Chapter 64: The Harvest

Chapter 64: The Harvest

In the Upper Hive of Preston, the wealthy and powerful residents were just beginning to process the new, terrifying reality of their lives.

Days ago, the Sky-Hook had been destroyed. Then, the orbital defense batteries had gone silent. War had come to their world, and now, so had the victors.

A man named Roni, an upper-hive citizen, had watched the entire PDF air-wing fly up to meet the enemy. None had returned. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the hive had fallen.

He had left his position on the production line early and returned to his hab-unit. He, his wife Elina, and their young daughter Emily were now huddled inside, the door sealed. They could only pray that the invaders would take what they wanted and leave.

Elina clutched a small, silver Aquila to her chest, her lips moving in a silent prayer to the Emperor.

Their prayers were answered by the splintering crash of their reinforced door. A squad of soldiers in flak armor burst in, their lasguns leveled. "On your knees! Don't move!" the squad leader barked. His High Gothic was guttural, thick with an off-world accent.

Roni, Elina, and Emily were stunned, their hands instinctively flying up. The soldiers moved with brutal efficiency, binding their hands with restraints before searching the hab. The squad leader consulted a data-slate, comparing a pict-capture to Roni's terrified face.

"Confirmed," the soldier grunted. "Roni Hax. Senior Engineer, Tauros Assault Vehicle production line."

"What... what is this?" Roni stammered.

The soldier glanced at his wife and daughter. "An engineer, with a family. Good. Take them all."

"What are you doing!?" Roni shouted, his fear finally turning to anger. The only reply was a lasgun-butt to his face, sending him sprawling. The soldiers shoved the family out of their home and marched them to a waiting Valkyrie.

The "Spear of Hector" auxilia were sweeping the hive, and their method was chillingly precise. They were operating from a complete, detailed census of the hive's skilled labor force.

Such a list should have been one of the hive's most guarded secrets. But the hive's Director of Manufactorums, for the sake of "administrative convenience," had kept a master-copy on his personal, unsecured data-slate.

A data-slate that Phelon had "discovered" within minutes of taking the starport.

Now, Petros was using that list. The Spear of Hector was moving from manufactorum to schola, from administrative spire to medicae-ward, harvesting the hive's most valuable asset. When the list ran dry, they simply began rounding up anyone who looked skilled: engineers from the production lines, adepts from their offices, instructors from the scholas, and doctors from the wards.

In the opulent, now-looted chambers of the Planetary Governor's palace, Phelon stood over a pile of discarded weapons.

"Boss," the Warpsmith said, "I don't get it. All this wargear, ammo, armor... we're just leaving it? We're taking these mortals instead?"

"Weapons can be replaced," Petros said, his gaze fixed on the burning city below. "I am taking these people to build our own production lines. The Maelstrom is rich in raw materials. We don't lack for lasguns."

"We lack artillery. We lack armor. And most of all, we lack the skilled, educated workforce to build them. This... 'harvest'... will cut decades off our development."

He turned to Phelon. "The war on the second continent proved it. Sachs is a decent infantryman, but he knows nothing of logistics, combined-arms, or strategy. We need a systemic military education. We need officers, pilots, and logisticians. We cannot conquer the stars with an army of light infantry."

Phelon finally understood. This wasn't a smash-and-grab. It was an industrial kidnapping. They weren't just plundering a world; they were stealing its future and making it their own.

The hive collapsed into chaos. The "Spear of Hector" became a relentless, methodical force. They weren't just taking engineers; they were taking doctors, teachers, adepts, and anyone with technical or administrative skills. They were harvesting an entire society.

Roni, Elina, and Emily were shoved into a vast, makeshift holding pen in the starport, a cavernous cargo bay now packed with thousands of other terrified, high-value captives. Roni looked at the faces around him—the best and brightest of his world—and felt a cold, final despair.

For three days, the Valkyries and landers ran a constant ferry, a conveyor-belt of human "cargo" from the hive to the flotilla in orbit.

Finally, the last transport cleared the bay. The "Spear of Hector" pulled out, their haulers loaded with only the most valuable, portable equipment. The orbital bombardment had shattered the hive's defenses, and the chaos of the raid had cut its power.

As the starport's blast doors sealed, the Upper Hive of Preston was plunged into a silent, dead darkness.

Far below, in the under-hive and the hive-bottom, the billions of souls who lived in the dark knew nothing of the raid. Aside from a few strange "earthquakes," their lives were completely unchanged.

Aboard the bridge of The Judgment's Edge, Petros watched the hive-world recede. His face, illuminated by the glow of the star-map, held a rare, thin smile of satisfaction. The harvest had been a complete success.