Astrum es meus Oyster, a Warhammer 40,000 fanfic (unserious)

[Ford Prefect]

Astrum es meus Oyster

Featuring all manner of denizens from the depths of Stardestroyer.net!

Factum Unus: The woes of those in the trading business

Chapter the First

In the Imperium, there is a series of laws designed specifically around limiting the moral pollution caused by contact with alien cultures. Millennia ago, the Adeptus Terra completely outlawed trade and dealings beyond the worlds of the Imperium. In this way they sought to keep Humanity free from the heresies that are inherent in aliens and strange Human colonies that seem to believe in bizarre concepts like ‘democracy’ or whom experiment with ‘freedom of speech’. Everyone knows that these sorts of things are dangerous for the ordinary citizen, best that they never encounter it.

However, some bright spark went ahead and completely undid all this fine work with the simple concept of Warrants of Trade, a piece of paper that can enable a man or woman to go out into the great unknown and meet alien species and regressed human societies, explore planets not yet claimed by the Imperium and, yes, trade with everyone. These are the Rogue Traders.

The concept is sound enough; the Rogue Traders go out, do their thing and come back and sell their wares. Imperial society does not encounter that hideous concept of cultural pollution, and instead gets their overpriced alien junk from another Imperial with a heart of gold. The only problem is that Rogue Traders are themselves a form of cultural pollution, carrying accents and tongues that are definitely not some obscure dialect of Gothic, speaking of such wonders/horrors of the universe and giving the ordinary citizen ideas. And ideas have never been good; everyone knows that’s how the Heresy got started (or they don’t know that the Heresy happened at all, but for those that do know there was a giant civil war, they also know that ideas started it).

As such, Rogue Traders often cause more harm than good, and that’s when they’re not psychopaths with Cyclonic Torpedoes and bombardment cannons.

*

Bars, or pubs as they are sometimes known, are generally of two types. One is the kind where gentlemen hunters come down to after taking shots at ambulls/forest hounds/mutants with their old hunting rifles, to drink ale, eat meals and chortle about that days action, and to say ‘wot’ a lot. The other kind is more common, dark, seedy and filled with malcontents. It was in this type of bar, or pub, that Kuja Aluxtros brooded.

He was good at brooding, and as an albino, the dark suited him well. He liked to think of himself as some sort of lone wolf kind of person, but in actuality he wasn’t, though it might have had something to do with him having a travelling companion, Danest Jek, some Necromundan he’d met on the trip to here, wherever ‘here’ was. While there wasn’t really anything wrong with Danest, he was a nice enough guy though he moaned in his sleep occasionally, it was hard to brood and attract women when you had him around. Kuja’s brooding, handsome lone wolf image wasn’t exactly hard to cramp, and Danest managed amicably.

So instead Kuja drank what he assumed was beer, but what might have been dirty water. Whatever it was, it was cheap, and that was all that really mattered to him. Kuja and Danest were, in the surest sense of the word, dirt poor. There was no work around for an unskilled labourer and an unaccredited scholar; this planet had an amazingly low unemployment rate, so instead they tried pick-pocketing. At least Kuja did, Danest had very large hands and was unable to pick pockets very well. They made very little money doing this of course, perhaps a few Imperials a day. Danest kept on saying that if they went about it in a more business like fashion they could be off planet within three or four years.

The problem was that Kuja found this place, so hideously depressing that all he ever wanted to do after a day’s pick-pocketing was try and get drunk and/or pick up some girl. Every night he failed however, either because he didn’t have the money to buy enough beer, or because Danest kept turning the girls off. Kuja didn’t believe that it had anything to do with his choice of venue, or perhaps because he was a photosensitive weirdo, but it was better that way.

That night was destined to be different however, that night, Kuja and Danest’s lives were about to change completely. In just about seconds, something would happen that would make up for everything that had ever happened in the past to them both. No, the blonde girl sitting across the room is not going to acknowledge Kuja’s existence, rather the door is going to be kicked off its hinges, right about now.

