DEMON-CORE - part 3
The time had come. Demon-Core nodded in satisfaction as he examined the hulking figures lining the assault ship's personnel bay, listened to the clack of weapon readiness, saw the gleam of light reflected from carapaces, horns, and glory plates. The grigatim had deployed into three spear-shaped craft in preparation for the attack on the Starwolf ship Retribution. This was Demon-Core's command. The invasion fleet's vanguard, of which they were a part, had dropped out of jumpthread fifteen minutes ago, disguised as Imperial trading vessels under a flag of neutrality. Each ship contained several assault craft packed with elite feroxi. Now the grigatim waited for the Steers to power the combat drives and burn for the objective.
The feroxi musk was very strong in the cramped confines of the assault ship. Demon-Core grunted and tilted his head back and forth to loosen his neck muscles. He'd checked and rechecked his carapace to be sure the jets and shields were functioning. Both the chaingun and the plascannon he carried were in excellent working order.
There was nothing left to do but wait a little longer. The killing would start soon. Urrh, but that would be good. Practicing patience had become a strain. He was eager to win more glory plates and reinforce his status as the grigatim's kill leader. He looked forward to battle again. It was what he had been bred for, after all.
Of course, the human woman must be caught. Demon-Core had studied the layout of this "Retribution." It was a large ship. They would doubtless have to kill many humans while searching. He growled low in his throat, pleased at the prospect of action after so long a wait. Even shikahl had grown tiresome.
"Mighty One, what are you thinking?" The Flaymaster's Inquisitor had attached itself to Demon-Core's group, a fact the Goliath greeted with a mix of elation and revulsion. Inquisitors were holy, yes, but they were also a burden. One had to protect them, and at times aggressive Inquisitors undermined a group's combat efficiency with misplaced threats or conclusions about a particular strain.
Besides, Demon-Core hated the weak, treacherous things.
He bared his teeth in greeting. "I consider the tactical situation that faces us once we come to our target."
"What is your assessment?"
"Urh-hah! The Starwolf do not expect us. They will be slow in their reaction. We will destroy them, for we are Strong!" Even as he said the words he knew the Inquisitor wished to hear, Demon-Core wondered why the Strong must always continue to proclaim their strength. Surely the true Strong had no need of constant boasts. It was a strange thought. Perhaps the leader of the Burning Ones was stronger than they thought.
Apparently satisfied, the Inquisitor scuttled up to its berth. Demon-Core breathed a silent thanks to the Bloodsoul and rubbed one massive arm.
Blood-Drinker lumbered up and locked himself into the harness at Demon-Core's left. "Hai, Demon-Core, my friend!" he rumbled happily. "Very soon now, urrh?" His harness carried a grenade launcher, a chaingun, and a spinfusor. Bulky looking to Demon-Core, but Goliaths could afford to carry extra weapons.
"Arha. Very soon. How are the others?"
The other Goliath shrugged. "Afraid. Why, my friend, did you pick any smaller ones to accompany us? With a go-lahk of Goliaths, we could forge ahead in glory."
"We will bring much glory to the grigatim." Demon-Core squinted so that he could see his friend in the near-blackness. "The Runners bring us speed if we need it, and the Plunderer the same, but with more strength."
"They are all young. Mere freshlings." Blood-Drinker sounded so mournfully doubtful that Demon-Core laughed, a sound like the grate of metal on bone.
"Not Khel-Har the Unstoppable! He is worth three Goliaths, urrha?"
Blood-Drinker chuckled deep in his throat. "Yes, you are right. The Unstoppable is one who knows battle. Even his shadow is enough to kill a human!"
Demon-Core laughed again. It was an old joke between the two of them. The Goliath they spoke of was an abnormally huge specimen, one the Inquisitors would have sent to the reclaiming vats years ago, except for two things. Khel-Har had the talent of being almost impervious to pain, even for one of the Hordes. Second, he proved exceptionally good at killing humans. Had he been smarter, he might have become a candidate for Kill-Leader. However, he could not react to the unexpected as quickly as the average feroxi.
A vibration resonated through the assault craft, and Demon-Core felt a brief flash of nausea that signaled the use of acceleration dampeners.
"We find out now whether the plan is Strong," he told Blood-Drinker. If the Starwolf were able to attack the assault ship in transit, there was nothing Demon-Core could do; it was all in the hands of the Steers.
Their was a good plan, he thought, but no plan was perfect. There was evidently a tribe of humans who took pride in perfect planning, however. Demon-Core looked forward to teaching them the foolishness of such vanity.
Long minutes passed.
Beside him Blood-Drinker exhaled slowly. Demon-Core let his own breath escape, forcing it to be calm, even though his hearts beat fast.
May the seed of my plasm grind the slaver filth into the dust, he recited silently. May the shadows of our past vanish like smoke in the fiery wake of our passage….
Abruptly, a faint acceleration could be perceived, a low hum that increased gradually in pitch. Their commlinks hissed.
"This is the Flaymaster. We are through the first ring of defenses, and our target lies ahead. Prepare for impact."
"Come on, vatscum!" he roared. "Show these tribal humans the mercy of Horde Maul!"
"For the Bloodsoul!" thundered the feroxi. Demon-Core thought he heard a note of relief in their voices. He had to admit that if he were to die, he would prefer it in direct battle, roaring and displaying his glory plates. The thought of perishing in the cold of space like a fish spilled from a broken tank unsettled him. His hearts filled with pride at the thought of going into battle with such strong companions.
His HUD flashed up a message: Impact in T minus two minutes.
Blood-Drinker leaned over and nudged him with an elbow. "My friend, I have decided we shall keep the freshlings safe while they learn strength. It is our duty as the Strong."
Demon-Core began to chuckle, then he realized his friend was serious. "Don't talk like that, Blood-Drinker," he said. "There are some-" he swung his head to point his horns at the Inquisitor's nest, "-who would consider such a statement weak."
"Weak? Me?" Blood-Drinker chortled. "It's a blind Inquisitor who would think that! But enough! A game, O Demon-Core, mighty Kill-Leader!"
"Rrrh?"
"I challenge you! Let us count our kills on this ship. The one with the lower kill number must polish the other's equipment for a week and fetch biru for him besides!"
Demon-Core considered it, scraping one of his tusks with a talon. His HUD read Impact in T minus thirty seconds. "Done! I am Kill-Leader, and I will beat you in this also! But listen you: guard your great flapping tongue, urr-ha?"
Blood-Drinker tapped talon to horn in mock salute. "I hear and obey, Kill-Leader!"
"Good." Demon-Core clapped his friend on the shoulder and bellowed, "Brace yourselves, vatscum!" The ship would spear into the Retribution and break open at the bow so that the feroxi could pour into the Starwolf vessel. It would be a fearful impact, and not all the feroxi survived, though Demon-Core felt confident they would suffer few losses. This was a veteran grigatim. All of them had been through at least one capital ship boarding.
In the dim light of the carrier bay, the feroxi tensed. Demon-Core stole a glance at the Inquisitor's nest, where the holy one crouched amid sophisticated padding that would cushion it against the crash. To his surprise, he saw the glow of the Inquisitor's gaze directed at him. For a moment, he felt great unease, wondering whether the Inquisition suspected his plasm of any flaw.
Then he realized the Inquisitor's attention was directed at Blood-Drinker. Suddenly Demon-Core felt fear for his friend, a dark feeling that marred his excitement at the upcoming battle.
T minus five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.
IMPACT.[1]
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