The Liberator's Day Off (Part 7)
Excerpt from Sergeant Rolan's Interview (Classification Top Secret, Gold Level). Interview conducted by Amberly Vail, Ordo Xenos (On Permanent Secondment to Ordo Hereticus, Cainite Heresy Division)
I must confess, when I first met the Commissar, I very nearly shot him.
In fact, there were only two reasons I didn't blow his brains out then and there.
First, my sister's body was backstopping the shot, and if there's a more arse-witted thing to do on a battlefield than shoot into melee I have yet to hear of it. Paverick was clearly up shit creek without me adding a longlas crater to her wounds.
Second, I'd just witnessed him shooting a laspistol an inch from my sister's head, and Emperor damn me forever if I didn't want to twist his worthless head off his callous body with my own bare hands myself.
I was bolting toward the two of them in a dead sprint, way too fast to even think about sucking in a lungful of air and shouting. Besides, if I'd learned one lesson from the last time I'd had a go at Commissar Fossik it was never to let the bastard know you're coming until you are already there.
In any case, he was unconscious by the time I got there and threw his dead weight off my sister. Every augmetic on her body looked like it had acquired well over a dozen new ceremonial dents each, and all the visible skin on her face and head had been flayed raw, but she was, thank the Emperor, breathing. And, somehow, conscious. Alive, though in a condition bad enough to make my blood boil.
"Rolan?" Her voice was a thready buzz, heartrendingly unsteady.
"I'm here, Pavvie." I said, reaching out to squeeze her favored mechadendrite. "I'll get you out of this, I promise."
And I made good on that promise immediately, like the good brother I was. My other hand unsheathed my combat knife and stabbed the prone Commissar Fossick through the heart. The blade tore easily through that fancy greatcoat of his, and of course, the cocky slith wasn't even wearing carapace armor. The man jerked and twitched, but I'd seen death throes before and I didn't need to watch the pissboot completely expire- not with my sister so wounded.
"I promise Commissar Fossick won't ever bother you again," I said. My sister had never liked human touch, but I rocked her mechadendrite reassuringly.
"Of course he won't," she mumbled, "I killed him and the Omnissiah blessed us with a replacement part- I mean a replacement to play the part- sparking circuts, but that itches-"
She reached up with an organic hand to scratch at some flayed skin before I could stop her. That's the problem when your sister goes mechanicus: I couldn't grab every appendage to keep her from picking at her hurts the way I could when she was five and has gotten all those skeeter bites. It was a bit unfair to have sprouted over a dozen, but I tried for an intercept anyway- only to freeze as I watched her fingers *pinch* the wound and *pull*- and the ugly raw flesh pulled off like market film over a meats tray, revealing- healed, pink flesh beneath.
I froze, staring, as my sister's collection of mechadentrites prodded at the rest of her *wounds*, pulling them off with fascination. "This shouldn't be biomechanically possible," she said. "I should be severely injured. What did you inject me with, Commissar?" She said, absently.
The Commissar, of course, didn't respond, his body too busy shivering out the remainder of his death throes.
"Commissar?!" Her head snaked around, and I could hear the oculars focusing on the knife standing out of his chest. "Omnissiah! Rolan, you- you organic brain! You killed my replacement commissar!"
"Replacement? What's twisting your gears, Pavs? Nobody will miss Fragbait Fossick."
"That wasn't Fossick-" Paverick didn't have hair to tear out anymore, though the mechidendrites she'd sprouted from her cranium did a good job of trying to pull themselves out. "That was- I swear, Rolan! Do you *ever* think before you act?"
"Not often," I said, agreeably. "I figure you have enough of the clevers for both of us, though your plans are a bit over-elaborate, so it's my job to simplify em. What do you mean, that wasn't Fossick?"
I looked at the corpse, then did a double-take. "Huh. You're right, that isn't Fossick. Pretty close, though, especially since he's wearing Fossick's clothes."
"We needed him, Rolan!" Paverick snarled. She took a staggering step forward and I was barely fast enough to catch her before she fell over. "We needed him for-for-for….SYSTEM FAULT…kzxkxshzshshzz…reformat…reloading…needed him for…for…"
"Needed him for what?" I said, cradling her in my arms. I'd seen her during a system crash before, just not one this long. I remembered from her seminary days the best thing to do was keep her talking.
"To…save…you…system corruption DATA feed- Rolan, you're a meatbrain-"
Now I'm not the biggest bang in the armory by any means but I was pretty reassured by the string of insults coming out of my sister because if she can swear at me that means she'll be back on her pins in no time.
What I *was* disconcerted by was when I felt my longlas shift by my side where I'd dropped it to tend to Paverick as if someone had taken a big, booted foot and stepped on it with all their weight.
