Day 341 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium
Location: "Spires' Edge" Reception Room
Atop the skyscraper, at the midpoint between the Korvax and Thalric family territories.
Valen Korvax stood elegantly sipping exquisite Amazec. Today, he was dressed in a sleek, all-black, semi-military nobleman's attire, devoid of any extravagant ornaments, with only a small family crest on his chest. In reality, his physique was well-proportioned and robust, unlike most nobles who were either obese or emaciated from indulgence.
Opposite him stood Lord Thalric, a stout man in an unnecessarily cumbersome silk robe embroidered with gold thread. His face was damp with sweat, and his eyes darted around constantly. He sighed softly before taking out a hologram projector and placing it on the table, revealing an area within the Thalric family's territory adjacent to his own in the lower hive.
It was clear that the lights from the machinery and factories in his territory were still almost constantly on. He had already begun repairing the factories and started reallocating some of the budget intended for upper hive repairs to expedite the repairs to the majority of the factories in the lower hive.
However, he had indeed increased the workers' working hours to 20 hours a day, which was like hell. At least the factories were still operating, and he would gradually reduce working hours once they met their production quotas for this cycle. Then, those workers would return to their usual 12-hour workdays.
As for the rebellion, Valen wasn't overly concerned. He had implemented decisive measures to ensure a future rebellion, using his private army to closely monitor the areas and suppress any instigators before they escalated.
On the other side, the factories in the Thalric family's territory were pitch black, with only scattered lights, indicating that the area hadn't undergone any repairs or restoration since the war. Valen took a moment to pause before the scene shifted to the new temple being built in the Thalric family's upper hive. It was a rather magnificent temple, decorated with gold and marble, and included statues of saints still under construction.
"Isn't it magnificent, Valen?" Thalric pointed proudly at the golden dome.
"Arch-Deacon assured me that as soon as that 50-meter-tall statue of the saint is completed, the light of faith will dispel the discouragement of the laborers, and productivity will skyrocket!" Thalric said with a proud tone. Valen raised one eyebrow, glancing at the dome and then at the figures in his hand. He thought the doctor must have been tricked by Arch-Deacon.
"Thalric... I don't mean to be disrespectful, but do you know that the money you donated to the Church yesterday was enough to completely repair the air purification system in Sector 4, your jurisdiction?" Valen asked in a cold, questioning tone. He was extremely frustrated with the inefficiency and absurdity of the massive budget being wasted. What's wrong with his rival today? From being a cunning, overweight guy, he's now completely stupid. He wonders if his rival has been brainwashed or perhaps manipulated by some woman the Church sent as a concubine.
"Oh, Valen, you're such a materialist," Thalric laughed shrilly.
"Air to breathe is important, but a pure spirit is even more important! If the workers have faith, they'll work their hearts out." Thalric continued nonchalantly.
"Dead workers can't pray, my friend, and corpses can't be unscrewed," Valen said with a feigned tone, slowly setting down his wine glass before walking closer to Thalric. An aura of power radiated, forcing the portly lord to take a step back.
"Don't call me nosy... but look at these numbers," Valen scrolled through another image and pointed to a blood-red holographic graph.
"The death rate of workers from lung disease in your territory has skyrocketed by 300% in a single month. You're building a golden temple in the middle of a graveyard, Thalric... If all your workers die, who will produce ammunition for the Administratum? Do you think the central tax authorities will accept 'prayers' instead of 'war machines, guns, and armor'?" Valen questioned.
"B-but Arch-Deacon said..." Thalric tried to argue, but the mere mention of that priest's name caused Valen to frown in frustration and interrupt him.
"That fat Arch-Deacon isn't the one getting punished for not meeting his quotas," Valen cut him off with a harsh but true statement.
"Listen, I'm not saying this because I'm a good person." "Or are you worried that I also exploit my people? But I provide them with food and air so they can have the strength to work for me until the day they die... That's called sustainable resource management," he explained.
"But this is my family's money! You have no right to interfere!" Thalric's voice grew harsher. Valen sighed deeply, a terrifying smile playing on his lips, more frightening than a shout.
"Suit yourself... But let me tell you something. If next year our Hive City's production plummets because your district fails, I won't be the one to suffer the consequences. I'll write a report to the new stargazing governor stating, 'Lord Thalric, the devout, chose to create golden statues instead of producing weapons for the Emperor's army, and I, Valen Korvax, have absolutely no involvement in the declining production.'" Thalric's face instantly turned pale, his hand holding the wine glass trembling.
"You... what would you gain from doing that? We should be allies."
