[Gaunt's Ghosts 11] - Only in Death Read online

  It is a static murmur, a lisping echo at the back end of the frequency. It fades, and comes back, and fades again, incoherently. It fades and comes back in time with the harsh then soft throb of the house lighting. It pulses in tune with some slow, respiratory rhythm, the pulse of Hinzerhaus.

  Are those words, or just sounds? If they are words, what are they saying? Who are they speaking to? Is the voice telling lies or some awful, vital truth?

  The frequency tunes out, skipping from channel to channel in groans of noise and snatches of message. A hand reaches to the dial and turns it—

  II

  —off.

  Beltayn lowered his headset and sat back from his voxcaster. He swallowed.

  “What the feth?” he whispered. He leaned forwards again, and switched his set back on. He pushed one cup of the headset against his right ear and listened as he twiddled.

  “Hello? Who is that? Who’s using this channel?”

  Nothing. Just base-line static and wild noise.

  “Something awry?” Gaunt asked, tapping Beltayn on the shoulder.

  Beltayn jumped out of his skin.

  “Sorry,” said Gaunt, genuinely surprised by his adjutant’s reaction. “Calm down, Bel. What’s got you so spooked?”

  Beltayn breathed out. “Sir, it’s all right. Nothing. Just a… glitch.”

  “What sort of glitch?”

  Baltayn shrugged. “Nothing, really, sir. Just bad air. I’m getting ghosting on the Elikon freak.”

  “What sort of ghosting?” Gaunt pressed.

  “A voice, sir. It comes and goes. It’s pleading… asking for help.”

  “Where is it?”

  “No site or status code. I think it’s a vox echo.”

  “A vox echo?”

  “That happens, from time to time, sir. An old signal, bouncing back off something.”

  Gaunt paused. “Old or not, what does it say?”

  Beltayn heaved a sigh. “It keeps saying ‘Are we the last ones left alive?’ Variations on that particular theme. It keeps repeating.”

  “It’s not Elikon?”

  “No, sir. I’m getting Elikon signals layered over it. It’s background. I had to tune the vox right back to sandpaper wavelengths to hear it properly.”

  Gaunt frowned. “Well, keep doing that and let me know what you find. Right now, I need my scheduled link to Van Voytz.”

  “I’ll get it, sir. Take it in your office.”

  Gaunt wandered away across the base chamber as Beltayn began to adjust the knobs and dials of his caster.

  The mood in the place was grim. It had been a bad day, and Gaunt cursed himself for missing the worst of it. Forty men dead at the gate, according to Arcuda’s report, and twelve hurt, including Hark. The regiment was on alert condition red.

  Varl was waiting for him at the door of his room. The sergeant saluted Gaunt as he approached.

  “Major Rawne’s compliments, sir,” Varl said. “He requests your urgent attention in upper east twelve directly.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there in thirty minutes, Varl,” Gaunt said. “I’ve only just got back in. I’ve got this mess to deal with, and a vox to vox with the general.”

  Varl nodded. “I’ll tell him, sir. It’s important, though. He wanted me to make sure you knew that.”

  “Consider me aware,” said Gaunt. “Upper east twelve? You had a scrap up there, didn’t you?”

  “Saw off an infiltration attempt,” said Varl. “We think we know how they’re getting in.”

  “Really?” Gaunt hesitated. “Look, I’ve got to make this call. I’ll be with you as fast as I can.”

  Varl saluted again and hurried away.

  Gaunt walked into his office. There was no sign of Eszrah. The place was cold and empty. The lights faded softly and swam back up again. Gaunt wished with every fibre of his being they’d stop doing that.

  He sat down at his desk. He could hear a man wailing in pain down the hall, one of the wounded in the field station.

  Gaunt saw the red light winking on the vox-set on his desk. He got up, walked back to the office door and closed it, shutting out the sound of the screams. Then he walked back to his desk, sat down, and put the headset on. He pressed the connection key.

  “Sir, I have the general for you,” Beltayn said, a fuzzy distortion in his ear.

  “Thank you. Switch him through,” Gaunt said into the chrome mic, holding it close to his mouth.

