Chapter 16: Shadow of the Serpent
A long moment after Petros and his two brothers had gone, the trade representative pulled a disposable silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead.
"Oh, by the Golden Throne... Those high-and-mighty masters are finally gone."
Apathes Howard just laughed, a bright, easy sound. "There's no need to be so dramatic. It's hardly our first transaction with Astartes. The goods were exchanged, the payment was rendered. A clean, smooth affair, wouldn't you say?"
The representative did not look convinced. "My Lord, in the past, we've never allowed heretic Astartes aboard the flagship. Couldn't they have used an intermediary? Or a simple astrotelegraphic message?"
"They just... walked in here. In full plate, armed, and stood before you. What if they had attacked you?"
The representative put on a mask of deep, loyal concern. "Relax," the Rogue Trader said, waving off the worry. "I have the measure of things."
The portly man clutched his handkerchief again. "My Lord, there is one other thing... I just received the report. The two freighters carrying our... trade goods... went missing. Our patrols just found them, powered down and adrift in the asteroid belt. It was them, my Lord. They stole the shipment before they even got here."
Apathes, who had known this for hours, merely shrugged. "I am aware. But provoking them is... unwise. And since we never took possession of the cargo, we are not obligated to pay for it. The supplier loses their deposit, but the loss is not ours."
The representative still looked worried. "But my Lord, a charter-ship in our employ, hijacked in our own territory... and we do nothing? If word of this gets out, it will damage the Dynasty's reputation."
Apathes laughed. "Then by all means, you go and negotiate with those Chaos Space Marines. Ask them politely to return the ships. Or, better yet, I will assign you a squadron of destroyers, and you can go and take them back."
The representative's head shook so fast it was a blur.
The Rogue Trader chuckled. "Exactly. The deed is done. It is better to offend a third-party supplier than to offend... them. We will simply favor this 'Forged Steel' Warband with future business. That will be compensation enough."
This man was far softer than his father had been. He still needed seasoning.
"And that," Apathes continued, "is my next order. You will cultivate a relationship with this Forged Steel Brotherhood. Give them... favorable terms. As long as we don't take an actual loss, of course. A connection like that is an asset."
The representative pulled out a new silk handkerchief to dab at his face. "Yes, my Lord." He knew better than to ask why. His master was already several steps ahead.
Apathes gave a slightly undignified stretch and yawned. "Well, that's enough for today. I'm retiring."
He left the reception chamber and walked toward his personal quarters.
In the minds of many, a Rogue Trader's quarters would be a kilometer-wide hall of excess, filled with wine and servants. His were not. His private rooms were a mere two hundred square meters—an office, a bedroom, an ablution chamber with a sauna, and a small, private armory. That was all.
He could eat the finest foods, but often, for efficiency, he would just drink a single vial of optimized nutrient-paste to supply his needs for the day.
The only ones who ever entered were his bodyguards and his senior staff. Anyone else who crossed the threshold unannounced would be atomized by the auto-turrets. He slept eight hours a day. No vacations.
All of this was not for his own enjoyment, but for the good of the Imperium. Yes, he thought, even dealing with heretics and xenos... it was all for the good of the Imperium.
Apathes shed his ostentatious greatcoat, hanging it on the rack. He kicked off the rare xeno-hide boots and slid his feet into comfortable slippers.
As he unbuckled his weapon-belt, he froze.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A cold dread washed over him—whether it was a warrior's instinct or the expensive bionic augmetics beneath his skin, he knew, with absolute certainty, he was not alone.
He drew his bolt pistol from its holster and his power sword from its scabbard. Left hand, sword. Right hand, pistol. He slipped off his shoes, his socked feet making no sound on the thick carpet. He didn't bother with a spare magazine; if fifteen bolts couldn't solve the problem, more wouldn't help.
He moved with the silent, fluid grace of a cat. Voxxing his guards was too slow; it would alert the intruder. He cleared the ablutions. The armory. All empty.
Then, at the entrance to his half-darkened office, he saw him.
A tall figure, sitting calmly in his own high-backed chair, hands laced together. The figure was in shadow, while Apathes was silhouetted by the light from the hall.
The Rogue Trader's blood ran cold. He immediately sheathed his sword and holstered his pistol. He bowed, low and formal.
"My Lord. I... was not expecting you."
A voice came from the shadow, sibilant and sharp, speaking flawless High Gothic. "Apathes. You sold him the gene-seed."
"Yes, Lord Velkher."
"At that price?"
"As you see."
"You took a significant loss."
"I did, my Lord. But... were those not your orders?"
A low, reptilian chuckle came from the darkness. "I am not critiquing the action. But... did you include the special seed I provided?"
"I did, my Lord."
The figure rose and stepped from the shadows. He was a towering Astartes, his head bare, his power armor a deep, metallic cerulean, its surface covered in a fine, serpentine scale pattern.
The Astartes nodded, a gesture of approval. "Operative. Your task is complete. But this identity... 'Velkher'... is now discarded. You will not be contacted by him again."
The Rogue Trader's composure flickered for just an instant. "My Lord, then... what is my next contact's designation?"
The Son of the Hydra sealed his helmet. A sibilant, dangerous voice emerged from the vox-grille.
"Alpharius."
The Rogue Trader nodded, asking no more questions. "Yes, my Lord."
After a silent moment, the Son of the Hydra spoke the words, low and certain.
"For the Emperor."
Apathes Howard brought his hands together, forming the Imperial Aquila over his chest.
"His Will be done."