"There are no useless allies in this world, Thalric. Think about it, and if I become your ally..." "I'll only stand to lose and suffer the consequences," Valen said in a cruel voice, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder.
"Go fix the air filter and sewer pipes, and stop wasting money on the Church... or prepare yourself, because if your territory collapses, I will send my soldiers to 'take over' it... and I assure you, I'm far better at managing than you." Valen finished speaking, turning and walking out of the room, leaving Thalric trembling. Thalric knew that if a fight broke out, he would surely lose, and his entire family could be wiped out.
______________________________________________
Day 341 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium
Eric pushed open the door to his still empty room, his strength almost completely gone. He leaned back against the closed door and let out a long, weary sigh. Exhaustion gnawed at him, a feeling that penetrated to the bone. He'd spent the entire day scouring offices and factories in Lower Upper Hive for job applications. He hated it.
In this futuristic world with some incredibly advanced technology but no internet and terrible public relations, he had to search for jobs on bulletin boards or walk into factories and offices, only to be rejected most times.
He pursed his lips in frustration at the condescending stares of the recruitment officers, simply because they knew he'd previously lived in Lower Hive before being granted Upper Hive citizenship. But he was starting to get used to it; these people always discriminated against those from Lower Hive.
"Damn it," he muttered to himself, slumping down onto the gleaming floor of his room. He painstakingly removed his constricting dark brown boots.
But then, amidst the weariness, a faint smile slowly appeared on his weary face. Eric reached into the pocket of his blue uniform and pulled out a piece of paper with an official seal, looking at it again.
He had gotten the job!
Even though it was a large machinery parts factory located almost at the edge of the lower floors, the position he'd been given was "Warehouse Accountant," a miracle for someone with his background. And it wasn't beyond his capabilities at all; he could handle far more complex tasks, and do them well. He could use his management skills from his previous life to score well on the initial test, even earning the foreman's acceptance, albeit reluctantly.
"At least I won't have to stand hunched over machines for 12 hours a day," he thought, feeling immense relief. Memories of the first two months in this strange world still haunted him. The time he had to endure eating 'Corp Starch,' those bland, slightly rancid-smelling flour bars, for every meal in the lower slums was a nightmare he never wanted to repeat. Now, all he would be doing was paperwork. And there's a variety of food to eat every day, even if it's canned food. It's not corp starch, Eric thought as he sat down and leaned back in his chair.
He changed into comfortable clothes and began to relax, a habit he followed when alone in his safe space. He examined his ink-stained fingertips from writing on his application, thinking about a future that seemed to be starting to look brighter and more stable.
"Tomorrow, I need to wake up earlier... and dress impeccably." Eric began to plan systematically, falling back into the habits of his former life as an office worker.. He wasn't sure what the dress code would be there, but he would dress as neatly and professionally as possible. Even though this world seemed crazy, dark, and full of rules he didn't understand, sitting in a private office, dealing with numbers and documents, seemed like the best option for someone like him.
But he felt the pain in his stomach again. Damn!
He gently stroked his stomach near the scar. He wasn't sure if something strange had been inserted during the surgery, but the pain began to subside as a feeling of relief replaced it.
"Tomorrow... what will my work be like? Surely it'll be better than my previous job," he whispered to himself, before walking to the cupboard and taking out tonight's dinner—just bread and ready-to-eat canned grox meat.
While he was still chewing his food, he was thinking. He actually liked the taste; it was much better than corp starch, but it was still less delicious than sausages or any other food he'd eaten in the present day, around the year 2000. In his opinion, the texture and taste of the creature called grox were quite similar to beef.
Or maybe he should buy a microwave oven to make his food taste better. As he walked past an appliance store, he wasn't sure if it could even be called a microwave; it was a rectangular box decorated with the Mechanicus symbol, seemingly with the functions of a standard microwave, but its shape was unfamiliar, even though it was also rectangular.
After that, he showered, changed clothes again, and went to bed immediately.
__________________________________________
Day 342 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium
The next morning
Eric woke up and prepared himself enthusiastically. Today was his first day at his new job. He quickly showered and got dressed, choosing a rather formal and neat outfit, and meticulously styled his hair. He even stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his hairstyle several times before making sure it looked good.
"That's enough, Eric... don't worry about it so much," he said, stopping his hair-styling.
He also tried to practice his poses, as he wasn't very confident. He packed his necessary items into a small bag, which contained only a few things, including a notebook with a vocabulary of low gothic words that he had written down for emergencies because he didn't remember every single word.
