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Viktor Hark considered Rawne his closest friend within the Tanith First-and-Only. As close as he could be to someone he’d eventually have to execute for mutiny, anyways. He was a pragmatic man.
Most of the regiment still despised Hark— even after he’d earned Gaunt’s personal seal of approval, even after months of fighting beside them. This was a regiment with a long memory. But Rawne met him with respect untinged by fear, which had grown into an acerbic camaraderie that even verged into genuine honesty, if he felt like bragging. Rawne was no stranger to unpopularity, and Hark liked to think their mutual struggle to win the respect of the Tanith had brought them into an alliance.
On Hagia, when they’d first met, he’d been certain he knew the whole of Rawne before they’d ever exchanged a word. One glance at the personnel files told him everything he needed to know: this was a dangerous dissident with a personal grudge. A mundane, two dimensional threat, easy to grab by the leash and direct as needed. It was a wonder Gaunt hadn’t shot him already.
(That should have been Hark’s first clue of Gaunt’s rose coloured glasses towards the Tanith.)
Left alive, he became the ace up Hark’s sleeve for if he was forced to move against the Colonel-Commissar. Everyone knew Rawne was waiting to turn on his commander; if Hark could provide the opportunity, he wasn’t above using every resource available. A simple, elegant plan. Hark liked the irony: if Gaunt had been able to properly perform his duty as commissar and weed out weakness from his ranks, there wouldn’t have been anyone for Hark to use against him. Undone by the very reason his undoing was necessary.
So when he had tried to strip Gaunt of his command, and Rawne had sided with Gaunt instead, the shock had come as a physical blow— the kind that caved in your chest and left you unable to think or act, only gasp pathetically. He’d lost, and failed, on the crux of his miscalculation of a man’s character. And calculating a man’s character was his job as commissar. He’d been so ashamed he’d wished Gaunt would shoot him, as was the victor’s right.
Never let it be said he hadn’t benefitted from Gaunt’s mercy; he still lived. Such being the case, he made certain he wouldn’t be taken so off guard a second time. After months of study, he could confidently claim he understood the players now: Rawne, and Gaunt, and the Tanith First.
It was satisfying to finally get a handle on this tight lipped malcontent. To understand what made him tick. Rawne was not an easy man to get to know, and even when you were in his trust he was grating and cruel. But Hark had persevered, and now he likely had a better handle on him than anyone else. Even Gaunt. He didn’t hobble himself with the blinders of optimism, as Gaunt did, or discard him out of hand, as was his previous mistake. He looked at Rawne straight on and saw him truly, in all of his complexities. And it turned out that he enjoyed the man.
These days, he was trying to avoid a coup rather than cause one, even as Gaunt flirted obliviously with mutiny from both ends of the chain of command. It left Hark with the riveting side hobby of damage control, made more complicated by the fact that he had to do it when Gaunt wasn’t looking. Emperor forbid he prevent Gaunt from destroying his own career.
So when Hark saw Rawne hurry through a service doorway into the isolated bowels of the drogue, the same doorway Gaunt had passed through alone a few minutes before, he decided it was a good time to conveniently have a reason to talk to Gaunt too.
It wasn’t out of the question that Rawne needed to speak to Gaunt for legitimate reasons— he was the third in command, after all. They frequently had to interact, sometimes even privately. (Because going on a scouting mission alone with the officer who wants to kill you is a great idea.)
Rawne hadn’t looked suspicious— he hadn’t been creeping quietly or throwing furtive looks over his shoulder. In fact, he’d charged right through the barracks with a stride that screamed Don’t fucking stop me, I’m very busy and don’t have time for you. The walk of an overworked officer with too many problems on his plate. To Hark’s commissarial eye, it was also the walk of someone with enough experience breaking rules to know that the best way to sneak was to look like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, and that anyone who suggested otherwise was a fool.
And it was two weeks since the liberation of Ouranberg. Those gaps between missions, where enough time had passed for soldiers to lick their wounds and start to get antsy, were where trouble festered. Without a mission to unite them and mortal terror to distract them, soldiers got bored. Fights broke out, civilians got robbed, old grudges reignited. And Rawne had had a lot of complaints about Gaunt’s choices at Ouranberg. Hark had listened to them repeatedly. At length.
To conclude: the timing, combined with the isolated location, and a certain illicit air? It pricked Hark’s senses like a bloodhound. So he set down the book he was pretending to read (he had meant to read it, truly, but had ended up watching how the men used their downtime over the top of the pages instead) and followed Rawne through the doorway.
