Dan Abnett - Necropolis

the first inherited world

Level Sub-40 was almost a kilometre underground, deep in the foundation structure of the Main Spine. An armoured lift cage with grilled sides transported Gaunt down the last three hundred metres, lowering him into an underworld of dark, damp stone, stale air and caged sodium lamps.

He entered an underground concourse where ground water dripped from the pipework roof onto the concrete floor and rusting chains dangled over piles of mildewed refuse. Along one side was a row of wooden posts with shackle-loops at wrist height. The wall behind the posts was stippled with bullet pocks and darkly stained.

Gaunt approached an adamantine shutter marked with yellow chevrons. Rockcrete bunkers stood on either side of the shutter, blank except for letterbox slits set high up.

As he moved forward, automatic spotlights mounted above the hatch snapped on and bathed him with blue-white light.

Identify! a voice crackled out of a vox-relay.

Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt, Gaunt replied curtly, reeling off his serial number afterwards.

Your business?

lust open the shutter.

There was a brief pause, then the great metal hatch screeched open. Gaunt stepped through and found himself facing a second shutter. The one behind him slammed shut before the inner one would open.

Inside the stockade, a caged walkway led down into a dispatch area with an open-sided shower stall and low tables for searching through personal effects. The sodium lamps gave the foetid, recirculated air a frosty hue.

Guards moved out of side bunkers to meet him. They were all VPHC troopers dressed in black shirts, black, peaked caps, graphite-grey breeches and black boots. Each one wore orange arm-bands and wide, black, leather belts with riot-batons and cuffs dangling from them. Three carried pump-action shotguns.

Grizmund, Gaunt told them briefly. He allowed himself to be frisked and handed over his bolt pistol. Two of the guards then led him through a series of cage doors with remotely activated electric locks, down the austere, red-washed hallways of the cell-block. There was an astringent ammonia stink of open drains, with a mouldering aftertaste of deep rock and soil. Every sound rang out and echoed.

Grizmund and the four officers arrested with him were sharing a large communal holding tank. They still wore their mustard-brown Narmenian uniforms, but caps, belts, laces and all rank pins had been removed.

Grizmund met Gaunt at the cage door. The VPHC guards refused to open it, so they were forced to talk through the bars.

I'm glad to see you, Grizmund said. He was pale, and there was a dark look of anger in his eyes. Get us out of this.

Tell me what happened. In your own words, Gaunt said.

Grizmund paused, then shrugged. We were ordered to Veyveyr. Thanks to the gross idiocy of House Command organisation, the routes were blocked. I took my column off the roadway and headed on to the gate through an industrial sector. Next thing I knew, the VPHC were heading me off.

Did you disobey any direct order?

I was ordered to Veyveyr, the man repeated. I was told to take Arterial Route GH/7m. When I couldn't get through, I tried to achieve my primary order to reach the appointed frontline.

Did you strike a VPHC officer?

Yes. He drew a gun on me first, without provocation.

Gaunt was quiet for a moment.

You'd think these bastards didn't want us to fight for them, growled Grizmund.

Their pride is hurt. The inadequacies of their command systems were shown up clearly today. They're looking for others to blame.

Screw them if they try to pin anything on me! This is crazy! Won't Sturm back you up?

Sturm is too busy trying to please both sides. Don't worry. I won't let this continue a moment longer than it has to.

Grizmund nodded. Loud footsteps, unpaced and overlapping, reverberated down the dank cell-block behind them. Gaunt turned to see Commissar Tarrian enter with an escort of VPHC troops.

Commissar Gaunt. You shouldn't be here. The Narmenian insubordination is a matter for the VPHC Disciplinary Review. You will not interfere with Verghastian military justice. You will not confer with the prisoners. My men will escort you back to the elevator.

Gaunt nodded to Grizmund and walked over to the VPHC group, facing Tarrian for a moment. You are making a mistake both you and your cadre will regret, Tarrian.

Is that some kind of threat, Gaunt?

You're a commissar, Tarrian, or at least you're supposed to be. You must know commissars never issue threats. Only facts.

Gaunt allowed himself to be marched out of the stockade.

The thirty-third dawn was already on them, with heavy rain falling across the entire hive, the outer habs and the grasslands beyond. Marshal Croe was taking breakfast in his retiring chamber off the war-room when Gaunt entered.

The room was long, gloomy and wood-panelled with gilt-framed oil paintings of past marshals lining the walls. Croe sat at the head of a long, varnished mahogany table, picking at food laid out on a salver as he read through a pile of data-slates. Behind him, the end wall of the room was armoured glass and overlooked the Commercia and Shield Pylon. Backlit by the great window and the grey morning glare, Croe was a dark, brooding shape.

Commissar.

Gaunt saluted. Marshal. The charges against the Narmenian officers must be dropped at once.

Croe looked up, his noble, white-haired head inclining towards Gaunt like an eagle considering a lamb. Because?

Because they are utterly foolish and counterproductive. Because we need officers of Grizmund's standing. Because any punishment will send a negative message to the Narmenian units and to all Guard units as a whole: that Vervunhive values the efforts of the off-world forces very little.

And what of the other view? You heard it yourself: one rule for Vervun, one for the Guard?

We both know that's not true. Grizmund's actions are hardly capital in nature, yet the VPHC seems hell-bent on prosecuting them to the extreme.

I'm not even sure this so-called ˜insubordination' was even that. A tribunal would throw it out, but to even get to a tribunal would be damaging. Narmenian and Guard honour would be slighted, and the VPHC would be made to look stupid. At the last minute, Gaunt managed to prevent himself from saying even more stupid.

Tarrian's staff is very thorough. They would not undertake a tribunal if they thought it would collapse.

I am familiar with such ˜courts', marshal. However, that will only happen if the VPHC are allowed to run the hearing themselves.

It is their purview. Military discipline. It's Tarrian's job.

I will not allow the VPHC to conduct any hearing.

Croe put down his fork and stared at Gaunt as if he had just insulted Croe's own mother. He rose to his feet, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

You won't allow it?

Gaunt stood his ground. Imperial Commissariat edict 4378b states that any activity concerning the discipline of Imperial Guardsmen must be conducted by the Imperial Commissariat itself. Not by planetary bodies. It is not Tarrian's responsibility. It should not be a matter for the VPHC.

And you will enforce this ruling?

If I have to. I am the ranking Imperial commissar on Verghast.

The interpretation of law will be murderous. Any conflicts between Imperial and Planetary rules will be argued over and over. Do not pursue this, Gaunt.

I'm afraid I have to, marshal. I am not a stranger to martial hearings. I will personally resource and provide all the legal precedents I need to throw Tarrian, his thugs and his pitiful case to the wolves.

A Vervun Primary adjutant hurried into the retiring room behind Gaunt.

Not now! barked Croe, but the man didn't withdraw. He held out a data-slate to the fuming marshal.