[Rogue Trader 01] - Rogue Star

by Andy Hoare - (ebook by Undead)

  The ceremonial procession approached, Korvane able to make out the details of the guards’ uniforms and weapons. They offered a jarring contrast to Luneberg’s household guard, who had worn uniforms of stark white with tall feathers at their brows. These wore rough spun, un-dyed cloth, and carried simple, sturdy lasguns in place of the overly ornate and entirely impractical long rifles that Luneberg’s men had carried.

  The procession reached the edge of the landing pad, and an officer, barely distinguishable to Korvane from the other guards, stepped forwards and bowed.

  “I welcome you, Lord Gerrit of the Arcadius, to the world of Arris Epsilon. My master, the Imperial Commander Lord Droon bids you attend him.”

  Korvane was struck by the clarity of the man’s Low Gothic, just as he had been by that of the cutter’s captain.

  It was most unusual, in his experience, to find a dialect this far out on the Eastern Rim that was so understandable. So clear was it, in fact that Korvane guessed it was a derivation of High Gothic rather than one of the hybrid dialects used on most worlds. All this passed through his mind in the span of time it took the officer to speak, Korvane’s expert instincts gleaning potentially valuable information from every aspect of his situation.

  “I gladly do so,” he replied, bowing ever so slightly at the waist and reading the other man’s reaction all the while. Seeing the other bow yet lower told him that his conventions were correct when it came to acknowledging comparative social ranking.

  The officer turned, his squad doing likewise in perfect unison. Korvane stepped forwards, and the guards marched off as he passed them. He found himself walking along a tall, thin access-way crossing a vast gulf to a rocky spire several hundred metres away. He glanced over the rail-less edge, glad that the ground was not visible, the mist bubbling away far below.

  Looking ahead, Korvane saw the bulk of what he took to be Imperial Commander Zachary Droon’s palace, perched upon the highest peak of mountain towards which the walkway led. It consisted of a multitude of peaked turrets, verandas and galleries, each connected, he guessed, by a honeycomb of tunnels cut into the rock of the mountain.

  The walkway terminated in a tall, thin portal in the rock, flanked on either side by long, fluttering pennants. The doors opened on well-oiled hinges, swinging inwards to reveal a brightly lit passage leading into the mountain.

  The procession passed through the portal, following the passage cut through the raw stone for a hundred metres or so, to a second set of tall, thin doors. The guards now changed formation, forming a perfect line behind Korvane. At some unheard signal, the doors swung open and a bright light burst forth, briefly dazzling Korvane.

  He was so determined to avoid causing offence that he stepped forwards, regardless that his vision had yet to clear. As his sight adjusted to the brightness, Korvane saw that he stood in the centre of a wide, tall space cut into the side of the mountain. The world’s sun entirely filled the view beyond the cave’s mouth, its centre the brightest white, its halo a serene jade. Silhouetted against the sun, Korvane could just make out a tall form, which stepped towards him.

  The silhouette resolved in Korvane’s vision, forming into a tall, thin-faced man, his hair receding, wearing a long robe of plain linen. This was Zachary Droon, judged Korvane, an ascetic, by his appearance, although Korvane recalled the numerous times his father had warned him against acting on first impressions.

  “Welcome to my court, Lord Gerrit.” Droon made an expansive motion with his long, thin arms. Korvane followed the gesture, noting the courtiers arrayed upon either side, dressed in the same, simple garb as their master. “We so seldom receive guests, and when we do, we are never found wanting as hosts. You arrived unannounced, Lord Gerrit?”

  Korvane caught the inference immediately—Droon was sizing him up, while simultaneously hedging his bets lest Korvane prove to be a potential ally, or a potential threat. The Imperial Commander appeared to have accepted that Korvane was, as he had identified himself, a rogue trader, for which Korvane was grateful. He guessed that Droon was prepared to believe him, for now, but would require a more solid indication at some point in the not too distant future.

