Ròsìn has dressed in a rather spectacular manner this evening. I suspect that she’s taken inspiration from Magos JK-404 as she is showing off her body and its subtle modifications with her tight, pale yellow shorts and Mars red top, a silver half jacket, and some cream, knee high boots. The Stellar Fleet symbol, a hammer inside a cog, is woven onto the back of her jacket and white gloves.

Like me, Ròsìn has replaced her hair with fine strands of a thermally conductive alloy. Today, she has swapped them for fibre optics and each strand lights up with a different colour with the ends shining with a bright white light. Her electoos are powered up, covering her body with thin white-blue lines that, if one were to stare at close enough to be inappropriate, are made of thousands of tiny runes. Her eight mechadendrites have been given an iridescent coating and change colour beneath the bright light above as they gently sway behind her, their arrangement on her back giving the impression of spider’s legs.

Calligos slips next to her in his navy blue, Imperial officer’s greatcoat. A hefty quantity of gold thread covers his shoulders and I’m a little impressed he can keep his spine straight beneath the weight.

“Good evening, Miss Paorach.”

“Hello, Trader Calligos. Come to try your luck?”

“Luck is a frivolous mistress, one whom I discarded long ago. I actually wanted to ask you about your necklace, the silver hammer you wear around your neck. I’ve seen it in quite a few places in the Stellar Fleet and was curious what it meant to so many people.”

“Oh, this one is platinum actually. An easy mistake to make for an organic eye. It’s the current symbol of the Iron Foundation, the local Machine Cult that adheres to Magos Issengrund’s ethics and philosophy, as opposed to those who merely take his teachings and technology for their own gains.”

“You are his primary apprentice, yes? Head of Acquisitions and Assimilation? Even a Knight pilot, I have heard.”

“Yes,” says Ròsìn with a slight grin. “I am all those things and many more besides. If you wish to give me a label, Cybersmith will do.”

“As you wish, Cybersmith Paorach. Is your symbol something the Magos gives out himself, or do his people pledge themselves to his cause unprompted?”

“Such curiosity. Still, it is no secret. Magos Issengrund does not approve of the Iron Foundation, nor does he oppose it, or provide direction.” Ròsìn taps her necklace. “He doesn’t hand out these either. Our tenets are our own, a product of observation and the occasional, sneaky query, often by myself or during the commendation lunches he holds every week. So long as we do no harm and continue to worship the Omnissiah and Machine-God with due reverence and zeal, we are free to gather and discuss his lessons, or perform charitable works in his name.”

“You are a woman of power and privilege. That he permits so much is rather telling. New cults are not uncommon, but this? Rather bold, is it not, for you to worship a wedded man? Your teacher no less!” says Calligos, his tone humorous.

Ròsìn laughs, “Oh, nothing of the sort. Worship is forbidden. He was quite adamant on the issue. His only dictate to our cult, one might say. Instead, we pray for him and try to catch the smaller issues within the Fleet before they reach his sensors.”

“I see. You must have all sorts of people in your group then, from those looking to earn extra credit for a promotion, to the genuinely generous and faithful. How successful has the Iron Foundation been in spreading its philosophies, and what might they be?”

Calligos sips his drink and looks up at Ròsìn, stepping back slightly as her mechadendrites quest towards him. I think he is rather put off by her height and unused to being one of the shortest individuals in the room. He’s rather tall and broad for an unaugmented Human and I don’t think he quite knows how to react towards tall, pretty women who can vivisect him in seconds if he attempts to strong arm them.

“We have many members,” says Ròsìn. “I believe we are the largest subfaction within the Stellar Fleet. Some do join our ranks hoping to improve their careers. Wherever Humans gather there will always be networking and politics, but only those who stay and help others actually benefit. By that point, they are true believers and so the goal of the Iron Foundation is met.

“Owen does good work with his social programs, but he is more focused on the works of the Emperor. The Iron Foundation has subsumed similar projects for those who find their spiritual connection lies deeper with the Machine-God than the Omnissiah.

“Typically, we assist those who are struggling with their education, or need extra help to retrain beyond what the Stellar Fleet already provides. We also have a strong volunteer presence within the creches of the vat born. We hold additional, open lectures, science fairs, and sponsor promising Tech-Priests with their research.”

