by Andy Hoare
He affixed the gleaming medal to his breastplate and, reaching once more within the box, withdrew a green disc inlaid with golden filigree. The Order of Voss, awarded to his father by the tech-priests of that great forge world in thanks for his aiding their Titan Legions in defence against ork attack.
Next, was a medal of very different design and manufacture, presented to Lucian himself by the White Scars Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, in recognition for his assistance in the purging of the xenos presence beneath the tunnel world of Arat. It was a hand-carved representation of a snarling, bestial face, a stylised lightning flash bisecting its features.
Half a dozen more gleaming tokens of mighty deeds followed, each afforded their place upon his armour with utmost honour and reverence until but one remained.
Lucian’s hand slowed as he reached once more into the case. Even he was given pause by the significance of the last item. Whispering a prayer, he reached within and brought out the pride of his dynasty. Only the Charter of Trade and the banner presented to the dynasty by the Senatorum Imperialis could equal this medal in worth. Awarded to Maxim Gerrit by the High Lords of Terra themselves, for his display of epic leadership as well as personal courage at the height of the Eastlight Nebula Crusade, Lucian lifted the winged medal of the Order of Ollanius Pius. Bearing the golden face of an angelic youth, laurel leaves arrayed across his noble brow, the medal represented the very highest honour a mortal man could earn in the service of the Imperium. Intricate scrollwork beneath the beatific visage bore an inscription:
‘Amid the weeping and the woe,
Accursed Daemon remain and rot,
I know thee filthy as thou art,
I know.’
The words sent a shiver up Lucian’s spine, for they spoke of things few men were allowed to know, but his position at the head of his dynasty granted him knowledge that the authorities had few means of barring from him. For most, daemons were the terrifying creatures of nightmares. Real, most certainly, but kept at bay by prayer and the eternal vigilance of the God-Emperor of Mankind. For the likes of Lucian Gerrit, they were the denizens of the empyrean, for vessels such as his must intrude into their realm when travelling between the stars.
The medals affixed to Lucian’s crowded breastplate, the servitor appeared once more. It bore a mighty cloak of luxurious fur. The snarling head of a beast of terrible aspect was mounted upon his right shoulder, its huge fore-claws draped across his back and over his left shoulder.
Lastly, he opened an armoured hatch upon the wall. He brought out an antique leather belt. Attached to it was a pair of ornate holsters. The first held a heavy, blunt-nosed pistol, a plasma weapon created for his line by the famed master artificer Ernst Heckler, impossibly intricate devotional text carved upon its every surface.
Lucian lifted the weapon, activating it with the press of a stud and savouring the rapidly rising, near ultrasonic whine that indicated that the weapon’s war spirit was content. The second weapon was of unknown manufacture, a pistol-sized device of pure crystal. Violet and blue lights danced within as he hefted it. He knew not who or what had constructed the bizarre weapon, but on many occasions had had cause to thank their skill. The weapon unleashed a blinding ray that interfered with its target’s brain functions, reducing him to a gibbering imbecile in seconds; very useful in some of the places Lucian had visited.
He then slid onto his fingers a series of rings, each a cunningly wrought, miniature laser weapon. With luck, such weapons would not be required, but few authorities in the galaxy, short of an Inquisitor Lord or Space Marine Chapter Master, would presume to demand a rogue trader divest himself of his arms. Given the dynasty’s standing, he would expect that even they would do so politely.
He regarded himself in the mirror one last time, before striding from the cabin. He would take to his command throne and guide the Oceanid, and with her, the Arcadius Dynasty, to a bright, new future.
The rogue trader flotilla slid through banks of pale green stellar dust, flashes of lightning illuminating them from deep within. Such regions were the stuff of space mariners’ superstitions, for they awoke primal notions, the fear of the unknown, and of ‘things’ lurking in the mist. The vessels navigated by dead reckoning alone, for their augur banks were useless amidst the thick cloud. It was all too easy to become jittery, reflected Lucian, for the surveyor reported all manner of weird returns. Ghostlights they were often called, for they would appear solid and real one moment, only to fade to nothing the next.
