False Prosperity

Granary Seven, unloading area.

With the hiss of hydraulic valves opening, five trucks slowly reversed into the energy refueling station.

The logistics personnel who had been waiting there rushed forward like sharks that had scented blood.

Thick fuel hoses were connected to the trucks' tanks.

A few minutes later.

A deep roar came from the central underground Power Furnace.

It was the sound of the granary's heart beating powerfully again.

The sodium lamps, which had been dimly flickering to conserve energy, suddenly blazed with harsh brightness.

The ventilation system ran at full capacity, drawing the stagnant mildew stench out of the corridors.

It sent in "fresh" air that had been filtered and carried the scent of ozone.

More importantly, the heating system had been restored.

Long-absent waves of warmth spread through the entire granary along the pipes.

To the refugees shivering in cold, damp corners, it was a miracle.

Rovi took off his trench coat, which was covered in mud splatters and oil stains.

Old John, accompanied by several helpers, laboriously carried over the precious crates of canned meat.

All eyes focused on the green metal boxes.

Real canned meat.

Not Corpse Starch.

Nor minced rat meat.

It came from the upper levels of the Hive City.

Real meat from ranches on other planets.

"Advisor, how... should we distribute this?" Old John asked, swallowing hard.

The Defense Force soldiers nearby, even veterans like Buck, unconsciously bobbed their Adam's apples.

Rovi looked around.

He saw greed, longing, and fear.

"New recruits who took part in the operation get two cans." Rovi's voice carried across the square through the loudspeakers. "Defense Force soldiers get one can. Technicians and foremen in critical positions get one can."

A restrained cheer broke out among the crowd.

"The rest will go into the combat reserve as rewards for the next operation."

No one objected.

In this damned world, being able to eat meat through one's own merits was the greatest fairness there was.

"Advisor..." Old John hesitated, pointing at the women crying in the corner. "They're the families of the recruits who died..."

That was the price of this operation.

Three young men had been torn apart by Genestealers before they had even learned how to switch off the safeties on their laser guns.

Rovi gave no emotional speech, nor any hypocritical eulogy.

He merely took three cans of meat and calmly placed them in Old John's hands.

"Give these to their families. Tell them their husbands bought them with their lives."

Then he pointed at the mutilated bodies in the body bags, his tone cold. "As for these, send them to the Fermentation Tank."

Several family members covered their mouths.

They seemed about to cry out, but the stern gazes of those around them stopped them.

"Don't look at me like that." Rovi adjusted his cuffs. "You know that if we want to survive, we can't waste even a single joule of heat."

"They were soldiers while alive. After death, they'll become Fertilizer, tomorrow's food, Fuel for the Power Furnace, and continue protecting this place."

"That is the greatest respect for the dead."

After saying that, Rovi turned and walked toward the elevator.

Behind him, Buck roared:

"Did you all hear that? Salute the Advisor! Salute the dead! And then... eat!"

Cheers rang out again.

More fervent than before, and more frenzied.

The next day, Rovi woke from the heat.

On Fertility II, that was a somewhat unfamiliar experience.

Ever since he had transmigrated into this Scribe's body, the underlying tone of his memories had always been cold and damp.

Accompanied by an inescapable mildew stench and muscle aches brought on by years of overwork.

But now, he was genuinely warm enough to sweat.

Rovi sat up from his camp bed, and the heavy Defense Force greatcoat draped over him slipped down.

Instinctively, he looked toward the ventilation vent in the corner.

It no longer emitted its usual intermittent shrieking.

Filtered warm air poured out in a steady, uninterrupted stream.

A low humming vibration traveled up through the floor.

After receiving an ample supply of high-energy Promethium Fuel, the central Power Furnace underground was now operating at full capacity.

To Rovi, its roaring operation sounded more pleasant than any hymn.

He walked over to the washbasin and turned the brass faucet.

There was no nauseating rust taste or sulfurous stench.

The water flowing out was far clearer than before, and much warmer as well.

The ample power supply had allowed the reverse-osmosis membranes of the deep-water purification system to undergo a thorough automatic cleaning.

Rovi scooped up a handful of water and splashed it over his face.

The warmth against his skin eased his taut nerves slightly.

These were the dividends of going to Granary Four to "rob"—or rather, "scavenge."

Rovi dried his face and returned to his desk.

The holographic screen on the table flickered with a pale green glow.

It displayed the morning report compiled by the Kais Server.

Data did not lie.

"Internal environmental temperature of Granary Seven: 22°C (an increase of 8°C from yesterday)."

"Air humidity: 45% (down 30%; dehumidifier units operating at full capacity)."

"Mold Spore Concentration: low risk."

Rovi switched screens and pulled up the surveillance feed for the residential area.

In the corridors, the corners of the walls that had once been covered in moss from the dampness had now dried out.

