With his arm severed, the captain, far from surrendering, grit his teeth against the pain and reached for the fallen laspistol with his other hand.
"This is Imperial territory! You have no—"
Peter saw that the captain, bleeding profusely, was still trying to fight back. He could not end the man's suffering; instead, he would have to increase it. These were senior officers of the Imperial merchant marine, not natives on some savage world who could be cowed by a simple decapitation.
Peter removed his helmet. With a slight tensing of his tongue, he squeezed venom from his Betcher's Gland. This modified organ beneath the tongue allowed a Space Marine's saliva to become highly corrosive, helping them digest tough food and melt through shackles.
Peter held a thick glob of phlegm in his mouth. The captain, now holding the laspistol with great difficulty in his left hand, was struggling to raise it to fire.
But with a single spit, Peter spat directly in the man's face.
The captain, who had not cried out when his hand was blown off, now let out a scream of agony, as if a bucket of acid had been poured over his head. The entire bridge vibrated with his tortured shrieks, as if the very walls were echoing his despair. The screams hammered at the minds of every mortal present, a grim pronouncement of the fate that awaited any who resisted.
For two full minutes, they listened. For two full minutes, the captain screamed as he died a slow death. His cries only began to fade when the spit had melted through his skull and destroyed his brain.
Looking at the warrior before him, Peter let out a soft sigh that no one else could hear, then his tone shifted.
"Is there anyone else unwilling to surrender? Now is the time to step forward."
He scanned the faces of the remaining crew. It seemed there would be no more resistance.
Peter put his helmet back on and opened the internal comms.
"Freddy, what's the status of your squad?"
A reply came through the helmet's speaker.
"Encountered light resistance. The engine room is secure. No casualties."
"Good. What about Anthony's team?"
Anthony's voice came through, slightly distorted due to the distance to the other ship.
"We have control of the vessel. No casualties."
It had been a simple boarding action. Peter couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. He was, after all, a Space Marine who had survived the Siege of Terra. He had faced many exceptional mortal soldiers back then, fearless and well-equipped men who had killed countless brothers that had looked down on them.
Space Marines were not invincible. They never had been. Mortals, if well-trained, sufficiently brave, and equipped with the right weapons and a little sound strategy, could absolutely kill a Space Marine.
Sometimes, all it took was a bit of luck. A Basilisk artillery shell landing square in a Space Marine's face, or an Astartes stepping on a melta mine planted by an engineer.
Fortunately, the soldiers on these two merchant ships had none of those things. It had been an easy fight.
The rest was unremarkable. Some of the Blackiron's armsmen were transferred to the other two ships to suppress any potential resistance, and some of the flagship's crew came over to take command.
After everything was arranged, it was time to inspect the spoils. Peter and his brothers went to the cargo holds to see what their prize was.
With the mortal first mate opening the warehouse with his security key, they entered one of the armed freighter's main holds.
The interior was dim and stuffy. When the lights were activated, rows of lighting strips flickered on in sequence, illuminating a vast quantity of cargo.
On the towering shelves inside the hold were stacks of ceramite and plasteel, hundreds of barrels of phosphex gel and rocket propellant, and crates of self-sharpening diamond warheads and pre-cut monomolecular blades.
Anthony pried open a nearby iron crate, revealing countless neatly cut rubies packed inside.
He picked up one, the size of his little finger, and examined it closely.
"High-purity ruby crystals, already cut. They can be used for the energy focusing arrays in lasguns. This crate has about 2,000 of them, enough to make two thousand lasguns. Captain, it looks like we've hit a freighter from an industrial world or a forge world."
Peter took the manifest from a nearby mortal and glanced at it.
"It's more than just what we see here. Large reserves of promethium, chemical propellants, Promethean fuel, composite plasteel, precision electronics, a large quantity of refined steel, various chemical agents... and some adamantium."
Peter analyzed as he read.
"The items on these two ships are all raw materials for weapons and equipment. They were destined for an industrial world. And..."
When he saw the destination, Peter froze for a moment, then a wry smile touched his lips.
"All of this cargo was being shipped to Apathe Howard."
Noticing the strange tone in his captain's voice, Anthony asked, "What's wrong, Captain? Is this Apathe Howard someone powerful?"
