Well, it's been over a year since I updated this, a slightly depressing state of affairs for which I can only apologise. I hope this update is worth the wait! :)
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, almost but not quite sinking below the tall, baroque buildings of the Temple Zone, the administrative and commercial heart of Brachius City. The sounds of the Brachian rush hour – the cries of street vendors desperate to wring another drop of profit from the fading day; the muted snarling of groundcars torturously crawling through narrow streets and the heavier rumbling of transports – drifted into the apartment on the Rue de Plaisir through the open window. The blind over the window was half-drawn, but it barely moved in the close heavy air, throwing a hard-edged rectangle of bright light across the pale-skinned figure reclining on the plush double bed.
Rebecca Alasynde Marielle de la Fleur brought her lho-stick to her painted lips and sucked slowly, exhaling a moment later a fragrant cloud of smoke that uncoiled away from her with almost glacial grace. The blind was half-drawn partly to keep out the worst of the sun and partly to notify would-be clients that Rebecca, known as Bex to her friends, was currently engaged. Brachian prostitutes had, over the course of many centuries, developed a series of codes and signifiers associated with their work and, although she mostly thought of herself as something different from the streetwalkers of the Scarlet Quarter, she nevertheless employed their methods. It was simpler – and safer – that way.
With a delicate economical movement, Rebecca placed the still-smouldering lho-stick in the ash tray perched on her bedside table and turned her attention to her client, who was mechanically dressing himself at the foot of the bed. Not for the first time, she found herself pondering the way a lot of her clients couldn't stop looking at her on entering her apartment and couldn't bear to look at her just prior to leaving. She wasn't offended. Not by this one, at any rate. Idly, she stretched her foot out towards him, wiggling her toes experimentally. She felt a curious languor stealing over her, caused in part by the luxurious warmth of the rectangle of sunlight on her chest. It would be tempting to give into it, to close her eyes and let Melain see himself out, but she couldn't, she knew. There was real work to be done.
"Will I see you again?" she said, injecting just the right amount of plaintive longing into her tone. "Soon?"
Melain turned to her, smiling shyly. Emperor, the poor lad was blushing! It took all of Rebecca's self-control not to giggle. Instead, she stared at him through wide, blue eyes, her lips parted, her arms by her sides resting on the bed, doing nothing to hide her body. He was a young man, Melain, barely out of his teens. Although he was the son of a noble Brachian family, he possessed none of the aristocracy's usual arrogance and cruelty. Rather, in some respects, he was touchingly diffident and respectful. Today had been his third visit to her and his fingers had still trembled as they touched her skin. His kisses had been nervous, tentative. If circumstances had been different, she might have liked him. If circumstances had been different.
Melain half-turned towards her, almost but not quite meeting her gaze.
"I... I'm not sure," he said. Rebecca let the barest trace of a smile grace her lips. Melain had a soft, cultured voice. It was the voice of a priest. Or a poet. "Father has been asking questions and..." The young man glanced away again, returning to the stiff starched collar of his expensive shirt for a moment, fumbling with the tiny silver fastenings before letting his hands fall in exasperation. "Oh, blast!"
Rebecca allowed the smile to blossom on her rouged, full lips, as she slid across the bed towards him.
"Let me," she murmured, reaching up to the young man's neck. "You'll never get out of here at this rate and then what will father say?" She took longer than was strictly necessary in fastening the collar, letting her fingers brush against his throat and jawline. She was close enough to see his pulse beat urgently in his neck. "There," she said primly, as she finished. "All done."
Melain swallowed nervously. She gazed at him for a moment, still largely naked after their earlier exertions.That's right, she thought. Take one last look. Remember this moment. Quite deliberately, she leant over and pecked him on the cheek. His arms stayed resolutely by his side and he glanced down.
"Thank you," he muttered.
Smiling, she sat back. "You're most welcome, young gentleman." The exaggerated courtesy brought the shy smile back with a vengeance. "So what has father been saying?"
The smile vanished, but the intimacy it had sealed remained. Melain leaned forward a little, taking Rebecca into his confidence.
"Father's planning something important. He won't tell me what. He doesn't want the other houses finding out, but it's something to do with the Tanner Guild." Melain frowned. "He's been terribly irritable lately - more so than usual."
