Chapter 100: Manpower and Machine Spirits
Enginseer Anthony's testing method was efficiently brutal. He summoned a standard industrial cargo-trolley—the same x35 model used throughout the Sump. He hitched ten empty cars to it, drained the promethium tanks dry, and injected Kian's oil-mixture into the intake.
The Waste-Treatment Plant was a gargantuan facility, filled with sprawling rail networks for moving heavy chemical vats. The test vehicle was set to loop around the perimeter tracks.
In less than half an hour, the trolley ground to a halt before the Enginseer. A Water Guild enforcer stepped off the power-head and reported a string of binary-coded data.
Anthony tilted his head, his red optic whirring as he processed the numbers. Finally, he fixed both his human eye and his electronic lens on Kian.
"Baseline calculation: 500ml of organic additive. Theoretical range for empty ten-car load: 20 kilometers. Actual test result: 28.2 kilometers.
"Conclusion: The experimental lubricant increases operational longevity without altering energy density."
The Tech-Priest placed a cold, metallic hand on the still-warm chassis of the trolley.
"I can perceive the Machine Spirit's satisfaction. It... hungers to run.
"Provide more of this 'Sacred Ointment.' I shall perform a deep-layer sanctification study."
[DING! CONTACT UNLOCKED: ENGINSEER ANTHONY (ADEPTUS MECHANICUS)]
[Reputation Rank: 0 (Initiate)]
[MISSION TRIGGERED: THE OMNISSIAH'S FRICTION]
Objective: Deliver 10 Liters of Sanctified Oil-mixture to Enginseer Anthony.
Reward: Favor of the Mechanicus | Unlocks "High-Tension Power Grid" questline.
Kian's face lit up. A contact in the Mechanicus was a ticket to the "End-Game" tech tree. "Enginseer, about the power line to my brewery—"
Anthony ignored him. He turned his back, returning to his console where his mechadendrites were already dancing across the controls.
"Greater value warrants greater dialogue," the vox-grille crackled. "Return with the tithe."
The security guard nudged Kian's shoulder. "That's his way of saying 'Get out.' Machine-heads are like that—one track mind. Go get him his oil, and he'll talk. He calls it 'Effective Communication'."
Kian returned to the brewery, mixed two bottles of Sanctified Oil with a vat of standard cooking oil, and hauled the 10-liter drum back to the plant.
Anthony's mechadendrite snatched the drum, a sampling needle drawing the fluid for a final check. "Material confirmed. However, a precision audit takes time. Return in ten standard Terran days. My evaluation will be complete then."
The Tech-Priest vanished into his inner sanctum, the heavy plasteel door slamming shut. Kian's mission log updated: [Wait 10 Days for Evaluation].
With ten days of "downtime," Kian focused on production. The second batch of Voss Reserve was ready—ten tons of rebel potatoes yielded a staggering 4,500 Liters of high-proof spirits.
But the workload was breaking his crew. Moving thousands of bottles with only a handful of people was an industrial nightmare. They were working forty-eight-hour shifts just to keep up.
"Shiv," Kian said, calling his lieutenant over. "I need more hands. Reliable rats. People with families, people with a bottom line. No junkies, no wild-cards. Who do you know?"
Shiv looked thoughtful. "Boss, you're looking for 'Saints' in a Sump-pit. But... I do know one guy. They call him Stray Dog."
"Go on."
"He's in his forties. A healthy man, could handle a rifle if needed. But he's got baggage: five kids, all about ten or twelve years old. They live in the cracks between gang territories, eating whatever scrap they can find."
Kian frowned. In the 41st Millennium—a world defined by cruelty—a man raising five orphans in the Underhive sounded like a trap or a lie.
Shiv saw the suspicion and waved it away. "Boss, I've known of him since I was a kid. My parents were in the Syndicate; I used to see him begging for scraps. One of those kids... I watched him pull it as an infant from a trash-heap fifteen years ago.
"Every few months, another 'discard' would end up in his arms. He's raised them all. If he had bad intentions, those kids would have been sold to a 'Meat-Factorum' or a 'Pain-Coven' years ago. He's kept them whole for a decade in the dark."
Kian mused. In the Underhive—that "Humanity Sink"—Stray Dog's behavior was a statistical anomaly. Perhaps the gangs let him live because he was a curiosity? A tiny flicker of light that even the most brutal boss didn't want to extinguish?
"Bring them in," Kian decided. "Set them up in the outer perimeter rooms. Let them peel potatoes and seal bottles. If they're clean, we'll move them closer to the core later."
With the labor situation settled, Kian prepped the 4,500-liter shipment. He voxed Rudolphson, and soon the cargo-trolley was rattling toward the surface.
At the Great Ventilator, he found Rudolphson waiting. The Lieutenant's uniform was crisp, and his rank insignia had changed.
Major Rudolphson. Battalion Commander.
Kian whistled, slapping the new Major on the shoulder. "Praise the Throne! Look at you! Major Rudy! You look like a man who just inherited a Spire-wing. When are you inviting me up for a steak?"
Rudolphson couldn't hide his grin. As a Major, he was now a "Landless Noble." He had Spire-citizenship, an apartment in the upper tiers, and the authority to command fifteen hundred men.
"I owe you my life and my career, Voss. My sector is now your sector. My men drink only Voss Reserve. I'll open the gates to the other battalions, too."
Kian felt a pang of "Tarkov-envy." My brother got the promotion, and I'm still the guy in the rags.
"Don't smile too much, Rudy. I'll start getting jealous and my brain will start generating 'tactical accidents' for you."
Rudolphson laughed and ordered his men to load the crates. This sale was a massive leap for the Voss Syndicate.
[SALES AUDIT: BATCH 3]
Yield: 4,500 Liters.
Total Value: 360,000 Agri-Scrips.
Rudolphson's Cut (30%): 108,000 Scrips.
Kian's Net Profit: 252,000 Scrips.
Kian's Stash Balance: 430,000 Scrips.
"A few more runs like this," Kian whispered, "and I'll have the 2 million needed to buy my way into a legitimate Mid-Hive factory."
As they sat in the camp office counting the stacks of scrip, Kian leaned in. "Rudy, you're a Big Shot now. Can you get me a military ID? A rank? Nothing high-level—just something to make the Enforcers look the other way when I'm moving 'logistics' through the Hive."
Rudolphson paused, his finger on a stack of bills. "I can make you a Corporal. An auxiliary squad leader. Any higher and the Regimental Command will start asking why a 'Scav-rat' is on the payroll. Is a Corporal enough?"
Kian grinned, remembering his history lessons. "A Corporal is plenty. I once knew a Corporal who ended up running an entire empire."
Kian then asked about more "Resettlement" opportunities. Rudolphson confirmed that six more families of wounded veterans were slated for exile. Kian promised to catch them at the lift.
With his pockets full of Imperial lead and Mid-Hive scrip, Kian turned back toward the rebel lines to check on his grain supply.
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