Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 219

The Thunderhawk Revelation tore out of the thin atmosphere, leaving the graveyard behind. The rumbling of the gunship's engines was a soothing note, familiar as the beating of Vendrick's hearts. A standard model orbital transport and ground support craft, common to all Space Marine Chapters across the galaxy. The lifting body shape was unaltered, the ferocious power of its engines unchanged and its armaments exactly as Mars would have it. Vendrick thought it a comforting touchstone of normality, for those remade in a new template.

The Censor stood in his restraint cage and breathed the stale air. With his helm removed his features were shown to be blunt and unsympathetic. As a Scout-Novice his squadmates had jested that Vendrick had never smiled in his life, for some reason they found that notion funny, he disagreed. Being an Astartes was a most serious calling, the most fervent of commitments, and the most strenuous of efforts. There was no room for levity or distraction in their Emperor-bestowed duty. Unfortunately others disagreed.

"So then I jammed my thumb in and wouldn't you know it, the rat popped right out!" Dhulak concluded his tale. Dark chuckles greeted that, at least from some of the Censors, those still able to smile. Nine others lined the gunship's interior, each from a different Chapter. Sable Swords, Iron Lords, Brazen Claws, Storm Heralds, Rampagers, Astral Knights, Star Dragons and Crimson Sabres, their origins as varied as their characters. It fell to Vendrick to forge a unity among them, easier said than done.

"Cease your prattling," Belphian growled.

"Victory is sweet as wine, Dhulak snorted.

"I wouldn't know," Belphian retorted, "I've never tasted any."

"Wine or victory?"

"Your levity offends me!"

"And your dour mood is ill-fitting after our great success!"

Vendrick interrupted, "Hold your tongues, we are about to be debriefed. Focus on your performance in the field, there are lessons to be learned!"

Everyone settled down as the Brother-Sergeant reflected on their differences. Dhulak took his cybernetic augmentations with unseemly lightness, using them in battle but seemingly unconcerned with their implications. He did not seek further advancement, content with his lot. The Storm Giants descended from Vulkan, making them a rare successor to the Salamanders. Dhulak embraced their Promethean creed of self-reliance and industrial toil, but lacked greater ambitions, content with strength and the product of his hands. An odd choice for the Censor project, but his Chapter was well-versed in tech-lore.

In contrast Belphian was a Son of Medusa, a deviant off-shoot of the Iron Hands. Schism had split the sons of Ferrus Manus a millennium earlier and the exiles had formed their own identity. The Imperium was healing the wounds of the Age of Apostasy but the rogue Chapter's status was still under debate among the High Lords. That the Ordo Astartes allowed them to join the project was odd, but it may be a case of keeping them close, where someone could watch for signs of Heresy. Belphian seemed bitter about his role, and the augmentations that made up half his skull gave him a brutal appearance.

Dhulak didn't seem admonished as he asked, "How would you rate our performance, Brother-Sergeant?"

"Tolerable," Vendrick stated.

"A complete sweep of the foe, without loss, rates as tolerable?"

"Our ranged weapons were ineffective against immaterial factors, our hand-to-hand skills shouldn't have been needed. Lazar must turn more attention to our weapons, not just our bodies. The Chaos Legions will not fall so easily."

Belphian growled, "We must delve deeper into the hidden vaults of knowledge."

Now Dhulak frowned, "We test dangerous waters. There are sound reasons our forefathers forbade the Keys of Hel."

"You already turned them!" Belphian snorted.

"With great care and only at dire need. Vulkan taught us to beware of that which we cannot master, to not trust powers beyond our understanding. Did not your own Primarch caution against the Agesine Protocols?"

"Ferrus Manus is dead," Belphian snarled, "What he wanted is irrelevant!"

"But his teachings remain and we must honour them."

"The Gorgon was a damned fool, sentiment made him weak."

"You speak so scornfully of your own gene-father?"

"Ferrus Manus died, everyone dies, that is the truth of the galaxy. We are all damned, one way or another, all that matters is how many Traitors we can drag into hell with us!"

Vendrick's temper rose, "Enough! I have commanded you to meditate on your actions, disobedience is unbecoming an Astartes!" That was enough to shut them up, and a sullen silence fell in the gunship's hold. Vendrick was troubled however, for he knew many would call the Censor Project Heretical. Eons past Mankind had trusted technology had all the answers and they paid for their naivety. The Emperor at the founding of the Imperium had laid down strict limits on what was safe and what was forbidden. The Agesine Protocols, the Eight Sleepers, the Sarcosan Formula, technologies to change the fundamentals of life and death, collectively known as the Keys of Hel.

The boundaries were clear, and yet lacking. The galaxy had moved on, the Chaos legions were swollen with power and dark majesty, the Imperium beset by weapons the likes of which had not been seen since the Age of Strife. It was clear the Adeptus Astartes were no longer sufficient for the task, they must advance, progress must resume. Imperial Space Marines needed to be faster, stronger, harder to kill and better armed. Vendrick understood that better than most, the Red Hunters Chapter had long had ties to the Inquisition and many times had they been called on to sanction wayward Chapters and eradicate renegades. Many Brother's lives could have been spared, if they had access to the Censor enhancements Vendrick now owned.

Thankfully any further reflection was cut off as the Thunderhawk came into land. Vendrick collected his helm and checked his weapons, before lifting his restraint cage and marching to the forward ramp. Beyond a landing bay, stark and sterile. Most Imperial ships had the weight of ages upon them, the grime of use worked into the panels and floor. The mobile base of the Ordo Astartes put that to shame, oppressive weight oozed out of every inch of the ship, a sense of despair and hopelessness hovering over one's head. Angles were too sharp, the metal dulled with black tints and the air hot and close while a subliminal hum of machinery constantly tried to distract one's thoughts. Vendrick rebuffed such psychological trickery with stern disdain, such measures were expected on a repurposed Black Ship, but he was not unmanned.

