Chapter 10: New Zone — The Reactor
Back in the Sanctum, Kian placed a votive candle in the iron holder of the Imperial Shrine and poured 150ml of industrial cooking oil into the sanctified copper basin.
A status bar flickered over the altar: [CRAFTING: SANCTIFIED OIL - 12:00:00 remaining].
He hadn't seen any direct Chaos corruption on Agri-World 496b yet, but in the 41st Millennium, the Warp was like the air—it was everywhere, and it was only a matter of time before it turned toxic. Better to have the oil and not need it, Kian thought, than to meet a Poxwalker with nothing but a dry blade.
With production underway, he pushed himself through another grueling workout. Two hours of weighted sprints and burpees later, his Tactical Cogitator pinged:
[Endurance increased: 12→ 13]
[Stamina increased: 10 → 11]
He wiped the grime from his skin with a rag, wolfed down a few scoops of nutrient starch from his ceramite vat, and collapsed into sleep.
When he woke, the candle had burned to a stub, and the oil had taken on a faint, golden shimmer. He bottled the Sanctified Oil and stored it in his stash, then set a second batch to brew.
It was time to hunt.
Kian returned to Nephal's shop in the Fertilizer Syndicate's sector. "I need a 'disposable' kit," he told the dealer. "Give me a Pipe Shotgun, fifty shells, a set of scrap-plate, five detonators, and two smoke grenades."
Nephal signaled a lackey, who vanished into the back and returned with a bundle of rusted, heavy hardware.
"For my 'kind' customer? Five hundred Agri-Scrips for the lot."
Kian paid the fee and inspected the weapon. It was a "Sump-special"—two thick plasteel pipes welded to a wooden stock with a primitive firing pin. No rifling, dual-barrel, chambered for 35mm heavy buckshot.
He donned the armor: a "Grade 2" suit of hardened canvas and scrap-metal plates. It was barely better than wearing thick cardboard against a military rifle, but against Underhive street-scum using cleavers and stubbers, it was enough.
"Where is the Reactor?" Kian asked.
Nephal's hollow face twisted into a grin. "Ah, going to do a bit of pest control? Excellent." He slid a piece of stained parchment across the counter. "This is a schematic of the old Sector G-9 Chemical Plant. You'll find the reactor at the heart of the sump-level."
[DING! NEW MAP DISCOVERED: THE SUBSURFACE REACTOR]
A derelict industrial cathedral lost in the deepest guts of the Underhive. Filled with rusted conduits, skeletal gantries, and stagnant toxins. Visibility: Low. Lighting: Emergency Luminators only.
"One warning," Nephal added as Kian turned to leave. "The Alchem-Hounds use chemical stimms to control their 'Chem-ghouls.' They have numbers, but their brains are half-melted. Most of them can barely point a gun, let alone shoot it. They'll come at you with blades and madness."
Kian gave a curt nod and headed for the deployment zone.
After navigating a labyrinth of vertical shafts and jagged catwalks, the familiar green timer appeared.
[DEPLOYING OPERATIVE]
Map: Sector G-9 Reactor
Arrival: 10... 9... 8...
The world blurred and refocused. Kian found himself standing on a rusted metal gantry.
The map was a vertical cube—five levels of interlocking steel walkways surrounding a gargantuan chemical tank that pierced through the center of the structure. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and old blood.
Kian immediately pressed his back against a cold ceramite pillar, ears straining. From the first floor, he heard it: the sound of rhythmic chanting, the clatter of metal, and wet, hysterical laughter.
He was on the fifth floor. He began a slow, silent descent.
When he reached the second-floor landing, he looked over the railing. Below him, around a fire-barrel made from a chemical drum, sat a group of Alchem-Hounds. They were roasting strips of meat that looked uncomfortably human.
"Once we prime the reactor," one of the junkies rasped, his voice bubbling through a throat full of phlegm, "we'll have enough 'Sludge' to turn the whole Fertilizer Syndicate into our personal ghouls. We'll march right into the Mid-Hive!"
Kian counted them: eleven men. They were shirtless, their bodies covered in the elemental-table tattoos Nephal had described. Most were armed with jagged "Sump-cleavers"—heavy slabs of sharpened scrap. A few were already slumped over, twitching from the effects of whatever cocktail they'd just injected into their veins.
They were bunched up perfectly.
Kian pulled two heavy-duty detonators from his belt. In the 41st Millennium, "industrial grade" meant "overkill." Each detonator contained half a kilo of high-explosive filler.
He lit the fuses with his lighter and tossed them both into the center of the circle.
The junkies were so far gone they didn't even notice the two hissing metal cylinders rolling between their feet.
BOOM! BOOM!
A double-concussion rocked the entire sector. The central reactor tank groaned as shrapnel shredded the fire-barrel, turning the burning fuel into a localized firestorm.
Seven of the Hounds were vaporized or torn apart instantly. Three more were thrown against the walls, their internal organs turned to mush by the overpressure. Only one remained—a massive brute who had been partially shielded by a support beam. Both his legs were gone, and he was clutching the bloody stumps, letting out a high-pitched, warbling scream.
Kian descended the stairs, his Pipe Shotgun leveled.
The legless junkie looked up, eyes bloodshot and pupils blown wide. "The Clan... the Mother... they'll turn you into a Chem-pig!" he shrieked.
"Maybe," Kian whispered. "But you won't be there to see it."
KRA-KOOM!
The 35mm buckshot turned the man's head into a red smudge against the floor.
"Time to harvest," Kian said, pulling out his combat knife to begin the grim task of taking the shoulder-tattoos. "Let's see if any of you had 'Big Gold' in your pockets."