The door ended its current existence as the thing that kept the cold air out and experienced the joys of flying, followed by the interesting feeling of breaking a man’s face. The low mumbling of those inside stopped and everyone turned to look at the now empty door frame. Stepping through were two men, one of above average height with purity seals stuck to his carapace armour, the other a veritable giant with an equally large pole, the round head crackling with electricity.

The man with the purity seals lowered his drum-fed boltgun and tracked it across the room, making people cower away. It was an awful lot of firepower he had in his hands, and was capable of turning everyone in the room into a thin red paste.

“On your feet maggots!” he shouted with a voice trained by years of service with the Imperial Guard “You’re being press-ganged!”

And it wasn’t just them. All around the spaceport heavily armed men were rounding up the able-bodied in their hundreds. Those that resisted were beaten up, then shot, just for good measure.

*

Commissar Fgalkin smoothed back his thick, dark hair again before at last placing his high peaked cap upon his head. He turned his body so that the artificial lighting would catch the burnished bronze Aquila and his polished silver skull-buttons and make them glimmer. His bolt pistol sat neatly in his newly oiled holster, the hilt of his fine power sword glittered with gold and expensive gems. He grinned.

“Yes comrade, you are designed to intimidate.” He said, turning about to face the captain clad in all his finery and expensive equipment.

“Are you ready yet Fgalkin?” asked the captain, his voice dripping with sarcasm “It isn’t as if you haven’t spent the last hour and a half getting ready.”

Fgalkin simply laughed dangerously and expansively “One must look as powerful as possible when meeting the new conscripts. This uniform was tailored to be as impressive as it is possible, as frightening as an uniform can be.” He tossed his hands apart “Besides, can’t a man look his best?” he brushed off one of his epaulets with short flicking movements of his fingers.

The captain, Duran Richarts removed his chin from his palm and rotated his head to look at the black coated ex-officer. He got out of his chair and rolled his shoulders experimentally. “Let’s go then.”

Gathering before the bloated bulk of Captain Richarts’ overly-armed guncutter were dozens, if not hundreds, of men and women, all driven into line by carapace armoured humans and an ogryn wearing a powerfist which looked like it had been taken from a Space Marine Dreadnaught. Not that he needed it of course; the abhuman had wrist thicker than most people thighs.

“Well, this is appropriate.” Danest said cheerily, bouncing from one foot to the other. Kuja sighed, gathering his cloaks about him more tightly. “To be press-ganged into service, this was just what we were after!”

“No Danest.” Kuja sighed again, affixing his goggles more comfortably on his face “We did not want to become conscripts. We wanted to get hired, so that we could get paid for service.” But Danest Jek was not listening, and was instead wringing his over-large hands in excitement. Kuja tugged at his bottom lip as a pair of important looking men approached, one practically marching, the other swaggering in a way that seemed vaguely familiar to him.

“Oh Throne, this is a Rogue Trader recruitment drive.” Kuja moaned, slapping his forehead.

“So, Sergeant Albrecht.” Said Fgalkin, addressing the armoured and scared man with a bionic leg, “How do these recruits look to you?”

“Emperor Forsaken, Comrade Fgalkin. Useless for the most part.”

The Commissar’s eye twitched imperceptibly and he nodded, hiking his hand up into the captain’s face before Richarts’ face before he could speak “This is fine. There are a lot of people here. I’m sure we can make use of at least a couple of them, and lobotomise the rest for Servitors.” Fgalkin crossed his arms and nodded, his eyes closed. He stepped forward, and his Schola Progenium trained voice roared “You are all prospective recruits for the good ship Integral. We’re looking to hire new blood into the company, and you’ve all been chosen for the selection process.”

Kuja looked up. It wasn’t just plain and ordinary conscription. There was more to it than that.

“If you have skills,” continued the Commissar, marching before them “Then we’ll hire you, and you will make an awful, awful lot of money. You will get the chance to travel the galaxy, meet interesting creatures, exploit the, then kill them. If you don’t, then we’ll simply use you as servitors.” As he spoke Richarts’ soldiers raised their weapons in a manner that suggested very probable pain. “So, does anyone have any useful skills?”

