Nemesis

“Some ships came into the system from Dagonet,” Renia began. “The Planetary

Defence Force monitors couldn’t catch them all, there were so many.”

Yosef felt a peculiar thrill of fear in his chest. “Warships?”

She shook her head. “Transports, liners, that sort of thing. All Dagoneti ships.

Some of them barely made it out of the warp in one piece. They were all overloaded

with people. The ships were full of refugees, Yosef.”

“Why did they come here?” Even as he asked the question, he knew what the

answer was most likely to be. Ever since stories of the galactic insurrection had

broken out across the sector, Dagonet’s government had been noticeably reticent to

commit on the subject.

“They were running. Apparently, there’s an uprising going on out there. The

population are split over their… loyalty.” She said the word as if it was foreign to

her, as if the idea of being disloyal to Terra was a totally alien concept. “It’s a

revolt.”

Yosef frowned. “The Governor on Dagonet won’t let things run out of control.

The noble clans won’t let the planet fall into anarchy. If the Imperial Army or the

Astartes have to intervene there—”

Renia shook her head and touched his hand. “You don’t understand. It’s the

Dagoneti clans who started the uprising. The Governor issued a formal statement of

support for the Warmaster. The nobles have declared in favour of Horus and rejected

the rule of Terra.”

“What?” Yosef felt suddenly giddy, as if he had stood up too quickly.

“The common people are the ones fighting back. They say there is blood in the

streets of the capital. Soldiers fighting soldiers, militia fighting clan guards. Those

who could flee filled every ship they could get their hands on.”

He sat quietly, letting this sink in. There was, he had to admit, a certain logic to

the chain of events. Yosef had visited Dagonet in his youth and he recalled that

Horus Lupercal was second only to the Emperor in being celebrated by the people of

the planet; statues in the Warmaster’s honour were everywhere, and the Dagoneti

spoke of him as “the Liberator”. As the historic record went, in the early years of the

Great Crusade to reunite the lost colonies of humanity, Dagonet languished under the

heel of a corrupt and venal priest-king who ruled the planet through fear and

superstition. Horus, at the head of his Luna Wolves Legion, had come to Dagonet

and freed a world—accomplishing the deed with only one round of ammunition

expended, the single shot he fired that dispatched the tyrant. The victory was one of

the Warmaster’s most celebrated triumphs, and it ensured he would be revered

forever as Dagonet’s saviour.

Small wonder then, that the aristocratic clans who now ruled the planet would

give their banners to him instead of a distant Emperor who had never set foot on their

world. Yosef’s brow creased in a frown. “If they follow Horus…”

“Will Iesta follow suit?” said Renia, completing his question for him. “Terra is a

long way from here, Yosef, and our Governor is no stronger-willed than the rulers of

Dagonet. And if the rumours are true, the Warmaster may be closer than we know.”

His wife reached out again and took both his hands, and this time he noticed that she

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was trembling. “They say that the Sons of Horus are already on their way to Dagonet,

to take control of the entire sector.”

He tried to summon a fraction of his firm, steady voice, the manner he had been

trained to display as a reeve when the citizens looked to him in time of danger. “That

won’t happen. We have nothing to be afraid of.”

Renia’s expression—her love for him for trying to protect her there, but

intermingled with stark fear—told him that for all his efforts, he did not succeed.

The chemical snows of the Aktick Zone, thick feathery clumps tainted a sickly

yellow from thousands of years of atmospheric contaminants, beat at the canopy of

the aircraft. Out beyond the bullet-shaped nose of the transport, there was only a

featureless cowl of grey sky and the whirling storm. Eristede Kell gave it a glance

and then turned away, stepping back from the raised cockpit deck to the small cabin

area behind it.

“How much longer?” said Tariel, who sat strapped into a thrust couch, a halffinished

logica puzzle in his soft, thin fingers.

“Not long,” Kell told him, deliberately giving him a vague answer.

The Vanus’ face pinched in irritation, and he fiddled with the complex knot of the

logica without really paying attention to it. “The sooner we get there, the happier I

will be.”

“Nervous passenger?” the sniper asked, with mild amusement.

Tariel heard it in his voice and fired him an acid look. “The last aircraft I was in

got shot down over the desert. That hasn’t exactly made me well-disposed to the

whole experience.” He discarded the logica—which, to his surprise, Kell realised the

Vanus had completed without apparent effort—and pulled up his sleeve to minister to