  “Yes my Lord Droon, for which I beg your forgiveness.” A little contrition was hardly inappropriate at this juncture, Korvane thought. Evidently, Droon thought the same thing, for he nodded sagely at Korvane’s reply. “A mishap whilst traversing the empyrean brought us to your domains in this manner, although we were bound for Arris Epsilon in any case.”

  Droon’s eyebrows rose. “Really? We expected no such visit. Please, do go on.”

  Korvane felt hot prickles rise at his neck, for Droon appeared more inclined to press his guest for an explanation than would ordinarily be politic. He went on, “No, my lord, and again, I must ask your forbearance. My vessel and two others were fleeing an attack at a nearby system. In our haste to escape, we determined that this was the safest destination.”

  Upon hearing this, the Imperial Commander turned his head to one side, considering, Korvane guessed, the likelihood of Korvane’s story.

  “Your attackers were… raiders? Pirates?”

  “No, my lord, unfortunately not, we were engaged in a trade negotiation upon Mundus Chasmata—”

  “Luneberg?” Droon interjected, his previously blank expression suddenly one of anger.

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  “What cause did he have to attack your vessels? What was the nature of your negotiations?” Droon’s manner had shifted, from one of detached civility to something bordering on hostility.

  Korvane thought quickly, judging that Droon’s reaction was caused by some underlying enmity towards the Imperial Commander of Mundus Chasmata. The talks were to ascertain the profitability of opening up a permanent trade route between Chasmata and a number of coreward mercantile concerns, a minor lie, but Korvane was ill disposed towards revealing the true nature of the deal. “The confrontation was caused when Luneberg attempted to forcibly impose unfavourable terms.”

  “Luneberg attacked you because you refused to accede to his authority?”

  Korvane hesitated before answering, aware that his reply might shape events to come in ways that he could not yet predict. “Yes, my lord,” he said, “I believe the Lord Luneberg is not entirely—”

  “Sane?” Interjected Droon. “You’re saying that Culpepper Luneberg is dangerously unstable and unfit to rule his world?”

  Korvane had said no such thing, although he certainly held that opinion. Before he could answer, however, Droon cut in.

  “Well, you’d be absolutely correct. Luneberg is a sinful waste of skin, and you can consider yourself fortunate to have escaped his clutches. He’s been attempting to make deals with the likes of you for many years. I’ve had my suspicions for some time, but I believe you have confirmed them. The man has cracked. He’s on the verge of taking his world, and this entire sector, to the brink of rebellion.”

  Oh God-Emperor preserve us all, Korvane thought, another mad Imperial Commander.

  “Lord Gerrit?”

  Korvane forced himself to return his attention to the Imperial Commander.

  “Lord Gerrit, I need your help.”

  Once more, Korvane’s mind raced. Had he really escaped the clutches of one madman, only to flee right into those of another? He would not allow it. The Arcadius stood on the brink, and he would ensure their survival.

  “You need my help?”

  “Indeed. You are, as you say, a rogue trader of some means. I am but a humble Imperial Commander, my own means limited. I have been aware for many years that Luneberg’s madness has driven this entire region into the grip of recidivism, and I believe he is on the verge of entirely forsaking his oaths to Terra.”

  “You believe Luneberg is a rebel?”

  “Indeed I do, Lord Gerrit, indeed I do. His policies, and those of many generations of his line prior to him, have plunged this sector into isolation from Terra. He believes himself above the Pax Imperialis. We mus
t bring him into line, or there will be a terrible price to pay. For us all.”

  Korvane’s instincts sensed an opening. “I see, and how may I be of assistance in averting such a disaster?”

  Droon bowed, turning as he did so and indicating with another expansive sweep of his long arms an archway, beyond which a side chamber was visible. “Please, let us retire to discuss the details.”

  “You realise,” said Zachary Droon, “that your name will be spoken in awe by generations to come.”

  Korvane stood beside Droon, atop a craggy promontory, watching as the legions of the Epsilon Planetary Defence Force marched by in perfect formation. They filed onto two waiting transports, which would take them to orbit. From there they would be packed onto the Rosetta, and, Korvane hoped, and had promised, onto the Oceanid and the Fairlight, as soon as they arrived.

