Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 81 Odysseus-class combat transport ship

The starlight outside the porthole remained as cold and clear as ever.

The Black Pearl was docked at the main berth of the Garros Space Port, its five-kilometer-long steel hull gleaming a mottled, cold gray in the beams of its guide lights. Beside it stood the Astral, its deep red armor plates resembling congealed blood under the spotlights. Further out, the silhouettes of two Odysseus-class cruisers hovered silently in orbit, a size larger than the Luna-class cruisers, their armor layers of thickness readily apparent.

But the busiest place in the berth area is not these giant ships.

It's that old ship.

The double-headed eagle insignia on the side of the HMS Resolute was blurred by subspace radiation. It sat beside the Odysseus-class destroyer, like an old hound crouching at the feet of a behemoth. But no one dared to underestimate it.

Because its crew members have been saying the same thing lately.

Hawke stood in the hangar of the Resolute, raised his left arm, clenched his fist, and opened it. At the tip of the prosthetic finger, six miniature tool interfaces popped out and retracted in sequence under the light—a welding torch, data clamps, a cutter, a detection probe, a gripper, and a universal connector. The servo motors responded with almost no delay, and the grip force feedback was so precise that it could hold an egg without breaking it, or smash through a standard terrazzo plate with a single punch.

It's a precision-engineered model. Not the kind you get on the market, but one that Dr. Liss from the Black Pearl personally replaced for him.

Liz stood at the operating table for quite some time. The medical bay of the Black Pearl was bathed in a cold, white light, and the air smelled of disinfectant and ozone from the circulatory system. She painstakingly peeled away the old neural interfaces from Hawke's left arm stump, precisely fitting the new alloy frame to the bone fracture, and fine-tuning the response curves of each servo motor. As she closed the toolbox, she uttered only one sentence: "May the Emperor protect us."

The left arm was completely replaced from the shoulder joint down, with a high-strength, lightweight alloy skeleton, multi-hydraulic buffer joints, and a ceramic steel composite armor shell. It features a built-in gyroscope and stabilizer, automatically compensating for arm sway even when standing on a bumpy deck. A miniature Thinker module, embedded in the armored layer of the forearm, analyzes grip strength data, joint wear, and energy consumption in real time, displaying diagnostic reports on a built-in screen.

Hawke had seen high-ranking officers wear prosthetics of this caliber when he served in the Navy. That was a privilege the Empire issued to high-ranking officers and admirals of the Star Forces; ordinary captains couldn't even dream of it. Now he had one himself. Not bought, but given to him by the Sage.

He lowered his arm and turned to look at the crew members loading and unloading supplies in the hangar. Familiar faces, the same people who had been with him for over a decade. Some were checking the cargo container straps, some were verifying the manifests, and some were moving supplies. Everyone was moving a little slower than usual—not because they were tired, but because they couldn't bear to part with the supplies.

The airtight door slid open. The first mate walked in, holding a data panel, his face looking like he'd just drunk half a bottle of liquor and was still sober.

"Boss, the loading and unloading list has been checked. The last batch of supplies has been put into storage." The first mate paused, "The transponder for the Indomitable is also installed."

Hawke nodded.

The first mate didn't leave. He stood in front of Hawke, his lips moved, he hesitated for several seconds, and finally managed to stammer, "Boss, are we really going to hand over the Resolute? I mean, the new ship—"

"Unyielding," Hawke said.

"I know. Resilience has been with us for twenty years. We've ventured into the warp countless times, and every single time it brought us back safely."

Hawke didn't speak. He walked to the bulkhead and reached out to touch the mottled armor plate. For decades, he had touched every inch of this ship's hull. The dark purple sedimentary pattern that stretched from the bow to the midships was left by a brief fluctuation in the Geller Force during a warp storm; the mismatched armor plate midships was replaced ten years ago at the Lucis shipyard, as they couldn't find the original color at the time and had to make do.

He withdrew his hand.

