Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 149 Return to Garros 941.M41

When the fleet leaped from Mandeville point, the stars of Garros were still three astronomical units away.

The Black Pearl was the first to emerge from the warp. The hum of the Geller force field receded from the depths of the hull, and the porthole armor panels rose in stages, driven by hydraulic pushers. Starlight streamed in through the portholes, cold and distant, casting a thin layer of dark gold on the metal floor of the bridge. Sera's voice came from the navigation cabin, steady as ever: "Jump out confirmed. Mandeville point coordinates passed. The entire formation is exiting the warp."

Behind them, over a hundred transport ships appeared one after another. Their exhaust plumes formed a slowly spreading sea of ​​light in the darkness. The warships of the Garros fleet maintained formation at the front of the formation. The Black Pearl led the way, followed by the Truth, the Dreadnought, and the Glory, with the Cobra destroyers deployed on both sides.

On the communications panel, several windows lit up one after another. Vera Nazari's face appeared first, her crimson robe unbuttoned, as if she had just walked from the side of the bridge. The bridge background of the USS Truth shimmered with a blurry light behind her. The captains of the USS Dreadnought and USS Glory followed closely behind, their video feeds positioned on either side of Vera. The captains of the four Odysseus-class ships also connected one after another, Hawke's image appearing last, the old scar on his face still clearly visible in the cold white light.

Marcus walked out from behind the tactical console and stood to Cohen's right. He didn't have a data panel in his hand; the blue halo of his right mechanical eye slowly expanded and contracted between the image windows.

"The transport fleet is docking at the spaceport as planned," Marcus said. "The Garros fleet is docking at the extended berths of the Wangshu Shipyard."

Cohen didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the main display screen.

On the navigation panel, the gravitational signal of Garros VII appeared first. It was a frozen, rocky planet, its surface covered with a layer of grayish-white ice, gleaming dimly in the distant starlight. Its orbit contained only a solitary space anchorage—a deep-space monitoring station—fixed to the planet's orbit. This outpost, established a few months earlier when Garros had a relatively larger workforce, had a single responsibility: to monitor Mandeville Point and receive and analyze deep-space signals. The station's sensor array had locked onto the target the moment the fleet launched.

A short binary pulse came through the communication channel, standard format, concise content: identification code verification passed, fleet identity confirmed. Then came a low Gothic sentence, dry as if squeezed from a cold metal pipe: "Welcome home, Garros Fleet."

The communications officer glanced at Cohen. Cohen didn't reply. The communications officer cut off the channel and made a note in the log.

"The monitoring station," Vera's voice came from the video feed. "There used to be nothing there."

"It was built after we had enough manpower," Cohen said. "It was mentioned in the summary reports from various departments, but seeing it with your own eyes is another matter."

The fleet continued its advance. Garros VI gradually magnified in the field of vision—it was a larger, icy planet with an additional thin atmosphere than Garros VII, its surface covered in ice and methane deposits, gleaming grayish-white in the distant starlight. Besides the monitoring station, several small research facilities—modular habitation modules and laboratories pieced together—suspended in the cold vacuum like forgotten fragments of metal in its orbit.

The communication channel lit up again. A tech-priest's voice came through, carrying the precision characteristic of Mechanicus monks, but lacking some of the solemnity expected of a clergyman: "Identity verification successful. Research station operational. Sixteen personnel stationed, equipment functioning well, sample collection proceeding as planned." He paused, then said, "Gallos Fleet, welcome back."

There were no prayers, no introduction to a binary hymn, no salutation to Ohm Messiah. Only a simple, almost secular greeting.

Marcus's right mechanical eye gleamed for a moment after the communication ended. He didn't speak; the silence itself was a confirmation.

