Nemesis

you carry in some iron box that has more value than that?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Soalm replied. “You are a pariah; you were

born without a soul. You have no faith to give.”

“No soul…” Sinope echoed the words, coming closer. “Is that possible?”

“In this chest is a piece of the Emperor’s divinity, made manifest,” Soalm went

on, her eyes shining with zeal. “I am going to protect it with my life from the ruinous

powers intent on its destruction! I believe this with my heart and spirit, Iota! I swear

it in the name of the living God-Emperor of Mankind!”

“Your beliefs are meaningless,” Iota retorted, becoming irked by the woman’s

irrationality. “Only what is real matters. Your words and relics are ephemeral.”

“You think so?” Sinope stepped fearlessly towards the Culexus, reaching out a

hand. “Have you never encountered something greater than yourself? Never

wondered about the meaning of your existence?” She dared to touch the metal face of

the skull. “Look me in the eye and tell me that. I ask, child. Let me see you.”

Somewhere in the distance, Iota thought she heard a ripple of jet noise, but she

ignored it. Instead, uncertain where the impulse came from, she reached up a hand

and thumbed the release that let the skullhelmet fold open and retreat back over her

shoulders. Her face naked to the winds and sand, she turned her gaze on the old

woman and held it. “Here I am.” She felt a question stir in her. “Is Soalm right? Can

you tell? Am I soulless?”

Sinope’s hand went to her lips. “I… I don’t know. But in His wisdom, I have

faith that the God-Emperor will know the answer.”

Iota’s eyes narrowed. “No amount of faith will stop you from dying.”

The ship came out of the void shrouded in silence and menace.

Rising over the far side of Dagonet’s largest moon like a dragon taking wing, the

Astartes battleship came on, prow first, knifing through the vacuum towards the

combat-cluttered skies. Wreckage and corpses desiccated by the punishing kiss of

space rebounded off the sheer sides of its bow as serried ranks of weapons batteries

turned in their sockets to bear on the turning world beneath them. Hatches opened,

great irises of thick space-hardened brass and steel yawning to give readiness to

launch bays where Stormbird drop-ships and Raven interceptors nestled in their

deployment cradles. Bow doors hiding the mouths of missile tubes retreated.

What few vessels there were close to the planet did not dare to share the same

orbit, and fled as fast as their motors would allow them. As they retreated, they

transmitted fawning, obeisant messages that were almost begging in tone, insisting

on their loyalties and imploring the invader ship’s commander to spare their lives.

Only one vessel did not show the proper level of grovelling fear—a fast cutter in a

rogue trader’s livery, whose crew broke for open space in a frenzy of panic. As a man

might stretch a limb to ready it before a day of exercise, the battleship discharged a

desultory barrage of beam fire from one of its secondary batteries, obliterating the

cutter. This was done almost as an afterthought.

The massive craft passed in front of the sun, throwing a partial occlusion of black

shadow across the landscape far below. It sank into a geostationary orbit, stately and

188

intimidating, hanging in place over the capital city as the dawn turned all eyes below

to the sky.

Every weapon in the battleship’s arsenal was prepared and oriented down at the

surface—torpedo arrays filled with warshots that could atomise whole continents in a

single strike, energy cannons capable of boiling off oceans, kinetic killers that could

behead mountains through the brute force of their impact. This was only the power of

the ship itself; then there was the minor fleet of auxiliary craft aboard it, wings of

fighters and bombers that could come screaming down into Dagonet’s atmosphere on

plumes of white fire. Swift death bringers that could raze cities, burn nations.

And finally, there was the army. Massed brigades of genetically-enhanced

warrior kindred, hundreds of Adeptus Astartes clad in ceramite power armour, loaded

down with boltguns and chainswords, power blades and flamers, man-portable

missile launchers and autocannons. Hosts of these warlords gathered on the

mustering decks, ready to embark at their drop-ship stations if called upon, while

others—a smaller number, but no less dangerous for it—assembled behind their liege

lord high commander in the battleship’s teleportarium.

The vessel had brought a military force of such deadly intent and utter lethality

that the planet and its people had never known the like, in all their recorded history.

And it was only the first. Other ships were following close behind.

This was the visitation granted to Dagonet by the Sons of Horus, the tip of a

sword blade forged from shock and awe.

Far below, across the white marble of Liberation Plaza, a respectful hush fell over the