Chapter 117: The Sacrament of Production
The three-day window closed, and the high-ranking officials summoned by Reno began to arrive at the Mid-Hive distillery. They were here to perform the final inspection, grant the "Lex Industrial" permits, and set the permanent Tithe-grade.
The delegation was split into two primary cohorts. First, the Administratum Scribes—a Lead Proctor accompanied by five weary-looking clerks. Second, the Enforcer Corps—a high-ranking Marshal flanked by five precinct officers.
The three-car motorcade pulled up to the distillery gates. Reno was already there, cycling the heavy locks with a welcoming smile.
"Step inside, gentlemen! This is the future of the H-9 Sector. We've been waiting for your expert appraisal!"
The Lead Proctor was a skeletal, cold-faced man who looked as though he suffered from chronic systemic fatigue. He glanced at the distillation towers and let out a dry, dismissive sniff. "Natural production? In an era where the grain-plains are held by heretics? A bold, perhaps foolish, investment."
The Enforcer Marshal was his opposite—a massive, barrel-chested man in a blue-black carapace uniform, a high-caliber stub-cannon holstered at his hip. He didn't speak to the others; he simply strode into the facility with the heavy, rhythmic tread of an occupier.
But the Marshal stopped dead the moment he crossed the threshold.
In the center of the kill-floor, a long timber table had been laid out. It was a vision of agricultural luxury: piles of fresh organic vegetables, platters of roasted meat dripping with fat, and baskets of warm, buttered bread that smelled of real yeast.
"Throne..." the Marshal whispered, his eyes locking onto the feast.
The Lead Proctor followed him in, his cynical expression crumbling into a look of pure shock. In the Mid-Hive, even high-ranking officials were being reduced to eating the flavorless, grey "Sludge-Starch" daily. They were lucky to see real greens once a week. To see a table groaning under the weight of a Spire-tier banquet was a psychological attack.
Kian Voss stepped forward, wearing a clean, high-collared worker's tunic over his armor. He offered a slight, respectful bow.
"Welcome, Lords. You've traveled far through the smog. Work can wait. A servant of the Emperor cannot perform an audit on an empty stomach."
The tension in the room evaporated instantly. The officials exchanged a quick look, gave a stiff nod of approval, and took their seats.
Major Rudolphson was already there, sitting at the head of the table. His presence was the "Heavy Cover" Kian needed. As a Battalion Commander, Rudolphson's social standing was equal to the Scribes and Marshals. His presence validated Kian; it told the officials that this wasn't just a merchant's shop—it was a military-backed asset.
Because the Major was at the table, Kian didn't have to play the servant. He sat among them, a peer in the shadow of the military.
The younger clerks and officers, usually ignored at such events, found themselves being served by Kian's new recruits. As they began to eat, the atmosphere became harmonious, even festive. The Lead Proctor, after his third glass of amasec and a plate of real beef, actually managed a smile. The color returned to his pale, papery skin.
An hour passed. Bellies were full and spirits were high. A young Administratum clerk accidentally shifted his plate, and his eyes caught a glimpse of something tucked beneath the porcelain.
He carefully lifted the plate. His breath hitched. Neatly folded beneath it was a roll of high-denomination Agri-Scrips. Three thousand scrips.
The young man quickly palmed the money, sliding it into his sleeve as he looked around the table. He caught the eyes of his fellow clerks and the Enforcer officers. Every one of them had a strange, guarded expression. Every one of them was clutching a hidden "Bonus."
The Lead Proctor and the Enforcer Marshal noticed the shift in their subordinates. They discreetly checked under their own plates, only to find... nothing.
Confusion flickered across their faces. Why bribe the lackeys but not the masters?
Kian Voss stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I see the 'appraisal' of the menu is complete. Shall we move to the 'appraisal' of the machinery?"
The two leaders, though puzzled by the lack of a bribe, followed Kian to the distillation towers. They performed a thorough, if somewhat rushed, inspection. The facility was pristine, the permits were backed by the Water Guild, and the tax-exemption was signed by the Major himself.
With a series of rhythmic thump-hisses, the twin seals of the Administratum and the Lex Arcanum were stamped onto the master charter. The Voss Distillery was officially a legal entity of the Imperium.
As the delegation prepared to depart, Kian handed two heavy wooden cases to the Proctor and the Marshal.
"A sample of our finest 'Voss Reserve,' gentlemen," Kian said. "Take it home and evaluate it in private. Tell me if the... 'weight'... is to your liking."
The two officials took the boxes. They were the size of a standard wine case, but they were remarkably light.
The Lead Proctor felt the balance. There were no bottles inside. Based on the feel, he estimated at least 100,000 Scrips in high-value notes were packed into the foam.
The Proctor and the Marshal shared a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. This man understands the 'Gothic Balance', they thought. He had paid the subordinates enough to buy their silence, and paid the masters enough to buy their protection.
"A very... impressive vintage, Master Voss," the Proctor said with a thin grin. "If you encounter any administrative 'friction' in the future, do not hesitate to vox my office."
They boarded their transports and roared away, leaving Kian in possession of a fully sanctioned industrial fortress.
Minutes later, two PDF heavy trucks rumbled into the loading bay. They were filled with nearly four tons of purple grapes—the first harvest from Parson's "Fertilized Orchards."
The facility was ready. The raw materials were here. The labor was waiting.
Kian looked at his team—ten men and women, the families of fallen PDF regulars. Under his direction, they began the ancient ritual: washing the fruit, crushing the skins, and feeding the sweet juice into the vats.
The distillation of a new era had begun.
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