Herald of the Stars - A Warhammer 40k, Rogue Trader Fanfiction - Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five

I leave the Space Marines to their rehabilitation. Despite the war, routine settles in.

The Stellar Corps successfully retrieves all surviving troops and equipment after suffering a sixty day march and seventeen percent casualties. While grim, this prolonged exposure to Necron weapons has finally given us the data we need to understand why they’re killing us so easily.

The new MOA void armour has a modified Vitae Supplement that plugs into the neck and, when the user is injured, maintains bodily functions, stops the user from bleeding out, and slowly heals them. It is high-tech medikit. Normally, a Vitae Supplement is an advanced version of the auto-sanguine. It is expensive enough that only Fleet Command, or Marwolv’s small council were issued one.

This modified version, however, is part of the armour and doesn’t need to fit inside the body. It does not manufacture the nanites or artificial blood like the full version either, working from a reservoir. It is larger and easier to manufacture, and works just as well so long as it is kept topped up from the industrial scale nanyte-forges and organic printers.

We have plenty of capacity for these materials as they are the two main tools for all forms of surgery in the Stellar Fleet. Given that everyone receives at least one implant, the MIU, when they turn sixteen, and three more when they reach eighteen, our medicae decks are well supplied with auto-sanguine nanites, or medichines if one is feeling trendy, and artificial blood.

Because of its location, in the case of extreme injury, it can even cut off all blood flow below the neck and preserve the brain. So long as the exoframe for the MOA armour is still functional, a Herald can directly control their movement, if poorly, with their MIU, and retreat.

The theory was that nothing short of a catastrophic headshot should kill a Herald. It’s why leaving behind all the injured Heralds in our retreat was so heartbreaking because they’ve all been told to protect their heads and they should be OK.

Many Heralds are our youngest members, performing their two year service after finishing their tech-apprenticeships, hoping to find a career they enjoy, or looking forward to their tech-adept training once their service is over. Seeing so many get cut down in our initial assault on the exterior of the North Tomb was a complete surprise and, being the designer of the armour, I felt like I’d sent all those kids to die after lying to them that most of them would survive.

To my horror, the data we have collected informed us that, such is the vileness of gauss weaponry, the pain it causes can kill a Human with shock. The Eldar don’t fare any better either. Even if the body survives after being flayed at a molecular level, like a shotgun crossed with a power weapon, their brain just shuts down because it can’t process that level of trauma.

All Heralds are now being fitted with adjustable Pain Wards to counter Necron weapons and it will gradually become a standard implant alongside the Mind Impulse Unit, Black Skeleton, Voidskin, and Warding Electoos. While I am pleased that I can provide so much to my crew, Brigid has informed me this is the final standard issue implant we can afford to support. Any more and the tech burden will be too high.

In a way, this is a good thing, as it encourages more tech-priests to specialise in cybernetics if they want more, increasing our capacity to sustain advanced implants over time. It also isn’t good to hand stuff out without it being earned as the last thing I want is vessels full of ‘silk pants’ priests or unmotivated teens rotting in the noosphere.

I can only pray that my efforts and preparations are sufficient and appreciated for surviving the ever escalating war on Kinbriar.

The war grinds on with not much changing and six months after making orbit around Kinbriar, I attend a meeting with the Exarch Orodor of the Yme-Loc Necron Termination Fleet. It’s the first time he’s been back since Odhran threw a knife at Orodor and the handle hit the Eldar hard enough to knock him out.

Previously, only Isenedor of the Dire Avengers, Daenthala of the Howling Banshees and Caervan of the Swooping Hawks have attended these meetings and I’ve left the meetings up to Eire and Ylien. I suspect the Eldar are trying to insult us by sending this prideful idiot back to the negotiation table, or they’ll hoping I’ll finish him off for good, purging from their ranks without having to do anything and providing the excuse they need to demand more materials.

It’s really hard to guess what these xenos are thinking, if anything at all.

We are in the same plain room as before, though the room now has a few Eldar artefacts, like wraithbone sculptures, instruments, and decommissioned versions of their weapons.

The Eldar are being absolutely slammed by the Necrons and we now have three battalions in their outer bases, supplementing their dwindling forces. Many friendships have blossomed between the younger Guardians and Heralds, who are all away from their homes for the first time. Hence the small trade in artefacts and luxuries.

The Eldar Aspect Warriors are less pleased as it chips away at their narrative and control over the Guardians, who are little more than well trained and well equipped militia. Much like the younger Heralds.

