The Imperium's Frontier: Willing to Help

Golden wheat fields stretched to the very edge of the horizon. This endless ocean of gold blanketed the entire landscape, creating a breathtaking tapestry when viewed from the void of space.

Gold, green, and deep crimson earth echoed one another. These were not the toxic effluents of a Forge World's factories, but the raw power of nature, a land that nurtured the hunger and needs of the entire system's population.

This was an Agri-World, a world of immense importance to The Imperium. Why? It was simple: people get hungry if they don't eat, and if they stay hungry long enough, they die, don't they? Yes, that was the reason.

Every Agri-World served as the granary for an entire system, feeding tens or hundreds of billions. The rations for the whole of The Imperium came from these worlds. Usually, there was only one Agri-World per system, three at most, and the survival of each one was tied to the survival of the entire system.

If an Agri-World fell, the countless, unimaginably vast populations of the Imperial worlds in that system would descend into civil war, chaos, and riots due to starvation. Never mind facing the coming great enemy; they would slaughter each other to the last for the remaining scraps of food.

To feed these ravenous Imperial worlds and prevent mass riots, an Agri-World was, simply put, a planet dedicated entirely to farming, doing nothing else.

Mountains were leveled, oceans filled in, and the planet's surface was completely covered in crops. Wheat, fruit trees, and every variety of produce improved by the Adeptus Mechanicus bio-technicians stretched to the ends of the earth. The high-yield harvest was reaped and gathered by the planet's population, and after setting aside enough for their own survival, the rest was handed over to the system's Governor's Palace.

Year after year, generation after generation, countless transport ships came and went, ferrying grain to various Imperial worlds. This made the planet's orbit incredibly crowded, and both the starports and surface airfields were perpetually busy.

Yet, this silver shuttle found a gap. The slender intra-system craft descended slowly from the sky, its vector thrusters at the stern spitting flames. Massive amounts of dust were kicked up from the surface, swirling into thick, foggy clouds within the hangar.

The old hangar master stepped out of his office, cursing as he waved away the dust. He watched the shuttle land smoothly on the pad, its thrusters cooling down as the hatch lowered open of its own accord.

A man stepped down from the deck. He wore a black jacket and a red scarf, with a Bolter and ammunition hanging loosely at his waist. He looked like a mercenary.

"What's your business?" the old master asked. The man smiled and tossed a silver Imperial card to him. "Keep an eye on my ship. And it needs refueling; the credits are all in there."

The man walked past the old master, giving his shoulder a friendly pat. "The extra is for you, so... don't let the local brats steal anything, understand?"

The old master chuckled and tucked the silver card into his coat. "Understood. Your name? If you're willing to tell me. Per the Governor's orders, every landing ship must be registered."

"Of course, I can do that."

"No, no need. I'm Vito. Vito Constantine, Rogue Trader." Vito said with a smile, his expression bright and charismatic. The old man nodded slightly with a smile. "Of course, of course, Rogue Trader."

Vito flashed a satisfied grin and walked out of the hangar. Brilliant sunlight poured down from above, and Vito had to raise a hand to shield his eyes to look at the sky.

It had to be said, the weather on this Agri-World was excellent. The sky was clear for ten thousand miles, free of the red dust caused by over-farming. The world felt natural and harmonious. As expected, worlds near Ultramar were quite pleasant.

Vito lowered his head and looked around at the busy streets. Most of the people here were local farmers. Agricultural vehicles moved back and forth, and peasants in simple clothing walked about, moving between the small stalls and shops lining the street to purchase the goods appearing in the market today.

Vito walked down the street, his Bolter swaying against his thigh. He scanned everything he saw, and he had to admit, the environment here surprised him.

The security in the Victoria System was surprisingly good. Unlike most Imperial worlds, which would at least give the Adeptus Arbites a few days of rage, the situation here seemed remarkably peaceful. There were no Imperial Arbitrators patrolling everywhere, nor mercenaries carrying guns; he himself had become something of an anomaly.

But soon, Vito realized he had been hasty. As he walked, he inadvertently spotted three young street punks surrounding a stall, shouting in crude Low Gothic. Ah, especially that accent—Vito was certain that if Inquisitor Amberley Vail were here, she would have already made some biting comment about their terrible pronunciation.

Speaking of which, what was that girl doing lately? The last time he met her was on Riemunda? He remembered that time he and the boys from the Deathwatch helped Amberley take down the Patriarch of a local Genestealer Cult.

