aircannonsinc Chapter 90 CMC-300
Chapter 90 CMC-300
Chapter 90 CMC-300
The Black Pearl returned to its voyage in the subspace. Cohen occasionally thought back to his time aboard the Istvan River—a time when he hardly ever switched consciousness with Enp.
On that planet steeped in betrayal and slaughter from ten thousand years ago, decomposition was almost constant. Chaotic remnants seeped in from every direction, and subspace contaminants gushing from cracks in the crust condensed into dark purple crystals in the air. Radiation readings constantly fluctuated on the power armor's sensor panels. Every inch of land, every rock, every passage he traversed required continuous field coverage.
The Casterlan mechs followed him, silently carrying out orders, needing neither rest nor rotation. He alone walked through the long days and nights on that gray-black wasteland, under the dim yellow starlight.
Garros' underground industrial system has taken shape, operating day after day under the control of the Thinker's mainframe. The machines on the production lines don't need rest, and the immigrants under the dome are gradually adapting to their new environment. Enpu doesn't need to keep a constant eye on things; the Thinker's mainframe can handle most of the problems.
After Cohen returned to the Black Pearl, his days became routine. The mess hall, the bridge, and his private workshop – a simple three-point line. No, now it's four points.
Rellano has a small, separate cabin. Cohen goes there for a while every few days.
When Cohen pushed open the door today, Rellano was sitting on the edge of the bed, not holding a data tablet, just staring blankly at the small statue of the Emperor in the corner.
"Sit down," he said.
Cohen sat down in the chair.
“Rellano,” Cohen began, “you are now in a mortal body. A mortal without any modifications. But you were once an Astartes, one of the oldest Terrans. You know the difference between a mortal and a Chaos Space Marine. You need revenge, you need to fight for the Emperor, and you will certainly be fighting a Chaos Space Marine in your mortal form. So what will you do?”
Rellano turned his head and looked at him with his light gray eyes.
"Run, run, run," he said. "If you can't run, set an ambush. If the ambush fails, shoot them in the back. If you can't kill them, detonate it. If the detonation fails, find a way to take them all down with you. There's no such thing as a fair fight between mortals and Chaos Space Marines."
Cohen nodded.
"What if you wear mortal power armor?"
Rellano was silent for a moment.
"The CMC-100? Wearing it, I can last longer in a hail of bullets, run faster, and jump higher. But against a Chaos Space Marine head-on, I'd lose without a doubt. They're too fast, too strong. Before you can even react, you're gone."
Cohen leaned back in his chair.
"I mentioned the CMC-200 to you before. It has thicker armor and more powerful power assistance. If it were deployed, it should be able to last a few more rounds in close combat. But it still won't work. It's not a problem with the armor, it's that human reaction time can't keep up. You see his fist, your brain issues the command, your muscles start to move—this process is too slow. By the time you raise your gun, his chainsaw axe is already above your head."
Rellano nodded.
In fact, Cohen had already shelved the CMC-200 in his mind. Currently, the armor's performance is stuck in an awkward position: stronger than the CMC-100, but insufficient to fight Chaos Space Marines. Furthermore, the lack of a neural interface prevents it from overcoming its reaction speed bottleneck.
Rather than investing resources in equipping a transitional model, it's better to skip it altogether. The CMC-200 will only serve as a technology demonstrator platform, accumulating data for subsequent models, and only a small number will likely enter active service on Galos. Combatants on capital ships will be directly equipped with the CMC-300, while non-combatants and planetary defense forces will continue to use the CMC-100. After this technology recovery operation, the original plan has changed, and better technological options are available.
"And this one?" Cohen took a data tablet from the inner pocket of his robe and placed it on the table. The screen lit up, and a cross-sectional diagram of adamantite armor rotated in the cold white light.
"CMC-300. It uses an adamantite shell and has a built-in miniature fusion reactor. In close combat, the power assist can amplify the force by about ten times, and the joint servo system makes the movements more agile. But the price is that once you put on this armor, the ordinary human body cannot withstand it. It's not a problem with the armor, but with the human's bones, muscles, and nerves."
