Chapter 9 - IX
"Nobody can hurt me without my permission."- Attributed to Saint Condi.
"Taldeer." The pain didn't stop him from rolling his head to the right.
Breathing. Still asleep. The sensation of touch. He glanced at his hand, wrapped in hers.
She fidgeted in her sleep - nervous, anxious actions. But she was alive. This was a source of relief. His hand never left hers as he took in the situation.
The room was cold. His mouth tasted like blood. He was hydrated but hungry. There was a sheet on his chest, wrapped tightly. And the left side of his torso was experiencing pain. Immense pain.
"Have to treat the wound."
The Vindicare dictum taught that pain was nothing more than a trick of the mind - a psychosomatic sensation not dependent on nociceptors, but instead felt when the mind wanted, where the mind decided, and fabricated wholly within the brain itself. Pain can vanish during mentally stimulating activity, or never appear if one is unaware of the damage. It can seem smaller or larger if the injured area is viewed through a magnifying lens. The brain may perceive pain within itself, a headache, despite having it no nociceptors - the brain confers the sensation onto a region of the body.
Pain is a choice.
So it was that as the vindicare slowly sat upright and hesitantly let go of the primary's hand, he chose not to feel the pain. While he undid the impromptu bandage with his right arm, he ignored the sensation which screamed in his ear. When he examined the cut that split his pectoral in half, and the broken rib that lay beneath it, he did not fall prey to the delusion that gnawed at his inflexible iron mind.
Laceration. Deep. Left-arm useless. Need to irrigate the wound. Need to warm room.
He fumbled through the medical kit. Syringe. Where? Need clean water. Stitches. Dressing.
The kit had all of the necessities supplied. He pulled the silver bag of water from it and twisted the cap at the top, to which the syringe head attached neatly.
Memories of last night were hazy, but even now the bandage smelled faintly of alcohol. Excessive application likely to slow healing, he thought to himself, as he sprayed water into the wound.
Preferable to infection. The cold water ran down his abdominals, chilling him even further.
72 hours.
The Dictum Vindicare taught basic medical procedures. Treatments for dealing with immediate medical problems, in hopes of surviving long enough to complete the mission. And hopefully to survive afterwards if provided with medical attention. Cleaning and stitching the wound were only one first of the paths to survival.
The second was daily dressing and antibacterial treatment of the wound. The third was mission completion and retrieval. If no serious damage was incurred, then with standard Imperial medical supplies, the vindicare could expect 72 hours of operational time before the untreated wound would cause sufficient permanent muscle damage to require the addition of cybernetics to restore full functionality.
In silence he stitched it shut, first reattaching the muscle, then closing the wound and applying an antibacterial dressing.
The simple act of breathing was still monumentally painful.
Limited functionality restored. Will have to shoot from the right. Cannot rest on left side. Run risk of lung puncture."
His stomach growled. The silvery water pack reminded him of his nutrient pouches. "Food."
He looked over to his left. "Rations." Gingerly stepping down from the gurney, he walked over to the stockpile of crates and pulled an MRE from one of the open boxes. LIIVI frowned. His shaking hands brought the package closer to his expressionless face. The cogitators embedded in his visual cortex made reading the trembling instructions trivial.
But eating it?
Iron pathways honed by careful use of negative and positive reinforcement were assaulted by visceral feelings of disgust, fed by the psychosomatic fruit of extreme indoctrination. The iron weathered the unpleasant sensations like a breakwater in a storm, wave upon wave crashed against it and sending spray flying every which way.
But it did not yield.
"Must consume. Must survive to protect primary."
The farseer's eyes fluttered open. She was alive, miraculously.
"You're awake."
LIIVI's weapons, freshly cleaned, sat by his side. He was stitching the massive gash in his suit using a single hand. The wound on his chest had already been cleaned and sutured shut.
She bolted upright. "You should-!" Taldeer winced as pain shot through her entire body. "...shouldn't be walking around. Where is your bandage?"
"No time to heal. Compression bandages on ribs increase the risk of pneumonia. Bad in winter conditions. Are you okay?"
She glanced down at her wounds and sucked in a deep, painful breath. "I have been. . . better. But I am alive. Thanks to you." She smiled. His face remained stiff.
"I found rations. I know little of Eldar nutrition. But they should be edible. Are you hungry?"
"I- No. I will not need to eat for another week." This was, perhaps, the closest she'd seen the vindicare come to surprise or shock. "There are capsules in my stomach. We take them before missions. They release food when we drink."
"I understand. Like my nutrient packs." He took a bite of the MRE. LIIVI was a precision instrument, but in this instance, he was clumsy. Clumsier than the average monkeigh.
"Did you ever-" she cringed as she leaned forward, "eat anything else?" "No." He set the meal down and put a wad of fluffy white into his left cheek. "Do you need help?"
