Rogue Trader

by Andy Hoare

  She raised herself up once more, intent upon a closer look at the speaker.

  ‘What is our fate, if not to adapt, to evolve?’

  After each verse, the speaker leant forward, studying the crowd as if reading their reaction. He caught Brielle’s eye, and delivered his next line straight to her.

  ‘Are we not uncounted individuals, striving for a common purpose? Why must they deny us our fate? Who are they to control and direct from afar, when we know ourselves as they never can?’

  The man’s words struck a chord deep within Brielle’s heart, yet she knew he trod a path at odds with the teachings of the Imperial Creed, and he did so openly, in the shadow of an abandoned cathedral.

  ‘The old ways hold no meaning for us!’ He was pointing straight at Brielle. ‘Only we can avert doomsday, and only then by uniting­ for the good of all!’

  The old ways have no meaning. Brielle was shocked to hear such words spoken on a world of the Imperium, yet she found they spoke to her more than a thousand sermons of the type she had grown up with. The people here listened, and considered the speaker’s words, they did not make hollow and meaningless responses learned by rote but never truly understood. She was beginning to understand the apparent ennui evinced in the behaviour of Luneberg’s court. Perhaps they were not simply bored, casting around for distraction as she had assumed. Perhaps they were simply free of the constraints that bound so many worlds of the Imperium.

  Yet, what remained once obedience and faith were stripped away? How deep did the teachings of this man, and his like, cut? Brielle could sympathise with a wish to be rid of the shackles of rule, after all, she was a rogue trader and existed outside of such laws, but still she held on to a core of faith in the Emperor. The boundaries of that faith were being redefined as she listened, but she also knew that nothing the speaker could ever say would make her reject the God-Emperor of Mankind. Nothing would change her belief in Him.

  ‘Change is the only constant!’ the man bellowed, bowing to his audience before departing with a flourish. The crowd cheered, mightily impressed at such a witty turn of phrase.

  ‘The wise adapt,’ Brielle whispered, standing in silence as the crowd broke up around her.

  Brielle had found herself wandering aimlessly along the city’s streets, the crowds thinning as the night drew on. She headed in the vague direction of Luneberg’s palace, yet she cared little to return to the company of her father and her stepbrother. Her wanderings brought her back through the centre of the merchants’ quarter, were she slowed, idly looking for some distraction that would delay her return to the palace.

  This part of the city remained busy. Commerce, it appeared, never slept. Merchants in their gaudy dress paraded the streets, ostentatious in their displays of personal wealth. The sounds of drunken merriment emanated from the establishments that crowded the streets, signs above each announcing their specialised venality.

  Brielle was in no mood for shallow vices. She wandered on, until she heard the rumble of shouting and yelling from an entrance ahead. Reaching it, a sign above the door declared that it was an auction house, and by the sound emanating from within, she had no doubt that a sale was in progress, even at such a late hour.

  She entered, a pair of burly guards letting her pass without question, and followed the sound of the shouting up a wide set of stairs, a threadbare, though once elaborate carpet running its length. At the top of the stairs, an archway of crumbling stone led to a gallery, through which Brielle could see crowds of people up on their feet, waving their hands in some agitation.

  She stepped through the archway, and pushed past the rear ranks of the crowd.

  ‘Sold to the representative of the Drefus Cartel!’ A wave of disappointed jeering swept the crowd, and several men, wealthy merchants by their dress, threw papers to the floor, cursing colourfully. Brielle looked to the front of the hall, and saw that she stood upon one gallery of many, arranged around a central pit. The auctioneer sat on a podium, opposite, and appeared to have a large speaker grille for a mouth and a periwig that trailed almost to the floor.

  The auctioneer waved chubby hands, his distorted, artificial voice shouting, ‘Order please gentlemen, order!’ through his speaker-mouth.

  A modicum of calm filled the hall, the merchants chattering excitedly nonetheless. ‘Our next sale is an exquisite example of out-rim xenocana.’

