Dan Abnett - First and Only

'That's better…' Corbec smiled.

Gaunt placed a hand on Lekulanzi's shoulder, and the officer stiffened with outrage. Gaunt was pointing to something on the deck, a charred, greenish slick or stain, oily and lumpy.

'Do you know what that is?'

Lekulanzi shook his head.

'It's the remains of an assassin who set upon me here. The weapon's discharge was my First Officer saving my life. I will formally caution him for concealing a firearm aboard, strictly against standing orders.'

Gaunt smiled to see a tiny bead of nervous perspiration begin to streak Lekulanzi's pallid brow.

'He was one of yours, Lekulanzi. A rating. But he was in the sway of others, dark forces that beguiled and drove him like a toy. You don't like illicit weapons on your ship, eh? How about illicit psykers?'

Some of the security troopers muttered and made warding gestures. Lekulanzi stammered. 'But who… who would want to kill you, sir?'

' I am a soldier. A successful soldier,' Gaunt smiled coldly. 'I make enemies all the time.'

He gestured down at the remains. 'Have this analysed. Then have it purged. Make sure no foul, unholy taint has touched this precious ship. Report any findings directly to me, no matter how insignificant. Once my wounds have been treated, I will report to Lord Captain Grasticus personally and submit a full account.'

Lekulanzi was lost for words.

With Corbec supporting him, Gaunt left the Glass Bay. At the elevator doors, Lekulanzi caught the hard look in the boy's eyes. He shuddered.

In the elevator, Milo turned to Gaunt. 'His eyes were like a snake's. He is not trustworthy.'

Gaunt nodded. He had changed his mind. Just minutes before, he had reconciled himself to acting as Fereyd's courier, guardian to the crystal. But now things had changed. He wouldn't sit by idly waiting. He would act with purpose. He would enter the game, and find out the rules and learn how to win. And that would mean learning the contents of the crystal.

FOUR

'Best I can do,' murmured Dorden, the Ghost's chief medic, making a half-hearted gesture around him that implicated the whole of the regimental infirmary. The Ghosts' infirmary was a suite of three low, corbel-vaulted rooms set as an annex to the barrack deck where the Tanith First were berthed. Its walls and roof were washed with a greenish off-white paint and the hard floors had been lined with scrubbed red stone tiles. On dull steel shelves in bays around the rooms were ranked fat, glass-stoppered bottles with yellowing paper labels, mostly full of treacly fluids, surgical pastes, dried powders and preparations, or organic field-swabs in clear, gluey suspensions. Racks of polished instruments sat in pull-out drawers and plastic waste bags, stale bedding and bandage rolls were packed into low, lidded boxes around the walls that doubled as seats. There was a murky autoclave on a brass trolley, two resuscitrex units with shiny iron paddles, and a side table with an apothecary's scales, a diagnostic probe and a blood cleanser set on it. The air was musty and rank, and there were dark stains on the flooring.

'We're not over-equipped, as you can see,' Dorden added breezily. He'd patched the commissar's wounds with supplies from his own field kit, which sat open on one of the bench lockers. He hadn't trusted the freshness or sterility of any of the materials provided by the infirmary.

Gaunt sat, stripped to the waist, on one of the low brass gur-neys which lined the centre of the main chamber, its wheels locked into restraining lugs in the tiled floor. The gurney's springs squeaked and moaned as Gaunt shifted his weight on the stained, stinking mattress.

Dorden had patched the wound in the commissar's shoulder with sterile dressings, washed the whole limb in pungent blue sterilising gel and then pinched the mouth of the wound shut with bakelite suture clamps that looked like the heads of biting insects. Gaunt tried to flex his arm.

'Don't do that,' Dorden said quickly. 'I'd wrap it in false-flesh if I could find any, but besides, the wound should breathe. Honestly, you'd be better off in the main hospital ward.'

Gaunt shook his head. 'You've done a fine job,' he said. Dorden smiled. He didn't want to press the commissar on the issue. Corbec had muttered something about keeping this private.

Dorden was a small man, older than most of the Ghosts, with a grey beard and warm eyes. He'd been a doctor on Tanith, running an extended practice through the farms and settlements of Beldane and the forest wilds of County Pryze. He'd been drafted at the Founding to fulfil the Administratum's requirements for regimental medical personnel. His wife had died a year before the Founding, his only son a trooper in the ninth platoon. His one daughter, her husband and their first born had perished in the flames of Tanith. He had left nothing behind in the embers of his homeworld except the memory of years of community service, a duty he now carried on for the good of the last men of Tanith. He refused to carry a weapon, and thus was the only Ghost that Gaunt couldn't rely on to fight… but Gaunt hardly cared. He had sixty or seventy men in his command who wouldn't still be there but for Dorden.

'I've checked for venom taint or fibre toxin. You're lucky. The blade was clean. Cleaner than mine!' Dorden chuckled and it made Gaunt smile. 'Unusual…' Dorden added and fell silent.

Gaunt raised an eyebrow. 'How so?'

'I understood assassins liked to toxify their blades as insurance.' Dorden said simply.

'I never said it was an assassin.'

You didn't have to. I may be a non-combatant. Feth, I may be an old fool, but I didn't come down in the last barrage.'

'Don't trouble yourself with it, Dorden,' Gaunt said, flexing his arm again against the medic's advice. It stung, ached, throbbed. 'You've worked your usual magic. Stay impartial. Don't get drawn in.'

Dorden was scrubbing his suture clamp and wound probes in a bowl of filmy antiseptic oil. 'Impartial? Do you know something, Ibram Gaunt?'

Gaunt blinked as if slapped. No one had spoken to him with such paternal authority since the last time he had been in the company of his Uncle Dercius. No… not the last time…

Dorden turned back, wiping the tools on sheets of white lint.

'Forgive me, commissar. I— I'm speaking out of turn.'

'Speak anyway, friend.'

Dorden jerked a lean thumb to indicate out beyond the archway into the barrack deck. These are all I've got. The last pitiful scraps of Tanith genestock, my only link to the past and to the green, green world I loved. I'll keep patching and mending and binding and sewing them back together until they're all gone, or I'm gone, or the horizons of all known space have withered and died. And while you may not be Tanith, I know many of the men now treat you as such. Me, I'm not sure. Too much of the chulan about you, I'd say.'

'Koolun?'

'Chulan. Forgive me, slipping in to the old tongue. Outsider. Unknown. It doesn't translate directly.'

'I'm sure it doesn't.'

'It wasn't an insult. You may not be Tanith-breed, but you're for us every way. I think you care, Gaunt. Care about your Ghosts. I think you'll do all in your power to see us right, to take us to glory, to take us to peace. That's what I believe, every night when I lay down to rest, and every time a bombardment starts, or the drop-ships fall, or the boys go over the wire. That matters.'

Gaunt shrugged – and wished he hadn't. 'Does it?'

'I've spoken to medics with other regiments. At the field hospital on Fortis, for instance. So many of them say their commissars don't care a jot about their men. They see them as fodder for the guns. Is that how you see us?'

'No.'

'No, I thought not. So, that makes you rare indeed. Something worth hanging on to, for the good of these poor Ghosts. Feth, you may not be Tanith, but if assassins are starting to hunger for your blood, I start to care. For the Ghosts, I care.'