Armed Beggars

"Also." Lilith changed the subject. "The Governor is very interested in your 'new fermentation technology.'"

"Granary Seven's production data has shown an abnormal surge over the past few hours. That defies common sense."

Rovi's heart tightened.

But not a single muscle in his face so much as twitched.

"It's geothermal energy, ma'am."

Rovi had prepared his explanation long ago.

His tone was sincere and assured, filled with the dry tedium of a technical bureaucrat.

"While clearing out the basement, we accidentally discovered an ancient, abandoned geothermal pipeline."

"With Alpha Priest's assistance, we successfully restarted it."

"We used geothermal steam to heat the Fermentation Tanks. This is entirely in accordance with Adeptus Mechanicus doctrine: 'archaeological technology reclamation.'"

"Geothermal energy?" Lilith raised an eyebrow. "At this depth?"

"Fertility II's geological structure is highly complex," Rovi immediately added. "It is an ancient Standard Template Construct remnant facility. I cannot explain all its principles either. I can only praise the Omnissiah's gift."

In this universe.

As long as every inexplicable technical problem was blamed on an "ancient Standard Template Construct" or a "Machine Spirit," one could usually muddle through.

Because most people.

Even nobles and warriors, remained utterly ignorant when it came to technology.

"Whatever it is," Lilith said slowly, "as long as it produces food rather than heresy, the Governor will not investigate further. But I must remind you, Advisor."

She leaned closer to the camera, her voice low.

"A Tech-Reclaim Squad from the Martian cult is on its way."

"If they discover that you mixed something you should not have into that 'geothermal energy'... even the Governor will not be able to protect you."

Rovi's fingers tightened slightly beneath the table.

"I understand," he replied calmly. "There is only loyal food and pure steam here."

"Very good."

Lilith straightened up, returning to her businesslike indifference.

"In light of the intelligence you provided and the current production output, the Governor has decided to grant Granary Seven a special resupply."

"A shipment of medical supplies and High-Energy Batteries will be airdropped into your Sector E4 in three hours."

"But, Advisor."

"The other granaries have already lost contact. Transport craft cannot land safely, so they can only conduct a high-altitude drop."

"That means you will not be the only one to see that Drop Pod. Everything nearby will see it too."

"It's bait," Rovi understood at once.

"It is a supply drop, and also a trial," Lilith corrected. "If you can claim it, it is yours. If you cannot... then that means you do not need it."

The communication cut off.

The holographic projection vanished, and the room sank back into darkness.

Rovi leaned against his chair and exhaled a breath of stale air.

Geothermal energy was a clumsy lie.

If anyone from the Adeptus Mechanicus came down with professional Augur Arrays and performed even a single scan.

The distinctive radiation readings would have Rovi tied to a stake immediately.

There was not much time left.

Before the Tech-Reclaim Squad arrived.

He either had to completely "clean up" that device.

Or make himself so indispensable that even the Adeptus Mechanicus would not dare move against him lightly.

And right now, the first thing he had to face was the incoming Drop Pod.

Supplies could save his life, but they could also cost him his life.

Rovi rose to his feet and walked to the window.

The rain outside was growing heavier.

Acid rain streaked across the glass, leaving filthy trails like tear marks.

In the distant, dark ruins, faint green ghost lights could be seen flickering.

They were gathering.

They were hungry too.

"Buck."

Rovi pressed the communicator, his voice returning to calm, cold composure.

"Tell the workers to eat faster. Once they're done, put down the spoons and pick up the guns."

"We're going to take some things back."

"For Green Soup."

"To stay alive."

Rain battered the abandoned metal sheets surrounding Granary Seven.

It rang out in an irritating, arrhythmic clatter.

This rain carried a sour, rotten stench.

It was mixed with industrial fumes discharged from the upper Hive City, along with an even more vicious dampness.

Rainwater ran down Rovi's black raincoat.

It gathered in the mud at his feet into murky streams, reflecting the sickly purplish-red clouds overhead.

Rovi raised his wrist and glanced at his mechanical watch.

There were still forty-five minutes until Lilith's promised airdrop.

Instead of waiting in a warm office, he had come to the very front of the defensive line.

To the edge of trenches that had once been scorched into wasteland by fire and were now soaked into swamps by the rain.

Behind him stood the Seventh Reclamation Group, fully armed and ready.

Rather than an army, they looked more like a group of armed beggars.

They wore all kinds of cobbled-together protective gear:

Some had sheets of iron strapped to their chests, while others wore miners' helmets. The weapons in their hands were just as varied.

Everything from rusty lasguns to sharpened steel pipes could be found among them.

Yet their state of mind gave Rovi a subtle sense of unease.

Despite the freezing, bone-piercing rain.

Despite everyone knowing what it meant to go out and seize supplies.

There was surprisingly little fear among this force of several thousand.

Instead, many wore almost dreamlike smiles.

It was because of the "specially supplied Green Soup."

Even though Rovi had ordered the soup mixed with thirty percent sawdust and coarse bran, the soul-stirring "sense of abundance" was still taking effect.

The rough sawdust scratched their throats, bringing pain.

Yet the pain became a kind of seasoning instead.

It made them cherish the warmth spreading through their stomachs even more.

"Advisor."

Buck walked over.

He gripped his Boltgun tightly. "The troops are assembled. Do you want to say a few words?"

Rovi turned and studied the One-Eyed Commander.

Buck had drunk the soup too.

The man was doing his best to maintain a soldier's grim bearing.

But his artificial eye rotated more slowly than usual, and the corners of his mouth had unconsciously curled upward.

As if he had not just been preparing for battle.

But attending a harvest celebration.

The alarm bells in Rovi's mind rang even louder.

This "sense of happiness" was a fatal anesthetic.

On the battlefield, fear could send adrenaline surging and keep people alert to danger.

Happiness, on the other hand, would only slow their reactions when facing bullets.

"No speech needed."

Rovi spoke coldly, his voice piercing through the curtain of rain.

"Tell them that if they don't bring back batteries and medicine, there won't even be sawdust in tomorrow's soup. Because there won't be any soup at all. We'll starve to death in a warehouse full of food."

Survival was the most straightforward call to arms.

Buck froze for a moment, then some of the haze vanished from his eyes.

"Understood!" He turned and roared, "Did you all hear that? If you don't want to starve to death, get your heads in the game! Check your safeties! Check your masks!"