Half an hour later.
Sector B-37 beneath the Hive City had once been a special prison where the Orks kept human slaves with "a bit of brains." Now, it had been temporarily converted into a vast screening center. Thousands of liberated slaves stood in line, answering questions from Astra Militarum commissars. When asked whether they had any engineering or mechanical knowledge, most merely shook their heads blankly.
Jason passed through the crowded throng and headed straight to the far end of the screening center. There sat a dozen or so numb-faced men who reeked of machine oil and rust. Most bore some disability-one had lost an arm, replaced with a crude mechanical prosthesis; another had an eye replaced by a sensor blinking red. They had once been "mechanics," captured by Ork Big Meks and forced to hammer and weld, day after day, in those mad workshops, working on War Machines they themselves could not understand.
They were among the most unfortunate victims of this disaster. Their "special skills" had subjected them to even crueler torment than ordinary miners endured. The Orks' chaotic, brutal process of "creation" had long since battered their minds to the brink of collapse.
Jason's arrival drew little attention from them. They merely raised their heads numbly, glanced at the towering yellow giant, then lowered them again, as though they had lost all interest in the world.
"I need your help," Jason said, his voice direct and sincere.
No one answered.
"We need to repair a ship. An Ork ship."
At the words "Ork ship," all dozen or so men shuddered involuntarily. Fear seized them again, as instinctive as a reflex.
An old man who looked the eldest, missing an arm and an eye, lifted his face, covered in wrinkles and burn scars.
"Impossible... that's not a