Nemesis

by James Swallow

  And within the eye, a figure. Kell was sure of it, an immense outline, a demigod daring him to come closer. His hand found the manual throttle bar and he pressed it all the way to the redline, as the killing fires found his range.

  He looked up once again, and the first sighting-mantra he had ever been taught pressed itself to the front of his thoughts. Four words, a simple koan whose truth had never been more real than it was in this moment.

  Kell said it aloud as he fell towards his target.

  “I am the weapon.”

  ACROSS THE MOUNTAINOUS towers of the Imperial Palace, the sun was rising into the dusky sky, but its light had yet to reach all the wards and precincts of the great fortress-city. Many districts were still dormant, their populace on the verge of waking for the new day; others had been kept from their slumber by matters that did not rest.

  In the ornate corridors of power, there was quiet and solemnity, but in the Shrouds, any pretence at decorum had been thrown aside.

  Sire Eversor’s fist came down hard on the surface of the rosewood table with an impact that set the cut-glass water goblets atop it rattling. His anger was unchained, his eyes glaring out through his bone mask. “Failure!” he spat, the word laden with venom. “I warned you all when this idiotic plan was proposed, I warned you that it would not work!”

  “And now we have burned our only chance to kill the Warmaster,” muttered Sire Vanus, his synth-altered voice flat and toneless like that of a machine.

  The master of Clade Eversor, unable to remain seated in his chair, arose in a rush and rounded the octagonal table. The other Sires and Siresses of the Officio Assassinorum watched him stalk towards the powerful, hooded figure standing off to one side, in the glow of a lume-globe. “We never should have listened to you,” he growled. “All you did was cost us more men, Custodian!”

  At the head of the table, the Master of Assassins looked up sharply, his silver mask reflecting the light. Behind him there was nothing but darkness, and the man appeared to be cradled in a dark, depthless void.

  “Yes,” spat Sire Eversor. “I know who he is. It could be no other than Constantin Valdor!”

  At this, the hooded man let his robes fall open and the Captain-General was fully revealed. “As you wish,” he said. “I have nothing to fear from you knowing my face.”

  “I suspected so,” ventured Siress Venenum, her face of green and gold porcelain tilting quizzically. “Only the Custodian Guard would be so compelled towards ensuring the deaths of others before their own.”

  Valdor shot her a look and smiled coldly. “If that is so, then in that way we are alike, milady.”

  “Eversor,” said the Master, his voice level. “Take your seat and show some restraint, if that is at all possible.” The featureless silver mask reflected a twisted mirror of the snarling bone face.

  “Restraint?” said Sire Vindicare, his aspect hidden behind a marksman’s spy mask. “With all due respect, my lord, I think we can all agree that the Eversor’s anger is fully justified.”

  “Horus sent one of his men to die in his stead,” Sire Eversor sat once more, his tone bitter. “He must have been warned. Or else he has a daemon’s luck.”

  “That, or something else…” Siress Venenum said darkly.

  “Missions fail,” interrupted the silk-faced mistress of the Callidus. “It has ever been thus. We knew from the start that this was a target like no other.”

  Across from her, the watchful steel skull concealing Sire Culexus bent forward. “And that is answer enough?” His whispering tones carried across the room. “Six more of our best are missing, presumed dead, and for what? So that we may sit back and be assured that we have learnt some small lesson from the wasting of their lives?” The skull’s expression did not change, but the shadows gathered around it appeared to lengthen. “Operative Iota was important to my clade. She was a rarity, a significant investment of time and energy. Her loss does not go without mark.”

  “There’s always a cost,” said Valdor.

  “Just not to you,” Venenum’s retort was acid. “Our best agents and our finest weapons squandered, and still Horus Lupercal draws breath.”

  “Perhaps he cannot be killed,” Sire Eversor snapped.

  Before the commander of the Custodians could reply, the Master of Assassins raised his hand to forestall the conversation. “Sire Vanus,” he began, “shall we dispense with this hearsay and instead discuss what we know to be true of the fallout from our operation?”

