Other than a broken nose, Sachs was perfectly fine. He had initially feared the armsmen were taking him to some evil ritual, or that he was destined to be the main course at some grandee's banquet.
But the armsmen had only taken him to a shower block, let him take a hot shower, and given him a clean set of silver-grey clothes.
Finally, after removing the cuffs, they shoved him into a brightly lit cabin. The room looked much like an interrogation cell, with only a single table and chair. On the table, however, was food. Sachs moved closer to inspect it and found a loaf of bread, a bottle of Amasec, and a fragrant, grilled meat cutlet. The aroma of sizzling fat wafted through the air and into his nose, reminding him that he had missed today's protein block.
This was clearly meant for him, and besides, it had been a long time since he'd eaten normal food. Sachs mustered his courage, sat down, and picked up the nearby knife and fork to cut into the meat. When he took the first bite, the juices and fat spread throughout his mouth. He no longer cared if it was human flesh; after all, the protein blocks were just a different form of the same thing, the essence hadn't changed. He twisted open the bottle of Amasec and took a large swig. The spicy liquor awakened his taste buds. Soothed by the wine and food, Sachs felt as if he had temporarily escaped the hell of the lower decks.
Just then, the automatic door slid open. The sound of heavy footsteps came from behind him, and a nearly 2.4-meter-tall silver figure walked around the table to stand before him.
A deep voice emerged from the vox-grille of the Iron-pattern helmet.
"Is it good?"
With a piece of bread stuck in his throat, Sachs could only nod frantically, terrified that a delayed answer would anger the Astartes.
"Don't worry. It's an ancient Terran animal called a giant boar, now extinct on Terra. Colonists during the Age of Strife brought the species to this planet, and it has been preserved here. They are ferocious beasts that enjoy destroying farmland and vineyards. The planetary residents despise them."
The topic shifted. Peter asked, "Captain Sachs, do you know why I called you here?"
"My lord, I... I think I can guess."
He had nothing special about him, except for his past as a soldier.
"Captain Sachs, formerly of the 'Salarhi Sentinels' 4th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Battalion, of the Mortal Auxilia. Or, as I believe you all call it now, the Astra Militarum."
"Yes, my lord. That's what's written in the Departmento Munitorum files."
Peter continued coldly, "Captain Sachs, there is a significant stain on your military record. you surrendered and were taken captive. However, considering this is the prerequisite for our meeting, I will have to temporarily ignore this stain. You may continue eating, provided it doesn't interfere with listening to what I have to say next."
Sachs didn't dare touch the food again. From what he knew, the Iron Warriors were not known for their good tempers.
"Sachs, besides the naval armsmen, you are the highest-ranking military man on this ship, and your rank isn't from a Planetary Defense Force, which is a bonus. You attended a military academy and have seen actual combat. Though you were defeated, you at least have experience. You now have two choices before you. One: join a group of men in similar circumstances and train new recruits for me, and later, command them in battle. Two: finish this cutlet and crawl back to the lower decks."
Of course Sachs was afraid of returning to the lower decks. It was his fear of death that had led to his capture in the first place. Having made his decision, he tried his best to recall what he had learned at the academy and inquired about the situation.
"My lord, what is the status of the troops' equipment and supplies? What are the enemy's numbers and capabilities?"
"Good. It seems you're already in the right mindset."
Peter reached behind his back, retrieved a dataslate, and handed it over.
"You will have approximately 30,000 new recruits, and you can conscript more from conquered territories later. They aren't complete novices; they have at least received localized military training. Most wear bronze or iron armor and use bows, wooden shields, and spears. The enemy is at roughly the same level. I am ordering you to conquer this continent within half a Terran year."
Hearing the order, Sachs thought, "He didn't mention the punishment for failure." Of course, it was more likely there was no need to. After all, one didn't need a reason to kill him.
"I will provide a small amount of flak armor, autoguns, lasguns, and frag grenades. There will also be one Aquila Lander for air support. There are no armored vehicles or artillery. The specifics are on the dataslate."
After waiting for Sachs to finish reading the information, Peter said, "Any questions?"
"None, my lord."
