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Rogue Trader: The Omnibus – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

‘Helm, seven degrees pitch to starboard! Number three’s misbehaving again. Deal with it.’

Lucian Gerrit, rogue trader, turned his back on Raldi, his helmsman and resumed his vigil at the bridge viewing port. His vessel, the heavy cruiser Oceanid, felt cold to him. The after-effect, he knew, of so long a voyage through the empyrean to reach this far-flung system at the very border of the Emperor’s domains.

A jarring shudder ran through the deck plate, felt in the bones more than heard.

‘If you can’t compensate for a grizzling plasma drive, Mister Raldi, I can always disconnect one of the waste ingestion servitors and see if it’s capable of making a better show of it than you appear to be. Do I make myself clear?’

If the helmsman answered, Lucian wasn’t in the mood to hear. Though a ship to be proud of, the Oceanid was long past her prime. Even in a space-faring culture in which vessels remained in service for centuries, even millennia, she was old. Her homeport, Ariadne Halo, had fallen to alien attack in Lucian’s great, great grandfather’s time. All her sister ships were distant memories. She was the last of a long line. Much like Lucian himself, in fact.

Where once a deck crew of dozens had attended to their stations in the crew pit, now half of Lucian’s crew were hard-wired servitors, each mumbling an impenetrable catechism of the Machine-God. Vacant-eyed and drooling, each monitored a single aspect of the vessel’s running. Vessels such as the Oceanid relied on their like, for many tasks were beyond the abilities of a man to perform. Yet, over the years, the availability and quality of competent crewmen had diminished to such an extent that Lucian was forced to rely on servitors. Though essential in many roles, the hideous machine-corpse custodians were no substitute for a man when it came to obeying orders in a crisis. Each knew only its allotted purpose, and would remain tethered uncaring to its station even were it to burst into flames.

Raldi, one of the men of flesh and blood, rather than carrion and oil, onboard the Oceanid, called out. ‘Sir, we’re beginning our run on the rendezvous point. Provided we don’t pick up any ionisation we should be within hailing range.’

‘Well enough, helm. Keep her even.’

Once more, Lucian took in the view beyond the armoured port. The nameless star, recorded merely as QX-445-2 on the star charts, cast its wan light, barely illuminating a thick corona of misty stellar dust. Somewhere within that befogged region lay Lucian’s destination, the system’s only inhabited world: Mundus Chasmata.

Before making planetfall on that forgotten backwater of a port, however, Lucian had first to gather about him his flotilla. The cruisers Rosetta and Fairlight were due to enter range at any moment, but any number of fates could have befallen them whilst traversing the unreal dimension known as the warp. The least of such fates was delay; the worst was too terrible to ponder.

‘Surveyor return at three twenty by nine sir!’ called a junior rating.

Lucian strode to his command throne and sat, reclining in the worn leather seat from which generations of his predecessors had directed the fortunes of the dynasty.

‘Punch it up.’

A servitor, its eye sockets replaced by data ports from which bundles of cable snaked and writhed, bobbed its head once in response. Half its cranium was replaced by cybernetic implants, the right side of its brain, associated with creativity and emotion, having been cut away, deemed unnecessary by its creators. At an unheard command, the bridge lights dimmed and a revolving green globe of light, criss-crossed by motes of static, sprang into being before the command throne.

Grainy points of light resolved themselves into distinct features. At the hologram’s centre sat the Oceanid, all around her banks of pale green and jade stellar dust clouds. Deep within one such bank the position of Mundus Chasmata was indicated by a crosshair, her moons dancing around her. To the Oceanid’s stern, an indistinct smear indicated the distant return.

‘All engines to idle. Fore thrusters to best speed. Thirty-second burn on my mark.’

Lucian’s words were relayed through the deck crew to the entire ship. Within seconds, the omnipresent rumble of the Oceanid’s engines changed pitch, deepening to a subsonic drone as sweating engineering crews nursed them to idle.

‘Mark.’

A mournful siren pealed throughout the vessel, echoing down dark and dingy companionways. The mighty banks of retro thrusters mounted either side of the armoured prow coughed into life. The titanic force of the deceleration caused Lucian’s head to pitch forward. Raldi barely won his fight to remain standing.

‘Station nine! Why aren’t the compensators on line?’