  “You flatter me, my Lord Droon,” Korvane replied, not taking his eyes from the spectacle below. “I wish only to serve.”

  Droon chuckled at this, but did Korvane the kindness of not commenting further. The two had come to a deal. A far better deal, Korvane believed, than his father had attempted to enter into with that madman Luneberg. He was sure that he had secured the immediate future of the Arcadius, by pledging the three vessels to aid Droon in his righteous war against the recidivist Luneberg. To start with, all they need do was transport Droon’s Planetary Defence Force troops to Mundus Chasmata, where they would launch a devastating and entirely unforeseen assault on Luneberg’s centres of power. The world would fall in short order, of that Korvane was positive, and the Arcadius would reap the rewards of their loyal service to the forces of law and order.

  Korvane smiled to himself as he watched the troops parading by. His day had finally arrived. His father would cede control to him, and force his bitch of a stepsister to tow the line or leave.

  Oh yes, he thought, his time was coming.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Oceanid’s warp drive howled a plaintive wail, disturbingly human in tone, as the vessel crashed through the non-existent barrier between the real world and the empyrean. Lucian opened his eyes, mouthing a prayer to the almighty God-Emperor, a prayer of thanks that his vessel was delivered once more to the physical universe.

  The warp drive continued its screaming, the terrible, soul-wrenching sound audible even on the Oceanid’s bridge, hundreds of metres fore of the drive section. Lucian knew it indicated that something had come very close to going incredibly wrong whilst they were within the warp, but knew better than to dwell on what disaster might have been close to befalling his vessel. Instead, he resolved to seek his Navigator’s counsel on the matter as soon as the adept had been given time to recover from the voyage.

  Lucian looked to the head of his bridge, seeing nothing of note or out of the ordinary through the wide viewing port that dominated it, “Helm, situation report if you will.”

  Helmsman Raldi consulted the constellation of blinking lights, glass dials and scrolling readouts clustered around his station before replying.

  “We’re within point five A.U.s of the marker, sir.”

  “Stress points?”

  “Yes sir, several. I couldn’t say for sure, but I think that jump might have taken its toll.”

  “My thoughts too, Mister Raldi. Station ten?” A rating at one of the deck stations stood to attention. “Do we have a reference?”

  Though he was unsure as to its nature, Lucian’s experience told him that all was not well with the warp jump. He was relieved in the extreme that the Oceanid was in more or less the correct position, she was where she should be. Next, he needed to ascertain that his vessel was when she should be. The warp was capable of playing some extreme and cruel tricks with relative time, particularly when conditions within it were rough.

  The rating bent over his station, feverishly working the dials and levers, before turning back to Lucian. “Astrographicus indicates we have arrived ahead of schedule sir. Transient conditions within the warp, I would surmise.”

  “Early?” Doubt gripped Lucian’s heart. “How early?”

  “Only point zero five sir, we’re—”

  “Good,” interrupted Lucian. It was a fact that the warp did odd things to time and space and his ilk had to live with that. The consequences of some particularly extreme distortions however were scarcely worth considering.

  “Station three. Scan for the Fairlight and Rosetta.”

  The servitor hard-wired to the instruments at station three gave forth its electronic contralto, a disturbing mixture of human and machine generated sound. This continued for several minutes, Lucian feeling more unsettled as time dragged on.

  “Holo,” he ordered, the holograph display resolving before him. At first grainy and blurred, the image became more detailed as the augurs gathered more and more information on the area of space immediately surrounding the Oceanid. Lucian cursed as one third of the image remained empty—the result of losing a scanner tower in the confrontation with the Chasmata orbital.

  “Station three, no luck?”

  The servitor at the communications station ceased its machine gibberish, shaking its head in a motion that Lucian might have taken for sadness in a fully human crewman.

  “Well enough.” If the Oceanid’s jump had been affected by adverse conditions within the warp, it stood to reason that the other vessels might have been too. However, given the circumstances of the jump, Lucian was determined to be sure.

  “Mister Raldi?” The helmsman turned. “I’m going to speak with Master Karisan. You have the bridge.”

