Dan Abnett - First and Only

'Milo,' Gaunt said into the speaker, 'not so fast. I'd like to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible, and it doesn't help with you going for some new speed record.'

'Understood, sir,' Milo said over the speaker.

Sitting forward astride the powerful nose section, Milo flexed his hands on the handlebar grips and grinned. The speed dropped. A little.

Gaunt ignored the glass Blenner was offering him and flipped open a data-slate map of the city's street-plan.

Then he thumbed the speaker again. 'Next left, Milo, then follow the underpass to Zorn Square.'

'That… that takes us into the cold zones, commissar,' Milo replied over the link.

'You have your orders, adjutant,' Gaunt said simply and snapped off the intercom.

'This isn't Guard business at all, is it, old man?' Blenner said wryly.

'Don't ask questions and you won't have to lie later, Vay. In fact, keep out of sight and pretend you're not here. I'll get you back to the bar in an hour or so.'

I hope, Gaunt added under his breath.

Rawne threw the truck around a steep bend. The six chunky wheels slid alarmingly on the wet snow. Behind it, the heavy pursuit vehicles thrashed and slipped.

'This is the wrong way!' Rawne said. 'We're going deeper into the damn cold zone!'

'We didn't have much choice,' Corbec replied. 'They're boxing us in. Didn't you plan your escape route?'

Rawne said nothing and concentrated on his driving. They were flung around another treacherous turn.

'What are you doing here?' he asked Corbec at last.

'Just asking myself the same thing,' Corbec reflected lightly. 'Well, truth is, I thought I'd do what any good regimental colonel does for his men on a shore leave rotation after a nightmare tour of duty in a hell-pit like Fortis, and take a trip into the downtown districts to rustle up a little black market drink and the like. The men always appreciate a colonel who looks after them.'

Rawne scowled, fighting the wheel.

Then I happened to see you and your sidekick, and I realised that you were doing what any good sneaking low-life weasel would do on shore leave rotation. To wit, scamming some local out of contraband so he can sell it to his comrades. So I thought to myself— I'll join forces. Rawne's got exactly what I'm after and without my help, he'll be dead and floating down the River Cracia by dawn.'

'Your help?' Rawne spat. The glass at the rear of the cab shattered suddenly as bullets smacked into it. Both men ducked.

'Yeah,' Corbec said, pulling an autopistol out of his coat. 'I'm a better shot than that feth-wipe Feygor.'

Corbec wound his door window down and leaned out, firing back a quick burst of heavy fire from the speeding truck.

The front screen of one of the black vehicles exploded and it skidded sharply, clipping one of its companions before slamming into a wall and spinning nose to tail, three times before coming to rest in a spray of glass and debris.

'I rest my case,' Corbec said.

'There's still three of them out there!' Rawne said.

'True,' Corbec said, loading a fresh dip, 'but, canny chap that I am, I thought of bringing spare ammo.'

Gaunt made Milo park the staff-track around the corner from Needleshadow Boulevard. He climbed out into the cold night. 'Stay here,' he told Blenner, who waved back jovially from the cabin. 'And you,' Gaunt told Milo, who was moving as if to follow him.

'Are you armed, sir?' the boy asked.

Gaunt realised he wasn't. He shook his head.

Milo drew his silver Tanith dagger and passed it to the commissar. 'You can never be sure,' he said simply.

Gaunt nodded his thanks and moved off.

The cold zones like this were a grim reminder that society in a vast city like Cracia was deeply stratified. At the heart were the great palace of the Ecdesiarch and the Needle itself. Around that, the city centre and the opulent, wealthy residential areas were patrolled, guarded, heated and screened, safe little microcosms of security and comfort. There, every benefit of Imperial dtizenship was enjoyed.

But beyond, the bulk of the city was devoid of such luxuries. League after league of crumbling, decaying city blocks, buildings and tenements a thousand years old, rotted on unlit, unheated, uncared for streets. Crime was rife here, and there were no Arbites. Their control ran out at the inner dty limits. It was a human zoo, an urban wilderness that surrounded civilisation. In some ways it almost reminded Gaunt of the Imperium itself – the opulent, luxurious heart surrounded by a terrible reality it knew precious little about. Or cared to know.

Light snow, too wet to settle, drifted down. The air was cold and moist.

Gaunt strode down the littered pavement. 1034 Needleshadow Boulevard was a dark, haunted relic. A single, dim light glowed on the sixth floor.

Gaunt crept in. The foyer smelled of damp carpet and mildew. There were no lights, but he found the stairwell lit by hundreds of candles stuck in assorted bottles. The light was yellow and smoky.

By the time he reached the third floor, he could hear the music. Some kind of old dancehall ballad by the sound of it. The old recording crackled. It sounded like a ghost.

Sixth floor, the top flat. Shattered plaster littered the worn hall carpet. Somewhere in the shadows, vermin squeaked. The music was louder, murmuring from the room he was approaching on an old audio-caster. The apartment door was ajar, and light, brighter than the hall candles, shone out, the violet glow of a self-powered portable field lamp.

His fingers around the hilt of the knife in his greatcoat pocket, Gaunt entered.

FIVE

The room was bare to the floorboards and the peeling paper. The audio-caster was perched on top of a stack of old books, warbling softly. The lamp was in the corner, casting its spectral violet glow all around the room.

'Is there anyone here?' Gaunt asked, surprised at the sound of his own voice.

A shadow moved in an adjoining bathroom.

'What's the word?' it said.

'What?'

'I haven't got time to humour you. The word.'

'Eagleshard,' Gaunt said, using the code word he and Fereyd had shared years before on Pashen Nine-Sixty.

The figure seemed to relax. A shabby, elderly man in a dirty civilian suit entered the room so that Gaunt could see him. He was lowering a small, snub-nosed pistol of a type Gaunt wasn't familiar with. Gaunt's heart sank. It wasn't Fereyd.

'Who are you?' Gaunt asked.

The man arched his eyebrows in reply. 'Names are really quite inappropriate under these circumstances.'

'If you say so,' Gaunt said.

The man crossed to the audio-caster and keyed in another track. Another old-fashioned tune, a jaunty love song full of promises and regrets, started up with a flurry of strings and pipes.

'I am a facilitator, a courier and also very probably a dead man,' the stranger told Gaunt. 'Have you any idea of the scale and depth of this business?'

Gaunt shrugged. 'No. I'm not even sure what business you refer to. But I trust my old friend, Fereyd. That is enough for me. By his word, I have no illusions as to the seriousness of this matter, but as to the depth, the complexity…'

The man studied him. The Navy's intelligence network has established a web of spy systems throughout the Sabbat Worlds to watch over the Crusade.'

'Indeed.'

'I'm a part of that cobweb. So are you, if you but knew it. The truth we are uncovering is frightening. There is a grievous power struggle underway in the command echelon of this mighty Crusade, my friend.'

Gaunt felt impatience rising in him. He hadn't come all this way to listen to arch speculation. 'Why should I care? I'm not part of High Command. Let them squabble and backstab and—'

'Would you throw it all away? A decade of liberation warfare? All of Warmaster Slaydo's victories?'