Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 218
The renegades had chosen to die quickly. Not for them the drawn-out static defence of wall and bunker, not them the griding siege. Their numbers were too few, their position surrounded, their gunship a flaming pile of wreckage and their Brothers aboard their Strike Cruiser long fled. Those left behind were going to die, but they refused wait like meek children. They chose to die on their feet with weapons in hand. Vendrick could respect that, it did not stir him to offer mercy, but he respected it.
The bleak hillside was a wind scoured place, with grainy sand underfoot and dim light. P-765-987-x was a barren planetoid in a nothing-system, not even earning a name in Imperial ledgers. A million inhabited worlds formed the Imperium of Man, a hundred thousand times that number comprised the rest of the galaxy. Save for a thin atmosphere it was worthless, no mineral wealth to exploit, no biodiversity to harvest, just one more speck of grit in the vastness of the galaxy, which in theory made it an ideal place to hide, but no one hid from the Censors.
Vendrick's Censoria swept the low buildings hidden at the base of the hillock, the multi-spectral augur picking out heat traces moving nearer. The advanced cogitator fed him data ranging far beyond human sight, beyond Transhuman, but the etheric nature of the flames offended the Machine Spirit and resulted in static waves in his vision, like heat blooms across an open field. The Brother-Sergeant gripped his bolt pistol tight as he prepared for the foe to show themselves, his body buzzing with potential. Vendrick stood proud on the hill, his burnished Mark 8 armour gleaming despite modifications that made it seem slimmer than normal. His helm was blunt-faced and wedged, the customary snout buried behind an ablative frontage that concealed expanded functionality. Silver and steel were his colours, save for one shoulder that bore the heraldry of the Red Hunters Chapter. The other boasted a display shield, emblazoned with the Sanghuata, the twin-flame icon of the Censors.
Over his shoulder a servo-skull razzed, "The test-subjects will be in range soon."
"They are warriors," Vendrick corrected, "Give them their due."
"Their role in my design is set!"
"Your nomenclature is irrelevant, this is no test, it is a battle."
"Do not think that you are not being tested," the voice rasped as data-djinns tore through Vendrick's armour like a harsh rasp.
"I am in command of this deployment; you are an observer. So observe and stop interfering."
The servo-skull stopped speaking but the buzz in his ear told Vendrick that Magos Lazar was still watching through his eyes, invidious data-djinns worming through the Realm Binaric. High above the Magos waited, safe in orbit, observing his experiments in action, along with the shadowy figures of Inquisitors who hid their faces from all. Vendrick put it from his mind as he surveyed his forces. Two platoons of Stormtroopers, stretched out along the hillside. Mere makeweights, assigned to test conventional forces as a control group. The true power of his strike force were nine more Censors, each a unique work, their enhancements as varied as their Chapters of origin.
"Targets closing," called out Dhulak the Storm Giant.
"Ready weapons," Vendrick commanded.
Belphian from the Sons of Medusa snarled, "We will tear them limb from limb!"
"Temper your humours," Vendrick commanded, "Regulate your Apothex, the wroth of the Gorgon does not command us!"
"Do not speak to me of the Gorgon," Belphian snapped.
"Then school your anger and heed your aim!" Vendrick chastised.
From the buildings they emerged, six Transhuman giants in colours of bold yellow and fierce red. They charged headlong up the slope, boots churning gravel with every step. Their bravery in the face of death was admirable, their dedication laudable, but no amount of courage could erase their sin of mutation. Each warrior was aflame from head to toe, fires seeping out of joints and cables, making each a brilliant candle in the dim twilight of this nameless planet. The by-blows of misapplied science and hubris beyond measure, scattered survivors of the Cursed Founding: Flame Falcons.
A furious volley of fire erupted, lashing the incoming mutants with deadly force. Hellguns chattered, boltguns thundered and heavy weapons let rip. Dhulak planted his feet and laid down streaming tracers from a modified Heavy Bolter, four barrels hurling micro-rounds at an astonishing rate. Belphian unleashed shining orbs of destruction from a rapid-fire plasma carbine, each shot accompanied by gushing heat-vents that filled the air with steam. Vendrick himself fired a Harbinger pattern bolt pistol, unloading Banestrike rounds on full auto. It did nothing.
