Chapter 85: Ryan's Union (Part 3)
"Are you also eyeing my ten factories?"
The question was blunt, even offensive, but it was perfectly in line with the straightforward, grit-under-the-fingernails nature of the Midtown workers.
Raynor, currently operating under his alias Kerry, wasn't angry. He simply asked calmly, "Chairman Trevor, do you truly understand the current state of Brevis?"
Trevor gave a bitter, jagged smile. "I know it well enough. We are dying."
"The Orks are eyeing us like starving predators from the void, and we don't have enough rations to last the season. Meanwhile, the old vultures in the Upper Hive are hoarding every nutrient bar and grain sack, content to watch the people of Midtown and the Lower Hive starve to death."
He spoke with a flat tone, but his words were saturated with despair. Raynor nodded slowly.
"And do you know why this is happening?"
"Why?" Trevor looked at him, his unfocused eyes searching for an answer.
"Because no one in power has seriously thought about how to keep Brevis alive."
Raynor stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the Midtown night was a landscape of industrial toil. Towering chimneys belched thick, oily smoke into the smog-choked sky, and the distant roar of machinery hummed like a restless beast. However, the fruits of this labor never reached the soldiers who needed them most.
Raynor spoke suddenly, almost as if to himself.
"In this galaxy, chaos and madness arise together. Though I have no desire to simply vie for petty thrones, I cannot ignore the suffering of the common people. I wish only to cleanse this sector and protect the peace of Brevis."
He spoke the words slowly, with a weight that seemed to press down on the room. Trevor stared blankly at Raynor's back. He couldn't quite grasp the poetic depth of the words, but he could feel the raw compassion and conviction behind them. This young man was serious; he genuinely wanted to save their world.
Trevor's hands began to tremble. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt as though it were blocked by industrial ash.
Raynor walked back to the table and sat down. He poured one last glass of the harsh Coal Cinder liquor but did not drink it.
"Although I nominally command tens of millions of soldiers, compared to the Green Tide, it is still a drop in the ocean."
Trevor looked at the young Governor's face. For the first time, he saw a glimpse of a heavy, genuine sense of powerlessness. The combination of the alcohol and Raynor's words seemed to reignite a spark of passion that the union president had thought long dead.
Trevor tried to stand abruptly, but his body stumbled, and he fell back onto the sofa. He thought of the Ryan Union's factories—they only produced basic infantry gear. Would a Governor even care for such low-level output? As he realized his factories were on the verge of bankruptcy, the light in his eyes began to fade.
Sensing Trevor's frustration, Raynor spoke again.
"I have the manpower and the food in the Lower Hive, but I lack even the most basic equipment. Even if I recruit millions, they won't be a fighting force. Am I supposed to send them into the meat grinder unarmed, to fight the Orks with their bare hands?"
Raynor sighed heavily. Hearing this, Trevor was visibly moved and looked up at him. A longing gradually appeared in his eyes. Raynor understood his desire, looked earnestly at Trevor, and spoke:
"Chairman Trevor, would you be willing to lend me your hand?"
Trevor took a deep breath, as if drawing on every ounce of strength left in his aging frame. "I am willing to serve the Governor to my last breath!"
"Lasguns, autoguns, flak armor components—any standard PDF-pattern equipment, we can manufacture it! I can ensure that every soul the Governor recruits possesses the basic means to kill!"
He spoke urgently, afraid that if he hesitated, his courage would fail him. "But..."
"But what?" Raynor pressed.
"Sigh... it is a matter of capital. The union doesn't lack raw materials right now, but we have neither the coin to pay the workers nor the food to feed them. I fear we cannot be of much help without resources."
Raynor threw his head back and burst into a boisterous laugh. "Hahahahaha!"
"Is that all? You think food is the problem?" Raynor leaned in. "I happen to have several noble factions under my thumb, and they are quite 'generous' with their wealth. As long as you are willing to work, there will be more food than your silos can hold."
Trevor stared. "Is that... is that the truth, my Lord?"
"Of course it is, Chairman. Now, would you be willing to join my ranks and plot our grand scheme for this world?"
Raynor extended his hand.
"Yes!" Trevor gave a heavy nod and grasped Raynor's hand with a crushing, worker's grip. He knew that from this day forward, the fate of the Ryan Union was irrevocably changed. As he looked into Raynor's violet eyes, he had a premonition: the fate of Brevis was about to change with it.
As the deal was concluded, a figure watched from outside the door among the drunken guests.
A strikingly handsome man dressed in regal purple aristocratic attire looked on with great interest. There was a hint of genuine fascination—perhaps even adoration—in his charming eyes.
"It is not based on coercion, nor the crude application of power, nor even the psychic fluctuations of the Warp," the man whispered to himself. "With just a few words and a calculated kindness, he won over that stubborn old mule."
A hint of amusement flickered in his gaze. "Heh. This is getting more and more interesting."
The day after the banquet, the workers of the Ryan Union discovered that their Chairman had become a different man. The face that was always creased with worry and fatigue was now radiant. His gray hair was neatly combed, his dark blue work-suit was pressed crisp, and his stride was brisk.
"What's come over the President?"
"I don't know, he's been like this since the party ended."
"I heard a very important person visited him—brought ten thousand tons of grain as a gift!"
"Ten thousand tons?! By the Emperor's Grace!"
The workers gossiped with a mix of curiosity and hope. They soon realized it wasn't just the President who had changed, but the entire Union.
A week later, all ten factories of the Ryan Union resumed full operation. Machinery that had been literal moments away from rusting into scrap was restored through emergency maintenance. Raw materials flowed from the warehouses, and the roar of the forge returned.
Food was distributed on time, and for the first time in years, the workers ate their fill. These provisions were the "tribute" extracted by Raynor from the Chuck and Isaac factions.
Within a month, the Ryan Union's membership surged back to its peak of ten million. By the time Raynor was ready to leave the Hive, the factories were producing one million sets of PDF-standard infantry gear per month: lasguns, energy cells, flak armor, grenades, and medkits. Though they were basic patterns, they were a guarantee of survival for the soldiers about to face the Orks.
Raynor sent five thousand tons of rations to the Union every day. It covered their expenses and provided a surplus that allowed the workers to thrive. Chairman Trevor's health visibly improved, his face glowing with newfound vigor.
The nobles, Chuck and Isaac, certainly had their complaints. They had always looked down on the Midtown "grease-monkeys." But after Raynor invited them to the Governor's Mansion for a "friendly" exchange of ideas over dinner... the disagreement vanished.
"This is an investment," Raynor told them, his violet eyes shimmering with a dangerous light. "Once we crush the Orks, the system and all its farm-worlds will be ours. At that time, what you give now will return to you a hundredfold."
Raynor himself didn't necessarily believe his own lie, and the nobles remained skeptical. But looking into those threatening eyes, they chose to believe. Or rather, they lacked the courage to do anything else.