Salvation's Reach

  His seat was a worn leather throne mounted in a gilded carriage. There were two big banks of control levers at the end of each armrest. The mechanisms were so old that many of the levers had been replaced: new metal bars and handle-tops seam-welded onto the eroded or broken spurs of the originals. Even some of the replacements had begun to wear. Spika adjusted the levers and his chair, mounted on a long, gimbal-jointed lifting arm, rose up out of the upper deck platform and extended out over the vast bridge. From there, he could sweep down and observe main console functions over the shoulders of key officers, or loft himself up into the domed roof to study the hololithic star-map projection or converse with the twitching, harnessed navigator.

  He’d been invited to attend the address. A note had been delivered from the colonel-commissar fellow. He wouldn’t attend. He knew where they were going.

  Besides, the warp was rough and troubled. There was a lively tide and unusual levels of dispersion and turbulence.

  He needed to be on the bridge, at his station, in case things got rough.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Elodie asked Daur, passing him in the bustling central line hall.

  ‘Review,’ he replied. ‘Address. We get told our destination.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Elodie.

  ‘This is the point of it all,’ said Daur. ‘The point where we commit. The real start of the mission. Look, I’ve got to get on and get G Company assembled. I’ll come and tell you everything later.’

  ‘Everything?’ she asked.

  ‘I promise.’

  They moved off in opposite directions. Pol Cohran stepped out of the shadows of a colonnade arch and merged with the flow of hurrying figures, just another hustling trooper.

  He’d heard what the captain had said.

  We get told our destination.

  Priorities had just changed again.

  ‘You. You there!’

  Cohran stopped, and turned slowly. Some of the personnel passing him bumped against him. Twenty paces behind him, Commissar Edur was glaring at him.

  ‘Cohran? Trooper Cohran?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Come here, damn it!’ Edur snapped, indicating a spot on the deck directly in front of him. The river of people around them parted and found other routes to take. No one wanted to get in the way of an Imperial commissar, especially not one who was clearly aggravated. Furthermore, no one had seen the newcomer Edur raise his voice yet.

  ‘Right here, trooper!’ Edur ordered.

  Cohran hesitated a moment longer. He weighed his options, and realised they all depended on him maintaining his deception. In full view like this, in front of dozens of regimental personnel, his options were drastically limited.

  He walked back to Edur, and stood in front of him, hands behind his back.

  Edur wrinkled a lip.

  ‘Under the circumstances,’ said Edur quietly, ‘I think an attitude of attention shows more respect.’

  Cohran snapped to attention.

  ‘This isn’t the infirmary,’ said Edur.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I said this is a long way from the infirmary, trooper.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your acceleration sickness got better then, did it?’ asked Edur. ‘You don’t look sick to me. Or did the grace of the beati and the God-Emperor shine forth upon you and heal you?’

  ‘May they live forever in our hearts and our minds, sir,’ said Cohran.

  ‘Watch your tone.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Let’s see this slip, trooper,’ said Edur.

  ‘Slip, sir?’

  ‘Your chit, trooper. The permission slip Commissar Blenner gave you.’

  ‘I…’ Cohran began. He paused. ‘I believe I must have lost it, sir.’

  ‘Let’s go, trooper,’ said Edur. ‘This way.’

  ‘I’ve got to report for the review and address, sir,’ Cohran said.

  ‘Move,’ said Edur.

  Edur pointed and walked Cohran off the central line hall into one of the transverse access corridors. Edur stayed close behind Cohran, a menacing escort. Two men ran past the other way, carrying a cargo crate between them.

  ‘I should go to the address, sir,’ said Cohran.

  ‘Enough, trooper.’ said Edur.

  ‘It’s mandatory. If I miss it, the captain will–’

  ‘I said enough. You’re already in trouble for not being where you were supposed to be.’

  ‘But, I–’

  ‘Seriously, how deep do you intend to dig your way into this, Cohran? Punishment squad deep? Flogging deep?’

  More men went by in the other direction, hurrying, buttoning up their jackets.

  ‘I just went to the infirmary, sir,’ said Cohran. ‘I can’t miss the review.’

