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THE VINGULA INSURGENCY
—— GHOST DOSSIER 1

(VOLTEMAND, 765)
 e GAUNT’S GHOSTS e
Dan Abnett

THE FOUNDING
BOOK 1: FIRST AND ONLY
BOOK 2: GHOSTMAKER
BOOK 3: NECROPOLIS

THE SAINT
BOOK 4: HONOUR GUARD
BOOK 5: THE GUNS OF TANITH
BOOK 6: STRAIGHT SILVER
BOOK 7: SABBAT MARTYR

THE LOST
BOOK 8: TRAITOR GENERAL
BOOK 9: HIS LAST COMMAND
BOOK 10: THE ARMOUR OF CONTEMPT
BOOK 11: ONLY IN DEATH

THE VICTORY
BOOK 12: BLOOD PACT
BOOK 13: SALVATION’S REACH
BOOK 14: THE WARMASTER
BOOK 15: ANARCH

More tales from the Sabbat Worlds

SABBAT WAR
An anthology edited by Dan Abnett

SABBAT CRUSADE
An anthology edited by Dan Abnett

SABBAT WORLDS
An anthology edited by Dan Abnett

e URDESH e
Matthew Farrer
BOOK 1: THE SERPENT AND THE SAINT
BOOK 2: THE MAGISTER AND THE MARTYR

BROTHERS OF THE SNAKE

A novel by Dan Abnett

DOUBLE EAGLE
A novel by Dan Abnett

TITANICUS
A novel by Dan Abnett

THE SABBAT WORLDS CRUSADE

A background book by Dan Abnett
 WARHAMMER
40,000

THE VINGULA INSURGENCY

GHOST DOSSIER 1

(VOLTEMAND, 765)

DAN ABNETT
 A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
First published in 2021.
This edition published in Great Britain in 2022 by
Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road,
Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
Represented by: Games Workshop Limited - Irish branch,
Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1,
DO1 K199, Ireland.
10%9)-377 65-4) 322

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Cover illustration by Mikhail Savier.
The Vincula Insurgency: Ghost Dossier 1 © Copyright Games
Workshop Limited 2022. The Vincula Insurgency: Ghost Dossier 1,
GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus
Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer
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logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles,
locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses
thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited,
variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 13: 978 1 80026 135 8

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the
prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed
in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or
incidents is purely coincidental.
See Black Library on the internet at
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Printed and bound in China.
 hig
For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat
immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the
Master of Mankind. By the might of His inexhaustible
armies a million worlds stand against the dark.

Yet, He is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the

Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of
Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so
that His may continue to burn.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold

billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody
regime imaginable. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage
and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow
drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.
This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little
comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and
science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement.
Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.

There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim

darkness of the far future,
there is only war.
‘Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch.
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umbered face...

...and their gestures sad,

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-torn coats,
Presenteth unto them the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. Oh, now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruined band...’
— Shakspire, the Fifth Henry
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The question isn’t how he died. A close-focus anti-personnel mine,
Militarum issue, had been rigged under the seat, arming via a pres-
sure pad when he sat down. And then he got up to leave.
The question isn’t who killed him. Insurgents have been targeting
Imperial infrastructure and staff for nine weeks.
The question is, how did they get in?
Ibram Gaunt stands at the window and looks down. The street,
Clavis Street, a main thoroughfare, is twelve storeys below. There
is no ledge, no hand-hold, no toe-hold. Nests of razor wire clump
every buttress, at every floor, around upturned crowns of spikes.
It’s hot. The city smells of hot plastek and burning fuel. There’s
a breeze from the east that brings the noise of traffic and worship-
horns, but it’s as dry as leather.
Gaunt stands a moment longer, hands behind his back. He
makes like he’s observing, but he’s seen all he needs to see. An
unscaleable wall. An absence of answers.
But he stands, gets some
air on his face, dry as it is. Gets it in his lungs, imagines it’s borne
10 DAN ABNETT

from some cooler place in the hills, not sandpapered by heat and
smoke.
There's an awful, hacking gurgle coming from the room at his
back. Shrapnel, maybe spalled casing from the device, maybe bone
shards from the victim, has punctured the room's climate system.
Pipes have ruptured. It’s still running, but it’s drowning in its own
coolant. Blue fluid drools down the wall from the grille. The air
gusting from the vents is no longer cold, and it stinks of ammonia.
He wants to turn it off, because it sounds like a wet death rattle,
but he knows how unbearable it’s going to get without the
unit.
One moment longer with the open air, at a window stripped of
glass by overpressure.
‘Do we have a name?’ he asks.
‘Talaxin; someone says. ‘Intendant, third grade. Payroll and,
uhm—’
Someone checks their notes.
Gaunt turns. The office is generally the way this Talaxin must have
seen it when he arrived that afternoon. Shelves, files, two charts
pinned up. The front of the desk is marvellously intact, but it has
no back, and there's no chair.
‘Payroll?’ Gaunt says.
The Administratum aide, whose name Gaunt has not been told,
is still checking his data-slate.
‘Payroll and provisioning, the aide replies. ‘Materiel requisition,
answering to Intendant Fallastrine and Provision-slash-Audit!
Gaunt nods, as though this means something. Militarum and
Administratum speak different languages.
‘Security check on all other offices; Gaunt says.
‘That's been instructed, sir/ says the aide.
‘But is it being done?’ Gaunt asks.
The aide’s data-slate doesn’t tell him that, so he nods and steps
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 1

out to check. The office air is filmed with motionless smoke. There's
a halo of cooked blood, black as baked treacle, coating the remains
of the desk, across the floor, up the walls and the bookcases, across
the ceiling. A few ceiling tiles, scorched, have started to dip. Gaunt
looks at the Tanith corpsman at the door. Chayker has brought a
body bag. There’s nothing to put in it.
Gaunt takes another look out of the window. Twilight's falling.
Far below, an impossible climb below, he can see figures on the
street, lit by the headlamps of Militarum trucks and carriers.
The climate unit chugs, splutters and dies, aspirating its own
coolant. The sudden lack of noise is oppressive. Nothing remains
except the muted wash of city noise, and the hum of the flies.
Breathless heat comes instantly. Gaunt feels the sweat break on his
back before he’s even out of the room.

Trooper Raglon follows him down the stairs.

‘That’s what? Six?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Eight, sir’ Raglon replies, consulting his slate. It’s not a slim steel
tablet like the aide’s. It’s Militarum issue, sturdy, with a vulcanised
cover for field-wear. It’s slow, perhaps defective. Or perhaps Raglon
is. He hasn’t got the hang of it yet.
‘I thought it was six/ says Gaunt. They're taking the stairs because
the building’s elevators have been locked down during the sweep.
Red emergency lighting has come up, thanks to tumblers shaken
by the blast. Raglon’s trying to walk and work.
‘Six in the last twelve days, says Gaunt.
‘Oh, yes; says Raglon. ‘Yes, six, in that period. Two others, but at
the back end of last month’
Gaunt pauses, turns, takes the slate from Raglon. He taps the sur-
face quickly, closing data blocks.
‘Clear the sub-panels, he says. He’s been using slates since the
start of his career. ‘See? This and this? They auto-archive and you
12 DAN ABNETT

can recall them with that icon. If you clear them, there’s more
cogitation power available for the work at hand’ He hands it back.
‘Thank you, sir’ says Raglon. He hadn’t noticed the icon. No one’s
even told him about the icon. The colonel-commissar’s had him
working as adjutant for three weeks, since Kosdorf. Raglon hopes it’s
not going to last. He’s a vox-trooper. He’s got the patch for it on his
sleeve. He did basic on casters and comm-ops, not this kind of duty.
It should have been Cluggan.
‘So, six, says Gaunt. He starts walking again, taking the stairs
at a pace. ‘Eight total. That’s since securement. All minor, low-tier
Administratum:
‘Yes, sit, says Raglon. ‘Except one. One was a local tithe collector
seconded to the occupation council’ Raglon remembers that. He
doesn’t have time to check it. But he’s pretty sure.
‘Litus B.R.U. had security responsibility for this building’ says
Gaunt. More a statement than a question.
‘Yes, sir. Do you want to revise that?’
‘I want to talk to their C.O., certainly. I want the sentries quizzed.
I want a review of procedure, and a look at any security feed. Set
me up with a meeting, their C.O!
Raglon pauses, concentrating on the slate.
Gaunt stops, and looks back at him. ‘You can schedule it via the
Militarum message annex, he says.
‘Yep; says Raglon, opening a sub-panel in error.
Gaunt bristles very slightly.
‘T'll just send a runner, Rafflan/ he says, and starts walking again.
‘Raglon, sir, says Raglon.
‘What?’
‘It's Raglon, sir’
Gaunt thinks about it, nods.
‘Right; he says. He’s generally good with names. Raglon, Rafflan.
Both vox-troopers. Easily done.
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 13

Raglon hesitates for a second, then follows. It’s not the first time.
It's as if they all look alike. All Tanith. All lasmen, interchangeable.
Gaunt remembers Cluggan well enough, because he mentions him
from time to time, but that’s no good to anyone because Cluggan
died at Voltis. It’s a name Gaunt should erase. More cogitation
power available for the work at hand. Feels like they've got to be
dead before they’re remembered.
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Rawne’s waiting outside on the street in the early night. Waiting,
but not necessarily waiting for Gaunt. Rawne always seems to be
waiting for something. An opportunity. A dark alley.
He’s standing with some of the men from First Section, chatting,
smoking a hand-rolled lho-stick. They're starkly side-lit by the head-
lights of a Militarum cargo-10. Their shadows, lean and black like
them, fall across the wall behind them, and across a brand new tin
sign that reads ‘Officio Departmento Administratum (Occupation
Council)’. It’s been pressure-bolted to the facade over an older brass
sign that read ‘Department of Taxation, Vincula City’
Gaunt steps into the fierce pool of light from the vehicles. Moths
and other dark-adapted insects are milling in the glare like wheat chaff.
Rawne sort of straightens, and sort of salutes.
‘Got the building secure, he says. ‘First, Third and Fifth sections.
Pulled the Litus out’
No ‘sir’. He doesn’t put his smoke out, either.
‘The Litus?’ asks Gaunt, not caring.

15
16 DAN ABNETT

‘Got them all in a mess hall across the street; says Rawne, pointing
vaguely. ‘Feygor’s taking statements’
‘All of them?’ Gaunt asks.
Rawne nods. ‘Especially those who were ground level door-watch,
perimeter, or freight access. But I thought you'd want them all pulled
anyway.
‘Correct, says Gaunt.
‘It’s what Corbec would have done, so...’
Gaunt nods. ‘Marksmen? he asks.
‘Oh, yes; says Rawne. He glances up, non-specifically, at the invis-
ible tops of buildings overlooking Clavis Street. They are soot-black
against a sky that’s been soot-black and starless every night since
they arrived, six days earlier. ‘Scoped up, watching, but there'll be
nothing’
‘Long gone?’
Rawne nods.
‘Or here the whole time, he adds.
The idea hasn't eluded Gaunt. A maraud could have got in,
then slipped away again. But the Litus B.R.U. is a solid regiment,
experienced, and they had perimeter watch on the Administratum
building. Gaunt will interview them, but an insurgent - a maraud,
according to jargon - would have had to be more than just cunning
to slip by. Paperwork, accreditation, a knowledge of scheduled deli-
veries or message-runner protocols. It’s unlikely.
Gaunt looks up at the face of the blocky government building.
Above the pool of headlamps, it’s a black cliff. Flush granite,
armoured windows. He can just make out the pockmarks of a
few shell holes and small-arms impacts near ground level, but still
nothing that could serve as purchase.
‘Could you go up that?’ he asks.
Rawne frowns. ‘Do I look like a fething larisel?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 17

Gaunt has no idea. He doesn’t know what one of those is.

‘A scout, then? Could one of the scouts?’
Rawne considers this long enough to show that it’s not an entirely
ridiculous question, then shakes his head.
As expected. The maraud didn’t slip in, and he didn’t free-climb
up the outside for twelve floors. Almost seventy per cent of the staff
working in the building, and the government compound, are locals:
local bureaucratic infrastructure, clerical, cleaners, catering, mainte-
nance. Someone who was supposed to be here, who was authorised
to be here, brought a Militarum-issue K10 anti-personnel mine and
a pressure trigger to work with them this morning.
Gaunt looks back at Raglon.
‘Get a full list of personnel/ Gaunt tells him. ‘Security checks, vali-
dations, work roster. We'll go through it all, and see if there’s any
crossover with the other incidents —- workplace, residential addresses,
routes to work...’
Raglon nods.
‘We're doing that, then?’ asks Rawne.
‘We're doing that; Gaunt confirms.
‘I just thought it might fall to Military Intelligence; Rawne suggests,
with a shrug. ‘More their speed’
‘Well, there are two Mil-Int officers in Vincula; says Gaunt, ‘and
they are hands-full with the general insurgency review so, yes,
ideally it would be their job, but we'll be doing it’
‘I just thought/ says Rawne, ‘now there are more of them here...’
Gaunt looks at him, his frown asking the question.
‘Arrived just now, says Rawne indifferently, gesturing to a large
group of figures waiting by the transports on the forecourt. ‘Convoyed
in from Voltis:
‘You didn’t think to tell me?’
‘I didn’t think you'd want them in the building until it was secure,
18 DAN ABNETT

says Rawne, ‘and you were busy: He says all of this in a flat tone
that’s supposed to sound reasonable, but his words might as well
be, ‘the elevators were locked down and I couldn't be bothered to
haul my arse up twelve flights to find you’
Rawne shrugs, scratches his neck, a gesture which only serves to
draw attention to his micro-bead earpiece, which has been pulled
out and is dangling over his collar.
Gaunt calls to Adare and Baffels, and tells them to oversee the
lockdown.
‘Let's go and present our compliments, he tells Rawne. It’s not
a suggestion.
‘Really?’ asks Rawne.
‘It's what Corbec would have done’

There are about seventy-five of them, standing listlessly beside

the transports. They're chatting, kitbags at their feet, brushing
aside the moths that come blundering into the light. Most look
like Administratum officials, robed and dusty from the road. They
have their all-weather slickers on, hoods up, zips drawn up to their
noses, individual cooler pumps humming. A few are Ecclesiarchs,
or Militarum officers in badgeless kohl-black uniforms.
‘Colonel-Commissar Gaunt?’ calls out one of the latter as Gaunt
and Rawne approach.
‘My apologies I wasn’t present when you arrived; says Gaunt,
returning the sign of the aquila. |
‘Major Glin Severt, the man says, with professional good humour.
He's got red hair, close cropped, and a craggy face. ‘Perfectly under-
standable, sir. You had your hands full. Can you speak to what
occurred?’
’ ‘Insurgency, Gaunt replies. ‘Explosive device in a twelfth-floor
office. One casualty, an Administratum intendant. We're beginning
our investigation, and a full security review:
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 19

‘There have been a number of hostile actions, we understand?’ asks

another man, also an intelligencer. He's shorter, with wire-framed
glasses, and an augmetic implant under his left ear.
‘Vincula Province hasn’t yet got the message it isn’t a warzone
any more, says Gaunt.
‘Tt will take time, says the shorter man. ‘Re-education, pacifica-
tion, restructuring of local governmental systems, redoctrination!
Thereit is. Gaunt had wondered how long it would be before
the intelligencers used one of their non-words.
‘The city is essentially secure’ says Gaunt, ‘provided one doesn’t
take stupid chances. But the province as a whole... There’s a lot of
farmland, grazing scrub, woodland. After Chanthar fell at Voltis, a
lot of the Archenemy went to ground, and they’re doing their best
to hamper the occupation programme:
‘Well, I hope we can be of some assistance, Severt starts to say,
genially enough, but a woman next to him cuts him off. She's
Administratum, her dust slicker done up with the hood raised so
Gaunt can’t see her face.
She says, ‘What kind of Archenemy?’
‘The kill-you-dead kind/ says Rawne. He’s just a bystander, arms
folded. The sarcasm drips off his words more freely than leaking
coolant from a punctured climate unit.
The man in glasses ha-ha’s at this.
‘Chanthar’s supporters; Gaunt says to her, briefly and directly,
then turns back to Severt.
‘Chanthar’s support came from the Aezyr and Bishrabi tribal
groups, predominantly, she says firmly, ‘but with some elements of
Waeshist and Magmeta groupings. The ethnic mix of the northern
provinces, including Vincula, is strongly Bishrabi’
Gaunt looks at her. He’s not sure what to say.
‘Seventy-two per cent, at the last census, she adds, as though this
is being helpful.
20 DAN ABNETT

‘They're Archenemy, says Rawne. ‘Archonate feth-heads. The locals

are Imperial’
‘Not precisely, the woman replies.
‘Of course they fething are’ says Rawne. ‘Voltemand is an Impe-
tial world. We've just liberated it. Us, actually, in person’ He taps
his chest bone with the tips of both sets of fingers. ‘They're not
fething bish-bang whatever you're talking about, or what would
the point be?’
‘The point; she says, very calmly, ‘is to properly understand who
we're fighting for, and who we're fighting against’
‘T think I've got a fething handle on who we're fighting against; says
Rawne. ‘And if you haven't, I’m not sure what the feth you're doing here’
The intelligencer in glasses ha-ha’s again, but it’s a nervous bark
this time.
‘Rawne, Gaunt says, sidelong, low.
‘The fething Archenemy-’ Rawne says. He’s on a roll now. Gaunt’s
seen this before. It’s partly the frustration of loss, partly fighting
spirit, and partly just Rawne’s basic nature as a bastard.
‘Major Rawne, Gaunt says. ‘As you were:
Rawne steps back.
‘We have to scrutinise local demographic composition; says Severt
smoothly. ‘That's one of the reasons Intendant Eiwolt is with us.
The Sabbat Worlds have been in Archonate hands for a number of
centuries. The Sanguinary Tribes are not just enemies we need to
unseat and drive back. In many - perhaps too many - instances,
they also, in a non-militant sense, form the population of many
of the worlds we're liberating’
‘Thorough assessment is necessary, says the man in glasses. ‘These
worlds won't just return to the Imperial fold overnight. In some
instances, they may never acquiesce, even after reconquest and
pacification. Psychological resistance will endure, and will return
to haunt us.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 21

‘If nothing else’ says Severt, ‘in the short term, a detailed under-
standing of cultural disposition will help us root out and quash
the insurgents, their sympathisers, and those who shelter them?
‘And if they don’t?’ asks Gaunt.
‘Don't?’ Severt echoes, puzzled.
‘Acquiesce, says Gaunt. ‘These worlds. If they remain hostile, in
their psychological make-up? If that outlook endures?’
‘More profound action would be necessary for non-compliant
worlds where the problem is endemic, replies the man in glasses.
‘You mean... fleet action?’ says Gaunt. ‘You mean V-notice?’
The man in glasses laughs. ‘That's not our place to say, sir’ he
says, ‘that would be a high command referral’
Severt looks at Gaunt. ‘And we don't like to talk about it in those
terms, he says.
Gaunt hesitates. He wants to pursue it, but Intelligence is noto-
tiously slippery with its answers, and this isn't the place. He has
seventy-plus Mil-Int, Ecclesiarchy and Administratum specialists
to house and log in. They will all have orders and instructions:
Militarum Command (Voltemand) has sent them all, with packet
orders, to oversee the occupation and get Vincula on its feet as an
Imperial provincial capital.
And he, he has his orders too. After Kosdorf, he was assigned to
oversee the occupation initiative here. He’s the senior Militarum
officer in the region. It’s not what he expected to be doing. Kosdorf
wasn't either. He and the Ghosts were supposed to have shipped
off Voltemand weeks ago, after Voltis City, on their way to the new
front. It’s politics. A perceived snub to the honour of Lord Mili-
tant General Noches Sturm. Sturm, who has taken credit for the
Voltemand reconquest and is now en route to further glories, has
left a task force behind to tidy up, which is why Gaunt is policing
a backwater agrarian province.
‘Do you have instructions for me?’ he asks. He hopes he doesn't
22 DAN ABNETT

sound too eager. ‘We're awaiting re-route orders. Has a permanent

provincial governor been appointed?’
‘This is the advance, says Severt. ‘Administratum Governor Balgrada
arrives day after tomorrow to take up his post’
‘At which point I'll be relieved?’
‘The governor will need a senior Militarum officer to oversee zone
security, says the man in glasses.
‘But that'll be someone else? Someone up from rearguard? My
unit and I will be reassigned?’
‘I'm sorry, says the man in glasses. ‘We don’t know anything
about that’
‘Forgive me, says Severt. He gestures to the man in glasses. ‘This
is Captain Daybell, who runs Interception and Ciphers for me’
The man in glasses makes the sign of the aquila.
‘I'll introduce you to the others; Severt continues. ‘They'll be key
personnel for the occupation effort. Intendant Vyce, tithe adminis-
tration. Intendant Gorlye, water and sanitation. Intendant Kashea,
transport infrastructure. Sub-intendant Lota, trade tariffs oversight.
Intendant Eiwolt, you've just met’
‘Xeno-ethnology, she says.
‘I would like to continue our conversation when the opportu-
nity presents, Gaunt says.
‘Of course; she replies. ‘I think it’s crucial material?
There are other introductions. The intendant for this. The advisor
for that. The sign of the aquila is made and returned. Gaunt doesn't
log names. He hopes he’s not going to be around here long enough
to need them.
He says a few words, the sort of thing expected from the acting
provincial commander. There'll be a briefing tomorrow. Prep for
the governor's arrival. He'll find them accommodation. Security
levels are heightened. He'll assign troopers to them to act as liai-
sons and guides until they're familiarised. He'll have to put Tanith
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 23

on it, because the Litus is stood down during the security check.
Most of them will be working out Of the municipal building that’s
just had a bomb go off on the twelfth floor. Some will be out at
Memnon House in the eastern Low Quarter. The intelligencers are
setting up a station in Vincard Quarter.
He steps away. The night is already heavy with a sweltering dry
heat, and it’s going to be long. He has the interviews, the investi-
gation to run, and he’s lost time on that already.
He thinks, Twelve floors up. Inside. It's got to be from the inside.
Local staffer. Like the woman said, one of these tribal loyalties. He
needs to learn more.
He starts relaying all this to Raglon, Rawne, Adare and Baffels.
‘T'll liaise with the xeno-ethnologist/ Rawne says.
Gaunt looks at him. He can’t read this. Is Rawne trying to make
up for his outburst? Has he suddenly been struck by some sense
of duty to match his hastily designated rank?
Gaunt sees the woman, Eiwolt, across the forecourt. She’s with
the others, collecting her travel bags. She’s unzipped her slicker and
pulled the hood down. Her hair is short and very blonde, and her
skin is even fairer. She’s from Khulan, a guess he’d made when he
heard her accent. She’s uncommonly striking.
‘Really?’ Gaunt says to Rawne.
‘Extending courtesy, says Rawne. ‘From the overseeing regiment’
‘Really?’ says Gaunt.
Rawne grins. ‘It’s what Corbec would have done; he says.
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Corbec says, ‘I don’t really want to do this; to no one in particular.
Himself, maybe.
He can’t see the city because it’s swathed in fog. The fog’s come
up every day, apparently, for the last nine weeks. He can’t see the
city, but he stares at it anyway.
Dorden hears him murmur. He knows it wasn’t addressed to him,
but he’s the only other person in the room. He pulls on woollen
mittens while he waits for the caff pot to heat. He wants to say
something encouraging. Perhaps remind Corbec that Gaunt told
him to do this, that responsibility has been placed on him. That
Gaunt sees this as an opportunity for Corbec to learn the duties
that fall to a senior regimental officer away from the battlefield.
But the best he can manage is, ‘Well, you're here now:
Corbec looks at him over his shoulder.
‘Wise words, Doc; he says.
The room’s cold, and almost empty. It was something once, some-
thing grand. You can tell that by the high ceilings, the moulded

20
26 DAN ABNETT

plaster cornices, the brass carnodon door handles, and the chande-
lier. But the chandelier doesn’t work, and the room’s been stripped
to its brown floorboards and beige walls. The only furniture is a
sideboard for the caffeine machine, and an armchair that Corbec
isn’t using. It feels colder than it is. That's due to the light. It’s
bright outside, strong daylight, but the white fog is dense and the
light falling through the grand windows is diffuse, as if it’s coming
through paper.
They can both hear the men in the room next door, having break-
fast. Domor is telling a story. Someone laughs.
Dorden puts his hand against the caff pot. It’s barely warm. He
decides the element's broken.
‘You'll mention the supplies?’ Dorden asks.
‘Of course, says Corbec.
‘We need them, says Dorden. ‘Counterseptic. Wadding. Lots of
wadding. Swinepox shots. Wound packs-—-’
‘I've got the list. You gave me the list’
Dorden nods.
‘So, how do I look, then?’ Corbec asks.
It's hard to tell. Corbec is just a black bulk against a black grid
of window bars against paper-white light. Dorden ushers him over.
Corbec ambles into the centre of the empty room and stands, as if to
receive parade inspection. He’s wearing his number one dress uniform.
The colonel is impressive, but it’s hard to say why without
sounding impolite. He’s big and bearded, and the uniform doesn’t
suit him. He looks like an outsized child who has got into a
dressing-up box. He looks as if he’s reluctantly attending a wed-
ding. The collar can’t disguise his tangled beard. The sleeves are
insufficient to contain his forearms, thick as hams. Some tattoos
are visible. The formal dress gear has failed to tame his barbarian
demeanour. That's what it is. It’s not that he’s unusually smart. It’s
that the smartness isn’t winning.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 27

Dorden licks the pad of his thumb, and rubs dirt off Corbec’s
regimental pin. The dirt had been applied deliberately.
‘Can't have that/ says Dorden.
‘Certainly not, Corbec replies, giving himself a double chin as
he squints down to watch what Dorden’s doing.
‘Spick and span; says Dorden.
‘Absolutely:
‘Cap?’ asks Dorden. The cap’s under Corbec’s arm.
‘Doesn't fit; says Corbec. The colonel’s tied his mane of black
hair back. Trooper Meryn has supplied some sort of pomade that’s
supposed to slick down hair, but it seems to have added volume,
and now Corbec smells faintly of lavender.
‘You'll do/ says Dorden, because it’s true. ‘You look commanding’
‘What's the time?’
Dorden’s about to check, but the bell tower across the square
starts sounding the quarter. The chimes come flat and dull through
the fog.
‘I'd best be getting down there, says Corbec.
‘You know the way?’ asks Dorden.

He does, of course. The fog’s thick in the square outside. The city
remains invisible, but Corbec knows it. The Tanith have that knack.
They don't get lost. Corbec doesn’t believe the Tanith are any better
than the next bugger when it comes to finding their way around. It’s
just a myth, a traveller's tale about the wild and wandering woods
of Tanith. Corbec knows the way because he knows the city, and he
knows the city because he’s been here before. Nine weeks before.
Ousting the demagogue Chanthar from Voltis City. The Tanith First's
second deployment. Should have been the second citation on their
regimental record, but some bigwig took the credit. Corbec knows
the Mirewoods out west, the Bokore River, the Metis Road running
in from the crossroads at Pavis. He knows the walls, the southern
28 DAN ABNETT

hub, the marketplace, the old mills, the Bokore Bridge, the Voltis
Watergate. He knows the ground they fought for, the streets they
cleared, the sites of little victories, and the insignificant corners
where they left their dead.
Corbec didn’t want to be a colonel, but the job came begging,
and someone had to take it. The men looked to him, he’s not sure
why. He didn’t want the burden, but he’d rather they were led to
their deaths by someone who cared about them than by someone
who didn’t give a shog’s arse who they were.
Gaunt seemed like that kind of someone at the start. Typical
officer class, with the bitter taste of the gentry about him, and
the added hard edge of Prefectus. And a war hero, apparently. If
Corbec’s opinion of Gaunt had been solicited at the start, it would
have been, ‘Tall bastard. Toff’ Now it would be, ‘Tall bastard. Toff.
But seems all right’
Kosdorf had helped, a little, even though Kosdorf had been a
thankless pile of swine flop. Corbec had seen that Gaunt was trying,
trying silently, trying to do right by them and do his duty at the
same time. He’d seen it in Gaunt on Blackshard, and at Voltis Water-
gate, and at Kosdorf, so he’d started trying too.
Not that there was much alternative besides ‘give up’. Hey-ho.
His dull footsteps follow him through the fog like there’s
someone tailing him. The Royal Sloka sentries at the gatehouse
salute him, belatedly, when they notice his pins.
Corbec doesn't like being a colonel. Some bits of it especially.
He’s comfortable on the line, in the mud, where decisions matter,
but he doesn’t care for the polite stuff, the formal stuff. He doesn’t
like getting gussied up. He doesn’t like the salutes and the digni-
fied solemnity. He doesn’t like having to watch his language, and
not say things like ‘feth-wipe’ or ‘cock-handed’ in a room full of
toffs in jodhpurs. He doesn’t do politics. Or jodhpurs. He doesn’t
like having to ask for things.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 28

He knows these are the exact reasons Gaunt has sent him to
Voltis City. If there are things you're bad at, you get better at them
by doing them.
He’s on time. Two minutes early. There’s no one else there. He
waits in a room that’s as forsaken and high-ceilinged as the one he
came from, except that this one seems to be a museum for vases
full of dead flowers on jardiniéres.
He waits. He looks at the backlit fog out of the window. Two men
come in, carrying a table. They look at him. He looks at them. They
leave. Corbec hopes they're coming back with chairs.
They're not.
After five minutes, a Slokan subaltern enters, dragging an easel
that she sets up beside the table. She pins a chart to it, standing on
tiptoe to reach the top corners. She looks at Corbec.
‘Not long, sir; she says.
‘Never is, he replies.
Her face shows that she has no idea what to make of that com-
ment, so she nods and exits. After another minute, the top right-hand
corner of the chart curls and pings the thumb tack across the room.
He’s picking it up when the first of them arrives.
A Ketzok colonel. Corbec knows a few of them, but not this one.
‘Tanith?’ the man asks.
‘Corbec; Corbec nods. ‘Colonel, he adds.
‘Sardoza, the man replies. ‘My friend Ortiz spoke well of your
boys:
‘Ortiz is a fine fellow; says Corbec.
‘The finest; Sardoza agrees. They stand in awkward silence. Corbec
wonders whether he should push the pin back into the chart. He
thinks it might make him look inferior. Officers don’t pin up their
own maps.
‘Damn fog, says Sardoza, removing gloves that fit him really
well. Corbec makes a noise that suggests sympathy and agreement.
30 DAN ABNETT

‘Couldn't find my way here, says Sardoza. ‘Got lost on, uh... on
Voltine Street. Went the wrong way. Damn fog’
Corbec nods. ‘It’s a b... burden to us all/ he says, managing to
make ‘burden’ out of ‘bugger’ just in time.
The doors open again. They both turn. General Hadrak sweeps
in, flanked by several officers: Slokans, Litus, Tavians, some others.
Sardoza snaps to attention. Corbec does too, but it’s not so much a
snap as an uncomfortable shudder. He’s relieved that Sardoza has
already removed his cap and has it tucked under his arm, because
it makes it less obvious that Corbec’s doesn't fit.
‘As you were, says Hadrak, commanding, genial. ‘My apologies,
my apologies! You'd think a damned militant general could be on
time for his own damn briefing!’
Everyone laughs.
‘I blame the fog, my lord, says Sardoza.
‘The fog indeed, Teto/ Hadrak agrees. First names. They know
each other. They all know each other. ‘We got lost on the way here.
Filthy morning again. Couldn't see my arse in a shaving mirror’
Everyone laughs again.
‘Shouldn't have been shaving your arse; Corbec doesn’t say, and
then wonders if he has accidentally said it, because the general is
looking at him.
‘Colonel Corbec, says Hadrak. He’s smiling. Corbec’s never met
him, but he knows him because Hadrak had zone command on
Blackshard. He’s a small, neat man. Everything about him is imma-
culate: his silver buttons, his braid, his black dress uniform, his
boots. His jodhpurs. He’s precision in human form, right down to
the rhythm of his speech and the soft hiss of his ‘s’ sounds.
‘A pleasure, he says to Corbec. ‘Your men did me a fine turn on
Blackshard. A fine turn. Locked up the citadel, neat as you please.
Good job’
‘Thank you, sir, says Corbec. ‘I was hoping-’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 31

Hadrak’s already turned away, clapping his hands.

‘Which is how I come to be here, he’s telling the rest of them.
‘Blackshard’s secure, may the Emperor smile upon our work, so |
take over sphere command here to oversee the occupation and estab-
lish lines of supply for the prosecutions at Caligula and Monthax.
That's the top and bottom of it. I've been on Voltemand for two
days, so lam very much running to catch up. My old friend Noches
Sturm did not... How can I put it?’
‘Tidy up his office behind him, sir?’ suggests one of the Royal
Slokans.
Hadrak laughs, so everybody else does too.
‘Delicately phrased, Nikolai; says Hadrak. ‘Noches is glory-
oriented. Always has been. Keen to get on. Eyes on the prize. But,
my friends, there is always drudge work. Conquest is just the start
of a soldier's job, as my friend Barthol Van Voytz always says:
His tone drops, from hearty to solemn. The practised ease of a
trained public speaker.
‘Let's make no mistake about it, my friends, Hadrak says. ‘Volte-
mand is a vital world. Vital. And it will be a proud Imperial
world again, ‘ere long. Therein lies the task. The Archenemy is
vanquished. The population liberated. But canker remains. Pock-
ets of resistance. Archenemy survivors run to ground. Revolt and
uprising are distinct possibilities. Voltis City is secure, and Kosdorf
put to rest, thank the Throne. But Metis, High Voltar, Pavis Pro-
vince, the mountain region, Vincula Province. These all remain
areas of concern:
He delivers this last part looking at the chart on the easel.
‘Now, my main oversight is of course installing the interim gov-
ernment, and supporting the Administratum’s initiative as they
move in to take control of this world’s vital organs of governance
and management. Work that, I know, elicits an inward groan from
all career soldiers present, but it is necessary. Provincial governors
82 DAN ABNETT

have been appointed, and we need to make sure they are in place
and protected while they take up their duties’
Hadrak looks at the map again.
‘Bloody corner of this thing...’ he mutters. ‘Does anyone have
a tack? A pin?’
Corbec has a pin. He has the pin. He doesn’t want to say so.
‘Allow me, my lord; says a Slokan officer. He’s wearing the impres-
sive uniform of the Royal Fifth. He steps up, and stabs the corner
of the chart in place with a little sleeve-dirk.
Everyone laughs. Hadrak claps.
‘Very good, Kurt; he says. ‘And by way of illustration, what Kurt's
done there is demonstrate versatility, quick-thinking and improvisation.
Those things need to be our watchwords here on Voltemand. Working
with the Departmento Munitorum, I will, of course, make every effort
to keep you all supplied with everything you need to get the job done.
Nikolai, I know Metis is woefully short of field munitions. Vassily,
you were urging me about transportation deficiencies in High Voltar—’
‘Medical supplies; says Corbec.
‘I'm sorry?’
‘Vincula Province; says Corbec. ‘We're very short of medical
supplies. For the troops and the population’
‘Quite so; says Hadrak.
‘T have a list/ Corbec adds, reaching for his pocket.
‘Yes, you can hand that along to one of my staff in a bit, colonel;
says Hadrak. ‘My point is, I'll give you the tools for the job, wher-
ever I can. Ask and you shall receive. But we're going to be short
in many areas until the supply lines are running at optimal levels,
so it’s versatility, quick-thinking and improvisation until then. We
become ingenious. We make do. If we don’t have the flakboard
and composables to build forward bases, we use local brick. If we
don’t have food shipments, we use regional produce. If we don’t
have the tractor units to clear highways, we use gun-carriages—’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 33

‘What do we do about seeing in this damn fog?’ asks one of the

Tavians. Everybody laughs, fchiding Hadrak.
‘I hear it’s the Tanith’s fault’ says the Slokan Fifth officer.
‘I’m sorry?’ says Corbec. Everyone's smiling.
‘The enemy opened the city sluices when you assaulted the water-
gate, says the Slokan. ‘Then you mined the western outfalls. Major
flooding, right along the valley. The Bokore broke its banks. That's
why we've been fogbound for weeks’
Corbec nods. The pause is slightly the wrong side of comfortable.
‘Well, Voltis was taken; says Hadrak. “That's the main thing, Kurt.
A little fog never hurt anyone. My point is, we use what we can
to make do’
‘What about medicae resources?’ asks Corbec. ‘What do we use
for those?’
‘Well; says Hadrak. ‘I, uh-’
There’s a clatter behind him. The curl of the heavy chart has
plucked the Slokan sleeve-dirk out and thrown it onto the floor.
Corbec picks it up. It’s very light. The blade is barely the length
of his index finger. He hands it back to the Slokan officer. Then
he smoothes the curling corner of the chart out and punches his
straight silver through it. Six centimetres of blade stick out the back
of the easel’s board.
‘Sometimes an improvisation doesn’t hold for long, he says.
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They call them woods, but they're not woods, not like Tanith had.
Scrappy, jagged trees with white bark and limp grey leaves. ‘Weeds,
Larkin remarks, so that’s what they call them. There’s a stand of them
above the road bridge, and then denser woodland shrouding the
valley beyond the meadows.
Dawn, just after. The light’s low and hard, and they're out beyond
the eastern end of Vincula, where the town’s road system meets the
country highway. If the insurgents fled town this way, then they're
long gone. It’s open country, rolling. The locals know the tracks.
They know the farmsteads, the barns, the feed silos that sit, alone
and isolated, on the skyline. They know where to hide.
But Gaunt called for sweeps, so they're out before dawn. Three
open-top Tauros runners, caked with dry mud, gunning up the road,
single file. It’s just a track. It doesn’t live up to the name ‘country
highway’ any more than the woods are woods.
Sergeant Bray has patrol command, but Varl is driving the lead
runner. He’s gleeful, driving too fast, despite Bray’s disapproval
38 DAN ABNETT

from the side-seat, and that’s why they come to an abrupt halt at
the bridge.
There’s a herd on the bridge, and spilling into the paddocks on
either side of the slow river. Varl pulls up hard in a spin of dirt.
The grox are placid, a sandy colour, but they're big. They'd walk
away from the sort of impact a Tauros might not.
The Ghosts dismount. Local herdsmen watch them, barely
curious. The herdsmen wear the bound leggings and laced coats
of the regional style, and big sun hats. Bray observes them for a
minute. The herd looks like it’s been halfway across the bridge since
the beginning of time. There is no sign of flow. It’s impossible to
tell in which direction they're supposed to be crossing.
‘Have a word, Bray tells Varl. Varl nods and walks up the track.
Bray signals, deft gestures. The Ghosts fan out, either side of the
road. A couple slip over the drystone walls to cover the fields.
Bray points at Larkin, indicates the stand of trees. Larkin hoists his
long-las and jogs off in that direction, tailed by Baen, the section’s
scout.
The scrub’s thorny. The ground’s baked dry. The trees are even
more disappointing up close. They’re brittle and dead-looking.
Larkin scopes up, and scans the valley ahead. Baen pulls out
field glasses, and does the same, but standing, with the glasses
braced against a low branch. They can hear the gurgle of the river,
the lowing of the livestock. There’s a stink of dung that pinches the
throat. |
‘Open, says Baen. He means the land’s open, right up to the next
treeline, half a kilometre away over the pasture.
Larkin grunts. ‘What's that?’ he asks.
Baen looks where the marksman points. ‘Track; he says. ‘Sunken
track: It runs like a seam from the far woodline down the edge of
a pasture spread, almost to the river west of them until it loops
and gets lost in reed beds.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 37

Larkin’s got his map out of his thigh-pouch, folding it back to

keep it small, but get the right bit.
‘Drover trail’ he says.
‘The area's full of them/ says Baen. He remembers it from the
briefing. ‘This is grazing land’
It is. Cattle country. The pastures are vast, like moors, dotted
with the dry patties of grox dung. The locals use the old trails
to drive their herds up-summer and down-winter. Only occa-
sionally do they use the highway, like when they need a bridge
to cross a river.
The trail’s not dug. Larkin can see it’s not a ditch. It's a groove,
worn by centuries of plodding livestock.
‘I get down in that; he remarks to Baen, ‘I could get all the way
up to the treeline without you seeing me:
Baen nods. He doesn’t doubt it. He could do it himself. So could
anyone, and they wouldn't have to be a Tanith scout.
‘T'll take a look; says Baen.
Larkin shakes his head. He’s got his scope on the treeline at the
top of the trail. It's a lot higher magnification than Baen’s glasses.
‘Movement, he says.
‘Treeline?’
‘Uh-huh?
Baen waits. Flies buzz. Insects chirrup in the dry grass. In the
background, the snorting of cattle taking eternity to cross a bridge.
The dead tunk of neckbells on the lead steers.
‘Well?’ asks Baen.
‘Can't see it now, says Larkin. ‘But something’
‘Ambush?’
‘No, too far up. But tell the sarge:
Baen rubs his nose and trickles back down the slope to the road.
‘Larks has seen something, he tells Bray, and points where. Bray
brushes a persistent grox-fly away from his face and checks his map.
38 DAN ABNETT

Varl wanders back. ‘They're coming this way, he says. ‘Into town.
Market or something’
‘Can they speed it up?’ asks Bray.
‘I think this is them doing that; says Varl. The low sun’s at the
wrong angle, right in his eyes. Hot already. He takes a swig from
his canteen.
Bray looks at his map. He walks over to the lead Tauros, and lays
it out on the hood. The engine cover’s hot as a stove top. He checks
the patrol routes, marked in grease pencil. He double-checks their
own position off the vehicle’s auspex unit, which is bolted to the
dash, but there’s only one river, and only one bridge.
He reaches into his breast pocket, and pulls out his code book.
Brown paper, easy to burn. The pages are like tissue. He checks the
day's assigned numbers.
He adjusts his micro-bead. Rafflan will have to set up the caster
if the range is too poor.
‘Two-two, he says. ‘Two-two, this is One-six-five’
He repeats it. Three digits for a full mobile section. Two digits
for a scout unit.
Up in the stand of trees, Larkin feels his earpiece buzz. Comms
active. He keeps his scope on the treeline.

