Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 63

Methuselah was pleased with himself as he stepped off the Hololithic pedestal. The pieces were in place and the board arranged according to his design. The players thought they were operating of their own free will but he understood their nature better than they did, their moves were entirely predictable. Methuselah knew once such manoeuvring would have been beyond his intellect, once he would had charged the foe headlong and ripped his enemies limb from limb, but he had survived many times the life of a mortal thanks to his cunning, and he was so much more now than he had been at the beginning.

The projection room was filled with fearful looking men, lesser adepts and Enginseers of the Machine Cult. They were proud men, expecting obeisance from their juniors and apprentices, but all of them cowered before the Bronze Beast. Among the logic engines and engorged pict-lens they tried to make themselves look small, afraid to catch his eye. Methuselah ignored them, for they were inconsequential, only two held his attention. Athaliah, lounging against a wall inspecting her nails, and a heavy-set man in a fine robe and a gold circlet over his brow. The lack of a rubberised outer layer was a proclamation that his status was such that he did not need to risk the toxic storms of the surface. The gold circlet marked him out as the ruler of this pathetic moon, Denshu, self-proclaimed King of Xilbalba.

"Are we done?" Athaliah sniffed as Methuselah stalked over.

"The Smoke Jaguars have been suitably provoked," the Bronze Beast confirmed, "They will do as I bid."

"It cost us our mansion," Athaliah pouted.

"You never did take to Regicide," Methuselah snorted, "A sacrificial play will lead your opponent into a trap. Make the enemy react to your moves, and the battle is half won."

"And the other half?"

Methuselah smiled wickedly, "That part involves copious amounts of violence."

Denshu shuddered at the implied threat. Methuselah eyed the man, knowing this petty king wished only for him to depart. Several inventive tortures flashed through his mind, each more elaborate than the last, but he stayed his hand. Denshu had a part to play in this sequence of moves. Carefully Methuselah adjusted his dosage, increasing the flow of Green. He was already running high, but he needed his sharpest wits about him, yet he must be careful for the intellectual boost was powerful but led to mania if not regulated.

Methuselah faced him, "You have an issue with my plan, Governor?"

"King…" Denshu whispered.

"King, Governor, there is no difference," Methuselah sniffed, "Call it what it is, false seemings are an admission of weakness."

Denshu dared to look up, "You can't stay here, people will see you."

Methuselah cocked an eyebrow, "You fear the common rabble will learn of our association? That is foolish, they all know and nobody cares. I raised your great-grandfather up from nothing and made him ruler of his moon, I removed those who plotted against your grandfather and father. I have kept you in power too. You wear the crown because I allow it, a few small favours here and there are a small price to pay."

Denshu lifted his chin to declare, "Our arrangement has benefitted us both. Don't pretend you did not reap rewards of your own."

"Of course not," Methuselah smirked, "As my public face you have aided my cause greatly. You are useful, but do not mistake usefulness with irreplaceability. I will have my due, or I will find another ruler to take your place, one who understands his place in the order of things."

Denshu would have been outraged if he dared but still hissed, "You wouldn't!"

"Freedom only has merit if held by strength, and you are not strong enough to defy me. I am the master, you are the servant. All who reside on this moon serve me."

Denshu lowered his eyes in defeat, "What do you require?"

Methuselah nodded, "That's better. I need the use of one of your PDF outposts, and a platoon… Make that two platoons."

Denshu gulped, "Deplete my armies… but… but the Orruk threat!"

"Immaterial," Methuselah scoffed, "You can worry about Orks after I am done with my business. Send me the location and the troops, or suffer my wrath!"

Methuselah turned on his heel and strode out, Athaliah in tow. Into the Governor's palace they strode, moving with haste. Servants paled as he closed, and pressed themselves against the walls, faces to the stone. None of them would dare admit to laying eyes upon him, everyone in the Palace knew better than to speak of the Bronze Beast. Sure of his security Methuselah strode for the garages, where his criminal scum waited to depart.

Athaliah skipped quickly to keep up with his enlarged stride but said, "You know he will brood upon this insult."

"Naturally," Methuselah snorted, "He's already planning to betray me."

"You know?"

"That's why I provoked him, his petty pride will goad him to treason. When the Smoke Jaguars come he will spill everything to them."

"I don't…" Athaliah frowned, "What?!"