  ‘I’m about out of patience with you, Cohran,’ said Edur. ‘I think you’ll be looking at the inside of the brig for quite a time, while I fathom out why Commissar Blenner tried to protect you. People like you frustrate me, Cohran. If you’d just faced up when I confronted you, I’d have probably let you off with a citation. But this blather, this effort to wriggle out. It’s what dilutes the Guard, you hear me? It’s the kind of rot-thinking that eats out the heart of a good regiment. You’re a weak man, Cohran, and there’s no excuse for it.’

  ‘I’m sick, sir,’ said Cohran. He stopped walking.

  ‘You’re not sick. Get on.’

  Cohran shivered and groaned, as though something unpleasant had just undermined him on a gastric level.

  ‘Cohran?’

  ‘I’m going to throw up…’ gasped Cohran. He turned and blundered off the transverse into the narrow access tunnel of a engineering inspection bay, clinging to the wall and heaving.

  ‘Cohran!’ Edur strode after him. His hand went to his holster.

  Cohran had gone a short way down the dank metal tunnel. There was a purr of heavy machinery from the bay up ahead. The light levels were much lower than out in the transverse, where people were still hurrying by. Cohran leaned his forearm and his head against the machined metal wall plate, breathing hard.

  Edur drew his pistol and aimed it at the side of Cohran’s head.

  ‘You must think I’m a Throne-damned idiot if you think I’m going to fall for this play-acting,’ he said. ‘This just escalated to serious charges, you worthless–’

  Cohran snapped around. With a speed Edur could not explain or anticipate, Cohran’s raised hand caught his wrist, knocked the aim aside, and propelled Edur backwards into the opposite wall of the tunnel. He hit hard, grazing the back of his head and driving the wind out of his lungs.

  Cohran reversed his turn, embraced Edur’s gun-arm, extended it, and then broke the wrist.

  Edur howled in pain. Cohran took the pistol out of the limp hand and tossed it into the engineering bay behind him.

  It was done. Pain-shock alone would floor the commissar and–

  Usain Edur was a strong man. A deep sense of righteous indignation broke through his wash of pain and surprise. It was a reserve that had kept him alive on several battlefields, a focus that allowed him to push past the undermining fog of injury or confusion.

  He threw himself at Cohran, leading with his left shoulder. They cannoned together, and Edur dragged Cohran along a section of wall plate, splitting his lip and gouging his cheek. Cohran barked out a snarl and drove his elbow back into Edur’s collar-bone. Edur smacked back against the opposite tunnel wall.

  He came at Cohran again, leading with his good hand. Cohran had turned to square up, head down, fists raised. As Edur surged forwards, Cohran swung a punch that caught Edur across the ear and drove him sideways. He stumbled into the end of the tunnel wall, and staggered off it into the engineering bay.

  Cohran came after him. He needed to control things again, quickly, before somebody passing along the traverse heard or saw what was happening. The bay was more out of the way than the tunnel. The purr of the machinery masked their sounds. A single servitor menial turned from an ins
pection panel to note the visitors to his workspace with uncomprehending eyes. Caliper digits flexed as it tried to process the interruption to its basic task functions.

  The centre of the bay area was a deep through-deck shaft that accommodated the rising spire of an accumulator stack. The ancient brass rings and steel-cased capacitor rods whirred and rotated. Fronds of energy crackled down in the shaft below the iron handrail.

  Cohran barged Edur across the bay and into the rail, twisting his back and damaging his lower spine. Edur cried out in pain, lashed out, and connected with his broken hand. The blow, to the forehead, was enough to make Cohran flinch backwards, but the pain from the grinding bone made Edur gag and slump, his eyes and mouth wide, gasping like a landed fish.

  Cohran kicked him in the chest, then again in the face, smashing Edur’s head back so it bounced off the guardrail. Edur collapsed in an awkward heap against the rail, his legs bent under him.

  Cohran stepped forwards to snap his neck and finish the game.

  He stopped dead, looking down the snout of Edur’s pistol. Somewhere during the scramble, the commissar had got hold of it again. He was aiming it with his good hand, his broken hand curled like a dead fledgling against his chest. His head was swaying and blood was drooling from his mouth. He’d lost some teeth, and one eye was beginning to swell shut.

