“What on Sacred Terra do you mean ‘outside your purview’?”
Lucian, flanked by his offspring, dominated the cramped office of the harbour master of the Mundus Chasmata Orbital—the space station through which all traffic to and from the world’s surface had to pass. He loomed over the adept’s wide desk, sweeping aside rolled parchments and toppling a stack of cargo manifests. They had arrived unannounced, Lucian pushing his way contemptuously past the attendant who had attempted to inform him that the master would not be receiving callers for another three years at best. If he wanted to expedite the process, the functionary had spluttered, Lucian would need to complete an Application of Extraordinary Exception, in triplicate.
Lucian had insisted, quite forcibly, that the lackey contact his superiors on the surface, before confronting the harbour master himself.
“Our system monitor boat is currently, er, out of system. That you recklessly drew your attacker onto the defence platform’s guns is not my responsibility. That platform has not been required to fire its weapons in three centuries, sir. The expended ordnance will be replenished at your expense.”
“Wait a moment.” Lucian was losing patience with the harbour master. “That my ships were attacked in your system is not your fault, because your system defence boat was not present, defending its system? If I understand correctly, you expect recompense for the shells fired by your system defence platform? Shells fired whilst performing its sacred duty of defending its system?”
“Sir, I suggest you familiarise yourself with the terms of the Pax Chasmatus, chapter seventy-nine, verse one hundred and thirty—”
“Emperor’s balls! I’ve heard eldar make more sense than you! Give me clearance to make planetfall before I do something you might regret.”
“I’m afraid, sir, that I cannot do that. As I said, it is outside my purview. The dictates of the Pax Chasmatus state that you must await the next shuttle. You may not travel to the surface in your own vehicle.”
Suspecting he would not care for the answer, Lucian asked, “And when is the next shuttle scheduled to arrive?”
“Three months from now. The waiting chamber is located on level Gamma Twelve, Sector Nine, past the containment chambers, on the left.”
Lucian’s right hand moved to the holster at his left hip, that holding the, non-lethal, neural disruptor. He thought better of the act, however. His hand moved instead to the, highly lethal, plasma pistol held in the holster at his right hip. Before his hand reached the holster, a metallic chime sounded from a brass grille set into the harbour master’s desk.
Cautiously, the man reached across to open the channel. “Adept Telsi?” He cleared his throat with a nervous cough. “Go ahead.”
A tinny voice squawked from the grille. It was the harbour master’s functionary, and he had received a reply from the message Lucian had insisted he deliver. The hint of a smile appeared at the edge of his mouth.
“I take it the shuttle’s schedule is not quite as inflexible as it may at first have appeared?” He leant over the desk once more, making an exaggerated show of tidying the paper strewn across it.
The harbour master bristled at the sight of the rogue trader interfering with his paperwork, but held on to his composure. “Yes sir, bay Alpha Six, three hours. The waiting chamber is—”
“Past the containment chambers, on the left,” Lucian growled, before turning on the spot and sweeping out of the harbour master’s office. Brielle winked at the man and turned to follow her father. Korvane snorted contemptuously and followed them both out.
The descent from orbit took only thirty minutes, and soon the shuttle was screaming through the night skies of Mundus Chasmata. Lucian looked out through the armoured porthole, seeing the distant horizon lit smoky violet in a predawn glow. The shuttle was shabby and ill-maintained. The three rogue traders had been forced to share its sparse passenger compartment with a handful of menials and petty administrators, second assistant-under-deputy clerks, he judged, no doubt returning to the surface following their long, tedious and mind-numbingly boring work rotations aboard the orbital.
As the shuttle crossed the world’s terminator line, the landscape below became visible. Although a world of myriad terrain types, from high altitude, sub-zero polar oxide wastes to inland seas of stinking ammonia, the predominant feature of Mundus Chasmata was the deep scars gouged out of its crust in its distant pre-history. These formed kilometres-long, kilometres-deep gullies, although most were little more than a few dozen metres across.
