The Empire's Blood

Rovi chatted with Alpha the Priest for a while.

Then he heard a flurry of hurried footsteps.

Commander Buck came splashing through the muddy water, panting as he ran over.

The one-eyed officer's face was grim.

In his hand, he clutched a freshly printed inventory list.

"Advisor, things look bad!"

Buck wiped the rain from his face, speaking urgently:

"Those Red Robes just now—they took way too much. Our fuel reserves have dropped below the warning line!"

"At current stock, we only have enough to keep the Power Furnace running at full capacity for twelve hours!"

Rovi took the list.

He glanced at the glaring deficit on it.

Twelve hours.

That was the "Gift" the Adeptus Mechanicus had left him.

They'd taken the supplies that kept the Granary alive, leaving behind a rubber-stamped "legal certification."

After seeing off the Mechanicus ship, Rovi returned to his office, slumped into his chair for a quick rest, and started thinking about how to deal with the shortage.

His mind was on the verge of collapse.

But in this hopeless millennium, rest was a luxury.

The communicator crackled with Buck's excited shout:

"Advisor, the Drop Pod's landing site is confirmed. It's in Sector E-12—solid ground, didn't sink into the swamp. By the Emperor, the impact sounded heavy as hell!"

Rovi opened his bloodshot eyes and checked the time.

Captain of the Guard Lilith had kept her promise.

In normal times, the Ministry of the Interior's approval process could grind a living man down to bone.

A supply request, stamped and shuffled through departments, took longer than a campaign.

But now, supplies had been air-dropped within hours of the conversation.

This unnatural efficiency meant only one thing.

The situation had gone so bad that even the bureaucrats didn't dare delay.

Rovi rubbed his temples to force some Clarity, then stood and walked to the Mahogany Conference Table.

It was covered in oil-stained maps and Dataslates.

"Move it, Buck," Rovi urged.

Every second that passed.

Was eating into the dwindling fuel reserves.

"Don't let those damned mutant flies gnaw on the crates first. Remember, no matter what's inside—even if it's a box of toilet brushes—haul it all back."

Half an hour later.

Heavy footsteps and the clang of metal broke the corridor's silence.

Four massive green Drop Pods were lugged into the hall, huffing and puffing, by Defense Force soldiers.

On the sides of the pods, the Aquila of House Valantius was spray-painted.

One eye of the eagle was laser-etched with sharp precision, as if scrutinizing the grimy recipients.

Alpha the Priest extended a Mechanical Tentacle, eagerly and expertly cracking the bio-lock.

With a hiss of depressurizing seals, the lid slowly popped open.

No fuel.

And none of the High-Energy Battery packs Rovi craved most.

Lying in the shock-absorbing foam were ten full crates of Cadian Pattern Lasguns, their barrels gleaming with fresh bluing.

Two heavy Astorata Pattern Heavy Bolters.

The strongest infantry firepower a mortal Auxilia could wield.

And hundreds of sets of gray-black carapace armor.

Buck's one eye lit up instantly.

He stroked the cold barrel of the bolter, thrilled:

"By the Emperor! One round from this thing can blow a bloated plague Walking Dead into minced meat. The Governor really spared no expense this time."

Rovi didn't smile.

He picked up a Lasgun and checked the Power Pack's reading.

Full.

"She gave us teeth," Rovi said, his voice low. "But no food."

"What do you mean?"

Buck was still basking in the thrill of firepower, not catching on.

"It means if we don't want to starve, or get shredded by the Defense System's Auto-Turrets when the power cuts, we've got to take these guns and go grab it ourselves."

Rovi tossed the rifle back into the crate with a sharp clatter.

"The Governor's Mansion doesn't have spare Fuel for us either. This batch of weapons is a tool for us to 'stand on our own.'"

He swept his gaze across everyone in the room.

This was his ragtag crew for now:

Buck, the One-Eyed Commander of the Defense Force, in charge of killing;

Alpha, the half-human, half-ghost Tech-Priest, in charge of repairs;

And in the corner, Old John, a Refugee Leader just promoted.

Back when Rovi was handing out Green Soup, Old John had impressed him by keeping the queue orderly.

Now he handled logistics and sanitation.

Plus, in the middle of the table, Kais's brain—wired up with tubes, soaking in Nutrient Paste.