  ‘Little bastard…’ Edur slurred.

  The surprise reversal made Cohran lose control of his face for a second. The features rippled.

  ‘What the hell are you?’ Edur asked.

  It was enough of a distraction. Cohran punched, his fingers gathered into a beak-shape. The inhuman force of the blow demolished Edur’s face and exploded the nasal and brow bones back into his brain. The hand holding the pistol dropped heavily. Edur’s pulverised face bowed forwards as if in prayer. Blood pattered out of it in three or four separate streams.

  Cohran straightened up. He could feel blood running from his own cheek and lip. He turned. The servitor had risen to its feet, agitated. Cohran stepped forwards, grasped it by its ceramite jaw and cranium, and snapped its neck. He broke off one of the servitor’s digital tools and used it to gouge out the unit’s optics and burn out its visual memory core.

  Cohran looked around. He peered over the rail and saw the long drop into the gloom of the exhaust sump at the foot of the stack. Without prevarication, he tipped Edur’s body down the shaft, watched it tumble and deflect off lower guard rails and then disappear. He threw the servitor in after it.

  He needed to get cleaned up. He needed to get to the excursion deck.

  ‘They’re present and correct,’ said Beltayn.

  Gaunt nodded. He put on his cap, peak first, adjusted it, and took a calming breath. Then he walked in through the vast entry hatch. Beltayn fell into step behind him, with an escort squad from A Company led by Criid and Mkoll.

  The Armaduke’s main excursion deck was a vast hangar space with a floor plan equal to several parade grounds set end to end. Light shafted down from the lantern arrays bolted in amongst the girder ribs of the roof. Large craft, such as troop carrier landers and cargo runners, had been towed to the far end, away from the forward space doors. Some were enclosed in cages of gantry scaffolding so that servitors and Mechanicus crews could work on their maintenance. Small craft – the lighters and shuttles – had been hoisted up into the rafters on magnetic clamps and hung overhead like hunting trophies. On the port wing-hinge assembly of one suspended Arvus, a two-headed eagle perched and glared balefully down at Gaunt as he advanced out into the open space of the deck.

  The entire regiment had assembled on the principal landing platform. The troopers were wearing operational uniforms rather than formal dress, but the clothes and kit had been cleaned and prepared to the highest standards. They were arranged in company blocks, with their officers to the fore of each section. A cantilevered through-deck elevator had been raised to form a podium in front of them. Company colours were displayed: Tanith, Verghast, Belladon.

  The retinue had been permitted to attend. They clustered around the doorway or filled the second and third tier galleries of the deck’s upper levels. As he walked out through them, Gaunt saw two faces he recognised: Daur’s girl, Elodie, aloof and vigilant; Maddalena Darebeloved.

  ‘No representation from the Adeptus Astartes?’ Gaunt asked Beltayn quietly as they walked.

  ‘They seem constantly occupied, sir,’ Beltayn whispered back. ‘It is reported to me that the Iron Snake spends all his time in relentless combat practice, and the Silver Guard does nothing but study schematic simulations.’

  ‘What about the White Scar?’

  ‘No one knows, sir. He seems to be roaming the ship.’

  ‘And no representation from Spika’s crew?’

  ‘I think they’re busy doing ship-y things, sir.’

  They came out onto the main platform ahead of the review, and Rawne, his eyes front, barked out a stern order. The regiment seamlessly came to attention with one ringing clash. At this signal, Sergeant Major Yerolemew raised his golden pace-stick, and Trooper Perday tilted her head back, raised her helicon, and blasted out a pure, clean, solo fanfare.

  Gaunt winced slightly. The playing was fine. In fact, it was perfect, and the sound remarkably uplifting. He just wondered when the Tanith First had become that sort of regiment, and when he had become that sort of commander. It had never been about ceremony.

  He stepped up on to the elevated platform, made the sign of the aquila and told the regiment to stand easy.

  ‘With this new strength,’ he said, in a voice that was used to carrying effortlessly, ‘already welcomed into our fold, we stand together for the first time.’