Mkoll feels the tap in his ear. His micro-bead is set to silent. He
doesn’t respond immediately.
Two-two is a four-man scout section. They're in woodland, on a
spur that the maps mark merely with a gradient number. Sunlight’s
coming in at a low angle, shafting between the bone-white tree
trunks, dappling through the scrappy canopy, casting long, starved
shadows. The day’s heat is already building, but the hill spur is high
enough for them to feel a breeze coming across the pasture land,
across the river. Leaves stir and tremble, like dry paper decorations.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 39

They've been silent for two hours, the first ninety minutes out of
operational habit, the last thirty because they're actively hunting.
Doyl spotted something as they were coming up the hillside trail
from an abandoned farm, where they'd been checking sheds and
outbuildings for boltholes or signs of recent occupation. The sun-
light caught something, metal, glass. Maybe nothing, but Doyl’s
eyes are good, always have been. And there should be nothing
up here. Just a long, deep stand of woodland crowning a hill-
side, overlooking pasture, about a kilometre above the highway
and the bridge.
It takes them slightly off their planned patrol sweep, but they agree
without words. They reach the treeline, and melt into the angular
shadows. Doyl has point, then Mkoll and Caober, then Mkvenner in
the tail. No more than twenty metres apart, but they can’t see each
other. Yet each man knows exactly where the others are.
Another tap.
Mkoll stops. He doesn’t want to. They're on to something. They
haven't seen anything since they started their uphill trek, but there’s
been a hint of voices, and a faint smell. But he stops, hand signs.
The others stop too. They've felt the tap.
Mkoll backs in behind the bole of a large, withered tree. Its bark
is like chalk. Its aged limbs are creaking in the breeze. He checks
the volume and takes his comms off silent.
‘Two-two, this is One-six-five.’
Bray's patrol. Mobile section. Mkoll pinches the clicker on the
cord of his earpiece. Acknowledge.
‘One-six-five, at the bridge H-54, cityside. Holding here, local activity.
Spotter reports movement.’
Bray gives a bearing. Mkoll checks it against his mapbook. It
matches. Whatever Bray’s spotter — Larkin, Mkoll guesses — has
seen, it's the same thing his team is stalking.
40 DAN ABNETT

One pinch. Acknowledge. Two more. Stand by.

‘One-six-five, copy.
Mkoll looks around. He can’t see the pasture from where he is. He
makes another gesture, then ducks around the tree and slips through
the scrub and leaf litter. Insects buzz, drawn to resin weeping from
knots in the trees. Leaves rustle. He makes no sound.
Twenty metres, then down, behind an old stump, among briars.
Check lines of sight. No visible contacts. Still no trace of whatever
they're hunting.
From his new position, he has a better view beyond the treeline.
The fold of the hill beneath him, steep in places, deep in shadow.
Below that, the wide, undulating slope of the pasture, sunlit. Beyond
that, a kilometre away, the glint of a river, mostly hidden by its
banks and reeds. The squiggle of the highway, like a thread scar
across the dry pasture. A scrappy stand of trees on a low rise. His
maps says that’s close to the crossing.
He takes out his scope, a compact monocular, built for rail-
mounting on a weapon. He scans, adjusting focus, panning. Yes.
The bridge. Magnification shows him the old bridge. A big herd of
livestock blocking it, on the bridge and either side. Locals, herds-
men. One of them shakes a stick at a grox. Mkoll sweeps right,
overshoots, goes back. Three Militarum runners at the roadside,
pulled up on the far side of the bridge, waiting for the cattle to
pass. That's Bray. He can see the sergeant beside his Tauros. There’s
Varl, Rafflan, Loell, Roskil. 7
He adjusts again, pulls to the stand of trees. He can’t see anyone,
but that’s where the spotter will be. No, there he is. Larkin. Well
hidden, but not perfect. Mkoll can see the flash suppressor of his
long-las, and by extension, a patch of scrub between two trees
that’s actually Larkin.
He pans sideways. River, beds of reeds, pasture. Wide open, bare
to the sun. But there’s a line, just a smudge. He consults his chart.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 4

Drover trail. He looks back, follows it. It's not completely visible,
but he can trace sections of it. It comes right back up to the treeline,
entering the woods about seventy metres ahead of where he is.
He puts the scope away. He retraces his steps to his original posi-
tion, shadow to shadow, head down. A papery fidget of breeze.
Caober’s waiting for him.
The details are beyond the ambit of Tanith hand-signs. If they ever
have time, they'll have to develop a better, more complex system.
Mkoll uses his mapbook, and marks the specifics with his wax
pencil. Here, here, here. An arrow shows his intention. Caober nods.
Mkoll pinches again. Stand by.
He and Caober move, low. Mkoll makes one hand signal, drawing
Doyl and Mkvenner after them. The trees are more closely packed,
the ground cover thicker. Thorn, more bramble. No further sign of
voices, but there’s that smell again. It’s hard to catch, hard to sepa-
rate from the dry odours of the woodland: bark, resin, pollen, dust,
the decomp of leaf-litter. But Mkoll can tease it out, like identifying
one particular herb or spice in a stew, because it’s not natural. It’s
man-made. It’s grease. It’s oil, but not promethium.
He stops. Caober stops. They're invisible to him, but Mkoll knows
Doyl and Ven have stopped too. Wait.
He can see something. Half a something. Looks like a body. No,
a bedroll. No, a tarp. A tarp or agricultural sheeting. Thirty metres
up, among brambles under a tree.
He starts to move, stops again. Here we go. One more step was
all he needed. Mkoll half-rolls onto his side to peer out under a
low branch.
Yes. Twenty metres away, to his right, ten metres shy of the tarp.
There’s someone in cover behind a pair of gnarled trees. He can see
a foot. Part of a knee. Leather bindings wrapping cloth.
He could take the shot, probably make the kill, but that would be
noise. That would kick it off. There will be others. He signs Caober
42 DAN ABNETT

to stay low and provide cover. Caober takes aim. Mkoll edges back
and then goes the other way around the tree. Four metres, five.
Duck, wait. He can see a shoulder now. No, it’s the brim of a sun
hat that’s been set against a tree. He draws his warknife.
He moves as if time is slow, as if the air is glue. Every motion
slow and silent and considered, lingering, a centimetre at a time,
like an indulgent mime.
Two metres more and he'll make the lunge. It'll be quick, and
soundless.
Something slams into him from the side, bringing him down into
the undergrowth. There’s a fierce triple-crack of las-fire.
Mkvenner’s on top of him, pushing him down, keeping him low.
On his back, Mkoll sees another las-bolt flash over them. He feels
the pressure-pop of its passage.
They roll apart. The tree bole behind them is holed and smoul-
dering. If Ven hadn't tackled him...
His intended target is active, surprised by the gunfire. He swings
out. A local, a drover, holding an antique laslock. A single shot from
Caober drops him like a sack. More shots spit over them, coming
the other way. Doyl, from the far side, trying to target the source
of the gunfire. A branch splinters. Dead leaves billow. Mkoll and
Mkvenner belly forward. Another shot whines over them, but it’s
from a different angle.
‘Shooter, left, forty metres,’ Doyl says over the link.
Mkoll can’t see him. More shots, zipping through the trees, but
from yet another angle. They’re aimed at Caober, because Caober’s
revealed his position by firing. Mkoll hears Caober yelp, but it’s
surprise, not pain.
Where's the shooter? Where the feth is he?
Mkoll and Mkvenner break, making low sprints to reach the
closest of the larger trees. A shot explodes bark from the one Mkoll’s
chosen. That’s not a laslock.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 43

There’s a shot from his left, a little wild. That is a laslock. A

heavy snap-crack. Another crater like the one Caober dropped.
He’s pumping off single shots at Mkoll and Mkvenner with his
long-barrelled weapon. His aim is poor.
Mkoll’s opportunity for refined aim is also woeful. But he’s got
a Mk III las, Militarum grade, in perfect order. He rips off a burst
that levels the drover and riddles the tree beside him. Behind him,
Ven takes a shot, then another, firing into tree-shadow.
Silence. Broken leaves flutter down. Threads of fyceline smoke
drift.
Mkoll moves. Ven goes with him. He can hear Bray’s tiny, tinny
voice on the link. No time to answer. No shots chase them. Nothing.
The shooter's withdrawn, or he’s waiting.
They drop in beside the tarp. Mkvenner’s aiming, switching, left,
right, low left.
‘Gone?’ Mkoll asks.
Mkvenner nods.
Mkoll lifts the tarp. It covers two metal crates, Munitorum issue.
The lid’s off one of them. Munition crates, K10 anti-personnel
mines, cased individually like little galvanised ration boxes. The
boxes are packed in straw and wadding that’s been lubricated with
anti-spark machine oil. That was the smell. No mistaking it.
The case lids are stamped ‘ORDNANCE K10 AP - TOP TOWARDS
TARGET” The crates are marked ‘Astra Militarum - Voltis Depot’
There are six mines missing.
Doyl joins them, weapon aimed. Caober calls to them. He’s
moved ahead, onto an old, snaking path that leads out of the
woods.
‘Tracks, he says. ‘Four or more adults, moving fast. No attempt
to cover’
There were others. They've fled.
‘Direction?’ asks Mkoll.
Aq DAN ABNETT

‘Downhill’ says Caober. ‘I think there’s a drover’s trail’

Mkoll gets on the link, starts telling Bray that someone’s coming
their way. He looks at Ven. Ven is looking uphill, into the thicker
woods.
‘They've gone downhill’ Mkoll says.
Mkvenner nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.
Varl cocks his head.
‘Contact, he says, listening. ‘That's contact’
They can hear it. Sharp cracks, like sticks breaking, and some deeper
thumps, like someone striking an empty barrel with a hammer. Dis-
tant. It's coming from the woods, just over a kilometre away.
The section moves. Some are already in position. Bray gets on
the comms.
‘Two-two, Two-two? Report. Two-two? Advise status.
More cracks. It’s sporadic. Then nothing.
‘Saw flashes,’ reports Larkin, from the stand of trees.
‘Hold and watch; Bray replies. He tells Rafflan to get on the main
caster and call it in, then tries the ‘bead again.
Loell’s reversing the second Tauros off the road, so it's side on to
the bridge and he can track around the .30 mounted on its roll-cage
pintle. He shouts for a loader. Someone runs over.
Varl’s got his lasrifle out of the lead runner. He checks its load
as he strides up the track towards the bridge.

45
46 DAN ABNETT

‘You have to get clear!’ he shouts. The drovers stand and look at
him as if he’s stupid, which is a familiar feeling for Varl. One flicks
the brim of his sun hat with a stick to shoo flies.
‘Clear!’ Varl shouts, gesturing. ‘Get yourselves clear! Get the live-
stock off the bridge!’ The grox don’t seem to have moved at all, except
for a few at the lead that have ambled down the roadside slope beside
the bridge and are grazing on the lush grass at the near bank.
‘Come on!’ Varl yells.
He hears a gunshot, loud and really close. It makes him start.
He looks left, in time to see another muffled blink of light in the
tree stand. Larkin’s shooting, single shots.
‘Movement in the trail,’ Baen says, over the link. ‘Drover trail, far
side. Sixty metres west of the bridge.’
Varl starts to move towards the trees, then stops. He looks at
the drovers. They're still idling, watching, unperturbed, except a
couple who have started tapping the flanks of their grox with their
sticks, calling out.
‘You've got to move; Varl says. He walks over to the nearest one.
‘Astra Militarum, he exclaims in the man’s face, over-pronouncing
each word. He taps his uniform patch. ‘You have to clear the bridge
now! By order! You're not safe!’
The man looks back at him. His face is lined and very tanned.
He looks concerned, but not scared. He looks like someone’s told
him there might be a storm later in the day. He looks confused.
Larkin fires again. Twice, quick succession. The deep and heavy
slap of a long-las.
‘Larks can’t tag them,’ Baen reports. ‘They're low in the ditch. In the
drover’s trail. High banks. Can't get an angle.’
The long-las bangs again.
Bray runs up from the vehicles. ‘Mkoll confirms contact/ he tells
Varl. ‘Marauds. Brief contact, now they're heading our way down
the trail?
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 4]

‘They're already here, says Varl. ‘Does Mkoll have numbers?’

Bray shakes his head. He starts giving orders via the link, refining
their position. There’s a reason he’s sergeant. He’s cool. He’s working
with a sober purpose. He’s one of the best-trained men in the regi-
ment, with militia experience.
Varl’s always had a more suck-it-and-spit-if-necessary approach
to life. He’s a clown. He acts up, and likes to be liked. A few have
commented that he’s displayed unusual courage in the actions so
far, but Varl wouldn't say that. He thinks it’s stupidity. Chances
are standing around in the thick of it, out of cover, because you're
stupid and haven't fully appreciated the battle dynamics can look
like courage.
Stupidity looks like courage from the outside, just like death
looks like sleep.
Bray’s heading for a corner of drystone wall that will give him
an angle on the river. Roskil’s prone behind a tip of loose stone
the road-menders have left behind. Neskon and Derin are wading
down from the roadside into the bankside thickets; Varl realises
he’s the only man in the section standing in the open, like he’s a
fething drover.
There’s a ripple of cracks, fast and fierce, like someone doing a
fast rebound roll off a taut snare drum. It’s a split-second thing,
but Varl can parse the sound. It’s different from the heavy slap of
Larkin’s sniper-gun, and not just because it’s a different weapon.
It’s the way the sound seems to be shaped. Larkin’s shots are hard
cracks that fade. These are the reverse, a whine-snap.
It's moving the other way. It's not outgoing fire.
It's incoming.
Varl goes to move left, stops, goes to move right instead, stops
again, stands there like a fething dick. There’s another ripple of
brittle, slapping cracks. Varl hears impacts, like slaps. His face is
suddenly damp.
4g DAN ABNETT

It's blood. He’s hit.

He’s not hit. It’s aerosolised blood.
The huge grox two metres from him has a hole in its flank, a big
round scorch mark, and there’s blood dribbling from its centre. The
animal’s still upright, a tonne and a half of meat, but it’s snuffling.
Varl drops to the dirt. ‘Down!’ he shouts at the drovers. ‘Get the
feth down!’
He actually sees the next hits come in. Quick needles of light
almost invisible in the hard sunshine. He sees grox shudder, and
puffs of pink mist. One starts to trot forward, lowing a guttural
distress. It’s not moving fast, just a plod, but that’s fast by grox stand-
ards. Others start to follow it. Herd instinct. One’s trailing blood like
water from a tap, blood and bright green soup, the semi-digested
contents of one of its multiple stomachs. Another wanders off,
abruptly, making a squealing sound more like a hog than bulk
cattle. It goes a different way from the others, off to the left. Varl
can see the wound in the side of its head, see white bone where
the flesh has blown away. It falls on its side just off the bridge with
an impact he can feel through the ground. Its legs kick and mill.
The drovers have finally started to move. Most are running for
the meadow behind the parked vehicles, holding their hats on
their heads. A few are yelling at the cattle, beating at them, trying
to drive them off the open bridge.
Another grox falls over, as though its legs have forgotten how to
work. A drover turns. Varl sees him take the hit. He sees the las-bolt
remove his jaw, his right ear and part of his scalp. Somehow, his
sun hat stays on.
‘The reeds! The reeds! The reeds!’ Varl yells, flat on his belly in
the dirt. He can read it now. What's the word? ‘Appraise’? The rest
of the section’s around the roadside walls or the dip of the river-
bank, except Larkin and Baen in the tree stand, but they're popping
shots at the drover trail.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 49

That's not where the enemy is. Not any more. The hostiles have
come down the drover trail, but they've left it, right at the very end
of it where it snakes, and gone into the reeds on the far bank. Varl
can see this. He’s the only one who can see this, because he’s the
only idiot out in the open on the bridge approach.
He can see the muzzle flashes in the reeds. Two, maybe three
shooters. He can see the las-rounds whip up across the slow river
into the herd, into the banks, and chop along the fold of earth and
dry grass where Neskon and Derin are. They can feel the incoming
fire. They can’t track the source.
‘Fething reeds!’ Varl yells. ‘Tight under the bridge! For feth’s sake!’
No one answers. He rolls on his back. A shot burns over him, a
dagger of light heading for Vincula. He fumbles with his ear. He's
pulled the ear-bud out. He's pulled the bud out of his ear and the
other end of the cord out of the compact vox-box strapped to his chest.
He curses himself. He tries to replug it. The plug’s bent. He rolls
over. He keeps yelling ‘Reeds!’ but no one can hear him.
He gets up, shots passing either side of him. He has to mark it.
He’s got a good arm. He hoists the tube charge in a long, overarm
throw. It spins end over end, like a throwing axe.
It falls short, hits the water. There’s a pause, then it detonates. A
circle of river convulses, booms like a peal of thunder, and hurls
up a water spout that drenches the left side of the bridge.
The air’s full of drizzle. Now he’s marked it. The section’s looking
his way with what-the-feth faces. Bray’s looking his way.
‘The fething reeds!’ Varl yells, pointing, almost jumping up and
down. He sees Bray shouting into his micro-bead.
The section starts shooting at the reeds.
Varl sees the herd. The cattle haven’t enjoyed the tube charge.
They are moving towards him, and they're starting to move faster
than grox should be able to. They’re raising dust. There’s a lot of
bellowing. Deep, bass notes of distress. The ground is quivering.
00 DAN ABNETT

Varl starts to run.

He runs back down the bridge approach. The grox, hundreds of
tonnes of agitated mass, are right behind him. He meets Tauros
2 coming the other way. Rafflan’s driving. Loell’s standing on the
backboard, manning the .30. Bray's called them in to hose the target
Varl’s marked. Varl sees Rafflan’s horrified face as he slams on the
brakes. Varl goes belly first over the hood.
‘Keep rolling!’ he yells, over the storm of hooves. Rafflan edges
them forward, eyes wide. Varl is scrambling up the hood, holding
onto anything he can grab for purchase. He starts to pull himself
through the front of the roll bars, over the dash, into the side seat.
A jarring thump. The first impact. The grox are streaming past them,
barging the Tauros. There’s dust everywhere. The vehicle shudders,
then jolts to the left, then to the right, bouncing on its springs. A
fender crumples. One headlamp array shatters. Water cans lashed to
the side are torn off. Varl turns himself almost upside down trying
to squirm into the seat the right way up. The runner's shaking. He
hears Loell growl, ‘Feth this’
Then they're moving again, trailing the cowling of a wheel arch.
They're still passing grox coming the other way, but the main mass
has passed. Rafflan veers hard to avoid a head-on collision, and the
animal shunts them in passing. Varl is nearly thrown out.
: They come up the bridge approach.
‘Here! Here!’ Varl yells. Rafflan brakes. Loell’s cranking the sup-
port weapon around.
‘Spot for me!’ he shouts. Varl can do better. He clambers up, out
and over onto the backboard, grabs the gun’s handles from Loell.
‘Get ready to reload, he says. Loell nods. The heavy-calibre
weapon glides on its well-oiled mount, slides like silk. Varl’s got it
lined up, lined up on the reed beds blanketing the far bank. The
section's still pinking rounds into the area, even Larkin from the
trees.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 of

Varl thumbs the red cover off the fire-stud, and squeezes.
A dancing cone of flame surrounds the muzzle. The gun roars,
a long howl of rapid fire and whining loader mechanism. Spent
cases fly up in a horsetail, and clatter around their feet, and into
the driver's section, and bounce off the roll bars and the footplate.
Rafflan curses and swipes hot brass off his lap.
The heavy fire doesn’t flatten the reed beds. It doesn’t mow the
reeds down. It vaporises them in a steaming cloud of spray, of
sap, of fibre, of leaf-shred, of broken shoots. A green mist curls
out over the water.
Varl empties the first box. When the .30 clacks dry, he takes his
thumb off. Loell releases the empty box and slams the new one in
its place. He feeds it, locks the belt, slams the cover down, touches
Varl’s arm, and Varl opens up all over again.
By the time the second box is empty, there are no standing reed
beds on the far side of the water, and nothing standing in them.
She says stuff about the clan and ethnic dispersals of the Sabbat
Worlds. She says a lot of stuff. She has supporting intel too, on
three data-slates she produces from a carry-bag. Rawne doesn’t
really listen. He didn’t sign on to attend lectures. Then again, he
didn’t sign on full stop. Not for this. He leans in the corner of the
kitchen and lets it wash over him. He's not listening, but he likes
the tone of her voice.
They're in Memnon House, in the Low Quarter of the city. That's
where she’s been assigned. But there are no offices or workspaces
cleared yet, and the building’s still being swept. So Gaunt finds
an empty kitchen in the basement, a throwback to the days when
Memnon House was a trade delegation facility, and takes her
briefing there.
There are no chairs. It’s just grubby tiled walls, a rockcrete floor,
rusted sinks and stove units, and long steel counters. The overhead
lights seem to have trouble staying on. They fade and flutter. There's
no air-circ either, not down here.

od
of DAN ABNETT

Eiwolt sets up at a food-prep table, and stands there saying

things, as if she’s addressing a lecture theatre. Gaunt rests against
a line of immersion cookers, arms folded, and listens. Rawne can
tell he’s tired. Gaunt hasn't slept yet. He’s been up all night inter-
viewing Litus personnel and Administratum staffers. There’s a look
in his eyes that says he wants to sleep, or at least sit down, but
there’s also a determination to hear her out and understand her
material. Rawne stands to one side, letting the tiled wall take his
weight. He knows it’s possible to sleep standing up. He wonders
if they'll notice.
The air’s stuffy and warm. Her tone is relaxing. Rawne tries to
keep track of the things she’s talking about - ‘Bishrabi’, ‘Waeshist’,
‘Magmeta’ and the rest - hoping that the mental exercise of fol-
lowing her argument will keep him alert. But it doesn’t.
He's beginning to slide away when Gaunt asks a question and
it wakes him up.
‘How long have they been here?’ Gaunt asks. Rawne can tell
Gaunt’s asking the question to stay awake too, but not because he’s
bored. He’s keen to understand, he’s just dead on his feet.
‘Define “they”, sir?’ Eiwolt says.
‘The original population, the core population; asks Gaunt. ‘Colo-
nists, I presume’
‘In excess of twelve thousand years; she says. ‘And, of course, they
are colonial in origin’
‘Of course? That's verified?’
‘Yes, sir’ She looks surprised, or amused. Rawne’s not sure
which. “By systematic and thorough bioscan and genetic census.
A number of them, in fact, periodically, going back at least a
thousand years. We also have earlier records. Did you think there
was any doubt?’
Gaunt shrugs. ‘There are a number of theories, he begins.
‘Not really, she says. ‘Historically, there have been many claims
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 00

made about human origins. Some are popularly believed. But none
have any scientific backing. The evidence is clear, sir. Everyone
comes from Terra. That surprises you?’
‘No; says Gaunt. ‘It's what I was taught at progenium. Just making
sure the model hasn't changed since then!
There’s a knock at the door. It's Trooper Caffran.
‘A word, sir?’ he says. Gaunt nods quickly to Eiwolt, and goes
to the door.
‘Not the caff I was hoping for’ Gaunt says. ‘We requested some
about an hour ago’
‘Still working on that, sir’ says Caffran. ‘There doesn’t seem to
be a pot in the place that works. Or a heating element. Or water’
‘Keep trying; says Gaunt. ‘What can I do for you?’
Caffran hands him a field report on flimsy punch-paper. He’s
one of the youngest troopers, but his youthful face can’t hide his
chronic bitterness. Loss runs through him like the rings in a tree.
It runs through all of them, but Caffran’s young so it probably
hurts more. There was a girl. Rawne’s been told the story, but he
can’t remember her name. First love, sharp as a silver knife. For
Caffran, carrying that must be like living with a sucking chest
wound every day.
Caffran’s been assigned as Gaunt'’s adjutant for the day, prob-
ably to give Raglon a rest. Rawne doesn’t know why Gaunt can’t
stick with one poor fether, and build a working relationship. But
every few weeks, it’s some other bastard’s turn. No one likes it.
Maybe Gaunt hasn’t found the right person yet. It should have been
Cluggan, probably. In Rawne’s opinion, which has never been solic-
ited, the boy would be the best option. The poor feth has nothing
else to do. He’s not even Guard. And Rawne knows for a fact that
the boy’s been doing the job behind the scenes for weeks, since
Kosdorf at least, mending uniforms, polishing boots, making sure
everything’s where it should be. Trying to find a place for himself
0B DAN ABNETT

where there is no place. Gaunt has to know. He should just give

the boy a brevet rank, or at least read him in on command codes
so he can run the daybook.
Gaunt leaves Caffran waiting in the doorway and comes back to
them, re-reading the field report.
‘Adare’s finished the interviews, he says, ‘so the Litus can resume
duties. Except nine of them who were on door watch duties, and
some Administratum staffers. They'll be interviewed again’
‘The Litus C.O. won't like that; says Rawne.
‘The Litus C.O. can wear it; Gaunt replies. ‘Someone fethed up,
or saw something, and his men had responsibility. And last I heard,
he answers to me’
Rawne nods. It amuses him when Gaunt uses Tanith dialect. He
can’t decide if Gaunt’s doing it to blend in and sound like one of
the lads, or if he’s just adopted ‘feth’ unconsciously because it’s so
useful and multipurpose. Both, maybe. It sounds wrong coming out
of his mouth. Rawne has decided not to be insulted by it. There
are far more meaningful things to be insulted by.
‘And I'm afraid I have to go; Gaunt adds. ‘We've just got word
of a hard contact on the eastern highway shortly after daybreak.
One-six-five mobile engaged possible marauds’
‘One-six-five is Bray; says Rawne.
Gaunt nods.
‘Casualties?’ Rawne asks.
‘Doesn't say much here; says Gaunt. ‘They're on their way back
in, so | want to meet them and get a full after-action in person!
He looks at Eiwolt. :
‘Sorry to break this off; Gaunt says. ‘I appreciate it’s significant,
and I have some follow-ups. Major Rawne will sit in for the rest of
the briefing, take full notes, and pass them along to me. Then I'll
come back to you when time permits:
‘I will?’ says Rawne. Gaunt doesn’t even spare him a glance.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 o]

‘Of course, colonel-commissar, Eiwolt replies. Gaunt pauses,

looks at the report again, then makes the sign of the aquila.
‘Carry on, he says and walks out of the kitchen after Caffran.
Eiwolt looks at Rawne, a slight raise of her eyebrows.
‘Where were we?’ she asks.
‘Everyone comes from Terra; says Rawne. It’s the only thing he
remembers. He hesitates. ‘What does that even mean?’ he asks.
‘What do you mean what does it mean?’
‘I mean...’ He trails off.
‘Human life originated on Terra, she says gently. ‘All human life.
The genetic profile of every human being in the Imperium and
beyond derives from Terran stock’
‘Well, not all of them, clearly...’ says Rawne.
‘Yes, major, all of them. Where were you educated?’
He doesn’t answer that. It would be a long and unflattering list
of minor scholams, reform schools, correctional institutes and one
expensive academy that didn't really suit him. Or the academy.
‘The Sanguinary Tribes...’ he says.
‘Are human, she replies.
‘The Archonate, the Archenemy-’
‘Human. For the most part, and originally. Genetic surveys prove
it. Haven't you been listening?’
‘I have, I... I have’ Rawne says. He’s suddenly having a very hard
time getting his head around it. ‘I thought there were separate lines
of human gene-stock? Terran bloodline, Eastern Fringe bloodline-’
‘Culturally, that’s true, she says. ‘But that’s a very common mis-
conception. I’m frankly dismayed I come across it so often. Human
life did not arise, independently, at multiple locations across the
galaxy. It rose on Terra. We're going back a long way, of course. There
were ancient periods of expansion, colonisation and outward prog-
ress that spread mankind through the stars. This is pre-Imperial,
pre-Unification. The historical record is very sparse, but we know
38 DAN ABNETT

it happened, and we have the genetic evidence to prove it. Huma-

nity spread out from Terra, perhaps by its own means, possibly
through xenos influence. Then contact was lost, for a very long
period. The Great Crusade, and subsequent phases of Imperial
expansion, re-contacted lost colonies, lost outposts... indeed whole
civilisations. In numerous cases, these civilisations had little or
no awareness that they had originated on a parent world. We're
still finding this in the modern age... In the Sabbat Worlds, the
Sanguinary Tribes, the feral stars... They're all human, major. The
people you're fighting, with their inhuman beliefs and alien cus-
toms, they're all human. Didn't you know that?’
Rawne opens his mouth, then closes it again. He pulls himself
up onto the immersion cookers where Gaunt had been leaning,
and sits there, staring at the floor.
‘I'd never really thought about it, he says.
‘You understand now why an advanced understanding of tribal
and ethno-cultural connections could be useful? We can’t just
liberate human worlds and assume they think the way we do. Many
human cultures in the Sabbat Worlds have been under Archonate
influence, directly or indirectly, for thousands of years. Some have
changed hands many times. The cultural impact is immense. And
the Archonate itself, discounting xenos allies and abhuman strands,
is human. You're from Tunusk?’
‘Tanith, says Rawne. 7
‘I'm sorry, yes. I'm tired. Where did Tanith history begin, major?
Where did its people begin?’
‘It's always been there. We've always been there’
‘For at least six thousand years, possibly much longer. But the
fierce and proudly independent Tanith came from Terra. And they
have lived in the shadow of the Archonate for... well, for as long
as they can remember:
She picks up a data-slate and scrolls through it.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 58

‘The latest research says that the Tanith belong to a human gene-
stock branch called the Magmeta, which is an ethnic strand that
displays multiple genomic markers, suggesting initial derivation in
the Old Terran regions of Albia and Europa’
Rawne gets down off the cooker.
‘We need a drink. Caff or something/ he says.
‘That young soldier didn’t seem to think there was any available
in the building/ says Eiwolt.
‘So we leave the building. We’ll dehydrate down here’
‘There is still a lot of material to get through’
‘Bring it with you, he says. ‘Gaunt said to take notes. I don’t even
have a pen. So we’re going for a walk’
She looks at him, dubious.
‘I’m your assigned liaison/ he says. ‘It’s my call’
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The facade of the Occupation Council Building is stark with
hard morning sunlight, but the transport pool in its side yard is
swathed in shadow. The day’s heat’s coming up really fast, faster
than the climbing sun, and the yard’s thick with the exhaust fumes
and the smell of refuse. Brin Milo stands under the tin slope of the
workshop roof, with the constant whizz of power-drivers behind
him. Fitters are speed-changing wheels on the spare transports,
getting more of the surplus serviceable. Trucks are lined up in the
yard, engines running, waiting for despatch notices. Drivers loiter.
There’s still a bunch of the newly arrived Admin staffers need-
ing rides to their billets, or to satellite workspaces. Few have been
moved because of the overnight security sweeps. There are also local
workers waiting for transport, payloads of equipment, and docu-
ment boxes ready for transfer.
Milo looks like one of the Tanith troopers, black kit, cloak, knap-
sack. But if you look at him close, you can see he’s not. He’s younger
than the youngest, a boy, though he’s already beginning to fill out

61
62 DAN ABNETT

into the bigger man he’s going to become. No weapon, no patches,

no crest or rank pins.
No purpose. No role. He hangs around, helps out, tries not to
get in the way; tries to make it seem to everyone, including him-
self, that there’s a valid reason for his presence.
The Ghosts, even Gaunt, seem to like him, but there’s an edge
to it. Doc Dorden says that’s because, as the lone civilian, Milo
reminds them all too keenly of what has been lost. There’s some-
thing to that, but it’s not the whole story. Milo has a knack for
insight, for anticipation, that makes people uncomfortable. He's
good at guessing things before they happen. And he dreams a lot.
He’s sure everybody does, but his dreams have a special quality to
them. He'll often dream about something, some detail, and the
next day, or the day after, or in a week or so, it'll happen. Milo’s
only told the old medicae about these dreams, and he didn’t care
for the look on Dorden’s face when he did.
So he’s listless, floating, his life a sort of limbo. Not a lasman,
not a Ghost, but not a civilian either, because there's no civilian
life to live. Nothing to do, officially or unofficially. More like a
mascot, a thing the Tanith are obliged to lug around with them.
He's an inconvenience, but they can’t bring themselves to admit it
and leave him behind. As a result, he tries to fill his days, and not
become a problem for anybody. He spends most of his time with
Dorden, but the doctor's away with Corbec on a procurement run
to Voltis City. |
So he waits. He’s not sure for what.
He sees a Munitorum work crew coming in through the yard
gates lugging plastek sacks, brooms over their shoulders. They've
been out front, sweeping up the glass strewn by the blast damage.
Milo watches them dump the clinking sacks into garbage barrels.
The missing window on the twelfth floor is a little dark spot in the
sunlit facade, like a lost tooth, or the eye socket of a bleached skull.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 63

He sees Litus troopers, sour faced, trudging in to relieve Tanith at

the yard’s high armoured gates and wall nests. Grudging exchanges.
The Litus B.R.U. know they fethed up, or that it’s on them, at least,
and they know the Tanith know.
Except they didn’t. Milo doesn’t think so. It was an inside job.
Security's tight, well run. It had to have been someone who didn't
raise attention. Someone invisible, who looks like they’re meant
to be there. A cook, a clerk, a junior rubricator. Someone who can
walk in, flash a tag.
Milo has figured this out because he’s invisible too. No one ques-
tions his presence. Just another Tanith, right? If Milo had a mind
to strike a blow for the Archenemy, he could do it. He could walk
in. He could get into the building, without a challenge or a second
look. The interior security hatches would be harder, but just from
where he’s standing, he can see one Munitorum driver's code tag
hanging off a wing mirror, and another lying on top of a kitbag
while the man changes his vest. Just walk past, pocket it, be gone
again before anyone notices the tag’s been lifted.
Maybe not even that. Two of the work crew aren't wearing badges,
or at least aren't wearing them visibly. Nobody stopped them at
the gate.
Of course, he’d need munitions. But there are pallets of them in
the yard. Stacked crates of field mines. Canisters of grenades, wait-
ing for the next free servo-lifter to hoist them into the back of a
cargo-6. Everyone’s busy, or tired, or both. No one would notice.
Milo has no intention of doing any of that. But he can see how
it could be done. He can see it very clearly. He wonders why others
don't. Maybe it’s because he spends his time waiting, waiting and
watching, because he’s got no orders to follow and nothing better
to do.
He hears men laughing. Tanith troopers, standing near the trans-
ports. All of them have pulled driver jobs. Mktane, Feygor, Mktalla,
64 DAN ABNETT

Guheen, Bragg. Most obviously Bragg. Bigger than all of them,

louder than all of them. Happier than anyone.
Brage’s keen, and strong, and he works hard, but he can be
clumsy, as if he’s living in a world that’s not built to the right scale
for him. He's got a nickname, because it usually takes him two goes
to accomplish a given task. But everyone likes him, because it's hard
not to, and it turns out he’s got a genuine talent as a driver, espe-
cially on the bigger transports.
Bragg sees Milo looking his way, and gives him a shout and wave.
Milo wanders over.
‘Brinny boy!’ Bragg smiles, and ruffles Milo’s hair. Anyone else
would get a slap for that, including Rawne, but somehow there's
only affection when Bragg does it.
‘What's the story?’ Milo asks.
‘Oh, transport duty, all day; says Bragg. ‘Motor pool... motor
pool... stuff’ He pulls a crumpled docket out of his jacket, as
though he’s going to consult it, then waves it idly and puts it back.
‘Stuff’ he repeats. ‘Got to drive some Admin types to billets in West
Town, then pick up something from the stock compound on the
way back. Tyres, I think. Tyres and prom canisters. Hot out, isn’t it?’
Milo nods.
‘Not hot, Bragg qualifies, thoughtful for a moment. ‘But wrong
hot, you know? Hot's fine, but this is humid. Claggy:
‘Muggy, says Milo.
Bragg looks at him, narrows one eye, waggles a truncheon finger
in the boy’s direction.
‘That is the exact word. Muggy. So, you?’
‘Not much, says Milo. ‘Thought I might get in the storerooms,
get some kip where there's air-circ’
‘That's a much better plan than mine, says Bragg.
‘Don't have a pass, though; says Milo.
‘No pass?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 65

‘Never got issued one. Non-com!

Bragg frowns. ‘You can borrow one. Borrow mine’
‘I don’t think that’s how clearance works; says Milo.
Bragg nods his head, noting the wisdom. He pulls a ceramic flask
from his thigh pouch. It’s wrapped in hessian up to the neck. He
offers it to Milo.
‘Bit early, says Milo.
‘Bit late; Bragg corrects him. ‘Never too early. I’ve been on since,
what, yesterday night? What day is it?’
He takes a swig. Milo.can smell the sacra briefly, as much a smell
of Tanith as nalwood sap. And the best, too. Bragg’s homebrew is
justly famous.
‘You'll dehydrate; says Milo.
‘No, no, says Bragg. ‘I got it all worked out. A system!’ He pats
his other thigh pouch. ‘I alternate with water. Hydration, then a
drop of sacra to keep me sharp. Hydrate, sharp, hydrate, sharp’
He utters the words like a mantra, with a little rocking swivel of
his arms and upper body. Milo can’t help but laugh.
A siren sounds, briefly blocking out the noise of worship-horns,
engines and power-drivers.
‘Oh, I’m up, says Bragg.
‘See you later’ says Milo.
Administratum staffers and other personnel are coming out into the
yard, along with some Litus and Munitorum drivers. A senior aide starts
shouting despatch orders, reading off a data-slate. People group up, and
head towards the waiting trucks. Drivers heel out lho-sticks. Milo sees
Bragg head towards one of the cargo-6 units, a closed-body truck with
grilled windows around a passenger space. Bragg talks to two Adminis-
tratum clerks and a Litus subaltern waiting beside it. They all have bags.
Then Bragg turns and gives Milo a wave, beckoning.
‘What's up?’ Milo asks, crossing back to him.
‘Gutes is meant to be my oppo, says Bragg. ‘Read the map, you know:
66 DAN ABNETT

‘So?’
‘He’s been pulled, last minute. Apparently he’s got to drive Gaunt
up to East Gate. You want to cover?’
‘Ride along?’
‘Yeah, and read a map. You can read a map?’
‘T can:
‘Good, ‘cause I can’t; says Bragg.
‘I’m not authorised. Not tagged’
‘Well, I know you, says Bragg, ‘and you'd be doing me a favour,
‘cause otherwise I've got to sit here for another two hours, and
that’s not going to make anyone happy, especially me’ He looks
at the boy. ‘Help me out, he says. ‘What else are you going to do?
Wait around here all day?’
Exactly that, thinks Milo. Exactly and completely that, today, and
the one after, and the one after that.
He turns it over fora moment. Something, the instinct he is still
learning to trust, tells him he shouldn't say yes. Not because it could
get him and Bragg in trouble for bending operational protocol,
though there’s that, but because of a deeper, vaguer unease. But
the same instinct also tells him that’s exactly why he should go.
‘All right; he says.

