Nemesis

had smashed during his morning exercises… To the warrior it seemed like a wall of

white noise, but the infocyte manipulated it effortlessly.

“That is… impressive,” he offered. “But not the work of an assassin, I would

think.”

Tariel’s expression stiffened at that. “Clade Vanus has removed many of the

Imperium’s enemies. We do our part, as you do, Captain-General.”

Valdor leaned in, looming over the man. “And how many enemies of Terra have

you killed, Fon Tariel?”

The infocyte paused, blinking. “In the way that you would consider it a

termination? None. But I have been instrumental in the excision of a number of

targets.”

“Such as?”

For a moment, he thought Tariel would refuse to answer, but then the infocyte

began to speak, quickly and curtly, as if he were giving a data download. “I will

provide you with an example. Lord-Elective Corliss Braganza of the Triton-B

colony.”

“I know the name. A delinquent and a criminal.”

“In effect. I discovered through program artefacts uncovered during routine

information-trawling that he was in the process of embezzling Imperial funds as part

of a plan to finance a move against several senior members of the Ministorum. He

was attempting to build a powerbase through which to influence Imperial colonial

policy. Through the use of covert blinds, I inserted materials of an incendiary nature

into Braganza’s personal datastacks. The resultant discovery of these fabrications led

to his death at the hands of his co-conspirators, and in turn the revelation of their

identities.”

Valdor recalled the incident with Braganza; he had been implicated in the brutal

murder of a young noblewoman, and after ironclad evidence had come to light

damning him despite all his protestations to the contrary, the Triton electorate that

had voted him into office had savagely turned against him. Braganza had apparently

died in an accident during his transport to a penal asteroid. “You leaked the details of

his prison transfer.”

Tariel nodded. “The cleanest kill is one that another performs in your stead with

no knowledge of your incitement.”

The Custodian allowed him a nod. “I can’t fault your logic.” He stepped back and

let the infocyte have room to relax. “If you have so much data to hand, perhaps you

can tell me something about the man we have been sent to find?”

“Eristede Kell,” Tariel answered instantly. “Clade Vindicare. Currently on an

extended duration deployment targeted at the eventual eradication of exocitizen

criminal groups in the Atalantic Delimited Zone. Among the top percentile of field40

deployed special operatives. Fifty-two confirmed kills, including the Tyrant of Daas,

Queen Mortog Haeven, the Eldar general Sellians nil Kaheen, Brother-Captain—”

Valdor held up his hand. “I don’t need to know his record. I need to know him.”

The Vanus considered his words for a long moment; but before Tariel could

answer, a flash of fire caught Valdor’s eye through one of the viewports, and the

Custodian turned towards it, his every warning sense rushing to the fore.

Outside, he glimpsed a spear made of white vapour, tipped with an angry crimson

projectile; it described a corkscrew motion as it homed in on the aircraft. Alert sirens

belatedly screamed a warning. He had barely registered the light and flame before the

transport suddenly resonated with a colossal impact, and veered sharply to starboard.

Smoke poured into the cargo bay, and Valdor heard the shriek of torn metal.

Unsecured, the two of them tumbled across the deck as the aircraft spun into the

grip of the rusty haze.

* * *

A visit to the valetudinarium always made Yosef feel slightly queasy, as if the

proximity to a place of healing was somehow enough to make him become

spontaneously unwell. He was aware that other people—people who didn’t work in

law enforcement, that was—had a similar reaction being around peace officers; they

felt spontaneously guilty, even if they had committed no crime. The sensation was

strong, though, enough that if ever Yosef felt an ache or a pain that might best have

been looked at by a medicae, a marrow-deep revulsion grew strong in him, enough to

make him bury it and wait for the issue to subside.

Unfortunate then that a sizeable portion of his duties forced him to visit the

capital’s largest clinic on a regular basis; and those visits were always to the most

forbidding of its halls, the mortuarium. Winter-cold, the pale wooden floors and

panelled walls were shiny with layers of heavy fluid-resistant varnishes, and harsh

white light thrown from overhead lume-strips filled every corner of the chamber with

stark illumination.

Across the room, the dead stood upright in liquid-filled suspensor tubes that

could be raised from compartments in the floor or lowered from silos in the ceiling.

Frost-encrusted data-slates showed a series of colour-coded tags, designating which

were new arrivals, which had been kept aside for in-depth autopsy and which were