Nemesis

Kell caught the tinny sound of panicked voices coming through the pilot’s vox-bead, and as they banked, he thought he saw the blink of weapons discharges down inside the silo proper. His jaw stiffened; this was no chance accident. He knew exactly what had happened.

‘Oh. They woke him,’ said Iota, from behind, giving voice to his thoughts. ‘That was a mistake.’

‘Take us in,’ Kell snapped.

The pilot’s eyes widened behind his flight goggles. ‘The silo is on fire and there’s nowhere else to set down! We have to abort!’

The Vindicare shook his head. ‘Land us on the ice!’

‘If I put this craft down there, it might never lift again,’ said the pilot, ‘and if–’

Kell silenced him with a look. ‘If we don’t deal with this right now, by sunrise tomorrow every settlement within a hundred kilometre radius will be a slaughterhouse!’ He pointed at the snow fields. ‘Land this thing, now!’

3

Instead of returning home to the small apartment cluster where he lived alone, out near the western edge of the radial park, Daig Segan took a public conveyor to the old market district. At this time of night, none of the stalls were open to make sales but they were still hives of activity; men and women loaded produce and prepared for the dawn shift, moving crates on dollies this way and that across shiny tiled floors that were slick with sluice-water.

Daig crossed the covered market to the other conveyor halt and took the first ride that came in, irrespective of its destination. As the monorail moved along the line embedded in the cobbled street bed, he gave the carriage a long, careful sweep, running over the faces of the other passengers with a policeman’s wary eye. There were only a handful of people. Three teenagers in loader’s hoods, tired and serious-looking. An old couple, bound for home. Men and women in work-cloaks. None of them spoke. They either stared into the middle distance, or looked blankly out the windows of the conveyor. Daig could sense the tension in them, the unfocussed fear. It manifested in short tempers and hollow gazes, brittle silences and morose sighs. All these people and everyone like them, all were looking to a horizon lit by the distant fires of war, and they wondered – when will it reach us? It seemed as if Iesta Veracrux was holding its collective breath as the shadow of the rebellion drew ever closer. Daig looked away and watched the streets roll by.

He rode for three stops before disembarking once more. He took another conveyor back the way he came, this time stepping off the running board just as it pulled away from the halt before the market. The reeve jogged across the road, throwing a glance over his shoulder to be certain he had not been followed. Then, his toque pulled low to his brow line, Daig vanished into an ill-lit alleyway and found his way to an unmarked metal door.

A shutter opened in the door and a round, florid face peered out at him. Recognition split the face in a broad smile. ‘Daig. We haven’t seen you in a good while.’

‘Hello, Noust.’ He nodded distractedly. ‘Can I come in?’

The door creaked open in reply and he stepped through.

Inside it was warm, and Daig blinked a few times, his eyes watering as the chilled skin of his face thawed a little. Noust handed him a tin cup with a measure of mulled wine in it and the reeve followed the other man down a steel staircase. A breath of gentle music wafted up on the warm air as they descended.

‘I wondered if you might have changed your mind,’ said Noust. ‘Sometimes that happens. People question things after they take on the belief. It’s like buyer’s remorse.’ He gave a dry chuckle.

‘It’s not that,’ said Daig. ‘It’s just that I haven’t been able to get here. It’s the work.’ He sighed. ‘I have to be careful.’

Noust shot him a look over his shoulder. ‘Of course you do. We all do, especially in the current climate. He understands.’

Daig sighed, feeling guilty. ‘I hope so.’

The staircase deposited them in a cellar with a low ceiling. Lumes had been glued to the walls along the long axis of the chamber, and in rough rows there were a collection of seats – some plastiformed things pilfered from office plexes, others threadbare sofas from lost homes, a few little more than artfully cut packing crates – all of them arranged in a semi-circle around a cloth-covered table. Red-printed leaflets lay on some of the chairs.