Royal Bokore House is some kind of palace. General Hadrak’s using

it as his command centre and residence. It sits in sunlight on a cleft
hill above the main sprawl of Voltis City. The liberation war didn’t
really touch it, just like the fog, which blankets the city but never
quite makes it all the way uphill to the palace.
So it’s easy to find, even though Corbec’s never been there. He’s
got an invitation, for luncheon no less, and he doesn’t know how
he feels about that.
He could walk up the hill road in plenty of time, but Dorden says
that alone and on foot is no way for a regimental colonel to arrive,
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 67

so Meryn scrounges a Tauros from somewhere, and Domor drives

him. Corbec has told Dorden a little about the morning meeting,
but left out the old boys’ club feel of it, the first-name terms, and
how uncomfortable he felt. He assures Dorden that Hadrak has
pledged the medicae supplies.
But Dorden’s no fool, and he can read between the lines. He
knows how trustworthy high command ‘pledges’ can be, and he
knows there still isn’t a solid answer on the regiment's deploy-
ment, which is what really matters to Gaunt. That’s why Dorden
insists on transport and a driver, and why he tells Corbec to keep
his dress uniform on.
Which is all probably sound advice, but Corbec’s his own man. If
he’s going to be a fething colonel, he’s going to be a fething colonel
his own way. So he caves on the transport, a concession to the old
medic, but switches to clean field dress, with his rank pins on his
chest and his camo-cape around his broad shoulders.
The hill road winds like a snake, with a rough cliff on one side,
and a low stone parapet on the other, the only thing between the
road and the sheer drop. That doesn’t bother Corbec, riding in
the back, relaxed, his sleeves rolled up, and neither does Domor’s
driving, until they suddenly come up out of the fog layer into the
fierce sunlight and he can actually see the drop.
‘Something wrong, chief?’ Domor asks.
‘No, says Corbec.
‘You made a noise’
Corbec tells him it’s the view. And it’s quite a view. The city’s
invisible below them, under a bright, white blanket of fog that fills
the entire Bokore Valley to the distant blue hills. Above and ahead,
the imposing red-stone sprawl of Royal Bokore House, where there
are probably working caffeine machines, and all the chairs missing
from the rest of the city.
68 DAN ABNETT

Inside the walls, there’s a courtyard the size of a city square. Neat
rows of tanks and artillery pieces fill the western end, like a bumper
crop ready for harvest. Militarum personnel mill around, mostly
officers, mostly Tavian and Royal Sloka. A Slokan sentry checks their
papers, then points them to an area on the east side of the yard
where they can park up. The sentry salutes as they pull away, which
pleases Corbec. He’s not sure if it’s the fact that he’s being driven
around like a high muckity-muck, or the combination of colonel
pins and huge tattooed forearms, but it’s a better reaction than he
got from the gate guards when he was in number one dress pomp.
He’s twenty minutes early. Domor pulls up, and they wait by
the vehicle for a few minutes for a smoke. Corbec’s pretty sure he
won't be allowed to do that inside.
‘So what's luncheon all about, then?’ Domor asks.
Corbec’s been wondering that himself. He’s wondered if it’s code
for something. Perhaps the chance to break bread, so that Hadrak
can get to know the seniors under him. Or the chance to break bad
news. Has it been decided that the Tanith are going to stay here,
stuck in Vincula? That’s not an agreeable prospect. Paramilitary
policing and occupation duties are not their forte. Then again, the
allegedly glorious meat grinder of the front line is pretty charm-
less, but Corbec knows which Gaunt would prefer. He knows what
he'd prefer too.
There are transports rolling in and out of the gates all the time,
delivering and collecting officers and command staff. Every few
minutes, an Arvus buzzes over the yard to put down on the palace
landing field. Busy. This is Voltemand High Command. There are
toffs in jodhpurs everywhere, and senior Administratum intend-
ants, and Munitorum chiefs, and even officers of the Navy and
support fleet. Corbec can spot them a mile off, and not just because
of their distinctive uniforms, so un-Militarum in their dark blues
and silvers. The Navy boys all have a slight rolling gait because
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 69

they're accustomed to shipboard gravity states. Surface-side is not

their element.
Corbec finishes his cigar, tells Domor to stay put and mind the
transport, then strolls up to the main building. Huge columns,
big as mature nalwoods, flank an entrance like the portico of a
templum. Inside, it’s like a templum too - a huge nave with a
marble floor, and a constant ambient hush of footsteps and voices.
There are people everywhere, tiny in the immense space.
He presents his credentials at the desk, and is asked to wait.
Someone will be sent. He waits. He catches a few looks from passing
officers and adjutants, because he’s by far the most informal, shaggy,
rough-edged figure present. The biggest too. He doesn’t care. He’s
the only person in this mighty nave who looks like he actually fights
for a living. He considers taking out another cigar and smoking it,
just to show how much he doesn't care, but there’s a line and he’s
content not to cross it.
As he’s waiting, he sees a Navy officer strut past.
‘Kreff!’ Corbec exclaims. The man stops. He recognises Corbec
with some surprise.
‘Colonel/ he says, and comes over, making the sign of the aquila.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Serving the Throne. You?’
Kreff’s the executive officer on a frigate called the Navarre, which
has been the regiment's conveyor up until now. Battlefleet boys are
a breed apart, and most seem to regard the Astra Militarum with,
at best, disdain, or, at worst, as luggage. Fleet and Guard, bonded
by duty, divided by service, rivals since forever, like alien cultures
trying to get along. But Kreff, he seems all right. Almost human.
‘We've been on station for weeks, says Kreff. ‘High anchor, some
minor picket duties. I presumed we were on hold waiting for you
to embark’
‘Presumed®’ asks Corbec.
70 DAN ABNETT

‘I don’t know; says Kreff. ‘No load orders have come through. I
was summoned to attend a fleet briefing. We've been told to pre-
pare to make shift, sometime in the next week’
‘To where?’ asks Corbec.
‘I don’t know, sir:
‘Picking up or dropping off?’
‘I don’t know that either’
Corbec sighs.
‘T have a feeling you'll be going without us, he says. ‘I have a
feeling we'll be staying here’

The first thing General Hadrak says to him comes as a surprise.

He says, ‘Colm! Delighted you could make it!’
Corbec’s just been led into an anteroom by a Slokan adjutant,
and the first-name terms take him off guard. So, it’s a thing now.
He’s one of the boys. Or it’s a thing Hadrak does to emphasise a
caring familiarity.
There’s amasec. There’s some fancy buffet food served by pol-
ished, silent servitors. They sit in comfortable chairs in front of
a high window through which the sunshine streams. There’s no
desk dividing them.
Corbec expects small talk - small talk, or the usual empty guff —
but Hadrak is animated, and speaks for some time, informally,
about certain security problems in the Voltemand provinces,
displaying considerable and specific knowledge. He’s the first senior
officer Corbec’s met who seems to have as much grasp of what's
actually going on as Gaunt. Then talk turns to the Tanith First, and
Hadrak seems to know a lot. He’s done his homework, read up,
and that impresses Corbec.
‘Gaunt's an interesting fellow, says Hadrak. ‘I mean, fantastically
effective in the field. A real rising star. After Balhaut, well... He
could have had the pick of posts. There was talk...’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 i

He pauses. Corbec’s finished his finger food, and is holding the

empty side plate awkwardly, not sure what to do with it. Hadrak has
balanced his on his thigh, effortlessly, and is gesturing as he speaks
without apparent fear of it sliding off. Corbec’s not convinced he
can do that, but there’s nowhere to put the plate down. Where
once there was a lack of chairs, there is now a lack of side tables.
‘Talk, sir?’ he asks.
Hadrak frowns.
‘Oh, it was all politics, really. With Slaydo dying. Regime change,
you might say. Those officers who were in were suddenly out, and
vice versa. Macaroth, may the Throne bless his efforts, wanted high
command peopled with his own. It’s always the way of it’
‘I’m sure’
‘A shake up, Colm. After all, we're a good few years into this cam-
paign. It’s a healthy thing to freshen things up, and stop the entire
Militarum engine stagnating. Gaunt was very much one of Slaydo’s
boys, so his face didn’t fit. But there were quite a few command-level
officers, Gaunt among them, who were simply too good, too effec-
tive, too competent to be sidelined. Politics is one thing, but there's
cutting off your nose to spite your face. Macaroth wasn’t going to
get rid of him, or demote him to the rear echelon. So a role was
found. For him, for others like him‘
‘Like you, sir?’ Corbec asked.
Hadrak shoots him a look, a little sharp, but it’s not unfriendly.
‘Very much; he says. ‘You know, I appreciate your frankness,
Colm. It’s very welcome. So many of my juniors are too eager to
please, too mimsy and timid. They have their eyes on the brass ring,
it’s all about advancement, so they don’t speak their minds, they
don’t ask questions, they simply say what they think is expected of
them. I call them the “yes, sir” men. You know the kind I mean?’
‘Yes, sir, says Corbec.
Hadrak laughs. He calls for a servitor to bring more amasec, and
n DAN ABNETT

tells it to either offer Corbec more food or take his plate away so
he can relax.
‘Yes, I was one of Slaydo’s too, says Hadrak. ‘A little senior to
Gaunt. I had the insulation of a generalship. Macaroth wasn't going
to put me into the front tier, but it would have caused a stir if he'd
tried to shunt me out. So here I am in senior second-tier deploy-
ment. Following the main battle line, not leading it. My duties are
the consolidation and securement of regained assets and territories.
It's important work, of course, though lacking in glory. It’s distin-
guished enough not to be an insult to my rank, but it keeps me
out of Macaroth’s eyeline’
‘So the same is true of Colonel-Commissar Gaunt?’ Corbec asks.
The servitor has just taken his plate and presented him with another
glass of amasec. It’s clearly high quality stuff. No sacra, of course,
but Corbec imagines he might get a taste for it.
‘Very much, says Hadrak.
‘It always seemed to me, sir, says Corbec carefully, ‘that being
handed my bunch was a bit of a demotion. I mean, a proper demo-
tion, not a cosmetic repositioning’
Hadrak nods.
‘Well, you see, Colm, my problem was that I was a senior
Macaroth didn't want to work with. Gaunt’s problem was that he
was a rival. Balhaut made him a hero, and gave him a gloss and
a reputation far above his rank. Macaroth, may Terra watch over
his fortunes, likes to be the only hero in town. But Tanith wasn’t
a demotion, no sir. You see, Gaunt’s got that curious split rank,
one foot in the Prefectus. Slaydo’s doing, of course. Macaroth used
that skilfully. It made perfect sense for a line officer with Prefectus
training to head up a foundation drive. But it was also, and this is
key, it was also Slaydo’s wish. Even before Balhaut, recruitment was
essential. We needed to bolster troop numbers. And after Balhaut,
most certainly. Slaydo had made it a priority that a programme
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 B

of Militarum foundations was urgently overdue. So Gaunt was,

essentially, following Slaydo’s orders. He was seeing Slaydo’s wishes
through to fulfilment’
‘I see, sir, says Corbec.
‘Interesting fact though/ Hadrak adds. ‘Gaunt requested it’
‘He requested it?’
‘Tanith? Yes. That's what I heard, anyway. He actually had a senior
position in the overall recruitment programme, but he elected to
get on the ground and take personal charge of a founding. You
may think you were just some rabble he got lumbered with, but
he requested it:
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Colm!’ Hadrak chuckles. ‘I would suggest...
because he sees potential in you’
‘We're hardly first division ground troops, says Corbec. ‘Hardly
heavyweights. Hardly... anything’
‘No, you're not heavyweights. Leave that to others. The Militarum
is not one size fits all. War is won in different ways. You Tanith,
you have singular skill sets. You've already begun to demonstrate
that. You should focus. Build on what you have, what you have
and others don’t. I know it’s not ideal, given the losses you took
at founding. Hard to come back from that in any meaningful way
at... what... a third of your intended scale? But I'd venture that’s
why he requested to run the Tanith foundation himself?
‘He’s never given any sign of that. He acts like he’s a man in the
“disappointing downward slide” part of his career:
‘Well, same reason, I’d imagine. He’s getting sidelined by
Macaroth, and steamrollered by Macaroth’s lackeys, like Sturm.
And he’s ended up with a fragment of the unit he hoped for’
‘Is that why we're stuck here?’ asks Corbec.
‘I'd say so, replies Hadrak. ‘And you shouldn't be. It’s a waste of
your talents. I mean, the Sloka can easily spare a few regiments to
74 DAN ABNETT

police a back-world, but you're specialists, and there are very few
of you. You should be line, Colm:
‘We'd like to be. Can you make that happen?’
Hadrak smiles. He changes the subject.
‘You had issues, this morning? Issues about medicae supplies,
resources?’
‘Yes, sir. They're quite urgent’
‘You had a list too, I seem to remember?’
‘Yes, sir:
Hadrak holds out his hand. ‘Give it me, Colm, he says. ‘T'll get
it sorted immediately. My direct authority. If you're stuck in this
role, you ought to be able to perform it properly at least. I'll deal
with this, and any other resource requests you have. Come direct
to my staff, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir. | appreciate it. So, are we?’
‘Are you?’
‘Stuck here?’
The general seems about to answer, but there’s a knock at the
door. A Slokan warrant officer enters, holding the door open for a
tall woman dressed in the severe black of the Military Intelligence
Division. She has two aides with her, both men, both smaller than
her, identical twins.
Hadrak rises. So does Corbec.
‘Colonel Marsus, says Hadrak. ‘Glad you could make it. Colonel
Colm Corbec, Tanith First, this is Colonel Elka Marsus, Military
Intelligence’
Marsus salutes them both. Her expression is nothing like as genial
as Hadrak’s. She's surprisingly tall, almost as tall as Corbec, and
powerfully built. Her skin is as black as her uniform, and her hair
is cropped to her skull, with a slight tinge of grey to it, but it’s
impossible to tell her age. She exudes a kind of calm permanence, a
stillness, that suggests she has been around for a very long time and
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 1

has weathered a lot without even blinking, like a mature nalwood

or a Mountain peak. |
‘My apologies, sir, she says. ‘Delays on the road from the landing
grounds. The fog. I hope I haven't kept you waiting?’
‘Not at all, Elka, we were just getting to know each other’
‘My aides, Marsus says, gesturing to the boyish, identical men
behind her. ‘Stoimenov and Stoimenov. All right if they stay for
this?’
Hadrak nods.
‘For what?’ asks Corbec.
‘We wanted to take this opportunity to ask a few questions, Colm;
says Hadrak. ‘Informally. Didn’t want to make a thing of it’
‘I’m sure, sit, says Corbec. ‘Of what?’ He’s feeling uneasy sud-
denly, wrong-footed. He’s felt this way before, and every time it
was during an ambush.
‘Well; says Hadrak. ‘I'd like to get you Tanith on your way. As I
said, you're wasted here. And I can authorise that, but my hands
are tied a little. Just some matters to square away. If we can get
them done, in a way that makes Elka here happy, we can put some
wheels in motion’
The intelligencer holds out her hand, without looking, and one
of the twins places a folder in it. It’s green, with high-clearance
clasp seals. She pops them with her thumb, and slides out a sheaf
of glossy picts.
‘Some recently gathered intelligence, colonel’ she says. ‘Confi-
dential, naturally. We'd appreciate your take on it’
She starts showing Corbec the images, one by one. He takes them,
looks at one, looks at the next. High-resolution captures, close-ups
taken in hard light. A morgue, he imagines. A medicae suite. They
show a naked body, male. Not in full, just parts. The images exclude
any details of the wounds that killed him, as though they, like the
face, are inconsequential. They're just close-ups of dead flesh: an
76 DAN ABNETT

arm, part of a belly, a thigh. The flesh is very white, with a little
livor mortis and some yellow bruising. It looks like the skin of a
plucked game bird. There are marks...
Corbec suddenly becomes very conscious of his rolled-up sleeves
and his bared forearms.
‘So, Colm/ says Hadrak. ‘Have you ever seen tattoos like those?’
Corbec starts to speak, and has to clear his throat so the words
don’t come out hoarse.
‘Yes, sit, he says.
They walk a few streets from Memnon House in the harsh, late
morning heat. It’s the Low Quarter, and the scars of recent war are
here, as everywhere. Road surfaces crushed and cracked by heavy
armour, pockmarked walls, shell holes that have become windows,
piles of rubble, piles of refuse. The streets are busy, a makeshift
market. It’s not clear what anyone’s got to sell, or what they're
buying it with. Rawne glimpses a few cartons of Militarum food
packs changing hands. The locals, mostly shaded by their big sun
hats, pay them little attention.
Or are they deliberately not looking? A Militarum officer, armed,
and an Administratum official with a cooler pump running inside
her slicker, both relatively clean, relatively well fed, obviously
off-worlders. Does it not pay to stare? Is it safer not to look?
They smell food, and find a dining house tucked away in a
side-yard. It used to be bigger: half of the building has gone, the roof
replaced with a scaffold of poles and canvas. It looks like the living
space of someone’s hab. Rawne decides it probably is.

7]
18 DAN ABNETT

Food is cooking in big pans on a stove beyond a small arch.

They can hear the gurgle of boiling pots and the hiss of fat. The
smell is savoury, and almost intoxicating. Rawne’s not sure of the
last time he ate a meal that wasn't out of a Munitorum foil-pack
or a Militarum canteen.
The place is full of locals, eating lunch from earthenware bowls.
They stop talking when Rawne leads Eiwolt through the bead cur-
tain. It feels like they all want to bolt and run.
‘We're intruding, Eiwolt whispers to him.
‘No, this is a dining house; Rawne assures her. He looks around.
No one meets his eye.
Then suddenly, an older woman comes forward. She’s in a laced
smock, and her sun hat is dangling on her shoulderblades from a
string around her neck. She looks flushed, as if her face has been
too close to a stove for a while. She doesn’t make eye contact either,
but she beckons them urgently, murmuring something in the local
language. She clears a small table, and wipes it, so they can sit down.
She mutters other things. Rawne doesn’t understand, but he nods,
tries to look like he’s trying, and points to a water jug on a nearby
table, a bottle on another, and generally to the bowls that people
are eating. Then he pulls some Imperial currency out, just a few
coins, and puts them on the table. The older woman doesn’t pick
them up. She doesn’t even seem to look at them. But she mutters
something, then calls something out.
Then she’s gone again. The talking around them slowly resumes.
‘What did you order?’ asks Eiwolt.
‘Not the faintest fething clue; says Rawne.
‘I requested a servo-interpreter, she says, ‘but apparently there’s
only one for the department. Not enough for individual issue’
‘Resources are stretched, he says.
‘This is another world; she says oddly.
‘Meaning?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 19

‘My first deployment, she says, and laughs slightly, embarrassed.

It's the first time he’s seen her face do anything other than deadpan.
‘Three years at Sector Administratum, San Velabo, then two at
Historiographic Research, Cociaminus. All theory, major. All desk
work. I wanted practical’
‘Why?’
She laughs again.
‘Uhm, now I’m here, I’m not sure. No. Wrong. Now I'm here,
I am sure. My work is about people, and if it’s taken seriously, it
will have a great impact on the population centres of this sector.
So I think I need first-hand knowledge, rather than book learning’
‘Book learning’s overrated, he says.
‘It's really not, she says.
He lets that go by.
‘So, will it?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘Have a great impact?’
‘Yes; she says, with quiet certainty. She unzips her hood, and
pulls it down, undoes the top of her slicker. Rawne sees that people
are looking now: her hair so very fair, her skin so pale. She is
even more of an off-worlder with the hood removed. She exhales,
almost panting.
‘It gets so steamy in these things, she says, fanning her face.
‘Yeah, I don’t like those cooler suits. Better just to get used to it,
he replies. ‘The heat, I mean. The thing with those suits is conden-
sation. Keep one sealed and running all day, you'll end up wringing
out your drawers at bedtime’
She looks at him, stony.
‘Just saying, he says.
‘So, it'll have a great impact?’ he says, because the pause is too
long.
‘Yes. It’s not my work, you understand. It’s a general programme
80 DAN ABNETT

of information that the Administratum has prioritised, in response

to some of the feedback received from occupation forces. But high
command believes it’s useful, and I’m committed to it. So I applied
for practical deployment to get involved with the briefing process.
And I am. I am sure. This is what I wanted to do’
She looks at him. Her eyes are very blue.
‘Where I worked/ she says, ‘San Velabo. I didn’t have a window:
‘They don’t have many here; he says. ‘Not any more’
‘I’m outdoors, major:
‘I assumed that lack of sunlight explained how pale you were.
Everything about you’
She frowns.
‘No; he says. ‘You're from Khulan. I know. That was a joke’
‘Don't you believe that practical outweighs theoretical, major?’
she asks.
‘In most things; he nods. ‘In almost everything, in fact. Except in
my line of work, where the practical part sucks excessively:
The older woman returns, and places things on the table between
them: heavy bowls filled with some kind of stew, a small plate of
flatbread cut into ribbons, a dish of spiced and fried vegetables, two
small glass tumblers, and a bottle. It’s hard to tell what the food
is. The woman says a few words, but once again, the local dialect
passes them by. Immediately, she’s gone again.
‘I think that’s gelshahe/ says Eiwolt, peering at her bowl. ‘I think
that’s the word she said. It’s a grox-tail stew. Typical Bishrabi
cuisine’
Rawne doesn’t really care what it is. It smells good. He reaches
for the bottle. It’s an old Munitorum-issue water canister, but it’s
been recycled and it’s not water in it. The liquid is clear and sappy,
with a whiff of fennel. He pours a little into their glasses.
‘That's not water, she remarks.
He takes a sip. It tastes a little like sacra, if sacra was weaponised.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 81

‘It's not; he says, covering a cough.

‘Bahu, she says, amused. ‘Local grain mash’
She sits back, not touching her food or her glass.
‘This is hardly breakfast; she says. ‘Or water. Or caff. And we have
no idea of the hygiene protocols, except that they're probably lax.
We need to hydrate and get some meal-packs—-’
Rawne shovels up some stew with a piece of flatbread. The flavour
is full and highly spiced, probably to disguise the poor quality of
the ingredients, and it’s very alien to him. It’s also the most deli-
cious thing he’s eaten in months.
He wolfs some more, then takes a proper sip of the mash.
‘Resources are stretched, he says to her.
‘Yes, but-’ she says, dubious.
‘This is practical; he says. ‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’
She stares at him for a moment as he eats. Then she picks up
her glass.
‘Pax Imperialis,; she says, toasting him with it, and then knocks
it back in one.

One-six-five mobile is waiting for Gaunt at a command post at the

edge of the city, just a few hundred metres from the East Gate. It’s
just a bunch of battered rockcrete warebarns requisitioned for pur-
pose, but it offers some shelter from the day’s heat. Gaunt brushes
road dust from his cap as he walks in.
‘Items recovered, sir; says Sergeant Bray, gesturing to objects laid
out on ground sheets on the pitted floor. There are some weapons,
some of them mangled, and two munition crates.
Gaunt crouches and takes a look at one of them: a metal muni-
tion crate, Munitorum issue. K10 anti-personnel mines packed in
straw. The crate is marked ‘Astra Militarum - Voltis Depot’.
‘Six missing, he says.
‘Yes, sir. The other's full’
82 DAN ABNETT

Gaunt thinks about the attack the night before. A K10. The insur-
gents have got their hands on Militarum devices.
‘Contact Voltis, my authority, and get them to run an inventory
check, he says. Bray nods. ‘I want to know how long these have been
missing; Gaunt adds. If they were already issued, then the Arch-
enemy might have acquired them in the field during the final days
of the liberation war. He has a nasty feeling they’re still meant to
be on a shelf somewhere, and that occupation security is piss-poor.
‘You got these at the bridge?’ he asks Bray.
‘No, sir. They were taken by Two-two during the exchange’
‘On a map?’
Bray pulls out a chart and shows him. ‘We engaged here, sir.
Bridge H-54. Two-two were up in the woods here. They engaged
first, and the marauds tried to run, and came up against us. Mkoll’s
team recovered the crates there, and some of these laslocks. The
rest we picked up after the firefight at our end’
‘The broken items?’
Bray nods. ‘Varl squared it all away with a support weapon. These
are the bits we found’
There are three intact laslocks, old weapons and non-standardised.
There are parts of three more, twisted and blackened by heavy fire,
plus what looks like the stock and partial trigger assembly of a Mk III.
‘They were armed with both?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Yes, sit, says Bray. ‘I guess a few of them have got their hands
on war spoils’ |
Chanthar’s supporters used anything they could get. Gaunt’s
men have seen a lot of laslocks since they arrived on Voltemand,
local-pattern guns, crude but powerful. Maybe a few acquired trophy
weapons during the fighting. A good gun is a good gun, and the
Mk III is a good gun.
‘You think they were heading out of the city, or back in?’ Gaunt
asks.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 83

‘I think Mkoll's got a better read on that than I have, sir’ says Bray.
Gaunt straightens up. Mkoll, the chief scout, is waiting nearby.
‘Mkoll?’
‘I think it was a cache; says Mkoll. Gaunt already has great admi-
ration for him. The man is a first class specialist. But he’s so still and
quiet, and he speaks like words are on ration. Gaunt has learned
to prompt him.
‘Expand on that:
‘Wooded area, secluded; says Mkoll. ‘Good distance from city
limits, so less chance of being discovered on a security sweep, but
close enough for the munitions to be accessed and run into town,
a few at a time. We only turned this up by chance’
‘I think one of these went off in the city last night/ says Gaunt.
‘So there are five more somewhere’
‘Probably more, says Mkoll. ‘Because there’s probably more than
one cache. A network of dumps. They wouldn't stockpile them
in the same place in case of discovery. Standard insurgent opera-
tional tactics’
‘Standard?’
‘Mkoll means that’s what he’d do if he was running an insur-
gency here, says Bray.
‘I know what he means; says Gaunt.
‘Limited resources, reduced numbers, against a much larger
enemy, says Severt, the intelligencer, walking into the barn. Gaunt
had told him to wait with the vehicles. ‘Insurgency forms into cel-
lular structures for added redundancy:
‘We've all been briefed, major; says Gaunt. ‘This country is big.
We can’t fingertip it all. And even if we could, the marauds would
know to move their stockpiles to avoid sweeps.
‘Then you heighten city watch, sir, says Severt.
‘We've all been briefed’ Gaunt says again. Bray fakes a cough so
he can cover his smirk with a hand.
84 DAN ABNETT

‘Since you're here, says Gaunt, turning the sarcasm up a notch

further. ‘Comments on the provenance of these weapons?’
‘Local weapons—’
‘Uh-huh’
‘And salvaged weapons:
‘Salvaged directly from a Munitorum depot?’
‘I doubt that, sir’ says Severt.
‘I don’t; says Gaunt. ‘There’s been turmoil since Voltis fell. Secu-
rity is paper-thin. You know we're stretched, here and in other
provinces:
‘Here is your purview, sir, says Severt politely.
‘Yes, but if security is lousy in another province - Voltis, for
example — and stuff is being brought in, it becomes my business.
I wonder if we should delay the Administratum governor's arrival:
‘Inadvisable, sir, says Severt immediately.
‘We can't guarantee security in the zone, not even in Vincula itself?
‘Find a way to, says Severt. ‘It’s your job’ He smiles, broadly, arti-
ficially, knowing he has just spoken out of turn. ‘Balgrada’s arrival
cannot be postponed, he says amiably. ‘And frankly, the sooner
he’s installed, the sooner things will tighten up. Provincial man-
agement becomes his responsibility and the burden’s off you and
the Militarum a little’
‘We'll still be running security for him; says Gaunt. ‘He’s a high-
value target, and there are people out there with K10s’
‘He's a high-value target, as you put it, for a reason; says Severt.
‘Bringing Vincula... and the whole of Voltemand... under Imperial
control is vital work that we must achieve swiftly. This world needs
to be operational again, productive, the people living without fear.
Tithes must be evaluated, the rule of law reimplemented. The Pax
Imperialis must once again be declared, after too long an absence’
‘I’m not arguing with the principle, major; says Gaunt. ‘But
there are a lot of people on Voltemand who do not welcome the
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 85

restoration of Imperial control. They fear us, and despise us, and
will not simply fall in line’ ;
‘Those aren't people; says Severt. He frowns, as if annoyed with
himself. ‘No, look... I appreciate—’
‘That intendant... Eiwolt/ says Gaunt. ‘You seemed to support
her remit. You did last night, anyway. She seems to think there are
complexities regarding this reoccupation. Indeed, to the reoccupation
of any Sabbat World that has been in the Archonate’s influence for
any length of time. Grey areas, major. Changing mindsets and cul-
tural standards. Differentiating between the lapsed Imperial citizen,
and one who considers the Imperium to be a transgressor, an invader’
‘The terms of a Pax Imperialis are very precise, sit, says Severt, ‘as
are the rubrics of the Civitas. Those two hypothetical individuals
you describe may be distinguished, one from another, by redoctri-
nation, the application of law, and the faith of the Lectitio Terra’
‘Those two hypothetical individuals, says Gaunt, ‘are both citizens
of Voltemand, both look alike, and both live here in Vincula City’

Gaunt walks outside, into the dusty sunlight. He puts his cap back
on. Ghosts are lounging beside the parked Tauros runners. They
straighten up, but he waves them back.
It's not about conquering worlds. Slaydo taught him that. The
fighting, Ibram, an endeavour all of itself, is only the start. The worlds
of the Sabbat Region, like so many outward sectors, are _Impe-
rial territory in name only. Some have stood, proud and defiant,
as beacons of the Imperial flame for thousands of years. But the
fortunes of others have fluctuated. Centuries of frontier wars, con-
quest and reconquest. Worlds have changed hands dozens of times.
The Archonate has controlled some of them for hundreds of years,
or has allowed them to function as client states, or has provided
protective pacts and lines of trade. Eiwolt was right. The Archonate
culture may have its roots in the sordid monstrosity of the True
86 DAN ABNETT

Archenemy, and in warp-occluded faith, but the war is not binary

or straightforward.
For a moment, Gaunt misses the simplicity of his early career,
with the Hyrkans, warring against the greenskin mobs. There were
no doubts there. But since the day he walked out of the schola pro-
genium and took up his duties, he’s been aware that war is a shadow
in which things are hard to recognise. Slaydo once told him that, of
the thousand-plus wars that have raged in the Sabbat, Khulan and
Harkoss regions in the past millennium, the vast majority have been,
in effect, internecine. Border wars, dynastic disputes, rebellions, feudal
conflicts. Imperial worlds at war with Imperial worlds, each believ-
ing they have the authority of Terra at their side. The waters here in
the Sabbat Worlds are muddier and bloodier, but the same applies.
The enemy is everywhere, Ibram, and he looks like us and, in many
cases, he is us.
Gaunt wanders over to Bray's squad, who are resting in the sun
beside their runners. Two of them — he thinks their names are Loell
and Rafflan... yes, that would be Rafflan - are trying to make good
some dents and damage on one of the runners. A skinny, older man
slides off the hood of a Tauros where he was basking. Gaunt knows
him well enough. Larkin, the regiment's best marksman, but with
a reputation for waywardness and insubordination. Nevertheless,
Corbec vouches for him. Larkin’s slither off the hood is ostensibly
an effort to stand and be presentable in the presence of his com-
manding officer, but Gaunt can see it's also a bit of business that
allows Larkin to deftly tuck away the flask he was holding. The sly
misdirection of a huckster.
‘Any injuries our side?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Not a scratch, sir, says Rafflan.
‘Well, good work stopping them, says Gaunt.
‘That was mostly Varl; Larkin chuckles. ‘We couldn’t get a line on
them, but Varl found an angle and mowed them down with the
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 87

vehicle mount’ Larkin’s tongue vibrates against his palate and his
lips tremble as he mimics the sound of a .30.
Gaunt looks at Varl. He knows him too. Varl stands out because
he’s a joker and doesn’t know when to button it. Now he stands
out for being effective.
‘Sounds almost courageous, Gaunt says.
Varl shrugs, uneasy. ‘Could just as easily have been the actions
of a very foolish man, sir; he replies.
‘In the field, that’s often the same thing/ says Gaunt. ‘The only
difference is how the after-action report remembers it. So let's con-
sider it courageous:
He looks at Larkin.
‘Something to celebrate; says Gaunt, ‘and there are feth-few
opportunities for that on this tour. You should reward him with a
swig for his efforts!
Larkin looks uncomfortable for a moment.
‘Once I've had one, obviously, says Gaunt.
Larkin grins and fishes out his flask. He wipes the lip and hands
it to Gaunt. Gaunt takes a hit of it. He’s not sure he’s ever going
to develop appreciation for sacra, though Larkin’s supply alleg-
edly comes from Trooper Bragg, and Bragg’s is allegedly the very
best. But he lets it scorch his throat without wincing, because this
is about showing he’s in it with them, and is one of them, some-
thing Corbec has been telling him since Kosdorf. The flask passes
on, making its way to Varl.
‘They were hard to hit/ Larkin remarks, now at ease, his guard
down.
‘For you? That's saying something, says Gaunt.
Larkin grins. His teeth look like neglected grave markers in a for-
gotten Militarum plot.
‘They were down in the drover trails, see?’ Larkin says. ‘The old
cattle ways. High banks, like ditches. Couldn't get a line’
88 DAN ABNETT

‘Drover trails?’ says Gaunt.

‘There are lots of them, sir, says One-six-five’s scout. Baen, his
name is Baen. “They thread the landscape. They're old, worn down.
Routes used for centuries, I reckon’
Gaunt nods. They'll have to look at that. It’s the sort of detail that
might have been left out of a basic contact report. Low-visibility
pathways might explain how the marauds are staying so fluid in
wide, flat cattle country.
‘T don’t think they were local; says Varl.
‘Meaning?’ asks Gaunt.
Varl hesitates, and considers what he’s trying to say. He takes a
sip from the flask. ‘Well, maybe they were; he says. ‘Local, I mean.
Native to Voltemand. To Vincula. But not on the same side. They
were so keen to feth us up, they were shooting up some locals.
Herders, cattlemen. Poor feths didn’t know what was going on’
‘Just desperation?’ asks Gaunt. ‘Bray says they were on the run
from Two-two and found you lot waiting’
Varl purses his lips. Beside him, Trooper Neskon is patiently wait-
ing for his pull, his eyes on the flask in Varl’s hands. But Varl’s just
holding it, thinking. He wants to get things straight in his head
before he says anything.
‘No, sit, says Varl. ‘Might’ve started out like that, but that’s not
how it played. The cattlemen, the fething grox... they weren't caught
in crossfire. The marauds were firing on them. Into them. They
didn’t matter to the marauds at all. They wanted kills. Us, the locals.
Anything they could get a line on’
Gaunt nods. Terror tactics. Not just Archonate strategy, but the
vicious behaviour of the True Archenemy. Disrupt, destroy, punish
the Imperial foe and any who stand with them. Sow fear, sow des-
pair, light a fuse on the unstable bulk-charge of a fragile community
under occupation.
Gaunt becomes aware that Mkoll has appeared at his side.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 89

‘A word, sir?’ Mkoll asks.

Gaunt tells One-six-five to carry on, and walks with the scout
to the fraying chain link at the edge of the compound. Through
the fence, they can see the highway, busy with local foot traffic, the
fortified city gate, the sprawl of the town’s eastern quarter with its
shell-hole windows and missing roof sections. Prayer-horns blast
in the heat, the scriptural lessons of the Imperial Creed gritty, dis-
torted and echoing.
‘Didn't want to bring it up in front of the intelligencer’ says Mkoll.
‘Go on!
‘The insurgents we ran into were local types; says Mkoll. ‘Which
matches the insurgency reports filed in Vincula during the last few
weeks. But you saw the mix of weapons recovered’
‘They've got their hands on Militarum-grade kit’
‘More than that, says Mkoll. ‘In the woods, one of them was good.
Really good. One, or two of them maybe. They were the ones using
the Mark threes, not laslocks’
‘The cells give their best weapons to the most proficient warriors’
Mkoll nods.
‘How good?’ Gaunt asks. It’s a stupid question. If Mkoll rates
them good, they're better than good. But he asks it anyway.
‘Good; Mkoll replies. ‘Didn't even see them. The rest were easy to
spot and knock down. Just guerrillas, basic skills. But these others,
or this other one-’
‘You can’t even tell that?’
Mkoll shakes his head. ‘Full-on military training. Conceal and
deny. Fast, hidden movement. Top-flight Militarum grade’
‘Specialists?’
‘Yes, sir.
‘Well, that’s primer handbook stuff’ says Gaunt. ‘Seed a few
specialists into a contested zone to mobilise and organise the local
sympathetics’
90 DAN ABNETT

He pauses. He can already see the hole in his logic.

‘Since when did the Archonate have a handbook?’ Mkoll asks.
‘Since when did they have decent military training? Since when
were they any more than cult-feths or zealots?’
Gaunt considers it. The crusade’s encountered a lot since it began
in ‘55. The Archenemy’s strengths have always been sheer numbers,
fanatical devotion, and brainwashed depravity, supplemented by
nightmarish, heavyweight warp-spawned horrors. It’s a feral, tribal
adversary, fuelled by bloodlust and a psychopathic mindset. It’s
never shown precision, or evidence of rigorous combat training.
It's never displayed discipline or Militarum-level skill sets.
‘You didn’t see them?’
‘No, sir:
‘Any of your squad glimpse them?’
Mkoll shakes his head. ‘I think they got away, he says. ‘Or he did.
I think they sent the rest of the group down the trail to the bridge
to cause a commotion and cover their exfil’
‘Cannon fodder?’
‘Pretty much’
‘This is your evaluation, Mkoll?’
Mkoll hesitates. He looks across the compound to the other
members of Two-two scout: Doyl, Caober, Mkvenner. Doyl and
Caober are chatting, heating a food tin on a fuel brick. Mkvenner’s
sitting alone, putting an edge on his straight silver.
‘Yes, sir, Mkoll says. ‘That's my evaluation’
The transports bunch up as they leave the Occupation Council
Building compound. Clavis Street is busy, and the central district
of Vincula is framed by a series of concentric checkpoint rings that
watch the major junctions. Stop and search at the various check-
points backs the traffic up. For a while, the vehicles form a crawling
convoy, though they will part ways for different destinations once
they‘re clear of the centre.
Milo sits up front in the cab beside Bragg. He takes the time to
check the map, and read the route to the billets in West Town, their
first drop-off. In the back, the two Administratum officials sit and
talk, their bags on their laps or in the footwells. Milo can’t hear
what they're saying. The Litus subaltern dozes in the seats behind
the cab space. He looks like he’s been awake all night. He has a
drum-mag heavy autogun on the seat beside him, and he keeps a
hand on it to stop it sliding even when he’s asleep.
It's baking hot in the cab. Bragg’s got the blower on, but it’s
only pushing hot air. The windows are down, to afford a little air

1
92 DAN ABNETT

movement, but all that comes in is more heat, dust and noise. The
street is bustling with crowds, mostly locals, who seethe in between
the slow-moving vehicles. There’s the sound of engines, the stink of
exhaust, the clamour of voices and moving feet, the jab of impatient
hooters. From above, the Ministorum’s prayer-horns blast the tenets
of the Imperial faith, their volume so high Milo can’t distinguish
sacrament from commandment. It’s an industrial noise, brutally
distorted by ageing speaker systems that were repurposed by the
missionary division, or newer units that have been hastily erected
and not checked for acoustic balance. Just noise. Milo presumes
that for some, for the faithful, there is a little comfort even in that:
you can’t make out the words, but you know you are hearing the
endless expression of Terra’s divinity.
Bragg remains cheerful enough, despite the heat and the stop-
start. He natters on about this and that, apparently glad of Milo’s
company.
They reach the end of Clavis, where Tantalus crosses it. The traffic
slows again. There are checkpoints: rockcrete gunboxes choking the
road, flanked by razor wire and slab barriers. A four-lane thorough-
fare constricts into two channels, one in, one out. Each vehicle is
being checked, each set of papers. Litus sentries in long dusters are
manning the check, dust goggles down, heavy weapons prominently
displayed. The gunboxes have support weapons on brackets. Milo
can just see the gunners panning their weapons along the traffic
line, shadows inside the gunbox slits. |
Beyond the barriers, and the thickets of vox-masts on the tops
of the boxes, he can see Tantalus Circle, and the dry remains of a
once-magnificent fountain. It's hard to tell what was once galloping
through the water. Horses, perhaps, or stags. The statuary is long
gone. From the map, Milo knows they turn west at the Circle, along
Kalodin Street.
Eventually, it’s their turn. Bragg pulls up at the checkpoint, and
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 93

Litus troopers study their papers. Bragg chats to them amiably. Their
faces are stony, sweat sheening unshaven cheeks below their tinted
goggles. Hard eyes. One man circles the cargo-6 with a mirror-plate
on a metal pole, inspecting the underside.
Milo starts to feel a tension, the gut feeling that is special to him,
the anticipation that makes others uncomfortable. It makes him
uncomfortable too. Something is off. Something is wrong. The air
suddenly feels heavy, beyond its already stifling quality, as though
sound has dulled. He becomes keenly aware of pinpoint details:
a fly crawling on the collar of a Litus trooper; a dented hubcap
left leaning against a slab barrier; shards of broken glass; the way
another Litus guard, watching the inspection, has his finger resting
on the trigger of an autogun, contrary to firearm discipline regs. His
weapon’s strapped across his body, but his finger’s inside the guard,
a man scared of being too slow, a man stretched by exhaustion and
nerves, a man expecting the worst, an accident waiting to happen.
All the while, Bragg chats happily, makes a joke. Milo feels like
he’s starting to shake, to radiate some kind of light that doesn’t
belong to him, but which shines out of him anyway. His instinct
lurks somewhere under his breastbone and seems to pulse like a
heartbeat. He feels dizzy. Noises are too loud and fat. Smells are too
strong. He has a taste in his mouth like ditchwater. What's going
to happen? Something’s about to happen. Something-
The duty guard waves them on. Bragg shouts his appreciation
and rolls them through the barrier line. They're moving, joining a
fresh circulation of traffic. Someone honks them. Bragg gives them
the finger, eases the heavy truck across two lanes.
‘You all right?’ he asks.
‘Yes, says Milo.
‘You went quiet; says Bragg.
Noises are normal again. The taste is gone.
‘Go around the circle; he says. ‘Second exit’
94 DAN ABNETT

Bragg nods, changes gear. The cargo-6 judders. Milo feels foolish.
They churn up Kalodin Street, the sun now in their eyes. They're
catching up with four other trucks that left the compound with
them, all heading for the same part of the city.
Milo sits back and controls his breathing. Larkin showed him
how. Marksman technique to reduce tremble, but it helps with
nerves too. Now they're moving again, now there’s air blowing in
through the cab windows, now his pulse is steadier, Milo can see
what just happened for what it was.
No premonition. No sixth sense that will get him detained and
expunged. Just the guilt of being himself. He’s been an outsider
since the fall of Tanith, an outsider to everything. He doesn’t fit or
belong, not even in the regiment. He keeps waiting for the inevi-
table moment when someone is going to point that out, and catch
him as an imposter. At the checkpoint, it was his papers. He was
waiting for the Litus to question his presence, to notice he had
the wrong stamp, the wrong permit code. Not even a civilian, just
something forever unclassifiable.
Guilt. That was all it was. Guilt and shame.
‘Do you ever think about it?’ he asks.
‘About what?’ asks Bragg.
‘Tanith; he says.
Bragg nods.
‘What do you think?’ Milo asks.
‘Sad thoughts, says Bragg. He glances over at Milo quickly, and
finds a spare smile from somewhere. ‘You know, Brinny, when I
enlisted, I knew I'd never see it again, so there’s that. But I always
thought it would be there’
They drive on. The traffic is slowing again. Bragg’s huge hands
are barely resting on the spokes of the large steering wheel, the
lightest of touches.
‘You have something to do, though; says Milo.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 95

‘How’s that?’
‘You're a trooper. A lasman. You have a role to play, a purpose,
even if Tanith is gone. You get to move forward... carry on, do
something else. You get to-’
‘Try again?’ asks Bragg.
‘I wasn't going to say it’
Bragg thinks for a moment.
‘I suppose; he says. ‘There’s always some task, some slog. I signed
up to serve the Throne I love, and that doesn’t diminish. I guess I’m
blessed that I’m alive to do something else. Something worthwhile,
in His name. I mean, look at me. I’m driving a dirty truck down a
dirty street for the glory of mankind, so I got no complaints. You
suggesting you don’t have something?’
‘Not so much’
‘I get that. But you're just a lad. Something will come along. I
mean, here you are, reading my map’
They're crawling now. Another checkpoint. The transport ahead
is coming to a standstill. More Litus sentries, more truck-stopping
slab barricades, another pair of gunboxes. They're checking traffic
coming both ways. There are pedestrian checks too, single-file walk-
ways on the kerbside of the gunboxes, men waiting to study papers
and faces. There are queues of people, all locals, lugging sacks and
possessions, carrying children, heading for market or aid stations.
Milo sees tired faces, troubled faces, eyes that look to the pavement
and avoid Imperial personnel.
Bragg stops. The engine idles.
‘Must get me one of those hats, he says, nodding to the locals in
the line with their broad-brimmed headwear. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very fetching’ says Milo. He tries to sound light, but the tension’s
coming back.
The subaltern in the seat behind them splutters awake. ‘Are we
there?’ he asks, confused.
96 DAN ABNETT

‘Not yet, friend/ Bragg says over his shoulder.

