After Peter returned to the Fortress Monastery, he was still fretting over the shortage of skilled workers that the factory manager had mentioned earlier.
In fact, the entire planet was short on personnel. The ships lacked mechanics who could repair them, the factories lacked skilled workers, the schools lacked capable teachers, the Planetary Governor lacked bureaucrats with administrative experience, the cargo planes lacked enough pilots, and the barracks lacked instructors with a systematic understanding of military theory.
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The military was in the worst shape of all. Sacks was only a company commander in an infantry battalion, after all. He could just about teach the soldiers how to use their guns and march, but when it came to logistics, battlefield coordination, combat medicine, strategic planning, and the like, he knew nothing.
In short, every department needed people. The low-ranking deck slaves he had originally brought with him had all been assigned to various jobs across the planet, and they were barely a drop in the bucket.
Peter had thought of one solution. Cloning technology wasn't particularly rare. In both the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Dark Mechanicus, many of the Defender Army troops and Servitors—including Tech-Priests—were clones.
Peter had once asked whether Daedalus could produce large numbers of clones, then use the machines that had once hypnotically implanted knowledge into the "Rapid Deployment Army" to load vast amounts of information into their brains and mass-produce qualified workers.
The Tech-Priests immediately rejected the idea. They said that simple hypnotic suggestions or erasing some memories would be fine. But stuffing a vast, interconnected body of knowledge into a brain would shatter a mortal's mind and produce nothing but a mass of lunatics. The only reason it had worked back then was that the subjects were Astartes. Space Marines had minds resilient enough to endure the torment of the hypnotic machines.
If the technology worked that well, the Imperium would have used it to mass-produce soldiers long ago. There would be no need for military schools, the Schola Progenium, or organizations like them. The Tech-Priests wouldn't need to study, either. Everyone could just have knowledge hypnotically implanted into their brains.
So mortals still had to spend year after year studying in school, and the only way to master a skill was through practice and hands-on experience.
The Tech-Priests told Peter that this kind of problem was actually the easiest to solve. The planet had more than ten million people. They were protected by the Astartes and had plenty to eat and wear, while an education system was already being established. So all it would take was a mere twenty-four generations—just six hundred years—for the planet's population to grow to ten billion. Six hundred years of development would also be enough to establish any mature education system.
So all they needed was time... The problem was, it would take too long. An Astartes only had so many six-hundred-year stretches to spare.
Peter had been born on Olympia in 992.M30, according to the Standard Terra Calendar. It was now 682.M31, so did that make Peter 690 years old?
That wasn't how it worked. Ever since the Iron Cage Campaign, Peter and his Legion had entered the Eye of Terror. After that, he had been stationed on the Daemon World of Midgard and several nearby planets. Time in the Warp was chaotic; a century in realspace might amount to only a few months in the Warp. Fortunately, Peter had kept track himself, and he was certain he was 204 years old.
By Astartes standards, he was still young. But even so, he couldn't waste six hundred years waiting for mortals to reproduce!
At this point, there was only one solution: "Take what they have!"
But who should they take it from? The Imperium, of course. But there was another problem: backward worlds weren't worth much, while the defenses on overly advanced worlds were too strong. They might not be able to take them at all. Just as Peter opened the star map projection in his office and pondered how to make his first fortune—
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock!
A series of forceful knocks came from the door. Whoever was knocking sounded like they were pounding on a coffin. Peter could guess who it was. The Planetary Governor and Sappho always made appointments before seeing him. Anthony would just open the door and walk right in if he needed something, while his other brothers knocked politely.
Only one person knocked like that: a little polite, but not much.
Peter called out:
"Filon, come in."
The dark-faced Voidsmith opened the door and ambled over to the desk, Dataslate in hand.
The Voidsmith got straight to the point:
"Boss, I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"
Peter felt more like hitting him than ever. He was starting to think letting him join the War Band had been a mistake.
"I don't want to hear either. I want to see the Dataslate first."
Peter didn't need to guess; the important information was on the Dataslate. He reached out, took it, and began reading.
Next year, in 781.M31 according to the Standard Terra Calendar, the First Captain of the Sons of Horus, member of the Council of Four Kings, Warmaster of the Black Legion, owner of the Vengeful Spirit, successor to Horus, and Great Reaver Ezekyle Abaddon would launch a Black Crusade and invited you to join him. If you're a brother, come to the Black Legion and join the Black Crusade!
"We have returned! Slay the False Emperor!"
There was even a picture of Abaddon sporting a tall, upright ponytail. The Great Reaver stood with the Thousand Sons sorcerer Iskandar Khayon on his left and the Widowmaker, Fakus Kaib, on his right. They looked incredibly imposing.
"What is all this? It looks like some cheap advertisement."
Peter stared at the information on the Dataslate, his brow furrowed. Fortunately, the message wasn't hard to understand: Abaddon was going to wage a crusade against the Imperium.
Peter asked Filon:
"Abaddon's Black Legion is launching a Black Crusade! They're talking about destroying the Imperium and slaying the False Emperor. What's so good about that?"
Filon grinned broadly.
"He sent out a message by astropath, inviting almost every War Band, including us. He said everyone who came would get a share of the equipment."
At the mention of getting a share of the equipment, Peter grew interested. The Neophytes still didn't have Power Armour to wear, after all. The only two extra suits they had were left behind when two of their brothers fell...
Peter continued:
"I know what the good news is. What's the bad news?"
Filon kept grinning foolishly.
"Boss, you didn't read the date carefully."
Peter looked again. Next year, 781.M31 according to the Standard Terra Calendar. Wait... 781.M31 was next year?
Peter looked up at the Voidsmith and asked:
"What time is it now?"
Filon hurried to answer:
"22:16."
Peter wanted to hit someone even more. He asked impatiently:
"Terra Calendar."
Filon knew his boss was about to get angry, so he quickly replied:
"780.M31, boss. The Warp Storm that passed through this star system earlier blew us ninety-eight years into the future."
Peter rubbed his chin and thought it over before replying:
"That's not surprising. The Maelstrom is a place rife with Warp Storms, after all. That's one reason the Imperium can't control this region."
Filon asked his boss:
"So, are we joining this Black Crusade or not?"
Peter replied:
"Destroy the Imperium, slay the False Emperor. We're not interested in that sort of thing. We don't have any deep grudge against the Imperium. If Abaddon wants to destroy it, let him. We have no interest in destroying the Imperium."
Then Peter changed tack:
"But we are interested in using the Black Crusade as an excuse to raid the Imperium. Very interested."
Peter made up his mind:
"We'll go with Abaddon and collect the equipment first. Then we'll follow behind him, wave some flags, and shout a few slogans. Once the fighting starts and the Imperium is in chaos, we'll take advantage of the confusion and raid it."
Filon slapped his chest.
"Got it, boss! That's what I've been waiting to hear."
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