“There weren’t many left, after Gurney’s courts,” Lucian replied, his mood darkening at his son’s mention of the Cardinal of Brimlock. “Just the dregs whose executions were commuted to service. What of the Rosetta?”
“The Arrikis Epsilon intake settled down well,” Korvane replied, referring to the massive draft of unskilled crew that the rogue traders had demanded from the Imperial commander of that world, replacements for the hundreds of casualties Korvane’s crew had suffered in battle weeks before. “There’re a handful that have made bridge crew, and one or two potential officers amongst them.”
“Hmm,” replied Lucian, distracted by the actions of the repair crew as they toiled with the plasma ran. He saw that they were making a total hash of their work and their overseer was proving entirely inadequate in his role.
“You!” Lucian bellowed, the work crew and every other crewman in the area standing to immediate attention.
He advanced upon the petty officer in charge of the crew, gratified to see that the man had the decency to go pale at his master’s approach.
“What the hell are you trying to achieve here? You’ve got a dozen unskilled men screwing up a job that a pair of acolytes could complete to perfection in under an hour. Well?”
“Sir,” the man stammered, his uncertainty and fear evident in his voice. “Sir, the adepts are all engaged on the drive service deck, sir. We were ordered to secure this plasma ran as a matter of urgency though, and we…”
“For the Emperor’s sake,” Lucian cursed, “I’m afflicted by fools in all quarters.” Frustration rose within him as he considered that, even though the rogue traders’ fortunes had improved in the wake of the encounters in the Timbra subsector, the flotilla was still being operated at something less than ideal levels. Though his crews were now larger, Lucian knew they still had a long way to go before attaining the experience and professionalism taken for granted in the dynasty until very recently.
“Wait until the adepts are available,” Lucian ordered the petty officer, “but impress upon them the urgency of the task. If that run leaks in transit I’ll hold you, not the adepts, personally responsible. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
The man could only nod at Lucian’s threat, knowing, as he must have done, the punishment that would await him were any malfunction to afflict the plasma relay. Lucian nodded, and the man took the hint and turned to gather his crew, who skulked off as fast as their dignity allowed.
Lucian watched the work crew retreat down the corridor, and then turned sharply on his heels to continue on his way. As he turned, he almost collided with another junior officer, a member of the bridge crew, though he could not remember the man’s name.
“What the hell do you want?” Lucian bawled, the deck officer standing to rigid attention.
“Message from the bridge, my lord,” the officer replied, his voice steady in contrast to that of the work crew overseer. “Visitor on board.”
“Who?” Lucian replied, knowing it must be someone important for the bridge to send a runner to inform him.
“General Wendall Gauge, my lord. He awaits you in the starboard bridge receiving room.”
Lucian turned to his son, who shrugged, clearly as surprised as he was. “Well then,” Lucian said to Korvane, “let’s see what brings the general on board, shall we?”
“Lord Arcadius,” the general said as Lucian entered the receiving room, Korvane following close behind. “Please accept my apologies for the circumstances of this visit.” Gauge cut an imposing figure, even in the ornately decorated chamber, though Lucian noted that he appeared uncomfortable in his general staff formal dress. Gauge was broad and muscled in common with all the men of Catachan, his face scarred and dour, a dangerous glint in his steely eyes.
“Not at all,” Lucian replied, instantly cautious. “I had hoped we would have the opportunity to talk. I take it, however, that a specific matter brings you here, at this time?”
“Indeed,” Gauge said, turning his back on Lucian and Korvane, to look out of the brass-rimmed viewing port to the busy space beyond. After a moment of silence, the general spoke. “It’s bad news, Lucian, a bad business I’m afraid.”
Lucian caught his son’s glance, before crossing to the general’s side, looking out, as did his guest, upon the blackness of space and the myriad fleet service craft engaged on their apparently endless tasks.
“Tell me,” Lucian pressed, his mind racing to predict what council intrigue might have brought the general to his ship. He loathed the feeling of not being in complete control, of waiting upon another.
“Inquisitor Grand, Lucian. You have not heard?”
