Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

At dusk, Perturabo's Stormbirds landed on the edge of Terra's continental shelf.

The clouds gathered into a thick dark gray lead-colored mist, accumulating under the dome, sealing the dull haze and steaming heat above the heads of the residents. At the time of shift change, the inhabitants are awakened like herds by the ringing of bells and the eternal sound of hammers, surging currents in the steam, their work whipping their whips, and their livelihood being the bite of a living sheepdog. Ankles were dragged heavily behind the residents. Sometimes they are no different than the factory goods they serve; sometimes they are cheaper.

"They built hab blocks to provide the people of the empire with the minimum shelter they needed to live and work."

said Perturabo, descending from the gangway. The Emperor was eager to call them back. When Perturabo did arrive on Terra, the news from the palace made Perturabo wait a moment.

Therefore, after the Lord of Iron entered the palace to meet the Lord of Humanity, he entered one of the many cities on Terra with nothing to do. Except for Morse, he did not bring anyone else close and trustworthy.

"Taking into account the different topography and structural zoning needs of the hive city, the building categories of these residential modules include vertical towers and high-rise buildings. In the best case, they can own an apartment building. If you live in a tower, from the top floor to the ground floor It takes half an hour to an hour to run the elevator completely, and walking on foot is close to impossible.”

Morse nodded slightly and scanned the scene of Terra, giving up trying to distinguish more of the afterglow of old Terra from the imperial capital in front of him.

Those anti-gravity train tracks are intricately embedded in the undulating ground. High towers are woven together in corridors in mid-air. There is a buzzing roar from the underground, and hot steam and light from the factory are rising up from the cracks in the iron plates on the ground. , burning the soles of pedestrians’ feet. The sewage pipes are dense and chaotic, directly exposed to the air, like blood vessels with their skin peeled off.

"This is a natural labyrinth." Morse said in a calm tone. If you ignore the content of his words, it is not easy to hear that this is a sarcasm. "It is not intentionally constructed, but it is more natural than any intentionally designed temple. "

The Lord of Iron nodded thoughtfully, not denying Morse's words.

"The complexity and peculiarity of these structures are difficult even for me to imagine. My design cannot help but avoid those abnormal and shaky dangerous areas," he said, looking at a suspended platform suspended in the air - the base is an abandoned tower crane There are steel plates hanging flat on the top, and they are tied to the tall building on one side with steel cables and hemp ropes, barely fixed.

He paused for a moment as some residents in greasy uniforms pushed past him, muttering curses under their breath for being in the way of the two men. Morse used some tricks to obscure the Terran people's understanding of him and the Primarch Perturabo, otherwise it would be difficult for them to walk so smoothly.

This group of people had just gotten off the same tram, wearing the same gray-blue uniforms. Their faces retained the unique caution of workers, that is, the ability to turn a blind eye to abnormal phenomena, and the ability to know how to move with the crowd without using their brains. Philosophy, like being lost in an eternal half-dream, does not exist distinctly in the torn slit between reality and Limbo, wandering day after day.

The outlines of weapons always stand out from the overalls or pockets of their overalls, maybe knives, daggers, and some even banned guns. Their efforts to protect themselves sometimes put themselves in danger.

At the same time, the logo of the factory brand is hung on their chests, a cartoon stick figure with a bright smile on his face, his hair in shiny curls, and a thumbs up on his right hand. It may be one of the happiest signs in the entire city. .

Perturabo's face was gloomy, showing a rare displeasure with the situation here. He swallowed the emotion and said, "I have a building here to live in."

"Oh?" Morse asked, "Here?"

"Yes," Perturabo nodded, "just like I often live in Lokos's residence in Olympia. I don't need a palace to stay. This way."

They squeezed into a khaki tram. The height of the tram was too low for the Primarch, but fortunately the width of the clanking door allowed him to enter. If, as often happens - half the door is stuck and won't open, it just won't work.

As the evening wore on, the color of the sky condensed into a dull bruise, the flow of people increased, then decreased. Morse and Perturabo had already taken a ride from outside the edge of the city into the urban area where land was at a premium. Most of their fellow travelers were going to work the night shift.

"The distribution of these factories is very confusing," Perturabo commented, not even in the mood to express his suggestions for revision, or maybe there was just too much content to finish at once. "For example, here, this is a food factory, over there is a tram repair shop, and below them, there is a sewage purification plant, but on top is a steel foundry."

"The Department of the Interior still doesn't have enough manpower," Morse said.

