"We merry few, we band of brothers." - An Original Warhammer 40,000 Tale of a Rogue Trader [Updated: 23/10/2013]

[McScottish]

"We merry few, we band of brothers."

An Original Warhammer 40,000 Tale of a Rogue Trader

For some time now I've been pondering on writing a story, a tale, or whatever have you, set in a sci-fi setting. I have read many sci-fi works in this particular section of the site, most of them created inside the minds of the writers/authors and, I must say, expectationally good.

As for myself I have toyed with the idea of creating my own universe and populating it with all manner of majestic and monstrous creatures and beings and beasties, however like some fan writing a story based in the well beloved and prodigiously detailed Lord of the Rings realm I finally settled on the fact that at this moment I am far too lazy for such things and thus have made this final decision; there is already a detailed universe populated by everything that I could ever want and need, why not just use it?

So here it is!

This will be a tale implanted firmly into the universe of the Games Workshop created Warhammer 40,000 (WH 40K) universe, a sci-fi creation so grim and dark that people never cease dying and therefore surprises me that anyone is left to populate it – in terms of humanity at least. For a writer of sci-fi I would even argue (with the obvious exceptions of Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Babylon 5 and a few others) that there is not really such a cosmos which could match up to it in terms of fluidity when writing and just the amount of options available.

Having ceased to play with the table-top miniatures in my early teens (mostly due to the cost of pieces of plastic, I might add) I have nevertheless always been a keen reader of the novels. Gaunt's Ghosts, the Horus Heresy series, the multitude of Space Marine novels, and more.

Anyone who knows anything about my AAR's or other stories will not really be surprised by what I am going to write, in fact there may be a few things that are expected even, and so without further ado – but with copious amounts of tea at hand – I place up this introduction for 'We merry few, we band of brothers', my own attempt at some form of WH 40K writing.

McScottish


P.S.


For anyone who knows nothing about the WH 40K universe but might still be interested in reading this, here are two works online that may well be of some great use to you.

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part I: Not The Plan

This was not the plan. This had never been the plan.

The plan had been to assign himself to a regiment of the Guard, gain some rank and privilege within that regiment, and then return home as a Scion of his House and take the Warrant from his fathers outstretched hand. As a young man some years ago, at the tender age of seventeen, it had seemed like the easiest choice open to him, for he was neither the eldest son or the most skilled in the world of political manoeuvring and therefore was required to actually earn favour with his sire in some way or another. What he did have was the drive and ambition to throw himself into the universe in a way that none of his seven brothers, layabouts and sluggish spoilt rich boys the lot of them, would even conceive of in their own minds, as blighted by greed and inactivity as they were.

For four years now the Rogue Trader-in-training, middle descendant of the noble House Von Libervitz, a nobility attained first on the sturdy ground and among the rising spires of Terra itself and then in the wider galaxy beyond, had been serving in the Imperial Guard. In the beginning his fathers abundant wealth and political influence secured a place for his son with the 55th Vostroyan Firstborn Regiment, as respectable and well-bred a regiment as ever served the God-Emperor, at the rank of Lieutenant. It must have shamed the 'old man' severely then when, with the least bit of interest in serving with the Firstborn, his son requested a shift to a regiment not currently involved in a war-zone and received it purely by the weight of his family name.

In this way did Adamare Von Libervitz, aspiring Rogue Trader and cautious but not naturally cowardly son of that House, become a Lieutenant in the ranks of not one of the most disciplined and well-regarded regiments but in contrast one of the worst.

It had began with dwelling on the Feral World of Drook VI, a world located in the far northern regions of the Segmentum Obscurus, perpetually shrouded in mist and covered in thousands of miles of stinking and bubbling bogs, that he might better integrate himself into his chosen regiment of the 91st Drookian Fenguard. This particular founding was a recent one, compared to others at least, and many of the raw recruits were as unaware of their roles as their newly arrived officer. Thankfully for them a number of veterans had been drafted back to Drook VI and now undertook the task of raising the 91st up to 'Guard standards', or at least what passed for them in Drookian terms anyway.

Adamare could not have envisioned or foreseen the beginning of his military career, something that was supposed to have been a simple affair of go in and then go back, turning his entire life right upon its head.

[McScottish]

A short update, but I'll get to proper writing later today.

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part II: Many Meetings

It came to him again in the morning, the same as every morning, that eerie tune like a thousand dying cats which insidiously penetrated through the thick rockcrete walls and plasteel door of his chamber to invade his ears as a marching army invades their neighbour. It had been almost three months now since the youngest son of the House Von Libervitz had made planet fall onto the surface of Drook VI in the dead of a misty and pitch-black night, with nothing more than the clothes on his back, a servitor to act as a guide, and one of his houses most loyal servants Jerod Kell.