In truth, there were a ton of problems. Insufficient training, too few experienced officers, a severe lack of weapons and ammunition, and the rank-and-file soldiers couldn't even speak High Gothic. But he didn't dare raise objections. The Departmento Munitorum could hound you for reports every hour, even curse you out—but everyone was being hounded, and lots of people were cursing, so they were used to it. This Astartes, however, would not be so accommodating.
"Very good."
The Astartes turned to leave the cabin. It was then that Sachs noticed this Astartes didn't seem to be a member of the Iron Warriors. His power armor was still predominantly silver-grey, but it lacked the yellow stripes. More importantly, the eight-pointed star and iron mask on his left pauldron was gone, replaced by a silver kite shield wreathed in crimson flames.
After Peter left, Sachs tilted his head back and drained the rest of the Amasec. He decided to finish the meat and bread, and then go meet his future subordinates. "Emperor protect!" Sachs prayed, hoping that the other prisoners were a little better than a coward like himself.
In the city-state of Nopea, the residents had recently been seeing a silver giant eagle soaring through the sky. Each time the eagle landed, a group of new faces would appear in the city. These people had vacant eyes, numb expressions, and spoke strange languages. They looked like refugees from a fallen city-state.
The warband's only two Arvus Lighters had not stopped for a moment during this time; the pilots were now working in shifts. The warband was systematically transporting the slaves from the lower decks to the surface. Although the Blackiron was short on crew and armsmen, the lower decks were severely overloaded with slaves—the two facts were not contradictory.
Peter had deliberately packed these slaves onto the ship before he broke away from the Legion. This had led to the lower decks being over capacity by 300%. Fortunately, the culling and consumption during the journey had somewhat alleviated the pressure.
Peter's goal was to bring a knowledgeable population with him. Of course, he didn't expect to find engineers or Tech-Priests among the slaves, but at least many of them came from civilized worlds. They at least knew what a gun was, what electricity was, what promethium was. One shouldn't underestimate such seemingly trivial knowledge. The experience of the Imperial Great Crusade had taught them that barbarians could easily attribute things they couldn't understand to the divine. If the warband was to develop this world, they couldn't waste time on trivial matters like pi, displacement, and the periodic table.
In the future, he would raid for more people to populate the world. Whether for conscription, establishing an auxiliary army, or building factories, he needed people. Perhaps this world would one day face overpopulation, but for now, the problem was not enough people.
...
Five months later, outside the city-state of Lacedaemon, Sachs, clad in the carapace armor of an Arbites, frowned as he faced the city's high walls. The ill-fitting armor chafed his shoulders, but his mind was on the current battle.
After all, if they didn't take Lacedaemon soon, he and his brothers would be facing their deaths.
Five months ago, when he had arrived at the primitive city-state's barracks where all their supplies were stored and met with his dozen or so subordinates, Sachs had discovered that they were even less reliable than he was.
He, at least, had been a battalion commander in the regular Astra Militarum. The others were a motley crew: a company commander from a Planetary Defense Force, a precinct officer from some hive city, a military academy cadet who hadn't graduated, and even a PDF cook.
Faced with this group of "hidden talents," Sachs could only patiently hold a war council.
Like a teacher in a literacy class, Sachs patiently guided his subordinates. He propped one foot on a crate of frag grenades and, using an antenna temporarily removed from a vox-caster, tapped a makeshift blackboard, highlighting key points.
"The Lord of the Forged Steel's order is to take the main continent within half a year. So, what is the key issue?"
"The key issue is the key to the problem. The key to the problem is that we have no armored units. Even the single Aquila Lander belongs to the Blackiron. Although the Astartes ordered them to provide us with air support... well, to put it in terms we're all familiar with: the Navy? They can eat shit. They'll just fly around, send us some useless topographical maps, and strafe a few times for show."
"We only have thirty thousand soldiers, and they're not our own men. High casualties could lead to a mutiny... so... uniforms... weaving in and out... firing munitions... taking the enemy's homelands..." After a grueling ten-hour war council, they had essentially established their plan of attack.
First, they would give the citizen-soldiers a crash course for half a month. Then, he and his dozen subordinates would split into five groups and attack the main city-states. Once the major cities fell, the smaller vassals would know which way the wind was blowing.
