Chapter 105: The Armored Ambition
Kian Voss returned to his Sanctum carrying the two "liberated" Lasguns. He opened a fresh bottle of Sanctified Oil, leaned down, and planted a soft kiss on the receiver of each weapon.
"Oh, my sweet little sun-guns," Kian whispered. "We're going to have a very productive evening. Come, let Papa give you an oil massage."
He poured the golden fluid onto his palms and began methodically coating the internal slide-rails and the focus-crystals. He spent hours murmuring mock-prayers, ensuring the Machine Spirits were "satisfied" and the electronic triggers were slick. Once the "maintenance" was complete, he summoned Little Joel.
Given Joel's PDF background and high tactical proficiency, he was the best candidate to wield a high-end energy weapon. Kian formally "commissioned" him with the first Lasgun. The second, Kian kept for himself as a primary sidearm.
Little Joel was ecstatic. He had trained with Las-weaponry in the PDF academy, but upon graduation to a local sector, he'd been issued a standard, clunky solid-slug autogun. In the PDF, Lasguns were status symbols reserved for officers or "Spire-scions."
"Master Voss... I never thought I'd hold a piece of the Emperor's light again," Joel breathed, checking the charge-pack.
"It's more than light, kid," Kian said. "It's light-speed death. No recoil to speak of, no bullet drop. You point, you click, and the target turns into a barbecue. Use it well."
Kian clapped the boy's shoulder. "Status report on the militia. If I drag them into a 'Meat-Grinder' tomorrow, are they going to hold the line or fold like cheap laundry?"
Joel slung the rifle over his back and stood at attention. "Shiv, the Big and Little Kais (Big/Little Joel), and the three rebel veterans are ready. They've seen blood. They know how to squeeze a trigger under pressure.
"The two Kais have disciplined aim—they're hitting the standard at PDF-recruit levels. The rebels don't need training; they just need to learn the 'Machine Spirit' rituals of the new rifles. But the others?"
Joel sighed. "The new families and the orphans... they've got the spirit, but their bodies are weak. They can't run a klick without wheezing, and half of them close their eyes when they fire. They aren't soldiers, sir. They're just laborers with pipes."
Kian grunted. "Change of plans. All able-bodied recruits are off vat-duty. Full-time military indoctrination. Focus on shooting and combat-discipline. Forget the long-distance running; I don't need them to be marathon runners, I need them to be a firing line. How long until they can actually kill something?"
"Minimum fifteen cycles, sir," Joel said, looking pained. "In that time, I can teach them to point their muzzles at the enemy instead of their own feet. That's about it."
"Make it happen. I want them 'Underhive-ready' by the next moon-cycle."
Once Joel returned to the barracks, Kian summoned Shiv.
"Shiv, you know the neighborhood. What's the status of the Fertilizer Syndicate? If I wanted to 'audit' their factory, what am I looking at for security?"
Shiv blinked, realizing Kian was officially moving from "Brewery Owner" to "Gang Warlord." He didn't hesitate.
"Boss, the Syndicate took a heavy hit in the war with the Hounds. Boss Iron-Eye only has about twenty 'True Guards' left—men with military autoguns. He's got about a hundred 'Gunners' with makeshifts and pipe-pistols. The rest are just 'Blade-men'—dregs with machetes and scrap-plate.
"If you hit them by surprise, you're looking at maybe three or four hundred hostiles. But if Iron-Eye sees you coming and starts a recruitment drive? He can flood the tunnels with over a thousand dregs in a single cycle."
Kian hissed. The numbers were skewed. He had sixteen soldiers. Iron-Eye had a thousand. Even with better armor and Lasguns, a 1-to-60 ratio was a losing gamble. He needed a "Heavy Response."
He returned to his Sanctum, fired up the ** vox-station**, and dialed the "Star-Crossed Lovers" channel.
"Identify yourself," a crisp PDF voice barked from the other end.
"Corporal Kian Voss, on special assignment for Major Rudolphson. Put him on."
A few minutes later, the Major's voice crackled through. "Voss? What's the crisis? I'm busy trying to figure out how to sit in a Major's chair without looking like an idiot."
Kian chuckled. "Major Rudy, sir! I require a bit of 'Tactical Maintenance' for my latest acquisition. You remember the dead Winchester's Chimera? The one stuck in the rebel forest?"
The vox went silent. On the other side, Rudolphson was processing the sheer insanity of the request. A scavenger in the Sump wanted to repair and operate a main battle transport.
"Voss... are you trying to start your own Hive-Secession?" Rudolphson whispered.
"I'm trying to protect the Emperor's starch-supply, Rudy. Think about it. If I have a tank, my convoys are untouchable. If my convoys are untouchable, your beer supply is guaranteed. I need Sergeant Niklas and his tools out at the forest vent for a long weekend of 'unauthorized repairs'."
Another long silence. Rudolphson was a man who had already committed treason, bribery, and assassination. Lending a maintenance crew to a private warlord was just another line on a very long ledger of crimes.
"Fine," Rudolphson growled. "I'll vox Niklas. He'll meet you at the ventilator with a repair-hauler. But you'd better have enough 'Voss Reserve' to keep him in a stupor for the duration, or he might start asking questions."
Rudolphson had tasted the Spire's power now. He knew that to keep his new seat, he needed Voss's wealth and Voss's violence. If Kian wanted a tank, Rudolphson would give him the grease to fix it.
For Rudolphson, this life was like walking on thin ice...
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