Chapter 11: The Audacious Rogue Trader
With the deal struck, Petros assigned liaison duty to the Warpsmith. Phelon's technical knowledge was superior; he was less likely to be deceived by the Dark Mechanicum's cant.
Now, Petros stood on the command bridge of The Ironclad, ready to execute the next phase of the Warband's reinforcement.
They lacked everything—weapons, armor, ships, and power—but none of that was the true priority. The priority was Astartes. They needed to increase the number of their Battle-Brothers.
The Dark Mechanicum had delivered the implantation wargear and had trained Brother Dioscorides as an Apothecary. But they still lacked the most critical component: gene-seed. The sacred glands created by the Emperor, harvested from the bodies of Astartes, were the key to a mortal boy's ascension.
After a neophyte endures the nineteen implantation procedures, his body contains two Progenoid Glands. The one in the neck matures in five years and can be safely harvested. The second, in the chest, matures in ten. But it is never taken from the living.
The thoracic gland is a source of an Astartes's power, releasing the hormones that regulate his superhuman physiology and linking all his other implants. Over his lifetime, it also absorbs his experiences, encoding them as genetic memory. To forcibly harvest it would kill the warrior. Therefore, only upon an Astartes's death in battle will an Apothecary harvest the gland from his chest.
Petros was flanked by Antonius and Ship-Master Barnabas. The three of them formed the command council for this operation. They met to clarify the objective.
Barnabas spoke first. "We need gene-seed, my Lord. The Legion harvested our cervical glands long ago. We don't have a single viable seed in reserve. Without new brothers, this warband is nothing. We could be annihilated in one bad engagement."
The Ship-Master was unhelmed, revealing a broad, weathered face. His brown hair was a short bristle, his skin as coarse as sandpaper. A long scar ran down his right cheek, bisecting the socket where a glowing red bionic eye now sat.
Petros replied to his 'Master of the Fleet.' "Loyalist Chapters and the Adeptus Mechanicus have gene-seed, but we lack the strength to raid their vaults. The Dark Mechanicum has its own stockpiles, but we have nothing left to trade. The other Traitor Legions and warbands are just as desperate as we are. They won't trade; they'd sooner rip the glands from our own chests. As for Fabius Bile's Consortium... we have no way to contact them."
Antonius let out a frustrated sigh. "Then are there any other sources?"
Petros's voice was calm. "There is one. A xenos race. They hold a considerable stockpile of gene-seed. They dwell deep within the Webway, and they are masters of... extraction. They wring every last drop of value from their slaves. When an Astartes dies in their arenas, they harvest his glands and keep them. For trade."
"Captain... you mean to trade with the Drukhari!?" Antonius was stunned by his lord's audacity.
Petros scoffed. "Of course not. For us to approach the Drukhari... it would be like a grox walking into an abattoir. We'd be captured and thrown into the fighting pits before we could even state our terms."
Petros looked at his brother. "But there are... middle-men. Mortals who possess near-limitless authority, the audacity to deal with both xenos and heretic, and, most importantly, a legitimate, Imperial sanction."
Antonius was still processing this, but Ship-Master Barnabas understood. "Rogue Traders."
"Correct," Petros said. "In fact, I have already established contact with a Rogue Trader from a minor dynasty. He has what we need. But he will only trade on his own terms... at his own stronghold."
"We go to him? Is he trustworthy?" Antonius was wary. He might be arrogant, but he wasn't a fool. Walking into a Rogue Trader's domain put them at a severe disadvantage. They could be... disposed of... with ease.
Petros shook his head. "I cannot guarantee his reliability. But his record shows numerous dealings with... proscribed... clients. Xenos and heretics both. There is no record of him betraying a client. Or at least, none who have survived to report it."
"This one is particularly audacious. He operates in the Ultima Segmentum, bold as you please, under a Warrant of Trade supposedly signed by Roboute Guilliman himself. And yet, he deals with our kind. A man like that has powerful connections, powerful skills, or both."
The other two remained silent. The risk was immense.
Finally, Petros made the call. "The danger is real. But we are Astartes. Danger is the air we breathe. For the future of this Warband, we will take the risk."
And with that single command from the Lord of the Forged, the starship that had hung dormant in orbit for half a year began to awaken.
The twenty-six thousand souls aboard The Ironclad scrambled to their posts. Armsmen secured the critical bulkheads. The ship-clans ran diagnostics on their inherited systems. The Navigator was roused from his stasis-coffin. In the depths of the ship, the Geller Field's psyker-core was injected with sedatives, forcing the bound wretch into the required slumber.
There were... minor incidents. A promethium conduit in Sector C3 ruptured, and the resulting fire incinerated 42 ratings. Two newly-promoted crewmen, ex-thralls, got lost and wandered into a restricted zone; the armsmen executed them on the spot. The clans responsible for Macro-battery Three and Lance Two started a void-feud over some unknown slight, leaving 12 dead in the gangways.
All in all, a standard and successful departure.
With the thrum of its ancient engines, The Ironclad began its slow separation, pulling away from the Dark Mechanicum flotilla—a Lunar-class cruiser and its Cobra-class destroyer escorts. The frigate broke the planet's gravitational bonds and moved into the void.
Barnabas meticulously re-checked the Geller Field's integrity as he waited for the plasma drives to charge. He was relentless in his checks. This was their only ship. The majority of the Warband's brothers were aboard. A single moment of negligence, a single failure, would mean their total annihilation.
As The Ironclad reached the system's Mandeville Point, it tore a hole in reality. Carrying its fourteen superhuman warriors, the ship plunged into the roiling chaos of the Immaterium. The warp-jump was engaged.
The moment they translated, every observation port on The Ironclad was sealed. Mortals were forbidden from looking into the Empyrean, on pain of summary execution. The roiling, psychic chaos of the Immaterium was a horror that could break a mortal's mind or corrupt his soul in an instant. Petros and his brothers, of course, were unconcerned. They had lived on a daemon world, after all.
During the journey, things... happened. Menials found their tools moved. Whispers and weeping seemed to echo from the bulkheads. Crewmen would get lost in corridors they had walked their entire lives.
But the Geller Field's integrity remained stable, so the Upper Decks ignored it. The "ghosts" were blamed on thieves. The lost crewmen were flogged for dereliction. They were in the Immaterium. It was best not to look too closely at the shadows.