“Heard what?” Lucian demanded, his frustration growing. Had the inquisitor pulled rank on the council, he wondered? Had Gurney finally convinced him to use the influence he had, to date, held in check?
“He is wounded, badly,” the general said, looking Lucian in the eye as he spoke.
Lucian felt sudden guilty elation at the news, tempered an instant later by the realisation that such an event might well have serious implications for them all. He turned and lifted a crystal decanter from a polished wooden side table, and poured a hefty slug for himself and another for the general.
“How?”
Gauge took the proffered glass and downed the liquor in a single gulp. “He was burned, eighty per cent of his body. It was a deliberate attack, in the detention block, as he attended to his prisoners.”
“One of the tau? A break out attempt?”
“No, although they did escape.”
“All of them?” Lucian could scarcely countenance that the tau might have succeeded in escaping from an accomplished agent of the Orders of the Inquisition. “They must have been helped. A traitor?”
“The inquisitor’s staff believe so,” Gauge said, helping himself to a second drink, and pouring one for Lucian too.
“Lucian,” the general turned to fully face his host. “What of Brielle?”
Lucian’s breath caught in his throat, for he had not even thought of his daughter for several hours, so busy had he and his son been with the warp drive replenishment. “What of her?” he asked. Though he respected, even liked, the general, Lucian’s guard was fully up, for it was his family of which Gauge spoke.
“Grand’s staff, Lucian. They have made certain… insinuations.”
“Korvane?” Lucian summoned his son. “Find her.” Korvane nodded and left the room in silence, though Lucian noted a familiar glint in his son’s eye. He thought that the old sibling rivalry was rearing its head again, though Korvane’s expression grew darker each time his stepsister’s name was mentioned.
“General,” Lucian said, turning back to his guest, “please, be frank with me. I count you an honest man, and I believe we are both on the same side. I know nothing of the inquisitor, or it seems, my daughter. Tell me all.”
The general bowed slightly at Lucian’s compliment, a gesture the old veteran rarely performed. “Very well. As I said, the inquisitor has been assaulted, and lies in the medicae bay, even now, attended by his household apothecaries. His staff report that the prisoners are gone, and there is evidence of at least one intruder having infiltrated the detention block. Someone entered Cell Block Eta, attacked the inquisitor, freed the prisoners and escaped.”
“What has Brielle to do with this? I see no connection.”
“Neither do I, Lucian, but the inquisitor’s staff wish to speak to her, and she is not answering hails to the Fairlight. I know not what evidence they might have to link her with the assault, but I do not believe they would ask unless they were very sure of themselves.”
“Of course they’re sure of themselves,” Lucian spat, before lowering his voice, “they’re the Inquisition.”
“Lucian, I warn you…”
“To silence, general? On my own vessel? On this ship, Wendell, I am Emperor, Primarch, Warmaster and bloody executioner. I will not have some…”
“Lucian!” The general’s voice wa
s cutting, making Lucian look up and meet Gauge’s eyes. “Do not assume the inquisitor, or the cardinal for that matter, is anything less than dangerous in the extreme. We may all hold the same nominal rank, you, I, them and the rest of the council, but we both know what Grand truly represents.”
“Korvane!” Lucian bellowed, a moment before his son returned. “Well?”
“Nothing, father.”
“Explain.”
“She is not aboard the Fairlight, her duty officer is quite sure.”
“And she is not aboard the station,” the general cut in. “The inquisitor’s staff are equally sure.”
“Whatever is going on, everything changes from here on in.” Lucian was thinking on his feet, his mind plotting a million potential ramifications of the news. What had his errant daughter done, why, and what might the inquisitor’s response be?
“The council,” Lucian said, turning on the general once more. “Lines will be drawn over this. Can I at least assume that you and I shall stand on the same side of those lines?”
“I would not have come to you like this if it were not so, Lucian.”
“I thank you,” Lucian replied. “What of Jellaqua?”
The general laughed out loud at the mention of his counterpart in the Imperial Navy. “That old bastard? He curses Gurney for a motherless grox, and would oppose him and his allies on sheer principle alone.”
