Buck glared at Rovi.
His gaze was like that of someone looking at a demon that had just crawled out of the Warp.
"You're giving them Fertilizer to drink?"
"It's Nutrient Paste." Rovi corrected him with a straight face. "It's made of organic matter, amino acids, and trace elements."
"After being sterilized at high temperatures, it's theoretically more nutritious than Corpse Starch. The only downside is that it tastes like mud and happens to be green."
Buck slammed the gun in his hand onto the table.
"Are you crazy? Those refugees may be dregs, but they haven't sunk so low that they'd drink something like this. They'll riot, tear you to pieces, and then I'll have to waste precious ammunition putting them down."
"They won't." Rovi pulled a sheet of paper from his coat and spread it across the table. "Because this is their only choice."
It was a simple chart.
"Right now, in the Lower Sector's Black Market, a piece of Corpse Starch the size of a fingernail costs three Imperial Credits."
"And most refugees don't have even one Imperial Credit to their name. They're already eating dirt. Actual dirt."
Rovi pointed to the red line on the chart.
"The Acid Rain Season begins in three days. When it does, temperatures in the Lower Sector will plummet, and half of those without shelter will freeze to death."
"The other half will kill each other over food."
He fixed his gaze on Buck's single eye.
"I'm offering them shelter, heat, and enough warmth to keep them alive, even if it's green mud."
"In this damned world, being alive is the Emperor's greatest blessing."
Buck fell silent.
He was a veteran. He had seen too many dead men.
He knew Rovi was telling the truth.
Buck scratched the stubble on his chin and asked, "Even if they're willing to drink it, how are you going to manage fifty thousand people? They're a pack of starving beasts. If just one person starts trouble, the whole granary will be trampled flat."
"That's why I'm asking to borrow your men."
Rovi untied a cloth pouch from his waist and tossed it to Buck.
The pouch landed on the table with a dull thud.
Buck opened it.
Inside was a pile of gleaming metal tags.
They weren't money.
They were Dog Tags.
"What are these?"
"Dog Tags belonging to guards who died at Granary Seven over the years," Rovi explained.
"Supervisor Kase had been withholding their families' compensation. When I audited the books, I 'balanced' that money out."
"It's not much, but it's enough for each of your men to get a new gun and enjoy a night in the Red Light District in the upper Hive City."
Buck's breathing grew heavier.
His men had gone hungry alongside him for years. Forget new guns—even ammunition had to be rationed.
"Are you bribing me?"
"I'm hiring you," Rovi replied. "I need your men to do two things. First, kill. Second, maintain order. And they'll follow my rules."
Buck reached into the pouch and grabbed a handful of cold metal tags.
"What are your rules?"
"Simple." Rovi straightened his collar. "Those who line up live. Those who cut in line die."
Lower Sector, Entrance 19.
This was the throat of the Hive City's lowest levels, and the abyss of despair.
Countless silhouettes writhed through the dim alleyways.
The air was foul and filthy.
There was no light here, only the occasional faint yellow glow from far away, where the blades of a massive exhaust fan turned.
Rovi stood on a raised platform.
Behind him stood a row of metal barrels filled with steaming, bubbling green liquid.
On either side of him were two hundred fully armed Defense Force soldiers.
Their gun barrels pointed down at the crowd.
The people below surged like a black tide.
They saw the steam rising from the barrels.
It smelled like food.
Even though it smelled like fermenting corpses, to these people, it was a wonderful aroma.
"Give me... just a mouthful..."
"I have money! Half an Imperial Credit!"
"Get out of my way! Let me through first!"
The crowd began to stir.
Someone tried to rush past the barricade.
"Bang!"
A gunshot rang out.
The head of a burly man at the front exploded, and his body crashed heavily to the ground.
The crowd fell silent for a moment, then erupted in even louder screams.
Buck stood beside Rovi, his Boltgun still smoking.
"Anyone else takes one step forward, and this is what happens!" Buck roared.
Every eye turned toward the skinny young man on the platform.
Rovi held a megaphone.
"I'm Rovi, Special Advisor of Granary Seven."
His voice boomed from the megaphone, crackling with static as it carried across the whole plaza.
"I have fifty thousand jobs here. Food and lodging included."
A murmur rose from the crowd.
"But." Rovi pointed to the corpse on the ground. "I won't keep freeloaders or rioters."
"Now, if you want to eat, you'll do as I say."
Rovi took a coin from his pocket and tossed it into the air.
"Starting now, this place will be under military-style management. I'll divide you into fifty battalions of one thousand people each."
"Every ten people will form a squad and choose a squad leader. Every ten squads will form a company and choose a company commander."
"Listen up. I don't know who any of you are. I only recognize your numbers."
"If anyone runs away, the other nine in their squad will be held responsible and lose three days' rations."
"If anyone slacks off, their squadmates will be rewarded for reporting them. Anyone who covers for them will be punished too."
"If anyone causes trouble." Rovi glanced at Buck. "They'll be executed on the spot."
The crowd fell silent.
This was what was known as the Mutual Responsibility System.
In ancient times on Earth, it had been the most effective way to control an army.
And in the Warhammer world, where human lives were worth less than grass, it was the only way to survive.
Rovi pointed to an empty lot on the left.
"Now, the first thousand people, line up over there."
"Those who line up will each get a bowl and a ladle of soup."
"Anyone who runs around dies."
The crowd hesitated.
They were used to stealing, used to fighting over scraps, used to competing like beasts.
Suddenly, a small figure pushed through the crowd.
It was a child, barely into their teens, so filthy that their skin color was impossible to make out.
The child walked to the designated lot and stood properly in line.
Rovi nodded to the Servitor beside him.
The Servitor walked over and handed the child an iron bowl, then ladled a scoop of thick green soup from the barrel.
The child lifted the bowl and gulped it down without caring whether it was hot.
After finishing, the child licked the bottom of the bowl, then raised it and looked at Rovi.
"It's good," the child said.
Those two words struck the crowd like a thunderclap.
The people went wild.
But this time, they didn't rush the barrels. They squeezed toward the lot, frantically trying to form a straight line.
"Get in line! You bastard, stop shoving me!"
"I'm in the first squad! I'm the squad leader!"
Order was established with one ladle of green soup and a single gunshot.
Rovi watched the lines gradually take shape below, feeling not the slightest stir of emotion.
This was only the first step.
He turned to Buck and said, "Have your men keep a close eye out. Especially for anyone who looks strong and keeps glancing around. Kase must have planted people in the crowd."
"Don't worry." Buck grinned, baring a mouthful of yellow teeth. "My gun's been itching for a fight."
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