Nemesis

layers of the killer’s true self were starting to starve. Sipping at the meat of the

dockworker and the clerk had served to hold off the hunger pangs, but they had not

been enough for true satisfaction; and the destruction of the telepath had taken a lot

of energy from him.

Still; feeding now, and a full meal with it. Bones ground between razor teeth,

organs still hot and wet bitten into like ripe fruits, and blood by the bucket for the

drinking. Thirst slaked, for a while. Yes. It would do.

Deep in the canyons of his mind, Spear could hear the echo of the camouflage’s

ghost-mind as it wept and screamed, forced to watch these deeds from the cage

where it was held. It could not understand that it was only noise now, no longer a

being with life and power to influence the outside world. For as long as Spear

remained in control, it would always be so.

Yosef Sabrat was only the last in a long line of coatings painted over Spear’s

malleable aspect, like a dye poured on silk. The killer’s flesh, infused with the living

skin of a warp-predator, was more daemon than man and it obeyed no laws of the

conventional universe. It was a shape with no shape, but not like those human fools

who used chemical philtres to manipulate their skin and bone and think themselves

clever. What Spear was went beyond the nature of disguise, beyond transformation.

There was a word for it that the ancient banned theologies used to talk of their deities

taking on human form; they called it assumption.

When he was sated, he gathered what remained of Hyssos and cautiously filled a

barrel with the leavings. The operative’s clothing and gear he had stripped with care,

placing it to one side for later use. The corpse-meat would be hurled from the roof of

the winestock, where it would fall to the floor of the narrow crags far below, and into

the rapids that would wash the leftovers out to sea; but first he had the final steps to

perform.

From one of the giant tanks given over to the maturation of the wines, Spear

dragged out a fleshy egg and used his teeth to open it. Foul gases discharged from

within and a naked man dropped out on to the wooden flooring. The sac had grown

from a seed Spear planted in the lung of a homeless drunkard shortly after arriving on

Iesta Veracrux. Conjured by the sorcery of his masters, the seed consumed the

vagrant to make the egg, giving birth to a stasis caul where Spear had been able to

store Yosef Sabraf’s body for the past two months.

As the sac dissolved into vapour, he dressed Sabrat in the clothes he had worn

while the aspect had been at the fore. The caul had done its work. The dead reeve

looked as if he had been freshly killed; no human means of detection would say

otherwise. The stab wound through the man’s heart began to bleed again, and Spear

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artfully arranged the body, finding the harvesting knife in a flesh pocket and applying

it to the wound.

He paused to ensure that the puncture on the roof of Sabraf’s mouth was not

visible. The iron-hard proboscis that penetrated there had licked at the matter of the

lawman’s brain and siphoned off the chains of chemicals that were his memories, his

persona. Then, Spear’s daemonskin had patterned itself on those markers, shifting

and becoming. The change was so strong, so deep, that when Spear surrendered

control to it, the camouflage aspect was not merely a mask that the murderer wore; it

was a living, breathing identity. A persona so perfect that it believed itself to be real,

resilient enough that even a cursory psionic scan would not see the lie of it.

Still, it had made sense to murder the psyker woman as soon as possible, if not

only to protect the truth but also to force the hand of the investigators. Now the next

phase was complete, and the Yosef Sabrat identity had played its role flawlessly.

Soon Spear would begin the purgation of the disguise, and finally be rid of the man’s

irritatingly moral thought processes, his disgustingly soft compassion, the sickening

attachment to his colleagues, brood-child and bed partner. From this point on, Spear

would only wear a face, and never again give himself over to another man’s self. He

was almost giddy with anticipation. Just a few more steps, and he would be within

striking distance of his target.

The murderer knelt next to Hyssos’ head, severed at the neck by a slicing cut, and

gathered it up. With a guttural choke, Spear spat the proboscis from the soft palate of

his mouth and into the skull through its right eye. Seeking, penetrating, it dug deep

and found the regions of the dead man’s brain where his self was growing cold.

Spear drank him in.

Koyne put away the monocular and hid it inside a pocket of the officer’s tunic the

infocyte had recovered from one of the airfield’s dead. It fit snugly, but the

adjustment of the fluid-filled morphing bladders layered underneath the Callidus’

skin allowed the assassin to alter body mass and dimension to accommodate it a little

better.