Chapter 371 Where Is His Mercy?

At dusk, Perturabo's Stormbirds landed on the edge of Terra's continental shelf.

The clouds gathered into a thick dark gray lead-colored mist, accumulating under the dome, sealing the dull haze and steaming heat above the heads of the residents. When it's time for the shift to change, the inhabitants are awakened like herds by the ringing of bells and the eternal sound of hammers, surging currents in the steam, their work whipping their whips, and their livelihood being the living sheepdog biting them Ankles were dragged heavily behind the residents. Sometimes they are no different than the factory goods they serve; sometimes they are cheaper.

"They built hab blocks to provide the people of the empire with the minimum shelter they needed to live and work."

said Perturabo, descending from the gangway. The Emperor was eager to call them back. When Perturabo did arrive on Terra, the news from the palace made Perturabo wait a moment.

Therefore, after the Lord of Iron entered the palace to meet the Lord of Humanity, he entered one of the many cities on Terra with nothing to do. Except for Morse, he did not bring anyone else close and trustworthy.

"Taking into account the different topography and structural zoning needs of the hive city, the building categories of these residential modules include vertical towers and high-rise buildings. In the best case, they can own an apartment building. If you live in a tower, from the top floor to the ground floor It takes half an hour to an hour to run the elevator completely, and walking on foot is close to impossible.”

Morse nodded slightly and scanned the scene of Terra, giving up trying to distinguish more of the afterglow of old Terra from the imperial capital in front of him.

Those anti-gravity train tracks are intricately embedded in the undulating ground. High towers are woven together in corridors in mid-air. There is a buzzing roar from the underground, and hot steam and light from the factory are rising up from the cracks in the iron plates on the ground. , burning the soles of pedestrians' feet. The sewage pipes are dense and chaotic, directly exposed to the air, like blood vessels with their skin peeled off.

"This is a natural labyrinth." Morse said in a calm tone. If you ignore the content of his words, it is not easy to hear that this is a sarcasm. "It is not intentionally constructed, but it is more natural than any intentionally designed temple. "

The Lord of Iron nodded thoughtfully, not denying Morse's words.

"The complexity and peculiarity of these structures are difficult even for me to imagine. My design cannot help but avoid those abnormal and shaky dangerous areas," he said, looking at a suspended platform suspended in the air - the base is an abandoned tower crane There are steel plates hanging flat on the top, and they are tied to the tall building on one side with steel cables and hemp ropes, barely fixed.

He paused for a moment as some residents in greasy uniforms pushed past him, muttering curses under their breath for being in the way of the two men. Morse used some tricks to obscure the Terran people's understanding of him and the Primarch Perturabo, otherwise it would be difficult for them to walk so smoothly.

This group of people had just gotten off the same tram, wearing the same gray-blue uniforms. Their faces retained the unique caution of workers, that is, the ability to turn a blind eye to abnormal phenomena, and the ability to know how to move with the crowd without using their brains. Philosophy, like being lost in an eternal half-dream, does not exist distinctly in the torn slit between reality and Limbo, wandering day after day.

The outlines of weapons always stand out from the overalls or pockets of their overalls, maybe knives, daggers, and some even banned guns. Their efforts to protect themselves sometimes put themselves in danger.

At the same time, the logo of the factory brand is hung on their chests, a cartoon stick figure with a bright smile on his face, his hair in shiny curls, and a thumbs up on his right hand. It may be one of the happiest signs in the entire city. .

Perturabo's face was gloomy, showing a rare displeasure with the situation here. He swallowed the emotion and said, "I have a building here to live in."

"Oh?" Morse asked, "Here?"

"Yes," Perturabo nodded, "just like I often live in Lokos's residence in Olympia. I don't need a palace to stay. This way."

They squeezed into a khaki tram. The height of the tram was too low for the Primarch, but fortunately the width of the clanking door allowed him to enter. If, as often happens - half the door is stuck and won't open, it just won't work.

As the evening wears on, the color of the sky condenses into a dull bruise, the flow of people increases, then decreases. Morse and Perturabo had already taken a ride from outside the edge of the city into the urban area where land was more valuable. Most of their fellow travelers were heading to the night shift.

"The distribution of these factories is very confusing," Perturabo commented, not even in the mood to express his suggestions for revision, or maybe there was just too much content to finish at once. “For example, here, this is a food factory, over there is a tram repair shop, and below them, there is a sewage purification plant, but on top is a steel foundry.”

"The Department of the Interior still doesn't have enough manpower," Morse said.

