Rogue Trader

by Andy Hoare

  Here sat the Magos Explorator Jaakho, a hooded figure whose face was almost entirely lost to a hissing cluster of pipes and cables, his eyes only barely visible as red-lit, cybernetic discs glowing from the depths of the explorator’s hood. Jaakho was the fleet’s most senior member of the Cult Mechanicus, the brotherhood of the Machine God, disciples and prophets of the innermost mysteries of technomancy and psience. It fell to the Magos to direct the crusade in its encounters with the technologies of the foe, to identify what might be exploited, and to combat that which must be resisted and destroyed. Lucian saw in Jaakho’s position a potential ally, for the tech-priest’s stance must surely be the opposite of the cardinals. Where Gurney preached that the tau and all their works must be ground to dust, reviled as unholy anathema, the Magos might look to exploit or to study new technologies discovered along the way. If such a possibility existed, Lucian determined that he would exploit it. Then he moved on, glancing to the next man at the table.

  At Jaakho’s left hand was Pator Sedicae, the most senior Navigator in the crusade, and the man ultimately responsible for the safety of the entire fleet. In common with many Navigators of his age and rank, Sedicae suffered from the genetic curse of his strain. The Navigators were a unique strand of humanity, gifted with the witchsight that allowed them to see the ebb and flow of the tides of the warp, through which they guided their vessels, navigating by the ever-constant light of the Astronomican on distant Terra. As each grew older, and more powerful, he was afflicted with terrible mutations, often causing him to retire from public view and devote himself entirely to his task from the lonely sanctuary of his navigation blister. Sedicae was quite unique in Lucian’s experience, for his curse had not caused him to retire, though some would prefer that it had. Sedicae’s skin was disturbingly translucent, his blood vessels, muscles, bone and pulsing organs plainly visible. The effect was ghastly, but it in no way impeded the Navigator in his duties, and so he went about his business, sitting on the crusade council and representing the interests of the other Navigators serving the fleet where a compatriot of a like age might be rendered unable to do so by the extent of his mutation. Lucian found the man hard to read, no doubt, he mused, due to the rigorous defences the Navigator, by necessity, surrounded himself with when traversing the daemon haunted depths of the warp.

  To Sedicae’s left sat a man for whom Lucian had felt a deep, abiding dislike the instant they had been introduced at the outset of the crusade. Praefect Maximus Skissor of the Adeptus Terra was a tall, hawkish man, whose haughty nature had infuriated Lucian from the off. Skissor was tasked with the political governance of the crusade, of overseeing the installation of new planetary governments, and of coordinating the crusade’s efforts with the strategic concerns of the entire Ultima Segmentum. To Lucian, Skissor was a man promoted way above his abilities, due no doubt to some debt owed him by a compatriot, called in to buy him a seat on the council and to make his name along the way. Lucian had no problem with ambition, he welcomed it in the right sort of man, but here was ambition entirely divorced of potential, and Lucian had seen much death and destruction brought about by such a combination. He had already decided that when Skissor fell, for fall Lucian knew he would, he would not take any of the Arcadius with him,

  Lastly, to Gurney’s right sat Logistician-General Stempf of the Departmento Munitorum. If Lucian disliked Praefect Maximus Skissor, he positively loathed Stempf. The task of organising the crusade’s logistics, of ensuring its supplies of ammunition, fuel, foodstuffs and a thousand other items would never run out, fell to the logistician-general. He was, Lucian believed, the worst possible crossbreed of autocrat and accountant, politician and statistician, warmonger and profiteer. Lucian’s dislike of such men was bred into his line since the time of Maxim Gerrit, the ancient ancestor upon whose legacy the entire Arcadius dynasty was built. Well, Lucian thought, old Maxim would turn in his icy grave at the thought of an Arcadius having dealings with such a man, and as such, Lucian would have nothing to do with the logistician-general. He suspected that the man would throw his lot in with the cardinal anyway, and had long since written him off as a source of support.

