Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 89

"The Smoke Jaguars do what?!" Veteran-Sergeant Oroton exclaimed.

"I agree it is disturbing, but true," 10th Captain Nemkir confirmed.

"That is disgusting," Oroton grimaced.

Nemkir lifted an eyebrow, "Don't tell me you haven't done it on campaign?"

"What happens in the field is what happens in the field, but if there's any other option, then no."

"And yet they seem to prefer it."

Oroton wrinkled his nose, "Eating live bugs and raw meat, like wild animals. I mean, our implants allow us to survive on practically anything, but that is offensive."

Nemkir didn't argue the point as he leaned back in his chair. Deep inside Alacritous Intervention they studied the mission profile, going through piled reports and missives regarding the Smoke Jaguars. The last eighteen months had seen a torrent of exchanges between Copan XII and the various Adeptus Terra, all of it gathered for the Raven Guard's perusal. Nemkir had spent three days wading through the reports and found most of them shocking.

He sat in a leather chair older than dynasties, feeling the cracked material rubbing between his shoulder blades. His armour was in the ship's forge, undergoing ritual consecrations, aged Serfs lovingly ministering to its many wounds. Freed of his plate his ghost-white skin shone in the dim light of the archive, a blot of white among so many grey and drab brown tomes. Oroton too was clad only in a shrift, his impressive collection of scars displayed for all to see.

"Who complied all of this anyway?" Oroton asked as he reached for another scroll.

"A savant named Zim," Nemkir muttered as he picked up a data-slate, "In service to Rogue Trader Crovin."

"A Rogue Trader," Oroton snorted, "Have we considered he's lying through his teeth?"

"I wouldn't put anything past those Xeno lovers, but he has been the primary point of contact and this savant has sent enormous amounts of information on the Smoke Jaguar's practices and doctrines."

"I'm surprised they let him poke about in their affairs."

"They seem puzzled that the Imperium is any different from their way of doing things. Perhaps they don't quite grasp the Heretical implications of everything they do."

"I sure the Inquisition won't miss the implications," Oroton grumbled.

Nemkir didn't respond, turning to examine the archives. Deep within the Battlebarge the Chapter's stored knowledge rested, shelf after shelf of dusty tomes and tactical reviews. It was an eclectic mix of books, scrolls, data-crystals and humming cogitators. Stone statues of heroic figures were dotted about, not all of them Raven Guard. Deliverance was not so proud as to discard the achievements of others, their lessons were as important as any others in the face of the galaxy's mounting horrors.

A shiver ran through the hall, making the brass chandeliers sway and the lumen orbs dance. A warp-squall tossing the Battlebarge over with immaterial disdain. Shadows moved in disturbing ways, hinting at Daemonic sprites capering among the stacked rows. Nemkir was unmoved, he'd seen more than his share of true Neverborn, shadows didn't scare him. Corruption was on the rise, the taint of Ruin growing stronger as the Imperium's woes multiplied. With the High Lords distracted the Dark Gods had nearly free reign. Were it not for the autonomous Astartes Chapters it was hard to imagine humanity wouldn't be overwhelmed.

Nemkir scowled at a missive, "Their Gene-seed displays anomalous markers, indicating genic degradation."

Oroton frowned, "Enough to condemn them?"

"Not according to Mars, but this is based only on data the Smoke Jaguars sent. The Tech-priests want to collect the gene-tithe as soon as possible for testing."

Oroton mused, "They have been isolated for millennia, degraded surgical practices are common, even in Chapters in regular contact with Mars."

Nemkir chewed his lip, "There's something else, the Magos Biologis seem to think there's something off with their gene-seed but can't quite isolate it."

Oroton shrugged, "Some of the recent Foundings have been reporting similar problems, the Smoke Jaguars seem no more strange than the Red Scorpions or Mantis Warriors."

Nemkir snorted, "They are 8th Founding, these Smoke Jaguars claim to date to the 2nd."

A flurry of movement caught Nemkir's attention, a serf humbly approaching with a scroll in hand. The man was quiet and circumspect as all Serfs were, but did not fear his masters. The Raven Guard treated their servants as part of the Chapter, lesser in status obviously but deserving of the respect due their station. Mistreating Serfs was redundant, a true warrior knew his worth without needing to inflict suffering on his underlings.