Peter nodded and said slowly, "He is the patriarch of a minor Rogue Trader family. Among Rogue Traders, his strength is considered lower-middle at best. Of course, that's all secondary. The main point is that he is the person we're traveling to trade with."
Anthony was stunned.
"So, you're saying... we just robbed the guy we're supposed to trade with for gene-seed?"
Peter nodded, but he wasn't flustered. He continued, "Yes, we robbed him. But it doesn't really matter. No one from the ships managed to escape, and neither vessel had an Astropath. We have them both under our control. In other words, the news couldn't have gotten out, and he couldn't possibly know."
"Besides, we are a Chaos Warband. There's no reason to spit out what's already in our mouths. As long as he doesn't find out, we'll be fine. We just need to hide these two ships far away when we go to meet him. Plenty of ships enter the Warp and are never seen again every year."
Although it was a bit of a blunder, Peter felt the raid had been a resounding success. The brothers had suffered no casualties and had seized a massive amount of raw materials for weapons and equipment. While the raw materials couldn't be used directly, they would be worth a considerable sum on the black market. It was perfect; they could take it all back to their homeworld, start up the production lines, and make their own weapons.
After they had finished inspecting their loot, the three ships formed up into a fleet. Captain Barnabas even joked that if they kept this up, the warband's merchant fleet would grow so large that he, the Master of the Fleet, would become the Master of the Merchant Fleet.
But overall, it was a good outcome. At the very least, the warband now had more ships, and the armed freighter had some firepower to contribute.
Now, with the Blackiron at its head, the three-ship fleet once again entered the Warp. This time, their destination was the flagship of the Apathe Howard Rogue Trader dynasty.
...
On the Gothic-class cruiser, the Star Guardian, flagship of the Howard Dynasty, three Astartes in silver-grey war-plate strode through its corridors. Trailing behind them were over a hundred servitors pushing fifty iron crates that resembled coffins.
A trade representative led the three Astartes and their hundred servitors through the ship, heading towards the flagship's reception hall.
The portly, middle-aged representative glanced back at the three Astartes behind him, still feeling uneasy. Although they had surrendered their boltguns and chainswords upon boarding, they had refused to give up the monomolecular combat blades at their waists. The Apothecary had even refused to remove the "medical" device on his arm.
Even though his master, Apathe Howard, had been consulted and had granted permission for them to carry the blades, the trade representative was still worried.
An unarmed Space Marine was dangerous enough; his master had actually allowed them to carry knives. What if they suddenly went berserk? But his master had agreed instantly over the comms, so he could only reluctantly permit it.
As far as he could remember, no one had ever been allowed to carry weapons on a first trade, especially not heretic Astartes. His master was being far too trusting.
The trade representative sighed. At least the servitors transporting the cargo were their own, which gave him some peace of mind.
The group passed through a corridor and entered the reception hall. In an instant, the environment became disconnected from the rest of the starship. The high ceiling was adorned with intricate wooden beams, inlaid with golden patterns and carvings. The walls were hung with numerous priceless works of art depicting wars among the stars.
A massive fireplace dominated most of one wall, decorated with sculptures and complex stonework. Wood burned within, casting a warm glow and heating the room. The fact that the fireplace actually burned wood was incredibly primitive, yet the special, refreshing fragrance that filled the air made it seem worthwhile.
In the center of the room were sofas and a table made of precious wood, with cushions wrapped in soft silk. On the table were plates with built-in heating and sterilization functions, holding a variety of delicious pastries and fruits. In a liquor cabinet to the side, bottles of fine wine were neatly arranged for guests to choose from.
Any single item in this room was beyond the imagination of a resident from a mid-level hive city; even the nobles of some planets would never enjoy such luxury in their entire lives.
But the most important thing in the room was a young man in magnificent attire, a power sword and bolt pistol at his waist. His crisp uniform was elaborately decorated with ribbons of honor, and his long, pale-gold hair was draped over his back.
The young man appeared to be in his twenties, at least by his looks.
He smiled, revealing eight perfect teeth.
"Greetings, esteemed Lord of the Forged Steel. Welcome to the flagship of the Howard family. Please, have a seat. Make yourselves at home."
Peter, his face grim, spoke the pleasantries. "Thank you for your hospitality, master of the Howard Dynasty."
He sat down heavily on a wooden sofa. The power armor and his immense weight pressed down, but the sofa, surprisingly, held.
