Rovi chatted with Priest Alpha for a while.
Then they heard a flurry of hurried footsteps.
Commander Buck came running over through the mud and water, panting for breath.
The One-Eyed Commander's face looked grim.
He clutched a freshly printed inventory list.
"Advisor, we've got a problem!"
Buck wiped the rain from his face and said anxiously:
"Those red robes just took way too much. Our fuel reserves have already fallen below the warning line!"
"At our current stockpile, we can keep the Power Furnace running at full capacity for only twelve hours!"
Rovi took the list.
He glanced at the alarming deficit.
Twelve hours.
That was the "gift" the Adeptus Mechanicus had left him.
They had taken the supplies the Granary needed to survive, and left behind a "legal certification" worth about as much as a bounced check.
After seeing off the Adeptus Mechanicus ship, Rovi returned to his office, slumped into a chair, and hurriedly rested for a while before thinking about how to deal with the shortage of supplies.
He was nearly at the end of his rope.
Yet in this desperate millennium, rest was a luxury.
Buck's voice rang through the communicator, brimming with excitement:
"Advisor, we've confirmed the Drop Pod's landing site. It's in Sector E-12, on solid ground—it didn't sink into the swamp. The Emperor above, it sounded heavy as hell!"
Rovi opened his bloodshot eyes and checked the time.
Captain of the Guard Lilith had kept her promise.
Under normal circumstances, the Ministry of the Interior's approval process could drag a living person into their grave.
The time it took for a supply requisition to circulate through the departments for approval took longer than a campaign.
But now, within hours of their conversation, the supplies had already been dropped onto the ground.
Such an unreasonable level of efficiency could only mean one thing.
Things had gotten so bad that even the bureaucrats didn't dare delay.
Rovi rubbed his temples to clear his head, then got up and walked over to the Mahogany Conference Table.
It was covered with grease-stained maps and dataslates.
"Move quickly, Buck," Rovi urged.
Every second that passed.
Was eating into their meager remaining fuel reserves.
"Don't let those damn mutant flies chew through the crates first. Remember, whatever's inside, even if it's a box of toilet brushes, bring it back."
Half an hour later.
Heavy footsteps and the clanging of metal broke the silence in the hallway.
Four enormous, dark green Drop Pods were hauled into the hall by Defense Force soldiers, who strained and grunted with every step.
The Aquila of House Valantius was painted on the side of each pod.
One of the eagle's eyes had been sharply etched with a laser, as if it were scrutinizing the grimy recipients.
Priest Alpha extended a Mechanical Tentacle and deftly cracked the biometric lock, clearly eager to get inside.
With a hiss as the pressure escaped the airlock, the lids slowly sprang open.
No fuel.
And none of the High-Energy Batteries Rovi had wanted most.
Nestled in the shock-absorbing foam were ten full crates of Cadian Pattern Lasguns, their bodies gleaming with a fresh, blue-black finish.
Two heavy Astorata Pattern Heavy Bolters.
The most powerful infantry weapons the Auxilia could use.
And several hundred sets of gray-black blast-resistant armor.
Buck's single eye lit up at once.
He ran a hand over the Boltgun's cold barrel and said excitedly:
"Emperor above! One shot from this thing can blow a bloated Plague Zombie into mincemeat. The Governor really went all out this time."
Rovi didn't smile.
He picked up a Lasgun and checked the Power Pack's charge.
Full.
"She gave us teeth," Rovi said gravely. "But she didn't feed us."
"What do you mean?"
Buck was so caught up in the joy of all that firepower that he didn't get it.
"I mean that if we don't want to starve, or get riddled with holes by the Defense System's Auto-Turrets when the power goes out, we'll have to take these guns and go grab supplies ourselves."
Rovi tossed the Lasgun back into the crate. It clanged loudly as it landed.
"The Governor's Mansion doesn't have any spare fuel for us, either. This batch of weapons is supposed to help us 'fend for ourselves.'"
He looked around, his gaze passing over everyone present.
This was the makeshift team he had for now:
Buck, the Defense Force's One-Eyed Commander, was in charge of killing.
Alpha, the half-man, half-ghost Tech-Priest, was in charge of fixing things.
And in the corner sat Old John, a Refugee Leader who had just been promoted.
Rovi had noticed him while distributing Green Soup. He had kept the lines orderly and well organized.
Now he was in charge of logistics and sanitation.
