[Gaunt's Ghosts 05] - The Guns of Tanith Page 21

  “Manufactured on Lucius forge world,” Babbist continued, “it’s the standard Guard variant of the assault jump pack. Smaller and lighter, not to mention more compact, than the heavy jobs used by the Adeptus Astartes. The Marines, Emperor bless ’em, need heavier duty babies to hold them in the air. Besides which, we’re not gods. We wouldn’t be able to stand up with one of the Astartes packs yoked to us.”

  Babbist leant the pack against his knees and opened his hands to his audience. “Remember how in Fundamental and Preparatory they told you your las was your best friend? Look after it and it’d look after you? Right, forget that. This is your new best friend. Get to know him intimately or you’ll end up a stain on the landscape. If your old friend the las complains, remind him that without your new friend here, he’s not going to see any action.”

  Larkin slowly raised a hand.

  Babbist frowned, surprised, and glanced at Mkoll.

  “Out with it, Larks,” Mkoll said.

  “Uh… is this just an interesting little lecture to occupy our minds during snack break… or should we conclude that at some point in our approaching yet ever fething shortening future, we’re going to be strapped to one of those things and thrown into the sky? Just asking. I mean, would we be right off the mark in connecting the… thrilling wire jumps we’ve been making off that lovely tower with a situation that combines one of those with a lot of screaming and looseness of bowel?”

  There was a well-judged pause. “No,” said Mkoll directly, and everyone, even Larkin, laughed despite the spears of anxiety that suddenly stabbed through them.

  “I see Trooper Larkin has sussed out what Operation Larisel has in store for you all,” said Babbist. “As a prize, he can come up here and help me demonstrate this baby.”

  Urged on by the Ghosts around him, Larkin got to his feet. “I’m not jumping out of anything,” he said as he walked over to Babbist.

  “Legs in the yokes, one step, two step…” Babbist said, directing Larkin’s hesitant motions. “And up we go… good. Forestraps over your shoulders as you take the weight.”

  “Feth!” baulked Larkin.

  “Hold it while I do up the waist cinch… okay, now feed those forestraps over to me.” Babbist snapped the metal tongues of the shoulder strap buckles into the spring-loaded lock that now rested against Larkin’s chest. “Then the leg straps up like so…” These too clunked into the chest lock. “Right. Just pull the yokes in a bit. That’s it. How does it feel?”

  “Like Bragg is sitting on me,” Larkin said, staggering with the weight. More laughing.

  “The type five weighs about sixty kilos,” Babbist said. “I’m dying here,” Larkin moaned, shifting uncomfortably.

  “That’s sixty kilos dormant,” Babbist added. He reached over and pulled down the pack’s hinged control arm. It now stuck out at waist height on Larkin’s left side, the joystick handgrip extending vertically in exactly the right place for his left hand to grasp it comfortably. The handgrip was a finger-moulded black sleeve of rubber set on a collar of milled metal with a fat red button sticking from its top.

  “Let’s try it active,” said Babbist. He lifted a small plate marked with a purity seal on the right flank of the pack and threw two rocker switches. Immediately the pack began to whine and throb, as if turbine power was building up inside it Babbist closed the plate again.

  “Feth me!” Larkin said, alarmed.

  “Relax,” said Babbist. “That’s just the fan rising to speed.” Babbist had a gentle grip on the handstick. He softly depressed the red button.

  “How’s that?”

  “Holy—” Larkin stammered. “The weight’s gone. I can’t feel it anymore.”

  “That’s because the antigrav units—” Babbist indicated the two metal balls that projected out above Larkin’s shoulders on their blunt antlers, “are taking the weight. The red button determines grav lift, people. I’m just touching it and it’s taking the weight of the pack. A tad more—”

  “Feth!” Larkin gurgled to more laughter. He had risen twenty centimetres off the ground and hung there, feet dangling.

  Babbist kept hold of the handgrip. “It’s touch sensitive. Depressing it just a little, like this, gives Larkin hover. If he was, say, dropping at terminal velocity, he’d probably need to depress it by two thirds for the same effect.”

