The first batch of products to roll off the line consisted of three hundred brand-new entrenching tools.
From the STC database, Andy had selected the blueprints for the "Colonial Guard Standard Multi-purpose Trenching Tool (Mark-IV)." On the surface, it looked unremarkable—just a steel pipe welded to a shovel head—but in terms of design, it represented the ultimate understanding of pragmatism from humanity's Golden Age.
The shovel head was integrated and press-formed, with high-frequency quenched edges hard enough to slice through a mutant's thick hide. The side featured serrations capable of sawing through rebar as thick as a wrist. More importantly, its center of gravity was perfectly balanced, making it a productive tool in one hand and a lethal melee weapon in the other.
In a place like the Underhive, the strategic value of a sturdy shovel far exceeded that of an ill-maintained lasgun. Lasguns required power cells and were impossible to fix once broken, but a shovel required no ammunition; as long as the user had strength, it would never stop working.
When three hundred able-bodied male refugees received these shovels, the boost in productivity was immediate. Previously, scavenging teams digging through ruins relied on bare hands or smashing rocks; they had to bypass large concrete slabs, resulting in abysmal efficiency. Now, with levers and sharp edges, high-quality metal beams, motors, and cables buried deep within the ruins were being excavated in massive quantities.
The shelter's resource recovery rate soared from half a ton a day to a full ton. Tools improved recovery efficiency, allowing for more scrap to be gathered, which was then smelted into steel plates to manufacture even more tools. In this way, worthless junk became industrial raw material, and refugees who were once waiting for death became skilled industrial workers.
With the raw material input problem solved, Andy didn't let the stamping press stop. He swapped the molds to address the issue of armaments.
The current weaponry of the shelter was a logistical nightmare. Over a hundred armed personnel carried dozens of different models of guns with mismatched calibers and non-interchangeable parts. In a high-intensity battle, the mere act of distributing ammunition would drive a commander to a breakdown. Therefore, Andy decided that standards must be unified.
He didn't choose complex lasguns or bolters that required precision machining. The current manufacturing tolerances couldn't reach that level, and trying to make them would result in junk. Instead, he chose the crudest, ugliest, yet most effective solution: a stamped automatic solid-slug rifle.
In the STC database, this firearm was codenamed "Frontier Defender - Simplified Version." Its body was made of two stamped steel plates riveted together, using a simple blowback action with a recoil spring wound from thick steel wire.
Even if it was filled with sand, a solid kick to the charging handle would usually clear it enough to fire. This design sacrificed accuracy, range, and ergonomics for extreme low cost and reliability.
While Gamma-9 didn't say it out loud, he clearly looked down upon the design. To an orthodox Priest, a gun without fine engravings, complex machining, or even a prayer inscription was nothing more than a piece of fire-spitting scrap. He even refused to perform the "Awakening of the Spirit" ceremony for such weapons.
However, the technicians brought over by Roger from the Brotherhood of Rust fell in love with it. To these wanderers who had survived on weapons cobbled together from trash, a gun that was guaranteed to go bang when the trigger was pulled was a true artifact.
Andy attempted to establish the first genuine assembly line. He broke the production process down into twenty steps. Previously, a craftsman took three days to build a single gun because he was responsible for everything from the barrel to the trigger.
Now, Andy had Gamma-9's apprentices handle only one specific action each. They didn't need to understand the mechanics of firearms or possess high-level craftsmanship; they just needed to repeat a single motion like robots.
This Ford-style assembly line completely demolished the low-efficiency logic of the shelter's previous production. In just one week, one hundred and fifty brand-new stamped autoguns, smelling of bluing oil and rust inhibitor, were stacked neatly in the warehouse.
The shelter's armed forces underwent a complete transformation. The guards who once carried spears and zip-guns became a regular army with unified uniforms and weapons.
However, behind this scene of bustling production, a new bottleneck emerged.
Andy stood in the warehouse, looking at the racks full of firearms and then at the empty ammunition crates nearby. The guns were built, but the bullets couldn't keep up. The caliber was set to Andy's 8mm standard; the casings could be stamped, and the projectiles could be cast from lead and scrap copper. But one thing was missing: propellant—specifically, primers and gunpowder.
In the Underhive of Foundry-7, physical junk was everywhere—you could find scrap iron and copper wire at will— chemical raw materials were extremely scarce. Manufacturing smokeless powder required nitric acid, sulfuric acid, and starch. Andy had plenty of starch from the hydroponic farm, but he lacked industrial-grade acids, especially high-purity ones. Without acid, there was no nitrocellulose, and without nitrocellulose, there was no propellant. He couldn't exactly send his soldiers out to club people with empty guns.
Andy sighed, fiddling with a hollow bullet model—just a casing and a slug with nothing inside. "Gated by the tech tree, huh? Ah, the growing pains of a great industrial endeavor..."
The tech tree was a series of interlocking chains. If you unlocked metallurgy but not chemistry, the "Firearms Manufacturing" tab remained grayed out.
"Ball." Andy called over Ball, who was busy tuning the assembly line.
Ball had a new stamped pistol tucked into his belt—a special authorization from Andy—and he looked much more spirited. This Ball was one of the three technicians Roger had sent over; he had now become Andy's right-hand man in mechanical processing.
The relationship between Andy and Roger's Brotherhood of Rust was currently quite subtle. Nominally they were partners, but in reality, it was a technological annexation. Ever since Andy demonstrated the productivity of the assembly line, the hearts of Roger's people had begun to stray. Once the three technicians arrived, they didn't want to go back. Here, they could touch real industrial blueprints and build machines that worked without needing a prayer—a feeling of accomplishment that was lethal to "tech-heads."
Currently, the shelter's engineering department was essentially controlled by these outsiders, with Gamma-9 and his apprentices acting as assistants. Andy didn't stop this trend; in fact, he secretly encouraged it.
"Besides your group, who else nearby has chemical raw materials?" Andy got straight to the point.
Ball froze, clearly not expecting the question. His red cybernetic eye whirred as he searched his memory banks. "Chemical materials... those are strictly controlled substances," Ball said hesitantly. "Common gangs only have finished drugs or low-grade explosives. If you're looking for industrial-scale acids and reagents..." Ball paused, his expression souring into a look of disgust. "Only the 'Beak Doctors' have those."
"Beak Doctors?"
"Yes, a bunch of lunatics living on the edge of the acid swamps two hundred kilometers away," Ball explained. "Nominally they are doctors, but in reality, they are a pack of illegal bio-remodellers and chemical traffickers. They collect toxic gases and acids from the swamps and refine them into medicines, toxins, and, of course, explosive precursors. Eighty percent of the black-market drugs in the Underhive come from them."
It sounded like a perfect trading partner. But Ball's next words threw cold water on the idea.
"However, Boss Andy, I don't recommend seeking them out."
"Why?"
"Because those people are even harder to deal with than the Skinners," Ball shook his head. "The Skinners are just evil; these alchemists are perverts. They are obsessed with human experimentation and often test their new drugs on living subjects.
Moreover, they are extremely xenophobic. Anyone who approaches their territory usually ends up as some kind of tentacled mass of flesh. Last time a gang tried to raid them for medicine, the gang leader came back with a face growing out of his stomach, singing hymns to his subordinates."
Andy visualized the scene.