Chapter 104: The Logic is Clear
Kian Voss rubbed his chin, staring at the hooded Tech-Priest. The calculation was simple.
"If I seize a Syndicate-run manufactorum and supply the Spire with industrial goods, I gain the legal right to the power grid," Kian stated. "Your contribution to this acquisition is merely administrative. Your 'value-add' is insufficient."
Enginseer Anthony's metal fingers clicked together in a rapid, rhythmic cadence—a binary sign of calculation.
"The protocols are labyrinthine," the vox-grille responded. "The red tape of the Administratum is a swamp that swallows the uninitiated. I facilitate the transition. I resolve the 'clerical errors.' My connections are the grease that allows the gears to turn."
He wasn't lying. If Kian simply slaughtered a gang and took their vats, he wouldn't know what they produced, who their Spire-patrons were, or where to deliver the tithe. Anthony could provide the map and the keys.
Kian felt the contract was nearly sealed, but in the spirit of the "Long Hunt," he decided to push for one more "bonus drop." He stepped forward, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.
"The Underhive Syndicates are entrenched, Enginseer. They have the numbers and the positioning. To take a factory, I need more than just permission. I need tactical support."
Anthony's human eye narrowed into a suspicious slit. "This unit does not provide kinetic combat services. I do not participate in organic tribal warfare."
Kian chuckled. "Relax, Rudy... er, Anthony. I don't need you swinging that gear-axe. I just need a bit of 'unauthorized' technical bypass."
He leaned in close, lowering his voice until it was a rasp that only the Priest's audio-receptors could catch.
"I need you to crack the biometric seals on a crate of PDF Lasguns."
The reaction was instantaneous. Anthony's red lens flared with a violent, blinding light! He recoiled several steps, his hydraulic limbs hissing as he gripped his massive power-axe with both hands.
"BLASPHEMY!" the vox-grille shrieked in a digitized roar. "HOW DARE YOU UTTER SUCH PROFANITY!!"
"Brute-forcing a biometric cogitator is an insult to the Machine Spirit! It is a violation of the Lex Mechanicus! The Omnissiah would never allow such a desecration!!"
Kian held up his hands, his smile never wavering. "Easy there, Holy Man. Let's not get dramatic. If the touch is gentle enough, the Machine Spirit won't even notice the lock is gone. And if she does get cranky? We just apply a little oil. And if she's still angry? We apply a lot of oil."
"You... you arrogant heretic!!" Anthony's frame trembled, his internal cooling fans whirring at maximum capacity.
The Adeptus Mechanicus were fanatical about their machines. To them, a toaster had a soul, and a Lasgun was a sacred relic. They were like the most extreme animal-rights activists of the ancient 3k era—if you tied a human and a cat to two different tracks, they'd let the train hit the human to save the cat. In fact, they'd probably tie more humans to the track just to make sure the Machine Spirit of the train was "pleasantly satiated."
To Anthony, cracking a gene-lock was a crime against the divine. But Kian knew the "Logic" of the Hive: Everything is clear to those who have the credits.
Kian stepped forward, draping an arm around the Enginseer's cold, metal shoulder. Before the Priest could shove him away, Kian whispered into his vox-grille with the voice of a tempting daemon.
"Enginseer, listen to me. I don't just produce the 'Substance 101' you tested today. That was the 'Table-Scrap' version. I can produce the Refined Fuel Grade. I can produce the High-Viscosity Lubricant Grade."
Anthony's grip on his axe loosened. Kian's "Warp-Shitposting" continued.
"Think of your mechanical children, Anthony. Imagine pouring a Refined Grade of 101 into their tanks. The pistons moving with a passion you've never seen. The compression... the ignition... the roar of a Machine Spirit that finally feels alive."
"And the Lubricant? It will flow into the gears, the friction-plates, the joints. It will saturate the metal until every cog rotates with the grace of an ancient Terran ballet. The sound of the machine running will be like a symphony played by saints. Beautiful. Unified. Perfect."
Kian patted the Priest's shoulder and stepped back. "Think about it, Enginseer. What is a little bypass compared to the eternal joy of your machines?"
Anthony stood paralyzed. His logic-circuits were in a death-spiral. The temptation was overwhelming. He was a maintenance priest; he spent his life listening to the groans of dying, friction-burned engines. The promise of a "miracle oil" was his personal heaven.
Finally, the Enginseer let out a long, digitized sigh—a sound of profound mechanical resignation.
"Two," the vox-grille crackled. "I will perform the 'Ritual of Unlocking' on two units only."
Kian laughed. Two Lasguns were more than enough for now. A standard PDF Lasgun, even on its lowest setting, hit with the force of a .50 caliber heavy machine gun. A soldier with a sun-gun carried the fire-power of an entire heavy weapons team in a 3.5kg frame. It was the ultimate cheat code for Underhive gang wars.
The process was simple for a master. Kian retrieved two of his best-condition Lasguns from the crawler. Anthony extended a data-spike from his mechadendrite, slotted it into the weapon's maintenance port, and whispered a short prayer in binary.
Chirp.
The red "Locked" rune on the receiver turned green. The gene-lock was gone. The weapons were now "Sanitized"—ready for any hand to pull the trigger.
In the Astra Militarum (the Guard), Lasguns didn't have gene-locks because the death rate was so high; a recruit needed to be able to pick up a dead man's rifle and keep shooting. Only the PDF—the second-line cowards who stayed home—insisted on biometric locks to keep their precious hardware from falling into the hands of the "Unclean."
Kian took the rifles back, his eyes gleaming. He had the power. Now, he just needed the target.
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