The Nemesis

by S. J. Kincaid

  “It’s you. It has to be you.” He said the words with a sort of wonder. He raised his shaking hand and gestured to something behind me.

  I could guess what it was before I looked, but I did so anyway, just hoping he’d try to strike at my back and give me an excuse to kill him.

  Sure enough, there was graffiti on the wall amid the indecipherable messages of the dispossessed, a single stark image of that cruel and lion-haired goddess, white fire seeming to scorch up around her hard, precise features fixed in promise of revenge.

  Above and below her, that familiar phrase:

  NEMESIS LIVES

  The pathetic wretch was scurrying back, still on the ground, scooting like a crab across the alley.

  “Don’t hurt me,” he said to me. “I didn’t want to do this. I swear to you, I didn’t. Please, Nemesis. Please.”

  Yes. Now that he knew precisely what I was, he knew this was what he should have been doing from the start: begging me for his life. And I should not listen to him. He had seen me. He would give me away. He would endanger me.

  I had promised no mercy.

  He knew there was no escaping a Diabolic.

  As I stalked after this weak, pitiful thing, a memory tickled at the back of my mind—another man, so many years ago, pleading with me to spare his life. I’d made one decision then as a young Diabolic desperate to escape a lifelong cage.

  But I was not that frightened child now. I was not a trapped creature, at the mercy of others. There was no Matriarch here to make this decision in my stead, and I no longer believed there was a better, kinder life awaiting me if I but shed a few more drops of blood. No. All that lay down that path for me was more death, more ruin, more destruction.

  His eyes were screwed shut, muscles braced, head bowed in surrender to fate.

  “What is your name?” I said to him.

  “Janus.”

  “Janus what?”

  “Janus Metz, Your Supremacy.”

  My jaw clenched. Your Supremacy. I’d hoped never to hear that accursed honorific again. But since he’d used it, I seized his hair and tilted his face up to make him look at me. “You will not tell another soul you saw me.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Good, because I will remember your name, and if you are lying to me…” I ripped a handful of hair from his head, and held it up for him to see. “I have your scent, Janus Metz. Do you know Diabolics can track like bloodhounds?”

  It was a lie. My sense of smell was as dull as a regular human’s. He couldn’t know that.

  He nodded, wide-eyed. “I know I can’t run.”

  “That’s very wise of you. You will take care of these bodies for me.”

  “Of course!”

  “And you will never do anything like this again: no victimizing people on the street.”

  “I didn’t want to—”

  “You were weak. You gave in to them. Never do that again. I will find out if you do.”

  I would not find out, but I let him think so. He looked upon me with a strange, slack-jawed expression. “You truly are what they say you are,” he whispered. “You seek justice.” His eyes were actually shimmering with tears. “I will prove myself. I will deserve your mercy!”

  I sighed and knocked him back to the ground with my heel, then stepped past him. But something made me turn back.

  He was still sprawled on the ground. But over his head, on the rude brick, a pair of painted eyes glared into mine, their look accusatory.

  I glared back. Nemesis the icon, the galaxy’s own hero—a legend who did not and never had truly existed.

  The Excess had believed me dead. Not at my husband’s hands, but supposedly at the hands of the Partisans years before, during their attack on the Tigris.… It had been my attack, but blame was laid to them, for all the truths of the Empire were cloaked in lies. Apparently, the Nemesis slain in full view of the galaxy in the ball dome was a Partisan imposter.

  Yes, I’d been dead as far as everyone knew, and in retrospect, I’d been better off for it. I could have lived a life of obscurity, forgotten, a short-lived and tragic memory.

  Instead I’d set out to show myself alive by assassinating Tyrus—and then I’d truly ruined everything.

  2

  TYRUS, I can’t imagine myself without you.

  No. But… I can.

  Those were our last words before Tyrus drove a sword into my chest.

  Gladdic von Aton had delivered me—a body in a coffin, lingering on the cusp of death—to Neveni onboard the Arbiter. She’d saved me from my coffin, which had been launched toward a star for my burial. Even with my heart beating and eyes wide open, I could not shake off that deathlike sleep in those early, hazy months onboard the Arbiter.

