Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"Assuming this is the average strength of the green-skinned orcs, they will not pose a threat to Inwit. Rogal Dorn said, the battle video returned from the two light cruisers reflected on his irises.

The White-haired Primarch calmly completed the second half of the sentence: "Excluding the Imperial Astartes troops, Invite's existing defense system is sufficient to deal with them."

"I feel the same way." Morse said, walking around the empty strategy room and looking at the half-carved reliefs on the wall. "In addition, combined with the battle videos of the two teams, I want to know whether attacking fortifications is a characteristic of the Seventh Legion, the predecessor of the Imperial Fists. Malcador decided to keep a certain degree of secrets for each legion."

"The Seventh Legion is proficient in both offense and defense." Dorn stated calmly, "In this small battle, I also saw the potential of the cooperation between the Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors."

"Can you understand other people's cues when it comes to military affairs?" Morse twitched the corner of his mouth, stopped and looked back at Dorn, "Then I won't ask any more questions. You can talk to Perturabo later. talk."

"Okay." Dorn made the decision in half a blink of an eye, "But, is Perturabo still in the analysis room?"

"He is almost immersed in the orcs' technology. Within a minute after the battle video was sent, he was as stiff as a heavy statue four meters high. He should still be studying it now."

"Is there enough scratch paper?" Dorn asked a very basic question. "Do you need any other experimental materials?"

"His brain can handle it all," Morse said. "After the prisoners are delivered and the memories are extracted, I will continue to go back and watch him to prevent him from blowing up the laboratory on the Phalanx."

"Does this happen often?"

"He was experimenting with muskets in my room when he was a child," Morse shook his head, "and blew up my sundial. In recent years, he just started to pay attention to the safety of experiments, and he met Magnus, who was having accidents every day. "

"I know." Rogal Dorn didn't show shock, although if Perturabo were here, he might still prefer Dorn to be surprised for a few seconds that someone as sane and calm as him would blow up the laboratory. .

The Primarch lowered his head and glanced at the information scrolling on the data board, and said: "They are about to ascend from the subspace and return to the front deck of the Phalanx. After cleaning the armor, Azak Ahriman, Iskus, and Kaidomo ·Frix will escort the alien prisoners to this place.”

"Did they clean out the orc ship?"

"There was a small boat that escaped alone, making it difficult to hunt. I thought this would help kill the entire orc team, so I ordered the team to return directly."

Morse nodded. I won't shake your hand, that's Perturabo's job, Lord of the Legions. But I'm looking forward to the next collaboration. "

"Similarly." Dorn said, still extending his hand: "Also, in a personal capacity, I thank you for your help to Perturabo, the Iron Warriors, Inwit, and the Imperial Fists."

"Oh," Morse raised an eyebrow, "How do you want me to shake your hand? Hold one of your fingers?"

He reached out and patted Dorn's palm: "That's it, Rogal Dorn."

A few minutes later, a rickety and misshapen gadget was brought indoors by Ahriman, who rarely showed obvious disgust. Iskus, half of his face made of metal, was accompanied by Frix, who was silent and serious as always.

Morse confirmed that the red-armored scholar must have urgently practiced how to use psychic powers to block the odor during the past period.

The gadget's slender limbs trembled weakly after being broken, its face had ugly wrinkles, its eyes were full of turbid malice, and a sharp and hateful giggle came from its throat. Any qualified Space Marine or even mortal Auxiliary can kill one of these things with his bare hands, but no one would want to touch it with bare hands.

"The prisoners have been brought, my lord," Ahriman said, sounding like he was holding his breath wearily.

Morse waved the little thing to float to his hand, and Dorn showed his tolerance in letting Ahriman, who had used all his psychic powers, and the two captains who had just killed a ship go to rest.

Morse attached golden light to the black cloth that formed the palm of his hand, clasped its head, found its pitifully small brain and read its memory.

After a moment, he let go of his hand, and the golden light turned into flames, burning the gadget into complete ashes. The black cloth strip on his hand was also burned and reconstructed.

"A grunt," Morse said, using his newfound language to describe the thing's name.

