Chapter 20: Operation Drought
"Are you certain?" Petros's voice was sharp. "Tzeentchian and Khornate cultists?" He was skeptical. The main continent was clean.
Phelon thumped his chestplate, his voice indignant. "Boss, how long did we live on a daemon world in the Eye? You think I can't smell the taint when it's right under my nose?"
He produced a pouch of dried herbs. "They chew this stuff, too. I had Dioscorides run a scan. It's all stimulants and hallucinogens."
Petros had been worried Phelon was mistaken—that he'd just found primitive totem-worshippers high on local narcotics. After all, how could two continents on the same world, separated for millennia, have such a vast difference in corruption?
But he trusted his Warpsmith. "Fine. Gather all available brothers. We'll see this for ourselves. And... bring the new Tech-Priest, Yamila."
Ten hours later, in a village of hide tents, the fires still burned, but the ground was littered with over a hundred corpses. Nineteen Battle-Brothers of the Forged Steel secured the perimeter.
Apothecary Dioscorides and Priestess Yamila Burke were conducting the post-mortem.
"He was right," Dioscorides reported, his narthecium tools retracting. "Superficially, they look human. Internally, there is moderate mutation. Their biology is warped by the Empyrean. Traces of Khornate blessing are present."
Priestess Yamila's voice was a sharp, magnetic buzz. [Fifth random sample, spanning five continental sectors. Conclusion: The majority of the human population on this continent is corrupted by the entities 'Khorne' and 'Tzeentch'.]
Petros joined them. "So they're useless. They can't be used for industrial labor or formed into a disciplined auxilia. Leaving them alive is a liability."
[Error. Negative,] Yamila buzzed. [Moderate mutation is acceptable. They retain value as servitor-stock. The Tzeentch cultists also include unsanctioned psykers. They hold... significant value.]
Petros looked at the Tech-Priest. She was a logician, not a soldier. "Priestess, if they gathered in one place, we could net them. But we don't have time to hunt them across an entire continent, village by village. There are a million of them. My brothers will not waste their time chasing primitives."
[Error. Negative,] she replied. [The continent possesses a dynastic kingdom, worshipping the 'Feathered Serpent' entity, Tzeentch. They have constructed small pyramids. Their capital region holds over 100,000 souls. A second, separate collective of 70,000 Khornate tribes, who worship the 'Blood-Handed Slaughterer,' exists in the north.]
Antonius, ever-impatient, scoffed. "So, two big tribes of primitives. We make one push, they'll just scatter into the wilderness. Why are we wasting time on this? A few orbital lance strikes would scour this entire continent clean."
Yamila's mechadendrites twitched. [These are the only two locations for mass-capture. This acquisition is, theoretically, 40% more cost-effective than importing servitor-stock from off-world.]
Petros considered the dilemma. It was a situation of 'tasteless to eat, a pity to waste.' He could purge the continent from orbit... but it was their homeworld. The cults weren't an immediate threat, just an infestation. And the land itself... it was fertile, lush, and vast. Perfect for agriculture. He was loath to destroy it with lance-fire.
"Priestess Yamila," Petros said, a new plan forming. "How long to construct a continental weather-control array?"
Yamila was confused. [Per the existing development plan, the weather-grid is scheduled for Year Seven.]
"Expedite it. Now."
The Tech-Priest stood motionless, her internal cogitators running the query. [Acknowledged. Pausing all non-critical projects. Re-allocating resources. Estimated completion: 2.4 standard Terran years.]
"Good." Petros nodded, then opened his command-vox. "Vornab, Phelon. To my position."
The two sergeants joined him. His command staff was assembled.
"Here is the new strategy," Petros began. "The Dark Mechanicum will prioritize the construction of the weather-grid. The moment it is operational, we begin.
"We will systematically stop the rain. We'll start at the coasts and move inland, creating an ever-tightening circle of drought. The outer tribes will be forced to migrate toward the center, toward the last sources of water. The old, the weak, and the sick will be culled by the journey.
"We will spend a year or two using thirst to herd them. The survivors who reach the central zone will be the strongest. The 'shamans' and leaders will be among them.
"Then, in that one, small, contained area, we will harvest. Anyone who tries to flee the 'safe zone' will die of thirst in the wasteland we've created. Anyone who stays will face us.
"We will take our servitor-stock and our psykers. After the harvest, we will keep the drought going for another few years. A... gentle... way to purge the continent's native ecosystem. When we are done, we will turn the rain back on, and plant our own crops on the fertile soil."
Vornab, the stoic sergeant, considered this. "It is a perfect plan, my Lord. Its only flaw is the time it will take. On any civilized world, it would be impossible—the enemy would destroy the grid, or simply fly away. Here... it is flawless. This continent is a jungle. No one stores water. A long-term, artificial drought will be... inescapable. The captured assets are a bonus, and we preserve the soil itself."
Vornab nodded his assent. The others agreed. The strategy, designated "Operation Drought," was set.
And on that continent, a million souls and countless living things had no idea that their fate had just been sealed by a handful of men, standing in the ruins of a forgotten village.
With the strategy set, the Astartes boarded their lander and returned to the main continent. They had what they needed for that operation. Now, they had to attend to the other priority.
They had gene-seed.
It was time to begin the most sacred and vital task of any Astartes chapter.
It was time for The Reaping.