  “Aye sir.” Lucian heard the helmsman reply as he stalked from the bridge. If conventional, machine-guided communications could offer no clue, perhaps the ship’s astropath might have more luck, he thought.

  The astropath’s chamber was situated amidships, on the lowest deck. Lucian’s journey took him through an area of his vessel that had taken damage during the skirmish with the Chasmata orbital, and he was forced to double back on himself several times to avoid areas made inaccessible. Work gangs and H-grade servitors packed the gloomy companionways, their junior officers working them around the clock to get the damage repaired, or at least contained.

  As Lucian walked, he cast his mind back over the confrontation, and subsequent emergency jump into warp space. He could feel a pattern emerging, fragments of an overall picture that was not yet ready to reveal itself to him. Luneberg had concealed the true nature of the deal he had sought to negotiate, that much was obvious. Lucian suspected that the Imperial Commander had sought to tie him down on some point of contract, but that, for some reason or other he had changed his mind. Brielle had certainly had some part to play in that, for she had apparently sabotaged the talks quite deliberately. He would find out why, when he found out where she was.

  He recalled the flight from Luneberg’s palace. The man had truly cracked when Brielle had burst in on their final negotiations, and the rogue traders had only barely escaped with their lives. When the orbital had opened fire on them with a weapon that Lucian knew was of alien origin, things had begun to make more sense to him. The weapon, what Lucian took to be some manner of ultra-high velocity mass driver, took its toll on the Oceanid, although she had suffered far worse in her time. The question that begged to be answered, was just where Luneberg had acquired the weapon. He had all but admitted that, at the very least, his world was estranged from the mainstream of the Imperium. Lucian suspected that the Imperial Commander had wavered on the threshold of heresy for some time, and the fact that he had obtained, and used, xenos weaponry suggested that he had decided to take that final step.

  As he waited for a plodding cargo-servitor to pass, Lucian wondered who Luneberg’s allies might be, and on what part he had expected Lucian to fulfill in the venture. Lucian cast his mind over the archives he could recall of this region, but he could not think of a single xenos race that might have entered into such an arrangement. Indeed, he knew of no xenos this side of the Damocles Gulf that had anything
like the level of technology exhibited by the orbital’s weaponry: a previously untracked eldar craftworld, perhaps? He would be surprised in the extreme if a man such as Luneberg had extracted anything out of the enigmatic and unfathomable race, for they were notoriously self-interested and only dealt with others if they were likely to benefit most from the arrangement. Perhaps, thought Lucian, there were other races out there, in the dense and barely charted regions beyond the gulf.

  Looking up from his thoughts, Lucian realised that he had reached his destination: the chamber of Master Karisan. He extended his hand to knock on the frame, but withdrew it as the door was pulled open from within, and he was greeted by a musty, incense-laden scent.

  “My master, please enter,” said a voice from within the dimly lit chamber.

  Lucian stepped through, into the domain of the flotilla’s astropath. The man was ancient, having served a long series of vessels for many decades. He was long past his prime, in Lucian’s opinion, and he rarely called upon his services unless it was vital. He had resolved to seek a replacement when he was able, but the guild had thus far been unwilling to retire Master Karisan. Lucian suspected that they wanted the ancient telepath out of way, and it would take a substantial disbursement to change their minds. It was just one more unwelcome reminder of the failing power of the dynasty.

  The chamber was wide and low, taking the form of a blister upon the Oceanid’s underbelly. One entire wall was a mighty viewing port, beyond which the vessel’s underside and the blackness of starry space were visible. The room was cramped, but not for want of available space. Instead, every surface was crammed with what Lucian took for junk. Long-burned candles, crumpled parchment, dry, dead things and other unidentifiable rubbish littered the place. Master Karisan appeared entirely at home in this environment, for his own appearance was equally dishevelled. A halo of wispy unkempt grey hair framed his craggy face, from which his empty eye sockets stared blankly, his eyes having been burned away by the rite of Soul Binding. He wore a soiled robe of what was, once, lustrous dark green velvet. The telepath bowed as Lucian entered.