[Rogue Trader 01] - Rogue Star Read online

  The high colonel failed. “Yes, yes indeed, and what of the ork menace?”

  Lucian considered for a moment before answering. What if the high colonel knew he was being tested? Was he that bright? He would find out. “The Arch-arsonist grows more cunning with each passing cycle, although I doubt he will threaten your borders for some time to come.”

  “My intelligence would tend to agree, Gerrit, but it is good to hear it confirmed.”

  Confirmed my arse, thought Lucian. The empire of the self-tided ork warlord, the Arch-arsonist of Charadon, was located on the western extreme of Ultima Segmentum, over thirty thousand light years away. Many other ork domains offered far greater, though less impressively named, threats.

  “And what of…” the high colonel hesitated for a moment, “the Imperial Navy?”

  Now things are getting interesting, Lucian thought to himself. He’s definitely up to something, but what is he really asking?

  “The Navy is, as ever, fighting a war on many fronts, against myriad foes. Yet, by the grace of the Emperor, it yet prevails.”

  The high colonel bowed, making the sign of aquila as he did so. “I am gratified to hear that is the case, sir. We hear too little of such things this far out. What, may I ask, is the state of the Navy’s operation in the Timbra sub, and the whole Ring?”

  Lucian knew that the Ring was the local name for a group of stars at the heart of the Borealis Cluster, the appendage of the great Eastern Spiral arm in which Mundus Chasmata was located. The high colonel, Luneberg’s chief military advisor, was asking him for information regarding Naval operations in the area surrounding his own world. These people really were isolated.

  “Well.” Lucian decided to tell Trevelyan-Constance the truth in this matter, for he could scarcely believe the question was anything other than a test, delivered in the same manner that he himself had attempted to test the high colonel, only a moment earlier. “The last Navy vessel we encountered was the battleship Lord Cathek, three days out of Al Adhara, and she was heading for the Kleist colony. The route we took to Mundus Chasmata was not one along which regular Naval patrols are made, unless the Navy has a reason to do so.”

  This last was Lucian’s own little test, a subtle way of goading some reaction from the high colonel.

  He got none, or Trevelyan-Constance hid it well if he did react. “Quite, quite, and Al Adhara is how many light years distant would you say?”

  The high colonel was truly isolated if he genuinely had no knowledge of Al Adhara, the largest Naval way point for three sectors. Once again, the thought that Trevelyan-Constance might be testing him crossed Lucian’s mind. He resolved to himself that, no matter how tempted, he would not fall foul of mistaking this man for the ignoramus he gave every impression of being.

  “Given a good run at the eastern tail, seven. If not, the next best route adds up to nigh on ten, if you’re prepared to risk the Straits of Kephus.”

  The high colonel appeared to think upon this information, mulling it over as if it was confirmation of a long-held suspicion rather than solid fact. Then he visibly shook himself out of the reverie he had entered, and stood straight, tugging at the waist of his uniform jacket in an exaggerated display of trimness.

  “Well, Gerrit, I thank you for your time, a most fruitful discussion. You must forgive me for detaining you, for I am quite sure my Lord Culpepper must be waiting. Please, follow me.”

  The high colonel bowed and indicated Lucian should precede him up the steps to the podium. Korvane bowed to the high colonel, and nodded to his father, remaining where he was as Lucian had instructed. Trevelyan-Constance led Lucian through the side door through which he had appeared, and into the corridors of the private quarters beyond. If the throne room and the passages leading to it appeared neglected and dust-strewn, these were somehow worse.

  A palpable atmosphere of abandonment pervaded the lonely ways. It was not that they were in any worse condition, but that the impression of decay was more apparent the more sumptuous that which decayed had once been. Statuettes of once stunning beauty graced gloomy alcoves along the passage, their peeling or cracked surfaces even more obvious because of the quality of their original craftsmanship.

  In minutes, they reached what was obviously the antechamber to Luneberg’s private quarters. A white-clad household guard stood on either side of the metal doorway, the white feathers mounted upon their helmets bent against the archway above. A glance told Lucian that similarly attired guards had stood watch here for countless centuries, for above each trooper, a small area of the low, stone ceiling was worn smooth where the feathers touched. The high colonel nodded to the guard standing on the right, and he silently sub-vocalised into the communicator mounted at his throat.