And that was precisely what someone had done. I snapped my head around and stared into the face of the Commissar, staring at me with a slight, insouciant smile under the clotted blood peeling in strips from his face, foot planted firmly on my longlas, chainsword clutched casually and easily in one hand, his other hand tapping thoughtfully at the hilt of my combat knife still buried, hilt deep, in his chest, bright red blood dripping down.
"I am in command here." He said. "There will be no further debate on that point." The Commissar grabbed the hilt of the knife and yanked it out of his chest. The blood pumping came out in even more arterial spurts.
I froze, and so did Paverick, too damned surprised to be terrified. Yet.
"You two grass green fracking recruits are my subordinates. There will be no further argument on that point."
He twirled my combat blade, spraying both of us with his own bright, red blood.
"You two are seconded to my mission. There will be no further argument on that point."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly, as even brighter red blood, clearly aspirated from his lungs, leaked out of his mouth. "My mission is to deliver Panacea to the people of Lantonia. It is now your mission, too."
"Panacea heals wounds. Panacea cures the disease. Any wounds. Any disease." He suddenly slapped his hand, still with the combat knife, flat side against the gushing wound in his chest. His palm flattened over the hilt of my knife and the mouth of the wound, then strong, sinewy fingers dug into the sopping fabric of the greatcoat as if he were going to meld together the edges of the wound by main force. His grip tightened, and the gushing abruptly slowed, then stopped with one final flow of blood over his fingers. Some part of me wondered how he'd managed to keep control of the knife through that whole maneuver, and another scared shitless part informed me that monsters could do what they pleased.
"And I do mean any wound." His hand withdrew, fingers curled back around the hilt of my knife, and no bleeding restarted.
"The chaos god of the midden has putrefied this world," he snarled with hate. "and Panacea will cure it. You will do what I say, when I say it, how I say it, to finish our holy mission to cure this world of the taint of the disease god." He held the dagger straight out towards me, point gleaming with dripping ruby drops. "Do either of you have a problem with that point?"
"No sir!" My sister and I chorused.
"that's 'No, Commessar.'' The man snapped.
"No, Commessar!" My sister and I snapped back with the thoughtless reflex of subordinates thoroughly trained by scary superiors in seminary and boot camp.
None of them had been remotely this terrifying.
Then my spine stiffened as the Commessar gave me his first direct order.
(excerpt ends)
Even on a world used to panacea and Khornate fighting philosophy, the whole 'pull the knife out of your heart' trick remains an impressive one, and I used it to good effect. I wish I could say it was the first time I had ever resorted to that oddly specific piece of panacea-enabled theater, but the reason I know the Emperor has it out for me is that it was literally the fifth time I'd been stabbed in the ticker and frack me if it wouldn't be the last.
It certainly impressed the longlas-wielding guardsman.
"Specialist." I bit out. "Your former Commissar betrayed the imperium to the disease God of Chaos and died a traitor's death for it. Your belated attempt to make him pay for his treason is laudable, but misplaced." If flipped the knife, caught it by the blade, and extended the hilt to him. "Do not misplace your weapon again."
He took it, even more impressed with the fact that the hilt was slick with my blood. The penalties for guardsman losing issued kit included execution, not that I intended to make that point to a man with a proven track record of trying to stab commissars. He seemed to catch my drift without me needing to get explicit.
It helped that I was both terrified and furious, which is precisely the right emotion to give real teeth to an arse-chewing.
He wiped it clean on a bit of his uniform before carefully sheathing it, something a small part of my mind noted with approval. He took care of his kit, at least, as well as his sister. Now to keep him from going after me. Again.
I hooked the barrel of his longlas up with my foot like I was juggling a scrumball, caught it by the stock, and held it out. "Sling this," I said, the rapidly healing nerves in my filleted chest howling in agony. I ignored it, letting the panacea do its work. "You're on medical orderly duty." I jerked my head at Jurgen, who was still unconscious and still seriously worrying me. "Start rigging a stretcher for him on the double. Then tend to the mechwright. And while you're doing that, tell me where the rest of your unit is."
He hopped to it with gratifying speed, his face a peculiar blend of concealed fear and even more concealed relief that Someone Was Giving Orders. Squaddies generally don't like being on their own, especially not in a war zone. He took back his longlas, slung it, and hastened to obey, filling me in as he did.
"They all extracted." He said, briefly. "I was rearguard, but didn't catch the shuttle."
That was slightly better than the 'they're all dead' I was expecting. I hadn't noticed any imperial human forces about during Trazyn's rampage, not that I'd exactly expected an organized response given the way the imperial relief fleet had come apart under the curse. The scramble to board shuttles and escape pods must have transformed any attempt at a coordinated drop into an unholy mess.