The servitor at station nine, the position responsible for monitoring the Oceanid’s gravitic generators, opened its mouth and squealed a response in garbled machine language. The engine pitch deepened and the bridge lights flickered before Lucian felt the gravity field fluctuate, compensating for the deceleration.

‘Better,’ growled Lucian.

The retro thrusters ended their burn, and with the main plasma drives idling, the Oceanid was eerily quiet. Previously unheard, the groaning and creaking of the ship’s metal skeleton was now plainly audible.

‘Station keeping please, helm,’ ordered Lucian, and stood once more, hands clasped behind his back. Now the vessel was still, the hologram grew clearer. Where a single, garbled return had indicated the presence of another ship, or ships, that blob now resolved itself into five, then four, then two distinct points. Hard machine language yammered from the baroque grilles around the base of the projector, and in a moment, a stream of text flowed beside each of the two points. The noise ended at the same instant the text froze. The word ‘Rosetta’ flashed next to the lead return; ‘Fairlight’ next to the second.

Lucian released a breath that no one other than himself would have known he was holding. Though the last leg of their voyage had been upon a relatively safe course, warp travel between systems was rarely without incident. That both vessels had evidently arrived simultaneously was testament to the skills of their Navigators, for time within the warp bore little or no relation to that within the physical universe. Every mariner, from the most veteran of ships’ masters to the lowliest rating, was well versed in the tales of ships setting out, to arrive at their destination mere weeks later yet having aged decades. Other tales told of vessels that had arrived many centuries late, having spent mere days within the warp, while others still told of vessels arriving before having even set out. The life of a space mariner was one filled with superstition and ritual: they clung with nigh religious fervour to anything that might belay such bad luck.

‘Station three, open a channel to Rosetta.’

The servitor at the communications station croaked a vaguely human-sounding response, and angry static flooded the bridge address system. Machine noise broke through the static, a random staccato that would establish a secure communications channel synchronised with the systems of the other vessel. A second series of harsh bleeps cut in, the two streams flooding the bridge with arrhythmic machine nonsense. The servitor at station three turned a brass dial, and the two code streams converged until they burbled and gargled in synchronisation.

‘…id. Repeat, this is Rosetta hailing Oceanid. Holding station at primary rendezvous point, awaiting your response. Repeat, this is–’

‘Glad you could make it, Korvane,’ Lucian addressed his son, the master of the Rosetta, ‘I trust your journey was a pleasant one?’

A moment’s delay hinted at the still vast distance between the ships, before Korvane’s voice broke through the static.

‘Yes, Father. No major problems to report. The new loading crew gave us some trouble as we translated, but once they realised they weren’t going home, they relented. Otherwise, a very smooth journey.’

‘Good. You know how much is hanging on this mission. Any more problems, you know what to do, out.’

‘Station three. Give me a channel to Fairlight.’

The connection established; a new voice cut through the ever-present static and whine of the long-range communication channel. It was that of Brielle, Lucian’s daughter, and captain of the Fairlight.

‘Fairlight, receiving. Go ahead, Father.’

‘Anything to report, Brielle?’

There was a pause as the transmission beamed across a million kilometres of space, and then the simple reply, ‘No, Father. The voyage was pleasantly uneventful.’

‘Good.’ Addressing both ships, Lucian said, ‘You both know how important the coming negotiations are, so I want this to go without a hitch. We begin our final approach as planned. Form up in echelon to starboard, fifty kilometres separation for the run, down to one on my mark as we close. We have to make this look good. Brielle, follow your brother in as we practised. Do you both understand?’

His son replied immediately in the affirmative, but Lucian felt his daughter’s terse reply took longer than the communications lag would account for.

The channel closed, Lucian left Raldi with orders to proceed on their course inbound to Mundus Chasmata. Leaving the bridge, he made for his cabin. He passed down ill-lit passageways that had once shone with light reflected from polished brass fittings. In his youth, smartly attired junior officers had hurried along these very companionways, eager to fulfil the captain’s orders; but all that had changed.

For millennia, the Arcadius Dynasty, of which Lucian was the latest scion, had penetrated the darkness of the Eastern Rim. His ancestor, the great Lord Arcadius Maxim Gerrit, had earned the favour of none other than the High Lords of the Administratum. His leadership during the Easthead Nebula Crusade was rewarded with a charter to explore and exploit the black spaces on the star charts, to bring the light of the Emperor to the benighted worlds beyond the borders of the Imperium. It was well known that the charter was intended to remove the Lord Arcadius from the circles of power that orbited the High Lords of Terra, lest his successes afford him ambitions incompatible with those of the Administratum, but Maxim was ever a pragmatic man, and established a dynasty that would flourish for the next three thousand years.

