Prologue
Simon was a simple man, hence his nickname. As a child, he was a dullard, a feckless fantasist who drifted between days without ever noticing those same days change. He never fitted in; his time in the playground was spent in solitary confinement, steeped in an aura of alien indifference. The other children instinctively avoided him. He was the spider in the bathtub, the monster under the bed. He never displayed any useful skills. His teachers, at least those who were not repulsed by him in the same way that a dog will cringe in the presence of an unseen spirit, hailed him as less than dysfunctional. He had no function. He was just Simple Simon, going untouched through life.
As he matured, he found menial work to his liking, daydream jobs, where he could while away the hours doing the things that no one else could or would do.
His ideal job came sheerly by accident. As he strolled through the municipal graveyard, idly regarding the names of those long since gone, he came upon an open grave. The coffin had just been lowered. The mourners were drifting into the distance like black balloons. The men who were to refill the grave with the nearby mini digger must have been off sneaking a quick cigarette or gone to lunch.
The coffin was strewn with wilted lilies and saturated by deep red roses. The roses stood out like drops of blood in the darkness of the grave. He stared at them, hands in pockets, and wondered why you would give flowers to a dead person. It wasn’t as if they could appreciate the kind thought. He had noticed though, that people did strange things in the face of adversity.
It was anathema to him. His own emotions ran the gamut from flat to level. He had seen people cry and sensed that there was something not quite right, but such an outpouring of sentiment was something that he quite simply could not feel. He had once, when young, flattened his finger with a brick. He had been attempting to crush a slug between two bricks and had misdirected his aim. His finger had exploded. His mother had found him staring at it as if it was something completely new to the scientific world. She had, of course, screamed and rushed him to casualty. The nurse had said how brave he was not to cry. Why would he have cried? It was as if they had expected him to dip into hysteria, but he couldn’t. He felt pain; that had been compartmentalised as an entirely different thing to emotion.
He walked up to the grave, found a shovel and started to fill. So impressed were the official grave workers upon their return that they hired him on the spot and twenty years later he was still filling, digging and refilling.
It also gave him time to indulge in his other past time.
He never had any luck with the opposite sex; they found him too boring, too simple, too scary, too weird, too still, without ambition.
The dead did not. The dead said nothing. The dead did not judge.
So he indulged sexually with the freshly interred. He found that their near-but-not-quite lifelike grace pleased him. Some were even scented, which was good as he had an aversion to the smell of formaldehyde.
At last, he had found some human contact and with this came the first flower of sensation that he had ever had. Penetration of the dead lead to orgasm, and the havoc it wreaked through him, the exquisite pain in his groin, the release of something that had for so long yearned to escape, was unlike any sensation he had known before.
The first time it had happened, it had caused him some concern and he wondered briefly if he should visit the casualty department, but the feeling became addictive, the need to attain the sexual high that the corpses brought him, whether male or female, almost unbearable.
Today he was going to introduce himself to a recently deceased lady from a rich family. He was going up in the world. They had their own tomb where other family members were interred. He looked around to make sure that none of his colleagues was nearby. He could see the hab units towering in the distance, grey, anonymous, full of life, yet not of the living. If only those people knew that, he was still loving and caring for their deceased. He smiled to himself, allowing the strange tension of sexual anticipation to creep through him, and made his way into the tomb.
His master key opened the padlock to the gate. He approached the large impressive crypt, looked down upon by angels and saints, pressed against the cold stone door and pushed. With a faint hiss, almost like a whisper of escaped souls, it opened. A blanket of warm air swept over him and the musty smell of the dead and decaying filled his nose. It was the perfume of foreplay.
Inside, the tomb was dark. Some daylight filtered from the narrow opening in the doorway, some through the cracks that time and gravity had made. The light fell upon the floor like silver pennies.
He lit a glo globe and made his way to the tomb’s newest internee.
As he came closer to the sarcophagus, he saw that something was amiss.
The lid, the heavy, marble lid, had been slid to one side and was now perched precariously upon the corner of the sarcophagus. He moved the heavy lid further to open it fully. Before he could do anything about it, the lid overbalanced and crashed to the floor of the tomb. It fell like thunder in the enclosed space. He examined it. It had remained intact with just a chip at one corner. That was, he thought with some satisfaction, why people paid for marble.