  “So he could jump from a drop, press that red button, and hover?” Milo asked.

  “Yes. And pushing the button all the way gives lift,” said Babbist. He squeezed the button and Larkin rose again.

  “It’s a subtle thing. You’ll get the hang of how much thumb pressure works… deceleration, hover, lift. There’ll be time to practise. The other aspect of the pack is direction. There’s a powerful compressor fan inside there.” Babbist swung the floating Larkin around so they could see the pack on his back. “Here,” he said, “and here, here, here, here, and here.” He indicated louvres on the top, bottom and four corners of the pack. “Whether you’re pressing the red button or not, angling the handgrip will direct the internal fan via these ducts. In other words, you point the handgrip, like a joystick, whichever way you want to go and the compressor fan will give you the appropriate thrust.”

  Babbist yanked on the grip slightly and Larkin gusted sideways slightly. He yelped.

  “The combination of controls means that you can jump from a ship, control your rate of descent and manoeuvre yourself onto the target. Questions so far?”

  “How often do they fail?” Banda asked.

  “Virtually never,” said Babbist.

  “Call me Miss Virtually,” said Banda to a round of sniggering. “What about crosswinds?” asked Mkvenner. “With enough practice, you’ll know how to compensate for windshear with a balance of lift and directional thrust”

  “When do we get to have a go?” asked Vadim gleefully.

  Viktor Hark set down his stylus and sat back in his chair. It was late, the dome lights had dimmed, and his office, a makeshift corner of a machine shop near the regiment billets, was getting cold.

  Hark pushed aside the reams of notepaper and documents he had managed to accumulate, and picked up a data-slate. His thumb on the speed-scroll button, he surveyed the data. Caffran, Cuu, the evidence and witnesses for and against each of them. He sighed and tossed the slate aside. “You haven’t thought about Cuu, Gaunt,” he murmured to himself. “You’re so damn keen to get Caffran freed, you haven’t thought about the consequences.”

  Hark got to his feet, pulled on his leather storm coat and looked about for his cap. Unable to locate it he decided he’d do without it. He walked to the door, went out, locked it carefully behind him, and made off in the direction of the stairs. No going back now.

  “Gaunt?”

  He halted in his tracks and looked down. “No, father, he’s not here.”

  Zweil appeared below, moving up the staircase. “Oh, Viktor. I’m sorry. I thought you were Ibram.”

  “He’s out still, with Daur and Rawne. The second day of tactical briefings.”

  “A soldier’s lot is never done,” Zweil sighed. He had drawn level with Hark and now sat down on the steps.

  Hark paused. He hadn’t got time for this.

  He’d have to make time. He sat down on the gritty stairs next to Zweil.

  “How’re things?” Zweil asked.

  “Bad. Next big show is coming up and we’re still tied down to the stuff with Caffran and Cuu.”

  “Caffran didn’t do it, you know,” Zweil said. “You have evidence?”

  “Only the best kind,” Zweil tapped his forehead. “He told me. I believe him.”

  “That’s what we’re working on.” Hark said. “What about Cuu? Is he clean?”

  Zweil seemed to sulk.

  “Father ayatani?”

  “Cuu I don’t know,” Zweil said. “I’ve never met a man like him. I can’t read him.”

  “So he could be hiding something?”

  “He could also be a difficult person to read
. Everyone seems convinced that Cuu is the guilty one.”

  “He is,” said Hark.

  “Maybe, Viktor.”

  Hark tried to control his anxious breathing. “Father… how far would you go?”

  “On a date? I’m a man of the cloth! Although, it has to be said that in my youth—”

  “Forget your youth. Ayatani Zweil… you say you’re with us to answer the spiritual needs of the men. In clerical confidence, I believe? Answer this—”

  “Off you go.”

  “A man is blameless, palpably so, but you’ve been instructed to prove that innocence. And there is no solid proof you can find. How far do you go?”

  “Is this about Caffran?”

  “Let’s keep it hypothetical, father.”

  “Well… if I knew an innocent man was going to be punished for something he didn’t do, I’d fight it. Down to the wire.”

  “With no proof?”

