Latest update: March 4, 2024
Summary:British plumber, Aldrich Isengrund donates his body to science only to wake up in the far future as the last survivor of a Federation experiment.
Stuffed with archeotech, Aldrich has been given a chance to live long and prosper, so long as he reaps the great tithe of xenos required to unlock his implanted machines.
How much destruction will one man incite with a battered, plasteel pipe?
Note: Herald of the Stars pacing is appropriate for the galactic scale setting: it is slow. Some knowledge of 40K is assumed, though not essential.
Link:https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/60094/herald-of-the-stars-a-warhammer-40k-rogue-trader/chapter/1024159/chapter-one
Word count:990 pages
Chapters:119
I awake in a room full of skeletons, staring through the glass of my sarcophagus. It isn't the bones, wrecked room, or book-thick dust that surprises me, but that I woke up at all.
The last thing I remember was that I was dead.
I shift a bit, trying to reach the button on the harness holding me upright. A few, awkward shimmies and a jump gets my hand in place and I slam my palm against the big red button.
The harness retracts, slithering across my chest and thighs into the recesses of the high-tech box I'm stuck in.
How long have I been dead for, a century? Two? How long did it take to revive my frozen carcass and forget about me so long my fellow sleepers are withered and grey?
Examining the inside of my sarcophagus, I look for a way to get out. Whoever designed this thing made it fairly idiot proof and there is a big red handle, like the ones you sometimes see on train carriages, outlined in a black and yellow striped indent. Reaching left, I pull the emergency release. It doesn't budge and I try, and fail, to keep my breathing steady as I yank it repeatedly until it finally gives. The glass pops off and tumbles down with a great clang, sounding more like metal than glass as its impact scatters dust and leaves me choking.
I stretch my body then shuffle about the room. It's pretty big, you could park half a dozen white vans in here and still have space to turn them around. Three of the sarcophagi have been broken into, and another eight have nasty scratches all over their metallic-glass covers. The remaining twelve are in good condition, but they don't have lights like mine does.
Twenty-four coffins, eh? How many rooms are filled like this? I wade through the dust and detritus, then brush the dust off one of the covers. The body inside wears a white jacket and trousers, identical to mine. It also has a lanyard around its neck. I touch my chest, and sure enough, I have one too.
I pull the lanyard out from under my shirt. The card is opaque plastic and has circuitry running through it, as well as information printed on the front.
Subject: Aldrich Isengrund
Age: 43
White Male - British
Height: 176 cm
Weight: 97.4 kilograms
Interment: 2027
Cause of Death: Sepsis
Right! Now I remember. I stepped on one of those pesky night goblin spear models from my son's warhammer collection and cut my foot; then, my work mate, Brad, splashed shit down my waders while we were clearing an unusually stubborn fatberg in the local sewer.
After waking in the middle of the night, feeling awful, I popped some pills and tried to ride it out, thinking I had man-flu. By the time my wife, Sasha, took me to hospital in the morning, it was too late, and the drugs couldn't kill my infection before it got me. I signed my body away for science to one of those facilities experimenting with cryogenics, one that promised to try and revive you at a later date.
I sigh, hoping my wife and kids managed OK. The shock hasn't set in yet, but I can feel it clawing at me, waiting to pounce. For now, I am happy I beat the odds, though I'll be pissed if some random omnipotent being is messing with me for the lols.
Unsure what I'll find beyond this room, I sort through the mess, until I find a metre section of steel pipe with a short "L" at one end. A few rags and a section of electric cable gives my improvised tool a functional grip.
As I work, it finally twigs I'm seeing in black and white in almost total darkness. I re-examine my reflection, and gently probe my eye. It squishes and looks organic, I run my hand over my shaved head, shrug and put off the mystery for later.
Pipe in hand, I stride to the door and poke at the fancy control panel. It lights up, I don't recognise the letters, but somehow I can still read it. Pressing 'open door' gets me nowhere, nor does swiping my lanyard, both returning a 'low power' message.
I never thought I'd be grateful for health and safety regulations, but as I pull the manual release and jimmy the door open with my pipe, I'm rather glad whoever designed this planned for power loss and idiot proofing.
After making far too much noise, I get the door open. Beyond is a wide, tall corridor, panelled in steel or some future alloy. I take a left and pass several doors, each labelled with more of those strange letters. Words like 'Subject Storage 08', and 'Utility Access', float to the front of my mind as I walk past. After two hundred odd metres, I realise the corridor is slightly curved.
A minute later, I discover a junction and read the signs. I head right and aim for the canteen. I don't feel hungry or thirsty, but that's no reason not to look for supplies.
I pass several rag piles and blackened sections of wall; in some places the panelling has been melted through, giving me glimpses of pipes, cables, and ducts. I grip my pipe and take a steady breath.
A battered barricade covers one half of the canteen's double door, while the other door-half is marked by fire and claws. I imagine myself behind a barricade firing at alien critters, and immediately halt as my thoughts fill with tripwires and turrets, then I realise anything like that would have triggered when the facility staff were overrun.
Even so, I lie down and pull myself forward, just to make sure I don't miss anything. The approach feels silly, especially when I make it over the barricade without incident, but I don't regret my cautious approach. There are no corpses or weapons, only rags, scrap, and dust.
A handful of red lights illuminate the gloom. The canteen is massive and a total mess. Tables and chairs for two hundred people are overturned and twisted, scattered about the room. On my left is a massive sheet of glass; external shutters block my view of the outside. Shivers caress my spine and I believe, without reason, that seeing beyond is death.
