Andy projected the map in a holographic display. The energy readings from that specific red dot were incredibly tempting.
It was a backup geothermal hub for Forge-7, originally a core node designed to provide industrial steam and electricity for the entire underhive. If he could seize control of that place, he'd have more than enough energy to run a few bioreactors; he could power an entirely automated Titan production line if he wanted to.
However, the red skull icon—the "Extreme Danger" marker provided by the STC—forced Andy to remain calm.
"Gamma-9."
Andy pointed at the red dot. A crimson laser pointer beam pierced through the translucent holographic map, landing on Gamma-9's piously attentive face.
"Whose territory is this?"
Gamma-9 followed Andy's finger, and the aperture of his single mechanical eye constricted sharply. He seemed to possess an indescribable awe for that location.
"Archmagos, that is 'The Pit,'" Gamma-9 lowered his voice, as if afraid of disturbing something lurking deep underground. "It is the holy ground of the 'Ascension Mining Union.'"
"Ascension Mining Union?" Andy repeated the name. It sounded like a perfectly legitimate labor union.
"Yes. They are a group of... very diligent miners." Gamma-9's tone carried a hint of envy; as a Tech-Priest, he deeply appreciated such tireless labor.
"They worship a deity known as the 'Four-Armed Emperor.' It is said that this Emperor has four powerful arms, symbolizing the ultimate efficiency of labor."
"Those miners are all bald, with healthy purplish-red skin. They never rest, they never complain. To better serve the Emperor, some foremen blessed by divine grace have even grown a third or even a fourth arm."
"Their excavation efficiency is ten times our own. The Governor's Palace once sent tax collectors to gather dues, but once those officials entered, they were 'converted' and never came out again."
As Andy listened, a sense of profound wrongness washed over him.
Wait.
Bald, purplish skin, four arms, perfect non-complaining laborers...
Plus that name, the 'Four-Armed Emperor.'
Andy snapped his head up, staring intensely at the red dot on the map.
Holy hell, Genestealers!!
Hardworking miner's union? This is a nest of pure, unadulterated Genestealer Cultists!
Why are there so many old 'acquaintances' everywhere?!
In this malicious universe, if you find your neighbors suddenly becoming exceptionally united, extremely hardworking, and very fond of having children—and those children look a bit strange—you'd better pack your bags immediately, or call for an orbital bombardment.
Genestealers are the vanguard infiltration units of the Tyranid Hive Fleets. They blend into human society, infecting humans through a process known as the "Genestealer's Kiss," implanting alien DNA into the victims.
The victims then produce hybrid offspring that look more human with each generation until they infiltrate high society. These cults establish massive underground networks, hoarding resources through frantic mining while secretly sabotaging planetary defense systems.
When the time is right, they broadcast a psychic signal into deep space. And it won't be some "Four-Armed Emperor" that arrives. It will be the Hive Fleet, blotting out the stars, coming to consume every last gram of organic matter on the planet—including their "pious" believers.
Andy felt a metaphorical chill run down his spine. What kind of "blessed" land was Forge-7? On the surface, there was a useless governor throwing orgies; in the middle layers, there were psychotic gangs obsessed with flaying people; and somewhere, Chaos cultists were likely hiding. Now, he found out the underground was occupied by traitors waiting to gift-wrap the planet for the Tyranids.
The only reason this place hadn't exploded yet was that these different factions of idiots hadn't talked to each other.
Andy immediately drew a mental red "X" over the option of a direct assault on the geothermal hub. What a joke. Right now, he was just a slightly powerful engineering Iron Man with a few dozen rusted guns and several hundred malnourished refugees. If he went deep underground to face thousands of agile, clawed Genestealers who might even possess psychic lightning, he'd just be delivering takeout to their doorstep.
A Purestrain Genestealer's claws could slice through Terminator Power Armor like a hot knife through butter; his engineering plating would be like paper to them.
He had to replan. He'd leave the backup geothermal hub for later, after he had tanks and heavy artillery. For now, the priority was solving the refuge's power grid, which was on the verge of collapse.
"Aside from those four-armed freaks," Andy zoomed out on the map, pointing to the areas surrounding the refuge. "In this sector, who else has power?"
Gamma-9 thought for a moment, his mechanical hand pointing toward another direction on the map. "Let me think... look here. Abandoned Industrial Zone No. 42."
"That is the territory of the 'Rust Brotherhood.'"
"They are a group of outcasts driven away by various gangs, led by a renegade Tech-Priest who was excommunicated from the Mechanicus for various reasons. They occupy an old-era fission power station. Although the reactor core is highly unstable and the cooling pools are leaking, it can still generate electricity as long as you feed it fuel rods."
Gamma-9 paused, his tone becoming somewhat schadenfreude. "However, I hear they've fallen on hard times lately. The fungal farms in that block withered, and they can't fight off the Skinners. Many of them have resorted to eating rats and cockroaches."
Andy's electronic eyes flickered. Short on food, but has electricity. It was exactly what he needed.
Andy looked back at the three bioreactors operating at full capacity in the center of the hall. The first batch of high-yield starch spheres had just been produced and were cooling on metal racks. That was two full tons of high-calorie food. In an underhive filled with starving corpses, food was the hardest of currencies—more precious than gold, more persuasive than a bolter.
Andy could use these starch spheres to trade for access to the power station, or even outright annex the "Rust Brotherhood" through trade. It wasn't impossible. Of course, in a lawless place like the underhive, trade usually required a bit of force as backup.
"Gamma-9."
Andy stood up, the sound of his metal joints grinding making Gamma-9 straighten his back instantly.
"Prepare the vehicle. Get the half-track truck and clear the back. Find a decent container and load a ton of starch spheres onto it."
"Call those dozen guards with guns. Tell them to dress as sharply as possible. Don't let them look like a pack of beggars."
As he spoke, Andy walked toward a workbench in the corner. There lay a twin-linked heavy stubber he had salvaged from a scrap pile yesterday and spent all night repairing. Originally intended for an anti-air turret, its two thick barrels emitted a cold, murderous intent.
Andy lifted the weapon with one hand, checking its weight. Roughly eighty kilograms. For a normal human, this was a heavy weapon requiring a two-man crew; for Andy, it was just a slightly large rifle. He slung two boxes of large-caliber belt ammunition over his shoulders, the golden bullets gleaming under the lights.
"We're going to pay our neighbors a visit," Andy's voice was calm and powerful.
"If they're willing to talk, we'll give them something to eat."
"If they aren't willing to talk..."
Andy racked the slide of the heavy stubber, the massive metallic clack echoing through the hall.
CH-CHACK!!