  “Hello, Elikon, hello, Elikon? Yes sir, this is Gaunt. Yes, I can hear you quite clearly…”

  III

  “Will he be all right?” Ludd asked.

  Dorden looked up at the junior commissar and smiled reassuringly. The smile fanned patterns of age lines out around the old doctor’s eyes. “Of course,” said Dorden.

  Trooper Twenzet lay on the cot between them, stripped to the waist, his ribs dressed and wrapped. Dorden had given Twenzet some kind of shot, and the trooper was woozy and smiling.

  “Thanks, friend,” he said to Ludd.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Thanks for looking after me, though. Thanks. You’re all right, you are.”

  “Couple of days’ bed rest, and Mr Twenzet will be right as rain,” Dorden told Ludd. “In the meantime, I will keep him pharmaceutically happy and pain free.”

  “This stuffs great,” said Twenzet. “I feel wonderful. You should try it, friend.”

  “It’s not recreational, Twenzet,” said Dorden. “Let’s hope Mr Ludd doesn’t find himself in a position where he needs to try it.”

  “Course not, course not,” Twenzet nodded. “Anyway, thanks. Thanks, friend. You’re all right.”

  “I’ve left your weapon in the store,” Ludd told the Belladon. “You can reclaim it when you’re signed off fit again.”

  “No, no, you keep it,” Twenzet insisted. “Please, friend, you keep it. You might need some stopping power to see you through this.”

  Ludd smiled, believing a smile would do the trick.

  “I shouldn’t call you friend, though, should I?” Twenzet rambled on, suddenly troubled. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean no disrespect. You being Commissariate and all that. This stuff the Doc’s given me is making me all groggy and smiley. I should show you proper respect. Throne, I hope you’re not going to put me on a charge for being over familiar.”

  “Twenzet,” Ludd said, “get some rest. I’ll check back on you later, how’s that?”

  “That’d be nice, friend. I mean, sir. I mean—”

  “Nahum. My name’s Nahum.”

  “Is it? Is it? Well, I’m Zak. Like a las-round, me old dad used to say. Zak. Like a las-round.”

  “I heard the men in your squad call you Tweenzy,” said Ludd.

  Twenzet frowned. “Zak,” he said. “I bloody hate it when they call me Tweenzy.”

  “Zak it is, then. Get better. I’ll come back and see you.”

  Ludd moved away from Twenzet’s cot. The field station was busy. Over a dozen men lay on the makeshift cots, all of them, except Zak Twenzet, casualties of the battle at the gatehouse. Dorden had moved away to help treat a man who was screaming and thrashing in pain. The man had lost a leg. The stump was jerking around as if trying to plant a foot that was no longer there.

  Ludd looked away.

  He saw Hark.

  The bulky commissar was prone on his face on a cot in the far corner of the chamber. He had been stripped to his underwear, and Ana Curth was applying wet dressings to burns on his back and legs. His flesh was unnaturally pale. Ludd crossed to his bedside.

  “Don’t stand in my light,” Curth told him. Ludd stepped aside.

  Hark seemed semi-conscious. Out of his clothes, his augmetic was plainly visible. Ludd recoiled slightly from the sight of it, the bulky black and steel armature of the limb that had been plugged into Hark’s shoulder stump. Exposed servos whined and purred as the artificial hand clenched and unclenched. Ludd had always wanted to know how Hark had lost his arm. He had never had the guts to
ask.

  “How is he?” he asked quietly.

  “How does he look?” Curth replied, busy.

  “Not great,” said Ludd. “I was asking for a specific medical diagnosis.”

  Curth looked up at him. Her eyes were hard. “He was caught by a flamer. Thirty per cent burns on the back and legs. He’s in a great deal of pain. I’m hoping we can preserve the flesh without the need of a full graft.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I can’t do a graft here, with these facilities. If it turns out Viktor requires a graft, we’ll have to ship him out to Elikon, or he’ll die. How’s that for a diagnosis?”

  “Fine,” Ludd replied. “Might I point out your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, doctor?”

  “Meh,” said Curth, going back to her dressings.

  “One thing,” Hark groaned. “ ‘He’ can hear what you’re saying.”

