Standing amidst the pile of corpses and watching the group of refugees scavenge the battlefield, Andy's logic core nearly overheated again.
These people were indeed looting, but the things they were picking up were completely wrong.
A gaunt, sickly-looking fellow was painstakingly using a knife to cut a necklace made of human finger bones from a corpse's neck, his face filled with greed. Meanwhile, at his feet—right in a pool of blood—lay a standard-issue lasgun power cell.
Although the battery casing was a bit scuffed, the charge indicator on the side still showed two bars.
In the underhive, a two-bar lasgun battery could be traded for two days' worth of rations or a bottle of filtered water. As for that bone necklace, Andy couldn't fathom any industrial value for it unless someone wanted to boil it for calcium.
"Stop."
Andy walked over and delivered a sharp kick to the man's backside. The man jumped in fright, dropping the bone necklace.
"Throw the bones away," Andy pointed at the battery. "Pick that up."
The man looked bewildered, clearly unable to comprehend why he should pick up a square block that he couldn't eat and wouldn't ward off evil spirits. Andy didn't bother explaining. In this dark universe, superstition was more terrifying than hunger. These people would rather believe a few bones brought luck than believe a high-energy battery could save their lives.
Andy turned to Gamma-9. The Tech-Priest's mind wasn't exactly sharp, but at least he recognized industrial products.
"Order everyone to throw away the trash they're holding," Andy commanded. "I want metal, electronic components, ammunition, and fuel."
"Anything that burns, explodes, or conducts electricity—pile it on the left."
"Anything made of bone, flesh, amulets, or scripture paper—throw it into the incinerator."
Gamma-9 felt it was a bit of a waste to burn the human skins etched with Chaos symbols—he thought they made excellent research material—但 given the lingering awe of Andy's marksmanship, he didn't dare disobey.
Soon, a small mountain of scrap rose in the center of the hall. Andy walked over to sort through it, a process that was pure agony. The logistical nightmare of Warhammer 40K was on full display here. There were barely a dozen guns, yet they used five different calibers. There were autoguns ranging from 8mm to 12mm, and even a homemade pipe gun that fired iron nails. There were standard-issue lasguns, but even their power interfaces weren't universal—some were clip-on, others were screw-in.
This was the consequence of a lack of standardization. In the Golden Age, all ammunition was universal, and all parts were interchangeable through modularity. Now, to make these guns fire, Andy would have to hand-craft custom bullets for each one.
He sighed, picked out a few salvageable autoguns and the charged las-battery, and tossed the rest into the recycling bin. "This metal can be melted and recast later."
Andy brushed the dust off his hands. Now that the interior of the refuge was cleared, it was time to check outside.
Andy pushed open the heavy gates and stepped into the outer tunnel. The vehicle that had crashed through the gates earlier was still parked there, its engine idling with a chugging sound that suggested the pistons were about to be coughed out. It was a half-track truck.
The chassis appeared to be an old civilian mining vehicle, modified with two wide rubber tracks in the rear and two solid tires in the front. But that wasn't the point. The point was the vehicle's appearance.
To project brutality and intimidation, the Skinners had welded spikes and chains all over the front. Three desiccated corpses hung from the front bumper, and several steel pipes topped with skulls were impaled through the cab's roof. The entire vehicle looked like a metallic hedgehog.
Looking at the truck, Andy only saw a disastrously high drag coefficient. These messy decorations added at least half a ton of dead weight; they offered no tactical value beyond increasing fuel consumption and reducing maneuverability. If the truck hit someone, the spikes would actually snag the body and block the driver's vision.
Without a word, Andy hopped onto the hood. He extended his powerful mechanical hands and gripped a massive iron spike welded to the engine cover.
Creeeeeak—
The sound of twisting metal was agonizing. Andy snapped the wrist-thick steel pipe with brute force and tossed it aside. Next came the chains, the skull racks, and the corpses. He worked like he was scrubbing down someone who hadn't bathed in years, aggressively subtracting the excess.
Gamma-9 followed him out. Seeing Andy dismantling the vehicle, he nearly dropped to his knees again in shock.
"Magos!" Gamma-9 cried out. "You are stripping away the war-spirit of this chariot! Those spikes are the fangs of the Machine Spirit! If you pull its fangs, the spirit will become listless!"
Andy didn't even look back as he ripped a dried human skin off the windshield. "Still worried about your 'fangs'? This is pure dead weight."
