Gaunt took Beltayn’s hand. ‘It’s been an honour to serve with you, Dughan. But we will meet again.’
‘We’d better,’ said Beltayn, and ran off. Gaunt watched until his adjutant had vanished into the shrouding smoke.
He turned, and continued to advance.
Blood Pact bodies littered the mud, some already sinking into its fathomless embrace. Gaunt thought he’d find Ghost platoons ahead, but there was no sign of them. They’d pushed in beside him. Where the feth had they vanished to?
He reloaded his bolt pistol as he trudged forwards. He could smell the river. The spinning, twisting smoke was eclipsing the sky. All sounds and signs of fighting had abated.
His eyes started to hurt again. He couldn’t see far in the damned smoke.
Then he saw Nessa.
Nessa Bourah was one of his finest snipers. She’d served through the Vervunhive siege as part of the people’s resistance, and joined the Ghosts at liberation.
Nessa had taken up a shooting pitch in a muddy foxhole on the river bank, and was scoping for a target. Saturation bombing during the battle of Vervunhive had rendered her profoundly deaf. Without a spotter, she was entirely unaware of the Blood Pact trooper closing in behind her, machete raised.
Gaunt raised his bolt pistol, sighted it, and blew the Blood Pacter’s head off. Nessa jumped in surprise as the body crashed down beside her. She turned and raised her long-las.
It’s me, Gaunt signed.
Nessa lowered her rifle.
‘You took me by surprise,’ she said, in her delicious, slightly nasal accent.
‘Not as much as he would have,’ Gaunt suggested.
She touched his chin, and turned his face towards her.
‘So I can see!’ she demanded. ‘So I can see your mouth!’
Sorry, he signed.
He got down in the foxhole beside her, making sure she could see his face.
‘Where are the others? The others?’ he asked.
Nessa shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone. It’s quiet.’
‘Something’s wrong,’ he said.
‘What?’
Something’s wrong, he signed. He’d made a point of learning the art after Vervunhive. Nessa wasn’t the only deaf trooper in his regiment. Many of them, like Nessa, had eschewed augmetics, favouring the strength of silence in war.
‘We should be very quiet,’ she agreed.
If we should be quiet, why aren’t you signing to me? he signed.
‘I’m deaf. I can read your signing,’ she said. ‘How would you read mine?’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
Nessa reached out a hand and ran her finger along his cheek, circling his right eye.
‘I did like your eyes so very much,’ she said. ‘They were so strong. I suppose they can be replaced.’
‘Replaced? What are you talking about?’
‘They took your eyes, sir. Out in the wastelands of Jago, they took your eyes.’
‘What the feth are you talking about?’
She shrank back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘Knew what? No one’s taken my eyes. I can see you. Nessa, I can see you!’
‘Just like I can hear you,’ she replied. ‘It’s funny, that, isn’t it?’
‘Nessa–’
‘I’m sorry. I’m glad you can see me. I really am.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. His eyes had started to hurt again. The iron star was burning down through the smoke.
You’re blind and I’m deaf, she signed. What a great partnership. I just wish I could stay here with you.
‘Nessa?’ he cried. ‘Nessa?’
Gaunt was alone in the foxhole. Nessa had gone. Her long-las and ammo belt lay beside him, as if she’d just been there. He could still smell her.
‘I’m not blind,’ he told nobody. ‘I’m not blind. I can see this. I can see the river. I can see the bridge.’
The bridge seemed as far away as ever. As the smoke slowly cleared and dusk settled, Gaunt watched the bridge from the foxhole cover. He studied it through Nessa’s scope. Where had she gone? She’d been right there.
She’d been right–
He saw movement down by the bridge. He adjusted the scope and, by the evil light of the iron star, saw the black figures gathering at the mouth of the bridge. There were a dozen of them. They were watching him.
He took up the long-las, checked its load, and wondered about his aim. Could he hit one of them at this range? Nessa could, Larks too, but Gaunt was not a trained marksman. Maybe he could place a shot amongst them and scare them off.
They were beginning to annoy him. What did they want? Did they want him? Had they come for him? He wasn’t having that.
He lowered the rifle. There was no point wasting ammo. He was going to need it. He could hear drums, drums beating the skewed, alien tempos of the Sons of Sek.
There was going to be a great deal more bloodshed before the night was out.
He wondered if he had the strength to face it. He was so tired. His eyes hurt.
What had Nessa meant? Who took my eyes?
His body ached. Sleep seemed like such a perfect release. Just for a minute, perhaps? A few minutes sleep.
He closed his eyes.
There was a long, squealing tone, a warning note.
‘Flatline!’ Dorden cried.
‘Paddles!’ Curth yelled, tears in her eyes.
‘It’s no good–’
‘Paddles! Seventy mil adrenolec shunt! Another ten units!’
The note whined on.
‘Ana, it’s a flatline. There’s no purpose in prolonging–’
‘Give me the fething paddles now!’ she demanded.
He did not dream. There was only darkness. It was a lonely place. He couldn’t even sense the iron star any more. There was just a sound, a persistent whining note. It cut through his empty, dreamless darkness, droning, squealing, monotonous.
He woke with a start, slammed awake as if by some vast shock. The whining note quit, and was replaced by the thump of the enemy drums.
He was still in the foxhole. The world was cast in twilight. Who the feth cares anymore was just minutes away from nightfall.
Something had woken him. Some kind of contact had brought him back from the darkness of his sleep.
‘This’ll never do,’ a voice said.
He sat up. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Going to sleep on the job? You’d have given us double RIP duties if you’d caught us doing that,’ another voice chuckled.
‘Who’s there?’ Gaunt demanded, reaching for his bolt pistol. ‘I can’t see you! Who’s there?’
‘Of course you can’t see us,’ said a third voice. It was very flat and artificial, and carried no emphasis or emotion. It sounded sarcastic. ‘You can’t see anything.’
‘But it’s all right, sir,’ said a fourth voice, a young voice. ‘We can see you.’
‘So you’re safe,’ said the first voice. It was a rich, genial, reassuring voice. ‘For now, anyway.’
‘Gotta get moving, mind,’ said the flat sarcastic voice. ‘Can’t stay here forever.’
‘And we can only look after you for a little while,’ said the second, chuckling voice.
Gaunt rose to his feet, swinging the bolt pistol around blindly. ‘Show yourselves!’
‘Well, if it makes it easier for you,’ sighed the first voice.
Gaunt blinked. Four men were suddenly visible, crouching around the foxhole, staring in at him. They were Ghosts, in black Ghost kit, their weapons loose but ready in their hands.