  “Sir?”

  Hark waved Ludd close. “Ludd?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Hark slapped Ludd’s face.

  “First of all, the doctor’s doing the best she can, so don’t harass her.”

  “Understood, sir,” Ludd answered, rubbing his cheek.

  “Ludd?”

  Ludd leaned close again. Hark slapped his face a second time.

  “Don’t make friends with the troops, for feth’s sake. Don’t bond with the likes of Twenzet. He’s rank and file, and you’re Commissariate. You don’t mix. Don’t make him your new best friend. You have to preserve the separation of authority.”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I was only—”

  Hark slapped his face again.

  “I heard you. First name terms. He’s a dog-soldier, and you’re the moral backbone of the outfit. He’s not your friend. None of them are your friends. They’re soldiers and you’re their commissar. They have to respect you totally.”

  “I… understand, sir.”

  “I don’t,” said Curth, peeling the backing off another dressing strip. “Why can’t the boy make friends? Friendship, comradeship, that’s a bond amongst your lot, isn’t it?”

  “My lot?” Hark chuckled. “You’ve been around the Guard for so long, Ana, and you still don’t get it.”

  “Enlighten me,” she replied, tersely.

  “Nahum is a commissar. He needs to command complete and utter authority. He needs to be a figure of fear and power to the troop ranks. He cannot afford the luxury of friendships or favouritism.”

  “Actually sir,” Ludd said, “I’m just a junior commissar, so—ow!”

  Hark had slapped him again.

  “Ludd,” said Hark, “do I look like I’m going anywhere fast? Curth is plastering my arse with bandages, and the chances are I’m going to die.”

  “Just wait a minute!” Curth protested.

  “Shut up, Ana. I’m out of action, Nahum. The regiment is without a functioning political officer. This is your moment in the sun, lad. Field promotion, effective immediate. You’re the Ghosts’ commissar now, Ludd. You keep them in line. I can’t do it from a sickbed.”

  “Oh,” said Ludd.

  “I’m counting on you. Don’t feth it up.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “You’d better not.”

  Curth ripped off her blood-stained gloves and discarded them into a pan for Lesp to collect. “I’m done,” she announced. “I’ll be back in four hours to change the dressings.” She looked back at Ludd. “Congratulations on your promotion, commissar. I hope you can handle the responsibility.”

  She unceremoniously stuck a painkiller bulb into Hark’s left buttock. “There, that’ll help you sleep.”

  “Ouch,” said Hark.

  “You’ll take good care of him, won’t you?” Ludd asked Curth as she walked away. Curth looked back at Ludd with a narrowed expression that said are you suggesting I don’t take good care of all my charges?”

  “Oh. Of course you will,” Ludd said.

  “Ludd?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do it right, will you?”

  “I’ll do it the best I can, sir,” Ludd said.

  Hark was slipping away into the same happy void Twenzet had entered. “Ludd?” he slurred.

  “Sir?”

  “Pipes.”

  “What, sir?”

  “Pipes. Tanith pipes. Listen for them.”

  “The Tanith have no pipers, sir, not any more.”

  “Listen for the pipes, Ludd…. listen… the pipes, that’s the sign, the sign…”

  “Sir?”

  Hark had passed out. Ludd got up and walked out of the field station. Behind him, the man without a leg was still screaming.

  IV

  “I beg your pardon?” said Dalin.

  “I said, I need an adjutant, someone capable, now Fargher’s dead,” Meryn said. “I need a sharp man at my right hand. You read those charts in upper west sixteen yesterday, worked out where we were.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Are you turning me down, Dalin?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’d mean a bump in your wages, trooper.”

  “Captain, that’s not why I’m hesitating. I’m the most junior and inexperienced member of your company. I’m a scalp compared to the rest. Why not Neskon or Harjeon? Or Wheln?”

  “Neskon’s flame-troop. They’re all out, bug-eyed crazy men, you know that. Harjeon, him I don’t trust. Vervunhive civ. Too much of a starch arse. Wheln is old-school, but… feth, too much stiff nalwood in him. He’s not adjutant material, never will be, despite his veteran status. You, you know the ropes. You’re smart. I’m asking you, Dalin.”

