Chapter 111: The Balance of Power
With Boss Iron-Eye liquidated, Kian ordered Nephal and his remaining "fixers" to sweep the reactor decks for the hidden krak-charges.
It took less than a cycle. Nephal and his crew emerged from the service tunnels hauling dozens of heavy demolition blocks. When the last explosive was confirmed disarmed, the Fertilizer Syndicate officially ceased to exist. In its place, the Voss Syndicate took root.
Kian took residence in the high-tier hab-unit that had once belonged to Iron-Eye. It was a luxury suite by Sump standards—insulated from the noise, with its own independent air-scrubber and a functional shower. He summoned the Syndicate's primary management for an initial "audit."
First was Nephal. Once a Mid-Hive Master-Artificer, he had been "Dispossessed" for tax-evasion and was now Kian's lead mechanic.
Kian offered him a thin, predatory smile. "Nephal, my friend. If I require high-tier industrial machinery or maintenance for my sun-guns from now on... do I still need to pay you in scrips?"
The dealer snapped to attention, his posture straighter than it had ever been. "Lord Voss, please! This entire warren is your asset. Everything I own belongs to the Voss lineage. If any of my lackeys even think about charging you, I'll personally feed them to the reactor cooling fans!"
Kian chuckled. "Good. I'll be stopping by your shop later to 'reclaim' a few pieces for my private collection."
Nephal's face paled, but he kept the submissive mask in place. "As the Master commands. My inventory is yours to plunder."
Kian gestured for him to step aside and turned his gaze to the next man.
He was an older man with stark white hair and a stained lab coat. His hands were scarred by chemical burns, and he carried the weary, detached look of a scientist who had spent too long in the dark. His name was Albus, the lead Production Overseer and Lab-Apothecary.
"Overseer Albus," Kian said. "Give me the manifest. What do we actually produce here? Where do the precursors come from, and where does the product go?"
Albus bowed slightly, his voice a dry, clinical rasp. "Lord Major. Our primary output was once nitrate-fertilizer. However, under the previous management, we pivoted to Munitorum-grade Plastique.
"We operate four titanic reactors. Three are currently synthesizing high-explosive filler; the fourth produces Plastocrete Powder. Every month, raw chemical precursors are delivered via the Sump-conduits from primary refineries deeper in the Hive. We perform the final refinement. The finished explosives are then shipped via the Grand Lift to the Mid-Hive Administratum offices."
"And the benefit?" Kian asked. "What happens if we miss a shipment?"
Albus scratched his chin. "The financial specifics were handled by Iron-Eye personally. I am not privy to the ledgers. However, I overheard him during a drinking session—he claimed the Spire-Lords pay a massive subsidy in Agri-Credits for every ton delivered.
"As for missing the Tithe... it is a terminal failure. On the first instance, the Administratum sends a Censure-Scribe to deliver a warning. You must pay the arrears before the next cycle. On the second instance, the fines are doubled and the sector's power quota is halved. On the third instance..."
Albus paused, a flicker of fear in his eyes. "The Enforcers descend in force. They execute the entire leadership tier, purge the 'unproductive' workers, and install a new Boss to resume production. The Imperium does not care who owns the tools, only that the Tithe flows."
Kian marveled at the logic. It was purely a protection racket on a planetary scale. Pay the tax, or we replace you.
"Tell me," Kian said. "Can we maintain the quota for the next cycle?"
Albus nodded. "Easily, Lord. Iron-Eye was a paranoid man. He kept a massive surplus to ensure he never triggered an audit. If our reactors were to go cold today, we have enough finished product to satisfy the Spire for three months."
Kian laughed. This was the greatest loot-drop of all: time. Three months of "buffer" meant he could do whatever he wanted with the reactors without the Spire noticing.
"What exactly is in the vaults?"
"Thirty tons of Munitorum Plastique," Albus recited. "Fifteen tons of Plastocrete, and... sixty tons of Nitrate-Fertilizer. The fertilizer is 'dead' stock—leftover from before the pivot. It's taking up space in Warehouse C."
Kian's eyes flared. Sixty tons of fertilizer. To the Hive, it was trash. To Parson and the rebels on the surface, it was Liquid Gold. With that much nutrient-base, he could buy every grain of starch and every bottle of wine on the northern plains.
"I'll find a use for the 'dead' stock," Kian said. "Can we switch production back to fertilizer? I want a steady supply for the surface trade."
Albus looked pained. "The methodology is universal, Lord. The machines can synthesize thousands of compounds. But we only have four reactors. If we use them for fertilizer, the Tithe of explosives stops. We need a fifth tank to maintain both."
Kian remembered the abandoned Sector G-9 Reactor he had fought the Hounds over. It seemed his industrial destiny was calling him back to the Sump.
Finally, Kian turned to the last member of the management team. He was a hulking man with a thick beard and a face as expressionless as a stone wall. He wore heavy-duty work canvas and smelled of unwashed bodies and grease. His name was Sampson, the Labor-Factorum.
"Sampson," Kian asked. "What is our human tally?"
Sampson grunted, his voice devoid of emotion. "Fifteen hundred and eighty laborers, Lord. Split roughly between the sexes.
"One thousand are 'Prime Labor'—under the age of twenty-five. The rest are 'Old-Stock'—over twenty-five, mostly suffering from lung-rot or joint-atrophy. We also have one hundred and twenty-five children under the age of ten."
Kian flinched at the terminology. In the Underhive, "Prime Labor" ended at twenty-five. By thirty, you were considered an elder. By forty, you were a ghost. The industrial grind was so lethal that the humans were viewed as nothing more than batteries with short lifespans.
Kian Voss looked at his new subjects. He was no longer just running a brewery. He was the Lord of an industrial fortress, and he had fifteen hundred lives to spend.
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