  ‘…should pledge his unconditional support in this matter,’ Gurney was saying as Lucian turned his attention back to the cardinal’s ranting. He became aware that an unusual silence had settled upon the council, and that each member was looking in Lucian’s direction.

  ‘You will, of course, support us in this matter?’ said the cardinal, directly to Lucian.

  His mind racing, Lucian cursed himself for a fool. He had let his mind wander whilst the cardinal ranted, and had missed some important point on which Gurney sought to entrap him. He heard a soft cough from behind him, and subtly turned his glance towards Korvane, who sat at one of the many seats arranged around the outer circumference of the chamber. With the slightest shake of his head, Lucian’s son told him all he needed to know.

  ‘I advise caution in this matter,’ said Lucian, fully aware how glib his answer must sound, but determined not to allow the cardinal to win any victory over him, no matter how minor.

  ‘Caution?’ retorted the cardinal, sitting himself down and exchanging a silent glance with the inquisitor at his side. ‘You would cast doubt upon the divine right of Mankind to rule this region? You would suggest that these xenos filth enjoy a higher place in the holy order of existence than we do?’

  So that was his game. Lucian saw then the point the cardinal was trying to push through the council.

  ‘My dear cardinal,’ Lucian replied, warming to the confrontation now that he had the measure of his opponent. ‘I have travelled from one end of the Emperor’s Domains to the other. I have travelled far beyond of the realm of the Imperium. Though I have encountered many and various civilised xenos races, I have yet to discover one that is not of more value to us alive than dead.’

  A murmur rippled around the table, some councillors evidently agreeing with Lucian’s statement, others disagreeing and others still uttering noncommittal niceties. Within scant seconds, Lucian saw a new balance of power form, perhaps one that would ultimately shift the council in his favour. He saw that Jellaqua and Gauge agreed with his position; the tau should not be wiped out indiscriminately, but should be conquered for the benefit of the Imperium of Man.

  Lucian’s position on this matter was the product of his unique upbringing. As a rule, humanity was jealous of the galaxy’s other races, for most were dire threats to the continued existence of the human race, and besides, felt that theirs was the right to rule the galaxy and not man’s. Rogue traders, however, were unusual in that it was their duty to go out in to the dark places beyond human controlled space and to exploit what they encountered. In some cases this meant trading with alien races rather than destroying them outright. Rogue traders often held the view that not all xenos should be exterminated on first contact, a view at odds with the teachings of the Imperial Creed, the dogma the cardinal held as sacrosanct.

  ‘What use to let them live?’ asked the cardinal, now addressing the entire council. ‘What use their continued existence? What might they teach us? What might they provide us?’

  ‘I would suggest,’ replied Lucian, also addressing the council as a whole, ‘that the best way to find out might be to ask one.’

  Another ripple of comment passed around the table, this time more urgent in its tone. Lucian saw that Inquisitor Grand was looking right at him, his hooded face making his expression entirely unreadable, only his frowning mouth visible in the shadows.

  ‘You are suggesting,’ the cardinal replied, once more addressing Lucian directly, ‘that the pure form of Man should be sullied in body and soul by contact with a living, breathing alien?’

  ‘If the crusade might benefit from doing so, and if the Emperor’s cause might be furthered, then yes,’ said Lucian, looking the cardinal straight in the eye. ‘That is exactly what I am suggesting.’

  ‘’Ware th
e fore!’ called Sarik, ducking behind an outcropping of rock, and resisting, barely, the urge to laugh out loud for the joy of battle coursing through his veins. A mighty explosion sounded a second later, the heat of the melta charge he had just planted evident even through his armour and from behind cover. He had led his squad across the cratered plateau, glorying in the fact that he had done so before the Iron Hands had even disembarked. Now, he would lead his brother Space Marines in an assault against the enemy bunker complex.

