Nemesis

A hatch was creaking shut as she approached, and she turned to see. As it closed,

one of Capra’s men gave her a blank look from within; over his shoulder she saw a

bloodied trooper in clan colours tied to a chair, a moment before he disappeared out

of sight. She paused, and heard footsteps behind her.

Soalm turned and saw a pair of refugee children approach, eyes wide with fear

and daring. They were both grimy, both in shapeless fatigues too big for them; she

couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls.

“Hey,” said the taller of the two. “The Emperor sent you, right?”

She gave a nod. “In a way.”

There was awe in their expressions. “Is he like he is in the picts? A giant?”

Soalm managed a smile. “Bigger than that, even.”

The other child was about to add something, but an adult turned the corner ahead

and gave them both a stern look. “You know you’re not supposed to play down here.

Get back to your lessons!”

They broke into a run and vanished back the way they had come. Soalm turned to

study the man.

“Are you looking for something?” he asked warily.

“I’m just walking,” she admitted. “I needed a moment… to think.”

He pointed past her, blocking her path. “You should probably go back.” The man

seemed hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the authority to tell her what to do.

The Execution Force fit strangely among the freedom fighter group. In the weeks

that had passed since they liberated the prison camp in the city, Soalm and the others

had gained a kind of guarded acceptance, but little more. Under Kell’s orders, each of

them had turned their particular skill-sets towards aiding the rebel cause. Tariel’s

technical expertise was in constant demand, and Koyne showed a natural aptitude for

teaching combat tactics to men and women who had, until recently, been farmers,

teachers and shopkeepers. Meanwhile, Iota and the Garantine would go missing for

days at a time, and the only evidence of their activities would be intercepted reports

from the communication network, stories of destroyed outposts or whole patrols

eviscerated by ghostly assailants. As for her brother, he kept his distance from her,

working with Capra, Beye and Grohl on battle plans.

Soalm did her part too, but as the days drew on it disturbed her more and more.

They were helping the rebels score victories, not just here but through other

resistance cells all across the planet; but it was based on a lie. If not for the arrival of

the assassins on Dagonet, the war would have been over. Instead they were bolstering

it, infusing fresh violence into a conflict that should have already petered out.

The Venenum was precise in what she did; surgical and clean. Collateral damage

was a term she refused to allow into her lexicon, and yet here they were, their

presence more damaging to the locals than the guns of the nobles.

147

The man pointed again. “Back that way,” he repeated. Dispelling her moment of

reverie, Soalm realised that he was trying to hide something.

“No,” she said. “I think not.” Before he could react, she pushed past him and

followed the turn of the narrowing corridor as it dropped into a shallow slope. The

man reached for her robes to stop her, and she tapped a dot of liquid onto the back of

his hand from one of her wrist dispensers. The effect was immediate; he went pale

and fell to the ground, the muscles in his legs giving out.

The corridor opened up into another cavern, this one wide and low. In the middle

of the dimly-lit space there was a thermal grate throwing out a warm orange glow;

surrounding it were rings of chairs, some scattered cushions and salvaged rugs. A

knot of people were there, crowded around an older woman who held an open book

in her hand. Soalm had the impression of interrupting a performance in mid-flow.

The older woman saw the assassin and fear crossed her expression. Her audience

were a mix of all kinds of people from the camp. Two of them, both fighters, sprang

to their feet and came forwards with threats in their eyes.

Soalm raised her hands to defend herself, but the old woman called out. “No!

Stop! We’ll have no violence!”

“Milady—” began one of the others, but she waved him to silence, and with

visible effort, she drew herself up. Soalm saw the echoes of a lifetime of grace and

fortitude there in the old woman’s face.

She pushed through the ring of people and faced her interloper. “I am… I was

Lady Astrid Sinope. I am not afraid of you.”

Soalm cocked her head. “That’s not true.”

Sinope’s aristocratic demeanour faltered. “No… No, I suppose it is not.” She

recovered slightly. “Ever since Beye told us you were on Dagonet, I knew that this

moment would come. I knew one of you would find us.”

“One of us?”

“The Emperor’s warriors,” she went on. “Capra said you were the instruments of

his will. So come, then. Do what you must.”

“I don’t understand…” Soalm began, but the old woman kept talking.