Chapter 3

Slaanesh was near. Taldeer could feel it in every breath.

Blood. A lot of blood was being lost. She wasn't dead yet though.

A noise. A presence. It wasn't a Necron.

It shouldn't have been like this. She was trusted to come, to guide the others to extinguish the threat throbbing rotten in the core of Kronus, and leave them in confusion.

Yet, here she was, helpless, losing blood, fallen to fool pride; at the mercy of something. Someone. Someone with a presence at least.

She took a small comfort in that, and the soulgem at her neck.

Primary suffering internal bleeding, blood loss severe. the thoughts came through again.

Her eyelids flickered momentary glances of a too bright gray sky. Why did they come unbidden?

Pain, pain, currently showing resignation. Job unclean, Primary has high chance of survival. Good mission. How, how, how to clean primary?

The thoughts were jumbled, mashed, rigid iron roads set that his thoughts ran through, but there was something active in there.

She felt a hand touch her. She opened her eyes, and pushed out, pure reaction.

A moment, and she was sitting up, regretting it immediately as fire lanced up and down her.

The thoughts came again.

Primary is active. Medical science far easier than expected. Damage to

self, superficial.

Now... a lengthy pause, then hesitant, uncertain, ...Converse? "You're okay...?" A voice flat and muffled came behind her. At first a statement, then a question, as she tottered again.

This time, she was caught.

Commissar Daniel glared out of the top hatch of the Chimera. "This is RIDICULOUS!" he shouted, turning to the poor sergeant down inside the chimera, who was genially standing and listening to the bellicose man.

"How so, sire?"

"The soldiers of His holy wrath should not be prancing about in the middle of nowhere, chasing some worthless incapable who got himself lost!

We should descending upon the Orks, take advantage of our victory-"

"Do you doubt Lord Lukas?" The sergeant casually said, looking away.

"If I didn't have all my faith behind noble lord Lukas Alexander, I wouldn't be doing this," Commissar Daniel finished with a glare.

The sergeant nodded amiably, a large happy grin on his face.

Local yokel, thought the Commissar, as he stepped back inside the chimera.

Probably never even heard of Cadia, much less appreciate what the glorious Imperium was doing, gifting this pathetic dirtball with the grace of His mercy to liberate it.

He glanced at the auspex. Five kliks left.

He leaned back, pushing forward his cap. Commander of thirty guards- men, each armed with the best weapons they were ranked for, with the authority to kill any one of them or any one in their way to recover one missing soldier, and all he wanted was a drink.

"No, get, get, off..." She pulled against whatever was holding her, had to get up, get away from the mon-keigh, but she was oh so very tired.

She stilled, still looking down, tensed, waiting. The seas of fortune were still, she had to reflect that stillness.

"Primary, I, I...I'm, I'm sorry, you're not Primary, you're..." The voice was muffled. She stared up. Faceless. Matte black stealthsuit, a pistol in the holster. Comm mike, dangling by a wire. Compact, hard frame, well formed for a human.

In a purely military sense of course. She had to estimate that it was best to just lay back. She was hardly in any shape to resist him, and he wasn't hostile. Yet. Stay neutral. Clipped. Communicate in their gothic language, but make clear no weakness.

"Farseer Taldeer. Your name?"

"L-I-I-V-I," He had a mind of iron, well trained to keep her out. It was always hard to translate human thought, but she prided herself on her mastery of psionics.

Yet, frustratingly, she was on near equal footing with a mere soldier with a gun. All she felt were some whispers of emotion. Autonomous, instinct, identification.

"Do you always spell things out, LIIVI?" LIIVI? Strange name.

"I think this is my first time." She noted with surprise her captor was rusty in his own tongue.

"Why were you shooting the Necrons?"

"Secondary objective: destroy hostile combatants."

"And the first?"

LIIVI paused, looked away. A whisper of a thought passed through her head, as she stared intently at him.

The iron bars of his mind shifted, subtly, until they stuck.

"To protect you."

"A full history of the Vindicare's career, if you please." Lukas blinked, glancing at the now fully conscious and hurting Ardrin.

"History? You're the handlers."

MIDILV sighed, leaning back in his chair, opening hands for the "guards" behind him to place a dataslate and quill into.

