Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 153 The Navy's Gaze 942.M41

More than six months had passed since the Battle of Invernus ended. Larson stood on the viewing platform at Wangshu Shipyard, watching the Navy Moon-class ships being delivered below. Spotlights swept down from both sides of the dome, cutting sharp lines of light and shadow on the ship's armor. The ship's silhouette was slowly turning, every seam of the armor sharpened by the light—but the naval proclamation in his hand was what he truly didn't want to face at this moment.

The internal naval memo arrived late at night several days prior. It was in encrypted StarCraft, formatted and worded in a standard way—so standard that anyone familiar with similar documents could smell the whiff of an ultimatum. The Lucis liaison office forwarded it with a note: if Garros could not produce a feasible Odysseus-class construction plan within the stipulated timeframe, the liaison office director's assessment would be classified as "ineffective in fulfilling duties."

He sat at his office terminal reading the communication, then turned it off and sat there for a long time. Dusk was settling over Dome One outside the window; his wife was watering flowers in the garden downstairs, and his young daughter was building a space station with blocks on the living room floor. He had initially thought that in a peripheral world like Garros, the head of the liaison office was just a sinecure. But after the Battle of Invernus, the Garros Legion achieved unexpected victories, and his life changed from "seclusion" to "being watched."

Late that night, he left a note for his wife and went to the dock. He stayed there for three nights, repeatedly checking the operational status of the ships. Now, standing on the viewing platform, he had mentally reviewed the data countless times—and the evaluation form was now tucked into his coat pocket.

The ceremony was underway. The lunar thrusters below had begun preheating, their exhaust plumes casting a blue-white glow across the dock's cavities. A technical priest in a crimson robe remarked, "Delivered on time, two weeks ahead of the contract deadline," but Larson didn't respond. The technical priest, receiving no reply, turned to attend to the next matter.

Larson remained standing there. His gaze passed over the naval Moon-class ship, settling deeper into the distance. The hull of another Revenge-class ship was already closed, its paint a deep blue, the color of the merchant ronin family. Further back, the meticulously crafted silhouettes of two Moon-class ships gleamed a dark red under the spotlight—those were the ships of the Garros fleet itself. The keel of a Mars-class battlecruiser was being laid, its adamantite frame extending dozens of meters from the slipway. Sections of three Unyielding-class light cruisers were arranged in adjacent berths. In the far distance, two Sword-class frigates were undergoing sealing operations; this was the third batch of frigates he had brought to Garros since arriving. The first two batches had already been incorporated into the Garros fleet's patrol order and were patrolling near Mandeville.

In the deepest berth, the keel of an Odysseus-class ship had just emerged from its pier. Larson recognized that ship type—in battle reports, the silhouette of the Odysseus-class had pierced through the smoke and dust under the fire of orcish wreckage. On the adjacent slipway, the silhouette of a Goliath-class industrial ship was hidden in the shadow of its supports. With twelve slipways operating simultaneously, plus the three Galaxy-class ships already launched and undergoing sea trials at the civilian docks, the entire Garros shipbuilding system was simultaneously advancing the construction of fifteen large ships within a single construction cycle.

If this figure appeared on the Naval Logistics Department's assessment report, Lucis's reaction would only be: expedite the reassessment, send an assessment team, and thoroughly search Gallo's ledgers and shipyards. But what he needed to do was to write the figure on the assessment report in a position that the Navy could believe, yet that wouldn't warrant sending an assessment team to overturn the table. And the assessment report could only explain the shipyards as they were. The things beyond the surface, the figures that would never appear in any reports—those were the truly dangerous ones.

An internal report submitted by analysts last week mentioned some of these instances. The report noted frequent observations of unregistered small mining vessels in the asteroid belt, with an estimated number exceeding one hundred. It also mentioned another type of vessel, slightly smaller than the Sword-class corvette...

The barges equipped with bombardment cannons have extended their operational range to the vicinity of Mandeville.

After reading the report, Larson sat in front of the terminal for a long time. Then he dragged the file into an encrypted folder, without forwarding or archiving it.

It wasn't about loyalty. He had calculated that if the Navy noticed Garros' actual production capacity far exceeded the reported figures, they couldn't directly "verify" Garros, but they had the right to question the integrity of the contracting party. Once Garros was labeled an "opaque" supplier by the Navy, the Navy could delay payments, refuse to renew contracts, or even submit negative assessments to the Mars Review Board. Worse still, those still observing businessmen, technologists, and wandering merchants would hesitate, back down, and remove Garros from their lists once they saw the Navy's attitude.

