Rogue Trader

by Andy Hoare

  So close were the pursuer and the pursued that Brother Qaja had been forced to take aim at a point in space aft of the enemy picket, hoping to catch the alien in the shell’s blast and avoid damaging the scout. More callous gunnery masters might not have taken such precautions, but Qaja knew his commander well and was in any case of a like mind. The first salvo of shells blossomed into raging orange fire, but Sarik saw instantly that the shot had fallen short.

  ‘Nova-zero-three,’ Sarik hailed the pathfinder. ‘Cease evasion, full power to main drives and hold on.’

  The scout did not reply, and Sarik had not expected him to, for all of his efforts would be focussed on simply staying alive. Nonetheless, Sarik’s instruction was heeded. The scout vessel ceased its jinking and powered straight ahead, its forward velocity increasing now its path was true. Within seconds, the gap between the two vessels had increased.

  A piercing shrill filled the small bridge.

  ‘Enemy has cogitated terminal lock,’ Conversi Yosef announced.

  ‘Qaja,’ said Sarik, his heart pounding with the ferocity of battle. ‘Do it, do it now!’

  The frigate shook as its forward weapons batteries roared a second time, unleashing another salvo of gargantuan ordnance into space. Even as the shrill warning tone continued, Sarik finally saw that the two vessels were entering visual range. The pathfinder streaked past to the Nomad’s starboard, and a second later the shells exploded violently to the fore.

  A sheet of raging fire exploded across space, the infernal orange chasing away the serene blue of the nebulae. The glow lent Sarik the aspect of a fearsome beast from Chogoran legend, his polished white and red armour gleaming and his fierce eyes burning with reflected flames. His face twisted savagely in the furnace illumination and he pounded the lectern with a clenched fist with dark exuberance. The glass of the lectern readout cracked under the impact, but Sarik didn’t notice.

  The icon representing the tau picket was engulfed in a rapidly expanding circle that described the blast radius of the second salvo. The icon blinked out of existence. It had been caught in the blast, and even had it survived, it would not be in any state to continue the pursuit.

  ‘Nomad,’ the vox-channel burst to life, ‘this is Nova-zero-three. Our thanks, we are indebted to you.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Sarik growled, his hunter’s instinct reasserting itself over his battle-lust as he scanned the readout. ‘What’s your status?’

  ‘Alive,’ the comms officer aboard Nova-zero-three replied wryly, causing Sarik to snort in amusement. ‘But flight control is compromised and the machine-spirits are grievously angered.’

  ‘Then get clear, zero-three,’ Sarik ordered, ‘before the Emperor gets bored of keeping you around.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ Nova-three replied. ‘Will form up on your trajectory.’

  ‘Negative, zero-three,’ Sarik replied. ‘We’ll catch you up. Out.’

  ‘Sir?’ inquired the helmsman, sensing a change in plans. ‘Your orders?’

  ‘Zero-nine by delta, offset three point five, helm,’ Sarik ordered. A series of unfixed readings scrolled across the lectern readout, indicating the appearance of a potential new contact.

  ‘Screen the defence platforms?’ Conversi Kuro said over his shoulder as he hauled on the steering levers.

  ‘Aye,’ Sarik replied. ‘Time?’

  ‘Five minutes,’ the helmsman replied.

  ‘Nova leader?’ Sarik said, opening a vox-channel to the squadron leader. ‘What is your status?’

  ‘Augur readings compiled, Nomad,’ Nova leader replied. ‘Communing with fleet now, but I think we have company.’

  ‘I see it, Nova leader,’ said Sarik, as a new augur return flashed on the lectern’s screen. The Nomad’s cogitator banks set about analysing the return, comparing it to vessels the crusade had faced in its previous battles against the alien tau.

  ‘Medium displacement, brother-sergeant,’ Conversi Loccum reported, his mind impulse link feeding him the raw information before it even appeared on the lectern screen. ‘Cruiser analogue, similar to those faced previously.’

  ‘Not something we want to face alone, then,’ Sarik growled, the warlike side of his spirit battling with the veteran warrior-leader side. ‘Nonetheless,’ he continued, ‘fleet needs those readings. Helm, bring us prow on with the enemy. Fire control?’

