Nemesis

by James Swallow

  Eurotas shrugged him off and backed away, a guilty cast coming to his eyes. “What are you talking about? Get out. You’re dismissed.”

  “I think not, sir.” Spear gave him a hard look. “I think an explanation is in order.”

  For a moment, the man teetered on the verge of shouting him down, calling in his personal guard from the corridor outside; but Hyssos’ unerring sense for the hidden told Spear that Eurotas would not. The dead man’s instincts were correct. The nobleman’s shoulders slumped and he planted himself in an ornamental chair, staring into the middle distance.

  Spear waited for the confession that he knew would come next; men like the Void Baron lacked the will or the strength to really inhabit a lie. In the end, they welcomed the chance to unburden themselves.

  “I am not…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “The people who call themselves the Theoge came after, do you see? It was we who came first. We carried the message from Terra, in safe keeping aboard our ships, across the entire sector. Every son and daughter of the Eurotas family has been a participant in the Lectitio Divinitatus, since the day of the boon. We carry the Emperor’s divinity with us.” He said the words with rote precision, without any real energy or impetus behind them.

  Spear recalled what Daig Segan had said just before he had torn him open. “The Emperor protects…”

  Eurotas nodded solemnly; but it was abundantly clear that the light of true belief, the blind faith that Segan had shown in his dying moments, was in no way reflected in the Void Baron. If the nobleman was a believer in the cult of the God-Emperor, then it was only as one who paid lip service to it, because it was expected of him. Spear’s lip curled, his disgust for the man growing by the moment; he did not even have the courage of his convictions.

  “It is our hidden duty,” Eurotas went on. “We spread the word of His divinity in quiet and secrecy. Our clan has been allied to groups like the Theoge on dozens of worlds, for centuries.” He looked away. “But I never truly… That is, I did not…”

  Spear watched and waited, saying nothing. As he expected, Eurotas was compelled to fill the silence.

  “Horus is destroying everything. Every thread of power and influence we have, broken one at a time. And now he strikes not only at our holdings, but at the network my forefathers built to carry the word of the Lectitio Divinitatus! A network of clandestine authority the Eurotas have used to control the Taebian Sector for hundreds of years.” Spear shook Hyssos’ head. The human’s arrogance was towering; he actually believed that a being as great as the Warmaster would lower himself to such parlour games as disrupting the ambitions of a single petty, venal rogue trader. The reality was, the slow collapse of the Eurotas clan’s fortunes was just a side effect of Horus’ advance across the Ultima Segmentum.

  Still; it would serve Spear’s interests to allow the man to think he was the focus of some interstellar conspiracy, when in fact he and all his blighted clan were little more than a means to an end.

  “Ever since the conclusion of the Great Crusade, it has become harder and harder to hold on to things.” Eurotas sighed. “Our fortunes are on the wane, my friend. I have tried to hide it, but it grows worse every day. I thought perhaps, when we return to Terra, I could petition the Sigillite for an audience, and then—”

  “Where is the Warrant of Trade?” Spear was growing tired of the Void Baron, and he struck out with the question.

  Eurotas reacted as if he had been slapped. “It… In the reliquary, of course.” The lie was a poor one at best.

  “I am your senior security operative, sir,” Spear retorted. “Please credit me with some intelligence. Where is the real Warrant?”

  “How did you know?” He shot to his feet, knocking the water glass to the floor where it shattered. A service mechanical skittered in across the carpet to clean up the breakage, but Eurotas paid it no heed. “Only three people…” He paused, composing himself. “When… did you find out?”

  Spear studied him. “That is of no consequence.” After the abortive infiltration of the reliquary, the killer had been careful to ensure that no trace of his entry remained. “What matters is that you tell me where the real Warrant is now. If you are correct about these agents in the employ of the Warmaster, then we must be certain it is secure.”

  “They were looking for it…” whispered Eurotas, shocked by the thought.

  When the baron looked up at him with cold fear in his eyes, Spear knew that he had the man in his grasp. “My sworn duty is to serve the Eurotas clan and their endeavours. That includes your… network. But I cannot do that if the Warrant becomes lost.”

