Nemesis

tribal runes and an explorer’s pack containing survival gear and supplies, the latter

for show. With his enhanced physiology, Valdor would have been able to live for

weeks on the plains on drops of moisture he sucked from the dirt or the sparse meat

of insects. The rifle he could use, though. Everything about Valdor’s disguise was

there to tell a vague fiction, not enough to hide from a deep analysis but enough to

allow him to go on his way without arousing too much suspicion. The Custodian had

done this many times before, in blood games and on missions of other import. This

was no different, he reflected.

Across the cargo bay, sitting uncomfortably upon a canvas seat that vibrated each

time the transport forded a pocket of turbulence, Valdor’s companion on this journey

was bent forwards over his right arm. Wearing a sandcloak similar to the

38

Custodian’s, the smaller man was busy with a pane of hololithic text projected from a

cybernetic gauntlet clasped around his wrist. With his other hand he manipulated

shapes in the hologrammatic matrix, his attention on it total and complete. His name

was Fon Tariel; the light of the text threw colour over his pale olive skin and the dark

ovals of his eyes. A tight nest of dreadlocks drawing over Tariel’s head did their best

to hide discreet bronze vents in the back of his skull, where interface sockets gleamed

alongside memory implants and dataphilia. Unlike the cohorts of the Mechanicum,

who willingly gave themselves fully to the marriage of flesh and machine, Tariel’s

augmentations were discreet and nuanced.

Valdor studied him through lidded eyes, careful to be circumspect about it. The

Sigillite had presented Tariel to him in a manner that made it clear no questioning of

his choice would be allowed. The little man was Sire Vanus’ contribution to the

Execution Force, one of the clade’s newest operatives, with a skull crammed full of

data and a willingness to serve. They called Tariel’s kind “infocytes”; essentially

they were human computing engines, but at the very far opposite of the spectrum

from the mindless meat-automata of servitors. In matters of strategy and tactics, the

insight of an infocyte was unparalleled; their existence cemented Clade Vanus as the

intelligence-gathering faction of the Officio Assassinorum. It was said they had never

been known to make an error of judgement. Valdor considered that as little more than

disinformation, however; the creation and dissemination of propaganda was also a

core strength of the Vanus.

From the corner of his eye, the Custodian saw the movement of a monitor camera

high up on the roof of the cargo bay. He had noted earlier that it appeared to be

dwelling on him more than it should have, and now the device’s attention seemed

solely fixed on him. Without turning his head, Valdor saw that Tariel had moved

slightly so that his holoscreen was now concealed by the bulk of his body.

The Custodian’s lip curled, and with a quick motion he was on his feet, crossing

the short distance between the two of them. Tariel reacted with a flash of panic, but

Valdor was on him, grabbing his arm. The hololith showed the monitor’s point of

view, locked onto the Custodian. Data streams haloed his image, feeding out biopatterns

and body kinestics; Tariel had somehow invaded and co-opted the flyer’s

internal security systems to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Don’t spy on me,” Valdor told the infocyte. “I value my privacy.”

“You can’t blame me,” Tariel blurted. “I wondered who you were.”

Valdor considered this for a moment, still holding him in an immobile grip. They

had both boarded the transport in silence, neither speaking until this moment; he was

not surprised that the other man had let his inquisitiveness outstrip his caution. Tariel

and his kind had the same relationship with raw information that an addict did with

their chosen vice; they were enrapt by the idea of new data, and would do whatever

they could to gather it in, and know it. Quite how that balanced with the

Assassinorum’s obsessive need for near-total secrecy he could not imagine; perhaps

it went some way towards explaining the peculiar character of the Vanus clade and

its agents. “Then who am I?” he demanded. “If I caught you staring at me through

that camera, then surely you have been doing that and more since we first left the

Imperial City.”

“Let go of my hand, please,” said Tariel. “You’re hurting me.”

39

“Not really,” Valdor told him, but he released his grip anyway.

After a moment, the infocyte nodded. “You are Constantin Valdor, Captain-

General of the Custodian Guard, margin of error less than fourteen percent. I parsed

this from physiological data and existing records, along with sampling of various

other information streams.” Tariel showed him; inputs from sources as diverse as

traffic routings, listings of foodstuffs purchased by the Palace consumery, the routes

of cleaning automata, renovation files from the forges that repaired the robots Valdor