James Swallow: Nemesis

earnest; and not before time, either. This year’s crop would be one for the record

books, so they were saying.

The flyer bumped through a pocket of turbulent air and Yosef bounced in his

seat; like most of the craft in service with the Sentine, it was an old thing but well

cared for, one of many machines that could date back their lineage to the Second

Establishment and the great colonial influx. The ducted rotor vanes behind the

passenger compartment thrummed, the engine note changing as the pilot put it into a

shallow port-side turn. Yosef let gravity turn his head and he looked past the two

jagers who were the only other passengers, and out through the seamless bowl of

glassaic at the empty observer’s station.

Sparse pennants of thin white cloud drifted away to give him a better view. They

were passing over the Breghoot Canyon, where the sheer rock face of red stone fell

away into deeps that saw little daylight, even at high sun. The terraces of the

vineyards there were just opening up for the day, fans of solar arrays on the tiled

roofs turning and unfolding like black sails on some ocean schooner. Beyond,

clinging to the vast kilometre-long trellises that extended out off the edges of the

cliffs, waves of greenery resembled strange cataracts of emerald frozen in mid-fall.

Had they been closer, Yosef imagined he would be able to see the shapes of

harvestmen and their ceramic-clad gatherer automatons moving in among the frames,

taking the bounty from the web of vines.

The coleopter rumbled again as it forded an updraught and righted itself, giving a

wide berth to the hab-towers reaching high from the cliff top and into the lightening

sky. Acres of white stucco coated the flanks of the tall, skinny minarets, and across

most of them the shutters were still closed over their windows, the new day yet to be

greeted. Most of the capital’s populace were still slumbering at this dawn hour, and

Yosef did in all honesty envy them to great degree. The hasty mug of recaf that had

been his breakfast sat poorly in his stomach. He’d slept fitfully last night—something

that seemed to be happening more often these days—and so when the vox had pulled

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him the rest of the way from his dreamless half-slumber, it had almost been a

kindness. Almost.

The engine note grew shrill as the flyer picked up speed, coming in swift and low

now over the tops of the woodlands that bracketed the capital’s airdocks. Yosef

watched the carpet of green and brown flash past beneath him, trying not to get lost

in it.

A word from the low, muttered conversation drifting between the jagers came to

him without warning. He frowned and dismissed it, willing himself not to listen,

concentrating on the engine sound instead; but he could not. The word, the name,

whispered furtively for fear of invocation.

Horus.

Each time he heard it, it was as if it were some sort of curse. Those who uttered it

would do so in fear, gripped by some strange belief that to speak the name would

incur an instant punishment by unseen authority. Or perhaps it was not that; perhaps

it was a sickening that the word brought with it, the sense that this combination of

sounds would turn the stomach if said too loudly. The name troubled him. For too

long it had been a watchword for nobility and heroism; but now the meaning was in

flux, and it defied any attempt at categorisation in Yosef’s analytical, careful

thoughts.

He considered admonishing the men for a brief moment, then thought better of it.

For all the bright sunshine that might fall upon Iesta Veracrux’s thriving society,

there were shadows cast here and some of them ran far deeper than many would wish

to know. Recently, those shadows ran longer and blacker than ever before, and men

would know fear and doubt for that. It was to be expected.

The coleopter rose up to clear the last barrier of high Ophelian pines and spun in

towards the network of towers, landing pads and blockhouses that were the capital’s

primary port.

The Sentine had dispensation and so were not required to land at a prescribed

platform like civilian traffic. Instead, the pilot moved smartly between a massive pair

of half-inflated cargo ballutes to touch down on a patch of ferrocrete scarcely the

width of the flyer. Yosef and the pair of jagers were barely off the drop-ramp before

the downwash from the rotor became a brief hurricane and the coleopter spun away,

back up into the blue. Yosef shielded his eyes from the dust and scattered leaves the

departure kicked up, watching it go.

He reached inside his coat for his warrant rod on its chain, and drew out the slim

silver shaft to hang free and visible around his neck. He ran his thumb absently down

the length of it, over the etching and the gold contact inlays that indicated his rank of

reeve, and surveyed the area. Unlike the jagers, who only wore a brass badge on

street duty or patrol, the reeve’s rod showed his status as an investigating officer.

The men from the flyer had joined a group of other uniforms who were carefully

plotting out a search pattern for the surrounding area. Behind them, Yosef saw an

automated barrier mechanical ponderously drawing a thick cable lined with warning

flags around the edge of the nearest staging area.

A familiar face caught his eye. “Sir!” Skelta was tall and thin of aspect, with a

bearing to him that some of the other members of the Sentine unkindly equated to a

15

rodent. The jager came quickly over to his side, ducking slightly even though the

coleopter was long gone. Skelta blinked, looking serious and pale. “Sir,” he repeated.

The young man had ideas about being promoted beyond street duty to the Sentine’s

next tier of investigatory operations, and so he was always attempting to present a

sober and thoughtful aspect whenever he was in his superior’s company; but Yosef

didn’t have the heart to tell the man he was just a little too dull-witted to make the

grade. He wasn’t a bad sort, but sometimes he exhibited the kind of ignorance that

made Sabrat’s palms itch.

“Jager,” he said with a nod. “What do you have for me?”

A shadow passed over Skelta’s face, something that went beyond his usual

reticent manner, and Yosef caught it. The reeve had come here expecting to find a

crime of usual note, but Skelta’s fractional expression gave him pause; and for the

first time that morning, he wondered what he had walked into.

“It’s, uh…” The jager trailed off and swallowed hard, his gaze losing focus for a

moment as he thought about something else. “You should probably see for yourself,

sir.”

“All right. Show me.”

Skelta led him through the ordered ranks of wooden cargo capsules, each one an

octagonal block the size of a small groundcar. The smell of matured estufagemi wine

was everywhere here, soaked into the massive crates, even bled into the stone flags of

the flight apron. The warm, comforting scent seemed cloying and overly strong

today, however, almost as if it were struggling to mask the perfume of something far

less pleasant.

Close by, he heard the quick barks of dogs, and then a man’s angry shout

followed by snarls and yelps. “Dockside strays,” offered the jager. “Attracted by the

stink, sir. Been kicking them away since before sunup.” The thought seemed to