Dan Abnett - Gaunt's Ghost 01 - First And Only

Dan Abnett - First and OnlyWarhammer 40,000

Gaunt's Ghosts

First & Only

Dan Abnett

For Nik, first & only.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Copyright ® 2000 Games Workshop Ltd.

THE HIGH LORDS of Terra, lauding the great Warmaster Slaydo's efforts on

Khulen,

tasked him with raising a crusade force to liberate the Sabbat Worlds, a

cluster

of nearly one hundred inhabited systems along the edge of the Segmentum

Pacificus. From a massive fleet deployment, nearly a billion Imperial

Guard

advanced into the Sabbat Worlds, supported by forces of the Adeptus

Astartes and

the Adeptus Mechanicus, with whom Slaydo had formed co-operative pacts.

'After ten hard-fought years of dogged advance, Slaydo's great victory

came at

Balhaut, where he opened the way to drive a wedge into the heart of the

Sabbat

Worlds.

'But there Slaydo fell. Bickering and rivalry then beset his officers as

they

vied to take his place. Lord High Militant General Dravere was an

obvious

successor, but Slaydo himself had chosen the younger commander,

Macaroth.

'With Macaroth as warmaster, the Crusade force pushed on, into its

second

decade, and deeper into the Sabbat Worlds, facing theatres of war that

began to

make Balhaut seem like a mere opening skirmish…'

— from A History of the Later Imperial Crusades

PART ONE

NUBILA REACH

The two Faustus-class Interceptors swept in low over a thousand, slowly

spinning

tonnes of jade asteroid and decelerated to coasting velocity. Striated

blurs of

shift-speed light flickered off their gunmetal hulls. The saffron haze

of the

nebula called the Nubila Reach hung as a spread backdrop for them, a

thousand

light years wide, a hazy curtain which enfolded the edges of the Sabbat

Worlds.

Each of these patrol interceptors was an elegant barb about one hundred

paces

from jutting nose to raked tail. The Faustus were lean, powerful

warships that

looked like serrated cathedral spires with splayed flying buttresses at

the rear

to house the main thrusters. Their armoured flanks bore the Imperial

Eagle,

together with the green markings and insignia of the Segmentum Pacificus

Fleet.

Locked in the hydraulic arrestor struts of the command seat in the lead

ship,

Wing Captain Torten LaHain forced down his heart rate as the ship

decelerated.

Synchronous mind-impulse links bequeathed by the Adeptus Mechanicus

hooked his

metabolism to the ship's ancient systems, and he lived and breathed

every nuance

of its motion, power-output and response.

LaHain was a twenty-year veteran. He'd piloted Faustus Interceptors for

so long,

they seemed an extension of his body. He glanced down into the flight

annex

directly below and behind the command seat, where his observation

officer was at

work at the navigation station.

'Well?' he asked over the intercom.

The observer checked off his calculations against several glowing runes

on the

board.

'Steer five points starboard. The astropath's instructions are to sweep

down the

edge of the gas clouds for a final look, and then it's back to the

fleet.'

Behind him, there was a murmur. The astropath, hunched in his small

throne-cradle, stirred. Hundreds of filament leads linked the

astropath's

socket-encrusted skull to the massive sensory apparatus in the Faustus's

belly.

Each one was marked with a small, yellowing parchment label, inscribed

with

words LaHain didn't want to have to read. There was the cloying smell of

incense

and unguents.

'What did he say?' LaHain asked.

The observer shrugged. 'Who knows? Who wants to?' he said.

The astropath's brain was constantly surveying and processing the vast

wave of

astronomical data which the ship's sensors pumped into it, and

psychically

probing the Warp beyond. Small patrol ships like this, with their

astropathic

cargo, were the early warning arm of the fleet. The work was hard on the

psyker's mind, and the odd moan or grimace was commonplace. There had

been

worse. They'd gone through a nickel-rich asteroid field the previous

week and

the psyker had gone into spasms.

'Flight check,' LaHain said into the intercom.

'Tail turret, aye!' crackled back the servitor at the rear of the ship.

'Flight engineer ready, by the Emperor!' fuzzed the voice of the engine

chamber.

LaHain signalled his wingman. 'Moselle… you run forward and begin the

sweep.

We'll lag a way behind you as a double-check. Then we'll pull for home.'