His youngest daughter attends school under the dome. The classroom window faces the greenhouse flowerbed—when she first saw real green plants, she stood by the window for a long time, saying nothing. His wife grows roses at home, which have already bloomed for two seasons.

He knew what this galaxy was like. He knew that a world could occupy only one line in the Imperial archives. He also knew that the greenery beneath the dome would never exist in Lucis, and that the sunlight there had been eroded into a layer of gray by industrial fumes.

So he knew how easily these things could be taken away. Just one more comment in the file, one more word in the Navy report, and the flowers would wither. Not from lack of water or disease, but because the entire system would cease allocating resources to them. He couldn't let anyone destroy these things. So he locked up the report. It wasn't the first time. And it wouldn't be the last.

He withdrew his gaze and turned to walk towards the platform exit. The light from the lunar thruster had dimmed, and the dock cavity was once again filled with the cold white light of the spotlights.

He walked through the dock corridor and took the elevator to the shuttle berth area on the outer layer of Wangshu. Outside the elevator window, the magnificent industrial structure of Wangshu swept across the view, a breathtaking sight that would make anyone stare for a long time, but it did not move Larson in the slightest. His gaze remained fixed on the data panel screen in his hand.

"Estimated annual production capacity of the Garros-class cruisers," and "Supplementary information on the production capacity of other main warship types." Too low, and the Navy's reaction would be "insufficient capacity." Too high, and the Navy would send someone to assess it. A number that just barely falls between "worth including in the list" and "worth reviewing" makes the Navy feel that the Garros is useful, yet not worth sending an assessment team to overturn the decision. He repeatedly weighed that number in his mind.

The shuttle broke free from Wangshu's shadow and swooped down toward the daytime surface of Garros's main star. The transparent armor of Dome One unfolded in view. The shuttle glided along the guide beam into the airtight passage at the edge of the dome and landed in the temple's side plaza.

As Larson descended the gangway, a patrol of Cleric soldiers in crimson power armor passed by the edge of the plaza. The leading sergeant recognized him and gave a brief gear salute. Larson merely nodded in response and hurried on.

The main temple was still under construction, while the side hall served as the most important office area for the Forge World. Two Casterian mechs stood silently at the entrance. As Larson approached, their optical lenses simultaneously lit up, lingering on him for two seconds. A deep, clear electronic voice boomed from the loudspeaker: "Larson Donovan, Director of the Imperial Navy Liaison Office in Garros, has registered access. Entry is permitted." The mechs' optical lenses returned to standby mode, as if they had never been activated. The two silent steel silhouettes solidified again behind Larson, becoming part of the passageway.

On the top floor of the side sanctuary of the temple, Cohen's office area always maintained a minimal number of personnel passing through. He turned the corner and saw a tightly closed adamantine armored door ahead. There were no signs hanging on either side of the door frame, only binary codes and gear and skull reliefs etched into the metal surface. Two servo skulls hovered above the door frame, their internal standby indicator lights flashing at a fixed frequency. The one on the left swooped down, hovered in front of him, and emitted a short binary pulse. Two seconds later, the servo skull returned to its position, a dark red light flashing deep in the eye sockets of its head. The adamantine armored door slid open silently.

Cohen, dressed in a sage's robe, sat behind his desk, a work assignment plan for the technical priest section of the underground industrial zone spread out before him. He knew who had come, but he didn't look up immediately; instead, he focused intently on the data panel in his hands.

"Please sit down."

Larson sat down opposite him. He made a brief Eagle Salute with his right hand across his chest, one knuckle touching his collarbone, then released it. This was the standard gesture for naval officers entering Mechanicus territory, both a courtesy and a confirmation.

Then he opened the inside pocket of his coat, took out the encrypted data board, placed it on the table, and pushed it in front of Cohen. "Production capacity assessment."

"Reassess." His voice was flat, as if he were reading a navigation log that had been calibrated countless times. "Under the Emperor's name. For the Iron Will of the Om Messiah—the Navy needs to conduct a formal assessment of Garros's production capacity." A dark green stripe ran along the edge of the data panel, a standard identifier for internal Navy Logistics Department documents.

Cohen picked up the data tablet and pressed his thumb against the sensor area. He flipped through it slowly, page by page, then closed the tablet and placed it back on the table. "The Imperial Navy finds the Garros fleet's performance in the war too impressive."

"According to my review report, Garros's production capacity data doesn't match the existing models," Larson said. "The Black Pearl's navigation capabilities, the Lunar-class craftsmen's survivability in orbital engagements, and the Odysseus-class's ability to complete deployments under the firepower of scrapped ships—these performances themselves are proof of production capacity. Garros is now a foundry world, and even compared to the standard values ​​of a Tier I foundry world, the gap is too large. So large that they feel the original assessment needs to be revised."