They would use firepower that was incomprehensible to the locals to quickly conquer some city-states and proclaim themselves the heavenly host of the Steel Angels, possibly even causing some cities to surrender without a fight. Along the way, they would conscript some local soldiers. Finally, the five armies would converge on the eastern coastal plains and take the city-state of Lacedaemon in one fell swoop.
But now, he knew he had made a fatal error: saving the toughest nut for last. The locals had said the Lacedaemonians were a warrior people, the envoys of the war god Ares. At the time, he had scoffed at the idea—a bunch of savages with wooden spears. They didn't even know what a gun was. A single burst of fire would be enough to defeat them.
By the time they reached Lacedaemon, their weapons and ammunition were nearly depleted. The good news was that their army had swelled to nearly 200,000 men, and they had surrounded the last city-state that refused to submit.
What to do without weapons and ammunition? They had to resort to the old ways. What old ways? Building wooden siege towers and catapults, and having the soldiers charge with scaling ladders.
The result? The seven or eight thousand soldiers and twenty thousand slave-soldiers inside the city had managed to repel their 200,000-man army. During the siege, Sachs had even lured the enemy king to the city walls for negotiations and then shot him dead with a sniper lasgun.
After the decapitation strike, the enemy's resistance only grew fiercer. They not only dared to sally forth from the city but even pushed back the besieging army. According to the locals, it was because of some dual-kingship system; the death of one king didn't matter.
Looking at the map, Sachs didn't know how he had managed to turn the war into a battle of throwing rocks and javelins. The key was that he had been defeated by a bunch of natives armed with spears. The war was regressing.
But the more pressing issue now was that the deadline set by the Lord of the Forged Steel was fast approaching. If he couldn't take the city, in five days the Astartes would twist his head off and use it for a game of kickball. He had heard that the Iron Warriors practiced decimation even on their own men. If he failed... Emperor protect.
His adjutant, standing beside him, couldn't help but curse.
"Damn it, why did they make us fight this war?"
In fact, Sachs was still wondering the same thing. Why did the Lord of the Forged Steel want them to attack these city-states when there was a much easier way? One or two Astartes, leading a few hundred armsmen from the ship, could have swept the entire world.
Meanwhile, in a Storm Eagle gunship in the planet's stratosphere, Peter, Anthony, and Vornaby stared at the images on the screen.
Vornaby spoke first.
"This is the last city-state. We can now confirm they have no dark technology left over from the Age of Strife."
Peter, his eyes fixed on the screen, commented, "Good. Even at a clear disadvantage, these soldiers, the Lacedaemonians, have shown great courage, even achieving victory in localized battles."
Anthony was dismissive.
"Captain, they're just primitives. A single bare-fisted brother could slaughter them all. Since they have no ancient technology, I suggest we carry out a massacre in this last resisting city to show the other city-states the consequences of opposing us."
Peter shook his head slightly.
"Anthony, look at their spears and large round shields. They cover each other, forming a shield wall—primitive, but with good coordination. Although the Helot slaves have routed, none of the heavily armored citizen-soldiers have fled. I think we can definitely spare them."
Vornaby took up the conversation.
"My lord, I have studied the local records. They do not worship the False Emperor, but a primitive local faith."
"Any signs of Chaos?"
"None have been found so far. However, this city-state's relationship with the others is not amicable. 'Lacedaemon' means 'arable plain' in the local dialect, and they do indeed occupy one of the few plains, the most fertile land. This, combined with their pagan faith, has made them an object of hostility for the other city-states."
Peter nodded slowly.
"Since there are no signs of Chaos, they can be spared. Warriors always have certain privileges. Their strong warrior culture can make them an excellent source of recruits."
Peter looked at his brother, Anthony. He was too stubborn and contemptuous of everything. As a squad leader, he was barely adequate. Further promotion would be a disaster. Therefore, Peter planned to gradually remove Anthony from the command structure in the future, having him serve more as the warband's champion and his personal bodyguard.
Just then, Peter's communicator beeped. After listening to the message, Peter replied, "Alright, I understand."
After ending the call, he turned to Vornaby.
"Captain Vornaby, we have an honored guest arriving. I must return to the flagship to receive them. You take two brothers and conquer this city-state. Try not to kill too many."
"Yes, my lord."
Anthony asked curiously, "Captain, what honored guest?"
A rare smile appeared on Peter's face.
"The Dark Mechanicum."
