Star Child

He stood up and looked down at her.

"You've been through life and death, and seen the monsters' true faces with your own eyes. The split faces, the purple chitin."

"Tell me, before the monsters' faces split open, did their eyes seem familiar to you?"

The older widow froze for a moment, then answered with a shudder:

"Y-yes, their eyes. That fanatical look, like they were ready to sacrifice everything... When my husband and I used to live in the Lower Sector, we saw that look before. It belonged to the people from the Star Child Mutual Aid Society."

"Star Child Mutual Aid Society?" Rovi seized on the name.

"Yes, sir. They're an underground organization. They often hand out free potions in the abandoned pipe districts."

"They say that if you drink their potion, you can hear the C'tan's call, and you can... stop feeling hungry."

Rovi pulled a notebook from his pocket.

He uncapped his fountain pen.

Then he carefully wrote down the name.

That was it.

The chain of logic was complete.

Genestealer Cults never appeared out of nowhere.

They always took root in the lowest levels of society under the guise of charity, religion, or mutual aid societies.

They exploited people's despair and hunger to spread their profane genes.

"Good. This is what I need you to do."

Rovi closed the notebook and spoke again:

"Put on your uniforms and go to the laundry, the canteen, and the medical station. That's where rumors gather."

"I want you to use your status as 'heroes' widows' to listen and take notes."

"Who's secretly spreading strange doctrines? Who has strange purple patches on their body? Who prays to the sewers in the middle of the night?"

"Write down their names, then bring them to me."

"That's your job. You don't need to carry a gun or risk your lives. Just use your ears and mouths."

The three widows looked at the uniforms and keys on the table.

They represented dignity, survival, and the hope of living like human beings.

They slid off the beds and fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads hard against the cold concrete floor.

"We're willing, sir. We're willing to be your eyes."

Rovi nodded.

He felt no thrill of power, only a little weary.

In this rotten world, what passed for salvation was simply replacing crude exploitation with a more sophisticated kind of use.

"Old John, take them to their new quarters. Oh, and find them a literate teacher to show them how to write reports."

"Yes, Advisor."

Back in the Supervisor's office at the top of the Spire, Rovi didn't rest right away.

In his notebook, he drew a red circle around the words "Star Child Mutual Aid Society."

It was like discovering a suspiciously large expense while auditing the books.

You couldn't immediately launch a high-profile investigation.

That would put them on their guard.

It would also make the people falsifying the accounts desperate enough to take drastic measures.

Even the Governor couldn't simply purge a "mutual aid society" with a large number of followers among the lower classes without solid evidence.

Doing so would provoke a riot.

The lessons of history were still fresh.

Rovi's mind conjured up the "Classified Report on Domestic Unrest No. 982" in the Executive Council's archives.

Twenty years ago, during the reign of the former Governor.

That was Alicia's father.

It had happened under Lord Valantius, the elder.

The Governor, renowned for his iron fist, discovered that an organization in the Underhive called the Iron Spoon Brotherhood was suspected of hoarding weapons.

Without first cutting off its support network or preparing public opinion,

he sent three regiments of Arbitrators from the Department of Justice to physically cleanse the Underhive.

And what happened?

The seemingly loose-knit Brotherhood actually controlled eighty percent of the Underhive's wastewater recycling system, as well as maintenance of the Heat Exchange Pipes.

Three hours after the purge order was given, the Underhive erupted in revolt.

They didn't charge in and throw their lives away.

They simply shut off the Heat Exchange Valves leading to the upper Spires.

At the same time, they dumped untreated Industrial Wastewater into the water supply.

It was a disastrous winter.

The noble residents of the Spires shivered in their mansions at forty degrees below zero, drinking filthy water that reeked of sulfur.

The entire Hive City's ecological circulation system teetered on the brink of collapse.

Production plummeted by sixty percent.

Old Valantius nearly faced charges from the Gothic Sector's Department of Munitions for failing to pay the Imperial Tithe on time. A senior Audit Task Force had been sent to hold him accountable on the spot.

At the time, a Strike Cruiser belonging to the Gothic Sector fleet had already taken up position in the Hive City's crowded low orbit.