  Vanus nodded, his flickering, glassy mask shifting colour and hue. “Of course.” He pushed at a section of the pinkish-red wood and the table silently presented him with a panel of brass buttons. With a few keystrokes, the hololithic projector hidden below came to life, sketching windows of flickering blue light above their heads. Displays showing tactical starmaps, fragments of scout reports and feeds from long-range observatories shimmered into clarity. “News from the Taebian Sector is, at best, inconclusive. However, it appears that most, if not all, of the prime worlds along the length of the Taebian Stars trade spine are now beyond the influence of Imperial governance.”

  On the map display, globular clusters of planets winked from blue to red in rapid order, consumed by revolt. “The entire zone has fallen into anarchy. We have confirmation that the worlds of Thallat, Bowman, Dagonet, Taebia Prime and Iesta Veracrux have all broken their ties with the lawful leadership of Terra and declared loyalty to the Warmaster and his rebels.”

  Sire Culexus made a soft hissing sound. “They fall as much from their fears as from the gun.”

  “The Warmaster stands over them and demands they kneel,” said Valdor. “Few men would have the courage to refuse.”

  “We can be certain of only two factors,” the Vanus went on. “One; Captain Luc Sedirae of the 13th Company of the Sons of Horus, a senior general in the turncoat forces, has been terminated. Apparently by the action of a sniper.” He glanced at Sire Vindicare, who said nothing. “Two; Horus Lupercal is alive.”

  “Sedirae’s death is an important success,” said the Master, “but it is no substitute for the Warmaster.”

  “My clade has already engaged with the information emerging from the Taebian Sector,” said Sire Vanus. “My infocytes are in the process of performing adjustments in the overt and covert media to best reflect the Imperium’s position in this situation.”

  “Papering over the cracks with quick lies, don’t you mean?” said Siress Callidus.

  The colours of the Vanus’ shimmer-mask blue-shifted. “We must salvage what we can, milady. I’m sure—”

  “Sure?” The silk mask tightened. “What are you sure of? We have no specifics, no solutions! We’ve done nothing but tip our hand to the traitors!”

  The mood of the room shifted, and once again the anger and frustration simmering unchecked threatened to erupt. The Master of Assassins raised his hand once more, but before he could speak a warning bell sounded through the room.

  “What is that?” demanded Sire Vindicare. “What does it mean?”

  “The Shrouds…” The Master was coming to his feet. “They’ve been compromised…” His silvered face suddenly turned towards one of the mahogany-panelled walls, as if he could see right through it.

  With a bullet-sharp crack, ancient wood and rigid metals gave way, and a hidden door slammed open. Beyond it, in the ever-shifting puzzle of the changing corridors, three figures filled the space. Two wore amber-gold armour chased with white and black accents, their faces set and grim. They were veteran Space Marines of the VII Legiones Astartes in full combat plate; but eclipsing their presence was a warrior of stone cast and cold, steady gaze standing a head higher than both of them.

  Rogal Dorn stepped into the Shrouds, his battle gear glittering in the light of the lume-globes. He cast his gaze around the room with an expression that might have been disgust, dwelling on Valdor, then the Master, and finally the deep shadows engulfing the farthest side of the chamber.

  It was Siress Venenum wh
o dared to shatter the shocked silence that came in the wake of Dorn’s intrusion. “Lord Astartes,” she began, desperately trying to rein in her fear. “This is a sanctum of—”

  The Imperial Fist did not even grace her with a look. He advanced towards the rosewood table and folded his arms across his titanic chest. “Here you are,” he said, addressing his comments towards Valdor. “I told you our conversation was not ended, Custodian.”

  “You should not be here, Lord Dorn,” he replied.

  “Neither should you,” snapped the primarch, his voice like breaking stones. “But you brought both of us to it. To this… place of subterfuge.” He said the last word as if it revolted him.

  “This place is not within your authority, Astartes.” The voice of the Master of Assassins was altered and shifted, but still the edge of challenge was clear for all to hear.

  “At this moment, it is…” Dorn turned his cold glare on the mirrored face staring up at him. “My Lord Malcador.”

  A thrill of surprise threaded across the room, as every one of the Sires and Siresses turned to stare at the Master.