  A moment passed, and the guard nodded back to Trevelyan-Constance. The high colonel placed a hand on the iron portal, and leaned his weight against it until it slowly swung upon massive hinges.

  Passing through the arched doorway, Lucian was greeted with a sight that suggested all the decayed finery he had thus far witnessed was but a tiny portion of the whole, sad truth. Luneberg’s private chambers were dark and gloomy, quite in line with the remainder of his palace, yet the effect here was multiplied one hundredfold. Every surface of every wall was crammed with priceless artefacts, from far and wide in time and distance. A sword that Lucian estimated to be of second era Ultramar in origin, possibly even dating to the time of the great primarch Guilliman himself, was mounted on one wall, its once gleaming blade encrusted with centuries, even millennia of dust and grime.

  Beside the blade stood a tall xenos beast, stuffed, badly, Lucian noted, and preserved for all time as testament to the skill of the hunter that had brought it down. Lucian had no inkling from where the beast might have come, but was sure it was not from Mundus Chasmata, and neither was the hunter from Luneberg’s world.

  Lucian stepped forward, looking around for a sign of his host. He saw none, so resumed his perusal of the bizarre display. If Luneberg intended to keep him waiting, he would happily participate in his little game.

  A mighty banner stood nearby, tattered and scorched by chemical burns, and leant against a wall where it appeared to have rested for many centuries. A stylised flameburst surrounded a circular field, the numeral “115” still visible. Lucian did not recognise the unit. How could he, for it was but one body amongst millions that had served the Emperor. Served and died for, by the state of the banner, for its bearer must surely have suffered similar wounds to his charge.

  A painting, barely visible amongst the shadows, hung beside the banner. Lucian stepped closer, and saw that a layer of fine, grey dust obscured the surface of the work. He gently blew on it, revealing the portrait of a brightly armoured man, his noble chin held high and laurel leaves gracing his haughty brow. Another arrogant backwater lord, thought Lucian, feeling nothing but disdain for the watered down bloodline that ruled this pointless world.

  “My dear Lucian!” Luneberg emerged from the shadows at the other end of the room. “I see you’ve found great uncle Nappiermor. Impressive looking man, don’t you think?”

  Lucian suppressed a grimace at being caught unawares, looking sideways at the high colonel, who made a great show of ignoring the Imperial Commander.

  “Quite so, my lord. Was he close?”

  “Close? My no, the family hated him. Heard he preferred the company of filthy mutants to honest men. Ones with extra… bits… if you know what I mean.”

  Lucian remained stoically impassive, before allowing the slightest of grins to touch the corner of his mouth. Luneburg’s powdered face split in a mighty smile in return, which soon transformed into side-splitting laughter. Evidently, Luneberg was a great fan of wit, his own, at least.

  Mopping his sweating brow with a dainty kerchief, Luneberg finally, and with some effort, reined in his hilarity. “I do hope the high colonel hasn’t bored you too much?”

  Lucian smiled politely, not allowing himself to be baited. When he failed to re
ply, Luneberg huffed, pocketing his kerchief with a flourish. Lucian was struck once more, as he had been upon first meeting the Imperial Commander, by the apparent contradiction between foppish buffoon and physical presence. Luneberg might present such an air, but there was much more to him, lurking just below the surface. Lucian was reminded, as he had been on each occasion they had met, that he must always be upon his guard around Luneberg.

  “Anyway.” Luneberg continued, “will you join me for a stroll in the royal gardens?”

  “Certainly,” Lucian replied, “I would be happy to do so.”

  Luneberg turned, but halted, as he appeared to remember that Trevelyan-Constance was still present. “Your counsel will not be required, colonel.” Lucian could hardly fail to catch the icy tone of the command, and wondered if it was for show or if indeed the Imperial Commander really felt such evident disdain for his chief military attaché.

  Whether or not the high colonel himself was concerned was impossible for Lucian to tell, for he simply clicked his heels smartly, bowed and turned on the spot, departing smartly and leaving Lucian and Luneberg alone.