Even as his mouth was still moving, Kuja stuck his hand up and shouted “I’m a Psyker sir!”

Fgalkin looked over at the captain, who was chewing on one of his fingernails “We haven’t a Psyker for some time that wasn’t wired into the ship or cost us a lot of money. Take him away Mister Fgalkin.” In response he clicked his fingers and one of the soldiers stepped and grabbed Kuja, leading him forward towards what he assumed was the Integral.

“Right, well, I’m bored with this. Let’s just servitor them and be done with it.” Richarts yawned, tugging at his cuff “I have deals to make. Mister Fgalkin, you deal with the recruits.” With that he swept away, a cadre of armoured men falling into step, including the ogryn. Danest watched the captain walking away, and the soldiers rounding people up with prods from shock mauls. He began to panic; his brain was to good to be lobotomised, so he shouted out to Kuja:

“You just can’t leave me here! Help me!”

Kuja twisted in the iron grip of the man with the giant shock pole and looked back at the pitiful picture that Danest made. He faced the Commissar and frowned “Does he have to be made into a monotask?” he asked “He’s actually quite smart. Reads a lot of books.” The giant paused, let go of Kuja, and tapped his nose.

“Smart doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll be useful as a grunt in a Rogue Trader’s company. Smart is for the staff.” Fgalkin turned away but the giant coughed and caught his attention again. He passed his staff to Kuja and made a series of hand gestures. Fgalkin rolled his eyes “Fine. Manesero, take the other one, if it pleases you.” The Commissar called out to one of the men controlling the sweating crowd of soon-to-be-servitors, and had them drag Danest over. He smiled at Kuja and Kuja replied simply with frown.

“You don’t know how much you owe me.” He muttered as Manesero dragged them towards the ship.

[fgalkin]

Hahahaha

Ok, one question. A Commissar on a Rogue Trader? Wtf?

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

[Ford Prefect]

Hahahaha

Ok, one question. A Commissar on a Rogue Trader? Wtf?

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

If you can't wait:

Ex-Commissar. Essentially fired and stuck on the idea of being one, thus continues as such even though he doesn't actually have a rank outside of 'Captain's Enforcer'.

[fgalkin]

Hahahaha

Ok, one question. A Commissar on a Rogue Trader? Wtf?

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

If you can't wait:

Ex-Commissar. Essentially fired and stuck on the idea of being one, thus continues as such even though he doesn't actually have a rank outside of 'Captain's Enforcer'.

I thought ex-Commissars joined their men in being shot. Certainly not to keep their uniforms and all.
A great intro otherwise.

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

[Imperial Overlord]

Without spoilerizing, some Rogue Traders have writs that allow them to colonize or conquer heretic planets and may tow along a whole army, literally, of Imperial Guard and Adeptus personel. Of course, those guys are the big boys and usually have a small flotilla.

[Ford Prefect]

Without spoilerizing, some Rogue Traders have writs that allow them to colonize or conquer heretic planets and may tow along a whole army, literally, of Imperial Guard and Adeptus personel. Of course, those guys are the big boys and usually have a small flotilla.

Well, blow me down, i didn't know Warrants of Trade or similiar could do that. I mean, I know about the whole planet claiming stuff and that you can own your own fleet, Yastobaal style, but tow about actual Guard units? *shakes head* You learn something new everyday.

[fgalkin]

Perhaps then make my char an actual Commissar, then? In charge of a company or so of Guardsmen protecting the ship. Obviously demoted from his original position for something

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

[Imperial Overlord]

Without spoilerizing, some Rogue Traders have writs that allow them to colonize or conquer heretic planets and may tow along a whole army, literally, of Imperial Guard and Adeptus personel. Of course, those guys are the big boys and usually have a small flotilla.

Well, blow me down, i didn't know Warrants of Trade or similiar could do that. I mean, I know about the whole planet claiming stuff and that you can own your own fleet, Yastobaal style, but tow about actual Guard units? *shakes head* You learn something new everyday.

