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

With care and precision, I gear up, careful not to set myself or my equipment spinning. A few careful hops and pulls sends me out the canteen and navigating to the closest generator. It’s only five hundred metres distant, but the indirect route and low gravity turns that into two hours of challenging manoeuvres.

The station becomes more dilapidated as I approach, power cables have been yanked from panels and welded with wire tangled gizmos and braided into a spaghetti-like mess. Sparks arc and crackle, while gizmos vibrate and hum at bone vibrating levels.

I enter a massive chamber, filled with towering machinery, much of it scattered, beaten, and chewed. A rectangular block of shiny machinery has been cracked open and the ceramic balls that filled it piled into a sliced up sphere with bent metal rods poking out of it.

A handful of gretchin and a hoard of snotlings jump in and out of the ball pool, scratching and biting each other while a score of ork boyz cheer them on. One boy hands over a pouch of teeth to another ork, then doesn’t let go of it. The other holds his closed fist with one hand then they both punch each other in the face until the paying ork falls unconscious.

The victorious orc picks up the teeth that fell out during their punch up, puts the extras in the pouch, and kicks the loser off the side. In the low gravity, the ork bounces spectacularly. The chuckling ork returns to watching the ridiculous fight going on in the ball pool.

A series of smaller machines line the room attached to wide, neat pipes, though for some reason, a large funnel has been attached to some of them. Above the funnel, four gretchin place a squig in a vice and squeeze it. It struggles and tries to puff itself up. The squig holds its shape for a moment, then deflates as a black, viscous liquid tumbles into the funnel from the squigs mouth.

The gretchin aren’t quite quick enough turning the vice and the squig slips out and escapes. It quickly turns on its tormentors and swallows two before they can scatter, then bounces to the corner and tucks its stubby legs beneath its circular body and glares at everything, including me.

It growls and gnashes its teeth. Remarkably, the fleshy ball of teeth and violence doesn’t approach. The fleeing gretchin glance over, then head towards me. A familiar hooked nose and a stained, jaunty hat blight my vision.

Bola straightens the fancy jacket I made for him,“‘Ello Rusty. Come ta see da real meks at work?” He is covered in bruises and cuts, as are his two companions. His new white shirt and trousers are remarkably clean.

“Hello Bola.”

The other two gretchin snigger. Bola slaps them on the back of the head.

“Dat’s Captain Bola to you, ‘umie.” Bola pets the small shotgun strapped to his chest.

“Right. With your crew of two reprobates.” I point at the ball pool, “Well, at least I know why the power is out. Permanently.”

“Nah,” says Bola. “We’s just refuelled. It’ll be back in a minute.”

I consult my implants. “You just poured promethium, vomited from a squig, into the intake pipe of a hydrogen fuel cell. Which is supposed to start up that,” I gesture at the broken machinery spilling balls everywhere, “A very high temperature fission reactor,” I point at the fighting pit, “that can start up that, a fusion reactor so advanced it can fuse from hydrogen up to carbon and oxygen.”

Bola shrugs, “Promethium is a hydrocarbon, ‘course it works in da fuel cell, you bumpkin. We do it all da time.”

I squint at Bola, “What happens to the carbon?”

“Who cares?” The fuel cell hums to life and gravity returns. “See? It works fine.”

Burning plastic drifts over to us and the fuel cell starts to smoke then catches fire.

Bola removes his hat, his grip tight. He nods, like a wiseman, and trembles a little, “‘Dat ‘ill leave a mark.”

I inspect the other fuel cells lining the room, and notice rather a lot of soot about them, “That was the last working generator, wasn’t it.”

“Sure was,” says the left gretchin as gravity fails again and the warning message blares through the station.

“Time to scamper,” says the other.

The orks start to yell and point as smoke chokes the room and my scanner picks up approaching humanoids from behind me, all of which are leaking warp energy.

“Too late,” I say. “Cultists are coming, about twenty. One of them is really big.”

“Zog it!” says Bola. “I hate da spiky gits.”

“Everyone hates chaos creeps, even themselves.”

“No time for funnies, Rusty. Can you sneak in dat?” Bola taps my armour.

I jump slightly and fall slowly, “I can float.”

“Good job we bodged da power den,” says the left gretchin.

Bola smacks him again then gestures left repeatedly. We move clockwise around the room. The orks finally notice me and scramble towards us.

I look back.

Screams and shouts echo from the entrance as cultists pour into the room. Followed by a rapid clanking and the roar of a powerful engine.

A chaos marine marches into the room and looks left to right, half turning his body as well as his head. He’s 2.3 metres tall and his shoulders are an absurd 1.75 metres wide. His armour is black with gold trim and adorned with red symbols, rusted spikes, and withered skulls. A bolt pistol is stuck to his thigh and a massive, long handled axe vibrates in his hand as vicious teeth whir and buzz along its edge.

A deep, distorted voice projects from his helm, “I see you, ice walker.”

His leg armour has smaller, multiple plates, rather than the single slabs I was expecting, and a grilled visor that extends over his chin and up to his eyes.

I run as best I can and think, “Any help, E-SIM?”

“Engage mag-grip?” says E-SIM.

“Yes!”

I really should spend more time reading the manual for my implants. Having knowledge shoved into my head and practising are quite different.

My gait alters as my feet start sticking to the floor, even as I launch myself further and faster, my feet are drawn downwards, despite how light I feel. It’s incredibly odd.

The ork boyz, snotlings, and other gretchin abandon their fighting pit and bounce towards the cultists. They take some hits from the cultists’ crude stubbers and a couple of crossbows. Seven gretchin take wounds and fall, screeching. One boy takes a bolt through the eye. The boy clutches his head and rips the bolt from his face. He’s so angry that he recovers fast enough to catch up to the ongoing charge.