  An attendant stepped out onto the floor of the pit, and a hush descended over the crowd as he held aloft a white staff capped with an elaborate array of multi-faceted jewels and fluted panels. The attendant circled the pit, the staff held high for the closest of the bidders to examine.

  ‘This fine item comes to us from many light years away, and many brave men perished to capture it. It was once the staff of office of the Terror of the Trident Nebula, who wielded it against the orks of the Chrazhgkek tribe.’ The crowd cooed in awe at this, although Brielle had to struggle to stifle a laugh. As much as she was amused at the blatantly fraudulent description, she was even more surprised to witness such an artefact, whether or not it was genuine, on view and for sale on a world of the Imperium. She sighed, beginning to enjoy the freedoms she was witnessing around her.

  ‘What am I bid for this fine, rare item?’

  A comically overweight merchant, half of his bulk spilling over the gallery’s railing, threw his hand in the air. The bidding was on. Brielle watched in wry fascination, her incredulity growing as the bidding increased. She noted that the bidders tendered trade bonds, promissory notes she guessed, that tied them to a common, local market. Such tender would be meaningless outside of Mundus Chasmata, and appeared a deliberate policy to ensure that the trade did not attract the attention of outside authorities.

  As the bidding reached its finale, so the bidders became more unruly. Brielle realised that up to this point, she had not seen the Chasmatans exhibit much in the way of emotion beyond studied disinterest. She wondered whether the acquisition of xenos artefacts, even ones that were likely to be fakes, was merely a new distraction that temporarily sated their apparent languor. The auction reached its conclusion, and the auctioneer hammered his gavel, the crowd erupting once more into bedlam.

  Except that one person stood quite still, and Brielle felt his gaze upon her before turning to see him looking in her direction from the next gallery. A moment later, the robed figure nodded, and ducked into the crowd. Brielle froze, her father’s advice coming to mind: when in doubt, eyes open, mouth closed.

  A minute or two later, and just as the crowd was beginning to quieten, the robed man appeared at Brielle’s side, as she had suspected he would. She turned to face him as he pulled down his hood, to reveal a shaved head, and a square-jawed face, flowing Gothic script tattooed across the cheeks and a heraldic device upon the forehead.

  ‘Naal?’ Brielle asked.

  The man bowed, a smile creasing his sombre face. ‘Indeed my lady. It is an honour to be remembered.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Brielle demurred, wincing as the auctioneer bellowed the details of the next item to be sold, the crowd exploding into raucous chaos once more.

  Naal indicated the archway with a sweeping arm. ‘Shall we?’

  She nodded, and walked by his side out of the gallery. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, madam, do you wish to be escorted back to the palace, or might I be permitted to show you the real sights of Chasmata Capitalis?’

  ‘The real sights?’ Brielle liked the sound of that. ‘Why not?’

  Swirling, discordant rhythms filled the hall, driving howling cadences into Brielle’s skull as she reclined upon a low couch of exquisite brocade. The highborn elite of Mundus Chasmata passed the night away on similar seats, all around. Gossamer drapes suspended from low, carved archways afforded the courtiers a ghostly aspect, their features obscured behind the rich, diaphanous fabric.

  Naal had led Brielle through the back alleys and side streets
of the capital’s old town, in amongst the ancestral piles of the landed ruling class. They had made small talk along the way, Naal revealing himself to be something other than the subservient functionary he had appeared at court. Brielle had found herself intrigued, yet was wily enough not to let her guard down. She would see what this hidden side of Chasmatan society had to offer, and whether she might find profit there.

  The establishment to which Naal had led her was low and sprawling, gloomy yet intimate. At first, it appeared to be some private, aristocratic bordello, although Brielle soon saw that it was something more than that. Small groups of nobles and wealthy merchants huddled in alcoves, some focused upon intent discussion, others observing the other patrons. This was a place, Brielle quickly realised, to see and be seen in. Only an idle-rich, highborn ruling class such as this could sustain such a place, for it evidently relied upon the sort of mutually assured discretion that only an entrenched, nigh incestuous ruling class could maintain.

