s Trooper Dalin.’

  Dalin was approaching them along the walkway. He seemed nervous.

  ‘You know why Gaunt picked him, don’t you?’ whispered Maddalena.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s Kolea’s son. The son of the other great hero of Vervunhive.’

  ‘It’s all about image and reputation with these people, isn’t it?’ whispered Chass.

  ‘Commissar Ludd sent me,’ said Dalin. He looked like he was deciding whether to salute or not. He couldn’t look Chass in the eye. ‘The enlistment papers are ready. Then I need to get you some kit, then a billet. It makes sense to attach you to E Company with me. I’m the captain’s adjutant.’

  ‘Show me the way,’ said Chass.

  Maddalena moved to follow him.

  ‘Stay here,’ Chass told her. ‘Just for now, let me do this by myself.’

  ‘Your mother charged me not to let you out of my sight.’

  ‘He’s on a shiftship in the warp,’ said Dalin. ‘Exactly where do you think he can go?’

  SEVEN

  Faces

  Cavity 29617 was a hold space, a long and slightly irregular chamber that ran beside and under one of the main plasma engine housings. It was low priority, and had only the rudiments of light and atmospheric processing. From the junk and dust, it was an attic or basement – or whatever they called such things on starships – that hadn’t been used in a few centuries.

  That suited Merrt.

  Cavity 29617 was out of the way. It wasn’t one of the big holds reserved for training exercise and technique work, and it was far smaller than the hangar decks used for parade and mass drill. It was narrow and long, which gave him some range. It had a breeze running through it from the processor vents, which gave it a cross-draught and made it feel a bit like outdoor conditions. And no one went there, so no one could see him being useless.

  Since his injury on Monthax, years of practice had failed to yield any results. Merrt had tried: he?
??d shown a persistence and resolve rare even by marksman standards. He had worked to rebuild his shattered skill.

  The only thing he was sure of was that he should have given up trying a long time ago.

  But Larkin, his old friend and rival, was in another of his mad moods. He had invested his manic attention in Merrt, and Merrt didn’t have the heart to let him down. He knew he would let him down, but he wanted to be seen to make an effort, so it didn’t seem like he’d just let it happen. A few dozen hours’ extra target practice, what could that hurt? It proved that Larkin was his friend, and he was willing to humour his friend’s confidence. It meant that when he finally had to say he couldn’t do it, he’d know that he couldn’t do it. He had proof. Evidence. He’d tried, so the failure was softened.

  Merrt had the bolt-action rifle Larkin was using to train him and a box of shells. Larkin had yet to explain the full significance of the old mech weapons in terms of the mission profile. A longlas was a far superior weapon. Only a few people in the Tanith First knew what they were heading into and what they might be expected to do when they got there. Merrt knew Larkin himself only understood bits of it. Just enough to train specialisms.

  The one and only thing everybody knew was that they were not heading for a happy place. The next mission was going to be damn hard work.

  Merrt had lined up some old tin cups, pots and lubricant canisters as targets, and set himself up in a seated position, his back against the cavity wall to take his weight, the rifle braced across a stand he’d rigged from an old metal bench. He’d then adjusted and finessed the rest using a couple of the sand socks every marksman carried in his pouch. He had a simple optic scope for range finding, but he used it separately, lining up an angle then putting the scope aside to take final aim along the iron sights of the gun.

  He allowed for air drift, and the rifle’s innate inclination to dip and rise on discharge. The weapon had a tiny left-hand bias, which Larkin had corrected for by adjusting the sights with a watch maker’s screwdriver. Merrt let his tension out, then let all the air in his lungs go, a long slow exhalation so that even the stir of respiration or the tremble of suspended breathing wouldn’t affect the aim. The only thing he couldn’t reduce was the infinitesimal quake of his heartbeat, so he timed to fire between beats. Beat… line up the shot… beat… check the line… beat… fire.