Chapter 45: History is a Meat-Grinder (Part 2)
"Is... is that not the truth?" Elder Varick's voice trembled, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. He was an intelligent man, and he was beginning to see the shadow of a much larger predator behind the curtain. "The Governor... that greedy leech... he wants to steal the last grain from our bowls! Is our suffering not his design?"
Kian's response was a bucket of cold, grimdark reality, shattering Varick's last illusions of a simple "Good vs. Evil" struggle.
"Consider a different perspective, Varick," Kian said tonelessly. "Perhaps the Governor is actually a 'qualified' ruler. Maybe, when he was younger, he wanted to change this world. Maybe he wanted to build a paradise for you.
"But the records don't lie. Fifteen years ago, the neighboring Industrial World—the forge that provides your tools—was hit by a Greenskin Waaagh!. Thousands of Orks, a tide of green muscle and madness. To keep that forge from falling, the Departmento Munitorum demanded a 'War-Tithe.' They didn't ask the Governor if he had enough grain; they ordered him to produce double. The 'greed' you feel is just the Governor trying to keep his own head off an Inquisitor's chopping block."
Varick's spirit seemed to wither. The crushing weight of the Tithe wasn't the whim of a local tyrant; it was the demand of a galactic empire that viewed his planet as nothing more than a fuel tank.
Kian continued, his words like hammer blows. "Your revolution has lasted ten years. You control the surface. Congratulations. But because of your 'freedom,' the Governor has been delinquent on his Imperial Tithe for a decade.
"I can only imagine your 'Victory Celebration' when you finally breach the Hive and execute the Governor. Imagine the cheers of the people... and then imagine the sky turning black as an Imperial Tax-Fleet arrives in orbit. They won't care about your liberation. They will demand ten years of back-taxes, interest included, to be paid immediately. Tell me, Varick... how will you respond to a Gothic-class Cruiser's lance batteries?"
Varick's face was pale, beads of cold sweat rolling down his wrinkled brow. He understood the math. To survive the Imperium's "Audit," the new rebel government would have to become even more brutal than the Governor. They would have to squeeze the peasants twice as hard just to keep the "Fire Rain" from falling.
The "Liberators" would become the new "Oppressors." The "Heroes of the People" would become the "Collectors of the Tithe."
Kian let out a long, cynical sigh. "History is a meat-grinder, Varick. In a universe this dark, the 'Boy who Slays the Dragon' always ends up growing scales of his own. You aren't fighting for freedom; you're just fighting for the right to be the one holding the whip."
Kian had a theory—one he'd developed while walking the grey streets of the Hive. He suspected the Governor could have crushed the rebellion years ago. The Hive held 99% of the planet's industrial power and tens of billions of souls. A few million peasants with hoes and pipe-guns shouldn't have lasted a month.
The Governor was likely letting the rebellion happen on purpose. By allowing a stalemate, he was "freezing" the planet's resource consumption. He wasn't wasting grain and promethium on a total war. He was letting the people enjoy a few decades of "relative peace" before the inevitability of the Inquisition's arrival. It was a mercy of sorts—a way to let one generation live before the next was ground into paste to pay the debt.
Of course, that was just Kian's guess. He'd never met the "Leech in the Spire."
Varick was reeling from the information overload. His revolutionary fervor had been replaced by a crushing existential dread. He brought the meeting to a close, but as Kian reached the door, Varick asked one final, desperate question.
"Is there no way to master our own fate? Are we all just cogs in a machine built for our own destruction?"
Kian answered without hesitation. "If you want to master your fate in the 41st Millennium, you need a Voidship. Not a shuttle, not a transport—a Warp-capable vessel with a functional Geller Field. That ship is your ticket to the game. Without it, you're just a bug on a rock, waiting for a bigger boot."
The talk ended. Varick personally escorted Kian to the edge of the camp. As they passed a cluster of wooden hovels, Kian heard a low, rhythmic moaning.
He looked through a gap in the planks of a "Med-Shack." He saw a dozen rebel soldiers lying on blood-stained straw. Their wounds were festering, wrapped in filthy rags. There were no stimms, no antiseptics—just the smell of rot and a few "comforting" herbs.
Varick sighed, looking at his broken men. "Our medical supplies are non-existent. We have herbs and prayers, but the 'wound-fever' takes most of them. If your 'business' could provide modern pharmaceuticals... anti-inflammatories, painkillers... the gratitude of the Cell would be absolute."
[DING! MISSION TRIGGERED]
Mission: Pills for the Proletariat
Objective: Deliver 3 units of Medical-Grade Analgesics/Antiseptics to Elder Varick.
Rewards: Varick Reputation +10 | Unlocks "Rebel Safe-House" extraction point.
Kian clicked 'Accept.' He looked at the mountain of grain Varick's men were already preparing for the first trade.
"Prepare the starch," Kian said, checking his PDF autogun. "Next time I come, I'll bring the 'Emperor's Mercy' in a bottle. Just make sure your boys are ready to haul."
☆☆☆
-> 20 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Inkshaper
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you