Inside the Governor's office, Raynor leaned back in his high-backed chair, his fingers unconsciously stroking a small creature resting on his lap.
It was a purple creature, roughly the size of a palm, covered in a fine, smooth chitinous shell. Its body was streamlined, with six slender limbs curled against its abdomen, and its two eyes were narrowed in a comfortable squint. This was a miniature Lacewing—or more precisely, a specialized bio-vessel currently inhabited by Sarah's primary consciousness.
Raynor had always preferred Sarah's insectoid forms to the stiff, artificial human guise of "Isud." To him, the Swarm was her true self. A soft, warm, and vibrant pulse traveled from the creature into his fingertips. He looked down at the little thing, his expression complicated.
The system interface flickered into his mind, displaying Sarah's status: [Favorability: 54.2]
Progress was agonizingly slow. A pang of guilt welled up in Raynor's chest. He lacked the ability to provide Sarah with the high-quality biomass she needed to evolve further in this environment. He reached out and gently tapped the miniature organism's head. The creature looked up, blinked its compound eyes, and affectionately rubbed against his fingers.
Through their soul connection, Sarah sensed his apology, his helplessness, and the mounting pressure on his shoulders. She sent back a faint, rhythmic pulse of reassurance: It's okay...
Raynor felt even worse. Back in the depths of Necromunda, he could harvest biomass without restraint to feed her growth. In Brevis, everything was different. Food was the most precious resource on this planet—the cornerstone of power and the absolute lifeblood of survival. The Upper Hive nobles controlled the production lines, and through them, they strangled the Middle and Lower Hives.
If Raynor wanted a foothold here, he needed that food. He could no longer simply feed everything to Sarah; he had to use those calories to buy loyalty, exchange favors, and build a power base. It was a mandatory sacrifice of Sarah's growth for his political survival, and though she did not complain, the weight of it sat heavy on him.
"I'm sorry to have put this on you," Raynor whispered.
The creature rubbed against his hand again, then crawled up his arm to find a comfortable spot on his shoulder. His restless heart calmed slightly. Now was not the time for sentimentality.
Raynor had only brought Sarah, Sarah II, and a handful of elite units to Brevis. They were currently hidden in an ice cave roughly a hundred kilometers from the Hive. The seclusion was perfect, but the distance made logistics a nightmare. He needed a "legal" channel to feed the Swarm.
His plan was to establish a "Large-Scale Xenos Biological Research Institute" in the Upper Hive. Its official mandate would be "developing bio-weapons to combat the Greenskin threat." Behind that facade, he would house Sarah and her strain, massing biomass under the guise of classified research. But that plan depended on him first seizing total control over Brevis' resources.
Raynor's eyes sharpened. He touched the creature on his shoulder. "Wait a little longer. I'll make sure you have a feast soon."
Knock, knock.
"Enter," Raynor commanded.
The door opened, and the Butcher walked in. He had traded his combat gear for a formal manager's uniform, though his scarred face still radiated a lethal hostility.
"My Lord," the Butcher bowed.
"Report."
"A preliminary intelligence network has been established," the Butcher said in a low voice. "As instructed, I have distributed the thousand 'compatriots' we brought into the various sectors of the Hive. Eight hundred are in the Lower Hive, where it's easiest to disappear and recruit. Two hundred are in the Mid-Hive, infiltrating the lower tiers of the Industrial Alliance. One hundred are now working in the Upper Hive as servants, cleaners, and low-level clerks."
Raynor nodded. These Genestealer-hybrids would be his eyes and ears.
"Furthermore," the Butcher continued with a savage grin, "we have begun developing local assets. We target the starving, the desperate, and the workers who have lost everything. Faced with hunger, men will pay any price for a meal. We have already recruited approximately 10,000 peripheral members across the Lower Hive. They believe they've joined a 'Mutual Aid Society.' By the time they realize the truth, they'll already be part of the family."
Raynor was satisfied. Ten thousand was a drop in the ocean for a Hive city, but as an intelligence web, it was a formidable start.
"Any actionable intelligence?" Raynor asked.
The Butcher's expression darkened. "The situation is worse than we feared." He stepped to the desk and activated a 3D tactical map. "First, the Frost Forbidden Wall. The Brontë Longsword Star Legion started with 50,000 men two months ago. They are down to 10,000. Ammunition is critical, and medical supplies are gone."
The Butcher sneered. "Support from the Brevis home front is non-existent. The nobles refuse to send their private armies to the walls. They're too busy using their soldiers to guard their own warehouses or to gun down starving civilians who get too close to their estates. Brontë's outsiders are fighting the war alone."
Raynor's face turned grim. "Those bastards are squabbling over scraps while the door is being kicked in."
"Exactly," the Butcher said. "The Twelve Families are at each other's throats for control of the production lines. They have the most food in the Hive, yet they are the ones fighting the hardest to hoard more. As for the Mid-Hive, the Industrial Alliance is still pumping out weapons, but the workers are starving. Efficiency is plummeting. And the Lower Hive..."
The Butcher paused. "A Great Famine has taken hold. We estimate the Lower Hive has lost thirty percent of its population in the last ninety days. Thousands upon thousands of corpses are being processed into corpse-starch, but that food never makes it back down to the people. It's being stockpiled by the nobles or sold on the black market at Tier-1 prices."
Raynor closed his eyes, his mind racing through the logistics of a dying world.