He peered inside the sarcophagus. There was a new coffin within. The lid was open, but there was no body.
He heard a shuffling from deeper within the vast tomb. The glo globe followed him as he went to investigate. As he went further in, he could hear the sound of tapping, of scraping, of wetness. He pushed the glo globe in front of him.
As the globe moved slowly forward and lit the shadows he saw, sat on her haunches while gnawing on a bone, the tomb’s newest inhabitant. Her teeth tap-tapped at the bone, her thin, pale mouth sucked at it, her black, swollen tongue probed in search of the marrow inside.
Simon felt nothing but a mild curiosity. She was not dead. The question of whether she would co-operate and still fulfil his needs flashed through his mind.
Had the doctor made a mistake? Had she been pronounced dead when she clearly was not? He had heard of cases, mostly from his colleagues, in which people came back to life in the mortuary, or had simply been misdiagnosed as dead by a tired doctor. He found the concept of life and death difficult to grasp. How did the beating of a heart, or its cessation, make such a difference? Where did whatever was within go when it was dead? What was the difference between sleep and death? Did it simply lie in the waking up?
He was about to ask the corpse if she would consider his relief when, at lightning speed, the woman, the corpse, dressed in filthy twin set and pearls, covered in the ichor of the dead, flew at him, hands outstretched, her filthy nails drawn to claw at him.
He stumbled back as the weight of her body hit him. He felt pain in his neck and saw an oily stream erupt from his throat. He felt warmth flow from him and wondered briefly if he had orgasmed in a new and frenzied way. He tried to push her away, but she wrapped her bony legs around him and continued to frantically gnaw at his exposed skin.
He pulled her head back, saw her eyes, dead white like a beached fish, and her black and bloated tongue. Then she lunged forward and sunk her teeth into his throat.
An Enhanced walked out of the shadows, his dented armour tinged with verdigris.
Open sores festered and pus flowed freely down from his face and between the gaps in the armour. He took out a small transceiver. ‘Inform Mistress Mordeen we have made contact. Coronaria is ours,’ he said.
Conquest by disease. How novel, he thought. How refreshing.
Chapter One
The ship languished in space. It was an immense structure, the size of a large city. Smaller ships buzzed around it like drones attending their queen. At various places around the ship, battleships, each capable of levelling a planet, bore the insignia of their clans.
Shuttles beetled back and forth. Small fighters patrolled, alert to any sign of attack or xenos incursion.
Inside the enormous ship, it was like stepping into another world. Gone was the starkness of space, replaced by ornate marbling and ironwork, ornamental ceilings and intricate wood panelling. It was as if someone had gone through a catalogue of everything from the dark years and decided to stick it in one place – regardless of taste, regardless of the assault upon the senses. This theme continued through the upper decks, those places seen by visitors - VIPs, emperors and kings and queens.
In the lower levels, bare pipes hissed, leaked, and exposed wiring sparked and buzzed. Dim lighting and the smell of sweat, of toil, of sewage and the unclean became the flavour of the day.
In one of the conference rooms on the upper floors, an argument raged.
The leader of Clan Zealot was in furious debate with another Enhanced in green robes the leader of Clan Lavastorm. ‘We cannot allow her to intrude any further! She will be put to the sword.’
The leader of Clan Lavastorm brought his giant fist down upon the table. ‘By your clan? The same clan she duped into exterminating an innocent clan. You do remember the Wounded Sons. Or have they slipped into that abyss you call your memory?’
‘Your clan would have done better?’ bellowed the Zealot. ‘You fool! If you had let them go, who knows what havoc they would have wreaked? It was not a risk I was prepared to take. When the Supremacy is put at risk, I do my job.’ He slammed his fist into his chest. ‘I fulfil my vows. Are you saying that you are not loyal enough to the Supremacy to do what has to be done?’
‘We would not have simply followed orders, Heinrich! There are protocols, protocols that you choose to ignore to justify and enforce your Puritan ways. The universe was not made in your image, you arrogant half-wit!’
The Zealot leapt over the table and put his face an inch away from his adversary. ‘You cross the line, Talumos!’
‘Do I? Or are you stung by the ring of truth in my words?’
‘I have killed men for less.’
‘Aye, and no doubt women and babes in arms too. If you want me as your enemy, you shall have me.’ Talumos held the Zealot’s gaze.