This suit of armor stands 2.5 meters tall, with a thick, rounded exterior. Its curved armor surfaces are precisely calculated to deflect incoming attacks to the maximum extent. Its technology originated from the dismantling, archiving, cross-referencing, and piecing together of layers of surface and underground wreckage from Ishtarfum III. The power unit of the Hades-type Terminator armor provided a miniaturized solution for an internal reactor. Meanwhile, the incomplete parameters of the Mark series power armors—Mark II, Mark III, and Mark IV—were repeatedly calibrated to check the torque limits and servo response curves of each joint. Thousands of fragments were ultimately pieced together to form this adamantine shell. The atomic deflection shield architecture of the Defiant Dreadnought and Starfortress mechs was transplanted, but this is an engineering challenge; Garros cannot yet mass-produce this technology and can only rely on molding it. Therefore, it must be temporarily shelved, or only molded in small quantities.
This is just the first step. In his plan, there will be CMC-400, CMC-600, and so on, climbing upwards generation by generation. Until it completely surpasses Astartes, it needs to be stronger, faster, and more robust. First, it needs stronger metal, and the power armor material of the Imperial Guard is very suitable for his vision.
Rellano looked at the picture.
"So you need to modify my body?"
"For now, it's just minor modifications," Cohen said. "We only need to add two interfaces. One to the back of the head, and one to the spine. This will allow the AI to directly read your thoughts. When you see an enemy, the AI has already started aiming. When you try to block, the AI has already raised its arm. Reaction speed will no longer be a bottleneck."
Rellano's gaze lingered on his face for a few seconds.
"Neural interfaces? That's Mechanicus technology."
“Yes,” Cohen said. “Not the nineteen surgeries like the Astartes, which don’t involve organ modification or gene implantation. It’s just the most basic neural interface, like the one on the back of a tech priest’s head. Plus a spinal interface to synchronize the power armor’s exoskeleton with you. When you put on the armor, you become part of it. When you take it off, you’re just an ordinary person.”
He pushed the data panel forward.
"This is the fastest basic modification. It's the first step of the plan. Many details and technologies need to be verified—how much can the signal delay be reduced, and what is the long-term stability of the interface? The direction is correct. We will definitely be able to go further in the future. Bio-modification is still a new topic for me, so this is the first step for now."
Rellano looked at the picture.
"Wearing this armor, will I be able to defeat those traitors?"
"A one-on-one fight?" Cohen shook his head. "In a one-on-one situation, it's practically impossible to beat a properly armored Chaos Space Marine. It's not something a suit of armor can compensate for. Of course, there are experienced exceptions—like you, Rellano. Wearing this kind of armor, you could definitely put up a fight."
Rellano's lips twitched slightly, but he didn't say anything.
"I have already finished making the first piece of the first version of this armor in my private workshop."
Rellano's eyes snapped up.
"Is it finished?"
"Yes, it's finished." Cohen's tone was flat. "We're just waiting for you to install the connectors and then try it on."
Rellano fell silent. He stared at the data panel, at the cross-section of the adamantite shell, for a long time.
"Why so fast?" he asked.
Cohen didn't answer immediately. He stood up, walked to the window, and closed the armored porthole cover, obscuring the purple chaos outside. He stood there for a few seconds with his back to Rellano.
“Because you need a reason,” Cohen said. “A reason to defeat the enemy. You waited in the iron coffin for ten thousand years, and when you woke up, the world had changed. The Legion was gone, the Primarch had become a demon, and the Emperor sat on the Golden Throne as… well, it’s hard to describe, but reality was cruel. You sat in your cabin every day, muttering things to the Emperor’s statue that no one could hear. You felt you couldn’t do anything because you were just a mortal.”
He turned around and looked at Relano.
"But you are not. You are one of the oldest Terran warriors personally crafted by the Emperor ten thousand years ago. Your experience, your tactical insight, your understanding of the Chaos Space Marines' weaknesses—these are invaluable. I need you to pull yourself together. That's why I made this armor, designed these interfaces, and did it as quickly as possible. Just so you know—you can still fight, you are still that powerful warrior, and the Emperor needs you."