Peter took a bottle of golden liquid from the liquor cabinet and opened it with his bare hands.
He took a small sip, activating the taste-analyzing nerves in his body. This modified organ, the Neuroglottis, allowed a Space Marine to determine if something was edible, if it contained toxins, and if the toxins were within an acceptable range.
Of course, this ability was not absolute. Organizations like the Inquisition and the Officio Assassinorum were always developing deadly poisons that could deceive the Neuroglottis.
Sensing no poison, Peter casually pulled two more bottles from the cabinet and handed them to his brothers behind him.
The trade representative standing nearby felt a pang of pain in his heart. Damn it, they really know how to drink. They picked the three most expensive bottles.
Peter held the expensive liquor and, ignoring the crystal glass next to him, chugged it from the bottle like it was beer.
"Lord Apathe Howard, we have brought the goods. Fifty unsanctioned psykers, captured in the Eye of Terror. They are currently in stasis in the pods outside."
"But I must warn you, these psykers are from within the Eye. They are unstable and can never become battle psykers or Astropaths."
Maintaining his professional smile, Apathe Howard replied politely, "Thank you for the warning. It's no matter. There are many places that need psykers. Some planetary governors need cheap psykers to offset their tithes, forge worlds need new genetic material to enrich their psyker breeding programs, and some sorcerers need their own kind as consumables. There will always be a demand."
Peter pressed on slightly. "Then where is the merchandise we require?"
Apathe Howard nodded to the trade representative. The fat man moved like a nimble ball, quickly leaving and returning with two servitors carrying a container.
Dioscorides stepped forward to open and inspect the contents. After a series of professional procedures, he came to a conclusion.
"A total of 40 gene-seeds. Their viability is quite good. Some show slight mutation, but it's within acceptable limits."
The Apothecary looked up and asked the Rogue Trader, "Do you have the lineage records for these gene-seeds?"
Apathe Howard spread his hands. "These were all acquired through trade with the Dark Eldar. Unfortunately, those sadists don't keep such records."
Peter nodded. "Contacts with the Dark Eldar, and even trading with a traitor like myself. It seems your business is doing quite well, my lord."
Apathe Howard let out a light laugh, appearing very amiable. "To be honest, I'm taking a loss on this deal with you. You'll have to give us more business in the future."
Peter swallowed the last of his drink and put the bottle down. "All you merchants say that. Since the deal is done, we'll be leaving."
With that, Peter stood up, and the three of them turned to leave.
On their way back to the Blackiron, the Apothecary's voice came over the internal comms.
"My lord, it's incredible. Fifty unstable psykers from the Eye of Terror in exchange for 40 gene-seeds. Even if I don't know the market well, I know we made out like bandits."
Peter strode towards the landing bay and replied, "I also know this deal is a bit unusual, but we desperately need these gene-seeds right now. I asked the Rogue Trader about it, and his reply was that he wanted to leave a good impression on us to lay the groundwork for future trades."
"Dioscorides, regardless, we have the seeds now. You are to inspect them repeatedly. Only after you have confirmed they are safe are you to implant them in the new recruits."
The Apothecary nodded. "As you command, Lord of the Forged Steel."
Although he had given the order, Peter still felt that something was off about the whole affair. What exactly was wrong? He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
But it didn't matter. Gene-seed from different lineages would indeed cause some variations among the battle-brothers, but it wouldn't be a deciding factor.
Philon was a perfect example. Although as a leader, Peter really wanted to punch the man in his front teeth sometimes, he would also unhesitatingly take a bullet for him and fight to the death to recover his body if he fell.
...
For a while after Peter and his brothers left the reception hall, the trade representative took a disposable silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the fine sweat from his brow.
"Oh, my God-Emperor! Those living ancestors are finally gone."
Apathe Howard laughed heartily. "There's no need to be so afraid. It's not the first time we've done business with Space Marines. You see? The goods were delivered, the payment was made, no fuss at all. Wasn't it a smooth transaction?"
The trade representative didn't think so. "My lord, in the past, we've never allowed those heretic Astartes on board! Couldn't they have just sent a representative or used long-range comms?"
"They just walked onto the ship in their armor, carrying weapons, and stood face-to-face with your esteemed self. What if they had harmed you?" the trade representative said, his face a mask of loyalty, whether real or feigned.
