Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 83

Umbral Flame

12th B'ak'tun, Year 101, season of Q'umarkaj.

Moab Crovin was not a man accustomed to being told no, things always went his way, largely because he arranged it to be so. This was not because he was in any way spoiled. The third son of his dynasty it had been made plain to him that that anything given to him could be taken away by someone bigger and stronger, a fact his older brothers had demonstrated at every opportunity. When accidents had befallen them he'd claimed their inheritance, and nobody had dared comment on how convenient those accidents were for him. Nobody could prove he was involved so as far as he was concerned it was all the same anyway. He'd taken his father's ramshackle flotilla and built it into a mighty Rogue Trader fleet, travelling the borders of the twin empires repeatedly and reaping tremendous profit. So when he found his course blocked by hostile ships he was most put out.

"They haven't moved in two days," Obed Zim commented as he peered at a Pict-screen with his half-moon spectacles.

"I can see that," Crovin growled, "Why though, why?!"

"We are picking up vox-transmissions between them, they are able to talk, but they refuse to speak to us."

"What benefit is it to them to just sit there?" Crovin growled, "If they were Traitor Legions they'd attack us. If they were Terrans they'd be issuing orders, if they were Novans they'd be hurling threats. If they were another Rogue Trader fleet they'd be offering deals with knives hidden behind their backs. But to sit in silence is just baffling."

Zim didn't reply, too busy fussing at another screen on the bridge. Crovin sank back, crossing his embroidered sleeves over his chest. He was a man in his prime, strong of spine and with a square chin. His hair was slicked back in a ponytail and his ears had gold rings running in a line. One hip bore a Xenolock pistol and the other a Phase-sabre. The pistol had been a gift from the Ur-Council of Nova Terra, the sword was a reward from a high-placed Legate under the High Lords in exchange for certain favours. Their contradictory nature spoke to his status as a Rogue Trader, able to cross the border of the riven Imperium, making deals with both sides of the Interregnum. Nobody trusted him, but everyone needed him.

Zim by contrast was ancient. A bent-backed old man more machine than flesh. A savant of rare talent, an enormous breadth of knowledge had brought him the finest Rejuvant treatments his patrons could afford, extending his life and learning by centuries. Some said he remembered the War of the Beast. Crovin doubted that, not even the finest Imperial sciences could extend human life for several millennia, but Zim's talents had been more than enough to justify the enormous cost of recruiting him.

Crovin looked past the savant and examined his bridge. It was a vision of golden splendour, every panel covered in gold leaf, every servitor plated in brass. The crew wore ceremonial finery, lace ruffs and powered wigs at every station No press-ganged ratings on the Most Profitable Venture, not on the bridge anyhow, every man and woman among them was a free sailor, bought and paid for with Crovin's enormous wealth. They'd had to prove themselves too, fighting for his favour, they truly were the cream of the crop.

A gruff voice at his elbow interrupted, "Have you considered they may be as baffled as we are?"

Crovin lifted an eyebrow, "Your meaning?"

"We weren't expecting to find anyone when we translated, maybe they were caught by surprise too."

"You think they may be... locals?"

"If they're not from any human faction we know, and they aren't Xenos, that doesn't leave much else."

Crovin eyed her with surprise, for that was a rare insight from Fae Dhyrl. The burly woman was a mass of scars and gang-tatts, her ears nubs of flesh and her bald head inked with most entertaining scenes of copulation. Crovin had seen many a man let his eyes wander to those illustrations mid-fight, taking their attention off her knives, a deadly mistake. Dhyrl was pure Necromundan hive trash, but she'd won more fights than he had enjoyed hot meals and had survived as his chief bodyguard where many others had fallen.

"Zim!" Crovin snapped, "Why didn't you think of this?!"

"There was no indication of survivors in the Warp storm, let alone ones able to build and operate starships!"

