Editing Story:Another Continuation of LCB (section)

===Chapter Nine===

“''Nobody can hurt me without my permission.''”<br/>
- Attributed to Saint Condi
			
“''Taldeer.''”
			
The pain didn’t stop him from rolling his head to the right. “''Breathing. Still asleep.''”
			
The sensation of touch. He glanced at his hand, wrapped in hers. She fidgeted in her sleep - nervous, anxious actions. But she was alive. This was a source of relief. His hand never left hers as he took in the situation.
			
The room was cold. His mouth tasted like blood. He was hydrated, but hungry. There was a sheet on his chest, wrapped tightly. And the left side of his torso was experiencing pain. Immense pain.
			
“''Have to treat wound.''”
			
The Vindicare dictum taught that pain was nothing more than a trick of the mind - a psychosomatic sensation not dependent on nociceptors, but instead felt when the mind wanted, where the mind decided, and fabricated wholly within the brain itself. Pain can vanish during mentally stimulating activity, or never appear if one is unaware of the damage. It can seem smaller or larger if the injured area is viewed through a magnifying lens. The brain may perceive pain within itself, a headache, despite having it no nociceptors - the brain confers the sensation onto a region of the body.
			
Pain is a choice.
			
So it was that as the vindicare slowly sat upright and hesitantly let go of the primary’s hand, he chose not to feel the pain. While he undid the impromptu bandage with his right arm, he ignored the sensation which screamed in his ear. When he examined the cut that split his pectoral in half, and the broken rib that lay beneath it, he did not fall prey to the delusion that gnawed at his inflexible iron mind.
			
“''Laceration. Deep. Left arm useless. Need to irrigate wound. Need to warm room.''”
			
He fumbled through the medical kit. “''Syringe. Where? Need clean water. Stitches. Dressing.''”
			
The kit had all of the necessities supplied. He pulled the silver bag of water from it and twisted the cap at the top, to which the syringe head attached neatly.
			
Memories of last night were hazy, but even now the bandage smelled faintly of alcohol. “''Excessive application likely to slow healing,''” he thought to himself, as he sprayed water into the wound. “''Preferable to infection.''” The cold water ran down his abdominals, chilling him even further.
			
“''72 hours.''”
			
The Dictum Vindicare taught basic medical procedures. Treatments for dealing with immediate medical problems, in the hopes of surviving long enough to complete the mission, and hopefully even survive after if provided medical attention. Cleaning and stitching the wound were only one third of the path to survival. The second was daily dressing and antibacterial treatment of the wound. The third was mission completion and retrieval. If no serious damage was incurred, then with standard Imperial medical supplies, the vindicare could expect 72 hours of operational time before the untreated wound would cause sufficient permanent muscle damage to require the addition of cybernetics to restore full functionality.
			
In silence he stitched it shut, first reattaching the muscle, then closing the wound and applying an antibacterial dressing.
			
The simple act of breathing was still monumentally painful.
			
“''Limited functionality restored. Will have to shoot from right. Cannot rest on left side. Run risk of lung puncture.''”
			
His stomach growled. The silvery water pack reminded him of his nutrient pouches. “''Food.''”
			
He looked over to his left. “''Rations.''” Gingerly stepping down from the gurney, he walked over to the stockpile of crates and pulled an MRE from one of the open boxes. Liivi frowned. His shaking hands brought the package closer to his expressionless face. The cogitators embedded in his visual cortex made reading the trembling instructions trivial. But eating it?
			
Iron pathways honed by careful use of negative and positive reinforcement were assaulted by visceral feelings of disgust, fed by the psychosomatic fruit of extreme indoctrination. The iron weathered the unpleasant sensations like a breakwater in a storm, wave upon wave crashed against it and sending spray flying every which way.
			
But it did not yield.
			
“''Must consume. Must survive to protect primary.''”

----

The farseer’s eyes fluttered open. She was alive, miraculously.

“You’re awake.”

Liivi’s weapons, freshly cleaned, sat by his side. He was stitching the massive gash in his suit using a single hand. The wound on his chest had already been cleaned and sutured shut.

