[Horus Heresy 13] - Nemesis

by James Swallow - (ebook by Undead)

  “Who are you?” Pasri was wary.

  The man indicated himself. “Kell. These are Tariel and… Soalm. We are agents of the Imperium and the authority of Terra.”

  “Why tell us your names?” hissed Grohl. “Unless you’re going to kill us?”

  “Consider it a gesture of trust,” said the pale woman. “We already know who you are. And in all honesty, knowing what to call us hardly makes you a threat.”

  Beye leaned forward. “Why are you here?”

  Kell nodded to Tariel, and the youth produced a mollyknife. He moved to where Pasri was sitting and cut her loose, then proceeded to do the same with Grohl.

  “We have been sent by the Emperor’s command to aid the planet Dagonet and its people in this time of crisis.” Beye was certain that she saw a loaded look pass between Soalm and Kell before the man spoke again. “We are here to help you oppose the insurrection of Horus Lupercal and anyone who takes his side.”

  Grohl rubbed at his wrists. “So, of course you would like us to take you to the secret retreat of the resistance. Introduce you personally to Capra. Open ourselves up so you can murder us all in one fell swoop?” He turned his head and spat. “We’re not fools or traitors.”

  Tariel cut Beye loose and offered a hand to help her to her feet, but she refused. Instead, he gave her a data-slate. “You know how to read these, correct? Your file says that you served the Administratum as a datum clerk in the office of colonial affairs, prior to the insurrection.”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  Tariel indicated a text file in the slate’s memory. “I think you’ll want to look at this document. And please check the security tags so you are sure it has not been tampered with.”

  Kell walked closer to Grohl. “I believe you when you say you’re not a traitor, Terrik Grohl. But you have been fooled.”

  “What in Stars’ name are you talking about?” snarled the other man.

  “Because there is a traitor in this room,” Kell went on; and then faster than Beye’s eye could follow, the Imperial agent’s hand flicked up from his belt with the blocky, lethal-looking pistol in its grip, and he shot Pasri dead through the heart at point-blank range.

  Beye let out a cry of shock as Grohl started forward.

  Tariel tapped the slate. “Read the file,” he repeated.

  “And then search your good friend Olo,” added Soalm.

  Grohl did that as Beye read on. By the time she had finished, the colour had drained from her cheeks, and Grohl had discovered the wireless listening device concealed on the other woman. The files, as Tariel said, unaltered from their original form, were reports from the clanners about an informant in the resistance. Capra had suspected they had a leak for some time, but he hadn’t been able to discover who. According to the last entry, Olo Pasri had agreed to give up the location of the main freedom fighter safe zone, but was stalling for a larger finder’s fee and the guarantee of passage off-world.

  All of this she told to Grohl, who listened with a stony, rigid expression. After a long moment, he spoke. “I don’t trust you,” he said to Kell. “Even this, you could have faked it. Did it all just to get close to us.”

  “Grohl—” Beye began, but Kell held up a hand, silencing her.

  “No, he’s right. Given time and effort, we could have engineered something like this. And if I were in your place, I would share your suspicions.” He paused again, thinking. “So, then. We need to earn your trust.”

  “A demonstration,” suggested Soalm.

  Kell nodded. “Give us a target.”

  Spear ran his hand up and down the arm of the grox-leather chair where he sat, guiding fingers moulded in fleshy echo of Hyssos’ body over the lustrous, tanned hide. The sensation was pleasing; it made him realise he had spent too long in quietus, denied the simple pleasures of awareness, allowing his consciousness to go dormant while the mind-ghost of Yosef Sabrat ran his flesh. Puppet and the puppeted, master and performer, their roles intermingled. He was tired of it.

  At least now he had only to look the part, rather than literally become it. He glanced up and saw a reflection in the glass cabinet behind the desk of High-Reeve Kata Telemach; the ebon face of Hyssos staring back at him.