Crovin had to admit, "We didn't expect anyone to still be alive at Alar-Median, at best mutant scum infesting the ruins, but to think someone actually managed to weather the storm. I'd call it a miracle if they weren't sitting in my way."

Zim shuffled across the command dais to call a cyber-cherub, the fat-bodied thing hung on suspensor lift and carried a large pict-slate in chubby hands. Zim took the slate and mused, "Perhaps that is why they refuse our vox-hails, they may not recognise our protocols."

"You think they've been here since the Heresy?" Crovin blinked.

"Then they may not even know of the Ur-council," Dhyrl mused.

"That sounds... profitable," Crovin grinned as possibilities flashed in his mind.

Zim fiddled with his slate, "Perhaps if we use an older vox-code, a relic from the earliest days. The Expeditionary Fleets used a binary-helix cypher, but that's too cumbersome. The Dawnbringer protocol, no, too colloquial. Something Martian... they might be Tech-priests from Alar-Median, or not..."

Crovin stopped listening as he gazed at the Hololith. Floating over his head were the icons of his fleet, a dozen privateer vessels sworn or partnered to his service. By Naval standards none of them rated above an escort frigate, save the much larger Most Profitable Venture, but they were experienced raiders and salvage crews and brave or stupid enough to follow him into a Warp storm. They orbited a barren moon, hanging near a warp-gate on the edge of an asteroid strewn system, keeping away from their silent opposition.

Set against them were a trio of light cruisers all with flat bladed prows and sharp angles. Crovin had at first mistaken them for Traitor vessels, but they predated even that. The largest was a Thoreus pattern artillery ship, fast, vicious and exceedingly well armed for her size. Lacking in the slabs of armour and shields a line cruiser boasted but far more manoeuvrable. She was backed up by a Pagan-class system control ship, similar in build but trading off firepower for a modest strike craft capability. The third ship was truly antiquated, a Thunderbolt class torpedo boat, a pre-Imperial design so senescent even Zim had needed to look it up. Individually none of them was a match for the Most Profitable Venture, but together they presented a major threat.

Crovin bit his lip as he widened his gaze to take in the stars. Red streaks covered the vectors, lingering traces of a warp-storm that had raged for four and a half millennia. A jagged crack of black revealed the path back to open space, a break in the ebbing stormfronts that allowed egress to the wider galaxy. Crovin had paid ruinous bribes to the Navigator houses to learn that the storms were fading, and the lost Forgeworld of Alar-Median was about to become accessible. He'd moved fast, gathering his allies and partners to form an expedition. He would be the first to find Alar-Median, loot its resources and Archeotech, wonders buried for millennia all his to claim. That had been the dream, but he hadn't expected to find anyone had survived the Warp-storm, certainly not someone who could intercept him in the supposedly dead Copan system, several lightyears short of his goal.

"Surveyor spike!" an auspex officer called out, "There's a new contact sailing into Augur range, mass is considerably higher than the light cruisers'."

"Aspect change," another called aloud, "Opposing ships are lighting their drives!"

"Are they coming to bear on us?!" Crovin barked.

"Negative, they're vectoring to meet the newcomer."

Dhyrl snorted, "Well that's answered one question: they were keeping us occupied while waiting for their bigger friend to show up."

Crovin rubbed his chin, "But to fight or to intimidate us? They may be open to negotiations, or come in all guns blazing. We can't risk scuppering a potential deal, but I don't want to be caught flatfooted. Move the fleet out of orbit but keep us well out of weapons range."

The bridge crew hurried to obey, immaculately manicured fingers working gleaming keystrokes as they stirred Most Profitable Venture's drives. Tech-priests were blood red splashes in that gaudy display of coattails and white wigs, beseeching the Omnnissiah's favour. The chatter of voices was a din of confusion but Crovin had long experience managing a bridge and cut through it with ease.

Zim frowned as he examined the auspex-log, "I recognise this ship."

"You what?" Crovin blinked.