"Any other members of your unit here to rally?" I quizzed, wondering what I wanted more: to not have to deal with more jumpy, nervous guardsmen, or more soldiers to attempt to hide behind.
In any case, he made it moot by shaking his head. "Just me."
"Carry on," I told him, then turned to vent my ire on the coggirl.
"Mechwright." I snapped. "Status report. Cognition, augmentation, organics, in that order!"
"Cognition: 40% and rising. Chaos taint purged from primary processes, logicality reasserted. Augmetics: 30% and steady state. In need of propitiation and repair. Organics: 90% and rising, due to unknown substance you injected."
"Inform me when cognition reaches 80%." I snapped. "Run any self-repair and propitiation to achieve that state. Query: able to walk and carry 80 kilos?"
"Affirmative." She signed me the cogwheel,
"Stand by." I snapped, and she signed me the cogwheel before adopting a prayer pose.
Belatedly, I wondered if I shouldn't have spoken like a trained lay member of the Mechanicus to an Imperial techpriest, but what the hell was she going to do? She'd already shot me, wrapped my head in a Nurgle-cursed faceeater, and her brother had stabbed me through the heart, and all of it due, I was morally certain, to a combination of being under the influence of that nurgalite-cursed katachan headrag she had been wearing, and being utterly untrained for and unequal to the job of leading on any battlefield, much less one as complicated as this.
Frack your fears, Cain, I told myself. You're the most experienced officer here, Emperor help them all.
Things were quiet for the next five minutes, which sadly gave me time to think.
Between the two of them, the mechwright and the specialist rigged up a serviceable stretcher for Jurgen, while I oversaw, and surreptitiously leaned against a wall and even more guzzling water.
Panacea was miraculous, sure, but losing a fourth of my blood volume in a matter of minutes wasn't something to take lightly, and I needed to feed my system as much replacement liquid as I could before the effects of the injection wore off, especially since we were fresh out.
I knew how to make more, of course. If there was one of the STC's miraculous deliveries to Slawkenberg that I had taken care to study, memorize, and learn inside and out it was the panacea. I had no intention of ever being caught without the stuff, or without the means to get more.
"Commissar." The Mecheright interrupted my meditations. "I must apologize-"
Frak it, I was in no mood for a half-baked apology from a half-wrecked pile of augmetics, especially since in my experience people atoning for regrets are capable of the most astonishingly dangerous displays of contrition.
"Mechwright, repeat after me," I said, firmly. "I, Mechwright Paverick,"
Her oculars flickered, and then she replied obediently, "I, Mechwright Paverick,"
"-Do swear vengeance and enmity upon Decay for its crimes against logic, the motive force, and humanity-."
"-Do swear vengeance and enmity upon Decay for its crimes against logic, motive force, and humanity-"
"- for its use and abuse of my sacred machinery to attack my brother and my comrades-in-arms-"
She repeated, her oculars widening and beginning to gleam.
"- and I shall avenge this affront by wresting this sacred world of Lantonia from its grasp and delivering panacea to all who inhabit it."
She completed the oath. and I nodded. "I do not need your regrets, Mechwright. I need your weapons, your mind, your motive force, all of that pointed at the true cause and source of those regrets. Focus your fury on the enemy of us all. That is what you owe me, and that is all the apology you owe me, and do not waste my time with any other attempt to take on a shame that rightfully belongs to the Great Enemy. Is that clear?"
She made a surprisingly organic swallow, and said, "Clear, Commissar."
"You're also on stretcher duty," I said.
The thing about being in command is that if you're hands-on, you're doing it wrong. Your job is to oversee, and sit back, and sip tea. Or water, as the case may be. A Commissar's job is to take in the wider picture, so while my newly overawed grunts were getting on with the grunt work I had enough attention to spare to notice a human walking openly and purposefully towards our little gathering, three servo skulls bobbing in their wake.
I wanted to peg its gait as male, possibly young, but it was so swathed in protective gear and respirators that I couldn't honestly tell. It had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and halted well within lasgun range, though well out of chain sword range.
It halted and called out.
"Extra, extra! Enemy Hoards Slaughtered!
Capitol Relieved? Read all about it in today's Bugle!" The figure's voice was a boy's, muffled by the respirator but bellowing loudly enough. A gloved hand was waving a broadsheet newspaper from the messenger bag.
I raised my eyebrows, hand resting casually on my chainsword.
"What's a paperboy doing in a war zone?" I asked pleasantly.
"Selling papers." The boy replied, waving it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"The city's in ruins."