“The number of technicians at Garros is gradually increasing,” Cohen said. His voice wasn’t loud, but everyone on the channel could hear him clearly. “But the faith is still empty. Om Messiah is the Emperor, but the technical priests of Garros haven’t truly ingrained this into their daily work. They can build monitoring stations, refine macromolecules, and collect samples in research facilities, but they don’t recite prayers on the communication channels. This is a problem that must be solved before the Mars verification team arrives.”

The captain of the Dreadnought nodded: "I've looked at the data. Many of the technical priests at Garros are self-taught."

Most of them came from Wandering Harbor, having learned welding torches and riveting, but no one taught them how to recite prayers. Useful or not, it's something the faithful foundry world must have.

Cohen made a note on the data board.

The fleet traversed the asteroid belt. Garros 5 was nestled within it—a celestial body that could barely be called a planet, its gravity so weak it could barely maintain its shape, its mass diluted by the asteroid belt. Its edges were jagged, its surface riddled with impact craters, as if torn apart from within by something, or as if it had never truly coalesced into a complete celestial body. Cohen looked at the data on the sensor screens, not asking about its origins. It had existed in this system for countless millennia, and humanity's arrival here was far too recent to make its past significant.

A fourth planet emerged from view. It was a gas giant, with dark orange cloud bands slowly flowing through its dense atmosphere. Its surface storm system emitted a persistent dark red halo in the infrared spectrum, and massive vortices rotated slowly within the thick atmosphere. Its orbit was already dotted with refining facilities arranged at regular intervals along the equator. Each facility extended long, thick pipes deep into the atmosphere, drawing up mixtures of gases containing colossal elements. These mixtures were then separated, condensed, and refined into the Empire's most basic fuels and industrial raw materials. Transport ships darted between the platforms, their exhaust trails leaving fine streaks of light against the dark orange cloud backdrop. Several large storage tanks hovered in orbit, their surfaces covered with insulation and radiation-proof armor, gleaming with a dull metallic sheen in the starlight.

"The number of titanium refining platforms is almost double what it was before we set out," Marcus said.

"Titanium production is the lifeblood of the entire production chain," Vera said. "It is crucial to the development of the foundry world."

Cohen nodded without saying anything.

After the fleet passed the orbit of the gas giant, Galos, the primary planet, came into view. Its surface was still greyish-yellow—wastelands and rocky hills dominated most of the land, but the outlines of hundreds of domes spread across the night hemisphere. From space, they resembled countless lamps embedded in the earth's surface. Warm yellow light emanated from within the domes, merging into slowly breathing patches of light in the darkness. Some areas were denser with light, others sparser, creating subtle divisions between residential, agricultural, and light industrial zones.

The outline of the spaceport gradually came into view. Hundreds of berths extended from the harbor, docking supports and guide lights crisscrossing in the vacuum to form a complex metal mesh. The towering Star Relay Tower, with runes of a six-pointed star protective array pulsating slowly on its surface, was faithfully performing its duties, relaying Garros's psionic signals to the surrounding star sectors.

But the most dazzling star is not the main star—it is Wangshu.

The asteroid, encased in steel, hovered in its orbit above the host star's daytime surface. It was now a completely metallic planet. Weapon arrays were densely packed along the equator, macro cannon mounts and light spear cooling grids were arranged in an alternating pattern, and the raised structures of the void shield generator array formed a regular ring of bulges on its outer surface. Blue pulses of light from the thruster nozzles flickered evenly at the star's tail. Massive numbers of shuttles and transport ships moved in and out around it, like a swarm of bees around a metal nest. The silhouette of the Metis-class mining ship moved further away, slowly approaching the dock of Wangshu from the asteroid belt on the outer edge of the system.

Hawke's voice came through the video window: "Wangshu's weapon array has changed. Before departure, only the base was there; now the turrets have been installed. The Void Shield Generator array should be fully completed."

"Yes," Cohen said.

Just then, a new signal appeared on the sensor panel. A Sword-class frigate was approaching from the direction of Garros Main Star, its course stable, the Garros gear and skull insignia clearly visible on its hull. Having completed its sea trials last month, it had been assigned to patrol duties and was now proceeding along its designated patrol route towards the returning fleet. Its size appeared slender compared to the fleet, less than two kilometers long, and its wake was perfectly straight.

