Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 76
Methuselah floated on a cloud of anaesthesia, his mind dwelling in far-off realms and forgotten vistas. His body lay open as Tvos hurriedly replaced failing gene-implants and dying organs. Charred lumps of gristle were removed from his chest, burned to uselessness by his corrosive blood, to be replaced with glistening red meat, torn from drooling donor bodies. Hastily did the Magos work, practiced fingers dancing over incisions and micro-sutures. Methuselah saw none of it however.
The Bronze Beast's mind wandered into the mists of the past, exploring again all the wondrous, nightmare vistas he had seen. Albia and its Ironsides, the pampered elites of Nord Merica, the sorcerer kings of the Ethnarchy, the vast Panpacific and the twisted magics of Narthan Dume, the witches of the Mediterranean dustbowl and their undead revenants, he'd slain them all. From one pole of Old Earth to the other he had warred, bringing ruin to all the witchbreeds and Technobarbarians who stood against the Thunder Warriors and their Emperor. Their master had always been 'The Emperor', without qualification or explanation. It had been natural, he was the Emperor, the Legiones Cataegis were his instruments of destruction, there had been no need for further exposition. The Age of Strife was to be burned clean, so that new a future could replace it. So simple, so elegant, but then it had all got complicated.
Methuselah dreamt of his last day on Terra, boarding a smugglers shuttle bound for Luna. The dark skies were heavy, but threads of blue sky could be seen here and there, already the tedious work of ecological restoration had begun. The domed cities of Luna came and went in a flash, the confined tunnels of asteroid settlements were a passing blip before the stars beckoned. His first Warp Jump, aboard the Rogue Trader ship Infinite Expanse, carrying Boemhion, the last king of Oxitania. Even then the Emperor was going soft, allowing his defeated enemies to live in exile rather than taking their heads.
Across the stars, seeing wonders beyond imagination, the glittering shoals of the Horsehead nebula, the seething torments of the Maelstrom. Racing Sunskimmers over the diamond asteroid belts of Harreshma and plumbing the bottomless depths of Oceannia. Eldar Corsairs had done in Boemhion but their vivisection had been enlightening. Methuselah was intrigued by the Xenos' biology, so outwardly similar to humanity, so alien internally. But their minds had been the true prize, babbling of Dark Gods and Ruinous Powers in the Warp. Methuselah hadn't been shocked, not after encountering the witchbreeds of Terra, the existence of Chaos had been more confirmation of what he already knew, than a stunning revelation.
Decades more exploration, jumping from ship to ship, always running ahead of Terra's conquests. He'd tried to find passage to the Interex, to glean their secrets, but the Legiones Astartes got there first and silenced them. The Emperor's policy of enforcing ignorance was another weakness in the Imperium, to pretend a foe didn't exist never stopped anyone. Methuselah had retreated to Alar-Median's environs when the Heresy erupted, amused that the soft-hearted betrayer found his creations turning against him. Throughout all these adventures Methuselah survived on his wits and force of will, along with a paranoid streak as wide as a Segmentum, which is why even in his drug-addled state he caught the scalpel stabbing for his jugular just short of killing him.
"What are you doing?" Methuselah growled as the mists of sleep cleared from his mind.
"Nargh," a soft voice whimpered.
"Athaliah," Methuselah concluded.
"You're hurting me," she gasped.
Methuselah opened his eyes and saw the Pariah leaning over him, face pinched with pain. Her right hand was engulfed in his palm, wrist and all. The razor-sharp edge of a scalpel hung an inch from his jugular, caught in the act of murder. Tvos lay prostrate on the floor, an electro-goad rammed into his spine. Methuselah's chest was a mass of stitches and wadding, put back together but not yet healed. The scene was a story of betrayal, the culprit was caught red-handed, Athaliah had just tried to murder him.
"You timed your betrayal well," Methuselah snorted.
"I didn't..." she protested.
"Lies are weakness," Methuselah scoffed, "Own your decisions, have the courage to face the consequences."