Once everything was ready, he locked his room before walking to the train station to go to the area where his workplace was located. The atmosphere Eric encountered was quite familiar—the crowded trains with people all working the same way as him, rushing to get to work on time. He squeezed into the train with the others, trying to make himself as small as possible.
A large train stopped at a station, and Eric quickly stepped out, heading straight for his workplace—a machinery manufacturing plant.
Eric stepped onto the factory grounds on his first morning, trying to suppress his nervousness. Surely no one was looking at him specifically... he was dressed in his well-provided formal attire, and his white hair was neatly styled. Yet, his eyes remained wary, glancing left and right as he walked along the factory corridors.
He walked to the check-in area before heading to his desk. The initial corridors still bore traces of oil and soot on the thick steel walls. The smell of metal and industrial chemicals filled the air, making him clench his tongue. It wasn't as bad as the factory in the Lower Hive where he used to work to make a living. There, he had to wear a gas mask at all times and thick suits to protect against the heat and chemicals; it was stuffy, smelly, and incredibly hot. From the outside, this factory certainly looked better than the one downstairs, but he wasn't a worker there.
But as he walked deeper into the office area, the environment became noticeably cleaner. Despite the stale smell of recycled air and the strange, incense-like scent of the tech priests wafting through the air, he walked past a large office with its door slightly ajar. Inside, he noticed a seemingly eccentric tech-priest engrossed in a futuristic-looking, glowing green holographic screen displaying three-dimensional images of ancient-looking machine parts. Eric gazed at the image with a mixture of amazement and curiosity.
_Okay... at least technology these days has some cool stuff,_ he thought hopefully to himself. He wondered what might be on his own desk; maybe a computer, or something similar.
_Laser guns, plasma guns, and holograms are already everywhere, so why wouldn't there be computers?_Eric tried to think positively, because honestly, he couldn't predict anything that would surprise him in this future world. It had always been like this—crazy, deranged, perverted people, three-armed, bald mutants, aliens—everything he encountered was quite unexpected.
As for technology, he thought this future world was quite advanced. The medical technology was quite sophisticated (though they might not care much about the feelings of those receiving treatment). The weapons technology included laser and plasma guns, artificial limbs, and perhaps, if they weren't lying about being able to travel in space, one day he might get to see a spaceship. But judging from the style of the residences and government buildings of the Imperial of Man, he didn't even want to imagine what their spaceship would look like.
"Maybe there'll be a church mounted on top," Eric thought jokingly. But no one would do that, would they? Attaching a large church to a spaceship arm? He stopped his fanciful thoughts and focused on what was in front of him right now.
But as he reached his assigned desk… Eric stopped short, a mixture of disbelief and surprise on his face.
In front of him, on a dull gray iron desk, lay a massive metal machine covered in keys engraved with Gothic lettering. It was a heavy-duty, old-fashioned mechanical typewriter. Beside it lay a stack of papers, presumably production reports from the factory.
"Wait a minute…" Eric murmured softly, touching his forehead. Something must be wrong. Had he come to the wrong desk?
He sighed, gazing at the metal, monstrous-tooth-like keys. His thoughts were being challenged. He inwardly grumbled about the unreliable contradictions of this futuristic technology.
_If there were orcs or elves in this future world, it wouldn't be so strange._
"Well, Eric… you don't have to write everything with a pen," he reassured himself, pulling out his chair and sitting down. Amidst the deafening roar of the machinery outside the factory, he tried to see this desk as his small, safe space. He didn't have the right to complain much anyway; his job was to work and get paid, not to whine about trivial things like this.
According to the job description, all he had to do was record the numerical data into a table for easy checking. He picked up the first sheet of the report and read it before carefully placing his fingertips on the typing keys and recording the data into the table. Otherwise, he'd have to start typing from the beginning again. Despite his frustration with the device in front of him, he was determined to do his best, because this was his only chance to avoid having to eat those awful-tasting snacks in the slums again.
The clacking sound of the typewriter began to echo in the silence of his private office. It was a signal of the start of a new life as an accountant, a life he had longed for since entering this crazy future.
The clacking sound continued in the cramped office. Eric was gradually adjusting his typing pace to the typewriter, but his brows remained furrowed as he glared at the stack of reports from the factory's inventory counters. The handwriting was illegible, and some numbers seemed to have been completely overwritten.
"Damn it, is this really the space age?" he muttered to himself as he struggled to decipher the handwriting of whoever had recorded the information on these papers.
_Why is this data management system so disorganized? If this were the company I used to work for, these reports would have been rejected on the first page._ As he tried to type the 'S' key, it jammed and squeaked, a truly irritating sound. Eric sighed, considering the internal mechanism. He suspected something was wrong.
