Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 195 The Embers of Maraudon 946.M41

Slightly aft midway along the Eternal Fortress, at a corner of a main passageway far from the hangar, lies a row of inconspicuous cabins. Their number is E-7-319.

Behind the door is a space of less than fifteen square meters.

Three bunk beds were arranged along the wall, with the third one right next to the door. The bed frames were welded from PVC, and the storage boxes under the beds were crammed with gray uniforms and toiletries. The aisle was so narrow that two people standing at the same time could not turn around. The only window was an armored glass panel embedded in the upper part of the opposite wall, no wider than two hands side by side. The cold white light from the window filtered through the wall of the inner corridor, casting a pale rectangular patch of light on the terracotta floor.

Hercules van Grotwald sat on the edge of the lower bunk, his hands resting on his knees. His collar was faded from washing, and his trousers were too short, revealing a dark gray thermal lining. Indelible grime clung to his fingernails—the rust-resistant coating of assembly line fasteners. He sat ramrod straight, his back not against the wall. It was a physical memory etched into his years of administrative life; even after a long day on the assembly line, sitting down felt like listening to a report in a parliamentary chamber.

He was forty-seven years old. His temples were already gray, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the tips of his eyebrows looked as if they had been carved with a knife in the dim light. His eyes didn't look like those of a former governor who had been stripped of power, reduced to labor, and crammed into a fifteen-square-meter cabin; they looked more like someone still calculating. In fact, this cabin was already a favor to him—he understood this, of all the people captured in Maraudon, none had received better conditions than his family.

Nine people lived here. He himself, two sons, and five wives. Of the fifteen daughters, only one survived—the youngest, nine years old, who was now curled up on the upper bunk of the bed by the door, a blanket covering her head, with only a small tuft of pale blonde hair showing. The two sons, one ten and the other eleven, were crammed into the lower bunk against the wall; one was flipping through a worn data book, while the other lay on his pillow, lost in thought.

Two of his five wives worked the day shift on the assembly line and hadn't returned yet. The remaining two were huddled on the bed opposite him; one was mending a uniform, and the other was organizing spare cables brought back from the assembly line, preparing to exchange them for extra rations. The youngest wife sat beside him, leaning on his shoulder, clutching an empty water glass. She was in her early twenties, a daughter sent from a minor noble family, married to him in a political marriage. She was the only one he could calmly converse with—not because the other wives weren't intelligent enough, but because they had been crushed by fear and despair.

"The gray-robed man didn't come back." Her voice was very soft, as if she was afraid the bulkhead would hear her.

"no."

"Have you finished asking all the questions?"

"I'm afraid so."

She was silent for a moment. The low-frequency pulsations emanating from the structure of the Eternal Bulwark—the continuous operation of the reactor array several kilometers away—transmitted through the plastic-steel bed frame to her back. Ever since she awoke in the Dark Eldar's prison, she had been wondering why the Garros had rescued her and her family, why they had been placed on this giant ship as laborers, and why a technical advisor from the Garros Executive Council had come specifically to inquire about everything concerning Maraudon.

"They need you. They're interested in Maraudon." She turned her head, her voice as soft as if she were talking about the weather. "This is our chance, our only chance."

The governor didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his hands. Those hands, which had spent two years tightening fasteners on the assembly line, bore no resemblance to those that had signed executive orders affecting hundreds of millions of people. His throat moved, as if swallowing something, and then he spoke: "The technical advisor's question was about the past mining records of the deep underground mineral belt of Maraudon III." But I felt he was truly confirming—was I still capable of being a governor, a nominal head of state whose sole responsibility was signing documents?

His young wife looked at him. Her eyes held no fear, only a composure compressed to its absolute limit. She had seen the cargo holds of the Dark Eldar, seen the slaves' identification tags recording their numbers, seen countless people withering away in their straitjackets. In her eyes, Garros's technical advisors at least asked questions, at least recorded their answers.

"So what are you going to do?"

"I have no idea."

"You know," she said, her voice steady, "but what more could we possibly lose? Being a symbolic leader is better than dying here."

