Chapter 41: The Development Bottleneck
Petros and Antonius strode from the landing pad toward the heavy manufactorum sector, their power armor gleaming silver in the sun.
In truth, ever since their supplies had stabilized, all the Battle-Brothers had kept their wargear in pristine condition. They were Iron Warriors by stock, after all; their skills at the forge and in maintenance were superior to most Legions. The veterans were now passing this knowledge to the neophytes, though their aptitudes varied wildly.
The moment Petros stepped off the Storm Eagle, he unsealed his helmet. A nearly-bald manufactorum foreman and a low-level Dark Mechanicum Tech-Priest hurried to greet them.
"My Lord Astartes," the foreman groveled, "welcome. I am the overseer here." He then nervously began to recite the manufactorum's basic output statistics.
They toured the assembly line. Giant hydraulic presses roared, stamping sheets of plasteel into vehicle hulls. Servitors, their arms ending in auto-welders, fused the components in showers of sparks, each movement precise and automated.
The factory ran on a combined workforce of mortal labor and servitors, operating 24 hours a day to produce groundcars, heavy haulers, and motorbikes. A separate line was dedicated to small, atmospheric flyers.
The sweating foreman continued, "The workers understand the urgency, my Lord. We are running two shifts, constant overtime..."
A grating buzz cut him off. The Tech-Priest spoke, its voice a synthesized monotone: [Error. Current manufactorum efficiency is 73.37% of projection. Further optimization is possible.]
Petros said nothing. He walked to a part of the line where a female worker, her face hidden by a rebreather, was spray-painting a hauler's door. She flinched as his shadow fell over her. Petros ignored her and inspected the finished plasteel door. He extended one gauntleted finger and poked. The metal visibly dented under the pressure.
Just as he thought. Civilian-grade. Autogun fire would tear it to shreds. It was fine for hauling cargo, but only the most desperate, ill-equipped militia would mount a stubber on it and call it a combat vehicle.
Petros let out a quiet, dissatisfied sigh. The foreman flinched. The Tech-Priest, as ever, remained impassive.
The foreman gathered his courage. "My Lord, is... is something wrong with the work?"
Petros looked at the man. "No, Foreman. You are doing well. I respect the labor of your workers."
"It is our honor to serve you, my Lord!" the foreman replied, bowing rapidly.
Petros continued, "And the workers' rations?"
"They are well-fed, my Lord! Mainly corpse-starch and synth-paste, supplemented with kelp-tins and fish-protein. They even get real bread and wine on occasion."
By Imperial standards, it was a feast. The corpse-starch produced as a byproduct of Lemnos III's promethium refineries was enough to feed the entire 11-million-soul population. This was the benefit of an alliance with a Forge World. But the planet's population was not going to stay at that level for long.
The Dark Mechanicum had prioritized sea-freight and the vehicle industry to move materials. Next came the power grid, promethium pipelines, and the expansion of the chemical and textile industries. After that, they would lay high-speed rail, allowing men and materiel to cross the continent in hours.
Ground-side development was proceeding. Space-side was another matter. Ever since Magos Morlock had left, work on their orbital starport had slowed to a crawl. A skeleton crew of servitors and a few low-level priests made a show of construction, but the main Dark Mechanicum force had relocated. They were working overtime on Lemnos IV, their new planet. They had already established multiple mining operations and were building their own starport. When Petros learned of this, he finally understood: the 50-year deadline had been a joke. They could finish the work much faster; they were simply choosing not to.
"Are there any difficulties in production?" Petros asked.
The foreman scrambled to answer. "No, my Lord! None at all!"
Petros's frown deepened. "I want the truth, Foreman. If you have problems, I will solve them. If you lie, and quotas are not met, the consequences will be... different."
The foreman glanced at the impassive Tech-Priest. The priest was untouchable. He was not. "My Lord... yes. The natives... they don't speak High Gothic. It's difficult. They lack basic technical knowledge. We can't expand the lines. We need more skilled labor. We need engineers."
Petros nodded. "I will solve it."
They moved on to the flyer assembly line. A sudden, piercing scream rang out. They rushed over to find a young male worker, his hand mangled and caught in a heavy stamping-press.
"AAGGHH!" he shrieked, as his co-workers tried uselessly to pull him free. The machine was in safety-lockdown. It would require a Tech-Priest to reset it. The safety mechanism, of course, was designed to protect the machine from the worker, not the other way around.
The Tech-Priest's vox buzzed. [Machine is locked. No structural damage detected. Disassembly is required to remove the organic blockage. Calculating... probability of retaining biological function in the limb is 86.4% and decreasing. Factoring production downtime... amputation is the optimal solution.]
The Tech-Priest turned its optical lenses to Petros. Antonius, ever the pragmatist, had already drawn his combat knife to perform the "procedure," but Petros put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
Petros strode past the priest, knelt, and gripped the two massive steel components that had trapped the worker. With a grunt of effort, he bent the steel, prying the gap open. The worker's mangled hand was pulled free.
Petros tore a strip of cloth from his own robe and applied a tourniquet. "Take him to the medicae," he ordered the foreman. "If the chirurgeon cannot save the hand, he is to receive a bionic replacement. At our expense."
The foreman, stunned, scrambled to obey.
After they had gone, the Tech-Priest buzzed again. [Machine requires repair. Estimated downtime: 36 standard hours. Addendum: The bionic. The worker is unskilled. The cost of a replacement worker is lower.]
Petros nodded. "I know. But the mortals of this planet must believe we care for them—even if it is an act. It ensures compliance. I will have this... act of compassion... publicized."
The Tech-Priest's internal cogitators whirred, failing to compute the long-term value of this inefficient sentiment. It finally replied: [...Acknowledged.]