Methuselah stopped to explain in a plain corridor, as a pair of servants hastily turned about and walked the other way, "Astartes are predictable creatures. Having failed to find me through subterfuge they will fall back on secondary protocols and seek a more direct route. Their next move will be to infiltrate this palace and rip the knowledge out of the head of Denshu. Attack, withdraw, attack again, how very XIXth Legion of them."

Athliah frowned, "And the platoons?"

Methuselah shrugged, "When the hunters come for me they will expect resistance, and I would hate to disappoint them. Killing some PDF troopers will leave them overconfident when they reach me."

"And you aren't worried that they will kill you?"

"No, I'm really not," Methuselah chuckled.

Athaliah scowled, "Four maybe, but there are hundreds more on Marajo, what if they call in the rest of their Chapter?"

"They won't, Palanque is fully engaged with the Orks, he has no Marines to spare. But none of that matters, they won't call in aid, it is not their nature. They are on a hunt and will not think to turn aside. Pride was engineered into them from the very start, it is integral to their being, Astartes were flawed from conception."

Athaliah shook her head, "You speak as if you know them."

"I do, I've had five hundred years to study the Smoke Jaguars from afar, I know all their names and secrets. I was near Alar-Median when the Legions went to war with each other and I was watching when Sedaxus brought his motley band to these stars, though I confess being trapped in this warp-storm was a surprise. But more than any of that I know their kind: Astartes, plodding footsloggers, built to obey and play neat little soldiers. They were made for a role and they served it perfectly, Praetorian, Champion, Executioner, Stateman, General, Outrider and Spy. Their various functions were programmed into their genes, and they never deviated from them, even Chaos could not change that."

Athaliah scowled, "You always speak of yourself as different to them, but you were wrought by the same hand." Methuselah's hand flashed, wrapping his meaty fist about her neck. With no effort at all he lifted her and slammed her against a wall. It happened so fast her mortal reflexes didn't even have time to engage, her jaw dropping as the shock of his speed and the pain of her back impacting Ferrocrete came at the same time. Her legs kicked at the air and her hands scrabbled at his knuckles, but he was unmovable as a mountain, holding her aloft in the cage of his fingers.

Methuselah's skin crawled at the loathsome touch of a Pariah but he drew his lips near her ear and hissed, "I am not like the Smoke Jaguars at all. I have seen more and suffered more than they ever could understand. I have remade myself, inside and out. I have grown so much greater than my maker intended. He is no longer my author; I made myself what I am! The Emperor went soft, indulging his sons, demanding compliance instead of conquest. He was not always so weak, once he would have razed any resistance to the ground and built his Imperium upon the scorched bones of his enemies. I will not repeat his mistakes, I will take his dream and make it my own, Pariahs instead of Psykers, and I will not tolerate any who dare defy me."

Athaliah kicked futilely and her face began to grey as oxygen drained from her brain. Methuselah found himself entranced by the fading pigmentation of her skin, the bluing of her arteries. Part of his brain began counting the beats of her heart and running projections how many remained before death came. She slumped in his grasp but her hands beat upon his midriff, then she found what she sought and twisted a dial. Methuselah felt the rush of Blue hit his bloodstream, counteracting the dangerous levels of Green. Instantly his mania ebbed, suppressed by the calming drug. With the sudden clarity he understood he'd become lost in a feverish rush of obsession, nearly destroying his most valued asset in his distraction.

He opened the cage of his hand and let her drop to the floor, hacking and coughing as she sought to breathe. Methuselah didn't apologise, if she had died she would have proven unfit and Methuselah firmly held only the strong deserved to survive. She had survived, she was strong, a worthy testament to his gene-craft.

Athaliah coughed, "You nearly… killed.. me…"

Methuselah shrugged, "You found a way to survive."

"You… don't care… if I.. die…"

"The fact that you had the wit to correct my dosage, even while dying, speaks well of your genes. Your offspring will inherit such cool calculation, once I engineer a suitable breeding partner that is."

"Frak you!" she spat.

Coasting on an enormous dose of Blue Methuselah merely shrugged, "Get it out of your system, so long as you perform as bidden when the time comes. For now we have more immediate concerns. The Smoke Jaguars will come and I must relocate our prisoner before they arrive. Traps must be set, communications cut, and it's time to haul my armour out of storage. It has been a long time since I last wore it, I wonder if it still fits?"