There’s another cargo-6 in front of them, and ahead of that, a
cargo-8 at the barrier line. The Litus are sweeping it, asking the
driver questions. Milo tries to control his breathing. He tries to find
something to look at. The people in the queue. Farmers, drovers,
market workers. They're all tense, brims down. Those sacks they’re
holding, those baskets, probably contain everything they own, or
everything they can spare to sell. Most keep a tight grip on them,
despite the weight, despite the heat. They are too precious to let
go of. A few have set their loads down at their feet as they wait to
pass scrutiny. Too heavy to carry when they don't have to. Some-
one’s being frisked. Someone else is pleading in the local dialect,
because the Litus are turning them away.
The tension’s a knot behind his breastbone. Milo refuses to let
it swamp him this time. He’s got-the measure of it. It’s nothing.
It's just guilt. It’s just guilt.

‘So I'm... what was it you said? “Magmeta”?’ Rawne asks.

‘No, you're Tanith, says Eiwolt. ‘But the Tanith settlement was
made by people who derived from what we classify as Magmeta
gene-stock. Culturally—’
‘We're not much on culture; says Rawne.
‘Culturally, she says, ignoring him, ‘there are markers that show
the Tanith descendance from Terra. Even your accent’
‘I don't have an accent’ :
‘You completely have an accent. And there’s the ink’ She looks
at his face, at the tattoo across his right eye.
‘Just local custom’
‘My point exactly, she says. ‘The tattoos must mean something.
They must have meant something originally, at least. Family or
clan connections, caste, class, regional associations, professions
and trades, rites of passage. What do yours mean?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 97

‘Family line, I think, says Rawne. He uses the last of the flatbread
to scoop the food dregs from his bewl. ‘The sunburst has connec-
tions with Tanith Attica, which is where I was born. I don’t know’
‘You don’t know much about the history of your world?’
‘Never really grabbed my attention. And it would be pointless
knowledge now, because there is no world’
‘What does grab your attention?’ she asks.
He looks at her. She looks away.
‘I got this’ he says, pointing to one of his tattoos, ‘when I was
eight, on my baptism. This one, when I was twelve, but that was a
dare. I don’t know what this one means. We all get them. I mean,
it was a thing. It was part of-’
‘The culture?’ she asks with a pointed smile.
He shrugs. ‘I’m saying, we don’t know what they mean; he says,
‘if they ever meant anything. These symbols, the circles, the stars,
the snakes, the knots, what have you... They're just Tanith signs.
You could see them on buildings. You could once see them on build-
ings. On bottles and glassware, on the standing stones. Carved into
wood. There was a lot of wood. And getting ink, well, that was a
custom. Tanith people were inked’
‘But the symbols persist; she says. She gestures to his jacket. ‘They
recur in your regiment's emblems and insignia‘
He glances where she points, the patch on the shoulder of his
jacket. A standard Tanith infantry patch, with a smaller woven squad
tag under it.
‘I suppose, he says. ‘I hadn't really noticed’
‘And in your coins, she says. The currency Rawne left on the
table still hasn’t been taken by the old woman. Eiwolt drags a
fingertip through the coins to separate them: a few large, silver
Imperial crowns, and the smaller, copper Tanith-issue ones. She
holds one up.
‘Circle; she says, ‘like on your patch’
98 DAN ABNETT

He shrugs.
‘Don't you want to keep these?’ she asks.
‘What?’
‘The Tanith coins?’
‘They're legal tender; he says. ‘Perfectly good’
‘No, I meant as mementos.
‘I’m not sentimental/ he replies. She lets the coin slide from her
hand onto the others.
‘Anyway, she says. ‘My point is, there’s meaning in them’
‘Not that we were aware of?
‘Some of the Tanith must have been. Old families. The people
who worked the tattoo tradition, for a start. Did you have a priest-
hood? A clergy?’
‘Yes. Growing up, it was all pretty much Ministorum, standard
stuff. But there were old traditions. Feast days, the Rites of the
Elector, season days, rituals that went back to the days of the High
Kings, and the Nalsheen, and the war with the Huhlhwch Dynasty:
‘What was that?’
‘Couldn't tell you. A folktale thing, from the very old days. An
evil king, finally overthrown by the Nalsheen’
‘And they were?’
‘The wood-warriors. Legendary heroes of mighty prowess and
great skill, the usual sort of stuff. A brotherhood, a secret order...’
‘Do they still exist?’
‘Nothing still exists; he says.
‘Not even within your regiment? A warrior tradition?’
He thinks about that. The mash has done its work. His belly is
warm and he’s at his ease. She is very good to look at.
‘Well, they say that—’
‘What?’ she asks.
Rawne shakes his head. ‘They say the Tanith scouting skills are
passed down from the Nalsheen. From the old hunters of the
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 99

flowing woods. The Nalsheen are long dead, long gone. Although
the joke is that Mkvenner-’ ;
‘Mkvenner what? Who’s Mkvenner?’
‘Forget it, he says. ‘I don’t know this stuff, this tradition stuff. You
might want to ask Lesp. He’s a corpsman, and the only one left with
any decent inking skill. He might know what the symbols mean’
He feels a little unsettled. He wants to impress her, engage her,
and she wants to know the mysteries, but he doesn’t know any of
the old lore. It never interested him. He grew up in Attica, and he’s
always been a chancer. He realises, awkwardly, that he wants to look
good to her, and that means hiding the fact that he grew up on
the criminal fringe, mixing with the wrong types, wasting his life,
disappointing his family. He feels ashamed. He wants to spin her
haunting stories of Old Tanith, but he never learned them, because
they were stupid. She knows more about Tanith than he does.
‘The symbols; she says. ‘I don’t know if it interests you, but some
of the motifs I’ve seen on Tanith Guardsmen have a lot in common
with ancient Magmeta tribal patterns. I have documents. Not here.
Back at Memnon House. I can show you:
He nods.
‘We should get back, I suppose; she says. “The food was good’
‘I still haven’t found a pen; he says. ‘I haven’t taken down these
briefs of yours’
She stares him right in the eyes, and holds the stare for a long
time.
‘I can print out the documents at Memnon House, or provide
them on a slate; she says. ‘You can give them directly to your com-
manding officer’
‘Well, that'll save some time, he says.
She’s still staring. He’s finding it uncomfortable.
‘You are trying very hard, she says. “You are very obvious and
unsubtle, Major Rawne. I presume you think you possess some
100 DAN ABNETT

kind of charm. It is a mistake to think that way. You are reason-

ably good looking, and you have a confidence that is appealing,
which I presume succeeds for you often enough to make it worth
persisting with. But your agenda is quite transparent. The objectifica-
tion, the constant drip of lewd and suggestive remarks. It’s relentless
and clumsy. I suppose you got yourself deliberately assigned to
me, and that makes me as uncomfortable as your manner. I’m
curious, does your technique actually work? Do you notch up many
conquests? I shudder to think who might be susceptible to your
calculated predation’
‘Well’ he says. ‘That’s me told’
The older woman arrives to scoop up their empty plates. ‘It was
very good, Eiwolt tells her. Rawne puts his hand on the bottle when
the woman tries to take it.
‘We haven't finished that, he says.
‘Oh, please, says Eiwolt. ‘I’ve made things very plain. Now you're
just being persistent’
Rawne sits back. He sighs.
‘No; he says. ‘I’m sorry. We can go back. Of course. I was being
crass, and I apologise. You know, I honestly thought I was being
smooth? How sad is that?’
‘Desperately, she says. ‘Swagger and innuendo are rather unpleasant,
major. They're superficial. They don’t show any respect for me, or for
anyone else, including you. I get the impression you're quite inter-
esting, but the really interesting things about you are the things you
keep hidden’
‘There’s nothing hidden; says Rawne. ‘That's the really sad part’
He feels deflated, and he knows he deserves it. He pours himself
another glass, but leaves hers empty. ‘I’m just a basic feth who acts
like a dog, chases pretty girls, and fights when he’s told to?
‘Really, major, she says. ‘Are you trying to go for sympathy now?
Is that your new line of approach?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 101

‘Definitely not; he says. ‘Can we just draw a line? I genuinely

apologise. Can we just go through the work? Tell me what I need
to tell Gaunt. Let's just do that. Just act professional’
‘Here or at Memnon?’ she asks.
‘Whichever you like. We can stay and finish our drink’
Eiwolt frowns.
‘Feth; he says, ‘you've cut me right down to size. You've got the
measure of me, so I’m not going to try anything now. We could
just sit here a while longer, enjoy this muck. More comfortable
than that damn kitchen. I'll see if the old woman can lend me a
pencil and piece of paper’
Her frown deepens.
‘Come on, he says. ‘My shitty... technique, as you put it, has
crashed and burned. It only really works, feth help me, if the sub-
ject is not aware. You are fully aware, and you're going to give me
shit if I try it again. So let's draw a line. Gaunt keeps telling me I
should be professional and act like an officer, so give me a chance:
The older woman returns, and puts down a large bowl of pitted
soft fruit and two beakers of steaming caff.
‘Have you got a pen?’ he asks her, miming the act of writing.
Off she goes again.
‘Tell me about Gaunt; says Eiwolt.
‘What about him?’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘As little as possible, he says.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning... I hate his living guts and I’ve wanted to kill him
since the day we met:
He watches her face for a reaction.
‘You see?’ he says. ‘I told you. There’s nothing hidden about me
at all’
102 DAN ABNETT

Bragg rolls them forward. The line moves up. The cargo-6 in front
has reached the check line. Litus crowd in around it. The knot in
Milo’s chest, right behind the sternum, is like a hot coal, and there's
a pulse to it, a throb. He thinks he might be sick.
The crowd at the foot-pass is moving as slowly as the vehicles.
He watches as people are stopped. They put their wares down, their
sacks and baskets. They raise their arms and stand like supplicants
as the guards frisk and search. He watches, concentrating on them,
rather than the way he’s feeling.
‘You all right?’ Bragg asks.
‘Yeah:
‘Sure? You've gone quiet again’
‘I’m fine’
‘This is taking forever, calls one of the Administratum officers
from the back.
‘Security, says Bragg, turning to look back over the seat with a
grin and a helpless shrug. ‘Nothing I can do about it’
A farmer lowers his arms. He’s given his papers back, and
his sun hat. He picks up his basket and hurries on through the
walkway. The Litus sentry beckons the next. An old man with a
flour sack, his sun hat frayed. He puts the sack down, hands over
his papers, and raises his arms. Sunlight winks off the sentry’s but-
tons. A prayer-horn wails, a street away. Engines rev. The cargo-6
in front lets out a black cough of exhaust. Waste water drips from
the hem of the sentry’s long coat as he pats the old man down,
condensation from the cooler unit running under the troop-
ers duster. It leaves dark black spots of wet on the dry, baked
ground. Milo stares at the dots. How fast will they evaporate in
this heat? Will they still be waiting at the line when all trace of
them has gone?
A vehicle behind them honks, frustrated. A Litus officer calls
out abuse in reply, and walks back down the line. People shuffle
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 103

forward. The sentry finishes his pat-down. He hands the old man
his papers. The old man lowers his arms, takes them, and hurries
on.
The black spots are still on the baked rockcrete. Are they smaller
now?
Milo stares at them. A little trail, like oil drops from an engine
block. He fights to focus on them, to shut the rest out. Just look
at the spots. Ignore the feeling rising up inside. Ignore the knot.
Ignore the swirl of nausea. Just look at the spots.
The spots. Right there on the ground. Right there next to the old
man’s flour sack. Just focus on them.
The sack.
The old man has left it behind. He didn’t pick it up. He’s forgotten
it. He’s just left it there, right beside the gun-box. He-
‘Back up, says Milo.
‘What?’ says Bragg.
‘Back up. Back up! Back up!’
There’s something in his voice that scares Bragg, scares him
enough to take it seriously. It scares Milo too. Bragg rams the stick
into reverse.
Soldiers shout. The officer's yelling at Bragg. There’s a thump
and a tinkle of headlamp glass as they ram into the truck behind.
‘Feth/ says Bragg.
‘Back up!’ Milo yells at him. ‘Shunt it!’
The sun comes out, but it was already out. The light trembles,
and then is instantly, overwhelmingly bright. Everything vanishes
into it. The light becomes boiling flame, rushing in a wall. The
wall is solid, because it slams into the side of the cargo-6, and the
transport lifts, and tilts, and keeps tilting, and then it’s on its side
with an impact as if it’s hit a second wall, and there are glass chips
filling the air, and the air is on fire.
And then the noise comes, a concussion, a boom like a vault
104 DAN ABNETT

door slamming, and the vault steals the light away and everything
is black.

Rawne stands up, scraping his chair on the ground. He looks at

the sky.
‘What was that?’ asks Eiwolt.
‘Come with me, says Rawne. He scoops his lasrifle up off the
table.
‘What's going on?’
‘Come with me now, Intendant Eiwolt, says Rawne.
She looks at him. She’s really scared. He grabs her hand.
‘Was that a bomb?’ she asks. Rawne can see a section of sky
through the makeshift awning. Black smoke is climbing into it,
west of them.
‘Yes, he says. People in the dining house are scattering, fleeing
into the streets. Panic. Shouting. Crying.
‘Come right now, he says.

Gaunt exits the warebarn into the compound yard, Severt and Bray
at his heels. He heard the boom, and knows instantly from the
depth of it that it was a significant military-grade detonation.
In the yard, the men of One-six-five and the other squads are on
their feet, looking west. A shuddering ball of black smoke is rising
into the sky beyond the rooftops.
‘Where's that?’ asks Gaunt.
‘West Town, west of Tantalus Circle’ says Mkoll immediately.
‘Get the transports, Gaunt says. ‘Where’s my driver?’
There’s another deep boom, deeper than the last. More smoke
appears, closer than the first blotch.
‘Low Quarter; says Mkoll.
‘Raise vox!’ Gaunt yells. ‘Signal lockdown, all points, all gates.
Nothing gets out of Vincula. Security condition red’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 105

He adjusts his gunbelt, the weight of his bolt pistol. He slides

the chainsword hanger around so it's on the front of his hip and
won't get in the way as he takes his seat in a Tauros.
‘One-six-five, Two-two, Three-three-one, with me! Mount up and
follow on! Where’s my driver? Move!’
 . " -
FS

= eee

pot alles
 10.

When he wakes up, he’s pinned. He’s been put in an oven and
weighed down with an anvil. There is no sound.
Milo moves his head, which was resting on sandpaper, and spits
the sand out of his mouth. But it’s not sand, it’s lumps of wind-
screen glass, and it cuts his lips. There’s no sound.
The anvil is crushing his hip. He can’t move. His shoulder’s
pressed at a funny angle. It’s very hot. He can smell smoke, but he
can’t hear burning. The lack of sound is so strange.
It's not an anvil. It’s the bench seat of the cab. The cargo-6 is on
its side, and he’s sprawled at the bottom of the cab, on the door,
his cheek against the broken ‘crete of the road. The bench frame
has collapsed on him, pinning him to the cab struts. Everything's
orange, orange light, orange air, a dense fog of orange dust. It’s in
his throat. He coughs, and can’t hear his own coughing.
Nothing is the right way up. He sees Bragg. Bragg is the wrong
way up too. The big trooper is bleeding from a head wound, and
is caked in dirt. He’s yelling at Milo. He’s yelling Milo’s name. Milo

107
108 DAN ABNETT

can see Bragg’s lips moving, forming the shape of his name, but
there’s no sound.
Bragg’s standing on the road outside the cab. The cab has lost its
windscreen. Bragg must have crawled out that way. He’s standing
there, yelling at Milo, reaching in to get him. Wafts of heat keep
washing over Milo’s skin.
At last, a sound. A drumming, a thumping, like a pulse. The beat
of his own blood. He knows he should move. He can’t remember
how. Bragg leans in, grabs hold of him. Now there’s a slippery sound
too, the sound of wet fingertips rubbing plate glass. Bragg’s voice. All
he can make of Bragg’s voice, a muffled, sliding, submerged noise.
Bragg pulls at him. Something hurts, Milo doesn't move. Bragg
yells something else, and turns his attention to the bench seat. He’s
trying to move it. He's trying to bend the actual frame and get it
off Milo. Heat comes in gusts. Milo feels each one singeing the
hair on his scalp and neck. The street’s on fire. No one’s going to
move that bench seat, not even Bragg. Milo sees huge arm muscles
clench right in front of his face. Nothing moves.
Then everything moves. And everything happens. Sound returns
in a rush that stuns him: the sound of roaring flames, of klaxons,
of screaming, of Bragg shouting. The anvil’s no longer on him.
Bragg pulls him through the empty mouth of the cab’s windscreen.
‘Get clear!’ Bragg yells. ‘Get the feth clear!’
The checkpoint’s vanished. One gunbox is a crater, fuming
smoke; the other has been stoved in and has collapsed on itself.
Smoke swathes the street. The light’s orange because of the flames
pouring from the buildings either side, and from the cargo-6 that
was ahead of them, which is upside down and mangled. The
ground’s covered in dust, glass chips, lumps of rockcrete, scraps
of metal, fronds of torn wire, and pieces of meat. The people
closest to the epicentre have been vaporised. Those not quite
so close have been dismembered. There are two bodies nearby,
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 108

Litus men. They are hard to look at. Across the street, three more,
and several civilians, and they are just as difficult to see. There’s
screaming everywhere. Some of it’s coming from their rig. Bragg
is trying to get back inside.
Milo turns to help him, unsteady and numb. The back end of
the cargo-6 is on fire, and the Administratum officials are shriek-
ing, trapped by bent metal and a rear axle that has punched up
through the floor plates. They are burning alive.
Bragg drags the Litus subaltern clear. He’s only done it so he can
get at the intendants in the back. The subaltern is dead. A metal
fence spar has punched his face in and is sticking out of the back
of his head. Somehow, the man is still holding onto his autogun,
and it clatters out with him.
‘You can’t go in there!’ Milo yells.
‘The feth I can’t!’ Bragg bawls back, and tries to squeeze his bulk
in over the seatbacks.
A man runs up. The Litus B.R.U. officer. His yellow-tinted goggles
are cracked, and one of his coat sleeves is missing.
‘Move away!’ he yells. ‘Move the hell away!’
‘Bomber, Milo says to him. ‘Old man. Local. Frayed sun hat. It
was in his sack:
The officer glances around wildly. There’s no one nearby who
isn't dead, or lying down, or crouching to help someone who is
dead or lying down.
The officer pushes past Milo, either to help Bragg or pull him
out, it’s not clear which. The shrieks of the Administratum staffers
are no longer human. They are just a noise, like the shrill scream
of an industrial drill.
Something lands behind Milo. It hits the ground hard, lifting
dust. It’s the heavy metal speaker of a worship-horn that’s toppled
from the facade of the building behind him. Milo looks at it
blankly, oblivious to the fact that it nearly crushed him, puzzled
110 DAN ABNETT

that it’s not making a noise any more. The voice of Terra has had
its throat cut. They are on their own in the fire.
Milo drops to his knees. He’s not sure why. It’s not in shock, or
in fear, or in prayer. The knot inside him, which has never gone
away, seems to think it’s a good idea, so he does it.
There’s a popping sound. A snapping of dry bones. Milo knows
that noise. Gunfire. Maybe hard rounds cooking off in the flames.
The edge of the speaker-horn in front of him deforms and perfo-
rates. He sees the holes appear.
Someone’s shooting. It’s not rounds cooking off. Someone’s actu-
ally shooting.
Milo sees a man coming through the billowing smoke and
dancing sparks. A local man, a farmer, a drover: sun hat, bound
leggings, laced tunic, a dirty cloak. He’s young, not much older
than Milo.
He’s got an autorifle. He’s shooting it from the hip. He’s shooting
at the dead, the dying, the rescuers and first responders. Crouching
figures look up, then topple across the bodies they were fighting
to save.
He’s shooting at everyone. He’s shooting at Milo.
And he would have hit him, if Milo hadn't already been on
his knees behind the speaker-horn. Rounds spark off the speak-
er's metal bell. They rip over Milo’s head. They strike the cab of
the overturned cargo-6, and they hit the Litus officer in the back.
He's hit three times between the shoulders, and he falls inside,
onto Bragg, and only his body and his body armour have stopped
Bragg getting hit too.
The gunman comes right up to the fallen horn. He sees Milo,
but he’s out. Very calmly, he ejects his mag and reaches into his
satchel for a reload.
Milo rolls. Again, it’s not him, not consciously. It’s the knot in his
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 11

sternum, pulsing, urging him. He rolls in the dust, bangs into the
subaltern’s sprawled corpse, and comes up on one knee, smeared
in the subaltern’s blood and aiming the subaltern’s trusty heavy
autogun.
The gunman slams his mag home, raises his weapon. Milo is
quicker. The autogun barks, jerks in his grip. It’s as heavy as feth
and it’s got a brutal kick, much more than a lasgun. But Milo leans
into it and unloads a burst. The drum-mag vibrates. The gunman
jerks twice, smacked by invisible sledgehammers, then falls back
against the bowl of the horn.
Milo waits a second, listens. There’s more gunfire nearby.
He reaches out to the subaltern’s corpse, and pulls the musette
bag off him, clumsy, one-handed. He hears the clink of two, maybe
three drums in it.
Then he rises.
He drags the dead officer out of the cargo-6 by the ankles.
Everything’s heavy: the man, the gun strung around him, the
ammo bag, the air.
‘Bragg!’
Bragg is peering out of the wreck at him, spattered in blood,
baffled.
‘Get out!’ Milo shouts at him.
‘But-’
‘They're gone!’ Milo says. The screaming from the back of the
vehicle has ceased. There’s just a sheet of flame streaming out of
the twisted body shell.
Bragg clambers out. Milo pushes him down. More shots rip in
their direction. Hard rounds that clip and ping off the road. The
fat light-blade of a laslock bolt that punches through the roof of
the cargo-6.
‘Get down, stay down!’ Milo yells.
112 DAN ABNETT

In the churning smoke and flying sparks, he’s seen the next
gunman, striding in, firing bursts.
Milo raises the heavy drum-cannon and blazes back.

The streets are narrow, the low habs of East Town giving way to
the higher-rise central districts. At the wheel, Trooper Gutes keeps
leaning on the horn to scurry crowds out of their path. People are
moving the other way, in a dazed panic.
‘Detonation, Kalodin Street Checkpoint, West Central, yells
Caffran from one of the rear seats, fumbling with the data-slate. The
runner is lurching over the broken street and potholes, snapping
them all backwards and forwards. ‘Detonation, Memnon Road
Magistratum Annex, Low Quarter:
‘Casualties?’ Gaunt snaps over his shoulder, one hand braced
on the roll bars.
‘No data, sir, replies Caffran. Gaunt’s sure there is. Caffran seems
as hopeless with a strategy slate as Rafflan was. No, Raglon. It was
Raglon. Or has he got them reversed again? It doesn’t matter. Why
can’t he find a junior who can act as a decent adjutant?
That doesn’t matter either.
‘Low Quarter’s closer, says Gaunt. Gutes nods and takes the next
right hard. Almost immediately, he slams on the brakes. The Tauros
shrieks to a halt, slaloming, bashing its wheels sideways off a deep
kerb with an impact that jars the entire chassis.
The other vehicles in the convoy screech up behind it.
Ahead, Ivinder Street is throttled with stationary vehicles, and
streams of people fleeing eastwards. Ivinder feeds Clavis, main
thoroughfares. To reach Low Quarter, they'll have to cross it, and
they'll have as much chance crossing that flow as they would a
river in spate.
Gaunt dismounts.
‘Give me that, he says to Caffran, snatching the data-slate. He
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 118

studies it as he strides back towards the rest of the runners. Caffran

wasn’t being entirely incompetent, Ea out. Several major data
sources are down, including Standardised Militarum Local. Are
the city’s comm-nets disabled? But Caffran’s missed a side feed
on the regimental link. Adare and Baffels have got six squads en
route to Low Quarter, with B.R.U. support.
Caffran’s running up behind him.
‘That’s what you missed; Gaunt snaps, handing the slate back
without looking. ‘I need vox up; Gaunt says as he reaches the first
vehicle. ‘Quickly, please, Rafflan’
The trooper’s wedged in the back of the runner, with his vox-caster
set up. Gaunt hopes it’s Rafflan. It bothers him too much that he
might be getting it wrong. He doesn't want the Ghosts to see him
making careless errors under pressure.
‘Link is up, sir, the trooper replies, headset over one ear and not
the other. ‘Some disrupt, possible jamming’
‘Repeat orders, says Gaunt. ‘City lockdown, all gates, all points. Con-
dition red. I want confirmation from individual gate stations, please’
‘Yes, sir:
‘Thank you, Rafflan/ Gaunt says. There’s not a hint in the man’s
expression that Gaunt’s somehow got his name wrong.
‘Gate lock is confirmed, sir; says Severt, heaving himself out of
the third Tauros in line. The engines are all still running. Severt's
holding a small, matt-black personal vox-unit. ‘Casualties at Kalo-
din estimated at twenty, climbing. Reports of gunfire, Kalodin and
surrounding:
‘Where are you getting this from?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Ah, Mil-Int Intercept Protocol, replies Severt.
‘Your own discrete comm system?’
‘No, just a surveillance overlay-’
‘Does it occur to you that you sieving the tactical feeds to scav-
enge data might be why our links are partially jammed?’
114 DAN ABNETT

Severt starts to argue, the sort of argument that Gaunt knows

will be framed as mild and reasonable, and include phrases like
‘wider intelligenced spectrum’ and ‘high coordinational ops. Gaunt
pushes past him.
‘Back it up!’ he yells, gesturing with both hands as if he’s guiding
a Valkyrie into land. ‘Back it up! We're moving direct to Kalodin!
Cut through Central South! Gunfire reported, possible insurgents. I
want scouts and marksmen in first! Let's get it suppressed. A bottle
of Bragg’s sacra for any man who takes one alive for interrogation!’
He pointedly says ‘insurgents’. He'll be damned if he uses the
Mil-Int non-word ‘maraud’
The runners, and the two trucks behind them, start to reverse,
piecemeal. Gaunt catches the eye of Mkoll, who’s riding in the
fourth runner. They exchange nods as the Tauros starts to wheel
backwards. A mutual understanding of the priority captures.
Gaunt runs back to his ride. As he passes the second runner, he
calls to Rafflan, tells him to inform city command that they are
diverting to Kalodin. He climbs into the lead runner, Caffran piling
in behind him. Gutes selects reverse.

Rawne has Eiwolt's right hand in his left, and his rifle braced in his
right, stock against his hip. The dining house has emptied. Even the
older woman that served them has run away. Seething pots have
been left to boil over on the stove top, and a few sun hats have
been forgotten. Everyone fled at the sound of the second blast. It
was much closer, just a few streets away, more a concussive thump
than a sound, that shook the ground and the tableware and the
awning and the bead curtain, shivered dust from the beams, and
pinched their eardrums.
~ He leads her onto the street, watching the angles. He doesn't
want to scare her, but too late - she’s already scared. The ragged
Low Quarter street is empty, sun-baked. The makeshift market has
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 115

gone. He sees a few locals running in fear, heads down, hugging

the walls, trying to reach homes or families or nearby shelters. The
people of Vincula - the people of this whole miserable world -
have known war too much and too often in the last decades. The
last year's probably been the worst. The fear-and-flight response
is burned into them, coded deep as an instinct. It’s like an old
wound that won't heal. It scabs over when things calm down, but
the moment there’s a sudden noise, a reminder, it splits open again
and the fear bleeds out. They run and hide because they have been
taught to run and hide, they have learned to run and hide. It doesn’t
require instruction.
The hot breeze stinks of fyceline, but Rawne doesn’t need the
smell to tell him that it’s a munition detonation. A huge horse-
tail of dirty brown smoke is pluming into the sky just a few streets
away, and he can see flames dancing beyond the roof line. He can
hear sirens. He can hear triggered alarms singing on automatic.
It looks close. Is that Memnon House? Close to Memnon House?
He can’t tell for sure. He doesn’t know Low Quarter well, another
briefing he should have paid more attention to. His personal comms
are down. The bead’s dead. Units need high-gain vox-casters out
in Low Quarter. Also a detail he didn’t really think about earlier.
He can't call in help.
‘Follow me. Walk behind me; he tells her.
Eiwolt’'s face is paler than ever. She’s struggling with her heavy
catry-bag, and is trying to put her slicker back on. One arm’s inside
out.

‘Never mind that, he snaps.

This is a bad place. It would be bad enough for him, a Militarum
officer on his own. It’s worse because he’s got a civilian in tow, a
civilian with zero combat-zone experience. If feth happens, she’s
going to get him killed. He’s fairly certain of that.
The sun’s high. There are very few shadows to hug. He thinks
116 DAN ABNETT

about leaving the street and using the back lanes and alleys between
dwellings, but that’s just asking for a bottleneck ambush.
‘It's an attack, she says.
He nods. ‘Insurgents’ He wants to let go of her hand so he can
get both on the rifle, but he doesn’t want to let it go either. He
wants to know where she is.
‘We should go to the official assembly point; she says. “Gallis Sta-
tion’ She lets go of his hand and points. ‘That way, major. Fourth
street over, at the junction with Amfortas Road!
She knows it. Of course she knows it. She’s memorised the secu-
rity briefs, and a map of the quarter.
‘We're not going that way, he says.
‘Protocol insists we must, she replies. ‘Security provision MVO
thirty-three. In the event of a maraud strike, occupation personnel
must report to the nearest assembly point without-’
He looks at her.
‘We're not going that way, he says. ‘What's your name?’
‘What? I’m Intendant Eiwolt-’
‘No, not your job, not your title. I don’t want to talk to Intendant
fething Eiwolt. I want to talk to you’
‘Inge; she says.
‘Right, Inge. I’ve been in situations like this and you haven't, so I
need you to trust me. We’re going to head back to Memnon House’
‘But that's where the bomb was: _
‘So they're not going to waste another one on it. Insurgents stagger
attacks. They want to kill people and spread terror. If they've got
another device, the next one will be at an assembly point, because
that’s where everyone's supposed to go. Maximise casualties. All right?’
She nods.
‘Memnon may have been hit, but it’s safer now. Yes?’
‘Yes!
‘Can you manage your bag?’
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 117

‘Of course’ ;
‘Just dump that fething slicker, or sling it over your bag. We have
to move, and there’s no time to feth around while you put your
coat on. Stay right behind me, do as I say:
She nods again. She looks scared, but strong. Heat, or fear, or
the local mash, has put a flush of colour in her cheeks. He hasn’t
got the balls to tell her the rest. Insurgent tactics. Bomb one target,
then bomb the safety stations twenty minutes later. That’s one,
the obvious one. But another is bomb a primary target, then put
gunmen on the ground to pick off survivors.
If that’s what they're facing, it doesn’t matter which fething way
they go.
 eeoh
siaeee
ais tel
pies,
res ips
7
 11.

Milo crouches behind the fender of an abandoned cargo-8. The

weapon’s getting heavy, and his arms are aching from the weight
and kick of it. He’s emptied two drums. He thinks he’s killed four
men. The street is still blanketed with swirling smoke, and some of
the habs are fully ablaze, pouring flames from every window. The
sky’s lost in blackness. The heat’s intense. Everything is still orange,
like he’s seeing it through Litus dust goggles.
He unslots the second drum, pulls out the third, and snaps it
in place. It feels lighter. He thought there were three in the dead
man’s bag, but there were only two.
Shots whine past him out of the smoke. Behind him, two Litus
men are out in the open, hurrying with a stretcher. The shots hit
one, and the body on the board. The man drops, taking the stretcher
down with him. The other one turns, letting go of the stretcher
handles, reaching for his weapon. More shots hit him in the chest
and face, and knock him backwards.
Milo swings out, staying low. He sees two gunmen advancing,

119
120 DAN ABNETT

autorifles raised. He rips off a burst that smashes one of them to

the ground. The other returns fire. Hard rounds punch the body-
work, chip paint, smash sidelights, spin off a wing mirror. Milo fires
back. The cannon seizes, dry. The third drum was almost empty.
He gets down, as low as he can. He rummages frantically in the
musette bag for another spare, or for loose ammo he can load
manually. Gunfire hammers into the cargo-8, blowing out the cab
windows, and hacking divots out of the road surface. Milo pulls
his feet in. No ammo. No ammo at all. The hot coal in his chest
urges him to slide in under the vehicle, to roll out on the far side,
to keep it between him and the gunman.
He hears the sting-crack of a lasgun. Two, three shots. From under
the wheel arch, he sees the gunman go over. The man falls, rolls,
lies still. His sun hat tumbles away and comes to rest, the brim
flopping like an injured bird.
‘Brin!’
Bragg runs up, ducks down, yells at him under the fender. Bragg’s
got a Mk II lasrifle. It’s got ‘B.R.U’ stencilled on the stock.
‘Come on, come on, come on!’ he yells. His face is ruddy, bathed
in dirty sweat, running with blood from his scalp.
Milo squirms backwards to him. Bragg grabs his leg and drags
him out the rest of the way.
‘You're a fething crazy person, Brinny, he says, and laughs, though
there’s nothing to laugh at. Bolts from laslocks sear into the road close
by. One destroys a window across the street. Bragg hunkers down,
and aims the lasgun around the shot-up wing of the transport. The
weapon, a main battlefield rifle, looks far too small in his giant hands.
He starts to bang off shots. Cowering behind him, Milo takes a
look. Bragg’s not hitting anything.
‘Feth’s sake, Milo says. “Try again’
‘Shut your fething mouth!’ Bragg replies. He shoots some more.
His aim is a little better this time.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 121

While the big man’s laying down fire, Milo looks around. There's
an old building behind them, as yetuntouched by the uncontrolled
blaze of structures nearby. Built in the old grand style, colonial
Imperial, it’s shuttered and closed. Might have once been a count-
ing house or a clerical office. It hasn’t been used in a while.
‘In there!’ Milo shouts. He’s ditched the useless weight of the
cannon and the musette bag. He runs towards the portico. Bragg
squeezes off a few more shots, then runs after him, head down,
arms flailing, like a skittish grox.
The portico is four stone pillars, not much in the way of cover.
The main doors are locked, and braced with old metal bars.
‘Get it open!’ Bragg yelps. The bars won't budge. Bragg yanks
Milo out of the way, hands him the lasrifle, and grips the bars. Milo
wants to watch, but he covers their backs instead, rifle aimed. He
sees a figure move in the smoke, and fires a shot in its direction.
The bars slowly wrench away in Bragg’s hands, shearing rivets out
of the hardwood. Bragg groans with the effort, his huge back and
shoulder muscles stretching his uniform. He throws the bars aside,
and kicks the doors open. They duck inside. Bragg shuts the doors,
and looks around for something to wedge them with.
It's oddly quiet inside, oddly still. The noise outside becomes
distant. An old counting house, unlit, with dark panelled walls,
a high ceiling, old hardwood counters, dust thick as snow on the
floor. It kicks up as they move, filling the air like smoke, catching
the orange glare coming in through the big, frosted-glass windows.
Bragg finds a rubricator’s chair and shoves it against the doors to
keep them shut.
‘That's not going to hold them, says Milo.
‘Shut up, we're not staying, says Bragg. ‘Let’s find a back way out.
There’s got to be one:
Milo nods. He holds the lasrifle out to Bragg. Bragg takes it, then
pulls his pistol from his holster. Assigned to transportation, Bragg
122 DAN ABNETT

wasn't carrying his rifle, just a sidearm. He hands it to Milo. It’s

compact, matt-grey, regimental service issue.
‘Back way, says Bragg. He starts nosing around. Milo checks the
laspistol, and flicks off the safety.
‘How did you know?’ Bragg asks, trying a back door that turns
out to be a stationery cupboard.
‘Know what?’
‘The bomb?’
‘There was an old man, says Milo. ‘He put a sack down, then
didn’t pick it up again. It was-’
He wants to say hunch. He wants to say gut instinct. He wants to
admit he may have had a dream about it, not even when he was asleep.
Instead, he says, ‘It seemed odd’
‘Don't think we'd be here if you hadn't got me to reverse, says
Bragg. He’s found a door. Beyond it, a narrow, gloomy, tiled cor-
ridor leads to rear offices.
He looks over at Milo.
‘I won't forget that; Bragg says.
Milo thinks he’s going soppy on him. ‘What?’
‘The men, the Admin men, says Bragg. He looks sick, like he’s
going to vomit. ‘The Litus bloke, he wouldn't have felt a thing. But
them two, poor fethers. I won't forget that screaming. I couldn't
get to them. I tried...’
‘It was too late’ says Milo.
‘Shouldn’t have brought you along’ says Bragg. ‘Put you in this’
‘Done now: |
‘Going to get strung up for doing it. Then again, I wouldn't be
alive to get strung up if I hadn't brought you along, so... quandary:
Milo can tell Bragg’s crashing. The adrenaline, the combat-rush, is
draining out of him, Milo feels as clear and sharp as a high-definition
pict. The tight knot behind his breastbone is still there, and it’s
pulsing again. They both have to stay sharp. It’s not over.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 123

‘Wake up; says Milo. ‘You're in charge.

He says it because he hopes it will snap Bragg around. A reminder
of responsibility to jolt back some focus. It doesn’t. But both
frosted-glass windows detonating in a cascade behind them does.
The windows blow in, smashed by gunfire. Glass sprays, twin-
kling like chips of ice in the pall of dust. Chunks of the panes slide
and collapse like glaciers calving. Multiple rounds from laslocks
burn in through the windows, hitting the stone walls, the plaster
ceiling, the wooden counters, the back wall panelling. Bragg snags
Milo by the collar and almost throws him into the back corridor.
He follows him, moving backwards, rifle aimed, but he doesn’t
shoot because he knows it’s a waste.
More rounds blast in. Each laslock bolt, fat and power-heavy,
blows a wound in the old wood panels the size of a dinner plate.
They smoke like little meteor craters. Splinters and wood fibres join
the dust swirling in the air.
Bragg and Milo start to run, looking for a back exit, or at least a
defensible position. The corridor is narrow, so that’s a start. A poten-
tial kill-box. The doors of the side offices are locked. Bragg kicks one
open. He hurts his foot with the first kick. His second kick, angry,
busts it so wide it flies on its hinges and bangs against the inside wall.