"This skin alone blocked forty percent of the visibility. I have to ask—is the driver blind?"
Andy tossed the skin to Gamma-9, revealing the grimy bulletproof glass beneath. In less than five minutes, the originally terrifying, wasteland-punk truck had been transformed into a bare, ugly, but practical flatbed half-track. It was unsightly, but it finally looked like a proper industrial vehicle.
Andy jumped down and popped the hood. A cloud of black smoke billowed out. The STC interface provided an immediate analysis.
[Promethium-Type Multi-Fuel Internal Combustion Engine (Heavily Worn).]
[Faults: Severe carbon buildup in intake manifold, clogged carburetor nozzles, ignition timing delayed by 15 degrees.]
The fact that the engine could run at all under such atrocious conditions proved that the Imperium's foundational material science was actually quite robust—it was just that the users were terrible at maintenance.
Andy pulled a screwdriver and a wrench from a nearby toolbox. He first removed the air intake filter, which was caked in black sludge and completely blocked. Andy tossed the filter away, grabbed a relatively clean rag from nearby, wrapped it over the intake, and secured it with wire. The intake was now clear.
Next was the carburetor. He used the screwdriver to adjust the fuel flow, his mechanical precision controlling the nozzle gap at the micron level. Finally, he reached for the ignition coil and, relying on auditory feedback, fine-tuned the angle of the distributor.
Chug-chug-chug... VROOOOM—
The asthmatic coughing vanished. The engine's sound became deep, consistent, and powerful. The violent shaking of the chassis stopped, replaced by a slight, potent vibration.
Gamma-9 watched, dumbfounded. He had expected Andy's removal of the "decorations" to anger the Machine Spirit and cause a breakdown. Instead, the truck sounded more spirited than a new one.
"This..." Gamma-9 began to rationalize again. "Is this the legendary 'Ritual of Purification'? By stripping away external vanities, you restore the Machine Spirit to its purest essence?"
Andy ignored him. He tossed the tools back into the truck bed and wiped the grease from his hands. This truck could now travel three hundred kilometers without breaking down, and that was enough. The signal for the hydroponic farm was roughly three hundred kilometers away in a derelict mining zone.
Time was of the essence. Andy didn't want to bring a group of burdens with him. This body didn't need sleep or food; bringing mortals would only slow him down. Moreover, if the fragment possessed automated defense systems, mortals would just be going to their deaths.
"Gamma-9."
Andy turned to the one-eyed priest.
"Lord, I am here!" Gamma-9 snapped to attention.
Andy grabbed one of the repaired autoguns and two magazines full of ammo from the truck bed and tossed them to him. Gamma-9 caught them clumsily.
"Guard this entrance," Andy pointed to the doorframe behind them, which now lacked a door. "If anyone approaches—whoever they are—fire first and ask questions later."
"I have business to attend to. I'll be back soon."
Gamma-9 clutched the gun, feeling as though he had been handed a sacred mission. "For the Omnissiah! I shall guard this holy site with my life!"
Andy ignored the grand declaration and hopped into the driver's seat. The seat foam had long since rotted away, leaving only springs poking his backside. Andy turned the key.
Just then, the old short-wave radio in the truck flickered to life, emitting a burst of static noise.
"Static... Hello? Hello? This is Boss Bloodfang."
A crude, temperamental voice crackled through the speakers, distorted by electrical interference.
"Vulture Squad, where the hell are you? Report!" "Have you taken that refuge yet? Where are the skins I wanted?"
Gamma-9's face went pale at the sound. That was the leader of the Skinner Gang, the most brutal butcher in the region.
Andy didn't even blink. He reached out, grabbed the handset hanging next to the dashboard, and pressed the transmit button.
"Vulture Squad is dead. All of them."
Andy's voice, amplified by the truck's radio, sounded exceptionally cold and devoid of emotion. The roaring on the other end stopped abruptly; the boss clearly hadn't expected a stranger's voice. After two seconds of silence, a more frenzied roar erupted:
"Who the hell are you?! Do you know who I am?! I'm going to flay you and hang you from—"
"You're next."
Andy replied flatly. Before the boss could respond, Andy didn't just hang up—he reached out and ripped the entire radio and its antenna right out of the dashboard.
Snap.
The world was quiet. Andy tossed the ruined radio out the window, shifted into gear, released the clutch, and floored the accelerator.
The half-track truck roared, kicking up a cloud of dust as it sped into the deep darkness of the underhive.