  His eyes drifted across the sea of faces. They were attentive and still, but only a few betrayed any emotion. Ban Daur could never hide that earnest hint of determination. Major Zhukova, a new face for Gaunt, was positively glowing with pride. There was something wry and mischievous in Hlaine Larkin’s eyes, and it was a distinctive and familiar as the ever-present hint of dissatisfaction on Viktor Hark’s.

  Then there was Meritous Felyx Chass. He was in the front rank of E, behind Meryn, flanked by Dalin Criid. Dalin or Ludd had procured a set of Tanith blacks and a camo-cloak for him. He looked breakable and frail, like a child dressed up as a soldier. It was almost as if Dalin had brought his little sister out onto the parade ground. Chass looked a good ten years younger than the youngest members of the company.

  With a slight pang and a curious sensation of surprise, Gaunt realised who Chass reminded him of. With that expression of resolution not to fail or let anyone down, Chass looked like a boy, the Hyrkan Boy, the cadet in the corner of regimental picts of the fighting Hyrkan 8th, standing between Sergeant Tanhause and Commissar Oktar.

  ‘We have embarked, and are underway,’ said Gaunt. ‘And, isolated by the shift, we no longer risk the dangers of loose talk in a home port. I can now tell you a little of the mission we are undertaking.’

  No one moved, but he could sense their expectation.

  ‘From the accompany bonds, you know this endeavour will be direct and risky. We will be making a shipboard attack on an enemy facility. That facility is located in the Rimward Marginals, at a place called Salvation’s Reach. Specialism briefings will begin immediately after this address, and section leaders will be informed of specific mission requirements. We have, according to the revised estimate, about a week of lead time before we translate and begin deceleration approach of the target area. However, an estimated twenty-three hours from now, we will translate to effect a conjunction with other Battlefleet elements at Tavis Sun. This resupply is expected to last just a few hours, and is ship to ship. Unless this mission is altered or aborted, we will not see a friendly port until this work is complete.’

  He raised his head slightly, regarding them all.

  ‘I expect only the very best of you. I can’t pretend I can guarantee you will all return. But I ask you the one question I have always asked you. Do you w
ant to live forever?’

  There was a sudden, rousing cheer of approval from the ranks, like a close shell-burst, that made the double-headed eagle up on its perch flap its wings.

  ‘Now get to your stations and begin preparation,’ said Gaunt. ‘Dismissed.’

  As the congregation began to dissolve, Pol Cohran stepped out of the back rank of the band section and headed towards the nearest exit. A spray of synthetic skin had sealed his cuts and disguised the discoloration, but he had no wish to be in the company of others for longer than was necessary.

  Now he had information, and it was essential he used it.

  Beside the elevated platform, Gaunt turned to Hark and Fazekiel.

  ‘The men seem to be in good spirits,’ he remarked, watching them disperse.

  ‘They were inactive on Balhaut for too long,’ said Hark. ‘And the newcomers are keen to prove themselves.’

  ‘We are indeed,’ said Fazekiel.

  ‘By the way,’ said Gaunt, ‘where’s Edur?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since the start of day-cycle,’ said Hark.

  Vaynom Blenner walked into the infirmary section that had been reserved for the regiment’s use. There were another three infirmary units aboard to administer to the crew. This suite was old and poorly maintained. It was clearly a back-up facility. The chrome and stainless steel surfaces and wall plates were stained with limescale deposits and other, less appealing, residues. Autoclaves chugged like poorly maintained generator engines. The central examination room radiated into a ward, two surgical theatres, and some side chambers for storage and supplies, along with private office spaces for the medicae personnel.

  There was no sign of anybody. Blenner walked into the ward. One cot was occupied. Trooper Fulch from N Company had torn his shoulder unloading munitions boxes.

  ‘Where are all the doctors?’ Blenner asked.

  ‘They were here just a minute ago, sir,’ said Fulch.

  Blenner walked back out into the central examination room. Kolding suddenly emerged from one of the rear chambers. He was looking for something. He saw Blenner.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  Blenner stared back at the albino levelly.