“Good, good,” said Lucian, smiling at the thought of the irascible old admiral voicing such an opinion over an oversized glass of after-dinner liquor. With an effort, he pushed the problem of Brielle to the back of his mind, and continued with his immediate concern.
“I think that Sarik and I see eye to eye,” Lucian went on. The White Scars Space Marine hailed from the world on which his daughter had been raised, and that might provide some common link that could grow to a more solid alliance. “Rumann I’m not so sure of, he’s a hard one to read.”
“As are all his Chapter,” the General replied, “they have something of the machine about them, if you catch my meaning.”
“I do. The same goes for Jaakho, though he appears more disposed to our point of view in council recently.”
The general nodded byway of reply, before Lucian continued, “And the Navis Nobilite Sedicae?”
“Very hard to say,” Gauge replied, before Korvane interrupted.
“Father, might I speak?”
“Of course, Korvane,” Lucian said, mildly unsettled that his son should feel the need to ask permission to speak his mind. Of course Korvane should speak, Lucian thought, for he had been raised in the Court of Nankirk, studied at his mother’s side the myriad intrigues of its nobles, and his guidance had true meaning.
“I believe the logistician general, Stempf, to be a lost cause. He has sought patronage since the outset, and found it in the cardinal. He has voted in favour of Gurney’s motions on twelve major issues, abstained only once, and never voted against. I believe he is entirely beholden to Gurney, and will not be drawn away unless the cardinal is thoroughly defeated. Then, he will seek an immediate alliance with the stronger faction.”
“True enough, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Lucian nodded in agreement with his son’s assessment. “What of the Praefect Maximus?”
“Skissor has no loyalty and no great intellect. He is a man of high birth, but the youngest of many siblings and therefore the least likely to benefit from his connections and resources. He is from Kar Duniash, where the youngest born sons are sent to the planetary levy, for the commissions are less dear than those already purchased for the older sons. The fact that he is not serving in the defence force suggests to me that he somehow side-stepped that duty, probably by luck, but possibly through dishonest means.”
“So, he’s out on a limb?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, father. He certainly occupies a precarious position, despite his airs. I believe he would be amenable to supporting us, but only if we could prove, pre-emptively, that we are the stronger faction, and the one most likely to perpetuate his own, personal, status quo.”
“So,” said Lucian. “Me, you, the admiral and Sarik. That’s four of us against Gurney, the inquisitor and Stempf. We can talk to Rumann and Jaakho, possibly Sedicae, but Skissor is unlikely. That puts us ahead, by my reckoning.”
“Yes, father,” Korvane hesitated.
“What? Out with it, Korvane.”
“It’s Brielle, father,” Korvane continued. “If she is implicated in this attack on Grand, there is no way the council could support you. The general and the admiral are generous in their support.” Gauge bowed his head to Korvane at the comment. “But Grand need only invoke the power of his Inquisitorial Seal. The council might be disbanded. It would certainly be torn apart.”
“You are right, of course,” Lucian replied, inwardly cursing his daughter for any part she might have played in this mess. “Whatever happens, he must not be pushed to do so. I’m sure only a higher authority than the inquisitor stays his hand, a superior with an agenda we are not yet aware of.”
“What will you do, father?”
“Well, my son, I’ve been in tighter corners, but not by much.” Lucian grinned. “We find Brielle, and I face the council. This reminds me of the time I had to meet the prince of the Steel Eye Reavers, having earlier that evening stumbled upon his daughter and her maidservants engaged in an act that I’m quite sure no human had ever witnessed. I got through that, and I’ll get through this.”
Later that evening, Lucian stood alone in an observation blister atop one of the Oceanid’s dorsal sensor pylons. The view from his vantage point was nothing short of stunning, even to such a seasoned spacefarer. The heavy cruiser stretched below, hundreds of metres fore and aft, from her armoured prow section to the clustered drives astern. The Oceanid was tethered to the tau station, the wounds of the first space battle still evident on the alien structure’s flanks. The fleet tender, Harlot, was pulling away from Lucian’s vessel, slow and gravid with her terrible cargo. Lucian recalled with distaste the replenishment of his warp drive, and was thankful such an operation need only be undertaken very rarely. It would take weeks for the stink of cooked flesh to be scrubbed from his ship’s atmosphere, he thought, resenting the mechanicus and their practices, but knowing he had no choice in the matter.
