Chapter 98: The Major's Shield
[DING! REPUTATION RANK UP: LIEUTENANT RUDOLPHSON (PDF LOGISTICS) RANK 2 → RANK 3]
[UNLOCKED REWARDS — BATTALION REQUISITION]
Vox-Communicators: 2,000 Scrips.
Military Radio Terminal: 10,000 Scrips.
20mm 'Lumberer' Ammunition: 200 Scrips/box.
PDF Sub-Stubbers: 2,500 Scrips.
PDF Light Machine Guns (Squad-Stubs): 5,000 Scrips.
As the System notifications flared across Kian's vision, Rudolphson reached out with trembling hands to accept the gory bundle. He peeled back the tattered fabric, staring into the dead, pale eyes of Lieutenant Winchester.
"Haha... Hahaha! Winchester, you bastard... you look better as a centerpiece than a commander!"
Rudolphson let out a dry, manic chuckle. His greatest rival was gone. The path to the rank of Major was clear. He was no longer just a trench-officer; he was about to undergo a class-migration. He would become a Spire-resident—a "Landless Noble" with more authority in his pinky than he'd had in his entire body yesterday.
Kian clapped the future Major on the shoulder. "Don't forget the 'little guys' once you're sitting in that Spire-office, Rudy."
Rudolphson pulled his gaze away from the head, looking at Kian with a new level of professional respect. "I owe you my future, Voss. From this day forward, I'm issuing an order: the soldiers in my battalion drink only your amasec. I'll open the channels to the other regiments, too. I'll make sure the Voss label is the only currency the boys care about."
Kian nodded, but his mind was already on the next phase. He remembered his conversation with Overseer Reno. To earn "True Wealth," he needed more than a hole in the dirt. He needed a legitimate front.
"Rudy," Kian said, leaning against the hull of the Chimera. "I want to take this business to the next level. I need a registered distillery in the Mid-Hive. But the Hive is starving—the Enforcers will raid any 'unauthorized' starch-hoarders in a heartbeat."
He held up three fingers. "I want to put the Voss Brewery under your name. We make it an official 'Auxiliary Logistics Facility' for the PDF. If the Enforcers come knocking, you tell them the grain was 'captured war-spoils' from your raids on the rebels. It's all legal, all sanctioned. I give you thirty percent of the net profit as an 'Overseer Fee.' What do you say?"
Kian had done his homework. Through Little Joel, he'd learned that the PDF wasn't just a military; it was a collection of private armies belonging to various Spire-Lords and "Military-Heads." These officers loved making credits on the side.
In a Hive where everyone was eating recycled human paste, the black market for real meat and vegetables was booming. Most of those "spoils" came from PDF officers who "reclaimed" them from the surface and sold them through back-channels. The Enforcers were the primary brokers—as long as they got their "cut" in taxes, the goods moved freely.
Rudolphson thought for a long time. "I can't do it alone yet. I need my Major's pips to be official. But once I'm in the chair, I'll talk to the Colonel. He's a Baron in the Spire and my patron. If we bring him into the 'Board of Directors,' his name will act as a shield that even the Inquisition would hesitate to touch."
"Perfect," Kian said. "We'll wait for the paperwork to clear. Now, one more thing. I've got twenty-two Lasguns from Winchester's guards. They're Gene-locked. How do I crack them?"
Rudolphson's expression turned sour. "Throne, man... did you steal those too? You're going to end up in a penal legion."
"I 'salvaged' them," Kian corrected. "Can you help?"
"Military Lasguns are forged in the Castellum Temples," Rudolphson explained. "Only a Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus can reset the biometric cogitators. But if you walk into a Forge with stolen military hardware, they won't help you. They'll arrest you for tech-heresy and turn you into a lobotomized servitor before lunch."
Kian frowned. He knew of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They were the machine-worshippers from Mars—half-man, half-machine fanatics who believed technology was a gift from their 'Omnissiah.' They were the only ones who knew how to fix a toaster or build a starship, but they were dogmatic and dangerous. To them, "Innovation" was a sin and "Unauthorized Repair" was a crime.
I'm not going near those metal-heads, Kian thought.
But he had another option. In his Sanctum's upgrade tree, there was a module called the Intelligence Center. The description promised "Electronic Support and Decryption Capabilities."
The problem was the components. He didn't need wires and circuit boards. To build a Tier-1 Intelligence Center, he needed a Cogitator Engine.
In the 41st Millennium, there were no computers like the ones from Kian's old life. There were no microchips. Instead, there was "Wetware."
A Cogitator Engine wasn't a box of electronics. It was a box containing a human brain.
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