  ‘With me!’ shouted Sarik, rising from his position and striding into the smoke of the explosion. Through the enhanced vision granted him by the systems in his helmet, he saw that the armoured door had been reduced to glowing slag by the miniature nuclear charge he had placed against it, providing a way in to the tau command centre. Sarik’s squad would be the first into the bunker, the glory of victory would belong to the White Scars.

  Sarik passed through the ruined bunker entrance and slowed to allow his squad to catch up with him. He trained his bolter at the darkness before him, his suit’s systems detecting no life forms within the shadows.

  He opened his mouth to issue the order to advance, when he heard a high-pitched whine pass mere centimetres from his head. He turned, catching sight of a blue flash illuminating the shadows further down the corridor. It was the unmistakable signature of a weapons discharge, Sarik was sure of that, but despite that, he had no clue as to what type of weapon was being fired.

  ‘Squad!’ he called. ‘Target ahead. Overwatch.’

  Another whine passed dangerously close, but still the war spirit in Sarik’s armour could not identify the position of the firer. He ducked back, but too late, as a mighty impact struck the armour of his right shoulder. He stifled a curse as the reactive actuators compensated for the impact. He was not hurt, but still he could not locate his foe.

  ‘By the Great Khan,’ he swore, releasing the catches that secured his helmet. The air of Sy’l’Kell greeted him as he lifted the helm, the smell of cordite and smoke filling his nostrils. He strained his eyes to pick out his attacker, and was rewarded with a brief glimpse of movement amidst the smoke.

  He raised his bolter and fired two shots the length of the corridor. Sparks flew where the bolts struck, followed an instant later by two muffled explosions as they detonated within their target. But where Sarik had expected to hear the wet thump of a body hitting the ground, he distinctly heard the crash of a solid object falling, followed by a small explosion.

  Seizing the initiative before any more foes could zero in on his position, Sarik rose and charged down the corridor, knowing that his brethren would follow his lead. The smoke parted as he reached the end of the low, dark corridor, and Sarik saw that he had come to a junction at its end. Burning scrap was scattered across the floor, the remains of a flat, dome-shaped machine with twin weapons mounted beneath. Sarik saw instantly why his suit’s war spirit had been unable to detect an enemy.

  ‘Squad, disengage target acquisition. Use your own senses, not those of your armour.’ Several of the Space Marines removed their helmets as they took up position around their leader, while others spoke words of command that would render their armour’s targeting systems dormant until revived. ‘The enemy are using thinking machines to fight us, and they barely show up on autosenses.’

  Such a thing was anathema to the White Scars, indeed, to all Space Marines. They were a warrior brotherhood, fighting and bleeding and dying together. To rely on a machine to do one’s fighting was a blasphemy against their warrior honour, as well as against the religious dogma of their Chapter.

  Sarik kicked the sputtering remains of the tau fighting machine, contempt writ large across his face. ‘Brothers, we seek the tau leadership. I think they have need of a lesson in honour.’

  ‘Which man here,’ asked the cardinal, addressing the entire council, ‘would consort with xenos?’

  Lucian looked around the table, noting that none of the council members would answer a question so obviously weighted to implicate any who did so. If the cardinal can play that game, then so can I, thought Lucian.

  ‘Which man here,’ Lucian asked in reply, ‘would throw away a chance to know more of his foe, that he might defeat him all the more decisively?’

  At that, Lucian saw a number of heads nod in thoughtful agreement. Admiral Jellaqua and General Gauge were unashamed in their agreement, while other council members were more subtle and cautious, restricting their gestures to slight nods.

  The cardinal saw this too, Lucian noticed, and evidently decided to change his tack.

  ‘Gentlemen. I would point out that I could settle this matter entirely, and I would not need your permission or assent to do so.’

  ‘Explain,’ said the Magos Explorator Jaakho, the first time a council member other than the cardinal or Lucian had spoken up.

  ‘By all means,’ replied Gurney. ‘I could simply order the world below us virus bombed. Believe me, I would do so.’