It led to a snaking, narrow corridor, grim and industrial, control panels and maintenance hatches lining the walls. Purity seals on the electronics fluttered in the breeze of recycled air. It smelled of ozone, the chemical used to purify the toxic exterior atmosphere. The scent permeated the entire drogue, although it was only noticeable in sections that were rarely occupied, where it hadn’t been plastered over with fyceline or sweat. Amber safety lights shut in metal cages on the ceiling worked more to throw weird shadows in the corridor than properly illuminate the space.
He tread lightly, sticking to the supportive cross beams and not the grating between, to keep his boots from clicking as he walked. The floor’s centre was worn shiny by footsteps, but the sides of the hallway was dark and grimy with years of dust and chemical residue. Once away from the masses in the barracks, Rawne softened his step as well, passing through the deserted halls like one of his namesake ghosts. He was far enough ahead that Hark only caught fleeting glimpses of him as he turned corners and descended rusty service ladders. In those snapshots Rawne’s posture had turned anticipatory. Hungry. A subtle pointed energy that someone who didn’t know him as well as Hark did never would have noticed. Hark lengthened his stride to keep up.
They descended down, down, deep into the drogue’s intestines, the air getting colder. Hark didn’t worry about losing him. Every door was pressure sealed in case of hull breach, and opening one was a lengthy, noisy affair. What he was worried about was Rawne acting against Gaunt before Hark was there to see it happen.
The door to Hangar 34C was already open. The bulb above it flickered erratically, playing writhing shadows up the walls. Hark should have guessed this was their destination. Rawne ducked through the hatch without looking behind him, his body one long straining line towards his target, a pointer dog on the hunt. Hark melted through after him, hugging the warm shadows.
The hangar felt huge after the narrow, claustrophobic halls. Its high ceilings, vaulted like a cathedral, were enmeshed in a web of dangling wires and cables. They swooped down to attach to the huge scaffolding tower that rose from the centre of the room, nerves shooting off of a spine. Peeling exercise mats surrounded it, and crates of equipment and mouldering target dummies cluttered the rest of the floor. Hark slid in behind a stack of crates filled with lasrifle clips, his dark uniform melting into the gunmetal.
Of course, he didn’t need to hide. He could have walked up and joined the conversation outright, since he had every right to be there. He had toyed with the idea as he had tracked Rawne through the corridor, considering how he wanted to play this. If Rawne was going to try anything, it was diplomatic to head it off early, while he still had plausible deniability. If he didn’t give Rawne a chance to act, he wouldn’t have to punish Rawne for it.
But part of him wanted to see what Gaunt would do. An electric tension had been building like a storm around Rawne as they’d descended towards the hangar. Would Gaunt notice? Or would his blind spot towards Rawne’s malice swallow it completely? If Rawne attacked him, would he be surprised?
It would do Gaunt’s discipline some good to have the cruelty lurking within his own men thrown back at his face. The man was begging for a reality check, though it would take one with the subtlety of a knife to the throat. His naivete was dangerous. He saw the Tanith First as a beloved lapdog to be coddled, rather than an aggressive mutt that needed to be brought to heel to keep it from being put down. His tender heart towards his men would ruin him if Hark couldn’t find a way to cauterize it. A scare, nothing more— Hark was right there to intervene before things got too nasty. And he wouldn’t mind a little gratitude for it.
Sure, Rawne would end up before a firing squad by sunset if Hark waited until he tried his luck. But that’s something he should have considered before assaulting a superior officer. Hark would miss his dry comments. But order had to be maintained.
Gaunt stood at the edge of the mats, staring up the tower, hat in his hands. It was so dark in the room Hark only recognized him by his silhouette: the sharp arc of his nose, the slash of his cheekbone. Neither man had bothered to turn on the harsh overhead lighting, and the amber pools of the emergency lights were nothing more than islands in the darkness. The ozone smell had grown strong enough to be stifling, building up in the sealed room without anyone visiting to air it out.
A week before, this had been the training ground of Operation Larisel, Gaunt’s top secret assassination mission that came straight from the lips of the Lord-General. Now it stood empty, still waiting to be cleaned now that the mission was complete, passed over in favour of all the more pressing logistics of keeping an army running. The somber quiet of the hangar made it feel like the room itself was in mourning. Its keepers didn’t need it anymore. They were in the infirmary, or reduced to a smear of blood, to be mopped up and disposed of in their own turn.