‘Brothers, please.’ A third Enhanced, in a cream robe with gold piping, put his arm between the two protagonists and gently manoeuvred them apart.
‘Commander Heinrich. Commander Talumos. This is what she wants,’ he said softly. ‘She would love to hear this internecine bickering, but while we squabble and debate she gains ground. She rages across the universe while you argue like Terran teenagers over a girl.’
He rested a hand on the shoulder of each man. ‘We must put our petty differences aside. Each clan has a unique perspective. The Zealots have a pure outlook on things, while you of Clan Lavastorm prefer the more…explosive approach. We of Clan Serenity always seek a less bloody alternative. That does not detract from any clan or their outlook. Indeed, these differences make us stronger, because we have so much to share among ourselves. It is our differences that make us complete. As a unified force she cannot stop us, so please brothers, I implore you, let’s stop this, eh?’
Heinrich grunted. He shook the hand from his shoulder and sat down.
The Lavastorm smiled and nodded. He took the hand of the Clan Serenity Commander and embraced it. ‘Of course, brother. My profound apologies if I have in any way insulted my esteemed clan brother. No slight was intended.’
‘Very well,’ said the Serenity leader. ‘Let us wait for our other clan brothers to arrive. I myself am eager to meet the new commander of the Wounded Sons.’
Remi Orthesian looked through the view port of his command deck. He had never seen the Senate’s mobile headquarters before. He had heard it was big, but this astounded him.
‘Magnificent, is she not?’ said Mercurse.
The diminutive Inquisitor ran a handkerchief across his face, removed his pince-nez and cleaned them, then folded the handkerchief with his small, immaculately gloved hands and put it in his pocket. It was a routine that Remi had seen many hundreds of times. It gave him comfort. ‘The Capitol ship,’ said the Inquisitor. ‘The Divine Empress; a beauty to behold. A floating Supremacy headquarters.’
‘She is beautiful,’ said Remi. ‘Ever been on board?’
‘Only once, many years ago now, during the Fel emergencies. All inquisitors were summoned, certain plans were put into action.’ Mercurse sighed. ‘Remi, there’s something you should know. It is rather delicate though.’
Remi smiled. ‘You’re like a leaky tap, Alain. Drips and drops of information…Go on.’
‘The item that she stole from Orthese, the Book of Sigma-Kal, the Book of True Daemon Names, was not the only theft she committed.’
‘I want to be surprised,’ said Remi. ‘But I’m not sure I have that in me anymore. I feel that this will not be pleasant.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mercurse. ‘Somehow she broke into the ship’s vault and stole other data.’
‘From this ship? The Divine Empress?’
Mercurse nodded. ‘Yes.’
Remi noticed that no one had mentioned her true name since she had returned to Supremacy space. It was as if even uttering the name of Valeria Mordeen brought catastrophe.
Remi’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said other data. What other data?’
‘Banned schematics of heretical weaponry and war machines.’
Remi rolled his eyes. ‘I see.’
‘The system she conquered has an industrial world within it…’
‘So not only does she have an army, she has the designs and means to build outlawed machines.’
‘Quite so. Should be a challenge, eh?’ Mercurse smiled.
Remi just stared at the Capitol ship.
Remi sat with Kyan in the autocar, piloted by an automaton. ‘Damn this suit,’ moaned Kyan.
Remi slapped down the clumsy fingers that fiddled with the button at Kyan’s neck. ‘Stop whining. It’s not just a suit. It’s a dress uniform. And you look good in it – for a Fel.’ Kyan scowled at Remi. ‘Really. It makes you look almost respectable.’
‘It’s too tight and smells odd.’
‘That smell is cleanliness,’ said Remi. ‘Get used to it.’
They continued the rest of their journey in silence. They had boarded the autocar after their arrival on board the Divine Empress and had not failed to be impressed with the ship. An autocar was the quickest way to get to the conference rooms. It was easy to get lost on such a gargantuan craft.
The car slowed and came to a stop at a pair of ornate brass doors. Fine filigree etchings depicted an ancient battle of Terra’s past. A pristine guard nodded to them and opened the door for them.
Inside sat the commanders of the Zealot, Serenity, Lavastorm, Lupus, Palm of Earth and Nosferatu clans.
