Some of the bodies were rebels: they were wrapped in cloth and given a wooden marker—those were the only funerals they got. Nearby yawned a mass grave—an enormous pit where bodies were simply thrown until it filled and could be covered.
Li Qingyu rolled the cart up to a group of rebels working the burials.
"These are all ours, brothers. We should bury them properly," he said.
The rebels came over with shrouds.
"May their souls rest by the Golden Throne," one of them said.
Li Qingyu was surprised: these insurgents still believed in the Emperor. Logical, though. They'd risen up against the Governor's predatory taxes, not against the God-Emperor. If they managed to seize power, they might even hold it. The Imperium didn't care who sat in the Governor's chair; all that mattered was paying the tithe on time. The only question was how they'd sing when they themselves had to skin the people alive to meet the Imperial quota.
Li Qingyu shook his head, pushing away stray thoughts, and headed for the mass pit. Several badly decomposed PDF bodies caught his eye at once. Their uniforms had been stripped, leaving only underwear. That was merciful. This was an agri-world—rich. On another world they'd have stolen even the underwear, or even sent the corpses themselves into processing.
Making a mask out of cloth, Li Qingyu jumped into the pit. The corpse stench hit his nose so hard his eyes watered. Without wasting time, he started searching for tags.
A tag, or "dog tag," is a military identifier. A soldier usually wears two tags around the neck, with personal data. Feeling around the neck of one corpse, he found a tag very similar to those worn by American soldiers in the 3k Era. The tags came in a primary and a duplicate. Li Qingyu took the duplicates, leaving the primaries on the bodies—in case the PDF came back and wanted to identify their dead.
Digging through the pile, he quickly collected more than twenty tags.
Suddenly, an astonished voice sounded from above:
"What are you doing down there?"
At the edge of the pit stood two rebels with rifles on their backs, staring down in confusion. Pinching his nose, Li Qingyu raised a handful of tags and patted his shotgun.
"Looking for pellets for the gun. These plates are iron—melt them into balls and they shoot great."
The rebels nodded knowingly. In their controlled zone there was almost no industry; weapons were a mixed mess—from normal autoguns to smoothbore homemade junk. But the advantage of such homemade guns was that they could shoot anything, as long as it fit down the barrel. Deciding the guy was just getting metal for ammunition, they tossed out:
"You can keep the cart," and left.
Li Qingyu quickly gathered all accessible PDF tags, stuffed them into his pack, and climbed out of the pit, greedily gulping air.
The stink! Unreal stink! It felt like he'd just inhaled straight from Nurgle's asshole. After catching his breath, he dragged the empty cart back. Less than a kilometer from the Grain Station, he shoved it into a ditch and jumped in after it, hiding.
Soon it grew dark. After eating hardtack and washing it down with water, he climbed out of the ditch under cover of night and headed toward the hive. Rebel discipline was terrible: he walked the whole way to the edge of their zone and never saw a single sentry.
Extraction went smoothly, but only 38 tags clinked in his pack. Light, almost weightless—and Li Qingyu felt like a fisherman returning with an empty bucket. Not good.
Looking around, he noticed a field of some kind of plants.
"Oh—are those potatoes?" he said in surprise.
He ran into the field and started using his knife like a shovel, digging up fist-sized tubers.
"Ha! It really is potatoes!"
Amused, Li Qingyu dug furiously, stuffing his pack to the brim. Who would've thought the future Rogue Trader, conqueror of stars, started his career by stealing potatoes?
With the pack stuffed full and a "yellow" overload penalty, he set off on the long road. Checking the map, he estimated the PDF perimeter was about twenty kilometers away, and one point was marked as Lieutenant Rudolfson's sector. That was where he headed.
Hours later, when the moon was already high, Li Qingyu approached Rudolfson's positions. The PDF defenses looked solid: towers, searchlights, pillboxes with heavy bolters, trenches, wire—and in front of it all, certainly minefields.
Li Qingyu stopped two kilometers from the front line, found a softer patch of ground, and sat to wait. He had no doubt Rudolfson would find him himself—his biosignal had already lit up on an auspex and showed on the tactical map as a green dot.
And so it happened: soon the roar of an engine came from the fortifications. A Chimera IFV rolled up right to Li Qingyu, glaring with its lights. The turret hatch snapped open, and Rudolfson leaned out.
"Give me a ride around your domain?" Li Qingyu smirked.
Rudolfson crossed his arms.
"Civilians are forbidden to enter the military zone. Violators are subject to execution."
Li Qingyu spread his hands.
"Oh, come on. I've been on my feet all night. Give me a cot, I'll sleep it off—and I'm gone."
The lieutenant stared at him in silence.
Li Qingyu clicked his tongue, pulled a handful of tags from his pack, and made them chime musically.
"For the record, I ran into rebel rear lines for your sake. Nearly kicked the bucket."
Rudolfson was silent, then ordered the driver:
"Open the troop bay."
With a creak, the Chimera's ramp dropped. Li Qingyu hopped inside, and the vehicle rolled back toward the PDF fortifications. They stopped at a camp ringed by trenches. Rudolfson led his guest to one of the tents.
Li Qingyu looked around: a watchtower, two machine-gun nests with heavy stubbers, soldiers wandering around, drinking, playing cards. Someone was drunkenly shouting; from one tent came women's moans and giggling.
Li Qingyu snorted with laughter.
"'Civilians forbidden, execution,' you say...?"
Rudolfson's face darkened. He brought Li Qingyu into his own tent and pointed to a folding cot.
"You can sleep here until morning. Tomorrow you'll take the Great Lift down into the Underhive." He held out his hand. "Hand them over."
Noticing a small electric hotplate by the cot, Li Qingyu tossed a few potatoes onto it to bake. Then he pulled a heap of PDF tags from his pack and gave them to the lieutenant.