Two sides clash and shout, slamming their crude weapons into each other. The boyz rip the entire group of cultists apart in seconds and only lose three orks, all of whom died from point blank shots to their heads. Another four are injured, great gashes across their torsos or limbs, but it doesn’t slow them.

The chaos marine, however, does. As the orks attempt to dog pile him, he dances between them, deflecting their choppas with his thick armour, or slapping their arms aside with the handle of axe all while keeping the bigger ones between him and the gretchin scrambling for the cultists’ guns. His chain axe thunders as he methodically disarms the orks, never going for killing blows until they are all too injured to strike back.

Fourteen Gretchin open fire, rounds sparking off his armour. He charges them as we reach the other side of the room while the snotlings run off, yelling.

We pass a pen full of squigs, the noise has put them in a right tizzy, and they’re throwing themselves against the metal bars. My eyes widen and I hop towards the pen.

“Wot you doin’ ‘umie?” yells Bola, “We got no time to play wiv da squigs.”

I say nothing, unwilling to shout my plan when there’s a superhuman beheading orks eighty metres behind us. Reaching the pen I grab the electric prod hanging by the cage and glance back. Bola has left along with his crew.

Hopping atop the pen, I sever the bolts and hinges with my powerfield pipe, then poke the squigs with the electric prod. They stream from the pen, frothing and confused. As they run out, I spray them with nanites.

The slivered squigs bounce about the room, their tiny, chicken-like legs propelling them high into the air, where they float down slowly, large pink tongues hanging from gaping mouths.

I leap from my perch and dash for the exit as the nanites eat through the squigs, detonating them and spraying promethium everywhere.

“Is this your plan, mortal?” says the chaos marine, sounding far to close.

Reaching the corridor, I spin and hop backwards, spraying nanites into the room, and command them to ignite the fuel.

The explosion is epic, sending me flying down the corridor. My crude armour and fancy undersuit protect my skin and body from flame and violent collisions, but the shockwave shreds my fortified innards.

E-SIM lists multiple faults and pumps me full of drugs. Pain fades and my mind clears, putting me under the effect of an over-caffeinated hangover. I blink rapidly; if I can survive an indirect fuel-air explosion with my armour, the marine, with his power armour and blessed by chaos, will easily survive a direct one.

I really didn’t think further than ‘kill it with fire’.

An armoured boot kicks me down the corridor, denting my chestplate.

Before I can recover, the marine catches up and hauls me upright, leaving me dangling from his fist. He rips the nanite sprayer from my body, chucking it with such force, bits go flying off it. My shotgun follows the sprayer to the scrap pile.

“A futile effort,” His armour is sparking and his movements are stiff. He looks at the pipe in my hand and laughs.

I shove it through his neck.

The marine gurgles and back hands me, shattering my visor and filling my face with shrapnel.

Gripping his arm with both hands, I drag my fingers through his arm, dismembering it. I fall to the floor in a crouch, then tackle the marine, hoping to flip him in the low gravity.

He barely moves, his magnetic boots hold him to the floor. The marine coughs and brings his fist down on my back, sending me to the floor.

I chop my palm and sever most of his left knee, then grab his other leg and yank it, pulling it apart with my hands.

At last, the chaos marine falls.

I stomp on his remaining arm, pinning it, and grab the pipe protruding from his neck, then work it back and forth, opening the hole. My power field vaporises his flesh and armour, beheading him.

The golden skull in my vision increases its count by one and I absorb an impressive 1% EP from his rapidly rusting corpse in a swirl of rainbow smoke.

Dizzy and delighted, I savour the rush of survival.

++Time to move, Aldrich.++

E-SIM’s prompt forces me back into motion. I recover my broken sprayer and battered pipe, then proceed down the smoky corridor, struggling for breath.

A green face and sooty hat pop their head from behind a door frame, “By Gork and Mork! You live, ‘umie.”

“No thanks to you, gretchin.” I continue onward. Bola and his two mates follow. One has acquired a pocket watch in the last five minutes, that hangs from a gold chain from his loincloth. The other has a lab coat that sweeps behind him like a wedding gown.

“Dat’s a big lie. I showed you da exit.”

I snort, “a team effort?”

“‘Course. Can’t have my dakka merchant krump it. Be bad for my rep.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Where’s da beakie?” says the lab coat gretchin.

“The what?”

“Da spiky git in ‘eavy armour, you daft git,” says Bola.

“Dead.”

“For realz?” says the pocket watch gretchin.

“Yep. Cut his head off with a pipe.”

“Dat’s propha orky. Good job, minion.”

I cuff Bola over the back of his head, he does some impressive low-G summeraults while clinging onto his hat.

The other two gretchin laugh.

“Dat’s no way to treat yah gifter of gubbins, ‘umie.”

“You don’t do gifts, Bola.”

Bola grins, “Wot you want next time anyways?”

“Got something that can cut through a hull?”

“Plasma cutter and fuel? Maybe a power claw. Better dan a pipe, anyways. Gimme your silver sprayer and it’s yours.”

I examine my broken sprayer, “I need to fix it first and the silver spray won’t work for you, it’s fussy tech. I can make it a burna if you can find the fuel.”

“Dat and two sluggas for my lads and 300 rounds.”

“I’ll make the sluggas and give you the tools and materials to make 300 rounds. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Fine. Two choppas den. Three days, usual place?”

“Five. Burna for the claw, sluggas for the cutter. Three barrels of fuel for tools, materials, and two choppas.”

“Deal, Rusty. Now tell us about dat fight o’ yours.”

With a small smile on my face, I do.