'It was most successful, my lord' Lucian would remain polite on the exterior, but inside he found himself feeling more irritated by Luneberg each time they met. The man presumed himself to be Lucian's superior, and addressed him as such. Did he not know that the Arcadius held a mandate as weighty as that of any Imperial Commander? By their Charter of Trade, granted by the authority of the High Lords of Terra, the Arcadius had the right to demand any service they required from the likes of Luneberg when going about their business. It was only at times such as these, when not directly pursuing that business, that Lucian was compelled to be polite to those he considered the petty nobility of a backwater world that had not once, in all the recorded annals of the Imperium's long, wartorn history, contributed anything of any worth to the race of men.
'I'm so glad to hear it. You must join my court in a celebratory feast, this evening'
'We'd be delighted' he demurred, whilst thinking: she'll never be here in time, we're skewed.
A courtesan put cherry-red lips to Luneberg's ear, whispering softly to him. Luneberg went to shoo her away, but looked at Lucian as he listened to her muffled words. She regarded Lucian smugly as Luneberg addressed him.
'All three of you will be joining us of course?
Utterly skewed. 'Of course, my lord, my family and myself will be honoured'
'Good. My factor will take care of our business' Luneberg's ever-present functionary bowed to Lucian.
He hadn't noted the man's presence before it was mentioned.
'I have arranged' the man now said, 'to have our cargo lighters convey the goods directly from your ships. They are docking with the Rosetta, even now, and we only require your authority to complete the transfer.
'Understood' Lucian replied to the man, noting that, only now, when it suited them, were the Chasmatans capable of displaying a degree of efficiency.
Lucian bowed as Luneberg stood, the courtesans arranging themselves demurely around the Imperial Commander as he did so. With the slightest of reciprocal nods, the Imperial Commander left, leaving Lucian distractedly wondering what the hell had become of his daughter, and the cargo she carried.
Brielle stood in the centre of her cargo hold, opened crates scattered around her feet.
The chamber's stasis field had failed during the jump, and once the Fairlight was back in the real universe, in the Chasmata system and safely inbound to Chasmata itself, Brielle had come to inspect the damage. Several of the crates had fallen open, and what she had found within the first few had driven her to open them all.
Weapons, the crates contained weapons. The Arcadius had been reduced to gunrunners. Seeing that each item was unique, Brielle had immediately realised that the shipment represented a collection of samples. It was nothing more than that.
Brielle simmered as she hefted a long rifle. It was something approaching two metres in length, but was almost too easy to lift. Its business end housed a metallic sphere that rotated in three dimensions, allowing, Brielle guessed, for its smooth handling. She braced the weapon at her shoulder, marvelling at the way its bulk rotated around the gyroscopic sphere, and closed one eye. As she drew a bead on a non-existent target, a small box rose from the body of the weapon. She started, pulling her head sharply away, but saw that the box housed some form of sighting device. She placed her eye to it, cautiously peering through. On the tiny screen within, blocky alien text flowed around a central crosshair, picking out all manner of objects within the hold.
Brielle could not read the text, but she knew such a weapon far surpassed the vast majority of those of human manufacture. Granted, those such as the mighty Adeptus Astartes had access to equivalent technologies, but what might Luneberg want with them? She could draw only one conclusion. Luneberg meant to make war — but on whom?
As far as Brielle was concerned, Luneberg had dishonoured the Arcadius gravely. He had made them petty smugglers, and her father had failed to see it coming. She felt her rage boil to the surface as she remembered how Korvane had simpered, certain in his view that what he saw as a respectable joint venture with the Imperial Commander would bring both parties profit and honour. She expected more of her father, but would he listen to her if she warned him? Should she try now? Most likely, he would accuse her of meddling in matters outside of her concern. Better to bide her time, she decided, before contacting her father.
She kicked an open crate, hard. This whole deal was rapidly spiralling out of control, and she seemed to be the only one with any idea just how badly.
Lucian, in his stateroom, stood before a mirror that magnified his image threefold, studying his reflection. His reflection glared straight back at him, his discomfort and annoyance writ large on his face. He wore the finest familial regalia, armour, medals, cloak and all, intent as he was upon distracting Luneberg from Brielle's absence. Whilst his son had been called away to deal with the business of authorising the cargo transfer from the Rosetta, Lucian had contacted the Oceanid, speaking to the vessel's Navigator once more. Adept Baru had restated his earlier opinion that the Fairlight had not been lost upon the tides of the warp, and had appeared confident that Brielle had not been greatly delayed. Lucian was tense nonetheless, for a Navigator was, in his experience generally pleased enough with a window of several weeks, so long as no harm came to his vessel. Ваru was undoubtedly a cut above the average Navigator, if such a thing was possible, yet Lucian still felt his grasp on events outside of his navigation blister was vague at best.
Not for the first time during this venture, Lucian regarded the medals crowded across his chest. Each meant so much, yet might be rendered meaningless should the dynasty fail. So much relied upon the deal with Luneberg, and so much had already been invested in simply voyaging to the Eastern Rim, that Lucian could see precious little of a future for the Arcadius should the deal fail.
He was reminded of the tale his father had told him of old Abad Gerrit, the great Arcadius who had pacified the Scallarn Cluster. According to his father, Abad had risked much to raise an army, entirely at his own expense, with which to take back the dozen worlds of the cluster from the yoke of ork enslavement. He had purchased scores of troop transports to carry his newly risen armies, and hired on innumerable auxiliary vessels and crews to service his conquest fleet.
The pacification attempts of just the first world of the cluster had faced fierce resistance, and had taken three decades to complete. By then, Lucian's father had told him, old Abad was all but stripped of resources, his fleet down to half a dozen vessels and his armies a mere fraction of their former strength. However, Abad had a trick up his sleeve. He had used all his contacts and influence to reinstate the former ruler of that single liberated world, presenting to him a free, if somewhat wartorn domain. The newly installed leader had bankrolled the remainder of the re-conquest, the rulership of each liberated world going to those of his choosing, while Abad was rewarded greatly for his services.
Lucian's father had insisted that there was a lesson in Abad's tale. Lucian had always thought the only real lesson to be gleaned was that Abad was an old, mercenary bastard with the scruples of an eldar. Perhaps, he now pondered, Abad had been onto something.
A rap at the apartment door interrupted Lucian's chain of thought.
'Enter!
The huge, gilded portal swung inwards, a white-robed servant bowing deeply as he entered.