Now that I think about it, I have a sinking feeling that the reason why I have to deal with Orodor is because a minority of Heralds and Guardians didn’t want to die as virgins and, with post combat emotions running high, wanted to go for the rebellious choice. They are lucky there is no way to prove it otherwise I would have to punish them harshly for fraternising with xenos.

Fortunately, I am not alone in my misery, Owen Broin and Róisín Paorach are with me.

Orodor is alone, with only two Wraith Guards to support him. He sips on a glass of fruit juice. It’s quite toxic to humans and we’re growing the fruits just for the Eldar. I’m hoping we’ll find a use for the small genetics library they’ve provided us, which is why I agreed. I don’t have high hopes for a breakthrough because I suspect it was carefully curated to be as useless to Humans as possible before they handed it over. They’re probably laughing at me for it behind their backs, but really, anything that keeps the Eldar in the fight, and therefore minimising my own losses, is a win.

Somehow Orodor manages to look pleased and disgusted by the beverage as he sneers at me over the rim of his glass.

“Who are your new companions, Magos?”

“Good day to you too, Xeno. Accompanying me today are two new additions to Stellar Fleet Command. They may be dealing with you in the future on my behalf. Especially if Ylien is unavailable, like today. To my left is Chaplain Owen Broin. He has given up his role as leader of the Imperial Cult in the Stellar fleet to become the Head of Spiritual and Mental Health.”

Owen’s role includes propaganda and grants him soft control over both Imperial and Mechanicus Cults: he is responsible for where the Fleet funding for community projects goes. Owen does not control where the cults spend their donations though, only his public funds.

For example, he controls distribution of amenities in communal areas, what inspirational posters get placed on the trains, and media requirements on the noosphere. While this frees up Eire and Brigid from such details, Owen’s main role is to moderate fanaticism and prevent or redirect the formation and fervour of new cults, especially my own ‘Iron Foundation’.

The author’s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I should not have provided the multiple possible translations for my name in one of my classes; the kids got far too excited about it and told absolutely everyone. That damn cult even had the audacity to turn my name into a play on words!

I continue, “To my right is Róisín Paorach. Róisín was previously Enginseer Prime for Distant Sun, our light cruiser and the primary vessel providing supporting fire for your forces. Róisín is now Cybersmith Paorach and Head of Technological Acquisition and Adaptation.”

Machine God forbid I name it Research and Development!

“Magos, I do not care for their histories. I care about the present. When can you deploy the macro-crawler?”

“Your shuttle will be returning with the first shipment of parts. It will take a month to assemble. How are your munition stocks?”

“Heavily depleted. All our infantry explosives are gone. We have already switched to Imperial weapons, most notably phosphor stubbers and Imperial artillery. Our own stocks should be rebuilt for a final push to disable all remaining tombs so that we can safely retreat from the planet. We are on target for the projected departure date. I noticed you have repaired Iron Crane already. It should be within your skills to accommodate us properly, if barely.”

“You will receive the welcome you earn, if not the one you deserve, Exarch,” I say.

Róisín says, “This would go much faster if you provide us with the schematics for your ammunition so that we can assist you. I do not expect you to hand over whatever you put in those frightful D-Cannons, that is far too dangerous to manufacture, but surely the shuriken weaponry is not too much of a stretch? Your plasma and haywire grenades cannot be too different from our own either.”

Orodor yawns, “You will never match the skills of the Yme-Loc artisans. Our knowledge would only confuse you. I do not wish to distract our hard working allies.”

“Perhaps you could ease our burdens with your myths and histories?” says Owen. “Such grand tales of mighty warriors would help our workers relax more effectively and inspire our troops, making us better able to assist you.”

“Alas,” says Orodor, “Such beauty would be lost in the translation. Our histories cannot be expressed in their glory full glory in your tongue. To tell of our gods and ancestors in any manner but our best would greatly insult them.”

“Then tell us of the physical, rather than the spiritual,” I say. “Where is my noctilith, my blackstone?”

“While abundant, we are struggling to process it. Noctilith, we have discovered, strikes all those in long and close proximity to the material with despair. The effects worsen the larger the quantity and if it is active or not. I do hope you have a way to contain it, Magos, or you will have a riot on your vessels. I will not have my people harmed in the chaos.”

“I do.”

I did not know about this, but I’m not telling Orodor, that smug motherfucker. It feels way better than it should to lie to his face. Hopefully I can shove all the blackstone in the Warp with E-SIM if I have to. I could also store it on a specialised vessel crewed mostly by servitors and prisoners. It would make for a good punishment when I don’t have any high casualty missions to send prisoners on while we undertake our subspace journey.

“Then you should share your method with us so we can process your fee faster,” says Orodor.

