Chapter 99: The Omnissiah's Auditor
A Cogitator Engine. In the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium, this was the standard for computing. It wasn't a silicon chip or a motherboard; it was a fusion of gothic machinery and "Wetware"—a living, biological brain housed in a brass-and-iron tank.
Some were animal brains, others were cloned human tissue grown in nutrient vats. The most efficient—and most disturbing—were harvested from the skulls of living subjects. Because their processing power was low by ancient standards, the Imperium solved the problem with scale. A single battleship was filled with thousands of these "Brain-Boxes," each performing a single dedicated task until the grey matter finally rotted.
After finalizing his deal with Rudolphson, Kian returned to his Sanctum through the Great Ventilator. He spent the next few days in a cycle of intensive training, his stats creeping upward as he pushed his physical and psionic limits.
Meanwhile, the brewery had undergone a massive transformation. The "Voss Safe-Sector" was now a fortified industrial hub, capable of processing ten tons of starch per cycle. But as the capacity grew, a new crisis emerged.
Energy.
Shiv knocked on the Sanctum's blast door, looking stressed. "Boss, the new ten-ton batch is in the vats, but the Promethium cells are red-lining. Our current heating grid is too low-yield; it's slowing the fermentation to a crawl. If we don't get a real power source, the whole batch will turn to vinegar."
Kian frowned. He was a Warlord, but he was currently running his empire on "AA batteries."
"How do the Syndicates get their juice?" Kian asked. "Can we tap into the Fertilizer Syndicate's grid?"
"Boss," Shiv sighed, "almost all the Hive's energy is thermal-electric, generated from the waste-heat of the Adeptus Mechanicus forge-complexes. The power grid is a monopoly held by the Machine-God's priests. To get a legal connection in the Underhive, you have to accept industrial contracts from the Spire—manufacturing chemicals, processing toxic waste, that sort of thing. Once you're on the books, the Tech-Priests run a line to your door."
Kian knew that path was closed to him. He was a ghost in the system, and he intended to stay that way. He wasn't going to let a Tech-Priest perform a "Security Audit" on a brewery full of illegal weapons and a Rogue Psyker.
"Is there no electricity left in the vats?" Kian asked.
"The heavy cells are dry," Shiv confirmed. "We're running the grid off the cargo-trolley's engine right now, but that's like trying to power a factory with a lawnmower. If we want to expand, we need a stable, high-output feed."
Kian considered a generator, but the cost was too high. A generator would eat his profits in fuel and alcohol faster than he could brew it. He needed cheap, "found" power.
"I'll talk to the Fertilizer Syndicate," Kian decided. "They're only five kilometers away. We can run a cable."
Shiv looked hesitant. "Boss... Boss Iron-Eye sees us as a rival now. He's greedy. He wants a bite of our 'Liquid Gold.' If you walk in there asking for power, he's going to hold you over a barrel."
Kian ignored the warning. He strapped on his gear and trekked to the Fertilizer Syndicate's warren. He kept his "Emperor's Mercy" pill tucked in his cheek—he wasn't afraid of a fight, but he wasn't going to be taken alive.
The meeting with Nephal went exactly as Shiv had predicted. The dealer sat behind his counter, a predatory smirk on his face.
"Ah, the great Lord Voss! To what do I owe the honor? Did you run out of grain already?"
Kian leaned over the counter. "I need power. I want a line pulled from your sub-station to my sector."
Nephal's eyes gleamed. "Power is the blood of the Hive, Voss. The Adeptus Mechanicus only gives us a limited quota. If I give you a line, my own production drops."
Kian lit a Lho-stick. "Name your price."
"Fifty percent," Nephal said casually. "Half your net profit for as long as the cable is plugged in. And we get priority distribution rights."
Kian didn't even argue. He simply stood up, spat on the floor, and walked out. "Fifty percent? You're dreaming in the Warp, Nephal. I'll find another way."
An hour later, Kian was back in the Water Guild precinct, sitting across from Reno.
