Chapter 116: The Tithe and the Tribute
Kian Voss continued his inspection of the Mid-Hive facility. The distillery was divided into three primary zones, each smelling of cold metal and industrial history.
The Manufactorum Floor: The central kill-floor where the distillation towers and vats were located. There was a vast amount of empty space; Kian realized that if he optimized his supply chain, he could easily triple his current production.
The Deep Cellars: A subterranean vault filled with heavy timber racks and standard twenty-liter plasteel-reinforced casks. It could house two thousand barrels at once.
The Labor Quarters: A wing of modular hab-units and a communal mess hall. It was filled with iron-frame bunks and industrial nutrition-dispensers, capable of housing three hundred workers in "Standard Imperial Comfort" (meaning it was slightly better than a cage).
Satisfied, Kian handed the heavy rucksack of currency to Reno.
"I expect the water and electricity to be connected within the next cycle," Kian stated.
Reno unzipped the bag, inhaling the scent of fresh ink and Spire-backed scrip. "Relax, Voss. Every gear will be greased. I took my three-hundred-thousand-scrip 'consulting fee' for a reason. You're under the Guild's wing now."
Kian lowered his voice, glancing toward the shadows of the machinery. "The raw materials... the grapes. They aren't 'official' Imperial produce. I'm running them in from the secessionist territories on the surface."
Reno gave a nonchalant wave. "Consorting with the enemy? Voss, in this Hive, if you aren't running a side-deal with a bandit or a heretic, you aren't trying hard enough. As long as you pay the Imperial Tithe, the Administratum doesn't care if your grapes were grown in a rebel garden or a Daemon's armpit. They just want the tax."
Mention of the tax made Kian pause. "Speaking of which... what is the Tithe rate for a facility of this scale?"
Reno held up four fingers. Kian's eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
"Throne's blood! Forty percent?!"
"At least," Reno nodded solemnly. "Forty percent of your projected yield, paid in spirits or credits. And here is the 'Gothic' catch: once the Administratum Scribes set your Tithe-grade, it stays fixed for a century.
"They'll send an auditor once. He'll look at your vats, do some math on his abacus, and say: 'You owe ten thousand liters a year.' Even if your machines break and you produce zero, you still owe ten thousand. Even if you upgrade and produce a million, you still only owe ten thousand. The Imperium is many things, Voss, but 'flexible' is not one of them."
Kian marveled at the sheer, beautiful stagnation of the system. This was the "Space Middle Ages" at its finest. Because of the ancient Iron Rebellion—the war against Abominable Intelligence (AI) ten thousand years ago—humanity had regressed. They lacked high-speed computers. They relied on Cogitator Engines (brains in boxes) and human scribes with quill-pens. Managing a billion souls across a million worlds was a clerical nightmare. Setting a tax and leaving it for a hundred years was the only way the bureaucracy could function without collapsing under its own weight.
"I have a 'cheat code' for the Tithe," Kian said, smirking. "Major Rudolphson. He has a tax-exemption quota as a Battalion Commander and a Spire-citizen. I'm folding this brewery into his military logistics wing."
Reno let out a sharp bark of laughter. "You should have led with that! A military shroud? That changes everything. A Major's rank carries enough weight in the Mid-Hive to qualify as a 'Protected Asset'."
"However," Reno added, his expression turning practical, "even with a military shield, I suggest you voluntarily pay a 'Private Tribute' of twenty percent."
"To who? If I'm exempt, I'm exempt."
Reno looked at Kian as if he were a slow-witted Ogryn. "One-tenth to the Enforcers, and one-tenth to the Administratum Scribes. Think of it as a 'Clerical Peace-Offering.'
"If you pay the tax-men and the law-men under the table, you could murder ten people in the middle of the street, and the report would say they died of 'Natural Causes.' But if you hide your coins? They'll find a reason to raid your vats every week for 'Hygiene Violations' until you're bankrupt or in a labor camp."
Kian nodded slowly. "I understand. Greasing the gears to keep the machine quiet."
"Exactly," Reno said, hoisting the bag of money onto his shoulder. "In three days, I'll arrange a dinner here at the distillery. I'll bring the Lead Scribe and the Enforcer Captain of this sector. You'll lay out a spread of that Grox-meat and Voss Reserve. We'll 'assess' your production, they'll see the Major's name on the wall, and you'll hand over their first 'Tribute.' After that? You're untouchable."
Kian grinned. He loved the logic of corruption. It was predictable.
"I'll have the table set," Kian promised. "Make sure they bring their appetites. I want the Scribes so full of meat they can barely hold their pens."
Kian was learning fast. In the 41st Millennium, strength came from rifles, but longevity came from the ledger.
He watched Reno depart, already planning the menu for a dinner that would seal his status as an Industrial Lord of the Mid-Hive.
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