“I see. Social programs. How novel. I dare say Magos Issengrund is even richer than I if he can afford such frivolities.”

Ròsìn frowns, “One should strive to be pure in mind, body, and soul, ever vigilant and resilient against the whispers of the Ruinous Powers. You asked about Magos Issengrund’s philosophies. This is one of them and you can see it wherever you look within the Stellar Fleet, though the most obvious mark is the one found on and flowing within our True Flesh: our warding electoos and sacred blood.”

Ròsìn rolls up her jacket and a mechadendrite strikes her void rated skin, withdrawing a single drop of grey blood. She holds it up before his face.

“See? The Magos has blessed us with much.” The end of the needle sparks with electricity and the sacred blood evaporates with a bright flash.

Calligos recoils slightly, “How much of you remains? You appear as flesh, yet you now you show me you are machine? How can this be?” He glances around the banquet hall, observing the Human servers. “Is everyone like this?”

“It varies. The blood I showed you, my skin, and electoos are three of the freebies handed out as part of our mandatory military service. They drastically improve survival in the harshest of conditions. I have pushed myself even further, as do many others as they progress through the ranks of the Machine-Cult. We do seek to emulate Magos Issengrund, after all.”

“I have never seen such fine cybernetics on such a grand scale,” Calligos shivers. “I preferred it when I couldn’t see beneath the red robes.”

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Ròsìn huffs, “You strike me as a man who would prefer there were no robes at all.”

“Rogue Traders do have that reputation,” says Calligos with a quiet chuckle. “We chase profit in all its forms.”

“Profit above all, or perhaps tits and arse?”

“Nay, a Rogue Trader is far more esoteric than that,” Caligos grins. “Profit is the measure of success, not the goal.”

“Please do elaborate,” says Ròsìn. “If you want to know more of the Iron Foundation, it is time you traded more than that rogue personality of yours.”

“You’re not far off with that remark. The cult of personality that some traders build around themselves is one of the types of wealth Rogue Trader’s seek. We are the symbol of Imperial might, freedom, and glory. We’re what people want to be.

“The example we set and the admiration we gather for achieving our status is what gives our crews far more loyalty than most Imperial vessels enjoy. Some even gain a touch of ambition, knowing that they could be us if they are heroic and lucky enough.

“I asked about the Iron Foundation and how Magos Issengrund treats it because it defines what sort of Trader he is: generous and patriotic.”

“You wish to gather data to fine tune your approach I assume,” says Ròsìn. “I am familiar with the sentiment though it is uncomfortable for me to consider you doing so with my teacher. One would think I would be used to such things after so long, as almost everyone wants something from the Magos. I would think it is much the same for you, Trader Calligos.”

“Aye, my tits and arse are highly desired!”

Ròsìn laughs, “So you say. How many Traders have you found that are similar to Magos Issengrund?”

“More than you might think. Many Traders acquire their Warrant for an act of bravery and self-sacrifice. It wouldn’t do to hand out voidships to the cowardly and tyrannical, though that happens often enough. It takes far more charisma and a big stick to gain more from kindness than intimidation, yet for every self-absorbed warlord I encounter, the Imperium’s policy to hand out Warrants to the most deserving ensures Traders like Magos Issengrund remain within the majority. Older houses tend to be more unscrupulous, secure in their power and self-aggrandisement. ”

“Your evaluation is the opposite of what I expected.”

“It’s a case of information bias. Bad news always spreads faster and sticks around longer, thus it appears there are more bad Rogue Traders than good. It does not help that good and bad are rather subjective and tall tales and rumours come with agendas of their own.”

“Understandable. So what sort of merchant are you, Trader Calligos?”

Calligos smirks, “I have as many positive qualities as there are stars in the sky, but if you were to twist my arm and force me to be specific, I would say my noble calling lies in the trading of security. I’d argue I am quite the saint for it is not thrones or materials that I trade. My currency is fear, and I seek to spend it all so that none remains to haunt the good people of the Imperium.”

“Another of your exotic currencies, like influence and fame?”

“Just so. I dare say that fear is the primary currency of all Rogue Traders.”

“Sounds more like the noble calling of an underhive gang or holovid mob boss.”

