He turned and called, ‘Hark? Can we try to make this look reasonably professional?’
Women and children were looking out of the middle floor windows of the hab blocks.
‘Back inside, please!’ Rawne yelled, pointing at them.
The Chimera’s hatch swung open. Two Tempestus Scions in gleaming grey carapace armour stomped out, followed by two more. They glanced around the yard, eyed the assembling Ghosts with mute contempt, then took up a line, four abreast, facing the company, hellguns across their chests.
‘What are the fething glory boys here for?’ Elam whispered.
‘Something’s awry,’ murmured Beltayn.
Gaunt stepped down the Chimera’s ramp. He winced into the sunlight, and pulled his storm coat close around him. Then he strode past the motionless Scions and stopped, face to face with Rawne and Kolea.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Sir,’ said Rawne. ‘What’s the big fuss?’
Gaunt glanced over his shoulder at the Scions.
‘Them?’ he said. He grunted. ‘They’ve been assigned. To me.’
‘What for?’ asked Kolea.
‘Close protection.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Rawne.
Gaunt smiled, and shook his head.
‘I’ve been asking myself that,’ he said.
‘There’s no one else in the transport?’ asked Kolea. ‘No lord general about to surprise us with an inspection?’
‘No,’ said Gaunt.
‘No one important?’ asked Rawne.
‘No,’ said Gaunt, more emphatically. ‘Everyone can stand down. Just relax.’
He glanced at the ranks Hark had assembled, and the officers waiting with them.
‘Stand down!’ he called, pointing to them. ‘Please, stand down and go back to your breakfasts.’
He started to turn back to Rawne and Kolea.
‘This is going to get aggravating very quickly,’ he began.
But Rawne grabbed at him. He grasped the front of Gaunt’s storm coat and dragged it open. As Gaunt had pointed to the ranks, the coat had parted slightly, and Rawne had seen something.
‘What the feth is this?’ he said.
‘Well,’ said Gaunt. ‘I’m going to tell you about that…’
‘Is that real?’ asked Kolea, wide-eyed, staring at the gold eagle crest pinned to Gaunt’s chest that Rawne was unveiling.
The four Scions were suddenly all around them, aiming their weapons directly at Rawne. Rawne froze.
‘Remove your hands,’ said their leader, his grinding voice amplified by his threatening visor, ‘from the person of the militant commander now!’
‘You heard the instruction, scum!’ barked another. Their optics glowed pinpoint red as auto-aiming systems kicked in.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ said Kolea.
‘I’m letting him go! I’m letting him go!’ Rawne exclaimed, releasing his grip.
Gaunt looked at the lead Scion.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Sancto, lord.’
‘Tempestor Sancto, this “scum” is my second in command. You will extend him every courtesy you extend to me.’
‘Lord.’
‘Now go and stand by the truck. No, go and face the fething wall. All of you!’
‘Lord?’
‘Did you not fething hear me, Scions? I’m a fething militant commander and you will do as I fething say, without question!’
‘Yes, lord!’
The four turned, marched away, and stood in a perfect line facing the fabricatory, their backs to the yard.
Gaunt looked at Kolea and Rawne.
‘Clearly,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘clearly, I have to get a better handle on that. Not going to win friends that way.’
‘You’re a fething militant commander?’ asked Rawne.
‘I fething am, Eli,’ said Gaunt.
‘Are you… fething kidding?’ asked Kolea.
Gaunt shook his head. He looked at them. It had gone extraordinarily quiet in the yard.
‘Throne, your fething faces…’ Gaunt smiled.
‘I don’t know whether to punch you or hug you,’ said Rawne.
‘Saluting would probably be the best option,’ whispered Kolea. He turned. ‘Commissar Hark?’
Hark swung to face the ranks, straight-backed.
‘Tanith First, attention!’ he bellowed. ‘Tanith First, salute!’
The men snapped to attention and made the sign of the aquila.
‘Tanith First, three cheers for our militant commander!’
Applause and cheering erupted across the yard. In the windows, the retinue and troopers too late to reach the parade whooped and waved. The chant ‘First and only! First and only!’ started up.
Gaunt shook Rawne’s hand.
‘You fething bastard,’ said Rawne.
‘Congratulations, sir,’ said Gol, shaking Gaunt’s hand as soon as Rawne had let it go.
Mkoll patted Gaunt on the shoulder.
‘Tears in your eyes, chief?’ Gaunt asked.
‘Not a one, sir,’ said Mkoll.
‘Are you lying, Oan?’
‘Allergies, sir.’
The men came over, clapping and chanting, mobbing around him.
‘You cheeky fether!’ Varl laughed, then added, ‘sir.’
‘I never thought I’d live to see the day, sir,’ said Larkin. Gaunt gave the old marksman a hug.
‘I see high command’s finally made a decision I approve of,’ cried Hark.
‘I hope you don’t come to regret that remark, Viktor,’ replied Gaunt. They embraced, Hark bear-hugging Gaunt so tightly he lifted him off the ground for a moment.
From the doorway of the hab, Criid and Curth watched Gaunt moving through the mob of applauding, cheering troopers. Criid’s grin was broad, Curth’s smaller and sadder.
‘Rawne’s got to tell him,’ she said.
‘He will,’ said Criid.
‘He’s got to do it now. It can’t wait. He’ll find out any moment.’
‘He’ll tell him, Ana,’ said Criid.
‘Let him have this moment,’ said Blenner from behind them. They turned. Blenner looked very bleary and hungover, but there was a look of pride on his face, and he was welling up.
‘Let him have this one moment, for feth’s sake,’ he said.
He pushed past them into the yard, walking towards the crowd, raising his hands and clapping enthusiastically.
‘I’ve got a band somewhere, I seem to think!’ he was yelling. ‘Why aren’t they gakking well playing? Come on! Ibram, you old dog! You old dog!’
Wet from the freezing shower, a towel kilted around his waist, Dalin raced down the hab hallway, his wet feet slipping and slamming him off the walls. The hab around him was rocking with chanting and cheering. Down in the yard outside, the band had started playing, not well but exuberantly.
‘Felyx!’ Dalin yelled. ‘Felyx, get up! Get up! Get up now!’
He burst into the room. Felyx was out of bed and half dressed. As Dalin crashed in, Felyx let out a howl and grabbed a blanket, dragging it around himself.
‘Oh my Throne!’ Dalin gasped, stopping in his tracks.
‘Don’t you ever fething knock? Don’t you?’ Felyx yelled at him.
‘Oh my fething Throne…’ Dalin stammered. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry!’
He turned to exit, floundering.
Wrapped in the blanket, Felyx pushed past him and slammed the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dalin, staring at the inside of the door.
‘You don’t tell anyone,’ said Felyx. ‘Understand?’
‘Y-yes!’ said Dalin.
‘Do you understand? You don’t tell anyone,’ she said.
Eighteen: And Stones