"The Unyielding, an Odysseus-class combat transport ship. Capable of carrying, fighting, and enduring heavy loads. One ship can transport over a million people. The Resolute, on the other hand, can only handle short distances." His voice wasn't loud, but every word was steady. "It's not that we don't want it anymore. It's just that it's too dangerous for it to go long distances."

The first mate opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Hawke turned and walked toward the gangway. He paused at the doorway, but didn't look back. "Have someone clean the Imperial statue on the bridge. Move it to the new ship when we move."

He walked out of the hangar and along the jet bridge toward the Unyielding. The corridor lights were a cold white, and the floor was made of non-slip ceramic steel. The air on the new ship was dry, carrying a faint ozone smell unique to the circulation system, completely different from the oily sweat smell of the old ship.

Footsteps sounded behind them. The veteran crew members caught up. No one spoke, but the footsteps were synchronized.

The bridge of the Unyielding was three times larger than that of the old ship. The commander's seat had a mithril frame, synthetic leather padding, and the ship's name was already etched on the armrests. The imperial statue had not yet been moved over, and the pedestal was empty.

Hawke settled into the chair. His left prosthetic arm automatically adjusted to a standby position, stabilized by a built-in gyroscope, and the indicator light from the miniature Thinker module glowed a dark green on the forearm shell. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

What came to mind wasn't the new ship's specifications, the route map, or the supply list. It was that old ship. It was the creaking of its bulkheads with every jolt in subspace, the heart-pounding tremor of the old, wandering engine starting up in the engine room, and the look in the eyes of the immigrants recruited at the bottom of the ship as they looked back at the gangway—that look of "I'm still alive."

He opened his eyes.

The first mate stood beside him, still clutching the data panel, glanced around, and lowered his voice: "Boss, the old crew members are all asking—what exactly is the Indomitable?"

Hawke glanced at him. "You already know the answer."

The first mate paused for a moment, then lowered his voice even further. "We've discussed it. Some say this ship might be from the Great Expedition era. The thickness of the armor, the layout of the turrets, the volume of the cargo holds—these are things we couldn't build in our time. Where in the Empire does the technology of this still exist?"

He lowered his voice, almost whispering. "Some people say this ship may have been on the Emperor's great expeditions."

Hawke did not speak.

The first mate continued, speaking a beat faster than before. "Look at the marks on the armor plating. The density, depth, and distribution pattern of the micrometeorite impact craters—they couldn't have accumulated in a few hundred years. They would have taken at least several thousand years to drift in space."

He paused, then swallowed.

"Boss, if this ship really did serve the Emperor—"

"That's a sacred relic," Hawke continued, his tone as calm as if he were discussing today's rations. "A sacred relic of the merchant shipping world. A behemoth that countless merchants and wandering ships dream of, capable of carrying, fighting, and enduring. Which one isn't thousands of years old? And still ridiculously powerful."

He looked at the first mate without flinching.

"But it's ours now. It was given to us by the Sage. Just think of it as an old ship being refurbished. Don't ask anymore. Some things are better left unsaid. Knowing too much is never good for anyone."

The first mate opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing, only nodding heavily.

Hawke stood up and walked to the porthole. Through the bulletproof glass, he could see the other side of the berth area, where the Valiant was loading and unloading supplies. Its hull was also mottled, but its size was the same as the Indomitable—an Odysseus-class combat transport ship.

A person was standing at the top of the gangway.

Phyllis stood at the gangway of the Valiant, holding a data board in her hand. Her long, dark brown hair was tied into a neat low ponytail, and she wore the captain's dark uniform. On her chest was the Valiant's ship's insignia—a gear and skull emblem with the ship's name engraved below.

She looked up at the colossal ship before her. Five kilometers of steel, thick armor layers, neatly arranged turrets, and cargo hatches lined both sides of the hull, each large enough to swallow an entire line of railcars. The barrels of the macro cannons pointed into deep space, and the cooling grates of the light spears gleamed with a dull metallic sheen under the starlight. It looked old, but not dilapidated; it possessed an unfathomable weight, a weight that had settled over countless years.