Then there was Kais's brain, set amid a tangle of tubes in the middle of the table, suspended in Nutrient Paste.
A few clerks, officers, and technical specialists were also sitting in.
"Let's begin." Rovi pulled out a chair and sat down, then spoke slowly. "We need to discuss how we're going to survive the next forty-eight hours."
No one spoke.
Everyone found their place without being told.
That quiet, respectful obedience.
Rovi had earned it through one sound decision after another, and with Green Soup that had saved their lives.
"Alpha, bring up the Holographic Map."
At a series of Binary Commands from the Priest.
A pale blue hologram unfolded above the conference table.
The whole planet of Fertility II.
But now.
Large patches of red and black had eaten away at the green regions that once represented life.
The sight was horrifying.
"Everyone, I know many of you were born here, grew old here, and spent your whole lives staring at this gray-yellow sky. But you may never have truly understood the planet beneath your feet."
Rovi stood up and picked up a pointer.
He lightly tapped the holographic planet, slowly rotating in the air.
"Fertility II, an Agri-World in the Imperium's Gothic Sector."
"Many people think our population is small. The entire planet has only 1.2 million people, not even as many as a single Slums block on the Hive World next door."
Old John and several others nodded.
He had never left Fertility II, or even the bounds of Granary Seven.
But he had heard a little about the Hive Worlds beyond.
Those vast Hive Worlds had populations of billions, even hundreds of billions.
By comparison, Fertility II seemed practically empty.
"But that's the cruelty of an Agri-World. It's also the coldest logic of the Imperium."
Rovi gave them a new understanding of the world.
It was risky to do so, but necessary.
"The Imperium doesn't need extra mouths consuming even a single gram of grain. The 1.2 million people here aren't residents, citizens, or even farmers."
"We're 'Maintainers.' We're Watchdogs."
The pointer swept across twelve huge points of light on the map.
Twelve Granary Cities, each like a fortress.
"Outside these twelve settlements lie hundreds of millions of acres of highly mechanized farmland."
"Old John, do you think the figures you see working tirelessly in the mist at the edge of the fields are living people like you?"
Old John froze, bewilderment flickering in his cloudy eyes.
He had seen those figures from a distance, bent over, their movements stiff and uniform.
But he had always thought they were unfortunate souls from some other Granary.
"No. They're not people." Rovi coldly revealed the truth.
"They're millions upon millions of Thrall Servitors, their frontal lobes removed and command chips implanted."
Thrall Servitors were half-mechanical slaves, remade by the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Half-machine people stripped of their consciousness.
The only kind of "robot" the Imperium allowed.
"They feel no pain and need no rest. Just inject them with Nutrient Paste, and they'll swing their scythes until their parts wear out. They're the real labor force of this planet. And you..."
Rovi's gaze swept over everyone present, his tone merciless:
"You're just consumables, used to oil these machines of flesh and blood, tighten their screws, and serve as replacements when they break down."
Old John gaped, a chill rising from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head.
He had always thought he was a hardworking farmer of this land.
Only now did he understand: in this vast machine of an Imperium, he wasn't even a screw. At best, he was a smear of lubricant.
"Yet even 1.2 million people make us seem far too 'crowded' on the Imperium's agricultural map."
Rovi brought up a set of even broader statistics.
The hologram changed.
Countless points of light appeared across the star map, densely packed like dust in a galaxy.
"Within the dominion of Holy Terra, there are more than 200,000 Agri-Worlds like Fertility II."
"That's a conservative estimate. The Imperium's borders are expanding, and the numbers are growing. Most of those worlds have far smaller populations than ours."
"Some highly mechanized worlds have only a few hundred thousand Tech-Priests and Overseers managing Servitors across half a continent."
"We still have more than a million people because the equipment here is old, and we need more hands to make up for the technology that's missing."
Rovi paused, his gaze turning profound.
"We're like insignificant red blood cells in the Imperium's veins. Small, but responsible for carrying oxygen."
"If we stop, or this vein is severed, the Hive Worlds with populations in the tens of billions—worlds that produce nothing but garbage and soldiers—will become hells where people eat one another in less than three months."
He turned to face the pale crowd.
"That's why the Governor would rather give us guns than send a fleet to evacuate us."
"Because on the Ministry of the Interior's abacus, the value of 1.2 million lives is far less than three quarters' worth of grain from this planet."
"We have to die at our posts. We have to grow the grain."
"There's no third option."
Before you continue