The dynasty had hit hard times. Its traditional area of operation beyond the eastern spiral arm had rapidly become untenable. Lucian was in the business of trading, of exploitation, yet where once virgin worlds awaited his vessels, only barren, lifeless planets were to be found. Something was out there, feeding on regions that the Arcadius Dynasty depended upon for its very future.

Reaching his cabin, Lucian heaved open the heavy bulkhead door that would have been attended by a young rating, once. He entered and crossed to an ornately carved, wooden cabinet. Opening its exquisite hatch, he withdrew a small glass and a bottle of thick, golden liquid. He poured himself a shot and knocked it back in one motion. Lucian had little time for the affectations of high society, amongst which amasec was the drink of the so-called connoisseur. Rogue traders, being a unique breed, followed their own heading, and the Arcadius suffered pretension poorly. The coming negotiations would test Lucian’s skills and, he knew, his patience, to the limit.

After pouring a second shot of asuave, Lucian crossed to his wardrobe. The coming talks would call not only for diplomatic and trading skills, but also for a display of status. At his approach, a hunch-backed and calliper-limbed servitor glided silently from the shadows, and a baroque-framed mirror as tall as Lucian rose from its hidden recess in the deck. Lucian shrugged off his outer jacket and lifted his chin. The servitor lifted a polished, deep crimson gorget edged with burnished gold, fitting it around Lucian’s neck and fastening it across his back. Next, a heavy breastplate was attached, followed by the accompanying back armour. With the addition of similarly burnished leg, arm and shoulder guards, Lucian soon stood arrayed in his ancestral finery.

He regarded himself in the mirror. He was tall at over six feet, powerfully built and heavy set. His face showed age, but few ever guessed his years. As was ever the case with those who spent a lifetime traversing the space lanes, Lucian counted two ages. His objective age, that counted by the ever-constant universe was something approaching half a millennia. His subjective age, the years he actually noted the passing of, was one fifth that. Still, he appeared no older than half a century, for despite the downturn in his fortunes, he had access to surgical treatments about which the common subjects of the Imperium could only dream. Regular juvenat courses held back the years and maintained strength, ensuring that he would guide his dynasty through another century at least, so long as the Arcadius survived the next decade.

His familial armour donned, Lucian nodded as the servitor bowed and lifted before him a delicately carved, wooden case. Lucian would allow none other to handle the contents. Not even his children, until their inheritance granted them that right.

As he laid his hand upon the lid of the case, cunningly wrought gene locks confirmed his identity with a rapid pinprick. Had they detected the blood of anyone other than a son or daughter of his line, deadly poisons would, even now, be surging through his system, cutting synapses and paralysing nerves.

With the lifting of the lid, the stasis field within the case deactivated. He lifted the first of the contents: a medal in the form of a shining star, its surface inlaid with the rarest of precious metals. It was The Ward of Cadia; granted to his grandfather, in recognition of the aid he had leant halting an incursion through the Cadian Gate.

He affixed the gleaming medal to his breastplate and, reaching once more within the box, withdrew a green disc inlaid with golden filigree. The Order of Voss, awarded to his father by the tech-priests of that great forge world in thanks for his aiding their Titan Legions in defence against ork attack.

Next, was a medal of very different design and manufacture, presented to Lucian himself by the White Scars Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, in recognition for his assistance in the purging of the xenos presence beneath the tunnel world of Arat. It was a hand-carved representation of a snarling, bestial face, a stylised lightning flash bisecting its features.

Half a dozen more gleaming tokens of mighty deeds followed, each afforded their place upon his armour with utmost honour and reverence until but one remained.

Lucian’s hand slowed as he reached once more into the case. Even he was given pause by the significance of the last item. Whispering a prayer, he reached within and brought out the pride of his dynasty. Only the Charter of Trade and the banner presented to the dynasty by the Senatorum Imperialis could equal this medal in worth. Awarded to Maxim Gerrit by the High Lords of Terra themselves, for his display of epic leadership as well as personal courage at the height of the Eastlight Nebula Crusade, Lucian lifted the winged medal of the Order of Ollanius Pius. Bearing the golden face of an angelic youth, laurel leaves arrayed across his noble brow, the medal represented the very highest honour a mortal man could earn in the service of the Imperium. Intricate scrollwork beneath the beatific visage bore an inscription:

‘Amid the weeping and the woe,
Accursed Daemon remain and rot,
I know thee filthy as thou art,
I know.’