  ‘Already there, brother-sergeant,’ Qaja replied over the internal vox. ‘Full yield lance?’

  Sarik grinned savagely, his honour scars twisting into a swirling pattern as he gripped the lectern with both hands. ‘Aye, Qaja. And make it count.’

  Addressing the bridge-serf at the shields station, Sarik said, ‘Nord, forward banks to maximum. This might hurt…’

  The veteran sergeant had barely completed his remark when a blue pulse filled the forward vision port. Sarik braced himself, and a moment later, the tau’s hyper-velocity projectile struck the hastily raised forward screen.

  The entire view from the portal exploded with seething white energies as the enemy’s attack was dissipated against the Nomad’s forward shield. Sarik squinted against the fierce illumination, but his pride refused to let him shield his sight entirely. The frigate shook violently as the projectors struggled to shunt sufficient power to counter the attack, warning klaxons sounding as the bridge lights flickered.

  ‘Report!’ Sarik shouted above the banshee wailing of the sirens.

  ‘Shields holding,’ Nord yelled back. ‘But only just!’

  Sarik’s grip on the lectern redoubled as he imagined his hands strangling the life from the captain of the alien vessel. If only he could engage his foe face-to-face. Snarling, Sarik looked to the lectern screen, confirming that the pathfinders’ squadron leader was finally coming about on a heading that would take the vessel back towards the fleet. His gaze followed the icon’s projected course towards the far edge of the screen, where he saw…

  ‘All stations!’ Sarik bellowed. ‘I want every last ounce of power on the shields.’

  The frigate’s main systems powered down one by one as the crew enacted Sarik’s order, the siren dying away to silence as all available power was diverted to the shield generators. Soon, only the shrill whine of the labouring projectors was audible. Only the harsh light cast by the lectern screen lit the bridge, the surface laced with racing numerals. A new icon resolved in the mid-range band, to the Nomad’s aft.

  ‘Energy spike!’ Loccum reported, his voice seeming shockingly loud in the sudden near silence. ‘Brace!’

  Sarik didn’t need to be told. Another cold blue pulse filled the portal, a white pinprick of light in the black void marking its source. An instant later, the hyper-velocity projectile slammed into the Nomad’s forward shield, and this time, the screen could not contain the terrific energy of its impact.

  With a staggering release of blinding energies, the frigate’s forward shield collapsed. The solid mass of the tau projectile was transformed into raw energy as it passed through the screen, and struck the Nomad’s blocky, armoured prow.

  The gut-wrenching impact passed through the vessel in seconds, the deck beneath Sarik’s armoured boots buckling with a tortured metallic scream. Secondary explosions ripped along the vessel’s spine, scores of Chapter-serfs dying in an instant as ravaging flames scoured entire compartments or the cold vacuum of space plucked them away. The helm station erupted in a shower of molten brass, blasting Conversi Kuro backwards even as he was consumed in flames. The lectern screen died, plunging the entire bridge into near darkness, the only illumination that of guttering flames.

  Bracing himself on the lectern, Sarik drew himself to his full height, looking around him as he did so to confirm his crew’s predicament. His bridge, his personal domain over which he was undisputed master, was burning around him. Why had the conflagration-suppressors not engaged?

  Sarik looked down at his dead
command lectern, and realised that the impact of the tau weapon had ripped the soul from his vessel, its core logic engines and cogitation transmission conduits crippled, or at the very least silenced for a spell, at the worst possible moment.

  The flames picked up as they rushed along the length of the bridge, consuming terminals as they progressed. Conversi Nord dashed across the deck towards the sprawled form of the helmsman, Kuro, rolling his body over as he knelt down beside it. It was immediately obvious that the veteran bridge-serf was burned beyond aid, the flesh of his face sloughing away in smoking chunks.

  Conversi Loccum’s station was as yet untouched, but Sarik saw that it was directly in the path of the onrushing flames. Hard-wired into his mind impulse unit, there was nothing Loccum could do to avoid imminent and horrific death.