'Mark that,' the pilot of the other ship replied and his craft gunned

forward, a

sudden blur that left twinkling pearls in its wake.

LaHain was about to kick in behind when the voice of the astropath came

over the

link. It was rare for the man to speak to the rest of the crew.

'Captain… move to the following co-ordinates and hold. I am receiving a

signal.

A message… source unknown.'

LaHain did as he was instructed and the ship banked around, motors

flaring in

quick, white bursts. The observer swung all the sensor arrays to bear.

'What is this?' LaHain asked, impatient. Unscheduled manoeuvres off a

carefully

set patrol sweep did not sit comfortably with him.

The astropath took a moment to respond, clearing his throat. 'It is an

astropathic communique, struggling to get through the Warp. It is coming

from

extreme long range. I must gather it and relay it to Fleet Command.'

'Why?' LaHain asked. This was all too irregular.

'I sense it is secret. It is primary level intelligence. It is Vermilion

level.'

There was a long pause, a silence aboard the small, slim craft broken

only by

the hum of the drive, the chatter of the displays and the whirr of the

air-scrubbers.

'Vermilion…' LaHain breathed.

Vermilion was the highest clearance level used by the Crusade's

cryptographers.

It was unheard of, mythical. Even main battle schemes usually only

warranted a

Magenta. He felt an icy tightness in his wrists, a tremor in his heart.

Sympathetically, the Interceptor's reactor fibrillated. LaHain

swallowed. A

routine day had just become very un-routine. He knew he had to commit

everything

to the correct and efficient recovery of this data.

'How long do you need?' he asked over the link.

Another pause. 'The ritual will take a few moments. Do not disturb me as

I

concentrate. I need as long as possible,' the astropath said. There was

a

phlegmy, strained edge to his voice. In a moment, that voice was

murmuring a

prayer. The air temperature in the cabin dropped perceptibly. Something,

somewhere, sighed.

LaHain flexed his grip on the rudder stick, his skin turning to

gooseflesh. He

hated the witchcraft of the psykers. He could taste it in his mouth,

bitter,

sharp. Cold sweat beaded under his flight-mask. Hurry up! he thought… It

was

taking too long, they were idling and vulnerable. And he wanted his skin

to stop

crawling.

The astropath's murmured prayer continued. LaHain looked out of the

canopy at

the swathe of pinkish mist that folded away from him into the heart of

the

nebula a billion kilometres away. The cold, stabbing light of ancient

suns

slanted and shafted through it like dawn light on gossamer. Dark-bellied

clouds

swirled in slow, silent blossoms.

'Contacts!' the observer yelled suddenly. Three! No, four! Fast as hell

and

coming straight in!'

LaHain snapped to attention. 'Angle and lead time?'

The observer rattled out a set of co-ordinates and LaHain steered the

nose

towards them. 'They're coming in fast!' the observer repeated. 'Throne

of Earth,

but they're moving!'

LaHain looked across his over-sweep board and saw the runic cursors

flashing as

they edged into the tactical grid.

'Defence system activated! Weapons to ready!' he barked. Drum

autoloaders

chattered in the chin turret forward of him as he armed the auto-

cannons, and

energy reservoirs whined as they powered up the main forward-firing

plasma guns.

'Wing Two to Wing One!' Moselle's voice rasped over the long-range vox-

caster.

'They're all over me! Break and run! Break and run in the name of the

Emperor!'

The other Interceptor was coming at him at close to full thrust.

LaHain's

enhanced optics, amplified and linked via the canopy's systems, saw

Moselle's

ship while it was still a thousand kilometres away. Behind it, lazy and

slow,

came the vampiric shapes, the predatory ships of Chaos. Fire patterns

winked in

the russet darkness. Yellow traceries of venomous death.

Moselle's scream, abruptly ended, tore through the vox-cast.

The racing Interceptor disappeared in a rapidly-expanding, superheated

fireball.

The three attackers thundered on through the fire wash.

'They're coming for us! Bring her about!' LaHain yelled and threw the

Faustus

round, gunning the engines. 'How much longer?' he bellowed at the

astropath.

'The communique is received. I am now… relaying…' the astropath gasped,

at the

edge of his limits.

'Fast as you can! We have no time!' LaHain said.

The sleek fighting ship blinked forward, thrust-drive roaring blue heat.