...
The Dark Mechanicum was the faction that broke away from the Adeptus Mechanicus during the Great Heresy. Some Dark Magi claim it was the Imperium that violated the Treaty of Olympus and that the current Adeptus Mechanicus are the true traitors to the Omnissiah.
But that doesn't really matter. History has proven that the losing side is always the traitor.
After their defeat, the Dark Mechanicum was hunted by the Imperium and the Mechanicus, forcing them to hide wherever they could. Some fled into the Eye of Terror, some hid within realspace, and some even ran beyond the galactic fringe.
The biggest difference between the two factions is that the Adeptus Mechanicus at least has the Fabricator-General of Mars as a nominal supreme leader; what the Fabricator-General says still carries some weight. The Dark Mechanicum, on the other hand, is largely a collection of independent entities. A few dark forge worlds might form an alliance or serve a particular Chaos Legion, but on the whole, they are a scattered mess, each governing itself.
And now, in the reception hall of the Blackiron, Peter, Anthony, and Philon stood waiting for the Dark Mechanicum.
It was less a reception hall and more of a giant steel cell. There were no windows on any of the four walls. The chairs and table were forged from solid steel, with no cushions or leather upholstery. There was not even any food or drink on the table. The only thing that could be called a decoration was a wool tapestry on the wall, depicting a kite shield in crimson flames. Everything was cold and hard, but this was indeed the warband's reception hall.
After all, they were Astartes. Those of a lower station were not worthy of being received, and those who were worthy were unlikely to care about such trivialities.
Amidst the silence, the doors to the reception hall finally opened with the sound of heavy footsteps. The first to enter was an Astartes clad in silver-grey Mark IV 'Maximus' Armour.
The Space Marine's power armor was unremarkable, save for a large device mounted on his right gauntlet. This device featured a prominent short chainblade, an adamantium drill, and even an integrated laser cutter. This piece of equipment identified the battle-brother as an Apothecary.
The Apothecary stepped forward and extended his arm. Peter responded in kind, the ceramite plates of their armor colliding with a dull thud. The two men gripped each other's forearms, a gesture of fraternal affection.
"Welcome home, Brother Dioscorides." Peter's face showed no emotion, but he was glad. The last of the Forged Steel Brotherhood had returned.
The Apothecary addressed his leader.
"It's good to be back with the brothers. My lord, I have brought Magos Morloch. He is also my mentor."
Following his words, a harsh, metallic scraping sound echoed from the doorway as a massive creature crawled into the room. The being was draped in a rust-red robe. It was nearly four meters long, with fourteen auxiliary limbs moving in ordered succession like the legs of a centipede, propelling its body forward.
Mechadendrites and writhing steel tentacles sprouted from its torso. Its head had been replaced with a complex mechanical device, and eight pairs of spider-like, red optical lenses scanned the surroundings. A metallic faceplate covered most of its visage, revealing only cold, hard lines.
Peter stepped forward politely as a sign of respect.
"Greetings, Magos Biologis Morloch. We welcome your arrival and thank you for the instruction you have given my brother."
The Magos's head twitched, his eight pairs of eyes making repeated focusing sounds. A voice like grinding metal spoke.
"Lord of the Forged Steel Brotherhood. As the representative of the Forge World of Daedalus, I have delivered the surgical equipment. This apprentice has also completed his training. The down payment has been made."
Magos Morloch made an effort to engage his emotion-simulation circuits, attempting to increase the probability of a successful transaction.
"We have shown our sincerity. I would like to see the goods first."
Morloch was alone, surrounded by four Astartes, but he showed no fear. The logic engine in his abdomen informed him that the probability of this transaction succeeding was 66.36%. Even if the deal fell through, the probability of the other party turning violent was only 0.043%. Of course, if they did attack, his own survival rate would be 0%.
"Our deal was with the Fabricator-General. Magos Morloch, do you have that authority?"
Peter knew he did, but he asked anyway, seeking an advantage in the negotiation.
"Lord of the Forged Steel, I have come under the orders of the Fabricator-General of Daedalus to deliver the deposit and to preside over this transaction with the full authority of the forge world. I have the right to inspect the goods."
The Magos extended a mechadendrite from his torso and opened a docking port, indicating that Peter could inspect his authorization key.