Further out still, Lucian could see the various ships of the fleet: a dozen capital vessels, most of equivalent displacement to the Oceanid, some even heavier, some smaller. The Blade of Woe, Admiral Jellaqua’s flagship, lay at anchor three kilometres to the port. Her mighty armoured prow gleamed white in the light of the local star, for the irascible and eccentric Jellaqua had ordered a fresh coat of paint applied before the crossing of the Gulf, and press-ganged work crews had laboured triple shifts to carry out his order in time.
A number of escort squadrons were stationed around the fleet, each deployed to screen the larger, more valuable ships from surprise attack at what was perhaps the crusade’s most vulnerable point. Each squadron consisted of three, sometimes four, vessels, whose role was to intercept any enemy attempting to close on one of the battle cruisers, and each captain knew that his ship and crew were entirely expendable so long as his task was done and his charge protected. Such was the tradition in the Imperial Navy, and it made Lucian glad he operated outside of its command.
Schools of smaller vessels, service craft and tenders of all classes, were clustered around each ship or moved to and fro between them. Last minute supplies were delivered, vital maintenance performed, and high-ranking officers ferried back and forth for last minute briefings and consultations.
In all, the sight was one to stir the heart of any ship’s master, but for Lucian, it was overshadowed.
The crusade stood on the brink of crossing the Damocles Gulf, but Lucian could only ponder his daughter’s fate. She had disappeared, and he had been forced to disown her to the council. The cardinal had ranted and raved, calling for the perpetrator of the attack to be hunted down
and brought to justice, and Lucian had no choice but to agree with him. The cardinal had stopped short of naming Lucian’s offspring as the attacker, but had noted her disappearance, and commented upon it in council. Whilst the inquisitor lay in the medicae centre, recovering from his wounds, Gurney would not press his case, and Lucian remained in good standing. But Lucian knew that things might soon shift dramatically.
In the meantime, the crusade would penetrate the dark region that was the Damocles Gulf. What lay within, or beyond, he had scarcely a clue, but a part of him, the scion of one of the greatest rogue trader dynasties ever to take the High Lords’ charter, revelled in the adventure. Another part of him mourned, for he had, in all likelihood, lost his daughter, whatever had become of her.
Lucian crossed to the access hatch set in the deck. He had a ship to captain, fleet to usurp and an empire to conquer. Perhaps things weren’t quite so bad, after all.
CHAPTER SIX
Lucian’s gaze was fixed on the chronograph’s hands as they counted down to the moment when the Oceanid would exit the warp. He could not say how long he had sat in his command throne and stared at the clock face; he had lost track of the passage of time, as it was so easy to do while traversing the depths of the Immaterium.
He blinked, shook his head and tore his eyes away from the slowly moving hands. It was just a trick of the warp, he told himself. He had only briefly glanced towards the chronometer despite what his mind was telling him.
“Mister Raldi.” Lucian addressed his helmsman. He got no answer.
“Mister Raldi, are you with us?” He caught a number of the bridge crew shaking themselves as if from a trance, looking around in mild confusion, before exchanging nervous glances. They feared the wrath of their master, expecting it to materialise at any moment.
“Mister Raldi!” Lucian called louder. The helmsman slowly turned to look at Lucian. Raldi’s eyes were blank and unfocused, his head lolling slightly to one side. Lucian stood from his command throne and crossed the bridge. Facing his helmsman, he saw what his own face must have looked like only an instant earlier. But where he, and the other bridge crew, had shaken loose the fugue, Helmsman Raldi appeared entirely trapped. Saliva dripped down Raldi’s chin. Lucian determined to take drastic action.
[Rogue Trader 02] - Star of Damocles Page 9