As Remi entered, the Zealot commander rose to his feet. ‘What is that?’ he exclaimed, pointing at Kyan.
Remi walked calmly to the table and sat down. ‘You have your equerry, Heinrich.’ He nodded at the Zealot champion. The champion turned his face away. ‘I have mine.’
Heinrich took a step forward, his hand curled around his pistol. ‘It’s a Fel. It deserves to die and I will see to it’
Remi poured himself a drink and sat down. ‘You will do nothing; he is under my protection. Unless of course you wish to finish the slaughter of Clan Wounded Son you started all those years ago?’
‘It’s alright, Lord,’ said Kyan. ‘I will answer him. You forget, you pompous Supremacy lackey, that without my kind, you would not exist. You would still be an amorphous blob floating about a Petri dish although, looking at you, I see some parts of you still are!’
‘You insolent…’
The tension was broken by the laughter of the Nosferatu commander. ‘Come, Heinrich, you should have learnt by now that to paint every picture the same is boring. Clearly this Fel, sorry, equerry, is trusted by our clan brother. We should show him the courtesy of doing the same. Let that Petri dish of a brain think about that.’
‘This is not over Fel!’ said Commander Heinrich.
The door to the room slid open. Amidst hissing and clanking, more machine than human, a new attendee entered. Long, tattered robes dragged behind it. Bright red dots beamed from under its hood and steam (or was it smoke?) emanated from beneath the folds of material.
A mechanical voice said, ‘Stop your squabbling. I am here on the orders of the most supreme senate. I have your instructions.’
Heinrich looked the creature up and down, as if it had just gatecrashed a soirée. ‘And you are?’
‘I am Inquisitor General Vladimir Mortik, second in command to our honoured Grand Inquisitor and holder of the holy seal. You gentlemen are under my command, on pain of death.’
‘The Death Bringer!’ said Kyan under his breath.
Mortik turned to Kyan. ‘I see my reputation precedes me. That is indeed a compliment coming from something like you, Fel.’ He tried to smile, but it turned into little more than a grimace. ‘Please, sit down, gentlemen. We have a lot to discuss.’ He turned to Montpelier. ‘You must be the errant Montpelier. The dust begins to settle, I trust.’
Montpelier looked away uncomprehendingly, dazed, as if he had been slapped.
‘My brothers and I were discussing this very matter, Lord,’ said Commander Heinrich in an attempt to ingratiate himself.
‘Which matter, Heinrich? Your sycophancy is all that ever improves in you. You have no idea why I am here and the matter you were discussing was what you wanted to do to the Fel. Stop discussing and listen. Any plans you may want to put forward will be listened to and then disregarded.’
‘What?'
‘You will comply with my orders, all of you. To do otherwise will mean your deaths and the death of your clans.’ Mortik looked around the room for any signs of disagreement. There were none, though he noted that Heinrich was clearly biting his tongue. ‘But let us discuss things first, before I descend to such heavy handed ways.’ He snapped his fingers. They clicked metallically. Remi noticed that his fingertips were composed of a metal alloy, possibly copper, with metal tracks leading down his fingers onto the back of his hand. The finger-snap caused a spark.
A menial shuffled over to the table and laid a metal rectagonal pad onto it. This pad had four jack points on it. The Inquisitor extended his hand and metal tubular tentacles extended from his copper fingertips and slotted into the jack points. An image appeared, green and fuzzy. ‘This is the only visual we have,’ he said.
His voice seemed to echo within him. There was undoubtedly some sort of voice-aid hidden somewhere in his throat. ‘This was taken by a probe we sent. Watch.’
All eyes fell upon the pad. The image showed Supremacy guard fighting a running battle against Mordeen’s men and her army of Enhanced. The image froze. ‘Look at this,’ said Mortik. ‘See how our brave men shoot down the rebels.’
In the freeze frame were men of both sides being blown apart. Flying limbs and blood spatters were caught in the freeze frame like a horror fresco. ‘Watch again,’ he said. He let the image run some more.
The men that had been killed on both sides got up; how they did this with the injuries they had sustained was beyond comprehension - missing limbs, heads, great holes gouged into torsos, yet they got up and continued to fight.
The Supremacy fallen turned on their comrades as if somehow they had been turned into Mordeen’s army.
