Nemesis

Soalm’s gaze misted as tears pricked her eyes. Before her, gold and silver and purple illuminated a stark page of vellum. On it, the portrait of the angelic might of the God-Emperor standing over a kneeling man in the finery of a rogue trader. In the trader’s hands this book; and falling from his Master’s palm, the shimmering droplet of crimson vitae that rested on the recto page. The scarlet liquid glittered like a flawless ruby, frozen in that distant past, as bright and as new as it had been the second it fell.

‘Emperor’s blood…’ she whispered.

Jenniker Soalm sank to her knees in unrestrained awe, bowing her head to the Warrant of Trade of the Clan Eurotas.

Clade Callidus, death from the shadows

FOURTEEN Arrival / Let Me See You / Kill Shot

1

The dawn was close as the Dove-class shuttle dropped from the cold, black sky on its extended aerofoils. The craft made an elongated S-turn and came in from over the wastelands to make a running touchdown on the only runway that was still intact. The landing wheels kicked up spurts of rock dust and sparks as the Yelene’s auxiliary slowed to a shuddering halt, the wings angling to catch the air and bleed off its momentum.

The shuttle was the only source of illumination out among the shadows of Dagonet’s star-port, the running lights casting a pool of white across the cracked, ash-smeared ferrocrete. The surroundings had a slick sheen to them; the rains had only ceased a few hours ago.

No one came out from the dark, lightless buildings to examine the new arrivals; if anyone was still in there, then they were staying silent, hoping that the world would ignore them.

In the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot exchanged glances. Following the operative’s orders, they had made no attempt to contact Dagonet port control on their way down, but both men had expected to be challenged by the local PDF at least once for entering their airspace unannounced.

There had been nothing. When the Yelene slipped into orbit, no voices had been raised to them. The skies over Dagonet were choked with debris and the remnants of recent conflict. It had tested the skills of the cutter’s bridge crew to keep the vessel from colliding with some of the larger fragments, the husks of gutted space stations or the hulls of dead system cruisers still burning with plasma fires. What craft they had spotted that were intact, the operative ordered them to give a wide berth.

Yelene came as close as she dared to Dagonet and then released the shuttle. On the way down the flight crew saw the devastation. Places where the map-logs said there should have been cities were smoke-wreathed craters glowing with the aftershock of nuclear detonations; other settlements had simply been abandoned. Even here, just over the ridge from the capital itself, the planet was silent, as if it were holding its breath.

‘You saw the destruction,’ said the pilot, watching his colleague skim across the vox channels. ‘All that dust and ash in the atmosphere could attenuate signal traffic. Either that or they’ve shut down all broadcast communications planetwide.’

The other man nodded absently. ‘Wired comm is more secure. They could be using telegraphics instead.’

Before the pilot could answer, the hatch behind them opened and the man called Hyssos filled the doorway. ‘Douse the lights,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t draw more attention than we need to.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The co-pilot did as he was told, and the illumination outside died.

The pilot studied the operative. He had heard the stories about Hyssos. They had said he was a hard man, hard but fair, not a martinet like some commanders the pilot had served with. He found it difficult to square that description with his passenger, though. All through the voyage from the Eurotas flotilla to the planet, Hyssos had been withdrawn and frosty, terse and unforgiving when he did take the time to bother speaking to someone. ‘How do you wish to proceed, operative?’

‘Drop the cargo lift,’ came the reply.

Again, the co-pilot did this with a nod. The elevator-hatch in the belly of the shuttle extended down to the runway; cradled on it was a swift jetbike, fuelled and ready to fly.

‘A question,’ said Hyssos, as he turned this way and that, studying the interior of the shuttle cockpit. ‘This craft has a cogitator core aboard. Is it capable of taking us to orbit on its own?’

‘Aye,’ said the pilot, uncertain of where the question was leading. ‘It’s not recommended, but it can be done in an emergency.’

‘What sort of emergency?’

‘Well,’ began the co-pilot, looking up, ‘if the crew are incapacitated, or–’

‘Dead?’

Hyssos’s hands shot out, the fingers coming together to form points, each one piercing the soft flesh of the men’s necks. Neither had the chance to scream; instead they made awkward gasping gurgles as their throats were penetrated.