Vendrick's Censoria picked out Hellshots dissipating in the heat surrounding the Flame Falcons, neutered by the ethereal fires. Waves of static fizzed in his sight but through the miasma he picked out craters on armour where bolt rounds struck true, splintering Ceramite but not putting any of them down. The far-reaching augur told him of impact fractures and stress marks, it picked out density shifts in the grainy slope below and the exhalations of every breath the mutants unleashed, and it also told him he was being targeted.
Vendrick rocked as a trio of bolt rounds slammed into him, knocking him back a step. Such force should have cratered his plate but the Mark 8 was experimental in ways Heretical. Liquid-diamond layerings were bonded to the Ceramite, boosting its strength and fortitude. Diceramite allowed greater protection with thinner plates and he rebuffed the impacts with ease. Others were not so lucky and Stormtroopers exploded as Mass-reactives burst them like wet balloons, their mortal flesh weak and fallible.
"They're not going down!" Dhulak shouted.
"Ready Apothexs," Vendrick commanded.
"We should fall back and extend the range!"
"Never!" Vendrick snarled, "No retreat in the face of the enemy. Give them no ground!"
"Yes, yes!" Belphian growled, "Bring them to me!"
Vendrick bellowed, "In the slaughter of His foes, my fist, my blade, my bolt: relentless!"
The Flame Falcons had crossed the distance without losing a single renegade. They came spitting fury and defiance, determined to reap a fearsome tally in death. The numbers favoured the Censors ten to six, but still the renegades might claim a high butchers bill, were Vendrick not prepared for them. He slapped his bolt pistol to his side and drew his maul, mere seconds from contact. A Flame Flacon came at him with a roaring chainsword but Vendrick had activated his Apothex and dumped a noxious cocktail of chemicals into his bloodstream. Hormonal elixirs surged into his organs, forcing them to a higher state of activity, boosting them beyond the limits set by the Emperor himself. Some concoctions the product of forgotten sciences, others Xenos in origin, all Heretical. Fire crawled along Vendrick's veins, his hearts beat faster and louder and his throat became a spiked mantrap, every breath a painful saw to his larynx, but the rewards were great.
Time slowed in his eyes as the Flame Falcon swung for his head. Vendrick could have swayed back and allowed the blow to pass, but instead he drove forward, smashing his pauldron into his foes' chest. The mutant was thrown aside by the blunt rebuff but recovered swiftly, lashing out for his flank. Vendrick's elbow put paid to that, blocking the hit before it touched his plate. A punch from the other hand he blocked with an open palm and an attempt to run him through was thrown aside with ease. The Flame Falcon was moving at Transhuman speed, he would have killed six men with these blows, but to Vendrick he was glacially slow.
The Censor whipped his maul up and drove the head into an elbow. Flaring discharges erupted, the phase-iron matter disrupting ethereal flames and the in-built neural shredder sending claws of electrical torment up the arm. The mutant shuddered, not expecting such pain, his conditioning struggling with agony that would have left a grown man catatonic in seconds. He was strong, Vendrick did not deny it, the Flame Falcon did not fall but his arm went limp and the chainsword fell to the gritty sand with a dull thud.
The separated and time froze. Vendrick's Censoria picked up every gust of air over the surfaces of his armour, each individual glint of light reflecting off the shimmering plates of his foe. He saw grains of sand shift as their combined weight made ripples spread down the slope and the exact count of blood-droplets in the air as mortal bodies bled out. It also told him one of the few surviving Stormtroopers was coming in from the left, trying to bayonet the renegade. Vendrick scorned that, and the swing of his fist pulverised the man's head, preventing him interfering. Then he calmly stepped to the side and gestured at the fallen chainsword.
The Flame Falcon paused to glance at the weapon and back again, "Honour, from a throne-lackey?"
"What I start, I finish by my own hand," Vendrick rebutted.
"Then we shall die together."
"No, you die either way, but at least you die with a weapon in hand."
In a rush the renegade stooped for his blade, snatching it up and gunning the motor. A throaty roar issued as he swung wide, bringing all his strength to bear. He'd witnessed Vendrick's speed and thought to overpower him with strength, but it was futile. Vendrick muscles bulged as drugs fed his tissues vitality and his hand grabbed the wrist holding the blade. They froze as they contested for superiority, but there was no equality between them. Vendrick held firm as granite with one hand, then drove his maul into the renegades' guts. Flaring discharges sent the mutant crashing to the dirt. A second blow shattered an arm, leaving his Chainsword dangling uselessly. The yellow helm came up, a final declamation ready, but Vendrick cut it off with an overhead sweep, demolishing the helmet and the skull within in a single blow.
