Herald of the Stars - A Warhammer 40k, Rogue Trader Fanfiction

The STC library is huge. The scanner tells me it’s sixty thousand cubic metres; shelves are jumbled and tumbled everywhere, all blackened with soot and thick with ash. At the far end, the deep black and actinic crackle of a void shield maintains the room’s atmosphere.

Here lies the remains of all humanity has ever, and likely will ever know.

Within the tattered room echoes eternal, horrid laughter, teasing the edge of my hearing and sending shivers through my mind.

Sticking through the void shield is a massive sheet of red metal. I set the scanner to task and two minutes later inhale sharply.

Adeptus Mechanicus Lathe-Class Monitor Cruiser, Distant Sun. It’s my ride off this station, yet it’s obliterated everything that matters.

I drop to the floor and stare at the devastation, all my hopes for a better life for all, recast in splintered junk. Minutes later, I stand, and search for a broom. It takes me an hour, but I find one and gradually sweep up the mess, right tangled shelves, and bring order to this ruined temple of technological marvels.

It takes weeks, and I do not bother counting as I shuffle back and forth, my hands shifting through tons of ash, hoping to find something. Occasionally, I return to the cafeteria to recharge behind the safety of my barricades, or rest on my cot, back in the sarcophagus room.

My hair has regrown to a fine, vibrant red. Muscles grow on muscles until I look more like an eighties comic hero than a real human. It makes my periodic Demon brawls much easier and I gradually accustom to the brutal grind of combat, though the constant fear never fades.

Eventually my luck will run out.

I am terribly lonely, E-SIM’s grinding voice is poor company, though he does answer my many questions with robotic patience. One day, I even spent an hour standing by the repaired bulkhead leading to Orc territory, tempted to barge in and demand a conversation before dismissing the idea as madness.

Sitting on a step ladder with a three legged table, propped by warped boxes, I chug a gritty MRE and wash it down with a few meagre sips of water and gaze upon my fruitless works. There is nothing in the library. No devices, no data cards, no paper or plans. I’m nearly done with the place.

I have paid for one unlock, a skeletal replacement, one that will armour my skull, add thirty four centimetres to my height, taking me to two metres, and give my bones the strength and flexibility of plasteel while retaining their organic functions.

First, I need to build an organics printer and assemble the Black Skeleton module to prove I understand the knowledge E-SIM has crammed into my head. I’ve been eying the food printers, confident I can repurpose one for my project. It’s that or clear the labs of rot in the hope they have what I need. If I knew how, I could program the medical nanites to make a dummy skeleton from scrap, but I’ll need a few upgrades, and decades of study, before I can even scrape the top off that pit of numbers.

My other option to acquire proper tools is to cut into the Distant Sun. I’ll have to get in there eventually, but I really want more gear before I risk that death trap. The workshops for making more gear are in Ork territory though, because of course they are. I am so annoyed about it.

There are no good choices here.

I pat my new gun, assembled from bent and welded scrap; the water pistol broke during my fourth fight. The new gun is like a flamethrower, only the canisters are repurposed oxygen cylinders, filled with a nanite foam mix. Even with my new strength, it is still bulky; I can only carry two reloads. I also have scrap armour I assembled from the super-dense shelving, it's way better than the metal in the canteen and tough enough to deflect demonic claws.

With the research matrix now online, E-SIM was able to help me with the armour design, and it covers everything except my head and joints. My undersuit helmet is more than good enough for my slowly de-aging face. As for the joints, I just haven’t spent the time to mould such mechanisms.

The suit is grey and stupidly heavy at forty three kilos, despite being a couple millimetres thick. A supporting, unpowered exoskeleton is the only thing that makes it usable for any useful length of time, let alone the hectic minutes of demon slaying. I only wear the suit when I have to.

Two days later, I’m finished with the STC library with nothing to show for it. With a new plan in mind, and gear and armour at the ready, I open the small door I installed into the bulkhead and march for the Orks. They have tools, and trade in fists and teef.

“It’s Waaagh!” I mutter.

Am I using the expression right?

Doesn’t matter. I’m going in there to hit stuff until I feel better, danger be damned. After weeks by myself with nothing but Demons and an almost sentient computer for company, my caution is failing me and I am starting to believe any social interaction would be a good thing, even a fight.

Sliding back the viewport shows more brutalised corridors, littered with jagged, blistered metal. Oil stains and other dried liquids colour the floor with black residue.

The atmosphere is still present. It makes me uneasy. An emergency system working without flaws for millennia, despite catastrophic damage, is incredibly strange to me. I cannot fathom why it hasn’t broken yet.

There are no visible Orks, or any other Xenos on my sensor suite. I leave my section of the station. I can’t secure the door as I never installed a lock on the Ork side and can only hope nothing sneaks in while I’m out. They can't attack a lock if they don't know its there and the door is sturdy.

I push my trusty pallet truck down the corridor, laden with a couple boxes of emergency supplies, half a dozen tubs filled with grey metal spheres. Everything is covered with a silvered tarpaulin and strapped down with flat belts.

Arriving at the zero-g zone, I leave my truck, grab a handrail, and pull myself along the corridor. My sensors drag my awareness towards a single Gretchin, sitting at the other end of the zone. I traverse the gentle curve, bringing into view a green creature the size of a ten year old boy, sitting in the middle of the corridor and staring in my direction, so utterly bored out of its mind, it doesn’t notice me until I wave my hand in front of its face. He looks a bit familiar.

The green, gangly creature stares at me, then snorts, “Wot?”

“Wanna earn some teef?”

