Chapter 371 Where is His Mercy
In the evening, Perturabo's Stormbird landed on the edge of Terra's continental shelf.
The clouds gathered into 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 habblocks to provide the people of the empire with the minimum shelter they needed to live and work.”
Perturabo said, from the gangway Up and down. The Emperor was eager to call them back, and 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 types of these residential modules include vertical towers and high-rise buildings. In a better case, they can own an apartment building. If you live in a tower Here, a complete operation of the elevator from the top floor to the bottom floor takes half an hour to an hour, and walking on foot is close to impossible."
Morse nodded slightly and scanned the scene of Terra. Give up trying to distinguish more of the afterglow of old Terra from the imperial capital in front of you.
Those anti-gravity train tracks are intricately embedded in the undulating ground. High towers are intertwined with each other in corridors in mid-air. There is a humming roar from the underground, and the hot steam and light from the factory come from the ground iron. Water surged up from the cracks in the board, 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 maze.” Morse said in a calm tone. If you ignore the content of his words, it is not even easy to hear that this is a sarcasm. “It is not intentionally constructed, but it is better than any intentionally designed one.” The palaces are more natural.”
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 looked at a suspended platform suspended in the air. ——The base is a steel plate suspended flatly from an abandoned tower crane, which is tied to the tall building on one side with steel cables and hemp ropes, and is barely fixed.
He paused for a moment, and some residents in greasy uniforms pushed past him, muttering under their breath and cursing the two men for blocking their way. 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 just got off the same tram, wearing the same gray-blue uniforms. Their faces retain the unique caution of workers, that is, the ability to turn a blind eye to abnormal phenomena, and the ability to know what to do without using their brains. Philosophy that moves with the crowd is like being lost in an eternal half-dream, not clearly existing in the torn slit between reality and Limbo, wandering day after day.
The outlines of weapons are always highlighted in the overalls or pockets of their work clothes, maybe knives, daggers, and some are 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 go here."
They squeezed into a khaki car. 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 wore on, the color of the sky condensed into a dull bruise, the flow of people increased, then decreased. 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 going to work 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 the moment. "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."
Morse said: "The Department of the Interior The manpower is still not enough.”
The suspended track passed over his head, stretching for several miles, winding into a messy thread on a thin needle-like pillar. 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.
At a later time, cheap pubs near factories and various related institutions will be crowded with people, squeezing diesel-flavored liquid down their throats, paired with some organic chemically synthesized energy bars, and some The gray hot sauce fills his stomach with things that are life-sustaining and not conducive to digestion.
"The spiers of the Terra Palace are completely invisible from here," Morse looked at the distance. "The buildings are denser."
"It's not absolute. From some angles, you can see the gaps in the The basic outline of the palace in the distance," answered Perturabo.
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, not knowing that they were seeing through the phantom created by Morse. At something, he laughed defiantly. 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."
"Brawl." Perturabo spit out one word, injured here is It often happens that if someone at home works at a medical workstation affiliated to a relevant institution, 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 maintained his form, and Perturabo found himself thankful that Morse hadn't simply turned back into 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 unknowns were hung in the hooks and discs. The purpose of the item is unknown. Apart from the standard emblem of the Sky Eagle, it has neither the marks of the chamber of commerce nor the factory, nor the personal coat of arms of the imperial administrative agencies or even the local surrendered warlords.
What confused Perturabo even more was that the models of those aircraft, if he did not admit his mistake, should be modified from military drones serving in the Imperial Navy fleet, and should not be used hastily. Appearing over Terra.
"There are no dangerous goods...it's interesting," Morse noticed those flying mechanical products. This is the convenience of supernatural power. He can see through the contents of the package from a distance of tens of meters. thing, and this caused some fluctuations in his expression.
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 have all disappeared and arrived at their destination.
“My building is in the core of the city,” Perturabo introduced, walking with Morse. “I didn’t take away the entire building, I only used the top floor of that building. There. It is far enough from the ground that the golden buildings of the Terra Palace can be seen. The lower floor of that building is currently rented out for a fee. Due to the best location and building conditions in the urban planning, the rent is unaffordable for ordinary workers, some businessmen and poor people. That's where the brigade officers would choose. "How often do you stay here?" Morse asked.
"I sleep directly in the network channel more often to deal with urgent matters," 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. extent. Except for children who are not old enough to work, everyone wears similar low-quality clothes, which are uniform work clothes from various factories.
The sound of uncomfortable coughing spread muffled among the tired and weak crowd, but no one left. Then, two Olympians with extraordinary hearing heard some sighs coming from the crowd.
Several people wearing gray and black robes with crosses drawn on their chests were talking in an unheard language. Their expressions were full of sadness, and they kept shaking their heads while slowly walking in the queue. Move around and try to maintain basic order in a soothing way.
Morse simply read their minds: "They said there would be cross-infection, but there was no better way."
Perturabo blinked in confusion. , using the vision of the original gene and his regular mechanical assistance, he could clearly see the faces of several people in the distance: "Those people - those mortals gathered downstairs where I live, they are big businessmen in this area. ...Wait a minute," Perturabo connected to the data pad and checked the rental statements for the past 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 robed men came over, their raised left arms hanging A gold ribbon with scriptures written on it, holding a spray bottle in his hand, sprinkled mist like rain on the crowd. The crowd accepted it meekly.
The Primarch was even more surprised when he identified the antibacterial components in these mist. 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.
"This is disinfecting," Morse commented, with a little more smile on his face.
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. 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 a large embroidery on his left sleeve and chest. There are two small white cross emblems, and an Eagle Holy Medal hangs around his neck.
He sat down at the table by the door, picked up a pen, dipped it in ink, spread out the thick registration book, and looked at the standing mortal. Even through the mask, you can see this person's peaceful smile.
In a soothing tone, he said apologetically: "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 have not been able to arrange. Since there is no illness, if you need other help, please go there..."< br>
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 Sky Eagle gold flag is hung in the center. On both sides, slightly lower, are a book flag with burning flames and another red flag. Flag with white cross on background.
The people behind them were already anxious 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 suddenly spoke.
"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 hives, the Emperor's warriors."
"These are not war times, my friends. We are here to protect Humans are born to do good deeds. Wealthy citizens donate money to us, and the people of the empire use taxes to support us. "
Astartes is not shy about his words. With sincere eyes, seeing that 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 took me in; I clothed myself If I don’t cover my body, you clothe me; if I am sick, you take care of me. Therefore, if you listen to His words, you will receive the same help and the same blessing.”
“You still have these times? Morse asked with raised eyebrows, already knowing the answer to the next paragraph. "Is the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Empire financially bankrupt?"
Astarte shook his head: "He said: As long as you do it to the least of my brothers, you are doing it to me. Therefore, we do it for you. Yes, just do 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.
(End of this chapter)