Victory Pointless

Barrakhad stalked through the ruins, enjoying the solitude.  Or at least, as much solitude as a Phaeron could ever enjoy.  Glokht, the master of Assassins had joined the hunt and no doubt had Deathmarks stashed away in dimensional oubliettes across these ruins, ready to spring out at a moment’s notice.  The Technomancer and his minions were also around here somewhere, dispatched by Klotophis to keep an eye on him – from a respectful distance, of course.

The Chronomancer himself was off on an expedition of his own, searching out some trinket or other that had caught his interest.  Farreskh had returned to the ship.  Barrakhad wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but on one level it was a relief.  Her presence had been like a hook in his mind, tugging at it, threatening to drag him up out of the deep darkness where he was comfortable and up into a lighter, more exposed place that he did not want to be.  Without her here he could focus on the hunt.

He had always enjoyed killing.  It was the main reason he was so good at it.  Good enough have seen off all rivals and seized control of the Shakhana.  Now, after sixty million years, it was the only thing he enjoyed.

He was closing in on his prey.  A massive Tyranid gun-beast. Despite its loathsome biological nature he felt a curious kind of kinship with the creature.  Like him, it was a machine optimised for the sole purpose of murder.

He was close, so close that the monster must be aware of his presence by now.  But it seemed distracted.  He widened his senses, heard the tread of armoured boots, the rumble of tracked vehicles.

He sent an interstitial summons.  “Najakh!  Sitrep.”

The Technomancer responded immediately, transmitting a datachunk of scan data.  Humans.  Space Marines.  ‘Blood Angels’.  Approaching. “As you can see, Your Glorious Majesty, our hunting party is greatly outnumbered,” Najakh sent.  “I recommend withdrawal until-”

Barrakhad cut the channel without deigning to respond.  Retreat did not interest him.  He would kill.  If this body was destroyed it would rise again, to kill, again.  The death he brought was inescapable.  It was merely a question of how to deliver it most efficiently.

In a secondary cortex of his brain an optimisation algorithm spun up; running simulations, plotting out paths of slaughter.  The Tyranids would prioritise the biomass of the marines over the indigestible living metal of the Necrons.  Ergo, the Shakhana ought to do the same.  End the threat of the Imperials, then cleanse the Tyranids. This was the course of action with the highest probability of minimising reanimation downtime.

His eye met that of the Tyranid war-beast.  It did not move to attack. He got a sense that some small fragment of the Hive Mind had run the same calculation and reached the same conclusion.  This would not be an alliance, exactly, merely a temporary redirection of aggression.  Slowly, deliberately, he turned and scuttled away in the direction of the oncoming marines.

+Nachmund Gauntlet Strike Force Crusade Battle+

Mission: Stranglehold

Forces: Necrons (Awakened Dynasty) + Tyranids (Subterranean Assault) vs Blood Angels

Result: 6:3 to Blood Angels

* * *

The library was silent.  It could not fail to be; this part of the ship was not pressurised.  The necrons had no need of air to breathe and the vacuum helped to preserve some of the older scrolls and parchments stored here.

Farreskh strode between the stacks, fingertips lightly brushing the spines of data tablets.  Struggling along behind her was a single Necron Warrior, arms laden with a pile of tablets, scrolls and dataliths.

This was – or at any rate, had been – Barrakhad’s mother, Shallah.  They had never gotten along particularly well in the flesh times, but biotransference had improved their relationship significantly.  Despite her son’s elevation Shallah had been of common stock and so condemned to the lowest class of living metal body.  The processing capacity of the Warrior mind was barely enough to maintain basic consciousness, much less sapience.  Her actions were bound up in obedience protocols which gave her no choice but to follow the every command of her social superiors.  The acid tongue with which she had so frequently lashed out at Farreskh was gone, along with her capability for any other form of speech.

Farreskh preferred this version of her much more, and it amused her to employ Shallah as her servant.  If Barrakhad objected – or was even aware – he had not said anything. Besides, it was surely a kinder fate than pushing her into battle alongside the shambling hordes of the rest of her kind.  Surely.

Keep up, Shallah! she transmitted.  The pace of the Warrior’s shuffles increased.

Farreskh felt at home in the library.  She had spent a long time in such places as a young woman – the position of a nineteenth daughter could be somewhat precarious and she had thought it prudent to make herself as valuable as possible through learning.  Had it not been for her marriage to Barrakhad she might have completed training at the House of Life and become a Cryptek herself. Would that have been a better fate? She veered uncomfortably close to the idea that she may have ended up very much like Klotophis and terminated that thread of thought immediately.

A projection jewel on her wrist kept her updated on the state of the conflict below and she spared it the occasional glance.  Barrakhad appeared to be enjoying himself, although she suspected the same could not be said for the rest of the Necron forces.  She could detect the nanoscopic shudders through the deck beneath her feet whenever a broken Necron body was phased back to the ship for repair.  They were becoming more frequent.

Ah.  There it was.  She pulled the tome she was looking for out of the stack, activated it and scrolled rapidly through the data until she found what she was looking for.  The ghostlight glow of the reactor in her chest pulsed brighter.

“Got you, you bastard,” she whispered silently into the void.