Andy's words were like a sledgehammer, shattering the last of Roger Castor's reserve.
He had stated it plainly: the death zone that the Brotherhood of Rust viewed as a forbidden tomb—a place that had claimed the lives of twelve of their finest warriors—was, in the mouth of this bald mechanical giant, merely a "back garden" that needed "a bit of weeding."
And he wasn't bluffing. That truckload of solid, real food was sitting right there.
What did this prove? It proved that the gap in their strength was no longer just a matter of degree; it was a difference in orders of magnitude. Andy could come and go from that place as he pleased and even start production there. This meant that even if every member of the Brotherhood charged him with melta guns, they would likely achieve nothing more than delivering a fresh pile of scrap metal to his doorstep.
Roger was a smart man. Anyone who could become a leader in the Underhive knew exactly when to be tough and when to kneel. Since they couldn't win, and the other party was willing to provide food, the only logical path was to be an obedient subordinate.
The subsequent negotiations proceeded with the simplicity of child's play. Roger didn't even dare to haggle; whatever Andy said was law.
One kilowatt-hour of electricity for one pound of food.
The Brotherhood of Rust would provide the labor and materials to run two high-voltage power lines from the fission plant to the shelter within two days. Additionally, Andy demanded that the Brotherhood provide three technicians skilled in basic mechanical processing to help tune the production lines at the shelter.
In return, Andy paid an advance of five hundred kilograms of starch spheres. This half-ton of food was enough to see the Brotherhood through its most desperate weeks, and perhaps even allow them to thicken their daily porridge.
With the trade deal settled, Andy was in no hurry to leave.
"Roger, take me to see that farm," Andy said, re-slinging the heavy stubber across his back. His tone was flat. "The fungal farm that caused your famine."
Roger blinked, a bitter smile spreading across his face. "Andy, there's nothing left to see," Roger shook his head. "It's all sludge and black mold. The stench is overpowering."
"And... it might be toxic."
"It doesn't matter," Andy pointed to his metal head. "I'm not afraid of toxins. I just want to perform a technical assessment."
Left with no choice, Roger led Andy deep into the bowels of the power plant. They passed through several rusted airtight doors and descended a waterlogged corridor for about two hundred meters. Before they even reached the entrance, Andy's sensors were flashing red.
[WARNING: Airborne spore concentration severely exceeds safety limits.][WARNING: Sulfur-bearing organic toxins detected.]
Roger and Ben donned thick gas masks and carried old-fashioned Geiger counters. As they pushed open the final door, a visible cloud of black vapor billowed out.
Architecturally, this area seemed to have originally been a massive underground reservoir, later converted into a fungal cultivation chamber. Dozens of long concrete vats that should have been teeming with pale gray edible mushrooms were now filled with pools of black, viscous sludge. The walls, the ceilings, and even the handrails along the walkway were covered in black, velvety mold. The air was thick with a nauseating smell, like a dead rat that had been soaking in formalin for three years.
"See? Total loss," Roger's voice came through his mask, muffled and heavy with despair. "It happened overnight, just last week. All the mycelium turned black and liquefied. We tried changing the water, spraying fungicides, even burning it with fire. Nothing worked."
Andy remained silent. He walked to the edge of a vat, reached out a finger, and dabbed a bit of the black slime. The STC analyzer activated instantly.
[Sample Analysis: Composite organic fungi (Deceased).][Cause of Death: Cell wall lysis, protein denaturation.][Toxin Residue: C12H18Cl2N2O...]
As expected, this was no natural blight. This was a poisoning. Someone had introduced a potent herbicide specifically designed to target fungal cell walls. Furthermore, the chemical structure of this herbicide was extremely stable; it would remain in the soil and water for decades, ensuring nothing would grow here for the next fifty years.
Andy had his answer. Could he fix it? Yes. Though the toxin was potent, the STC database contained at least eight hundred neutralization formulas that could solve the problem. He wouldn't even need anything that complex—simply replacing the soil, filtering the water several times, and introducing resistant strains would restore production within a month.
