Junior Lieutenant Rudolfson was silent for a long time – so long that Li Qingyu felt as if a century had passed. So long that he had already decided: this pathetic officer would refuse him.
Finally, Rudolson sighed heavily and closed his eyes with his palm, as if trying to hide behind the last shred of shame.
"I... I want a share."
Li Qingyu responded instantly:
"Thirty percent of net profit. Whether you keep it for yourself or share it with your subordinates – I don't care."
Rudolfson still didn't move his hands from his face; only his lips moved:
"And I want you to help me kill one man."
Li Qingyu squinted.
"Who?"
"Lieutenant Winchester."
"Who is he?"
"A company commander from our battalion. That bastard is my only rival for the combat commander position. The Colonel said Winchester is a minor noble from the Upper Hive, and he needs his epaulets gilded to advance higher. The aristocrats behind him have already lobbied for his appointment. As long as he's alive, I won't see any promotions."
Li Qingyu bared his teeth.
"If I kill him, and you become a combat commander, will you give me more freedom?"
The junior lieutenant nodded.
"If I become a combat commander, I'll get three infantry companies of SIT and one motorized. Everything you see in this two-kilometer defense zone will be under my control. It will be my territory. Do whatever you want here – no one will dare to squeak!"
Li Qingyu licked his lips. The stake justified the risk: if he secured the support of a whole combat commander, his business would be safe.
Rudolfson removed his hand from his face and continued:
"Lieutenant Winchester is cautious. In combat, he never leaves his 'Chimaera,' so getting to him won't be easy."
"I'll figure something out," Li Qingyu said confidently. "Keep an eye on him. If a chance arises, I'll strike."
He abruptly changed the subject:
"Is there a way to contact the local rebel leaders? I want to meet them and discuss work."
Rudolfson thought for a moment, then replied:
"They don't have permanent bases. If we spot them, we'll raid them. But recently, there was a night attack on the hydro-post. We repelled it and took one wounded prisoner. Perhaps we can get to their commander through him."
"Excellent," Li Qingyu nodded. "Hand him over to me, give me an auto-gun, and drive me closer."
Half an hour later, an army convertible stopped in no man's land between the SIT positions and the rebels. Around them were the scars of war: shell craters, destroyed houses, abandoned fields. Not the slightest sign of life.
Both armies had clashed here more than once, turning the area into a death zone. Apart from combat patrols, no one ventured here.
Rudolfson turned off the engine. In the back seat sat Li Qingyu with an auto-gun on his back and a prisoner with a sack over his head.
The lieutenant pulled the handbrake and looked seriously at Li Qingyu.
"Are you sure you want to go? You don't know what kind of commander they have. What if he's a madman – he'll shoot you immediately, and all our agreements will go to waste."
Li Qingyu replied calmly:
"Death is not the end for me, but only the beginning of the spirit's vengeance."
He pushed the moaning prisoner out of the car. Rudolfson wished him luck and drove back to the SIT camp.
When the car disappeared, Li Qingyu pulled the sack off the prisoner's head. Beneath it was the face of a middle-aged man.
A most ordinary peasant, about forty years old, with eyes full of terror and pleading.
Li Qingyu drew his dagger. The prisoner, screaming, tried to run, but with his hands tied, he stumbled and fell into the mud.
Li Qingyu, biting down on a poison capsule, crouched beside him, pressing the man's neck with his knee. The man thrashed in panic.
A moment later, Li Qingyu stood up. The rebel froze, feeling that his ropes had been cut.
He stood up, looking at his liberator in confusion, not knowing whether to expect death or listen.
Li Qingyu threw the auto-gun into his hands, lit a cigarette, and said:
"Lead me to your commander. I have a proposal for him."
Half a day later, about forty kilometers north of the SIT camp, in a dense forest, was a fortified rebel camp – about a thousand people.
Li Qingyu, with his hands tied, sat calmly on a log, observing the rebels surrounding him.
It was a peasant militia. The camp was made of wood, and some people were engaged in farming. There were fewer than a hundred armed fighters, with homemade shotguns.
Their equipment was poor, with almost no metal. One peasant was chopping wood with a stone axe. The rebels had no industrial base whatsoever.
In the broken world of Warhammer 40k, Planetary Governors concentrated all production in the Hives, leaving the rest of the planet without industry.
This was the case here too – an agri-world where the only steel mill was located inside the Hive. As soon as the rebellion flared up, supplies stopped, and the rebels almost regressed to the Stone Age.
Realizing their situation, Li Qingyu only became more confident in the success of the upcoming negotiations.
A few minutes later, their leader appeared – a dignified, gray-haired man about fifty years old, surrounded by guards. He glanced coldly at Li Qingyu.
