‘He will ruin me,’ Gaunt repeated, ‘so I hardly care for your opinion. That fight began and suddenly all I could think of was that my son – my son! – might be in danger! The thought unmanned me. I came to find him. I–’
‘It’s understandable,’ said Maddalena.
‘I know it is,’ Gaunt snapped. ‘That’s the point. He’s my son and I’m going to care about him, even though I barely know him, and didn’t know he even existed until this voyage began. He’s my flesh and blood, and having him here damages me.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, please. Try imagining.’
Maddalena licked her lips with the tip of her tongue as she thought.
‘Your concern for him will compromise your ability to lead. It will undermine your confidence. It will make you fallible and perhaps force command or tactical decisions that are unwise. It could weaken you, and soften you, and take your edge away.’
‘There,’ said Gaunt. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it? So get him off my ship and take him home. I cannot have him on this mission.’
‘Many of your men, your officers… they have brought family and loved ones with them. It is a calculated risk. The accompany bond indemnifies personal loyalty over personal safety and–’
‘My men don’t have to lead this mission.’
‘True,’ she said, ‘though I think the issue is the same.’
‘Thank you for your perspective. Now get the boy off this ship in the next three hours.’
‘You will care about him wherever he goes,’ said Maddalena.
‘What?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Will he get home safely?’ she said, shrugging. ‘Will the fleet ship transporting him be attacked? If he returns to Vervunhive, will he survive the shame of being sent away by his famous father rather than being allowed to serve at his side? Will his chances for political advancement be forever undermined?’
‘Be quiet,’ said Gaunt. ‘I don’t need to hear that. Damn you. I didn’t ask to know him. I didn’t ask for him to be sent here.’
He shot his drink in one swallow. She walked over to him, took the empty glass from his hand, filled it, and took a sip.
‘The point is, you do know him,’ she said. ‘Now you’re aware he exists, you can’t not know him again. Sending him away won’t help. The humiliation certainly won’t help him, personally or politically. Banishing him won’t help you. This cannot be undone.’
‘Yes, it–’
‘No, colonel-commissar, it cannot. You know him. You know he exists. Whether he’s at your side or a sector away, you will be concerned for his welfare. He’s your son.’
Gaunt took the glass from her hand and knocked back the rest of it.
‘So what you’re saying is, you’ve ruined me anyway?’
Maddalena laughed. She took back the glass and refilled it, taking more of a sip for herself this time.
‘I suppose so. It wasn’t my decision, and I’m sorry for it. It wouldn’t have been my choice to send him to you unannounced.’
She stared into his eyes.
‘Better you keep him at your side than wonder where he is. Better he stays and learns something from you before you die. Better you fight for his life than anyone else’s.’
Gaunt hesitated. There was an anger or a frustration he could barely articulate.
‘I take it he’ll be staying?’ she asked.
Gaunt shook his head sadly.
‘This stuff,’ said Maddalena, holding up the glass and squinting at it. ‘What is it?’
‘Sacra.’
‘It’s not bad,’ she said.
‘There’s something–’ Gaunt began.
‘About me? So you said. And I believe you said such thoughts were inappropriate.’
‘They are,’ said Gaunt. He kissed her mouth. She did not pull away.
‘That’s definitely inappropriate,’ she said.
‘I don’t give a damn,’ he replied.
FOURTEEN
Final Shift
Tavis Sun was a memory four days behind the Armaduke when Dorden died.
Supplied and stocked with the last pieces of specialist equipment from the fleet group, the frigate had turned and translated away, running out through the murk of the warp towards the cold distances of the Rimworld Marginals.
Lord Militant Cybon had delivered a final broadcast from the Sepiterna, a valedictory address to the entire regiment. Zweil and the ship’s cleric had held services of constancy and deliverance, but the mood on the ship had changed.
They were heading into the dark, into the bleak and underpopulated regions of the Sabbat Worlds, into dead space and zones of risk, into hazardous climes and marginal fields. Though they were thousands strong, together on the ship, they felt the isolation.
Blenner was observing the specialism rehearsals that were being conducted around the clock on several of the main hold decks. The large areas had been cleared, and floor plans had been marked out on the deck in paint. In places, the layouts resembled basic obstacle courses. Squads moved through the areas, reset the obstacles, and then ran the drills again. Most of them were chamber clearance exercises. Ranges had been set up for practice-firing breaching rounds, and the ship’s artificers had rigged up a number of standard template door locks and hatch seals for teams to practise cutting. There was a lot of sweeper training going on too, and when he wasn’t supervising that, Domor was in hold six with his best demolition men, running through methods for making safe explosive devices and triggers. Major Pasha was lecturing the regiment, one company at a time, on improvised explosives and booby traps, and the finer points of pressure pads. She knew her subjects. It seemed to Blenner that Major Pasha had learned a lot of dirty tricks in the scratch war at Vervunhive.
On another range set up in one of the holds, the regimental marksmen were drilling with their old bolt action rifles. They were firing the specially machined, glass-tipped rounds to acquaint themselves with the specific weight and pull of the unfamiliar ammunition. They were saline charges, non-lethal glass projectiles filled with inert salt water.
The accuracy rate required from marksmen like Questa, Banda, Raess and Nessa was painfully demanding. Blenner was, however, astonished at the performance score that Merrt was racking up.
‘I thought Merrt was a lost cause,’ he said to Hark.
‘He was,’ replied Hark. ‘Larkin’s been working with him, one-to-one. The real breakthrough was muscle relaxant.’
‘What?’
‘He’s numbing his jaw,’ said Hark. ‘Apparently, that stops it twitching and ruining his aim. Of course, it means he can’t talk.’
They watched Merrt finish a round of shots and then turn to the other shooters.
‘I wondered why he was signing,’ said Blenner, nodding at Merrt. Everyone in the regiment had learned basic sign language for stealth work. Blenner had assumed Merrt was using it in deference to the deaf troopers like Nessa.
‘Where’d he get that idea from?’ Blenner asked.
Hark shrugged. ‘He hasn’t really explained. Larkin hinted it had something to do with one of the Space Marines.’
Blenner shuddered. The Space Marines, though they were seldom seen around the ship, were a pretty constant reminder that this was going to be more than a pleasant ceremonial excursion. Inexorably, they were heading towards the sort of fate he had spent most of his career in the Guard trying to avoid, the sort of fate where polished buttons, impeccably buffed toe-caps and a winning way with mess-room banter would not matter one iota. It was getting to the point where Blenner couldn’t laugh it off any more.
He’d spent a lot of time reading the stuff Wilder had recommended, the wit and wisdom of Novobazky. The speeches and mottos had survived Blenner’s initial disdain. Novobazky, the Emperor protect and rest his soul, had clearly been a motivating and inspiring man. Blenner had attempted to memorise some of the proclamations. He’d even practised them out loud to the shaving mirror in his quarters.