Depends of the Liscence. They start at "go outside of human space and liscence to trade" and go up. Guess what it says on Warrants of the guys who are retired Lord Solar Militants? Powerful Rogue Traders are often conquistadors and are usually confirmed as Imperial Commander of one of the planets they've claimed.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Nice to see that a bastardized version of my (Real) name on a character with my habits (Up to and including the fascination with ancient mystical beings... Flargh, Nargel Cthulthu He-shkor!, O SoRry, i Was Lizzining to Da Voicessss AgaiN heE heeeee ).

It's Coming along nicely, but why would a captain ignore a potental psyker and have him exectued, after all weak psykers in control of their powers are the most useful (Out of combat) kind save astropaths?

[Imperial Overlord]

It's Coming along nicely, but why would a captain ignore a potental psyker and have him exectued, after all weak psykers in control of their powers are the most useful (Out of combat) kind save astropaths?

Weak psykers are unable to fight off possession and are daemon bait. The Imperium encourages anti-psyker bigotry so that they will be turned in and reported. Unfortunately, that means you have a lot of anti-psyker bigots.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Really?
I thought that the stronger the psyker the more they attracted demons with weak psykers being generally below the radar or less likely to invoke a tempting demon causing them to be corrupted/seduced and possesed?

[Ford Prefect]

Any Psyker is a beacon in the Warp for Daemons; without training or a lot of power, they're fodder.

How did Kuja then get away with it? Luck? A lot of willpower? Probably spending an awful lot of time inside a Geller Field.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Any Psyker is a beacon in the Warp for Daemons; without training or a lot of power, they're fodder.

I thought power made it much worse, with allmost every alpha/alpha plus falling to chaos?

[Imperial Overlord]

Any Psyker is a beacon in the Warp for Daemons; without training or a lot of power, they're fodder.

I thought power made it much worse, with allmost every alpha/alpha plus falling to chaos?

No, that's the power corrupts part. Weak psykers can't defend themselves from nasty warp entities and get possessed/eaten/enslaved/turned into warp gates/corrupted. Alpha level psykers are extremely difficult to control, discipline, and condition (because they are strong enough to resist and remember the Imperium uses strong arm tactics when recruiting psykers) and are a danger because of the "power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely" line. Think about how tempting massive mind control powers would be to any adolescent. Thank about how much damage they could do. What that would do to their personality.

[Kuja]

Any Psyker is a beacon in the Warp for Daemons; without training or a lot of power, they're fodder.

How did Kuja then get away with it? Luck? A lot of willpower? Probably spending an awful lot of time inside a Geller Field.

Probably a combination of all three.

And Ford, that simply kicked ass. I love the tone of the story, very laid-back compared to most 40K. It reminded me a bit of Hitchikers'.

Can't wait to see more.

[technomage]

The saving grace for psykers is that they're only a daemon beacon when they use their powers. When a psyker is using his powers, he's sending off a beacon into the Warp that attracts attention, but at any other time he's no more interesting than any other person. That's how they avoid attention. Use your powers, then disappear before something zeros in on you.

[Imperial Overlord]

The saving grace for psykers is that they're only a daemon beacon when they use their powers. When a psyker is using his powers, he's sending off a beacon into the Warp that attracts attention, but at any other time he's no more interesting than any other person. That's how they avoid attention. Use your powers, then disappear before something zeros in on you.

They are still more vulnerable, because their presence and connection to warp is stronger. Not using their powers just reduces their profile.

[consequences]

Make it only one wrist thicker than most people's thighs, because Og get very lonely on cold winter nights.

[Elheru Aran]

Excellent. I like the way you don't give Manesero too much presence-- he's a subtle, background character, the type who materializes at your elbow with just the right tool for the job, or clobbers that guy you didn't know was behind you in a barfight, always has exact change...

Really, it's good... keep goin'!

[Elheru Aran]

Oh, and BTW-- your title: 'The stars are my oyster?"

[Shroom Man 777]

I want in! I want in!

