Herald of the Stars - A Warhammer 40k, Rogue Trader Fanfiction - Chapter Seventy-Three
As pandemonium erupts around me I recall Bola’s arvus lighter remotely. It sweeps over the fighting crowd and, as it approaches, I jump into the air and grab onto the fuselage with my servo arm. I smack the side airlock button, then haul myself inside as the door opens and the arvus accelerates away, all while keeping the Spikesniks hat on my armoured head.
Within the arvus’s hold, a battered and stripped Bola is locked into a jumpseat, as are the other fourteen gretchin. Tech-adepts Ethne Shay, Bryn Ó Cillín, and Laisren Toolin stand guard in their carapace armour, cradling their lasguns. All three are tethered to the floor and ceiling with electromagnets and hyperweave rope, but still have decent manoeuvrability thanks to the two motorised reels of additional rope on either hip.
I spot Igraine Yorath through the open cockpit door sitting in the pilot’s seat.
As I enter Bola gives me a slow round of applause, “Well done, Rusty Slayah. That was a right proper scrap.”
I Ignore the predictably treacherous xeno and address Ethne, “Let me guess, Bola tried to flee and the controls, for some mysterious reason, didn’t function. Bola and his crew got violent and you kicked the shit out of them.”
“The kataphrons did most of the work, Magos, though I suspect you already know that.” Ethne reaches over and shakes my hand. “Congratulations on your victory, Magos.” She glances at my chest. “Do you require medical aid?”
The arvus thrusters whine as we pull a sharp turn and Bryn loses his grip, but his tether stops him from being thrown around the hold. The arvus evens out and Bryn re-grabs the handle.
I glance at Bryn then turn back to Ethne, “The wound is already closed and I will be back to one hundred percent in four hours. The armour will be repaired in twenty minutes.”
“Your auto-sanguine is much better than mine, Magos. It would seal such a wound, but it would take two weeks to heal me from that much damage and I would require extensive surgery. I didn’t know there were automatic repair systems available for power armour either.”
“Well, if I ever figure out how to get them working for other people, I’ll make sure it is available for the crew to purchase.”
“Perhaps you could create a research group?”
“I have several projects in mind I will be addressing once our current emergency is under control. Were you hoping to head one, Ethne?”
“I would like that, Magos. Perhaps something suitable for a doctorate?”
“We’d all like one, Magos,” says Bryn. “Perhaps more studies into safety gear?” he chuckles.
“You’ll get a list to choose from with their budgets. I’m going to establish a prize list too, for less urgent, minor projects. Projects that anyone can try to solve, with a second, larger bonus if the fleet adopts a participant’s solution. I doubt you’ll have time for these if you are pursuing a major project though.”
“That does sound appealing, Magos,” says Bryn.
“I’d rather join your classes, if that’s OK,” says Laisren. “My tutor is excellent, but no one becomes a full tech-priest without your approval, Magos. I want to be more than a tech-adept. Much less likely to end up on the front lines again that way.”
“Nowhere is truly safe, Laisren, but you are clearly willing to work, I have no issue in mentoring you. You will have the extra opportunities you seek, but you will be held to a higher standard too.”
“Thank you, Magos,” says Laisren. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I raise my voice, “Anything you’d like to add, Adept Igraine?”
“How about my own ship, Magos?”
I laugh, “You’ll need to do more than lead one boarding assault for that, Igraine. I will place you on the officer track where you will be given such opportunities and a one time contact code for a single, moderate favour.”
“Cheers, Magos! Can I please have the controls?”
“Don’t be reckless, you’re only qualified for a D-POT.”
“You’re using the auto-pilot, Magos.”
“I can only fly a D-POT too, Igraine. Now that you’ve all grabbed your opportunity while I’m recovering from the euphoria of winning a duel with a warboss, it is time to focus on other issues.” I turn my attention back to the gretchin. “Feeling secure, Bola?”
“Right cosy here, Rusty. Give me my ride back an’ I’ll show yer ‘ow to fly. Back to the big ‘ole you dropped in by, yeah?
“Don’t worry about that, Bola. I recorded the route. You just sit tight and enjoy the thrill of high speed flying and no control whatsoever.”
“Dat wasn’t part of da deal! Neither was hangin’ around ta watch you bash ‘eads wiv Spikesnik. Why you gotta pick on me for it? Yer should ‘ave been more specific.”
“Neither was running off with my prize. Especially before I could claim it.”
Bola snorts, “Well if yer insist.”
“You mentioned I always keep my word, Bola. Enforcing it counts too.”
“Geh! Yer supposed to keep yah fancy preachin’ inside yer head, not spout yah nonsense like a prick.”
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“It’s the imperial way.”
“At least yer self aware. Bettah than most of yer lot.”
“How would you know? Did you meet any imperials since I saw you last?”
“Well, dey were ‘umies. Called their planet after a metal, which is silly ‘cause it was all ice. Dey had some impressive beasties though, built cities on ‘em and floated through da ice. Spikesnik wanted to nab one but a rogue trader shot at us ‘till he gave up. Dey only had a dinky little destroyer, but it was really ‘ard to hit back fer some reason an’ we had no way to get an ice leviathan in ta orbit anyways. Dey’s way too big.”
“What was the trader called?”
“Who Cares?”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Naw, yer not listening. By the time I found out about it, his name was: ‘Who Cares?’.”
“Ah.”
“Did you raid the world? Grab anything good?”
“Dey had a lot o’ chems and nosh floatin’ in orbit. We grabbed dat and jumped back ta da warp. Dat’s why there’s so many boyz right now. Dey not killin’ each other over grub.”
