Warhammer: Rebuilding the Golden Age Starting with Farming

Chapter 120 Mom!

Captain Harker stood by the window, swirling a half-full glass of murky synthetic alcohol in his hand.

The place he is currently staying in is called the cadre dormitory, which is actually a slightly better-renovated office building in the core area of ​​Horisonburg.

The view outside the window was monotonous, consisting of only gray concrete roads and distant factory chimneys belching smoke.

Hack glanced down at the ground floor.

Across two streets, those square, unpainted, matchbox-like buildings were the workers' dormitories.

This is quite novel!

Hark has traveled through most of the Misty Starfield and has visited several hundred Nest Worlds.

In those places, noblemen lived atop towering spires, breathing air filtered a thousand times, while laborers toiled in the mud thousands of meters deep.

The physical distance between the two is thicker than the armor plates of a battleship.

But here, the concept of class seems to be compressed and flattened.

Last night, when Huck went out for a smoke, he ran into the traditional businessman named Sisyphus in the hallway. Sisyphus was carrying a pile of documents and running into his house. Right next door to Sisyphus lived a technical manager named Bauer.

It is said that Zor, who holds the title of a true High Priest of the Mechanicus, also lives on this floor.

These high-ranking officials, who control core technologies and resources, actually live across the hall from the laborers below them.

Huck took a sip of his drink, the spicy liquid flowing down his throat.

This structure is very un-imperial, and somewhat—no, quite unorthodox!

But it is precisely this structure that gives this place a frighteningly efficient feel.

Just then, a commotion arose from the street below.

Huck poked his head out.

A group of workers who had just finished their shift were seen surrounding a person in a black trench coat as they walked towards the dormitory area.

Bauer said the man's name was Gamma-9.

This one-eyed priest has been acting very strangely lately.

Logically, mechanical engineers should be in workshops filled with the smell of engine oil, chanting mantras to gears and pistons.

But Gamma-9 has been practically never home these past few days, spending all its time among the workers. I heard it even moved its bedding to the workers' dormitories.

Hack couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see the fervor on the workers' faces.

It was a deep, even somewhat blind, trust.

Even Captain Hark could see that this man was obsessed with proselytizing.

As for Andy, the supreme leader of Deep Space Industries.

I haven't seen Hack even once in the past two days (two days and one night).

I heard that this guy has been hiding in that tallest black research tower, with the doors tightly shut, and he won't see anyone.

Hack expressed his full understanding of this.

If someone were to boast every day that they were radiating golden light and that their eyes could calm subspace storms, Hark would feel too ashamed to go out in public.

awkward!

That's so embarrassing!

This is probably one of the troubles of the strong!

Huck turned his gaze back to the simple electronic clock on the wall.

There was less than an hour left until Andy's promised delivery time.

Hack was actually feeling uneasy.

Twenty-two hours to refurbish a cruiser?

Even if it's just a refurbishment of the exterior and powertrain, the timeframe is far too short—so short it's unsettling.

As a wandering merchant, Haq knew all too well the ins and outs of ship repair.

Previously, he had worked repairing ships in Wandering Harbor.

It is the hub of the entire Calicus sector, the base of the Imperial Navy, and home to dozens of massive orbital docks and countless mechanical priests.

Logically, that area should be the most efficient.

But the fact is just the opposite.

Repairing ships in Wandering Harbor is a process that can drive you crazy.

Although the traveling merchants were wealthy and held special licenses, their position was actually quite awkward in the face of the empire's massive bureaucratic system.

Navy warships have the highest priority; if they break down, they are repaired immediately.

The Mechanics' exploration ships are their own people, and they can even cut in line.

Even transport ships from the Ministry of the Interior, carrying official permits, can cut in line.

Even the small black boat that is only a few hundred meters long, the courthouse, can command all the docks to make way for it as long as it displays its rose knot.

What about the wandering merchants and ronin?

Let's line up.

If you're lucky, you can get a berth after waiting ten days to half a month.

If you're unlucky, and it happens to be wartime, or you happen to run into a big shot's fleet that needs maintenance, then anything can happen.

