As the final spark of current surged into his body, the battery icon in the upper-right corner of Andy's vision finally turned into a reassuring, solid green.
100%.
The sense of weakness and the constant fear of a sudden system crash vanished instantly. In its place was the absolute clarity brought by his core processor running at full power. Andy even felt his thinking speed accelerate.
He unplugged the data probe from his finger and checked the still-blinking STC signal source.
[Standard Template Construct - Fragment: Beta-Class Hydroponic Farm]
[Status: Standby]
[Estimated Output: High-calorie starch blocks, vitamin synthetics, purified water.]
In Andy's eyes, these words were more alluring than any bolter or power armor. In the underhives of Warhammer 40K, food was the ultimate hard currency, and clean food was the gold standard.
The low-level civilians of the Imperium usually subsisted on "Corpse Starch." The name alone told you everything you needed to know about the ingredients: recycled deceased humans, mixed with various fillers and preservatives, and pressed into rock-hard bricks. It tasted like a blend of ancient grease and sand, and long-term consumption led to various forms of chronic poisoning. Yet, even so, underhivers would go absolutely feral for a single block of it.
A hydroponic farm capable of producing green plants and clean starch meant Andy could establish a real base in this godforsaken place. Only with a full stomach would people have the strength to mine, smelt steel, and build production lines.
The STC in Andy's mind was merely a database, whereas the "STC fragments" found in the world usually referred to hardware carriers containing partial production data or functional "black box" facilities.
More importantly, the industrial environment of 40K was abysmal. Although Andy possessed hundreds of thousands of blueprints—ranging from "Automated Photosynthetic Factories" to "Planetary-Scale Agro-Ecospheres"—he couldn't manufacture them yet. Currently, he couldn't even produce a single screw to STC standards.
This "Beta-Class Hydroponic Farm" fragment likely contained a set of adaptive production hardware, or at least a low-spec blueprint that could run on the junk materials available now. This was exactly what Andy needed most. He was determined to get it.
Andy retracted his data cables and pushed open the heavy blast door of the energy room. The air in the hall was no longer so suffocating. The air cycler he had repaired was humming steadily. The previously listless refugees now seemed to have a bit of spirit; a few children were even running around in the corners. Such was the power of oxygen.
Gamma-9 was still waiting respectfully at the door, clutching the battered card reader. When he saw Andy emerge, his single cybernetic eye lit up instantly.
"Archmagos, is your meditation complete?" Gamma-9 scurried forward, his voice full of anticipation. He was now convinced that Andy had been engaged in some high-dimensional spiritual communion with the Omnissiah.
Andy spared him a glance and gave a curt nod. It seemed that maintaining an air of mystery was the best way to control these zealots.
Andy's gaze swept across the hall, finally landing on a few guards patrolling with iron pipes and crude spears. Too weak. Since he had decided to settle in this refuge and lead a team to find the STC, this level of defense was essentially a death sentence.
"Take me to the armory," Andy said coldly.
Gamma-9 faltered for a moment, then broke into a state of ecstasy. Archmagos was going to bless their armaments! He eagerly led the way, bringing Andy to a locked iron cage on the other side of the hall.
"This is our sacred armory, where the sanctified weapons collected by generations of Priests are kept," Gamma-9 said, opening the cage with a massive ring of keys.
Andy walked in and looked around. His logic core nearly threw an error on the spot. This was an armory? It was a clearance section for a scrap yard.
The racks held seven or eight lasguns, a few solid-slug autoguns, and a pile of rusted chainswords. Andy picked up a lasgun.
Good grief. The cooling vents of the gun were sealed tight with red prayer wax, and even the power cell interface was slathered in thick grease. The Mechanicus followed an incredibly moronic logic: they believed heat was the "Machine Spirit's fury," and if it dissipated too quickly, the spirit would catch a cold.
Thus, they liked to block cooling vents to "keep the spirit warm." If someone fired ten consecutive shots with this gun, the barrel would undoubtedly overheat and explode.
Andy picked up an autogun. This one was even more ridiculous. The chamber was full of sand—fine, golden sand.
"What is this?" Andy asked, pointing at the sand.
Gamma-9 looked pious. "That is Sacred Lubricant Sand, Archmagos. Every grain has undergone three binary prayers to ensure the bullets slide out more smoothly."
Sacred Lubricant Sand my foot. Pouring sand into a firing chamber? Were they trying to wear out the barrel on purpose? Andy's blood pressure was spiking. It was a miracle these people had survived this long; either that, or the mutants they fought were even more incompetent.
"Get all this trash out of here." Andy slammed the sand-filled autogun onto the table with a loud clang.
Gamma-9 jumped. "Archmagos, these are—"
"Disassemble."
Andy spoke only one word. He extended his metallic hands, moving so fast they left afterimages.
Click-clack, snap.
In less than ten seconds, the autogun was stripped into a pile of components. Andy picked up the recoil spring, pointing at the rust and the reversed clip.
"The spring is backwards, the firing pin is severely worn, and then there's this damned sand." As Andy spoke, he grabbed a rag and began scrub the parts frantically. No sacred oils, no prayers—just pure, violent cleaning. He dumped all the sand onto the floor and scraped off the red wax.
Gamma-9 watched, his heart thumping in his chest. In his eyes, Andy's behavior was borderline sacrilegious, something that surely would invite the Omnissiah's wrath. But as Andy's fingers danced, the parts were reassembled.
Click.
The final, crisp sound of interlocking metal echoed. A clean, unadorned autogun now sat in Andy's hand. Andy racked the bolt.
Clack-chk!
The sound was crisp and sharp, without a hint of lag or friction. That beautiful metallic strike made Gamma-9 fall silent instantly. Although it lacked the scent of sacred oil, the aura of lethality the gun now radiated was ten times stronger than before.
Just as Andy was about to toss the gun to Gamma-9 to let him test it—
"WAAAOOOOH—!!!"
A shrill alarm suddenly rang through the hall. This wasn't a machine failure alarm. It was an external intrusion alert.
The refugees in the hall panicked instantly, screams rising from every corner. A blood-stained sentry stumbled in from outside, shouting as he ran:
"Skinners! It's the Skinner Gang! They've blasted open the outer gates! They're inside!"
The Skinner Gang—the most notorious raiders of the underhive. They enjoyed flaying their victims and wearing the skins as decoration, both as a deterrent and a twisted totem. Gamma-9 dropped his staff, his Tech-Priest composure vanishing as he shook like a leaf.
"It's over... it's over... our guards can't stop them..."
The hall was in total chaos, with people running around like headless flies. Amidst the madness, only Andy stood still.
His vision was shifting. The engineering maintenance interface faded, replaced by a dark red tactical analysis overlay.
[Hostile targets detected.]
[Threat Level: Low.]
[Combat Protocol: Activated.]
Although Iron Men came in many models—some for construction, some for research—in the Dark Age of Technology, even an Iron Man designed to unclog toilets came with a full infantry combat database. In that era, any Iron Man possessed a level of general intelligence beyond human imagination.
Andy looked up. His electronic eyes, which had been flickering with a soft blue light, suddenly turned a cold, predatory crimson. Holding the repaired autogun in one hand, he yanked the trembling Gamma-9 to the side with the other.
"Shut up."
Andy's voice wasn't loud, but it carried through the speakers to every corner of the hall with an irresistible authority.
"Everyone, get behind cover."
He turned toward the gate that was about to be breached and racked the bolt once more.