40 thousand reasons (40k) by Pef

words: 513k+

link: https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/11500

Retribution

40000 years have passed in the Milky Way galaxy, and the bright future has come and gone.

Not only is the advanced technology lost, but it is now worshiped by dedicated tech-priests uttering machine-canticles and spreading holy oil to appease the spirits of the machines.

Humanity itself worships the God-Emperor of Man, who rests on the Golden Throne of Terra and illuminates the galaxy with his golden glow, like a lighthouse for the ships lost in a storm.

"Only the insane have strength enough to prosper. Only those that prosper truly judge what is sane."

My savant implant must be acting up, for some reason. Hopefully is only a technical glitch, and not something else.

The else could mean something much worse.

Something that money, or thrones as they are called here, could not fix. Like a demonic possession.

Fortunately, I know I have Blank genes, like I vaguely remember choosing during my build. Before I was sent here.

My father is rather amused at my so called 'Blessing'.

For a Rogue Trader being born as a Blank is a boon, unlike back in the Empire. And if my children should inherit this trait, our position will become even stronger. Warp incursions would avoid the clan, and thus keep the ship safe. Safe-ish.

Not everything that wants to kill you is a warp-spawn, after all.

And here, in the grim future of the 40th Millennium, everything wants to kill you.

Rogue Traders are a special type of Imperial citizen. They receive a lot of freedom and privilege, based on a Warrant of Trade, which is basically a privateer license to explore and loot outside the Imperium.

There are thousands of them, and each has a different agenda, area or preferred method. Some act as missionaries, conquistadors or mere bulk traders. Others deal in xenos tech and slaves, or exterminate xenos to sell their lands and technology.

Some grow beyond a single ship and conquer entire galactic sectors with their own private fleets.

Others steal and pirate on the Imperium, or worse they deal with cultists and demons and thus are often killed by Inquisitors, Astartes and any loyal human.

"Augur telemetry confirms the planet sustains life. The missiles heading our way confirm this as well." the sensor station girl spoke with a faint trace of irony.

Her name is Linne Joana Decima. A cousin, if some steps removed. Pretty girl of my age, with short black hair, like most of the crew. Hair is hard to keep in the void. My hair is dark blond, like I had before…

Also, she's a potential concubine for me, should the Lord Captain wish it so. And on this vessel, he speaks with the Voice of the Emperor, like all Rogue Traders do.

"Turn ship to port. Lance batteries target the launch sites." my father orders in a calm voice.

I look at him with curious eyes. A tall, heavy-set man with glacial blue eyes and a power armor of dubious provenance. He is a Conqueror, a build that emphasizes as guessed, war. Conquering his own merry kingdom among the stars in the Eastern Fringe. I remember I wanted such a father, and now I have him.

Our ship, the cruiser Litany for the Vanquished is the epitome of a war vessel, armed to the teeth, and the teeth armored to hell.

I suspect it has started out as a docile and pleasant light cruiser, before whatever Favor my grandfather traded with Forge World Antax was returned in a plethora of advanced AdMech tech and upgrades to every possible, and a few impossible systems. Like a choir of tech-priests detached to our ship, forever. Lance batteries that would put a heavy cruiser to shame.

An armored battalion and a grenadier regiment, all equipped and provisioned by Antax for the next 1011 years. Time has a different value around here.

The windows tint black, as spears of light start flashing, each of the lances sufficient to obliterate a city or a meter of adamantium armor.

Soon enough, our lance guns evaporate the ground missile launchers of the natives, and probably any nearby cities.

There is no Geneva Convention in the 40k universe. The Tyranids would likely eat the entire convention as a snack. Then eat the whole world and keep going, still hungry.

In fact, they did just that, on Okassis. Hive fleet Kraken ate whoever didn't manage to fly away. And in this galaxy, you need to be rich or powerful to have a spaceship.

Well, one able to travel the Warp at least. There are in-system ships that are much cheaper and easier to acquire. You don't even need a Warrant of Trade for those.