  Heads had turned as Brielle and Naal had entered, ducking low through the arched doorway and holding aside silken drapes as they passed. Cushions were scattered across the stone floor, and low candles provided scant illumination by which to navigate the scene. Naal had led Brielle to an arched alcove, and bade her sit amongst a group of what were evidently high-ranking courtiers. Then he had pardoned himself, departing to find drinks, and leaving her to observe the scene.

  Occupying the alcove alongside her, the courtiers wore clothes of the most exquisite cut, although Brielle saw that here, as in Luneberg’s court, the fabric was aged and worn, as if the wearer had lost the means, or the will, to maintain or replace it. On the other hand, perhaps the men and women had simply lost interest in their appearance, merely sporting the trappings of wealth and status, whilst evincing little concern for its substance. The courtiers, both men and women, wore powdered wigs and prodigious amounts of make-up, and whispered conspiratorially, the men smirking whilst the women giggled behind fluttering fans. Brielle caught them casting furtive glances her way, more low laughter emanating each time; she sighed, finding such behaviour foolish.

  ‘My apologies for leaving you, Brielle.’ Naal had returned, and placed a crystal decanter on the low table in the centre of the alcove before lowering himself onto the plush seat beside her. He produced a pair of balloon glasses, and poured a small amount of the syrupy liquid from the decanter into each, before handing one to Brielle.

  She raised the glass, inhaling the rich aroma. Although no connoisseur of fine spirits, she knew enough of such things to tell from the thick, woody scent that this was a liquor of the finest quality. She sipped, the complex, powerful flavours washing over her.

  Naal was speaking, but Brielle’s attention was distracted, as the area at the centre of the room filled with sudden activity. A group of servants, previously unseen, was clearing the floor of cushions and tying back drapes, creating a small, open area, into which a tall figure attired in a scarlet robe stepped. The figure bowed to the onlookers, who, like Brielle, craned their necks to see what would happen next.

  ‘My friends,’ the man announced, ‘we have for your edification this night, a guest of the utmost singularity. I present to you, the virtuoso!’

  A chorus of gasps and fluttering fans filled the room, and the already low lighting dimmed even more, leaving just the central space bathed in a soft glow. The robed figure retired to the shadows, and an indistinct form glided on from the opposite side. Brielle had expected some exotic dance or song, and shifted her body around on the couch to gain a better view of what promised to be something else entirely.

  It most certainly was something else. A sphere of glass, less than a metre in diameter, floated into the light in the open area. Brielle lifted herself on her arms, exhilaration flooding her. Something moved within the sphere, something dark: something… alive.

  ‘It is perfectly safe, my lady. Have no fear,’ said Naal.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Brielle, turning her head sharply towards him, uncaring of the irritation in her tone. ‘I’m curious. Where is it from?’

  ‘Please excuse me, I meant no offence. We know not from where the creature hails, exactly, but it is one of several of its type to have come into contact with our merchants working the eastern domains. It has, as you will see, a very special talent.’

  Brielle turned back, all her attention focused on the sphere. It bobbed a metre or two above the floor for a moment, and then began to spin slowly. A deep, bass note droned at the edge of hearing, vibrating through the spectators’ bodies, and something quite amazing took place.

  Every loose item in the room levitated a metre into the air. Brielle sat bolt upright, her knees drawn up under her chin. She looked back at Naal, who was chuckling to himself quietly. He leaned forward, plucked Brielle’s balloon glass from the air, and handed it back to her. She hesitated, and took the glass from him.

  The air of the room was now crowded with levitating objects, ranging from other drinking vessels, to loosened hairpins, coins, ornate fans and all manner of personal effects. The courtiers clapped demurely, some retrieving objects as Naal had, while others seemed quite delighted to see their possessions floating away; and this they did, the items gently gravitating to the centre of the room, where they began a slow orbit around the glass sphere, which Brielle could barely make out once it had pulled in all the objects.

