120
single event, over the last. All of them together burned into the fabric of her consciousness as the
scene was somehow repeated again and again in history.
Nor history, she realised. It is history only once.
One point in time had become the fulcrum of her existence.
Bioelectricity surged out from every pore of her skin, electrocuting the tyranid beast that
delivered the deathblow. It lit her body with a burning incandescence. Her thoughts flew towards the
heavens, her fading consciousness propelled upward by her mortis-cry, a cry not even the tyranids
could silence. She broke through the silence of the stars, shattering through the veil, and felt the
noise flood back in. Kamala sent her thoughts home, back to where it all began. She knew this
would work, because it had worked before. It was ordained.
As the light and suffering of the world closed, Kamala could see her thoughts twist and change
as they flew through the distortions of Empyrean Space.
She did not fear where her cry would go, not when she already knew the “when” of it all.
This time, she prayed, let it turn out differently. Let me understand more quickly.
121
EPILOGUE
“How much does tonight resemble yesterday’s night.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
There was, there was not.
The transmission fell like a carelessly discarded blade from the heavens, straight into his naked
brain. The astropath’s muscles seized into hard cords. His teeth snapped down, cracking the enamel.
His skeletal hands gripped the cradle’s iron grasp bars, cutting flesh with rust, and he bucked against
the leather straps holding him fast. There wasn’t enough time to mouth a litany of protection or to
will a psychic bulwark into place against the buckshot rain of thoughts. From the heavens, tonight,
fell death, and visions of history undone and ghosts unmade.
(The End)
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