Chapter 39: The Machine Spirit of Commerce
When Kian Voss opened his eyes, he was lying naked on the synth-wool cot in his Sanctum. Eight hours had passed since the mob had reduced his previous body to a red smear.
He sat up, smacking his lips. Being beaten to death was a first for him—a novel, if somewhat unpleasant, sensory experience. He spent a few minutes sitting in the dark, processing the memory of the cleavers and the screaming dregs before pushing it aside. In this universe, trauma was just another stat to manage.
He checked his production lines. The distiller had finished a bottle of Rotgut. He swapped the components, fueling it for another run. At the Imperial Shrine, the candle had burned out, and a second bottle of Sanctified Spirits was ready. He stashed the golden liquid carefully and reset the offering.
He dressed in a fresh set of grey worker's fatigues, tucked his 15mm stub-cannon into his waistband, grabbed his bag of "Holy Pancakes," and prepared to leave.
His priority was checking on Little Joel's family at the Mercator Aqua precinct and then finally utilizing his new ID to explore the Mid-Hive.
Kian reached the Safe Zone plaza. It was the same industrial hellscape as always. Underhive rats prowling the debris, eyes filled with the low-grade cunning of the desperate. If a new batch of "Dispossessed" were to fall from the Spire right now, the mob would swarm them just as they had yesterday. Kian's violent display had taught them nothing; in the Sump, memory was as short as a life expectancy.
He ignored the loiterers and walked straight to the Water Guild's shop. The queue of laborers was as long as ever. As he approached the entrance, the Guild enforcers tightened their grip on their shotguns. One of them blinked, staring at Kian's face.
"Wait... you're the one. I saw you go down. You were buried under a hundred dregs!"
Kian didn't stop. He pulled out two Lho-sticks and lit them for the guards. "Didn't take. I carved a blood-path through the back of the mob and slipped into a vent. You should get your eyes checked, guard-dog."
He spoke with total indifference. In the 41st Millennium, the impossible happened every hour. Clone-cults, vat-grown replacements, or simple miracles—the guards didn't care enough to investigate. They took the tobacco and stepped aside.
Inside, Kian found Joel's family. They were already at work, hauling low-grade ceramite buckets to the taps, filling them, and moving them to the front for distribution. They were moving with a frantic, disciplined energy.
Joel's father, carrying three heavy canisters, nearly collided with Kian. When he saw Kian's face, he froze, dropping a bucket with a loud clang.
"Master... Master Voss? We saw you fall! We thought..."
Kian blew a cloud of smoke. "Harder to kill than I look. I broke out through the side-tunnels."
The father didn't ask for details. He fell to his knees, his forehead hitting the cold metal floor. "Savior! You saved my entire bloodline! From this day, my life is yours. Command me, and I will bleed for you!"
Kian gestured for him to get up. He didn't want a servant; he wanted an asset. He checked on the rest of the family. Joel was in his wheelchair, looking stronger than yesterday, while the younger brother was huddling near his mother.
"Your Lieutenant paid for your protection," Kian said, keeping his tone professional. "Thank him, not me. Now, what's the status? Why are you working the taps?"
Joel shook his head. "Overseer Reno granted us sanctuary, but my father insisted we pay our way. We have no credits, so we provide our labor. It is the only thing we have left to give."
Kian nodded. At least they had the right mindset. But he couldn't leave them here forever. Reno had made it clear that the Guild precinct wasn't a charity ward.
Reno's office door opened, and the Overseer peered out. He spotted Kian and his eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he regained his composure. He beckoned Kian inside.
"The Data-Slate," Kian said as the door clicked shut. "Stored in a secure vault in the Mid-Hive. I'm heading up to retrieve it for you now."
Reno smiled and, without a single question about Kian's miraculous survival, reached into his desk. He pulled out a thick bundle of Agri-Scrips and slid them across the table.
"Here. Your fee: 100,000 Scrips. Paid in full."
Reno was a veteran of Hive politics. He'd heard of Perpetual-class humans, or perhaps Kian was part of some tech-heresy cloning circle. It didn't matter. A man who could 'die' and walk back into the office the next day was exactly the kind of partner the Water Guild needed.
Kian pocketed the small fortune. He felt a surge of adrenaline. He was officially a wealthy man by Underhive standards.
"Reno," Kian said, "I need to move the family. You can't keep them here, and I won't throw them to the gangs."
Reno leaned back, rubbing his chin. "You need a territory, Voss. The gangs will eat them because they are 'unclaimed.' If you want them to live, you need a trade. Even in the Sump, a man with a job is worth more than a corpse."
"What trade?"
"Moonshine," Reno said simply. "Amasec. Since the rebels seized the grain-lands, the Spire has cut off all luxury shipments to the Mid and Lower levels. People are anxious. The soldiers are bored. The demand for alcohol is at an all-time high."
Reno's eyes twinkled. "If you can secure a steady supply of starch—potatoes, grain, anything—you can build a distillery. I have the technical knowledge; I can guide your 'start-up.' Sell it to the PDF through your friend Rudolphson. You provide the booze, they provide the protection. You'll have a Syndicate before the next moon-cycle."
Kian's mind exploded with the potential. He had a literal infinite supply of potatoes from the rebel fields. He had a distillery in his Sanctum. If he expanded his operation into the pipes outside his vault, he could house the family and turn them into his labor force.
He saw a commercial empire rising from the sludge. From moonshine to weapons, from weapons to void-ships.
"I'll consider it," Kian said, though he'd already decided. "I'm going to the Mid-Hive now. I'll be back for the family soon."
Before he left, Joel's father handed him a crumpled piece of parchment. "Master Voss... if you are going to the Mid-Hive... please. My daughter, Elara. We managed to get her into the Cathedral of the Blessed Martyr as a novice. Please, give her this letter. Tell her we are alive."
Kian took the letter. A trip to a Cathedral? It was a perfect spot to look for new contacts.
He walked to the Grand Sump-Lift, scanned his gene-code at the high-security gate, and stepped onto the platform with the Mid-Hive technicians. The dregs watched him from the shadows, their eyes full of hate and envy, but they didn't move.
The doors slowly closed, and the lift began its ascent.
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