I have one myself, so I know. Technically, you could call the Mona Lisa a shuttle, even if it's larger than a passenger airplane back home. And armed and armored by default. Anything without weapons and armor is only a snack for this evil galaxy.

"Captain, the ground skaks are human. Shall we conquer this world in the name of the Emperor?" the XO asks rhetorically.

Of course, we will. We don't carry all those tanks and grenadiers for a pleasure cruise. Their purpose is to fight and die and make us rich. Richer.

And if the Emperor is merciful, we might find another relic or ancient tech that we can barter with the Mechanicus for.

Best guys in this corner of the galaxy, the tech worshipers. As long as you 'gift' them nice stuff.

With a metal tentacle waving at my father, the bridge tech-priest signals he has begun his own part. Data and signal warfare. A somewhat analogue version of ECM, flooding the vox and datasphere with jamming codes and soul engrams.

I don't expect the poor natives to rise to the challenge anyway. This is the 46th planet we are pacifying this century, if the most advanced so far.

The Eastern Fringe is rather filled with old era human worlds, mostly devolved into barbarism of some kind.

In fact, missiles or other advanced weapons are rare. Maintaining old stocks is difficult, and inventing new stuff almost always leads to suffering. Eternal suffering sometimes, if things notice you.

"Going back to my workshop, Captain. Please call me when the landings begin." I say politely and nod to my father.

The grizzly warrior smiles proudly and waves me off.

He knows I don't like orbital bombardments. They might look clean and neat from orbit, but I've seen the results afterwards. Charred buildings and burned corpses are not that glorious.

As I slink away and salute the marines guarding the armored bridge door, I run another diagnostic on my implant.

"When you decide to die, remember to give the enemy the same honour"

Oddly appropriate this time, and a sign it's not a mechanical malfunction. Those neuron filaments forming the biological part of the implant are becoming sentient.

And possibly stealing data from my own brain. Not sure if that's a heresy or not.

Most likely it is. Everything not by the book is heretical after all.

And for good reason, as it happens. Machine Spirits are actually human souls, nerves and neurons cloned and chopped into bits, then used as conduits and processors instead of the worse variant, the Abominable Intelligences.

The demented A.I. that always, always, always try to genocide everyone. Not that I blame them much.

For those not Blanks, exposure to Warp and its inherent dangers must be like living in Hell.

Come to think of it, this galaxy might be Hell. The Outer Fringes of it, if the Eastern Fringes reflect a higher reality.

I reach my lab and drop into my chair.

"Praise the Omnissiah, Revelator. What are we working on now?" my mentor wonders and tilts its coghead towards me.

"First, we need to calibrate my implant. I keep getting random quotes from various codex. Then, we repair tank tracks again." I explain in a tiny voice.

The tech-priest has been mostly polite and nice with me, for something of his nature. But it might slice me into bits anytime, should I make a critical mistake, like those reactor crew enginseers did.

They didn't suffer long, so at least I know my mentor is not really a sadist. Only disconnected from humanity.

"There is no truth in flesh, only betrayal." Magos Gyron says with a trace of cog humor.

Yes, he can do jokes and humor just fine. They're merely hard to get sometimes.

"I was speaking of a broken machine, mentor. My flesh is fine for now." I quip back, and lean my head forward.

Without painkillers and any kind of kindness, the magos opens my skull and peeks inside at my brain.

I'm pretty sure I should be fainting in pain, or screaming my lungs out, but I feel only boredom. The operation takes too long. Gyron has certainly turned off my pain centers somehow, which is nice.

"The silver contacts have melted away, and the implant was being oxidized by cerebro-spinal fluids. Only the gold connectors are intact. Curious. But then…" the tech priest mutters in Gothic, maintaining politeness for some strange reason.

"If my brain gives off enough heat to melt silver, I shouldn't be alive anyway." I said after thinking for a minute.