"Rest assured, I know what I'm doing," the Rogue Trader said, unconcerned by his subordinate's worries.
The portly, round man clutched his handkerchief and said worriedly, "There's another important piece of intelligence. I've only just learned of it. The two merchant ships that were delivering our goods have gone missing. A patrol fleet found them parked in this system's asteroid belt. It's obvious these Space Marines hid them there. They robbed us of the cargo that was meant for us."
Apathe had actually known about this for some time. "I know, but provoking them is not a good idea. Besides, we never received the goods, so we don't have to pay. We've only lost the deposit. In any case, it wasn't us they robbed."
The trade representative was still anxious. "My lord, a merchant vessel in our service was robbed in our territory. We discovered it and did nothing. If word of this gets out, it will give our trading house a bad reputation."
Apathe Howard was amused. "Then why don't you go negotiate with those Chaos Space Marines and ask them to return the ships and cargo? Or better yet, I can assign you a few warships, and you can go take it all back."
Hearing this, the trade representative shook his head so vigorously it resembled a pellet drum.
The Rogue Trader was truly amused now. His immature subordinate's head-shaking reminded him of a bobblehead doll. "Well, there you have it. Since it has already happened, it's better to offend one party than two. We can just give them a few more favorable deals in the future as compensation."
This subordinate is a far cry from his father when he was young, Apathe thought. He still needs much more training.
"By the way, Trade Master, do more business with this 'Forged Steel Brotherhood' in the future. Give them some discounts, as long as we don't take a loss. It can't hurt to be on good terms with them."
The trade representative took out another silk handkerchief and continued to wipe his sweat. "Yes, my lord." This time, he didn't ask why. He assumed his master had his reasons.
Apathe Howard stretched, a bit ungracefully, yawned, and said casually, "Alright, that's about it for today's work. I'm going back to rest."
With that, he left the reception hall and headed for his personal chambers.
Many people imagined that a Rogue Trader would have a massive bedroom of several thousand square meters, filled with fine wines, delicacies, and beautiful attendants.
In reality, that was not the case, at least not for Apathe. His quarters were only a little over two hundred square meters. Besides the bedroom, there was an office-cum-study, a washroom with a bath-cum-sauna, and, of course, a small private armory. That was all.
He could, of course, eat the finest food and drink the most exquisite wines. But often, to save time, he would simply down a nutrient paste prepared by a professional nutritionist to get all the sustenance he needed for the day.
As for who entered and exited his room, besides his bodyguards, there were only a few high-ranking executives of the dynasty. Only they could enter without announcement in an emergency. Otherwise, automated turrets would shred any unauthorized intruder into a sieve.
He rested only eight hours a day and had no holidays. All of this was not for his own enjoyment, but for the interests of the Imperium. Yes, even when helping heretics or trading with xenos, he did it for the interests of the Imperium.
Apathe took off his ostentatious coat and hung it on a rack in the entryway. He also removed his priceless boots made from the hide of a rare beast and changed into cooler, more comfortable slippers.
As he was unbuckling his belt, the Rogue Trader suddenly froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He had a feeling that something was wrong. Whether it was a warrior's intuition or the expensive bionics the Mechanicus had implanted in him, he sensed that he was not alone in the room.
He unclipped the bolt pistol and power sword from his belt, holding the sword in his left hand and the pistol in his right. He slipped off his slippers, his socked feet making contact with the floor.
He didn't grab an extra magazine. There wouldn't be many enemies. If he couldn't solve the problem with the fifteen bolts in his current magazine, more wouldn't make a difference.
He moved inward with the swift, graceful steps of a cat, making less noise than a falling leaf. There was no time to contact his bodyguards; it might alert the intruder.
He silently but quickly checked his rooms, from the nearest washroom and bath to the armory.
Finally, as he peeked into his semi-open office, exposing the smallest possible target, he saw the intruder.
It was a tall figure, sitting in his office chair, hands clasped, facing him.
The lights in the office were off, so the figure was cloaked in shadow. The Rogue Trader, on the other hand, was illuminated by the light from outside.
Seeing this, the Rogue Trader lowered his gun and sword. He bowed slightly to the tall figure in the shadows.
"My lord, I did not expect you."
A deep, sharp voice spoke in High Gothic from the shadows. "Apathe. You sold him the gene-seed."
The Rogue Trader stood up straight and replied, "Yes, Lord Belcher."