The governor remained silent for a long time. His gaze fell on the eleven-year-old boy on the lower bunk opposite him—he was flipping through a data manual, his fingertips hovering over a particular page, as if he were staring at something in a daze.

"Your mine map is indeed very valuable," she continued, "but for them it's just a time-saving tool."

Your true value lies solely in your identity—provided they are interested in Maraudon.

"and then?"

"Then you can have them change this bed into a real room."

His family's history on Maraudon III began during the Great Crusade. An ancestor, a geological survey leader for the Orbital Mining Corporation, discovered a vein of adamantite running through the Earth's crust, along with vast amounts of moonsilver. After the hive city of Maraudon was built, this vein was laid beneath a deep layer of pipes connecting the industrial and residential areas, covered by the municipal network, its coordinates deliberately obscured in engineering records. These rare ores were repeatedly labeled "low-grade waste," erased from the books, and then transported out of Maraudon through private channels, in exchange for the family's initial wealth and status. This tradition continued for nearly ten thousand years. Each patriarch would pass it on to his heir before his death. It was the family's secret, the source of wealth created by countless miners deep underground. It transformed the Grotwald family from a mining dynasty into a planetary governor's family.

The working face of that deep mine was a closed, fully automated mechanized structure, maintained by an independent energy core and circulation system. Seven days after his disappearance two years ago, the family's emergency protocol automatically triggered, locking one of the entrance gates.

The internal power supply switched to standby mode. Those people were trapped inside. He recognized the faces—some were descendants of families who had worked in the mines since his grandfather's time. There were also hundreds of guards, the family's last armed force. The blockade locked them in, and it locked away the mine's secrets. Without his biometrics and password, any external attempt to open the gates would trigger a directional collapse of the mine's structure.

"If I go back," he said, "what will they make me do?"

"Sit in that chair. Sign it. Have them tell the Imperial Executive Council that Maraudon is still operational." She paused. "As for the mines—they'll find them themselves sooner or later. They are the Foundry World; they have the most professional exploration teams."

Your map will only save them a few years. Of course, this is icing on the cake, and our compensation will increase accordingly.

"But the family is finished; it has lost its foundation."

"You will die. After you die, your file will be marked as deceased," and the family will be finished. Then they'll use the same rhetoric to find the next living person. But the next person's file might take years to verify, several years for the Imperial Executive Council to reconfirm. But you're alive, so you can sign today. That's your bargaining chip. As long as you're alive, the family still exists."

The governor remained silent for a long time. His gaze shifted from the window to the small tuft of pale golden hair at the edge of his little daughter's blanket. She was nine years old. She had learned not to cry in the Dark Eldar's cargo hold. He couldn't remember the last time she had cried.

"I know you're right," he said, his voice lowering. "I know all of this. In fact, we're already lucky to be alive because of the Emperor's protection."

"She looked at him. "So you should go find them. Tell them you're ready."

"What should we prepare?"

"Be prepared to be the governor in name only."

The next morning, the family of nine ate breakfast together, which consisted of heated synthetic starch paste.

He stood up and walked to the door. His finger hovered over the unlock button, pausing for a moment. He remembered the dome of Governor's Mansion III in Maraudon—the mural depicting the inaugurations of past governors. He vividly remembered his own inauguration: the governor's guard marching across the square, himself and his family standing on the platform, saluting the crowd, countless people bowing to them. In the painting, his fifteen daughters were dressed in their finest attire, even his youngest daughter, still an infant, wore a lace baby sun hat, her face frozen in that moment, framed on the armored transparent dome.

He pushed open the door and walked along the corridor toward the office area.

He walked for a long time before stopping in front of a gray ceramic steel door. There were no markings on the door, only a line of etched binary code. He stood outside for about a minute, then knocked on the door in a low, tentative voice.

"Come in."

Pushing open the door, one enters a small office. Data terminals are embedded in the walls. The man in the gray robe sits behind a worktable, wearing a neatly tailored dark gray robe with dark gold gear patterns along the hem. He has a standard-sized mechanical prosthetic eye embedded in his left eye, his hair is neatly gray-white, and data probes are embedded in the tips of his fingers. The emblem of the Garros Executive Council is embroidered on the left sleeve of his robe.

