Nemesis

the swarm returned could be cohered into a dense picture of what was happening in

the surrounding area. Tariel had already assembled maps of the nearby structures, the

flows of foot and vehicular traffic, and he was currently worming his way into the

encoding of several hundred monitor beads scattered throughout the zone.

The Yndeniscs called this locale the Red Lanes, and the area was a centre for

what one might tactfully describe as hedonistic pursuits. The local confederation of

warlords allowed the place a great degree of latitude from their already lax legal

codes, and in return reaped a sizeable percentage of profit from the patronage of

pleasure-tourists from all across Terra and the Sol system. Quite how a place like this

was allowed to exist on the Throneworld was a mystery to Tariel, as much so as the

tribes of bandits he had encountered out in the Atalantic Plain. His understanding of

Imperial Terra was of a nation-world united and glorious—that was what he saw

through the glassy lenses of his monitors from the safety of his workpod in the

sanctum. But now, outside… He was quickly realising that there were many dirty,

messy, dark corners that did not conform to his view of the Imperium.

A soft chime sounded from the gauntlet. “Are you through?” asked Kell.

“Working,” he replied. The netflys had bored into a deep sub-web of imaging

coils hidden several layers beneath the more obvious ones, and all at once he was

assailed by a storm of images from the shielded rooms in a tall building across the

square; images of men, women and other humans of indeterminate gender

53

performing acts upon one another that were as fascinating as they were repulsive. “I

have… access,” he muttered. “Commencing, uh, image match sweep.”

The facial pattern Valdor had provided to Tariel phased through the images, one

after another, like looking for like. The infocyte tried to maintain an objective

viewpoint, but the feeds he was seeing made him uncomfortable; if anything, he felt

more soiled by them than by the dirt and humidity of the night air.

And then suddenly, she was there, the tawny skin of the girl’s face dark in the

lamplight of a red-lit room as the trace program found its target. “Location

confirmed,” he said.

“Good,” said Kell. “Now find me a way to contact her before she gets killed.”

And so Iota found herself in the room after opening her eyes. She had wondered if it

would still be there when she looked again, and it was. This confirmed her earlier

hypothesis, that the sensations she was experiencing were not hallucinatory but

actually real. On some level, that was troubling to accept; perhaps, if she had

understood her state more correctly, Iota would not have allowed some of the

liberties that had been taken with her physical form to occur. But then again, they had

been necessary to secure her cover in the Red Lanes. She remembered those activities

distantly, like a half-recalled dream. The persona-implants that had been used to

bolster the cover identity were crumbling like sand, and recollection of any particular

point of them was difficult.

It wasn’t important. The false overlay was drifting away, and beneath was

revealed her real self; such as it was. Iota was not a blank slate, as those who did not

fully understand the works of her clade might think. No. She was a fluid in the bottle

of herself, a shape without definition, a form needing direction, a space to fill.

She surveyed the crimson room, the walls covered with rich velvet hangings

sketched with erotic detail in gold threads, the great oval bed emerging from the deep

carpeting. Floating lume-globes provided sultry lighting, with a shuttered window the

only entrance for any natural illumination.

The men who ran the doxy-house seemed caught in some peculiar kind of attractrepel

balance with her. Iota’s gift made them uncomfortable without them ever

knowing exactly why. Perhaps it was the hollow distance in her dark eyes, or the

silence that was her habitual mien. However the gift manifested, it was enough to

unsettle them. Some liked that, taking pleasure from the thrill of it as they might the

tread of a scorpion across their naked flesh; most avoided her, though. She scared

them without ever giving form to their fear.

Iota touched the ornamental tore around the dusky flesh of her throat. If only they

knew how little of her they really sensed. Without the dampener device concealed in

the necklet, the icy void inside her would have spread wide.

She sniffed the perfumed air. Iota felt odd to be out of her suit, but then she

always did. The silken shift dress that covered her body was gossamer-thin, and she

continually forgot that she was wearing it. Of its own accord, her right hand—her

killing hand—reached up and buried itself in the tight cornrows of her shiny black

hair. The hand toyed absently with the plaits dangling off her scalp, and she

wondered how long it would be until the murder came. Her eyes wandered to the