The suspended rails passed over his head, stretching for miles, tangled in tangled threads on a thin, needle-like column. Below the neon commercial electronic screens high above, plastic tarps and rusty dangerous structures climb like moss, squeezing out narrow passages. A large amount of graffiti paint is splashed on the unattended wall. Black and colored lines compete for territory on the dirty and dripping damp wall. It is full of sharp words and crude and obscene paintings.

At a later time, the cheap taverns near the factories and various related institutions would be crowded with people, squeezing diesel-smelling liquid into their throats, paired with some organic chemical synthetic energy bars, and some gray and white popular sauces, filling their stomachs with things that maintain life limits and are not conducive to digestion.

"The spire of the Terra Palace is completely invisible here," Morse looked into the distance, "the buildings are denser."

"Not absolutely, at some angles, you can see the basic outline of the palace in the distance in the gap." Perturabo replied.

A few guys wearing torn jackets, with oil paint on their faces and a bunch of scars on their arms mixed with their own ink tattoos passed by him. I don't know what they saw through the illusion created by Morse, and they laughed provocatively. Perturabo looked at them calmly. After a few seconds, the faces of these guys became gloomy, and they walked away with their shoulders hunched and bent.

"A smell of blood," Morse said, "I fixed my olfactory system."

"Fighting." Perturabo spat out a word. Injuries are common here. If someone in the family works in the medical workstation under the relevant agency, life will become much more convenient. Or you can slowly queue up and bet that you can see the medical staff who are so tired that they can't open their eyes before the wounds scab over and recover.

They changed to a magnetic rail tram and were buried in the smell of oil mixed with sweat and blood in the carriage. Perturabo felt that there were particularly many injured people walking on the street today. He began to wonder if there was an unknown safety accident in a factory.

Morse still maintained his body. Perturabo found that he was glad that Morse didn't simply turn back into a thin layer of skin for him to carry away.

After getting off the car again, the shuttles and drones overhead became denser. They came and went in a hurry, with noisy engine sounds. The hooks and discs were hanging boxes of well-packed unknown items. Their uses were unknown. Apart from the standard emblem of the Sky Eagle, there were no signs of the Chamber of Commerce or the factory, nor the personal emblems of the Imperial administrative agencies or even the local surrendered warlords.

What puzzled Perturabo even more was that the models of those aircraft, if he was not mistaken, should be modified military drones serving in the Imperial Navy Fleet, and should not appear carelessly over Terra.

"No dangerous goods... Very interesting," Morse noticed those flying mechanical products. This was the convenience of supernatural power. He could see through the contents of the package from a distance of dozens of meters, and this made his expression fluctuate slightly.

A larger shuttle flew by nearby, rubbing the ground, blocking their sight. The hatch opened, the crew members held up the data board and shouted loudly. Under the escort of the law enforcers, the goods needed by the factory were quickly unloaded, the cargo boxes were stuffed back into the cabin, and the shuttle flew away again, turning into a black dot again.

After only a few minutes, the batch of drones in the sky had all disappeared and arrived at their destination.

"My building is in the core of the city," Perturabo introduced, walking with Morse, "I didn't take the whole building, I only used the top floor of that building. It is far enough from the ground, so you can see the golden buildings of the Terra Palace. The lower floor of that building is currently rented out for a fee. Because it has the best location and building conditions in the city planning, the rent is unaffordable for ordinary workers. Some businessmen and officials on business trips will choose there."

"How often do you come here to live?" Morse asked.

"I sleep directly in the webway more often to deal with emergencies," the Lord of Iron answered objectively. "But normally... there won't be so many people here."

They followed the crowd forward. More than two thousand people lined up in this passage. The number of women and the elderly was particularly large. Together with the children they held or held, the ratio to adult men reached seven to three. Except for children who were not old enough to work, everyone wore similar low-quality clothes, which were uniform work clothes from various factories.

Uncomfortable coughs spread suppressedly among the tired and weak people, but no one left. Then, two Olympians with extraordinary hearing heard some sighs from the crowd.

Several people wearing gray and black robes with crosses painted on their chests were talking in an unheard language. Their expressions were full of sadness, and they kept shaking their heads. At the same time, they walked slowly in the team, trying to maintain basic order in a soothing way.

