Nemesis

He had barely said the word before the High-Reeve’s face split in a sour sneer.

“Those throwback religionists? This is their doing?” She shot a look at Laimner. “I

said they were part of this. Didn’t I say so? I knew it!”

Spear nodded. “They are some sort of fundamentalist cult, if I understand

correctly. It seems that Daig Segan was the go-between for the Theoge, and in turn

the murders committed by Sabrat with his help were likely motivated by some

twisted set of beliefs.”

“Human sacrifices?” said Laimner. “On a civilised world like this? This is the

thirty-first millennium, not primitive prehistory!”

Telemach answered immediately. “Religion is like a cancer. It can erupt without

warning.” For a moment, Spear wondered what great hurt in the woman’s past had

occurred because of someone else’s belief; something scarring, no doubt, to make her

hate any thought of such things with that undiluted venom.

“I would advise you move against this group as soon as possible,” he went on,

getting to his feet. “Your media services have already learned of some elements of

this case. I imagine those involved with the Theoge will quickly become targets for

vigilantism.”

Laimner nodded. “Sabrat’s wife and child have already been attacked. I sent

Skelta to the house… He said they were hounded and stoned.”

“Find out if they were involved,” Telemach insisted. “And by nightfall I want

every single Theoge suspect on the books hauled in for questioning.”

Spear drew himself up, smoothing down the front of Hyssos’ tunic in a reflexive

gesture copied from the operative’s own muscle-memory. “I see you have everything

in hand. You have my report. I will take my leave of you now this matter is

concluded.”

Laimner shook his head. “But, wait. There are proceedings… Testimony to be

made, a tribunal. You will need to remain on Iesta to give statements.”

“The Void Baron does not wish me to stay,” All it took was a look from Hyssos’

eyes to the High-Reeve, and she buckled immediately.

“Of course, operative,” she said, the thought of defying Eurotas or one of his

agents never occurring to her. “If any questions arise, a communiquй can be sent via

the Consortium. We caught the killer. That’s all that is important.”

He nodded and made for the door. Behind him, he heard Laimner speak again.

“The people will feel safer,” he said. It seemed less like a statement of fact, and more

like something the man was trying to convince himself of.

A brief smile crossed Spear’s changed face. The fear that he had unleashed on the

streets of Iesta Veracrux would not be so easily dispelled.

* * *

137

Goeda Rufin was enjoying the difference in things.

Before, back when the Governor was still kowtowing to Terra and the nobles did

nothing but grumble, Rufin had been destined to remain a low ranked

noncommissioned officer in the Dagonet PDF. His life consisted largely of shirking

his responsibilities—such as they were—and putting his workload on the junior

ratings unlucky enough to be under his supervision at the vehicle pool. Since the day

he had enrolled after a justicar gave him the choice between borstal or service, Rufin

had never looked back to civilian life, but in all that time he hadn’t been able to shake

the longing for a day when he could wear a coveted officer’s braid. It didn’t occur to

him that his general level of ignorance outstripped any small measure of ability he

had; Rufin was simply unable to grasp the idea that he had never risen in rank

because he was a poor soldier. He was a makeweight in the city garrison, and

everyone seemed to know it but him. To hear Rufin talk, it would seem like there was

a huge conspiracy among the senior officers to keep him down, while other men were

promoted up the ladder—men that he considered less deserving, despite copious

evidence to the contrary. But Rufin wasn’t one to let facts get in the way of his

opinions.

He was snide and demeaning to the back of every man who wore the braid. He

amused himself by scribbling anonymous obscenities about them on the walls of the

barracks washroom, dragging his heels over every order they gave him, this and a

dozen other petty revenges.

It was because of that Goeda Rufin was in the office of his commander when the

liberation took place.

That’s what they were calling it now, “The Liberation”, the bloody day of

upheaval that left Dagonet declared free of Imperial rule and true to the banner of the

Warmaster Horus.

Rufin had been there, waiting, forgotten. He had been there for a disciplinary

review—someone had heard him bad-mouthing his superiors one time too many—

and if it had just been any other day, he would likely have ended up dismissed from

the PDF for his troubles.

But then the shooting started, and he saw soldiers fighting soldiers in the

courtyard. Warriors from the palace garrison, their uniforms marred by crossed-out

aquila sigils, cutting down all the men he never liked. He was hiding in his