Rebecca shrugged, doing her best to hide her excitement. If House Melain was trying to broker a deal with the Tanner Guild then no wonder Melain senior was jumpier than usual. The Tanners controlled all but one of the major supply routes into and out of the city. The implication was that House Melain wanted to move something quickly and quietly. Brecht would definitely be interested in this.
Stifling an affected yawn, Rebecca grimaced. "Business and politics, Jamil. That's all you ever talk about." She patted his forearm affectionately. "Next time... less talk, more..." She trailed off coyly and Melain blushed again. She made a show of shooing him out of the door. "Go on, young gentleman. I'm sure you've got more important things to do than hang around here."
Mumbling gallant apologies, the young nobleman got up and left the apartment. She waited to hear the downstairs door slam shut and then began to get dressed, the faint smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth.
The downstairs apartment was gloomy in comparison to its first floor counterpart, but its occupant preferred it that way. Ekkert di Vrinz, outcast prince of the Fri'arkay clan and lost heir to the honoured throne of his tribal forefathers, had been raised on a jungle world many light years distant from Phrysia Secundus. Most at home in shadow and gloom, he found the brightness of the late Phrysian summer too distracting for the task he had set himself this afternoon. Consequently he had drawn the curtains across the large sash windows and now sat in a filtered light that comfortingly reminded him of days spent tracking game under the jungle canopy.
If only his self-appointed task today was as straightforward.
Holding the book out in front of him, he stared at the left-hand page and its handful of words while trying to avoid looking at the brightly coloured picture on the right-hand page.
"There..." he said slowly, "is... a big... rock?" He looked again at the words, printed in blocky gothic text on a pristine white background. "Rock," he repeated, nodding more confidently this time. "Maria and Marco can... lift it... to..."
The door to the living room opened and Ekkert quickly put the book down. He didn't need to look to know that Bex was framed in the doorway. Her scent gave her away.
"He's gone."
"Yes." Bex walked slowly into the room and he glanced up at her. She was, he would readily admit, a beautiful creature. Her ruffled blonde hair came down to her shoulders, framing a pretty face that bore not a trace of the haughty, high-handed demeanour that he had encountered in so many of this strange world's more 'civilised' citizens. She wore a silk cream blouse over a dark, low-cut body-glove. A thick turquoise belt cinched in the blouse at her waist, accentuating her hips. The sleeves of the blouse were casually rolled up. She wore a wooden bangle, painted the same colour as the belt, on her left forearm. Ekkert sighed. The bangle had been a gift from him - one of the few artifacts from his home world that he had taken with him on his journey with the Highfather's Servant. Its presence might, he hoped, be a peace offering.
"How's it going?"
He held out the book to her, grateful for the opportunity to vent his frustration.
"It is a stupid thing. The words are... stupid. The pictures are..."
She took it from him and turned it over. "I remember this from the scholum. 'Maria and Marco Meet The Orks.' There was a whole series, I think. 'Maria and Marco Meet The Mindworms' was my favourite." She handed it back to him and he brandished the cover at her.
"That," he said, pointing to the large bright green figure on the front of the book, "looks nothing like an ork."
Bex smiled. "It's meant to teach children how to read - not give them an accurate understanding of the enemies of the Imperium. You wouldn't want the Imperium to be defended by whole planets of bedwetters, would you?"
Scowling, Ekkert put the book down. "I suppose not." He stroked the arm of the sofa absently. "He was the young one."
"Yes." Bex drew back a step, the footfall almost inaudible. Her scent was still strong on the still, close air.
"Did he..." Ekkert's tanned, weatherworn face had become an impenetrable mask - almost as if it was made of wood. Bex had to remind herself that, in relative terms, the hunter was not much older than Jamil Melain. "Did he treat you... well?"
Bex sighed. "Yes. You know he did." She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him. "What do you want me to say, Ekkert? What do you want me to do?" She was still close enough to touch him if she wanted to. She hugged herself tightly. "This is what Brecht wants. This is my service for him. For the Emperor."
He stared at her for a moment, a pale familiar anger in his eyes. Oh, Throne, she thought. Please let it be different this time. Please let him understand. She waited, but he said nothing.
"And please don't lecture me about what does or does not constitute service to the Emperor," she continued, finally. "Your vows of celibacy..."
"Don't," he said and his voice was as soft as the whisper of a jungle breeze. His eyes held hers in either defiance or desperation. It was impossible to tell.
