Nemesis

And Soalm… Jenniker. The purpose of a Venenum poisoner was as part of the

original exit strategy for the Execution Force. The detonation of several shortduration

hypertoxin charges would sow confusion among the human populace of the

city and clog the highways with panicking civilians, restricting the movements of the

Astartes. But now they would do without that—and Kell felt conflicted about it. He

was almost pleased she was not here to be a part of this, that she would not be at risk

if something went wrong.

The echo of that thought rang hard in his chest, and the press of the sudden

emotion surprised him. He remembered the look in her eyes when she had entered

the room in the Venenum manse—the coldness and the loathing. It was identical to

the expression she had worn all those years ago, on the day he had told her he was

accepting the mission to find mother and father’s killer. Only then, there had also

been pity there as well. Perhaps she had lost the capacity to know compassion, over

time.

He had hoped, foolishly, he now realised, that she might have come to understand

why he had made his choice. The killing of their parents had been an aching, burning

brand in his thoughts; the need for raw vengeance, although at the time he had no

words to describe it. A deed that could not be undone, and one that could not go

unanswered.

And when the kill was finished, after all the deaths it took to reach it… Mother

and father were still dead, but he had avenged them, and the cost had only been the

love of the last person who cared about him. Kell always believed that if he had the

chance to change that moment, to make the choice again, he would have done

nothing differently. But after looking his sister in the eye, he found that certainty

crumbling.

It had been easy to be angry with her at first, to deny her and hate her back for

turning her face from him, eschewing her family’s name. But as time passed, the

anger cooled and became something else. Only now was he beginning to understand

it had crystallised into regret.

A slight breeze pulled at him and Kell frowned at his own thoughts, dismissing

them as best he could. He returned to the mission, made his hide, gathering his gear

and assembling what he would need for the duration in easy reach. Backtracking, he

rigged the stairwells and corridors leading to the laundry room with pairs of tripmines

to cover his rear aspect, before placing his pistol where he could get to it at a

moment’s notice.

Then, and only then, did he unlimber the Exitus longrifle. One of the Directors

Tertius at the clade had told him of the Nihon, a nation of fierce warriors on ancient

Terra, who it was said could not return their swords to their scabbards after drawing

them unless the weapons first tasted blood. Something of that ideal appealed to Kell;

it would not be right to cloak such a magnificent weapon as this without first taking a

life with it.

He settled into a prone position, running through meditation routines to relax

himself and prepare his body, but he found it difficult. Matters beyond the mission—

or truthfully, matters enmeshed with it—preyed on him. He frowned and went to

work on the rifle, dialling in the imager scope, flicking through the sighting modes.

185

Kell had zeroed the weapon during their time with Capra’s rebels, and now it was

like an extension of himself, the actions rote and smooth.

Microscopic sensor pits on the muzzle of the rifle fed information directly to his

spy mask, offering tolerance changes and detailing windage measurements. He

flicked down the bipod, settling the weapon. Kell let his training find the range for

him, compensating for bullet drop over distance, coriolis effect, attenuation for the

moisture of the late rains still in the air, these and a dozen other variables. With care,

he activated a link between his burst transmitter and the Lance. A new icon appeared

a second later; the Lance was ready.

He leaned into the scope. The display became clearer, and solidified. His aiming

line crossed from the habitat tower, over the stub of a nearby monument, through the

corridor of a blast-gutted administratum office, down and down to the open square

the locals called Liberation Plaza. It was there that Horus Lupercal had killed the

crooked priest-king that had ruled Dagonet’s darkest years, early in the Great

Crusade. There, he had expended only one shot and struck such fear into the tyrant’s

men that they laid down their guns and surrendered at the sight of him.

A figure swam into view, blurred slightly by the motion of air across the

kilometres of distance between them. A middle-aged man in the uniform of a PDF

troop commander. As he looked in Kell’s direction, his mouth moved and

automatically a lip-reading subroutine built into the scope’s integral auspex translated

the words into text.

He’s coming, Kell, read the display. Very soon now.

The Vindicare gave the slightest of nods and used Koyne’s torso to estimate his