In some places, dried flakes had begun peeling away.

The Laborers who had once wrapped themselves in ragged cotton stuffing and shivered uncontrollably—

Quite a few of them had now taken off their bulky outerwear, wearing only thin work uniforms as they moved supplies.

The camera shifted, cutting to the main cafeteria.

A long line had formed there, perfectly orderly.

The group of recruits who had completed the mission had recovered physically overnight and received psychological counseling from the veterans. They were all in good spirits as they began enjoying their reward, prying open dark-green cans of meat with their bayonets.

A crowd of envious onlookers surrounded them.

When the rich scent of fat from actual meat drifted through the air—

Rovi could hear the waves of people swallowing through the screen.

That was the most direct form of motivation.

In this damned place, talking to them about the Emperor's glory was less effective than giving them a can with visible shreds of meat inside.

Talking to them about a blueprint for the future was less effective than turning up the heating.

Then Rovi opened the long list of applications.

"Armed Scavenger Squad Second Recruitment Form."

The list was three times longer than the first round's.

Some slippery bastards who had previously hidden in corners pretending to be sick were now thumping their chests loud enough to shake the heavens, swearing that they would shed every last drop of blood for the Esteemed Advisor.

But it only looked promising.

Rovi was very clear-headed.

This false prosperity had been bought with five truckloads of fuel and human lives.

Once the fuel was burned up, the cold and darkness would return—and with even greater force than before.

He had to keep this "positive feedback loop" going.

"Kais, how did the compensation payments go last night?" Rovi asked casually.

"Distributed in full by Old John according to your instructions. Nothing was withheld, nothing was skimmed," the Kais Server replied. "However, according to the emotional monitoring algorithm, there are abnormalities in three sets of data."

"Abnormalities?" Rovi frowned slightly. "Someone causing trouble?"

"It was the grief index being too high."

A recording from last night popped up on the screen.

The location was outside the E-14 communal apartment in the Front District Living Area.

Old John was handing compensation payments to three young women.

The widows of the three recruits who had died in battle yesterday.

They were all very young, seeming no older than eighteen or nineteen.

On this planet, where the average lifespan was forty, they were at the prime age for marriage and childbearing.

In the footage, the hands with which they accepted the compensation were trembling violently.

After Old John turned and left, that trembling turned into a complete breakdown of anguished sobbing.

Their cries were far too piercing.

So much so that it did not sound as though they had merely lost their husbands.

It sounded more like the desperate wails of trapped beasts driven into a corner.

Rovi replayed the footage again and again.

Something was wrong.

On Fertility II, marriage was not, as Rovi had understood it in his previous life, a union based on affection.

Laborer marriages here were more like "production mutual-aid agreements."

Community elders and foremen assigned eligible men and women, forcibly pairing them together.

The purpose was to combine their ration quotas and produce new laborers.

For these women at the bottom of society, their husbands' deaths did mean the loss of a strong laborer's ration quota.

But it also meant they were single again and could use the compensation payment to apply to the community for reassignment.

They were certainly grieving.

After all, they had lived together and shared some affection, though not much.

But there was no way they should have been devastated to this extent.

Rovi keenly caught something at the edge of the footage.

In a dark corner of the corridor, several pairs of eyes were watching the three women.

They were not sympathetic gazes.

They were greedy, like vultures staring at carrion.

"Old John." Rovi pressed his communicator. "Come to my office. Forget it, go straight to the Front District. I'll wait for you outside the E-14 apartment building."

Rovi threw on his overcoat and picked up his Bolt Pistol.

He checked the safety, then stepped out of the warm office.

Front District Living Area.

The conditions here were better than in the Refugee Camp, but it was still suffocatingly oppressive.

The heating pipes worked, but years of disrepair had left some joints leaking hissing streams of hot air.

Like a honeycomb, the narrow corridors had been divided into countless tiny cubicles of only a few square meters.

Rovi had not brought his guards. He only had Old John follow behind him.

He wore an ordinary Defense Force overcoat with no rank insignia, his cap pulled low.

"Lord Advisor, it's here." Old John pointed ahead at a half-open iron door.

Before they even got close, they could hear arguing inside.

"Why are you crying? Your man died, not your whole family!" a shrill female voice cursed.

"Hurry up and bring out the canned meat. Those are the rules! You're taking up such a big room—if you don't pay some 'shared expenses,' do you believe we'll drive you into the sewers tomorrow?"

"This... this is the compensation..." a timid voice protested through sobs. "Lord Advisor gave it to us..."

"Lord Advisor may rule heaven and earth, but can he meddle in every shit and fart in our district?" another rough male voice roared.

"Cut the crap. Under the Community Covenant, without men, you're 'ineffective laborers.'"

"Either get out, or... heh heh, leave the door cracked open tonight and let us boys come in to warm ourselves. Then we'll call the matter settled."