She made to stride past him, intent on opening the curtains, on letting some light into this dingy little place, but he caught her arm as she walked past. His grip was gentle but insistent. She could have pulled away, but she didn't want to. She had never wanted to.
She turned and looked into his dark brown eyes.
"Please," he said quietly. "I don't... understand. I don' t think I will ever understand. But I know..." All the while he was speaking, he was gently pulling her towards him. She sat awkwardly next to him, drawing her knees up under her, her eyes never leaving his face. "I will always want you near." He brought his hand up to touch her cheek. "I do not want to see you hurt."
She smiled sadly. "I know that, you big fool." And she reached over and kissed him - not as she had with the nobleman's son, but with all the pent-up frustration and passion of the long eight months she had known him. Emperor, working for the Inquisition was complicated enough, but this... this was gloriously, wonderfully ridiculous! After a moment, she broke off, tracing the contours of his lips with her fingers. There were tears, she realised, in his eyes as well as hers. Smiling, she tried to blink hers away. "Anytime you want to break that vow, mighty hunter..."
It was Ekkert's turn to smile sadly, but he held her in his arms anyway and she could feel his heart beat powerfully in his chest as she rested her head upon it.
"What kind of a man," he asked, his voice rumbling quietly in her ear, "would I be if I cast aside words sworn to the Highfather's Servant so easily?"
And there, Bex knew, was the fundamental conundrum of their relationship. She was still reflecting on that realisation when a loud crackling erupted from the aged vox set in the corner of the room.
She sat up and stared first at it then at Ekkert curiously.
"But Brecht said..."
Ekkert shrugged. "The Highfather's Servant calls."
Slowly, gingerly, Bex got up and made her way to the vox which continued to crackle like frying grox meat on a hot plate. She picked up the mouthpiece.
"Bex here."
The familiar tones of Adjutant Smyre filled the room.
"You and Ekkert are to get to the spaceport straight away..."
Behind her, the outcast prince of the Fri'arkay clan, helpless and devoted lover of Rebecca Alasynde Marielle de la Fleur and sworn swordarm of the Highfather and of Brecht, His Servant, prepared himself for battle.
The creature that had once been Varnis Slack licked his talons clean of blood and growled contentedly. A few yards away, hunched over a work bench, Varl glanced up.
"Enjoy your meal?"
A shivering sigh escaped Slack's lips. For the moment, language was beyond him. For one thing, his jaw and mouth were simply no longer arranged to facilitate human speech. For another, his brain was currently aligned with almost perfect accuracy to the animalistic desire of the hunter. Language was an effete luxury he simply did not require.
He gave the corpse on the floor of the storage shed a cursory, dismissive look. There was still meat on the thing, but it was cooling now. He preferred, he had found in the last few minutes, blood hot and thick on his tongue, flesh raw and fresh in his mouth. He kicked the corpse and it rolled over. A few minutes ago, it had been a spaceport security controller. Now, it was trash.
And he had done that.
He sniffed the air restlessly. Somewhere nearby there was plenty of food. He could sense its close, sweating animal scent, but it was faint. Very faint. He cast a sly look at Varl. The other man was still hunched over the device he had been tinkering with for the last few minutes. Slack sneered contemptuously. Varl had not joined in the hunt or the feast that followed it. He didn't understand the other man's restraint. Ever since the transformation a few hours ago, Slack had seen the trappings of civilisation for what they really were: futile attempts to distract humanity from the inevitability of its own demise. All the monuments, the literature, the technology in the wide vast galaxy couldn't drown out the roaring onrushing tempest of cosmic oblivion. Humanity was doomed to die. The sooner it realised that the better.
Varl thought he was being so clever with his schemes and his plans. Slack just wanted to hunt, to kill, to obliterate life after life after life, to bring the gift of oblivion to the little men and their safe ordered world.
With a newfound sense of stealth guiding his steps, Slack edged away from Varl. Hunger growled in his veins. He had to eat. Cautiously he made his way past the piled crates and storage boxes and slipped out of the shed into the early evening sunlight.
Behind him, Varl straightened up and watched his erstwhile colleague leave, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. That had gone easier than he'd expected. The Gods had provided him with the distraction he needed. Poor Slack.
Returning his attention to the bench, he deftly connected the final wire and stepped back, satisfied. Yes, that would do nicely. No need for the superstitious mutterings of a tech-priest. After all, he reflected smugly, you didn't need to believe in the ridiculous figure of the Omnissiah to construct a bomb.