Nemesis

Sinope’s quiet zeal washed over her. Soalm took a second to find her voice again.

“How long has the… the Theoge been here?”

“Before I was born, generations before,” said the old woman, continuing on.

“Before the age of the Great Crusade, even. It is said that when the God-Emperor

walked the turbulent Earth, even then there were those who secretly worshipped Him.

When He came to the stars, that belief came with Him. And then there was the

Lectitio Divinitatus, the book that gave form to those beliefs. The holy word!”

“Is it true that it was written by one of the God-Emperor’s own sons?”

“I do not know, child. All we can be sure of is that it is the Imperial truth.” She

smiled again. “I grew up with that knowledge. For a long time, we and others like us

lived isolated lives, ignored at best, decried at worst. We who believed were thought

to be deluded fools.”

Soalm looked around. “These people don’t look like fools to me.”

“Indeed. Our numbers have started to swell, and not just here. Groups of

believers all across the galaxy are coming together. Our faith knows no boundaries,

from the lowliest hiver child to men who walk the palaces of Terra itself.” She

paused, thinking. “The darkness sown by the Warmaster has brought many to our

fold. In the wake of his insurrection there have been horrors and miracles alike. This

is our time of testing, of that I have no doubt. Out creed is in the ascendant, dear

child. The day will come when all the stars bend their knee to Holy Terra and the

God-Emperor’s glory.”

“But not yet,” she said, an edge of bitterness in her voice. “Not today.”

Sinope touched her arm. “Have faith. We are part of something larger than

ourselves. As long as our belief survives, then we do also.”

“The people from the other worlds,” Soalm pressed. “Tros said they were here on

a pilgrimage. I don’t understand that.”

Sinope did not reply. They followed a patched metal staircase into the lower

levels of the old ship, treading with care to avoid broken spars and fallen stanchions.

Down here the stink of rust and dry earth was heavy and cloying. After a few metres,

they came to a thickly walled compartment, armoured with layers of steel and

ceramite. Four men, each armed with heavy-calibre weapons, were crowded around

the only hatchway that led inside. They had hard eyes and the solid, dense builds of

humans from heavy-gravity worlds. The assassin knew immediately that they were,

to a man, career soldiers of long and lethal experience.

Each of them gave a respectful bow as Sinope came into the light cast from the

lumes overhead, doffing their caps to the old woman. Soalm watched her go to each

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in turn and talk with them as if they were old friends. She seemed tiny and fragile

next to the soldiers, and yet it was clear that they hung on her every word and

gesture, like a troupe of devoted sons. Her smiles became theirs. Sinope gestured to

her. “Gentlemen, this is Jenniker.”

“She’s the one?” said the tallest of the four, a heavy stubber at rest in his hands.

Sinope nodded. “You have all served the Theoge so selflessly,” she told them,

“and your duty is almost done. Jenniker will take this great burden from you.”

The tall man gave a regretful nod and then snapped his fingers at another of the

four. The second soldier worked the thick wheel in the centre of the hatch, and with a

squeal of rusted metal, he opened the door to the cargo compartment.

Sinope advanced inside and Soalm followed warily behind her. It was gloomy

and warm, and there was a peculiar stillness in the air that prickled her bare skin. The

hatch closed with a crunch.

“Dagonet is going to fall,” said the noblewoman, soft and sorrowful. “Death is

close at hand. The God-Emperor’s love will preserve our souls but the ending of our

flesh has already been written. He cannot save us.”

Soalm wanted to say something, to give out a denial, but nothing would come.

“He knows this. That is why, in His infinite wisdom, the Master of Mankind had

you brought to us in His stead, Jenniker Soalm.”

“No,” she managed, her heart racing. “I am here in service to a lie! To perish for

a meaningless cause! I have not even been spared the grace to have a truth to die

for!”

Sinope came to her and embraced the assassin. “Oh, dear child. You are

mistaken. He sent you to us because you are the only one who can do what we

cannot. The God-Emperor turned your destiny to cross my path. You are here to

protect something most precious.”

“What do you mean?”

The noblewoman stepped away and moved to a small metal chest. She worked a

control pad on the surface—a combination of bio-sensor bloodlocks and security

layers—and Soalm stepped closer to get a better look. She knew the design; the chest

was of advanced Martian manufacture, a highly secure transport capsule fitted with

its own internal support fields, capable of long-term survival in a vacuum, even