Gaunt seemed so absorbed by the tower, he didn’t even turn as Rawne approached him from behind. Hark could have strangled him. He was asking to be shot in the back. This was why his job was so hard, because Gaunt pulled shit like this. Hark knew that Rawne would never kill Gaunt without the chance to look in his eyes while he did it. But surely Gaunt had no idea that it was Rawne approaching just by the sound of his footsteps— for all he knew it could be anyone alone in here with him, with any intent.
Rawne stopped beside Gaunt in a contrapposto slouch, a hair closer than professional. Gaunt angled his face towards him just slightly. Acknowledgement. In the dim haze the two tall, lean figures looked like spectres as they stared up at the central tower.
They spoke in low voices, but sound carried, echoing off the metal walls.
“Larkin is improving.” Gaunt fiddled with his cap, turning it over and over between his hands.
“Mad Larks is living up to his name. You’ve broken him. Fat lot of good his trigger finger’s going to be now.” That was Rawne, low and cold.
“He’s pulled through worse. You remember Bucephalon?”
“You don’t know what he’s been through.”
Gaunt turned towards Rawne. The emergency bulbs backlit him like a halo, picking out his lowered eyelashes. He looked almost coy. “I didn’t think you liked Larkin.”
If Hark was colonel-commissar, he would have reprimanded Rawne from the first sentence. Rawne was always too disrespectful, too vicious, and Gaunt encouraged it by not disciplining him.
Rawne tore his eyes from the tower. His expression was stormy, brows drawn down over his eyes like an incoming cloud. “I don’t. But the best sniper in our regiment is now useless because you sent him on a suicide mission. He was a limited resource, and now he’s spent. And that feths the rest of us over.”
“Operative Larisel saved lives by breaking the Blood Pact—”
Rawne kept talking, his voice rising to choke Gaunt’s words. “Our best sniper, our best scout, even your favourite mascot Brin—”
Gaunt’s eyes snapped up, Rawne’s electric tension jumping to him like chain lightning. That had struck a nerve. With the smell of ozone in the air it felt like they were in the tense, stretched out moment between hearing the clap of thunder and watching lightning strike, waiting to see what would be obliterated. Rawne’s lip twitched, like there was something eminently funny about baiting bears. Hark lowered his hand slowly, so slowly, to the grip of his gun.
Gaunt leaned closer, the silhouettes of their bodies overlapping into one. “What would you have preferred? I send second string soldiers knowing they’d be more likely to fail?”
Rawne leaned in too, not to be outdone. “If they’re going to come back useless either way, then yes, send someone actually expendable to be the Lord-General’s sacrificial lambs.”
“Rawne, do you think I saved you from Tanith so you could live?”
With a guttural roar, Rawne’s hand met Gaunt’s throat and slammed him against a stack of crates. The bone rattling crack of his body against metal echoed like a gunshot, and Hark flinched deeper into cover on instinct. He slid his pistol from the holster, fingering the safety off, his hand knowing the body of his gun like a lover.
Rawne had one arm in a bar across Gaunt’s collarbone, his other hand pressed flat against his windpipe, bringing his whole weight down to bear on the pale column of his throat, face contorted into a snarl.
Gaunt was caught in a paroxysm of surprise, his whole body trembling, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides in jerky, erratic spasms. He gasped underneath Rawne’s hands, his open, wet mouth catching the light. Hark leaned in, eyes rapt on Gaunt’s face as it grew redder by shades, as his gasps grew thin and hoarse, as tears leaked out of the corners of his bloodshot eyes and ran shiny tracks down his face. Hark was barely breathing himself, his whole body taut and focused and straining.
Almost. Almost. Let Gaunt be pushed to the brink before he swooped in like a righteous angel. A tingling excitement thrilled through him, down his chest and through his thighs, to see Gaunt laid low and vulnerable and know that he was in control of the whole situation. It would be by his mercy that Gaunt ever got to breathe again. He raised his pistol and took careful aim at Rawne’s head.
Rawne leaned in to whisper something in Gaunt’s ear, hiding his face behind Gaunt’s own and forcing Hark to readjust his aim. The back, then. This was his moment. But some weakness of the flesh made him hesitate, straining to hear Rawne’s last words.
