Shadow of the Serpent

After Peter and the other two had left the reception room for a good while, the Trade Representative took a disposable silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed the fine sweat from his forehead.

"Oh, my God-Emperor! Those living nightmares have finally left."

Apate Howard let out a hearty laugh: "No need to be that afraid, it's not like this is your first time doing business with Space Marines. Look, money and goods settled cleanly, no dragging things out—this deal went pretty smoothly, didn't it?"

The Trade Representative didn't see it that way: "My lord, in all our previous dealings, we never let those heretical Astartes set foot on the ship! Couldn't we have sent a representative or used long-range communication instead?"

"They came aboard in full armor, weapons in hand, face-to-face with your esteemed self. What if they'd harmed you?"

The Trade Representative's face was full of loyalty, though whether it was genuine or not was hard to tell.

"Relax, I know what I'm doing."

The Rogue Trader was utterly unconcerned about his subordinate's worries.

The Trade Representative, that fat round ball, clutched his handkerchief again and said anxiously: "There's another important piece of intelligence I just learned. The two merchant ships delivering our goods have gone missing. The patrol fleet found them parked in the asteroid belt of this very star system. Clearly, those Space Marines hid them there—they hijacked the cargo meant for us."

Apate had actually known this even earlier: "I know. But provoking them isn't a good idea. Besides, we never received the goods. No delivery, no payment. We just lose a bit of earnest money. It's not our stuff they stole, after all."

The Trade Representative remained worried: "My lord, the merchant ships serving us were robbed in our territory, we discovered it, and we did nothing. If word of this gets out, it'll leave a bad impression on the trading house."

Apate Howard was amused: "Then go negotiate with those Chaos Space Marines and ask them to return the ships and cargo. Or else I'll allocate you a few warships, and you can lead the fleet to take it back."

Hearing this, the Trade Representative shook his head like a rattle-drum.

The Rogue Trader found it hilarious—his still-immature subordinate's head-shaking reminded him of a bobblehead doll: "There you have it. Since it's already happened, it's better to offend one side than both. At worst, we'll throw a few more contracts their way in the future as compensation."

It seemed this subordinate was far inferior to his father in his younger days—still in need of much more seasoning.

"By the way, Trade Director, from now on do more business with these 'Forged Steel Brethren.' Give them appropriate discounts, as long as we don't take a loss. Building a good relationship with them can't hurt."

The Trade Representative pulled out another silk handkerchief and continued wiping his sweat: "Yes, my lord."

This time he wouldn't ask why again; he figured his lord had already thought it through.

Apate Howard stretched with a slightly inelegant yawn, then said casually: "Alright, today's work is pretty much done. I'm going back to rest."

With that, he left the reception room and headed toward his personal quarters.

In many people's imaginations, a Rogue Trader would have a bedroom spanning thousands of square meters, filled with endless fine wine, exquisite food, and beautiful attendants.

In reality, that wasn't the case—at least not for Apate. His room was only a little over two hundred square meters. Aside from the sleeping quarters, it contained an office combined with a study, a washroom with a bath and sauna, and of course, a small private armory. That was everything in his room.

He could certainly eat the finest food and drink the most exquisite wine. But often, for the sake of convenience, he would simply down a nutrient supplement prepared by professional dietitians to cover his daily needs.

As for who entered and left his room, aside from his bodyguards, it was only a few high-ranking executives of the dynasty. Only they could enter without notice in an emergency; otherwise, the autocannon turrets would turn any unauthorized intruder into a sieve.

He rested only eight hours a day and took no vacations. None of this was for his own enjoyment—it was all for the benefit of the Imperium. Yes, even when he helped heretics or traded with xenos, it was for the Imperium's sake.

Apate took off his ostentatious coat and hung it on a rack by the hallway, then removed his priceless rare-beast leather boots and slipped into cooler, more comfortable slippers.

As he was unbuckling his belt, the Rogue Trader suddenly stopped. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A vague sense of wrongness washed over him—whether it was a warrior's instinct or the effect of the exorbitantly priced augmetics the Adeptus Mechanicus had implanted in him, he sensed that there was someone else in the room besides himself.

So he drew the Bolter Pistol and Power Sword from his belt, holding the sword in his left hand and the gun in his right. He kicked off his slippers, letting his socks touch the floor.

He didn't grab an extra magazine. If fifteen bolts from one clip couldn't handle the enemy, more wouldn't matter.

With steps as fast and graceful as a cat's, he moved inward, making less noise than a falling leaf. At this point, opening his communicator to call his bodyguards would be too slow and might alert the intruder.

Silently but swiftly, he checked his room, starting from the nearest washroom and bath, all the way to the armory.

Finally, when he craned his head to observe his semi-open office with the smallest possible exposure, he spotted the intruder.

It was a tall figure, currently sitting in his office chair, hands crossed, facing him.

Because the office lights were off, the figure remained in shadow, while the Rogue Trader was illuminated by the light from outside.

Seeing this, the Rogue Trader put away his gun and sword, and gave a slight bow toward the tall figure in the shadows: "My lord, I didn't expect you to come."

From the shadow, a low, grating voice spoke in High Gothic: "Apate, you sold the Gene-seed to him."

The Rogue Trader straightened his posture and replied: "Yes, Lord Belcher."

"At this price?"

"Correct."

"Don't you think you've taken a loss?"

"I have, but isn't this your order, my lord?"

From the shadows came a low, treacherous chuckle:

"I didn't say you did wrong. Did you put in the Gene-seed I gave you?"

"It's been put in."

From the shadows, a tall figure stepped forward, revealing himself in the cabin's light. It was a towering, bald Astartes clad in Peacock Blue Power Armour, its surface covered in dense, snake-scale-like ornamentation.

This Astartes nodded to the Rogue Trader in affirmation:

"Agent, your mission this time is complete. But this identity of mine will be discarded. Belcher will no longer contact you."

The Rogue Trader was slightly taken aback:

"My lord, what will be the code name of the one who contacts me next?"

This Son of Hydra put on his helmet, and from the vox-grille came his voice, as dangerous as a serpent's.

"Alpharius."

The Rogue Trader nodded knowingly, asking no further questions:

"Yes, my lord."

After a moment of silence, the Son of Hydra uttered their battle cry in a low voice:

"For the Emperor!"

Seeing this, the Rogue Trader crossed his hands over his chest, forming the Aquila Salute:

"Only by His will."