[Elheru Aran]

I want in! I want in!

Thread a few posts below this one.

[speaker-to-trolls]

Very cool so far, I'm getting a definite Hitchiker vibe from it, but it's still very much its own story.

[Ford Prefect]

Oh, and BTW-- your title: 'The stars are my oyster?"

That is correct, or at least that's what it's supposed to be.

[Ford Prefect]

Astrum es meus Oyster

Featuring all manner of denizens from the depths of Stardestroyer.net!

Factum Unus: The woes of those in the trading business

Chapter the Second

Captain Duran Richarts stepped out of the little atmospheric transport and straightened the lapels of his coat. He checked his sword, an archaic alien weapon with amazing cutting abilities, his bolt pistols, plasma pistol, digi-weapons strewn on his fingers and his conversion field generator. In all, he was a walking array of expensive equipment. It befitted a Rogue Trader to use a lot of money on himself. Warp, it was mandatory. He looked at the half dozen men he had brought with him, all carapace armoured and armed with Hellguns and underslung grenade launchers, with a man carrying around a plasma gun. Og was still the heaviest armed, his multi-barrelled assault cannon offering something known as ‘volume of fire’ which was the perfect counter to the abhuman’s anaemic ability at aiming.

Wilhem Albrecht slid a fresh magazine into his bolt carbine and cocked it, looking over at his captain “Do you think this will be necessary sir? We’re packing a lot of firepower.” He tapped the rotary grenade launcher under his carbine, no doubt loaded with some serious high explosive surprises. Captain Richarts nodded solemnly.

“This place is going to be dangerous; the people we’re about to meet are will be as equally dangerous.” The captain explained, eyes closed, one finger pointing up at the dull sky “Undoubtedly, just about everyone in this place will be packing just as much heat as us.”

“That does not, in anyway, bode well for us.” Said the plasma gunner, loading a containment flask into his Magnacore, setting it to ‘sustained fire’.

*

Dave ‘Mr’ Coffee looked up and down the pair of bodies that had avoided the hideous process that resulted in turning a man (or woman) into what was essentially a living machine but a dead person. He sipped from his mug of strong smelling java, the metal surface embossed with a crowned skull. “Exactly what did Comrade Fgalkin see in?” he asked, before again downing another mouthful of real, live caffeine, none of this recycled crap.

“I’m,” Kuja began, squinting in the light “I’m a Psyker.”

Coffee nodded “We’ll soon find out I suppose,” he sipped menacingly and Kuja took a step backwards in fear. Dave jabbed the hand with his Adamantinum cup in it at Danest, who flinched away as though struck. Black liquid lapped dangerously at the rim of Coffee’s cup and they watched it in apprehension. “What about this guy Jeff?” he asked, looking over at Manesero. The big man with two names shrugged.

“He’s got pretty big hands though.” Dave mused, running a fingertip around the rim of his cup. Another one of the carapace armoured soldiers, this one with a long barrelled rifle grinned.

“You know what they say,” he said in a northern accent, “big hands means-”

“He’s a mutant,” finished a gruff voice, this one belonging to the same purity sealed man who had press-ganged both of them only an hour previous. Danest took a step behind Kuja as the hawk-nosed officer shifted his big bolter around on its shoulder strap.

‘Mr’ Coffee shrugged and glanced at the sniper standing to his left “You know Sergeant Lantress, he doesn’t look like a real mutant; just some sort illegal gene-mod, ain’t that right Jacques?”

The sniper grinned “That’s just a degree of being a mutant, Dave.”

“This is true.” Dave agreed, and Danest cowered and fear, before screaming out suddenly:

“Please don’t kill me!” in a high, girly voice. Dave and Jacques laughed loudly and slapped their armoured knees, while Manesero/Jeff rolled his eyes and walked off, leaving whatever room this was. Kuja joined in half-heartedly, but was immediately shot down by Lantress, who grasped him roughly by the front of his cowling robes.

