chsdbacks Chapter 15 Forgotten
Chapter 15 Forgotten
After the power generation contract was signed, the two-kilometer-long aluminum core high-voltage cable was erected in just thirty hours.
As the massive knife switch was closed, the lights in the shelter flickered briefly before settling back down.
It is no longer the dim, flickering light caused by insufficient voltage, but a bright, stable industrial light without any flicker.
Immediately afterwards, the three enormous bioreactors emitted an unprecedented hum.
A stable 380-volt industrial voltage was connected to the heating rod and stirring motor.
Previously, when geothermal power generation was used, the voltage fluctuated, causing the temperature curve inside the reactor to be like a roller coaster. If not careful, the bacteria would become dormant due to excessively low temperature or be killed by excessively high temperature.
The constant temperature control system is now online.
This means that the production of starch balls is not a simple addition, but an exponential multiplication.
As long as the raw materials are available, these three reactors can run around the clock, continuously producing high-calorie white food.
Electricity is order, electricity is efficiency.
Standing in the newly built power distribution room, Andy looked at the row of green indicator lights, and the anxiety in his heart finally dissipated a lot.
He walked up to the dedicated charging station and inserted one of his fingers into it.
Nothing makes an Ironman feel more at ease than being able to charge at full power anytime, anywhere.
Beside him, Gamma-9 was holding a small brush and reverently applying holy oil to the newly installed transformer casing.
He painted very slowly, each stroke like a work of art, while muttering to himself.
Seeing the old priest's serious expression, Andy finally couldn't hold back his questions any longer.
Gamma-9.
Andy pulled out his finger, and the surge of energy made his voice even louder.
"You're a legitimate technical priest, aren't you?"
Gamma-9 stopped what it was doing, turned around, and looked at Andy with a puzzled expression through its single eye.
"Of course, Your Excellency." Gamma-9 straightened his chest and pointed to the nearly worn-out gear emblem on his tattered robe. "I am a junior priest officially ordained by the Forge Mechanical Order."
"Then how did you end up like this?"
Andy pointed to the dilapidated surroundings.
"Logically, you should be staying in one of the factories in Zhongchao or Shangchao, where at least you'd have clean water to drink and spare parts to replace."
"How could they have led a group of refugees to this corner of the Undercity, a place even mutants despise, and spent so many years guarding a nearly broken recycling machine?"
This is not only Andy's biggest question these past few days, but also a clear logical flaw.
Although the Church of Mechanics has a strict internal hierarchy, it values its technical personnel highly and would never allow a priest with a formal position to end up on the streets.
Gamma-9 paused for a moment, and the red light in its eyes dimmed.
He remained silent for a long time before slowly speaking.
"Because... there were no orders."
"No orders?" Andy asked, puzzled.
Thirty years ago, this was the No. 492 air purification station, the core node of the entire 7th Industrial Zone.
The sound of Gamma-9 carries a hint of melancholy and nostalgia.
"Later, it seems that the higher authorities made an administrative division adjustment."
"I heard it was because a senior official from the Ministry of the Interior's hand trembled while drawing a new map, or perhaps the ink spilled."
"In short, on the new map, Industrial Zone 7 has been crossed out and turned into an 'unknown abandoned area'."
"From that day on, the supply ships stopped coming, and the orders for regular maintenance also stopped."
Andy understood.
This is the daily life within the empire's vast and rigid bureaucratic system.
A clerical error by an Interior Ministry clerk, or the loss of a data pad, could cause hundreds of millions of people to starve on a planet, or leave a fleet stranded in the subspace waiting for an attack order that will never be issued until it comes to a complete standstill.
This kind of thing sounds absurd in reality, but in the Warhammer universe, it's more common than breathing.
"Then why don't you leave?" Andy asked. "Since the supplies have been cut off, you could have appealed to your superiors or applied for a transfer."
Gamma-9 shook his head, his tone becoming unusually firm.
"There are no orders to retreat."
"My oath of service states, 'I will remain at my post until the machine's soul is extinguished and the gears break apart.'"