Phyllis's eyes stung a little. She took a deep breath, suppressing the sting. Then she stepped onto the bridge.

The airtight door slid open. The commander's chair was in the center, with a fine gold frame and deep red cushions. She walked over and sat down. The seat cushions conformed to her body shape—unlike the first mate's chair on the Black Pearl, this chair was custom-made for her.

She leaned back in her chair, her hands resting on the armrests. When she climbed up from the bottom of the ship, she thought her best destiny would be to be a first mate on some merchant ship. Later, she boarded the Black Pearl, became the head of logistics, handled tons of supplies, and managed thousands of machines. Then, the Sage said, "The Valiant is yours."

A descendant of a family of traveling merchants. Her family was once wealthy, owning merchant ships, trade routes, and licenses issued by the Imperial Executive Council in the Valan system. Even at its peak, the family never possessed an Odysseus-class ship.

That's a combat transport ship that surpasses even cruiser-class vessels.

She tapped her fingers lightly twice on the armrest. The communications panel lit up, and the adjutant's voice came through the channel: "Captain, the supplies list has been verified. Engine room reports that the reactor system has passed its self-test. Weapons team reports that the macro cannon and light lance have completed their functional tests. All personnel are in position."

"Understood." Phyllis pressed the communication button. "Prepare for departure. Conduct a short run first to test the route. Target—outer reaches of the Garros system, asteroid belt."

"Yes."

She stood up and walked out of the bridge. In the corridor, service sergeants were moving supplies, and crew members were busy at their respective posts. As she passed the hangar, she saw a young sailor crouching in a corner, his palms pressed against the bulkhead, his eyes closed. Phyllis paused, but didn't disturb him, and continued walking.

She knew what the young man was doing. He was sensing the ship's soul. The crew of the Indomitable were doing the same. These old sailors had spent their entire lives on ships; some had served in the Imperial Navy, some had spent most of their lives on merchant ships, and some had climbed ashore from the bottom hull barely spoke Low Gothic. But they all knew one thing—a good ship has a soul. The soul of the Odysseus-class had slumbered for countless years, and when awakened, it whispered in the combustion of every cylinder, in the pulse of every pipe, in the resonance of every armor plate. The old sailors didn't need binary code, they didn't need incense or prayer; they could simply place their palms on the bulkheads, close their eyes, and feel that the ship was alive.

As Phyllis turned the corner, a smile finally broke out on her lips. She smiled briefly, then withdrew it and continued walking.

The sea trial went smoothly.

The Indomitable and Valiant simultaneously slid out of their berths. The two Odysseus-class thrusters ignited, their exhaust trails leaving blue streaks in the vacuum, and the ships slowly turned, guided by the beams. The yellowish-white light of the Garros star burned outside the portholes, and the transparent armor of the dome reflected sunlight onto the tracks.

The course was set towards the outer reaches of the star system—the asteroid belt. It wasn't a long-distance mission, just a test: the reactor's maximum output, the energy curve of the light spear, the firing accuracy of the macro cannon, the energy distribution logic of the void shield, and the cargo hold's environmental maintenance system. Every piece of data was recorded, and every single one exceeded expectations.

Hawke stood on the bridge of the Indomitable, watching the numbers flicker on the dials. His mechanical prosthetic left arm hummed faintly in standby mode. He recalled his first boarding of the Resolute twenty years ago. The ship was rusted and worn in its berth, a large patch of paint peeling off the gangway, and the engine room was sweltering. He had been sailing for over a decade then, seeing far more wrecked ships than good ones, but that ship—he couldn't quite put his finger on it—still felt like it could run.

It ran for twenty years. Now it sits in the berth, next to two giant ships several times its size, but it's still running. Short distances, quick runs, supply lines. The old buddy's mission isn't over, it's just changed tracks.

The communication panel lit up. Phyllis's voice came through the channel, clear and steady. "The Valiant's sea trial data has been recorded. All systems are normal. We recommend that the two-ship formation return to port."