"It doesn't know much - I won't reveal its perspective alone, which is good for your taste. After this orc army, composed of stragglers from various tribes, robbed one of your transport ships, it The leader learned about your Phalanx from the videos you used for propaganda and took a liking to it. They also looted and occupied several small worlds belonging to Invite. I recommend cleaning them directly with artillery."

"Cleaning the small world?" Roger Dorn was a little confused. "There is no need to organize a rescue operation?"

"It's not necessary." Morse said, "First of all, people are dead, and secondly, their reproductive ability is as strong as mushrooms or weeds, and the ground must be completely cleared, such as orbital bombing. In addition, they show a weird evolution in combat effectiveness. Ability, the leader has shown some dangerous qualities - at least it is not shorter than you. I suggest that this group of orcs be strangled in the cradle."

“After confirming the situation, I will organize cleaning.

It's hard to tell from Dorn's almost non-existent reaction time whether ordering an orbital bombardment of the human world caused him any moral distress. Anyway, his reason decides.

"You have to go back to..."

An emergency call request suddenly popped up on the data pad in Dorn's hand, and the sender was the Phalanx analysis room.

Rogal Dorn immediately connected, and Morse appeared at his hand, levitating so he could see the panel.

Perturabo's uncontrollable surprise spread across the current: "Can Morse come? This thing is active!"

At the same time, the camera was focused on the pile of scrap iron on the table.

I don’t know what kind of environment the orcs used to make missiles in the workshop that caused these materials to be mixed with the dried blood of the orcs, a large amount of mud, and unknown organic matter. In short, after staying in an oxygen environment for a long enough time, this pile of scrap metal began to own evolution.

On the surface of the dark mud, there are some extremely tiny dark green spots that can only be seen with an electron microscope or the eyes of the original body. They are difficult to identify in front of an ordinary data board or camera.

Although they could not see the structure of the green spots, both Roger Dorn and Morse could see that the spots were moving.

"At first, there were spores that appeared suddenly," Perturabo's tone was a little hollow, as if he had been knocked down by something conceptual. "A few minutes later, an extremely small ecological chain appeared, some things with slender limbs. A settlement about three inches in diameter was built using iron filings and dirt, and then more microscopic green aliens were born, now fighting each other and wringing each other's heads off."

"I'll be right back." Morse disappeared from the strategy room and appeared next to Perturabo a few seconds later.

Although he considers himself to be non-human, Morse has actually seen very few genuine aliens in the past few thousand years. This strange race quickly attracted Morse's interest.

It's hard to say whether the nutrients provided in this small piece of organic matter are too much or too little for the greenskins, so that they can actually build miniature tribe prototypes on a palm-sized fragment.

However, after a while, this small tribe has formed a complete strange ecology. Mysterious sparks and radiance of energy shot out from the tiny orc's hand, causing Perturabo to murmur in a low voice, "But there is obviously nothing here." energy".

"Maybe it's because they think this will work." Morse whispered, and the two people looked around the small piece of iron from two directions. The tiny orcs soon discovered that there were two huge faces surrounding them. After a few minutes of cheerful quarreling, they began to shout about why Brother Mao had to turn into the color of a human shrimp.

When Perturabo couldn't help but stand up and retreat when the slightly larger orc offered him the teeth from the kid next to him.

"I've had enough," he said.

"Give up?" Morse also floated away from the iron piece, "Do you want to keep this sample?"

"Can it guarantee that its danger will be controlled?" Perturabo asked himself and answered, "No, not without reservation."

A ray of golden fire burned away the miniature settlement that was waving a big flaming stick to praise the flesh-colored Gorge Mao, like burning a piece of germs.

"Excellent choice." Morse commented. "Rather than staring at the existing samples, I suggest you put your research on hold."

"Yes, we have more important things to do."

"No, what I mean is that until our great scholar of psionic power, Magnus, systematically figures out what psionic power is - perhaps this day will never come - we might as well put aside our efforts to explore this spiritual power for the time being. "The nature of the energy race." Morse replied, "I smell a strange psychic smell on these green things."