"We do take care of him, keeping him in an isolation cell and maintaining his health, yes; but if you recall, your landing at Victory Bay and the following conquests were chaotic. He was out of our hands and served on the field."

"But," Ardrin said, "he would leave between missions, just disappear. We assumed he was going back to you."

"Mission probability post-combat rejuvenation/isolation, reset and re- maintain for next operation in greater campaign."

Lukas glanced over at one of the four faux guardsmen. "What?"

"Don't blame him, he doesn't know how to speak. Blending with civilian populaces isn't our strong suit; best to avoid only after one's proven his worth. That is our temple's dogma. We have proven success by this.

What he meant was that your assassin was probably removing himself from the soldiers, as taught, and to attain a good position with field of fire, and if possible, meditate, insert a food pack to his veins, clean and repair his weapon, and sleep half hour cycles.

Not that that matters, I want to know every single thing you ordered him to do in the bare three months he has been out of our eyes."

"Support of soldiers in taking the industrials of Victory Bay," Ardrin wrinkled his nose, "Nasty fighting. We got tipped off about a Tauphile schism. Er, Tau sympathizers were fighting each other."

"And?" "And I ordered him to cover fire. Occupants were in the house, I ordered him to clear it. There was a family."

"Hmph. Wouldn't affect him. He understands families to be the smallest and most informal squads, nothing more. He wouldn't care."

"Protect me?" Taldeer realized she had to remain casual. There was a lie in his voice, even if it wasn't in his mind. Some mon'keigh thug hired by one of their damned Inquisitors who wanted to be "enlightened" or to steal technology, just what she needed,

"Why me?" She was too injured to argue right now.

"It is a duty." He doesn't know, she realized. And he was very confused about it.

Typical idiocy, these humans hadn't even explained the purpose to their henchmen. Guess that's what you get when you are so many with so short to live.

"Perhaps," Farseer Taldeer said, "You may do something about my injuries. And cease holding on to me."

The most important thing at the moment was ensuring mobility. Her men would come soon, she could be evacuated easily, and this one human would... Would...

She would think on it.

"How?" He asked.

She was not expecting that.

"How? Well, shouldn't you know that? I've felt it flash through soldier's minds."

When I hack them to screaming pieces with my weapon, let's not mention that bit.

"When, they, uh..."

"Are dying? I was taught that was a common response, the call for a 'medic'. It replaces or supplements call of maternal member of the family squad, or paternal more rarely. Nurture, healing, are associated with it. I am taught that if the shot is unclean, and the target is out of sight, all those who bear the common sign of a healer are to be shot,"

Taldeer stared, and LIIVI stared down back at her, then, as if to explain,

"To disable any chance of the Primary resuscitating and rendering the mission a failure."

Silence.

"Perhaps it is best if you set me down. And keep watch for more enemies, while I treat myself."

The surf doesn't chop. The tide ebbs, insignificant, rising and falling, like the ocean was sleeping. Farseer Taldeer sits on the beach of tomorrow and in the Tyrea plains of Kronus.

Three kilometers away, through the rough terrain, wraithbone psychoplastic bubbled as the last of the consecrated promethium burned off of the Bonesinger's arts.

The Webway was long destroyed, reduced to shards as she had evacuated through it.

A mere kilometer under her, the presumed home of the Necrons had turned quiet; for now at least. As she recalled, the nearest possible position of her battlegroup was at least fifteen kilometers away.

And nine meters away was the human. Mon-keigh. Killer. Assassin. Weapon. Savior. He had knelt down, rolling out a plastic canopy which he laid his rifle down upon, and was cleaning it one handed.

The other carried a pistol, straightening and pointing at the rustles of wind, and the far off thunder of ordnance. The face mask remained intently focused on the rifle the whole time.

Farseer Taldeer took out her runestones, and after a moment's contemplation, her shuriken pistol. She grabbed a handful of her dice, raising them to her spirit stone. She was injured, cut off from support, alone with a self declared assassin. Time to roll the bones.

Nine rounds used. Eighteen remaining. Hellfire, turbo penetrator, and shieldbreaker ordnance, still in reserve.

