Free Ghostmaker by Dan Abnett

intoning prayers of function as he made the sacred machines ready. They were still propped in their half-open wrought-iron casings to protect against the damp, and thick power feeds snaked off from them and ran from clip supports on the rafters, out of a socket-shutter and off to the distant generator. Lights and light images shimmered and flickered on glass plates glossed by condensation. Setting dials throbbed a dull orange. The vox-link made a low-level serpent hiss as it rose and fell through frequencies.
    Gaunt leaned forward and idly surveyed the latest information and tactical data coming through from the orbital fleet and other units. A skein of coded runes crossed and blinked on the dark glass.
    Quiet as nightfall, Milo entered from the ante-room. He offered a pewter beaker to his commissar. Gaunt took it with a nod, delighting at the beaded coolness of the metal.
    “The tech-priests got the cooling units working again just now,” Milo muttered by way of explanation. “For a few minutes. It’s only water, but it’s cold.”
    Gaunt nodded his appreciation and sipped. The water was metallic and sharp, but it was deliciously cool.
    There was a thump on the outside step, then a quiet knock at the door. Gaunt smiled. The thump had been deliberate, a reassuring advance warning from a man who made no sound if he did not wish to.
    “Come in, Mkoll,” Gaunt said.
    Mkoll entered, his lined face a little quizzical as if surprised at being recognised in advance. “Patrol report, sir,” he said, standing stiffly in the doorway.
    Gaunt gestured him to a seat. Mkoll’s battledress and cloak were drenched in wet mud. Everything including his face was splattered — everything except his lasgun, miraculously clean.
    “Let’s have it.”
    “Their positions are still far back,” Mkoll began, “beyond the offensive line coded alpha pink. A few forward patrols.”
    “Trouble?”
    The powerful, wiry man grimaced noncommittally. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
    “I’ve always admired your modesty,” Gaunt said, “but I need to know.”
    Mkoll screwed up his mouth and nose. “We took six of them in the western swamps. No losses on our side.”
    Gaunt nodded approval. He liked Mkoll, the Tanith’s finest scout. Even in a regiment of stealthers and covert warriors, Mkoll was exceptional. A woodsman back home on lost Tanith, he had reconnaissance skills that had proved themselves time and again to the Ghosts. A ghost amongst ghosts, and modest with it. He never bragged, and it was certain he had more to brag about than most.
    Gaunt offered his beaker to the man.
    “Thank you, sir, no.” Mkoll looked down at his hands.
    “It’s cold,” Gaunt assured him.
    “I can tell. But no. I’d rather go without something I could get used to.”
    Gaunt shrugged and sipped again. “So they’re not moving?”
    “Not yet. We sighted a… I’m not sure what it was, an old ruin of some kind.” Mkoll rose and pointed to a position on the wall chart. “Around here, far as I can tell. Could be nothing, but I’d like to follow it through with a survey in the morning.”
    “An enemy position?”
    “No, sir. Something… that was already here.”
    “You’re right: deserves a look. In the morning then,” Gaunt agreed. “If that’ll be all, sir?”
    “Dismissed, Mkoll.”
    “I’ll never get the measure of him,” Gaunt said to Milo after Mkoll had left. “Quietest man I’ve ever known.”
    “That’s what he does, isn’t it, sir?” Milo said. “What?”
    “Quiet.”

THREE
SOUND AND FURY
     
     
    All around there was a hushing sound, as if the whole world wanted to silence him.
    Mkoll bellied in low amid the forest of ferns, trying to pick through the oceanic rushing sound they made as the wind stirred them. The fern growth in that part of Ramillies 268-43, flourishing on the thin, ashy soils of the long-cold volcanic slopes, was feathery and fibrous, mottled stalks rough as cane rising three man-heights into swaying multi-part fronds as white as water-ice.
    They reminded him of the