Chapter 27: Combat Test
Joric stood motionlessly in the center of his manufactorum, the four Combat Servitors awaiting his command like loyal sentinels. The air was thick with the smell of machine oil and hot metal, and the low, steady thrum of the power core gave the space a reassuring, rhythmic pulse.
Through his visual interface, he clearly saw the seven red icons of the Slasher convoy. They were moving along the exact probability-path his servo-skull had predicted, rolling slowly into the ruined outskirts of the town.
++[Targets entering pre-designated ambush sector. Initiating Protocol: Bulwark.]++
His voice was calm and clear beneath his faceplate, betraying no emotion.
The command was transmitted. The optical sensors of the three replica-skulls and the four Combat Servitors ignited simultaneously, glowing with a steady, dedicated, crimson light. The heavy, metallic tread of the Servitors crushed the weathered ground as they moved, silently and swiftly, along their pre-programmed tactical routes, fanning out to occupy high-ground and establish interlocking fields of fire.
Joric himself strode slowly from the manufactorum, the hem of his crimson robes fluttering in the rising wind. He made no attempt to seek cover. He simply walked to the town's relatively open central plaza, like an artisan moving to his forge.
At his shoulder, his "Old Friend" hovered silently, its blue oculars projecting a complex, real-time data-net into his vision—a full battlespace-map, detailed enemy unit-markers, and environmental parameters.
The first modified pickup roared around a corner. Crude metal plates were welded to its rusted chassis. Behind a heavy stubber mounted on the roof, a heavily-chromed ganger, his face painted in a grotesque scrawl, was screaming a war-cry that echoed off the ruins.
He never saw where the attack came from.
A burst of gunfire erupted from a second-story window. A Combat Servitor, in its designated nest, fired a precise, short burst from its heavy-stubber. The 12.7mm armor-piercing rounds tore through the engine block and ruptured the fuel tank. The pickup vaporized in a percussive-detonation, its flaming wreckage forming a new barricade in the street.
++[Target-One: Purged.]++ the data-feed scrolled across Joric's vision.
"Suppression efficiency is acceptable," Joric commented softly to his servo-skull. "Log the engagement parameters and ammunition expenditure, Old Friend."
The following vehicles slammed on their brakes, the shriek of tires tearing the brief silence. Slasher gangers piled out, scrambling for cover behind their vehicles and the crumbling walls, attempting to form a counter-attack. A ragged volley of gunfire erupted, bullets spraying wildly in the direction of the first servitor. The rounds plinked and sparked uselessly against its heavy, composite armor, like hail on a steel roof.
"Small-arms fire," Joric observed, his gaze fixed on the real-time damage-feedback. "Armor integrity is performing to design specifications. No structural-compromise detected."
A second pickup tried to execute a flanking maneuver. The moment its chassis was exposed, a grenade, launched from a hidden servitor, landed a perfect, arcing shot on its mid-section. The explosion was deafening. The vehicle was torn in two, and a hail of shrapnel scythed through the surrounding area, cutting short the screams of several nearby gangers.
The interface updated. ++[Ordnance-Expenditure: 1/15.]++
The remaining Slashers finally, finally, understood the hopelessness of their situation. Terror overran their greed. They began to scatter, some even dropping their weapons as they tried to flee.
++[Targets are attempting to disengage. Weapons-free. Complete the purge-protocol.]++ Joric's command was flat, as if merely signing off on a completed work order.
In an instant, the efficiency of the purge increased.
One Servitor strode from its cover, the heavy autogun mounted on its arm thundering with a steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump. Each round found its mark, annihilating a pickup that was attempting to reverse, as well as the three gangers cowering behind it.
Another servitor switched to precise, single-shot mode, eliminating the fleeing targets one by one, as if it were performing a simple targeting calibration. Its optical sensor tracked each thermal signature with cold, emotionless, absolute efficiency. Every crack of its rifle was answered by the extinguishing of a life-sign.
"Single-shot accuracy is high," Joric noted with satisfaction. "The high-grade optic-implants were a worthy investment."
The third servitor advanced, its heavy stubber laying down a relentless stream of suppressive fire, pinning the last few gangers. Bullets tore through walls and cover, kicking up storms of concrete dust. The occasional stray round that struck the servitor's advancing form left only a minor scratch.
Joric himself had not moved. He had not drawn any of his own, far deadlier, weapons. He simply stood, observing, assessing. A single, slender mechadendrite extended from his robe, plucked a still-warm bullet-fragment from the ground near his foot, and ran a rapid composition-analysis.
"Crude, self-loaded, common-steel-core," he murmured, discarding the fragment. "Not even worthy of reclamation."
The purge-protocol concluded in eight minutes and forty-two seconds. The gunfire died down, replaced by the crackle of burning vehicles. The air was thick with the stench of cordite, ozone, and scorched-flesh.
A servitor advanced on the last vehicle, an overturned, heavily-modified APC. A large, heavily-muscled ganger—likely the leader—dragged himself halfway out of the wreck. His face was a mask of blood and oil, one arm hanging at a useless angle, the other gripping an oversized pistol. He hysterically emptied the clip at the advancing servitor. The bullets ricocheted harmlessly off its chest-plate.
The servitor did not hesitate. The chain-axe mounted on its other arm whirred to life with a low, steady growl, and then swung down in a precise arc.
The whine of the chain-weapon and a wet, structural-separation sound were briefly audible, and then... silence. Dark fluid splattered the servitor's cold armor and dripped to the ground.
The interface updated: ++[All motive-targets: Nullified. Combat-test concluded. Initiate Reclamation-Protocol?]++
Joric inclined his head. "Harvest all usable components. Weapons, cybernetics, vehicle-engines, and power-cores are priority. Bio-matter, if intact, is to be reclaimed as well." He paused. "Sanitize the field. Leave no trace-evidence that could attract undue attention."
The four Combat Servitors immediately began their new task, moving through the flaming wreckage with systematic efficiency, tearing, cutting, and hauling. One servitor tagged salvageable items, a second performed preliminary sorting, a third hauled the material back to the manufactorum, and the fourth began the grim work of cleansing the site, its tools scouring away bloodstains and battle-scars.
Joric observed the reclamation-process for a moment, then turned and walked back to his sanctum.
"Today's test was a success," he said to his Old Friend. "Tactical-cogitator coordination met all projections. For servitors cobbled together from local scrap, their performance is... sufficient."
The heavy door of the manufactorum sealed behind him, shutting out the blood and chaos. Inside, the steady, reassuring hum of the power core and the familiar song of his machinery welcomed him.
"Now, Old Friend," he said calmly, moving to the central terminal, "let us conduct a full analysis of the data we have just gathered. I require the exact deviation-percentage of Servitor-Unit-Three's targeting-reticle during sustained-fire."
As he spoke, a dense flood of data-streams filled his vision, every detail of the battle being logged, quantified, and analyzed.