  The bass hum deepened still further, the low tables rattling as vibrations passed through them. A woman opposite giggled, but Brielle caught the nervous glances that she cast around her, and clearly heard the edge of delirium in her laugh. Brielle could see that most of the idle aristocrats had enjoyed this spectacle before, but those that hadn’t were clearly uncomfortable and unsure as to what might happen next.

  As well they might be, thought Brielle, who knew full well that the xenos was not to be made sport of. One with such powers as those on display might conceivably cause enormous loss of life if it happened to turn on its… captors? Masters? Partners? What was the relationship between the man who had announced the show, and the alien itself?

  The bass drone dropped a tone further, hovering at the very limit of human hearing. There it stayed for several minutes, building slowly in tone, an air of tension, or expectation growing with it.

  A sudden electric pulse burst outwards from the sphere, causing the woman opposite Brielle to gasp in shock. The myriad objects orbiting the sphere increased their speed, and the bass tone took on a rhythm, modulated, Brielle discerned, by the speed and bulk of those objects.

  The smaller items swung out, orbiting the sphere at a greater distance. As their course changed, a high-pitched counter-rhythm grew, the movements of glinting hairpins generating sharp, darting notes at the upper edge of hearing.

  The larger items orbiting the sphere then closed in to it, their course slow and graceful. The bass note altered its pulsing to match the movements of slowly tumbling balloon glasses, their syrupy contents sloshing, yet never quite escaping.

  The remaining items each took up a complex orbit, some remaining constant in speed and course whilst others moved into figure of eight formations, some orbiting each other while others moved in relation to the sphere. As each object moved into its unique position in the dance, a corresponding rhythm manifested itself.

  Several hundred objects of varying sizes spun in perfect, dazzling formation around the room, the spectators utterly entranced. Brielle glanced sidelong at the woman sitting opposite, not surprised to see that she had ceased her coy display of shock, and was now staring with open-mouthed rapture at the sight before her.

  Brielle quite lost track of time as the display continued, the complex, interwoven movements and their corresponding rhythms building to an explosive crescendo. At the last, the rhythms synchronised, locked in perfect union for a fleeting,moment in time. The objects froze, hanging motionless in the air. The music ceased, the softest of echoes fading to the e
dge of perception, and then evaporating into nothing. The objects gently sank to the floor, the force holding them releasing its grasp.

  Brielle turned to Naal, surprised to note that a tear ran down her cheek. As her senses returned, she wiped her eyes and shook her head to clear it. She watched the glass sphere bob for a moment, catching fleeting movement within, and then it retired once more to the shadows.

  Those around the room were slowly awakening too, looking around as if roused from a deep sleep. Murmurs of appreciation swept the room, and in a brief moment drinks were being called for and raucous laughter rising.

  Naal took Brielle’s glass from her, and she allowed him to refill it before accepting it back. She sipped, looking around the room. Diaphanous voiles muffled the sounds of merriment and cast bodies in silhouette, but it was clear to Brielle that the festivities had now taken on a keener edge. The woman opposite, who had evinced such shock at the appearance of the virtuoso, had apparently cast off her elaborate outfit and was straddling her neighbour’s lap.

  Brielle took another sip of her liqueur. The remainder of the night passed in a haze.

  Chapter Seven

  Lucian paced the floor before Luneberg’s empty throne, while Korvane stood restlessly nearby. The hour was late and the vast hall was abandoned. Lucian’s footsteps echoed in the darkness, the only other sound the fluttering of artificial wings high above. Cyber-cherubs; Lucian hated the damn things. Vat-grown pets for shallow-minded men.

  ‘This might be our last chance, Korvane, so you leave the talking to me. You will wait while I engage the Imperial Commander. Do you understand?’ Lucian addressed his son, the only other human in the hall.

  ‘I understand, Father.’ His son hid his disappointment well, thought Lucian. ‘What do you have planned?’