The words sent a shiver up Lucian’s spine, for they spoke of things few men were allowed to know, but his position at the head of his dynasty granted him knowledge that the authorities had few means of barring from him. For most, daemons were the terrifying creatures of nightmares. Real, most certainly, but kept at bay by prayer and the eternal vigilance of the God-Emperor of Mankind. For the likes of Lucian Gerrit, they were the denizens of the empyrean, for vessels such as his must intrude into their realm when travelling between the stars.

The medals affixed to Lucian’s crowded breastplate, the servitor appeared once more. It bore a mighty cloak of luxurious fur. The snarling head of a beast of terrible aspect was mounted upon his right shoulder, its huge fore-claws draped across his back and over his left shoulder.

Lastly, he opened an armoured hatch upon the wall. He brought out an antique leather belt. Attached to it was a pair of ornate holsters. The first held a heavy, blunt-nosed pistol, a plasma weapon created for his line by the famed master artificer Ernst Heckler, impossibly intricate devotional text carved upon its every surface.

Lucian lifted the weapon, activating it with the press of a stud and savouring the rapidly rising, near ultrasonic whine that indicated that the weapon’s war spirit was content. The second weapon was of unknown manufacture, a pistol-sized device of pure crystal. Violet and blue lights danced within as he hefted it. He knew not who or what had constructed the bizarre weapon, but on many occasions had had cause to thank their skill. The weapon unleashed a blinding ray that interfered with its target’s brain functions, reducing him to a gibbering imbecile in seconds; very useful in some of the places Lucian had visited.

He then slid onto his fingers a series of rings, each a cunningly wrought, miniature laser weapon. With luck, such weapons would not be required, but few authorities in the galaxy, short of an Inquisitor Lord or Space Marine Chapter Master, would presume to demand a rogue trader divest himself of his arms. Given the dynasty’s standing, he would expect that even they would do so politely.

He regarded himself in the mirror one last time, before striding from the cabin. He would take to his command throne and guide the Oceanid, and with her, the Arcadius Dynasty, to a bright, new future.

The rogue trader flotilla slid through banks of pale green stellar dust, flashes of lightning illuminating them from deep within. Such regions were the stuff of space mariners’ superstitions, for they awoke primal notions, the fear of the unknown, and of ‘things’ lurking in the mist. The vessels navigated by dead reckoning alone, for their augur banks were useless amidst the thick cloud. It was all too easy to become jittery, reflected Lucian, for the surveyor reported all manner of weird returns. Ghostlights they were often called, for they would appear solid and real one moment, only to fade to nothing the next.

Communications too, were troublesome in such a region. Where the cloud thinned, short range, line of sight transmission was possible, but psychic communication was by far more efficient, except that the vessel’s telepath was near incapacitated at present: burnt-out, Lucian suspected. The guild had so far been unwilling to replace him, a sore point that would need addressing once the current crisis was resolved.

Lucian watched as the cloud thinned, the system’s star penetrating the green murk. The dust parted, and the Oceanid glided clear, gases swirling at her passing. The view from the bridge was suddenly one of clear space, Mundus Chasmata visible as a black disc eclipsing its star.

Lucian stood, savouring the moment as he prepared to hail Mundus Chasmata’s outer defence monitor. He glanced at the surveyor, certain in the knowledge that his son and daughter would be ordering their vessels into formation astern of his own. Two returns indicated they were. Behind them, however, four more returns flashed an angry red. They were set upon a headlong dive towards the Rosetta as she emerged from the cloud, their course indicating but one possible motive: attack!

‘General quarters!’ bellowed Lucian as he took to the command throne. Sirens wailed and the bridge lights flickered off, to be replaced an instant later by the red glow of the emergency lights employed during battle. Lucian wondered how the hell raiders had found his flotilla in deep space. Were they betrayed so soon? He would have to deal with them first, and worry about the details later.

‘Helm, on my mark, all engines to ten per cent, new heading thirty to starboard. Comms, give me a channel to my fleet.’