"I can manage. What about your rib?"
"Broken. I won't be able to shoot from the left. No time to heal. They will find us soon."
He was right. This was no rest. Merely a respite. The next wave was soon to roll in.
"I can sense as much." The farseer bit her lip. This was stupid. "But, I may have an idea. . . "
The Eversor is perhaps the closest a man can become to an unthinking instrument. Servitors are machines with no human left. Techpriests still possess their consciousness. The Vindicare, for all their discipline, still think with a sense of self.
The Eversor, by contrast, is reptilian. It does not think, or plan, like any normal human. Its conscious mind is far too consumed by hatred, wrath, and bloodlust to formulate anything resembling higher thought. It sees a problem, formulates a solution, and acts on it.
To aid this reptilian brain, the Eversor is fitted with a host of sensors. After all, seeing is easy. Discerning is not. Some enemies can stand right in front of you and yet remain undetected. Only by the stench of the Warp might you discern their presence.
And the Warp was on the wind.
The Eversor looked to its left. City. Smoke by the gates. Chaos.
Fists clenched. Muscles tightened. It looked to the woods, so far away. Targets there. Chaos here. Targets there.
Hate. Hate chaos. Hate targets.
Hate chaos. Hate targets. Hate chaos. HATE targets. HATE!
It clawed at its face and fell to its knees, glancing back and forth between the city and the horizon. The targets were distant. Chaos, it was right here. A machine spirit housed within an augment dutifully began to relay the Eversor's thoughts to its master.
Kill? Kill? Kill?
KillkillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKill?
KillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKill?
''KILL?"
Felix glanced at the data slate, noting a shift in the periodic updates of the Eversor.
Accompanying the text was a picture. A burning city wall. Agents of chaos surrounding it. It was the same town to which they needed to pass through to reach the spaceport.
''KILL?" The screen prompted again.
Felix blinked. ''KILL?"
"Inquisitor," he said, the message now erupting every half a second. "Yes?"
"I think you should see this, sire." He handed Madek the data slate. The inquisitor watched the requests flash across the screen.
The reflection of the soft light in the Inquisitor's ocular implants had a curious effect. The fuzzy white glow reminded Ardrin of too many nighttime predators, staring defiantly into the light of human settlements. Madek's lips widened into a faint smile.
"Such is the will of the Emperor. The city has fallen. The forces of chaos are distracted by the civilians. Approve the request. They'll be caught off guard." He handed the data slate back to Felix. "And order a contingent of basilisks to shell it with promethium in 2 hours. Then search the surrounding woods for survivors."
Felix dutifully transmitted the data. Ardrin was left wanting to question the directions of the inquisitor, but knew better than that. He cocked his head and frowned, pondering the orders.
"Are you confused, Lieutenant?" Madek's steel gaze seemed at odds with his pleasant smile, simultaneously disconcerting and condescending.
It quickly brought the haggard Ardrin out of his haze. "Hm- I, um, no sir."
"Inquisitors are extremely perceptive, lieutenant. We must be if we are to sniff out heresy wherever it lurks. What was confusing about my orders?"
"Well, Inquisitor, why would the forces of chaos not flee the Eversor? How can we be sure that he will only take two hours?"
"Do you know what the most powerful emotion is? Joy and pleasure, they motivate people. Base desires can move humans to betray their beliefs, their love, even the light of the Emperor. But the most powerful base emotion is fear. And make no mistake..."
Madek leaned forward. There was something about his voice that made Ardrin's blood run cold. "Chaos fears the Emperor's wrath." He reclined back into his chair.
"Yes, some may flee. So we search the forests. But in the looting, most won't notice the Eversor until he's on top of them. They won't have the opportunity to be afraid. Those who survive will be maimed. Those who witness him and escape will be so consumed by fear that they'll hide. The ones who overcome their fear, the courageous, will warn their comrades. Their comrades will either hide, flee, or seek him out. And most would rather hide.
So we are left with the rats, scurrying in the nooks and crannies, and the maimed, crawling through the streets. Both burn just as well."
He closed his eyes and settled comfortably in his sleep.
"And Ardrin?" Madek peeked at the man with one eye open.
"Yes sir?"
"Don't lie to me. It's a sin."
09:22:39 unit: KILL?
09:22:39 unit: KILL?
09:22:40 unit: KILL?
09:22:40 unit: KILL?
09:22:41 unit: KILL?
09:22:41 unit: KILL?
09:22:42 unit: KILL?
09:22:42 unit: KILL?
09:22:43 unit: KILL?
09:22:43 unit: KILL?
09:22:43 Admin: Request status - Approved. Ave Imperator, Eversor.
The weapon grinned underneath its mask.
Hate. KILL.