He paused for a moment: "The Navy thinks you're hiding your actual production capacity. And they're right. But that's not exactly the point."

""

Cohen didn't speak, nor did he look away. He was waiting.

"The key is the Odysseus-class. After the Battle of Invernus, the navy's shortage of transport ships had reached a critical point. The shipbuilding schedule for capital ships was booked decades in advance; nobody had time to manage transport ships. Then your Odysseus-class appeared—"

Capable of both fighting and transporting, one ship solves two problems.

"In the naval archives, the Odysseus-class is classified as a warship," an ancient classification from the Great Crusade era. In the current Imperial Navy's ship classification system, the low-level category of armed transport ship happens to overlap with its actual purpose during the Great Crusade, a point the Logistics Department cleverly exploited to circumvent approval obstacles. However, records from the Battle of Amegiddon show that the Odysseus-class completed its deployment under the firepower of orcish wrecked ships and even engaged in combat with orcish escort ships on its return journey.

The armor withstood a broadside salvo, and the heavy artillery sank the pursuing orc destroyer. It wasn't a transport ship. It was a capital ship disguised as a transport ship.

He pushed the data panel an inch toward Cohen.

"There's a line that will be highlighted in the Navy's assessment report: its armor strength is comparable to a standard Moon-class cruiser, and its firepower is several times greater than that of a comparable transport ship. So what they really want is this ship—a ship that can do the work of two ships. And Garros is the only place that can build it."

"In other words, what the Navy wants is not a capacity assessment of Garros, but a capacity assessment of Odysseus," Cohen said.

“Yes,” Larson said. “The list of qualified suppliers is a smokescreen. What they really want to know is: how many you can build in a year, and whether you can share the blueprints. You certainly won’t agree to the latter, but the former can be addressed through evaluation reports.”

He pulled an old-fashioned data pen from his inner pocket and wrote a number on the blank space of the data board: "In my experience, the Navy will find this number reasonable if it is written in the report."

Cohen glanced down. The figure was several times higher than the actual production capacity he could report, just barely falling into the "worth including in the list" range.

In the gap between "needs to be reviewed".

"The Navy's assessment model is based on data from the Standard Class I foundry world. In the Navy's assessment logic, Precision Class is a danger signal. Precision means higher machining precision, longer working hours, and more skilled craftsmen. Shipyards that can achieve Precision Class must have sufficient capacity redundancy to support this level of precision."

Cohen glanced at him: "How do you plan to explain this to the Navy?"

"Gallos is ramping up production at full capacity. Civilian docks are operating at full capacity, and the number of slipways at Wangshu Dock has doubled. The Battle of Invernus proved that Gallos's production capacity far exceeded model predictions, so the assessment needs to be revised—this logic has been accepted within the Navy. When the Navy sees that number, it will convert it into the production capacity of the Odysseus-class ships."

Larson placed the data pen on the table: "The next step is to renegotiate. When the old contract was signed, Garros wasn't yet the Foundry World; the situation is completely different now."

He leaned forward slightly: "The Navy wants to terminate the old contracts for the Lunar-class destroyers."

Cohen's gaze lingered on his face for a moment. "Five contracts for Moon-class ships. When they were signed, Garros was just a shipyard in a border world according to the Navy's records; being able to build Moon-class ships was already a pleasant surprise. The contract terms were lenient, and the Navy didn't take it too seriously. Now it's different. After the war, Garros's records have been marked, and the old contracts are no longer sufficient."

"The one that has already been built will be delivered as scheduled. For the remaining four, the Navy will pay the penalty for breach of contract. The condition is that the remaining production capacity of the Moon-class ships will be transferred to the Odysseus-class ships during the contract switch."

Cohen looked at him: "How many?"

"Three per year," Larson said.

"Three?" Cohen's tone remained unchanged, but the question itself was enough—"Who calculated that?"

"The Naval Logistics Bureau's combat loss replenishment model. After the Second Armageddon War, the gap in transport ships in the Misty Starfield—a real gap, not just a paper gap—the projections show that at least five ships per year are needed to stop the decline in combat readiness. But the Logistics Bureau doesn't dare to put this number directly into any official documents. It needs a number that will satisfy the front lines without causing excessive panic on Mars." Larson's tone remained unchanged, as if stating a navigation parameter that had been verified countless times. "Three Odysseus-class ships—just in the middle of that range: enough to plug part of the gap, while the figures on paper appear manageable." It exceeded the baseline of the Chuan-I-class casting world, but not high enough for the Ministry of the Interior to feel the need for a re-examination.

