Chapter 102: Expansion of the War-Band
The rebel leaders looked at Kian with a mixture of shock and dawning hope. Kian merely leaned back, arms crossed over his flak plate.
"Look, we're business partners now," Kian said bluntly. "Without your grain, my stills go cold. If Arum tries to mess with the supply chain, he's messing with my credits. If he moves against you, send Parson to the ventilator. I won't just beat the teeth out of his head; I'll grind him into the very dirt he's so proud of. I'll make sure his own men use his remains as fertilizer."
The rebels let out a chorus of grim chuckles. They were starting to understand Kian's brand of "loyalty"—it was backed by lead and logic. While they were still wary of an outsider, the sight of nine "Miracle Survivors" walking around the camp was a better recruitment poster than anything the Governor had ever printed.
Kian shifted the topic to the Spire. "Reno told me the high-born up there don't care for potato-swill. They want high-sugar spirits. Wine, brandy, rum. Do you lot grow grapes?"
One of the survivors, an older farmer named Elas, nodded. "Before the PDF burned the northern orchards, I worked the fruit-groves. We have the vines—they're sweet, hardy things. We could transplant the old stocks here."
"Can you scale it up?" Kian asked. "I'll pay triple for grape-must over potato-starch."
The leaders huddled, their expressions turning practical. "The vines will grow. They're survivors, just like us. But they're hungry. Grapes eat nutrients faster than grain. If we don't have industrial-grade fertilizer, the fruit will be small and sour. Since the war started, the Hive hasn't sent a single bag of nitrates to the surface."
Kian smirked. "Fertilizer? I live next door to the Fertilizer Syndicate. I'll handle the nutrients. You just focus on the harvest. I want Spire-grade grapes by the next season."
The rebels were elated. Agriculture was their soul. With Kian providing fertilizer and weapons, their productivity would skyrocket. The "Scavenger of Providence" was becoming their silent patron.
Kian headed back to the PDF truck, ready to depart, but noticed Little Joel was missing.
"Where's the kid?" Kian asked Shiv.
Shiv pointed toward the forest edge, where the scorched, blackened remains of the Chimera Armored Transport sat.
Kian walked over and found Joel inside the hull, climbing over the engine housing and checking the diagnostic slates. "Oi! What are you doing? We're on a clock!"
Joel hopped out of the rear ramp, his face smeared with grease but his eyes bright with excitement. "Master Voss! This beast... she's still 'alive.' The hull is intact, the turret motors still have some torque, and the primary weapons just need a good cleaning. The treads are snapped and the battery is drained, but with a few spare parts, we could have her running again!"
Kian felt a spark of "Hoarder-Greed" in his chest. An armored transport for my Syndicate?
Then he remembered. "No good, Joel. I dumped ceramite dust in the fuel lines. The engine is probably a solid brick of sandpaper and promethium."
Joel shook his head stubbornly. "In the PDF, we say the Chimera is a 'Jealous Lady.' She's hard to kill. If we can get Sergeant Niklas out here... he knows the rituals. He could purge the lines. This is a tank, Lord! Imagine moving the amasec inside an armored shell instead of a flatbed!"
Kian paused. Joel was right. A Chimera was a mobile fortress. If he could repair it, he wouldn't just have a trade route; he'd have an escort that could ignore gang-wars and mutant warrens entirely.
"Fine," Kian decided. "We'll leave it for now. I'll see if I can bribe Niklas with enough 'Voss Reserve' to get him out here for a weekend of 'unauthorized maintenance.' Parson, guard this wreck. Don't let your boys strip it for scrap. It's a Voss asset now."
The weeks that followed were a period of rapid industrial growth. The brewery worked day and night, the scent of fermenting starch filling the conduit.
During this time, Stray Dog arrived with his five orphans.
Stray Dog was a broken, humble man who looked like he had been chewed up by the Hive and spit out. He treated Kian like a living god for offering him a roof. The five children—ranging from ten to thirteen—were skeletal and skittish. They moved like rats, flinching at loud noises and constantly searching for dark corners to hide in.
On their first day, they showed the "Sump-instinct": they stole everything that wasn't bolted down.
Shiv caught them stuffing raw potatoes into their rags, hiding them under mattresses, and burying them in the corners of their hab-cells. Every nook and cranny of their quarters was filled with rotting tubers. Shiv was furious, ready to kick them out, and went to report to Kian.
"They're starving, Shiv," Kian said calmly. "It's a biological reflex. If you punish them, they'll just get better at hiding it. We're going to change the environment."
"Change it how, Boss?"
"Move them," Kian commanded. "Have them sleep in the Relic Warehouse—right next to the twenty thousand tins of Grox-meat."
Shiv blinked. "Boss... you're putting the foxes in the hen-house. They'll eat everything!"
Kian smirked. "Trust me."
Three days later, the "Starch-Hoarding" stopped. Sleeping in a room filled with ten million scrips worth of premium meat had cured their anxiety. When you live in a mountain of food, the urge to hide a single potato vanishes. Their logic shifted: Why steal a tuber when I'm surrounded by steak? They became the most diligent workers in the vats, their loyalty cemented by the reality of abundance.
Soon after, Major Rudolphson voxed. The next wave of "Dispossessed" veterans was arriving.
Kian intercepted six more families at the lift. By the time the latest brewing cycle was complete, the Voss Syndicate had grown into a true community.
[CENSUS REPORT: VOSS BREWERY]
Disabled Veterans (Labor/Logistics): 7
Able-bodied Warriors (Security): 15
Support Staff (Women/Elderly/Children): 11
TOTAL POPULATION: 33 Souls.
In just a few months, Kian Voss had gone from a lone scavenger to the master of a fortified industrial enclave. He looked at his growing workforce and his mounting racks of Imperial rifles.
The Underhive was starting to feel less like a prison and more like a kingdom.
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