  Neveni had joined forces with the Partisans, the Excess who formed an organized resistance to the rule of the Empire. There were more crew than use for them on the Arbiter, and I had no technical skills, so I had no purpose among them.…

  Neveni at first meant to have me among them like a person of leisure, doing nothing, even having meals brought to me. It was unendurable enough to be on the Arbiter without endless empty time for my thoughts to swirl down and down, so I’d insisted on doing something. Anything. Cleaning was as tolerable as anything else.

  The engine core of the Arbiter was my preferred sector of the ship, because it was remote and there were no windows to behold the stars. Tangles of wires and panels, stray equipment that had not been returned to their holding places, and crumpled food wrappers were always littered there.

  It was something to do, to remove the trash. To find the cleaning spray meant for use by a service bot and scour that grated metal to gleaming.

  The hours passed quickly that way. Mindlessly. That was the most important thing, after all: to detach from the great and cavernous hollow that had become existence.

  I went through my new life in that manner, lingering over every task at no cost to anyone, to anything, since my actions made no difference with or without me. I remained in the lumpy bed each morning until my back throbbed. I undertook slow walks through the colorless corridors with legs that grew heavier with each step. Long hours I passed over whatever communal meal the Partisans had produced that day, usually a lump of synthetic bread and meatstock, with a different chemical condiment to glob wetly at the side of the plate.

  All the while, the Partisans watched me, whispered about me—unaware that I could hear every word they spoke.

  “… not sure she’s actually the Empress, whatever Sagnau says. That doesn’t look like the same person.”

  “The nose is all wrong. There’s something so eerie about the way she just looks right through you.…”

  “… still think we should just kill her…”

  “Sagnau has to mean to do it eventually, right?”

  They viscerally disliked me. I was very much the enemy come among them—the wife of the Domitrian, even if he had cast me away.

  All about me, the world felt muted.

  The colors were dim and edges sharp.

  I tried never to gaze out the windows, for the sight of those distant and indifferent stars called to mind those memories of my life with Tyrus. Then questions poured through me.…

  Did he ever truly love me?

  Was it all my imagination?

  I could have endured a thousand years of torture and I never would have done to Tyrus what he did to me. Everything I had done for him, all I’d felt and meant and imagined and dreamed up, it simply had meant nothing to him in the end. Even the Venalox could not account for his willingness to kill me.

  It was intolerable to remember, and Tyrus’s words beat through my mind over and over again:

  The universe has no design, no meaning, no arc toward justice.

  Was that simply the truth? Did dreams bloom to life in one’s palm and then get crushed, and that was the end of them?

  I loved Sidonia and she was gone.

  I loved Tyrus and now he was gone.
/>   Without Tyrus, without Donia, was there anything left of that Diabolic who’d been anointed a person, recognized as a being with a soul? For I felt empty. I felt like my soul was gone and wondered if I’d truly had one.

  Sometimes, I grew angry.

  Not at Tyrus. It was too painful to think of Tyrus.

  No. I raged at someone who did not deserve my animosity.

  At Donia.

  In troubled dreams, she stood above me, always above me, and we were back in the Impyrean fortress. But I did not sit and watch her do art, or contemplate the gas giant out the window with her. Instead I screamed at her for what she had done to me, because the entire framework of my existence was a sham, a joke, a farce, and it was her fault She was the one who told me I could be more, that I mattered, that I had a soul, and then she had died and left me to this hideous delusion, and in my dreams I made her suffer for it.

  “You told me I was worthy,” I’d scream at her. “You said I had a divine spark. You were a liar! I am empty, Donia! There is nothing in me now! Everything you said was a lie! I was strong before you. I was complete! You ruined me, Donia—YOU RUINED ME!”