They were inaudible over Gaunt’s gasps, the suggestion of a sentence caressing his ears. Gaunt alone heard his words, and they had a profound effect on him. His eyes widened and he fisted his hands into the front of Rawne’s uniform, jerking him close so they were chest to chest, their legs tangled together. Rawne laughed like a whip crack.
Then he leaned in and sealed Gaunt’s mouth in a savage kiss.
What the actual fuck?
Gaunt groaned into Rawne’s mouth, long and drawn out, fading into a little whimper as Rawne pressed down on his throat. Rawne kissed him deeply, possessively, with a confidence that made it clear his mouth was very familiar with Gaunt’s own. Gaunt trembled under his ministrations, clutching Rawne even tighter against him, mouth open and eager.
When Gaunt’s eyes started to roll back, Rawne drew away, loosening his grip. Gaunt heaved the great wheezing gasp of a drowning man. Rawne drank it in, pulling back so their open mouths were only barely touching as Gaunt sucked in hungry breaths. His eyes devoured the look on Gaunt’s face, his thumb softly stroking Gaunt’s jugular. Gaunt looked drunk, face flushed, eyes heavy lidded, melting into Rawne’s body.
It was pathetic. It was humiliating. It was downright obscene.
Hark watched, hypnotized, as they kissed. Hungrily, angrily, biting at each other’s lips, clawing at each other’s clothes. He’d never imagined kissing as something that could be violent. Gaunt struggled against Rawne’s arm bar, chasing after him every time Rawne pulled back. Rawne jerked him forward by his jacket and slammed him back against the crates again, pressing himself so closely against Gaunt it was like he was trying to crush Gaunt’s whole body the way he’d crushed his neck. Gaunt grinned at him, lips shiny and red, eyes wild.
Rawne got his hand back around Gaunt’s throat. Gaunt pulled him in by the collar for another kiss.
Hark’s eyes followed the long line of their intertwined bodies, from their hungry mouths to their pressed hips to their tangled legs. There was a dark shape on the floor beside them, and he realized it was Gaunt’s peaked cap. He had dropped it in the frenzy and it sat, lonely and trampled, on the rusting floor, its aquila knocked askew. The double headed eagle stared straight at Hark.
Hark had come here to persecute Rawne for assaulting a superior officer. An offence taken seriously by the Commissariate; it would lead to a summary execution, likely without trial. Hark could have shot Rawne before they’d kissed and would have been deemed justified in the execution of his duties. Straightforward and clean cut.
But impropriety towards a subordinate? That was a crime rarely persecuted; instead swept under the rug, ignored, dismissed for lack of evidence. And what evidence did he have? His word, against Gaunt and Rawne’s in front of a Lord-General who seemed to think the sun shined out of Gaunt’s ass. If he tried to create a case it would get twisted somehow, the truth turning into wriggling, biting eels and escaping his grasp. Rawne would lie and scheme and deny, leaning on his known hatred for his superior. Gaunt would skirt the issue without ever lying, citing lack of evidence and other technicalities to weasel into the ruling he wanted. Gaunt would come out blameless with his reputation inexplicably no worse for wear, while Hark would be dragged through the mud. And Gaunt would think the trial had been perfectly just and fair, his saintly moral code intact, blind to the way the world warped around the sheer force of his personality. And afterwards, Rawne would smile at him, that cold, satisfied smile of a snake, and know he had outplayed Hark again. He ground his teeth at the thought.
Crouching there and watching them kiss, he felt like he was back on Hagia, with a dozen guns pointed at him for the great crime of being the only man willing to stand up to Gaunt.
The pair played out the same ritual, Rawne pressing down on Gaunt’s neck and forcing his tongue down his throat until he turned red, then easing off and kissing him lazily as he sucked down fresh air. It was not a quiet affair. Gaunt gasped and moaned and whimpered as Rawne played him like a bellows, Rawne replying with hungry murmurs. Even if he closed his eyes, Hark would be able to picture the scene by sound alone, in minute detail, playing in lurid technicolour behind his eyelids.
He didn’t close his eyes. He had to stay and witness; to diagnose, even if only to himself, the depth of this rot. Commissarial duty demanded it. A morbid curiosity stole over him like a shiver to see how far they would take this. How much did Gaunt truly trust Rawne? If Rawne kept pushing, and didn’t let up, would Gaunt fight back? Would he have any strength left to do it?
Gaunt did not look afraid. If anything, he looked desperate. Hands fisted white-knuckled into Rawne’s jacket, like he was the one doing the entrapping while caged and strangled against a stack of crates.