  ‘How? replied the magos explorator, his voice mechanical and grating. ‘How do you come to have such devices?’

  Though the tech-priest’s voice was nigh emotionless, Lucian caught the edge to it. Little could cause excitement in a senior adept of the Machine God, for they surrendered much of themselves in their integration with the mechanisms of their calling, merging and becoming one with the great cogitation banks with which they communed. A virus bomb, an example of high technology proscribed by ancient decree and available only to the very highest of authorities was just the type of thing to gain a reaction from such as he.

  Lucian saw the answer coming, and looked to the cardinal’s left, to Grand, as Gurney replied.

  ‘There are those of the council who agree with my position,’ stated the cardinal. Lucian saw that the inquisitor was looking right at him, the effect made quite disconcerting, because Grand’s eyes were still obscured in shadow.

  ‘My lords,’ Lucian addressed the council, ‘let us not be drawn into rash, unilateral action. Let us stand united in our efforts to prosecute the crusade, for is that not the task the High Lords have set us?’

  He knew even as he spoke that he had made an enemy of the cardinal, and must work to draw the non-aligned members of the council to a new faction of his own creation.

  ‘With me!’ Sarik called, launching himself through the wreckage of the final armoured barrier between him and the inner command centre of the tau bunker. Even as the smoke cleared and his brothers­ crashed through behind him, he saw that he had reached the final phase of the mission.

  Sarik and his brother Marines had fought through the winding­ corridors of the complex, facing and destroying more of the machine-warriors as they penetrated deeper. They burst into a massive chamber, its walls stark white and illuminated by the blue light of a thousand data screens. One such screen dominated the far wall, a massive projection plotting the course of the battle as it raged all around the plateau.

  Silhouetted against that huge display, Sarik saw what he knew instantly was the alien he had come to kill, the head that when decapitated would spell the death of the entire body.

  Attendants wearing oil-stained jump suits and bearing all manner of alien tools surrounded a mighty suit of armour far larger and more bulky than the armour worn by the White Scars. More accurately, Sarik saw, the figure did not wear the armour at all, but had climbed within it, to act not as a wearer but as a pilot.

  Their task complete, the attendants stepped away from their leader. Relishing the thought of the upcoming duel, Sarik stepped forward, waving his brethren back as they went to follow. An unspoken understanding had, somehow, made itself apparent between the two leaders. Perhaps the tau did know of honour, Sarik thought, stowing his bolter and drawing his chainsword.

  The tau commander drew himself to his full height, ignited his suit’s jets and leapt to the floor before the Space Marine. Only ten metres separated the two warriors, affo
rding Sarik a view of the weapons his adversary carried. He saw instantly that the tau was equipped for a ranged fight, apparently lacking any form of weapon that could be used in a melee.

  ‘Man,’ the tau said to Sarik’s surprise, ‘though we may be enemies, I am duty bound to offer to you our friendship. We need not fight, you and I. What say you?’

  Though taken aback by his enemy’s question, Sarik answered in the only way he could. ‘Tau, we are foemen. If you wish to surrender, that choice is yours.’

  The square device atop the tau’s armour, which Sarik took to be some form of armoured sensor block, dipped, perhaps in sadness. ‘You misunderstand me, human,’ the tau replied. ‘I do not offer you my surrender. I offer you my friendship and that of all the tau. You must join us, or we must fight.’

  It took Sarik a moment to assimilate the alien’s words, for no foe had ever asked him to surrender and to join him. Such a thing was utterly unthinkable, the very notion causing Sarik to bristle in anger.

  ‘If you truly expect me to throw down my arms and join you, then you do not know honour after all,’ said Sarik, thumbing the activation stud on the grip of his chainsword and causing it to growl into angry life.

  ‘I do not ask you to throw down your arms, for I, like you, am a warrior and know well what that would mean. I offer you common cause. If you join the Tau Empire then you may fight for a cause truly worthy of your life. Join the Tau Empire, and we might fight together, not against one another!’