Rellano lowered his head and looked at his hands.
Cohen walked back and sat down again.
"The CMC-300 was designed for elite troops, incorporating a wealth of technologies and requiring enormous costs. The first batch will be limited. We'll need to explore, improve, and optimize it as we go. The first one is yours."
Rellano looked up, her light gray eyes meeting Cohen's.
"What do you want me to do?"
Cohen looked into his eyes.
"Put it on. Then tell me where it needs improvement, where it needs adjustment, and how it fits the tactics. I need your feedback. You're currently the only person on our team who has both worn the Astartes power armor and is about to wear the CMC-300. Nobody understands the difference between the two better than you."
He paused.
"Then, you help me train them and explore tactical approaches. If you lead ten thousand mortal warriors who have undergone initial modifications, wearing CMC—"
"300, how would you fight a Chaos Space Marine warband?"
Rellano didn't answer immediately. He was mentally calculating the balance of power.
"I have heavy weaponry. Multi-laser cannons, thermal guns, plasma cannons—far more than you. We'll have the advantage in long-range firefights. The traitor's power armor is made of terracotta plates, and he certainly only has a small number of Terminator armor pieces."
His voice calmed down, as if he were strategizing at a tactical table.
"Of a thousand traitors, not every hundred will be Rand Raiders, nor will every one of them be Terminator Armor. My soldiers are armed with heavy weapons and can move quickly across the battlefield, using the terrain to disrupt your formation. If you charge, I'll flank you; if you retreat, I'll pursue you relentlessly; if you hold your ground, I'll surround you with firepower. As long as I control the distance and prevent you from breaking through the lines, my casualties can be minimized."
He raised his head.
"But if you rush in—"
"So close-combat training will have to be done by you," Cohen continued. "You know the weaknesses of the Chaos Space Marines very well. Their fighting style, their equipment limits, their tactical habits—you know them better than anyone else. The same strength, the same speed, the same armor, a soldier who knows how to fight and a soldier who doesn't are two different species in close combat."
Rellano's lips twitched slightly.
"You want me to train them for you."
“It’s not about helping me,” Cohen said. “It’s about helping them. Helping them survive on the battlefield and become a useful currency for the Emperor.”
Rellano lowered his head and looked at his hands.
"Ten thousand mortals in CMC-300 armor against a Chaos Warband." He murmured repeatedly, as if verifying a tactical proposition. "If this armor can truly achieve the performance you described—long-range suppression, mid-range attrition, and close-quarters stalemate—three against one, even five against one. As long as they don't retreat, as long as they're not afraid, as long as they're properly trained, as long as they can knock them out before those damn Terminators and tanks charge into the lines—the odds of winning are very high."
He looked up, his light gray eyes meeting Cohen's.
"The traitors are not a monolithic group. There are definitely rifts between their factions, and their pride will lead them to underestimate their enemies. I've known them for ten thousand years—arrogant, impulsive, and prone to infighting. These traits will not change. I know their weaknesses. I know under what circumstances they will make mistakes. The best approach is not to teach them how to fight traitors, but to teach them how to keep this scum away."
Cohen took the third data tablet out of the inner pocket of his robe and placed it on the table.
"This is your modification plan. A posterior head interface and a spinal joint. Dr. Liz can do it with my training and guidance; there's little risk. I'll have her come whenever you're ready."
Relano stared at the data panel for a long time.
"Anytime is fine," he said.
Cohen glanced at him and stood up.
"I went to train Liz and provide guidance during the surgery."
He turned and walked towards the door, paused for a moment, but did not look back.
"I'll let you know when I'm ready."
He pushed open the door and walked out. The hallway lights shone with a cool white light in daytime mode, and his footsteps tapped out a steady rhythm on the terrazzo floor.
Inside the compartment, Rellano sat alone. He looked at the cross-sectional diagram—the cutaway lines of the internal reactor, the location of the atomic deflection shield generator, the data link of the back-brain interface, and the servo synchronization protocol of the spinal interface.
A veteran of millennia aboard an emperor's warship felt for the first time that perhaps an army of mortals could truly change something. No miracles were needed, only time and patience.