Hawke pressed the communication button. "Received. Formation returning to base."

He paused for a moment. "Lady Phyllis."

Phyllis's voice came through the communication channel, tinged with a barely perceptible smile. "Captain Hawke, you should still call me Phyllis."

"The rules can't be broken," Hawke said.

There was a moment of silence in the channel, then Phyllis chuckled. "Alright. Lord Hawke. Return to base."

Two Odysseus-class ships traced gentle arcs across the sky as they headed towards the Garros spaceport. Behind them, the stars of Garros burned in the void, their transparent armor gleaming in the starlight.

The Black Pearl's logistics manager was replaced by Phyllis's deputy. A woman in her early thirties, with short hair and sharp eyes, had worked in the logistics team for two years and was more familiar with material numbering, inventory turnover, and supply allocation than Phyllis herself. On the day she took over the logistics office, Phyllis stood at the door for a while, watching the young woman sit in her former seat, her fingers flying across the data panel.

"Don't break my chair," Phyllis said.

The second-in-command didn't even look up. "Why didn't you say to move the chair too when you transferred to the Valiant?"

Phyllis smiled, turned and left.

Marcus reported the convoy adjustment plan to Liu En on the bridge.

"The Unyielding and Valiant will sail directly from Garros to Armageddon, serving as the mainstay of the main line. The Resolute and ten other transport ships will resupply and dock at Lucis, transporting supplies in segments. After several rounds of testing, the direct route was deemed too long and too risky, so a transshipment route is deemed more prudent."

His fingers moved across the holographic projection table.

"The Atrume is mainly responsible for escorting the Garros-Lucis-Ambigodton leg of the voyage. This route is relatively short, allowing for more timely responses to problems. Initially, the ships temporarily split up and ran their own routes, establishing multiple parallel routes between Mandeville point in Garros and Ambigodton. The transport ships were evenly distributed along the routes, departing fully loaded without waiting. The results were good."

Liu En nodded and leaned back in his chair.

"Let's leave it at that for now. While immigration is important, we can't neglect the construction progress of the dome. Garros's capabilities are limited; eating too fast will only make things worse."

Marcus paused, stunned. He recalled his captain's previous remarks about Armageddon—those vague, never-stated hints. A chill ran down his spine, and he didn't know how to respond.

Liu En continued speaking without pausing.

"The Black Pearl is about to embark on the next phase of its voyage. The destination is a dangerous system to recover new technology. This is extremely important."

"Understood. Awaiting your orders." Marcus snapped out of his reverie and quickly replied, carefully considering his words. "However, the current personnel and crew are not yet fully trained; most are newly recruited. They will need at least three months of training."

He paused for a moment.

"The Aletheia already has more than 60,000 crew members. It was a new ship to begin with, and a large number of new personnel have been recruited. It cannot be put into escort immediately."

Liu En nodded. "They were all in too much of a rush. Fortunately, the Unyielding and the Valiant are armed themselves, while the other ten ships are just making short-distance transfers."

The two discussed it for a while longer before ending their conversation.

Outside the porthole, several transport ships were slowly moving in the berth area. The Resolute, on the innermost side, had a mottled paint job, and the dark purple subspace deposition pattern on its hull was particularly striking under the lights. The Indomitable and Valiant, two Odysseus-class combat transport ships, adjusted their attitude along the outer track, their massive steel hulls slowly rotating under the guiding beams.

The immigration to Garros continued. Every few days, transport ships arrived from the direction of Amigiddon. People descended the gangplanks, guided by administrative servants and staff, undergoing quarantine, temporary isolation, and upon completion of their isolation period, boarded the transport ships and were transported to the settlement area under the domes. New domes rose from the wasteland: No. 4, No. 5, No. 6, No. 7, No. 8, their foundation outlines drawing huge circles on the gray-yellow ground.

Liu En stood by the porthole, looking at the ships and the lights. His face was expressionless.

Marcus stood behind him, the blue halo of his right mechanical eye slowly expanding and contracting, but ultimately said nothing.