Athaliah twisted her arm and the scalpel shifted. Razor-edge cut his palm and forced his hand open, leaving a runnel of blood dropping on the floor. Methuselah frowned, that shouldn't have been possible, not with his strength. The drugs must still be in his system, his new organs yet to reach their potential, he was temporarily reduced in might. Athaliah had timed her treachery well, striking in a rare moment of vulnerability.
Athaliah danced back, drawing her thin sword as she backed to the Plastek curtains. Methuselah sat up slowly, pulling drip lines and blood filters from his veins as he did so. Machines started to bleep in alarm and monitors spiked in distress. Methuselah ignored them as he slid his naked legs off the med-slab, touching his feet to the cold floor. He rose shakily, every cell in his body quaking, his blood already starting to simmer.
Athaliah paused her retreat and grinned, "You're a shadow of yourself Father."
Methuselah glared, "Still strong enough to snap you in half."
"You'll have to catch me first, and you'll be dead in ten steps without your life-support."
Methuselah reached out a hand to a trestle table and picked up a large injector gun. A weighty amount of Blue was held within, and he pressed it to his neck, dosing himself heavily with the substance. His burning blood settled, the pain in his organs ebbed and the mists of sleep cleared. He was centred once more, his anger suppressed. He had a few minutes of stability before he had to don his backpack.
Athaliah looked worried but hissed, "You should have gone for the Red, or the Green."
Methuselah growled, "No, I want to see clearly when I rip out your throat."
She set her sword to a guard position and hissed, "You have no idea how many times I've imagined this moment."
"Your dreams mean nothing to me!" Methuselah snarled as he charged.
At his peak the Bronze Beast would have laminated her to the floor, but his legs were cold stilts and his feet ungainly. The prolonged surgery had left him slow and weak, a few hours would see him restored, a few minutes even but the timing was atrocious. He needed time he did not have.
Athaliah jumped back through the Plastek curtain, her sword slashing upwards. Methuselah caught it on his forearm and skin parted without resistance, but his reinforced bones rebuffed the sword like iron girders. Athaliah darted back, moving between two upright cryo-caskets. Methuselah lumbered after, annoyed at the slowness of his feet. He swung a roundhouse blow that would have taken her head off, but she ducked elegantly and stabbed for his groin. The Bronze Beast shifted and the point stabbed his hip bone. Painful, but he rode the lance of fire and barged after her. Athaliah skipped away, a smile on her face, she'd traded blows with the Legiones Cataegis and lived to tell the tale, few could say such a thing.
"You are slowing in your old age!" She laughed.
"You always were a spoilt child," Methuselah growled.
"Don't pretend you cared for me, I was not a child, I was your broodmare!"
Athaliah launched herself at him, sword angling for his eye sockets. Methuselah was forced to catch it with his upraised palm, feeling his hand cut to the bone. Another slice bit deep into his middle finger and another scored along the underside of his forearm. It was galling how turgid he was, he could feel his sluggish implants trying to engage but too slow, too damned slow. Athaliah struck viciously, trying to hit something vital and forcing him onto the defensive. Methuselah backed away, shoulders hitting a cryo-casket, causing the inert form within to sway in the fluid medium.
Athaliah angled her sword low, "Soon you'll be as lifeless as that thing!"
"It was to be your mate," Methuselah growled.
"I never wanted that!" she spat, "I never wanted to be your broodmare! My whole life you told me I existed only to spawn your new race for you, never allowing me any choice in the matter. I have brains, I have skills of my own. I could have been great, but you didn't care. All you wanted was your precious brood of Pariahs, I was nothing, that's all I can ever be while you live!"
Methuselah looked upon her and said, "This is foolishness, you can't survive either way. Kill me and the Smoke Jaguars will hunt you down regardless."
"They are already on their way," Athaliah grinned, "I signalled them, they will find this fortress and tear down all you've built!"
Methuselah cocked his head, "While you run and hide in the gutters?"