  “I knew it…” hissed Culexus. “I always knew you were the Sigillite!”

  “This is a day of revelations,” muttered Sire Vanus.

  “I have just begun,” Dorn rumbled.

  With a sigh, Malcador reached up and removed the silver mask, setting it down on the table. He frowned, and an eddy of restrained telepathic annoyance rippled through the air. “Well done, my friend. You’ve broken open an enigma.”

  “Not really,” Dorn replied. “I made an educated guess. You confirmed it.”

  The Sigillite’s frown became a brief, intent grimace. “A victory for the Imperial Fists, then. Still, I have many more secrets.”

  The warrior-king turned. “But no more here today.” He glared at the other members of the Officio. “Masks off,” he demanded. “All of you! I will not speak with those of such low character who hide their faces. Your voices carry no import unless you have the courage to place your name to them. Show yourselves.” The threat beneath his words did not need to break the surface.

  There was a moment of hush; then movement. Sire Vindicare was first, pulling the spy mask from his face as if he were glad to be rid of it. Then Sire Eversor, who angrily tossed his fang-and-bone disguise on to the table. Siress Callidus slipped the silk from her dainty face, and Vanus and Venenum followed suit. Sire Culexus was last, opening up his gleaming skull mask like an elaborate metal flower.

  The assassins looked upon their naked identities for the first time and there was a mixture of potent emotions: anger, recognition, amusement.

  “Better,” said Dorn.

  “Now you have stripped us of our greatest weapon, Astartes,” said Siress Callidus, a fall of rust-red hair lying unkempt over a pale face. “Are you satisfied?”

  The primarch glanced over his shoulder. “Brother-Captain Efried?”

  One of the Imperial Fists at the door stepped forwards and handed a device to his commander, and in turn Dorn placed it on the table and slid it towards Sire Vanus.

  “It’s a data-slate,” he said.

  “My warriors intercepted a starship beyond the edge of the Oort Cloud, attempting to vector into the Sol system,” Dorn told them. “It identified itself as a common freighter, the Hallis Faye. A name I imagine some of you might recognise.”

  “The crew…?” began Sire Eversor.

  “None to speak of,” offered Captain Efried.

  Dorn pointed at the slate. “That contains a datum capsule recovered from the vessel’s mnemonic core. Mission logs. Vox recordings and vid-picts.” He glanced at Malcador and the Custodian. “What is spoken of there is troubling.”

  The Sigillite nodded towards Sire Vanus. “Show us.”

  Vanus used a hair-fine connector to plug the slate into the open panel before him, and immediately the images in the ghostly hololith flickered and changed to a new configuration of data-panes.

  At the fore was a vox thread, and it began to unspool as a man’s voice, thick with pain, filled the air. “My name is Eristede Kell. Assassin-at-Marque of the Clade Vindicare, Epsilon-dan… And I have defied my orders.”

  VALDOR LISTENED IN silence along with the rest of them, first to Kell’s words, and then to fragments of the infocyte Tariel’s interim logs. When Sire Vanus opened the kernel of data containing the vid-records from Iota’s final moments, he watched in mute disgust at the abomination that was the Black Pariah. As this horror unfolded before them, Sire Culexus bent forwards and quietly wept.

  They listened to it all; the discovery of military situation on Dagonet and the plan to reignite the dying embers of the planet’s civil war; Jenniker Soalm’s rejection of the mission in favour of her own; the assassination of Sedirae in Horus’ stead and the brutal retribution it engendered; and at last, the existence of and lethal potential within the creature that called itself Spear, and the choice that the Execution Force had been forced to make.

  When they had heard as much as was necessary, the Sigillite shouted at Sire Vanus to cease the playback. Valdor surveyed the faces of the clade directors. Each in their own way struggled to process what they had been brought by the Imperial Fists.

  Sire Eversor, confusion in his gaze, turned on the Culexus. “That freakish monstrosity… you created that? For Terra’s sake, cousin, tell me this is not so!”

  “I gave the orders myself!” insisted the psyker. “It was destroyed!”