Kuja looked into Lantress’ eyes and saw a man who had seen things more terrifying then he could even hope to imagine. He gulped as the sergeant’s gave cut deeper into him, and he tried to shy away only to have the Veteran reaffirm his grip. “Do you think it’s funny, Psyker? Do you think it is funny, to hear a man plead for his life?” Kuja tried to shake his head, but found himself unable to move. The sergeant’s voice became a low, sibilant hiss “Well? Do you?” he paused for a moment, and when Kuja did not reply, he shouted “Answer me bilge-stoker!”

Bilge-stoker? Kuja thought, what does that mean? He didn’t ask however, and instead said “N-no.”

“N-no what?” Lantress repeated.

“N-no I don’t th-think it’s funny.”

“N-no I don’t th-think it’s funny, what?” Lantress repeated, again.

Kuja swallowed the bile building up in his throat “N-no I don’t th-think it’s funny sir.” Lantress nodded approvingly, then dropped the Psyker, letting him hit the hard floor, jarring his tailbone.

“Excellent. Welcome aboard boys.” Sergeant Lantress finished his sentence and left after Manesero/Jeff.

Danest looked from the door back to the two men before him, then back to the door. Puzzled, he asked “You’re not going to kill me?”

Jacques planted his hand on his face while Coffee hid his smile behind his mug “Throne on Terra, no. I assure you, if you were going to be killed you’d be stuck with everyone else.”

“Yeah, about that.” Kuja began, again remembering to squint in the light now that his fear had left him “What’s all that about? Aren’t you like normal people who just put bystanders into slavery aboard your ship? How come you’re going to servitorise them all?”

“So many questions,” said Jacques loftily.

“Efficiency is profit.” Dave chanted, swinging his cup o’ joe about with abandon, a fat splash hitting Danest’s face with the sound of sizzling meat. Danest hit the floor, grasping at his face with his overlarge hands. Jacques shook his head and went over to help him, all while ‘Mr’ Coffee continued “I’ll ask you, what’s more efficient: A technical servitor or a conscripted man?” (or woman).

Kuja considered for a moment “A tech-servitor. But isn’t that expensive?”

On the floor behind him, Jacques was trying to pry Danest’s hands off his face, and was muttering “Yes, I know it’s hot, but it’ll be fine.” He gave up for a moment and instead addressed Kuja “We spent a lot of time out on the Eastern Fringe a while back, and some Tau got the idea of aw-tow-may-shun into the Captain’s head. Ever since then he’s been obsessed with mechanising everything, including most of the Integral’s crew.”

“In the long run,” Dave continued “It saves him money. The Captain is loathe to part with his Imperials to pay for ordinary things like food, and he doesn’t spend that much when the majority of his men are servitors.” Kuja considered that for a long moment, then finally tried to speak.

“That’s . . . that’s . . . ” he couldn’t find the word he was looking for.

“Insane? Yes, it is. Welcome to Richarts’ Rangers.”

*

At that moment, half a continent away, Richarts himself was staring down his adversary who was coolly considering him from behind an extremely straight, pencil-thin moustache. Moustache-man looked down at his dataslate, ran his eyeballs across it and looked back up “Captain Richarts was it? This way sir.”

The concierge led them through the midst of men and women eating and drinking the finest food and drink this world had to offer. Some looked up at Richarts, Albrecht and one of his ‘Rangers’ with his Hellgun slung over his shoulder, then looked away, decidedly unimpressed. Richarts, truth be told, was not impressed with them, either. Oh, they had money and power, but not the kind of money and power he possessed.

Pencil-moustache bowed Richarts forward towards a giant table that could have seated twenty, but currently only seated eight, one of whom took up enough space to be four.

Half of them were obviously bodyguards; tough looking, scared, bits replaced with shiny metal. Undoubtedly armed well enough to be a danger to the average Imperial Guardsman. The other four were bejewelled and expensively dressed; one an eagle-featured Imperial with rank insignia over his crisp uniform, another a grey haired old man in a white suit, another a striking woman in a purple dress, the last extremely fat. Richarts knew who each of them were; the first was Admiral Jeremson, a nearly retired fleet commander, the old man was Hercule Burkes, a representative of a major Navigator House, the woman was Adriana Delsinki, owner of one of the largest (and truth be told, one of the only) mining companies in the galaxy.