  “That must never happen.” The Void Baron swallowed hard. “It is… not with the fleet. You have to understand, I had little choice. There were certain arrears that could not be paid, favours that were required in order to keep the clan operating—”

  “Where?” Spear cracked Hyssos’ gruff voice like a whip.

  Eurotas looked away, abashed. “The Warrant of Trade was touched by the hand of the God-Emperor of Mankind, and so in the eyes of those who embrace the word of the Lectitio Divinitatus, it is a holy object. In exchange for the nullification of a number of very large debts, I agreed to allow an assemblage of nobles involved with the Theoge to take possession of the Warrant for… for an extended period of pilgrimage.”

  “What nobles?” Spear demanded. “Where?”

  “They have not answered my communications. I fear they may be dead or in hiding. When Horus’ forces find them, they will be wiped out, and the Warrant will be destroyed…” His lip trembled. “If it has not already been.” Eurotas looked up. “The Warrant is on the planet Dagonet.”

  Finally. The answer. For a long moment, Spear considered breaking out of Hyssos’ restrictive body and reverting back to his kill-form, just to show Eurotas what sort of fool he was the instant before he ripped him to shreds; but instead he let the rage ebb and gave a sullen nod. “I will need a ship, then. The fastest cutter available.”

  “You cannot go to Dagonet!” Eurotas insisted. “The government there has already declared for the Warmaster! There is word that the Sons of Horus are on their way to the planet at this very moment… It’s suicide! I won’t allow it.”

  Spear twisted his proxy flesh into a sorrowful smile, and gave a shallow bow. “I swear to you I will recover the Warrant, my lord. As of this moment, my life has no other purpose.”

  At length, the nobleman nodded. “Very well. And may the Emperor protect you.”

  “We can but hope,” he replied.

  THIRTEEN

  Faith or Duty

  Bonded

  The Warrant

  THE SUMMONS CAME from the Vindicare, and so Iota joined Kell and the rest of the Execution Force in one of several storage rooms down in the web of caves, away from the more heavily-populated sections of the hideaway. The room smelled of promethium; drums of the liquid fuel were stacked to the ceiling in corners, and the air circulation system worked in fits and starts.

  Kell had been careful to time the gathering to coincide with the regular overflights of clan patrol craft; every time it happened, the rebels would fall silent, go dark, and wait for the flyers to make their loop over the Bladecut before heading back to the city. It meant that Capra, Beye, Grohl and the others were all occupied, allowing the assassins to gather unnoticed, at least for a little while.

  The Vindicare surveyed the room, looking at them all in turn. Iota noted that he looked to Soalm last of all, and seemed to linger on her. She wondered if his sibling understood the meaning behind that fractional moment. Iota regarded her understanding of human social interaction as an ongoing experiment, but her limited knowledge also afforded her a clarity that others lacked; for all the distance between the brother and sister, it seemed obvious to the Culexus that Kell cared for Soalm more than the woman knew – or wanted to know.

  “We’re entering the final phase,” Kell said, without preamble. “Beye’s contacts in the city have sent word of sig
htings at the perimeter of the Dagonet system. Warp disturbances. The prelude to the opening of a gateway.”

  “How long until we know for sure?” asked Koyne. The Callidus looked like a child’s doll the size of a man, all sketched, incomplete features and pale skin.

  “We can’t stay put and wait for confirmation,” Tariel said, without looking up from his cogitator gauntlet’s keyboard. “By the time the warships enter orbit it will be too late.”

  The Garantine made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat that appeared to be an affirmation.

  “We commit now,” said Kell. “The Lance has been concealed, yes?” He looked at Tariel, who nodded.

  “Aye,” said the infocyte. “Grohl supplied transport from the star-port. I supervised the assembly of the component parts myself. It’s ready.”

  “But there’s no way to test it, is there?” Koyne leaned forwards. “If this doesn’t work…”

  “It will work,” Kell insisted. “Everything we’ve done has been leading up to this moment. We’re not going to start second-guessing ourselves now.”