Harker once spent three whole months drifting in the synchrotron orbit of the Wanderport in order to replace a core component of a reactor.

Three months!

A row of people remained completely silent!

The fuel cost just to maintain the spaceship's basic life support systems is enough for him to buy half an engine.

Moreover, those guys in the roaming port have really bad tempers.

They are extremely rigid and dogmatic.

If your ship is a standard Imperial model, that's fine; it'll be slower, but at least it can be repaired.

But what merchant's ship isn't modified?

In order to survive in unknown star systems, everyone stuffs all sorts of non-standard parts, and even alien technology, into their ships.

If those tech enthusiasts see these non-standard modified parts, they'll immediately turn hostile.

At best, they'll refuse to repair it; at worst, they'll accuse you of blaspheming the machine's spirit and force you to spend a fortune to remove those useful aftermarket parts and replace them with their bulky, crude standard parts.

This isn't ship repair; it's just paying money to suffer!

But Harker discovered that in the context of deep space industry, this simply doesn't exist.

Hack recalled the progress report that the engineering department had just sent.

Just a few hours ago, his supervisor, named Bauer, contacted him, saying that during engine maintenance, they discovered that an auxiliary cooling pump interface that Harker had installed without authorization was incompatible with the main piping, resulting in limited coolant flow.

Huck was so startled at that moment!

If this were in Roaming Harbor, the oil guy would definitely order Hack to take that coolant pump off!

What did Bauer say?

Bauer said, "Captain Harker, there are several ports on your ship that don't fit—oh, no problem, I had the CNC center machine an adapter for you, and we'll install it for you right away, free of charge."

Adapter.

Available now.

No money required.

This sounds like some new type of scam tactic.

The combination of these three words had a tremendous impact on Hack.

What does this tell us?

This shows that the people at Deep Space Industries not only possess extremely advanced precision machining equipment, but also have absolutely no rigid dogmatism in their minds.

They don't care about standards or anything like that; as long as it runs and works well, they'll build it for you.

This technological confidence, this industrial strength, this service attitude —

mother!

He unilaterally declared that this was practically the mother of the traveling merchant!

The more Hack thought about it, the more terrified he became.

This place is too eerie.

It's on this godforsaken wasteland planet, and there are only a few thousand people.

However, the advanced concepts they demonstrated completely outclassed the foundries in Manyou Port that had been established for thousands of years.

No need to queue, no need to deal with unpleasant attitudes, and we can even customize non-standard parts for you.

You don't even need to explain it yourself; they can reverse engineer how your non-standard parts came about!

Most importantly, they have their own goods and a large quantity of raw materials that can meet their needs.

"Hum."

Huck uttered a corny word he had learned while loafing around on the lower decks.

In my memory, this is an adjective similar to "waaagh!", used to describe something as extremely sturdy, reliable, and hardcore.

And, extremely awesome!

This deep space industry is fucking hot!

It's incredibly popular!

Hark had even begun to consider whether he should sell this information to his other traveling merchant friends after he left.

No, it cannot be sold.

The fewer people who know about this treasure trove, the better.

If everyone comes, we'll have to start queuing again.

He has to monopolize this channel. At least for the first few years, he will rely on Deep Space Industries' maintenance and resupply to arm his "Bull" to the teeth and roam freely in the expansion area.

As long as he clings to this powerful figure and as long as the production capacity here continues, Hark will eventually rise to become one of those big-time privateer fleet owners.

Thinking of this, Huck couldn't help but laugh out loud.

I initially thought this emergency landing was a major misfortune.

Unexpectedly, I stumbled upon a great opportunity!

Just as he was filled with emotion and envisioning the future.

The communicator beside me suddenly emitted a crisp beep.

Huck looked down.

A line of bold green text popped up on the screen:

The repair work has been completed, and all indicators are normal. Please accept the work.

Huck was stunned. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

There are still forty minutes until the twenty-two-hour mark.

These guys—they actually delivered the goods ahead of schedule?

>

"Beep"