Oh, Vito still remembered Ragnar howling like a lunatic, firing wildly while hacking through a Purestrain Genestealer with his Chainsword.

He recalled Amberley mentioning someone to him back then—someone she found interesting, or rather, someone she was quite interested in: a Commissar named Cain.

But he hadn't seen the lovely Miss Vail for several years since that time. Well, perhaps it was better not to see her; that madwoman's talent for causing trouble was on par with his own.

It was always Vito causing trouble for others, never the other way around!

That said, those punks seemed interesting. Vito leaned in and clearly heard their foul language.

"Old geezer! I said it! You have to pay taxes to the Harvester Gang! This is our territory!" the bald youth shouted, waving his fist. The old man snorted in disdain. "I already paid you once, to Locke." "Bullshit! Locke is dead! He died months ago!" "What does that have to do with me? I already paid."

The old man stood his ground. "Go ask him for it. I don't know if that bastard gave the money to you, but I don't care. Now get lost."

"You have to pay us again! Or we'll break your useless legs, you old fossil!" the youth with the fancy hairstyle shouted, pulling out a metal club that looked just like the ones used by the Adeptus Arbites.

"No money! You can kill me and you still won't get any! I'm sick of you bastards! Everyone comes to ask for a cut! I swear I'll go straight to Antonio and tell him what you idiots are doing!"

Clearly, the name Antonio angered, or rather, intimidated them. But after a brief hesitation, the punk grabbed his club and swung it at the old man.

The old man jumped, nearly falling over, but he soon realized he didn't need to run, because a hand had caught the club. The old man and the three punks all looked at the person—a stranger in a black jacket.

"Who the hell are you? Get lost, outworlder!" the bald punk roared. Vito looked at them with amusement, glancing at the coin purse at the bald man's waist.

"Old man, I take it the local gang already collected their tax, right?" Vito asked. The old man nodded blankly. "Yes, they did, but they—"

"A bunch of idiots who think they're clever enough to collect a second time behind their boss's back," Vito said with a smile. The bald man was provoked; he pulled out a dagger and roared in fury, "Who do you think you are? A tax collector?!"

In his rage, the bald man lunged at Vito's stomach with the blade. Vito punched the punk holding the club in the face, and as he stepped back, he snatched the baton away.

Vito didn't dodge. Instead, he lunged forward, bending the bald man's arm with his own. Amidst the man's screams, the sound of his arm bone snapping echoed out. Before the bald man could finish cursing, Vito hooked his leg to trip him to the ground, then brought the baton down hard on his shiny, bald head.

The bald man collapsed instantly, losing consciousness. The punk with the fancy hair cursed and threw a punch, but Vito was faster, striking him in the jaw. The punk lost his balance and slammed into a wall, only to be struck in the back by Vito's baton. Then a second time, then a third—Vito beat him repeatedly like a stray dog.

The third punk stood frozen, not daring to step forward, just watching until his companion begged for mercy at the top of his lungs. The one-sided street brawl came to an end.

"Enough, enough! Stop!" the punk screamed. Vito did indeed stop, looking at the punk with amusement before tossing the baton aside.

He bent down, ripped the heavy coin purse from the bald man's waist, and waved his hand—the meaning could not have been clearer.

The two punks still able to stand dragged their companion away, leaving the stall in a sorry state. Vito opened the purse and tossed a few golden Imperial coins to the old man.

The old man looked hesitantly at the coins in his hand and looked up at Vito, who flashed a brilliant smile and clapped his hands. "Right, I have a question, old man. How do I find this Antonio?"

"Is this about those punks? Are you a new Arbites officer?" The old man stood up, rubbing his waist. Vito shrugged. "No, but yes. I don't mind discussing your troubles with him as well, but I have other business with him. Can you tell me where he is?"

The old man looked at the coins in his hand, then looked up at Vito in surprise. "Why are you helping me? You're an outworlder." "A helpful outworlder, but my help comes with a price. Now it's your turn—where is Antonio?"

Vito straightened his collar as he spoke, looking remarkably... natural. The old man looked Vito up and down, pausing when he caught sight of the Bolter.

"He's at the Green Lizard Bar on the edge of the settlement. At least, that's where he usually is. But I don't think the Tiger Claw Gang will let you see him." "Don't worry, I have great faith in my powers of persuasion and personal charm."

Vito waved his hand and walked toward the end of the street. "Have a pleasant rest of your day."

The old man watched Vito's retreating back, then glanced at the phone under his stall counter. After a moment of hesitation, he sat down and leaned back in his chair. "Let them be."

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