"Exactly. There, I've replaced everything damaged with platinum wire. The organic parts seem to grow nicely. You'll become a savant soon enough, Pef." Magos Gyron replies while gluing my cranium back in place. With glue of some kind, that resorbs into the bone.

I've become quite stoic at the strangeness of the Machine Cult, and their lack of common sense.

Good tech though.

As the mechadendrite tentacles retract from my head, I power on the cogitator on my desk, and project a greenish hologram of a tank drive system.

This one is from a Chimera personnel-carrier tracked vehicle, a standard model among the armies of humanity, in the Astra Militarum and others.

Without 3D tools and a decent computer it takes painful and tedious work to create a template for a mechanical foundry. But it only took three years and we're almost finished.

I tap a few keys and open the other version, the original STC template.

For someone without technical education, they would look nearly identical. But, both me and the magos know better.

My new version has 16 percent less moving parts, is 10 percent more durable, has 10 percent better ground pressure resistance and many other perks.

The drive sprockets had to be covered in adamantium, and the torsion bars as well, if possible.

But even using cheaper materials, the new drive train will be revolutionary. Because anything made simpler and more rugged means longer operational times, less maintenance, fewer vehicles lost in transit or during maneuvers.

Now combine that with 1 million army regiments, and a billion war machines.

Even if the new tracks increase the Chimera effectiveness by only 5 percent, although it should be at least 10 percent, that means 50 million armored vehicles more, to fight the Emperor's enemies.

Logistics is the basis of any war, and the Warhammer universe is always at war. If my three years of work provide millions of extra tanks, critical victories might be won. Even if it doesn't lead directly to more victories, the enemies will lose more troops, and then be vanquished later.

Gyron observes my work with its mechanical eyes, lenses recording me with something approaching fear.

Late into the night, I stop to save my progress, and then make a backup copy on my implant.

"There is no strength in flesh, only weakness."

0111011110000000

My implant feeds me another ironic wise quote, as my body fails me and I fall asleep.

A minute later, a voidguard marine busts in my room.

"Lord Pef. Your presence is required on the bridge. Now!" the soldier says in a harsh voice.

Not my earliest convenience, then. I run towards the bridge elevator, still half asleep.

As I pass other armsmen and soldiers, they salute me rather startled.

Then again, Captain's son running at full tilt wasn't that common, in the main corridor. I usually trained my body in the barracks floor, with all the other grenadiers. Morale is thing, out here. Maybe not just here, but here morale is more… tangible.

I rush on the bridge, to find it devoid of higher rank officers, only the Navigator and a couple of tech-priests, with some distant cousins manning the auspex consoles.

"Where is the Captain?" I ask, as I force myself to breathe.

The Navigator scowls and turns to stare at me with all his three eyes. He doesn't like Blanks much, I suspect. That was a joke. I heard psykers have a revulsion towards any Blanks, not just me.

"Lord Pef. You father left clear orders. In the event of his death, you are to succeed and inherit the Warrant. All hail Captain Pef Lancefire!" the Navigator proclaims in a psyker-augumented voice, a wave of command dispersing the words throughout the ship. Yeah, everyone has heard that.

With a bewildered face, I fall in the Captain's chair, and feel the ship's Machine Spirit link up with my implant.

"Victory needs no explanation. Defeat allows none."

Not the time for quotes, damn implant.

With a sad sob, I turn to stare at the Navigator, while reading the combat logs on my implant.

The natives had other advanced weapons. Melta guns, strong enough to burn through ceramite encased power armor. Just like the one former Lord Lancefire wore, as he debarked for another glorious conquest.

Well, they probably didn't have melta guns anymore. The planet didn't have any cities left now.

"Launch full occupation, all battalions except the marines." I order with a sad heart. I will have to name this planet now, after it got conquered.

Probably something corny like Retribution.

The crew would not accept any compromise now, and these poor guys wouldn't want one either. Not after we killed like a billion of their people.