The Lower Deck

The bottom deck of the Blackrock. Three crewmen pushed a filthy meal cart through a stench-ridden corridor, dumping buckets of protein blocks straight into the feeding chutes of each zone. They didn't like the work either—food was supposed to travel through pipes, but the pipes had broken last month, and Damage Control had said they'd fix it soon. They held little hope, though. When the drainage system in B2-68 broke four years ago, they'd said the same thing, and it still wasn't repaired. This place might never be fixed either; this temporary job would become permanent in the future.

Four sailors in flak armor, combat shotguns in hand, puffed on Hark 50s laced with nicotine essence and mild anesthetics, guarding the front and rear of the group. The sailor in front noticed his Hark 50 had burned down to the filter. He thought about reaching for another in his pocket, but considering his pitiful cigarette ration, he decided to tough it out.

"Big Scar," the boss of C3-57, heard the clatter of food hitting the trough and stepped over to look. "Damn it, protein blocks again."

Zaku, a fellow gang member, grew even more worried at the sight. About a year ago, the food for the lower slaves like them had mostly been nutrient porridge of dubious ingredients, with the occasional corpse starch. Then it switched to protein blocks—only protein blocks.

Others might not understand, but Zaku, a former Mortal Auxiliary, knew that protein blocks were more valuable than corpse starch. Corpse starch was mostly a byproduct of promethium production, while the former required grinding fish, Grox Beasts, or even fat, oversized bugs into a paste. So when the higher-ups stopped supplying corpse starch and switched to protein blocks, there was only one possibility...

What truly terrified Zaku wasn't the food, though—it was the work. He had no complaints about his job; the problem was that he had no job at all. Unlike "Big Scar," that original hive scum, he understood their dangerous situation far better.

He'd once chatted with an old sailor at the bar aboard a Navy Troop Transport, picking up some knowledge about void ships. The hierarchy on a starship could be roughly divided into three layers: the upper, middle, and bottom decks.

First, the upper deck. This was where the most honored people on the ship lived. They might be Astartes, the Captain, the First Mate, the Auspex Officer, the Astropath, the Navigator, and so on. These people shared one trait: their work was vital and irreplaceable; they were pivotal to the ship. As such, their treatment was the best—clean quarters, tasty food, personal servants, private bathrooms, even kitchens.

The middle deck was where the crew and sailors gathered. The crew maintained the starship's operations in family units, while the sailors kept order and repelled boarding actions with their weapons. Whether maintaining the ship's water purification systems or hauling Macro Cannon shells, they were indispensable parts of the starship. Among them, the families tending the engines were the most honored. These people at least got dormitories, ample food, cigarette and alcohol rations, even the right to reproduce.

Yes, giving birth without authorization on a starship was illegal, because it not only added another mouth to feed but also prevented mothers from fulfilling their duties during pregnancy. But the old sailor said this law only really constrained the people on the middle deck, since neither the upper nor bottom decks cared much about it.

The bottom deck. Most people here had jobs that were non-urgent, unimportant, and unskilled for the starship, and some weren't even qualified to work. When a boarding action happened, even if countless died here, the upper deck wouldn't pay attention—after all, these people were easy to replace. It was like a small hive city, chaotic and disorderly. Those with jobs could still hope the sailors would maintain order; those without jobs could only pray, "God-Emperor protect!" What the starship provided them depended entirely on the conscience of the upper-class lords. They gave only this; how you survived was your problem.

Back then, Zaku had boasted to the old sailor telling him all this, "Then when I fight, I'll just aim for the upper half of the starship." But he got nothing but the old sailor's merciless laughter. It turned out that "upper, middle, and bottom decks" on a starship weren't physical concepts—the upper deck could be below the bottom deck; it referred more to the status of the residents.

Overall, the upper deck was usually located in the ship's most core, most fortified areas, protecting its important members and cargo. The bottom deck was mostly arranged on the periphery or in weakly defended spots; they were the first to take hits, and losing some members or cargo there didn't matter.

Of course, there was one group independent of these three: the Servitors. They weren't even recognized as people, so naturally, they had no class.

Actually, it was all pretty easy to understand. The more important and irreplaceable your work, the better your treatment. In other words, those without jobs were negative assets to the ship—burdens that only consumed without producing, and such burdens could be discarded at any time.

"Ah..."

Zaku couldn't help but sigh. Maybe next month, he'd be a protein block rolling into someone else's trough from the feeding chute. He looked at "Big Scar," amazed that the man was still pretty satisfied with his life. In his own words, he used to be just a small-time thug in the gang, but now he managed a full hundred people.

If Zaku had a gun right now, he'd press it against "Big Scar's" forehead and curse, "You damn well manage a hundred people, but we don't even have the right to leave this compartment because we don't have any damn jobs." But he had no gun, and he didn't dare start a fight with "Big Scar," because this hive scum might have shit for brains, but he was genuinely good at close-quarters brawling.

Suddenly, the green indicator light at the entrance lit up, and with the noise of mechanical gears, the door opened.

The bright light from the corridor shone in, and the hundred or so people in the compartment raised their hands to shield their eyes. The room was too dim; they couldn't adapt to the sudden glare. Inside, a hundred men and women in tattered clothes huddled in the corners, while a few stronger men occupied most of the space.

Two armed sailors stood at the door. One of them was flipping through something on a data-slate:

"Is Zaku still here? Captain Zaku?"

When no one answered, the sailor looked at his companion.

"Eaten?"

"Looks like it."

"Next, then."

The sailor was calling his name! Zaku saw the change and didn't know whether to answer. Maybe staying silent and keeping things as they were... but just as the sailor was about to close the door, he decided to seize the chance.

"I, I, I'm Zaku."

Captain Zaku hurried two steps to the door and said, "I'm Zaku."

The two sailors finally got a response. The one who'd spoken first put away the data-slate, pulled out a pair of magnetic manacles, and slapped them directly onto Zaku's wrists.

The moment the manacles clicked on, Zaku regretted it:

"Brothers, if I said I'm not Zaku, would you believe me?"

A rifle butt slammed straight into Zaku's face.

"You're asking for a beating, kid."