Perturabo's lips tightened and then unclenched. "This needs to be disinfected. Dawn, are you still there?"

Dorn's voice came from the dataslate: "Peracetic acid can be released later."

Morse waved his hand, and fire rose into the sky, sweeping over the entire surface of the analysis room and Perturabo's protective suit, scorching black wherever it touched.

He left a tight undershirt for Perturabo, and the moment before the other party shouted, he used psychic sound transmission to remind him that the Astartes usually wore this one plus a wider piece when they didn't wear armor. The robe wandered around the ship, keeping Perturabo in an excellent state of stiff expression without showing any embarrassment.

"I think this is cleaner." Morse clapped his hands and walked out of the analysis room first, waiting for Perturabo to come out. "Rogal Dorn, what's next? Track the fleet or burn the planet?"

There was a murmur from the dataslate, and then Rogal Dorn's voice came again. Different from his usual calmness, this time Dorn's long silence before speaking seemed to strengthen some ominous omen.

"Confirm once again, do the orcs have extremely strong reproductive capabilities?" the white-haired original asked.

"You have seen them grow." Perturabo tried to ignore his clothes, telling himself that Dorn couldn't see him as the dataslate was tossed aside. "The remnants of a few drops of blood and the right amount of organic matter can grow a complete colony."

"I see," Dorn said, his answer disturbing.

"Wait a minute..." Morse replayed what had happened before in his mind. Excluding Ahriman, who had used psychic energy to wrap up the Grot throughout the whole process, there was only one way to bring the orc blood to the Phalanx.

"You said they would report in after cleaning the armor. How do they clean the armor?"

"After the soldiers remove their armor, the armor is cleaned and specially intensively disinfected by the servitor. The soldiers themselves enter the shower room of the Phalanx to clean themselves."

Despite his uneasiness, Dorn explained the process matter-of-factly.

"Theoretically, harmful viruses in the alien environment will adhere to the surface of the armor and be disinfected and inactivated. However, Iskus, the captain of the second team of the 45th Commando of my Legion, due to his special personal circumstances, during this battle, Not wearing a helmet.”

In an instant, Perturabo understood what might happen. "The blood on the soldier's head passed directly through the shower drain..."

His throat was choked, and the beating of his two hearts seemed to have stopped.

As the chief engineer who repaired the Phalanx together with Rogal Dorn, Perturabo knew exactly where the sewage was being discharged.

Dorn's voice became distant, either because the white-haired Primarch couldn't help but lower his voice, or because Perturabo's senses were leaving him.

"...Sewage will be discharged into the water resources recycling treatment hub. After conventional water purification measures, 90% of the purified sewage will be directed to the Sanjin's shipboard bio-agricultural farmland to cultivate greenhouse vegetables and microalgae. The water source will be provided in the chamber, and 70 percent of the vegetables will be used to make canned food and dietary supplements for long-term storage during the voyage; the remaining 10 percent of the purified sewage will be stored in the storage tank.”

"What is this routine water purification measure..." Morse repeated the elongated Gothic word. "What is it?"

"Because it is not domestic water, the purification process only includes adsorption of insoluble impurities, sedimentation separation, filtration, activated carbon adsorption, and chemical disinfection." Dorn said, "However, it remains to be verified whether our ordinary disinfection measures can completely kill the spores of the green-skinned orcs. ”

"Oh," Morse sighed in a low voice, "you'd better order all the mortal servants who manage the farmland to find a pool of disinfectant and dive for three minutes now."

"For such simple fixed processes, the Phalanx adopts an automated process managed by servitors." Perturabo interrupted the conversation and found his voice, "From planting to cooking and canning, there is no need for a dedicated person to operate. "

"The past week has been a trial period for picking and cooking the first batch of vegetables," Dorn said, "but I have issued an emergency order to stop canning vegetables."

"Has anyone started eating cans?" Morse pinched his eyebrows. He didn't think it was a good idea to burn the stomach of an Astartes who had already begun eating canned food - perhaps resetting the memory after burning the guts with psychic powers would be an option.

Perturabo took a deep breath.

"We planted the orcs into the ground with our own hands," he murmured.