  “Apparently not,” Dorn replied, his jaw tightening. “But it is dead now, yes?” said Sire Vanus. “It must be…”

  Dorn’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “A narrow view. That is all your kind ever possess. Do you not understand what you have done? Your so-called attempts at a surgical assault against Horus have become nothing of the kind!” His voice rose, like the sound of storm-tossed waves battering a shoreline. “Sedirae’s death has cost the lives of an entire planet’s population! The Sons of Horus have taken revenge on a world because of what your assassins did there!” He shook his head. “If the counter-rebellion on Dagonet had been allowed to fade, if their war had not been deliberately and callously exacerbated, Horus would have passed them by. After my brothers and I have broken his betrayal, the Imperium would have retaken control of Dagonet. But now its devastation leads to the collapse of keystone worlds all across that sector! Now the traitors take a strong foothold there, and it will be my battle-brothers and those of my kindred who must bleed to oust them!” He pointed at them all in turn. “This is what you leave behind you. This is what your kind always leave behind.”

  Valdor could remain silent no longer and he stepped forward. “The suffering on Dagonet is a tragedy, none will deny that,” he said, “and yes, Horus has escaped our retribution once more. But a greater cause has been served, Lord Dorn. Kell and his force chose to preserve your father in exchange for letting your errant brother live. This assassin-creature Spear is dead, and a great threat to the Emperor’s life has been neutralised. I would consider that a victory.”

  “Would you?” Dorn’s fury was palpable, crackling in the air around him. “I’m sure my father is capable of defending himself! And tell me, Captain-General, what kind of victory exists in a war like the one you would have us fight?” He gestured at the room around them. “A war fought from hidden places under cover of falsehood? Innocent lives wasted in the name of dubious tactics? Underhanded, clandestine conflicts, fuelled by secrets and lies?”

  For a moment, Valdor half-expected the Imperial Fist to rip up the table between them just so he could strike at the Custodian; but then, like a tidal wave drawing back into the ocean, Dorn’s anger seemed to subside. Valdor knew better, though – the primarch was the master of his own fury, turning it inward, turning it to stony, unbreakable purpose.

  “This war,” Dorn went on, sparing Malcador a glance, “is a fight not just for the material, for worlds and for the hearts of men. We are in battle for ideals. At stake are the very best of the Imperium’
s ultimate principles. Values of pride, nobility, honour and fealty. How can a veiled killer understand the meaning of such words?”

  Valdor felt Malcador’s eyes on him, and the tension in him seemed to dissipate. At once, he felt a cold sense of conviction rise in his thoughts, and he matched the Imperial Fist’s gaze, answering his challenge. “No one in this room has known war as intimately as you have, my lord,” he began, “and so surely it is you who must understand better than any one of us that this war cannot be a clean and gallant one. We fight a battle like no other in human history. We fight for the future! Can you imagine what might have come to pass if Kell and the rest of the Execution Force had not been present on Dagonet? If this creature Spear had been reunited with the rebel forces?”

  “He would have attempted to complete his mission,” said Sire Culexus. “Come to Terra, to enter the sphere of the Emperor’s power and engage his… murdergift.”

  “He would never have got that far!” insisted Sire Vanus. “He would have been found and killed, surely. The Sigillite or the Emperor himself would have sensed such an abomination and crushed it!”

  “Are you certain?” Valdor pressed. “Horus has many allies, some of them closer than we wish to admit. If this Spear could have reached Terra, made his attack… Even a failure to make the kill, a wounding even…” He trailed off, suddenly appalled by the grim possibility he was describing. “Such a psychic attack would have caused incredible destruction.”

  Dorn said nothing; for a moment, it seemed as if the primarch was sharing the same terrible nightmare that danced in the Custodian’s thoughts; of his liege lord mortally wounded by a lethal enemy, clinging to fading life while the Imperial Palace was a raging inferno all around him.

  Valdor found his voice once more. “Your brother will beat us, Lord Dorn. He will win this war unless we match him blow-for-blow. We cannot, we must not be afraid to make the difficult choices, the hardest decisions! Horus Lupercal will not hesitate—”

  “I am not Horus!” Dorn snarled, the words striking the Custodian like a physical blow. “And I will—”