Assaulting an officer and impropriety towards an inferior… Only one was taken seriously, but the more he watched, the more he was convinced it was Gaunt, not Rawne, that should be punished for whatever the fuck this was. It was insane, it was perverse, it showed a dangerous lack of judgement that made him clearly unfit for command. That he would let Rawne, a man who openly despised him, who had mutinied against him, who everyone knew waited like a snake in the grass to plunge his warknife into Gaunt’s heart, press his hands against his fragile throat and trust him to let go…
Bitter bile rose in Hark’s throat. He had done everything right while serving Gaunt. Working himself to the bone, showing initiative, respecting his authority. Fulfilling every request, even when it was unpleasant, when it was impossible, when it made no fucking sense. Because he respected Gaunt. Because he trusted him.
All he wanted was the same in return. But what did he get instead? Gaunt looking over his shoulder, double checking his work, accusing him of scheming and undermining when all he tried to do was take some work off Gaunt’s plate. He demanded the impossible, and when Hark managed to pull it off (at great personal risk), what thanks did he get? A threat against his career because he didn’t live up to Gaunt’s lofty moral code while working his miracle.
He understood that they’d started off on a bad note, with Hark the gallows-man sent to hang Gaunt’s career. He knew he’d have to fight for his place among the Tanith. But Gaunt was supposed to be an honourable and fair man— a man who understood duty. And Hark lived by duty. He’d expected Gaunt to see that in him, the proof in his hard work, and respect him for it. Lean on him, like a colonel was supposed to do with his commissar. He was still waiting.
But Rawne, who’d never shown Gaunt respect a day in his life, got to crawl down his throat. Where was the justice in that? Where was Gaunt’s honour and fairness? Where was the moral code that he held the regiment to?
Maybe he needed to start threatening Gaunt. Maybe instead of drawing his gun against Gaunt on Hagia, he should have used his hands instead.
Gaunt, newly released, let out a well timed moan and Hark flushed. No, he didn’t have some repressed desire to become a libertine. He didn’t want Gaunt’s rough lips against his own, or desperate hands clutching his face, or to be close enough to smell the sweat and desire. All he wanted was to be respected by Gaunt. To be needed by him.
Gaunt shakily drew away from Rawne’s lips, breaking their crushing embrace. He bowed his head forward against Rawne’s chest, hands clenched white knuckled into his collar, as if the hard wall of Rawne’s body was the only thing keeping him upright. No wonder, he was probably so lightheaded he could barely think. His chest heaved with panting breaths so loud Hark heard them from across the room. Rawne curled a hand around the back of his neck with the preemptive air of a man grabbing the collar of his dog prone to flight, looking impatient.
Gaunt straightened, his hands sliding to rest on Rawne’s shoulders. He pulled at the uniform’s seams, putting it back in order. Rawne’s hand didn’t move. Gaunt’s face was flushed, his mouth red and swollen, but his eyes were clear. He had the most bizarre expression on his face, given the circumstances: gratitude and apology, as if Rawne had done him some favour.
“Did you get what you needed?” Gaunt asked.
“No.”
Gaunt covered Rawne’s hand on his neck with his own. “I have a meeting to get to.”
Renowned stepped closer, closing the distance Gaunt had made between them. His other hand slid up Gaunt’s thigh and under the hem of his coat. “What, afraid to smell like a whore near the Lord-General?”
Hark nearly choked.
“You never get tired of that one, do you?” Gaunt’s voice was strained. Rawne’s hand was very high under his coat.
Hark’s growing concern for Gaunt’s ability to maintain authority deepened into a chasm. Rawne had always been barely under control— now he knew why. And that failure to control him, to bring him properly to heel, was going to end with him shot. And to think that Hark had been about to pull the trigger, lance the boil, and never address the deeper infection festering within. Kill his friend, without any justice or order gained. This was the danger of indiscretion, of leniency, of mercy.
“You know how to shut me up.” Rawne released him and stepped back, his hands falling back against his sides with a heavy clap. “You’re a selfish bastard today.”
“We’re in public.”
“That’s why they invented doors.” Rawne strode towards it, towards Hark, who shrank back into his hiding spot. The thought of Rawne locking them all inside, forcing him to sit there and keep listening, set his guts squirming.
“Major.” Gaunt’s voice was firm.
Rawne stopped, then turned slowly on his heel to face him.