Nemkir unfurled the scroll as the serf backed away, "Crovin has set sail for the rendezvous, he sends word he carries forty Smoke Jaguars and… a Dreadnought."

Oroton looked confused, "I thought their technology had degraded."

Nemkir sniffed, "They lack many armaments of war, Land Raiders, speeders, the latest models of armour, even jump packs, but it seems they retain this. The missive continues that they are led by a 'Prowlmaster'."

Oroton threw down his slate, "Prowlmaster, shadow-chieftain, shade-lord… their rank structure makes no sense!"

Nemkir laced his fingers as he mused, "Savant Zim expends a great deal of words on the subject. He believes the Smoke Jaguars have no imposed ranks as such, but rather operate on a principle of personal respect. A leader is chosen for his meritorious deeds, not because higher authorities grant command privileges. They follow a champion they believe is worth following, a merit-based system where reputation is all."

"Sounds like they'd fit right in on Fenris," Oroton chuckled.

A deep voice behind growled, "Would that they were Space Wolves, that at least could be excused. This verges on outright heresy!"

Nemkir refused to jump as Chaplain Bulvok emerged. The Chaplain was clad in his armour but his wraith-slip was impressive, he'd approached completely undetected. Bulvok had been tending to the spiritual wounds of the Raven Guard, consoling them on their steep losses and instructing the Neophytes in the disciplines of operating while mourning. His face was as blunt and unforgiving as his manner, but as he sat down Nemkir considered that he was without prejudice or favour. Forthright to a fault, and tenacious to the core.

"The squads understand our mission?" Nemkir asked without preamble.

"They long to return to the Ravenspire," Bulvok stated, "But they accept duty must come first."

"Reorganising the squads has been a trying challenge, I must arrange more practice drills soon."

"First explain what is so consuming of your attention."

Nemkir waved a hand, "Reading everything we can of the Smoke Jaguars before we meet."

Bulvok cast an eye over the piled reports, "What have they been doing for four thousand years?"

"Fighting Orks," Nemkir sniffed.

"Orks alone, what of Chaos?"

"It doesn't seem to have troubled them greatly. Something about the warp-storm's currents suppressed Immaterial breaches in their little realm. The Navigator talked of counter-currents draining psychic energy away, but I cherish my lack of knowledge of the Warp's tides."

Oroton waved to an ancient scroll, "We have confirmed they originated at Deliverance. Logicitcal records state a ship called Implacable Judgement set sail for Copan XII, they began fitting out a second wave of ships but warp storms cut off the region and the ship was presumed destroyed. This was the same time Corax disappeared, so the losses were forgotten quickly."

"Their origin is irrelevant; if they are Heretics then we destroy them!" Bulvok spat.

Nemkir corrected, "But if they are not, then attacking a Chapter needlessly is disastrous. Consider the galactic situation."

Nemkir pulled out a data-slate and called up a galactic map. The results were damning. The Imperium was best on all sides, Ork Waaaghs assailing Ultramar, Eldar raids in the galactic south, Chaos incursions in the north. The Ghoul Stars were beset by horror, Xenos empires were on the rise, Warp-storms fomented without warning and rebellions erupted everywhere. Yet none of it compared to the vicious divide splitting off what had once been Segmentum Pacificus.

Eight hundred years earlier the Ur-Council of Nova Terra had seceded from the High Lord's authority, creating an independent empire in the galactic west. They operated their own versions of the various Adeptus, with no regard for the Senatorum Imperialis. A series of vicious border wars had drained mankind's strength, to the point where other dangers had grown to imperil all. Faced with the total collapse of civilisation the two sides had negotiated a ceasefire, so to concentrate on other threats. A shaky peace existed but neither side believed it would hold, yet nobody could draw enough strength away from other fronts to change the status quo. That didn't stop them from trying to undercut each other though, proxy wars raged, blind eyes were turned to threats headed for their rivals and both sides funded rebellions in each other's territory. A cold war of exacting adherence to diplomatic protocol in public and drawn knives when nobody was looking.