My breath comes quicker and I inhale a lot of dust. I cough, and the odd sense of dread fades. A bank of machines fills the right wall; I approach them. They look like a series of large microwaves. I wipe away the dust with my sleeve. Inside the fourth one is a tray with four indents. Opening the door makes the whole thing light up and the screen above it starts spewing out error messages, but it also tells me this is a nutritious ooze module.
Smiling, I realise N.O.M. is probably not the official designation and a programmer likely messed with the error messages. I wake up all the machines, and after scanning my lanyard, manage to get tepid water out of one of them, the water even tastes fresh.
An eerie, multi-hued light approaches from the broken doors and something rams them with a teeth rattling clang. I freeze as a blue, manta ray-like creature with horizontal horns and pebbled skin, screams and wriggles, trying to force its massive bulk through the gap.
I dive behind a table. The creature screams again, and I feel terribly dizzy. I crack my elbow badly.
"Fuck!"
The pain brings clarity and within a second I realise not only is there no one else, but I'm the fat, slow, other guy. There will be no running from this. Getting up, I move around the fallen table and rush the floating alien beast, yelling my frustration and fear.
It doesn't help.
Adrenaline pumps into my sluggish muscles and the idea of beating the shit out of something, suddenly feels like the best idea in the world. With a roar, I bring my pipe down on the rays face. Its horns twist and stab at me, cutting my arms badly, but I barely notice.
I beat it, pulping much of its top and head, yet fail to discourage the ray. Its tail flicks forward, knocking my pipe from my hands. My body seizes as electricity rushes through my sweaty frame. The ray screeches again, triumphant, and gores me, the horn forcing my ribs apart.
Overwhelming horror grips my mind as I fumble, trying to ward off its snapping mouth, rapidly replaced with fury, then spite. I'm taking this P.O.S. with me. My weight drags it down and I grab a chunk of barricade, then fill its slobbering maw with scrap.
The ray pauses long enough I push myself off its horn, grab my pipe, and hit it again and again, my blows forcing it down and impaling it on the barricade, then I keep going until it stops moving.
I collapse, woozy with pain and blood loss. Swiping a dirty rag from the barricade, I hold it tight against my chest while the floor chills my sweaty back. Maybe if I last long enough, sepsis can get me a second time.
The ray dissolves into rainbow mist and pools on the floor. I gape at the bizarre display. The freaky mist flows through the barricade, passing solid material with ease and I scramble back, only for it to flow into my skin.
An impossibly deep voice blasts through my skull.
++Energy acquired... Emergency reserves at 0.1%... Standby disengaged... Running diagnostics... Life support engaged... repairs underway... Warning: low power... Deploying Quantum Sea syphon... Charging... Warning: hostile entities will be attracted to the E-SIM Operator while the Quantum Sea syphon is deployed. Prepare for battle.++
My pain snaps to a dull ache and I feel my blood clotting rapidly. "Wow. Do I have implants? I'm going to live?"
++Query acknowledged. Operator Aldrich Isengrund possesses one E-SIM implant and one life-support module. Operator integrity should reach 100% within five minutes. Chance of termination from wounds is minimal.++
"Thank you."
++You are welcome, Operator.++
A heads-up display (HUD) pops up, filtering into my awareness and gives me something to focus on, without obstructing my vision, as if it doesn't exist. It is both odd and entirely natural.
With a thought, I pull up a calendar. It states: Date and Time unknown. Last synchronisation, X282156M25.
That ridiculous date system seems familiar.
"Err, M25 as in the twenty fifth millennium?"
++Correct, Operator.++
"That was a long nap. What do I do now?" I lean against the battered door and stare at nothing. A gentle chime brings me back and I become aware I am whole.
"What is an E-SIM?"
++Enlightened Self-Interest Module.++ The deep voice rattles my thoughts. ++This experimental module improves the Operator's body, mind, and soul, as well as the module itself, providing prerequisites can be met; prerequisites include energy, knowledge, and kill count.++
"Kill count? Really?"
++Yes, obliterate the enemies of humanity in exchange for a better form.++
"Not sure about the enlightened part, but there's no shortage of self-interest there." I sigh, "Alright, show me options."
Reams of data trickle into my head, appearing in my mind's eye as a great mountain, filled with colourful boxes and glowing white lines. There are six different tiers, the first has options covering power, life support, and informative guides.
The second has a multitude of body modification options, everything apart from 'Sensor Module' is greyed out. The third covers mind modules, none are available, while the fourth has upgrades for the E-SIM, with 'Research Matrix' available for assembly. Fifth are the rather esoteric soul options. They aren't even labelled, and I suspect the data is corrupted.
Last however, are the three options in the sixth tier. One of which I have the data for, while the other two report missing data. I click on it: 'Beacon - Your presence weakens and torments Quantum Sea entities.'
Tacked onto the end of the 'Beacon' description are three words, a message from the past to a man lost in the far future. The words glow with golden power, infused with a final howl of defiance against a decaying civilization that, once upon a time, dominated the Milkyway Galaxy. Even as I read them, the words fade, their power spent imparting the emotions and debilitating burden of future knowledge they were written with. Blood drains from my face as my reality crystallises. A final spark of golden power flickers and dies within my mind and I finally know where and when I am.
'Good Luck - Adam.'
"Dammit!" I yell.
It's the 41st millennium, and there is only war.
Link:https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/60094/herald-of-the-stars-a-warhammer-40k-rogue-trader/chapter/1024159/chapter-one