They stood in silence for a heartbeat, the air thick, before Gaunt sighed. “I’m not… not here.” He looked up towards the wire strung rafters as though beseeching the God-Emperor for guidance. “I go to bed at 2500 hours.”
“Why did you actually come here, Gaunt?”
Gaunt looked at his feet, then swept his eyes upwards around the piles of boxes scattering the room. Everywhere but Rawne. He gestured to the room in a broad swing of his arm. “Someone needed to do inventory.”
Rawne waited, motionless, standing between Gaunt and the exit.
Gaunt chewed his lip. He knelt down and picked up his crumpled cap, dusting it off with firm sweeps of his hand. “The Lord-General offered me a promotion. Lieutenant-General. Full transfer out of the Commissariate.”
Hark leaned forwards. He hadn’t heard about this. If Gaunt was transferring, there would be significant changes in duties. Gaunt would get to spend his days in the command suite, away from the rank and files, making the decisions that shaped a campaign. He wouldn’t have time to manage all the minute daily issues of the men. He would finally, finally, have to put his faith in Hark.
Rawne narrowed his eyes. “You declined.” It wasn’t a question. How the hell did he know? “Why?”
Gaunt fiddled with the aquila on his cap, setting it back to rights. “I can’t give up being a commissar. I wouldn’t take well to the change of duties.”
No, of course not. He couldn’t even loosen his white knuckle grip on the Tanith to let Hark in. Emperor forbid he leave them to pursue a golden opportunity he’d likely never have again.
“One step up the ladder and you’ll never have to be shot at anymore.”
“Exactly.”
Rawne raised his eyebrows. “You’re crazy.” But he was smiling, sharp and toothy. It wasn’t a friendly smile, but it was an impressed one.
“The moment you stop getting shot at, you start to forget what you’re sending people into.” Gaunt set his cap back on his head with his usual precise, practiced movement. Brim first, everything just so. “Your point about Larkin is an astute one. But Larkin, Mkoll… they’re not the only limited resources. Every single Tanith is, not just the prodigies. When I saved the Tanith, I promised it was so you could die for something meaningful. I don’t think anyone who took my place— Anyone who wasn’t there— Would understand that.”
“They’d be under your command. In fact, the Lord-General would probably let you choose your replacement, he’s so eager to suck your cock. Corbec would be the obvious choice, but he’s badly injured, and I’ve already acted in your place once before…” he trailed off meaningfully.
Gaunt narrowed his eyes, with a narrow smile to match. “I don’t know, I think Colonel Daur has a nice ring to it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Speak of the Lord-General with more respect, then.” Gaunt sighed. “You’re vying for nothing. I declined. But now, after Operation Lasriel, I can’t help but wonder if I made the right choice. As Lieutenant-General, I’d have more sway. Would I have been able to get them more resources? More time?” He rubbed his mouth. “There’s always more that I could have done.”
Rawne laughed, sharp and cruel. “You are so fething self absorbed.”
Gaunt startled, eyes flicking up to Rawne’s face.
“You think you’d be able to change anything?” Rawne continued. “We’ve had bad Lord-Generals, and we’ve had good ones. Have you seen any difference to the results? You’re wasting your time trying to save everyone. Start considering who you can afford to lose.” He stepped slowly closer to Gaunt, like a tiger stalking its prey. “Next time you get a suicide mission, send the Vergastites instead, if you care so much about the Tanith.”
Gaunt’s face twisted. He grabbed Rawne by a fistful of his cloak, pulling him close, and twisted his other hand into Rawne’s hair, pulling his head back at a painful angle. “Can you act with some fething integrity for once in your life, you selfish, callous—”
Rawne grinned, eyes lighting up with fire.
Gaunt’s mouth snapped closed. He released Rawne with a jerk and stepped back, a grim smile plastered on his face. “And you call me a whore. I don’t think you’d enjoy being disciplined quite so much if I released you to Hark’s tender ministrations.”
Hark had to agree. He shivered at the thought of being drawn into whatever passed as discipline between these two. Could a man enjoy the lash?
Rawne gave an equivocal shrug. “You can’t deny I have a point. Protecting a few useful people is easier than protecting everyone.”
“If I wanted to do something easy I would’ve taken the promotion.” Gaunt’s body language changed. He stood straighter, he looked sharper. “And if I find you sending your Vergastites into danger while your Tanith stand by, you will be subject to demotion and disciplinary action.”