She bolted upright. “You should-!” Taldeer winced as pain shot through her entire body. “...shouldn’t be walking around. Where is your bandage?”

“No time to heal. Compression bandages on ribs increases risk of pneumonia. Bad in winter conditions. Are you okay?”

She glanced down at her wounds and sucked in a deep, painful breath. “I have been… better. But I am alive. Thanks to you.” She smiled. His face remained stiff.

“I found rations. I know little of eldar nutrition. But they should be edible. Are you hungry?”

“I- No. I will not need to eat for another week.”

This was, perhaps, the closest she’d seen the vindicare come to surprise.

“There are capsules in my stomach. We take them before missions. They release food when we drink.”

“I understand. Like my nutrient packs.”

He took a bite of the MRE. Liivi was a precision instrument, but in this instance, he was clumsy. Clumsier than the average mon-keigh.

“Did you ever-” she cringed as she leaned forward, “eat anything else?”

“No.” He set the meal down and put a wad of fluffy white into his left cheek. “Do you need help?”

“I can manage. What about your rib?”

“Broken. I won’t be able to shoot from the left. No time to heal. They will find us soon.”

He was right. This was no rest. Merely a respite. The next wave was soon to roll in.

“I can sense as much.” The farseer bit her lip. This was stupid. “But, I may have an idea…”

----

The Eversor is perhaps the closest a man can become to an unthinking instrument. Servitors are machines with no human left. Techpriests still possess their consciousness. The Vindicare, for all their discipline, still ''think'' with a sense of self. The Eversor, by contrast, is reptilian. It does not think or plan like any normal human. Its conscious mind is far too consumed by hatred, wrath, and bloodlust to formulate anything resembling higher thought. It sees a problem, formulates a solution, and acts on it.

To aid this reptilian brain, the Eversor is fitted with a host of sensors. After all, seeing is easy. Discerning is not. Some enemies can stand right in front of you and yet remain undetected. Only by the stench of the warp might you discern their presence.

And the warp was on the wind.

The Eversor looked to its left. City. Smoke by the gates. Chaos. Fists clenched. Muscles tightened. It looked to the woods, so far away. Targets there. Chaos here. Targets there. Hate. Hate chaos. Hate targets. ''Hate'' chaos. <b>''Hate''</b> targets. <b><u>''Hate''</u></b> chaos. <b><u>''HATE''</u></b> targets. HATE.

It clawed at its face and fell to its knees, glancing back and forth between the city and the horizon. The targets were distant. Chaos, it was right here. A machine spirit housed within an augment dutifully began to relay the Eversor’s thoughts to its master.

Kill? Kill? Kill? KillkillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKill

----

<tt>“KILL???”</tt>

Felix glanced at the data slate, noting a shift in the periodic updates of the Eversor. Accompanying the text was a picture. A burning city wall. Agents of chaos surrounding it. It was the same town to which they needed to pass through to reach the spaceport.

<tt>“KILL???”</tt> The screen prompted again.

Felix blinked.

<tt>“KILL???”</tt>

“Inquisitor,” he said, the message now erupting every half a second.

“Yes?”

“I think you should see this, sire.” He handed Madek the data slate.

The inquisitor watched the requests flash across the screen. The reflection of the soft light in the Inquisitor's ocular implants had a curious effect. The fuzzy white glow reminded Ardrin of too many night time predators, staring defiantly into the light of human settlements. Madek's lips widened into a faint smile.

“Such is the will of the Emperor. The city has fallen. The forces of chaos are distracted by the civilians. Approve the request. They’ll be caught off guard.” He handed the data slate back to Felix. “And order a contingent of basilisks to shell it with promethium in 2 hours. Then search the surrounding woods for survivors.”

Felix dutifully transmitted the data. Ardrin was left wanting to question the directions of the inquisitor, but knew better than that. He cocked his head and frowned, pondering the orders.

“Are you confused, Lieutenant?” Madek’s steel gaze seemed at odds with his pleasant smile, simultaneously disconcerting and condescending.

It quickly brought the haggard Ardrin out of his haze. “Hm- I, um, no sir.”

“Inquisitors are extremely perceptive, lieutenant. We must be, if we are to sniff out heresy wherever it lurks. What was confusing about my orders?”

