Chapter 103: The Grid and the Gears
"Kais! Kael! Front and center."
Kian Voss exhaled a plume of blue Lho-smoke, shouting toward the far end of the conduit. A moment later, the two massive men—possessing the kind of raw, juggernaut physiques that would make a Catachan Jungle Fighter nod in approval—approached him.
Kian reached into his Sanctum's armory and pulled out two PDF Light Machine Guns. He tossed them to the father and son.
"With frames like yours, carrying a standard rifle is a waste of muscle," Kian grunted. "Take these. They've got the 'kick' you need."
The two men gripped the heavy, drum-fed weapons, their eyes wide with excitement. In the Underhive, the grade of your weapon was the direct measure of your master's respect. By arming them with squad-support stubs, Kian was officially recognizing them as the bedrock of his Syndicate.
Kian handed each of them two Lho-sticks. "Is the new batch in the vats? How's the schedule looking?"
Kais, the father, gave a solemn nod. "The starch is simmering, Lord. With the extra hands, the labor is light. We've reached a state of operational equilibrium for now."
"Good," Kian said, his eyes narrowing. "Since the vats are steady, take the new recruits to the Steam-Vents for their 'Welcome Ritual.' Then get back here and assist Little Joel with the tactical drills. I want this war-band looking like soldiers, not sump-scum."
Kais and Kael exchanged a quick, knowing smirk.
"Understood, Boss," they said in unison.
When they had first arrived, Shiv had taken them to see the horrors of the Great Scupper as a "warning." Now, it was their turn to play the veterans.
"Father," Kael whispered as they walked away toward the training barracks, "should we take them to the Thermal-Pipes? I hear the cannibals over there like to pressure-cook 'rat-meat' with high-pressure steam. That should cure the rookies of any Spire-born nostalgia."
A few cycles later, at the Sub-Sump Waste-Treatment Plant.
Kian's survey crawler skidded to a halt before the massive blast doors. He tapped the horn, and the familiar face of the Water Guild security captain, Rod, poked through the observation slit.
"You're early," Rod barked through his vox-unit. "Enginseer Anthony is a man of the clock. A second early is a waste of data; a second late is a failure of logic."
Kian reached into his pack and pulled out a tin of Grox-meat, some fresh greens, and a flask of Voss Reserve. "We've got time to kill. You hungry?"
Rod's eyes nearly popped out of his head. In a Hive where the middle class was currently being reduced to eating "nutrient-paste," seeing a scavenger pull out a Spire-tier picnic was like seeing a miracle of the Saints.
"I... er... I suppose a tactical meal is authorized," Rod stammered, cycling the side-gate.
Inside the security booth, the two tins were propped up on a heating stand. Soon, the spicy, fatty aroma of the Grox-meat began to bubble, drowning out the stench of industrial chemicals.
Kian speared a piece of meat, wrapped it in a starch-cake with some greens, and took a massive bite. Rod followed suit, his eyes rolling back in his head as the oils and salts hit his tongue.
"Throne... Voss, you're living better than 99% of the Mid-Hive right now," Rod wheezed, wiping grease from his chin.
"Is the food situation that bad up there?" Kian asked.
Rod nodded grimly. "The Governor has authorized the conversion of all organic waste into Corpse Starch. If you can't afford the black market, you're eating your neighbors. It's making everyone twitchy. People are disappearing into the cults just for the promise of a real potato."
He shoveled another piece of meat into his mouth. "At least the Black Market is still open. But only if you can pay the 'Legal-Tax'."
"The Enforcers aren't raiding it?" Kian asked.
Rod snorted. "The Enforcers run it. My brother is a Sergeant in the G-Sector Precinct. As long as the bribes are settled and the Spire-Lords get their cut, you can sell anything. If you don't pay the tax, though? You become a line on a casualty report."
Kian filed the information away. Rod's brother was an Enforcer Sergeant. That was a high-value contact for his future Mid-Hive distribution.
"I'm Voss," Kian said, extending a hand. "I run a small... independent industrial enclave."
The guard shook it firmly. "Rod. Security Lead for this hole. If you need a door opened or a name whispered, let me know."
Rod checked his chrono. "Time's up. Don't be a microsecond late, or the Tech-Priest will blacklist your biometric signature."
Kian donned his rebreather and followed Rod deep into the plant's mechanical guts. They reached the iron sanctum of the Enginseer.
Rod knocked, spoke a quick binary cant into the vox, and stepped aside. "He'll see you now. Remember: Direct logic only."
Kian stepped into the room. The red-robed Enginseer was still a flurry of motion, his mechadendrites clicking against a copper console. He didn't turn around when Kian entered.
"The additive provided, Substance 101, has proven efficient," the vox-grille crackled. "Mechanical friction reduced by 21%. Fault-probability decreased by 56%. When combined with the Litanies of Combustion, output stability is optimal."
"I have provided value," Kian said, matching the Priest's blunt tone. "Now, I require your value in exchange. The power line."
Anthony turned his red lens toward Kian. "Production capacity? Methodology of Substance 101?"
"Capacity is expanding. Methodology is a proprietary secret of the Voss Syndicate. The means of production are non-negotiable and not for sale."
The Tech-Priest went silent. His red lens flickered with data-bursts.
"Organic oil possesses low energy density," Anthony analyzed. "It is a sub-optimal fuel. Lubrication properties are limited; thermal-resistance is insufficient. It requires tech-refinement to maximize value."
He extended a metal claw. "Surrender the production data. I shall perform the sacred upgrades. Your profit-yield will increase."
Kian crossed his arms. "The data is a relic. It cannot be quantified by standard credits. You are a maintenance official of the Mechanicus; your authority is localized. You cannot afford the price of my secrets."
The vox-grille emitted a screech of binary obscenities, but Anthony's emotional-dampeners forced him back into a state of cold calculation.
"Amended Proposal: You shall provide a consistent supply of Substance 101. You are prohibited from trading this substance with other Tech-Priests of this Hive-cluster."
"Only if you can consume my entire yield," Kian countered. "If you cannot provide sufficient trade-value, the surplus goes to your rivals in the Spire."
Kian reached out his hand. "To proceed, Enginseer, you must prove you can meet my primary demand: Electricity."
Anthony clasped his metal hands together, his logic-circuits whirring.
"Energy is a restricted tithe-resource," the Priest stated. "Establishing a black-tap is a violation of Hive Law. To receive a legal current, you must prove you are an Industrial Asset of the Imperium."
"What are the requirements?" Kian asked.
"You must hold a charter for Ore-Refinement, Chemical Synthesis, or Hazardous Waste Disposal. Only an established manufactorum is granted a permanent draw from the thermal-grid."
Kian let out a sharp breath. He was a moonshiner. He didn't have a factory for chemicals or steel.
The Enginseer's red eye locked onto Kian's face. He analyzed the drop in Kian's engagement levels and adjusted his output.
"Pillaging," the Tech-Priest crackled, "is the optimal path for rapid grid-acquisition."
Kian blinked. "You're telling me to raid a gang's factory?"
Anthony's mechanical fingers tapped a rhythmic code on the table.
"The Underhive is a lawless domain. It does not matter to whom the labor belongs; it only matters that the means of production remain stable."
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