A young voice came through the communication channel, barely containing excitement as if trying to maintain a professional tone, but the last syllable was still a half-octave higher than usual: "Black Pearl, this is the Garros patrol ship Watchtower. Welcome back, Commander."

The news that Garros had effectively become the world of forging had already spread internally. Cohen naturally became the forging director, while the great sage Enp Shakra, as a descendant of the forging world of Punoris, automatically became Garros's ancient legal origin.

Cohen didn't answer immediately. He glanced at the young captain in the video feed; he was standing ramrod straight, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he were swallowing back more words. Then Cohen said, "Watchtower, continue patrolling."

There was a moment of silence on the communication channel. Then the young man's voice rang out again, this time more steadily: "Watchtower received." He paused, as if someone had reminded him from behind, and then added, "In the name of Om Messiah. Welcome home."

The last sentence was added. Cohen noticed the pause—the person had thought for a moment before speaking and then added the prayer. This meant someone was teaching them. Someone was instructing the technical priests of Garros on what to say first when opening a communication channel. This fact concerned Cohen more than the construction of the monitoring station, the operation of the research facilities, or the expansion of the macro platform.

"Did you hear that?" Vera's voice came from the window, with her usual sharpness. "He's reciting a prayer. Someone's teaching them."

"So we need to start from the top," Cohen said. "Those self-taught technical priests need to get used to it first, and then pass it down. Garros has enough machines, but its faith is still empty. Ohm Messiah is the Emperor; that's the foundation of the Mechanicus. I need to make everyone in Garros truly believe this. We are a forging world under the leadership of Mars, and we are also loyal believers in Ohm Messiah."

The battleships of the Garros fleet were guided towards the outer berths of Wangshu. Guidance lights illuminated both sides of the dock entrance, and docking supports extended from the dock walls, engaging the ship's side joints. The Black Pearl was the first to berth, followed by the Truth, the Dauntless, and the Glory, with six Cobra destroyers lined up at the edge berths. Over a hundred transport ships turned towards the spaceport—the berth area stretched along the central axis, hundreds of joints arranged in neat arrays in the darkness, and the service servitors' transport platforms were already in place on the jet bridges. Invernus were descending the gangways, stepping onto the metal floor of Garros.

Cohen stood at the porthole on the bridge, watching the lights on the berths gradually illuminate the darkness, like candles being lit one by one. Behind him, the entire fleet was dispersing, berthing, and returning to their positions.

Marcus stood a step behind him, paused for a moment, and then spoke: "Director. Before you set out, this was just an industrial world. Now it's a foundry world. You built a foundry world from scratch, and now you're doing the spiritual reinforcement; we'll all cooperate with you."

The Black Pearl was the first to dock. When the gangway descended, the platform was already packed with people.

Ellis stood at the front, dressed in a dark gray uniform. His face was much thinner than when Cohen left, but his back was ramrod straight. He stepped forward, his right fist pressed against his chest: "Director, welcome home." He lowered his hand, his voice lower: "While you were gone, reports from all departments never stopped. The furnace never went out, the production line never stopped, but with you back, Garros is truly here."

Larson stepped forward, and Skyhawk's greeting was crisp and clear: "The liaison office is operating normally, Your Excellency the Director of Foundry."

Planetary Defense Force Vice Commander Lucé stood beside Larson, wearing a dark gray uniform and a temporary command badge. He had stayed behind at Garros when Cohen left, and now he stood on the platform, confirming that the expeditionary fleet had returned. His right fist pressed against his chest, the movement crisp: "Commander-in-Chief. Defense operations were normal during my stay, and security was stable at all domes. Production lines at the spaceport and Wangshu remained uninterrupted."

Cohen nodded.