  Lucian was the first to speak. “You mentioned your gardens?” Luneberg had apparently been considering something else entirely, for Lucian’s words evidently broke his chain of thought.

  “What? Yes, the gardens. Please, do follow me my dear Lucian.”

  Lucian watched Luneberg’s back for a moment as the Imperial Commander walked off towards a portal at the far end of the trophy-strewn chamber. He shook his head, the realisation that Luneberg was not entirely stable beginning to settle there. Pushing the notion aside, he followed after.

  “Do tell me.” Luneberg asked Lucian as they stepped out into the royal gardens, “about the Arcadius dynasty.”

  Lucian looked around him while gathering his thoughts. The royal gardens were not as he would have expected. Instead of the meticulously maintained flora appropriate to the setting, the gardens were overgrown and untended. Twisting, alien weeds pushed their way through cracks in marble paving, and creepers sporting wickedly sharp thorns writhed across the path, around fine statuary, choking the remaining life from ornamental trees. The sun had long since set, but small lumens bobbed along the path a few steps ahead of Luneberg, ensuring that his way was always lit. The overall impression was one of neglect and decay, far from the impression a man such as Luneberg would ordinarily seek to give a visitor.

  “Where to start.” Lucian said, buying himself time. “We are but one dynasty amongst many granted a Charter of Trade to exploit and to expand the frontiers of the Emperor’s domains. We have done so for many centuries, not without success.”

  “Oh come now,” replied Luneberg, not turning his head as he walked slowly along the dark, overgrown path. “Such false modesty is unbecoming. Tell me of the world in which you live.”

  As had Trevelyan-Constance before him, Luneberg appeared now to be seeking information regarding the wider Imperium, of the vast galaxy beyond the borders of his own small fiefdom.

  “The world in which I live?” said Lucian, following Luneberg’s lead in not taking his attention from the path ahead. “My world is one of contrasts. A rogue trader moves in many circles, from the very highest, to the very lowest.” At present, he felt himself moving in one of the latter, but refrained from imbuing his words with such a notion, so as not to cause Luneberg undue insult.

  Luneberg nodded, clearly of the opinion that his own company qualified as one of those highest circles. “Do go on Lucian. Have you, for example, much in the way of contact with the Imperial Court?”

  Lucian saw little harm in replying honestly, for Luneberg was clearly a man obsessed with status. “I have, though infrequently, for my calling takes me far from Terra. Nonetheless, I like to maintain contact with the Senatorum, and visit in person whenever possible.”

  Luneberg appeared to consider this, nodding to himself slowly. He halted, his hand raised to his chin as he looked out, into the dark, overgrown expanse of the royal gardens. “Tell me of Terra, would you Lucian?”

  Lucian now detected the slightest hint of mania in Luneberg’s words. He determined to tread even more cautiously than he had intended, for there was evidently something more to Luneberg’s line of questioning than was apparent.

  He stopped beside Luneberg, looking out into the same darkness, yet not seeing what held the Imperial Commander’s attention. “To set foot upon sacred Terra is to tread the very same ground as was once walked by the Emperor.” Lucian made the sign of the aquila. A sidelong glance told him that Luneberg did not. He continued. “The very air of Terra is holy, laced with the scent of incense burned many centuries, millennia, before. Each time I have returned, I have been restored, for my calling takes me far from the light of the Emperor.”

  Lucian turned to regard Luneberg, and saw that he had dipped his head. The Imperial Commander spoke, his words ever so slightly slurred. “That light at times seems like barely a guttering candle to us, so distant are we from its source.”

  Lucian felt his hackles rise. “Sir, you must not speak thus.”

  “Do you judge me heretic, Lucian?” Still Luneberg’s head was lowered, his words muted.

  “I do not.”

  “Then what?”

  Lucian took a deep breath before answering, tasting decay upon the stale air. “I have travelled further into the darkness than you can imagine, Luneberg. You believe your world estranged from Holy Terra? I have walked upon worlds in the sway of such beasts as would curdle your blood, and I have never felt that the Emperor did not walk beside me.”

