Nemesis

and started on his way to them. If he could get there before any of the terrorist

attackers did, he could open the secure locks and drag out all the big, lethal weapons

that he had been so far denied the chance to use. There were autocannons down there,

grenade launchers and flamers… He’d give these loyalist bastards a roasting for

daring to cross him, oh yes…

Descending an enclosed stairwell, he caught sight of the western platforms.

Monorails there were filling with prisoners, each one closing its doors and moving

off seemingly of its own will, carrying the inmates to freedom. The first few to go

had ploughed through the barricades across the lines; now there was nothing to stop a

mass exodus. Rufin didn’t care, though; he would let them go, as long as he could

keep the guns.

Reaching the lowest levels, he found the men at the first guard post were gone. In

their place there were piles of clothing and lumps of soggy ash, illuminated by the

flickering overhead strip lights. The air here felt cold and oppressive, and Rufin

broke into a ran again, propelled from the place by a cold pressure that was like a

shadow falling over his soul.

He turned the corner and ran towards the armoury post. Six men were there, and

all of them were pale and afraid. They saw him coming and beckoned frantically, as

if he were being chased by something only they could see.

“What happened back there?” he snapped, turning his ire on the first man he saw.

“Talk, rot you!”

“Screaming,” came the reply. “Oh, sir, a screaming like you ain’t never heard.

From Hades itself, sir.”

Rufin’s fear bubbled over into anger and he backhanded the man. “Make sense,

you fool! It’s the terrorists!”

At that moment, the floor below them exploded upwards, the iron grid-plates

spinning away as a hulking figure burst out of the conduits beneath. Rufin saw a

grinning, fanged skull made of tarnished silver and then a massive handgun. A single

shot from the weapon struck one of the guards with such force it blew him back into

another man, the velocity carrying them both into the curved wall where they became

a bloody rain.

143

Rufin stumbled away as the dark shape blurred, releasing an inhuman snarl.

Gunfire sang from the weapons of the guards, but it seemed to make no difference.

There were wet, tearing noises, concussive blasts of bolt-fire, the dense sounds of

meat under pressure, breaking and bursting. Something whistled through the air and

hit Rufin in the chest.

He went to his knees and slumped against the wall, blinking. Like a bloodpainted

dagger, a broken human femur, freshly ripped from a still-cooling corpse,

protruded from his chest. Rufin vomited black, sticky spittle and felt himself start to

die.

The skull-faced figure came to him, trembling with adrenaline, and spat through

the grille of the mask. “Oh dear,” it rambled. “I think I broke him.”

Rufin heard a tutting sound and a second figure, this one more human than the

clawed killer, hove into view. “This is the base commander. We needed him to open

the ammunition store.”

“So?” said the skull-face. “Can’t you do your trick?”

“It’s not a parlour game for your amusement, Eversor.” He heard a sigh and then

a sound like old leather being twisted.

Through blurry eyes Rufin saw his own reflection; or was it? It seemed to be

talking to him. “Say your name,” said the mirror-face.

“You know… who I am,” he managed. “We’re Goeda Rufin.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Now it sounded like him too.

The mirror-face drifted away, towards the locking alcove near the heavy iron

hatch that secured the ammo stores. It was impregnable, Rufin remembered. The

built-in security cogitator needed to recognise both his features and his vocal imprint

before it would open.

His face and voice…

“Goeda Rufin,” said the mirror, and with a crunch of gears the armoury hatch

began to swing open.

Rufin tried to understand how that could be happening, but the answer was still

lost to him when his heart finally stopped.

The rendezvous was a spur-line outside a storage depot in the foothills, several

kilometres beyond the capital. Under Tariel’s guiding hand, the simple drive-brains

of the monorails had obeyed his command and cut fast routes through the network

that confused the PDF spy drones sent to follow them. Now they were all here,

emptying their human cargoes as the sun set over the hillside.

Kell watched the rag-tag resistance fighters gather the freed people into groups,

some of them welcomed back into the fold as lost brothers in arms, others formed

into parties that would split off in separate directions and go to ground, in hopes of

riding out the conflict. He saw Beye and Grohl moving among them. The woman

gave him a nod of thanks, but all the man returned was a steady, measuring look.

Kell understood his position. Even after they had done what he had charged them

to do, and obliterated a major stockpile of turncoat weapons into the bargain, Grohl