Peter glanced at Philon. The Warpsmith took a sealed metal box from his belt, opened it with his DNA code, and retrieved a transparent chip as thin as a cicada's wing. A Standard Construction Template.
Seeing his target, Morloch lunged forward with a speed that defied his bulk, extending a mechanical pincer. But Philon, the Warpsmith, easily dodged it.
Peter also raised a hand to block the Magos, speaking in a calm, unhurried tone.
"This STC template has already been fully analyzed. It records a device known as an IPX-676 'Exquisite' Auto-Baker. By simply adding flour, water, sugar, salt, and other raw materials, the machine can produce delicious baked goods in about 20 minutes."
He knew his description was like the aroma of roasting meat, tempting the ravenous worm in the Magos's gut.
"May I be told the source of the STC?"
"Of course. I found it on the body of an Archmagos Dominus I killed in the Sol System," Peter stated bluntly.
The Magos's lie-detector indicated a 92.72% probability that this statement was true. Of course, such data was only for reference; the device was designed for mortals, and the speaker was a Space Marine.
"You should have turned it in at the time," the Magos rasped, the sound of grinding gears as he brought up the old issue.
"But it is in my hands now."
"Then what do you want? We can provide warships or power armor, even Terminator Armour. Other weapons or equipment are also negotiable."
"I want none of those things."
"What?"
The Magos's logic engine paused for a fraction of a second. A nanosecond later, it produced a reasonable hypothesis.
"You mean... your homeworld?"
"Yes. My condition is the support of the Forge World of Daedalus in developing this world's agriculture, industry, and mining, transforming it into a proper civilized world. It must also have a medium-sized, fully-equipped starport, capable of repairing and constructing small-to-medium starships."
Creeak, graunch. Strange noises emanated from the Magos's body.
"Transforming a planet and developing its industry is a lengthy process, requiring at least 50 years. Fortunately, your payment is indeed substantial. But the starport is impossible. The kind of starport you describe would typically require an orbital elevator, and the construction of the shipyards is even more difficult. This would take at least a century, with expansion taking several more. The payment you offer is insufficient to support both."
Peter knew he wouldn't agree. The remaining value of the STC was not nearly enough to build such a massive starport. He was simply starting with an exorbitant demand so he could concede later.
"Then build a small one for now, but lay a solid foundation. After all, we may have Daedalus handle the subsequent space elevator and shipyards. In the future, this starport will be equipped with orbital defenses and the capability to manufacture merchant vessels and warships."
Creeak, graunch. The sounds continued to issue from Magos Morloch's body as he seemed to contemplate the offer. After about two minutes, he replied, "Deal."
"A pleasure doing business with you."
Peter nodded, and Philon finally handed the STC to the Magos.
Peter felt he had won big. He had exchanged a practically useless STC for a forge world's 50-year commitment to planetary transformation and industrialization, with a small starport thrown in.
In the future, his homeworld could produce its own food, weapons, and armor—even armored vehicles, artillery, and fighter craft. Once the industrial base was established, everything else would proceed much more smoothly.
As for Magos Morloch, the sound of grinding gears once again emanated from his body. This was not the sound of calculation or thought. It was the sound of the Magos laughing with joy.
Helping to develop a planet was a bit tedious, but not difficult. Besides, that was work for the lower-ranking priests, something that had nothing to do with a Magos like him. It was a perfect opportunity to send some of the less competent priests for some "field experience."
As for the starport, he had managed to fob off this Astartes with just a basic starport. It was like selling a free gift for a premium price.
This Astartes had no understanding of the process of converting a feudal planet into a civilized world. For one thing, how would the materials, equipment, and energy brought by the forge world be transported? How would they be stored? How would the issue of intra-planetary communication be solved?
No matter what, they would have had to build a simple starport first, like the scaffolding for a house. Since this warband leader wanted the scaffolding, he would sell it to him. It was cheaper to just build another one than to dismantle and take the old one away.
Spend a few resources to transform a planet. Toss them some low-grade production equipment. And he could even send his junior priests for an internship, during which they would be protected by a group of Astartes. For all this, he received a priceless STC template.
Creeak, graunch, creeak, graunch. How could there be such a wonderful deal? These Astartes were a bunch of morons.
Magos Morloch had won big.