He paused for a moment: "So the number I wrote on your assessment form already took all three of these into account. Garros is expanding production at full capacity. Civilian shipyards are operating at full capacity. The number of slipways at Wangshu Shipyard has doubled. This logic is certainly, or rather, already accepted within the Navy."

"What's the payment amount?"

"120 percent. The refined gold ore powder will be supplied in fixed quantities each year at an agreed price lower than the market price."

Cohen leaned back in his chair: "Three Odysseus-class ships a year. Three dry docks under construction simultaneously, each with an eight-kilometer-long hull—"

It's significantly longer than a Moon-class ship—and takes a year to build. Numerically, the numbers make sense. But I have a question. You mentioned that the Navy's assessment will classify me as a World-class shipbuilder. Will they then use this new classification as a benchmark, requiring me to accept new shipbuilding orders at the same production capacity standard?

Larson paused for a moment, then said, "Yes."

Cohen did not speak.

"But this isn't a naval conspiracy," Larson said. "This is how the Imperial system works—the contract you sign today becomes the benchmark for the next contract tomorrow. If you don't want to be driven by this benchmark, the only way is to let you decide the contents of the next contract. You now have that opportunity—you have their only shipyard capable of building Odysseus. This bargaining chip is more valuable than any contractual clause."

He paused for a moment: "And the upgrade has another layer of meaning. Class II forge worlds are reviewed much less frequently on Mars than Class III-I. With less review, you don't have to explain to Mars every few years why you're so capable of building. You just need to fill in a number on the assessment report and then build the ship."

Cohen paused for a moment: "The Navy is willing to endorse the Mars review?"

"The Naval Logistics Bureau will provide formal production capacity assessment documentation during the Mars review process. With this document, Garros has the opportunity to upgrade from a Tier I world to a Tier I forging world. The Ministry of the Interior rates industrial production capacity—Tier II means priority allocation of strategic resources. For resources like adamantite and iron, Tier I worlds have much higher quotas than Tier I worlds. They have more say in the military industrial planning of their respective star sectors. They also have higher priority when Mars handles Tier I world affairs. And the review frequency is lower."

What are the production capacity standards for Level 1I?

"The benchmark for the Class I shipbuilding world is that no more than two capital ships can be delivered per year. The three Odysseus-class ships fall right in the middle of that range—exceeding the upper limit of Class I, but not high enough to reach the threshold of Class I. This number will automatically place Garros in the Class I production capacity range. The upgrade application must be submitted by Garros itself; the Navy's endorsement is only an appendix. This number must be written in a solid way—it cannot make the Navy feel the need to send someone to review it, nor can it make the assessment officers of the Ministry of the Interior find the data suspicious."

"I need to know the consequences of not signing."

Larson's gaze lingered on Cohen's face for a moment before shifting to the view out the window. His fingers hovered on the edge of the table for a second before settling back down.

"One hundred and twenty standard days. If the contract isn't signed, the liaison office will be replaced. The new person won't understand how things work here—nor will they care. If you sign, the penalties for breach of the old contract, the supply line for refined gold ore, the endorsement from Mars—none of these will appear in any way. If you don't sign, they will all disappear."

"So you came here not just to fill out a form."

"Gallos will produce Odysseus-class ships, filling the navy's transport ship shortage. My liaison office will remain here, and you'll get an upgrade opportunity. It's a win-win situation for both of us."

Larson stood up, pausing at the doorway: "How long will it take for Ellis's office to receive notification of the approval for the list eligibility?"

"One to two months. The Navy's process won't be any faster than that," Cohen said.

"I know the Navy's procedures," Larson said, his tone unchanged. "I just want to know when you can sign it."

"Sign once you receive the notification."

The adamantine armored door slid open in front of Larson, who stepped across the threshold, the door closing behind him. Footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the silence of the side hall.

Cohen sat alone at the table. He flipped the data panel over, checked that the stamp and signature field on the back were formatted correctly, and then put it into the to-do folder. Dusk was settling in outside the window, and the lights of the No. 1 Dome residential complex gradually transitioned from warm yellow to cool white.

Three Odysseus-class ships annually, 120% of the payment amount, refined gold powder at 10% below market price, and a production capacity guarantee to the Tier I foundry world. Larson was right—this figure would indeed mark Garros as a Tier I production capacity on paper, while Tier I has a lower review frequency and higher material quotas. The time spent on reviews could be converted into dockwork hours.

He looked out the window for a while, then turned and walked back to his desk to open the next document.