Chapter 44: History is a Meat-Grinder
The rebels stared at Kian, then at each other, their eyes clouding with the bewildered confusion of those who had never been granted the "privilege" of a basic Imperial education.
"What in the Warp is 'Promethium-waste Starch'?" Elder Varick asked, scratching his head.
In the 41st Millennium, humanity could cross the stars, but the average citizen was kept in a state of carefully curated ignorance. On a million worlds, the Imperium practiced "Obscurantism"—the belief that a mind without knowledge is a fortress against heresy. A farmer planted seeds until he died; a worker turned a single bolt for eighty years. They were never told how the rest of the universe functioned.
If these poor souls knew that the galaxy was teeming with world-ending xenos and that their very souls were being eyed by Daemons in the Sump of the mind, they would likely go mad.
Kian sighed and gave them a simplified explanation of nutrient synthesis. The rebels continued to stare at him with disbelief.
"That's impossible," one of the guards spat. "If it's so easy to make food from trash, why do we break our backs in the dirt? Why wouldn't everyone just eat machine-made grain?"
Varick might have been uneducated, but he possessed a sharp, survivalist wisdom. He looked at Kian, waiting for the catch.
"Three reasons," Kian explained, ticking them off on his fingers. "First: It tastes like recycled rot. There's a reason it's nicknamed 'Corpse Starch.' Second: It's barely 'food.' It's a chemical cocktail designed to keep a laborer standing for eighteen hours. Eat it long enough, and your organs fail, your hair falls out, and your lifespan is cut in half.
"Third—and most importantly—this is an Agri-World. Your entire planetary purpose is to export high-grade organic produce to the surrounding sectors. You produce 'Real Food.' You don't know it, but the grain you harvest is a legendary treasure on other worlds.
"Every few months, Imperial bulk-transports descend from the heavens. They take your dehydrated crops and ship them to the Hive Worlds and Forge Worlds. There, your grain is processed into luxury items for the Nobility, the High Clergy, and decorated officers. That is your function in the Emperor's Machine: you are the breadbasket for the elite."
The rebels went quiet. The grain that they viewed as a common, "low-value" resource was actually a high-tier asset in the eyes of the wider Imperium.
Elder Varick felt a sudden chill creep up his spine. "You say our purpose is to provide this 'Real Food' to the stars... what happens if we fail to meet that purpose?"
Kian bared his teeth in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Then you will look up and see steel cathedrals the size of Hive Cities drifting through the clouds. You will see the sky turn red as they rain fire down upon the plains. In that moment, it won't matter if you are an 'Oppressor' or a 'Liberator,' a 'Loyalist' or a 'Hero.' You will all burn together. The Imperium does not tolerate a broken cog."
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a combat blade. Kian had successfully used his knowledge of the "Game Lore" to cow them. He offered guns, tech, and medical supplies—things they couldn't build. In exchange, he wanted their "trash"—the grain.
"Prepare three tons for the first shipment," Kian said, stretching his arms. "Next time I come, I'll bring a PDF-pattern autogun. You have the muscle; you'll be responsible for hauling the grain to the extraction point."
Varick stood up. "I want to speak with you. Alone."
Kian tilted his head. "Lead the way."
They moved into a small, cramped wooden shack. Once the door was barred, Varick's revolutionary mask slipped. He looked tired and desperate.
"If... if we succeed," Varick whispered. "If we execute the Governor and take the Hive... what will the Imperium do to us?"
Kian looked at the man with a newfound respect. To ask such a question meant Varick actually had the foresight to think about the "End-Game."
"The Imperium does not care about the name of the man sitting in the Governor's palace," Kian said bluntly. "They don't care about your 'Revolution.' You can be a democracy, a socialist collective, a slave-state, or a utopia. It's all the same to the High Lords of Terra."
Varick blinked. "Then what do they care about?"
"The Tithe," Kian rasped. "The Imperium only cares about the taxes. If you seize the throne, you must immediately declare your loyalty to the God-Emperor and pay the Tithe—in blood, in coin, and in grain. If the ships leave full, the Administratum will likely never even realize there was a rebellion. They'll just update the name on the ledger."
Varick let out a long, shaky breath of relief. To him, the path seemed simple now: pay the tax, and they could be free of the Governor's cruelty.
Kian watched him and began to laugh—a cold, dark cackle that echoed in the tiny room.
"Look at you. You think you've found an escape?" Kian mocked. "Do you think the Imperial Tithe is light? Why do you think the Governor was 'exploiting' you so hard? Because the Departmento Munitorum demanded more grain for the wars in the neighboring sector!
You don't actually think that replacing the Planetary Governor will make the world a better place, do you?"
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