Phyllis stood in the crowd, her dark uniform bearing several scratches on the insignia at the collar. Maggie quickly made her way through the crowd and hugged her, whispering something in the crook of Phyllis's shoulder. Phyllis patted her back and released her. As Cohen approached her, she said, "The shipping routes to Wandering Harbor are stable. We've reached cooperation agreements with several merchant ronin dynasties, including the Valancius family, to which Lady Silver belongs."

Vera walked to Cohen's side, her robe collar already impatiently adorned with a fourth-tier badge. Kara nodded at the edge of the crowd.

Marcus remained a step behind Cohen, never veering off course. Rellano, in the distance, his titanium alloy plates gleaming coldly, did not approach.

Cole stood not far behind Cohen, wearing a dark gray combat uniform, a lingering scar on his left eyebrow from the Battle of Vernus. He had just come down from the battlefield; the insignia on his epaulets still bore scorch marks. He saw Lucé standing on the platform, nodded slightly, and said nothing. The brief eye contact between the two exchanged enough information: you held the rear, and I brought the men back from the front.

Several figures in deep red robes emerged from the crowd. Leading them was a semi-mechanical woman with a star emblem embroidered on her left shoulder: "Your Excellency, Director of Foundry. We come from Wandering Harbor. If your Foundry World needs manpower, we are willing to stay."

"Gallos welcomes you," Cohen said.

More faces gathered from both sides—technicians, engineers, foremen, representatives from various departments of Garros, and even many friars from peripheral industrial planets and abandoned foundries, drawn by the reputation of the Cult of Mechanics. The platform swelled, hundreds, even thousands, forming a loose circle around Cohen. They saluted him, each with a different gesture—a naval salute, a gear salute, a friars salute, an eagle salute—and Cohen returned each one with a gear salute.

He stood at the edge of the platform, watching the Invernus's figure disappear into the passageway, then looked away: "Dockyard. Move forward."

He took a step. The crowd behind him naturally followed. Ellis was to his left and slightly behind, and Marcus was a step behind him, never deviating. The footsteps of hundreds of people blended into a steady rhythm in the corridor of Wangshu.

The armored glass of the dock observation corridor unfolds under the lights. More than a dozen large docks extend deep into Wangshu, their golden frames stretching out in the cold white light.

Deeper inside, the keels of the several Luna-class ships had been joined together, their outer shells gleaming with a dark gray metallic sheen. But those were just shells—the interiors were empty. The reactor bases hadn't yet been fitted with plasma chambers, the energy conduits only had their main trunk lines laid, and beneath the weapon bases were empty ammunition magazines and unconnected fire control compartments. They would require several more months to complete internal outfitting and system commissioning, ranging from two to five months depending on the arrival of core components and the workstation schedule.

The one on the far left is an order from the Imperial Navy. The torpedo tubes at the bow are already installed, the large gun array is neatly arranged, and the lance turrets are embedded between the armor plates. Its base coat is standard dark gray, and the hull has pre-drilled locations for the Imperial double-headed eagle insignia. This ship is built according to the Imperial Navy's standard blueprints; it is a typical Luna-class cruiser, one of the most common types in the Imperial Navy.

On the starboard berth, two Mechanic-modified Luna-class cruisers of the Garros fleet were taking shape. The hull outline was almost identical to the standard Luna-class, but the macrogun mounts on the sides were already in place. The gun barrels were thicker and longer than those of the standard Luna-class—the mounts for the Hector-type plasma macroguns. The energy conduits at the base of the barrels were also thicker than those of the standard macroguns, and the density of the cooling grates was higher. The torpedo tubes at the bow had been removed, replaced by mounts for the Nova Cannons. The primer for the paint had been applied in a dark red, matching the color of the Garros gear and skull emblem.