Communications too, were troublesome in such a region. Where the cloud thinned, short range, line of sight transmission was possible, but psychic communication was by far more efficient, except that the vessel’s telepath was near incapacitated at present: burnt-out, Lucian suspected. The guild had so far been unwilling to replace him, a sore point that would need addressing once the current crisis was resolved.
Lucian watched as the cloud thinned, the system’s star penetrating the green murk. The dust parted, and the Oceanid glided clear, gases swirling at her passing. The view from the bridge was suddenly one of clear space, Mundus Chasmata visible as a black disc eclipsing its star.
Lucian stood, savouring the moment as he prepared to hail Mundus Chasmata’s outer defence monitor. He glanced at the surveyor, certain in the knowledge that his son and daughter would be ordering their vessels into formation astern of his own. Two returns indicated they were. Behind them, however, four more returns flashed an angry red. They were set upon a headlong dive towards the Rosetta as she emerged from the cloud, their course indicating but one possible motive: attack!
‘General quarters!’ bellowed Lucian as he took to the command throne. Sirens wailed and the bridge lights flickered off, to be replaced an instant later by the red glow of the emergency lights employed during battle. Lucian wondered how the hell raiders had found his flotilla in deep space. Were they betrayed so soon? He would have to deal with them first, and worry about the details later.
‘Helm, on my mark, all engines to ten per cent, new heading thirty to starboard. Comms, give me a channel to my fleet.’
The address system chimed to indicate the channel was open. Korvane’s voice burst forth. ‘…ur of them one fifty to port, contact in nine. I could do with some help here.’
‘Do as I say, both of you. On my signal, Korvane, power up and come about to forty-five degrees to starboard. Brielle, maintain your current speed and come about to forty-five to your port. Do you both understand?’
Both Korvane and Brielle indicated they understood their father’s instructions. He glanced down at the surveyor screen, paused, and calmly ordered: ‘Mark!’
The compensators cut in an instant late, as the Oceanid decelerated. Raldi simultaneously veered the ship to starboard. The surveyor tracked the Rosetta as she increased her speed, crossing the Fairlight’s bow with the four raiders in pursuit. Viewed from the bridge, the manoeuvre was a stately affair, but Lucian knew, a potentially deadly one.
The graceful manoeuvre brought the Oceanid to the attackers’ eight o’clock, and the Fairlight to their four.
‘Starboard battery aft! Open fire on lead target!’
Below decks, the mighty weapons bank locked onto its target: the fast-moving raider closing in on the position the Rosetta had occupied minutes before. The master of the smaller vessel evidently saw his coming fate, but a moment too late. The battery erupted in blinding fire, launching huge, high-explosive projectiles across the gulf of space.
Lucian watched on the surveyor screen as the raider pitched to starboard, a last desperate attempt to avoid the Oceanid’s wrath. It failed, as Lucian had seen it would. The salvo struck the smaller vessel amidships, robbing it of forward momentum with such violence that it split into two, its entire prow tumbling forwards whilst its drive section sheered off at forty-five degrees. Even at this distance, the spectacle was impressive, as the plasma core at the heart of the engine clu
ster went critical, creating a second sun for a moment.
Lucian winced as the explosion flooded his bridge with harsh white light, the viewing port dimming a moment later to compensate. When his vision had cleared, he looked out once more to see the Fairlight opening fire upon the second raider, but this vessel recovered far more quickly than its recently deceased comrade had, evading its former prey with ease.
A veteran of a hundred such skirmishes, Lucian read the raiders’ manoeuvres with practiced ease. His redeployment had caught them at the moment they had anticipated easy victory, but their captains were not fools. Even now, they were rallying, recovering from the shock of their prey’s counter-attack. They were coming about for a second attack run. Lucian performed a mental calculation: three raider frigates, probably up-gunned, certainly up-armoured, and therefore slower and less manoeuvrable than would ordinarily be the case; and his own vessels: a heavy cruiser and two light cruisers. Under normal circumstances, his small flotilla would have little to fear, but all three of the rogue trader vessels were running at reduced capacity, the sad result of the dynasty’s deteriorating fortunes. Now of all times, he could not afford damage to his precious vessels.
