Green Soup and Order

Barker stared at Rovi.

His look was like he was staring at a demon that had just crawled out of the Warp.

"You're feeding them fertilizer?"

"It's nutrient paste." Rovi corrected him with a straight face. "The ingredients are organic matter, amino acids, and trace elements."

"It's been sterilized at high temperatures. In theory, it's more nutritious than corpse starch. The only downside is it tastes like mud, and it's green."

Barker slammed the gun in his hand hard against the table.

"You're insane! Those refugees might be scum, but they're not low enough to drink that stuff. They'll riot, they'll tear you apart, and then I'll have to waste precious ammo putting them down."

"They won't." Rovi pulled a piece of paper from his chest and spread it on the table. "Because it's their only choice."

It was a simple chart.

"Right now, on the black market in the Lower Sector, a fingernail-sized piece of corpse starch costs three Imperial Credits."

"And most refugees' total belongings don't add up to one Imperial Credit. They're already eating dirt. Real dirt."

Rovi pointed at the red line on the chart.

"In three days, the Acid Rain Season starts. When it hits, the temperature in the Lower Sector will plummet. Half of those without shelter will freeze to death."

"The other half will kill each other from hunger."

He stared into Barker's one eye.

"I'm giving them shelter. I'm giving them heat. I'm giving them calories to survive, even if it's green mud."

"In this damned world, just being alive is the Emperor's greatest blessing."

Barker fell silent.

He was a veteran. He'd seen too many dead men.

He knew Rovi was telling the truth.

Barker scratched the stubble on his chin and asked, "Even if they agree to drink it, how do you manage fifty thousand people? They're a pack of starving beasts. If one person starts trouble, the whole granary gets trampled flat."

"That's exactly why I need to borrow your men."

Rovi untied a cloth pouch from his belt and tossed it to Barker.

The pouch landed on the table with a dull thud.

Barker opened it.

Inside was a pile of shiny metal tags.

Not money.

Dog tags.

"What's this?"

"The Dog Tags of guards who died at Granary Seven over the years." Rovi explained. "Supervisor Kase has been withholding their pensions. I 'freed up' that money when I audited the books."

"It's not much, but enough for each of your brothers to buy a new gun and spend one wild night in the Red Light District of the Hive City's upper levels."

Barker's breathing grew heavier.

His men had been eating scraps for years. They didn't even have new guns—they had to count every bullet.

"You're bribing me?"

"I'm hiring you." Rovi replied. "I need your men to do two things. First, kill. Second, keep order. By my rules."

Barker reached into the pouch and grabbed a handful of cold metal tags.

"What are your rules?"

"Simple." Rovi straightened his collar. "Those who queue live. Those who cut in line die."

Lower Sector, Entrance 19.

This was the throat of the Hive City's depths, and the abyss of despair.

Countless figures writhed in the dark alleyways.

The air was foul and filthy.

There was no light here, only a faint yellow glow that occasionally leaked through when the massive exhaust fan blades turned in the distance.

Rovi stood on a high platform.

Behind him were rows of metal barrels, filled with bubbling green liquid that steamed with heat.

Flanking him were two hundred fully armed Defense Force soldiers.

A pitch-black gun muzzle pointed downward.

The crowd below surged like a black tide.

They saw the steam rising from the barrel.

It was the smell of food.

Even if it reeked like a fermenting corpse, to these people, it was fragrance.

"Give me... give me a mouthful..."

"I have money, I have half an Imperial Credit!"

"Get lost, let me through first!"

The crowd began to stir.

Someone tried to charge past the cordon.

"Bang!"

A gunshot.

The burly man at the front had his head blown open, his body crashing heavily to the ground.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then erupted into even louder screams.

Barker stood beside Rovi, his bolt pistol still smoking.

"Anyone who takes another step forward, this is what you get!" Barker roared.

All eyes fixed on the frail young man on the high platform.

Rovi held a loudspeaker.

"I am the Special Advisor of Granary Seven, Rovi."

His voice, amplified by the speaker, crackled with static and spread across the entire square.

"I have fifty thousand job openings here. Meals and lodging provided."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"But." Rovi pointed at the corpse on the ground. "I don't raise the useless, and I don't raise thugs."

"Now, since you want to eat, you'll listen to me."

Rovi pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it into the air.

"From now on, this place operates under military discipline. I'm dividing you into fifty brigades. One thousand people per brigade."

"Every ten people form a group, choose a group leader. Every ten groups form a squad, choose a squad leader."

"Listen up, I don't know who any of you are. I only recognize numbers."

"If someone runs away, the nine people in the same group are held jointly responsible—three days' rations deducted."

"If someone slacks off, reporting them earns a reward; covering for them earns the same punishment."

"If someone causes trouble." Rovi glanced at Barker. "Executed on the spot."

The crowd fell dead silent.

This was the so-called "Mutual Responsibility System."

In ancient Earth, it was the most effective way to control an army.

And in the Warhammer world, where human life was as cheap as weeds, it was the only law of survival.

Rovi pointed to the empty space on the left.

"Now, the first thousand people, line up over there."

"Those who line up get one bowl and one ladle of soup each."

"Anyone who runs around, dies."

The crowd hesitated.

They were used to grabbing, used to stealing, used to fighting like beasts for scraps.

Suddenly, a thin figure darted out.

It was a child no more than ten, so filthy that his skin color was indistinguishable.

He walked to the designated spot and stood properly in line.

Rovi nodded to the servitor beside him.

The servitor walked over, handed the child an iron bowl, and ladled a scoop of green thick soup from the barrel.

The child took the bowl, didn't care if it was scalding, tipped his head back, and gulped it down.

After finishing, he licked the bottom of the bowl, then raised it, looking at Rovi.

"It's good," the child said.

Those two words struck like a thunderbolt.

The crowd went mad.

But this time, they didn't charge recklessly. Instead, they scrambled desperately toward that empty patch of ground, trying to form a straight line.

"Line up, don't shove me, you bastard!"

"I'm in the first group—I'm the group leader!"

Order was established with that single spoonful of Green Soup and that one gunshot.

Rovi watched the line slowly take shape below, his heart utterly still.

This was only the first step.

He turned to Barker and said:

"Have your men keep a sharp eye out. Especially on those who look strong-bodied with shifty eyes. Kais definitely planted people in the crowd."

"Don't worry." Barker grinned, baring a mouthful of yellow teeth. "My gun's been itching for action."