"Power?" Reno asked, rubbing his temple. "That's a hard ask, Voss. The Guild deals in liquids, not currents. However... I do have a contact. A 'friend' in the Sub-Sump Waste-Treatment Plant."
Reno scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment and stamped it with his Guild signet. "He's a Tech-Priest Enginseer—a technical advisor for the heavy machinery. His name is Anthony. He manages the primary waste-furnaces. If anyone can 'lose' a few megawatts of current in the system, it's him. Go to the treatment plant and show him this."
Kian didn't waste a second. He took the note, prepped his survey crawler, and roared toward the Sub-Sump Plant.
The facility was a nightmare of industrial scale. It was a massive, walled cathedral of pipes and smoke, isolated from the gang-territories. The stench of chemical rot was so strong that even Kian's rebreather struggled to filter it.
He reached the primary gate, where a high-resolution, ancient-pattern camera tracked his approach. Kian held Reno's note up to the lens.
After a long silence, the gate hissed open just a crack. A Water Guild security guard in reinforced flak-armor poked his head out, his shotgun leveled at Kian's chest.
Kian didn't flinch. He reached into his pack and tossed a tin of "Cluck-Thump" Grox-meat to the guard. "I'm here to see Enginseer Anthony. Reno sent me."
The guard caught the tin, his eyes widening as he read the label. Real meat. He stuffed the tin into his vest with lightning speed. "Follow me. And keep your mouth shut."
Inside, the plant was a forest of pulsing conduits. Millions of gallons of Hive-waste were being pumped into a central "Ocean-Furnace"—a piece of black-tech that refined the sludge into pure water and "Blackwater" effluent.
The guard led Kian to a small metal hab-unit covered in the Crest of the Mechanicus—the Cog and Skull.
"Enginseer Anthony is... unique," the guard whispered. "He'll give you exactly thirty seconds. if you don't catch his interest by then, he'll have the servitors throw you into the furnace. No jokes. No metaphors. Tech-Priests only understand logic and numbers."
Kian nodded and stepped inside.
The room was filled with the rhythmic clicking of cogitators. In the center stood a figure in red robes. He was more machine than man—his limbs were hydraulic pistons, one eye was a glowing red lens, and his jaw had been replaced by a vox-grille. Two multi-jointed Mechadendrites (mechanical tentacles) were busy typing on three different screens at once.
The Enginseer didn't look up. He was focused on the pressure readings of the furnaces.
Kian knew the clock was ticking. He didn't waste time on a greeting.
"I need a dedicated power line to Sector 0," Kian stated. "In exchange, I can provide a high-yield culinary-grade lubricant. My data suggests it contains a property that pacifies the Machine Spirits of high-friction engines."
The four mechanical arms froze. The Enginseer turned, his red lens whirring as it zoomed in on Kian's face, performing a micro-expression analysis for deceit.
"Provide sample for evaluation," the vox-grille crackled in a monotone, binary-tinged voice.
Kian pulled a vial of Sanctified Oil (diluted with standard mineral oil) and handed it over.
A mechadendrite snatched the vial. A small sampling needle emerged from the tentacle, piercing the stopper and drawing a microliter of fluid.
"Analysis: 95% triglycerides. 5% unidentified lipid-solvent. Conclusion: Culinary oil. Non-industrial application. Probability of pacifying a high-friction Machine Spirit: 0.003%. Logic Evaluation: This interaction is a waste of resources. Leave."
Kian didn't budge. "I ran a standard x35 Cargo-Trolley with a ten-car empty load. Using 500ml of this oil as a fuel-additive, the trolley traveled thirty kilometers before the cycle ended. Standard output for that model is twenty kilometers. My efficiency increased by 50%."
The Enginseer stopped. His red lens flickered. "Logistics data... 50% increase in thermal-efficiency using an organic additive?
"Facial analysis: No sign of deceptive pheromones. Logic reliability: 90%."
The Tech-Priest looked at the small bottle of oil again.
"Re-evaluating. This sample warrants a physical stress-test."
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