Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 107

Time slowed to a crawl as Vanderspeak tightened his finger on the trigger. Everything paused for an instant, the blood dripping down the walls, motes of dust hanging in the air, even the pounding of his heart. He was lost between beats, caught in a fractional slice of time like a specimen trapped in a Biologis' sample slides. The whitening of his knuckles, the glacial pace his barrel came up, the bead of sweat running down his brow, it took a single second an eternity to pass. But the Eversor was not so encumbered.

Vanderspeak could see it moving, while everything else was frozen in time, it moved freely. A single bound and it was flying towards them, needle claws extending and double-barrelled gun rising. The fires in its eyes blazed, the rictus grin of its skull leered cruelly and the black skinglove glistened like oil. Vanderspeak couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, such details seemed irrelevant, this was no human being, instead a machine built for one purpose: to end lives. This was not a person, whatever identity once lingered was scraped clean, nothing remained save the lust to kill endlessly until it drowned in an ocean of blood.

Vanderspeak's arm moved so slowly, failing to track the Eversor. It was almost upon them, fractional inches from ending their lives. The Needle barrel sparked, firing a round. Vanderspeak felt nothing, or maybe the sensation hadn't had time to reach his brain. Maybe he was already dead and didn't know it. A theory disabused an instant later as Von Tor's arm crashed into his back and the world contorted around him. A sudden sensation of dizziness, the feeling of falling down a funnel and the crushing weight of a million gravities turning his bones to powder. He was being squeezed to death, unable to breathe, unable to think. Then the moment passed and he was elsewhere.

Vanderspeak fell to his knees as his head spun. Reality was swirling around his head and his already abused stomach cramped in an effort to throw up. Dimly it came to him that they were no longer in the refectory, they were elsewhere, in one of the servant's laundries, surrounded by towering stacks of crumpled bedding and dishevelled uniforms. Tumbler machines stood idle, the plunging vats untended, the servants had fled, scared away by the sounds of slaughter echoing from room to room.

"What was that?!" Laval gasped as he leaned on a drum for support.

"Displacer field," Von Tor wheezed as he waved a ring on one of his fingers, "Jokero-made, and meant to carry one person only, I had to widen the field considerably to snatch us all up."

"Not that, the... the thing!"

"A Terran assassin, the worst clade, sent when the High Lords require obliteration."

"How did it get..." Vanderspeak began, but then stopped as Baratel collapsed.

All eyes slid to the aide as he convulsed on the ground. He'd been hit, a single dart from the Needler had nicked his flesh, laced with a lethal neurotoxin. Vanderspeak forced himself to straighten up and dove to his compatriot's side, but there was nothing to be done. Baratel thrashed madly on the floor, arms and legs flailing. His eyes widened and his throat locked in a silent scream, wailing in torment though he had no air in his lungs to expel noise. The pain must be beyond comprehension, his last seconds passing as torture. Vanderspeak tried to hold him down but lacked the strength, Baratel's wild convulsions could not be restrained.

"Help him!" Vanderspeak yelled.

"He's dying," Laval gasped.

"There must be some antidote!"

"Where would I find it?!"

"I don't know, he's in agony!"

"How do we help him, how..."

A flash of red light struck Baratel and he fell still, killed instantly. Von Tor lifted his hand as another of his many rings steamed, a digital weapon, of surprising potency. Vanderspeak's instincts urged him to rise and shout at the Disquisitor, but long experience told him it was pointless. Baratel had been doomed the second the dart touched his skin, there had been no saving him. Vanderspeak knew the Emperor's Mercy well, he'd delivered himself a few times as a lowly junior officer. To waste words would be a vain exercise in self-righteousness.

"We have to move," Von Tor urged, "The Displacer can't have carried us very far, and that Eversor won't stop for anything."

"Where do we go?" Laval gulped.

"The Transverse Library," Vanderspeak determined, "It's a natural chokepoint, defence teams will be assembling there."

Von Tor hissed, "They won't be able to stop an Eversor, we need to get there first."

They left Baratel's body behind, for he was beyond help. Vanderspeak had left comrades behind before, he knew the guilt would hit hard later, but right now there was only running. The stark realities of combat washed aside all other concerns. There was only the choice between life and death, Vanderspeak chose to live. So they raced onwards, desperate to find some means of fighting back.

Vanderspeak's feet pounded as he gasped, "Are any of those rings able to stop it?"

"Against an Eversor, probably not," Von Tor grimaced, "Might be able to slow it down a little, not a lot."

"This thing was human once?" Laval pressed as they ran on.

"Not any longer, it's been reforged into the perfect weapon, even Astartes can't keep up in combat. It will kill and kiil and kill, and if you manage to cripple it somehow it will explode and take you with it."

"It must have some weakness!" Vanderspeak exclaimed.

"You've seen an Eversor and still draw breath, few in the galaxy can claim such a thing. If you manage it twice then you'll be in the smallest clique of lucky fools who ever lived."

They pressed through a wide double-door and found themselves entering a library. Tall bookshelves ringed a circular chamber, with rising levels climbing into the spire above. Ancient tomes lined the walls, brass railings, now greening, constrained walkways circling ever higher and metal steps led from level to level. A library of philosophy and religious treatises, espousing the God-Emperor's glorious dominion and Tellaris' special place in it, but also a means to rise into the High Plutocrat's abode. It was a natural chokepoint for any defence, and a platoon had taken up place within.