"Implacable Judgement," Zim recited as he waved his slate, "A Styx-class fleet carrier, Legiones Astartes. She changed hands several times in the Horus Heresy. She was first taken at Phall, by the Iron Warriors."

"Traitors?!" Crovin yelped as his skin crawled, "God-Emperor help us!"

Yet Zim continued, "But later seized by the Raven Guard. She disappeared from records during the Scouring."

Dhyrl puzzled, "Raven Guard, but they're a long way from here. What's..." A soft snick cut her off and a thud rang out. Crovin looked down and was shocked to see Dhyrl's head roll past his boot, removed entirely from her neck. His skin crawled as a sudden presence stole over him, a feeling that a hungry predator had him fixed in its sight. The bridge crew rose to their feet screaming but Crovin turned very, very slowly, to find himself confronted by a Space Marine, but not any Raven Guard.

Grey Ceramite presented a wall before his eyes, dappled in strange hues. Knotwork etchings covered one pauldron, while the icon of a feline skull in profile adorned the other. The vambraces had bony spurs wedded to the surface, slicked back like quills ready to slash with a motion, red blood telling that they'd served well enough to remove Dhyrl's head. Shrunken heads hung from a belt and the snouted helm was engraved to resemble a predator's maw. Crovin had no idea where this giant had appeared from, when he had boarded the ship or entered the bridge, he had simply appeared from nowhere and he was not alone.

Across the bridge others appeared from thin air, each equally feral in nature. Screaming crew found themselves ringed by nine Astartes, bolters held ready to fire. A truly stupid man tried to pull a shotgun from his station, he was clubbed down by a bolter stock, brains dashed over his console before his horrified comrades' eyes. Crovin had no wish to die so remained absolutely still, hands well away from his weapons. He was under no delusions if these Space Marines wanted him dead he would die, so decided not to provoke them.

The giant loomed over him and growled, "Tregh Mehse Garseh Ka."

Zim muttered from the other side of the dais, "Fascinating, linguistic drift but not originating from Gothic. Some local dialect, further deviating in isolation perhaps."

"Husha Geh Berus Reshek," the giant hissed.

"Poetic syntax, suggesting sub-linguistic inflexions. Contextual connotations may change the meaning of entire sentences. Poetic metre to imply emotional states."

"Jussea Quotorth Faresh," the intruder purred.

"Mark VI helm and archaic bolter patterns suggests no contact with the outside galaxy in four millennia. No signs of mutation, despite feral appearance. Significant deviation from Codex sanctioned heraldry presumably due to cultural isolation, as opposed to Warp-induced madness."

The Space Marine very slowly reached to his belt and drew forth a knife. It shivered as he took it out, a subsonic tone rasping on the ear as the blade turned obsidian black in his grip. Crovin got the point immediately and hissed, "Zim, shut up if you want to live."

"But..."

"Be quiet!" Crovin snapped, "You there! I am Moab Crovin, Rogue Trader, warranted by the High Lords and the Ur-Council of Nova Terra!"

The giant didn't seem to understand as he leaned down to threaten, "Yetre drathe fe maha sundath."

Crovin's bladder very much wanted to empty as he gulped, "I bear the writ of the Emperor..."

That made the giant freeze and whisper, "Sen-Em'p'or?"

"Emperor!" Crovin nodded desperately as he tried not to piss himself, "I bring news of the Emperor!"

"Em'p'or," the giant repeated, his snout mere inches from Crovin's upturned face.

"Emperor, yes, I am licenced by the Emperor," Crovin pleaded.

The giant's helm turned a fraction and vox-clicked something to his comrades. They didn't stand down, but their threat ebbed and the sense they were about to slaughter everyone in sight diminished, though it remained uncomfortably present. Crovin didn't dare protest, lost in dread and awe as the strange Space Marine turned his face back to the Rogue Trader and placed his knife at the nape of the Rogue Trader's neck, then asked in stilted Gothic, "What... Fate... Corax?"