  “Proof denies faith, Viktor, and without faith the God-Emperor is nothing.”

  “So if you were convinced you were in the right, you’d fight to correct that injustice however you could?”

  “Yes, I would.” Zweil was quiet for a while, studying the profile of Hark’s face. “Is this about Caffran?” he repeated.

  “No, father.” Hark got up from the steps and walked away.

  “Viktor? Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere that needs to concern you.”

  FIVE

  The court chamber was nothing special. A square room hung with black drapes. A raised stage in the centre of the room, with seats and long desks on three sides for the opposing councils and the presiding officials. No banners, no standards, no decoration. It was depressingly banal and plain, depressingly rudimentary.

  Gaunt took his seat on the defence side with his adjutant Beltayn and Captain Daur. There were four chairs, but no one had seen Hark since the previous night. The prosecution council — Fultingo and two aides — arranged themselves opposite Gaunt. A Commissariate clerk was laying out papers on the court table while another adjusted and set the vox/pict drone that hovered at the edge of the platform to document the proceedings.

  “All rise and show respect!” one of the clerks announced, and chairs scraped back as Commissar Del Mar and two senior commissars strode in and took their places behind the centre table.

  “Be seated,” said Del Mar curtly. He flicked through the papers laid out in front of him and handed a data-slate to one of the clerks.

  “I have a time of 09.01 Imperial, 221.771 M41. Mark that. Court is now in session. Clerk of the court, please announce the first case on the docket. Let the accused be brought in.”

  “Imperial Phantine Taskforce, courts martial hearing number 57, docket number 433.” The clerk read from the slate in a loud, nasal voice. “Trooper Dermon Caffran, 3rd Section, Tanith First Light Infantry, to answer a charge of murder, first degree.”

  As he was speaking, armed Urdeshi soldiers walked Caffran into the hall and stood him in the middle of the open side of the stage facing Del Mar. His wrists were manacled, but he had been allowed to shave and put on his number one uniform. He looked pale but determined. In fact, his face looked strangely expressionless. Lad’s scared stiff, Gaunt thought. And no wonder. He nodded to Caffran and the young man made a very brief, nervous response, a little tilt of his chin.

  There was something odd about Caffran, and it took a moment for Gaunt to realise it was the fact that the boy still had thick hair. Locked away, he’d missed the shearing and fumigation. Gaunt smiled to himself wryly, feeling the itch of his own fresh-shaved scalp.

  “Where’s Hark?” he whispered aside to Daur.

  “Damned if I know, sir.”

  Del Mar cleared his throat. “A word to both councils before we get into this. I don’t wish to appear as if I’m diminishing the gravity of the crime, but this case has become unnecessarily protracted. I want it finished. Speedily. That means no delaying antics, and a minimum of witnesses.” Del Mar made a light gesture in the direction of the papers in front of him, one of which was the call-list of witnesses Gaunt had submitted to the clerk. “No character witnesses. Expert and eye witnesses only. Is that clear, colonel-commissar?”

  “Yes, sir.” It was clear. Gaunt didn’t like it but it was clear. Bang went the majority of names on his list.

  “And you, Fultingo,” said Del Mar. “I expect decent procedure from you too. Don’t start in on anything that will provoke the defence council into… digressions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Read the particulars, please.”

  The clerk rose again. “Be it known to the courts martial that on the night of 214 last, citizen Onti Flyte, resident of the Cirenholm South Mill second shift workforce housing, was assaulted and stabbed to death in her place of habitation.”

  “Commissar Fultingo?”

  Fultingo rose to his feet, and took a data-slate from his aide. “Onti Flyte was a widow and a mother of three. Like all the residents of that district, she had just been rehoused by the liberation forces, following detention under the enemy occupation. The resident families were brought back to the South Mill habitat under escort during the course of that evening. Only a short while after returning to her home — we judge somewhere between 21.50 and 23.00 — she was attacked and murdered in her outhouse. The murder was committed using a long, straight knife, matching in all particulars the distinctive warknife carried by all Tanith infantry. An individual fitting the description of a Tanith trooper was seen leaving the vicinage at that time. The victim’s eldest son, Beggi Flyte, later positively identified Trooper Caffran as the assailant. Deployment logs for the night show that Trooper Caffran was one of the escort detail assigned to South Mill.”