Oroton rubbed his chin as he examined the map, "These Smoke Jaguars are ideally placed to check the Novan's southward expansion. Their presence near to the Prescyon and Halydran Sectors could shore up our defences and affirm to local governors that Terra's rule is secure."

Bulvok grimaced, "But if they sign up with the Novans they could instead destabilise the region, opening a corridor for the Novans to expand into Segmentum Tempestus."

"Hardly likely," Nemkir snorted, "The Novans have never managed to secure any Chapter's fealty."

"Some do operate within their borders," Oroton pointed out.

"Autonomously, and without regard for the Ur-council's wishes," Nemkir argued.

Bulvok glared at him, "You sound willing to excuse Heresy for political convenience!"

But Nemkir shook his head, "I merely withhold judgment until I have gathered more data. A poor sniper is he who fires before being certain of his target. These Smoke Jaguars could stabilise a long ignored quadrant of our galaxy, added greatly to mankind's defences. It cannot be argued that the Imperium is in desperate need of reinforcements. There are even rumours of a twenty-first founding, so dire are our straights."

Oroton sighed, "Can the Mechanicus support such an endeavour, given their strife with the Moirae Schismatics?"

Nemkir's tone was dismissive, "The Tech-priest's internal woes are not our affair. We must merely perform our duty as directed."

Bulvok's eyes narrowed, "I find this surprising, coming from you of all people."

Nemkir smiled without mirth, "You hear the barracks room gossip that I was inducted into the wrong Chapter, that I should have been an Ultramarine. Pick up your jaw Oroton, yes I am aware of what they say of me. I hold the Codex Astartes to be a peerless work of strategy and tactics, but it is but the first step on the road to victory. I drill the doctrines into our Scout-novices till they can recite them by rote, so they have a firm foundation to build upon. There must always be room for innovation and initiative on the battlefield. Complacency and lack of imagination are enemies as dire as any other."

Bulvok peered closely, "That is not the impression I had of Miserth Keep. An exacting campaign as the Codex decreed."

Nemkir's eyes grew distant, "Captain Davold's strategy was brilliant and innovative, but the Word Bearers were ever a step ahead. Captain Juxos adapted, becoming more fluid, and the scum outthought him. Did Daemons whisper in their ears, or were they simply more cunning, either way they seemed to know what we would do before we did. By the time I took command tenacity alone kept us on our feet. I had to be unpredictable, so I did the one thing they did not expect, I followed doctrine to the letter."

Bulvok frowned, "You acted unpredictable by acting predictably?"

Oroton was grim, "They never saw it coming. Every inch of the road was paved with blood, but the Codex's estimates on casualties were prescient."

Nemkir sighed, "Every hour of every day I felt the urge to break with the prescribed tactical doctrine, but I held firm and was proven right. It was a test of our discipline, we were placed on the anvil and hammered relentlessly but our tenacity was matched only by our humility. We abased our spirits before wiser teachers and won through. So too must the Smoke Jaguars prove their ability to set aside their own selfish impulses and submit themselves to our direction."

Bulvok looked frustrated but growled, "Then where shall we test their humility?"

"The Tellarite rebellion," Nemkir announced.

"That bloodbath?!" Oroton gasped.

"A perfect proving ground," Nemkir argued.

"The perfect meatgrinder you mean. Twenty years of slaughter, three billion Guardsmen killed and ten times as many civilians. If we march into that we won't come out again."

Bulvok agreed, "The Novans have been supporting the Tellarite rebellion, feeding their multitudes and fortifying their spirits to resist Terra. It seems doubtful our few Brothers can end a war that has confounded Lord Militants for two decades."

Nemkir however asserted, "Which is why it is the perfect arena to test these Smoke Jaguars. By all accounts they had become specialised Ork hunters, their doctrines and philosophy honed for a single purpose. I intend to take them from their jungles and force them into a situation outside their remit. They will be forced to learn from us and whether they can manage to adjust will be the true test of their character. If they are incapable of humbling themselves then they are proven to lack discipline, and the stalwart heart of true Space Marines. If they bow to my will then they can also assimilate into the Imperium Entire. On the blasted wastes of Tellaris I shall beat them as the smith does the sword on the anvil, and they will be reforged or shatter into nothingness."