At two separate berths on the edge of the dock complex, the outlines of two Sword-class corvettes are complete. The armor plates on the hull surface have all been installed, and twin-mounted macro gun turrets have been erected on the weapon mounts. Those are the improved mechanical propulsion mounts of the Sword-class, which are larger than the standard model, with thicker power lines, and an additional layer of sensor array has been added around the bridge.

It can be launched next week. This is the second batch of frigates to be completed at Wangshu Shipyard.

The Garros fleet currently has three Luna-class cruisers—their hulls still bear the marks of the Battle of Invernus, their paint peeling and cracked. A repair plan has been scheduled; the next step will be a systematic overhaul and modification. The old torpedo tubes will be removed and replaced with new star gun mounts, the broadside macro gun arrays will be replaced with plasma macro guns, the internal compartments will need to be re-divided and recalibrated, the fire control systems will be upgraded, and the energy network will be restructured. The modification will take approximately two months, but this depends on availability in the dry dock.

Cohen stopped in front of the armored glass. The crowd behind him also stopped, lining up along the corridor, hundreds of eyes watching the growing steel skeleton.

Then the crowd's gaze began to shift.

The guiding lights of the main channel surrounding the dock stretched out in the darkness. A massive silhouette was slowly emerging from the darkness—the Fireseed, a twenty-kilometer-long casting ark, entering the dock berth. Its enormous hull made it the last to enter. The paint was now mottled, and scorch marks brought back from Invernus still clung to the bow armor plating. A guide boat led the way, the exhaust trails of tugboats leaving thin streaks of light on the ark's sides. Its speed was slow, so slow it seemed the entire dock was converging on it. As the adamantine bow brushed past the edge of the berth entrance, there was no sound of impact, only the metallic clanging of the docking supports extending, engaging, and locking, traveling along the dock structure.

Cohen didn't turn around. But out of the corner of his eye, he could sense the silence of the crowd behind him—the kind of silence that only appears after one's vision has been crushed by a massive object.

After the Fireseed came to a stop, the remaining seventy-odd knight mechs of the Garros Knight Mech Regiment descended the ramp one by one and lined up in several rows at the berth. Pilots emerged from the cockpits; some stood beside their mechs' ankles, running their palms along the scorch marks on the armor plates, their fingertips scraping the grit embedded in the crevices, before wiping their hands on their trouser legs. Cleaning servants waited at the edge of the berth, pushing high-pressure spray guns. After the knights' repairs, they would disperse into six squads and head to their respective families to await summons in the next war. These families were all vassals of Lucis, and the knight mechs were their reward for the war; correspondingly, they were obligated to answer both Lucis's and Garros's calls.

Cohen remained silent, gazing at the keels taking shape deep within the dock and the outlines of the old ships awaiting major repairs.

The old ship awaits remodeling, while the new ship is growing.

Ellis stood to Cohen's left rear and spoke after a moment: "Director, Garros is already a Class I forging world. We are planning how to integrate administrative affairs into the unified jurisdiction of the Garros Forging Temple in the future."

Cohen didn't answer immediately. He watched the keels taking shape deep in the dock, watched the massive hull of the Ark settle and stabilize in its berth, watched the still-forming ship skeletons stretch out in the cold white light. The war was over, and Garros had truly gained a foothold after the bloodshed, now possessing its own voice on the Empire's chessboard.

He turned around, looking at the hundreds of faces behind him: "Gallos is now the world of the River-level Forging. This is not the end, but only the beginning. The will of Om Messiah needs us, both with steel and with faith."

He paused for a moment: "We have many important matters to attend to next, so let's all return to our posts now."

The crowd began to move, dispersing to both ends of the corridor. Some whispered, others had already taken out their data panels and started processing the backlog of tasks. Cohen didn't leave immediately. He stood before the armored glass, looking at the keel deep within the dock. The lampposts of Wangshu were still lit, their cold white light falling on him. The stars of Garros shone through the dome, piercing the dock's skeleton, falling on the still-forming steel outlines, on the armored plates of the old ships awaiting repair, and on the mottled bow of the Fireseed.

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