"At that price?"
"That is correct."
"Don't you feel you took a loss?"
"I did. But were those not your orders, my lord?"
A low, cunning chuckle came from the shadows. "I never said you did anything wrong. Did you include the gene-seed I gave you?"
"I did."
In the shadows, the tall figure took a few steps forward, revealing himself in the light of the cabin. It was a tall, bald Astartes, clad in peacock-blue power armor adorned with intricate patterns like the scales of a serpent.
The Astartes nodded in affirmation to the Rogue Trader. "Operative, your mission is complete. However, I will be discarding this identity. You will not be contacted by 'Belcher' again."
The Rogue Trader was slightly surprised. "My lord, then what will be the codename of my next contact?"
The son of the Hydra put on his helmet. A voice as dangerous as a viper came through the vox-grille.
"Alpharius."
The Rogue Trader nodded, understanding not to ask any more questions. "Yes, my lord."
After a moment of silence, the son of the Hydra spoke their battle cry in a low voice.
"For the Emperor!"
The Rogue Trader, seeing this, also crossed his hands over his chest in the sign of the aquila.
"By His will alone."
...
Standard Terran Calendar: .674.M31
At the Mandeville Point of the Lemnos system, three ships emerged in succession from the ravaged space of the Immaterium.
It was Peter and his retinue, who had been away for nearly two years. After their long journey, they had finally returned to their homeworld.
As he brought the three ships back into orbit, Peter noticed that the number of Dark Mechanicum vessels had increased. At the same time, a structural framework of steel had appeared in orbit.
Countless servitors and Dark Mechanicum priests, clad in void suits, were methodically constructing the frame of a starport.
This was clearly the small starport the Mechanicum had promised. With it, they could establish rapid communication between the planet and orbit, use orbital augurs for planetary positioning, and monitor the ground from space. It would also facilitate the storage of cargo and fuel, the docking of ships, and the convenient transfer of personnel and goods between vessels.
Peter looked at the massive undertaking, pleased with the Dark Mechanicum's efficiency. In less than two years, the starport had already grown to this size.
In truth, Peter didn't fully understand. The most difficult part of building a small starport was by no means the basic framework. Welding together a technologically mature frame required no real skill. To use the analogy of building a house, this wasn't even laying the foundation; it was just digging the hole for it.
Upon the fleet's return to the homeworld's orbit, Peter immediately received a meeting request from Magos Morloch of the Dark Mechanicum.
In the reception hall of the Blackiron, Peter and Anthony waited. Once again, they saw the prostrate form of Magos Biologis Morloch. This time, a Dark Mechanicum priest, also in a rust-red robe, stood beside him.
Peter got straight to the point.
"Greetings, Magos Morloch. To what do I owe the urgency of this meeting?"
Magos Morloch's head twitched again, emitting a low, grinding sound. His emotion-simulation circuits were running at maximum capacity.
"Greetings, Lord of the Forged Steel. First, I would like to discuss a business transaction with you."
"During this time, our technicians have been surveying Lemnos III, IV, and V, and have discovered mineral or promethium resources on all of them. In particular, the promethium reserves within the gas giant, Lemnos V, are quite astonishing."
"If you permit, we can exploit these resources. All equipment, personnel, and technology will be provided by us. The resources will be split fifty-fifty. For every 10 tons of ore mined, 5 tons will be yours. For every 10 liters of promethium, 5 liters will be yours. We will store it for you, and you may access it at any time or use it directly for trade with us."
Peter was slightly surprised by the proposal. Not by the amount of resources in the system; that was, after all, why he had chosen the Maelstrom. He was surprised by the Dark Mechanicum's proactivity, and their generosity. A fifty-fifty split, without them having to provide any manpower or materials. It was practically a free gift.
Faced with such a tempting offer, Peter stroked his chin and pondered for a moment before replying.
"Magos, your proposal is excellent. And I have a gift for you in return."
"I have previously reviewed the information on Lemnos IV. Aside from its lack of an atmosphere and surface water, the planet is actually quite suitable. I will give this planet, and everything on it, to the Forge World of Daedalus, free of charge, as a symbol of our friendship."
The mechadendrites and mechanical arms on Magos Morloch's body suddenly froze. Then, the strange creak-graunch-creak-graunch sound echoed from within him again.