“Wouldn’t want to get marooned here,” said Brielle, her statement echoing Lucian’s thoughts unerringly. Even if you survived a crash, he knew, you’d never make it to civilisation. The densely packed chasms would claim anyone foolish enough to attempt crossing them.
Korvane had been poring over a data-slate, which he now handed to his father. Across its monochrome green and black screen scrolled reams of data. Every detail from average rainfall to import/export figures was covered. Lucian called up a summary.
The world of Mundus Chasmata was colonised, the data-slate reported, at an unrecorded date prior to the thirty-third millennium. That hardly surprised Lucian, for most such civilisations he had visited predated the Imperium of Man by many thousands of years, although few records preserved any more details than the name of a founding dynasty. The world’s population was just over the one billion mark, a figure consistent with many similar worlds. Lucian had visited agri-worlds farmed by machines whose human populations were counted in the hundreds, and hive worlds where billions crowded into kilometres-high spires. The Imperium was nothing if not diverse.
The system’s location at the borders of human space put it at risk of alien predation, and this far out it could count little on aid arriving in time to save it in the event of attack. Aside from the irregular visits of lone Imperial Navy vessels on long-ranged patrol, Mundus Chasmata could look only to itself for defence. One in ten adults were therefore required to serve in the world’s Planetary Defence Force, an institution that had, on four recorded occasions in the last three centuries provided troops for the Imperial Guard.
More text streamed across the data-slate’s screen. Mundus Chasmata vied with its neighbour Arris Epsilon, located at the opposite extreme of the Timbra subsector, for what little trade the region would support. The planets of this lonely area were, by necessity it appeared, largely self-sufficient. They had little contact with the Imperium, and little to offer it in terms of resources. That was what made the planet’s ruler’s offer too promising to pass up.
A hereditary noble class, purporting to have its roots in the world’s founding, ruled Mundus Chasmata, the Luneberg family, headed by the present Imperial Commander, Culpepper Luneberg the Twenty-ninth, lording over their world as a private fiefdom. Indeed, so long as they paid the Imperium its tithes once in every generation, that was exactly what it was. Mundus Chasmata appeared to be the perfect place to do business of the type that the Imperium at large might not look upon too kindly.
As the shuttle banked over Chasmata Capitalis, the world’s first city and its seat of government, dawn broke. The light was the colour of honeyed gold and high clouds of deep red scudded across the sky.
The city sat at the centre of a wide, flat plain, Lucian had seen similar sights, and hazarded an informed, if unsubstantiated guess that it was the very spot at which the world’s first colonists had made planetfall. If so, its original construction might have proceeded along prescribed lines, Chasmata Capitalis subsequently sprawling in all directions, as many such cities were wont to do two or three generations after their founding. Lucian caught a glimpse of distant hydroponics domes at the city’s outer edge, although the shuttle changed course before he could examine the curiosity further.
The shuttle’s final approach brought it low over what appeared to form the city’s merchant quarter. Rendered the colour of tarnished gold by the light of Chasmata’s star, Lucian identified the buildings as representative of the Late Dec
livitous style, a typically ornate school of architecture seen across the quadrant and beyond. The streets were tightly packed together, ground vehicles visibly competing with the pedestrians who crowded their markets and bazaars. Atop the tallest buildings nested mighty defence laser batteries, although it took Lucian only a moment to decide that they were inert and neglected: a sorry state of affairs indeed, inviting to Lucian’s mind pirate, or alien attack.
At the last, the shuttle screamed in over the city to circle its main landing field. Its thrusters kicked and bucked as they arrested the transport’s momentum, the pilot easing it down to the armoured landing platform with only a slight jarring. Lucian stood from his grav-couch as the ramp at the end of the passenger bay lowered. It hit the landing pad’s surface with a metallic crash, the world’s air flooding into the cabin. Lucian stood at the top of the ramp, flanked by his offspring. A cloaked figure at the head of a column of heavily armoured soldiers waited at its base.
