Chapter 101: The Recruitment Pipeline
Kian Voss led his crew back to the surface ventilation shaft. They unburied the hidden PDF truck from its camouflage of branches and roared back toward the Secessionist warren.
The Voss contingent looked like a specialized kill-team: full carapace plate, tactical helmets, and military-grade rifles. Kian hadn't forgotten the look Arum had given him. In the 41st Millennium, a grudge was more dangerous than a virus; Arum was likely spending every waking hour plotting a way to slit Kian's throat.
Kian didn't drive on the roads. He slammed the heavy truck into gear and tore across the fallow fields and dirt ridges, the throttle pinned to the floor. The crew in the back were tossed around like loose brass, nearly losing their stomachs to the vibration. Kian didn't care. High speed in the open was the only defense against hidden snipers and roadside IEDs.
As they reached the forest perimeter, Kian signaled Shiv. The boy stood up in the passenger seat, waving a wooden pole with a tattered white-and-grey rag tied to the end. The hidden rebel sentries recognized the "Voss Standard" and held their fire, melting back into the shadows to let the truck pass.
The camp had regained its frantic pulse. Although the battle with Winchester had decimated their numbers, the merger of the eight cells had created a new, concentrated hub of resistance.
Kian pulled up to the central storehouse. He noticed that the other cell leaders were now deferring to Parson. The young man had survived the front lines and was the primary link to the "Scavenger of Providence." He was the de facto warlord of the new united cell.
"Parson," Kian said, hopping from the cab. "I need another ten tons of starch. Potatoes, grain, whatever you've got."
Parson gave a respectful nod and signaled his men to open the granary doors. "We have the stores ready, Master Voss. But our needs have shifted."
Kian tilted his head. "More guns? More med-kits?"
"Steel," Parson said firmly. "The PDF raid burned our workshops. We have the rifles we took from the dead, and your medicine saved the survivors, but we are out of iron. We need raw metal to forge plows and repair the cyber-steeds."
Kian smirked. This was the easiest request he'd ever heard. The Underhive was a graveyard of abandoned machinery and iron piping. He could find five tons of steel just by walking around the block.
"Three days," Kian promised. "I'll have a cargo-trolley full of plasteel scrap and iron bars at the ventilator. Send a team to haul it back."
Parson's gratitude was palpable. Kian turned his attention to his HUD.
[CONTACT: PARSON (EXALTED)]
Reputation Points: 32
Kian had a new goal today: utilizing the Manpower Requisition perk. He needed loyal triggers in the brewery.
"Parson, my factory is expanding. I need reliable hands. Men who can work the vats and hold a rifle when the gangs come knocking. Do you have any volunteers?"
Parson hesitated for only a second. "I will ask the brothers."
Ten minutes later, Parson returned with three men. Kian recognized them immediately—they were three of the "Miracle Nine," the heavy-trauma cases Kian had saved with field surgery and Regen-Bolts.
When they saw Kian, their expressions shifted to a fanatical, debt-heavy devotion. One man stepped forward, his stapled chest-scar still healing.
"Master Voss... you pulled me back from the Throne's gate when my own leaders said I was a ghost. You need a guard? My life is your shield. I'll follow you into the Warp if you command it."
Kian nodded, satisfied. These men had seen the "Magic" of the System firsthand. To them, Kian wasn't just a boss; he was a Saint of the Surgical Blade. Their loyalty would be absolute.
"Do you have families?" Kian asked.
They nodded.
Kian walked to the back of the truck and hauled out three heavy cases of "Cluck-Thump" Grox-meat. He slammed them onto the tail-gate.
"Take these. Feed your kin. Consider it a 'Voss Signing Bonus.' From now on, you and your families live in my sector. You'll eat real meat, drink pure water, and earn scrips. Pack your things. We leave with the grain."
The three soldiers were stunned. Real meat was a myth to them. They grabbed the cases and ran to their hovels to say their goodbyes, leaving the other rebels staring with naked envy. Kian noted the look in the crowd's eyes—good. He wanted everyone to know that wearing the "Voss Brassard" meant a full belly.
[REPUTATION SPENT: -30]
[CURRENT MANPOWER: +3 REBEL VETERANS]
As the grain loading continued, Kian sat with Parson and the remaining cell leaders to share a smoke. The conversation quickly turned to the remaining threat.
"Arum is still a problem," one leader muttered, glancing toward the northern treeline. "He refused to join the merger. He's kept his cell independent. He didn't lose a single man during the PDF attack—coward saved his 'Family Retainers' while we bled."
"He's ambitious," Parson added grimly. "He told me he'd only join the United Cell if we named him 'High Commander.' He's waiting for us to falter so he can swoop in and claim the leadership."
Kian blew a long cloud of blue smoke. He remembered Arum's face. The man was a rat with delusions of being a lion.
"If he makes a move on you," Kian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rasp, "you vox me immediately. I don't like rivals messing with my supply chain.
I've beaten him once; the next time I see him, I'll turn his guts into floor-polish."
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