The address system chimed to indicate the channel was open. Korvane’s voice burst forth. ‘…ur of them one fifty to port, contact in nine. I could do with some help here.’

‘Do as I say, both of you. On my signal, Korvane, power up and come about to forty-five degrees to starboard. Brielle, maintain your current speed and come about to forty-five to your port. Do you both understand?’

Both Korvane and Brielle indicated they understood their father’s instructions. He glanced down at the surveyor screen, paused, and calmly ordered: ‘Mark!’

The compensators cut in an instant late, as the Oceanid decelerated. Raldi simultaneously veered the ship to starboard. The surveyor tracked the Rosetta as she increased her speed, crossing the Fairlight’s bow with the four raiders in pursuit. Viewed from the bridge, the manoeuvre was a stately affair, but Lucian knew, a potentially deadly one.

The graceful manoeuvre brought the Oceanid to the attackers’ eight o’clock, and the Fairlight to their four.

‘Starboard battery aft! Open fire on lead target!’

Below decks, the mighty weapons bank locked onto its target: the fast-moving raider closing in on the position the Rosetta had occupied minutes before. The master of the smaller vessel evidently saw his coming fate, but a moment too late. The battery erupted in blinding fire, launching huge, high-explosive projectiles across the gulf of space.

Lucian watched on the surveyor screen as the raider pitched to starboard, a last desperate attempt to avoid the Oceanid’s wrath. It failed, as Lucian had seen it would. The salvo struck the smaller vessel amidships, robbing it of forward momentum with such violence that it split into two, its entire prow tumbling forwards whilst its drive section sheered off at forty-five degrees. Even at this distance, the spectacle was impressive, as the plasma core at the heart of the engine cluster went critical, creating a second sun for a moment.

Lucian winced as the explosion flooded his bridge with harsh white light, the viewing port dimming a moment later to compensate. When his vision had cleared, he looked out once more to see the Fairlight opening fire upon the second raider, but this vessel recovered far more quickly than its recently deceased comrade had, evading its former prey with ease.

A veteran of a hundred such skirmishes, Lucian read the raiders’ manoeuvres with practiced ease. His redeployment had caught them at the moment they had anticipated easy victory, but their captains were not fools. Even now, they were rallying, recovering from the shock of their prey’s counter-attack. They were coming about for a second attack run. Lucian performed a mental calculation: three raider frigates, probably up-gunned, certainly up-armoured, and therefore slower and less manoeuvrable than would ordinarily be the case; and his own vessels: a heavy cruiser and two light cruisers. Under normal circumstances, his small flotilla would have little to fear, but all three of the rogue trader vessels were running at reduced capacity, the sad result of the dynasty’s deteriorating fortunes. Now of all times, he could not afford damage to his precious vessels.

His decision reached, Lucian addressed his offspring.

‘Korvane, Brielle, as much as I’d savour the opportunity to smear these motherless bastards across space, we have more important matters to attend to. You both set course for the Mundus Chasmata primary at best speed. I’ll lead them on to the outer platform. Do you understand?’

Korvane was first to answer. ‘Aye, Father, I agree. We are best served reaching Chasmata intact.’

‘Brielle?’

‘Father, we can take them here. I’ll hold back and draw them onto your guns. It should only take a single–’

‘You will not!’ shouted Lucian, surging to his feet at his daughter’s defiance. ‘You will set course for Mundus Chasmata Primary as ordered! Do I make myself clear?’

His daughter did not reply, but Lucian had his answer as he saw the Fairlight move to come around as per his instructions. Grunting, he sat once more.

Lucian waited until he was satisfied that both Korvane and Brielle were following his orders, before addressing his bridge.

‘On my signal, power down to ten per cent, and burn port retros at full for fifteen.’ Raldi turned his head and opened his mouth as if to speak, but decided against protesting upon meeting Lucian’s glare.

The Oceanid shuddered violently as the portside retro thrusters ignited, forestalling the vessel’s forward motion and slowly bringing her to starboard. The first of the raiders passed, overtaking Lucian’s cruiser before its own captain had time to react. Lucian knew that it would have to enter a long, wide arc in order to circle back: it was out of the fight for some time at least.