  And I would lash at her beautiful, tragic face with my fists and tear at her with my fingernails, and how exquisite that distress tasted, the pain she would never share with me, and the fury filled my despair with something dark and glorious.…

  Then I would snap awake to the familiar gray lines of the Arbiter, sickened by myself. She was the purest soul I’d ever known. Why did some part of me blame her for this misery?

  But some resentful voice deep within me beat in the back of my mind, It was her fault. It was all her fault! She’d taught me to love, and so she had given me this terrible pain. I never would have known what it was like to be this empty, had I never known what it was to feel so complete. I wished I’d never loved her, never loved Tyrus. Oh, how I longed to be but a cruel and unfeeling Diabolic killer, with no attachment to anyone, to anything, and she had robbed me of that forever.…

  “Nightmare again?” Neveni asked me sometimes, when she was sleeping in the bunks at the same time as I was.

  Early in my time on the Arbiter, Anguish shared the bunk with her, and I’d glimpse his powerful, dark arm twined about her waist, sometimes stroking through her hair. He had the grace not to pry, to whisper to her in a deep, rumbling voice, “Leave her be.”

  I missed that—after she grew sick of him and took to ordering him away from her. When it was just me and Neveni, I felt too exposed. I never missed that glint of satisfaction in her dark eyes when I awoke from nightmares. She was eager for proof that I would be just the weapon I’d promised, that I hated Tyrus enough to fulfill my vow to the Partisans and kill him.

  I’ll destroy anyone you wish, I’d told her. Anyone.

  So when she pressed me about nightmares, I always told her, “I don’t remember.” Then I buried myself back under the covers, turned my back to her… and pretended to sleep until her breathing grew slow.

  We both knew a day would come soon when I had to fulfill my promise.

  I was the only one certain I would do it. I would kill Tyrus.

  This emptiness would not abate, would not retreat. It also left no reason to stay my hand.

  * * *

  Five months after my demise, the day came.

  Tyrus was taking advantage of his puppet Interdict by appearing with him on Corcyra, the closest planet outside the impact zone of the recent supernova.

  The Partisans onboard the Arbiter became a frantic hive of activity, throwing themselves into planning an attack. They recognized the opportunity here for a spectacular show of destruction, an unparalleled blow to the Empire.

  I was informed of the plan. I was to be its key.

  We would kill them both: Tyrus and the false Interdict. I would strike the first blow, and if I was lucky, I’d kill both of them.

  But I’d certainly kill Tyrus.

  There was no more symbolic blow to the Empire than having me be the one to kill Tyrus. If I died in the aftermath, I cared not. Nor, I suspected, did the Partisans.

  A martyr is always useful. And I would welcome death.

  A handful of Partisans and I were smuggled down to the planet in an escape pod. I parted with them and donned a hood, slipping out unnoticed among the crowd on Corcyra while the Interdict’s vessel descended into the atmosphere. Security machines swiveled to alertness all around us, primed to protect the two most important figures in the Empire.

  “Are you in position?” came Neveni’s voice in my ear.

  “Nearly,” I replied softly.

  Every single person on this planet had been scanned for weaponry. It mattered not. One of the Partisans who’d come in the pod with me was a sniper, and each of us had carried a single fragment of a laser rifle for him to assemble with painstaking precision. As I wove through the crowd, I knew the sniper was concealed somewhere behind me, my backup, instructed to kill Tyrus or the Interdict—whichever one I did not reach, for I would certainly kill one of them first.

  Music swelled in the air. Millions of voices rose in a thunderous cheer, so loud it seemed to vibrate through my bones.

  The Penumbra glided in above us, a vessel that with its thrusters extended resembled a hollowed pyramid. A bay door opened and out floated a triumphal platform bearing two figures glowing in the carefully aimed lighting. I spotted Tyrus’s broad-shouldered figure just behind the false Interdict.

  At first the spotlight was all for the Interdict. He raised his arms to accept the swelling cheers of the crowd. Then Tyrus stepped up to his side, and the cheers somehow redoubled. Framed by the light of the Penumbra’s bay behind them, dressed in magnificent robes that amplified the light, the two appeared as radiant as gods.

