Nemesis

Dorn’s expression shifted for a second, with a curling of his lip. “I have crossed

paths with the agents of the Officio Assassinorum on the battlefield. Those

encounters have never ended well. Their focus is always… too narrow. They are

tools best suited for courtly intrigue and the games of empire. Not for war.” He

folded his arms. “Speak, Custodian. What do you know of this?”

Valdor stiffened. “I… can’t say.”

35

For a moment, the tension on the primarch’s face resonated through the room and

Valdor’s knuckles whitened around the haft of his spear; then Dorn turned away.

“That is unfortunate.”

The Custodian bristled at the warrior-lord’s demeaning tone. “We all want the

same thing,” he insisted. “To preserve the Emperor.”

“No,” Dorn looked up at the windows, and he allowed himself a sigh. “Your first

remit is to safeguard the life of the Emperor of Mankind above all else. Mine, and

that of my brothers, is to safeguard the Imperium.”

“The two are the same,” said Valdor. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his

words that he did not expect.

“Not so,” Dorn said, as he left. “A narrow view, Custodian.” The primarch

paused on the threshold and spoke one last time, without looking back. “This

conversation is not ended, Valdor.”

Cirsun Latigue liked to pretend that the aeronef belonged to him. When he left the

Iestan capital of a night and took the languid flight back to his home in the Falls, he

liked to place himself by the window of the little gondola slung beneath the cigarshaped

ballute and watch the hab-towers flash past, imagining the workadays from

the service industries and the vineyards seeing him cruise along by, their faces lit

with envy at someone of such importance. The gondola was no bigger than a

monorail carriage, but it was opulently appointed with chaises and recessed automata

for beverages and other services. For the most part, it served important clients or the

urgent travel needs of upper tier management, but for a lot of the time the craft sat at

dock, unused.

The aeronef was not his property, however much he wished it so. It belonged, as

his wife often told him he did, to the Eurotas Trade Consortium, and while his rank

with the company was such that use of the aircraft could be a regular perk of the job,

on some level he knew that he would never rise far enough to truly own something of

such status.

That wasn’t something he liked to think about, though. Rather like his wife, more

often than not. All his not-inconsiderable earnings as a senior datum-clerk, their

appealing townhouse in the fashionable end of the suburbs, the private schola for the

children… She appreciated none of it. Latigue’s love of the company flyer was a

reaction against that. When he was in the aeronef, he felt free, just for a little while.

And thanks to the correct application of some bribery and favours in the shape of a

few deliberately mislabelled shipping forms, he had learned from one of the

Consortium’s technologians how simple it was to adjust the aircraft’s docile,

unsophisticated machine-brain in order to take the flyer to other destinations that

didn’t show up on the logs. Places like the White Crescent Quarter, where the

company was always agreeable, and for a man of Latigue’s means, quite affordable.

He smiled at that, listening to the soft chopping hum of the propeller as the

aeronef crossed over Spindle Canyon, and he thought about ordering a change of

course. The wife was at some interminable gaming event at one of her ridiculous

social clubs, so there would be no judgemental hissing and narrowing of eyes when

he came home. Why not stay out a little longer, he wondered? Why not take a cruise

towards the White Crescent? The daring of the thought made him smile, and he

36

began to warm to the idea. Latigue leaned forward, reaching for the command panel

and licking his lips.

It was then he noticed the object for the first time. On the seat across from him, a

peculiar little ball that resembled a seed pod. Gingerly, he reached for it, prodded it

with a finger—and blanched. The thing was warm to the touch, and it felt like it was

made of flesh.

Latigue’s gorge rose in his throat and he tasted the sour tang of the half-digested

meat dish he had eaten at mid-meal; but still he could not stop himself from reaching

out once more, this time carefully gathering up the object from where it lay.

In the light cast through the cabin windows, he saw that the ball was lined and

strangely textured. He let it roll in his hand, this way and that, finally bringing it

closer to his nose to get a better look.

When it opened he let out a yelp. Splitting along its length, the sphere revealed an

eye, horribly human in aspect, hidden behind the fleshy covering. It rotated of its

own accord and Latigue became aware that it was looking directly at him, and with

something that might have been recognition.

Suddenly overcome with disgust, he threw the orb away, and it vanished under a