  “I was only making an observation,” said the shade. “As I will be the closest to the target, I think it’s fair to say I have the most invested in a trouble-free termination.”

  “Don’t fret,” said the Eversor. “You won’t get too dirty.”

  “We have fall-back options in place.” Kell ignored the comment and nodded towards Iota and Soalm. “But for now, we concentrate on the primary schema.” He paused and threw Tariel a look.

  The Vanus operative consulted a timer window among the panes of hololiths hanging before him, and then glanced up. “The clanner patrols should be heading back to the capital at any moment.”

  “And we’ll follow them.” Kell reached for his spy mask where it hung from his gear belt. “You all have your own preparations to make. I suggest you complete them in short order and then head out. Each of us will go back into the capital individually via different routes, and rendezvous at the star-port. I’ll be waiting for you aboard the Ultio after sunset.”

  The only member of the group who did not move after Kell’s dismissal was Soalm. She looked at the Vindicare, her lips thinning. “Has Capra been informed?”

  “Don’t be a fool!” snorted the Eversor, before the other man could even speak. “We may have killed one of the turncoats in this little play-gang of rebels, but there are likely others, watching and waiting for something juicy to report before they betray this place.” The Garantine opened his clawed hands. “These people are amateurs. They can’t be trusted.”

  Soalm was still looking at Kell. “What are they supposed to do after it is done?”

  Iota saw colour rise in the Vindicare’s cheeks, but he kept his temper in check. “Capra is resourceful. He’ll know what to do.”

  “If he has any sense,” muttered Koyne, “he’ll run.”

  Soalm turned away and was the first from the chamber.

  JENNIKER REACHED THE compartment Beye had assigned to her and went in. What little equipment she had was there, cunningly disguised as a lady traveller’s attaché. It seemed strangely out of place among such drab accommodation, on the Imperial Army-surplus bedroll beside a drawstring bag of ration packs. She paused, studying it.

  Inside the case, concealed inside clever modules and secret sections, there were vials of powder, flat bottles of colourless fluid, thin strips of metallised chemical compounds, injectors and capsules and dermal tabs. The manner and means to end an entire city’s worth of human lives, if need be.

  For a while she thought about how simple it would be to introduce a philtre of time-release metasarin into the water system of the rebel hideout. Tailored with the right mix, she could make it painless for them. They would just fall asleep, never to wake. They would be spared the brutal deaths that were fated to them all – the payment that would be exacted no matter if the Execution Force succeeded or failed. She thought about Lady Sinope, of trusting Beye and the ever-suspicious Grohl.

  Some might have said it would be a mercy. The Warmaster was not a magnanimous conqueror.

  Soalm shook her head violently to dispel the thought, and hated herself in that instant. “I am not Eristede,” she whispered to the air.

  A sharp knock at the rusted metal door startled her. “Hello?” said a voice. She recognised it as one of the men she had seen in the makeshift chapel. “Are you in there?”

  She slid the door open. “What is it?”

  The man’s face was flushed with worry. “They’re coming,” he husked. She didn’t need to ask who they were. If Beye’s contacts in the city had spoken to Capra, then it was logical to assume that others in the rebel encampment knew of what was on the horizon as well.

  “I know.”

  He pressed something into her palm. “Sinope gave me this for you.” It was a tarnished voc-locket, a type of portable recording device that lovers or family members gave to one another as a memento. The device contained a tiny, short-duration memory spool and hologram generator. “I’ll be outside.” He pulled the door shut and Soalm was alone in the room again.

  She turned the locket over in her hands and found the activation stud. Holding her breath, she squeezed it.