LaHain

rejoiced at the singing of the engine in his blood. He was pushing the

threshold

tolerances of the ship. Amber alert sigils were lighting his display.

LaHain was

slowly being crushed into the cracked, ancient leather of his command

chair.

In the tail turret, the gunner servitor traversed the twin auto-cannons,

hunting

for a target. He didn't see the attackers, but he saw their absence: the

flickering darkness against the stars.

The turret guns screamed into life, blitzing out a scarlet-tinged,

boiling

stream of hypervelocity fire.

Indicators screamed shrill warnings in the cockpit. The enemy had

obtained

multiple target lock. Down below, the observer was bawling up at LaHain,

demanding evasion procedures. Over the link, Flight Engineer Manus was

yelling

something about a stress-injection leak.

LaHain was serene. 'Is it done?' he asked the astropath calmly.

There was another long pause. The astropath was lolling weakly in his

cradle.

Near to death, his brain ruined by the trauma of the act, he murmured,

'It is

finished.'

LaHain wrenched the Interceptor in a savage loop and presented himself

to the

pursuers with the massive forward plasma array and the nose guns

blasting. He

couldn't outrun them or outfight them, but by the Emperor he'd take at

least one

with him before he went.

The chin turret spat a thousand heavy bolter rounds a second. The

plasma-guns

howled phosphorescent death into the void. One of the shadow-shapes

exploded in

a bright blister of flame, its shredded fuselage and mainframe splitting

out,

carried along by the burning, incandescent bow-wave of igniting

propellant.

LaHain scored a second kill too. He ripped open the belly of another

attacker,

spilling its pressurised guts into the void. It burst like a swollen

balloon,

spinning round under the shuddering impact and spewing its contents in a

fire

trail behind itself.

A second later, a rain of toxic and corrosive warheads, each a sliver of

metal

like a dirty needle, raked the Faustus end to end. They detonated the

astropath's head and explosively atomised the observer out through the

punctured

hull. Another killed the Flight Engineer outright and destroyed the

reactor

interlock.

Two billiseconds after that, stress fractures shattered the Faustus

class

Interceptor like it was a glass bottle. A super-dense explosion boiled

out from

the core, vaporising the ship and LaHain with it.

The corona of the blast rippled out for eighty kilometres until it

vanished in

the nebula's haze.

A MEMORY

DARENDARA, TWENTY YEARS EARLIER

The winter palace was besieged. In the woods on the north shore of the

frozen

lake, the field guns of the Imperial Guard thumped and rumbled. Snow

fluttered

down on them, and each shuddering retort brought heavier falls slumping

down

from the tree limbs. Brass shell-cases clanked as they spun out of the

returning

breeches and fell, smoking, into snow cover that was quickly becoming

trampled

slush.

Over the lake, the palace crumbled. One wing was now ablaze, and shell

holes

were appearing in the high walls or impacting in the vast arches of the

steep

roofs beyond them. Each blast threw up tiles and fragments of beams, and

puffs

of snow like icing sugar. Some shots fell short, bursting the ice skin

of the

lake and sending up cold geysers of water, mud and sharp chunks that

looked like

broken glass.

Commissar-General Delane Oktar, chief political officer of the Hyrkan

Regiments,

stood in the back of his winter-camouflage painted half-track and

watched the

demolition through his field scope. When Fleet Command had sent the

Hyrkans in

to quell the uprising on Darendara, he had known it would come to this.

A

bloody, bitter end. How many opportunities had they given the

Secessionists to

surrender?

Too many, according to that rat-turd Colonel Dravere, who commanded the

armoured

brigades in support of the Hyrkan infantry. That would be a matter

Dravere would

gleefully report in his despatches, Oktar knew. Dravere was a career

soldier

with the pedigree of noble blood who was gripping the ladder of

advancement so

tightly with both hands that his feet were free to kick out at those on

lower

rungs.

Oktar didn't care. The victory mattered, not the glory. As a commissar-

general,

his authority was well liked, and no one doubted his loyalty to the

Imperium,

his resolute adherence to the primary dictates, or the rousing fury of

his

speeches to the men. But he believed war was a simple thing, where

caution and

restraint could win far more for less cost. He had seen the reverse too

many

times before. The command echelons generally believed in the theory of

attrition

when it came to the Imperial Guard. Any foe could be ground into pulp if

you

threw enough at them, and the Guard was, to them, a limitless supply of

cannon

fodder for just such a purpose.