"And nothing will stop the presses!" The boy said, with commendable defiance.
"How did you survive?" I asked.
The boy waved the paper again. "That story's page four. You want it? You buy it. It's a Bugle exclusive."
My brow furrowed. This was quite possibly the weirdest thing that had happened today, but it didn't feel…like chaos weird.
"How much for a paper?" I asked.
"Ten thrones." The boy said. "Or a pint of water, or a guard-issue ration bar."
I cast an eye at Paverick since she was the one currently in charge of my cast-off clothing since I hadn't had time to switch back, what with all the stabbing and other assorted tomfoolery.
"Ten thrones, right upper placket pocket," I ordered.
She nodded and tossed a bag of currency to me. I ostentatiously counted it out, then bagged the ten golden thrones and even more ostentatiously tossed them to the boy. He counted them himself, then pulled a rolled broadsheet from his bag and tossed it back.
His escort of servo skulls was even more interesting. They were set up for broadcast and pict-taking, and they clicked and whirred around the boy, capturing picts of me and my little band. It all looked like pure imperial tech, not diseased or bloated.
I eyed the boy. Then unrolled the paper.
I was right.
It was weird.
Fortunately, it was also very, incredibly, predictably human.
Because of course if your band of plucky survivors all worked for, with, and around the newspaper, you're still going to keep the paper running even when hell falls out. Maybe especially when hell falls out. Wars, in and of themselves, are usually deadly dull unless you keep your spirits up somehow.
NURGLE HOARD SLAIN BY THE THOUSANDS!
WHO IS THE MASKED MAN?
5 WAYS TO FRY RAT.
There were survivors in the Lantonian capital city of Viasalix, that much was obvious. They were organized, careful, and coordinated, that much was even more obvious.
And as for the weird- well, humans will cling to any reminder of normalcy in the insane cauldron of war, so it made sense that the paper was still operating once you realized that the majority of the survivors were a bunch of muckraking newsies alleviating the terror and tedium of a world-ending siege and starvation by running both their mouths and their presses.
I honestly couldn't have gotten a better briefing document, nor a better in. The news was all insane, of course- eyewitness accounts of the nurgalite infestation, yesterday's space battle as seen by the naked eye, a mouthwatering description of the feast two days ago when someone found a miraculously untainted food cache, a massive 'in memorium' section and a tiny 'help wanted' section, one of which caught my eye. "The Bugle is looking for stories?" I raised my eyebrow. "I've got a story for you."
"Come and meet the Editor, then." The boy turned and snapped at a skull. "Oi, numbskull! Signal Triple J! I got a scoop!" He waved, and I commanded my band to follow.
—-
"Where's Parker? That boy is fired!" A voice bellowed out of the office before the masked kid I'd been following for miles through underground tunnels shook his head regretfully and knocked on a door. "You can't fire me, boss, there's a war on!" The kid called. "Anyway, got you a scoop."
"A scoop? A scoop? It had better be news or ice cream or I'm going to strangle you." The man was also wearing a respirator and goggles, but for some inexplicable reason had drawn a gray toothbrush mustache on his. The fierce mustache went with an even more bellowing voice, and the man seized extended my hand and shook. I got my arm back with the sense that it had been mauled by a terrier. "Parker here tells me you have a scoop. Or- a Commissar! You ARE the scoop. The first new damned humans in here in months, and guard to boot!" He shot a glance at Parker. "They buy the paper?"
"Ten thrones." Parker tossed the bag of coins at him. "Real ones, too."
"And he read the paper?"
"The whole thing, Chief." Parker nodded at one of his attendant servoskulls. "Numbskull has pictures."
"Hmm. We need a big splash for tomorrow's front page. Tested Positive. Get me your best, and you might be front-page tomorrow-"
I interrupted the argument. "I need to talk to whoever is going in charge here. Now." I said firmly.
"That's me!" The man bellowed. "Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Bugle, the only paper worth reading in Viasalix. "And congratulations on passing the 'Are you human,' test."
"Test?" I said, with studious calm.
"Of course a test, even Parker isn't dim enough to let you in without proving you are human."
"And how did I do that?"
"You bought a paper." The man flung his gloved hands wide. "None of the filth out there ever bother to pay for news. They don't know a good story when they see one. They just try and eat the newsies, and chase them when they run. Makes them easy to ambush that way."
The man harrumphed.
"But humans…they'll pay for a good story. " The man strode behind a massive desk, piled high with papers. "And me? I buy good stories, too." He flopped arrogantly and authoritatively into a battered office chair, plunked his elbows on the desktop, and tented his hands. "And something tells me you've got a good one. My name's J. Jonah Jameson, by the bye. What's yours?"