In the main chamber of the counting house, the doors push open,
sending the rubricator’s chair skidding away. Smoke and heat billow
in. The first of the gunmen enter, weapons raised. They are local
farmers, men of Vincula province in almost every respect, with their
sun hats and leggings and laced tunics. Even their antique laslocks
are farmers’ guns, for hunting vermin or protecting property. But
their hard expressions, the set of their shoulders, the practice of their
slow approach, weapons raised and panning, is entirely military.
They stalk forwards. Broken glass crunches under their boots.
* * *
124 DAN ABNETT

Kalodin Street is blocked by abandoned vehicles. Gaunt notices sev-

eral Militarum and Munitorum transports with code tags that say
they came out of the Occupation Council Building compound that
morning. The Ghosts dismount, and advance on foot.
It's a mess. They can see a serious fire zone ahead, at the check-
point site, and smoke wash is coming their way. There’s the sporadic
sound of gunfire. Gaunt gets Three-three-one, under Sergeant
Mkadeen, to move building to building. It quickly becomes clear
a lot of civilians and Imperial personnel have taken shelter in the
buildings nearby. Bonin, Mkadeen’s scout, finds three Adminis-
tratum intendants hiding with a mix of occupation officials and
locals in a linen merchant's. They report gunmen, dressed as locals,
moving in after the blast.
One-six-five, led by their scout Baen, moves ahead, towards the
seat of the fire. Mkoll’s scout section, Two-two, melts into the side
streets, to run parallel.
‘You shouldn't be here, says Caffran.
‘Where the feth should I be?’ Gaunt replies.
‘I mean, visible, replies the young trooper.
‘He's right, says Severt, close behind them. Gaunt doesn’t dig-
nify that with a response. He draws his bolt pistol, appreciating the
weight of it. He draws his chainsword, his old and much-repaired
chainsword, and lets it cycle. A gun’s going to matter more in this,
but a chainblade is an officer’s weapon. It’s a sign of intent, a mark
of authority. |
The nearby gunfire’s getting more ferocious. A sudden volley.
Hard rounds, and the slower, heavier, cycling thumps of laslocks.
They start to see the dead. Some civilian, some service. They are
all over the street, sprawled between empty vehicles that were too
wedged in to move or back up. Some were already hurt when they
were shot dead. Others were cut down as they ran. It’s a systematic
slaughter, an execution levelled on a panicked and unfocused mass.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 125

‘Intercept reports Litus support units moving in from West Town,

says Severt, clutching his vox-set. They may reach the checkpoint
before we do:
And there won't be anything there, thinks Gaunt, except a hole in
the ground. The killings rolled this way. No, he’s reading it wrong.
The killers came this way, moving in the same direction that the
Ghosts are moving. Meeting the survivors as they fled east from
the blast. What was it? Too big for another K10. Maybe more than
one, strapped together. And an incendiary component too, from
the burn spread. The top end of Kalodin is ablaze. A mine, maybe?
Throne help us if they’ve got their hands on K25 anti-tanks too.
The Litus have taken a bad hit. They were manning the check-
point, running security in the quarter and crewing most of the
vehicles. There are a lot of them dead on the road. Some have weap-
ons. Gaunt sees three, killed beside a shot-up cargo-4. One was in
the process of reloading when he died. The killers were among
them, in the crowd, not presenting as targets until they were too
close and it was too late. Marauds, damn that word. Insurgents,
dressed as Vinculan provincials.
He hears the fast-crack of las-fire ahead. One-six-five has engaged.

Rawne says her name. He says, ‘Inge’ She flattens herself against
the stucco wall. They wait.
He was right. It was definitely movement. The street seems so
empty, so sun-bleached and deserted, but he can hear footsteps.
He keeps her in the shadow of the arch, an old doorway bricked
up in the wall of a low hab. People run past them, two, three, then
three more. Locals. Local dress. One woman carries a basket of
belongings, another trails a child. They're scared, running to find
a hiding place. They don’t even see Rawne and Eiwolt.
Why were they running? It’s been ten minutes since the blast,
and the streets emptied almost instantly. Why aren't these people
126 DAN ABNETT

in hiding already, unless they were? Unless they were, and the place
they were hiding in isn’t safe any more.
He doesn’t move. He waits. You wait, you learn things. He glances
at Eiwolt, and she’s about to speak, so he puts his palm flat over
her mouth. Her eyes grow wide.
Wait. Be quiet.
More footsteps. Two men, following the first bunch. Two men.
No, an older man and a youth. A father and his son, perhaps.
A drover, and the boy who'll inherit the herd when he’s gone.
That won't be long. The older man’s been shot. His laced tunic
is soaked with blood. The younger man is trying to support him
and run at the same time. He’s hissing words in the local dialect.
Rawne wonders what he’s saying. The usual things. The same things
everyone says. Encouragement. Reassurance. Keep moving. It'll be all
right. I'll get you help. I love you, father.
As they draw level, the older man stumbles. The youth steadies
him, and as he does so, he sees Rawne and Eiwolt in the shadow
of the arch, looking back at him. The youth flinches: a man with
a gun. Rawne wants to tell him it’s all right. I'll get you help. The
usual things. But he doesn’t, because he knows he mustn't. He has
Eiwolt to protect. She’s his priority.
And he’s right not to. The youth stares at him for a second,
with terrified eyes, and then he starts to spin, to twirl, as if he’s
decided to dance. A bolt from a laslock has caught him in the
shoulder so hard, it’s whirled his body away, out of his father’s
grip. He stops spinning, and remains standing, his arm almost
completely torn off. He’s looking the wrong way, not at his father,
not at Rawne, but at the wall on the other side of the street. The
older man, clutching the wound he carries, takes a step towards
him, then another las-bolt hits him in the small of the back and
drops him on his face in the dirt. He doesn’t even raise his hands
to break his fall.
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 127

The youth turns at the sound of the shot, swaying. He looks

down at his father’s body, and it's ‘the last thing he sees. A hard
round burst catches him across his chest, and flicks him off his feet.
Eiwolt is shaking hard. She’s accidentally bitten Rawne’s palm.
He looks at her, a fierce look that tries to say everything. I’m going
to take my hand away because I need it. Do not make a sound.
He takes his hand away. His blood is on her lip. She makes no
sound. She even manages to suppress her frantic breathing. He can
see her trying. He gets both hands on the rifle.
Voices, more footsteps, coming closer. Three drovers appear.
They stop and stare down at the bodies. They're not drovers, of
course. One has a long-barrelled laslock, another has an old autor-
ifle, the third a Navy-issue revolver, old pattern. They look at the
bodies, exchange a few words. The one with the pistol seems to be
deciding which way they should head next, where they will find
more people to kill.
Don't look up, thinks Rawne. Don’t look up. Don’t look this way,
please Throne...
He’s tempted to flick over to full-auto. Just a single flip of the
selector beside his right thumb. Quickest way to finish all three.
But the quickest way to expend power too.
The feth with the pistol points to the mouths of nearby streets
and breezeways, deciding which one is most promising. The feth
with the laslock makes a suggestion. The feth with the autogun
adjusts the brim of his sun hat, squints, looks up. Looks around.
Looks Rawne straight in the eyes.
There’s a slight lag of reaction, the half-second it takes to make
sense of something you weren't expecting to see. The time it takes
to form the word ‘There!’ and start to say it.
Rawne’s rifle is already up. Two bolts into the one who’s seen
them. Two into the one with the laslock. The one with the revolver
is bringing it up when two shots find him too.
128 DAN ABNETT

They won't be alone. They definitely won't be alone. But Rawne’s

hand's been forced, and their lousy cover is no longer enough.
‘Move!’ he snaps, and they run across the street. Eiwolt comes
with him without hesitation. They're in the open for three seconds,
just time for Rawne to glance up the street and see other marauds,
four of them, at the next junction. They're already coming, sprint-
ing, weapons raised, drawn by the rapid volley of Rawne’s shots.
Rawne and Eiwolt plunge into a narrow breezeway as the gunfire
starts coming their way, loose shots that bracket the lane’s archway
and spit up clouds of pulverised plaster. The breezeway is a narrow
channel between habs, high walled, partly roofed with fibre mats.
It's also too fething long. Rawne can see a junction ahead, where
it meets another breezeway channel, but even flat out they won't
reach it before the marauds arrive at the archway behind them.
Rawne makes his choice. Eiwolt’s right behind him. He sidesteps
and turns, pushing her past him, and at the same time he rotates,
lifting the barrel of his rifle so it doesn’t rake or snag on the narrow
walkway’s wall. His thumb has also flipped the selector.
The marauds reach the archway, slamming in, skidding, in high
pursuit. Rawne’s halfway along the breezeway, and he’s facing them.
He rakes a quick burst of full-auto. He can hardly miss in a tight
channel like this. They’re framed as a target. He chops down the
first three in a welter of impacts. A fourth, clipped, stumbles back
into the daylight with a shriek.
Rawne hoists his weapon upright and turns again, running after
Eiwolt. She’s close to the junction, and she’s had the sense to slow
down. Anything could be around the corner. He slides in beside
her. There’s just enough space. There’s no way of calling it. He
swings out left, weapon levelled, then right. Nothing in sight, in
either direction, just more of these meandering, makeshift walk-
ways, more high walls. He starts moving to the right, and she
follows. They are just beyond the junction when a laslock shot
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 128

whines the entire length of the breezeway they just ran down and
explodes against the wall.
They sprint. He leads. She loses her slicker, but she keeps up.
The alley jinks left, then right, then opens into a small yard with
two exits. He takes the left. Footsteps behind them, voices shout-
ing. The insurgents have seen enough to know they have valuable
targets in reach: trophy targets.
They reach another yard space, hemmed in between slump-
ing habs. High walls, the overhanging ridge of a roof. Some feed
boxes stacked against a wall. Two exits, both into other alleyways.
A wooden door in the wall.
He stops. She looks at him, frantic, but says nothing. Her eyes
ask all the questions. Rawne listens. Footsteps behind, but other
movement. Feet, voices, in an adjacent alley ahead.
He tries the door. It opens. No lock. He pulls her inside, and
closes the door. Another yard, smaller, partly roofed. Sacks of grain.
A stink of grox dung. An archway with an open half-door leading
into a barn or stable, or some kind of pen.
They go through. It’s dark out of the direct sunlight. The air is
close and reeks of animals. More feed boxes, some wire baskets.
A low, beamed roof. The tin roof of a low lean-to overlapping the
adjoining wall. A door, bolted, that probably leads into another
alley.
Just seconds to decide.
He looks at her. He points at the stacked boxes, then at the side
wall, then at the roof. She nods. She starts to clamber. He crosses
to the alley-side door, draws the bolts, then gently takes the door
off the latch. When he turns back, she’s made it from the boxes to
the wall, and is almost on the roof, her carry-bag swinging from
her arm.
He follows her. Up, fast. Up, now.
They're on the lean-to roof in the sunlight. He motions her to
130 DAN ABNETT

move up, onto the long slope of the main barn roof. She scrambles
onto it, and he signals her to lie flat. He drops prone on the lean-to
roof, his rifle beside him. He can still see into the barn.
Running footsteps. A door kicks open. Voices shout at each other.
It feels painfully exposed out on the roof, roasted by sunlight,
in the wide open. But there’s nothing up here, only sky, only other
roofs. Everything that’s looking for them is below, in the maze of
alleys and yards.
Two men bang through the half-door into the barn below. They
look around, maybe curse each other. One goes to the alley-side
door, finds it unbolted and ajar, and calls out. They both exit
through it, then one comes back, shouting for others to follow.
Three more men come through the barn, the man who came back
showing them the way to go. They rush on, into the alley. Rawne
can hear them, running, spreading out into the breezeways on the
far side of the barn. They are shouting to each other. Rawne doesn't
understand the words, but the intent is clear. They're confounded.
Which way did they go? This way? There’s no one down here!
He lets his grip slacken on his warknife. He wasn’t even con-
scious that he’d drawn it.
He keeps his head flat, but looks over at Eiwolt. She’s on her front
on the barn roof just three metres away, staring back at him. She's
as slack and flat as she can make herself. It’s almost as if she’s sun-
bathing, but for the all-weather clothes and the tears in her eyes.
Rawne waits. They could move, but he waits. These men, these
marauds, these insurgents, theyre not stupid. They're fething bas-
tard killers, but they're not stupid. They live like he does, they fight
like he does. They hide, they stay low, they strike by surprise, they
disappear again. It’s the only way they survive under Imperial occu-
pation. They’re hunters, so they know the rules. They know about
misdirection and concealment. If they're half the bastards he thinks
they are, it’s not going to take them long.
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 131

He looks around. There's a chunk of broken roof tile half a metre

from his face. He reaches for it. He gets up on one knee, slow as hell so
the tin roof doesn’t creak, and then lobs it as hard and as far as he can.
It’s a good throw. He hears it hit something, and something
shatters. Tiles? A window? Grain pots? It doesn’t matter. It has the
desired effect. He hears voices again. The footsteps change direc-
tion, heading for the source of the sound.
He drops flat again. Wait, wait...
He hears gunfire, to his left, muffled by the walls. They've found
someone else. Some other poor bastards. He looks at Eiwolt and
raises one finger. Ready.
She nods. Then he holds up his hand again.
No.
The maraud who came back into the barn has come back yet
again. He’s looking around. He’s not convinced. He knows he’s
been fooled somehow. He looks up at the beams, at the pile of
wire baskets. He looks at the stack of feed boxes.
He’s got an autorifle. He puts it over his shoulder on its sling,
pushes back the brim of his hat to look up, then looks at the feed
boxes again.
Don't do it. Don’t make the guess.
The maraud walks towards the feed boxes. He tests the lowest
one with his foot to see if it'll take his weight. He pushes the sun
hat off his head so it hangs by its drawstring. Rawne’s fingers close
on the hilt of the warknife again. If it happens, it’s got to be quiet.
The bastard starts to climb. He clambers up the feed box stack,
groping for the top of the wall. He gets one hand on it, then the
other. He hauls himself up. As his shoulders clear the top of the
wall, Rawne grabs his hair and rams his head forwards into his
blade. The straight silver skewers his neck, front to back. Blood
rains out. The maraud opens his mouth, but no sound escapes, only
more blood. He starts to twitch. Rawne maintains his grip, teeth
132 DAN ABNETT

gritted. The man’s hands let go. Rawne takes the weight, basically
holding the man by the hair, and on his knife, until the convul-
sive spasms have ceased.
Then he has to let go.
The body slides off the blade and flops back into the barn. It
makes some noise. Rawne hopes it’s not too much.
The marauds will find the body when they sweep back this way.
No fething doubt. Rawne gets up. He crosses to the barn roof, and
gets her on her feet. They pick their way up the shallow slope of the
roof and over the ridge line. Beyond, another gentle slope of roof
runs down to a yard full of open pens.
He hears a shout behind him, from below. Someone’s found
the body.
They start to scramble, half-sliding down the roof. It’s a drop
into the pens, but they can do it. She’s proven capable of every-
thing so far.
He glances back. A maraud has appeared, climbing onto the
barn roof via the lean-to, the way they came. He raises a laslock.
Rawne swings up his rifle and fires first. It’s still on auto. The burst
shreds the maraud’s torso and he plunges backwards off the lip
of the roof, falling out of sight, leaving a brief haze of red mist in
the air behind him.
‘You have to jump, Rawne tells Eiwolt.
She nods, swallows. She's perched on the gutter, looking at the
drop into the yard.
‘Now, he says.
She hesitates. He looks back. Another maraud has come into
view, climbing up the same way as the first. He’s got something in
his hand, a pistol perhaps.
Rawne flicks to single, and fires as the man winds his arm back
to throw. The shot hits body-mass and takes him off the roof. But
he’s made the lob.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 138

Who throws a pistol?

It’s not a pistol. It’s a little drum, the size of a caff cup. It’s an anti-
personnel grenade.
The throw is poor, jerked off true by the impact of Rawne’s body
shot. The grenade clips the ridgeline of the barn roof and spins up
into the air like a wayward ball. Rawne turns his back to it, embraces
her from behind, and shields her with his body as they jump.
In mid-air, the spinning grenade detonates.
ee
nee

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Mh teaten Ran! Sar 4

Tes reteSate
 12.

Turns out, there is no way out. The back office leads into another
back office, and a storeroom, all caked in dust, and then to a door
that Bragg forces with his shoulder, which leads into a wide court-
yard at the back of the counting house. The courtyard is surrounded
on all sides by high brick walls, with taller buildings beyond them.
There’s a street gate, but it’s armoured and rusted shut. This was a
counting house, and this courtyard was where the treasury trucks
delivered tithe payments. Of course the walls are high. Of course
the gate is armoured. Not even Bragg will get through it. He starts
to try anyway.
Milo looks around, getting frantic. He can hear gunfire still,
from the main street beyond the buildings. Smoke from the nearby
inferno is streaming across the yard, forming a blanket at second-
floor height like the belly of a black storm cloud. Sparks whirl in
it. Flakes of ash are falling on the yard. Bragg keeps throwing him-
self at the gate, dislodging showers of rust from the seams with
every thwarted impact.

135
138 DAN ABNETT

There’s a low rockcrete loading dock. The rusted carcass of a cargo

trolley, weeds growing between the corroded wheels. Nothing else.
The walls are too high. They can’t climb them. Milo wouldn't reach
the top of the lowest one even if Bragg gave him a boost, and even
if he did, he’d never haul Bragg up after him.
Bragg slams into the gate again, and reels back clutching his
shoulder. If he keeps going, he’ll break something, and not just
the Imperial record for futile effort. He just wants to save the boy.
He doesn’t care about himself. He just wants to get the boy out of
this. Milo knows that’s all that’s driving the big man.
Milo stands, gazing at the back door they came through. The
pulse is in his chest still, throbbing inside his ribcage. It urges him
that the enemy is close. There’s not enough time to figure anything
out, even if there was something to figure out, and there isn't.
‘Bragg, says Milo.
Bragg’s about to take another run up.
‘Bragg, get your fething gun, says Milo.
Bragg glances at him, panting. He reaches for the lasrifle he put
down on the cobbles.
The first insurgent appears at the back door. Milo lifts the pistol
Bragg gave him and fires three shots. He wings the insurgent with
one, damages the door frame with the other two. The maraud ducks
back inside. Gunfire starts to come at them from the shadows of
the back doorway, more than one weapon. Glass breaks, and shots
start coming from a rear window too. Laslock-fire and auto-rounds
chop across the courtyard. They hit the back wall and the gate, and
clip the cobbles.
Bragg and Milo get down behind the edge of the loading dock.
Bragg pinks back return fire, to little effect. His aim is characteristi-
cally lousy, but it’s not just that. The angle’s poor. They’re too tight
to get a decent shot into the doorway. The window’s an impossible
target altogether.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 137

Milo keeps low. He looks across at the rusted cargo trolley. It’s
on the other side of the courtyard, and the firing angle from it to
the door is much better. But the knot inside him lets him know
that he’d never make the dash.
The fire rate increases. Shots pummel the top of the dock, and
fill the air with rock dust and grit. A laslock bolt misses Bragg’s
head by centimetres.
The big man’s angry now. He doesn’t get angry much. It’s frus-
tration, the inability to do anything effective. He gets the lasrifle
up and blazes at the doorway. He’s burning through the rifle’s cell.
It hardly seems to matter any more. Milo starts to fire too. If they
can get them ducking, maybe he can make that dash.
And if he does, how many shots will he have left? Has Bragg got a
spare mag for the pistol? He certainly doesn’t have any for the rifle.
They hose the doorway, and speckle the area with shot holes.
‘I'm out; groans Bragg, and flops back into cover. Milo’s still got
a few. He braces himself. First insurgent out of the door gets one.
Second one out gets one. The marauds will have to enter the yard to
reach them, and each one that shows his face will get a round in it.
The firing coming their way eases, then stops. Milo hears voices,
call and response. Weapon smoke, white as winter cloud, ribbons
across the yard.
A foot stirs broken glass. Here they come.
The first maraud edges out of the doorway. Milo fires, a double-
handed grip, and plugs him squarely in the neck. A second one is
right behind him, and fires a burst that goes wide of Milo. Milo
blows his jaw off, and drops him in the doorway.
A third appears. A fourth is climbing out of the fething window.
Milo aims at the third, but his mag is out. The pistol clacks. The
third maraud fires his laslock, and the passing heat of the bolt
scorches Milo’s cheek.
Then the third maraud disappears back inside the doorway. He
138 DAN ABNETT

doesn’t step back inside, or duck back inside. He flies, as if there’s

a hook around his waist and it’s been yanked by a tow-chain. His
feet leave the ground. Blood splatter coats the doorway.
A discharge boom echoes around the courtyard. Something with
punch, more than a laslock. The fourth maraud, halfway out of the
window, reconsiders his options, and starts to scrabble wildly to
get back inside. Another ringing boom, and the maraud is helped
back through the window by a single, thunderbolt impact.
The shots are coming from outside. Milo looks up, searching.
What the feth?
There are sudden bursts of gunfire from inside the counting
house. Hard exchanges, muffled by the thick walls. Burst, burst,
burst. Militarum discipline, room clearance. It carries on for about
forty seconds, then cuts off. Everything goes quiet. Smoke evacu-
ates through the back door.
Milo hears a whistle. He looks up. Someone shouts his name.
On a flat roof, overlooking the courtyard, Larkin pops up, long-las
in hand. He throws Milo a cheeky salute and vanishes.
‘In the yard!’ a voice yells from inside the counting house. ‘Impe-
rial? Identify!’
‘Imperial!’ Milo yells back.
‘Where we can see you!’ the voice yells. Milo and Bragg get up
and step out from behind the loading dock.
Baen and Sergeant Bray move out of the back door, weapons
ready.
‘Feth me; says Bray.
‘My thoughts exactly, says Bragg.
 10.

Trooper Caffran runs back to him through the smoke.

‘One-six-five reports area secure, sir, he says.
Gaunt nods. Mkoll’s just returned with the rest of Two-two and
has reported the same.
‘No more active shooters, says Severt. ‘If there are any still alive,
they've gone to ground’
Because they've done more than enough, Gaunt thinks. They
have achieved what they set out to achieve.
‘Litus main units have the crossroads and checkpoint secure, says
Severt. ‘Moving this way to sweep all buildings’
Gaunt deactivates his chainsword and sheathes it. He’s almost disap-
pointed. He wanted to bury it in something, bury it deep and twist it, to
vent his anger at the murdering enemy. At the enemy, at Noches Sturm,
at the miserable mess of Voltemand, at the insoluble grief of Vinc-
ula, at Severt and his type, at high command politics, at needless loss,
at wasted opportunities, at squandered potential, at holding orders, at
unprofitable tasks and ill-fitting duties, at lack of sleep, at death.

138
140 DAN ABNETT

But mostly at the enemy.

He looks at Mkoll. The chief scout’s face is unreadable, unless
grim has a specific meaning. Behind him, just as dark-eyed and
solemn, wait Caober, Doyl and Mkvenner.
‘It’s not that I don’t trust the proficiency of the Litus, Gaunt
begins.
‘But you don’t trust the proficiency of the Litus?’ asks Caober.
‘Safety counts more to me than trust, says Gaunt. ‘I want another
sweep. Not just Kalodin, but the adjoining streets’
‘I can pull in some more scout units, says Mkoll.
Gaunt nods to that. ‘If there are any of them still alive, they're
hiding, or they're trying to exit the target zone’
‘They won't get out of the city; says Severt.
‘They may not want to; says Gaunt. ‘They may not need to. Look
at them’
There’s a dead maraud on the ground ten metres away, crumpled
between two civilians. Only the gun in his hand marks him out as
different. Gaunt remembers what Varl said. He remembers every
page of the Prefectus counter-insurgency manual.
‘They can blend in; he says. ‘They can go to ground. Cache weap-
ons and just walk away among the real survivors. They'll have hiding
places. Basements, attics, safe-habs. They'll have friends to take them
in, sympathisers. Or they'll force locals to hide them, on threat of
retribution. Let’s lock up Kalodin, then radiate outwards. We're
going to find them, if we have to dismantle Vincula and put it back
together again. This isn’t going to happen again’
Mkoll nods, and turns to his scouts. They start to decide how to
split the search.
‘One-six-five has found more survivors in hiding’ says Caffran. ‘They
report some of ours among them. Trooper Bragg and, uh, Brin Milo’
Gaunt takes that in. He’s not even going to begin to ask what
the fething boy is doing here.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 141

‘Bring them up, he says. ‘I want to know what everyone's seen.

Locals too. Any detail can help’ >
Down the street, the first of the Litus support elements are appear-
ing. Gaunt sees Captain Ronus, the B.R.U’s second officer in the
province. The man looks shell-shocked. He’s seen too many of his
regiment dead today. He’s a good solider, Gaunt has no complaints,
but the Litus need to up their game. How did they miss a device
at a checkpoint? How did they miss the mine at the Occupation
Building? They have to work harder, and they have to work with
the Ghosts. The Litus have superior numbers and heavier support.
He braces himself to speak to Ronus. He's already had a blazing
row with Ronus’ superior in the last twenty-four hours.
‘Low Quarter?’ he says, looking at Severt.
‘Bomb at the Memnon Road Magistratum Annex, Severt says.
‘Comparable size to this. Fewer casualties, because it wasn't so busy,
but heavy enough. Litus and Tanith elements are locking the area
down, same drill as here’
‘Gunmen following after the bomb?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Yes, says Severt. ‘Some still active. There are a lot of rat-runs in
Low Quarter, alleys...’
‘I want it secure in the next hour’
Too many deaths today. The insurgents have made a serious play.
Two mass targets, identical tactics. That’s escalation. Until now
they've gone for individual strikes, at individuals, low-level targets.
Are they ramping up in advance of Balgrada’s arrival? Are they trying
to scare him off? Or have they suddenly got their hands on fresh
stocks of munitions they're itching to use?
It’s cost them a lot. Gaunt doesn’t know how many marauds were
killed here today, or how many at Memnon Road, but it'll be in
the dozens. That's a high price for generating terror. But that’s how
they operate. For insurgents, for zealots, there’s no coming back.
It’s the glory, the moment, the effect. They don’t commit these
142 DAN ABNETT

atrocities thinking they'll walk away. That halves the planning and
the support they need. They expect to die. They prep simply to take
as many lives with them as they can and leave fear in their wake.
Fear makes a city slippery. Fear makes a population unruly and
hard to manage. Fear wins a war. It neuters authority and corrodes
control.
‘These bastards lost a lot today; says Severt. ‘Serious losses. That's
something, at least’
‘They were all dead when they woke up this morning, Gaunt
tells him. ‘And they knew it. And they didn’t care. And that’s what
makes them so fething dangerous:
Severt seems about to reply, to frame something stoic and well
crafted with reassuring non-words, but he’s smart enough to read
Gaunt's face and keep his mouth shut.
Sergeant Bray's approaching, with Rafflan and Baen. Bragg and
the boy are trudging behind them. Gaunt holds up a hand to have
them wait. Ronus has arrived.
‘Sir, he says, saluting Gaunt. He’s wearing a long, quilted bal-
listic coat, and he’s pushed his tinted goggles up onto the front of
his gloss-red helmet. There’s a tube-fed volley gun slung on a rig
brace across his back. His accent is thick, and his tone funereal.
‘Bad day, Orman, says Gaunt. ‘We mourn your losses’
‘Don't even know what they are yet’ Ronus replies. ‘Damn this
place, eh? This city, this world. It’s a shit-heap task they've lumbered
us with’ )
Gaunt nods. He'll get into it later. Ronus is in no state to deal
with operational criticism.
‘Secure?’ Gaunt asks.
‘From the West Town line to here; Ronus says. ‘We've got a perim-
eter, bringing in some light armour. Search teams in motion. Then
we can get medicae and fire-suppression teams in’
Gaunt'’s about to answer when someone yells his name. His name,
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 148

‘Ibram’. Not ‘sir’ or ‘Gaunt’ or ‘colonel-commissar’. It’s the fething

boy. Milo. He’s broken past Bray alt is running right at him, his
eyes wild, his hands reaching and clawing.
That’s when the first hits come. A burst of las-shot, daggers of
fire. Every bolt hits a soft target except one. Only one goes wide
and impacts the wall behind them.
Caffran folds up, like he’s been gut-punched. Ronus turns side-
ways, his face exploding inside his helmet. Severt rocks, jerking,
headshot, blood bursting from his ruptured skull.
Gaunt hits the ground at the same time as Ronus.

There’s no time to check if either of them are hurt. Rawne gets up,
head swimming, and drags Eiwolt upright. She’s dazed. There's a
graze on her cheek. She landed face down in the yard, and he pretty
much landed on top of her.
He gives her a shake. She blinks, as though she’s just waking up,
or has been distracted out of a daydream.
‘Move; he says. He looks around for his weapon. It’s on the floor
of one of the pens. As he stoops to pick it up, he feels a pinch of
pain in his shoulder, and another in the small of his back. The skin
of his back is hot-wet under his tunic. His neck is wet too.
The air still smells of grenade charge, a sour odour of burned chem-
icals. He makes his way to the yard gate. Every step he takes, he’s
aware of how unsteady he is. His limbs feel light, like they're made
of balloons. His bones feel soft and twitchy. His ears are ringing.
He listens at the gate, trying to detect voices or footsteps over the
aftershock humming in his ears. He beckons her to follow him.
She’s not behind him. Wobbling slightly, she’s stopped to pick up
her carry-bag. Data-slates have spilled out of it. She’s trying to pick
them up and stuff them back in. He wants to tell her to stop, to
leave them, but he knows they can’t leave that kind of thing behind.
He goes to help her, then he leads her back to the gate.
144 DAN ABNETT

He can hear voices now, urgent exchanges, but they're coming

from the other side of the barn. He opens the gate, and sneaks out,
pulling her after him. The breezeway is dark, shaded from the harsh
sun by slat-matting, but it’s also empty.
They start to move. Then he stops, makes her wait, and checks
his weapon, checks the load, the setting, checks for damage. He
loops the strap over his right shoulder, cinched tight, so the gun’s
resting across his chest.
‘You're bleeding; she says.
‘Shhhhh!’
‘Your back, Rawne...’
‘It's nothing. It'll keep’ He looks at her. ‘We're almost there; he
whispers. ‘I'll manage:
They follow the snaking breezeway to the end. The sound of
voices recedes. They cross a junction with another shadowed alley,
then sneak through the rear yard of a ramshackle hab, stepping
between pots and pitchers where herbs had once been cultivated.
They're just full of dry earth now.
Dead windows stare at them. He opens a side gate, and they enter
another alley, which leads to the street. The street seems so bright,
wide and open. It feels like the sun is aimed directly at him. He
tries to get his bearings. Smoke from the bomb attack is still stain-
ing the sky, so that’s his fix.
‘Felika Street; she says. ‘Leads to Memnon Road. We're close’
‘I know that; he says. |
‘I know you do; she replies.
He pulls her back into the shadows. There’s a rattle of automatic
gunfire from a couple of streets away. He hears the clatter of treads,
the thump of a light gun-mount. Something takes a shell, and white
smoke and dust curls up from behind the buildings across the street
from them, clutching at the sky like a grasping hand.
‘Securement forces, he says.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 145

His micro-bead is still popping soft static. Low Quarter is unsup-

ported, and they’re way too far out for general comms. He should
have thought of that. He should have-
He should have stayed in the fething kitchen, that’s what.
West of them, a kilometre away, two Valkyries turn in, canopy’s
winking in the glare. They circle, low level. They've cornered some-
thing. One pops a marker flare. The other, nosing sideways, ripples
with light under its snout. It takes a moment for the crackling sound
of the rotary cannon to reach them.
They leave the shadows and hurry left, along the street, hugging the
wall. Behind them, there’s another crump from a vehicle-mounted
gun, then a voice blaring over a loudhailer system. Public address.
It's too tinny and distorted to make out the words, but he knows
it’s the usual bombast. Stay in your homes. Report enemy movement.
Brush your teeth and say your prayers.
They've gone about a hundred metres when the marauds appear.
There are six of them, all running. They come around the corner
from Memnon Road towards them. Two start shooting immediately.
Rawne shoves her into a doorway and blocks her with his body.
Weapon up, he fires back, controlled bursts. He feths one up, but
then has to duck himself. Shots whack into the wall beside them.
A wooden shutter is blown off its hinges.
There's a savage rip of heavy fire, a blurt of noise. Two of the
insurgents disintegrate in terrible smears of blood and meat. The
others turn. Rawne tries to get a line on them.
A B.R.U. Chimera rocks around the corner, growling exhaust
fumes. Its tracks chime like defective bells as it pulls the turn, and
the twin autocannons on its low turret track around. The remain-
ing marauds scatter, fleeing for street-side alleys and breezeways.
The Chimera stops, hull lurching, and mows down two of them,
muzzle flash flickering around its cannons. They die instantly, and
the sweep of heavy fire rakes a furrow across the road.
146 DAN ABNETT

The last one, who had the sense to switch right, comes right at
Rawne. He unloads into the bastard’s central mass, and the insur-
gent tumbles and flops, his body carried by his own momentum.
The Chimera’s gun-mount swings around, and sprays fire diago-
nally across the street, peppering the faces of habs and homesteads.
Swathes of plaster dust billow out.
Rawne drops. Eiwolt’s already down, scrunched in a foetal posi-
tion with her arms over her head. :
‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ Rawne yells. ‘For feth’s sake! Imperial! Cease
fire!’ The light tank’s guns lock them up and the servo-loaders chatter.

Mkoll identifies the source of the shots in an instant, but Mkven-

ner fires first. The pair of them blaze away, aiming at a second-floor
window in the building opposite. Caober and Doyl are already
sprinting across the street towards the building’s entrance.
Mkoll fires another burst. Suppressive fire alone is important.
That first salvo raked them. The street is full of people, though
everyone’s scattering for cover.
It was las-fire. Not hard round, not laslock. Las-fire. A careful target-
burst, not wild. Mkoll’s pretty sure it came from a Mk III. A mili-
tary weapon, certainly.
Mkvenner’s taken off after the other scouts. Mkoll glances back.
‘Go! Go!’ Bray yells.
Mkoll wants to stay. He doesn't know who's dead. He realises it
doesn't matter, because they are dead. What matters is the shooter.
How did they miss someone so close?
He runs to the building. There’s no more gunfire from above. It's
an engineering workshop, derelict, open-plan on the ground floor.
He enters through the door that Doyl has kicked open. There are
two flights of stairs. Doyl and Caober are sweeping up one to the
first floor, covering each other. There’s no sign of Ven.
Mkoll takes the other flight of stairs. Everything’s dusty, mouldering.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 147

The first floor is another open work hall, lined with old benches,
each one mounted with a rusted vice. Tool racks on the wall. Blinds
collapsed beneath each large window, the piles of fabric fraying and
sun-rotted.
He checks left, then right. He hears Doyl and Caober moving up
to the second floor on the other stairs. The building’s so old, so
dry, everything creaks, everything shifts.
He listens. Nothing from above him. Not even a trickle of dust.
The shooter's gone. He would have gone out the back the second
he'd taken the shots.
Mkoll moves to the rear windows. There’s a junkyard of scrap
metal below, bright pink and orange with rust. The yard extends
past a dilapidated freight bay to a high rear wall. Smoke from the
street fires is gusting across the yard.
He sees Mkvenner. Ven is sprinting down the yard from the rear
of the building. He’s onto something, something Mkoll can’t see.
Maybe a false trail. The shooter could still be upstairs.
The shooter is calculating. Precise. He’s a hunter. Mkoll feels it in
his blood, the same thing he felt back in the woods. The shooter's
no zealot, no inspired insurgent. He’s a soldier. A specialist. Well
trained, highly motivated. He’s got a Mk III. This bastard is the pri-
ority capture, the one that Gaunt really wants, the one he offered a
whole bottle of Bragg’s sacra for. Mkoll doesn’t want the sacra. He
wants the man. He wants the bastard who got the upper hand in
the woods that morning and nearly killed him. The one who gave
four Tanith scouts the slip. That man, that bastard, or another one
just like him. Who are they? Who are the specialists running the
insurgent foot-sloggers?
Is Gaunt dead?
Mkoll shakes off the thought. Concentrate on the quarry. Would
he stay? Try for a second bite?
He might. He wants to kill. It's what Mkoll would do, because
148 DAN ABNETT

it’s the unexpected. He'd use his stealth to get behind his pursu-
ers, and let them over-run. Then he could pick his kills: his original
target group, or his pursuers, in the back.
But Mkvenner is never wrong. Never. He wasn't wrong in the
woods, and he’s not wrong now.
‘Rear yard! Move!’ he yells to Doyl and Caober over his ‘bead. He
smashes out a cracked window and jumps down, crunching onto
the tin roof of a shed, then onto the ground among the rusting junk.
Mkvenner’s vanished again. Mkoll heads for the end of the yard.
He reaches the end wall, hugs it. Catches his breath. For a
moment, it feels like there are eyes on him. As if he’s in cross-
hairs. Like in the woods.
Mkoll’s a hunter. That's probably the worst nightmare a hunter
can have. To feel like the prey.
He goes through the gate. An industrial back alley, dark with soot.
He’s in time to see Mkvenner scaling a high wall twenty metres away.
He sprints after him. He knows Doyl and Caober are just five or
ten seconds behind him. Scuffs mark the sooty bricks where Ven
went over. Ven’s tall, as tall as Gaunt. He made it look easy. It takes
Mkoll a little more effort. There’s barely any purchase. He bellies
over the top of the wall.
Another broad yard. The open depot of a fabrication merchant.
Stacks of bricks, piles of rockcrete blocks, never used, probably never
will be. The stockpile of some construction effort dislocated by war.
Where the feth is Mkvenner?
Mkoll moves fast and low, cape up. Again, the burning sensation
of a gaze on him. Shake it off!
He crosses the yard. He ducks down and, in a whisper, ‘beads
Doyl and Caober to loop around to the front of the building mer-
chant. Maybe they can box the bastard in.
Then he spots Ven. Ven’s down, in cover, stalking. He’s almost
invisible against the brick stack sheltering him. What's he seen?
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 149

Mkoll pans, sight up. Mkoll’s a hunter. The shooter, whatever

else he is, is a hunter too. Mieuiner’ Mkoll’s never known quite
what to make of him. He’s the best scout in the regiment. Better
than Baru, better than Caober, better than Mkoll himself. Ven was
a woodsman back on Tanith, very quiet and contained. He just
turned up at the Founding. No one knows much about his past,
except for the stories. He’s... unnaturally gifted. Supernaturally
gifted. The story goes he’s got Nalsheen blood, and he learned his
craft from... feth only knows. Depends who you ask.
Mkoll never has. He counts Ven as a friend, and Ven doesn’t seem
to need many of those. But they never talk, not about the past. Just the
regular stuff about operations or what's for dinner. Mkoll respects him
enough not to ask. True hunters are solitary in every way. It's what gives
them focus. Even their thoughts roam alone, and they make no sound.
Yet again, Mkoll feels that there are eyes on him. His flesh crawls.
Instinctively, he checks the angles. Are there eyes on him from
above, from the side? Is someone lining up?
Nothing. What's Mkvenner seen? What did he sense this morning
in the woods that made him tackle Mkoll down before a shot
could end him?
Mkvenner knows Mkoll’s there. He doesn’t look. He raises a hand,
slow and low, and indicates position and direction so that Mkoll
can see. Something on the far side of the brick stacks, against the far
wall of the depot yard. The wall is tall, sheer, ten metres, blocking
off neighbouring properties. Not even Ven could go over that. In
another half-minute, Doyl and Caober will be on the other side of
it, probably Bonin and Baen too.
They've got him.
Ven signals again. Mkoll nods, and bellies left to the next pile of
slabs. Then he prowls to the far end of them, almost on all fours.
Ven moves up in parallel, weapon trained. Mkoll still can’t see the
quarry, but he can see where Ven is aiming at.
150 DAN ABNETT

He sidles around, takes a look himself. Bricks, stacked. More

bricks. The shadow of the high wall. It’s airless and deathly silent.
Even the crackle of the flames consuming Kalodin seems to have
dropped to nothing.
Ven starts moving forward, a fluid surge. Mkoll does the same.
Pincer. There’s nowhere to go. Ven takes a shot. It booms in the
open yard. Almost instantly, a shot rips back, right along the same
line as Ven’s.
Ven drops. Is he hit? Feth!
No, he’s vanished, rolled into cover. Something, that fething
Nalsheen blood of his, told him to drop, told him he was tagged.
Mkoll sprints forward. He won't give the shooter a chance to
reposition. He swings around the end of the brick stack and blasts
full-auto, raking everything in the gulley below the wall.
Which is precisely nothing.
Mkoll eases forward, gun up. There’s nobody there. There’s nothing
at all. There’s nowhere for anyone or anything to go, nowhere to
hide. What the living feth? Did he go up? Did he go up onto the
fething brick stack? Mkoll swings up, aiming at the top of the stack,
braced for a round to hit him.
Nothing. As if to prove it, Ven appears. He’s on top of the brick
stack, aiming down.
‘Feth’s sake!’ Mkoll hisses, lowering his aim.
Ven’s got the higher vantage. He looks around, then back at
Mkoll. He shakes his head. |
‘Where the feth is he?” Mkoll mouths at Ven. Mkvenner shakes
his head again.
It’s just not possible.
Mkoll exhales. Tension is choking him. He looks at Mkvenner
again. Mkvenner is looking up at the towering wall. Ten metres.
No fething way.
‘Doyl?’ Mkoll says into his link. ‘Where are you?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 151

‘Building front, far side of the depot wall’ Doyl] clips back.
‘You have eyes on him?’ .
‘How? Who?’
‘Do you have eyes on him?’
‘There's nothing here, chief?
‘Someone came over that wall; says Mkoll.
‘Not possible’ says Caober. ‘We've been here four minutes. We
heard the shots. We've been waiting. We've got the alley covered,
and Baen and Bonin are blocking the far end’
Not possible. Not fething possible.
Mkoll leans against the brick stack. What did they miss? Another
track out? Between the stacks? They had that covered. A what, a
fething trapdoor? A burrow? A drain? The ground is solid, layered
rockcrete. There’s nobody here, and there can’t have been anybody
here.
Except someone behind these stacks almost made a kill-shot on
Mkvenner.
Ven drops down beside him, and leans alongside him.
‘Well?’ Mkoll breathes.
Ven shakes his head.
‘You got an explanation?’
‘No!
‘You... you want to tell me about it?’ asks Mkoll. ‘Tell me about
anything?’
‘There’s nothing to tell’ says Mkvenner.
 14.

