Compared to the terrifying consumption rates of the Astartes, the Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus operated at the polar opposite extreme.
They appeared to have absolutely no interest in organic sustenance. Instead, they stalked through the ecological bays, trailing after the Sapient Machine Automata, the Iron Men serving as stewards, and the various transport constructs. The Servitors they brought with them stood in listless, motionless phalanxes in the corners of the chambers.
For these Servitors, biological replenishment was unnecessary, though they would not refuse a morsel of food if offered, after all, a fraction of organic matter still remained in their cybernetic frames. Occasionally consuming a block of nutrient gel could marginally extend their operational lifespan. These starch-blocks, processed from recycled corpses, were rich in nutrients, though entirely devoid of flavor. Much like a compressed mixture of soy flour and water, they were never intended to be palatable.
In truth, workers in the lower decks often had to survive on thin gruel made from the strange mosses that grew within the ship's hull, supplemented by the occasional corpse-starch bar. Some were forced to stretch such meager rations for days. After all, even the production of starch bars required raw materials.
The Heart of the Forge operated with terrifying efficiency, and the Imperial vessels were not, by standard measures, particularly massive. As the Imperial ships were drawn in by gravity tethers, they entered the hull of the Heart of the Forge one after another; moments later, fully reconstructed vessels drifted out from the quantum printing arrays at the base.
Externally, these refitted ships appeared identical to their original forms, but internally, they had undergone a total metamorphosis. Imperial ships typically relied on massive plasma reactors, which produced toxic waste and gases, making the living conditions in the lower decks abysmal. To the Forge World responsible for their construction, once a ship was commissioned, wide-scale retrofitting was considered unnecessary.
In an oxygenated environment, the ship's interior structures were prone to rust and decay, with the lowest levels suffering the most. For years, sweltering steam drifted through the lower decks and habitation zones, causing leaks in the piping as corrosion took hold. In most cases, these leaks went completely ignored. To the Tech-Priests, minor discrepancies caused by leaks were merely a manifestation of the Omnissiah's will; unless the Machine Spirit was displeased or the situation reached a critical state, such damage did not require repair.
This, of course, was on the condition that the leaking pipe did not carry fuel, particularly promethium, for that would surely invite fire and catastrophe. As for wastewater or high-pressure steam, minor leaks were trivial. When necessary, one simply increased the pumping power to compensate for the drop in pressure. By the time a pipe finally ruptured, a Tech-Priest would simply summon the unfortunate workers who had lived on the ship for generations to handle the repairs. If circumstances were even more dire, one could simply seal off the bulkhead and deal with the damage once it became "controlled."
The Priests would never risk their own lives to repair such damage. They would not even spare a single Servitor, after all, a Servitor was far more valuable than a mortal of flesh and blood.
These problems were non-existent on the ships of the Iron Men. Even discounting that most of their vessels operated in a vacuum, not even a Titan-class ship equipped with full life support would suffer such decay. Myriads of nanites flowed through the hull like living blood, repairing any damage the moment it occurred. The integrated, singular-construction method meant that even the connection bolts found on standard ships were nearly non-existent. The few remaining access ports existed only because of specific, modular operational requirements.
On these ships reforged by Axion, the chaotic labyrinth of wiring had vanished, and the piping was now unified and rationalized. Every high-pressure conduit was reinforced and thickened. All grime, corpses, refuse, pollutants, and Tyranid-infected biomass had been scrubbed away. Every Imperial ship had undergone a total overhaul of its propulsion systems, with the archaic plasma reactors replaced by new Arc Reactors.
The armouries were also thoroughly re-forged. Meltaguns were modified to support semi-automatic fire, the energy conduits of lasguns were recalibrated to boost output, and both plasma pistols and plasma cannons were fitted with brand-new structural components to manage heat dissipation. Furthermore, the terrifying firepower of the Federation's own arsenal now filled the Astartes' weapon racks. Yet, it was not merely the Astartes' gear that was upgraded; every vehicle, automated turret, and drop pod had been reconstructed. Every data unit potentially harbouring a corrupted Machine Spirit had been purged clean.
Hours of Terra-time later, the ships of the White Scars and the Space Wolves were guided back to the hangar of the Void Sword by gravity rays. The Heart of the Forge deposited a massive supply of mineral resources onto the Void Sword before vanishing through the Webway gate. Entering the Warp was not the business of this Titan-class vessel.
As two-thirds of the White Scars fleet docked at the station, the Iron Men began notifying the Astartes and their assigned mortal crew to return to their respective ships. Under Jaghatai's order, the feast, an oasis of comfort, was brought to an abrupt end.
Caught off guard, several Imperial Navy sailors tried to stash food on their persons in a panic. Yet, the officers, who were usually stern in their discipline, said nothing. A distinct bulge at their belts betrayed at least two or three hidden bottles of spirits. If the soldiers wanted a bit of food, it wasn't worth making a scene. After all, if the pretense were shattered, everyone would lose face.
The behavior of the undisciplined mortal crew and laborers, however, became utterly grotesque. Everyone carried as much food as they could manage, indifferent to grease soaking through their clothes. Biscuits and pastries were crushed and piled into discarded garments. Some even removed their trousers, knotted the legs, and shoved all manner of provisions inside. They stood in line, nearly naked, struggling under the weight of thirty or forty kilograms of food, not forgetting to keep a slab of meat clamped between their teeth. Even the children followed suit.
Axion, however, made no move to stop them. The conditions in which Imperial citizens lived had long since surpassed the most harrowing scenarios archived in the records of the Iron Men. The cruelty of a world where basic subsistence was a luxury was so profound that it baffled the very machines.
As the lines began to file back to their ships in an orderly fashion, a group of Sapient Machine Automata approached the Astartes' rest area. Each construct carried a canister filled with shimmering Panacea. Embedded at the base of each canister were several psychic crystals, driving a specific mechanism to maintain the internal energy field of the substance. A tube connected the base to the automaton's arm, where its fingers shifted into hollow needles, glowing with a faint, cold light.
Jaghatai naturally noticed these machines, especially the flickering, luminous medicine. The White Scars recognized it; though few had the fortune to utilize such precious resources, the miraculous efficacy of the Panacea was undeniable.
Compared to Jaghatai's cautious attitude, the Iron Men were blunt. The machines simply rolled over the drunken Space Wolves and delivered a sharp, precise injection. The heavy bodies hit the floor with dull thuds, followed by sharp grunts of pain; the Iron Men's movements were, to say the least, sudden.
As the first howl of a wolf rang out, the remaining intoxicated Space Wolves woke instantly, their biological hormones rapidly breaking down the alcohol. They looked around, bewildered.