“Well, Inquisitor, why would the forces of chaos not flee the eversor? How can we be sure that he will only take two hours?”

“Do you know what the most powerful emotion is? Joy and pleasure, they motivate people. Base desires can move humans to betray their beliefs, their love, even the light of the Emperor. But the most powerful base emotion is fear. And make no mistake...” Madek leaned forward. There was something about his voice that made Ardrin’s blood run cold. “Chaos fears the Emperor’s wrath.” He reclined back into his chair.

“Yes, some may flee. So we search the forests. But in the looting, most won’t notice the eversor until he’s on top of them. They won’t have the opportunity to be afraid. Those who survive will be maimed. Those who witness him and escape will be so consumed by fear that they’ll hide. The ones who overcome their fear, the courageous, will warn their comrades. Their comrades will either hide, flee, or seek him out. And most would rather hide.

So we are left with the rats, scurrying in the nooks and crannies, and the maimed, crawling through the streets. Both burn just as well.”

He closed his eyes and settled comfortably in his sleep.

“And Ardrin?” Madek peeked at the man with one eye open.

“Yes sir?”

“Don’t lie to me. It’s a sin.”

----

 <09:22:39> unit: KILL???
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 <09:22:43> Admin: Request status - Approved. Ave Imperator, Eversor.

The weapon grinned underneath it’s mask.

''Hate. <b>KILL.</b>''

----

“''It is clear to see that wraithbone is the stuff of miracles. Understanding it should be a priority, as it would greatly simplify logistics.''”<br/>
- Attributed to a Space Wolf Librarian, shortly before his investigation by the Inquisition

Wraithbone is a special and marvellous substance. Suitable for most any purpose and possessing a tensile strength superior to steel, it can be pulled from thin air and recycled indefinitely. It is notable as one of the few pleasant things to emerge from the warp on a regular basis. Psychoconductive, it can not only transmit psychic energy, but it can also function as a shield generator and communication hub, all without any additional equipment. And of course there’s the oft lauded property of psychoplasticity - it being malleable using only one’s mind. Intricate and delicate works, such as vehicles and weapons, are difficult for the uninitiated to produce. These items require a finer touch that all but the most talented beginners lack. But wraithbone is not so difficult to work that a novice can’t play with it. Being roughly manipulable by any average psychic, performing a field repair on cracked armor is a breeze. It may not be perfect, but it’s sealed. The ease by which it can be manipulated scales with power, while precision… it scales with practice.

Taldeer was not very practiced.

The procedure required the sum of her concentration. Liivi lay on his back, holding his breath. Cool wraithbone flowed like molten metal into a small incision, directly above his broken rib. It was to form an internal cast that wrapped around the bone. If it went well, then Liivi would no longer have to fear puncturing his lung every time he fired a weapon or laid on on the ground. If Taldeer made a mistake, then he could suffer horrendous internal bleeding and/or a punctured lung.

There was nothing to risk which wasn’t already an immediate danger.

An anatomy text Liivi found with the medical supplies made it clear where the tendons attach to the bone, and thus where gaps in the cast had to be. The shape and thickness of the rib was certainly easy to understand, looking at the pictures. But now, as the last dribbles of wraithbone seeped in through the incision, Taldeer was feeling slightly nervous. Of course, doubt was a distraction, and there was no time for distractions. If it was wrong, and the tendons wouldn’t attach correctly, so be it. At least the rib wouldn’t puncture his lung, it would just hamper movement a bit. They could deal with it when they got off world, back to her people.

And if they didn’t get off world, well, it wouldn’t matter then, either.

Fate flowed around her ankles in subtle eddies. She danced an impromptu tango with it, reacting carefully to it’s movements, following it’s lead. She could visualize the shape of the wraithbone. Subtle changes were made to accommodate the shape of the rib, drag it back into place. Optimal possibilities became clearer. Slightly thicker here. Thinner there. 

It was then that she felt the ripples of a great splash beyond the horizon. The farseer was uncertain of what it meant. She sighed softly and pressed forward, finalizing the cast.

----

This was about how Private Scry Shenken expected he would die. Well, former private.