"Who are you? And why have you come?"
Li Qingyu raised his tied hands and grinned:
"By the way, I saved one of yours. And this is how you greet a savior?"
The commander remained silent; the barrels of the homemade guns merely swung towards Li Qingyu.
He clicked his tongue, mentally labeling the old man "cautious."
"Alright, let's not drag it out. I've come to discuss a deal."
The commander snorted:
"I have nothing to discuss with the Governor's dog. The only language you know is lead!"
A guard raised his homemade gun; the thick muzzle pointed at Li Qingyu's forehead.
Sensing the direction of the wind, Li Qingyu burst out laughing, activating his death-delay skill.
"What are you laughing at?"
As he expected, the commander frowned. Li Qingyu smirked:
"I'm laughing at your overconfidence. The Hive has you by the throat with an industrial blockade, you're languishing at the Stone Age level – and yet you reject a chance to save your people!"
The commander snorted again:
"Our revolution will win – it's inevitable! The Governor and his exploiters will fall!"
Li Qingyu shook his head:
"Your revolution is throwing stones at the Hive's armor? Well, good luck! I'll even applaud."
One of the guards flared up:
"We are not afraid to die! We will destroy their citadel! We have iron will!"
Li Qingyu nodded understandingly:
"Of course. You have iron will, the SIT has steel imbued with will. I wonder who will win."
"Why, you!..."
The guard swung his rifle butt, aiming for Li Qingyu's face.
Li Qingyu raised his leg and kicked him in the groin. The man slid to the ground with a howl, tears and snot streaming.
The rebels roared, a dozen barrels aimed at Li Qingyu. A cry rang out: "Don't move!"
He didn't even blink. He peered at the nearest rifle and smirked:
"Tsk-tsk... It doesn't even have rifling, does it? Will it penetrate SIT body armor?"
He inhaled the air.
"The gunpowder smells of sulfur... You're still shooting black powder? People, wake up – it's the fortieth millennium! You're fighting with second-millennium weapons! This junk will at best scratch the paint on armor."
The commander, seeing the prisoner's calm under threat, tried to understand what gave him confidence.
"Outlander, what are you after?"
Li Qingyu looked him in the eye:
"I've been saying it from the beginning – I want to discuss business."
He pointed to the former prisoner, who was still holding the auto-gun.
"See this rifle? Rifled barrel, quality materials, smokeless powder. The bullet flies a kilometer and takes off a head. That's a weapon! And I can get you as many of these as you want."
The rebels exchanged glances and lowered their barrels. They knew perfectly well what an army auto-gun meant: one SIT soldier with such a weapon could take down a hundred rebels.
The SIT opened aimed fire from hundreds of meters away, while the rebels had to get within a hundred to fire their homemade guns. How many died in the process?
The makeshift factories barely worked, and ammunition was scarce. If they managed to issue one functional rifle per hundred – it was already a celebration.
Such an offer stunned everyone.
All eyes turned to the commander. Even the one lying on the ground froze in anticipation.
The commander looked at Li Qingyu, a storm of thoughts raging within him. He didn't trust the stranger, but he couldn't refuse.
"What do you want in return?"
Li Qingyu smiled – the deal was done.
"For one rifle – three tons of grain."
The commander blinked, his lips twitching.
"Three tons?! Do you realize how much that is? You want to trade five kilograms of iron for three tons of food?!"
Li Qingyu nodded:
"I haven't seen a mountain of three tons of grain, but I know this: food is not rare for you. You own the entire planet. Stick a hoe in, sow – and you'll harvest. For you, grain is trash, for me – capital. And the SIT auto-gun is the fruit of the labor of the Hive's tech-priests. Where ore gives birth to steel, a press stamps a box, rifling is drilled, prayers to the Omnissiah are heard – you will never recreate this. I offer to trade what lies at your feet for what you cannot produce. Simple arithmetic. Any objections?"
The commander blinked, acknowledging the common sense, but did not give up.
"Why do you need so much grain? Do you want to supply the SIT? We control the fields now, the Hive will soon starve! Do you want to open a food corridor for them?"
Li Qingyu rolled his eyes:
"Do you seriously think you can starve tens of billions in the Hive? Oh, holy Emperor... Have you heard of starch synthesis from promethium waste?"
In the world of Warhammer 40k, humanity possesses interstellar travel technologies – synthesizing food for such a level of civilization is not a problem.
The Imperium has systems for processing promethium waste into starch. Li Qingyu didn't know how it worked, but the efficiency was mind-boggling: one installation could feed hundreds of millions. Trying to create a starvation blockade against the Hive is useless.