A few clerks, officers, and technical staff were also listening in.

"Meeting," Rovi said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He spoke slowly. "We need to figure out how to survive the next forty-eight hours."

No one spoke.

Everyone found their place without being told.

That silent, respectful obedience—

It was something Rovi had earned with one precise call after another, and the life-saving Green Soup.

"Alpha, bring up the Holographic Map."

With a string of Binary Commands from the Tech-Priest, a pale blue light-map unfurled above the conference table.

The full view of Fertility II.

But now, the green areas that once meant life were eaten away by massive red-black patches.

A shocking sight.

"Folks, I know many of you were born here, grew old here, staring at that gray-yellow sky your whole lives. But you've probably never truly understood the planet beneath your feet."

Rovi stood up and picked up a pointer.

He tapped it lightly against the slowly rotating holographic projection of the planet.

"Fertility II, an Agri-World in the Imperial Gothic Sector."

"A lot of you think we're sparse—barely 1.2 million people on the whole planet, less than a single Slums block in a neighboring Hive City."

Old John and some of the attendees nodded.

Though he'd never left Fertility II, never even left Granary Seven's territory, he'd heard rumors about those Hive Worlds.

Those massive Hive Cities often had tens of billions, even hundreds of billions of people.

By comparison, Fertility II felt far too empty.

"But that's the cruelty of an agricultural world. The coldest logic of the Imperium."

Rovi drilled a new understanding into them.

It was risky, but necessary.

"The Imperium doesn't need extra mouths to waste even a gram of grain. The 1.2 million people here aren't residents, not citizens, not even farmers."

"We're 'Maintainers.' Watchdogs."

The pointer swept across twelve massive glowing dots on the map.

Twelve fortress-like Granary Cities.

"Beyond these twelve settlements lie hundreds of millions of acres of highly mechanized farmland."

"Old John, you think those figures in the mist at the edge of the fields, toiling day and night without rest, are living people like you?"

Old John froze, a flicker of confusion in his cloudy eyes.

He had seen those silhouettes from afar—hunched backs, movements stiff and mechanical.

But he had always assumed it was some unlucky soul from another granary.

"No. They are not human." Rovi coldly revealed the truth.

"They are tens of millions of Thrall Servitors—their frontal lobes removed, command chips implanted."

Thrall Servitors are semi-mechanical slaves modified by the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Semi-mechanical beings stripped of consciousness.

The only "robots" the Imperium permits.

"They feel no pain, need no rest. As long as you inject Nutrient Paste, they can swing a scythe until their parts give out. They are the true labor force of this planet. As for you..."

Rovi's gaze swept over everyone present, his tone merciless:

"You are merely the consumables tasked with oiling these flesh machines, tightening their screws, and replacing them when they break down."

Old John's jaw dropped. A chill shot from the soles of his feet straight to the crown of his head.

He had always believed himself a diligent tiller of this soil.

Only now did he understand: in the vast machinery of the Imperium, he wasn't even a screw—at best, a smear of lubricant.

"Yet even one million two hundred thousand people are considered too 'crowded' in the Imperium's agricultural blueprint."

Rovi pulled up a set of broader data.

The holographic projection shifted.

Countless points of light lit up across the star map, dense as the dust of the galaxy.

"Within the territory of Holy Terra, agricultural worlds like Fertility II number over two hundred thousand."

"And that's a conservative estimate—the borders are expanding, the numbers growing. Most of these worlds have far smaller populations than ours."

"Some highly mechanized planets have only a few hundred thousand Tech-Priests and Overseers managing half a continent of Servitors."

"The reason we still have over a million people is that our equipment is outdated, requiring more hands to fill the gaps in technology."

Rovi paused, his gaze growing distant.

"We are like the insignificant red blood cells in the Imperium's veins. Tiny, yet responsible for delivering oxygen."

"If we stop, or if this vein is severed, those Hive Worlds with billions of people—producing nothing but garbage and soldiers—would become hells of cannibalism within three months."

He turned, looking at the pale-faced crowd.

"That is why the Governor would rather give us guns than send a fleet to take us away."

"Because in the calculators of the Ministry of the Interior, the value of one million two hundred thousand lives is far less than this planet's grain output for three quarters."

"We must die at our posts. We must grow the grain."

"There is no third path."