Movement at 321 degrees. The arm holding the Exitus pistol snaps over by reflex, the third eye sight unable to clearly catch up. Primary was rolling dice. All of her equipment was beside her. She appeared to be dropping some sort of smaller equipment.

The N20 coolant sheathe emits a small hiss as it slides over the barrel. The Vindicare returns his pistol to the holster, replacing the magazines. Packing together and reassembling his rifle.

They would be tracking him now. The small electronic whine on his person told him as much. The terrain was rougher, the commander had chosen the battlefield to hem in the Eldar, force their hover vehicles to slow and show themselves above cover. Made for a difficult time sending forces out of the base though.

The Vindicare stood up, flicking through the spectra as he glances over a horizon purple, green, pigment streaked, ruined soup of black and white.

A concrete heat signature, atypical of a chimera half a kilometer away. Vindicare doctrine taught that engagement with pursuers should never be undertaken when the targets knew where you were. Misdirection, panic, and dissolution were the three objectives when handling hostile trackers.

The Vindicare placed a fresh three round clip into his magazine, and stepped low among the long grasses, following the yellow white smear of thermal exhaust in the sky.

Lukas took another gulp from the water, sweating from every pore, as the three Officio Assassinorum handlers stood before his table, their poreless faces still. Ardrin was to his left, pale and shivering, still suffering from the chemicals washed through him.

"So, it's very nice that you explained to me exactly how much you think I screwed up in handling your defective wind up killtoy, who apparently was so perfect that he fucked up a job before he came here; but you haven't explained to me how I avoid having to worry about receiving a bullet between the eyes whenever I go outside from the one of the Imperium's finest fallen."

"Napalm the area, a good three kilometer radius should serve to deprive him of oxygen. Deploy the Aeronautica and carpet bomb the area. Break the Obsterm dams up north and deploy a third of your manpower salting, poisoning, and watching the plains flood that'll occur."

"Hyperbole is very charming, and useful in military situations, and not in the least unwanted."

"And sarcasm is a pleasant and original way to respond to statements you do not like. All I have told you are guaranteed ways to eliminate your problem," MILDILV waved his hand, "Of course, we can wait for him to run out of ammo for his Exitus weapons, which would allow you to run normal operations without worrying about officer heads popping, and then for him to run out of food."

"That would actually work?"

"Of course. He is incapable of social contact, and dependent upon the nutritional packs he has been indoctrinated to consume. He might well starve. Barring any civilian assistance, three weeks from now, you won't have to worry about him, if the Orks or Space Marines don't get him first."

Ardrin for the first time spoke, nervously. "And the Farseer? What if she intervenes?"

MILDILV raised an eyebrow. "Then he'll die sooner, with an injured para- site clinging to him."

The chimera of the Imperial Guard is about as simple and reliable as a vehicle can get without it being pedal powered. Long lived chimeras in active use soon resemble their namesake, seeming mechanical abominations with piece after piece welded to them. The hatches replaced by doors stolen from civilian buildings, hastily covered in metal roof sheeting. Shorn off track pieces replaced with crudely fitted boiler plates. discarded power pack casings molded into hinges. The machines would run unwell, sending the Techpriests and Enginseers into hysterical fits, begging forgiveness from the machine spirits, and repairing and replacing what they could identify and find at the parts depot. But the older chimeras would get a slow mottled look over them, like a child mixing clays in a creche, it was impossible to separate metals and alloys at a basic level without rebuilding the whole thing. They wouldn't run well, but they would most certainly run.

A chimera, as taught in Vindicare doctrine, was a terrible headache to deal with. Tanks were less of a worry, as those deploying tanks against assassins were considered tactically inept, and the Vindicare gained some honor in tying up valuable resources.

Height, urban combat, and tactical use of screens would put the tanks on even footing. A chimera on the other hand, could always be used.

A sniper holed in a building, the chimera would bash into the ground floor, disgorging soldiers. If the building collapsed, so what? There was always another chimera.

No illumination, headlights shot out, smoke screening everything? Just drive. You'll find your way out eventually. It was as much this as anything else that the turbo penetrator round of Vindicare specialized ammo, was developed to counter these situations.