It eyes my perfect smile, then covers its mouth with both hands, “Keep yer pink twigs out o’ my mouth, ‘umie.

“Who would want a scrawny grot’s teef? That’s why you nick other boyz teef.”

“Waste ‘o time,” It opens its hands and places them palm up on its knees. “No dakka, can’t keep no teef. No teef, can’t trade for dakka or choppas.” It eyes my weapon and stands, “Yours looks good. ‘And it over, ‘umie.”

The wonders of Ork economics in the forty-first millennium are a galactic marvel.

I grunt, “Like what you see? Get me some tools and I’ll make you something better. A lathe, pillar drill, circuit printer, chemicals, a bunch of proper scrap. Sneaky git like you should be fine.”

It runs its tongue over its sharp, jagged teeth, “How big is dis gun we gabbin’ about? Slugga, shootah,” its eyes wide and it starts to drool, “maybe a burna?”

“Get me everything I want and I’ll make you the biggest, loudest, fanciest gun you can carry, and enough explosives and ammo to turn the next Nob who messes with you into soup.”

With extra remote triggers. No way I’m trusting Greenskins.

The grot swallows, “And a choppa. And armour. And a shiny trukk. You give me everythin’ ‘umie if ya want yer bits and gubbins.”

“Sure. That much stuff will take a few months though. Guns and ammo first. More later, if you trade for extra stuff. An electric smelter, a power hammer.” I show him the lanyard hanging around my neck. “Cards like this. Data slates. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, fancy plans and shiny nick-nacks for wargear. Now, wot am I gonna tell da others? Gotta have teef ta spike da right mitts.”

“Greedy git, you just want more stuff.”

The gretchin sneers, “Yeah, well, wot you gonna do about it ‘umie? Nuffink, dat’s wot. No teef, no tools. Gimme some loot or maybe da boss finds out yer still kickin’. Keep it comin’, stay sneaky, and we be best ‘o friends.”

Some mighty warrior I am, getting fleeced by a fucking Gretchin. Better than being stuck on a space station forever, I suppose.

I get up close and stare down and the scrawny stain, “Keep your word or I’ll stomp you.”

It shrugs, “You suck at being da biggest.”

Makes sense. I really want to hit him, but I don’t because I need this deal and I don’t relish violence. Just looking strong isn't enough. I had no idea Orks were so perceptive to the 'Dao of 'Ardest Knuckles and Noggins'.

It laughs at me and does a mocking jig; I finally recognise the Xeno.

“You're the one who threw the stikk bombs and blew up the demon.”

The Gretchin smacks its chest, “Ya not so bad ‘umie. ‘Ard to meet an Ork as famous as me.”

“Too amazing for your own good, eh? Is that why you're stuck out here?”

“Dat Runtherd is a cowardly git. Saw I was bigga dan ‘im so he hit da others ‘till dey said he did all da killin’ den chased me out cause I snitched on him to all da other Orks.” The Gretchin rubs long, spindly fingers together, “Made him look like a right squig.”

A bigger ego, maybe. This cockeyed shroom is less than half the size the Ork boy was. Perhaps a little praise would go a long way?

I nod, “He’s got nothing on you. I saw him sneaking off halfway through the fight. Even with his big legs he was too slow to run before you saved him.”

It rubs its long, hooked nose, “Dat’s right ‘umie. You know wot’s bashin’.”

“Follow me. I’ll give you stuff, we chose a drop off point beyond the screwy gravity corridor. You and your helpers fill it up with what I need, and I pick it up in a handful of days. I’ll drop off a big gun in a month. Every time you get me more of the stuff I want, I’ll drop off more wargear the next month. Better loot means better guns. Agreed?”

“It’s a deal, Rusty.”

“Rusty?,” I chuckle, “Fine, whatever, then I’m gonna call you Bola.”

Bola shrugs and points down the corridor, “You first.”

We return to my pallet truck and we complete our trade. Bola pats his palm against a large tin of red paint.

“Dis is good stuff. Always need more sparkle paint.”

“Makes stuff go faster, right?”

“Course it does, even a squid knows dat. Dis is even bettah. Makes beamyz go ping, ping.”

“Sparkle paint...reflects lasers?”

“Yah, why else would squishies an’ beakies paint dere tanks an’ gubbins?”

Who’d have thought there was a practical reason for painting miniatures?

Bola continues, “Dats why proppah orky weapons go ‘Zzap’ and ‘dakka dakka’. No prissy pew pew. Paint is good against bug spit too. Gotta keep da Weird Boyz off it though. Dey drink sparkle paint for da dreams. Makes ‘em extra loony.”

“You must have a big clan.” I shiver, “Are there bugs on this station? Tyranids?”

“We da biggest! Bugs are da other side ’o us. Dey be right fighty da last few weeks. Good scrap, good eatin’. Fine time to be Orky.” Bola eyes me up and down. “You should switch. We could spray you green. Be a good laugh.”

“Maybe once I’m the biggest.”

Bola laughs at me, then starts pushing the pallet truck away, “Gonna need more dan gunz for dat, Rusty.”

“Then keep trading.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear yah.”

I walk away, my hands tucked into my armpits to keep them from shaking. No idea if I’ve done the right thing, but I didn’t have to fight this time, conversed, and even traded with a Xeno.

Good job the Imperium is nowhere near.

I’m not happy to hear about the tyranids and that their increased activity likely coincides with my awakening. I’d love it if both sides kill each other off, but I can’t see that happening, and whoever wins will probably come for me afterwards. I need to get on that mechanicus ship and off this station as soon as possible. Staying to loot this place to the metalwork will just get me killed.