“It is not a method you could replicate, even if I were to share it. You will need to deal with this problem on your own. Delivering it as fast as possible after processing would make this trade easier on you. If you are struggling with a stockpile, I will send smelters and moulds. The cost would come from the military aid budget I provide you.”

“Fine,” says Orodor, almost growling. “We will make the order through the proper channel. We also require access to your promenade so we rotate our troops somewhat and maintain morale. While your entertainments are unsophisticated, it is better than nothing.”

“No more than one hundred at a time for twenty-four hours,” I fold my arms. They will bring no weapons or armour. Each eldar will have two escorts. Any Eldar who slip their escorts will be shot. They will be gifted a single meal ticket worth up to fifty bytes. Anything else must be traded for.”

“That is insufficient,” growls Orodor. “With our current numbers it would take over nine years to rotate all our troops!”

I tap my finger against the table, “Then save it for those who earn it. You can always purchase a prefab leisure facility for your base. How you spend my aid is up to you.”

“You should increase vouchers for our heroes.”

“They’re your heroes, not mine. I do not have unlimited resources. You must trade.”

“Fine.”

“I need to know about your scouts,” I say. “You have been mapping the tombs for months. I need those maps so that the macro-crawler knows what to target.”

Orodor scowls, “Your proposed contraption is far too large to enter the tombs. It will only blast the outer layers. I will not hand over our efforts.”

“Exarch Orodor. You’re at thirty percent casualties. What could you possibly wish to hide? Without us you would be dead. Without us there will be no escape. This hostile attitude only helps the Necrons.”

“I do not have the maps!” yells Orodor, slamming his fist against the table. “My Guardians struggle day after day while the Aspect Warriors save their strength and a handful of them scout the tombs. Day after day they snub the deaths of my men and women, excluding me because of my humiliation, a humiliation I suffered at the hands of your pet murder!” Orodor takes a deep breath, wrestling back control of his emotions. He puts his helmet back on. “We are done with this worthless blather, Monkeigh. I have Yngir slaves to kill.”

Orodor flounces out. The Wraith Guard follow him with slow, heavy steps.

“Trouble in paradise?” says Róisín.

“We should not mock him, Cybersmith Paorach. Watching your people die while your destiny is at the mercy of another? I do not envy him,” says Owen.

Róisín sighs, “Fine. He’s still a prick though.”

“There are better individuals to meet for your first contact with a xeno,” I say. “Do either of you have any relevant thoughts or questions to add before we go about our day?”

“Just one,” says Owen. “What does Yngir mean?”

“Ah. It should come as no surprise that Exarch Orodor, when he cares to try, is a master of multilayered insults.”

Owen raises an eyebrow and Róisín laughs.

I say, “Yngir is the Eldar word for C’tan, the star gods who enslaved the Necrontyr and turned them into the Necrons, forever destroying their souls and removing any chance and rebirth and redemption for their whole race. The Necrons eventually imprisoned their enslavers, but not before they’d lost trillions of their people and had been forced to fight and kill just as many, including the Eldar.

“Once the Necrons were free, their king and the ruling class enslaved them again. They are a fractious people, always trying to claw their way to the top, one step closer to freedom, or gain power over those who oppress them.

“Calling a Necron a slave is to remind them of their history, all they have lost, the futility of their struggle, and that after sixty million years they are just as useless as the sickly humanoids of their radiation heavy world that the C’tan uplifted them from. That all their suffering is meaningless. It is why they cry “Surrender and Die”, because to them, to surrender is to eternally lose one’s freedom. To die, one day at a time. Forever.”

“Then it is good we can bless them with the Emperor’s Mercy,” says Owen. “For they clearly find none amongst their own kind.”

“Magos, you tell the worst bedtime stories,” says Róisín. “I’m not going to be able to sleep for weeks!”

“That’s because you try to sleep with the broken parts of our three knights beneath your pillow,” I say. “ That can’t be comfortable. Besides, any more drool and they will be ruined beyond repair.”

“I am hoping the machine-spirits join me in my dreams and explain how to get them working again!”

“You’d best stop that,” I say. “If that actually happened it wouldn’t be a machine-spirit. I do not want to have to recycle my most talented pupil.”

“Magos, the metal brings me comfort,” says Róisín, looking wistful. “I dream of being a knight, striding across the land, encased in blessed metal. Restoring every part keeps my dream alive, no matter how slow it might be.”

“Then you cannot afford to lose the pieces. Best keep them where they belong.”

Róisín folds her arms and looks away from me, “If I must.”

Owen has a faint smile on his face, “Please excuse me, Magos.”

I nod, “Owen, Róisín, I will see you at our next meeting.”