Fifty soldiers were throwing wooden tables over, making a half-ring pointed at the doorway. Lasguns were already lined up and Vanderspeak was heartily glad to see a pair of Heavy bolters had been set up at the end of each wing, making a crossfire. Anyone entering this room would be riddled with shots the second they emerged, he could only hope it was enough. He suspected it wasn't.

"Whose in charge here?!" Vanderspeak demanded.

"Lieutenant Ghren!" a distressingly young officer cried, "General, we've had no word from Holorus Command."

"Never mind that, get your men ready to shoot!"

"At who?"

"Anything that comes through that door that isn't us, move it, that was an order!"

The firm tone and urgent words compelled them to obey and the soldiers did as commanded. Questions hung in the air but the Tellarites were trained well and did as ordered. They levelled their guns at the door and hunkered behind their flimsy barricades. Vanderspeak, Von Tor and Laval joined them, knowing how paltry a defence this was. They had to trust sheer weight of firepower would be enough, but it proved not.

A blur in the doorway and suddenly the Eversor was there. It leapt clean across the threshold in a single bound, attacking before the human eye could register its presence. The Needler discharged and the right Heavy Bolter gunner took a round in the eye, dead before he hit the floor. The dark blur landed on the cold barrel and a boot swept about, hitting the loader in the side of the neck and shattering his spine in an instant.

"Open fire!" Vanderspeak roared and the defenders let rip. Lasrifles spat coherent energy and the other Heavy Bolter thundered. The gun post was inundated with shots, hosing the area repeatedly, but the Eversor wasn't there anymore. It drove into the line of defenders to the right, using them as cover. Soldiers were reluctant to shoot their comrades and that was all it needed to press home the attack. A power sword was in its taloned grip and the blade left smears of light in its wake as it tore men to pieces. Arms were sundered from bodies, necks torn out, faces were run through and guts opened. The Eversor went through the platoon like a buzzsaw, leaving ruin in its wake. There couldn't have been more than five or six seconds since it arrived and half the defenders were dead already.

"Shoot!" Vanderspeak roared as he tried to line up his Inferno pistol, "Shoot it!"

"My men!" Ghren protested.

"Are dead already, shoot damn you!"

"I can't see it."

"Von Tor, do something!"

The Disquistor brandished a ring and Vanderspeak felt the room tilt. Suddenly the floor was no longer level, and his boots slipped as he backpedalled. Books flew from their shelves, bodies lifted off the ground and tumbled away, all drawn to a single point. Some form of Gravity weapon, creating a singularity in the air, pulling everything towards it to be crushed. The Eversor actually missed a step, skidding backwards, dragged towards the absolute-point like a rope was pulling it backwards.

"Fire!" Vanderspeak hollered and pulled his trigger. The Inferno pistol discharged, flash-frying water molecules in the air as fusion fire streamed forth. The Eversor's black suit warped, melting at the point of impact. The range was long, his aim was slightly off, and yet Vanderspeak landed the first telling blow, leaving a bleeding slice of red meat over its flank. Elation, they'd made it bleed, they could kill it, but the assassin wasn't dead yet.

The gun came up and the secondary barrel roared. Bolt rounds swept the line, blasting men off their feet and making the rest duck, including Von Tor. The singularity disappeared and the Eversor was freed. In one smooth move it kicked an upturned table, lifting it from the ground and sending it spinning end over end to crash into the other Heavy Bolter. The gunner went down, his hips shattered into a million shards and the loader had his face folded inwards by a tumbling wooden leg.

They weren't the last to die, the Eversor swept its gun about again, firing on full auto. Vanderspeak ducked as mass reactive punched into men all around, detonating a second later. Mangled bodies fell everywhere, brave soldiers, the young lieutenant, Laval, missing a head. They weren't shooting back anymore, nobody could, the Eversor blew away any man who looked capable of offering resistance, targeting the priority threats first. Its aim was preternatural, not a round missed, every hit a kill. Vanderspeak tried to find a target but his aim was blocked by dying men. They screamed and they wept but the Assassin killed them anyway. It was silent throughout, not a word of challenge or triumph, not even a disdainful taunt. Any trace of humour, pleasure or superiority had been excised from its soul. There was nothing save the urge to kill, pure and undiluted. It took no pleasure in the deeds of its hands, for such emotion could tempt it to pause and gloat. There was only the next kill, and the next and the next, as mono-tasked as a servitor but it was far more than a machine, it was a natural disaster unleashed. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, death had come for them all.

The magazine suddenly clunked dry and the Eversor slowed for a second to switch to Needle-rounds. In that instant Von Tor arose, gesturing with his digital weapon. Perhaps he could land a fatal shot, but no man was fast enough to beat an Eversor to the draw. Vanderspeak saw what was about to happen and tried to intervene. He threw himself at the Disquisitor, arms spread wide. He was too slow, the Eversor fired and a single round flew free. Von Tor stood as a statue, his ring glowing with building power but the spinning dart moved faster than thought, punching into his shoulder.

An instant later Vanderspeak crashed into him, throwing them both aside. The jolt triggered the Displacer Field and the pair disappeared in a thunderclap, vanishing entirely. One second they were there, the next they were gone. The Eversor noted their absence but had not the intellect to speculate. It merely took up its power sword and completed the slaughter of the platoon, sparing none. Its inloaded objectives ticked over, it had eliminated the central command, all senior officer and their guards, all that remained was the final objective: the High Plutocrat himself.