The last was Spiros Andronicus, whom Richarts knew by reputation as both a) disgusting and fat and b) an extremely successful Crime Lord. It seemed that the Imperial Navy officer knew him too, Richarts could see Jeremson itching to whip out his power sabre and slice into the rolls of criminally earned flab. Albrecht held out a chair for the captain and Richarts sat down.

“It’s good to see you again, Durandal.” Burkes said, reaching across to shake his hand. Richarts returned the greeting and then immediately became business-like. He might have liked to have stopped for Smalltalk, but the corpulent form of Spiros Andronicus prevented him from doing so. The man just exuded a palpable aura of ‘I disgust you’, and he knew it. It didn’t help his devouring an entire roast Grox, on his own. Richarts knew he had to get this out of the way quickly, before Delsinki collapsed and the best money was gone.

Into his coat went his hand, and out it came with a set of carefully carved crystals. He placed them into the hand of his Ranger and had him distribute them. “In those datacrystals exist the complete schematics of an as yet unnamed system.” He watched as they went about perusing the information within; the Admiral inserted the crystal directly into his bionic hand, which surprised Richarts, while Fat Spiros had his bodyguard hold up a dataslate with the info projected onto its surface. “Seven worlds, all rich in minerals, two planets suitable for habitation with minimal work required.” They were silent but for the wet sounds of Spiros chewing.

Captain Richarts turned towards Jeremson “It’s a sad day for Battlefleet Tempestus, now that you’re retiring. I remember that you were promoted to Admiral about the time I took up my captaincy.”

“I signed the release on that ship of yours, I remember.” The Admiral replied “That would have been arou-”

“Yes yes, very nice. Reminiscing and all that.” Fat Spiros cut in “But enough chit-chat. Onto business.” Delsinki caressed one temple and reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Spiros. The system is an impressive find, one in a million.” She placed down her datapad down next to her untouched salad “How much are you asking?”

“Three trillion.” Richarts replied without skipping a beat.

Hercule Burkes coughed politely “It’s an impressive find I’ll admit, but it is not worth three trillion Imperials. Your predictions for the returns are impressive, but would require almost two centuries to make back the money spent on it, what with labour costs, equipment, resettlement.”

The Rogue Trader shrugged in reply “Three trillion is what I’m asking.” He could see the greedy look in Fat Spiros’ eyes; the Crime Lord didn’t want the system to mine or to set up shop as a Governor, he wanted it for something else, but whatever it was, he would not be willing to pay all that money for it. Even as he knew this, Captain Richarts made a very fatal mistake, in that he did not consider that this made Spiros Andronicus more dangerous.

“It is a rather high sum.” Delsinki noted, still reading over some part of the facts “Though it would not take my company two centuries to make that money back.”

“What about you Admiral?” Richarts inquired “They’re very nice worlds, perfect for starting a ruling line.” The Navy man narrowed his eyebrows, but before he could reply, Fat Spiros cut in.

“I really can’t take much more of this farce.” Said the rotund Crime Lord “I’ll be taking the location now.” He held out a podgy hand, and Richarts couldn’t help but laugh as his men lowered their weapons at Spiros and his bodyguard, whose hand freezed on its way into his padded jacket.

“You’re outgunned Fat Man.”

“Really?” asked Spiros, a dangerous smile splitting his flabby features. It was that smile that made Richarts realise that he was in a lot of trouble. Throughout the restaurant, every patron produced weapons of all descriptions, from laspistols to needle guns to revolvers and stubbers, knives and other, less identifiable weapons. Each one of those weapons was then trained upon the people sitting with their boss, Fat Spiro. Richarts, and everyone else sitting with him, gazed around in disbelief. Spiro’s bodyguard grinned and finished pulling out his Stormbolter, over-under pattern.

“Well, feth.”