NOVEL NEXT Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Seven
Our hosts glide up to us, a trail of servers in their wake. I catch slight flashes of pink on Sciéno’s pale skin and some diamond studs as her dress slides up and down her body. It’s never quite enough to show her whole nipple, and neither does her dress ever get caught on her body, seemingly sliding up and down with a truly impressive amount of control and exotic, low friction fabric.
I don’t stare, far too incredulous at the outrageous distraction to be aroused by it. I’m also far more interested in my auspex, which shows that Sciéno has had extensive and incredibly skilled surgery and other treatments done to her body. I’m not sure what she’s had done to herself, and that is remarkable.
Mattius and Mildred are less subtle and stare at the couple. Raphael and Lyre have polite smiles on their faces, though I detect that Lyre is rather bored of such pomp. Brigid’s eyes are slightly glazed and her smile is fixed. I measure a small uptick in her power consumption as she likely goes through sensor readings of her own and rapidly reads the highlights and summaries of the data I’m compiling from all the chatty Machine-Spirits.
Konrad salutes David then departs without another word or gesture to anyone. I suspect he is unhappy about being tasked as a concierge on his own vessel, but the clouded emotions wafting off him suggest a focused and disciplined mind, so I cannot be sure of his motives.
David Modren smiles at us and says in high gothic, “Welcome to my banquet hall. We spent the last two weeks decorating it for you all, I do so hope that you enjoy it.”
“Thank you for your warm welcome,” I say. “My wife and I are most pleased by your hospitality.”
Brigid’s attention snaps to the couple and she claps her hands together, her face a perfect simulation of vapid delight, “The dancers are gorgeous and your dress is magnificent, Consort Ceasterwyrt. I do not think I could ever be as bold as you.”
I’m not quite sure what Brigid is hoping to achieve with her acting, nor can I tell if she is trying to be a raging bitch, or a capricious twit. I am absolutely certain, however, that she is enjoying hamming up this random personality she’s adopted for the evening.
“I went to extensive trouble to acquire everything,” says Sciéno, “The first performance is always the most tricky, yet has a flair which can never be replicated.”
Raphael nods, “Indeed, Trader Modren, Consort Ceasterwyrt. This is a most pleasant show of Imperial hospitality and not one I expected to see again until the end of my current patrol, several years from now.”
“Good,” says David. “I’m glad I could bring you the pleasures of greater civilization.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Trader Modren,” says Mattius. “What brings you to my bleak world?”
Dvid chuckles, “Trade and opportunity. Risk and reward. To satisfy my thirst for the unknown, and above all, wealth. I am a Rogue Trader, Governor Stigstaff. The motives of my kind are always the same.”
“It’s the method that makes me nervous,” mutters Mildred.
David gives no indication that he hears Mildred. Sciéno, however, snaps a fan open and covers her mouth, hiding her amusement. The consort’s emotions are completely shrouded, but after spending so many decades trying to pick up the subtle and hidden emotions of Ylien, I would place my bets on her mocking us.
“I’m afraid we have little left to trade,” says Mattius. “Really, I think you are better off talking to Magos Issengrund.”
David nods, “I rather thought that might be the case. Dinner first though, then business. Are The Maw tables agreeable to you, Magos Issengrund?”
“Whatever you have prepared will do,” I say. “While I am fond of voidships, all the displays you have are pleasing.”
“I should hope so!” says David. “The banquet hall is the finest room on the ship, only matched by the Imperial chapel, but we can’t go eating in there. All the incense would ruin the taste of the dishes that my chefs have prepared for us all. I wouldn’t be surprised if my whole Rattling contingent mutinies!”
Rattlings are short abhumans, known for their stealth, cooking, and strong community spirit. Having a Rattling chef is a sign of great wealth and prestige. The Imperial Guard, however, often trains them as elite sniper teams.
We are led to a large, rectangular table with a hollow centre. The performance platform above us is a rust coloured sphere, carved with a relief showing the entire artificial world of Maw from orbit. On the platform, and reflected upon the mirror on the floor beneath, are twelve dancers with cruel faced silver masks, one of which has horns.
They are acting out a musical, though with the carefully controlled acoustics, I can hear neither note nor word, but as soon as I sit down the speakers in my chair start playing the dialogue and I quickly get absorbed in the play.