At the bottom of the ramp waited a party of men and women. Shadowy figures, some hiding their faces in voluminous robes, others with flickering privacy fields or locked helms. The Inquisitors of the Ordo Astartes never showed their faces, and rarely spoke, but they were always watching and judging. Vendrick ignored them as he strode to the figure at the front, Magos Lazar himself. The architect of the project was painfully thin, his metallic body a rigid pole. A red robe hung over his shoulders, split down the sides so six-piston arms could extend to both sides. Fingers were tipped by scalpel blades, drillbits and probes and one of his right hands grasped a stave as tall as he was, topped by a Cog-icon. The Magos' head was inhuman, elongated and insectile with a long snout-like a proboscis, from which tubes extended to run under his robes. Eyes were twin overlarge black discs set in his metallic skull and behind his head another cog-symbol crested, like a halo of metal.

"Magos Lazar," Vendrick greeted as the Censor's formed up, "Mission accomplished."

"Marginally so," Lazar's voice buzzed, "Your performance was sub-optimal."

"That is why the project is still experimental," Vendrick countered, "To learn from missteps."

"I should take you apart and see where the mistake lies. Perhaps Censor batch 3 will be superior."

"And lose all your hard work, I think not," Vendrick retorted.

Lazar was silent for a moment, as his data-djinns wormed into their armour, probing and testing for weaknesses. Vendrick withstood the itching sensation as the Machine Spirit squirmed in protest, not giving anything away. Finally the Magos shuddered and a harsh barking issued from his vox-caster, the adept's imitation of laughter. Vendrick didn't think he'd said anything funny but the Magos was prone to random outbursts.

Lazar buzzed, "Aha! You know me well indeed 2.1! I have invested much into the second iteration of Censors, too much to lose so carelessly."

"The battle was successfully concluded," Vendrick stated despite his personal misgivings, he might berate his squad in private but never to an outsider.

"So say my shadowy friends here," Lazar agreed, "Room for improvement of course, always room for improvement."

"Exactly," Vendrick agreed, "We must turn our attention to ranged armaments, standard rounds are ineffective against the threats we will face."

"A small matter," Lazar dismissed, "The true genius of my project is to extend the natural abilities of your bodies. To reach the apex of perfection. We shall peel back the veil of skin and gaze in wonder at the genic perfection of what the Omnissiah wrought. Only a true visionary like myself can improve on the Terran Bio-scientist's work, only I have the genius to enhance the Astartes!"

Vendrick grimaced as the Magos drifted off off-topic, "There is yet much work to be done."

But Lazar wasn't done and lifted his many arms to cry, "Mad they called me! Mad! Doubting my genius, saying I lacked subtly enough to comprehend the complexity of Gene-seed. Belisarius Cawl was the worst, taunting me with his own projects, hinting that he had access to secret knowledge entrusted to no other. I will beat him, I am beating him! My Censors will be greater than anything that odious tinkerer can fashion. I will show Cawl that I am the greatest genator!"

"Magos!" Vendrick barked, "We have operational parameters to review."

"What?" Lazar started, "Oh… yes… such mundane details cannot be ignored. Yes we must examine your bio-med data and mechanical feedback. Alas that no First Founding Chapter will enjoin us, to get readings from a purer source would be optimal, but secondary iterations must suffice."

"We will return to our Chapel-Barracks at once," Vendrick stated.

Lazar relented, "Do so, but be wary. The Oracle hints that great changes are coming, that we are on the cusp of revelation. Our noble endeavours will soon be put to the test in ways we cannot imagine. Glory or infamy awaits, either we have a breakthrough or fall into abject failure. We must continue, we must advance our understanding, until we are ready to enact the Final Phase."

Vendrick was concerned, battleline Censors were just one off-shoot of the Keys of Hel. Lazar had other variations in development, some exploring mental and spiritual realms, others looking to unlock the secrets of cybermantic-resurrection and warp conduit engineering. Vendrick was troubled by the implications of those, and he knew there were more aspects to the Project even he was not aware of.

Lazar's head tilted as his data-djinns caught an elevated heartbeat, "You doubt it can be done?"

Vendrick replied levelly, "Never."

"You doubt it should be done," Lazar's voice dropped to a threatening whisper, "You wish to hide behind orthodoxy."

"I do not, we must advance, progress must resume," Vendrick refuted.

"You think me mad, you think I break the lex of the Omnissiah!"

"No Magos," Vendrick countered, "We work beyond the lex but for the Lex, and the sake of the Imperium itself."

Lazar was still for a moment then said, "Of course we do. And we must hasten our efforts. So much to be done. Return to your stations, I have so much to do! We cannot let hidebound tradition hold us back. Advance, we must always advance!"

Lazar turned and hurried away, trailed by the various Inquisitors who remained eternally silent. Vendrick had never heard any of them utter a word, and had no idea if they were subservient lackeys to the Magos or suspicious judges. If they planned to hand him the means to make armies of Censors or shoot him in the back any second. If Vendrick's opinion of the Inquisition proved true they were probably planning to do both, the only question was how much use they could extract from him first.

"He's as calm and collected as ever," Dhulak scoffed.

"The difference between genius and madness is measured only by success," Belphian sniffed.

"You think he can succeed?"

"You're still alive aren't you?"

"So far."

"Then quit griping."

Vendrick cut off the debate with a curt, "Form up and head for the barracks! We will check our armour and weapons, then hit the shooting range for three hours of target practice. We need to improve our ranged doctrines, and that starts with aim. Move it Censors, to waste the Emperor's time is a sin!"