General Zeppelin sat very still for a mont, hand moving slowly to his chin.
"Let make sure I understand you correctly. There is an alien killing machine currently hunting nobles across this city. And my dear wife wants to go shopping."
The servant nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
The General stared at the middle distance with the expression of a man who had outlived the capacity to be surprised by anything.
"Won. Ha. Won.
Take to her. Now."
He found her in the motor bay, already washed and dressed, small handbag over one arm, driver standing by the antique groundcar with the door open. She had clearly been planning this.
"My lady! This is completely irresponsible! There is an alien predator outside those walls—"
Lady Zeppelin turned to look at her husband with the patient contempt of a woman who had been married to a man for a long ti and found him consistently disappointing.
"Is there. And I wonder — who exactly brought that predator here?"
The General's mouth opened and closed.
She was not wrong. A regintal staff social event, several colleagues with similar recreational interests, a decision that had seed entirely manageable at the ti. He had not predicted this particular cascade of consequences.
"My lady, I acknowledge the situation—"
"Do you."
"—but this is precisely the wrong mont to leave the estate. You rember that old pict-drama we watched together, years ago? The Blessed Saint Hannibal versus the Vile Repugnant Xenos? The protagonists kept splitting up at critical monts, and you told specifically, you said, 'those people are complete idiots.' You said that. This is the sa situation—"
"Your ss." She stepped around him. "Your problem."
She got into the groundcar. The driver closed the door. The vehicle rolled toward the gate.
The General watched it go.
He stood there for a long mont, then turned to his head steward and spoke quietly.
"Go to the central control room. Revoke my wife's biotric authorisations. All of them."
Biotric keys — blood profile, fingerprint, retinal scan, full genomic record — were stored in the household control system of every major noble estate. The practical application was access control: biotrics to open secure doors, biotrics to authorise transactions, biotrics to pass through checkpoints.
"At once, my lord."
The steward departed. The General watched the antique groundcar disappear around the tower's periter road.
"In all those pict-dramas," he murmured, "the killer always goes for the person who has sothing useful — and who has conveniently wandered off alone. My lady, I fear your genre-awareness is insufficient for current circumstances."
He shook his head and went back inside.
The five-in-a-row board was where he'd left it, thoroughly conquered. He swept it aside and found a Sector Command strategy board at the back of the gas cabinet. Sothing with more depth. He'd be ready when the steward got back.
Lady Zeppelin's groundcar did not go to any comrcial district.
It turned into a narrow service alley three blocks from the estate and stopped.
Lady Zeppelin removed her shoes — red heels, sensible choice for the car — extended one silk-stockinged foot over the back of the front seat, and began producing a very specific variety of headwear.
The craft requires dedication. It is not, as any practitioner will confirm, a task for the inexperienced.
The two of them were fully engaged in the millinery process when, on the roof of the car above them — invisible, flat against the alley wall, wraithbone armour shifting colour to match the grey stone — sothing observed.
The Aeldari warrior had been in that alley for eleven minutes.
Wraithbone was, in many ways, more organism than material. It drew on psychic energy, repaired its own damage slowly over ti, and — most imdiately relevant — changed colour in response to its wearer's intent, matching ambient surfaces the way a cephalopod matched coral. It was this quality, more than anything else, that had kept her operational for a week inside a city of millions. She could beco a wall. She could beco a ceiling. She could beco the space between two crates in a crowded corridor.
She watched the activity below her with the detached attention of soone completing a professional assessnt.
She drew the power blade. Activated it — silently, the disruption field suppressed to minimum output to avoid the distinctive sound.
Stepped off the wall.
Half an hour later, the Aeldari warrior was outside the Zeppelin estate's periter wall.
The outer ring was PDF garrison troops — lower-quality soldiers assigned to maintain a presence rather than actually stop anything. Several clusters had given up any pretence of patrolling and were playing cards in circles, rifles stacked against the wall beside them.
She moved through them like a thought moving through an unaware mind. Every blind spot located and used. Every patrol rotation mapped and tid. The gaps between sightlines exploited with the fluid precision of soone who had been doing this for a long ti.
She reached the tower's exterior wall and found a secondary access point — a service door with a biotric panel.
She pressed a severed hand against the scanner.
The panel flashed red. Biotric key rejected.
She discarded the hand, unclipped the item hanging from her belt, and held it up to the retinal scanner.
Lady Zeppelin's head, separated from its previous owner approximately twenty-five minutes ago, looked at the panel.
The panel flashed red. Biotric key rejected.
Soone had been quick.
She heard footsteps — the access attempt had triggered an alert, and the response was already moving. She filed this away: they had active monitoring on entry points, and whoever was running security inside had good reaction ti.
She retreated. Four bounds, a wall transit, and she was back in the complex street-grid of the upper Spire, indistinguishable from shadows.
The PDF soldiers arrived at the service door forty seconds later.
On the ground: one severed hand, and Lady Zeppelin's head, expression preserved in the precise mont of final surprise.
☆☆☆
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