Two chimera crawled through the bush and over the hills and rocks, as the kilogram heavy, green banded bullet was placed in the chamber.

Commissar Daniel poked his head out of the hatch again. The tech guy had said the auspex picked up something coming closer. Should be in sight range.

One MIA, for all this trouble. He hoped that this was really one huge birthdate surprise for one of the soldiers. So that he could then shoot whoever was responsible.

"Got a direction?"

"Should be Cardinal East."

"Left or right soldier, or pass me up a compass!"

"Just a little to your left sir."

The Commissar turned, squinting through the haze of heat at the long grass and lumpy excuse for terrain. A glint of something. Then a crack, a flash of light somewhere to his right, and something gave a soft *Tink* in the chimera's lower armor.

"ENEMY FIRE!" shouted the Commissar, pulling down the hatch, as the surprised soldiers sat up, the political officer shouting at them, "Move, move, move! A man on every gun, and any gun that CAN shoot to the right, shoots! I want a wasteland I can name after myself, do you comprehend soldiers!"

They followed his orders as best as they could, barring what could only be done by consulting with the planet's geographer. A hailstorm of red stabs of coherent light obliterated the area and the rigged flint and rock that had provided the target.

Misdirection. LIIVI holstered his pistol, creeping low through the grass, trying to get himself into a more advantageous position.

"Cease fire," said the Commissar, his day much improved. The soldiers relaxed, standing at ease, hands still holding the side mounted lasguns, venting excess steam outwards.

"Driver, park us as near as you can to that suicidal stain, and give cover to the second chimera. Chimera 2, tell your squad to deploy and move in. Investigate the area. If there's a corpse, ID it, if there is isn't, bring me a corpse. Copy?"

"Affirmative." It was a risk, yes. Taking a squad of soldiers out of a perfectly safe armored personnel carrier begged for snipers, traps, and a whole lot of corpses. But that would betray targets.

Feeling a bit like Ibram Gaunt, the commissar leaned in to the driver, "Stick as close to them as possible, if they bug out, move us out as quickly as possible, then get a bead on who fired on us, clear?"

"Sir," muttered the driver, pulling alongside the nervous squad extracting themselves from the second chimera.

The troops, true to form stayed close to the chimera, practically hugging the tread guard, sweeping in close, led by their Lasrifles, eyes peeled for mines or traps. The second chimera pulled up alongside the first, the guardsmen squeezed in between.

The Vindicare watched them, five hundred meters behind. The one at the front, one point six meters, was the leader, the paternal. A soldier from the back, covered in spare lascells, a tear still visible in his sleeve moved forward, with a little undue haste to exchange words. On one helmet, the word, "TEATIME". A man pointed at his boot, hopping forward on one leg, speaking out the side of his mouth. Laughter.

The Exitus rifle fired. The Commissar was next to the wall of the chimera when he heard the squeal. He fell immediately, laspistol to the ready, facing the wall.

Maybe it was the adrenalin, or perhaps it was the initial charge of the rifle failing, and the drill bit activating, but somehow Daniel managed to watch a steel line, occasionally sending sparks and slivers of metal out, raise along the wall, ending somewhere just short of the drivers hatch, shorting out lights as it traveled along, shrieking.

In the dark, he heard the thumps and screams of the soldiers outside, the panicked revving as the driver slammed down the accelerator, the lurch to the right, equipment falling around them, then another, definite slam.

Outside, the Vindicare watched through the scope, watching a track fly free, a joint broken by his shot, hanging for one brief moment before the driver hit the gas, sending the tread whipping at the crowd of soldiers.

The chimera lurched left, lacking pull, slamming into the other, doing mostly cosmetic damage, but serving the Vindicare's purpose. Screams, and a commissar and a crowd of soldiers leapt out, weapons brandished and at the ready.

Panic. The rifle was slung, and low through the long grass, the assassin moved forward, pistol out.

The most immediate problem was restoring the squad's rationality, and calming them down before they panicked entirely. A quick glance proved what the commissar had initially thought. Gouges in the side of the chimera, severe damage to the soldiers, and a track torn off on his chimera. The first thing to do in any case is be the first man to set the example.