  Having lost one valued servant, Sarik vowed in that instant not to allow the other to suffer a similar fate. He knew what he had to do.

  ‘Bridge crew!’ Sarik yelled over the raging flames and the ­shattering of glass terminal screens. Conversi Loccum had closed his eyes, his tattooed face almost serene in the face of death. ‘Vacuum protocols, purging now!’

  Sarik turned and hauled down on a large brass lever. The manually operated purge valve mounted in the vaulted ceiling irised open and the hatch to the rear of the bridge locked shut with a resounding clang. A new siren started up, its rapid rise and fall specifically keyed to the purge protocol. Those bridge-serfs not already at their station made quickly for their seats, following long-rehearsed purge drills. Sarik had no need to strap himself into a seat, his superhuman grip on the lectern sufficient to hold him against the coming storm of depressurisation.

  Seconds later, that storm erupted.

  With explosive force, the air in the bridge compartment was sucked through the valve almost directly above Sarik’s lectern. He redoubled his grip, screwing his eyes tight shut and forcing the air out of his lungs to avoid internal injury. Loose objects were sucked upwards towards the valve, the grate across its surface stopping them jamming its mechanism. A bone-hewed Chogoran charm scythed through the air and cut a deep gash across Sarik’s scalp, before shattering on the bulkhead overhead. Parchment strips affixed to terminals fluttered wildly in the rush of air, and then fell still. Suddenly, all was silent. Sarik opened his eyes to see that the flames, starved of oxygen, had extinguished.

  Sarik pulled back on the lever, manually initiating the re-pressurisation cycle. The purge valve irised shut and the hiss of oxygen inlets filled Sarik’s ears. He took a deep breath, unaccustomedly pleased to taste the stale shipboard air. The taste of burned metal would hang in the air for hours, he knew, and a fine mist was already forming as the newly pumped-in oxygen condensed in the chill space. Within thirty seconds the bridge was returned to one standard atmospheric measure, the emergency averted and Loccum and the other bridge-serfs saved.

  ‘Sound off!’ Sarik called out. As a Space Marine, his genetically enhanced biology was proof against the worst effects of the depressurisation, but Sarik was less certain how his bridge crew might have fared.

  Coughs and splutters sounded from the darkness, before the first of the crew replied. ‘Loccum!’ the man called out. ‘Vox-net awakening, but Kuro is down.’ Sarik was filled with relief that Loccum had been saved from a horrible death, and immeasurably proud at how quickly the conversi resumed his duties.

  ‘Nord,’ the bridge-serf at the shield station called out. ‘Residual only, projectors down.’

  ‘Understood,’ Sarik replied, looking down at the blank, cracked screen of the lectern. ‘If you’re out there…’

  ‘Incoming vox communion, brother-sergeant,’ said Conversi Loccum, his terminal awakening even as he spoke. A moment later the bridge was filled with churning static as the ship-to-ship vox-channel burst to life.

  ‘Nomad,’ a voice came over the static-laced vox-channel. ‘Pathfinders are clear. Get your drives on-line and follow them out. We’ll deal with this.’

  Sarik grinned savagely as he recognised the voice of his friend and ally, the rogue trader Lucian Gerrit, master of the heavy cruiser Oceanid.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t need help, Lucian?’ Sarik replied. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, after all!’

  The rogue trader’s only reply was a devastating broadside, which struck the closing tau vessel amidships and broke it in two. The enemy ship’s drive section sheered away from its central spine, inertia and residual thrust carrying it forwards to pass the Nomad at perilously close range.

  Two competing reactions welled up inside Sarik as he watched the spectacular destruction of the tau vessel. Part of him knew vindication, revenge for the deaths the tau had inflicted on his crew and the damage they had done to the Nomad. The other part, which Sarik rejected the instant he became aware of it, knew something akin to jealousy, for it had not been him, but another, who had dealt the killing blow. Sarik knew the emotion was ignoble, born of his fierce warrior heritage and nothing to do with the noble traditions of his Chapter or the Adeptus Astartes as a whole. He would confess his weakness to his ancestors later, he vowed.