The suspended rails passed over his head, stretching for miles, tangled in tangled threads on a thin, needle-like column. Below the neon commercial electronic screens high above, plastic tarps and rusty dangerous structures climb like moss, squeezing out narrow passages. A large amount of graffiti paint is splashed on the unattended wall. Black and colored lines compete for territory on the dirty and dripping damp wall. It is full of sharp words and crude and obscene paintings.

Later in the day, cheap taverns near factories and various related institutions will be crowded with people, squeezing diesel-flavored liquid down their throats, along with some organic chemically synthesized energy bars and some gray hot-selling sauces. , filling his stomach with things that are life-sustaining and not conducive to digestion.

"The spire of the Terra Palace is completely invisible from here," Morse looked at the distance, "the buildings are more densely packed."

"Not absolutely. From some angles, you can see the basic outline of the palace in the distance in the gap." Perturabo replied.

Several boys wearing torn jackets, their faces smeared with oil paint, and a bunch of scars on their arms mixed with their own ink-soaked tattoos passed by him. They didn't know what they saw through the phantom created by Morse, and they smiled provocatively. stand up. Perturabo looked at them calmly. After a few seconds, the faces of these boys turned gloomy, and they walked away with hunched shoulders and backs.

"The smell of blood," Morse said, "I fixed my olfactory system."

"Fighting." Perturabo spat out one word. Injuries are common here. If someone at home works at a medical workstation affiliated to the relevant agency, life will become much more convenient. Or wait in line slowly, betting that it will be your turn to see the medical staff who are so exhausted that they can't even open their eyes before the scabs from the injury heal.

They changed to a magnetic tram, and were buried in the carriage by the smell of engine oil mixed with sweat and blood. Perturabo felt that among the people walking on the street today, there were particularly many injured, and he began to wonder if someone was injured. An unknown safety incident occurred in a factory.

Morse still retained his form, and Perturabo found himself thankful that Morse hadn't simply reverted back to a thin layer of skin for him to carry around.

After getting off the car again, the shuttles and drones overhead became denser. They came and went in a hurry, the buzzing engines were noisy, and boxes of well-packaged unknown items were hung from the hooks and discs. The purpose was unknown, except Apart from the standard emblem of the Sky Eagle, there are no symbols of chambers of commerce or factories, nor are there any personal coats of arms of imperial administrative agencies or even local surrendered warlords.

What puzzled Perturabo even more was that, if he did not admit his mistake, the models of those aircraft should be modified from military drones serving in the Imperial Navy fleet, and they should not appear carelessly in the sky over Terra.

"There are no dangerous goods...it's interesting," Morse noticed those flying mechanical products. The convenience of supernatural power lies in this. He can see through the contents of the package from a distance of tens of meters, and this makes him His expression fluctuated slightly.

A larger shuttle flew close by, cutting off their sight. The hatch opened, the crew held up the data pad and shouted loudly. Under the escort of the law enforcers, the goods needed by the factory were quickly unloaded, the cargo boxes were stuffed back into the cabin, and the shuttle flew away again, turning back into a black dot.

After only a few minutes, the drones in the sky had all disappeared and arrived at their destination.

"My building is in the heart of the city," Perturabo said, walking with Morse. "I didn't take away a whole building, just the top floor. It's far enough away from the ground that You can see the golden buildings of the Terra Palace. The lower floor of that building is currently rented out for a fee. Because it has the best location and building conditions in the urban planning, the rent is unaffordable for ordinary workers. Some businessmen and officials on business trips will choose it. There."

"How often do you stay here?" Morse asked.

"I sleep directly in the network channel more often to deal with urgent matters," the Iron Lord answered objectively. "But usually... so many people don't gather here."

They walked forward with the crowd. More than two thousand people lined up in this passage. The number of women and old people was particularly large. Plus the children they were holding or holding, the ratio to adult men reached seven to three. Degree. Except for children who are not old enough to work, everyone wears similar low-quality clothes, uniform work clothes from various factories.

Uncomfortable coughs spread muffled through the tired and weak crowd, but no one left. Then, two Olympians with extraordinary hearing heard some sighs from the crowd.

Several people wearing gray and black robes with crosses painted on their chests were talking in an unheard language. Their expressions were full of sadness and they kept shaking their heads while walking slowly in the queue, trying to comfort them. way to maintain basic order.

Morse simply read their minds: "They said there would be cross-infection, but there was no better way."