"The oil's completely dried up... If I keep using it, the machine's going to break in my hands," he muttered to himself. Not wanting to delay work on his first day, he decided to pick up the empty oil container and head out of the room towards the maintenance department next door.
He stopped in front of a room with a skull and gear symbol, his heart pounding with apprehension as he recalled his bad experience with the Tech-Priest at the hospital. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
"Um... excuse me," Eric tried to make his voice as polite and gentle as possible.
"My typewriter's stiff, I was wondering if I could borrow some lubricant..." A figure in a dull red robe slowly turned around. Eyes behind crimson cybernetic lenses glared at him. The Tech-Priest had tubes protruding from his neck and held an iron scroll, muttering softly.
"You have interrupted a prayer to the spirits of machines..." A emotionless, synthesized voice boomed from the speaker embedded in his throat.
"Holy oil is not something to be given without ritual," the tech priest said with a voice full of respect. Eric stood stunned for a moment.
"Just to ask for oil for my typewriter, do I have to pray?" he muttered to himself, questioning the situation. Outwardly, however, he maintained an innocent expression and nodded understandingly. It seemed he would have to learn to utilize this tech priest's fanaticism and ritualistic nature.
As far as he could remember, they believed every machine possessed something called a "machine spirit," and they revered it greatly, taking special care of their machines for fear of angering it and causing malfunctions.
He figured out what to say.
"Forgive me, sir… but I fear the machine spirit in my typewriter is 'thirsty' and might get angry if I continue typing without giving it oil." Eric said in a calm voice. The Tech-Priest paused briefly, as if processing his words, before slowly nodding.
"Hmm… you understand the needs of machines… Take this. Sprinkle it on its joints while reciting Hymn 41." The tech priest said, handing him a small container of oil. Eric accepted it with slightly trembling hands. To be honest, he'd never liked tech priests. Tech priest was rather strange, frightening, and emotionless, and other behaviors made him want to quickly escape from this creepy atmosphere. Except for Magda; she was relatively friendly and normal, even though he didn't know her well-being.
_And how do you even recite Hymn 41? Whatever._ Eric muttered. But then again, he shouldn't think too much about it; it was a waste of time. The next thing he needed to do was oil the gears/mechanism and get back to work.
However, just as he was about to turn around, he almost bumped into someone standing behind him.
"Oh... I'm sorry," Eric exclaimed, instinctively stepping back.
"Oh! Excuse me, new accountant," said a tall, thin young man in a shabby mechanic's uniform with an awkward smile. He held a large gear in his hand.
"My name is Carl. I'm an apprentice here... Don't mind Gestalt; he's quite the formality." Eric looked at Carl with a slight wariness, but seeing the friendly and seemingly "normal" look in Carl's eyes, his apprehension lessened a little, though he remained somewhat cautious.
"I'm... Erica. It's my first day," Eric introduced himself.
"Nice to meet you, Erica. If your typewriter has any more problems, let me know. Don't ask Gestalt for help. I can secretly put some ordinary oil on it. But don't tell Gestalt about that, or I'll be in big trouble," Carl whispered, chuckling softly. Eric gave a strained smile in return. Although making his first new friend seemed strange and somewhat unsettling, deep down he felt a little relieved.
"Thanks for your help, but I can do it myself. I know a little bit," Eric replied before hurrying to his desk and lubricating the stiff and jammed parts of his typewriter before continuing his work.
Three hours later
CRACK!!!
_Damn it! Why is this happening?!_ Eric screamed inwardly as a sheet of paper summarizing the total number of machine parts produced in Factory No. 1 for the day, which he was almost finished writing, was completely messed up by a single typo. He had to retype it all.
On a computer, a typo was a trivial nuisance—a simple backspace away from nonexistence. But on this mechanical beast, there was no undo button. A single mistake meant starting over.
Eric sighed deeply, carefully picking the sheet of paper from the roller. The paper screeched against the machine with a "whoosh."
...He thought, scanning the contents of the sheet. Luckily, it was just a short summary sheet of numbers, not a report or anything similar; otherwise, he would be even more frustrated.
"Well, Eric..." "Calm down, it's just my first day of work," he reassured himself, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the metal trash can beside him.
He took a deep breath to calm his troubled emotions before picking up a new sheet of paper and inserting it into the machine with more concentration.
He placed his fingertips on the Gothic alphabet keys once more. This time, he wouldn't make any more mistakes. But he had to hurry because lunchtime was almost here. He wouldn't miss this precious moment!