  Telemach swivelled in her deep, wing-backed chair from the watch-wire console on her desk and replaced the bulky handset. Standing nearby like an overweight sentinel, the doughy figure of Reeve Warden Berts Laimner was uncharacteristically still. Spear imagined he was still trying to process all the possible outcomes of the revelation that Yosef Sabrat was the serial killer in their midst, looking for the results where he would come off best. He felt a particular kind of hate for the man, but when he concentrated on the shape of it, Spear could not be certain if it had originated in him, or in Yosef Sabrat. More than once, the reeve’s own temper had brushed against the killer’s, and in those moments threatened to awaken the dormant murderer.

  He sucked in a breath and dismissed the thoughts as trivial, refocussing on Telemach, who sat glaring at the vinepaper documents before her.

  “How could something like this happen in my precinct, under my governance?” she demanded. Typical of the woman, Spear thought. Her first consideration was not How could this tragedy have happened? or A good man like Sabrat a killer? Impossible! No, for all the death and bloodshed and fear that had swept across her city, her first impulse was to worry about how it would make her look. Telemach glared at Laimner. “Well?”

  “He… We never suspected for a moment that the killer could be a peace officer.”

  The High-Reeve was about to spit out something else, but Spear intervened. In Hyssos’ voice he said, “In fairness, how could your men have known, milady? Sabrat was a decorated member of the Sentine with over a decade of service under his belt. He knew your procedures and protocols intimately. He knew all the loopholes and blind spots.”

  Laimner nodded. “Aye, yes. I have teams from the documentary office going over everything in his caseload, back years and years. They’ve already found incidences of file tampering, evidence manipulation…”

  All of which Spear had been planting, little by little over the last few weeks. Very soon they would discover more killings that he had laid at the late reeve’s feet, from the deaths of minor citizens to shopkeepers and even a junior jager from this very precinct; every one of them Spear had murdered and impersonated for brief periods of time, working his way up to this identity. Step by step.

  “It was only a matter of time before he was caught,” Spear-as-Hyssos went on, and he tapped the evidence bag on the desk that contained the harvesting knife. “I’ve encountered these kinds of criminals several times. They all become careless after a while, convinced of their own superiority.”

  Telemach grabbed one of the more gory picts of the murder scene at the airdocks, waving it at him, and Spear resisted the urge to lick his lips. “But what about… all this?” She jabbed at the beautiful perfection of the eightfold sigils drawn in the blood of the dead. “What does it mean?”

  He sensed the edge of fear in her words, and relished it. Yes, she understood the common, squalid manners of death, when humans ended one another over trivialities like money and power, anger and lust; but she could not conceive of the idea that one might take life in the name of something greater… to appease something. Spear wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her that her insect’s-eye view of the cosmos was pathetically naive, blind to the realities that he had been made privy to at the Delphos on Davin and later, at his master’s hand.

  He made Hyssos’ face grow grave and concerned. “Sabrat wasn’t alone in all this. His cohort, Segan… They were a partnership.”

  “That fits the facts,” said Laimner. “But I’m not sure why Yosef killed him.”

  “A disagreement?” offered Spear. “All I know is, the two of them conspired to get me alone with them at Whyteleaf. Then I was forced to watch as Sabrat ended Segan’s life, before he tried to do the same to me. I almost…” At this point,
he gave a staged shudder. “He almost killed me too,” he whispered.

  “And the… symbols?” Telemach asked.

  “These were ritualistic murders.” He paused for the drama of it. “What do you know of this group called the Theoge?”

  He had barely said the word before the High-Reeve’s face split in a sour sneer. “Those throwback religionists? This is their doing?” She shot a look at Laimner. “I said they were part of this. Didn’t I say so? I knew it!”

  Spear nodded. “They are some sort of fundamentalist cult, if I understand correctly. It seems that Daig Segan was the go-between for the Theoge, and in turn the murders committed by Sabrat with his help were likely motivated by some twisted set of beliefs.”

  “Human sacrifices?” said Laimner. “On a civilised world like this? This is the thirty-first millennium, not primitive prehistory!”