Lucian stepped out to the top of the ramp. He saw that the landing pad was one of several dozen, raised high above the city upon ancient stilts. Beyond these, he could see the ancient city, its buildings clustered together haphazardly, and in the middle distance the great bulk of the Imperial Commander’s palace.
“My Lord Arcadius,” spoke a figure at the base of the ramp, the mouth barely visible beneath the hood. “In the name of my master, I bid you welcome to our world.”
Having gained his bearings, Lucian strode down the ramp, the scant seconds it took him to reach its base used to the full. He took in the scene before him. The figure that welcomed him appeared to be some flunky, for he wore simple functionary’s robes, adorned with little in the way of frivolous ornamentation, unlike the troopers arrayed in two long lines behind him. These were, no doubt, the household guard, for their sturdy carapace armour, probably imported at great expense, marked them above the common Planetary Defence Force conscripts. White armour, edged with gold, shone hazily in the thick morning light. Tall, white feathers were attached to the helm of each, and reflective visors covered any hint of facial expression. The troopers bore long-barrelled rifles, a glance at the stock revealed to Lucian a power pack of unfamiliar manufacture, although he judged the weapons to be some form of ceremonial hunting rifle. Very pretty, and very expensive, Lucian thought, but not a whole lot of use in a real fight.
With a thud, Lucian’s heavy boot heel made contact with the platform’s armoured surface. He stood before the functionary and addressed him in the voice he liked to use to impress the locals.
“Please convey to your master my thanks for his hospitality. I greet you in the name of the Arcadius.”
The rogue traders had been led from the landing platform, through the merchants’ quarter and to the outer reaches of the vastness of the governor’s palace, accompanied all the while by ranks of marching household guard. The palace itself must have been one of the oldest structures in the city—indeed, on the world—for its every surface was layered with strata of dust. Heraldic banners made tattered and threadbare by the passing of millennia lined its long passages. Electro-lumen flickered and guttered in the high, vaulted ceilings, where vat-grown cyber cherubs capered in and out of the shadows. Parchments and prayer strips were affixed to every surface by great gobbets of sealing wax, endless votives imploring the God-Emperor for His mercy and blessings. As the group neared the centre of the palace, the character of the place changed. The atmosphere became thicker, somehow heavy, as if made sluggish by the weight of ages. Incense cloyed at the nostrils, but the scent failed to mask the fact that the exact same substance had been burned, day in and day out, for uncounted centuries. The high ceilings were waxy with its build-up. Statuettes and gargoyles crowded point-arched recesses, gold leaf skin peeling from their every surface. Cables snaked across walls and along floors, laid reverently, but with little in the way of art or understanding. Small scrips attached to terminus points indicated the identity of the technician, and the date he had attended to his labour. Many such cables had been laid many centuries in the past, and when severed had had more prayer seals applied, so that the most damaged formed riotous, fluttering garlands draped across the walls.
As the group came upon the regions of the inner palace, a flock of servo-skulls joined them. The actual skulls of the most favoured of the Imperium’s servants, these were preserved after death and implanted with all manner of machine devices, in order for the previous owner to go on serving his master long after his passing. A rudimentary machine spirit guided each, causing it to hover at shoulder height upon tiny anti-grav generators. The lead servo-skull was fitted with a heavy bronze bell, which it visibly laboured to hold aloft whilst it veered from left to right, its ringing preceding the rogue traders as they progressed down the dusty corridors. Another sported a large, mechanical eye that clicked and whirred as its lenses adjusted, hovering right at Lucian’s shoulder and evidently recording or examining him for some unknowable purpose. Another had attached to it a set of miniature, crab-like pincers, with which it dived to grab tiny, perhaps imagined, impediments to the group’s progress, whilst the last appeared to sniff at the rogue traders through its bony cavity of a nose.