The Censor stepped aside as the headless corpse toppled to the dirt. Vendrick's veins were burning, his chest hammering like a twin-drum, and his eyeballs were cooking in their sockets as the exotic drugs ran their course. He held the side-affects at bay with sheer will, outwardly calm and collected as the vigour drained from him. To be a Censor demanded the sternest self-discipline and utter confidence in one's ability to hold the rush in check. Vendrick was sure of himself, he would not succumb, but others were not so rigid in character.
Across the slopes dead men lay, Flame Falcons and Stormtroopers, broken and bleeding. All the renegades had been slain and almost all the mortals. Of the Censors not one had been killed, though several bore vicious wounds. Even with a 10-6 advantage to not lose one Brother was impressive. That wasn't the problem though, the issue was Belphian, straddling a gory corpse, beating the broken remains with his fists. Piledriver like he drove on, uncaring that his foe was dead. A woeful lapse of self-control.
Vendrick strode over, "Belphian!"
"Gnarrrr," the Son of Medusa drooled as he pummelled the corpse even further.
"Brother!" Vendrick snapped, "Limit your Apothex!"
"Die, die, die!"
"Cease this at once!"
Vendrick snatched at Belphian's pauldron and the Censor reared to his feet with fists raised. Frantic energy boiled off him, exotic chemicals driving him to frenzy, into madness. Vendrick saw the urge to rend and slay in his eyes, to raise his fists against his Sergeant and knew how close he was to immolation. Not only of his mind but of his body. The Censors operated at the edge of tolerance, no amount of implants and gene-tinkering could properly regulate the hormones surging through them. Censors had died from rupturing arteries and blood clots in the brain, sinews tearing and immune systems devouring organs whole as they were driven into hyper-activity. Belphian was straying perilously close to that dismal ending.
"Remember the Censor's oath," Vendrick growled, "In defence of His people, my hand, my shield, my armour..."
"Re... re... relentless," Belphian gasped as he swayed drunkenly.
"In the face of evil, my mind, my will, my faith..."
"Relentless... yes... relentless..."
"I am righteous, I am retribution, in his name..."
"I am relentless," Belphian gasped as he shook his head, "I can... I shall... limit myself... Brother-Sergeant, I must apologise for this distressing lapse."
"Do not apologise," Vendrick hissed, "Do better next time.,"
"I shall, I swear it."
Belphian lowered his head as he let the rush drain from him. Vendrick knew the shame would gnaw at him, but that would not hold him back from future slip ups. Warily Vendrick stepped back as he took in the scene, seeing all watching. The other Censors were pointedly checking the dead, making sure no renegade drew breath. The Stormtrooper stood idle, unaware of their situation, mind-wiped so often they had no animus without direct orders. They had been expendable from the start, merely used as a control group in Lazar's experiment. Speaking of whom, the Servo skull drifted nearer, its optics recording everything. Vendrick sighed, knowing what came next.
"An error?" Lazar's voice issued from its vox-grille.
"A misstep, now corrected," Vendrick refuted.
"Errors are not acceptable; Censor 2.3 must be vivisected immediately to isolate the malfunction."
"Belphian is not a malfunctioning Servitor, to be taken apart on a whim!"
"Do not test me Censor 2.1," Lazar hissed, "You do not grasp the scope of my genius."
"Belphian pulled himself back from the brink, he will learn from this misstep. Your data-set is incomplete until he had achieved total self-control. To terminate him now is to waste vital data."
A moment's pause as buzzing data-djinns slithered through Vendrick's armour, then Lazar conceded, "Your reasoning is sound, truly the wisest among us are the young. Grace in wisdom and heroic virtue born from genes woven by the Omnissiah's hidden hand. I leave 2.3 to your care. Return to the ship for evaluation, terminate the witnesses."
The servo skull cut off its speech and bobbed low as Magos Lazar lost interest. Vendrick gritted his teeth, knowing the mercurial Tech-priest had already moved on to more glittering prospects. His brilliance was matched only by his eccentricity, and the wild swings of mood and fascination that overtook him. The Ordo Astartes had agreed to back his Censor project but had little to no control over him. He was surprised the Inquisitors hadn't executed him yet, but then they had their own games in motion. None of that was Vendrick's problem however.
Vendrick drew his bolt pistol and ordered, "Check ammo counts, scan for debris and collect any damaged components you have lost. No evidence can remain. Leave the mortals to me, I'll dispose of them myself, then we return to the ship and the next phase."