Triggers Paul Kane The dream always started the same way. In it, he was surrounded by riches, being showered by them. Precious gems and metals; jewellery. All the finery he’d become accustomed to, that he increasingly felt he needed to accumulate. The things that gave him the most pleasure, the most comfort: tokens, trinkets, charms from all the planets he had ever visited. And he, Tobias Grail, would revel in it. At first. Just as it always began with the same scenario, it would inevitably twist and turn. He’d find himself growing uncomfortable – that tingling sensation which always seemed to warn him, that he always relied on. Was somebody coveting the wealth he’d amassed, and was continuing to accrue? Did they want to take it away from him? Steal the fortune he had been working so hard to compile? If so, he would not let them! Grail would grab handfuls of the coins, the gems, the bracelets that he’d had specially made, gathering everything up so it would not be wrenched from his grasp. Then he would stop, peer into the blackness that surrounded him. He caught flashes of movement there, heard whispers and shuffling. Someone watching, marvelling at his wealth, almost definitely. The more he acquired, the more he felt the need to protect it. Often he would caution whoever it was to get back, threaten them, for they were getting closer and closer the longer the dream endured. ‘Stay away! I’m warning you!’ he snarled. But this would only be met by more of the whispering. Then things would change again, and Grail fancied that he heard snatches of those words. If anything, they were apparently encouraging him to add to his collection. But why? So they could take even more of his riches from him? More, you can have even more! Grail always squinted, attempting to make out exactly who this figure was in the shadows; that apparently was the shadows. But just when he thought he had them in focus they would move again, becoming vague, indistinct, and the whispers began once more. He was, by turns, excited and terrified by all this. His mind would flit from the possibilities they were suggesting, the outrageousness of the plans and schemes which would enter his head, to the sheer terror of putting them into effect. Of getting caught or, even worse, losing all that he had managed to stockpile thus far. Of going back to being in the Guard. Or even before that, to the gutters of his homeworld, desperate to escape and knowing there was only one way to do so. To become the scavenger he still was at heart. More, always more! Look how far he’d come, at how he’d earned his place and position; paid for it with blood and tears. He was not about to lose all that to anyone. However, this wasn’t what the figure wanted – he sensed that much at least. In fact, sometimes Grail wondered if it had even been his idea to begin all this. Was it his or someone else’s? Didn’t matter in the end, the result was the same. Now he craved more, needed to make more, to secure his position. And the dream would always end the same, that rush of exhilaration and fear as the figure moved closer, whispering, yet still out of sight. Or was it? Could he see… something? Finish your work! The heady cocktail of emotions caused him to sit bolt upright in bed, panting for breath. Gasping, and reaching down to prop himself up, Grail felt the wetness of the bed sheets beneath him, already slick enough because of the shiny fabric they were made from. He wiped his forehead with the back of his other arm, ­staring out at the space in front of him. Something moved out there. A carry-over from the dream, the nightmare? Something shifting about in the darkness, whispering. Coming closer and closer. In a panic, Grail called for light and because he hadn’t been specific the bedside glow-globe came on. It illuminated the massive bed he was in, but didn’t really stretch far enough out to reveal who else might be present. He had no family here; no wife or children. The many guards and servants that resided in his home did not have access to his most private chambers. Another whisper, and a tall figure stepped into the circle of light. Grail let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, his body visibly relaxing, shrinking as it did so. ‘Russart,’ he said, voice catching. ‘It’s you!’ ‘Who were you expecting?’ asked the man, striding forward, the material of his form-fitting bodyglove causing the whispering now as its folds rubbed together. Grail took in his features, the thick dark hair and eyebrows, which arched over a solid brow. The squareness of the rest of his face, especially his equally strong jaw. The intensity of the man’s stare, those steel-grey eyes throwing back his own gaze. And finally, that well-muscled body stretching the bodyglove tight, a physique that Russart had maintained in the years since they’d served together while Grail had let his own grow fat and soft. Even as he thought about it now, Grail pulled the covers up more around himself, in spite of the fact this was the one person he trusted most in the world… in any world. Russart’s right hand was on the hilt of his sidearm, nestled in its holster: a laspistol that Grail had seen him use without hesitation or mercy in the past. He was taking his hand off it, removing his finger from the trigger, now that he could see they were alone in the bedroom. Grail thought about the question his second-in-command, his bodyguard, had asked: who had he been expecting? Russart was the only member of security he allowed access to his inner chambers, and he was always on duty, even at night-time. That was something Grail very much insisted upon, in case he should require the man at a moment’s notice. But Grail hadn’t been expecting anyone real, had he? Just a shade from the dream, somehow here in his bedroom. ‘No… no one,’ he said, more than a little embarrassed. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ Russart nodded towards the surveillance pict recorders in the room that must have alerted him. ‘You were screaming for help.’ ‘I wasn’t screaming,’ Grail argued. ‘I could hear it even as I entered the room. I thought you were in trouble.’ Russart stepped a little closer, concern etched on that face. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility; Grail did have his enemies after all, though how they would have reached him inside his fortress was anyone’s guess. ‘Dreams getting worse?’ ‘I’m fine,’ Grail assured him, clicking his fingers for Russart to pass his robe over from a nearby chair. Quickly, he pulled this around him, swinging his legs out of bed at the same time. He hadn’t gone into any kind of detail with Russart about the dreams, had let the man assume they were of the battlefield: of Fennan’s Pass and the hulking green-skinned xenos. ‘But you–’ ‘I said I was fine,’ Grail snapped. ‘You’re dismissed.’ Russart looked like he was about to say something else, then thought better of it. Questioning Grail when he was in this mood was not the wisest thing to do. Instead he nodded, concern turning to… what, resentment? Just a fleeting glimpse of it, but there. ‘I’ll see you in the morning for the inspection,’ Grail added, his tone lighter. Because he was thankful for all that Russart did. Furthermore, Grail did not know what he would do without the man who kept so many of his secrets. It was the reason why he was paid so handsomely, although Russart didn’t get much of a chance to spend that money. Apart from when they periodically played games of chance in various backstreet establishments, that was. Even then, Grail’s luck was invariably better than his companion’s. Better than most people’s. Russart nodded again, withdrawing from the room. Grail waited for the click of the door before reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table, desperately parched and needing to rehydrate himself. His hand shook as he brought the liquid to his mouth and gulped it down. Then he set it aside, rose, and wandered over to the far side of the room, out of sight of the pict recorders. He passed a mirror on the way, catching his reflection; though neat and well-groomed in his appearance, he couldn’t help noting that the face staring back was a lot rounder than it had been a few years ago. His hairline was rapidly receding as well, and once again his mind turned to Russart, the difference in their appearances, comparing himself to his friend. Grail shook his head and continued on to his destination. There he pulled the covering off a box that had been made to look like a bench, but was in fact a chest coded to his handprint. Grail looked about him, then opened it, gazed at the contents old and new. Quickly, he closed the box again, covering it up. He just needed to check it was all safe. Just needed to be sure. As part of his duties as governor of the mining world of Aranium, Grail was obliged to conduct a monthly tour of the facilities and it was to one of the larger mines that he had been taken to that morning via shuttle, accompanied by a full complement of guards. He’d passed over the workers’ habs that filled this sprawling portion of the planet, most in various states of disarray and decay, not important in the great scheme of things. Streets filthy and sordid, the perfect home for filthy and sordid deeds. Now he was observing the operations – from afar, naturally, as he didn’t want to get too close to the slaves who mined the vital ore which kept the neighbouring forge worlds well supplied – and receiving reports about production. It was a stark contrast to the place he’d set out from a few hours ago. His fortress home, though old itself, was sturdy and had stood the test of time. It had also seen quite a lot of funds channelled into it, giving it a new lease of life and fortifying it still further. The void shield, for instance, which he would be able to use to keep himself and the building safe in the event of insurrection or invasion. Unusual, to be sure, but a precaution Grail had insisted upon; just another level of security in order for him to feel safe. Or take the renovations to the ballroom there, which would be needed soon for the party Grail was throwing, having sent out invitations to noble families, high-ranking officials and dignitaries. A way, as he saw it, of celebrating the good work that had been done since he’d been placed in charge; output having tripled in the last six months alone. There were losses, of course, as was to be expected. You couldn’t push the workforce as hard as they did without casualties. But their sacrifices were for a higher purpose, for the Imperium. Without their contribution, and that of hundreds of other worlds just like it, the entire Imperial war machine could grind to a halt. Grail and Russart, who was only inches from his side, as always when they were outside the fortress, expected all of those under them to give everything to the cause. If they couldn’t? Well, then they were no longer of use and would be ‘disposed of’. An impetus for the rest to work that much harder. Similarly, those who tried to escape – and they did exist, believe it or not – would be executed as an example to anyone thinking about disobeying or abandoning their posts. Grail had witnessed many such executions first-hand, some of which Russart had carried out personally and had appeared to quite enjoy. The governor viewed it as necessary, although he, too, did enjoy witnessing the bloodshed, to some extent. Unlike when they’d served together in the Guard, there was no risk involved to him; no danger. Grail, for his part, had always been rather fond of his own skin, and had more reasons than ever lately not to be parted from it. Before they’d set off for the mine, walking through the hallways of the fortress – passing the multitude of guards and servants alike, Grail actually chastising a few of them for little or no reason – Russart had enquired if he was feeling up to the trip, given his broken sleep the night before. Grail told him again he was absolutely fine, that he should let the matter drop. ‘Do not forget your place,’ he’d said, ‘or how you came by it.’ The debt he owed Grail, not just because he’d brought Russart along with him when he was rewarded for his efforts; how he’d requested Russart as his aide, but also because of what he’d done that day on the line at Fennan’s Pass. ‘I never do, sir,’ the bodyguard had replied. ‘How could I?’ Grail wasn’t sure whether he meant the constant reminders, or the events themselves, which were seared onto his own brain. The noise of the lasguns and lascannons all around the regiment, dug in for weeks at the pass: a position of strategic importance in this particular campaign. Attempting to make the handful of men they had left, who were holding off the enemy out there – advancing through smoke and fire – look like an entire army. Risking glances over the top of the trench they were in, Grail and Russart briefly spotting the green skins of their targets, where they weren’t armoured, at the hands or the heads. The ivory tusks as mouths opened to let out terrifying cries as a call to arms. Urging their comrades on with mighty shouts of ‘Waaaagh!’ Wave upon wave, now that the constant bombardment of missiles had done their worst. Not one of their comrades was sure their request for assistance had been heard, whether the signal had even reached its destination. Nobody had come yet, but they had to hold the line. Had to prevent the orks from getting past them. Russart, to Grail’s left, was rising and moving, aiming as he went: targeting and hitting each of his targets from different angles to try to make it look like there were more men firing. But of course some inevitably broke through. Like the pair who jumped into the trench off to their right, carving up Guardsmen with their cleavers, painting the walls bright red. Grail fired indiscriminately, hitting the enemy and, in his panic, his own men too. He would be doing them a favour by ending their suffering. Doing himself and Russart a favour by ending the enemy’s intrusion into their camp. Then that tingling sensation, a sense… a feeling that something was– There, above them, the rocket falling fast. Falling towards their exact location. Suddenly Grail was pushing Russart, shoving him as far away from where the explosives were about to land as possible. But still not far enough, the world turning upside down as they were flung even further. And then… Then only blackness. Blackness, and something moving beyond it that– ‘Sir? Sir?’ Grail looked about him, remembered where he was: back in the present, in the mine. The thoughts, the memories had returned towards the end of the tour. Probably because of the sound of the machinery, the figures – slaves and penal workers – occupying every level, going about their work in what looked like trenches, the smoke and the fire… He shook his head, regarded the smartly dressed man with pinched features and slicked-backed hair in front of him, Lychin, who was in charge of meeting quotas. He had been in the midst of giving his report when Grail’s mind had begun to wander again. The man was frowning, as was Russart when Grail turned his head to the side. Lychin was waiting for his superior to give the nod of approval, perhaps a word or two of praise for how they had performed in the last few weeks. More, you can have more! You can do more! That voice again, from the dream. Urging him on… They were ahead of schedule though, according to Lychin, which would result in more production than ever this month. Metallic ore, rock and other minerals which formed the basis of the Imperium’s forces: guns, tanks, aircraft and even starships – there would be none of it without the raw materials that they provided. Grail simply said: ‘Carry on.’ The man smiled weakly and nodded to himself, though it was more like a bow. He turned and walked away, boots clacking on the metallic balcony they were standing upon. Grail looked at the hour: the inspection had taken the better part of a day. There was just time enough to eat and then he and Russart needed to be somewhere else. A less formal meeting, but no less vital. A meeting that was still work-related, yet it would not appear on any official schedules or agendas. A meeting that, if the previous ones were any indication, would prove quite lucrative indeed. ‘I thought we agreed, governor, same price as last time?’ They were in the wilderness to the east of Aranium’s capital, in a hostile terrain of mountains and rock. The figure standing in front of the governor was significantly less smartly dressed than Lychin. He wore a jacket and trousers that were faded, even torn in places, and sported a week’s worth of stubble at least. But then what was to be expected of a pirate like Sachael Dhane? Not that he ever referred to himself as such; rather he liked to think of himself as an entrepreneur, trader and all-round facilitator. Often he was a go-between, connecting people who would not necessarily associate with each other, and would never in a million years meet in person. His principal crew were no less ragged, some wearing furs, others flak armour from several different sources. A couple sported augmetics: men and women who had been out in space, had survived out there, for far too long. Their ship, a modified Imperial transport that had been fired upon recently as the fresh blast marks testified, appeared just as sturdy, in spite of its somewhat shaky landing and the precarious way it teetered close to the edge of the cliff where they’d all gathered. ‘The agreement has been changed,’ Grail told him. ‘Twenty per cent extra; another two bags. Or you leave empty-handed.’ Dhane muttered something under his breath, looked around at his people, then said: ‘And what if I refuse?’ Grail could see Dhane’s crew tensing, as was Russart, the only member of his security team present for this exchange. The less people who knew about these sorts of affairs the better, and he trusted so very few with secrets like these. It was safer that way. He was confident that his bodyguard was the better shot, that he could pick off all of them before they could even raise their weapons, but he was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. ‘Well, then I suppose you had better begin looking for another supplier.’ Grail also knew that was more trouble than it was worth; they had a mutually beneficial ongoing arrangement and neither Dhane nor his buyer would want to jeopardise it. Certainly not for twenty per cent. ‘Do we have a deal?’ Dhane sighed, then nodded. ‘We do,’ he conceded. ‘Good, then let’s get on with our business.’ The pirate gestured for the payment to be brought forward and placed in front of Grail for inspection. At the same time, Dhane’s own slaves – workers he kept on board for menial labour, all dressed the same in dark grey coveralls – busied themselves loading up the containers of ore which had been deposited here earlier by servitors. Enough ore for their purposes, but not too much. No amount that would take away from the war effort, Grail said to himself. Nothing that would really be noticed, especially with their rate of production. As Grail looked up from the payment, admiring the indigo glow of the precious stones in the bag he was holding, he thought he saw something move near the cargo bay door of Dhane’s ship; beyond, in the shadows, which had lengthened now the suns had fallen in the sky. Grail’s skin was prickling as he stepped forward, looking past the workers. Yes, there! Definite movement. A figure, the figure from his dream. The blackness given form. Larger now than ever, bigger than a man or woman surely. Rising, writhing even; something flowing through the dark, like water in a stream. Except it was curling up and around, glistening, joined by more of its kind. Grail’s eyes narrowed and he thought he saw shapes there that looked worm-like in nature, coiling and arching, only their outlines visible. And all the while Dhane’s slaves were just getting on with their task, loading up the ore, apparently seeing nothing out of the ordinary. More of the… tentacles, that was the only way of describing them, were joining the first. Revealing themselves slowly, letting themselves be seen as whatever had been hiding in the darkness finally came forward, catching the edges of the ship’s floodlights. Grail let out a murmur, a small cry of shock when he realised that the tentacles were emanating from the thing’s face. That they actually were the face, slipping and sliding in and out of each other, snaking out of its head. Something alien Dhane must have inadvertently brought with him, which had been clinging to the outside of the ship! He dropped the bag he was holding and pointed over at the creature, attempting to speak, but nothing emerging. Then he looked over at Russart, jabbing his finger in the direction of the worm-headed thing as he did so, finding his voice again: ‘Don’t you… Don’t you see it?’ ‘See?’ Russart looked, but as the governor himself saw when he followed the man’s gaze, there was nothing but blackness out there now. Nothing but night. Dhane and his crew, not to mention the slaves, had stopped what they were doing and were watching the governor. ‘I…’ he said, blinking once, twice. Still there was nothing to see. No figure, no tentacles. ‘What are you gawping at? Get your people back to work!’ Russart shouted at Dhane, who scowled but passed on the command. Finish your work! Grail felt something touch his arm and flinched, then realised it was only his aide’s hand. ‘Tobias?’ Russart asked in hushed tones. ‘What is it?’ Grail stared at his aide, open-mouthed. ‘I-I thought I saw…’ ‘What?’ Grail shook his head, then composed himself. ‘It was nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ ‘But you–’ ‘Russart,’ Grail said, stooping to retrieve the bag of gems, ‘I told you it was nothing. And how many times do I have to remind you to refer to me as Governor Grail?’ ‘I’m sorry, but…’ It was the square-jawed man’s turn to shake his head. ‘Nobody heard me, and Dhane’s bandits don’t care.’ ‘That’s not the point!’ Grail retorted. ‘It’s about authority, about respect.’ ‘You think I don’t respect you?’ Grail sighed. ‘Let the matter be, Russart. Please.’ He handed him the bag of gems. ‘Take all of these to the shuttle and prepare for departure. I’ll join you in a moment.’ Russart nodded reluctantly, turning to leave when Grail added: ‘And be happy, my friend – we will have much to celebrate this coming weekend. Other business to attend to.’ Another nod, and Russart left the governor alone, to watch the last of the containers being loaded up onto Dhane’s ship. To watch the vessel itself rise, just as awkwardly as it had landed, and sail off into the night sky. Grail stared at the space where he’d seen… imagined he’d seen the monstrous thing for a few more moments, then he too turned and entered the shuttle, ready to return home. Grail’s usual celebrations, at least the ones he enjoyed most, were always of a more private nature. Gambling, yes, but his tastes were wide-ranging. And nowhere was this more in evidence than at an establishment run by a woman by the name of Madame Ellada. Located up yet another of those run-down back alleys, her place guaranteed discretion. Ellada’s skilled employees were most accommodating, especially if the price was right. A business transaction of a different kind. Grail had left Russart to his own devices in a room not far away, while he indulged himself. Intoxicants were always readily available, as well. Stimulants, relaxants… They were all on hand to ensure maximum pleasure, washed down with wine or spirits. Consequently, much of the evening’s entertainment went by in a blur. Desires were sated – Grail’s anyway, which was all that counted – and it was only towards the end of the allotted time he’d paid for that Grail began to get a sense that something was wrong. Very wrong indeed, actually. The stimms and alcohol had dulled it, but the tingling was still there. That warning sign he always felt before– His first clue was some sort of flapping noise, as if a bird had found its way into the room and was unable to get out again. The lighting was subdued – not pitch black, but not particularly bright either – so when Grail attempted to trace the sound, clumsily climbing over pillows and flesh alike, he could see very little of what might be responsible for it. ‘Where… where are you going?’ asked one of the girls with him, and exchanged glances with her companions. Grail did not reply, he just continued to search, the flapping growing louder and louder. He whirled when he heard something else behind him, a swishing this time, followed by a thrashing noise. As if someone was wielding a whip; the kind that were often used on his workforce if they were falling behind. What’s in here with us? he asked himself. Grail had the distinct feeling he was being watched. No matter which way he crawled or where he tried to hide, he couldn’t escape the scrutiny of whatever was out there in the shadows. He swallowed dryly, backing away up the bed; almost falling off before regaining his balance. ‘No! Keep them… Keep them away!’ he said, his gaze flitting from girl to girl as he pleaded for their help. They just looked confused, had no idea what he was talking about. Couldn’t hear what he heard, didn’t have that selfsame feeling of being observed. They just thought he was mad. But he wasn’t. Grail knew he wasn’t. There was something else in this room with them, a presence. Then he saw it, an eye opening in the darkness. It was normal-sized, but instead of white it was pink, and the iris was as blue as an ocean. He sucked in a breath, then gasped when another eye opened alongside it. Followed swiftly by another, then another, and still another. ‘N-no, it can’t be!’ Several eyes, all inspecting him, belonging to something huge, lumpen and misshapen that was emerging from that murk, its skin – the colour of a bruise – rippling and undulating. ‘Keep b-back! No!’ Grail averted his eyes, and lunged away, knocking one of the girls out of his path. Only to come face-to-face with what had been making the flapping sound earlier. The wings belonged not to a bird, but something much larger. Much more deadly. They opened up like huge fans, spines running the length of them and downwards at equidistant points, which stretched the leathery material taut. The body of the thing was well-muscled, in a way that would have put even his second-in-command to shame, while its head sported a huge beak. Iridescent blue in colour, the closer this creature drew the more Grail could smell of its foetid breath, drool cascading from its massive maw. He pulled a face, then retched. ‘Don’t let it… Don’t let it get me!’ he managed. Scrambling away in the opposite direction did him no good either, because Grail only narrowly avoided what he was still thinking of as a whip. Seeing it this closely, however, he soon realised his mistake. It was in fact a tail which, even as he watched, flew up wildly into the air and then came crashing back down to strike the floor with a crack! Grail jumped as it did so, startled by the sound, and he began gibbering. But he was more disturbed by the sight of what the tail was attached to, a sinuous beast with vestigial forearms and two pairs of legs, its arms ending in curved talons. This one was a sickly grey and purple in colour, but here and there were black lesions – some of them weeping – which it bore with pride as if they were medals. ‘No… No!’ screamed Grail, reaching out for help. ‘Don’t let them hurt me!’ But the girls were already fleeing from the room, throwing open the door and rushing down the hall. Seconds later Russart appeared in the doorway. He activated the main lights, and as he did so all the visions around Grail winked out of existence, leaving him kneeling and panting for breath on the mattress. The governor was mindful that he must have been staring at his bodyguard with wide eyes, and slowly blinked a few times. Before he could stop them, tears escaped and ran down his cheeks, dripping onto his bare chest. ‘Tob… Governor?’ asked Russart. ‘What happened?’ Once again, Grail felt intimidated by that man’s towering form. Pulling the sheets around him quickly, like a toga, he covered his own plump body. ‘N-Nothing. It was nothing.’ He waved his hand as if to prove his point, but Russart didn’t look convinced. ‘Those girls were terrified, screaming. What was–’ ‘I said it was nothing!’ Grail raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, don’t you believe me?’ ‘I… of course, of course. But–’ ‘Then stop asking me such stupid questions!’ the governor barked. It wasn’t long before Madame Ellada herself was in the room too, far from happy with the situation, and with a look on her painted face that said she wasn’t in the mood for debate. ‘I know you are who you are,’ she said, ‘but my establishment still has a reputation to maintain.’ Grail laughed out loud at this, but she ignored it. ‘Jumping at shadows, at things that aren’t there.’ ‘You will be well compensated, as always,’ Russart informed her. ‘I’d better be!’ she replied. ‘Now I think you two “gentlemen” had better get dressed and leave.’ ‘With pleasure,’ Grail said as Ellada retreated, but he almost tripped on the sheets as he was clambering off the bed. Russart rushed to his side, helping him to stand, then guiding him over to where his clothes were: a simple outfit, thankfully, as they were here in secret. ‘Something did happen, didn’t it?’ said Russart, assisting him as he pulled on his trousers. ‘You can trust me, you know.’ Grail regarded him, thought about telling him exactly what had occurred, then just sighed and shook his head. ‘Overindulgence, Russart. Nothing more, I assure you. Too many stimms, too much to drink. They did not mix well together this evening.’ Russart gave him a sideways look, but Grail paid no attention. He did not want to discuss what had happened here tonight until he had been able to process it himself. And that really wasn’t going to happen while he was in this state. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that it was just the effects of the drugs and alcohol, feeding into his dreams; the shapes he’d been unable to discern in the darkness. A waking nightmare? And what of the creature at the exchange? The thing just beyond Dhane’s ship? he couldn’t help asking. He had taken nothing then, had drunk nothing alcoholic. Yet Grail could still see that putrid face, those tentacles. Still see the monster they’d belonged to. Just as he would see those from tonight for some time to come, he felt sure. Grail’s prediction was not an inaccurate one. Over the course of the next week or more, he began to see more of the monstrosities not only in his dreams – when he was able to sleep, that was – but in the real world as well. They would crop up when he least expected it, sometimes as he walked down halls, and he would find himself grabbing servants and screaming into their faces; insisting that the guards do more to defend him. And were those halls less crowded these days, the staff inside growing fewer and fewer in number – or simply avoiding him? The visions would occur whether he drank or not, whether he took intoxicants or abstained. What remained unclear was whether his dreams were feeding this, or it was the other way around: manifestations of his anxiety becoming those shadows in his nightmares, or the creatures seeping out into his consciousness from the dreams. He cancelled meetings, leaving the decision-making chiefly to others – Russart, he assumed – and eventually eschewed the company of anyone, for fear they might see him getting worse and worse; jumping at those shadows, as Madame Ellada had put it. Indeed, he barely left his chambers now, making the excuse that a sickness had taken hold of him (it wasn’t technically a lie) and when he looked in the mirror now Grail saw someone who was exhausted and unkempt. Who sported more stubble than Sachael Dhane, his hair wild and sticking out as if electrified, and with thick, dark rings around his eyes. During one particular acute episode Grail became unsure whether he was even awake or asleep, the lines between his world and the one when he closed his eyes blurring into each other, that tingling taking over his entire body. The shadows were no longer as subtle as they’d once been, the creatures he’d seen with the tentacles, eyes, and now horns and spikes, were not hiding anymore. His whole body shivered with terror. They’d surrounded him, as he stood there in the middle with all his wealth. Bony things with swollen bellies, horns on their heads, who wore their ribs on the outside of their bodies, mucus dripping from them, making droning noises as they approached. Others, creatures of multi-coloured flame, bounded along dribbling fire and sparks behind them. Alluring women with the legs of birds, arms ending in snapping claws, slavering and licking, veins throbbing underneath their grey skin. The whispering was there again too, more demands. Grail almost got the sense that his desire and greed were somehow attracting them, feeding them. More, you can do more! Finish your work! At any moment, though, he expected to see Russart burst in, to ask if he was all right. Only this time he didn’t. So, instead, Grail steeled himself and burst through the circle enveloping him. He escaped out into the corridor and rushed to his bodyguard’s quarters. Gaining access, he slammed the door behind him and pressed himself up against it. ‘Gov… Governor?’ said a shocked Russart, who was at his table poring over documents. ‘I wasn’t expecting–’ ‘R-Russart, what are you doing? You’re supposed to… supposed to be protecting me!’ Grail spluttered. ‘I am busy doing just that. I’m going over the final security arrangements for the ball tomorrow,’ he stated. ‘Why?’ ‘Tomorrow?’ Grail had lost all track of the time and the days. ‘You look…’ Russart pulled a face, but didn’t finish. ‘Are you not feeling any better?’ ‘I’m… I’m all right,’ said Grail but he couldn’t convince himself, let alone Russart. ‘Just tired.’ ‘The dreams?’ said Russart, rising. ‘Or something more?’ When Grail didn’t answer, he continued. ‘You know, I often think about that time on the frontline, at Fennan’s Pass. I often dream about it as well. Especially those final few moments, the waiting.’ And now, having heard that, Grail couldn’t help remembering lying there in the mud and dirt, in the aftermath of the explosion. His body had shielded Russart’s, protecting it as if he knew he would get that protection back in return one day. Feeling the pain in his shoulder, seeing the redness there. But neither of them moving. Moments stretching out into eternity, losing track of time. Grail silently calling out for help with all his mind and soul to anyone that would listen. For them to be saved. Then the sounds of warfare still raging up above, but something else: the distinctive sound of Thunderhawks descending, of bolter fire. The sound that meant help had finally arrived. And now flashes of blue and white amongst the green, of giants in armour taking up the battle. ‘Down here, two Guardsmen!’ Grail heard someone shouting. Then people in the trenches with them, moving them, lifting them. Congratulating them for holding the line, for holding off the orks as long as they had; the enemies of the Imperium had lost one battle here today. The helmeted figures in front of them. Helmets turning into horned and bony faces with lots of teeth. Encouraging him to– He was being shaken and Grail started, realised he was back in Russart’s quarters. ‘Governor?’ asked Russart. ‘I lost you there for a moment. What is it? Please tell me.’ Could he? Could he really confide in him? ‘I-I feel like something has finally awoken inside me. Does that make any sense?’ Russart shook his head. ‘Perhaps even something that’s always… That was set in motion long ago, a connection, that is, at last… And it wants something from me. Something important, to do with this place. You’ve heard rumours about what’s out there, as well as I. And…’ Grail put his head in his hands. ‘You’re scaring me, Tob… Governor, sir.’ Russart led him to his chair and sat him down. ‘I-I’m scaring myself!’ he admitted. Grail suddenly grabbed hold of Russart’s sleeve, clutching it, pulling him in closer. ‘My enemies, Russart, they cannot be allowed to…’ ‘You’re safe, sir. You’re quite safe.’ Grail’s eyes dropped to the plans on the table Russart was examining. They were, as he’d come to expect, incredibly detailed. He would be kept safe, no one would be able to get to him. ‘If you need to postpone tomorrow…’ Russart said. ‘Or perhaps I might act in your stead?’ Grail rose again sharply, knocking over the chair. ‘Is that it?’ he cried out. ‘Is that what you want?’ ‘No, it’s just–’ ‘You would seek to ingratiate yourself with the dignitaries attending? I see now, I see… I thought you were happy with our arrangement, Russart?’ ‘I am,’ said the man, but couldn’t look Grail in the eye. ‘That is, I mean… I work hard for you, sir. A little more acknowledgement might be–’ ‘More acknowledgement!’ More, you can have more! Grail backed away. ‘You want to broker some of the deals I have initiated myself, is that it? Take advantage of some of the contacts who are arriving?’ ‘I simply meant–’ Grail held up his hand, continued to back out of his bodyguard’s room. ‘I shall be there to greet them myself, Russart! Do not worry about that!’ He would make sure of it, he’d decided; wouldn’t allow Russart or anyone else to take credit for his accomplishments. No matter what it took, he would be there. It had been worth it, simply to see the look on Russart’s face. Shaved, bathed and in full dress uniform, Governor Tobias Grail had arrived at the ball in his fortress with plenty of time to spare before the first of the guests arrived: one Baron Kinnsel from the neighbouring mine-city of Forndosa, who brought with him his wife and two daughters. As the event dictated, as well as dressing in their very best finery – he in a frock-coat and breeches, the ladies in cream and white silks, satins and frills – each person was wearing a mask. The baron’s was a gold affair, which covered his eyes, while his companions had chosen delicately patterned silver facades that they held up on the end of sticks, and which constantly seemed to be getting in the way of the curly wigs they’d donned. ‘And are you not wearing a mask yourself, Governor Grail?’ asked the baron, once the introductions to his family had concluded. It was the one thing missing from his own ‘costume’, and he explained that he preferred people to see him as he was. ‘I have nothing to hide,’ he said with a small chuckle. ‘Oh, where is the fun in that?’ tittered Lady Kinnsel. ‘Indeed!’ said the baron, then lowered his voice, leaning in. ‘In fact, I’m hoping we can have a talk later about a few… matters of business?’ Grail nodded. ‘Yes, of course. But for now, please do enjoy the hospitality on offer.’ Russart, for his part, was wearing a charcoal-coloured mask that fitted over his entire forehead, matching the colour of his own attire. He was flitting about, making sure his security teams had entrances and exits covered, not to mention everything in between, as more and more guests arrived. ‘You really have transformed this place,’ the Duchess Sillerby said to him, craning her neck to take in the pillars of the enormous room, the paintings adorning the walls of various battles from the Imperium’s history. Her puffed-up, mustard-coloured dress and mask made her look even more washed out than usual. ‘I haven’t visited in… oh, it must be four years now. You’ve done wonders, as indeed I hear you have with ore production everywhere on Aranium.’ ‘You must be very proud,’ said her husband, who looked more like her father; white-grey beard flowing down from his own mask and cushioning his neck. ‘We… I am,’ said Grail, accepting the compliment gratefully. Very proud. You’ve done well. And your work is not yet finished! Over the course of the evening, the ballroom steadily filled up with bodies, dresses and masks in rainbow colours; some of the guests eating the food that had been provided, which ran down the sides of the room on never-ending tables; others dancing now that the full orchestra had started up. Grail had finished eating a large serving of cake, washing it down with some of the finest wine available in the province, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, but would you care to…’ asked a woman in an electric-blue dress, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, a mask that was of a much darker blue covering the top half of her face. She nodded towards the dancers in the hall. Grail recognised her from somewhere, but wasn’t sure where. Madame Ellada’s perhaps? He knew Russart had arranged for a few of her employees, male and female, to be on hand, in case any of the guests might want entertainment of a more exotic nature later on. ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Grail, holding out his hand to take hers, which was gloved, up to her elbow. He led and they began to dance, mixing in with the other people in the crowd. The lady with the auburn hair laughed and he couldn’t help doing the same. Maybe he would enjoy her company himself, he thought; it had been some time since his last visit to the backstreets, after all. Once business had been concluded, perhaps. Yes, then. The music swelled, the pace quickened, and the pair began to spin. Grail smiled, then laughed again. The woman laughed too, hair flying around madly as she danced. Flying around her head with a life of its own, almost like– Like tentacles attached to her head, coming out of her face. Grail squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them again. The scene had reverted back to normal. Just a flash of– He felt that tingling sensation, a warning. Grail banged into a dancer on his right, turning to apologise but seeing, instead of a man or woman, a thing with beaked features. Some of the masks were indeed of this variety, he reminded himself, but the one gazing at him now was so intricate it had to be real. The sound accompanying it: that of flapping, leathery wings. He let go of the woman he was dancing with, veering off to the right and away from both her and the bird-man. Falling instead into someone whose face was all scales and jagged teeth, eyes jet-black and reflecting his own sweating, fleshy countenance. ‘No, this can’t be! Not here. Please, not now!’ he was crying out. Grail stepped on someone’s toes, and looked down – only to see a fine line of coloured scales curling around that dancer’s bare calves. He felt the bile rising in him at the sight of such corruption. He couldn’t hear the music for the sound of the whispering. Finish your work! More! Grail pushed one body aside, then another, just as he had when he’d been trying to escape from his chambers. Except that seemed like the only secure place for him now, in his room. ‘Russart!’ he bellowed, though he couldn’t see his aide. ‘Russart, get all of these… Get them out of here!’ Grail looked from face to face. He saw the bewilderment of regals and the high-born, then the green-skinned ugliness of orks, tusks protruding from their mouths, before finally monsters of a different kind. Those he had only encountered of late. Things low-born from the shadows but now so varied in their palettes: pinks, blues, greens and reds. Approaching him, waking something inside him. It felt like it went on forever, losing track of time. There were cries and screams as the guests assumed they were in danger, which actually helped clear the room. The music had ceased, the musicians being ushered to the exits. Grail staggered on, tumbling away from them all, attempting to escape up the corridor. Leaving the panicked noise of over a hundred people– The explosions, the sound of las-fire. –leaving it all behind him, eager to be back in his chambers. To be safe, to protect what was his. Grail virtually fell through the door, shutting it again and barricading it after him; shoving a chair and table against it. He rushed into the bedroom, grabbing the box that looked like a bench, dragging it onto his bed and opening it with his handprint. Checking to make sure they were all still there, his most precious items. Then, a sound. Out in the shadows. Grail called for the light, but just as before it only turned on the smaller bedside one; didn’t extend far enough to identify who was present. Someone who’d snuck in, who wanted what was his. You can have more! ‘W-who is it? Identify yourself!’ More monsters, more of the creatures he’d seen in his dreams and in the real world? That had truly awoken him? No. As the figure stepped out into the light, Grail saw his old friend Russart once more, his mask discarded. He sighed with relief. The man had got here before him. Had been waiting for him, to protect him. ‘Governor, sir.’ ‘Oh, thank goodness! I thought–’ ‘Enough of all that. Let’s get on with our business, shall we? You know what it is that I want,’ said his bodyguard. ‘You’ve known all along. Suspected anyway.’ ‘What?’ spluttered Grail. ‘Your power, your wealth. All of it. I’m tired of being in the shadows. We both survived that day at Fennan’s Pass, but only one of us became governor of this world.’ Grail pointed accusingly: ‘You? You did this to me? Poisoned me? What? Was it taking too long?’ Russart didn’t reply, he just drew his laspistol, finger on the trigger. ‘Russart, no!’ ‘Yes,’ said the man, and fired. Grail didn’t hear the shot, but he felt the searing pain in his chest. Realised he was tumbling backwards onto the bed; knocking the box over with him, releasing the precious gems and metals, jewellery. The things that gave him the most pleasure, the most comfort: tokens, trinkets, souvenirs and charms; being showered in them. But something else. The thing that fell to the ground with him, the last item he saw before everything went totally black. Before the shadows surrounded him a final time. The medal he’d received for his actions that day on Fennan’s Pass, now dark and tarnished, covered with intricate, repellant designs like nothing he’d ever seen before. It – and he – now belonged, he realised in his final moments, to those very same monsters that had been haunting him. Reminders of promises he needed to keep, a transaction when the time came. Getting him away safely, from his old homeworld, from the warzone at Fennan’s Pass. More than simply luck, building up his career, his station. But with a debt to be paid; a mutual understanding. To create a point of weakness on Aranium, which was not only of strategic importance – a planet from which to launch a whole new wave of attacks – but whose natural resources would support their own mortal armies. The forces of Chaos. The masters he had been serving without fully understanding it, and who he had failed. Just as they had failed to keep him alive this time. To keep him safe. Laspistol still raised and out in front, the figure stepped closer to Governor Tobias Grail. They knew the pict recorders were recording everything, that evidence of what had happened here would be found by the right people; they would make sure of it. That when he woke up, the real Russart would be charged with murder, and a new governor would be appointed to the mining world of Aranium. The figure sorted through the items Grail had kept hidden away; but took only one, an old military medal. The figure looked up and made sure the recorder above got a decent image of that borrowed face, then withdrew again. It was a face that had been altered using the drug polymorphine, made to look like Grail’s second, while the man himself slept in his own quarters. It had been easy enough to get to him, incapacitate him; easy as well to get to the governor’s chambers ahead of its owner. Easy enough for her, thought Vess, a member of the Officio Assassinorum’s Callidus Temple. A highly trained killer. She’d been here, observing, for some time. One of the slaves during the exchange with Dhane; one of the girls at Madame Ellada’s; a nameless woman at the ball. Making sure the psykers’ predictions would never come to pass. That the Dark Gods and their forces, who had been using greed and paranoia to manipulate Grail, would never gain control of this planet. Vess left quietly now, the same way she’d entered; faded into the shadows, barely seen, her task finally completed. It always started off the same way, but would end up different every time: would twist and turn, getting on with business until the job was done. Until her work was finished. There was no satisfaction, no feelings either way. Because it wasn’t about pride or principle. It was about the Emperor. It was about the Imperium and those who opposed it. All about holding the line. And its enemies had lost another battle here today.