The lights are too bright.

Glin Severt’s dead. Orman Ronus is dead. Trooper Caffran’s got a
las-burn across the flesh of his belly, and he only isn’t dead because
the data-slate he was holding took the main force of it.
And, as Bray has stated several times, because Caffran wasn’t a
target. Gaunt’s got bruised ribs and a bruised elbow thanks to Brin
Milo’s flying tackle, and the rounds that hit Caffran and the wall
behind them had been meant for him.
Two high-value kills. Might have been three. Might have been
the biggest scalp in the province. Daybell, who’s visibly shaken
by the news of Severt’s death, keeps insisting this was the object
of the day’s attack. Flush out officers, the higher ranking the better.
Get them in the open, and kill them.
Gaunt doesn’t think he’s right. He’s told Daybell as much. It’s a
lot, too much, too many variables. Two bomb attacks, all of that
insurgent manpower thrown into the grinder and expended? To
achieve three prize kills? No, it’s nonsense, even by Archenemy

158
154 DAN ABNETT

standards. The maraud objectives were broader and plainer: fear,

panic, infrastructure damage, the highest death toll they could
get. Three high-value targets were simply opportunistic. A seized
moment. The unexpected icing on a toxic cake.
‘I think you're wrong, sir, says Daybell.
‘I think Military Intelligence is an oxymoron, but here we are,
replies Gaunt. His mood’s poor. His ribs are bothering him. The
lights are too bright.
Everything is bothering him.
‘Apologies, he adds quietly. Daybell nods, as though he perfectly
understands.
They're still getting stats. Fifty-seven Litus dead, twenty more
injured. One hundred and thirty-eight civilians dead, across both
strike locations, surviving casualty figure unknown, but likely to
be more than two hundred. Thirteen Administratum or occupa-
tion force personnel dead, including three of the intendants who
arrived last night, nineteen more injured. Plus Severt, plus Ronus.
Severe damage to the Kalodin Street district. Significant damage
to the Magistratum Annex in Low Quarter, plus collateral in the
surrounding township. Power down in two districts. Data systems
down in others, with patchy coverage elsewhere. Some comm jam-
ming that no one can source. Curfew. Lockdown. A state of fear.
Citywide unrest. Remaining active forces, Tanith and Litus, stretched
to the limit closing security, sweeping the streets, and running aid
and recovery. .
Forty-four known insurgent dead. The number is subject to
change, because Low Quarter is still simmering. None captured.
Not one.
‘What's that as a proportion, do you suppose?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Forty-four?’ asks Daybell. ‘In a province this size? That must
be almost all of the membership of regional cells. The marauds
have squandered the lion’s share of their manpower and resources
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 155

achieving what they've achieved today. We will rebuild and recover.

They will not’ :
Gaunt sniffs.
‘Is it possible, captain; he asks, ‘that the Astra Militarum has
underestimated insurgency strengths in Vincula Province? On Volte-
mand generally?’
‘Do you think that?’ asks Daybell.
‘I do; says Gaunt. ‘I don’t think they’d throw everything at us
in one go. That's simply not terrorist tactics. I think forty-four is a
fraction of their true size’.
Daybell looks at his slate, pondering.
‘And why today?’ asks Gaunt.
‘Timing—’
‘Balgrada arrives tomorrow. Why not tomorrow, if it was an all-or-
nothing?’
‘They wanted to scare Governor Balgrada off?
‘Is that more effective than killing him?’
‘When Governor Balgrada arrives tomorrow-’
‘If he arrives; says Gaunt.
‘He will not be put off-’
‘I might order a delay:
‘You cannot, says Daybell. ‘You don’t have the authority:
‘This province is my remit; says Gaunt. ‘Here is my remit. Secu-
rity here’ He remembers Severt telling him that, what seems like
weeks ago.
‘Governor Balgrada will arrive tomorrow-'
‘Governor Balgrada is an idiot, then; says Gaunt. He gets up.
The lights are really too bright. The light is caustic. It makes him
feel sick. He was assigned these chambers in the manse behind the
Occupation Council Building when he arrived. They are simple,
spacious, appropriate. More than he needs, yet inadequate. When
night falls, and night has now fallen on a long, bad day, the lights
158 DAN ABNETT

come on automatically. They're either on, or he turns them off.

Pitch black or too bright.
He takes off his coat, and puts it on the table beside his cap. The
coat’s shabby with dust across the sleeves and back. He unbuckles
his weapon belt, and lays it beside the coat, resting the sheathed
chainsword carefully. He slides his bolt pistol from the holster,
clears it, removes the magazine, and puts them down beside the
belt.
Daybell watches him. Gaunt wants him to get off the couch
and just leave. Has the man no sense of when he’s surplus to
requirements? Gaunt wants to be alone. Daybell just perches there,
data-slate in hand.
‘You can discuss any operational misgivings with the governor
when he arrives, says Daybell.
‘Any more on the jamming?’
‘No, sir’
‘And it’s not you? Not Mil-Int?’
‘No, sir:
‘So they have jamming devices, and they’re keyed to our tech,
which probably means it’s our tech too. Just like the explosive
devices, and some of the weapons:
‘We have not yet identified the type of devices used-’
‘They were anti-armour mines, Daybell’ says Gaunt. ‘K25s, or
K27s. I saw the crater at Kalodin Street. I've seen the overheads from
Memnon. They're using our weapons against us. I want to know
where they’re getting them from. Mines, tank mines, Mark threes...’
‘You say you suspect the insurgents are being coached?’ asks
Daybell. ‘Trained in military techniques? The cells run by experi-
enced warriors?’
‘Doesn't it look that way to you?’
‘I wonder what you're basing it on?’
‘ll share that when I have decent evidence?
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 157

‘Colonel Farek of the Litus is waiting to see you, says Daybell.

‘He wants to discuss the events of-’
‘I’m not in the mood for another shouting match’
‘The colonel is troubled and aggrieved by the losses his regiment
has suffered today, and by the blows struck against the city and the
Throne. He wishes to coordinate with you—’
‘And I'll have to tell him how to run his regiment; Gaunt replies.
‘How to coordinate with other Guard units. How to run basic feth-
ing security details at street level. How to do his fething job. Which
is why I don't want another shouting match today:
‘T see.
‘Be on your way, please, Daybell. I have some things to do’
Daybell starts to explain that there are several more items to
be discussed. Gaunt has picked up his pistol. It’s unloaded, but a
threat is implied. Daybell gets up, bids him good night, and exits
the suite clutching his data-slate.
I'll need a new data-slate, Gaunt thinks. A new adjutant too. A dimmer
setting for these chambers. A new posting, if there’s one going. A way
out of this mess. Or someone sane who will listen to my recommen-
dations if a way out is not available. Gaunt doubts that'll be Balgrada.
He’s met the man in passing, back at Voltis City. Smart enough, dili-
gent, but pompous. Too concerned about his career advancement in
the Administratum, in which a full provincial governorship is a decent
step, rather than any actual responsibility involving real lives.
He looks at the bolt pistol in his hands. He didn’t mean to
threaten Daybell, the poor feth. He didn’t even mean to imply a
threat. It’s habit. He strips and cleans his bolt pistol every night,
even on days like today, when he hasn't used it.
And he wishes he had been given the chance.
That's the only reason he picked it up. He was about to clean
it. The simple, methodical routine. A practical focus for the mind,
and a distraction. He wonders where his cleaning kit is. The manse
158 DAN ABNETT

staff come in when he’s out, and make his bed, and clean things,
and move stuff. They've put it somewhere. Probably the same place
as the elusive dimmer switch. And the climate control. The manse
has got good coolant systems, but they're set too low, as though to
defy the daytime heat of Vincula. It’s too bright and it’s too cold.
He exhales. He’s in a foul mood, and he knows it.
There’s a knock at the outer door. If that’s Daybell back. If he’s
brought Farek anyway...
‘Yes?’
It's Sergeant Baffels.
‘Sit,
‘Updates?’ asks Gaunt.
‘No, sir:
‘Messages from Corbec?’
‘No, sir.
‘Location of Major Rawne?’
‘Still nothing, sir’
‘The knock on my door wasn't worth much, was it, sergeant?’
‘Chief Mkoll’s waiting outside, sir. Also, Sergeant Bray has brought
Trooper Bragg and the boy:
Gaunt nods. ‘Very good. Send them in, Baffels. All of them’
He puts the gun down and walks to the windows. Blackout drapes
are closed. He considers pulling them aside. He wants to look out
at the city. But the lights of the city aren't going to tell him any-
thing. Vincula’s going to keep its secrets. Staring at it won't help. He
wants to identify the enemy. Understand the enemy strengths. It’s a
whole city, an entire province. How much of the population is hos-
tile? Back in Kosdorf, it was all of them. But at least you could tell.
He wants to hear from Mkoll. It seems that Two-two nearly got a
priority target at Kalodin. That might've told them who the top-tier
are, the military specialists running the marauds. But Two-two failed.
Mkoll, Mkvenner, Caober... they botched it. He has no idea how
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 159

that could even happen. His best men. Of all the losses they've
suffered today, all the setbacks and the hard knocks, this somehow
feels like the worst of all.
The Ghosts enter. Gaunt waves Mkoll over to him, and makes the
others - Bray, Bragg and Milo - wait by the door. The boy stands
with his eyes downcast, reserved. Bragg stands to attention, chest
out, as smart as possible, despite the dried blood and the dirt on
him. He's expecting the worst, and he’s going to meet it proudly.
By the window, Gaunt speaks quietly to Mkoll.
‘What happened?’ he asks.
‘We thought we had him. We didn't’
‘And how does that happen?’ Gaunt asks.
Mkoll wavers. It’s the first time Gaunt’s seen him bothered, by
anything. Is it embarrassment over failure? Or is it fear?
‘The subject was skilled. He managed to evade us. My apologies.
He got away. The circumstances were-’
‘Were what?’
‘You've read my report, sir’
‘It's thin, chief; says Gaunt. ‘You had him cornered. He went over
a wall. You had men on the other side, but he avoided them too’
Mkoll looks at him. ‘The subject was highly skilled, sir:
‘This the same... individual you encountered at the cache this
morning?’ Gaunt asks.
‘I can’t say; says Mkoll. ‘Similar display of ability and tactics. If it
wasn't him - or her - it was someone schooled in the same tech-
niques. High-level stealth training’
‘Militarum?’
‘High Militarum levels, certainly. I'd say an elite grade. But the
Militarum isn’t the only source of skilled soldiery. There are a dozen
worlds in this region alone that maintain robust standing armies,
defence forces, independent-’
Gaunt nods. ‘So we have one or more Militarum or professional
160 DAN ABNETT

military-level specialists operational here, coordinating the insur-

gency? Stealth specialists. Disruption specialists. Voltemand never
had a standing army of that calibre, so we're talking off-world.
Imported talent’
‘Unless the Archonate has suddenly developed professional military
disciplines, as we would understand them, that would be my opinion.‘
‘Or is suddenly revealing it has that capacity?’
Mkoll purses his lips. He doesn’t want to commit. ‘That seems
unlikely, sir’ he says. ‘Surely we'd have met them before. The cru-
sade would have encountered hostiles of that standard before. At
Long Halent or Balhaut’
‘Well, Balhaut was a turning point for both sides, Mkoll. A regime
change for our side, a change of command, a change in the way we
do business. Their Archon died at Balhaut. Maybe the Archenemy
has undergone a similar shakedown. New blood, new leaders, new
tactics, new philosophies of warfare, new operational approaches’
‘But they'd be getting those approaches from somewhere, sir; he
says. ‘You don’t just wake up and think of them. You learn them.
Years of experience. Generations of-’
‘You Tanith had those skills when I came to you’
‘I’m not sure what point you're making, sir:
‘Neither am I, Gaunt admits. ‘Except to say that if I accept your
opinion, and | think I should, you're talking about off-world
specialists, and a high likelihood that those specialists are turn-
coats. Traitors. Ex-Imperial, ex-Militarum, or ex-Imperial allied’
‘Yes, sir’ |
‘Mkoll?’
‘Yes, sir?’
Gaunt’s voice drops even lower. He doesn’t want the others to
hear.
‘Is it possible you were wrong he asks. ‘You, and the rest of Two-two?
You went the wrong way, took a wrong turn. There was a lot going on.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 161

Did you just miss this hostile? Did he just evade by luck? You were look-
ing in the wrong place, and he'd already gone, thanking his lucky stars?’
‘No, sir!
‘Look, I'm not going to rebuke you, says Gaunt. ‘That happens’
‘It didn’t happen here; says Mkoll. ‘There was someone there. He
got a shot off at Mkvenner. Then he vanished’
‘Over a high wall?’
‘One we couldn't get over. I can’t explain it’
‘And didn't appear on the other side of it?’
‘Again, I-’
‘That's not just a good soldier, is it?’ Gaunt asks. ‘That’s uncanny.
Post-human. Do you think we're dealing with something that
possesses post-human abilities? Xenos? Augmetics?’
‘I couldn't comment’
‘All right; says Gaunt. ‘I want you to mobilise the scout units and
continue a close and prejudicial search. Report anything to me.
Otherwise, keep it to yourself. The idea there’s something like this
in Vincula... The idea that there’s more than one thing like this...’
‘And when I say report anything to me, I mean anything’
‘Yes, sir:
‘Carry on’
Mkoll salutes and exits. He doesn’t often salute. It troubles Gaunt
that Mkoll felt the need to. A sign of formal respect. A measure of
the fact he feels like he’s fethed up. Or an indication of how con-
cerned he is by the situation. }
‘Now you, says Gaunt, gesturing to the others. Bragg and Milo
step forward, Bray waiting behind them.
‘It’s not Brinny’s... Brin’s... Milo’s fault, sir, says Bragg, so fixed
at attention it’s comical. He’s staring at the far wall.
‘The boy’s not sanctioned for any official duty, Trooper Bragg.
He hasn't got any clearance’
‘No, sir. I lost-’
162 DAN ABNETT

‘Just answer the questions, Bragg, snaps Bray.

‘You lost what, Bragg?’ asked Gaunt.
‘My navigator. I lost my navigator, sir, says Bragg. ‘You borrowed
him, sir, Gutes, sir. I just needed a map reader. And Brinny... Milo,
he’s got nothing better to do, sir. He never has. So I asked him to
cover. I'm the one who deserves punishment duties, sir, not him.
He’s just never got anything to do, which I think is a crying shame.
He ought to have some duties, I think, so I didn’t suppose it would
do any harm-’
‘Bragg!’ Bray barks.
‘It's my fault, sir/ says Bragg, in a voice too small for his big frame.
Gaunt looks at Milo.
‘You saw the bomber?’
Milo nods.
‘Speak up, warns Bray.
‘Yes, I did; says Milo. ‘A local. A farmer. He had a sack, and he
put it down. At the checkpoint. No one noticed-'
‘But you noticed; says Gaunt. ‘You warned Bragg. He reversed
just prior to the blast. How did you notice?’
‘I was just staring out of the window-’
‘Just that?’
‘I had a feeling’ says Milo.
Gaunt frowns. ‘A feeling?’
‘A hunch. It just felt wrong’
Gaunt rubs his chin. ‘Definitely a local?’ he asks.
Milo nods. ‘An old man. No one would give him a passing look’
‘No one did, says Gaunt. ‘Except you. I think it’s a pretty poor
reflection of Militarum performance when a non-com spots some-
thing that everyone else in the area, trained military responsible
for spotting things, misses, don’t you? The Litus security, Trooper
Bragg here? It was their duty to spot threats’
‘I think it’s because it wasn’t my duty; says Milo. ‘I didn’t have
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 168

a duty. I had time to look, to watch,I didn’t have duties. I...’ He

trails off, shrugs.
‘It seems you both made an effort to suppress the attack, says Gaunt.
‘Improvised resistance. I hear you both made kills. A fair number’
‘Sir, says Bragg. ‘Milo was on it first. Did a bang-up job. Deserves
a medal, in my opinion-’
‘No one asked for it, trooper; says Bray.
‘All right’ says Gaunt. ‘You broke regs. That's clear. But you some-
what redeemed yourselves by acting fast to reduce the effect of a
bad situation. It could have been a feth of a lot worse if you hadn't
cut their numbers at the very start. Bragg, you're not on a formal
charge. Return to duties. Don’t feth up again’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir’
‘One punishment for you, trooper, says Gaunt. ‘Bring me a bottle
of your best sacra. That’s your fine’
‘Sir?’ Bragg murmurs.
‘It’s for a raffle, Bragg’
Bragg nods. ‘Permission to speak, sir, he says.
‘No. Get out, says Gaunt. ‘You too, sergeant. Go find out if ord-
nance has been able to identify the type of device used at Kalodin’
‘Yes, sit, says Bray, and he ushers Bragg out of the room.
Gaunt looks at Milo.
‘People keep telling me I should find something for you to do,
he says.
Milo nods.
‘But you do quite a lot, of your own volition. You find things to do:
‘I get bored; says Milo. ‘In the early days, at the start of... of
things. After Tanith went. You suggested I could work as your aide.
Your bag-man. But that never really came to anything’
‘An aide or an adjutant is a military position; says Gaunt. ‘The
regulations are clear. You're a civilian. So, my hands are tied’
‘Meanwhile, I get bored, says the boy.
164 DAN ABNETT

‘You found something today, says Gaunt. He wanders over to

the table. ‘We're keeping you along; he says, ‘because it’s the right
thing to do’
‘Where else would I go?’ asks Milo.
Gaunt shrugs. ‘A schola progenium? A foundling school? Do you
want to stay with us?’
Milo nods.
‘Well, then it’s a waste for us to carry you, and waste for you to
do nothing. Just hanging around like a... a—’
‘Mascot?’
‘Throne, yes. I’ve seen too many regiments look ridiculous because
they parade out with some regimental wolfhound or eagle on a
stand’ He glances at Milo again. ‘And I owe you, he says. ‘Person-
ally. Back on Tanith-’
‘I was just there, says Milo.
‘And now you're here’ He looks over at the boy. ‘Can you strip
and clean a bolt pistol?’
‘Yes; says Milo.
‘Clean this one, says Gaunt.
Milo looks at the weapon on the table.
‘Yes, sir, he says. ‘Can I use the cleaning kit in the cupboard?’
‘How did you know it was there?’ asks Gaunt.
‘Isn't that where you put it?’
‘No; says Gaunt.
‘It's in that cupboard over there, says Milo, pointing. ‘The one
below the switch for the lighting controls. I don’t know why you
have it so bright in here’

The lights are too dark.

Just portable glow-packs and a few candles. Power in the building
is intermittent. The room is nocturnal and, without active air-circ,
it’s sweltering too.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 165

‘These your quarters?’ asks Rawne. Eiwolt nods. A large room,

with adjoining bedroom and Gaal thaue Rawne could billet six
~ men in here. But it’s also spartan, and everything’s worn and dirty.
‘I haven’t even had time to unpack, she says. Through the bed-
room door, he can see her carry-bags still sitting at the foot of the
made but grubby bed. ‘I was called down to the meeting with you
and your commandet...’
She trails off. The three of them, standing in that airless kitchen,
trying to discuss strategic theory. It was only this morning, but it
feels far longer ago.
Rawne puts down the carton on the small desk in the main room
and looks around. He checks the crude, empty closets, the wash-
room, and under the bed.
‘Cautious?’ she asks, watching him.
‘After the day we've had?’ he replies. He walks to the window.
He's got an uneven gait, the pull of the wound in his lower back.
The Litus security teams picked them up, and brought them back
to Memnon House. The ride took them past the burning ruins of
the Magistratum Annex, and down streets where the dead had been
lined up on the ground. According to the Litus, there’s been another
attack in the centre of the city. Vincula is on high alert.
Memnon House and its surrounding compound have been put
on lockdown. The complex is high on the list of potential targets.
Gates and ramps have been shut, sentry systems engaged. The build-
ing’s power plant is working for about half an hour in every three,
but the water supply is reconnected. Brackish liquid that looks like
caff dregs sputters out of the taps.
Rawne uses the manual crank to raise the blast shutter on the
window of the main room. Cogs screech. The window glass is
fogged with dirt, and it takes him a moment to release the locks.
Finally, a breeze starts to stream in, offering some relief from the
contained heat.
166 DAN ABNETT

The air, evening-warm, smells of smoke and burned dust. Out-

side, it’s getting dark. Sirens are shrieking occasionally, and every
now and then there’s a shout from the yard below. Rawne leans out.
The sky’s purple, like a bruise. No stars. He can see Litus personnel
and transports in the yard ten floors below. Floodlights running
from portable generators are lighting the compound security wall
and wire fences in pools of cold, neon-white glare. He hears the
bang and dying throb as someone tries to restart the building's
main plant again.
‘Are we safe here?’ she asks.
‘Safer; he replies. He looks at her. He can smell both of them, the
sweat, the dirt, the body heat. ‘There are over three hundred Litus
B.R.U. holding Memnon, he adds. ‘They're heavy troops. And the
building is modular and reinforced. It’s a safe location. That’s why
it’s one of the key Administratum sites. It'll hold’
She looks at him, and nods.
‘All too real; she says. “Too practical’
She unloads the carton. When they were brought in, Munitorum
staffers were handing out supplies for the residents. Bottled water,
ration packs, more candles. Enough to keep everyone provided
with basics until building services were working again. Rawne’s also
snaffled a bottle of the local hooch from a Litus driver.
‘What's this for?’ she asks.
‘Can I use your washroom before I go?’ he asks.
‘You're going?’ |
‘Just downstairs for a while; he replies. ‘I'll be close enough.
Keeping an eye. But I have to check in with command, and make
a report:
‘The Litus commander said the vox was being jammed, she says.
‘I have to try, anyway. Keep trying’
She nods, and gestures to the washroom. He takes the bottle
and a portable glow-globe with him. The washroom is very small
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 167

and stuffy. There’s a stained shower stall, a sink, and a dirty mirror.
He strips off his jacket and his vest. The undershirt’s got holes in it,
and the back is stiff with dried blood. He tries to peer at himself in
the mirror. The light is poor. There's a gash at the back of his head
above the hairline, just a crust of blood, and he can see a splinter
of shrapnel in the puckered wound on his shoulder blade. He turns
on the sink tap and lets the water flow until it starts to run clear,
then tries to clean up the dried blood with one of the washroom’s
threadbare towels, peering over his shoulder. The shoulder wound
is sore to the touch. With some effort, he pulls the splinter out. A
piece of black grenade casing the size of a woodtack. The wound
starts to bleed. He staunches it with the wet towel and stands there
for a moment, breathing slowly. Not too bad. Superficial.
The wound in the small of his back is harder to deal with. He
can’t really see it, not even craning in the mirror. He can’t turn
enough. His back is aching stiff from the detonation bruising, but
he doubts he could contort that far even at his best. He gropes
blind and finds the epicentre of the pain, which flares furiously as
his fingertips touch it. Another fragment of shrapnel, a piece the
size of a toenail, but it feels bigger by touch alone. He tries to get
a grip on it. His fingers are slippery with fresh blood.
‘Can I help?’ she asks. She’s standing in the doorway of the wash-
room, watching him.
‘No; he says.
‘You can’t reach it’
‘T'll do it/ he says.
She shrugs, but doesn’t leave. He grapples with the splinter.
‘You have other ink; she says.
‘Yeah, he grunts.
‘Do you know the meanings?’ she asks.
‘Like what?’
‘The one on your ribs. The concentric circles around a cross’
168 DAN ABNETT

‘That's Tanith Attica’ he replies, then bites his lip. He's just slit
his fingertip on the sharp edge of the fragment.
‘Your home city?’
‘Yes; he says. ‘It was a walled city, so that’s the rings, but it was a
port town too, so that’s the cross. A trade crossroads:
‘And the one on your shoulder? The circle?’
‘That's the Robby Ross, he says.
‘The what?’
‘The Robby Ross, he says. He’s got a grip on the fragment now.
He pulls.
‘Is that a figure from folklore? From myth?’
He drags the fragment out. He feels hot blood trickle down into
his waistband, and down the crack of his arse.
‘Maybe; he says. ‘Maybe it was someone’s name. A woodsman.
It's the symbol of the Tanith warrior. A snake. Biting its tail’
‘Ah; she says, as though understanding something. ‘The mark
of a warrior?’
‘That's what they say, he says, leaning on the sink with both
hands for a moment. ‘An old symbol. Most of us had one done at
the Founding. A kind of bonding’
A kind of boasting. They'd all done it, out on the fields of Tanith
Magna. A crude Robby Ross to prove they were warriors. None of
them deserved it, not back then. It was just a mark, like all the
others, its meaning half forgotten or misunderstood, like all the
others. Soldiers acting tough and showing off.
‘Why a snake?’ she asks.
Rawne takes a deep breath. His back is throbbing, and he’s hardly
in the mood, though her questions are taking his mind off the pain.
‘Silent, hunter, he says. ‘Moves without a sound or a trace. Kills
with a fast strike. Gets in places no one can go. I think it’s in a
circle as a sign of protection, like the circle walls on the city one.
A circle, guarding from all sides, protecting what's within. Why?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 169

She shrugs, indifferent. ‘Symbolically, the snake usually means

other things, she says. ‘In most cultural references. Medicine and
healing sometimes, sometimes fertility. Usually knowledge, espe-
cially sacred or divine knowledge, the sort of higher knowledge
transmitted from gods to mortals. As a coiled circle or spiral, it’s
usually a symbol of the cycle of life, or renewal, or... Well, anyway,
it’s unusual for it to be the symbol of warrior-hood. Of course, it
recurs in your regimental patch’
‘Does it?’
‘The circle with the dot:
‘I suppose. Don't ask me; he says, straightening up. ‘I got it done
with a half-crown, and for a laugh. It was sore as feth, too. Sorer
than the others. Poked with a pin, so the pin was probably dirty.
And it’s faded, look. Not quality ink like the other pieces on me’
‘You need to dress those wounds, she says.
‘Ideally; he agrees. He’d asked for field dressings, but the Litus
had told him reserves were low, and what little was stocked at
Memnon House had been taken out into the field by the medics.
He picks up the bottle of bahu, uncorks it, takes a long draw, then
wipes his mouth and wads the towel up. He sluices it liberally, and
then applies the soaked ball of cloth to his shoulder. The wound
stings like a bastard. Grain alcohol. Not exactly counterseptic, but
it'll do.
He lets it sit for a minute, until the stinging subsides, then re-wads
the towel, douses it again, and then applies it to the small of his
back. That hurts much more.
‘You can’t really reach; she says. ‘Let me-’
‘It's fine’ Rawne says.
The stinging eases to a raw throb. He tosses the sodden, dirty
towel into the sink, and looks at her.
‘You weren't hit, were you?’ he asks.
‘No, she says. ‘I don’t think so’
170 DAN ABNETT

He shoos her backwards into the better light of the main room,
and makes her turn on the spot. There’s blood on her clothes, but
he’s sure that none of it’s hers, except for some that’s oozed from
light grazes.
‘I don’t feel any pain; she says, awkward that his gaze is on her.
‘I mean, tired and bruised, but-’
‘You may not feel it/ he says. ‘You've been running on adrenaline
since it started. You might not even feel shrapnel yet. Let me check’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to strip off so you can inspect
me for wounds, she says.
‘No; he says. ‘You're all right, I think’ His undershirt is ruined.
He pulls his jacket on over bare skin, his back making him wince.
‘I’m going down to see if the vox is working, he says. ‘I'll come
back. Will you be all right?’
She nods.
At the door, as an afterthought, he says, ‘Getting you to strip off
to check for wounds would be a cheap trick. A dog's pretext. I’m
sorry you think that of me’
‘Yes; she says.
‘Besides, he says, ‘there are simpler and more honest reasons to
strip off!
‘I agree, she says.
Afterwards, it’s not entirely clear who kissed who first.

The lights are too sickly.

The anteroom is bathed in a sickly violet glow, and it’s the
first thing Dorden notices when the Slokan guards usher him
in. The guards tell him to stay put and close the hatch behind
them as they leave. The violet light makes him feel nauseous
almost instantly.
The old medic has no idea what's going on. Domor suddenly
turned up and said the colonel had sent him to fetch Dorden up
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 71

to Royal Bokore House. Domor didn’t know any more than that,
and he wasn’t allowed into the main command levels with Dorden.
An inner hatch purrs open, and Corbec appears. He looks solemn
and bothered.
‘Doc, he says, and beckons.
‘What's this about, Colm?’ Dorden asks.
‘I needed an expert; says Corbec.
‘On what?’
‘Tanith, Corbec says.
He leads Dorden through the hatch. The chamber beyond is
larger, a briefing chamber with a long table and Militarum-issue
metal chairs, but it too is drenched in the obnoxious violet glare.
‘This is Colonel Marsus,; Corbec says.
Marsus rises from her seat and nods to Dorden.
‘Doc Dorden; says Corbec. ‘My regiment's chief medicae. I appre-
ciate you pausing things while I had him fetched’
‘You will have questions, I’m sure, says Marsus.
‘First of all, what's wrong with the lights in here?’ Dorden asks.
Marsus glances at the two identical men seated with her at the
table. One gets up and brings Dorden a glass of water and a small
pill.
‘Discretion fields’ says Marsus. ‘Counter-surveillance measures.
Harmonic resonances and doppler-shifted light. They can have an
unpleasant effect on a person’s equilibrium. Take the pill. It should
ease the nausea:
Dorden takes the pill.
‘Counter-surveillance?’ he asks.
‘We use this suite for high-level briefing, and for interrogation,
says Marsus.
‘Which is this?’ asks Dorden.
Marsus takes her seat and looks at him. There is an odd serenity
to her, a compelling calm. To Dorden, she seems like an Imperial
172 DAN ABNETT

saint, wise and noble and sublime, who has somehow far outlived
the hour of her martyrdom.
‘This is level Obsidian (Esculis) confidence-coded, she says.
‘Please sit’
He sits, and Corbec sits beside him.
‘You were a medical practitioner, on Tanith?’ she asks.
‘My whole career, until the Founding; he replies.
‘Colonel Corbec suggests that may give you an insight he lacks,
she says.
‘Into what?’ Dorden asks.
‘Tanith culture, Doc; says Corbec. “Tattoos, symbols, whatnot.
I mean, I know a few things, but I figure you might know more’
‘I know tradition and folklore; says Dorden. ‘I was an area medic
in a small county. But the traditions were dying out, even when I
was young:
‘Talk about the symbols, if you would; she says. ‘The concentric
circles, or circle motif?’
‘Usually a city sign; says Dorden. ‘Representing community, and
the defensive walls. As ink, it’s usually marked on the chest, over
the heart, or on the ribs. Each city has its own variations. And the
placement varies a lot. There’s no hard and fast rules, and people
I knew just had them done because they liked the designs’
‘The upright bar?’
‘Usually a tree, the nalwood, representing Tanith and strength.
Marked over the eye, or on the hand, or on the back. The spine’
‘Just that?’ asks Marsus.
‘It's sometimes done as an actual, figurative tree, or an upright bar
with a knot at the top. As a cross, it represents trade or a meeting
place. If the top is rounded at the tip, then it’s more probably a
standing stone, the symbol of permanence and support, and also
another indicator of birthplace or region’
‘That's what I told you; says Corbec.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 178

‘You did, says Marsus. ‘Corroboration is good’

‘I could be more useful if you told me what we were talking
about, says Dorden.
She slides a green dossier across the table to him. He looks at
the picts inside.
‘Comments on anatomical placement?’ she asks.
‘Legs and waist, those are usually ancestral markers; says Dorden.
‘They indicate the old clans and regional groups. I was told they are
usually on the legs because they are the things that carried us here’
He clears his throat, and looks at another pict.
‘Arms, forearms particularly, and faces... that’s bloodline. Those
are baptismal inks. Baptism and official names are given... were
given... to children around the age of eight. Sometimes older, never
younger. Naming children at birth was considered premature. The
Tanith believed people grew into the names they needed. Grew
into what they would be’
‘Upper arms and shoulders?’
‘Trades and professions; says Dorden. “The left hand or left
shoulder was usually used for marks of betrothal, or of love memen-
tos. Right shoulder sometimes for offspring’
‘Trades?’ she asks.
‘The knot for the woodsman, the spiral for the tracker or path-
finder, the axehead for the timber-cutter, the furrows for the farmer,
the sail or mesh motif for the fisherman. The pointed bar, very
narrow, often with a spiral, is the sign of a hunter. It symbolises
the long knife, or the hunting staff’
‘The circle?’
‘That's the warrior, says Dorden. ‘Usually caps the left shoulder.
It’s one of the oldest, and many people, especially young men, had
them done for show. A posturing thing, even if they weren't actu-
ally warriors. Boys like to boast’
‘I’m sure, says Marsus.
174 DAN ABNETT

‘It’s not a circle, though; says Dorden, ‘though it’s sometimes

represented simply as that. It’s meant to denote a snake, the warrior-
symbol. People called it the Robby Ross’
‘A snake biting its own tail?’ Marsus notes.
‘Yes!
‘An ouroboros?’
Dorden nods. ‘That's clearly the origin of the phrase. Bastard-
ised as folklore. I doubt many Tanith could tell you where “Robby
Ross” comes from’
Marsus sits back.
‘So, regarding the pictures?’ she asks.
‘What do you want to know?’ Dorden asks.
‘Colonel Corbec said he recognised the marks, says Marsus.
‘Now, now, says Corbec with a warning smile. ‘I said I’d seen
tattoos like them. That's all. They are very Tanith in their designs.
The inking style, the colours, mostly black and blue and green.
And the application style, pricked in. But I don’t know the actual
designs. None of them’ He looks at Dorden. ‘I mean, they look
quite Tanith, right, Doc? I mean, they could be’
‘They could, says Dorden. ‘This is why you asked me here?’
‘You've seen a fair sight more tattoos than me, I’m guessing;
says Corbec.
‘Probably, says Dorden.
‘And you know more about the lore’ says Corbec.
‘Possibly. There’s not much lore left’
Dorden looks at Marsus.
‘Colm’s right, he says. ‘These seem very Tanith. But I don’t know
the designs either. Not these specific ones. There are spirals and bars,
but the arrangement is different. The placement. They’re not city
marks, not that I know. They’re not clan marks, or trade, or figures
of baptism or family. This spiral here, it goes the wrong way. The
coil goes in the wrong direction’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 175

‘So they're not Tanith?’ asks Marsus.

‘I didn't say that. Like Colonel Corbec, I find them very familiar,
but not specifically so. Except this one’
He taps one of the picts.
‘The circle?’ Marsus asks.
‘It’s very like a Robby Ross, and it's on the cap of the left shoulder
from the look of the pict?
‘A warrior mark, then?’
‘Except it’s open, says Dorden. ‘It's got some fine detail... it’s hard
to see. But it’s an actual snake, and it’s not biting its own tail. It’s
released its tail, and its jaws are open and turned outwards. The
circle is no longer completed’
‘So not your ouroboros mark, says Marsus, ‘but you know it?’
‘Where did these come from?’ asks Dorden.
‘Answer my question, please’
‘Are these picts of a Tanith corpse?’ Dorden presses.
‘Doctor, I would appreciate your answer’
Dorden sighs. The pill hasn’t helped much. The light is still
making him feel bilious.
‘The Robby Ross is the warrior mark, he says. ‘A closed circle,
biting its own tail. A symbol of defence, like the wall circle motif.
It is protecting all within. This open version is very old. I’ve never
seen it, not on skin. I’ve seen it in books, and heard it spoken of.
The jaws are open. It is no longer protecting. It has released its tail
so it can strike outwards, so it can attack. It is a mark of an attack-
ing warrior, not a defending one. It is the mark of the Nalsheen’
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 1b.

His men are taking very heavy fire from the Oligarchy Gate, and
from the emplacements on the south side, and from the treeline.
It's so heavy, everyone has to lie down, flat on the ground, because
if you even crouch or kneel, you'll be hit. Gaunt lies on his back,
talking to his officers, and they all lie on their backs too, as the
_las-fire scores the air above them. The Archon’s men have them
caught on two sides, but Gaunt thinks he can see a way through.
He starts to describe his idea to his men, but he’s worried about
the trees burning, and his men say there are no trees, but they're
wrong, because he can see the trees. The trees are huge, taller than
Titan engines, and they’re swaying as the inferno howls through
them, immolating branches and leaves, and filling the black sky
with whirling spirals of sparks. Someone starts knocking at the gate,
and Gaunt wonders who would be knocking to get out, and he
starts to get up to investigate, even though his men say he shouldn't,
but the knocking gets louder.

177
178 DAN ABNETT

And it’s coming from the door of his quarters, and he’s sitting
on the edge of his bed, where he fell asleep fully clothed, trying
to remember where he is. Vincula, on Voltemand. Not Balhaut.
He rises, trying to clear the sticky fog of dreams from his head,
but by the time he’s on his feet, someone has answered the door.
He hears low voices, then the sound of the door closing again.
He walks out of the bedroom area. The boy turns to look at him,
holding something.
‘What are you doing here?’ Gaunt asks.
‘You didn’t dismiss me, so I stayed; replies Milo. ‘There were
some things to do’
The quarters were tidy before. Now they seem tidy in a way that
makes sense. His bolt pistol, stripped, cleaned and reassembled,
is set out on the table.
‘Who was at the door?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Sergeant Baffels/ says Milo. ‘He wanted to give you this. He says
there are urgent items for your attention’
Milo holds out a leather case. Gaunt takes it, unclasps it. A
replacement command-cadre data-slate, a robust field-issue model,
sent up from the Munitorum. He adjusts his signet ring, applies his
authority code via a brief flash of laser, and starts it up. Magenta
(Cryptox) level message frames appear immediately.
‘Damn, Gaunt murmurs to himself. Balgrada is on his way. He
was Originally expected at noon, but he’s brought the arrival up to
just after dawn. ‘What's the time?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Small hours; replies Milo. ‘Just after midnight. You weren't asleep
long:
Gaunt notes a side transcript by Daybell, placing on record his
strenuous advice that Balgrada delay his arrival. The recommenda-
tion has been overruled by Balgrada’s officio. A wasted effort, but
Gaunt'’s surprised to see Daybell’s attempt at intervention.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 178

‘I need a meeting of section leaders in thirty minutes; Gaunt says,

and then stops. He looks at the boy.
‘I need an adjutant; he says. ‘We are pulled woefully thin, and
there’s not a man to spare, but you appear to have nothing to do,
and a willingness to be given duties:
‘Yes; says Milo.
‘So?’
‘I thought it was counter to regulations’
‘I seem to be learning bad habits from the Tanith; says Gaunt.
‘I am starting to perceive rules and regulations as flexible. Besides,
last time I checked, I was in charge’
‘All right, says Milo.
‘Then I need an adjutant; says Gaunt. He sits at the table and
starts tapping instructions into the slate. ‘Temporary assignment,
we'll see how it goes. But there’s a lot of work to do tonight’
‘Because the governor's coming?’ asks Milo.
‘How do you know that?’ asks Gaunt.
‘Doesn't everybody know that?’ Milo replies. He shrugs. ‘Also, I’m in
a lot of rooms where things get said. No one pays me particular heed’
‘He’s coming just after sunrise, says Gaunt. ‘He’s revised his
schedule. Probably a show of authority. Go down to the secu-
rity office. I’ve just instructed them to issue you with a pass and a
clearance code. That code will also allow you to operate this slate.
Come back as soon as you've got it. Is there caffeine?’
‘In the pot; says Milo.
‘When you get back, I’ll need my number one dress prepared’
‘It's already done; says Milo, gesturing to the wardrobes.
Gaunt nods. ‘Quickly, then, he says.
The boy turns to go.
‘Milo?’ Gaunt says. ‘How did you know about the bomb at Kalo-
din? Or the shooter?’
180 DAN ABNETT

‘I keep my eyes open, says Milo. ‘I pay attention’

Gaunt gestures, and the boy leaves. He goes to the pot on the
hotplate and pours himself a cup.
To no surprise at all, it’s fresh.