Finally, the procession reached the atrium of the inner hall. The mighty brass doors that led into the governor’s audience chamber dominated this area, their tops lost ten metres or more above in the incense-bound shadows of the vaulted ceilings. Scenes from legend were carved in bas-relief upon the doors’ surfaces. The Emperor stood astride a globe, his sword arcing to hack at the neck of a writhing serpent. Lucian had viewed many such scenes on his journeys, but they never failed to move him: the sight of the most holy of men to have lived, sacrificing all, that mankind might survive in a universe set upon nothing less than his destruction. Lucian was a rogue trader, he well knew the meaning of this.
As the last of the household guard formed up in parade ground precision at either side of the trio, the functionary addressed the rogue traders.
“Are you ready my lords?”
Lucian turned to each of his offspring, Korvane indicating his eagerness for the coming proceedings with a bow of his head, Brielle hers with a wry smile.
“Well enough.” Lucian inclined his head to the degree required by protocol, indicating to the functionary that the rogue traders were ready to meet with the Imperial Commander of Mundus Chasmata.
The functionary activated a mechanical device hidden in the depths of his cavernous sleeves. An instant later, mighty pistons at either side of the portal strained until the forces required to haul open the vast doors were achieved. Clouds of choking dust billowed at the doors’ passing, a signal to Lucian that they had not been opened in some considerable time. A sure message, Lucian noted, that the group passing through was to be received in honour.
The doors swung fully open, and Lucian and his children saw for the first time the audience chamber of Culpepper Luneberg the Twenty-ninth, Imperial Commander, upon the soil of his own world second in authority only to the High Lords of Terra themselves.
The group found itself stepping out onto a landing, an expansive space to the top of a vast flight of stairs. These swept down many hundreds of steps to a wide floor, and beyond that another raised area appeared to house Luneberg’s, currently empty, throne. The entire area was enclosed in a chamber several times taller than it was wide, and vast pillars of stone supported a roof that was entirely lost to the eye in shadow and incense haze. Every surface was caked in pealing, tarnished gold leaf, dust of countless centuries built up in drifts and tumbling in powdery falls from recesses. Gossamer webs, presumably those of spiders, or some local equivalent, stretched from one leering gargoyle to the next, the light of hovering electro lumens twinkling where it reflected off the thin, silken strands.
Lucian strode to the top of the stairs, taking a moment to cast his glance around the vast space. The hovering lights swarmed the chamber, their flight describing random patterns across the space and creating bubbles of flickering ye
llow light within the gloom. The floor at the bottom of the steps appeared crowded with figures, although Lucian could make out scant details from his position.
So far, little of what Lucian had seen surprised him in any way. Being a rogue trader, he and his kind occupied a unique position within the upper echelons of the Imperium. Unlike the teeming billions of Imperial subjects crowding the million and more domains of the Emperor’s rule, rogue traders had cause to escape the worlds of their birth and go forth to visit others. Most worlds in the Imperium were largely self-sufficient, or at most inter-dependent with others in the immediate region.
It was only the most privileged who would ever leave his world, unless he was conscripted into the Imperial Guard and sent to fight some far-away war, never to return home again. Rogue traders carried their Charter of Trade as a badge of office, with it gaining entrance to places others would be executed for visiting. Lucian had participated in the ritual currently playing out on scores of occasions. The places and the people differed, as did the grandeur of the surroundings, but whether mud hut, rad-shelter, chapel-city or xenos-nest, the pattern was invariably a familiar one.
Half way down the flight of stairs, Lucian was able to discern some details of the milling crowds at its base. The courtiers, for Lucian could now make out that these people were at the least minor nobility, wore elaborate costumes of the most rare of materials, but the fabrics were faded and tattered, as tarnished with age as the architecture all around. At his approach, periwigs turned, small clouds of powder or dust, Lucian was unsure which, puffing around the nobles’ heads and causing them to cough demurely. The women wore their hair in elaborate steeples, but rogue strands lent them a bedraggled appearance quite at odds with the pomp and ceremony of the event.
[Rogue Trader 01] - Rogue Star Page 3