  Telemach answered immediately. “Religion is like a cancer. It can erupt without warning.” For a moment, Spear wondered what great hurt in the woman’s past had occurred because of someone else’s belief; something scarring, no doubt, to make her hate any thought of such things with that undiluted venom.

  “I would advise you move against this group as soon as possible,” he went on, getting to his feet. “Your media services have already learned of some elements of this case. I imagine those involved with the Theoge will quickly become targets for vigilantism.”

  Laimner nodded. “Sabrat’s wife and child have already been attacked. I sent Skelta to the house… He said they were hounded and stoned.”

  “Find out if they were involved,” Telemach insisted. “And by nightfall I want every single Theoge suspect on the books hauled in for questioning.”

  Spear drew himself up, smoothing down the front of Hyssos’ tunic in a reflexive gesture copied from the operative’s own muscle-memory. “I see you have everything in hand. You have my report. I will take my leave of you now this matter is concluded.”

  Laimner shook his head. “But, wait. There are proceedings… Testimony to be made, a tribunal. You will need to remain on Iesta to give statements.”

  “The Void Baron does not wish me to stay,” All it took was a look from Hyssos’ eyes to the High-Reeve, and she buckled immediately.

  “Of course, operative,” she said, the thought of defying Eurotas or one of his agents never occurring to her. “If any questions arise, a communiqué can be sent via the Consortium. We caught the killer. That’s all that is important.”

  He nodded and made for the door. Behind him, he heard Laimner speak again. “The people will feel safer,” he said. It seemed less like a statement of fact, and more like something the man was trying to convince himself of.

  A brief smile crossed Spear’s changed face. The fear that he had unleashed on the streets of Iesta Veracrux would not be so easily dispelled.

  * * *

  Goeda Rufin was enjoying the difference in things.

  Before, back when the Governor was still kowtowing to Terra and the nobles did nothing but grumble, Rufin had been destined to remain a low ranked noncommissioned officer in the Dagonet PDF. His life consisted largely of shirking his responsibilities—such as they were—and putting his workload on the junior ratings unlucky enough to be under his supervision at the vehicle pool. Since the day he had enrolled after a justicar gave him the choice between borstal or service, Rufin had never looked back to civilian life, but in all that time he hadn’t been able to shake the longing for a day when he could wear a coveted officer’s braid. It didn’t occur to him that his general level of ignorance outstripped any small measure of ability he had; Rufin was simply unable to grasp the idea that he had never risen in rank because he was a poor soldier. He was a makeweight in the city garrison, and everyone seemed to know it but him. To hear Rufin talk, it would seem like there was a huge conspiracy among the senior officers to keep him down, while other men were promoted up the ladder—men that he considered less deserving, despite copious evidence to the contrary. But Rufin wasn’t one to let facts get in the way of his opinions.

  He was snide and demeaning to the back of every man who wore the braid. He amused himself by scribbling anonymous obscenities about them on the walls of the barracks washroom, dragging his heels over every order they gave him, this and a dozen other petty revenges.

  It was because of that Goeda Rufin was in the office of his commander when the liberation took place.

  That’s what they were calling it now, “The Liberation”, the bloody day of upheaval that left Dagonet declared free of Imperial rule and true to the banner of the Warmaster Horus.

  Rufin had been there, waiting, forgotten. He had been there for a disciplinary review—someone had heard him bad-mouthing his superiors one time too many—and if it had just been any other day, he would likely have ended up dismissed from the PDF for his troubles.

  But then the shooting started, and he saw soldiers fighting soldiers in the courtyard. Warriors from the palace garrison, their uniforms marred by crossed-out aquila sigils, cutting down all the men he never liked. He was hiding in his commander’s office when the officer came running in, barking orders at him. At his heels were a pair of the palace men, and seeing them, Rufin at last caught up to what was going on. When his commander bellowed at him to come to his aid, Rufin took up the ornamental dagger the man used as a letter opener and stabbed him with it. Later, the leader of the invading troops shook his hand and offered him a marker with which to scratch out his own Imperial emblems.