The gray-robed man did not stand up. He simply put down the data panel in his hand, raised one knuckle of his right hand to press against the gear and skull emblem on his chest, and gave a short gear salute. The blue halo of the mechanical eye paused on the governor for a moment, then returned to focus.

"Please sit down."

The governor sat down. The chair wasn't high, but when he sat up straight, there was still the usual gap between his back and the chair back.

"The Executive Council has assessed your status," the grey-robed man said, his voice steady and unpretentious. "The Grotwald family remains active in the administrative hierarchy of Maraudon III. Your name hasn't been removed from the Imperial Executive Council's records because there's no documentation proving you're dead. You were captured, rescued, and are now alive. That's enough."

"Will the Empire approve?"

The Imperial Executive Council has marked Maraudon as pending approval. A governor has disappeared, the administrative system has collapsed, but no new appointments have been issued. This means its records still exist, but its authority is frozen. The Empire doesn't care who's in charge; it only cares about collecting taxes. Our plan is to inject funds and resources into Maraudon under the guise of "disaster reconstruction aid."

This money will go directly into Maraudon's tax account, and the Imperial Executive Council will see that the balance is sufficient to cover tithes for several future periods. Your signature on the documents will grant Maraudon a legitimate head of administration. Garros will pay the tithes in exchange for mining rights and a permanent military presence.

The man in the gray robe paused, then added, "The Governor's Mansion will be rebuilt. Your family residence is also included in the reconstruction plan."

The governor was silent for a moment. His fingers tightened on his knees before he spoke, his voice steadyer than before: "I can hand over the location of the underground mines on Maraudon. There are high-grade adamantite and moonsilver there. Hundreds of my family's guards and miners are trapped deep within the veins. The entrance gates activated an emergency lockdown protocol seven days after my disappearance two years ago. Without my biometrics and password, any external opening will trigger a structural collapse."

The gray-robed man's mechanical eye remained locked on as the governor spoke, only opening his mouth after the governor finished: "These are the terms of the agreement. After you sign, provide the coordinates and unlocking authorization. Garros will send an engineering team and a medical team to handle the follow-up matters. This is your contribution, and Garros' database will record it; you won't have worked for nothing."

The governor picked up the data pen from his desk and wrote his name in the signature column. The strokes were a little stiffer than two years ago, but the finish was still steady. The moment he put down the pen, his back leaned against the chair for the first time—a very slight movement, like a stone that had been pressing on his shoulder for a long time finally loosening by half an inch.

The grey-robed man took the data tablet, his mechanical fingertip tracing its edge—a very short binary pulse flowed along the data cable, a routine consecration procedure for Executive Council documents, signifying the Om Messiah's witness to the signing of the agreement. He set down the tablet and nodded slightly: "The agreement is in effect. Governor Grotwald, the Gallos Executive Council welcomes your return to Maraudon."

When the governor left his office, the corridor lights were as cold and white as when he had come in. He walked back down the corridor, his steps slightly lighter than when he had come in.

When I returned to E-7-319, the door was open.

The two sons were still crammed into the lower bunk, one flipping through a datasheet, the other sprawled on a pillow. The wives sat on the opposite bed, some mending clothes, others tidying up cables. The youngest wife stood by the door, clutching the empty water glass, as she watched him push the door open and come in.

The moment the door closed, she didn't ask about the result, but just looked at him, her voice extremely low: "Signed?"

"Signed."

She put down her cup. "So, can we leave this ship now?"

"—It'll be soon."

Nine wrinkled figures were crammed into a 15-square-meter cabin. No one spoke, only the circulating air on the walls flowed silently between the ceramic steel floor and the plastic steel bed frame.

Starlight pierced through a thin layer of gray on the armored glass of the portholes, casting a dim, warm hue on the metal floor of the bridge. No one spoke in the bridge; only the data terminals pulsed continuously in the cold light, displaying the ongoing engineering records, transport ship dispatch lists, and preliminary assessment reports of the various hives on the Maraudon surface.