His decision reached, Lucian addressed his offspring.
‘Korvane, Brielle, as much as I’d savour the opportunity to smear these motherless bastards across space, we have more important matters to attend to. You both set course for the Mundus Chasmata primary at best speed. I’ll lead them on to the outer platform. Do you understand?’
Korvane was first to answer. ‘Aye, Father, I agree. We are best served reaching Chasmata intact.’
‘Brielle?’
‘Father, we can take them here. I’ll hold back and draw them onto your guns. It should only take a single–’
‘You will not!’ shouted Lucian, surging to his feet at his daughter’s defiance. ‘You will set course for Mundus Chasmata Primary as ordered! Do I make myself clear?’
His daughter did not reply, but Lucian had his answer as he saw the Fairlight move to come around as per his instructions. Grunting, he sat once more.
Lucian waited until he was satisfied that both Korvane and Brielle were following his orders, before addressing his bridge.
‘On my signal, power down to ten per cent, and burn port retros at full for fifteen.’ Raldi turned his head and opened his mouth as if to speak, but decided against protesting upon meeting Lucian’s glare.
The Oceanid shuddered violently as the portside retro thrusters ignited, forestalling the vessel’s forward motion and slowly bringing her to starboard. The first of the raiders passed, overtaking Lucian’s cruiser before its own captain had time to react. Lucian knew that it would have to enter a long, wide arc in order to circle back: it was out of the fight for some time at least.
The second raider did react to the Oceanid’s ungainly manoeuvre, but its captain had evidently misread Lucian’s intentions. Rather than compensating for the course change with a similar move, this raider veered to port, the master fearing perhaps that the heavy cruiser sought to entrap him as she had his erstwhile compatriot. The ill-judged reaction cost the raider vessel dear, for she too would be out of the fight while she came about to intersect the Oceanid’s course.
The last raider altered her course, finding herself bearing down on the wallowing Oceanid. Its forward weapons batteries opened fire, catching the Oceanid a glancing blow across the dorsal shields.
‘Station six! How are we holding?’ Station six was manned not by a servitor, but by a man, though the rating sported so many cybernetic implants that the external difference was minimal. Lucian reasoned that the shields were generally only needed in an emergency, and had learned through bitter experience that an Emperor-fearing man reacted to orders far better than a servitor under such circumstances, benefiting as he did from a sense of self-preservation that the servitor lacked.
‘Nothing she can’t handle sir, though the feedback caused some casualties in coil chamber beta.’
Lucian wasted no time in mourning the press-ganged scum that toiled in the depths of his vessel. Most would have been executed long ago had not their sentences been commuted to his service.
‘Well enough six. Helm, come about to three nine three and all ahead full! Go!’
The Oceanid shook as the full power of her plasma reactor was fed to her drive systems. She soon outdistanced the first two raiders to pass her, and only the third remained, though closing, astern.
Lucian activated the holograph, focusing on an area of space only a few thousand kilometres ahead. He saw what he was looking for.
‘Helm, we’re coming up on Chasmata’s outer defence platform. At five hundred, yaw thirty so she passes us to port at around fifty.’
A shudder travelled up the length of the vessel, as the raider dogging her stern unleashed a second volley. Lucian looked up, meeting the eye of the man at station six.
‘Holding, sir, for now.’
‘Good. Comms, signal the platform. Let them know who we are. Now would be a bad time for a misunderstanding.’
As the Oceanid ploughed on, the defence platform came into view off the port bow. Though not much larger than the rogue trader vessel, the platform bristled with weaponry, from lance batteries to torpedo tubes. The comms servitor had evidently succeeded in transmitting the correct signal. Had it not, those batteries of fearsome destruction would have been opening fire on the Oceanid.
Instead, they opened fire on the raider. The captain of the raiding frigate was so intent upon his prey that he could not have seen his death approaching. It came quickly, in the form of a mighty broadside, macro cannon shells obliterating the smaller vessel in the blink of an eye.