That was not Oktar's way. He had schooled the officer cadre of the

Hyrkans to

believe it too. He had taught General Caernavar and his staff to value

every

man, and knew the majority of the six thousand Hyrkans, many by name.

Oktar had

been with them from the start, from the First Founding on the high

plateaux of

Hyrkan, those vast, gale-wracked industrial deserts of granite and

grassland.

Six regiments they had founded there, six proud regiments, and just the

first of

what Oktar hoped would be a long line of Hyrkan soldiers, who would set

the name

of their planet high on the honour roll of the Imperial Guard, from

Founding to

Founding.

They were brave boys. He would not waste them, and he would not have the

officers waste them. He glanced down from his half-track into the tree-

lines

where the gun teams serviced their thumping limbers. The Hyrkan were a

strong

breed, drawn and pale, with almost colourless hair which they preferred

to wear

short and severe. They wore dark grey battledress with beige webbing and

short-billed forage caps of the same pale hue. In this cold theatre,

they also

had woven gloves and long greatcoats. Those labouring at the guns,

though, were

stripped down to their beige undershirts, their webbing hanging loosely

around

their hips as they bent and carried shells, and braced for firing in the

close

heat of the concussions. It looked odd, in these snowy wastes, with

breath

steaming the air, to see men moving through gunsmoke in thin shirts, hot

and

ruddy with sweat.

He knew their strengths and weaknesses to a man, knew exactly who best

to send

forward to reconnoitre, to snipe, to lead a charge offensive, to scout

for

mines, to cut wire, to interrogate prisoners. He valued each and every

man for

his abilities in the field of war. He would not waste them. He and

General

Caernavar would use them, each one in his particular way, and they would

win and

win and win again, a hundred times more than any who used his regiments

like

bullet-soaks in the bloody frontline.

Men like Dravere. Oktar dreaded to think what that beast might do when

finally

given field command of an action like this. Let the little piping runt

in his

starched collar sound off to the high brass about him. Let him make a

fool of

himself. This wasn't his victory to win.

Oktar jumped down from the vehicle's flatbed and handed his scope to his

sergeant. 'Where's the Boy?' he asked, in his soft, penetrating tones.

The sergeant smiled to himself, knowing the Boy hated to be known as

'The Boy'.

'Supervising the batteries on the rise, commissar-general,' he said in a

faultless Low Gothic, flavoured with the clipped, guttural intonations

of the

Hyrkan homeworld accent.

'Send him to me,' Oktar said, rubbing his hands gently to encourage

circulation.

'I think it's time he got a chance to advance himself.'

The sergeant turned to go, then paused. 'Advance himself, commissar—or

advance,

himself?'

Oktar grinned like a wolf. 'Both, naturally.'

* * *

The Hyrkan sergeant bounded up the ridge to the field guns at the top,

where the

trees had been stripped a week before by a Secessionist air-strike. The

splintered trunks were denuded back to their pale bark, and the ground

under the

snow was thick with wood pulp, twigs and uncountable fragrant needles.

There

would be no more air-strikes, of course. Not now. The Secessionist

airforce had

been operating out of two airstrips south of the winter palace which had

been

rendered useless by Colonel Dravere's armoured units. Not that they'd

had much

to begin with—maybe sixty ancient-pattern slamjets with cycling cannons

in the

armpits of the wings and struts on the wingtips for the few bombs they

could

muster. The sergeant had cherished a sneaking admiration for the

Secessionist

fliers, though. They'd tried damn hard, taking huge risks to drop their

payloads

where it counted, and without the advantage of good air-to-ground

instrumentation. He would never forget the slamjet which took out their

communication bunker in the snow lines of the mountain a fortnight

before. It

had passed low twice to get a fix, bouncing through the frag-bursts

which the

anti-air batteries threw up all around it. He could still see the faces

of the

pilot and the gunner as they passed, plainly visible because the canopy

was

hauled back so they could get a target by sight alone.

Brave… desperate. Not a whole lot of difference in the sergeant's book.

Determined, too—that was the commissar-general's view. They knew they

were going

to lose this war before it even started, but still they tried to break

loose

from the Imperium. The sergeant knew that Oktar admired them. And, in

turn, he

admired the way Oktar had urged the chief staff to give the rebels every

chance

to surrender. What was the point of killing for no purpose?

