Nemesis

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!’