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

(Trigger Warning: Suicide Reference)

“Hello everyone,” I say.

Dawn Garnet, our dog, bounds up to me and nuzzles my hand.

“Hi Dad!” Alpia runs up to me and headbuts me in the chest before attempting to hug the stuffing out of me.

“Oooff!” I fake some distress, hug her back, then tickle her until she lets go. “Stop trying to break your old man with your biokinesis. I swear that hug would have cracked carapace armour.”

Alpia says, “I’m good, right?”

I smile at her, “Yes, you are safe.”

Alpia pokes me in the belly, “That isn’t what I meant!”

“You are doing well, but you know better than to draw on the Warp just to show off. It isn’t a toy.”

Alpia steps back looking a little sheepish, “Sorry. I didn’t think it would matter with you here.”

I deliberately mess up her hair, “It always matters. Alright, step out of the way, let me say hello to everyone else.”

Luan tries to play it cool and gives me a fist bump. I let him then hug him anyway, then let him wriggle out of my grasp. Fial is even more awkward, responding with a brief one armed hug before stepping back quickly. This is pretty normal for him. I know he cares, he just hates showing it when other people are about, even other family.

Dareaca is much more confident, approaching me with a slight swagger. He’s acquired some xenos fang earrings and a wraithbone eyebrow piercing. He hugs me without hesitation then steps back.

My hand reaches out faster than he can see and I tap one of his earrings, “Looking grand there Dareaca.”

Dareaca looks surprised, “You don’t mind?”

I raise an eyebrow, “Do you really think a Tech-Priest is going to complain about you sticking metal and bone in your face? Just don’t turn your face into a jewellery shop.”

“Unless it has a practical purpose?” Dareaca smirks.

“If you want to look ridiculous, that’s up to you,” I laugh. “Just take it all out before you return to the barracks. You won’t get it back and they’ll rip it out.”

Dareaca winces, “Yeah, I’ll be discreet.”

Alpia bursts into laughter and the rest of my family smile.

“Oi!” says Dareaca.

“That’s enough, children,” says Brigid. “I want my hello kiss and then we’re going to sit down and enjoy the skills of the new chef.”

Brigid strides over and I embrace her. We exchange a light kiss and she steps away.

“I didn’t know that we have a new chef,” I say as we all take our seats. A Servitor brings our meals in on a trolly. It disables the stasis field then serves us, placing two platters of canapes on the table, fresh rolls. There’s a pot of dipping oil and vinegar too. We tuck in.

“For some reason Mum has decided that the fellow who tried to poison you all should be our new cook,” says Alpia.

“Really, Brigid?” I say.

“I found out from the Machine-Spirits in the chairs in Ardent Bane’s dining hall that Gaius Schonhildr is the primary Fixer for the Ratling abhuman contingent in Trader Modren’s fleet.”

“Ah, that makes more sense,” I say.

Dareaca says “It does?”

Fial clears his throat, “A Ratling Fixer is an unofficial, self appointed leader among Ratlings. By ensuring that their representative has a direct, if non-standard line to our family, we can ensure that their community has a voice and is less likely to act out. Ratlings are known across the Imperium for being hungry, loud, and lecherous. They are prone to thievery and other objectionable behaviours. Obviously, we want to try and avoid any of that.

“They are accepted because of their propensity towards stealth and accurate shooting, but their contingent won’t last long if they all end up in the penal regiments. They also have good noses, making it easier for them to become skilled chefs and gardeners. We only have three hundred or so across the recently expanded Fleet. Genetic alterations will almost certainly be necessary with such a small pool of individuals.”

Luan shrugs, “They will learn or they will die, just like all the other people we’ve had to integrate. Besides, if they’re really that useful, Dad can always clone more of them.”

“That’s true,” I say, “though I agree with Brigid that we should at least attempt a more discretionary approach first.”

“So long as they do not mistake compassion for us being chumps,” says Dareaca, “I do not really care. We have plenty of good stealth specialists and implants that improve accuracy. I can see why they’d work well for the Imperial Guard who only invest minimal resources in their troops, but genetic advantages don’t mean much in the Heralds.”

“That’s because almost everyone is from the same ethnicity,” says Brigid. “It’s not exactly subtle when almost everyone has red hair and pale skin.”

Alpia grins, “We’re all the same height too. Apart from Dad.”

“I hope the enhancement surgeries weren’t too painful,” I say.

“Nah, they were fine,” says Luan. “I still feel a bit clumsy though. A lot of the conscripts in my company are tripping on their faces during exercises. I haven’t done it yet, but it’s absolutely going to happen at one point. There’s, like, six people who haven’t learned that you shouldn’t laugh yet. Their time will come, or more likely, someone will get fed up and they’ll have a minor accident.”

“Ah, if you’re all still getting back your coordination,” says Brigid, “You must be working on your dissertations. What did you all choose?”

“Tactics for neutralising aquatic Squiggoths,” says Luan.

“Wait what?” I say.

Luan says, “Oh, did you not read the report yet, Dad?”

“I must have missed it. Fill me in?”

“We found a new species of Squiggoth on Cobalt,” says Luan. “The Orks have found some way to mimic the leviathans, well the juvenile ones anyway. It makes hunting their klans more difficult than expected. If you don’t kill their transport first, they can dive and escape. On the plus side, they tend to attack first. Getting all of them though is almost impossible.