“How convenient.”
“Doesn’t slow you down none, Rusty.”
“Your lot crashed into my shipyard. Twice!”
“Dat’s not crashin’, it’s landin’. Yer supposed ta start a fight with a smackdown, not a touchdown. Yer navy an’ beakies do dis all da time. ‘Ow is dis a surprise to yah?”
“Of course, how could I have been so foolish. No one would ever try to land and not start a fight. For a foolish moment, I was beginning to like this galaxy.”
“Always ‘appy to wreck yer views, Rusty. It wouldn’t do for yah ta pick up dem prejudices.”
“Oh yes, then I’d just shoot you.”
“Dat’s da spirit! Now ‘ow about you let me up, eh?”
“That might be a little tricky.”
The arvus lighter swerves abruptly.
“Wot?”
“We’re being shot at.”
“Those gits! Let’s shoot ‘em!”
“It’s only a few stray shots, more like an involuntary reaction after spotting a moving object, I believe. We’re half-way back and I don’t think any of your ill mannered fellows know about the current leadership trials. Stop asking to be freed and we’ll transfer everything at the spawn room. You’d only bounce around the place anyway.”
“Fine.”
We rush through the narrow corridors and return to the fungus brewery. Three hundred metres from the brewery we run into some of the brewery reinforcement, a battlewagon and some thirty bikers.
The battlewagon is a long, boxy, half-tracked vehicle covered in spikes and teeth like some zombie prepper’s one and only true love. The battlewagon is topped by the most ridiculous, oversized turreted gun, three ‘eavy shootas, and half a dozen gun ports. Boyz stick their heads out of the gun ports, rather than their weapons, squinting and smiling at the force of the wind against their face.
We buzz past them with millimetres to spare, our air and thruster wake washes over them, knocking eight bikers off their rides, and our right wing decapitates three of the orks who have their heads out of the gun ports.
I suspect the ginkgo leaf machine-spirit piloting the arvus from within my armour felt an objective lesson in health and safety was required.
The battlewagon crew object to the machine-spirit’s precision flight and their weapons track us as we flee. Their main cannon fires just as we take the next corner and the pressure makes the arvus wobble close enough to the wall that many of the ork additions are scraped from the hull.
Shrapnel hits the arvus’s rear like hail on a tin roof and the shuttle continues unaffected.
We enter the brewery and the fight is back in full swing. The orks have pulled up a scrap barricade from all the fallen vats. There’s forty metres of dangerous terrain between each side, littered with sharp metal, unexploded ordnance, and ork bodies.
We shoot over both sides and through the corridor to our last stop.
My servo arm grabs the vox unit, I pull the kaptain’s hat from my head, hold it to my chest and give Bola a small bow, “See you next time, Bola.”
The five of us exit the arvus and it shuts down.
“Oi, Rusty, you forgot to release me.”
I put the hat back on top of my helmet and pick up a slugga and a choppa from the ground. There’s loads of them as the orks have been assaulting the spawning chambers too. I toss the weapons into the arvus’s hold. “There you go, Bola. Next time, don’t try to welch on the deal, eh?”
“Gork and Mork will get yah before we evah meet again, Rusty Slayah!”
“If they choose to bless me, instead of you, there’s not much I can do about it!”
“Sod off, Rusty. Next time you’ll be paying me, an’ it won’t be a lousy gun.”
“You keep dreaming big there, Bola, and chase that non-zero chance.”
Bola picks up the choppa with his feet, grabs it with his hand and starts sawing away at the duct tape the adepts trussed him up with, “Dat’s wot da new bosses improvements will be for, once I spike his grog. I’ll add a remote control an everythin’ this time. Den I won’t ‘ave to cough up me loot for a bail.”
“Don’t let me catch you looting an imperial world, otherwise I’ll have to kill you.”
“Dat’s da fun of da game! Besides, it wasn’t me. It was da boss and you did ‘im in good an’ proppah. I never stole nuffink.”
“It’ll be the same for the next guy as well, I imagine.” I hand Bola a vox unit, “Keep this safe. I might contact you on it.”
“Always a pleasure, Rusty, yah catch on quick.” Bola snatches the vox unit from my hand. “Now piss off. I ‘ave a cunning gretchin revolution ta plot.”
I give Bola a well deserved two-fingered salute and join the adepts and eighty-seven kataphrons in retreat, the remains of the spawn room and paroling units. I also pull back another seventy from the brewery. A final twenty-three will remain, guarding the retreat.
My Cygnus welcomes me back to his hold with a squawk and a slap on the back with his wing, which I actually feel through my under armour’s tactile sensors. I hand control of the adepts and kataphrons back to Commander Muire and they jog over the rok, then shipyard, to the lines around the anchor points and the fortified entry points into Iron Crane and the yard.
I strap into a jumpseat and turn the kaptain’s hat over and over in my hands, struggling to control my shaking. The impact of what I’ve just done washes through my thoughts.
The thunderhawk returns to Distant Sun and it isn’t until we land in the hangar I realise I’d blanked out. I take several, deep, slow breaths, undo the seat harness, then stand.
As I leave the thunderhawk, I check E-SIM’s hud to see what rewards mine and my crew’s struggles have gained me. The golden skull, however, looks different. Atop its brow lies a crown of blades with a single red jewel in the central socket.
Now I know how to unlock the best gear and modules. I smirk then resist the urge to facepalm. Who’d have thought that for a video game-like progression system the best loot came from the boss?