The actors are going through the history of the Gothic War, a war that The Maw was heavily involved in. Oddly enough, the play is covering it from the Eldar perspective. A bold, creative choice. I hook into the Machine-Spirit of my chair and focus one of my minds on the play and, with the assistance of the spirit, record it.
My primary attention returns to the banquet as we are served with a series of cured meats and a miso-like soup. My tongue immediately reports the presence of xenos flora ingredients. While not digestible by Humans, it isn’t harmful either and is quite delicious. Were I a normal Human, this soup would pass through me without issue. A quick scan of the other soups indicates that they are identical to mine.
The rings on Raphael and Lyre’s hands send out discrete pulses that also scan the food they are eating. The Machine-Spirits, a pair of overactive squirrels that keep patting the soup, are a little ignorant though, so I reach out and bolster their data. One runs over to me and I simulate gently scratching it with a virtual hand. It stares up at me in awe and excitement, then they both dash back inside the rings.
Both Raphael and Lyre glance over me and I realise that both of them must have discrete MIUs, technology that is rarely issued outside the Mechanicus, as the Machine-Spirits would not have been able to inform them of the extra data without the implants, only provide a red or green light.
I detect a vox connection on both of them and use it to interact with their MIUs and talk to the Commodore and his Adjunct directly, rather than use the dinner chairs’ unique features.
“Those are some fascinating devices that you have, Commodore Horthstein, Adjunct Hamiz. Is it fear or hate that drives so many people to poison you that you test every dish out of habit?”
Lyre sighs, “Magos, I rather like the sanctity of my own head. Would you please get out?”
“You didn’t have to pick up the call you know,” I vox. “I went through the proper protocols. No hacking involved!”
“What?” says Lyre.
“Ah, I see. The public files you are happily broadcasting suggest that you weren’t given a proper manual. There. I’ve placed one a proper ‘how to’ guide, the same guide you could access from any public noosphere node within my fleet, within your MIU. You could even grab your own copy from here if you are willing to put up with the signal delay. Just think ‘public files’ to access the data I gave you, and ‘file permissions’ to change what others can see.
I frown and continue, “Whoever gave you that implant clearly didn’t bother to teach you both how to use it properly if it’s set up to automatically accept calls without your permission, or you don’t know how to refuse a contact. No wonder you have to keep testing everything for poison! Oh, think ‘secure all connections’ to prevent anyone from contacting you, and ‘terminate all external connections’ to end unwanted connections.”
I am immediately booted from the conference call, “You learn fast, Commodore Horthstein, Adjunct Hamiz. Before I forget, I suggest you download the data I sent you to a dataslate before you open it, then delete the original. If you don’t trust what I gave you, it will be more secure for you that way.”
“Magos, thank you for your instruction,” says Raphael.
“You’re quite welcome. Feel free to acquire any of our basic courses on technology interaction before you leave.”
“Who are these courses designed for?” says Lyre.
“Anyone who doesn’t know what’s in them,” I chuckle, “and is willing to learn. Knowledge is built in layers, Adjunct Hamiz, as I am sure you know. Zero is half of binary code. There is no shame in starting from there, only in refusal to count to one. There is no dangerous or secret knowledge in the public files.”
“Ignore my husband, Adjunct Hamiz,” says Brigid. “We’ve just sent our children off for their military service and he’s been left with no one to lecture for months. He does so love to see the delight on their faces as he teaches them something new.”
I clear my throat, “Apologies, Commodore Horthstein, Adjunct Hamiz. I did not intend to denigrate you.”
Raphael waves me off, “You did not. Give it no more thought. Further intrusive statements will not be well received, however.”
“Acknowledged, Commodore. I will be more circumspect.”
“Am I missing out here?” says David.
“Not at all, Trader Modren,” I say. “Your superb vessel has left me in awe, and I couldn’t quite resist showing off a little myself. My attempts fell a little flat.”
Sciéno titers, “So humble, Magos. Do you not have grand tales to tell from your time away from the Imperium? You did not arrive here by accident, I hope?”
“The start of my journey and its intended end,” I say, “are planned for. It’s the stepping stones between them that have been wobbly, ever keen to tar me with splashes of adventure. It would aid me, Trader Modren and Consort Ceasterwyrt, if you were to impart what I have missed in the time I’ve been away. Events of note that only a Rogue Trader would hear of, or care to bother with.”
