Necropolis by Dan Abnett Page A

behind him tried to cover their sniggers. Gherran and Mtane laughed out loud.
    “I could break you for such insolence!” Langana spat. Anger made his cheeks florid.
    “Hmm?” Dorden replied, not seeming to hear. “And deprive an Imperial Guard regiment of their chief medic? Your vice marshal wouldn’t be too happy to hear about that, would he?”
    Langana was about to retort when a strong, female voice echoed through the dirty space.
    “I’m looking for the doctor! Hello?”
    Dorden pushed past the seething commissar and went to the door. He was met by a short, slim, young woman in a form-fitting red uniform with embroidered cuffs. She carried a medical pack over one shoulder and was escorted by five more dressed like her: three men and two women.
    “Dorden, chief medical officer, Tanith First.”
    “Surgeon Ana Curth, Inner Hab Collective Medical Hall 67/mv,” she replied, nodding to him and glancing around the dingy hall. “Captain Daur, your liaison officer, was troubled by the state of the facilities and called my hall for support.”
    “As you can see, Ana, it is a long way short of adequate,” said Dorden with a gentle gesture that took in the decay.
    She frowned at him briefly. His use of her forename surprised her. Such informalities were rare in the hive. It was discourteous, almost condescending. She’d worked for her status and position as hard as any other hiver.
    “That’s Surgeon Curth, medic.”
    Dorden looked round at the woman, surprised, clearly hurt that he had offended her in any way. Behind Dorden, Langana smiled.
    “My mistake. Surgeon Curth, indeed,” Dorden looked away. “Well, as you can see, this is no place for wounded. Can you possibly… assist us?”
    She looked him up and down, still bristling but calming a little. There was something in his tired, avuncular manner that made her almost regret her tone. This was not some bravo trooper trying to hit on her. This was an old man with slumping shoulders. There was a weariness in his manner that no amount of sleep could ease. His lined eyes had seen too much, she realised.
    Ana Curth turned to Langana. “I wouldn’t treat cattle in a place like this. I’m issuing an M-notice on it at once.”
    “You can’t—” Langana began.
    “Oh, yes I can, commissar! Fifth Bill of Rights, Amendment 457/hj: ‘In event of conflict, surgeon staff may commandeer all available resources for the furtherance of competent medical work.’ I want scrub teams from the hive sanitation department here by morning, with pressure hoses and steam scourers. I want disinfectant sluices. I want sixty cots, bedding, four theatre tables with lights, screens and instruments, flak-board lagging for the walls and windows, proper light-power, water and heat-links recoupled, and patches made to the gakking roof! Got it?”
    “I—”
    “Do you understand me, Political Officer Langana?”
    Langana hesitated. “I will have to call House Command for these requirements.”
    “Do so!” barked Curth. Dorden looked on. He liked her already.
    “Use my hive caste-code: 678/cu. Got it? That will give you the authority to process my request. And do it now, Langana!”
    The commissar saluted briefly and then marched away out of the chamber. He had to push through the smirking Tanith orderlies to exit.
    Dorden turned to the woman. “My thanks, Surgeon Curth. The Tanith are in your debt.”
    “Just do your job and we’ll get on fine,” she replied bluntly. “I have more wounded refugees in my hall now than I can deal with. I don’t want your overspill submerging me when the fighting starts.”
    “Of course you don’t. I am grateful, surgeon.”
    Dorden fixed her with an honest smile. She seemed about to soften and smile back, but she turned and led her team away out of the door. “We’ll return in two days to help you set up.”
    “Surgeon?”
    She stopped, turning back.
    “How overrun are you? With the wounded, I mean?”
    She sighed. “To breaking point.”
    “Could you use six more trained staff?” Dorden asked. He waved