But Andy had no intention of doing so. In his mind, he crossed out the option of "Helping the Brotherhood of Rust repair their farm."
The reason was simple: Control.
The "Eden-class Progenitor" in Andy's possession was not a perpetual motion machine of infinite energy. While it was Golden Age black technology capable of manifesting starch out of thin air, it still followed the laws of energy conservation. According to STC calculations, the high-energy biological battery inside the Progenitor could sustain the production of roughly ten to twenty thousand tons of starch. Once depleted, it would become an ordinary stone.
At that point, Andy would have to take it back to the underground ecological park to recharge it using the unique high-energy environment there. Such a trip involved high risk and high cost. Therefore, every starch sphere was a precious strategic resource.
If Roger's group could grow their own mushrooms—even if they tasted bad and had low yields—they would at least be full. Once people are full, they start having ideas. They start wanting independence. They stop wanting to listen to Andy.
Only by cutting off their hope of self-sufficiency—only by making them realize that without Andy, they would starve—would these technical lunatics work for him faithfully. This was the foundation of trade. If you want to control your partner, the best way is to squeeze their throat and then tell them you're helping them breathe.
Andy turned to face Roger, who was looking at him with an expectant gaze—the look of a drowning man staring at a final straw. He clearly hoped this mysterious Great Sage could perform another miracle and revive this ruined land.
Andy shook his head, his movement firm. "There is no saving it." His voice was cold and devoid of emotion. "This land is dead. The soil structure has been utterly destroyed; the toxins have seeped deep into the bedrock. Unless you hollow out this entire underground level and refill it with fresh soil, not even a weed will grow here."
Hearing this, the light in Roger's eyes went out. He hung his head, his shoulders slumping. Deep down, he knew it was hopeless, but he hadn't wanted to accept it. Now that a high-level entity like Andy had pronounced the death sentence, it was truly over.
"Forget about it," Andy patted Roger on the shoulder, knocking dust off his black-mold-stained leather jacket. "This is fate. Work for me from now on. Even if this ground turns to ash, I guarantee you'll have food to eat."
It sounded like a statement of brotherhood, but in Andy's heart, it was merely a supplementary clause in an employment contract.
Just as Andy was about to leave this toxic hellhole, a deep analysis report from the STC caught his attention. The toxin residue he just analyzed—C12H18Cl2N2O—had a match in the database.
[Match Result: Military-grade fungal inhibitor (Model: Extinction-IV).]
[Manufacturer: Helios Pharmaceutical Group.]
[Purpose: Used for clearing stubborn parasitic fungi in starship ventilation ducts, or for scorched-earth tactics.]
Andy's cybernetic eyes narrowed. Helios Pharmaceutical? Military grade? This wasn't something a back-alley workshop in the Underhive could whip up with a few flasks; it was a strictly regulated strategic material. Usually, only Planetary Defense Forces or Great Houses with chartered monopolies could obtain it.
How did such a thing end up in a run-down fungal farm in the Underhive? If this were just a gang war, they wouldn't use such a high-cost method. A gang would just send people to kill you, rob you, and then take over the land to keep growing mushrooms.
Destroying the land meant the poisoner didn't care about production at all. One could even say their goal was to render the land useless and make it impossible for the people here to survive.
Someone was deliberately purging the population of the Underhive.
Why? Was it to make room for something? Or to bury a secret?
Andy thought of the "Extremely Dangerous" Genestealer Cult marked on the STC map. If those xenos had already infiltrated the upper Hive, it made logical sense for them to use these methods to weaken human resistance in the Underhive. Or perhaps this was just a whim of that useless Governor—a "low-end population clearance" operation?
Regardless of the case, it meant Andy's "farming plan" wasn't as secure as he had imagined. Beneath this dark Underhive, deeper undercurrents were surging.
Andy didn't tell Roger about his discovery. Telling him would only cause more panic and might lead him to do something stupid.
"Let's go," Andy strode out of the death-scented farm. "The air here makes me sick. Let's go back and sign the contract."