‘The dead rise and continue to fight,’ Mortik stated matter-of-factly. ‘That is not our concern. These men, however, are our concern.’ He paused the image again. Clearly to be seen on screen were Enhanced, but of an unknown clan. ‘We have no idea who these men are or how Mordeen got hold of them.’ The image faded. ‘Well gentlemen, now you know why your drib-drab plans and playground arguments would have been fruitless. You are all dismissed. You will all be given your individual orders. Shuffle off now, back to bed or wherever your overworked brains will take you.’ He turned to Remi. ‘Except you, Commander Orthese.’
The inquisitor waited until the other clan leaders had left. He motioned Remi and Kyan to sit. He manipulated the pict screen again and a different image appeared.
It was a different shot of the Enhanced in the insurrectionist army, taken on a larger scale. The armour looked old and badly maintained; gouges and bullet holes had not been repaired, oil and other liquids streaked the plasitech, blisters had bubbled upon the livery of the suit making it hard to tell which clan’s image it was. ‘Tell me Commander, what was she like?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play games; you know very well who. The one person in this galaxy denying you your retribution, for all those souls she tore from your grasp.’
Remi relented. There was no point in denying what was clearly known. ‘I didn’t know her long enough to find out. Her actions were vile, without boundaries and without remorse but as for who she is or how she feels, I don’t know. I had no desire to get too close.’
The Inquisitor searched the pict screen until it centred upon Mordeen. ‘She killed all those that got in her way, yet she did not kill you. Why would that be?’
‘Ask her, Inquisitor. Now, I am sure you did not ask me to wait just to find out my opinions of our enemy. I don’t like games either. If you have something to say, say it. I’m no longer one of those easily intimidated by a cloak and a name.’ He crossed his arms and glared at the Inquisitor. ‘You have all the information you need on her in your archives or did she steal those too?’
Remi saw the Inquisitor bristle. He was not used to being answered back. ‘That’s very astute of you, Commander - and here was I thinking that all the Enhanced had a rather limited imagination.’ Before Remi could retort, the Inquisitor pointed at the pict screen, ‘Did you ever meet them? Were they with her when you last met?’
Remi shook his head. ‘No, just an engineer and her trained assassin.’
‘Very well, your mission is to bring me one of these Enhanced, dead or alive. Do not,’ He held up a cold steel blue finger in warning. ‘I repeat, do not attempt to capture Coronaria. We must first take a specimen and neutralise this foul disease.’
In his private quarters, Remi informed Mercurse of the meeting. The old inquisitor sat upon a chair, his feet unable to touch the ground. He seemed to have been unaffected by the events on Tetra. Others had relived their memories over many nights, to be woken cornered by concerned faces who had themselves just awoken from a nightmare. Even Blöhn seemed subdued.
‘I just have one thing to say, Remi and, whatever you decide, you will have my complete co-operation; maybe even my help.’ Remi looked quizzically at Mercurse. ‘The inquisition keep track of every clan and sub-clan. They keep records of those that have died in the line of duty, of those executed, of those crippled and diseased, of transfers and abductions. They merge clans when they dwindle to nothing. They are meticulous. So tell me, why would they not know who this rag-tag clan is that follows close upon the heels of Mordeen?’
‘Are you saying that the Inquisition knows who they are?’
Mercurse shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I think it’s a fair supposition.’
‘So they just want one to interrogate? They didn’t seem to be particularly fussy about what condition I brought it back in. How do you interrogate the dead, Alain?’
Mercurse wiped a handkerchief across his face. ‘The Inquisition is very resourceful, Remi.’ He took his pince-nez off and cleaned them. ‘It has deep pockets. It has tech about which even those who sit upon the coat tails of those in charge don’t know.’
‘And why my clan? Why any clan? The Inquisition has spies everywhere, agents everywhere. They could pick one off in a moment and have it back here in no time.’
Mercurse patted Remi on the shoulder. ‘More to the point, my boy, why you?’
Remi’s thin, cruel smile slashed his face. ‘Why do you think?’
Mercurse went to the door. It slid silently open upon his approach. ‘That is beyond me. I have things to do. I’ll see you for supper, perhaps.’
Remi watched Mercurse’s back disappear through the door. Why was it that every conversation with him ended up just leaving more questions than they started with? There always seemed to be something left unsaid.
Remi smiled. Sly old fox, he thought.