"Spread out, fire at the first thing that moves," was admittedly a bad choice, but something had torn a large gash through his chimera, and incapacitated a squad, what was he supposed to do? Break out the rations?

"You men, left, the rest of you, right, drivers, up to the multilasers, fan anything coming with fire, keep looking, it could be a Carnifex for all we know!" Another bad choice of words.

Buzzing. Clicking insects hopping across. Rustles of eighteen soldiers, rattled, going through the fields, rifles first. A Commissar, standing between two chimeras wedged together, covered by two multilasers.

One of the guardsmen falls with a sudden gasp. A powersword points, an order is given. A confused man, who had the wind knocked out of him by a thrown rock suddenly finds himself surrounded by red searing flashes.

The Commissar, raising his laspistol, catches a glimpse of something sandy, black, darting ahead of him. A pair of useless shots whiz into the undergrowth.

Something whizzes by the Commissar's face. This is it, Daniel thought. Death or glory.

The powersword crackles with death dealing life, as the commissar ran forward, the blade held aloft. He had to say something inspiring, he realized.

"FACE YOUR DOOM, foul XENOS!" he hopes one of the troops hear it.

He runs into the grass, waving his blade around. A lack of mandibles and claws key him off that something's wrong. The grass catching fire is the second.

Dissolution. The guardsmen ran. What were they supposed to do? They were spread apart, something had torn apart the chimeras, their leader had shouted something and disappeared, and now the grass was catching fire? What could they do?

The drivers only had the sense of mind to abandoned the crippled chimera, before they drove off, past the soldiers, relaying the panic and breaking of their unit to the base, heralding their failure and embellishing the story to seem as if they encountered an entire Ork WAAAAGH! in the long grass. In their haste, they forgot the wounded.

Private Gnaeus lay on his back, staring up at the patch of grey sky, rounded by black smoke. He was one of those wounded left behind- perhaps, he considered, the only one.

"Your helmet." Gnaeus rolled his head over, to a figure, hazy and blurred against the dark smoke, red flickering across its brow, fire licking away from its feet, ash swirling around it, "What does it mean?" Gnaeus was paralyzed from the waist down and had bone jutting out of his leg like wheat out of a farm. Who was he to argue importance with an angel of death?

"Teatime?" A nod. The smoke crawls off as the shadow steps forward. "Teatime- It was sarcastic. A joke," far times, on Cadia. "I worked in a house, as a guard for a while. Guy I worked for always had a special time for Benzran Tea," the Reaper cocked his head at this, Gnaeus waited a moment, then launched on, feeling vaguely blasphemous, whispering through the pain.

"Never took briefings then, just him and his cup. Serene even during a war, so long as he got that hot flavored water of his. So me and my mate, we said, 'all's well so long as its tea time.' We put Teatime on our helmets, a joke, that we'd stay cool. Serene as a fatman and his cup. Guess bloodloss and brain damage is doing that more for me, huh?"

The Angel of Death did not laugh at the joke. Gnaeus couldn't blame him. Wouldn't seem proper, laughing at a dying man.

Flakes of ash fell around the two, smoke drifting over them. The Vindicare considered this for a moment. He shrugged, bent down and took hold of a lasrifle, then reached over to pull two powerpacks from Gnaeus's pockets. Gnaeus for his part did not resist.

The assassin rose, half turned, then paused. "Do you require the Emperor's Benediction?"

"No, please," Gnaeus looked up. The gray sky turned blue, even as the window narrowed as the smoke thickened, "Not yet. I don't want to die yet."

"Very well," Again, the Vindicare turned, heading for the smoke.

"Wait," the cripple struggled, turning, crawling after the shadow heading into the dark, "Hold on, I have to ask you," his eyelids were like lead weights, dragging down, but one burning mote was left in his head, "Hold on, please, hold on," It was all dark now, "Please," pain flared anew, even as the world was dark, Gnaeus's hands digging into embers.

"Tell me, will it hurt? Please, tell me?"

"No." The Angel didn't lie.

His body was left still for a time, until eventually, uncertain hands reached over, turning the body to face up, folding the hands over its chest, and shutting the eye lids. Imitation to last respects it had seen time and time again through the lens of his scope.