  He got his officer braid because of that, and all the men who surrendered with him took it too, that or the buzz of a las-round to the back of the head. After the dust settled the new regime needed officers to fill the ranks they had culled. Rufin was happy to accept; Emperor or Warmaster, he didn’t give a damn whose name he had to salute. He had no respect for any of them.

  Rufin left the motor pool behind. His new command was the “emergency circumstances security camp” established on the site of the capital terminus monorail station. Ever since the nobles had shut down the networks, the passenger trains had lain idle; but now they had a new duty, serving as prison accommodations for the hundreds of civilians and idiot rebels who had dared to defy the new order.

  Rufin lorded it over them, walking back and forth across the high gantries above the choked platforms, making sure each inmate knew he held the power of life and death with random beatings and executions. When he wasn’t exercising his dull brutality and boredom on them, Rufin was prowling the ammo stores on the lower levels, in what used to be the maintenance wells for the engines. He liked being down there, among the smells of cordite and gunmetal. It made him feel like a real soldier to be surrounded by all that firepower.

  Entering the observation cupola above what was once the station’s central plaza, he caught the watch officer sipping a mug of black tea and gave him a glowering stare. “Status?” he barked.

  The officer looked at his chronograph. “Check-in at the top of the hour, sir. That’s another quarter-turn away.” He had barely finished speaking when the intercom grille over their heads crackled into life.

  “Early?” said Rufin.

  “Control!” said a panicked voice over the vox. “I think… I think there might be a problem.”

  “Post two, say again?” began the watch officer, but Rufin snatched the handset from him and snarled into it.

  “This is the base commander! Explain yourself!”

  “Recruit Zejja just… Well, he just fell off the south wall. And Tormol isn’t responding to his wireless.” Then, very distinctly, the open vox channel caught a sound like a quick, low hum, followed a heartbeat later by a wet chug and then the echo of a body falling.

  Rufin thrust the handset back at the watch officer, uncertain what to do next. “Shall I try to raise the other guard posts now, sir?” said the other man, stifling a cough.

  “Yes,” He nodded. That sounded like the right sort of thing. “Do that.”

  Then, without warning, the old
control board left intact from the station’s prior function flickered into life. Lines of colour denoting tracks, blocks of illumination signifying individual carriages, all began to click and chatter as they activated.

  Rufin shot a worried look out of the windows of the cupola and heard the mutter of dozens of electric motors coming alive. The sound echoed around the vaulted glass spaces of the station concourse and platforms. Below, the prisoners were scrambling to their feet, energised by the sound. Rufin drew his pistol on impulse and kneaded the grip. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  The watch officer looked at the consoles before him in surprise. “That… That’s not possible,” he insisted, coughing again. “All remote operations of station systems were locked down, the hard lines were severed…” He swallowed hard, beads of sweat appearing on his high forehead. “I think someone is trying to move the trains.”

  Below, the ornate copper departure boards for all the platforms began whirring in a rattling chorus of noise, each one flashing up destination after destination. With a sharp report, they all stopped at once, all of them showing the same thing; End Of The Line.

  The prisoners saw the words and let out a ragged cheer. Rufin shouted abuse back at them, and caught sight of one of his men running up the platform with a heavy autogun in his grip. The trooper was perhaps twenty metres from the jeering prisoners when his chest exploded in a silent, red blossom, and he fell.

  Finally, the correct words registered in his mind. “We’re under attack!”

  When Rufin turned back to the watch officer, the man was lolling in his chair, eyes and mouth open, staring blankly at the ceiling. He caught a strange, floral smell emanating from the officer and gingerly extended a hand to prod his waxy, damp face. The watch officer slumped forward, knocking his tea glass over. The flower-stink grew stronger as the liquid pooled on the floor.

  Rufin’s hand flew to his mouth. “Poison!” Without looking back, he ran to the cupola door and raced away, footsteps banging off the metal gantries.