Chapter 106: A Harvest of Red Mist
"Save the 'thin ice' speech, Rudy. I'm not done yet."
Kian's voice crackled over the vox, cutting through Major Rudolphson's existential dread. The newly promoted officer was quickly learning that being a "partner" to Kian Voss meant constantly staring into the abyss.
"I'm planning a major expansion in the Sump," Kian continued. "I need triggers. Not just laborers, but real combat-specialists. I need you to detach a few 'volunteers' from your battalion to help me stabilize the sector."
Rudolphson's emotional dampeners nearly failed him. "Throne's blood, Voss! You're asking for active-duty Imperial personnel to fight a gang war?! That's not just corruption; that's high treason! If a Commissar catches wind of this, we'll be turned into arco-flagellants!"
Kian let out a sharp hiss. "Lower your vox-gain, Rudy. You're shouting loud enough for the Spire to hear. I'm not asking for a whole company. I need thirteen technical specialists: a crew for the Chimera and two heavy-weapon squads to operate the Lumberer-pattern stubbers."
Kian had already done the math with Little Joel. To operate a Chimera properly, you needed three men: a Commander/Gunner to run the Auspex and the 40mm turret, a Driver, and a Hull-Gunner for the secondary stubber. As for the 20mm Heavy Stubbers, a five-man team was optimal: a lead gunner, a spotter, a loader, and two mules to carry the massive drums of high-velocity lead.
In the Underhive, mobility was king. The 20mm Lumberers could be mounted on wheeled chassis, allowing a single man to push a light autocannon through the corridors at a sprint. Kian had found several of these wheeled mounts while scavenging the Winchester raid; they were perfect for the hard, ceramite-paved pipes of the brewery.
"Thirteen men, Rudy," Kian pressed. "Your battalion has fifteen hundred. Thirteen men taking 'medical leave' won't even register on the Munitorum's ledger. And for their trouble? Every man gets a 50,000-scrip 'Signing Bonus' directly from my stash."
He paused for effect. "Think of the brewery, Major. This is about securing our liquid gold. You wouldn't want the supply to be... interrupted... by a bunch of fertilizer-hucksters, would you?"
Rudolphson hesitated. "And if they die? What do I tell their families?"
"If they fall, I pay a 100,000-scrip pension to their kin," Kian said tonelessly. "You just file it as a 'Rebel Skirmish' in the northern sector. No one audits a pile of dead conscripts. Do we have a deal?"
Rudolphson let out a long, weary sigh. "Fine. I'll find thirteen men who love credits more than their lives. Two gun-teams, one vehicle crew. I'll send them to the ventilator by the next shift-bell."
Kian clicked off the vox, a predatory grin on his face. He had the high-tier hardware. Now he had the professional hands to use it. With a Chimera, twin 20mm autocannons, and a squad of Lasgun-wielding veterans, the Fertilizer Syndicate was no longer a threat—they were an objective.
The following morning, Kian was woken by a frantic drumming on his Sanctum door. He opened the observation slit to see Little Joel, his face pale and sweat-streaked.
"Boss! We've got a situation! The main conduit is choked! There's a horde at the gates!"
Kian didn't waste time. He donned his full Grade-4 Carapace armor, checked the charge on his Las-pistol, and sprinted toward the brewery's eastern bulkhead.
The Voss Safe-Sector was now a fortified tunnel three hundred meters long, sealed by half-meter-thick ceramite walls. Kian climbed the ladder to the firing platform and peered through the observation slit.
The sight made his skin crawl.
The dark tunnel beyond the wall was a sea of shifting shadows. Thousands of Underhive rats—the lowest dregs of the Sump—were packed into the corridor. They were clad in rusted scrap-metal and brandished jagged pipes and meat-cleavers. A few held flickering torches, their orange light reflecting off the hungry, feverish eyes of a mob that seemed to stretch for kilometers.
Kian understood the play instantly. His expansion hadn't gone unnoticed. The Fertilizer Syndicate couldn't attack him directly without risking Reno's wrath, so they had used a more subtle weapon: Desperation.
They had spread rumors of a "Secret Larder" full of real meat and spirits. They had driven the local dregs into a frenzy and pointed them at Kian's door. It was a "Human Wave" audit. They wanted to see if Kian had the stones to slaughter a thousand starving people, or if he'd fold and let the mob tear his factory apart.
Kian looked at the mob. He saw the greed. He saw the lack of humanity. These weren't "people" anymore; they were a biological weapon launched by a rival.
Under Little Joel's horrified gaze, Kian stepped behind the 20mm Lumberer-pattern Heavy Stubber.
He gripped the spade-handles, his thumbs resting on the firing plates. He kicked the charging handle back.
CLACK-SHIRR.
A twenty-millimeter armor-piercing shell—a round the size of a man's thumb—slid into the chamber.
"They want to see the Voss style?" Kian whispered, his eyes turning cold and robotic. "Let's give them a masterclass in 'Area Denial'."
He squeezed the triggers.
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!!!
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