  As the flaming debris passed across the view from the bridge portal, Sarik saw the Oceanid move forwards, assuming a vector that would take it into battle with the three alien defence platforms.

  ‘Lucian,’ said Sarik, his momentary weakness replaced by concern for his friend. ‘You can’t take those platforms on alone…’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sarik,’ the reply came back, and Sarik knew that the Oceanid was merely the tip of the spear. ‘We’ll save some fun for you.’

  Sarik moved around his lectern and strode along the length of the bridge, coming to stand before the armoured glass of the forward port with his hands gripping the stanchions. As he watched, the entire fleet came into view, gargantuan battleships and cruisers gliding past in stately procession. In echelon behind the Oceanid came the other two vessels of the rogue trader’s flotilla, the cruisers Fairlight and Rosetta. As the three ships began to open fire at extreme long range against the distant defence platforms, the majestic form of the Blade of Woe, the crusade’s flagship, came into view. Even Sarik, who had seen the sight many times before and far preferred to prosecute his wars on land, could not help but be impressed by the battle cruiser’s vast form. Its sharp prow was sculpted into the form of sweeping eagle’s wings, and every square metre of its ancient armour was carved with litanies and the features of revered Imperial saints. Its portholes were delicate lancet windows, the armoured glass a riot of colours depicting scenes of glorious battle. One by one, the warships sailed past the Nomad, passing her by on every side and accompanied by their nimble escort squadrons and swarms of smaller vessels.

  And then, the strike cruiser Fist of Light came into view. Though smaller than the Blade of Woe, the Space Marine vessel, which belonged to the Iron Hands contingent of the crusade forces, radiated menace as if the cold outer steel skin shielded a raging furnace at its heart. Where the Imperial Navy warships were stately, with sharp prows and covered in Gothic detailing, the Space Marine vessels were blunt-prowed and unadorned. Their flanks were not encrusted with devotional statues, but sheathed in the thickest ceramite armour known to man. The Fist of Light was the largest Space Marine warship in the crusade fleet, the remainder frigates and destroyers. Her armoured flanks were painted black, white and steel grey, the predominant colours of the Iron Hands heraldry, and they were pitted with countless thousands of small craters, each a battle scar earned over many centuries of service to the Imperium of Mankind.

  The fleet crossed the point at which its longest-ranged weapons could open fire upon the alien defence stations. Initially, these weapons were those mounted in dorsal turrets, or torpedoes fired from cavernous tubes mounted in the armoured prows. The Blade of Woe’s weapons batteries spoke first, for they had the longest range, great salvoes of city-levelling ordnance blasting across the void to smash into the tau stati
ons. Yet, the display was inconsequential compared to what would follow when the ships’ masters ordered their warships to turn and present a broadside to the alien platforms. The Imperial Navy’s battle doctrine dictated that its vessels’ firepower was concentrated in mighty batteries on either flank. A single salvo could drive off, cripple or even destroy almost any enemy vessel, as the tau had already discovered to their detriment.

  The Nomad’s systems began to reawaken, the lectern screen flickering to life, though it remained shot through with churning, grainy static. Though too far distant to be seen with the naked eye, even that of a Space Marine, the screen indicated the presence of a number of the crusade fleet’s supporting vessels. Tenders stood by should a warship need repair or towing clear of the battle. Tankers and mass haulers carried vast quantities of fuel and other commodities. Transports carried the crusade’s ground troops, each of them home to an entire regiment of Imperial Guard. Most of the ground troops belonged to one of the Brimlock regiments, raised from the planet on which the crusade against the expanding alien empire of the tau had first been preached. Right on the edge of the readout was an icon representing the huge conveyance Toil of Digamma, a vessel of the Adeptus Mechanicus that transported the Legio Thanataris Titan Legion, known as the ‘Deathbringers’. The towering god-machines carried in its cavernous bays would be crucial in the forthcoming planetary assault.

  As mighty as the crusade fleet was, Sarik was painfully aware that it lacked sufficient carrier capacity. Scant few interceptors were available to defend the larger warships against enemy fighter-bombers. These would be able to inflict a terrible blow were they to get amongst the lumbering transports that followed behind the main fleet.