Athaliah's smile widened, "I won't be penniless, I have all your files on the Underbosses. I will become the new crime lord of the Boscage."
Methuselah sighed, "It seems you thought of everything."
"I have been planning this for a long time."
"Very clever, very strong, except you forgot what the Smoke Jaguars told me," Methuselah breathed.
"They said what?" she frowned.
"You talk too much!" he barked.
While he'd been keeping her talking his implants had finally managed to engage. The multitudinous organs stuffed into his frame had been cleansing the drugs from his system, flooding his veins with hyper-adrenaline and enhancing his cognition and reflexes. One by one his implants had come alive, boosting each other to a synergistic peak of vital power. A minute, that was all he needed to get a fraction of his might back, and she'd given it to him.
Methuselah hurled himself forward, hand slapping wide to knock her sword away. Bones shattered in her arm as his fist connected but she didn't have time to scream before his other hand wrapped around her neck and jaw. He hoisted her aloft like a rag doll, leaving her feet to kick helplessly in the air. Tears were in her eyes as the pain of her broken arm hit but his meaty paw muffled her cries. She was pinned, unable to break his grip, unable to scream.
"I was too soft with you, a mistake I intend to correct," Methuselah growled as he turned back to the surgical suite. Through the Plastek sheets he carried her, then he kicked away the electro-goad disabling Tvos. The Magos stirred slowly but Methuselah turned to the med-slab and thumped Athaliah down. Her feet kicked desperately but his free hand pinned her pelvic bone more securely than Adamantium bands, while his other hand dropped to trap her shoulders and chest in place.
"Please, I'm sorry," Athaliah wept, "I'm sorry!"
"Tvos get up," Methuselah snarled.
The Magos rose slowly, "Your life-support is disconnected, I must couple the backpack before your organs start to break down."
"Forget that," Methuselah snarled, "Fetch your scalpels and canopic jars."
"For what purpose?"
"To retrieve her unfertilised ova," Methuselah hissed.
Athaliah's eyes widened, "No please, not that. I'll do anything you ask, I'll breed your new race, I'll do anything! Please don't do this!"
Methuselah looked down in contempt, "You think you can fulfil my requirements? How many offspring can your womb birth in one lifetime, six, seven? I require hundreds of Pariahs, thousands even. You were never going to live to see my new race take their first breaths."
Athaliah yelped in terror, "But... but you said..."
"I needed to keep you healthy, to maintain the purity of your haploid cells, but age takes its toll. Another decade without a suitable mate and I'd have harvested your ovaries anyway."
Athaliah strained to get free but could not break his grip, "You lied but you said lies were weakness!"
Methuselah snorted, "The difference between weakness and greatness is measured only by success."
"The Smoke Jaguars will come and end you!"
"Let them come, my strength returns and I grow impatient to end this farce."
Tvos came back bearing a tray of surgical tools and Canopic jars, brimming with preserving fluids, and as he began cutting away her bodyglove stated, "For this procedure the subject must remain absolutely still."
"Tvos, don't do this!" Athaliah pleaded, "We're friends, we can both be free of his tyranny! No, don't do this!"
"Magos, my time runs short," Methuselah growled.
"Of course," Tvos said, "I shall begin the Oophorectomy by opening the abdomen from this navel to the pubic bone here, then an incision across the lower abdomen from here to here. Expect blood to coat your hands as I incise the first fatty layer, stillness will be essential as I expose the womb."
Athaliah wept, "Don't do this! Have mercy! Father please no... father! arrrrrrr! Arrrrrgh!" Methuselah held her firmly down as Tvos went to work. Athaliah's screams battered his ears and the blood flooded across his fingers but his hands did not slip an inch. He was serene as the operation went ahead. The wheels of fate were in motion and his long-formed plans were at last coming together. One more step on the road to the future was complete, and soon the next would follow. All that stood in his way was a small band of Smoke Jaguars but he didn't expect they'd be a problem; he was looking forward to ripping them limb from limb.