The two men, both Terran born-and-bred, could not have been more different really; Jerod was a veteran of the Imperial Navy, nearly living in his deep blue dress uniform and carrying a side-arm at all times, Adamare on the other hand had never any form of military training and had never before needed to carry a weapon. Unlike his master and charge the nevertheless devoted old-timer enjoyed experiencing new worlds and new civilisations and was an eager surveyor of customs, languages, ways of life and all that went into the areas of the study of others. Some guessed that this was inbuilt, that it had always been so, but the grim-faced warrior had never thought of such a thing until taking to the stars and seeing a million different worlds in his time.

Their destination that night was Fort Mucullock, one of the only fortified structures on the planet and one of only two locations that new recruits were sent for equipping and training. As it began to rain and the mist to get thicker, his slick black hair sticking to his pale forehead, Adamare started to despair of ever reaching this military post placed at the peak of a large hill that many could even call a mountain. He needn't have worried so much, his servitor guide knew the location and took them safely there.

“Listen to me,” sneered the son of fine breeding to his servant, “I do not need to know these natives, I do not want to know them. Until they are all gathered and my platoon is assembled, something I believe will occur many weeks from now, I want you to let me be. If you need me, I shall be in my quarters.”

In his quarters was exactly where the Lieutenant had remained for three whole months, Jerod bringing him whatever food he required and any forms or documents he may need to evaluate or sign. No-one else came to bother the outsider, and for that he was very thankful indeed. The only thing that had bothered him since he arrived was this queer sound, a sound which struck up morning but which he doubted was anything to do with his health or mentality.

On this morning, this particular morning, he could not have known that things were going to be somewhat different.

************

“Good morning, sir.” Came the usual cheery greeting of the retired crewman, his uniform as pristine as usual and his clipped Terran accent pronouncing every syllable to its fullest extent, “I bought you some breakfast.”

With a grunt of both acknowledgement and annoyance the not-yet-tried officer sat up in his bed, the sheets slipping to reveal an unmarked torso of someone that had never engaged in combat but who possessed the ivory-skinned body of one who had. Every muscle was defined to the greatest extent, from the abdominal muscles to the lean and wiry ones coiled about his arms bones like springs ready to unravel, Adamare may not have trained to fight but it never hurt to look as if you could.

“They're just rations, but there is this...” Jerod held up a small glass of something, a liquid, amber in colour and possibly similar to amasec, “the locals call it 'fire water', try a bit.”

A pallid hand reached out and gripped the glass, the deep brown eyes, nearly as dark as his shoulder-length hair, peering about the chamber involuntarily. Ever since arriving he had hidden himself away in this place, his sanctuary from the barbarians outside. On the wall hung his clothing, some simple garments bought from Terra and kept organised by the servitor that stood like some statue in the corner, his little luxuries neatly organised and kept in chests. He silently thanked the God-Emperor that as a Lieutenant he was allowed the privilege of a separate chamber, to share a barrack room with those half-men outside would probably have killed him.

“By all the Saints!” Coughed the distracted soldier-to-be, feeling the amber liquid running like a rushing fire down his throat and warming his insides, “well, this is different,” his eyes watered of their own accord and although this 'fire water' felt as if it were stripping skin from the inside of his throat he nonetheless gave a thin-lipped smile and smacked them enthusiastically. It wasn't entirely bad.

“Your breakfast, sir?”

After casting his eyes wearily over the steaming pile of something, a hand of slender fingers running itself idly through unkempt hair, Adamare gave a grunt and waved it away derisively.

“My lord you must eat,” urged his elder servant, his voice filled with genuine concern, “you lay in here pawing over your data-slabs, coiffing your hair into a topknot and eating that dried scrap that you managed to stow away when we left your home.” There was a sharp glance between the two, the older giving a shrug and waving it away as nothing, “I only live to serve you family and see your House prosper. How can it do so if you end up dying of starvation on a backwater Feral World? Tell me that.”

“Urgh...just take it away.”

Really the meal seemed quite appetising, a nice rekhorn steak and some cloned vegetables, better than the usual rations and dried husks of food that Adamare had carried with him from Holy Terra to avoid eating the local slop. Can't please some people thought Jerod to himself.

A few minutes later, standing and creaking bones as he stretched thoroughly, the noble son nearly choked again. His eyes focused with a look of utter shock and surprise on something that Jerod had handed to his now activated servitor, the lumbering half-human half-robot staring blankly ahead with one arm raised. From that arm, which ended in a cybernetic hand capable of eerily precise dexterity, hung a garment which made the face of Adamare, usually so pale and deathly, actually fill with a little blood in a sudden rage which made no sense to him at all.

“What, in the Emperor's holy name, is that?” He demanded of his Houses retainer, looking first to Jerod and then back at it, “what?”

Jerod was unable to keep a straight face, though in his seventy-five years of life he had done so before some of the greatest men in the Imperiums history, gesturing to the object of his young master disdain with some sort of hidden relish.

“That, sir,” came the half-chuckled answer, “is your regimental uniform.”

************

“I think you look quite fetching, young master.” Quipped Jerod as the pair stepped out of the officers quarters for the very first time, both immediately assailed by a thick haze of mist that never went entirely away on Drook VI, “I believe that is your platoon milling around over there.”