Still, the sergeant had shuddered when the three thousand pounder had

fishtailed

down into the communications bunker and flattened it. Just as he had

cheered

when the thumping, traversing quad-barrels of the Hydra anti-air

batteries had

pegged the slamjet as it pulled away. It looked like it had been kicked

from

behind, jerking up at the tail and then tumbling, end over end, as it

exploded

and burned in a long, dying fall into the distant trees.

The sergeant reached the hilltop and caught sight of the Boy. He was

standing

amidst the batteries, hefting fresh shells into the arms of the gunners

from the

stockpiles half-buried under blast curtains. Tall, pale, lean and

powerful, the

Boy intimidated the sergeant. Unless death claimed him first, the Boy

would one

day become a commissar in his own right. Until then, he enjoyed the rank

of

cadet commissar, and served his tutor Oktar with enthusiasm and

boundless

energy. Like the commissar-general, the Boy wasn't Hyrkan. The sergeant

thought

then, for the first time, that he didn't even know where the Boy was

from — and

the Boy probably didn't know either.

'The commissar-general wants you,' he told the Boy as he reached him.

The Boy grabbed another shell from the pile and swung it round to the

waiting

gunner. 'Did you hear me?' the sergeant asked. 'I heard,' said Cadet

Commissar

Ibram Gaunt.

* * *

He knew he was being tested. He knew that this was responsibility and

that he'd

better not mess it up. Gaunt also knew that it was his moment to prove

to his

mentor, Oktar that he had the makings of a commissar.

There was no set duration for the training of a cadet. After education

at the

Schola Progenium and Guard basic training, a cadet received the rest of

his

training in the field, and the promotion to full commissarial level was

a

judgement matter for his commanding officer. Oktar, and Oktar alone,

could make

him or break him. His career as an Imperial commissar, to dispense

discipline,

inspiration and the love of the God-Emperor of Terra to the greatest

fighting

force in creation, hinged upon his performance.

Gaunt was an intense, quiet young man, and a commissarial post had been

his

dearest ambition since his earliest days in the Schola Progenium. But he

trusted

Oktar to be fair. The commissar-general had personally selected him for

service

from the cadet honour class, and had become in the last eighteen months

almost a

father to Gaunt. A stern, ruthless father, perhaps. The father he had

never

really known.

'See that burning wing?' Oktar had said. That's a way in. The

Secessionists must

be falling back into their inner chambers by now. General Caemavar and I

propose

putting a few squads in through that hole and cutting out their centre.

Are you

up to it?'

Gaunt had paused, his heart in his throat. 'Sir… you want me to…'

'Lead them in. Yes. Don't look so shocked, Ibram. You're always asking

me for a

chance to prove your leadership. Who do you want?'

'My choice?'

'Your choice.'

'Men from the fourth brigade. Tanhause is a good squad leader and his

men are

specialists in room to room fighting. Give me them, and Rychlind's heavy

weapons

team.'

'Good choices, Ibram. Prove me right.'

* * *

They moved past the fire and into long halls decorated with tapestries

where the

wind moaned and light fell slantwise from the high windows. Cadet Gaunt

led the

men personally, as Oktar would have done, the lasgun held tightly in his

hands,

his blue-trimmed cadet commissar uniform perfectly turned out.

In the fifth hallway, the Secessionists began their last ditch counter-

attack.

Lasfire cracked and blasted at them. Cadet Gaunt ducked behind an

antique sofa

that swiftly became a pile of antique matchwood. Tanhause moved up

behind him.

'What now?' the lean, corded Hyrkan major asked.

'Give me grenades,' Gaunt said.

They were provided. Gaunt took the webbing belt and set the timers on

all twenty

grenades. 'Call up Walthem,' he told Tanhause.

Trooper Walthem moved up. Gaunt knew he was famous in the regiment for

the power

of his throw. He'd been a javelin champion back home on Hyrkan. 'Put

this where

it counts,' Gaunt said.

Walthem hefted the belt of grenades with a tiny grunt. Sixty paces down,

the

corridor disintegrated.

They moved in, through the drifting smoke and masonry dust. The spirit

had left

the Secessionist defence. They found Degredd, the rebel leader, lying

dead with

Dan Abnett - Gaunt's Ghost 01 - First And Only

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