  Luneberg’s head rose, and he turned to face Lucian. “Tell me of them.”

  “Them?” Lucian was confused for a moment as to the Imperial Commander’s meaning, caught off balance by the manic gleam in the other man’s eyes.

  “Yes, of them! What beasts? What worlds? Tell me of them!”

  “I may not speak of them sir. It is forbidden.”

  “By the Administratum? You fear the Priesthood of Terra?”

  “By the Inquisition, my lord. I fear the Ordo Xenos.”

  By Luneberg’s reaction to their mention, Lucian was gratified to see that the Imperial Commander had knowledge of one of the Imperium’s institutions at least. Luneberg visibly trembled at Lucian’s words, displaying a healthy fear for the agents of the Imperium’s highest powers, those whose task it was to hunt down the vile alien, and those who would consort with them, and issue due punishment.

  Now Luneberg turned towards Lucian. “But you are a rogue trader. You have no cause to fear the Ordo Xenos, surely?”

  “I am a rogue trader, as you say, and you are indeed correct in that the power vested in me by the High Lords of Terra grants me certain… advantages. That does not put me outside of the power of the Inquisition however. One in my position must tread a fine line. Fortunately, we often do so beyond the sight of those who might object.”

  “I see. I believe we are much alike men, you and I.” Luneberg was now staring into the darkness once more, his voice subdued as before.

  “How so?” asked Lucian, looking into the darkness too, and once again failing to see anything mere.

  “I am an Imperial Commander, and my power too is passed down from the High Lords. Where your charter compels you to discover and exploit many new worlds, mine compels me to hold onto just one, by whatever means I deem necessary.”

  Lucian considered the other man’s words, aware that they contained undertones not clear to him. He considered his next words cautiously, before asking, “Is your rule here disputed?”

  With a sudden motion, Luneberg ploughed forwards before turning to Lucian, a shadow amongst the darkness. “Disputed?” he shouted, a very definite edge of mania edging his words. “Certainly it is disputed.”

  Lucian had not expected to hear this, but pressed on, asking, “Who disputes your right to rule here?”

  “How little you know of our corner of the Imperium my dear Lucian.” Luneberg called back, a wry
giggle entering his voice.

  Lucian was tiring of Luneberg’s nonsense, but was acutely aware of just how much hung upon the deal between them. He needed this madman, and he just hoped Luneberg needed him an equal amount. He resolved to push on, intent upon getting to the truth of the matter.

  Lucian repeated his question. “Who disputes your right to rule here?”

  Luneberg turned and resumed his stroll along the overgrown pathway. Lucian strode to catch up, and looked sideways at him as they walked. “In truth, no man disputes my rule. Not as such.”

  “Not as such?”

  “I find myself, my world, in a war, a long and bitter, war.”

  Lucian stopped, risking offence by gripping Luneberg’s arm. “I see no sign of a war here. Tell me straight!”

  Luneberg giggled once more, and explained. “Not that sort of war, my dear Lucian, not that sort. The war in which I find myself engaged is one you yourself should understand!”

  At last, Lucian began to feel he was getting somewhere, although he knew that Luneberg’s cooperation was tenuous. “Enlighten me, if you would.”

  Luneberg let out a deep, exaggerated sigh, as if about to launch into a prolonged explanation for the benefit of an ignorant child. “Trade war, Lucian, trade war.”

  Another piece in the puzzle slotted into place, and Lucian looked around with fresh eyes. The decay that ran so deep through Mundus Chasmata suddenly began to make sense, as did Luneberg’s apparent willingness to enter into a potentially dangerous deal with a rogue trader with whom he had had no previous contact. Still, Lucian knew there was more, some underlying stain upon the people of Luneberg’s world.

  Lucian pressed on. “A trade war with whom?”

  “Lucian, you may know much of the breadth of the Imperium, but I suspect your knowledge lacks something in the way of depth.”

  Lucian did not take offence at the statement, for he knew it to be true, at least in part. A rogue trader might travel from one end of the galaxy to the other, visiting hundreds of worlds along the way, but he knew a world had far more to it than a space port, a trade mission, or a governor’s mansion.