Its Macro Cannons were aimed directly at the Governor's Spire.

If Old Valantius hadn't chosen, at the last moment, to compromise with the Underhive,

ordering several Arbitrators who had carried out his command to be hanged as scapegoats and promising to repay the shortfall at double the rate over the next ten years,

the Department of Munitions' Chief Auditor would undoubtedly have signed off without hesitation, bringing the Valantius family's rule to an end beneath the roar of Macro Cannons.

That was the Hive City's ecosystem.

These so-called "mutual aid societies" had, to some extent, replaced the social security functions the Imperium had failed to provide.

They were the only campfire around which the people of the lower classes could huddle for warmth in their despair.

Rovi couldn't help remembering the visit from Father Simon, the Ecclesiarchy representative who'd been drenched in incense, a couple of days earlier.

The priest had sat on the Leather Sofa and told him a story about "sewers and rats."

He'd been warning Rovi not to underestimate the influence of the gangs in the lower levels.

So Rovi had to be patient.

He needed more corroborating evidence.

Rovi closed his notebook.

Then he locked it in a drawer secured with a gene-recognition lock.

"Advisor."

Buck stood in front of the desk, hesitating.

"If you have something to say, say it, Buck. Stop hemming and hawing like a woman." Rovi poured himself a glass of cold water.

"Are we... being too cruel?" Buck pointed downstairs. "Using them as bait, and now sending them out as informants. They just lost their husbands. I'm worried the men under me will have a problem with it."

Rovi set down his glass and looked at the veteran. Despite his broad, fleshy face, he had unexpectedly managed to hold on to a few principles.

"Cruel?"

Rovi walked to the window and pointed out into the pitch-black night.

"Buck, look at that darkness. If we didn't do this, what would happen to them?"

"They'd take their meager compensation, have it stolen by their neighbors, get gang-raped, and end up as corpses floating in the sewers—food for the Walking Dead."

"I gave them dignity and the means to survive. Even if that means selling information, they earn it through their own abilities."

"In this world, the greatest kindness you can show someone isn't charity. It's giving them 'value as someone who can be used.'"

"Only when you're useful are you safe."

Buck fell silent for a while.

He nodded and gave a standard military salute.

"I understand, Advisor. This is about survival... I'll arrange tomorrow's patrols."

"Once you've finished, bring your men and come with me somewhere."

Rovi picked up the Brass Pocket Watch and glanced at it.

The hour hand pointed to a quarter past two in the morning.

But he wasn't sleepy at all.

There was one more thing he had to take care of.

On the edge of Granary Seven, in Slums District C.

This was the festering wound of this steel fortress.

Countless discarded cargo containers, rusted sheets of metal, and plastic sheeting scavenged from who knew where had been piled up in layer upon layer.

Mold, Machine Oil, and old excrement.

They combined to form the Slums' distinctive stench.

Rovi led a squad of fully armed guards to a container marked C-17.

The guards weren't wearing standard bulletproof vests.

They were wrapped in heavy, bulky, white Chemical Protective Suits.

Their Boltgun had been replaced with portable Flamethrowers, and Geiger Counters that crackled and buzzed.

"Is this the place?"

Rovi's voice came through his Gas Mask, muffled.

"Yes, Advisor." Buck held a tactical terminal and checked the coordinates. "According to the intelligence, the Fourth Generation Hybrid... that man's home is here."

Rovi nodded, signaling them to move.

Yellow biohazard tape was quickly stretched around the area, keeping the curious rats peering out from the surroundings at a distance.

Then Rovi pushed open the slightly warped metal door.

Unexpectedly, the inside of the container was nothing like the revolting filth outside.

Though the furniture had been cobbled together from industrial scrap, the floor had been wiped spotless.

A few clean rags hung on the wall as decorations.

In one corner by the entrance stood a flowerpot welded from discarded gears and wire.

A faded plastic flower had been stuck into it.

Rovi's gaze lingered on the plastic flower for a moment.

