Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 222
Several days later Vendrick found himself in a training deck facing off against the Smoke Jaguars. He was looking forward to beating some respect into these arrogant newcomers, and pay them back for their sly mockery. He knew they were taunting him to his face, though they claimed their nicknames for the Censors were marks of high honour. He was about to teach them not to cheek their betters.
High above Lazar and the gaggle of ever-present Inquisitors looked down from observation galleries suspended from the roof on thick iron chains. Vendrick could feel data-djinns slithering through his plate, adding sensory feeds to the floating Servo-skulls circling the assault course. A perfect recreation of the fortress Ghazard, on X'tor, a famous battle where the Imperium had withstood the Cythor Fiends of the Ghoul stars. A piece of it at least, the compartment wasn't large enough to encompass a bastion the size of a mountain.
Vendrick stood on a shattered plaza, the recreated noises of artillery and lasfire battering at his helm as distant flashes struck his eye lenses. The simulation was perfect, even down to the pressure changes with each explosion and the shaking of the Ferrocrete floor under his boots. Servitors trundled everywhere, shifting guns in cupolas and dragging ammo boxes, while shouts on the vox-net created a sense of urgent combat just out of sight. The smells of Fyceline and crushed stone penetrated his breathing grille and the taste of blood was on his tongue. Very accurate indeed, save in two respects, the Censors were armed with paint-rounds to prevent fatal mishaps and the enemy were Smoke Jaguars, not Cythor Fiends.
Lazar's voice issued from one of the Servo-skulls, "The invading force has reached turret 234b, move up and engage."
"I am running this drill Magos," Vendrick snapped back via vox, "I know how to run a defence."
"Do not forget why I ordered this evaluation!" Lazar retorted, "I want to gauge the potential of our new recruits."
"Which will be better judged by facing a realistic defence. You are skewing the data-points with this interference."
"Do not lecture me on how to obtain data!"
"You worry about analysis; I will do the rough work."
Vendrick cut the link with a blink-click, he was sure Lazar was still in his armour's Binaric substrates, but at least he had silence. He turned to the Censors and took in their line. Nine Brothers, in spirit if not in blood. He measured them and found not a single flaw in their bearing, upright and proud despite the hammering noise of battle all around. He was sure they would serve well this day; they were itching to put these newcomers in their place as much as he.
He addressed them, "Belphian, pick four Brothers as a Combat-squad and move to engage at turret 234b."
A slight pause as Belphian asked, "As... bait for our flanking manoeuvre?"
"Negative," Vendrick corrected, "They are flanking us."
"We have no signs of that," Belphian argued.
"What is Corax's blood famous for?"
"Stealth."
"And now they charge up the middle with no scouting element, I think not. The frontal assault us a feint, the real threat is behind. Dispose of them quickly, minimal force, limit your Apothex... we don't want them to know our full capability just yet."
Belphian bowed his head in compliance and took off with four Censors in tow. Vendrick knew some Chapters would have sent him for castigation for querying orders, but the Censors were a diverse brotherhood and it was important that each of them understood their place in the grander plan. Vendrick took in his four remaining comrades and waved them towards a rearwards approach. If he was trying to get behind the Censors he knew exactly which way he'd choose.
The Censors jogged along a balcony, looking down over a Holographic recreation of the fortress' lower slopes. They moved swiftly, keeping their censoria alert. Vendrick's senses were enveloped in data-streams far beyond human perception, pulsing his visual cortex with colours and auras in rhythmic patterns. The urge to engage his Apothex itched at the back of his mind, but he restrained himself. Potent as the technoarcana was it was equally dangerous, to be used in moderation and at great need only.
Dhulak lugged his quad-bolter along as he said, "You are sure they will come this way?"
"Absolutely," Vendrick stated.
"Based on what?"
"That sly-faced Sergeant of theirs, he longs to beat me at something."
"Sounds familiar," Dhulak quipped.
"Do not compare us, I am nothing like him!"
"Then how shall I explain this certainty?"
"I am never wrong," Vendrick replied, "Behold."
Their rush along the balcony had brought them to an overlook. Below a ruined street, complete with burned out husks of Chimera transports and prone dead. It was a ravaged wasteland, empty and deserted, saw that five Smoke Jaguars were sneaking up it, if sneaking was the right word. In the multi-hued psychedelia of the censoria they appeared to be enacting some strange pantomime. They moved languidly, each motion fluid and yet exaggerated. Footsteps were sliding, arms held out at heart level. They moved from cover to cover with sinuous grace and yet at the same time were totally obvious about it.
One of them plastered himself to a wall, then slinked along it in a curious sidestep. Another ducked under the shadow of a Chimera, to creep out again half-bent in a furtive crouch. One pulled himself over a scorched railing, moved along the length of it, then vaulted it again for no reason. They were avoiding the most obvious routes of advancement, trying to keep to places the eye would not naturally dwell, but the idea that eight-foot armoured giants could pass unnoticed was farcical. Vendrick was baffled by their odd movements, and yet a static crackle in his vision told of a faint esoteric effect at play. They were trying to do something to his sight, but his augmentations rendered it null and void. Without the layer of distraction they sought to employ the Smoke Jaguars just looked ludicrous. A pack of fools lampooning noble Astartes, it made Vendrick's gore rise.