  How long had Tyrus pored over the plans for that visual effect?

  I forced my way forward.

  Soon I was so close to that floating platform, I could feel the heat of its propulsion jets rolling over my skin.

  Neveni’s only explicit instruction had been this: Make sure they see your face. The power in this gesture comes from you, Nemesis. Everyone will see that you’re alive, that you were never dead—and the Empire is founded on lies. Then you’ll deal the final blow when you kill Tyrus for what he did to you.

  The Interdict’s holographic image boomed to life in all corners of the square, looming over the crowds as Fustian’s voice resounded: “How grand to see this vast crowd turned out today! I know what you seek: words from me to explain the recent supernova in the six-star system. I will speak plainly and directly: on occasion, our divine Cosmos chooses to bless certain among us above all others.…”

  The crowd shifted and stirred, eager to hear why a young star had gone supernova well before its proper time.

  “The truth is, malignant space is not merely an act of destruction. It can also be an act of great and sacred holiness.”

  At the word “holiness,” the crowd quieted under the weight of disbelief. I paid their reactions little mind and continued forward.

  “Our Emperor, Tyrus von Domitrian,” Fustian said, moving aside so that Tyrus could assume prominence of position, “has the ability to unleash this great power himself. Something magnificent has happened. A miracle…”

  It was time.

  I tore back my hood, then leaped up onto the shoulders of the man in front of me and hurtled the remaining distance up onto the levitating platform.

  I landed behind the men, blocked from the sight of the crowd by the two exalted figures. And then, before I could pounce forward and finish this, Fustian made his declaration:

  “OUR EMPEROR HAS BECOME A GOD!”

  The words—so absurd, so irregular—awoke me out of the haze of resolve.

  They seemed to rouse me from a trance, as though I’d jolted awake after an extended dream, for they were… they were ridiculous.

  “How lucky we are to have a god among us!” Fustian almost sobbed with feeling. “Hail the Living Cosmos for such a gift!
Hail to our Divine Emperor!” He threw himself down to his belly.

  And smiling, Tyrus swept forward and said, “I thank you, my exalted friend, for recognizing my divine nature. And how honored those of you on Corcyra must feel—to be the first to hail your true God!”

  I stood rooted in place with utter shock. Tyrus’s face was earnest, his eyes blazing with total conviction on the vast holographic images of him in the corners of the square. He earnestly seemed to believe in his own words.

  “Set the example today for the rest of the galaxy,” Tyrus said. “Hail me as your God—and be rewarded.”

  Instead of cheers, his demand was met with confusion, with restive stirring in the crowd. Excess were looking one to the other, and some were heeding their instincts and retreating.

  A few—a brave few, filled with conviction—cupped hands over their mouths and jeered.

  Tyrus’s cool-eyed gaze fell upon one such fellow, and his lips curved into a remote smile. “Today is the example for all the days to come,” he said, almost softly, gently, his tone eminently reasonable. “Deny that I am your God, then. Reap the consequences.”

  Then he raised his hand.

  Overhead, a vessel ripped through space and tore a skein of bright white malignant space into the void. The newly declared Divine Emperor stepped to the front of the platform, his arms spread wide. The building-size holographics showed his mad grin and elated face. His arms rose, as though he were embracing the entirety of the screaming crowd, even as they turned and fled. They rushed to escape what could not be escaped: a bright and vivid slash of malignant space tearing across their star system.

  I hurled myself down onto my hands and knees beneath the brilliant plume seeming to split open the sky, my blood thundering in my veins, disbelief blazing through me at what he had done. Then Neveni’s voice lashed in my ear, reminding me of where I was, what this was: “You’re in reach. KILL HIM, Nemesis!”

  Kill him.

  Yes.

  Kill him. I was here to kill him. My eyes rose up to look at that figure with his back to me, and beyond him to the holographic projections showing his ecstatic face smiling upon the screaming crowd.… And everything inside me abruptly contracted with horror and the shame of realization that Tyrus had gone insane.