This was what the Fourth Generation Hybrid had tried to preserve as "home" in this desperate world: a monster with the instincts to kill and devour etched into its genes, doing its best to imitate humanity in its clumsy way.

"Seal off the area. Carry out a full decontamination under the Level 2 Biohazard Standard."

Rovi gave the order, his voice cold.

The guards immediately spread out.

The Geiger Counters' beeping rose and fell, breaking the room's former silence.

The curtain to the inner room was pulled aside.

A frail woman sat on the edge of a bed.

In the dim light, she was mending an oversized men's work jacket.

When she saw the group of soldiers in protective suits storm in,

the woman dropped her needle and thread in terror and shrank back.

Rovi narrowed his eyes.

The Scribe's keen professional observational skills let him spot a crucial detail almost instantly:

As the woman recoiled in panic, her hands instinctively shielded her abdomen.

It was faintly rounded.

Rovi's expression darkened.

This was an unexpected variable.

A potentially high-risk "bad account."

"Who... who are you? Where's my husband? He said he'd have to work overtime..." Mary's voice trembled, breaking into a sob.

Rovi raised a hand.

He signaled the guards with Flamethrowers to withdraw outside and stand watch, leaving only Buck by his side.

Then he slowly removed his Gas Mask.

Showing his face was risky, but it was also the most effective way to dispel suspicion and establish trust quickly.

"I'm Rovi."

His voice was solemn, yet compassionate.

"I'm the Agricultural Special Advisor and acting Supervisor of Granary Seven."

"Mrs. Mary, I'm very sorry to inform you that your husband died in a factory accident tonight."

Mary's eyes widened instantly.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

It was as if her soul had been ripped from her in an instant.

"No... No, that's impossible..."

Several seconds passed before she managed to utter a broken murmur.

"He promised me... He promised he'd bring me real biscuits tonight... Not Corpse Starch... Real biscuits..."

Rovi took a transparent evidence bag from his coat pocket.

Inside was the bloodstained diary.

For this moment, he had made sure the diary was thoroughly disinfected, then sprayed it with a little cheap synthetic perfume.

Enough to cover the lingering smell of blood.

And the foul stench of Xenos pheromones.

"These are his belongings."

Rovi handed her the evidence bag.

He wove the perfect lie he had prepared in advance.

"He was retrieving a batch of fuel vital to the Granary when a pipe burst. The high-temperature chemical vapor that leaked out... melted the area where he was standing in an instant."

"His body was beyond recognition. To prevent the chemical contamination from spreading, we disposed of it according to regulations."

A death in the line of duty.

No body, only belongings.

It was a dignified story for the living, and the dead man's last shroud.

Mary reached out with trembling hands and took the bag.

Her touch was gentle, as if she were holding the most precious and fragile thing in the world.

Through the plastic, her fingers stroked the diary's rough cover again and again.

Tears slid silently down her cheeks and landed on the bag with a faint patter.

Suddenly, she looked up.

A glimmer of Clarity flashed in her sorrowful, vacant eyes.

"Sir, you're lying to me."

Buck, standing nearby, instinctively put his hand on his holster.

Rovi's heart gave a slight jolt, too.

"Why do you say that?" Rovi asked softly.

"I knew something was wrong with him."

Mary clutched the diary tightly and whispered.

"He wouldn't eat the rationed Corpse Starch. He only drank water."

"In the middle of the night, he'd make strange sounds at the Ventilation Duct, as if he were talking to someone—or praying."

"His skin was always cold, even under the thickest blankets. Even when I tried to warm him with my body, he was still cold..."

She lowered her head and looked at her swollen belly, a smile of utter misery spreading across her face.

"The neighbors all said he was a mutant, a cursed thing. But I didn't care."

Mary lifted her head and looked Rovi straight in the eyes.

"Sir, do you know? Before I met him, the gangs in the front district took me. They abused me one after another for three days, then threw me onto the roadside like trash. That's when they broke my leg."

"Those so-called 'normal people' looked at me like I was rotten meat, like I was a damned burden."

"Only he... He was the only one who didn't mind that I was crippled or dirty, and who brought me flowers."

"He was the only man who treated me like a 'person.'"