Chapter 200: The Food Factory
Negotiations got underway. The Marshal stated his position: before his next harvest collection, he could release ten thousand tonnes of grain to Kian. Primarily wheat, potatoes, and maize.
But value had to flow in both directions.
Kian laid out his offer.
"First — security guarantee. My connections ensure no PDF raiding parties touch your territory, and no fortress cannon shells land on your city.
Second — my chemical production facility in the Underhive currently yields one hundred tonnes of fertiliser per month. All of it goes to you."
The Marshal shook his head.
"Ten thousand tonnes of grain for a hundred tonnes of fertiliser. I'm losing badly on that exchange."
"You're not losing at all."
Kian's knuckles rapped the table.
"Your movement has no chemical production capability. You cannot manufacture fertiliser. Fertilised land yields significantly more grain per acre — that fertiliser pays itself back several times over in your next harvest.
More importantly — this isn't a commercial transaction. You're not buying fertiliser. You're buying stability. You're buying an environment where Hive command doesn't target you and desperate soldiers don't raid your farmland."
The Marshal studied Kian's eyes.
"You make a reasonable point. But you're a Baron. A minor one. I question your actual influence. The Hive's upper hierarchy are a nest of self-serving parasites — can a small Baron's voice genuinely reach them?"
Kian pointed to the brand on his neck with complete confidence.
"This mark was given to me for fighting alongside the Confessor himself. You were a noble once — you know exactly what the Confessor's standing means on this world."
The Marshal did know. Former Planetary Archbishop, who had voluntarily stepped down from the highest ecclesiastical office to serve among the Emperor's people directly. Teacher to the current Planetary Archbishop. Widely regarded as a candidate for sainthood.
That kind of backing was sufficient.
"In that case — we have an arrangement."
Over the following days, Kian became a bulk grain merchant.
He shipped Parson's ten tonnes of grapes back to the distillery first, then issued orders for his Underhive chemical facility to switch to full fertiliser production.
The Fertiliser Syndicate and Alchem-Hounds leadership were dead. Kian was a Baron. His factories produced what he directed them to produce, without requiring anyone else's approval.
He released the stockpiled sixty-odd tonnes of fertiliser to the Marshal. The Marshal received it and began releasing grain.
Fortunately, Kian had acquired more than a dozen military cargo haulers during the Spire operation. Those vehicles ran continuously between rebel territory and the Underhive, bringing food into the Hive in volume — building reserves ahead of the coming shortage.
As the days passed, the corridors of the Underhive distillery complex filled with mountains of grain. Every worker and soldier Kian had was pressed into hauling and stacking. The operation ran hot.
When Kian judged the stockpile sufficient, he went to the Cathedral.
"Confessor — I've established contact with the rebels. I currently have ten thousand tonnes of grain stockpiled in the Underhive. In three months, when the rebels complete their next harvest collection, another ten thousand tonnes become available."
The Confessor looked at him with quiet warmth.
"Warrior of the God-Emperor — on behalf of the people of this parish, I thank you.
Hunger has already begun to show itself. I can sense the fear in the air. But ten thousand tonnes — it isn't enough. My parish has two million souls."
Two million people. The grain consumed daily at that scale was staggering. Ten thousand tonnes — roughly one month's supply for that population.
Kian spread his hands.
"Confessor, that is genuinely the limit of what I can deliver. I have no means of acquiring more at this time."
The Confessor placed a hand on Kian's shoulder.
"Warrior — you have a heart worth more than gold. What you have done is already more than could be asked of any man."
He reached for a piece of parchment and held it out.
"This is an Ecclesiarchy asset. A sanctified food processing facility. From this day forward — it is yours."
Kian took the parchment. His expression shifted to surprise, then he began reading carefully.
His pulse picked up.
The document was a deed of title to a large-scale food processing plant, accompanied by the exclusive food supply rights for the Confessor's two-million-person parish.
In plain terms: Kian now owned a major food factory and held the monopoly on feeding two million people.
The Imperium of Man was a deeply centralised civilisation — one in which rights that most societies considered basic had long since been converted into commercial monopolies controlled by institutions. The Confessor's parish was a case in point: two million people's food supply, consolidated under Ecclesiarchy management.
The Ecclesiarchy needed income to function. They generated it through means that were, at times, creative. On this world, by mechanisms Kian didn't fully understand, the food supply had ended up under Ministorum control.
That said — the local Ecclesiarchy had clearly exercised that monopoly with some conscience. Kian had never heard of anyone actually starving to death in Mid-Hive under their management.
A less scrupulous authority holding the same monopoly would have made life genuinely hellish.
Kian tucked the parchment inside his coat.
"Don't worry, Confessor. I'll do everything I can to ensure the Emperor's people in our parish don't starve. I'm a Pious Crusader — fighting hunger counts as fighting."
The Confessor asked: "Your grain supply covers one month. How do you intend to make it last three?"
Kian thought about it.
"Two million people, one month of grain, three months needed before the next delivery. The key is making one month's calories do three months of work.
Let me go look at the food factory first. There may be options there."
The Confessor stood.
"I'll come with you."
They rode out together, navigating through the Hive's layered infrastructure until the factory appeared before them.
It was a standard Hive-scale industrial structure — a massive plasteel edifice, its interior packed with dense production lines that stretched further than the eye could comfortably follow.
The facility manager came out to receive them, bowing low, and began walking them through the equipment.
The factory had been built to supply food for two million people. Hundreds of production lines. It could process and manufacture almost any food category — tinned goods, compressed ration biscuits, and — most significantly — the Holy Gruel, the Ecclesiarchy's standard nutritional distribution product for those in hardship.
According to the facility manager, the only thing the factory couldn't do was synthesise starch from scratch. Everything else — including processing certain mildly toxic surface substances into edible form — was within its capability.
That last detail caught Kian's attention.
He turned to the manager.
"Hypothetically — could we take maize, potatoes, and wheat, skins and cores and husks included, put all of it through the machinery, grind it to powder, and produce an expanded puffed grain product?
Something that, when soaked in hot water, swells significantly and creates a strong sense of fullness."
The manager considered this.
"Technically feasible. Potato skins carry mild toxins, but our filtration systems can neutralise those. Maize cobs are already edible in processed form. Ground wheat husks are likewise consumable once milled fine enough.
If we grind everything together, bake it dry, and form it into hollow puffed shapes — they would expand considerably when rehydrated in hot water, and the satiety effect would be meaningfully stronger.
The limitation is caloric density. Once the body processes it, hunger returns at the same rate. Fullness without adequate calories is temporary. It buys time — it doesn't replace nutrition."
[End of Chapter 200]
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