Perturabo blinked in confusion, and used the Primarch's vision and his regular mechanical aids to see clearly the faces of several people in the distance: "Those people - those gathered downstairs where I live. Mortals, they are the big businessmen in this area...wait a minute," Perturabo connected to the data pad and checked the rental statements for the last few months, "Yes, they rented the lower half of the building. "

"But it looked like they were handing out bread," Morse said. "That's so unusual."

As they got closer, more people in robes came over, with a gold belt with scriptures hanging on their raised left arms, holding spray bottles in their hands, spreading mist like rain on the crowd. The crowd accepted it meekly.

The Primarch recognized the antibacterial components in the mist and was even more surprised. If you dilute the bacteriostatic agent used by the Astartes Apothecary several times and add some mild auxiliary ingredients, you can get this spray - but the cost will undoubtedly be extremely expensive.

"It's disinfecting," Morse commented, smiling a little more.

The queue was indeed long, but the flow was not slow. Soon, under the incredibly sincere care of those shrewd businessmen in the past, it was Morse and Perturabo's turn to enter the ground floor of the building.

The once strong smell of detergent and the sour smell of low-quality amasec wine in the hall was swept away, turning into a light freshener smell extracted from natural plants. The stained walls were simply shoveled off and covered with light-colored wooden boards. No new paint was applied, probably because it was too harsh. New warm-colored lamps hang from the ceiling, and the floor is covered with light-colored carpet. A broken elevator was repaired. Sometimes someone wearing a mask, with their hair fixed with a hat, carrying a stretcher covered with a clean white cloth, hurried back and forth between different floors.

The noisy and dirty world is isolated, and under the bright warm light, only tranquility and peace remain here.

They were not received immediately. About half a minute later, a small mahogany door opened, and a tall man walked out quickly, wearing a black soft cloth robe, with two white crosses, one large and one small, embroidered on his left sleeve and chest. emblem, with an Eagle Holy Plaque hanging around his neck.

He sat down at the table by the door, picked up a pen, dipped it in ink, spread out the thick register book, and looked at the standing mortals. Even through the mask, you can see this person's peaceful smile.

He said apologetically in a soothing tone: "There was a little temporary matter in the group just now. I have been waiting for a long time. Please describe your condition to me in general, okay? Don't be afraid, we will try our best to help you."

Perturabo hesitated to speak.

Morse said: "We are not sick, we just followed others and accidentally queued in. Where is this?"

The man was stunned for a moment and smiled good-naturedly: "It doesn't matter, this is Mulistan, the mobile medical center of our regiment. The entrance is indeed crowded. This is a problem that we failed to arrange well. Since there is no disease, If you need any other help, please go over there..."

He raised his hand and pointed in a direction.

"We are also willing to do other things for you. Your well-being is the best reward."

Following the direction of his finger, you can see another reception area, where two or three residents with sallow faces and skinny muscles are gathered. They are following the receptionist's instructions, getting some bread and water, and waiting for the elevator. Some hungry people couldn't wait to stuff their food into their mouths, but the host gently advised them not to worry.

Above the reception desk, high on the wall, an imperial golden eagle flag was hung in the center. On both sides, slightly lower, were a book flag with burning flames and another flag with a white cross on a red background.

The people behind them were already eager to come in for medical treatment. Perturabo and Morse consciously walked away without disturbing the work flow here, and came to the relatively leisurely reception area. The receptionist nodded to them: "What can we do for you?"

"You are Astartes," Perturabo said suddenly.

"Yes, friends." Astartes replied, pushing two sterilized water glasses to them. "If you are thirsty, please drink some water."

"I thought you were more focused on military missions," said the Primarch, "rather than setting up charity clinics in the hive, warriors of the Emperor."

"This is not war time, my friend. We are born to protect mankind and should do more good deeds. Wealthy citizens donate money to us, and the people of the empire also use taxes to support us. We should return all this to the people."

Astarte did not hesitate to speak and his eyes were sincere. When the two of them did not interrupt, he continued: "He said: Because I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; when I was in a foreign land, you gave me something to drink. You took me in; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you took care of me. Therefore, listen to His word and you will receive the same blessing.”

"Do you still have this time?" Morse asked with raised eyebrows, already knowing the answer to the next paragraph. "Is the Imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs financially bankrupt?"

Astarte shook his head: "He said: As long as you do it to the least of these brothers of mine, you are doing it to me. Therefore, if we do it for you, we are doing it for Him."

"Which legion are you from?" Perturabo said, his voice becoming a little emotional.

"The Seventeenth Legion, the Word Bearers." Astartes smiled and said frankly.