"Thank you for your generosity. There is one more thing."
As he spoke, the Magos extended a mechadendrite towards his lower body? Abdomen? Or perhaps his undercarriage, and retrieved a battle axe from within.
It was a massive axe, about the length of a man. Both the haft and the blade were forged from adamantium. The axe head was engraved with intricate and mystical patterns, and the haft was wrapped in the hide of some unknown beast. The entire weapon looked solid and powerful.
"This is an Artificer Power Axe, powered by a plasma cell at the base of the haft. In an emergency, it can also be connected to a power pack. A battle-hardened warrior such as yourself will surely be familiar with it."
"It was personally crafted for you by the Fabricator-General of the Forge World of Daedalus, Dorothy Fleck. Its designation is 35931-C02. The Fabricator-General has ordered me to present it to you as a token of friendship."
Hearing the Magos's words, Peter couldn't suppress a smile. He was amused by the Magos Biologis's speech. Was it a flaw in the Magos's emotion-simulation device, or a bug in his logic engine?
Peter was not a professional Techmarine, but he was an Iron Warrior, and every Iron Warrior knew a thing or two about technology. They might not be able to soothe a machine spirit or repair a super-heavy vehicle, but they could craft simple weapons and equipment and perform basic field repairs on common vehicles.
And this flaw was so glaring. A weapon with the designation 35931-C02? Didn't that mean it was the second item of a Class C project from the year .359.M31 of the Standard Terran Calendar?
He was quite sure they hadn't even been in contact at that time. Specially crafted for him, indeed. Was the Magos's grasp of social niceties and rhetoric so advanced, or were these cogboys simply clueless in certain areas?
But Peter didn't call him out on it. He simply nodded, took the power axe, and said, "Thank you. I have decided to name it 'Blood of Crassus.' Please convey my gratitude to the Fabricator-General."
The Magos continued to wave his mechadendrites and mechanical arms, making the creaking and graunching sounds. He shifted his massive body to reveal the priest beside him.
"One last thing. I will be returning to the forge world. This is Priestess Yamila Burke. She has extensive experience in construction. After I leave, she will be the representative of the forge world and will liaise with you."
With that, the Magos immediately deactivated his emotion-simulation circuits, turned, and left. As he departed, perhaps due to some internal mechanical malfunction, the creaking and graunching sounds continued, louder than before.
Ignoring the departing Magos, Peter looked at Priestess Yamila Burke. This priest did not appear to be overly mechanized. She had only two legs, two arms, and a head, with a few extra mechadendrites on her back. She even had what could be called a face made of flesh. Peter might not understand complex machinery, but he understood people.
In both the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Dark Mechanicum, there were only two types of people who could serve as representatives. One was the high and mighty, those who could truly represent a forge world in diplomatic matters, like Magos Biologis Morloch.
The other was the type stationed in a particular region or with a specific power, representing a forge world in the day-to-day, low-skill, but necessary diplomatic work. Like the one before him.
This could only mean that the forge world considered this priestess to be expendable, and that no one liked her. Either she had made some mistake, or her superior had, or she was simply chosen at random. This was tantamount to exile; she would likely never return to her home forge world.
Peter extended a hand. "Priestess Yamila, welcome! We look forward to working with you."
Priestess Yamila extended one of the mechadendrites on her back, shook Peter's hand briefly, and replied, "Yes, my lord."
She then stated that she had work to attend to and took her leave.
After the outsiders had gone, Anthony immediately asked, "Captain, you just gave them a whole world? And they said they would be in charge of storing the resources they mine. So who do those things really belong to?"
Peter explained patiently, "Resources buried in the ground are not resources. They only count when they're dug up. With our industrial capacity, it would take us maybe a thousand years to exhaust our homeworld's resources. Since we can't get to them anytime soon, we might as well let them do the digging."
"They now have a whole world. Next, they'll set up resource extraction points, then expand, build refineries and processing plants, and construct a starport for transport. I believe they'll eventually find it too troublesome and just set up production lines on-site. Then, we'll have a small industrial world, and maybe even a future forge world, right next door. Anthony, you see us losing a planet in our system, but in the future, we will gain much more."
"As for those materials, establishing storage and distribution is a complex undertaking. Believe me, my brother, it's not an easy job. Besides, our bolters will be right next to their stockpiles. They wouldn't dare not give them to us."