He held his breath, laying flat against the wall next to the door. Sure, the other half of the house was on fire. But better to be with the house fire than with whatever was outside.

The last of the screams was interrupted by a squelching sound. There was only the noise of his breathing, the crackle of flames, and the sounds of distant fighting. As silent as it could be in a village attacked by chaos. Maybe it was finally over. Maybe it had passed. He'd been counting the screams. If there was nobody left screaming, it was gone, right?

“''Nineteen? Did that thing really kill nineteen? What the fu-''”

“No. No! NOOOO!” The window next to him shattered. Apparently one man was unsuccessful in playing dead. Now, he was quite dead, embedded in the charred wall across the room. Scry swallowed some bile and tallied 20 kills.

The young guardsman never wanted to surrender to chaos. He also didn’t really want to die, either. He didn’t exactly expect to live long as a soldier in the black legions. But it was better than being handed off to the Slaaneshi cultists. When he saw them for the first time, his gut told him he’d rather be damned than enslaved to that lot. And his week of service in the legions of chaos showed him that his gut was absolutely right. In that time, he learned many things he didn’t know about the world. But there was a rule that held true across the guard and chaos - your superiors will kill you just as soon as they’ll kill an enemy. So stay out of their way.

The flames were really starting to roar now. Sweat beaded down Scry’s forehead.

“''Just wait until he goes away wait until he goes away wait until he goes away wait-''”

A metallic voice boomed above the growing din. “WHO GOES THERE!” A chaos space marine. A VIP. Somebody who should know who’s who and who’s where. The former guardsmen was suddenly confused.

“''It isn’t a daemon?''”

----

Liivi stared at his left fist and clinched it, sending a wave of pain rippling across the left portion of his torso. The wraithbone cast set around his rib was the cause of some discomfort. Aside from the pain, it felt cold. The sum of the sensations was reminiscent of a freshly installed augment. It appeared that the operation was a success.

“Taldeer.” He looked up at the farseer, resting on her gurney, back propped up by the wall. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” she replied. Her gaze never wavered from her armor, focused intently on the ritual of maintenance. There was nothing more that needed to be said.

Liivi packed the remaining remaining MRE’s and a field kit into a ruck sack. Crystalline blood glittered as it fell to the floor, scraped from the wraithbone chestpiece. Bandage covered arms brought it to rest on a bandage covered abdomen, where she mended what weak spots it had developed during day upon day of battle. 

The two warriors sat like this in silence. The air wasn’t empty for lack of words. On the contrary, it was already filled by the tension of preparation. The surf gurgled uncertainly around Taldeer’s feet as she stood on the shore, staring out to the sea. It was unduly quiet. A sinister, hungry peace.

It was the farseer who shattered the stillness.

“I need to find a way to contact my people. And we need to move fast. They won’t be in orbit for more than a day or two.”

She looked to Liivi. “Do you know of any sort of communication installation?”

His mechanical response was immediate. He needed to no time to reflect. “Two weeks ago, I provided covering fire for the construction of an anti-orbital flak battery due east. It should be complete now. It will be equipped with a vox communications suite that can reach orbit.”

“I see. My people should be listening to human communications. Do you know how well it will be staffed?”

“Depending on how hot the location is, two to ten squads of Imperial Guard, with or without armor support. They will be well entrenched.”

“So stealth is our only option.”

“Affirmative.”

An hour passed. It was time to go. They couldn’t afford to stay any longer.

Waves crashed far away.


----

''Hate.''

The traitor's head sailed cleanly off of his shoulders. It felt good. But it was hardly satisfying. With one arm, the eversor shot the lamp post nearby, killing the man hiding behind it. The eversor’s free hand covered it’s brow as it looked around for more targets.

Nobody.

''Hate.''

The eversor half heartedly kicked the head of the dead space marine, tearing it from the shoulders of the corpse and splattering it against the wall. Anybody left was hiding. The supply of fighters had been exhausted. It was nice while it lasted, but it didn’t last long enough. Villages like this almost never took more than two hours. What a pity.

It turned to the horizon, glaring in the direction of the primary target.

''Seek. Hate.''