“Need you dismantle my dreams with such cutting remarks, Cybersmith?” Calligos scowls, “I am quite serious.”

“Then you should give me an example, a case study to back up your claims. While I will tentatively acknowledge that fear is a currency, to claim it is your primary means of exchange is fanciful.”

Calligos places his drink on top of a glass display and tucks his hands into the pockets of his great coat.

“Take my nephium pits on Lucien's Breath, for example,” says Calligos. “The people there fear many things from Eldar corsairs, to the monsters and machines that crawl from the ruined xenos cities, to not having enough rations or shelter. I sell them whatever they need to quench their fears and in exchange for their security they offer up their labour, providing nephium and other materials.

“I take those resources to the Forge World of Mycin. They fear that without nephium they will be unable to fuel their great forges and lose face in the eyes of the Omnissiah and Machine-God, though they really mean their pride and relevance within the sector. It’s why the Chorda dynasty, who own Mycin, were forced into warring over Lucien’s Breath with me by their own Tech-Priests. I destroyed their invasion and threatened to take my business to Bixib-B or Svard, their primary rivals in the Koronus Expanse owned by the Saul and Oliviares dynasties. I used fear to sell them peace. The money? My force of Arms? That was just to bring them kicking and screaming to the negotiation table.”

“Now I can freely buy weapons, fertiliser and agricultural machinery from Mycin and sell that to Ntharis. Ntharis have trouble with raiders and the Saul and Oliviares dynasties who are competing over the independent planet are more than happy to exchange the goods I acquire on Mycin for food.

“The people of Ntharis fear that their crops will fail and that they won’t make their quotas. The two dynasties fear that the other will snatch their prize yet they can’t fight it out because that would destroy what they’re fighting for and leave them weak to raiders. The goods I bring from Mycin settle the fears of dynasty and populace alike, restoring their physical and mental security.”

Ròsìn’s eyebrows slowly climb up her forehead as Calligos rants.

Calligos continues, “I bring the food Ntharis sells me back to Lucien’s Breath, along with any remaining weaponry and machinery, providing my people with the means to defend and feed themselves, soothing their fears too. For a time at least.

“I have neither Forge nor Agri Worlds. My wealth comes from Nephium, labour from the Penal World of Maleziel, and the Cold Trade of the Egarian Dominion. Without my strength of character to push through the Warp, forge these trade links, and the might to impress good behaviour on all, none of this would be possible and everyone would be poorer for it.

“This is why I say that my currency is fear, what I sell is security, and Rogue Traders seek esoteric forms of wealth, like favours and loyalty. Mundane currency? Mere profit? That’s for chartist captains.”

Ròsìn holds her breath for a moment, lost in thought, then she sighs, “I understand the thrust of your argument. I am not adverse to the idea of bringing hope to others. You may think it fear if you wish and I can see why you would call it such. Fear is far less fragile and more consistent than hope. It seeps into our everyday lives until we are numb with it, losing the vigilance it is meant to instil. Removing it has more benefits than is worth listing in our brief discussion.

“You wanted to know what sort of Trader Magos Isengrund is and I would argue that he is the same as you, he just frames it differently. Hope, not fear. Courage, not security. It is a noble task you have taken upon yourself.”

Ròsìn removes her necklace and hands it to Calligos, “A little bit of jewellery isn’t going to keep the horrors at bay, though this one may have a surprise or two hidden within if you keep it upon your person. When all seems dark and dreary, hold this close to your heart and pray. May the Omnissiah save your soul and the Machine-God your weak flesh, Trader Calligos.”

Calligos accepts the trinket and pockets it, looking faintly bemused, “Thank you for your gift and words, Cybersmith Paorach.”

“I don’t expect you to convert, Trader Calligos,” says Ròsìn. “Now if you're done with your fishing, it is time I moved on. A young woman such as myself can’t afford to show a rogue like you any more favour and I need to complete the rounds among the Chartist Captains for Magos Issengrund. Logis Vakul apparently can’t take a hint.”

Calligos clears his throat, “I do actually have something to sell you, if you’d be willing to listen.”

“Of course you do. I dare say your skin is thicker than mine and I can survive the vacuum of space unassisted. Be brief, Trader Calligos.”