Morse simply read their minds: "They said this would cause cross-infection, but there is no better way." Perturabo blinked in confusion, using the Primarch's vision and his usual mechanical assistance to see the faces of several people in the distance: "Those people - the mortals gathered downstairs where I live, they are big merchants in this area... Wait a minute," Perturabo connected to the data board and checked the house rental report for the past few months, "Yes, they rented the lower half of this building." "But it looks like they are distributing bread," Morse said, "This is too unusual." As they got closer, more people in robes came over, with a golden belt with scriptures hanging on their raised left arms, holding spray bottles in their hands, and spraying mist on the crowd like rain. The crowd accepted it meekly. The Primarch was even more surprised to identify the antibacterial components in the mist. If the antibacterial agent used by the Astartes pharmacist is diluted several times and supplemented with some mild auxiliary ingredients, this kind of spray can be obtained - but the cost is undoubtedly extremely expensive.

"It's disinfecting," Morse commented, smiling a little more.

The queue was indeed long, but the flow was not slow. Soon, under the incredibly sincere care of those shrewd businessmen in the past, it was Morse and Perturabo's turn to enter the ground floor of the building.

The once strong smell of detergent and the sour smell of low-quality amasec wine in the hall was swept away, turning into a light freshener smell extracted from natural plants. The stained walls were simply shoveled off and covered with light-colored wooden boards. No new paint was applied, probably because it was too harsh. New warm-colored lamps hang from the ceiling, and the floor is covered with light-colored carpet. A broken elevator was repaired. Sometimes someone wearing a mask, with their hair fixed with a hat, carrying a stretcher covered with a clean white cloth, hurried back and forth between different floors.

The noisy and dirty world is isolated, and under the bright warm light, only tranquility and peace remain here.

They were not received immediately. About half a minute later, a small mahogany door opened, and a tall man walked out quickly, wearing a black soft cloth robe, with two white crosses, one large and one small, embroidered on his left sleeve and chest. emblem, with an Eagle Holy Medal hanging around his neck.

He sat down at the table by the door, picked up a pen, dipped it in ink, spread out the thick register book, and looked at the standing mortals. Even through the mask, you can see this person's peaceful smile.

He said apologetically in a soothing tone: "There was a little temporary matter in the group just now. I have been waiting for a long time. Please describe your condition to me in general, okay? Don't be afraid, we will try our best to help you."

Perturabo hesitated to speak.

Morse said: "We are not sick, we just followed others and accidentally queued in. Where is this?"

The man was stunned for a moment, then smiled good-naturedly: "It doesn't matter, this is Mulistan, the mobile medical center of our regiment. The entrance is indeed crowded. This is a problem that we failed to arrange well. Since there is no disease, If you need any other help, please go over there..."

He raised his hand and pointed in a direction.

"We are also willing to do other things for you. Your well-being is the best reward."

Following the direction of his finger, you can see another reception area, where two or three residents with sallow faces and skinny muscles are gathered. They are following the receptionist's instructions, getting some bread and water, and waiting for the elevator. Some hungry people couldn't wait to stuff their food into their mouths, but the host gently advised them not to worry.

Above the reception desk, high on the wall, an imperial golden eagle flag was hung in the center. On both sides, slightly lower, were a book flag with burning flames and another flag with a white cross on a red background.

The people behind them were already eager to come in for medical treatment. Perturabo and Morse consciously walked away without disturbing the work flow here, and came to the relatively leisurely reception area. The receptionist nodded to them: "What can we do for you?"

"You are Astartes," Perturabo said suddenly.

"Yes, friends." Astartes replied, pushing two sterilized water glasses to them. "If you are thirsty, please drink some water."

"I thought you were more focused on military missions," said the Primarch, "rather than setting up charity clinics in the hive, warriors of the Emperor."

"This is not war time, my friend. We are born to protect mankind and should do more good deeds. Wealthy citizens donate money to us, and the people of the empire also use taxes to support us. We should return all this to the people."

Astarte did not hesitate to speak and his eyes were sincere. When the two of them did not interrupt, he continued: "He said: Because I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; when I was in a foreign land, you gave me something to drink. You took me in; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you took care of me. Therefore, listen to His word and you will receive the same blessing.”

"Do you still have this time?" Morse asked with raised eyebrows, already knowing the answer to the next paragraph. "Is the Imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs financially bankrupt?"

Astarte shook his head: "He said: As long as you do it to the least of these brothers of mine, you are doing it to me. Therefore, if we do it for you, we are doing it for Him."

"Which legion are you from?" Perturabo said, his voice becoming a little emotional.

"The Seventeenth Legion, the Word Bearers." Astartes smiled and said frankly.