  Dalin shrugged. And my father was Caffran and my mother is Criid and making me adjutant wins you points in the regiment, right?

  “This certainly isn’t about who your father was,” said Meryn. “I mean, get that idea out of your mind right now. I don’t care who your fething dad was, or who your fething mum happens to be. I want you because you’re the best choice.”

  “I just hope this decision won’t come around and bite you on the backside,” Dalin said.

  Meryn grinned. “Then make sure it doesn’t, adjutant,” he said.

  V

  “This objective—” Gaunt repeated.

  “Ibram, bear me out,” the vox said back to him. “All I’m asking you to do is watch the eastern flank.”

  “Barthol, please understand me. This is a doomed enterprise. The Blood Pact has already scaled the fortress wall. We just took a hit on our main gate. Our main southern gate.”

  There was a pause. “Please confirm your last remark.”

  “I said we have just been attacked on the southern side of the objective. The enemy is surrounding us. We’re holding an objective that is already compromised.”

  The link was silent for another long moment. There was just the wheeze of dead air.

  “Are you still there?” Gaunt asked. “Elikon, are you still there?”

  “Sorry Ibram, I was consulting the tactical officers. Look, it’s not going well, this banishment campaign. The bastards are holding their line with depressing success. We’re pushing hard from here, but the front is broadening and they don’t seem ready to break.”

  “That’s bad news, sir,” Gaunt said into the mic, “but that’s not the problem I’m left looking at here. The intelligence you based our orders on must have been inaccurate or out of date. The eastern line is already porous. The Blood Pact had penetrated the mountains long before we secured the objective. I don’t believe the enemy is here in any great strength yet, but it won’t be long. A week or two, they’ll sweep west and hit you from the side, and this fortress will not be the instrument you were hoping would stop them.”

  “I understand your predicament, Ibram. To be frank with you, I feared as much.”

  Gaunt didn’t reply. You as good as knew you were sending us to our deaths, Barthol. Didn’t you, you bastard? The intelligence wasn’t inaccurate or out of date. You knew.

&
nbsp; “Ibram? Are we still linked? Confirm?”

  “I’m still here, sir. What are your orders? Do we have your permission to withdraw at this time?”

  “Uh, negative on that, Ibram. I simply can’t conscience leaving the eastern flank open.”

  “We’re just one, small regiment, Barthol—”

  “Agreed. I’ll get you some support.”

  “Please elaborate.”

  “I can’t. This link may not be safe and we’ve said too much already. Stand by as you are. Consider your mission profile as changed. Explore all possibilities offered by Hinzerhaus and its surrounding geography to harass and delay the enemy.”

  “You want us to… keep them busy?”

  “As best you can. I’m asking this as a personal favour, Ibram. Keep them busy. Delay them.”

  “And you can’t tell me any more?”

  “Not on this link.”

  “Understood. But I need stuff if we’re going to survive.”

  “Define stuff?”

  “Water. And support, as I said. Heavy support.”

  “I’ve organised a water drop for you tonight or tomorrow. Further information will be conveyed at that time.”

  “All right. My men will be grateful for water, at least.”

  “I have to go, Ibram. The Emperor protect you. Keep the bastards busy.”

  “If it’s the last thing I do,” said Gaunt. But the link was already dead.

  VI

  Upper east twelve was cold and breezy, and stank of expended las-fire and an underlying, organic odour that Gaunt had been around long enough to recognise as burnt blood.

  As he strode along the hallway, under the cloche domes of the useless defences lining the roof space, Gaunt saw the blast marks and wall scars of the recent fire fight. Ludd and Baskevyl walked with him. Their clattering footsteps echoed back dully in the flat-roofed stretches of hallway, and rolled over them with a sharper sound as they passed under each cloche.

  “Officer approaching!” Baskevyl called out.

  Up ahead, a waiting fire-team turned to greet them: Rawne, with Varl, Mkoll and a dozen Guardsmen.

  “Barthol send us his warmest regards, then?” Rawne asked.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” replied Gaunt. “What did you want to show me?”

  “We’ve identified how the enemy is slipping in and out up here,” said Mkoll.