"The higher authorities did not issue any orders to shut down the site, nor did they issue any orders to evacuate."
"If I leave, I will become a deserter who abandons his post, a sinner who has turned his back on Om Messiah."
So, I stayed.
"I bring my apprentices here to repair and fix things, take apart and put back together broken parts, and keep those machines that should have been scrapped running."
"This vigil has lasted for thirty years."
As Gamma-9 finished speaking, he looked up at Andy, his single eye showing no regret, only an almost foolish obsession.
As Andy looked at the old man, the contempt he felt for these people smearing engine oil on him underwent a subtle change.
Ultimately, these people are indeed ignorant, dogmatic, and have turned science into superstition.
But it was precisely this rigid dogma that allowed them to hold onto the last embers of hope in a forgotten corner of the empire, without any support.
For Gamma-9, it wasn't that he didn't want to leave; he simply didn't know where to go.
His world is made up of instructions; without instructions, he would simply die on the spot.
And now, Andy has appeared.
Andy not only fixed the machine, but also gave him new instructions.
This is why Gamma-9 is so devoted to Andy.
Because in that channel that had been silent for thirty years, someone who seemed like a superior finally gave him orders.
Even if the order was to cook porridge or move bricks, he would do it willingly.
"We won't have to wait for that damned Ministry of the Interior's orders anymore."
Andy patted Gamma-9's semi-mechanical shoulder.
"From this moment forward, my words are commands."
"I've renewed your staffing for this purification station."
Gamma-9's body trembled violently, then it nodded heavily, its eyes seemingly a little moist.
"Yes, Sage!"
Having sorted out the personnel and psychological aspects of the project, Andy refocused his attention on production.
With electricity, people, and raw materials, we have electricity.
It's time to upgrade this workshop-style, handcrafted production line.
Andy opened the STC database.
From a vast sea of blueprints, he selected a very basic, yet extremely important piece of equipment.
[General Purpose Automatic Stamping Machine (T-4 Type)]
This isn't high-tech; it doesn't even require very sophisticated chip control.
Its principle is extremely simple: a large flywheel, a crankshaft, a weight, and a set of molds.
The motor drives a flywheel to store energy, and then the crankshaft converts the rotational motion into up-and-down reciprocating motion, which is then used to bring down the several-ton hammer.
With just a clang, any metal sheet placed in the mold will be instantly compressed into shape.
Andy insisted on building this first, because the stamping press is the starting point for industrial standardization.
Everything used in the shelter now is made by hand.
The refugees used hammers to break scrap iron into bowls, knives, and armor plates.
Not only is it inefficient, but everyone's output is different.
If you tap the bullet casing with your hand, you can basically forget about hitting the target accurately; you'll even have trouble getting it into the chamber.
But with a stamping press, the situation is completely different.
All you need to do is replace the bullet casing mold and put the copper sheet inside.
Clang, clang, clang.
Sixty times per minute, and the result is sixty identical standard cartridge cases with an error of no more than 0.1 millimeters.
Replace the mold with an armor plate, and you have sixty standard protective inserts.
Andy immediately broke the blueprint down into several parts.
The flywheel can be modified from the discarded minecart wheels sent by Roger.
There are plenty of readily available motors, and the frame can be directly welded from those I-beams.
The only challenge is the mold steel, which requires a material with high hardness.
However, Andy remembered the spikes and chains on the skinner truck. Although those things looked ridiculous, they were actually made of scrap of some high-strength alloy steel.
"Take it, melt it down, and recast it."
Andy then distributed the tasks.
The three technicians Roger sent immediately got to work under Gamma-9's command.
Two days later.
In one corner of the shelter, a huge, somewhat ugly-looking machine stood up.
Andy stepped forward and pressed the start button.
The motor hummed, driving the huge flywheel to spin faster and faster, accumulating terrifying kinetic energy.
Andy stuffed a piece of scrap metal into the feed chute.
"Thump!!!"
The impact force of several tons was released instantly, and the sheet metal slid out from the other end.
It successfully transformed into a perfectly curved... iron head.