His voice had a new tone: he was no longer a man, he was Authority. It was a voice that bid you heed and obey; that made you want to obey. Like the voice of the God-Emperor himself. Even though Hark could still see the red marks on the base of his throat, there was no trace of the man who had trembled and whimpered under another man’s hand.
“Yes.” The change signalled something in Rawne as well, returning him to icy professionalism. This was the person Hark recognized. The person he’d taken for the truth of Rawne, the one he thought he’d known intimately. The Rawne that was his friend. Without moving away, he suddenly seemed very distant. Like even if they reached out, neither Gaunt nor Hark would be able to touch him. “Sir.”
As Rawne’s face shuttered into duty, Gaunt’s face opened into the same. He was not a man putting on an act of authority, but one freeing himself to act on his deepest convictions, without doubt or guile. He was an astropath who, after fighting through the terrors of a warp storm, had finally felt the writhing empyrean calm and seen the light of the Astronomicon exactly where he’d expected it to be.
There was a gravitas to his sincerity, a depth to his conviction that pulled people in line with the inevitability of a black hole. Here was the man that, at his lowest, had told a room full of officers that they would be disobeying the Lord-General for the sake of a mission doomed to fail, and had them all fall in line and follow.
Hark couldn’t help but feel the pull, and he guiltily edited some of his mental accusations. Seeing Rawne yield so readily to his reprimand made Hark wonder if there was not some authority even in his weakness.
Rawne was not an easy man to manage. Hark had thought he’d had his hand on the leash, but apparently he’d been mistaken a second time. He thought he’d known Rawne, and this whole time Rawne had only been showing him that icy impersonal mask. He’d thought Gaunt was blind, only to find out he knew the depths of Rawne’s violent obsessions far more intimately than Hark did. And while it was Rawne who circled and harried and wanted, Gaunt was the one quietly deciding how much he would bend. When he commanded it, Rawne heeled. Hark hadn’t even known it was possible for Rawne to yield so willingly. Was Gaunt a naive, lenient fool or a hypocritical, cunning manipulator?
Either way, he was not the man everyone thought he was. Everyone except Rawne.
The return to duty had dissipated the sordid, intimate air of the warm hangar. The two men stood apart, not touching, clothing in order, and no one could have ever said that they had touched so desperately.
Rawne stepped out of the path to the door, extending his arm in an ironic after you gesture. He fell in step beside Gaunt as he moved to exit the room.
“I’ll likely retire before 2500 hours,” Rawne said.
“When you take your rest makes no difference to me,” replied Gaunt. Hark wondered if he was imagining the undercurrent of amusement.
He felt a strange tug in his gut. An urge to watch outside Gaunt’s quarters and see if Rawne really would steal in to visit him that night. Whether, if he listened at the door, he’d be able to hear more revealing secrets. To understand them both a little better.
No one would believe him if he tried to expose Gaunt’s indiscretion now. They’d think he’d gone mad, or that he was once more trying to ruin Gaunt’s career. No one trusted him. They didn’t trust Rawne either, but they saw him as a known variable— his hatred of Gaunt impossible to call into doubt. And Gaunt— everyone trusted Gaunt, like their own personal Astronomicon.
But he could be patient, like Rawne. Wait as long as he needed to until he had gathered enough evidence to build a case no one could refute. He leaned forward on the balls of his feet, every muscle coiling in anticipation of an investigation, of unmasking truth, of reasserting order. Of showing everyone that Gaunt was not the perfect man that he pretended to be— that he reprimanded Hark for failing to live up to.
As the two men reached the hallway, Rawne turned to glance back at the hangar so full of the ghosts of dead comrades, one last time.
Hark was deep in the shadowed recesses of the room, black clothes against black shadows, obscured by scattered crates and twisting pipes. But still his heart pounded, so fast and hard he was certain Rawne could hear it. If Rawne were to discover him now, drag him out in front of Gaunt and expose him— he had no idea what would happen next. How they might try to silence him. Would Rawne put his hands on Hark too, the very same that had touched Gaunt, and squeeze tight as Gaunt stood by and watched? His guts squirmed at the thought. He did not move, did not breathe, as Rawne’s gaze lazily swept over his hiding place. Blood roared in Hark’s ears in time with his hammering pulse.
Rawne turned, shoulders relaxed, and meandered after Gaunt. Hark was sure Rawne hadn’t seen him.
Almost.