He looked at the crumpled signal again. ‘Secure and hold south-western line – Millgate, Vapourial – and deny enemy action in zone.’
When he’d dictated that order, Grizmund had clearly intended some hab-to-hab clearance, and the construction of more permanent defences, pickets and trenches. But it was open to interpretation. Rawne was good at interpretation. ‘Deny enemy action in zone.’ That was the choice phrase. The enemy was taking some kind of action, it just wasn’t obvious.
Rawne had a gut feeling the Millgate assault had been a feint. Now he had specific orders to deny. He was going to follow them to the letter. There was intelligence to be gathered.
He looked at the officers around the table.
‘We’ll focus on sweeps, building by building,’ he told them. ‘Systematic, area by area. Advise all to err on the side of caution.’
‘Because of the civilians–’ Ludd began.
‘No, commissar. I mean the opposite. If in doubt, shoot.’
‘But–’ Pasha began.
‘No arguments,’ said Rawne. ‘I think the Archenemy is all over this area. Hiding like rats in the rubble. I’m not talking about stragglers and survivors. I’m talking active units. They’re up to something. My orders are to deny.’
Pasha looked grim. ‘We’re going to kill friendlies that way, sir,’ she said.
‘There may be some collateral,’ said Rawne. ‘Be clear to your squads. If in doubt, shoot.’
‘But–’ said Pasha.
‘How would the Ghosts take a city, major?’ Rawne asked. ‘Full on assault, or bleed in through the margins, probably while someone makes a very loud noise to draw attention from us?’
Pasha lowered her head.
‘We thought we were fighting off the attack the other day,’ said Rawne. ‘I think the real attack is happening now. Shoot first. Make that explicit to all. I’m not letting them through this line just because we think the danger’s passed and we can go easy.’
He walked down towards the esplanade. Elam and Obel followed him.
‘No one likes this,’ said Obel.
‘I don’t like it,’ Rawne said.
‘So, should we–’ Elam began.
‘I’m colonel now, so just follow my fething orders,’ said Rawne.
Zhukova was standing by the sea wall, staring out at the rusting shells of the agri-harvester boats. Rawne knew why she was there, and why the sight preoccupied her.
She turned as she heard him approach.
‘Help you, sir?’ she asked.
Rawne stood for a moment, staring at the rotting hulks.
‘He’s not dead,’ he said at last.
‘I fear he is,’ she replied.
Rawne shook his head.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Zhukova asked.
‘Because there’s nothing in this fething galaxy that can kill Oan Mkoll,’ he replied.
He looked at her.
‘He chose you for scout duties,’ he said. A statement, not a question.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go find Caober and Vivvo. Spread the word in the scout units. I want one alive.’
‘One…?’
‘One of them. A Son of Sek. We need intel.’
‘And you expect to get that out of a captured Archenemy trooper?’ she asked.
‘You have no idea how persuasive I can be,’ he replied.
‘What happened?’ asked Tona Criid.
Caober glanced at her sourly. ‘Non-combatants, sir,’ he said simply. He sighed and shrugged. Smoke was lifting off a small, walled yard beside the derelict habs ahead, and Criid could hear shouting and the misery of the stricken and wounded.
‘We were trying to clear that place,’ said Caober, gesturing to the hab. ‘Shooters in the higher floors. Larks got a bead on some movement in the yard, so Maggs tossed a grenade over the wall.’
Criid could guess the rest. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Civilians, hiding, trying to find shelter, caught in the crossfire. She watched the regiment corpsmen leading the injured out of the yard, men and women with burns and cuts from the shrapnel blast. They were sobbing, or wailing curses at the Ghosts. She saw children too. Nearby, she saw some Ghosts from Caober’s team unpacking bedrolls so they could be used to cover the dead still laying in the yard.
It was only going to get worse. Rawne had just issued a ‘shoot first’ order.
‘They must’ve known the civilians were there,’ she said.
‘Mmm?’ asked Caober.
‘The shooters,’ she said.
‘Oh yeah. They knew,’ said Caober. ‘Made a nice little buffer for the bastards. Shoot at us from up top, get us to storm in and kill our own. Bastards.’
He said the last word with a weary force that made Criid wince.
‘Where did they go?’ she asked. ‘The shooters? You clear the building?’
‘Of course, captain,’ Caober replied. ‘They’re gone. Off on their heels into the back streets while we were dealing with the injured.’
Criid looked at the wounded children Lesp was trying to patch up. They were sitting in the rain, caked in dirt, glazed eyes looking into forever as the corpsman attempted to clean and close the gashes on their faces.
‘They can’t have gone far,’ said Criid. She hoisted her lasrifle. ‘You lot, with me.’
The Ghosts she’d summoned moved in close to her, eyes dark.
‘You too, Maggs,’ she called.
Maggs was leaning against the wall, smoking a lho-stick, staring at his boots.
‘Leave him be,’ Caober whispered to her. Criid ignored the scout. Going soft never worked. When a man was rattled, you got him back in the game as fast as you could.
She could see Wes Maggs was struggling. He’d lobbed the grenade. The blood was on him.
‘Come on, Maggs,’ she called, beckoning, then turning away to show that she expected him to follow without her having to check.
They filed down the alley and onto the adjacent street. Roof tiles covered the roadway like shed scales, and the rain drummed down. They hugged the left side of the street, checking the blown-out fronts of shops. Something had taken the top off the public fountain at the end of the street, and a broken pipe was jutting from the throat of a decapitated griffon, heaving a fat, irregular column of water into the air.
Sergeant Ifvan signalled, indicating something across the street. Criid led the way, keeping three men back to supply cover. She reached the side wall of a low building that had once been some kind of street kitchen or eating hall. Criid could smell rotting food waste and rancid spilled fat. Ifvan and Maggs slid past her, weapons up and aimed.
‘Something in there,’ Ifvan whispered. Criid nodded. She noticed that Maggs’ index finger rested outside his trigger guard. He wasn’t going to shoot unless he was sure of a target.
She edged into the dark interior, her weapon up to her cheek, grimacing at the smell of the place. The floor was covered in broken pots and beakers and dented tin plates. Trestle tables had been overturned. A chalkboard had been blown off one wall, and lay face up, revealing the prices and choices of the day’s offerings, simple meals for the district mill workers.
She saw movement.
‘Hold!’ Maggs hissed.
He shone his flashlight. She saw huddled figures, a flash of blue.
‘Come out!’ she called. ‘Right now!’
There were six of them, ayatani priests in blue robes. They were dirty and soaked through, and looked at the Militarum troops with suspicion.
‘Praise be the Beati,’ mumbled one.
‘Praise be indeed,’ said Criid. ‘You sheltering here?’