Rawne wakes up because he’s thirsty. Her quarters are dark, for all
but one of the candles have burned out, but there’s mauve light
spilling in through the open window in the main room. He gets
up and limps out of the bedroom towards it, grabbing a bottle of
water from the desk on the way. Eiwolt remains asleep.
He looks out of the window. It’s the stillest, quietest part of the
night, the part he has always considered most dangerous. Nothing is
stirring beyond the compound perimeter. The city seems suspended
in darkness, like a patient in pain who's been anaesthetised for their
own good. The sky is smeared charcoal and purple, and is starless.
In the yard, ten floors below, he can see Litus sentries patrolling
the wire in the frosty glare of the lamps. The evening air is warm
on his face, laced with the smell of ashes and dust.
He looks for his clothes in the gloom. He should go down, try
the vox again. In the bedroom, Eiwolt says something in her sleep,
and rolls over. He looks in on her for a minute, then gently pulls
the dislodged sheet across her naked back. Turned out, there wasn’t
a mark on her, besides some minor abrasions. He checked, twice.
He finds his boots. On the side table are the data-slates she was
showing him before they fell into bed the second time. He picks
one up, opens it with the code he watched her use, and flicks
through the images. Tribal emblems, the clan marks of the Sangui-
nary Worlds, the symbols she called Magmeta and Bishrabi, and
all sorts of other words. Some of them are uncomfortably familiar:
versions of symbols he’s known his whole life, carved on wooden
doors and over mantelpieces and on the low tie-beams of taverns
in Tanith Attica.
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 181

‘Are you leaving?’ she asks.

He glances at her. She’s still lying down, but her eyes are open,
watching him in the gloom.
‘Just going to check the vox; he says.
‘I was having a dream; she says.
‘Was I in it?’ he asks.
‘You were, she replies. He sees a flash of white in the darkness,
her teeth as she smiles. ‘But it was about yesterday. The marauds—-’
‘That'll fade’ he says, putting the slate down. ‘You have dreams
after something like that. We all do. They call it the torments’
‘Who does?’
‘People, says Rawne. ‘It’s trauma, whatever. You relive things a
lot. But they fade. Trust me. They go away:
She sits up.
‘I'm sure, she says, ‘but listen to me. The insurgents who were
hunting us, we heard them talking. In the street and the alleys.
When we were on the roof?
‘And?’
‘They weren't speaking Bishrabi’
‘In your dream?’
_ Eiwolt shrugs. ‘Yes, but also yesterday. I didn’t really notice at
the time, but now I’m sure. I remember it. It wasn’t Bishrabi, or the
local Bishrabi-derived dialect spoken here. It was Gaurin, or Aezyri:
‘Do you speak those languages?’ he asks.
‘No, she says. ‘Nor do I know much more than a smattering of
Bishrabin words, but I know enough to know the difference. The
local dialect is a sub-form of Gothikan-Bishrabi, and this was very
different’
‘I think you've dreamt this; he says softly.
‘No, Eli; she says. It’s the first time she’s used his name in a con-
versation. ‘That's maybe how I remembered it, but my recall is good.
It was Archonate Gaurin, or perhaps Archonate Aezyri’
182 DAN ABNETT

‘They were from off-world?’ he asks.

‘Or they were using it deliberately; she says. ‘As a private language’
‘Like... battle-tongue? A combat cant?’
She nods. She gets out of bed and stands up.
‘I wish I was better at accents, she says. “Tell the difference between
a native Vinculan speaking Gaurin and a native Gaurin speaker’ She
looks at him. ‘We need translators, she says.
‘You need to put some clothes on, or get back in bed/ he says.
‘This is significant; she says. ‘We need translators—’
‘You know there aren’t any, he says. ‘Not many, anyway-’
‘T'll put in a priority request-’
‘What would we translate?’
Eiwolt sits on the bed. ‘Well’ she says, ‘if any are taken alive. In
interrogation, we could-’
‘None have been taken alive, says Rawne. “They're not likely to
be taken alive’
She glances at him.
‘It is important, she says. ‘Gaurite and Aezyr are hard line Archo-
nate. Sanguinary Tribes. If their languages are being spoken here,
it means outsiders. Infiltrators. If they're being spoken by locals,
then the interconnection of ethnic groups is more complex than
we thought. Loyalties and affiliations will be harder to discern.
There are known Bishrabin elements on the Archonate side, espe-
cially rimward in the Sabbat territories. But also large portions that
are regarded as pro-Imperial, or vouched for as Imperial subjects’
‘We may not even have vox yet; he says. ‘If we have, I'll forward
a formal request via Gaunt for translation teams from Voltis’
He starts pulling on his clothes. He’s clumsy, his back still hurts.
‘I want to get you out of here too; he says. ‘Moved to a more
secure location’
‘You said this was secure, she replies, following him into the
main room.
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 183

‘It is’ he says. ‘More secure. City central. Once transportation is

cleared active again, I'll get that done. You need to talk to Gaunt’
‘All right, she says. ‘But I like it here’
‘You do?’ he says.
‘Pleasant memories; she says. ‘Besides, look’ — she gestures — ‘I
finally have a window:

Corbec leans forward and taps Dorden on the knee. The old medicae
has fallen asleep on the couch. He wakes with a start.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
Corbec gestures. The Stoimenov twins have just stepped out of
Hadrak’s chambers, and one is beckoning to them.
‘They've kept us waiting long enough, says Dorden as he and
Corbec get to their feet. ‘Do you think they’re going to tell us
anything?’
‘We'll find out; says Corbec. They cross the landing together. Royal
Bokore House is as quiet as a mausoleum. In the vast atrium below,
only a few personnel are visible, and they are mainly janitorial servi-
tors polishing the marble floors. But the lights are still on, even in
the very depths of the night. The Astra Militarum does not sleep.
' Hadrak’s at his desk in his immense office, with Marsus standing
nearby. A chandelier hangs like a chained star. The Stoimenovs close
the doors behind Corbec and Dorden.
‘I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long; says Hadrak. ‘Elka and I
have been reviewing the material’ He rises, and comes over to shake
their hands. ‘Doctor, a pleasure to meet you, he says.
He crosses back to his desk, and takes a sip of caff. Late night.
His collar is unbuttoned.
‘Right; he says. ‘Let’s square this away. ‘You're both, I’m sure,
disconcerted by the line of questioning. I can assure you, it’s intel-
ligence gathering. The Nalsheen-’
‘My lord/ says Marsus. A soft note of admonishment.
184 DAN ABNETT

‘Ah; says Hadrak, and motions to the twins. One turns to a wall
panel and turns a dial. The chandelier changes colour. A sickly
violet light falls across the office. It's not as strong as it was in the
interrogation suite, but it still makes Dorden queasy.
‘I dislike this, says Hadrak, frowning in disgust at the altered
ambience. “Turns my stomach, so I try not to use it unless it’s
necessary.
‘Why is it necessary, sir?’ asks Corbec.
‘I've decided to have you read in, Colm, says Hadrak. ‘You and
the good doctor, because he’s here and he’s been a resource in terms
of formal identification. Understand, please, this is high clearance.
Obsidian level’
‘And against my recommendation, says Marsus.
‘| believe the Tanith regiment is a fine asset that shouldn't be bound
up here or compromised; says Hadrak to Corbec, ‘so I have taken an
executive decision, as is my purview. You may share what I’m about
to say with your superior officer. No one else. Are we clear?’
Corbec nods. Dorden’s not sure if he should or not. He’s medicae,
not command echelon. This is pretty much the closest he’s been
to a senior Officer.
‘The picts Elka showed you, says Hadrak. ‘Post mortem shots of
an enemy hostile’
‘Here?’ asks Corbec.
Hadrak shakes his head. ‘Blackshard. My last regional command.
We had trouble in the zone there’
‘Plenty, says Corbec. ‘I remember it well?
Hadrak smiles. ‘I’m sure, Colm. But I’m not talking about field
combat. I’m talking about trouble that started before your regiment »
arrived, and persisted after you were gone.
‘When we shipped out of Blackshard/ says Corbec, ‘it was an
Imperial holding again. There shouldn't have been any trouble
left to have:
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 185

‘Like here?’ asks Hadrak wryly.

‘Insurgency, says Dorden.
‘Quite so, doctor. Insurgency. The formal occupation of Black-
shard has been troubled by insurgent activity. Marauds. Just like
here on Voltemand. And not just on these two worlds. At least four
others taken by the crusade in the last three years.
‘I think specifics are outside the remit here, sir; says Marsus.
Hadrak muses, nods. “The issue is, he says, ‘we're seeing sig-
nificant maraud activity. Resistance to occupation efforts. We've
generally identified this as Archenemy forces run to ground. The
last holdouts, survivors of the compliance actions, doing their best
to subvert before they’re brought to book. Low impact, the picking
off of minor targets. Same old story, really. The inevitable aftermath
of liberation efforts. But our friends in Intelligence are concerned
that it may be more than that:
He looks at Marsus. She realises he is expecting her to speak, and
she does so with reluctance.
‘Conquered worlds are our supply lines, feeding the main crusade
front. Without them, we can’t advance. In two instances, Black-
shard being the most well documented, we believe that the maraud
activity is systematic and organised. Not just the impulsive efforts
of those hostiles left behind. Subversion programmes directed by
insurgent leaders, perhaps specifically brought in from off-world.
Perhaps using maraud elements deliberately held in reserve’
‘Not just survivors?’ Corbec says.
‘Sleeper cells; she says. ‘Their aim is disruption to facilities that
are now, in effect, behind our lines’
‘To break the chain of supply?’ Corbec says. ‘To stall the crusade?’
‘Yes; she says. ‘The marauds on Blackshard could never take that
world back from us. They don’t have the numbers or, we believe,
the popular support. But they could significantly impair Black-
shard’s ability to service the front-line advance’
188 DAN ABNETT

‘This dead hostile; says Corbec. He motions to Marsus. The green

dossier has been under her arm since they walked in. ‘The picts...’
‘Killed on Blackshard/ says Hadrak. ‘We're identifying a two-tier
structure to the maraud cells. Local insurgency manpower, and
off-world mobilisers. These latter are highly trained and highly
motivated. They are few in number, perhaps one for every one or
two hundred insurgents. They are the facilitators, and the strate-
gists. They excel at stealth work’
‘And they have tattoos; says Corbec.
‘They do; says Hadrak. He takes the dossier from Marsus, opens
it, and looks gravely at the images inside. ‘This is the only one we've
managed to take down. The only body recovered, certainly. Despite
superficial similarities, such as clothing, his corpse was very different
from those of other marauds slain on Blackshard. His complexion
and ethnic derivation. His body art...’
‘You think he’s Tanith?’ asks Dorden.
‘There's a case to be made, says Marsus.
‘We left no one on Blackshard, Corbec begins.
‘No one’s saying you did, Colm; says Hadrak. “We're not talking
about Tanith the regiment, we're talking about Tanith the world.
A world proud of its skilled hunters—’
‘A world that doesn’t exist any more, says Corbec.
‘I did not identify that body as Tanith; says Dorden quietly. ‘Quite
the opposite. There’s a similarity of ink technique, but hand-poked
work is not unique to Tanith. The designs are reminiscent of Tanith
motifs, but are not any I’ve ever seen!
‘Except for one, says Marsus. “The open snake you identified as
the mark of Nalsheen’
Dorden glances at Corbec. He’s quite upset. Corbec shoots him a
broad smile and squeezes his arm. Then he looks straight at Marsus.
‘You see, says Corbec gently, ‘that’s all well and good, but that
mark? One mark? I've seen ink on plenty of enemy feth-wipes, and
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 187

on plenty of lasmen too. You bring me more dossiers, I'll have a

leaf through. I bet you I'll find numerous marks in common in
ten minutes of looking. One thing does not mean another thing’
‘We've done our homework, colonel; says Marsus. “The varia-
tions and similarities are, as you suggest, commonplace. But that
particular mark, on a maraud facilitator, a stealth specialist? Con-
firmed by a Tanith-born man to be the very mark of Tanith-born
stealth specialists?’
‘I don't like your inference; says Dorden. ‘You're insulting my
world and my people. I feel you've manoeuvred me into saying
something I didn’t mean. That mark could be anything’
‘I’m with the doc on this, says Corbec. ‘The suggestion’s fething
stupid and pretty offensive’
‘Where is this cadaver?’ asks Dorden. ‘Did you autopsy it? Did
you run any bio-testing?’
‘No; says Marsus.
‘The hostile was killed in an outlying region of Blackshard, says
Hadrak. ‘The body was incinerated. Picts are all we have:
Dorden shrugs broadly, to suggest the whole thing is moot.
‘We don’t mean to cause offence, doctor, says Hadrak.
‘Well, you're managing to, says Corbec.
‘The Nalsheen, the old warrior-caste of Tanith-’ Marsus begins.
‘Well, that’s the real thing, isn’t it?’ Corbec says. “There are no
Nalsheen’
‘It's a dead mark; says Dorden. ‘Long dead’
‘The Nalsheen are ancient history, says Corbec. “There haven't
been any of them around for a long time. Hundreds of years. There
are no Nalsheen. Not that Nalsheen would do this kind of shit,
but there are none:
Hadrak closes the dossier. ‘But if there were, Colm/ he says, ‘isn’t
this exactly how they would be used?’
Corbec glares at him.
188 DAN ABNETT

Hadrak smiles.
‘Look, Elka, I’m satisfied’ Hadrak says. “These gentlemen have
been extremely forthcoming. They've entertained your line of ques-
tioning with great patience. I believe the Tanith regiment is beyond
reproach, so I’m going to go ahead and push the release orders:
He glances at Corbec. ‘I’m afraid, Colm, we were holding you
here long enough for Marsus to arrive on-world and pursue her
enquiries’ With a sad smile, he adds, ‘I’m afraid there aren’t many
Tanith left for her to ask these questions of?
‘Sir; says Corbec, ‘T'll tell you two things. For free. I’m sold on
your appraisal of the maraud activity. Two-tier structure, locals run
by specialists. Makes sense. Stuff we've been seeing in Vincula Pro-
vince... that’s some orchestrated fethery. So there’s a line here that
Colonel Marsus needs to pursue. The enemy wants to disrupt us,
even on worlds lost to them. They want the crusade to flounder.
If Iwas your enemy, sir, and I had the Tanith boys at my disposal,
that’s exactly what I'd do. I wouldn't have the numbers, but I could
make your lives hell’
He pauses. He sniffs.
‘Of course, I'm not. I am a sworn son of the Living Throne, and
so is every feth in the Tanith regiment, loyal and true. We gave our
world up for this war, and we won't be dishonoured by this kind
of talk, nor have the memory of our people shamed. But I under-
stand why the questions must be asked, and you've done it here,
to my face, and in private. In a discretion field, no less. So the
implied insult will not be broadly known. The second thing is...
I know what this is’
‘You do?’ Hadrak asks.
‘The enemy steals our weapons, sometimes our kit, and operates
in disguise, says Corbec. ‘The insurgency actions you've described,
well that’s the work of some smart bastards. Not just killers. Think-
ers. Plotters. That’s cunning. Chew us apart from the inside, disrupt
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 189

safe worlds. That’s what this is. And if they'll steal a gun to use it
against us, then they'll steal a mark too. Steal a mark from a proud
world’s warrior tradition and use it for their own ends. Adopt it,
maybe? Or just use it, so that you don’t trust me, and I’m offended
by you, and conversations like this take place. Insurgency isn’t just
about blowing up roads and food dumps, it’s about blowing up
trust and ideas:
There’s a moment's silence.
‘Well said, Colm, Hadrak says. ‘It’s in fact a suggestion my aides
and I made to Mil-Int early on. The Archenemy using symbols and
disinformation as much as it's using conventional weapons. Colonel
Corbec, feel free to return to your unit. I'll have an order packet
ready for you in half an hour. You should know that since you've
been here, there have been attacks in Vincula City’
‘Details?’ Corbec asks.
‘Patchy, says Marsus. ‘Signals are being disrupted. We suspect
jamming’
Corbec frowns, and scratches behind his ear.
‘I need to brief Gaunt; he says.
‘Well, that will have to be done in person, says Marsus.
Hadrak sees the look on Corbec’s face. He raises a calming hand.
‘I’m afraid I agree, Colm, he says. ‘With regard to the content
of the conversation we've just had, I was perfectly plain from the
start. It is high confidence. Obsidian, Colm. It will not be trans-
mitted by vox or data-squirt’
‘A secure channel-’ Corbec begins.
‘The jamming problem is an issue, says Marsus simply. “Until
it’s resolved, we are obliged to operate on the basis that nothing
is secure:
‘The issue is highly sensitive, says Hadrak. ‘A quiet word with him
when you see him, but nothing else. No transmissions. We can't
risk showing our hand. As a senior regimental officer, Colm, you
190 DAN ABNETT

have a responsibility to maintain strict security. You're well aware

of that, I know. I knew from the moment we met that you were
the sort of officer I could count on’
Hadrak crosses to them, and shakes them each by the hand.
‘Thank you for your time, Colm. Doctor; he says. ‘Please pass my
respects to Colonel-Commissar Gaunt when you see him’
‘Yes, sit; says Corbec. He leads Dorden out.
The twins close the doors. One of them reaches for the dial on
the wall.
‘Leave it on/ says Marsus, as she turns to Hadrak.

Dorden follows Corbec across the vast atrium. The place is still
echoey and empty. A buffer hums in the distance: a servitor polish-
ing the plaques on a row of statues.
‘Find Domor, says Corbec. ‘Go back to the billet, get the others
awake and haul them back here with the transport to pick me up.
We're heading back to Vincula now:
Dorden nods. ‘You've got to wait for the order packet?’
‘Yes; says Corbec. ‘Thought I might find the vox-station while
I waited’
‘The general was very clear, says Dorden. ‘I mean, very clear
indeed. You can't-’
‘T know what I can’t do, Doc; says Corbec. He looks around
at Dorden, smiles reassuringly, and pats the old medic on the
shoulder. ‘Hadrak was clear as plex. It'll just be a routine contact.
I'm not going to do anything daft’
 16.

They walk from the manse to the Occupation Council Building

at first light. Through the mesh fence, past the guard towers and
compound wall, the lower rim of the sky is bleaching white. It’s
going to be another hot day. Gaunt can already feel the burden of
heat in the air.
‘The governor has touched down at Vincula Field’ Daybell is
saying, consulting a data-slate as they walk. ‘He’s moving here under
escort, armoured convoy. Expected here in an hour’
Gaunt nods. The rockcrete gravel crunches under his polished boots.
‘Installation ceremony here at noon, says Daybell. ‘Attendance
mandatory for all Administratum staff?
‘He knows what he’s walking into?’ asks Gaunt.
‘Yes, sir!
Gaunt looks at the tower of the council building ahead. ‘He
might as well be painting that with a giant target tagger, he says.
‘I have strongly advised him of the security issues, says Daybell.
‘Yes, I know:

191
192 DAN ABNETT

‘Will you overrule?’ asks Daybell.

‘I don’t see how I can, replies Gaunt. ‘He’s clearly intent on wield-
ing the full force of his mandated authority:
He stops walking and looks at the intelligencer. Daybell’s glasses
are white discs reflecting the dawn glare. He can’t see the man’s eyes.
‘The insurgency has been piecemeal since the start of occupation,
says Gaunt. ‘Low-level targets, public targets, picking off anything
they can get at’
‘Opportunistic; Daybell agrees.
‘Any kill is a good kill for them, says Gaunt. ‘Any mindless out-
rage. Breaks morale, saps confidence-’
‘Spreads fear, says Daybell.
‘But Balgrada is a big trophy; says Gaunt. ‘I think they’ve been
waiting for him. I think they’ve been running attrition hits until
they have something worth focusing on. | think they’re going to
up their game. Would that be your assessment?’
‘It would, sir; says Daybell.
‘Good, because we haven't been in step before, Gaunt says. ‘You,
me... Severt’
Daybell seems to wince slightly.
‘He was a good friend?’ asks Gaunt.
‘Yes, says Daybell in a soft voice. ‘The best. Glin was... We-’
He stops, and clears his throat.
‘Major Severt was a career officer, though; he says. ‘Liked to run
the board according to regulations, and keep his sheet clean. He
was keen to apply the Pax Imperialis according to the strictures
Governor Balgrada had set down’?
‘And you backed him?’
‘He was my superior, sir:
‘I think he was more than that/ says Gaunt.
‘We were good friends, says Daybell.
Gaunt starts walking again. ‘My friction with Intelligence is born
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 193

of experience; he says. ‘Mil-Int often meddles, and functions clan-

destinely, sometimes in ways that conflict with regular Militarum
operations. When you arrived, I was brusque, and my attitude
reflected my prejudices. I apologise’
‘Sir, no need’
‘I expected you to be devious, Daybell, and Severt simply wasn't. I've
always considered Mil-Int to be a more subtle and ingenious weapon.
‘I’m not quite sure what you're getting at, sir/ says Daybell.
‘I believe you're beginning to appreciate the complexity of
the situation here, Daybell. See it for yourself, not just as Severt
presented it. You’re out of his shadow, tragically. My point is, if I
try to overrule Balgrada, we'll get dragged into a departmental clash,
Militarum, Administratum. That's not going to make matters any
easier. It occurs to me there might be a way of following his orders
and yet not following them:
‘Go on, says Daybell quietly.
‘We agree Balgrada’s now the primary target. I believe we can pro-
tect him here, though it’s a logistical nightmare I could do without.
I see no value in placing all the intendants in the crosshairs along
with him. They're secondary targets. They always have been, in truth,
but now Balgrada’s here they are relegated. He wants them to attend
the ceremony to magnify his own importance. We can vox out the
transportation orders, and divert manpower to escort the intend-
ants here for the ceremony:
‘Yes, sir:
‘But the orders don’t necessarily have to be received’
Daybell frowns slightly.
‘Because of the... jamming?’ he asks innocently.
‘Yes; says Gaunt.
‘The daybook would show the orders issued; muses Daybell, ‘but
they might not get through. Not in time. The ceremony might not
be very well attended’
194 DAN ABNETT

‘Balgrada would complain; says Gaunt. ‘But the logs would show
we followed his instructions:
‘And we don't create one big target; says Daybell.
‘I'm sure Mil-Int Intercept Protocol will do its best to overcome
the jamming problem; says Gaunt. ‘Wait... That's your division,
isn’t it, captain?’
Daybell nods. His smile is small and nervous.
‘Yes, I'll get right on it, sir’ he says. After a pause, he says, ‘I forget
you were a political officer before you became a career soldier, sir’
‘I have a little game in both departments; says Gaunt, ‘and I'll
use either, without compunction, when there are lives at stake’
They reach the security annex at the rear of the council building.
The Ghosts manning the defences throw salutes.
‘I wasn’t in Glin’s shadow, says Daybell. ‘Well, perhaps I was.
But I was happy there’
Gaunt nods.
‘Carry on, captain; he says.

The sun’s still low, and the light’s long. The shadows are black and
stretched, but it’s already as hot as a foundry. Larkin adjusts his
scope settings to try to accommodate for the harsh light contrast.
He wipes a drop of sweat from the end of his nose.
‘You think he'll come?’ he asks.
‘It’s what I'd do, says Mkoll quietly.
They've started to call him ‘he’ Not just marauds and insurgents.
They've been watching for them since day one, boots on the ground.
But Mkoll’s briefed the squads detailed to overwatch on the council
building. He kept it simple, and left details out, but they know
enough to understand that there’s one particular bastard out there
presenting the most significant threat.
One-six-five is holding a tariff hall across the street from the council
compound. They have good angles on the building’s northern face,
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 195

and the motor pool sheds, and the run of fence. According to Bonin,
who did a walk-around just before dawn, this is the most vulne-
rable section of the council's perimeter. Three-seven-nine is set up
in an adjoining hab block, watching the upper end of Clavis Street.
There are sixteen squads in the vicinity, all told: along Clavis, which
runs in front of the compound; Envara, which runs behind; in the
slum alleys beyond the fence line behind the residential manse;
and on the Matterine Road. Scout units like Two-two are running
patrols between the watch positions, and checking vehicular and
foot traffic, though the militia is keeping the streets as empty as
possible. Inside the council compound are another two hundred
Ghosts, and almost four hundred Litus.
‘| don’t know how he'll get over that wall) says Varl, from a posi-
tion nearby. The motor pool ring wall is seven metres high.
Mkoll does. He doesn't know precisely how, but he knows, just
like he knows that they’re talking about a ‘he’ but it could be more
than one. He hasn't yet seen a figure, or a face. The shooter on
Kalodin might be the same as the shooter he crossed in the woods
yesterday morning, but he can’t even say for sure if that was just
one. And he can’t say if they're the same individual. It’s a long way
from the woods to Kalodin, and the hostile would have had to pass
back into Vincula City after lockdown. Mkoll’s not sure which pos-
sibility is worse: that there’s more than one, or that there’s only
one and he is capable of an insertion like that.
‘What will he look like?’ asks Larkin. Derin snorts a muffled laugh.
‘He'll be wearing a badge, Larks/ says Rafflan. ‘Big fething badge’
‘Funny, says Larkin, pouting.
‘Nothing’s funny, says Mkoll.
He walks out of the long room, into the back hall. Third floor.
Rear windows, glazed in dirt, look down on the alleys of the sprawl
behind the tariff hall.
‘Lot of shadows, he observes. At a nearby window, Caober nods.
198 DAN ABNETT

‘Doyl, Bonin and Baen are doing a circuit; says Caober. ‘Baru and
Hwlan are crossing south sector. I moved Rilke from that rooftop
to the gantry of that water tower. Better angle on the street:
Mkoll nods his consent. ‘Where's Ven?’
A worship-horn calls in the distance. Heat haze is shimmering
everything that’s more than a street away.
Caober looks upwards, and jerks his head.
Mkoll walks to the end of the hall, and follows the dirty stair-
well up to the roof. Sixth storey. The heat on the open roof is like
a wall, the light intense. It’s like being on the wrong end of Bros-
tin and his flamer. There’s no sign of Mkvenner.
Mkoll circles the roof, and looks behind a pair of air-circ vents.
Just dust, and a heap of sun-frayed tarp. He’s about to key his
micro-bead when Ven is suddenly standing beside him.
‘Where were you?’ Mkoll asks, his voice low.
Mkvenner gestures to a part of the roof behind them that was
empty when Mkoll crossed it.
‘Anything?’ Mkoll asks.
Ven shakes his head.
‘Thoughts?’ Mkoll adds.
‘He’s not coming here, says Ven.
‘Why not?’
Ven shrugs.
‘I’m not taking a shrug to Gaunt; says Mkoll.
‘He’s just not!
‘The biggest target in the hemisphere is going to be entering
that compound in twelve minutes; says Mkoll. ‘He’s not going to
miss that:
Mkvenner squats. He puts his Mk III down, and slowly rubs his
hands together to wipe perspiration away as he thinks.
‘It's not what I'd do; he says.
‘Big target, says Mkoll.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 197

‘Balgrada will still be a big target tomorrow, and the day after;
replies Ven. ‘We've got this place tied up. He knows that’
‘We'll keep it tied up; says Mkoll.
‘This tight?’ asks Ven. ‘How long? A week? Two weeks? How long
before we slacken, deliberately or accidentally? He’s patient:
‘The longer he waits, the greater the chance we take him in a
sweep, says Mkoll. ‘He can’t afford to wait!
Ven shrugs again. ‘It’s not what I’d do, he repeats.
Mkoll’s eyes narrow.
‘Feth’s sake, Ven; he whispers. ‘Talk it out. What are you thinking?
What do you mean, “It’s not what I'd do”?’
Mkvenner looks up at Mkoll. There’s never been a way to read
his expression, or tell anything from his eyes.
‘We're both hunters, he says. ‘Have been long before we started
hunting men. What would you do?’
Mkoll hesitates. He thinks about it. He’s been trying not to think
about it since yesterday. Trying to work out a way of explaining an
instinct to Ibram Gaunt.
‘Well’ he says finally, ‘I wouldn’t go after Balgrada at all’
Ven keeps his eyes locked on Mkoll’s. He nods, once, very slowly.
‘They're not going to listen to that, Mkoll says. He’s about to go
on, but his ‘bead pips.
‘Mkoll?’
He crouches down.
‘Rilke. Sighted a local crossing Rote Street, turning west behind the
tannery towards Clavis.’
‘Eyes on him?’ Mkoll replies.
‘For now,’ the marksman crackles back. ‘He'll pass out of sight in
about twenty seconds. Looks normal.’
‘So?’
‘Five-five swept Rote Street two minutes ago, and they didn’t report
any contacts. I don’t know where he’s come from.’
198 DAN ABNETT

‘Stand by; says Mkoll. Mkvenner’s pulled out his chart. He traces
a line on it with his finger for Mkoll. Mkoll studies it for a second,
and works out the watch-point overlaps.
He adjusts his micro-bead. ‘Logris? Mkoll’
‘Go.’
‘Pedestrian, local, about to come into view for you. Moving west
on Syprus Lane:
‘Stand by, chief.’
They wait. The second marksman comes back on the link.
‘Logris. Nothing.’
‘Confirm that’
‘No contact, chief. Adjusting position to get a better look east.’
Another brief pause.
‘Nothing,’ Logris fizzles. ‘I have eyes on Syprus Lane behind the tan-
nery, and Clavis. No contact.’
‘Stand by; says Mkoll. He takes the chart from Mkvenner. ‘There's
no way off that lane, he says.
‘Except over the tannery wall, says Mkvenner.
Mkoll feels a pulse in his temple. The wall’s too high. He saw it
for himself this morning. And the contact would have had to know
it was a blind spot between sniper fields. Which means he knew
where the Ghosts were.
‘You were wrong, he says to Ven, tossing the chart back to him.
‘We both were’ He’s already moving.:
‘Alert signal?’ Mkvenner hisses after him, scooping up his weapon
to follow.
‘If we adjust the perimeter watch, he'll know we've made him;
says Mkoll. He starts climbing down the rusted fire ladder bolted
to the side of the tariff hall. ‘No signal. Just you and me?

The main hall of the Occupation Council Building is on the ground

floor. It’s large, generally empty. There’s an immense chrome aquila
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 199

suspended over the podium and stage, and servitors are adjusting
the set of the wall drapes. A Litus colours band is setting up. Brass
instruments parp and trill. There’s a smell of fresh caff from the
buffet in the room next door.
A small crowd is gathering. Six Administratum intendants of
senior grade, who are only here because the building is their station,
and about forty junior clerks, most of whom have been made to
wait in the corridor. Colonel Farek of the Litus comes up to Gaunt
the moment Gaunt enters.
They exchange salutes.
‘Surprised to see you here; says Gaunt. The Litus had escort duty
for the convoy, and Farek was supposed to meet Balgrada at the
landing field.
‘The governor's brought a detachment of Royal Sloka with him;
says Farek. ‘The heavy mob. So I sent my brigade chief to do the
handshake, and pulled back onto street patrol and overwatch’
‘That's useful’ says Gaunt. ‘More concentration where we need
it. Good. Royal Sloka?’
‘The Gallant Fifth, no less; says Farek. He looks uncomfortable
in his bulky, semi-plated dress uniform.
‘Balgrada pulls the right strings, says Gaunt.
‘I think it demonstrates his opinion of the local occupation forces,
says Farek. He laughs, but it’s got a grim note. ‘Are you well, sir?’
‘Entirely, says Gaunt. ‘Orman Ronus was a genuine loss:
‘Appreciate you saying so, replies Farek. ‘This place, eh?’ He
doesn’t mean the hall, or the building. He means Vincula, or
possibly the whole of Voltemand. ‘This isn’t war, he says. ‘Not
the kind the Litus were made for. Like trying to catch oil with
wet hands’
‘When I leave; says Gaunt, ‘if I ever get that luxury-’
Farek chuckles.
‘-my hand-off report will in no way reflect poorly on your
200 DAN ABNETT

regiment. I wanted you to hear that from me. This is a new kind of
war. Makes you yearn for the meat grinder’
‘I hear you, replies Farek.
‘Intelligence is supportive of my summary. They're taking steps
to revise security policy moving forward’
‘Will Balgrada listen?’ asks Farek.
‘It's his funeral if he doesn’t; says Gaunt.
‘Speaking of says Farek, ‘I’ve been to better attended wakes’ He
casts his eyes over the notably empty chamber. ‘I thought Adminis-
tratum attendance was mandatory.
‘Oh, it is/ says Gaunt. ‘But there are persistent vox issues. I’m
afraid the instructions may not have been received in all parts of
the city’
They look up. A Vulture gunship has just buzzed the west side
of the building. They hear its engine tone fading, then coming
back loud.
‘He's on his way in/ Farek remarks.
‘Convoy is three minutes out; says Gaunt.
He spots the boy waiting by the door.
‘If you'll excuse me; he says to Farek.
They step into the corridor, past the clerks filing in. Nearby, there's
the sound of outer blast shutters opening, shouts exchanging.
‘Anything?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Litus honour guard in position on the ramp, sir; says Milo. He’s
checking the data-slate, sliding data boxes aside deftly. Since the
regimental briefing first thing, he’s been wearing his security pass.
‘Street watch?’
‘No contacts reported, sir; says Milo. He’s been doing that too.
He started to add ‘sir’ to his responses. ‘Message from Captain
Daybell/ he says. ‘Reads “Orders issued as per instruction, advise
some transmit disruption, possible jamming.” Do you want to
reply, sir?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 201

Gaunt shakes his head. ‘

‘Message from Colonel Corbec, also; says Milo.
‘Sealed?’
‘No, open-general. He reports he is returning today from Voltis
City. Expected tomorrow morning. There’s a personal comment
in addition’
Gaunt takes the slate and reads for himself. The typical Corbec
flippancy makes him smile. He hands the slate back.
‘Right; he tells the boy. ‘Step back, no talking. I want you nearby,
but I’m going to be busy with the ceremony. Any contact from over-
watch, especially Mkoll, I want it in my ear, even if I’m shaking
Balgrada’s hand at the time’
Milo nods.
‘So I can hear you, please?’
‘Yes, sir’
Gaunt looks at him for a second. ‘Here; he says. He reaches to
his chest, above the tight bar of service medals. ‘I'll get you a side-
arm issued tomorrow. For now, this is all you're missing’
He’s unpinned the Tanith regimental badge. It’s polished chrome,
and all three blades still surround the skull.
‘That's yours, says Milo.
‘It’s the one off my dress coat. I have another. Balgrada’s not
going to notice it’s missing. He'll be too busy staring covetously at
my Balhaut campaign star’
He pins it on the boy’s tunic. He salutes.
The boy salutes back. ‘First and Only, says Milo.
‘Better late than never; says Gaunt. ‘Now, step back’
The hatches are screeching open and daylight is flooding into
the entranceway. The band strikes up, a sudden blast of the most
pompous march Gaunt’s ever had the displeasure of experiencing.
He strides into the main hall, and takes his place beside Farek.
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 7.

Rawne knocks on the door and enters when she calls. Eiwolt is
working at the little desk in the main room, and Rawne is pleased
to see that this hasn't required her to put on very many clothes.
‘Vox is still down, he says.
‘Is it?’ she asks. ‘Or is that just an excuse for you to stay here?’
‘Can't it be both?’ he asks. He’s brought two cups of hot caff.
‘Actually, intendant, I am affronted at your suggestion I’m not per-
forming my duties properly. Protecting you’
She smiles, takes a cup from him. It’s hot, even with the window
open. A breeze tugs at the dirty blind. Outside it’s even hotter. The
compound's baking in the hard sunlight.
‘There'll be proper food soon; he says. ‘The staff have got the
galley running. I'll go down and fetch some in a bit’
He looks out of the window. Far away, over the city centre, he
sees dots in the air. Aircraft, moving low. Too far away to make
a type, but gunships from their movement patterns. Something's

203
204 DAN ABNETT

happening. Probably the governor's arrival. He seems to remember

that was on the schedule.
‘This afternoon, I’m going to see if I can arrange some trans-
port; he says. ‘Get you up to the council building. Proper secure’
‘This was my posting; she says.
‘You need to go over all of this with Gaunt. All of it, and the stuff
you were saying about dialects. So you need to be there’
‘Where it’s safer?’
‘Where... Where you can get your job done, he says.
‘Look at this; she says. She slides a slate towards him. There's a
pict displayed.
‘Robby Ross, he says.
‘Just like the one on your shoulder’
‘Where’s this from?’ he asks.
‘Balhaut, she says. ‘A war banner in the Museum of Antiquity.
Twenty-nine hundred years old. A Magmetan clan symbol. The
Magmeta settled regions of Balhaut too’
‘Well, fancy; he says.
‘And this one; she says, flicking to another image.
‘Another snake biting its own arse:
‘I'm showing you that the symbol repeats. It’s very old. It’s
common to Magmeta culture-bases. Not just them, in fact. This
one’s about four thousand years old, from the feudal archives of
Manzipor. A war chief's emblem!
‘Where’s that?’
‘Manzipor? Far edge of the Khulan Sector, virtually Harkoss, actu-
ally. A very long way from here. I thought you might have heard of it!
‘Why?’
‘It's where your commanding officer grew up, she says.
‘Why would I care about that?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know, she says, with a shrug. ‘Perhaps it demonstrates
some old affinity? A shared legacy?’
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 205

‘Maybe; he says. ‘
‘I’m just saying, the image is very common, really’
‘Are you going to spend all morning looking at pictures?’ he asks.
‘I have a policy report to finish, don’t I?’
‘There are other things we could do; he says.

They run down Syprus Lane. The tannery wall is as high as Mkoll
remembers it. The top half is caught in fierce sunlight, the bottom
deep in shadow from the habs behind them. No one’s on the lane.
From beyond the tannery, loud martial music is playing out of
speakers on the council building, so loud it’s distorting.
They move along, fast. Mkoll feels his link tap.
‘Mkoll’
It's Logris. ‘Have you in sight,’ says Logris. ‘West end.’
‘No one’s come this way?’
‘Negative, chief.’
Mkoll looks at Mkvenner. They take the next side lane, moving
alongside the tannery. Music booms, the echo rolling between the
high buildings. He’s gone through. He’s gone through the tannery,
and onto Clavis Street. But no one’s picked him up there. How can
he appear and vanish? It’s not like the open country. There are no
woods, no sunken drover trails.
They’re in front of the tannery. The council compound is across
the street. The tannery, then a market house, then the mess hall
where they detained the Litus after the bomb attack.
Mkvenner looks at the council building.
‘He'll want to get in; he says.
‘How?’
It looks like a fortress. No cover, no woods, no sunken drover
trails...
‘Sewers, says Mkoll. ‘Drains’ The centre of the city is relatively
modern. It has sub-ground sanitation networks.
206 DAN ABNETT

‘The council building has its own system; says Mkvenner. ‘Dis-
crete. Not linked to city infrastructure. I checked’
‘But if an old sewer line or waste chute runs close; says Mkoll.
There’s no further debate. They kick open the gate of the tan-
nery and go in. They're both thinking like him now. Do the prep.
Know the ground. Check archive schematics to see where an old
or forgotten outfall runs close to a section of modern, Munitorum
substructure. Show the enemy you can go over impossible walls
and then go under them.
The tannery’s a huge ruin, standing derelict. Stone structure with
wood-boarded walls. Everything’s rust brown. Beams of sunlight
hang down into the main chamber from high window lights and the
holes in the ruined roof, as heavy as the dangling, corroded chains.
Nothing’s moving. The music's still echoing. They spread out,
weapons up, not even moving the dust. They move between roof-
support pillars and old wooden stretching racks. Insects glint and
tumble in the bars of sunlight. The place smells of old blood, a
tang of iron. A tannery will have drains, sluices. They circle, look-
ing for grates, looking for inspection plates, looking for run-off
channels to follow.
Looking for footprints in the dust, but Mkoll knows there won't
be any.

