Andy sat on a chair welded from discarded steel plates, with Gamma-9 kneeling before him. Gamma-9's posture was textbook perfect—forehead pressed against the floor, not daring to look up. After the events of the day, he finally had a moment to piously ask who, or what, Andy truly was.
It was only natural. A metal man who could repair air purification systems in seconds, clear out a gang squad like they were trash, and conjure food out of thin air would eventually cause Gamma-9's brain to short-circuit if no explanation was provided.
In the vast galaxy, identity is something you grant yourself, but it is also a lethal matter; one wrong word could lead to catastrophe. You couldn't say you were an AI—that was a death sentence. You couldn't simply say you were an ancient piece of self-aware tech—that was also a death sentence.
The only way to survive and attain a high status was to link one's identity to three specific words: "Holy," "Ancient," and "The Emperor." The Adeptus Mechanicus's understanding of technology relied entirely on archaeology; in their eyes, the more ancient and sacred something was, the more powerful it became.
After a brief calculation, Andy provided his answer.
"I am an Autonomous Engineering Unit left behind by the Omnissiah during the era of the Great Crusade."
Andy's voice was steady, devoid of any emotional fluctuation.
"My designation is: The Pioneer Angel."
"I am bound by no dogma, for I am the incarnation of dogma itself."
Yes, that hits the spot.
Upon hearing Andy's answer, Gamma-9's single eye lit up to its maximum intensity, his body trembling as if surged with high-voltage electricity. He didn't doubt it for a second. Or rather, his brain's logic automatically filtered out the option of doubt.
To him, the technological prowess Andy had displayed today was the ultimate proof. Since Andy could achieve so much that the Mechanicus could not, he was the Chosen of God. Whatever he said was truth.
Seeing the increasingly fanatical Gamma-9, Andy took the opportunity to ask about the planet's situation. Intelligence was quickly gathered.
This was Forge-7, located on the fringes of the Segmentum Obscurus. The place was a dump, but a perfectly situated one. The main Imperial fleets were busy fighting near the Eye of Terror, leaving them no time for this godforsaken industrial world.
The Planetary Governor was a useless wastrel who hid in the upper spires throwing debauched parties. The administrative system below had long since collapsed, and the underhive was ruled entirely by gangs and mutants.
As long as Andy didn't cause a planet-shattering disturbance, no one would bother him. For an Iron Man in need of development, this was a perfect starting position. The first element of a great "farming" endeavor is environmental security.
If he were on Holy Terra or Macragge, Andy would be dismantled by the Adeptus Custodes or the Ultramarines the moment he showed his face. But on a lawless frontier world like this, as long as your fist is hard enough and you can feed people, you are a local king.
Andy began reorganizing the refuge.
First, the people. Three hundred and forty-two refugees—these were Andy's current assets. These people were once burdens; now, they were labor. Andy abolished all rituals regarding prayer, sacrifice, and anointing. He set a single new rule: No work, no food. This rule was simple and brutal, more effective than any religious dogma.
Andy divided the people into three groups:
The Scavenger Team: Composed of strong men tasked with hauling metal, plastics, and electronic components from the surrounding ruins.
The Purification Team: Composed of the elderly, women, and children tasked with cleaning the refuge. They were responsible for clearing out centuries of accumulated excrement, trash, and bones. Hygiene was directly linked to worker health; in a place lacking medicine, a single outbreak of dysentery could cut Andy's workforce in half.
The Engineering Team: Led by Gamma-9 and several apprentices who possessed a modicum of technical knowledge.
The Engineering Team had the heaviest burden. Andy needed to expand production. For instance, the iron drum used to boil starch spheres was far too small. He had the team find three discarded oil storage tanks. Such tanks were everywhere in the underhive; once cleaned of residue, they served as ready-made bioreactors.
Using the STC database, Andy provided the simplest modification plan. No precision machining was required—just heating rods, stirring motors, a simple self-sustaining environment, and the control of the black box.
Three days later, three massive standard-pattern bioreactors stood in the center of the hall. Starch sphere production soared to two tons per day. Though the food lacked flavor and felt like chewing some sort of gel, it provided high calories. To underhivers raised on corpse starch, this was a delicacy.
Many misunderstand the STC, thinking it only creates world-ending high-tech weapons. In reality, the STC's greatest strength lies in its "downward compatibility." It can provide the optimal low-end industrial solution based on whatever scrap materials you have on hand. Creating an automated assembly line out of scrap iron and rubber tubes—that is the true value of Golden Age technology.
With production up, Andy began upgrading tools. The refugees were still hauling scrap by hand and breaking rebar with stones. The efficiency was hideously low. Andy pulled blueprints for 20th-century level tools: wheelbarrows, crowbars, and entrenching shovels. In Andy's previous world, even a schoolchild understood the principles of these things. But here, such knowledge hadn't even been popularized.
When Andy held a freshly polished crowbar and easily pried up a multi-ton stone slab using the principle of leverage, the onlookers stared at him as if he were a wizard. When the first wheelbarrow equipped with bearings and rubber wheels was built, and a frail teenager raced across the floor pushing two hundred kilograms of ore, the entire refuge erupted in cheers.
In one week, the refuge was transformed. The dark, filthy, and desperate refugee camp was gone. In its place was a burgeoning production base. Everyone held proper tools in their hands; though their bodies were still unwashed and their faces smeared with grease, they finally had a sense of spirit.
But problems soon followed. Andy stood before the command console, looking at the power monitoring screen. The red warning line was nearly at its limit.
[Warning: Grid Load 92%.]
[Warning: Voltage Unstable; Disconnection of non-essential equipment recommended.]
The old geothermal generator had reached its limit. It couldn't support three high-power reactors, let alone the automated sentry turrets Andy wanted to build. To develop, he needed power.
Andy pulled up the STC planetary scan map. Fifty kilometers deep beneath this refuge lay a massive high-energy reaction point.
[Marker: Planetary-Scale Geothermal Hub (Backup Node).]
The brightness of that light was ten thousand times stronger than the current broken generator. If he could take that site, Andy would gain nearly infinite energy and could even restart the ancient production lines deeper in the underhive.
However, next to that light, the STC had marked a bright red skull.
[Extreme Danger: High-energy biological reaction detected. Heavy weaponry recommended.]