Lucian glanced down at the surveyor to see the rapidly fading debris field spread across the screen. The last two raiders, visible as indistinct returns at the screen’s edge, turned tail and bolted.
‘Get me a drink’, he ordered no one in particular.
Mundus Chasmata’s primary orbital dock filled the bridge viewing port. The three vessels had formed up as they closed on the planet, presenting a stately procession worthy of the Arcadius Dynasty. Lucian had awaited the customary picket escort any rogue trader would expect from the port authorities of such a world, but had been mildly surprised and not a little put out when none had appeared.
As the ships closed on the vast, slab-sided orbital dock, its aged condition became apparent. Lucian had visited many such installations, often in a similar state of disrepair, but he thought this one appeared somehow more dilapidated than normal. The armoured skin of the multiple, interconnected domes was pockmarked by centuries of micrometeorite impacts, and entire sections had evidently fallen into disuse. One docking limb appeared entirely open to space, its hatches hanging as if creaking in a non-existent wind.
Not only was the absence of an escort notable, but Lucian’s practiced eye took in every detail of the dock and its environs. All six docking limbs were devoid of craft. No freighters, no system defence boats, no tankers, troop transports or ships of any type were tethered to the station’s multiple docking points. No service craft or tugs went about the endless maintenance tasks any other station would demand. No shuttles transported goods and passengers back and forth between the dock and the surface.
This far out on the borders of the Imperium’s space, Lucian would have expected some degree of neglect, but not so much, he reflected with growing unease, that the locals would not be sent into a frenzy of activity at a pirate attack so close to their capital.
As the Oceanid came alongside the station, Raldi expertly guiding the heavy cruiser to within a mere twenty metres of the allotted docking arm, mighty docking clamps reached out to grasp her. The metallic clang echoed through the vessel as cursing crew chiefs harangued press-ganged crews to make her fast. The Oceanid became a hive of activity as Lucian prepared to go ashore. The talks would have to wait; his
flotilla had been attacked. A fine welcome to the Eastern Rim, he thought.
Chapter Two
The airlock portal swung open, acrid gases venting from corroded grilles with an angry hiss. Lucian stepped through, and set foot upon the Mundus Chasmata orbital primary. The hall ran the length of the docking limb, airlocks identical to that he had just exited situated at regular points along its length. The occasional longshoreman went about his business, but where Lucian would expect to be confronted with heaving crowds of dockers, an eerie quiet was all he found.
The deck below his feet was rusted and uneven, and heavy chains dripping with toxic run-off swung, unused, from the high, vaulted ceiling. His footsteps echoed the length of the hall, and the lighting flickered erratically. The stink of sewage and pollution assaulted him. He had smelled worse, he reflected, but not outside of the grave-mires of Quillik V.
A high-pressure hiss and a tortured, metallic squeal sounded from the far end of the hall. As banks of gases cleared, Lucian caught sight of him. Although outwardly his father’s son, Korvane carried himself entirely differently, his mannerisms those of his mother’s people: studied and reserved, haughty and cold.
‘Father,’ Korvane bowed stiffly at Lucian’s approach. ‘I greet you with glad heart.’
Ignoring the formality of Korvane’s greeting, Lucian embraced his son in a vigorous bear hug, causing the younger man to stumble as his feet were lifted from the deck. He had not set eyes upon either of his children in long months.
‘Glad heart indeed. Are you well?’
‘I am well, Father. I spent the bulk of the last leg studying the archives. Chasmata’s ruling class has a fascinating range of ceremonies. We would do well to remain on our guard around these people.’
‘Huh,’ Lucian grunted. ‘You’re new to this business son, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I’ve engaged in talks with men and with abominations, and there’s only two ways of dealing with either. You take control of proceedings, blustering your way through as if it’s all second nature, or, you keep your eyes open and your mouth shut until the moment comes to take control. How do you think your grandfather got past the Cambro Huthans? How do think old Abad sidestepped the Argent Protocol, or the Hyburian Interdiction?’