It was dark, as it usually was most of the year round, as Adamare tried to peer at what was to be his very own command, drizzle and fog drifting lazily over one of the series of parade grounds located in Fort Mucullock and at once causing him to give a small shiver. If some stray las-bolt or heavy-weapon round failed to kill him on this stinking planet, he had no doubts at all that the weather, or some accursed disease from the blasted bogs, would do the trick and succeed where the former had failed.

“I feel like a damn stuffed xenos on display in one of Terra's museums,” he grunted back, noting the ghost of a smile that flitted across the man’s face who acted as both manservant and in this case interpreter to his men, “you old bastard. You know I can replace you?”

“Perhaps, sir,” came the clearly exasperated reply, the pair now moving across the drenched and hard-packed sand of the square, barrack and administrative buildings looming in from every side, “but then your father would be even more displeased by that than your desire to overlook a command with the Firstborn.”

A fully fledged grunt was all the reply that Jerod was given, his inexperienced charge too busy wondering at his misfortune. His misfortune at being on Drook VI, not researching the place further before he found another regiment, and the so-called uniform with which he had been issued.

Although he did not realise it, his tastes far from those of the native Drookians in terms of almost everything - including items of clothing – he did not look at all bad in what he had been given; his broad-shouldered and thin-waisted torso fit quite nicely into the khaki-coloured shirt and epaulette shouldered jacket, the jacket cutting off at the level of his naval, while his pale legs – made yet even paler by the cold – caused the material of his 'large kilt', a native Drookian garment made of twelve feet of chequered material before being wrapped about the waist and then the rest bunched up and pinned at the shoulder, the colours or 'tartan' used in each kilt an identifying mark of the wearers clan, swishing quite well as he walked.

Though the men that he was about to confront each wore a different tartan according to clan and family ties, Adamare had been issued the dark, nearly black, tartan striped with green and deep blue that was standard-issue for all off-worlders and outsiders within the Drookian regiments. For his feet there was only one choice, a pair of traditional Drookian boots that covered the leg up to the top of the calf – these items of clothing were placed over a pair of hose that already covered the foot, like a rekhorn skin sheath for the legs, the thick and shaggy skin of the native animal and mount giving quite fine protection against both the elements and glancing shrapnel on the field of battle.

The finishing touches were the insignia of rank and regiment on the sleeves of his jacket, the oddly shaped hat which he wore on his head – a black hat that sat centrally on the head and ran from front to back with a dip in the middle, an odd item in that it provided no protection whatsoever from the harsh climate of Drook VI – and the only piece of his rank that he actually enjoyed wearing, a finely crafted power sword which dangled in its sheath from the broad belt he wore, the hilt covering ones fist and also containing the power-cell for the blade. What he arguably liked the least was the 'bag' covered in rekhorn hair that dangled in between his legs, secured by two broad straps about his waist, that seemed to him both uncomfortable and impractical, no wonder, he wondered, that the Drookians were known for being so violent!

“At least you get to find out what the noise is, the one you've been hearing? You're not mad after all.”

There was little comfort in either his confidants words, or in the fact that the so-called 'kilt' was supposed to be worn without any undergarments. Not wanting to be ridiculed for going against their customs Adamare had heeded this sage piece of advice from his advisor and removed his genitals only protection against the cold. Now he wasn't so sure that they were even there any more.

“Squad, squad, atten-tion!”

Each new conscript, who until then had been milling about, managed at least to organise themselves into two lines at the sound of the Sergeants bass voice.

It was then, finally coming to halt before his platoon of conscripts, sometimes known as 'Whiteshields' or 'Gun Babies' among other Guard regiments, that Lieutenant Adamare Von Libervitz of House Von Libervitz of the newly raised 91st Drookian Fenguard came into contact with his men.

[ImperialAquila]

I like it. It's great to see another 40k story. I've got mine as well but it's currently on-hold. I'll be following this very closely indeed.

Looking forward to the next Chapter. +rep mate.

[McScottish]

I like it. It's great to see another 40k story. I've got mine as well but it's currently on-hold. I'll be following this very closely indeed.

Looking forward to the next Chapter. +rep mate.

I thank you! I shall need to check out your own and return that fine rep methinks. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that someone did Space Marines, being superhuman killing machines after all How are my poor conscript Guardsmen supposed to compete with the fans favourites?

[ImperialAquila]

I thank you! I shall need to check out your own and return that fine rep methinks. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that someone did Space Marines, being superhuman killing machines after all How are my poor conscript Guardsmen supposed to compete with the fans favourites?

Not really a favorite no. Just the easiest to write about since there are a lot of books about them and the info is scattered all over the internet. Plus I never really like the Ultrasmurfs but they seem to be in the thick of it every time.

I do love Guardsmen since they are the bulk of the Imperium's military (Plus I enjoyed reading about Gaunt and Cain). Without them frail mortals, even the Space Marines can't hold back the tide.

[Rex Anglorvm]

I have to admit I have no knowleade of warhammer whatsoever.

But I didn't need it, from the principle characters reactions/actions I can could easily follow the tale.

Rep+ on its way when able.

Rex