Chapter 38: Orbital Strike and Homeworld Development
High in orbit, the engines of The Ironclad fired, adjusting its position until it was locked in geosynchronous station over the continent. Deep within the frigate, the lance batteries began to charge.
A moment later, a beam of coherent, crimson energy lanced down from the void, striking the battlefield where Petros had fought the daemonic host. A second beam followed, and a third, systematically purging the land. The orbital bombardment scoured a dozen square kilometers, vaporizing the ruins of the pyramid and everything else in the blast zone.
The lances' intense energy burned the earth, superheating the crust and triggering a reaction with the silicate bedrock.
In the strike's outer ring, all organic matter was incinerated. The humus and moisture were boiled away, leaving the land sterile. Nothing would grow there for decades.
In the strike's epicenter, the soil and rock melted, fused, and re-crystallized. The very structure of the earth was altered, becoming a solid, glass-like sheet of neo-ceramic. It was no longer soil, but an artificial granite that would require heavy mining equipment to break. The land had been "glassed."
This was precisely why Petros had refused to use it on the entire continent. Such an act would have rendered the land uninhabitable, useless for agriculture or life. The Dark Mechanicum could have mined the new "rock," but the land's true value would have been lost.
But now, the war was over. Petros had reclaimed the continent, though it had cost him two brothers: Fledri and Kolin.
The Dark Mechanicum's calculations were promising. This one continent, if cultivated, could feed 10 to 15 billion people, even without resorting to extreme industrial farming.
For now, "Operation Drought" would continue. The 5-to-10-year planned drought would serve as a "gentle" exterminatus, purging the continent of its remaining native, and tainted, ecosystem.
In the meantime, the Dark Mechanicum would deploy its own mining operations, building fertilizer manufactories, servitor-processing plants, and agricultural machinery factories.
Priestess Yamila had, of course, protested: [Error. Corpse-starch production is sufficient. Agricultural continent is unnecessary.]
A month passed.
Petros, having shed his power armor for simple grey robes, sat at his desk in the Fortress-Monastery. He was signing parchment requisitions, approving Phelon's requests for ammunition and maintenance materials for the armory.
A servitor would take the signed parchment to Priestess Yamila. She would provide the materials at the pre-agreed price, and the cost would be deducted from the Warband's "account"—a share of the planetary resources held in trust by the Dark Mechanicum. It was all very convenient.
Petros knew, of course, that the Dark Mechanicum was skimming. He knew their resource-extraction reports were fraudulent. But he had neither the time nor the energy to audit them. It was more efficient to let them handle the mining, refining, and logistics.
His brothers were warriors, not logisticians. And his mortals... perhaps they would skim less, but their output wouldn't be a fraction of what the Mechanicum could produce.
He had to admit, the Tech-Priests had been industrious. In seven years, they had stabilized the planetary climate and laid the groundwork for industry.
Hundreds of massive kelp-farms, some stretching for dozens of kilometers, now floated in the seas, producing feed for livestock and base-nutrients for the populace.
Shipyards were building steel-hulled industrial trawlers, which dragged the ocean depths for anything that could be ground into protein bars—shelf-stable rations that could last for a century.
And then there was the corpse-starch. With the promethium refineries on Lemnos III, IV, and V now operating at full capacity, the supply of their primary by-product vastly outstripped demand. The planet's slaves and lowest-caste workers lived on it.
On the main continent, the Dark Mechanicum's great-machines were leveling hills that the natives had once considered mountains, clearing vast tracts for industrial farming. They had introduced new crops, like cotton. They were even building hab-blocks, "cast" from powdered rock and chemical binders. The new homes were popular, even if they were weak, barely able to support three stories.
A light military-industrial base was also in place, producing flak armor, lasguns, autoguns, heavy stubbers, grenade launchers, and missile launchers.
But these were not the weapons of a real war.
Petros frowned. The Dark Mechanicum, for all their help, was jealously guarding the true tools of power. They were throttling his Warband's development.
Leman Russ battle tanks. Basilisk artillery platforms. Hydra flak tanks. Chimera APCs. Medusa siege tanks. Fury Interceptors and Valkyrie gunships.
For these, the Dark Mechanicum would only sell him the finished product. They refused, at every turn, to provide the schematics or the production lines.
And as for the real wargear—Power Armor, Terminator Armor, Bolters, Voidships, or Exterminatus-class torpedoes—that was out of the question. They even restricted the production of plasma, melta, and hellguns.
Every time he brought the request to Priestess Yamila, the response was the same, delivered in her flat, synthesized voice:
[Acknowledged. Purchase is authorized.]
Petros slammed his fist on the desk. "I know I can buy it, you cog-headed witch!"