Dhulak lifted his bolter but the barrel was pushed back down by Vendrick's hand. The Sergeant hand-signalled to avoid risking a vox-trace giving them away and the Censors spilt up. The Sergeant was confident surprise, and their augmentations, would give them the edge and moved to a higher point, placing his shoulder to a wall to stay out of sight. One of the Smoke Jaguars disappeared from his field of view but the faint rasp of stone being clawed told him the foe was ascending to his level. Mildly impressive, given the weight of Mark VII plate, to rise without grapple or Pitton with barely a whisper of noise. Not good enough though.
A helm crested the lintel of the balcony and Vendrick moved. A fist to the faceplate jarred the Smoke Jaguar loose then a hand wrapped around the gorget and heaved him over the barrier. The foe fell to the stone floor in a clatter and Vendrick's censoria was buffeted by increasing waves of static. It was annoying but he compensated, whatever technoarcana they were using was no match for his own.
Vendrick moved in with a swift kick, slamming his boot into the midriff. To his surprise two hands grabbed his foot short and twisted hard, sending him toppling over. He slammed to the floor and rolled over, rising to his feet again with maul in hand. The Smoke Jaguar was already on his feet, buzzing circlets in his hands. Vendrick activated the neural-shredder in his maul with a reflexive twist, but his thoughts were consumed by the realisation that he faced Vitcos. Perfect, too perfect.
Vitcos inched right saying, "My Shadow-path is strong, yet you see in ways unknowable."
"Your antics do not impress me," Vendrick growled.
"Mull-ic indeed, yet you present your weapon active?"
"As do you."
"A true test then, your Magos to delight?"
"Not really, I'm going to teach you to respect your betters."
"I see none better present, only a fool."
Vendrick attacked instantly, driving his maul forward in a sharp thrust. Vitcos didn't try to block and twisted away, letting the head sail past. Vendrick drew back in a backhanded sweep only to find his foe ducking underneath. A slash to the knee resulted in a clatter as Diceramite rebuffed the assault and he swept down in a diagonal strike. The Smoke Jaguar was fast but a brush of contact sent a pulse of agony along his nerves, right into the brain. Vendrick had seen such blow unman even a Space Marine but Vitcos was barely hindered, a mere tremor as he ducked back out of reach.
"You withstand my blows?" Vendrick blinked.
"Pain is but the ache of growth. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Pain is the forgeheat in which I shall be recast. I embrace pain and make it my ally, and from our union shall our enemy's terror be born."
Vendrick sneered, "Pretty words won't save you. A Censor never relents, a Censor never yields, a Censor never retreats or gives ground!"
Vitcos paused for a moment, "Work for us, that will not."
Vendrick's anger spiked and he activated his Apothex. Time slowed in his eyes as strength coursed through him. He was attacking again in an instant, swinging his maul in an overhead strike. The Smoke Jaguar reacted fast and Vendrick's blow merely tore a layer off his pauldron. The Smoke Jaguar seemed to be moving like treacle to his eyes but was shrugging off the pain and coming in for a slashing attack to the abdomen. Vendrick saw it, judged it would be ineffective, making no attempt to block and instead set up for a debilitating blow that would end this fight. But to his surprise the aura of energy around the weapons shifted, a harmonic vibrational change that soured his vision like paint poured carelessly over an easel. Vitcos' blow touched his armour and the Chakrams adjusted their frequency to tear through Diceramite with ease.
Vendrick staggered sideways, more surprised than hurt. His special armour had shrugged off bolt rounds and power weapons, proving equal to the finest artificer plate, but Vitcos' strange weapons had bested it. Vendrick had never seen the like and his ire was pricked. He gathered himself up to launch a final assault, intending to lay out this cur for a good long while, but he never got the chance.
"Ceeeaaassseee," a Servo-skull blared as it dropped from above, its call elongated in his altered perceptions.
Vendrick shut down his Apothex and time returned to normal, "Magos, the employment of active weapons was..."
"Never mind your prattling," the Servo-skull barked as Lazar guided it nearer, "Let me see that wound."
"It is nothing," Vendrick dismissed.
"Do be quiet! That plate is Diceramite, it should withstand practically anything. What manner of weapon could overpower my genius?!"
Vitcos was nursing his left arm where the maul had struck, but waved vaguely, "Obsidian blade, secrets of transonic held private by my Chapter."
"Transonics?!" Lazar's voice issued forth, "Rare indeed, I had not believed such relics common among Astartes. This still should not be possible, your Techmarines must have stumbled upon a varied cant of machine lore. A lost STC perhaps..."
"It is private," Vitcos recited.
"Do not speak back to me! The Censors must have all possible weapons, all manner of defences. Terminate this exercise, bring the weapons to me to examine at once!"
The servo-skull shot upwards, leaving the pair behind. Vendrick touched the ragged rent in his abdomen and eyed the Smoke Jaguar. Nothing had been settled, both of them knew it. They would find each other again in some other drill and then determine which was the greater. Vendrick knew it would be him; he did not fall easily.
"Another time," Vendrick hissed.
"My arm yearns for it, my blades hunger," Vitcos replied.
"You are insolent and arrogant."
"Stone Eye sees a mirror and calls his reflection false," Vitcos sneered.
"Get out of my sight."
"Till the morrow," Vitcos snorted as he turned and strode away.
Vendrick glared daggers after the smug fool but then opened his vox and reluctantly called, "All Censors end drill and return to the barracks. We will debrief and study this encounter in detail. Tomorrow we'll do it all again and next time I expect us to do better."