Cohen stood by the porthole. He had come from the Garros Webway, where the Black Pearl hovered in the shadow of the spaceport's skeletal frame. Its deep red paint gleamed dimly in the starlight, and the gear and skull emblem on its side occasionally flashed in the cold light of the Webway gate.

Below, Maraudon III stretched out in his field of vision. Its greyish-yellow background was covered with dark brown scars—old wounds from the Eldar orbital bombardment that had torn open the hive's outer shell. The clouds were sparse, and the atmosphere was greyish. The sparse points of light on the night hemisphere reminded him of the underbelly of Amegiddon—not brightly lit, but the faint glow of people struggling to survive after being plundered.

He stood there for a while before speaking.

Has the population estimate been updated?

Marcus stood slightly behind him, holding a data panel. "Initial estimates are below ten billion, but the exact number is difficult to confirm. Most of the mid- and low-level survivors of the hive are still in place. Genestealers and the Chaos Cult caused some unrest, but it was suppressed by the remaining noble private armies and PDFs. Now, it's just that no one is organizing them to come out. The Dark Eldar raid mainly destroyed the upper administrative center, the defense headquarters, and the orbital defense facilities. The civilian losses were not small, but not catastrophic."

"What about the Empire?"

"The Imperial Executive Council has marked Maraudon as pending approval"—the file remains, but access is frozen. There are no new administrative orders, no inspection records. The nearest industrial world to Maraudon is months away, and the Ministry of Military Affairs deems it not worthwhile to mobilize a fleet for a border hive world. "Marcus's voice is steady. "They've been forgotten."

Cohen turned around, his gaze returning from the porthole. "What about the governor?"

"Hercules van Grotwald, former planetary governor. The Executive Yuan's technical advisors have made contact. He is willing to reinstate his governorship. The conditions have been agreed upon—rebuilding the governor's mansion, restoring the family residence, and sending people to open the mine entrance and rescue the trapped personnel." Marcus turned a page of the data panel.

"What about the exploration team's geological assessment?"

"Spectroscopic scans reveal a super-grade refined gold vein deep within the crust of Planet Three, with extremely high-grade lunar silver as a byproduct. Planet Two contains concentrated rare-earth deposits, and Planet Seven's ice layers contain rare-metal veins." Marcus closed the data panel. "The resource reserves of this system far exceed the average of typical hive worlds. The deep veins are enclosed, fully automated mechanized operations, with independent energy cores and circulation systems still functioning."

Cohen was silent for a moment. "The agreement has been signed?"

"The Subservient World Agreement stipulates that the administrative head is Grotwald, the tithes will be paid by Garros, the Guardians will be permanently stationed there, and Garros will have the right to conscript soldiers, settle immigrants, and extract resources in Maraudon," Marcus said.

Cohen's gaze returned to the grayish-yellow planet. The sparse lights on the night hemisphere flickered in the darkness, like embers scattered by the wind. He thought of the bottom hive of Amighiddon, of the image of himself sitting amidst piles of corpses, swallowing his first sip of glucose water. The rise and fall of a hive world was insignificant on the scale of an empire, but for those aboard that ship, survival itself was an act of rebellion.

"That's just how the world is," he said, his voice low. "Send it back to Garros, have Ellis file it."

Marcus made a note on the data board.

"Have the engineering team complete the spaceport framework. During construction, make sure the calibration network gates of the hidden array disappear when not in use; some concealment is still necessary at this stage."

"clear."

Cohen turned and walked along the bridge walkway toward the exit. The web was still burning in Karasta, far from over, not even reaching its climax. Countless forces were converging, drawing all eyes. Meanwhile, Garros's web was growing outwards from the other side, expanding recklessly and frantically. Maraudon was just one node; many more would be incorporated into Garros, the difference being whether they were controlled or cooperated with.

The Black Pearl's engines went into standby mode behind him, the hum of the thrusters fading from low-frequency pulses to a constant background sound.