Chapter 6: The Lower Decks
On the lowest decks of The Ironclad, three ship-thralls pushed a filthy slop-cart down a foul-smelling passageway. They dumped buckets of protein blocks into the feeding trough for each sector.
They hated this job. The food was supposed to be delivered by the auto-feeders, but the conduits had broken last month. Damage Control said they'd fix them "soon." The thralls didn't hold out much hope. Damage Control had said the same thing four years ago when the waste-reclamation system in Sector B2-68 failed, and it was still offline. This conduit would probably never be fixed. This "temporary" duty would become permanent.
Four armsmen in flak armor, armed with combat shotguns, guarded the cart. They took deep, smoky drags from "Hark-50" lho-sticks—cheap smokes laced with nicotine-flavoring and a mild narcotic. The armsman in front noticed his stick was burning down to the filter. He instinctively reached for his pouch, then stopped. Remembering his miserable ration, he decided to tough it out.
In Sector C3-57, the local boss, "Big Scar," heard the splat of food hitting the trough. He lumbered over. "Throne, protein blocks again."
At his side, his ganger, Sachs, looked even more worried. About a year ago, the lower-deck thralls were still getting questionable nutri-gruel, and sometimes even corpse-starch. Then it changed. First, they started getting protein blocks. Now, it was only protein blocks.
Others might not get it, but Sachs, a former Imperial Auxiliary, knew what this meant. Protein blocks were, paradoxically, more valuable than corpse-starch. Corpse-starch was just a processed byproduct of promethium production. But protein blocks... that required taking fish, grox-meat, or even just giant, fat insects and running them through a processor. When the higher-ups couldn't even provide corpse-starch and switched to protein, it meant only one thing...
But it wasn't the food that terrified Sachs. It was the work. Or rather, his lack of it. Unlike Big Scar, who was just ignorant hive-scum, Sachs understood their perilous situation.
He'd once been on a Naval transport, chatting with an old voider in a grog-den. He'd learned a few things about the hierarchy of a void-ship. A ship is divided into three classes: the Upper Decks, the Mid-Decks, and the Lower Decks.
First, the Upper Decks. This is where the ship's elite live. The Astartes, the Captain, the First Mate, the Chief of the Augur Arrays, the Astropaths, the Navigators. These people all have one thing in common: their jobs are critical and irreplaceable. They are vital. As such, their treatment is the best. Clean quarters, real food, personal thralls, private ablutions, maybe even a galley.
The Mid-Decks. This is the territory of the ship's ratings and armsmen. The crew, organized in family-clans, maintains the ship's functions. The armsmen maintain order and repel boarders. Whether it's the water-purifiers or hauling macro-shells, they are an indispensable part of the ship. The engine-clans are the most revered. These people are at least allocated bunks, full rations, lho-sticks, amasec... and even breeding rights.
That's right. On a void-ship, unauthorized procreation is a crime. It's one more mouth to feed, and the mother can't fulfill her duties during gestation. But, the old voider had said, that law really only applies to the Mid-Decks. The Upper-Decks and the Lower-Decks don't much care for it, for different reasons.
The Lower Decks. The work here is non-urgent, unimportant, and unskilled. Some people don't even have the right to a job. When a boarding action happens, it doesn't matter how many die down here. They're easily replaced. It's like a small underhive. Total chaos. Those with jobs can at least expect the armsmen to keep some order. Those without... Emperor save them. What the ship provides is entirely up to the conscience of the lords above. "Here's your slop. How you survive is your own problem."
Sachs had scoffed, telling the old voider, "Then when I fight, I'll just aim for the top of the ship!" The old man had just laughed at him. "Upper, Mid, and Lower" aren't physical locations. The "Upper Decks" might be physically below the "Lower Decks." It's about status. In general, the "Upper Decks" are at the ship's armored core, protecting the vital members and cargo. The "Lower Decks" are placed along the outer hull, in the least-defended areas. They are the first to be hit. The members and cargo there are... expendable.
Of course, there is one group outside this hierarchy: the Servitors. They aren't even recognized as human. They are outside the class system entirely. They are tools.
It was all easy to understand. The more important and irreplaceable your job, the better your life. In other words, without work, they were a net negative to this ship. A drain, consuming resources and producing nothing. And a drain could be purged at any time.
Sachs sighed. Next month, he might be the protein block rolling out of the feeding trough. He looked at Big Scar, amazed the man was still satisfied with his life. In Scar's own words, he used to be a small-timer in his old gang. Now, he "managed" over a hundred people.
If Sachs had a gun, he'd press it to Big Scar's forehead right now. "You manage a hundred people, you brain-dead idiot," he'd scream, "but we don't even have the right to leave this compartment! Because we don't have a thronedamned job!"
But he didn't have a gun. And he didn't dare fight Big Scar. The hive-scum might have filth for brains, but he was a brutal brawler.
Suddenly, the access-rune on the bulkhead flashed green. With a shriek of un-greased machinery, the great door ground open.
Bright light from the corridor flooded in. The hundred-odd souls in the compartment flinched, shielding their eyes. The room was so dim, the sudden light was blinding. Men and women in tattered rags cowered in the corners, while a few of the stronger-looking men, like Big Scar, occupied the main space.
Two armsmen stood in the doorway. One was holding a data-slate, scanning its contents.
"Sachs? Is there a Captain Sachs in here?"
No one responded. The armsman looked at his partner.
"Got et, you think?"
"Prolly."
"Right. Next one on the list..."
They were calling his name! Sachs's heart hammered. He didn't know if he should answer. Maybe it was better to stay quiet... But just as the armsman was about to move on, Sachs made his choice. He had to take the chance.
"Here! I... I am Sachs. I am Captain Sachs."
He scrambled to the door.
The two armsmen looked relieved. The one with the slate put it away, pulled out a pair of mag-cuffs, and snapped them onto Sachs's wrists.
Sachs felt a wave of instant regret.
"Ah, you know, lads... I think I might not be Sachs. Do you believe me?"
A shotgun butt smashed into his face.
"Shut your void-hole. You had that comin', scum."