  Fultingo looked up from the slate. “In short, lord commissar, there seems to be little room for doubt. We have the right man. I urge you to rule so that punishment may be carried out.”

  He sat down. Caffran hadn’t moved. “Gaunt?” Del Mar invited.

  Gaunt got up. “Lord, no one, not even Caffran himself, denies that he was present in the area that night. Furthermore, Caffran admits seeing and speaking with the victim and her family. He remembers escorting her to her home and making sure she was settled. The prosecution depends squarely on the identification made by the victim’s son. The boy is very young. Given the terrible stress suffered by all Cirenholmers during the occupation, and adding to that the ghastly death of his mother, he is deeply, pitifully traumatised. He may easily have identified the wrong man. He had seen Caffran close up during the rehousing. When asked to pick out a Tanith trooper, he chose Caffran because he was the only one whose face he clearly recognised. I move we drop the charge and release Trooper Caffran. The real killer is yet to be prosecuted.”

  Fultingo was back on his feet before Gaunt had even sat down. “There we have the whole meat and drink of it lord commissar. Gaunt expects us to believe this bright intelligent boy would forget the face of his mother’s killer, and simply recall the face of a soldier who helped them briefly earlier the same night. We really are wasting time. A mass of circumstantial evidence points to Trooper Caffran, and the positive ID clinches it. The defence can offer nothing, I repeat nothing substantial in the way of evidence to contradict the prosecution’s case. Just this whimsical theory of trauma-related mistaken identity. Please, sir, may we not simply end this now?”

  Del Mar waved Fultingo back into his seat and looked at Gaunt. “I am tempted to agree, Gaunt. Your point has some merit but it’s hardly an ironclad defence. The soldier admits that he was ‘helping out in the area until about midnight’. Many saw him, but not so positively or for so long that he could not have found the time to carry out this heinous act. If you’ve nothing else to add, I will close the session.”

  Gaunt stood up again. “There is one piece of evidence,” he said. “Caffran couldn’t have done it With respect to your comments about character, I have to insist on stating the fact that Caffran is a sound, moral indi
vidual with a spotless record. He is simply not capable of such a crime.”

  “Objection,” growled Fultingo. “You’ve already said character has no relevance, lord.”

  “I am aware of what I said, commissar,” Del Mar replied. “Seeing as Gaunt has chosen to ignore my instruction, may I remind him that for all his spotless character, Caffran is a soldier He is a killer. Killing is not beyond him.”

  “Caffran serves the Emperor as we all do. But he understands the difference between killing on a battlefield and predatory murder. He could not do it.”

  “Gaunt!”

  “Lord, would you send a basic infantryman to crew a mortar or a missile rack? No. He wouldn’t have the ability. Why then would you maintain so staunchly that Caffran had done something he simply doesn’t have the moral or emotional ability to undertake?”

  “That’s enough, Gaunt!”

  The door at the back of the room opened suddenly and Hark hurried in. As quietly as possible, he took his seat next to Gaunt.

  “My apologies,” he said to the court.

  “You might as well have not bothered showing up at all, Hark. We’re done here.”

  Hark rose and handed a slip of paper to the clerk, who brought it round to Del Mar.

  “Craving your patience, lord commissar, I submit the name of one last witness to be appended to the list.”

  Gaunt looked surprised.

  “Objection!” snapped Fultingo.

  “Overruled, Fultingo,” said Del Mar reading the slip. “It’s late and it’s annoying, but it’s not against the rules. Very well, Hark, with Colonel-Commissar Gaunt’s permission, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  It was cold out in the gloomy hall outside the courtroom. Tona Criid sat on a side bench under an oil painting of a particularly ugly Chief of Arbites and fidgeted. She’d come to give Caff her support, maybe even speak up for him if she was allowed, although Daur had advised her that character witnesses were unlikely to be heard.

  But she hadn’t even been permitted to observe.