David finishes his soup and dabs his lips with a napkin, “I do not mind sharing an adventure or two, or some news. What do you have in mind?”
“How about we all take it in turns to suggest a subject,” I say, “and speak of what we know. Perhaps Governor Stigstaff could choose the first topic? We are orbiting his planet after all. We should stick to something local though. Events within the last Millennium in the Kronous Expanse and the Calixis Sector would be my request.”
“You are out of touch,” says David. “I am extra eager to hear what has had you gone for so long.”
“Well,” says Mattius, “If that’s how it’s going to be, I’d like to know of the Orks, Trader Modren.”
David nods, “Yes, they are your closest and most persistent threat. There have been four major events involving Orks in the last Millennium within the Koronus Expanse. The most significant was 422.M41 when Waaagh! Gulrog besieged Port Wander. They were later destroyed by Battlefleet Calixis and the Adeptus Mechanicus.”
“Oh, my!” says Brigid, “We really have lost a lot of data. I believe Aldrich’s first ship, Distant Sun, was lost to the Warp around 666.M41 after a Geller Field breach. My husband was one of the few survivors, his bodyguards and our navigator being the other six. He patched the vessel and limped to my lost world then uplifted us, returning our planet to the Omnissiah’s grace.”
David raises an eyebrow, “If you call that a splash of adventure, I hate to think what you qualify as a full dunking. However did you survive?”
“We were unfortunate enough to ram into a space hulk. After recovering from the Gellar breach, the rest of the crew was lost scavenging supplies to repair the vessel. An additional two thousand souls lost to Orks, Tyranids, and Cultists.” I’m not going to mention the Eldar as that’s so unlikely it would raise uncomfortable questions. The demons are best ignored as well. Senior voidfarers should not need warp entities explained to them.
I continue, “After repairs, we cut ourselves free and fled the Warp at the first opportunity. The next two worlds we found were dead, or filled with xenos wreckage that was best avoided. That’s enough of my tale for now though. What more do you have to say of the Orks, Trader Modren?”
Obviously, that’s not entirely what happened, but I want to establish my own narrative while sticking to the truth as close as possible.
“For that story? I have just the accompaniment. In 789.M41, approximately, the Space Hulk Midnight’s Lair was spotted fighting with Ork raiders near the ‘Undred ‘Undred Teef, or so claimed White Sabre, a self professed blockade runner. Given there are no current blockades in the Koronus Expanse, I was curious why he was in the sector, but could never get the story out of him. After observing for a few days, White Sabre slipped out of the system, having determined that the Orks were likely to lose the engagement. It is unknown who they were fighting on the Hulk.”
Mildred nods, “We saw an uptick in Ork activity during that time. It was before I was born though, so I don’t know much about it, only that the Greenskins attempted to launch themselves into space on crude rockets, with little success. The footage of them blowing themselves up still features in the occasional propaganda clip.”
“Most fascinating how they seemed to know there was a fight to get to,” says Raphael.
“Indeed,” says Lyre, “Such corroboration of information is most useful to the Navy.”
“Happy I could assist,” says David. “More recently, in 800.M41, Mechanicus Explorator vessels charting the Accursed Demesne were assaulted by Ork Kaptain Morgaash Kulgraz and his vessel, Da Wurldbreaka. The Mechanicus fleet was shattered and the remains hunted down through the Demesne by the Ork Freebooterz.”
“I’d rather the Freebooterz didn’t exist,” I say, “but knowing that they do, and are probably still about, does help us prepare for, or avoid them.”
“We hadn’t heard of this either,” says Raphael. “Communications between the Navy and the Mechanicus are often muddled.”
David grins, “The benefit of being a Rogue Trader is that news comes to you. My last news is more about the absence of Orks, rather than their presence. In 816.M41 Midnight’s Lair reappeared among the Heathen Stars. I do not know if it is still there. Astropathic communication in the area has been troublesome since the Hulk’s appearance. For reference, the date on Ardent Bane is 840.M41. With time being far more flexible than my neat mind would like, I cannot be certain when we exactly stand.”
“It’s 837.M41 for us,” says Raphael. “Magos?”
“I haven’t been able to sync with the Forge Temple on Mars yet. While the stars suggest it is 845.M41, my vessel’s chronograph thinks it is 741.M41 and is being rather stubborn about it, refusing to let me correct it.”