The second raider did react to the Oceanid’s ungainly manoeuvre, but its captain had evidently misread Lucian’s intentions. Rather than compensating for the course change with a similar move, this raider veered to port, the master fearing perhaps that the heavy cruiser sought to entrap him as she had his erstwhile compatriot. The ill-judged reaction cost the raider vessel dear, for she too would be out of the fight while she came about to intersect the Oceanid’s course.

The last raider altered her course, finding herself bearing down on the wallowing Oceanid. Its forward weapons batteries opened fire, catching the Oceanid a glancing blow across the dorsal shields.

‘Station six! How are we holding?’ Station six was manned not by a servitor, but by a man, though the rating sported so many cybernetic implants that the external difference was minimal. Lucian reasoned that the shields were generally only needed in an emergency, and had learned through bitter experience that an Emperor-fearing man reacted to orders far better than a servitor under such circumstances, benefiting as he did from a sense of self-preservation that the servitor lacked.

‘Nothing she can’t handle sir, though the feedback caused some casualties in coil chamber beta.’

Lucian wasted no time in mourning the press-ganged scum that toiled in the depths of his vessel. Most would have been executed long ago had not their sentences been commuted to his service.

‘Well enough six. Helm, come about to three nine three and all ahead full! Go!’

The Oceanid shook as the full power of her plasma reactor was fed to her drive systems. She soon outdistanced the first two raiders to pass her, and only the third remained, though closing, astern.

Lucian activated the holograph, focusing on an area of space only a few thousand kilometres ahead. He saw what he was looking for.

‘Helm, we’re coming up on Chasmata’s outer defence platform. At five hundred, yaw thirty so she passes us to port at around fifty.’

A shudder travelled up the length of the vessel, as the raider dogging her stern unleashed a second volley. Lucian looked up, meeting the eye of the man at station six.

‘Holding, sir, for now.’

‘Good. Comms, signal the platform. Let them know who we are. Now would be a bad time for a misunderstanding.’

As the Oceanid ploughed on, the defence platform came into view off the port bow. Though not much larger than the rogue trader vessel, the platform bristled with weaponry, from lance batteries to torpedo tubes. The comms servitor had evidently succeeded in transmitting the correct signal. Had it not, those batteries of fearsome destruction would have been opening fire on the Oceanid.

Instead, they opened fire on the raider. The captain of the raiding frigate was so intent upon his prey that he could not have seen his death approaching. It came quickly, in the form of a mighty broadside, macro cannon shells obliterating the smaller vessel in the blink of an eye.

Lucian glanced down at the surveyor to see the rapidly fading debris field spread across the screen. The last two raiders, visible as indistinct returns at the screen’s edge, turned tail and bolted.

‘Get me a drink’, he ordered no one in particular.

Mundus Chasmata’s primary orbital dock filled the bridge viewing port. The three vessels had formed up as they closed on the planet, presenting a stately procession worthy of the Arcadius Dynasty. Lucian had awaited the customary picket escort any rogue trader would expect from the port authorities of such a world, but had been mildly surprised and not a little put out when none had appeared.

As the ships closed on the vast, slab-sided orbital dock, its aged condition became apparent. Lucian had visited many such installations, often in a similar state of disrepair, but he thought this one appeared somehow more dilapidated than normal. The armoured skin of the multiple, interconnected domes was pockmarked by centuries of micrometeorite impacts, and entire sections had evidently fallen into disuse. One docking limb appeared entirely open to space, its hatches hanging as if creaking in a non-existent wind.

Not only was the absence of an escort notable, but Lucian’s practiced eye took in every detail of the dock and its environs. All six docking limbs were devoid of craft. No freighters, no system defence boats, no tankers, troop transports or ships of any type were tethered to the station’s multiple docking points. No service craft or tugs went about the endless maintenance tasks any other station would demand. No shuttles transported goods and passengers back and forth between the dock and the surface.

This far out on the borders of the Imperium’s space, Lucian would have expected some degree of neglect, but not so much, he reflected with growing unease, that the locals would not be sent into a frenzy of activity at a pirate attack so close to their capital.

As the Oceanid came alongside the station, Raldi expertly guiding the heavy cruiser to within a mere twenty metres of the allotted docking arm, mighty docking clamps reached out to grasp her. The metallic clang echoed through the vessel as cursing crew chiefs harangued press-ganged crews to make her fast. The Oceanid became a hive of activity as Lucian prepared to go ashore. The talks would have to wait; his flotilla had been attacked. A fine welcome to the Eastern Rim, he thought.

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* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

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