  A grainy hololith of Lady Sinope’s face, no larger than Jenniker’s palm, flickered into life. “Dear child,” she began, an urgency in her words that Soalm had not heard before, “forgive me for not asking this of you in person, but circumstances have forced me to leave the caves. The man who gave you this is a trusted friend, and he will bring you to me.” The noblewoman paused and she seemed to age a decade in the space of a single breath. “We need your help. At first I thought I might be mistaken, but with each passing day it has become clearer and clearer to me that you are here for a reason. He sent you, Jenniker. You said yourself that you are only ‘a messenger’… And now I understand what message you must carry.” The image flickered as Sinope glanced over her shoulder, distracted by something beyond the range of the locket’s tiny sensor-camera. She looked back, and her eyes were intense. “I have not been truthful with you. The place you saw, our chapel… There’s more than just that. We have a… I suppose you could call it a sanctuary. It is out in the wastes, far from prying eyes. I will be there by the time you receive this. I want you to come here, child. We need you. He needs you. Whatever mission may have brought you to Dagonet, what I ask of you now goes beyond it.” She felt the woman’s gaze boring into her. “Don’t forsake us, Jenniker. I know you believe with all your heart, and even though it pains me to do so, I must ask you to choose your faith over your duty.” Sinope looked away. “If you refuse… The rains of blood will fall all the way to Holy Terra.”

  The hologram faded and Soalm found her hands were shaking. She could not look away from the locket, grasping it in her fingers as if it would magically spirit her away from this place.

  Lady Sinope’s words, her simple words, had cut into her heart. Her emotions twisted tight in her chest. She was a sworn agent of the Officio Assassinorum, a secluse of the Clade Venenum ranked at Epsilon-dan, and she had her orders. But she was also Jenniker Soalm – Jenniker Kell – a daughter of the Imperium of Man and loyal servant of the divine God-Emperor of Humanity.

  Which path would serve Him best? Which path would serve His subjects best?

  Try as she might, she could not shake off the power behind Sinope’s message. The quiet potency of the noblewoman had bled into the room, engulfing her. Soalm knew that what she was being asked to do was right – far more so than a blood-soaked mission of murder that would only lead to death on a far greater scale.

  The church of the Lectitio Divinitatus on Dagonet needed her. When she had needed help after mother and father – and then Eristede – had been lost to her, it was the word of the God-Emperor that had given her strength. Now that debt was to be answered.

  In the end she realised there was no question of what to do next.

  THE DOOR OPENED with a clatter, and the rebel soldier started
, turning to see the pale assassin woman standing on the threshold. She had an elaborately-etched wooden case over her shoulder on a strap, and was in the process of attaching a holstered bact-gun to her belt. She looked up, her hood already up about her head. “Sinope said you would take me to her.”

  He nodded gratefully. “Yes, of course. This way. Follow me.” The rebel took a couple of steps and then halted, frowning. “The others… Your comrades?”

  “They don’t need to know,” said Soalm, and gestured for him to carry on. The two of them disappeared around a curve in the corridor, heading up towards the surface.

  From the shadows, Iota watched them go.

  SPEAR LOATHED THE warp.

  When he travelled through the screaming halls of the immaterium, he did his best to ensure that he did so in stasis, his body medicated into hibernation – or failing that, if he were forced to remain awake by virtue of having assumed the identity of another, then he prepared himself with long hours of mental rituals.

  Both were in order to calm the daemonskin. In the realms of normal space, on a planet or elsewhere, the molecule-thin layer of living tissue bonded to his birth flesh was under his control. Oh, there were times when it became troublesome, when it tried to defy him in small ways, but in the end Spear was the master of it. And as long as it was fed, as long as he sated it with killings and blood, it obeyed.

  But in the depths of warp space, things were different. Here, with only metres of steel and the gauzy energy web of a Geller field between him and the thunder and madness of the ethereal, the daemonskin became troublesome. Spear wondered if it was because it sensed the proximity of its kindred out there, in the form of the predatory, almost-sentient life that swarmed unseen in the wake of the starships that passed.

  Eurotas had granted him the use of a ship called the Yelene, a fast cutter from the Consortium’s courier fleet designed to carry low-mass, high-value cargoes on swift system-to-system runs. The Yelene’s crew were among the best officers and men the clan had to offer, but Spear barely registered them. He gave the captain only two orders; the first was to make space for Dagonet at maximum speed; the second was not to disturb him during the journey unless the ship was coming apart around them.