The synchronized sound of gulping atop the defensive wall echoed loudly across the silent wasteland. Roger Castor stared fixedly at the white starch sphere that had shattered on the ground.
Though it had cracked and gathered a bit of dust, the exposed white interior remained irresistibly tempting. In the upper Spires, such a thing might not even be fed to a noble's pet and would be tossed straight into the trash. But here in the Underhive, with Roger and his group having been without food for three days, it was a priceless treasure.
That impact felt as if it had struck Roger's very heart. What a waste! If used to make porridge, that one sphere could have sustained over a dozen people for the rest of the day!
The metallic giant below seemed completely indifferent to such waste. Andy hoisted the heavy stubber onto his shoulder, rested his other hand on his hip, and looked up at the crowd on the wall. His cybernetic eyes flickered with blue light in the sun; there was no murderous intent, yet he possessed an unsettlingly calm presence.
"Listen up, you lot on the wall!" Andy's voice, amplified by a loudspeaker, reached everyone's ears. "I'm from the neighboring Foundry-7 Underhive Shelter. I don't like beating around the bush. This truck is full of high-yield starch spheres—freshly made and still warm. I want to talk business."
Talk business? Roger's mind raced.
In the Underhive, "talking business" usually meant one party pointing a gun at the other's head and stripping them of everything they owned. But Andy hadn't fired a shot, and he truly had brought a truckload of goods. This was the first time in Roger's life he had seen someone bring food to the door to negotiate.
"Boss, what do we do?" Ben whispered beside him, gripping a cobbled-together lasgun, his palms slick with sweat. "Do we shoot? If we take him out, that whole truck of food is ours!"
For Roger and the Brotherhood, this was an incredibly tempting proposition. The opponent was just one man. Even if that metallic giant looked tough, he was still just one individual. There were over thirty guns on the defensive wall; they could overwhelm him with sheer numbers and sheer sacrifice. By robbing him, the Brotherhood of Rust could survive. This was the law of the Underhive: survival of the fittest, by any means necessary.
Roger's finger brushed against the trigger of his melta pistol, ready to squeeze at any moment. But he hesitated.
A technician's intuition told him things weren't that simple. First, the fact that this man dared to drive through the streets alone with so much food without being robbed by Skinner gangs meant his combat prowess was far beyond what met the eye.
Second, the vehicle.
Roger looked again at the masterfully modified half-track truck. The tuning of the suspension and the logic behind the intake modification were not things an average person could achieve. This suggested the man was backed by a powerful technical team or possessed some form of lost advanced technology. If they killed him, would it invite a more terrifying retaliation? Furthermore, the weapons he carried looked positively brutal—not the gear of someone to be trifled with.
More importantly... Roger looked at the starch sphere on the ground. That was food. If they could establish a stable trade relationship, could they eat like this every day? Was it better to kill the goose for the golden egg, or let the water flow long and steady?
Roger took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to commit robbery.
"Hold your fire!!" Roger shouted, stopping his restless subordinates. He stood up straight, exposing half his body from behind the cover of the wall. "I am Roger Castor of the Brotherhood of Rust!" Roger's voice was also amplified through a speaker. "What kind of business do you want to talk?"
Seeing the figure appear on the wall—especially noting the half-mechanical head and the red cybernetic eye—Andy had a general idea of who he was dealing with. This guy seemed slightly more reliable than that idiot at Gamma-9 who only knew how to recite prayers. At least he knew to ask questions before opening fire for some nonsensical faith.
"Simple. I have food, but I'm short on power," Andy patted the cargo bed behind him. "I want to connect your power grid to my shelter. One kilowatt-hour of electricity for one pound of starch spheres. Long-term cooperation, fair prices for all."
One kilowatt-hour for one pound of food?
Hearing this offer, Roger nearly lost his footing and fell off the wall. This wasn't "talking business"—this was charity! Brother, do you have any idea how much one kilowatt-hour costs at a fission plant?! It was practically zero! As long as the Brotherhood's fuel rods hadn't burned out, electricity was just a constant byproduct. Meanwhile, a pound of starch spheres on the black market was worth at least five hundred rounds of live ammunition or ten standard units of filtered water.
The exchange rate was so absurd that Roger's first reaction was suspicion. Such a brainless offer had to be a trap. The man was either insane or after something else.
"Impossible. I don't believe it," Roger shouted. "No such good deals exist. What do you really want?"
Andy sighed. Communicating with these paranoid people was exhausting. But he understood—in the Warhammer universe, things falling from the sky weren't usually pies, but whirlwind torpedoes or Tyranid spore pods.
"I want stability," Andy planted the heavy stubber on the ground, leaning his hands on the barrel. "I just took out a squad of Skinners and cleared a mine full of mutant plants. I happen to need a stable energy supply to expand production. And..." Andy paused, his tone turning somewhat playful. "I heard you lot are 'Technical Heretics'? As it happens, so am I. I don't like those grease-monkeys who only know how to apply oil and chant. Compared to the others in the shelter, you and I should have much more in common."
This sentence struck Roger's soul. To Roger, all technical heretics in the Underhive were brothers. The shared identity of being a heretic was more lethal than a truckload of food. In a world where they were cast out like garbage by the orthodox Mechanicus, finding a kindred spirit was rare.
Looking at Andy's metal body—free of decoration and purely focused on function—Roger suddenly felt that this was what a machine was meant to be. Wasn't this the minimalism the Brotherhood of Rust had always pursued?
"Let me see the goods," Roger finally relented.
"No problem," Andy said generously. He grabbed a bag from the side of the truck bed containing a dozen sliced starch blocks. Using his arm strength, he sent the bag flying toward the wall like a shell. "Catch!"
The bag landed precisely in the embrasure in front of Roger. He opened the bag cautiously, and a powerful aroma hit him instantly. He picked up a piece; it lacked the black impurities typical of corpse starch and didn't have that nauseating, greasy texture.
He took a bite. It was sweet—possessing the natural sugars accumulated through photosynthesis. Roger's eyes grew slightly moist. He shared the remaining pieces with Ben and the other subordinates.
"It's real..." Ben said through a mouthful of food, his words muffled. "Boss, it's real! It's ten thousand times better than the old stuff!"
The sound of chewing filled the wall; someone even started licking the bag. Watching this, Roger's psychological defenses completely crumbled. Even if it were a trap, even if that unknown combatant charged up the next second to begin a massacre... if it meant his brothers could have one full meal, it was worth it.
"Open the gate!" Roger roared. "Shut down the defense systems! Let him in!!"