The band finishes, which seems merciful to everybody present. Balgrada

has stepped up to the podium and is beginning his address. It’s clear
he’s pissed off at the lack of an audience. Gaunt holds his place. The
governor starts to drone. He's going to go through with it anyway, as
if there were hundreds present. The Royal Slokan commandant in
charge of the governor's escort detail, who was briefly introduced as
Kurt Vacheri, is looking daggers at Gaunt, as though the whole thing
is a shambles and a disgrace, and Gaunt is entirely to blame.
Gaunt wonders how Corbec got along with these types up in
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 207

Voltis. He imagines there will be stories later. He tries to suppress

a smile.
He thinks of Corbec. Corbec’s informal message.
‘Where are you going?’ Farek whispers to him.
The governor reaches some magnificent, conclusive point, and
the enthusiastic but thin applause of the audience is lost in another
barrelling swirl of music from the band.
‘Gaunt?’
Gaunt’s pushing his way out. Balgrada’s stepping down from the
podium, shaking hands, greeting some staffers he knows.
Milo’s outside, in the hall.
‘Show me that again; says Gaunt. He takes the data-slate from
the boy, locates Corbec’s message. It is exactly as he remembers it.
To C.O. Tanith 1st; Corbec, Colonel. Leaving Voltis HQ now, with
packet orders. Expect arrival tomorrow before noon. Vincula still sucking
arse? Good thing we only have to hold the place. Imagine having to take
it. Imagine what the Ghosts would have done [ends]
Corbec’s often disrespectful. Informal, almost always. He’s starting
to talk to Gaunt like a comrade, a friend. By why say this? Corbec
would say it to Larkin, to Rawne, to any Tanith. But it was sent to
him. C.O. Tanith. Why take the time to make that point? Why the
repetition, ‘imagine... imagine’?
For emphasis. He’s saying something. Something specific.
Feth you, Corbec... What...
There’s a moment. Something connects. Gaunt sees himself
' standing in the warebarn at East Gate the day before. He hears
Sergeant Bray saying, ‘Mkoll means that’s what he’d do if he was
running an insurgency here:
‘I need a vox, he says to Milo. ‘I need a vox now:

Dust motes float in the beams of light. Mkoll pans around slowly.
He just got that feeling. Being watched. Just like the woods.
208 DAN ABNETT

He’s in here.
Mkoll turns. He sees Mkvenner. Ven signs him over. He’s found
a grate. Heavy iron, in the floor. Drain cover. There’s a slight scuff
mark in the dust on one side.
Mkoll nods. Ven puts up his rifle, and crouches to lift the cover.
Mkoll aims his weapon. Anything moves down there will get...
Mkvenner gets a grip. The grate’s heavy. Hard for one man to
lift. Their quarry had to work hard and fast, that’s why the scuff
marks in the-
But he leaves no mark. He hasn’t before. He moves like a phantom.
If he can move invisibly and pass through walls, why was he seen at
all? Unless he let himself be seen. By Logris, by Rilke. Let himself
be seen so they'd know where he was going. Leave a scuff mark in
the dust to really make it clear.
The grate starts to rise. Mkoll throws himself forward, and cannons
into Mkvenner, tackling him off the grate and sprawling them both
on the tannery floor. The grate slams down again like a cage closing.
But the K10’s pressure pad had armed the moment the grate was
first rested on it.

‘All channels, Tanith and Litus elements, now, Milo shouts as he

leads Gaunt into the vox-centre.
The vox-officers look at him.
‘Now!’ Milo orders. |
They start scrambling, selecting Militarum traffic channels.
‘What is it?’ Milo asks him.
Gaunt shakes his head. He had a gut feeling, and he ignored it.
He made logical decisions. Textbook. They've all been ignoring gut
feelings. The insurgents aren't after Balgrada.
‘Sir?’ says a vox-officer, holding out a speaker-horn for him. Gaunt
takes it.
‘This is command, register five seven five one. All security forces,
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 209

all mobiles. Step up protection on Administratum personnel. Effec-

tive now. Priority. Expect attack. Expect ambush attack on Militarum
targets. I repeat, full alert, maximum vigilance’
That's what the Ghosts would do. That's how he’d use them. You
don’t take a system like an Imperial occupation down by knocking
off the head. You cripple administrative infrastructure. The low-tier
targets weren't opportunist. The marauds weren't just getting what
they could get. Low tier. Advisors. Junior intendants. The cogs that
do the real work. The specialists who protect them. That’s how
you smash a system. That's how you mire a crusade for decades.
And they've focused their security on one building and one man.
Gaunt adjusts channels. ‘Mkoll? This is Gaunt. Mkoll! Break off
and report to me now. Priority:
He waits for a reply.
‘Repeat my first transmission, all channels, he tells the vox-officer.
Milo’s in the doorway. Sergeant Baffels has just come in. They're
talking, hushed, urgent.
‘What?’ says Gaunt.
‘Report of a device detonating’ says Milo. ‘The tannery across
the street?

White fire spears up from the floor drain. The blast is deafening. The
shockwave blows dust up in a circular wave around the drain, creaks
rafters, shivers hanging chains like the boughs of trees. Chips of stone
rain down, tiles from the roof, glass from already broken windows.
Then the grate itself, buckled, tossed like a celebratory cap high
into the air. It rebounds off a rafter, tumbling. Mkoll rolls, tries
to drag Mkvenner with him, but the grate catches Ven across the
shoulder and head as it lands.
Mkoll reaches for his rifle. The only thing that saved them was
the fact that the K10 was inside the drain. The chute funnelled the
detonation force upwards.
210 DAN ABNETT

He swings around, bringing his weapon up. Mkvenner is still

prone, crumpled under the bent grate.
He’s still here. He can’t have set the mine and got clear, not that
fast. He’s still here. He-
A shadow moves, Mkoll takes a kick that doubles him up, another
that spins his Mk III into the air. There’s no one there. Just empty air
between hanging, swaying chains; just shadows, just beams of light.
Dust moves. Mkoll takes another kick. Falling, he sees a blade
coming at him. Long, straight. He blocks, feels an arm, a limb.
Turns the blade aside. Something pivots, throws him sidelong. So
strong. Mkoll crashes through a curtain of rusted chains, lands,
rolls, rises. Keeps low, stance spread. He’s got his own knife. Straight
fething silver.
Nothing to see. He closes his eyes. There, a scent. Packing oil.
Anti-spark machine oil, from the device. Hard to get that smell off.
He lunges to his right. Hits something. Chains swing, flicking out
like braids. A shadow slants. Mkoll swings again. Solid contact. He
feels something, grips cloth, fine weave.
Stabs.
Something tears. Something hits him in the face with immense
force. He feels blood pouring down his cheek and jaw. He stum-
bles back. Turns. Turns again. Wild, frantic.
Shred of cloth in his hand. Synthetic, tough, fine weave. He casts
it aside, spins and stabs behind him. A kick finds him first, boots
him forward, onto his face. Air knocked out of him. A weight on
his back. |
A hand around the back of his neck, strong, grip tight enough
to twist and snap his spine.
A blade.
 16.

‘Device detonation, West Town residential; says Milo, reading off

the slate. ‘Device detonation, Mercy Road habs. Device detonation,
Vincard. Device detonation, Polaris Road’
‘Give me that/ says Gaunt. He looks at the list. All locations
assigned as billets for Administratum intendants, or as satellite
Administratum or Munitorum worksites. The list is growing.
Farek’s at the door of the vox-centre. Balgrada’s behind him, with
the Slokan commandant. Both are shouting.
‘Get them out of here, Gaunt barks at Farek. ‘Protection bunker’
Farek nods. Despite everything, it’s possible Farek is about to
enjoy following an order.
‘I need my section chiefs, Gaunt tells the vox-officers. ‘I need
Daybell on a link, and I need direct voice with my chief of recon’
They're trying. He can see they are. Three more items on the list.
Bisarti Market. Another detonation at Vincard. The comms relay
station on Ivinder Street. Signal displays start going blank. Chan-
nels are collapsing to dead air.

211
212 DAN ABNETT

They're good. They’re very good indeed. They’re specialists.

‘Where are you going, sir?’ Milo asks.
Gaunt doesn’t answer. He’s not going to get a response on the
vox. He’s heading for the door, drawing his chainsword.

Mkvenner uses the buckled grate as a weapon. It smashes the tall

figure off Mkoll’s back. The killer tumbles, comes up on his feet. Tall,
dressed in a torn blue bodyglove, full head-mask. Just a glimpse. Hard
to see. Camo-sleeving, active camo material with a slightly gleaming
sheen, like snakeskin. He comes at Mkvenner, blade first. Mkvenner
knows this is him. The one. This is the specialist, the priority target.
Mkoll wants him taken alive. Gaunt wants him taken alive. Mkven-
ner uses the heavy grate as a shield, blocks, catches the raking blade
in the grille of the grate, twists and rams at the same time.
Tears the blade out of a tight grip. Hears it clatter onto the floor.
Drives the killer back with the weight of the grate.
The killer meets the drive, grips the grate, shoves back. Slams
Mkvenner backwards into a roof post. Rust and dust shower down.
So strong, ridiculous-
Mkvenner lets go. If the killer wants the grate, he can have it. The
killer tosses the grate aside as though it was something feather-light,
like a wide-brimmed sun hat, turns back to finish his work-
Meets Mkvenner’s fist. Meets it again. Then for a third time, each
blow smashing into the masked face. He tries to punch back, meets
a forearm block, so throws himself forward, piling into Mkvenner.
They crash over, locked together, wrestling to get the superior grip.
The killer's impossibly strong. The idea of subduing him seems
laughable. The killer’s not fighting on those terms. He wants Mkven-
ner dead. It’s all Mkvenner can do to block the killer’s hands and
prevent them from snapping his neck. He can’t take him alive. The
only way of surviving this fight is to finish it with a kill.
Mkvenner tries to pin him. A weight crashes into both of them,
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 218

clawing. Mkoll’s back on his feet..He’s piled in beside Mkvenner,

trying to anchor the killer's neck and shoulders with his crooked arm.
‘Alive!’ Mkoll snarls. He’s applying full strength and bodyweight,
but somehow his fingers are being pulled back, his grip slowly
unpeeled, by the killer’s hand, a hand that seems to draw blood
from Mkoll’s flesh. He digs in an elbow, and shifts his weight until
he has the killer by the fabric of his form-fitting tunic instead.
Mkvenner rolls, manages a partial leg-press, and Mkoll pulls with
both hands and drags the killer’s tight camo tunic up around his
shoulders. He twists, gasping in effort, trying to pull the tunic fur-
ther, to use its tight, tough fabric to bind up the killer’s arms and
block his vision. Mkvenner pivots and tries to improve his leg-press.
He can see bare skin, knotted with muscle, sheened in sweat, the
killer's skin from waistband to shoulder blade. Mkoll yanks harder.
If he can pin the arms with the tight top, Mkvenner can free a hand
to drive in a solid throat-punch.
The killer rotates under Mkvenner somehow. It’s hard to under-
stand how. Mkvenner loses what little balance and purchase he
had. The killer suddenly straightens his arms, so Mkoll’s pull meets
no resistance and the tunic yanks free. Mkoll flops backwards, lev-
erage lost, gripping the discarded tunic. The killer stamps a kick
that throws Mkvenner backwards.
Mkoll rolls and rises. He’s twisting the tunic in his hands to form
a cord or a lash, but the killer catches him in the ribs. Mkoll stum-
bles, and the killer hammers him with a spin kick. Mkoll flails into
hanging chains, tries to remain upright, then sprawls as another
kick connects. He blacks out.
Mkvenner’s on his feet, rushing the killer before he can finish
Mkoll. The killer turns. Hood still on, one eye-lens cracked, but
stripped to the waist. Blood leaks out from under his hood and
trickles down his bare neck.
Mkvenner sees the ink.
214 DAN ABNETT

The spirals and the bars. The sunburst. A skull. A star with eight
points. The snake, coiled, but turning to strike.
Old, old marks.
The killer dances aside, one hand open, the other clenched to strike.
‘Serpenti, says Mkvenner.

Rawne’s scored two ration packs and some bottled water from the
ground-floor commissary, but he leaves them on the counter, for-
gotten, when the alarms start to sound.
‘What's going on?’ he asks one of the Litus officers. Someone’s
shouting. Litus reserve squads are rushing out to the compound
and the main gate.
‘Attacks in the city; the Litus officer says.
‘What sort of attacks?’ Rawne demands.
‘It’s hard to know. Vox is still mangled’
Rawne runs to the windows, peers through the dirt and reinforcing
blast-wire. He can see fresh smoke in the distance, rising from mul-
tiple points on the city skyline. A second wave.
‘This place have bunkers?’ he yells over his shoulder.
‘Yes, sir. Sub-basement level’
Rawne turns. ‘Let's get key personnel down there and secure; he says.
‘Key personnel?’ the officer asks, as if he’s stupid.
‘Administratum intendants. Occupation staff. Round them up’
‘Nothing will get in here; the man says. ‘Memnon House is locked
tight. The gates and wall-watch—-’
‘Just fething do it!’ Rawne spits. He pushes past the man, and
starts running towards the stairs. Eiwolt’s in her quarters. He left
her to shower and dress while he fetched food. Behind him, the
officer starts shouting orders, telling troopers to find all Adminis-
tratum staff and escort them to the bunkers.
Rawne takes the stairs two at a time.
* *
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 215

The killer falters for a split second, as though the word Mkvenner
has spoken has surprised him. It has surprised Ven too. He said
it involuntarily. It just came out, like an old part of him woke up
and uttered something he never thought could be uttered again.
But it’s only a moment. Not even a split second. The killer lunges
with an open-hand strike, twisting the balance of his upper body
to drive palm first. It’s a clever move. It telegraphs its coming from
the right, but it comes from the left hand instead. Mkvenner hasn't
seen it executed in a long time, but he reads it, and meets it with
a forearm block.
Even blocked, it wounds him. It jars the bones of his forearm and
elbow, rips the sleeve of his uniform and tears the skin beneath,
just an open palm but lashing like woodthorns. Mkvenner dodges
the follow-up, and smacks a side-kick into ribs. As the killer twists
away, Mkvenner tries to press into the opening guard by sweeping
the legs as he drives a fist into the sternum.
But the killer rotates on one leg, and the heel of his scything kick
catches Mkvenner in the side of the head and hurls him backwards
into a ceiling post. He slides down, tries to rise, sags again. Not
enough time. The killer’s got him, a dagger-punch coming at his neck.
A shot booms out. The echo seems to vibrate the whole of the
tannery. A mass-reactive round misses the killer by less than the
length of an adult's index finger, and detonates against the ceiling
post.
Flames and debris shower from the impact. The killer dives aside.
A second shell howls past and explodes the wooden frame of a
stretching rack.
Gaunt is advancing through the main doors of the tannery, bolt
pistol raised, aimed with a straight arm. Two squads of Ghosts
are following him, weapons up. He is striding, relentless, swift,
but contained enough to keep his aim as steady as possible as he
moves. He fires again.
216 DAN ABNETT

The killer takes off. He breaks and bolts so fast, Mkvenner can’t
grab him. It’s the reaction of an animal: the startled blur of a lari-
sel in the deep nalwoods darting into leaves, the snap-break of a
vulpa flushed from a thicket by hunters. Head down, inhumanly
fast. He dodges around stretching racks, behind posts. Hanging
chains swing and chink in his wake.
He reaches the back wall of the tannery, in shadow, grabs a heavy
hoist chain, and goes up as if it was a climbing rope, hands and feet
in the heavy links as though they were rungs. Gaunt, still advan-
cing, fires again, and the Ghosts open fire too, spreading out as
they enter the tannery.
Shots hit the back wall. The killer's trying to reach the window
lights at the very top, but they’re twenty metres up. Impacts blow
out the wooden wall around him, letting hard sunlight spear
through in pencil-thin beams. A bolter round takes out the hoist
chain in a spray of sparks.
The chain falls, heavy, slack. The killer doesn’t. He’s somehow
on the wall, hands and feet finding grips on the old, blackened
wood where none should be possible. He’s still climbing, scaling
an impossible vertical surface.
Gaunt stops walking, and braces to improve his aim. The bolt pistol
roars. Mass-reactives blow huge holes in the wall, sunlight glaring
in, but he can't fix his target. Lasrifles crack and snap, stippling the
wall, peppering small holes around the massive, smoking gaps his
bolt pistol is making. The killer evades, still climbing. Gaunt corrects.
His pistol is a fine weapon, more than accurate enough, despite the
distance. His Ghosts are trained men with Mk IIIs. The killer should
have been dead and falling off that wall a dozen times already.
He isn't. He smashes out a window light and vanishes into the glare.
Outside, Tanith watch units open fire. Overwatch from half a
dozen neighbouring buildings fire on the back of the tannery,
chasing the target emerging into the daylight.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 217

Above the rattle of standard weapons, Gaunt hears the distinctive

boom of five different Tanith marksmen as their waiting long-las
rifles open up.

Rawne enters her quarters. There’s no sign of her. Her carry-bag

is on the desk, with the data-slates stacked beside it. There’s no
one in the bedroom. A hot breeze stirs through the open window.
‘Inge?’
The washroom door opens, and he turns, rifle raised. Eiwolt looks
at him in horror. Her hair’s wet. She’s pulling on her top.
Rawne lowers his rifle.
‘I was getting washed, she says.
‘Grab your things, he says.
‘What's going on?’
‘Grab your things. Get your boots on. I’m taking you to the bunker’
She looks at him, concerned.
‘There's another wave of attacks; he says. ‘Insurgents. I want you
secure, down in the house bunker:
She nods. She goes into the bedroom, grabs her boots, and sits
on the bed to pull them on. Rawne goes to the window, peers out.
In the bright haze, he can see columns of smoke staining the sky.
Mass attack, multiple strikes across the city.
He senses movement, and looks down. Straight down. Ten floors
down to the yard. He sees a figure on the wall, three storeys off the
ground. It’s just a shape, hard to properly resolve, but it’s on the
wall, on a sheer surface that shouldn't be scalable.
‘The feth...’ he murmurs. He drags his rifle up over the sill, trying
to get an angle down. The figure, just a smudge, some kind of camo,
looks up and then jumps, clearing the last two floors. It lands in the
yard and almost immediately vanishes against the dusty hardpan.
In the bedroom, Eiwolt hears Rawne curse. She stands up, one
boot on, the other in her hands.
218 DAN ABNETT

‘Eli? What is it?’ she asks. But her weight, which armed the pres-
sure plate when she sat down, has been removed.
The K10 under the bed goes off.
 19.

By nightfall, there’s no body. No body the next day, either, despite

scout searches of the roofs and alleyways around the tannery. The
Litus B.R.U. even bring out cadaver dogs.
No body, no nothing, despite Larkin, Rilke, Logris and three
others with marksman lanyards reporting clean shots at a moving
but visible target on the tannery’s back roof. No body, no nothing,
except a long, straight combat knife recovered from the tannery - a
decent but cheap warknife that could come from any world in the
spinward Sabbats including Voltemand - and a shred of camo-cloth
that turns out to be standard Militarum weave.
Gaunt sits in his quarters at the manse, preparing his report for
the governor. A full revision of security strategy, an overview of
countermeasures, a focus on close protection for Administratum
personnel, even the minor grades.
There’s a knock at the door. At a nod from Gaunt, the boy answers
it. It's Corbec.

219
220 DAN ABNETT

‘I was expecting you this morning, Gaunt says.

‘Hold-ups,; says Corbec. ‘Fog’
‘You got lost?’ asks Gaunt.
‘We didn’t get lost; says Corbec. ‘All the other idiots did. Road
traffic backed up for hours’ He hands an order packet to Gaunt. ‘I
hear it’s been busy, he says.
Gaunt nods.
‘Not in a good way, Corbec adds.
Gaunt looks at him. ‘Not at all in a good way, he says. He tears
open the packet.
‘You got my message?’ Corbec asks.
‘Yes, I did’
‘Useful?’
‘Insightful and useful. But belated. You saw the right way to look
at the situation before I did. Why is that?’
‘Because I’m not an idiot?’ Corbec ventures.
‘I know that part, says Gaunt.
‘I was briefed by Hadrak; says Corbec. “There’s some stuff to go
over, just you and me’ He glances at Milo, waiting nearby.
‘I can step out, sir, says Milo.
Corbec looks him up and down. ‘You the adj now or some-
thing?’ he asks.
Milo nods.
‘Makes sense, says Corbec. ‘You all checked out with clearance
codes and whatnot?’
‘Yes, sir:
‘Well, says Corbec. ‘Get yourself to stores and get a fresh under-
shirt. That one’s got holes in it. Actually, get yourself breeches and
a jacket too, and sew a patch on the arm, standard trooper emblem.
You're technically a lasman now, lad?
Gaunt rises, studying the unfolded order dockets.
‘Routing orders, he says. ‘Direct from Hadrak. We're relieved
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 221

here. Instructed to prep for orbital lift, five days’ time. We're being
deployed! :
‘Front line?’ asks Corbec.
‘Yes; says Gaunt.
‘Where?’
‘Doesn't say, but Caligula would be my guess’
‘You don’t look so pleased; says Corbec. ‘Thought you hated it
here. Thought you disliked this occupation duty with a passion’
‘I do; said Gaunt. ‘But we're not done. There’s still... Imean, the situ-
ation is still bad. The marauds are still active. I wanted a little longer
so I could implement some proper changes to the security plan’
‘Well, it’s some other fether’s problem now, says Corbec. ‘You're
a funny bugger, sir, if you'll allow me to speak out of turn and all
that... First you want to go, then you want to stay:
‘I like to finish a job; says Gaunt. ‘An assigned duty:
‘Some duties don't ever end, says Corbec.

The air stinks of counterseptic wash. Aid teams are still ferrying
casualties in from the various insurgent attacks. There’s bloodied
wadding heaped on the floor of the corridor, and piles of clothes
that have been cut off bodies.
Fastening his smock, Dorden pushes the glass door open with
his elbow.
‘Where will I be useful?’ he asks.
Lesp looks up from the laceration he’s suturing. His patient is
a local man, dull-eyed with shock, gazing at nothing as he allows
the Tanith corpsman to work. His laced tunic and crumpled sun
hat lie on the consulting bench beside him.
‘One of ours waiting, Doc, says Lesp, nodding to the back room.
Dorden heads through, passing Chayker, Foskin and some Litus
corpsmen tending to walking wounded. Some burns. Shrapnel splin-
ters mostly.
222 DAN ABNETT

‘Good to have you back with us, says Chayker.

In the back room, Dorden examines Mkvenner’s forearm. It’s not
the scout’s only injury, but it’s the worst.
‘Why didn’t you get this looked at yesterday?’ Dorden asks, as
he washes the wound.
‘There were more urgent cases, replies Ven.
‘This isn’t clotting’ says Dorden.
‘I know. That's why I came back. Otherwise, I'd have bound it
up myself?
‘I hear you and Mkoll got knocked about’
Mkvenner nods.
‘A maraud?’
He nods again.
‘Feth, what did this?’ asks Dorden. ‘The bruising is impact, but
the cuts? Looks like you were thrashed with thorns’
‘Blocking a blow, says Mkvenner.
‘From what?’
‘His hand’
‘His hand did this?’
Mkvenner doesn't make eye contact. ‘Yes, he says. ‘Like his palm
was hardened. Or scaled’
‘Glove?’
‘No!
‘You reported this?’ Dorden asks.
‘Everything we saw, says Mkvenner. ‘Which wasn’t much. He had
active camo. A bodyglove’ :
Dorden starts spraying counterseptic, then wound sealant. He
preps a dressing.
‘Did he have marks?’
‘Marks?’
‘This maraud, says Dorden. ‘Did he have any ink?’
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 228

Now Mkvenner looks at him. An odd look.

‘Yes; he says. “Tribal icons. Archonate tribal. I put it in my report’
Dorden applies the dressing and binds it tight.
‘All right. Come back and see me tomorrow and I'll change the
dressing’
Mkvenner gets up off the exam bed. He pulls the sleeve of his
undershirt back down to cover the dressing, and leans over to gather
his uniform jacket from the floor.
As the scout bends, Dorden sees him reflected in the wall mirror
behind him. He sees the hem of the vest ride up and, just for
a moment, glimpses the tattoo in the small of Mkvenner’s back.
Small, old and faded, right at the base of the spine.
He can't be sure, but it looks like a coiled snake, head extended
to strike.
‘Something the matter?’ Mkvenner asks.
‘No; says Dorden.

‘You can go, says Commandant Vacheri. The Royal Slokan contin-
ues to study his data-slate and then looks up, raising an eyebrow
to suggest mystification that there’s anyone still in the room.
‘You've read my recommendations?’ asks Gaunt.
‘Yes, yes. They're here somewhere’ Vacheri sits back and motions
vaguely at the files and slates on his desk.
‘I strongly suggest—’ Gaunt says.
‘I strongly suggest, sir, says Vacheri, ‘that you get on with your
business and leave me to mine. You have routing and embarka-
tion orders. Vincula is no longer your purview. Or yours, colonel:
He looks at Farek, standing beside Gaunt.
‘The Litus are commencing withdrawal, says Farek. ‘Handover
in two days’
‘Good, says Vacheri, rising to his feet. He’s wearing his dress
224 DAN ABNETT

uniform, the ornate garb of the ‘Gallant’ Fifth. ‘My regiment is

taking over here. I am responsible for province security and peace-
keeping. At the governor's direct request:
The last part is unnecessary, but he says it anyway, with relish.
‘Look, Kurt; says Farek. ‘I urge you to pay close heed to Ibram’s
recommendations. His insight into insurgent activities is crucial.
They ran rings around us-’
‘They made you look like fools, says Vacheri. ‘How many dead
is it now? How many has the Militarum lost? The Administratum?’
‘And the people of Vincula?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Come on, Kurt; says Farek.
‘The Fifth has it covered, colonel; says Vacheri. He’s making a
point not to use first names. ‘I have it covered’
‘I don’t think you know what you're walking into; says Gaunt.
‘The threat is still live. You're going to make the same mistakes
we did’
‘I don’t think so; says Vacheri, with a sniff of disdain.
‘My recommendations illustrate the two-tier structure of the insur-
gent network, says Gaunt, ‘the tactics of their specialists, and their
target prioritisation. My report is supported by Captain Daybell
of Mil-Int-’
‘Mil-Int’s operation in this province is under review, says Vacheri.
‘Too many mistakes. I don’t want them underfoot, frankly. Their
intel is discredited. I know how to hold a city. I know how to keep
a population in line’ |
‘Are you pursuing their munition sources?’ asks Gaunt. ‘They are
lifting equipment, including mines and jamming systems, from
Munitorum depots in other provinces. To do that, they may have
people on the inside. You don’t just walk into a Guard depot-’
‘I think that’s all for now; says Vacheri. ‘May the Emperor protect
you, out on the front line, gentlemen. Duty calls you!
‘I want to speak to Balgrada/ says Gaunt.
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 225

‘He is busy, smiles Vacheri. ‘So much to do, taking over a sham-
bles like this. The Pax Imperialis must be enforced’
‘You're not really listening, are you?’ says Rawne. He’s standing
behind Gaunt and Farek, his arms folded. Gaunt’s never seen him
with such a bleak expression, not even after Tanith, and it’s not just
the pain in his lower back.
‘Are you addressing me?’ Vacheri says.
‘You need to look at the tribal affiliations/ says Rawne. “The cul-
tural connections. You need translators fluent in Archonate Gaurin
and Archonate Aezyri. You need to run interviews — not interro-
gations - in the community here. There are people who know
things, people who are too scared to speak out. There are family
and clan connections that go beyond provincial or global borders.
Tribes inside tribes. You-’
‘Oh, I've seen the initial xeno-ethnological report; says Vacheri
carelessly. ‘It's not really applicable. No practical use. Just fatuous,
book-learning nonsense’
Rawne takes a step forward. Gaunt puts a hand on his arm to
stay him.
‘Besides, says Vacheri, ‘the intendant responsible for that line
of research isn’t in a position to support it. The Administratum
has put in a request for a replacement, and we're expecting one to
arrive in six weeks:
‘You can read her fething report, says Rawne.
‘I've read it’
‘You've seen it. You can read it properly. You can do your feth-
ing job now she’s done the hard part for you’
Vacheri’s cheeks flush. He looks at Gaunt.
‘I won't have your man speak to me like that, Gaunt, he says.
‘Chastise him. I don’t even know why he’s here. He’s a unit leader.
A lasman‘
‘I've listened to him; says Gaunt. ‘He was able to observe things
228 DAN ABNETT

during the Low Quarter attack. Observe them close hand. He has
valuable intel, Vacheri. I recommend you listen to him’
‘I won't listen to anybody who addresses me with such flagrant
disrespect’
‘Then over the next few weeks, you’d better watch where you
sit; says Rawne.
‘Steady, warns Farek.
‘Checked under your chair today?’ Rawne asks Vacheri, almost
spitting the words. ‘I'd get in the habit. Those K10s are easy to con-
ceal. Pressure trigger under your comfy fething cushions’
‘No maraud will get the better of me, snaps Vacheri.
‘Who said anything about marauds?’ asks Rawne. Farek turns, con-
cern in his eyes, and puts his palm firmly against Rawne’s shoulder
to stop him shoving forwards.
‘That's insolence,; says Vacheri. ‘Gaunt? Chastise your man now,
or I'll have him up on a charge’
‘You shouldn't speak to Commandant Vacheri like that/ Gaunt
says to Rawne.
Rawne glares at him.
‘He's clearly too stupid to understand you, Gaunt says.

Outside, Royal Slokans are unloading equipment crates from their

transports. The heat of the day throbs with engines, with voices,
with the distant threnody of the city’s worship-horns.
Gaunt speaks to Farek for a minute or two, then shakes his hand
and walks over to where Rawne is standing. Rawne’s in the shade,
leaning on the door post of one of the workshops. Power-drivers
whiz and whir behind him. He’s lit a smoke.
‘Have I got to apologise?’ he asks.
‘Not to me, says Gaunt.
‘Good’
‘Have I got to apologise?’ Gaunt asks him.
 THE VINGULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 227

Rawne looks at him in surprise, ‘For what?’

‘I know you have a list, major, says Gaunt. ‘Like so many of
the Ghosts. We're about to go to war. Front line. We have to work
together. So I'm trying to find an accommodation with you’
‘I wouldn't know where to start’ says Rawne.
Gaunt shrugs, and looks away at the Slokans manhandling crates
out of payload bays.
‘I don't have to like you to do my job/ says Rawne quietly. ‘Sir:
‘That's true, says Gaunt. ‘You liked her, though’
Rawne says nothing.
‘You listened to her; says Gaunt. ‘Heard out what she had to
say. Realised it was important. She was better looking than me, of
course’ He looks at Rawne. ‘I’m sorry, he says.
‘What about?’
‘That Eiwolt died. That you couldn't prevent it. That Tanith was
lost. Take your pick’
Rawne takes a drag on his smoke.
‘You grew up on Manzipor?’ he asks.
‘Yes; says Gaunt. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Someone told me:
‘Why do you ask?’
Rawne shrugs.
‘Officer briefing in three hours; says Gaunt. “Try not to be late’
He walks away across the yard. Rawne watches him go, then he
wanders to a stack of ammo boxes and sits. He takes the data-slate
out of his pocket.
The screen is cracked. He handed all her possessions to the
Administratum clerks, all her work and files. All except this. He
opens the image archive, and goes through the picts, one by
one, the bars and spirals, the blocks and lines, the circles and
the snakes.
228 DAN ABNETT

Milo sees Gaunt from across the yard, heading for the manse. He
knows he’s got a few minutes before he’s needed. He’s carrying the
fresh kit Colonel Corbec told him to pull from stores.
He ducks into the main building, showing his code tag to the
door guards. He finds the washrooms beside the basement billets,
enough space to get changed.
He strips off his threadbare, dirty kit, and pulls the new kit out
of its paper cover. He’ll have to sew the patches on later, standard
trooper patches — the three dagger bars inside a stylised Robby
Ross — just like Corbec told him. He unfastens the gleaming Tanith
crest from his old jacket. He mustn't lose that. With a little effort,
he snaps the side daggers off it, the way the other men in the regi-
ment do. One warknife, for the Tanith First, the Tanith Only. Lose
the two that represented the regiments lost.
He sees how dirty his hands are. Dust, soot, boot-black from
shining the colonel-commissar’s boots. He needs a wash before
he puts on the new kit. He’s not an orphan boy any more. But
before he does, he grinds the pads of his dirty thumbs over the
crest, drabbing it down, removing the buff and the gleam so it
won't catch the light. Ghosts need to be invisible, and he’s been
good at that up to now.
He runs water into the metal sink, and washes his face, neck,
arms, hands and chest. The water's cold, and the building’s fierce
air-circ raises gooseflesh on his arms..
He looks at his reflection in the washroom’s foxed mirror. A
skinny, pale boy, not a man yet, but on the way. His black hair is
as shaggy as Corbec’s. He looks at the tattoos on his white flesh.
The blue fish over his eye: that’s for Tanith Longshore, where his
family came from, a baptismal ink he got when he was eight. The
Robby Ross on his left shoulder that he got the week before Found-
ing. The concentric circles of Tanith Magna on his ribs to show the
place he lived.
 THE VINCULA INSURGENCY: GHOST DOSSIER 1 229

And the oldest one, the smallest, the one he was given first. He
doesn’t remember when or why exactly, because it happened when
he was very young, too young to recall it properly. It’s an open
serpent, head striking outwards, the body coiled in a ring on his
breastbone.
He pulls on the black uniform, and pins the crest to his jacket.
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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dan Abnett has written over fifty novels, including

Anarch, the latest instalment in the acclaimed Gaunt'’s
Ghosts series. He has also written the Ravenor,
Eisenhorn and Bequin books, the most recent of which
is Penitent. For the Horus Heresy, he is the author of
the Siege of Terra novel Saturnine, as well as Horus
Rising, Legion, The Unremembered Empire, Know No Fear
and Prospero Burns, the last two of which were both
New York Times bestsellers. He also scripted Macragge’s
Honour, the first Horus Heresy graphic novel, as well
as numerous Black Library audio dramas. Many of
his short stories have been collected into the volume
Lord of the Dark Millennium. He lives and works in
Maidstone, Kent.
 Ht
YOUR
NEXT READ
WARHAMMER

THE FOUNDING
A GAUNT’S GHOSTS OMNIBUS

THE FOUNDING
by Dan Abnett
The opening trilogy of the Gaunt’s Ghosts saga returns! From the destruction
of their world to their deadliest battle in the shattered hives of Verghast,
this is the first act in the long-running fan favourite series.

For these stories and more, go to blacklibrary.com, games-workshop.com,

Games Workshop and Warhammer stores, all good book stores or visit one of the thousands of
independent retailers worldwide, which can be found at games-workshop.com/storefinder
 An extract from
The Founding
by Dan Abnett

They were walking by lamplight, finding their way by the criss-

crossing beams of their lamp packs. They were deep underground,
so of course it was going to be dark.
Except it seemed unnecessarily, extravagantly dark. Lightless. As
though some kind of anti-light, an un-light, had been poured into
the gloom to thicken it.
Every few seconds, and to no particular rhythm, the earth shook.
Ibram Gaunt could feel it through his boots. He swapped his
lamp pack to his right hand, and placed his left palm against the
tunnel wall. He felt the rough surface transmit the vibrations. At
every subterranean quiver, dirt trickled down from the ceiling, or
spilled from loose sections of the old, decaying arches.
The men in the advance squad could feel the shaking too, and
it was putting them on edge. Gaunt could tell that by the way the
beams of their lamps jerked and shifted at every tremble. Gaunt
knew someone should say something. That someone was him, a
part of his duty.
‘Shelling’ he said. ‘The Warmaster has focused the artillery divi-
sions on Sangrel Hive. It’s just shelling’
 ‘Feels like the world’s moving’ muttered one of the troopers.
Gaunt tilted his lamp to find the man’s face. Picked out starkly
by the lamp’s beam, Trooper Gebbs shielded his eyes at the glare.
‘It’s just shelling’ Gaunt assured him. ‘Concussion from the
shelling’
Gebbs shrugged.
The ground shook. Pebbles skittered.
‘Why are we here?’ asked another man. Gaunt’s lamp beam
moved to identify Trooper Ari Danks.
‘You getting all philosophical now, Ari?’ Gebbs asked with a
chuckle made throaty by the dust in the air.
‘I just wondered what the Throne we were supposed to be
doing?’ Danks replied. ‘There’s nothing out here. Just these end-
less, pitch-black bloody ruins...’
‘So you'd rather be hacking your way through Charismites in the
hive-stacks, would you?’ asked Trooper Hiskol.
‘At least it wouldn’t be as black as up my-’
‘Enough, said Gaunt. He didn’t have to raise his voice, and the
troopers didn't have to turn their beams to see his face and read
its expression. They ceased their chatter. Some of them had served
long enough to remember when Gaunt had just been ‘the Boy’,
Oktar’s cadet, but none of them were about to forget what that
young cadet had become. Gaunt was the commissar. He was
discipline.
The ground shook again. Gaunt heard a little river of grit spill
down the curve of the tunnel wall. He had to admit that Trooper
Danks had a point. What were they doing here?
Gaunt understood the mission parameters clearly enough, and
frankly, given the intensity of the hive-war, this advance detail was
a blessed relief.
Even so, he'd calculated the journey time that morning, over-
estimating to allow for detours where the maps didn’t match the
navigable reality of the undersink, and they should have reached
their destination two hours ago. ;
Gaunt told the men to wait, and used his lamp to pick his way
along the unlit tunnel. The officer in charge of the detail was
standing at the next bend, checking his charts.
Major Czytel glanced up at the lamplight bobbing towards him.
‘That you, Gaunt?’
‘Yes, sir’
‘We may have taken a wrong turn back there, Gaunt; Czytel said.
‘At that junction where the tunnel split’
He turned and twitched his beam back the way they had come,
partly as an indicator, partly to pick out Gaunt'’s face.
Gaunt nodded. He’d presumed as much. Galen Czytel was old
school, and most definitely remembered the time when Gaunt
had merely been ‘the Boy’. Unlike the rank and file, he had never
really got over the idea that Ibram Gaunt was an over-educated,
over-privileged scholam boy with too much book-learning and not
enough actual soldiering. Czytel liked what he called ‘honest men’.
He seemed to be allergic to anybody who had an air of the officer
class or entitlement. Czytel had ‘dragged himself up through the
Hyrkan ranks. He'd freely tell you that, possibly several times in
the course of one regimental dinner.
In fact, when Gaunt received his full promotion at Oktar’s deathbed
on Gylatus Decimus, Czytel had been one of a group of officers who
had formally requested that Gaunt be transferred out of the Hyrkan
Eighth to another unit. They felt that it would ‘undermine morale’
because the men ‘would not take seriously the authority of an indi-
vidual who had previously been the regiment’s mascot’
General Caernavar had thrown the request out quickly. Ironic
then, it was officers like Czytel, and not the regular troops, who
had found such difficulty in accommodating Gaunt’s maturity.
Gaunt, for his part, had learned that it was best not to correct
Czytel unless absolutely necessary. An officer’s mistake could be
carefully smoothed over by a diligent commissar. An open argument
between an officer and a commissar had potentially devastating
effects on discipline.
‘We'll go back, Gaunt said. ‘It’s not far. Or we could go on to the
next intersection, and move east:
‘The next intersection?’ asked Czytel.
In the lamplight, Gaunt could see that Czytel was looking at
him with a sort of sneer. ‘You haven't got your chart out. You just
remember that, do you?’
‘I reviewed the route this morning; Gaunt replied. ‘I don’t have
my chart out because-’
He stopped. He had been about to say ‘because you, as officer
in charge, were leading the route’.
‘I will double-check; Gaunt said. ‘I could be wrong’ He reached
for the data-slate pouch attached to his webbing, but Czytel just
handed over his own slate. It looked like impatience, that Czytel
didn’t want to wait while Gaunt produced his data-slate and woke
it up. But it was actually a small concession, one which allowed
for the idea that Czytel might have made a navigational error. The
major wanted to keep the peace too.
Gaunt reviewed the screen.
‘Yes, you see, sir? The next intersection seems to allow access to
this sinkway here. That should lead us directly to the shrine’
‘If it is a shrine; said Czytel. |
Which is the point of us being here, Gaunt thought, but did not
say it. He just nodded.
Czytek turned the squad.
‘Pick it up! Let’s go!’ he called into the darkness.

The Crusade had finally begun.

The Crusade.
 The top brass had been talking about it for years, and received
wisdom was that the region known as the Sabbat Worlds was past
saving. It was a vast territory at the rimward edge of the Segmen-
tum Pacificus, a major Imperial holding that had, in the course of
two bloody centuries been overrun by the marauding armies of the
Sanguinary Worlds. Some worlds had fallen to the Eternal Arch-
enemy. Others, like Formal Prime, had struggled on, surrounded
by the barbarous foe, fighting to maintain their Imperial identi-
ties. The Sabbat Worlds deserved the protection of the Throne,
their seneschals and governors pleaded for it, but liberation was a
monumental task. Few thought that High Command would ever
sanction the massive expenditure that a crusade war would require.
Until Slaydo. Lord Militant Slaydo was a persuasive beast, and
with the victories of the Khulan Wars on his honour roll, he had
been declared Warmaster and allowed to prosecute the Sabbat
Worlds Crusade.
It was the biggest Imperial mobilisation in the segmentum for
three centuries. The Departmento Tacticae Imperialis estimated it
would take a century to successfully complete the campaign.
Ibram Gaunt had no real interest in looking that far ahead. The
fighting to retake Formal Prime’s ancient and crumbling hives had
been some of the most brutal and intense he’d experienced, and
his career with the Hyrkans had not been lacking in bloodshed.
Eight years since he’d joined the Imperial Guard as a Commissa-
riat cadet, and he’d seen plenty of action, but nothing like this.
BLACK LIBRARY
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 brave soldiers of the Astra Militarum. In the ruined
border town of Vincula, the newly formed Ghosts
é of Tanith, along with their commander Ibram
Gaunt, find themselves in a thankless police action,
trying to establish a permanent peace. But what
_ exactly is stalking them through the shadowed
_ streets, and what dark secrets will the untested,
_ new-founded Ghosts learn about themselves?

_ The Vincula Insurgency is an intense new combat

* thriller of the Ghosts’ early days, pulled directly
_ from the ultra-classified Ghost Dossier. —

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

ISBN: 978-1-8002b-135-4
UK £12.99 EU €15.95 US $19.00 oe ™

CAN $21.00 AUS $27.00

SCIENCE FICTION
Printed in China
1800'261358 blacklibrary.com
9°78 WARHAMMER
Product Code: 60040181815