Chapter 90: The Machine Spirit's Revenge
"I used to move with grace, a ghost in the grain... now I'm just a bloody meat-stump, rolling in the rain..."
Kian Voss lay huddled in the shadow of an embankment, wheezing out a distorted rhyme. The Chimera's autocannon barrage had been devastating. A hail of high-explosive rounds had detonated against the ridge, the shrapnel raking his position. His HUD was a screaming wall of red text.
Both his arms and legs were "Blacked"—zero HP. His suit was a ruin, and jagged shards of plasteel were protruding from his joints. His chest and head were flashing a violent, rhythmic crimson, signifying single-digit health. If he so much as tripped over a pebble, the damage-spill would travel to his vitals and send him straight back to the Sanctum.
Fortunately, he had rolled behind the "Reverse Slope." The autocannon couldn't depress its barrel far enough to hit the depression he was huddled in.
He didn't waste a second. He pulled a Regen-Bolt from his rig and jammed it into his neck. Void-Blood Pump, initiate!
The neon-green fluid surged into his heart. Kian watched his health bars for his chest and head rapidly fill. The critical flashing stopped. However, the limbs remained black. A Regen-Bolt could knit flesh and stop bleeding, but it couldn't grow back a "Zero-HP" limb instantly.
He pulled out his Surgical Kit.
Despite his hand being a mangled ruin of bone and polymer, he felt his "Digitized Will" take over. He didn't need physical fingers; the System translated his intent. He watched, fascinated and horrified, as his invisible, data-driven hands operated the forceps, yanking shrapnel from his meat.
He performed a "Rough Audit" on his own body. He stapled his thigh shut and sprayed reconstructive foam into the craters in his arms. In the logic of the extraction shooter, he was a miracle of science. In the reality of the 41st Millennium, he was a freak of the Machine God.
While Kian was performing self-maintenance, the Chimera's gunner was growing anxious.
Through the Auspex, he saw the red dot representing the sniper. It was still there. It had moved, but it hadn't vanished. The target was still among the living.
The gunner scanned the clearing. Kian was the primary threat. If the sniper lived, every PDF regular who stood up would eventually take a 9.9mm slug to the brain-pan. If they killed the sniper, the rebel infantry in the trenches would have no support and would break under a single armored charge.
Kian was hiding in a "Dead Zone" that the turret couldn't reach from the forest edge.
"Driver! Forward!" the gunner barked. "Charge the ridge! We're going to run that sniper over, then turn around and rain HE shells into the rebel trenches from the high ground!"
It was sound tactical logic. A Chimera sitting on the ridge, firing down into the trenches with high-explosive shells, would end the battle in minutes.
Lieutenant Winchester, hearing the plan, began to hyperventilate. "Wait! No! The heretics might have demolition packs! I order you to stay back! Maintain the perimeter!!"
Winchester was a Spire-born "Gold-Spoon." To him, "Victory" was a line on a report; "Risk" was a terrifying reality he wasn't prepared for.
The crew ignored him. They were veterans who had shared amasec and dirt for years. They wanted the sniper dead, and they wanted this slaughter over with so they could go back to sleep. The driver slammed the throttle wide.
The Chimera roared, lurching out of the treeline. It hit its cruising speed of 80km/h, its heavy treads pulverizing the rebel-dug earth.
"Haha! Charge, you beautiful beast!" the gunner cheered.
But the Machine Spirit was not happy. The "ceramite sandpaper" Kian had poured into the fuel-tank had finally reached the primary combustion chambers.
The Chimera reached the first shallow rebel trench. The front of the hull dipped slightly as it prepared to mount the opposite bank and continue the climb.
The driver slammed his foot down to provide the necessary torque to clear the gap.
K-BOOM.
A violent, metallic bang echoed from the engine compartment. The entire thirty-ton chassis shuddered as if hit by a krak-missile. A cloud of oily, black smoke erupted from the exhaust vents.
The roar of the engine died instantly. The sudden silence was more terrifying than the gunfire.
Winchester let out a high-pitched, feminine shriek. "What happened?! Why aren't we moving?! MOVE THE TANK!!"
The driver frantically mashed the ignition buttons. The starter-motor whined—a pathetic, dying sound—but the engine refused to turn.
"The engine... it's seized! Machine Spirit has fled!!"
"Trench hostiles closing in!" the gunner yelled, his voice cracking. "They're swarming the hull!"
Inside the hold, the elite Spire-retainers finally realized their comfortable ride was over. They scrambled to the firing ports, their Lasguns snapping into position to keep the tide back.
Outside the hull, in the criss-crossing trenches, densely packed rebels approached the Chimera, determined to destroy it!
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