The Quality of Mercy
Neheb looked down on a world at peace.
There were soldiers on the streets, men and women with guns and red armbands. But the barricades had been torn down, and workers in coveralls marched past checkpoints on their way to the factories, singing praise to the Emperor. Praise to the Emperor, and the Emperor's Daughter.
Balkash was supposed to burn. The Imperium loved to blame the Powers for every act of rebellion, but the truth was that Balkash had been on the verge of rebellion for more than a decade. The entire Sector was a tinderbox waiting for a match, and Neheb had worked to ensure that the rebellion would succeed, at least for a while. It would be crushed eventually, of course, but the Imperium's brutality would sow the seeds of the next uprising.
There was a script that they followed, and everyone knew their part. Neheb would provide just enough support to ensure that the rebels prevailed against the local enforcers, and the Imperium would insist that the entire uprising had been the work of Chaos. The protests and demands behind the rebellion would be ignored, rejected as the lies of heretics, and in another century they would repeat the process all over again.
This time was different. The Sisters of Battle had come to Balkash, passing through the Great Rift to deliver the Emperor's Justice to the traitors who had turned against His Rule. The masters of the Administratum had rejoiced at their arrival, and the rebels had despaired.
The purge that followed had been...unexpected. Even more surprising was the fact that so few had died; only the senior adepts of the Administratum, those most guilty, had been executed for their crimes. They had been granted swift, painless deaths, and their subordinates had returned to their old jobs under new management. Neheb had seen a thousand different futures for Balkash, but that had not been one of them.
There was no mercy for rebellion. No forgiveness for traitors. Neheb had witnessed the firing squads, the mass graves, the broken, sobbing leaders begging for the release of death. Long ago, in another lifetime, he had inflicted compliance upon those who defied the Emperor's Will.
Librarian Neheb Suliman had been a blind fool. He had slaughtered the innocent and torn apart screaming minds for scraps of information and he had named it justice. He had been cold and professional and utterly, monstrously certain that the Emperor was right. And when Prospero burned, when he stood in the ashes of his world and wept for all that he had lost, that child had finally understood the true nature of the Imperium.
Pandora Cadmus could not be everywhere. She might be Regent and Lord Commander, but the Imperium was as it had been and as it would always be. This galaxy was beyond saving.
So let it burn. Let it die, as long as the Wolves died with it. When they stood in the ashes of Fenris, surrounded by the ruins of the world they loved, they would know the pain that Neheb had suffered. They would finally experience the grief they had inflicted so often.
The girl cannot stop us. Neheb turned to face the raven. It was perched atop an overturned desk, gazing at him with dark eyes. This is a minor disruption, nothing more. The Architect's plans will go forward despite her interference.
Neheb said, "You did not foresee her return." The daemon was silent. "Your master did not foresee her return."
Our Master, Neheb of the Thousand Sons. This world may yet be salvaged. The people have tasted the blood of their rulers, and they are hungry for more. The rulers have been humbled before their people, and they are desperate to show their strength. It is no great task to bring them to conflict.
Neheb glanced at the ruins around him. The rebels had set the building on fire, but the ferrocrete structure had survived the flames. The people who worked here had not been so fortunate; scorched, rotting corpses lay scattered around the desks. One of them was still seated in his chair, as though he had kept working until death claimed him.
Another blind slave of the Corpse-Emperor. Neheb had no pity for him. Since he became a Ghost of Prospero, since he dedicated himself to the single goal of vengeance, he had slain millions just like the adept. This galaxy had no place for compassion. Pandora Cadmus would learn that truth in time. Or perhaps she would die in ignorance, refusing to accept the pitiless reality that her father had embraced.
Neheb could give her a lesson. When he closed his eyes, he could see those futures in his mind. A fanatical member of the Arbites, unable to bear the thought of disobedience, firing a shotgun into a crowd of protestors. A zealous revolutionary convinced that he acted in service to the Regent as he strapped a bomb to his chest. It was easy to take advantage of the distrust and suspicion that was already there, to strike a match and watch the galaxy burn.
Easy. Smoke had risen to the heavens, blinding Neheb, mercifully hiding what remained of Prospero's people. He could still remember the war cry of the Vlka Fenryka echoing in his ears, the hideous triumph of the Emperor's Executioners. For Russ and the Allfather.
Russ had vanished, gone beyond the reach of any of Neheb's visions. The "Allfather" sat on His Throne, devouring the souls of his subjects, the cannibal god of a cannibal Imperium. Neheb would repay Russ by destroying his beloved home, and he would repay the Emperor by ending his vision of humanity triumphant among the stars.
"This world," Neheb said. "It is important to the Changer." The Liar loved to deceive, but Neheb was a useful pawn. If it sent him here, it was with a purpose.
Yes. The raven's gaze bored into him, but Neheb's mind was a fortress. The Architect has plans for this Sector, Neheb. You will serve Him by bringing chaos to Balkash. The Corpse's slaves will butcher each other in the name of their false god, and Our Master will rejoice as they destroy themselves.
Neheb said, "Your master." There was a ritual chamber beneath the tower, buried in a long-forgotten subbasement. It would take him to join his brothers, and then he would go to Fenris. Perhaps to death. Neheb knew what waited for him beyond the veil. The Liar would have no mercy for him, but it would not have saved Neheb even if he had served it loyally for all his days.
Neheb, Neheb. I do appreciate your enthusiasm, but we have work to do here. Once we're done with Balkash, you can leave this world. You will fight against the Wolves soon enough. He did not stop. Neheb, what are you doing?
"She should have put the traitors to the sword," Neheb told it. "She should have killed them all, in the name of the Emperor." It would have been easy. It had always been easy for him. Even afterwards, when the smoke reminded him of Prospero, he had never faltered.
There was a proper order to these things. They all had their role to play, and Neheb had always been obedient. He had been a good tool of the Emperor, and when the Emperor cast them out he had been a good tool for the Liar. Neheb could pretend that the Architect of Fate was not his master, that he served only the Cyclops, but he knew that he was a puppet of the Changer.
Balkash was an ugly world. A planet of fields and mines and factories, where the smoke filled the skies and workers lived ten to a room in crowded, filthy tenement blocks. It could not be more different from Prospero, with its blue sky and golden towers.
There was a proper order to these things, but he could hear voices singing in joy and thanksgiving. These common laborers were nothing like the choirs of Prospero, who had greeted each new dawn with ancient songs of praise. But their songs held the same joy, the same simple delight in the new day.
Don't be a fool. The raven hopped after him, cold black eyes staring into his soul. You swore an oath upon Prospero's grave. You swore vengeance unending upon the Corpse-Emperor, upon Russ and his Wolves, upon all who served the Imperium. Have you forgotten?
Neheb said, "I will never forget." He owed a debt, and all debts must be paid. The Ghosts of Prospero knew the enemies who had destroyed their world. The Emperor had given the command, and Russ had obeyed like the devoted slave that he was, without a single thought of mercy. Like a servant of the Emperor should.
Remember what you owe Our Master. Remember how he saved you from the Wolves. Neheb remembered. He remembered the screams and the howling of Wolves, and sometimes, in his nightmares, he could still hear the soft, amused laughter of a triumphant god.
"I do remember." The girl would fail in the end, of course. She would fail and she would fall, and the Liar would win. The Liar always won eventually.
Just not today.