“We just can’t bring our firepower to bear because no one wants to be in a tank on ice. Rósin’s teams are working with the local Tech-Priests to create new gear but it’s a slow process.”

“Why’s that?” says Alpia. “Everyone uses void carapace or better. It’s not like they can’t breathe underwater if they can breathe in space.”

“Yeah, but you can sink and the manoeuvring jets in the armour are void rated. They don’t work underwater.”

“Ah, how troublesome,” I say. “Is your dissertation going well?”

Luan says, “Not really. I’m just too tired to work on it, what with all the physical training and other classes. Still, I have until the end of the year, so I should be OK. The hard part is finding time to go through all the footage and combat reports. It’s a lot of data to collate. I could use Machine-Spirits to help me, but I still have to watch everything anyway. Finding the right filters for the data is hard when I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

I nod, “So long as you continue to put thought and effort into it, you will do well. I’d help, but that would negate the point of the exercise.”

“Yeah,” says Luan. “I was specifically told I can’t ask you, Dad.”

“How about you, Dareaca?” I say. “What are you working on?”

“Mathematical models for extending auspex range by bouncing it off ice, both underwater and clouds. My project is more about comparing what we already do using the data I personally collect and explaining how it works. In some ways, it’s much easier than Luan’s because the method is known and there is less data for me to personally go through. On the other hand, creating a Machine-Spirit that can make use of the data I collect to prove I know how to do it is really, really hard.”

“I suppose I’m not allowed to help you either,” says Brigid.

“Not a chance, Mum,” says Dareaca. “There’s another guy in my squad who’s doing something similar though, so we’re working together on our projects.”

Brigid says, “I’m glad you’re making friends.”

“Whatever you say, Mum,” says Dareaca.

“Fial?” says Brigid. “Do you want to tell us what you’ve been up to?”

Fial nods, “A comparison between planet and void based nomadic cultures and their martial doctrines. The point of it is to find common elements that work well, and create simulations to prove it. I also want to show differences, to demonstrate practices that wouldn’t work between different nomadic cultures.”

I say, “That’s ambitious. It’s much harder to prove a right or wrong answer with a dissertation like that. It’s entirely dependent on the quality of your data and how well you argue your explanation of it. I have confidence that you can pull it off though.”

Fial says, “Thanks, Dad.”

“I can’t talk about mine,” says Alpia. “It’s psyker stuff so it’s classified. Well, Mum and Dad can know, but only Dad would actually understand it. No offence, Mum.”

“I am quite happy not to know,” says Brigid, “So long as you are safe.”

“I’ll be fine! Dad gave me loads of cool implants.”

“Let me guess, they’re classified too,” says Luan.

“Yep!” Alpia winces, and goes quiet for a moment. She continues quietly, “One of them is a suicide implant though. I try not to think about it. I understand why I have it. Even Dad has one.” Alpia swallows, “Being super strong or pulling the pins on other people’s explosives is cool. It makes me feel safe, but that’s an illusion.

“I have friends! We help each other. Whispering into each other’s thoughts from across the ship is nice when you're feeling lonely, or having a bad day. You might think a noosphere call is the same, but it really isn’t. Every mind on the vessel is a small tiny flame I am aware of every moment of every day. At any moment I could just reach out and squash it. I won’t. Never! But it scares me.”

Alpia looks at me and smiles, “Dad is a huge nebula though, his soul covering the whole Fleet, keeping all the monsters away. It’s warm. Like a hug.”

“That came out of nowhere,” says Luan, “you sure you’re good?”

“A suicide implant. Is that really necessary?” says Brigid. “It can’t be triggered remotely can it?”

“No,” says Alpia. “It’s entirely inert and has an exhaustive list of failsafes and activation requirements. I can’t even trigger it myself if someone infiltrates my mind and tries to get me to set it off. Dad made it really safe. He thought of everything.”

“He better have,” says Brigid. “I can’t believe you gave Alpia a suicide implant Aldrich.”

I sigh, “It’s Fleet standard practice for all psykers and navigators. I felt absolutely terrible installing it, but there’s no way I would trust anyone else to do so. Our Psy-Errants and navigators don’t like to talk about it, nor are they supposed to. It’s bad enough when many already consider psykers walking bombs.

“The suicide implant only triggers automatically if you get possessed or turn into a portal to the Warp. It can be triggered by the user, should one find themselves captured and placed under intolerable duress, like an involuntary participant to a ritual. At least it gives one a chance to ruin the bastards’ grand plans. That’s another reason why it’s supposed to be classified. It ruins the surprise.”

Dareaca snorts and Luan has a grim smile on his face. Fial looks away from the table, his lips a thin, tight line.

“Well, this is no longer the happy family dinner I was hoping for,” says Brigid, “but I am proud of your courage Alpia. Come and talk about it to me tomorrow morning before you leave. You can say whatever you like without worrying if anyone else will overhear.”

Alpia nods.

We eat our next course in silence: a seafood risotto. For dessert we have brandy snaps shaped like Adder-Class frigates. They’re really detailed and the conversation picks back up as we admire our deserts and point out all the different things we can see.

The happy atmosphere, however, remains elusive.