Midtown Brevis, Ryan Union Headquarters.
This building was a stark contrast to the ornate, delicate mansions of the Upper Hive.
Constructed with a rugged steel frame and heavy reinforced ferro-crete, its square shape and sharp edges exuded a brutalist industrial aesthetic. In the Imperium of Man, a noble's birthday banquet was rarely a simple celebration. More often than not, it was a display of class status, a theater for political collusion, and a means to consolidate power networks.
The purpose of today's banquet was obvious to everyone attending: survival.
Raynor was currently sitting inside an ordinary armored personnel carrier (APC) parked outside the main gate of the Ryan Union headquarters, waiting for the festivities to begin. He kept a low profile today. Instead of arriving in the lavish limousine adorned with gold trim and the planetary governor's flag, he had casually chosen a standard-issue gray-green armored vehicle from a PDF unit. Its simple lines made it inconspicuous among the other high-end transports parked in front of the union.
He had brought only two companions with him: Dobby and Isod. Guss had been left at the Governor's Mansion to manage daily affairs. After all, as an "adjutant" and a highly educated man, Guss needed to be kept busy with the bureaucracy of the state.
Raynor was carefully reading the intelligence displayed on his dataslate. He was reviewing the detailed profile Carter had compiled regarding President Trevor Ryan, the central figure of today's event.
Trevor Ryan. Male. 56 years old. Fifth President of the Ryan Union.
The family history was notable: his great-great-grandfather had been instrumental in supporting the Governor during the suppression of a minor xenos incursion during Brevis's early transformation into a Hive World. For his service, he was granted the title of "Honorary Prince" and ten PDF-pattern equipment production lines.
At its peak, the union controlled ten fully automated lines. Its monthly capacity included one million lasguns, one million sets of flak armor, one hundred million las-packs, and two million grenades. Trevor had long served as one of the three chairmen of the Industrial Alliance, responsible for seventy percent of the PDF's infrastructure supply.
However, since Trevor took office, the market for PDF equipment had become saturated. With the Ork invasion of the sector, the fall of the Dolly system, the outbreak of the food crisis, and the subsequent shrinking of the local PDF, demand for equipment had plummeted. Currently, only two factories were operating at low capacity, and the business had shrunk to ten percent of its peak size. The chairmanship of the Industrial Alliance had been seized by the President of the Weber Union two years ago.
The Ryan Union currently supported approximately four million workers and their families. Their food reserves were estimated to last only one more month. Trevor Ryan had recently been desperately contacting various parties to seek food supply channels, but with little success.
Raynor deactivated the dataslate and looked toward the union gate. The doors were cast from a heavy alloy, engraved with the wrenches and hammers that symbolized the Industrial Alliance. Guests were filing in, most dressed in sturdy work clothes or simple formal attire, carrying lockboxes of various sizes.
Inside those boxes were "Grain Cards"—the "gifts" for the evening. In Brevis's current climate, the only practical gift was food.
Raynor listened from a distance, using the enhanced auditory sensors of his bionic armor to eavesdrop on the declarations of the gifts.
"One hundred and twenty tons of starch-meal." "Eighty tons of synthetic protein blocks." "Five hundred tons of nutrient paste."
Occasionally, guests in aristocratic finery appeared, their offerings reaching one or two thousand tons. But for a union supporting four million people, this was a drop in the ocean. Bartering equipment for food had always been the way of life in Midtown, but now, the nobles had the food and didn't want more equipment, while the people in the Lower Hive needed equipment but had no food. The entire system was bottlenecked.
He shook his head and looked at Isod beside him. Today, she wore a dark blue long dress, simple in style and devoid of the gaudy decorations favored by Hive royalty. Her hair was styled in a simple bun, and her light makeup had been applied by Raynor himself. While Sarah could inhabit and control the body, she had zero interest in the nuances of human feminine aesthetics.
Isod sat quietly, maintaining her role as Raynor's companion. He reached out and gently took her hand.
"Let's go," he said.
The three of them walked toward the union gate. Raynor wasn't wearing his Governor's uniform; instead, he wore a dark gray casual outfit with a heavy windproof overcoat. He looked like a minor businessman or a low-ranking noble.
Dobby followed behind him, clad in specially modified, oversized PDF carapace armor. Standing at 2.6 meters tall and fully armed, the Ogryn resembled a walking tank.
When they reached the entrance, they were stopped. Two "Iron Guards" stood on either side of the door, wearing heavy gray-black power armor emblazoned with the Industrial Alliance emblem. They carried "Thunder-pattern" heavy bolters, the massive calibers speaking to their stopping power. The Iron Guard was the elite heart of the Alliance's private military, composed of the descendants of loyal workers and comparable to the veterans of the Astra Militarum.
"Invitation, please," the guard on the left commanded, his voice muffled by his helmet's vox-grille. His gaze swept over Raynor before landing warily on the massive Dobby.
Raynor shrugged. "I wasn't aware I needed an invitation to attend."
"You don't," the guard replied, though he didn't lower his weapon. "But an 'admission fee' is required for uninvited guests."
"How much?"
"At least one hundred tons of canned starch-meal, or food of equivalent value."
The guard sized Raynor up again. The young man looked unremarkable, and while he had a large abhuman bodyguard, he likely represented some minor family trying to curry favor with the union. He had seen dozens of his kind already.
"One hundred tons?" Raynor raised an eyebrow.
The guard chuckled inwardly, assuming the price was too high for the boy. He was about to tell them to move along when Raynor spoke again.
"That's all?"
The Iron Guard was taken aback. Raynor turned to Dobby. "Dobby, announce it to the people inside."
"Tell them: Kerry ten thousand tons!"
Dobby's simple face brightened with understanding. He took a massive breath, his barrel chest expanding, and then bellowed into the hall:
"KERRY TEN THOUSAND TONS!"
An Ogryn's lungs were capable of incredible volume. The roar boomed through the union's main gate, echoing off the ferro-crete walls and throughout the entire front hall. The chatter inside died instantly. Then, a wave of frantic whispering broke out.
"Ten thousand tons? Who said that?" "Which Kerry? From the Kerry family?" "Is it a joke? Ten thousand tons of food?!"
The guard stared blankly at Raynor, then at Dobby, his mind struggling to process the number. Raynor ignored him and reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a black card with gold trim.
This was Brevis' hard currency: a "Grain Card." Backed by the Ecclesiarchy, the Noble Council, and the Governor's Office, these cards could be exchanged for physical rations at any official institution.
Raynor casually flicked the card. It spun through the air, and the Iron Guard instinctively caught it. The guard looked down at the engraving in the center:
10,000 TONS — High-Grade Starch (Protein Fortified)
The card bore the Holy Seal of the Ministorum and the Steel Seal of the Governor's Office. It was authentic.
The guard's hand trembled. Ten thousand tons was enough to feed the union's workers for weeks—even longer if stretched with fillers. He looked up to speak, but Raynor, with one hand in his pocket and his other arm linked with Isod, swaggered past him and straight into the headquarters.
The Iron Guard didn't stop him. He clutched the card tightly and turned, sprinting into the compound to find the President.