Chapter 42: Collusion with the Enemy
Kian Voss navigated his way out of the Hive City and trekked back toward Rudolphson's forward camp. The Hive was currently under a state of high-alert lockdown—easy enough to enter, but nearly impossible to leave. At the transit hub, Kian was intercepted by a squad of Enforcers.
He didn't panic. He sought out the junior officer at the garrison station, claiming to be a "civilian attaché" and a kinsman of Lieutenant Rudolphson. He explained that he had been tasked with arranging the "disposal and resettlement" of wounded veterans—a task already completed—and was now returning to the front to report.
The junior officer's cold demeanor softened at the mention of wounded veterans. In the Planetary Defense Force, the "Wounded Problem" was a festering wound of its own. The Planetary Governor was a miserly, callous man who viewed soldiers as expendable ammunition. Pensions were a joke, and the disabled were usually left to rot in the Sump.
Many PDF officers, bound by the brotherhood of the trenches, tried to solve these resettlement issues privately. If they didn't, their men would see how the "broken cogs" were treated and lose the will to fight. Seeing Kian as a fixer for Rudolphson's private "charity," the officer granted him passage.
To ensure Kian wasn't a spy, a private was assigned to escort him on the mag-rail out of the Hive. Once they reached the Northern Sector perimeter and Rudolphson's men confirmed his identity, the private prepared to head back. Kian slipped him 300 scrips—100 for the soldier's silence and 200 to be "delivered" to the station officer. The private left with a wide, conspiratorial grin, promising to remember Kian's name.
Kian and Rudolphson retreated into the command tent, sealing the flap.
Kian pulled the letter from his pocket. "Little Joel's family is settled. They won't be a problem for a while. I delivered the news to his sister at the Cathedral; this is her reply."
Rudolphson let out a heavy, ragged sigh of relief. "Good. At least one debt of honor is settled in this warp-damned war."
Kian scanned the tent, ensuring they were truly alone. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low rasp. "Remember that business venture I mentioned? I've got the blueprints ready. The question is: do you want a seat at the table?"
Rudolphson's bionic eye whirred, clicking into a focused zoom. "What kind of business? Don't tell me it's anything that'll draw the Arbitrators down from the Spire. I can protect you from a lot, but I can't stop a purge."
Kian waved him off. "Nothing that extreme. Just a bit of industrial chemistry. Amasec. A distillery."
He paced the small space. "Look at the facts, Rudy. Aside from the Hive, the rebels hold the entire planet. Grain isn't coming in, and your PDF units can't push out. That waste-of-skin Governor has no plan to retake the surface. Unless something changes, this stalemate is going to last twenty years."
Kian didn't know how long the Governor had been delinquent on his Imperial Tithe, but he knew the Departmento Munitorum. If the taxes stopped, an Inquisitorial Fleet or a Black Ship would eventually arrive to "audit" the planet. But the Imperium's bureaucracy moved at the speed of a dying glacier. It could be decades before the hammer fell.
"That's twenty years—a whole generation—of civil war," Kian continued. "You'll be trading shots with the secessionists every day. Your gear is better, but attrition is a bitch. Look at Joel. How many more cripples are you going to produce? Are you just going to keep dumping their families into the Sump?"
He looked Rudolphson in the eye. "I'm a loner, Rudy. Taking in Joel's family was a massive headache. I can't spend the rest of my life running a soup kitchen for your wounded."
Rudolphson began to see the shape of the logic. "And the distillery fixes this?"
"Exactly," Kian nodded. "The Hive is screaming for booze. I'm building a distillery in the Underhive. I'm going to need a reliable workforce. I'll hire your wounded veterans and their families first. I'll give them a roof, a wage, and a purpose. You get a private 'Veterans' Colony' in the Sump where you can retire if things ever go south for you in the Spire."
Rudolphson was visibly tempted. The Underhive was the only place where the "Dispossessed" could vanish. If Kian owned a piece of it, he owned a sanctuary.
In the Mid-Hive, the pressure was absolute. It was a gargantuan, cold factory where a single missed step meant being crushed by the gears of the collective. Families lived in terror of the day their breadwinner took a bullet, because that was the day the Enforcers would come for their citizen-cogs.
Kian was offering a third path—a way to preserve a man's conscience in a galaxy that had none.
"What do you need from me?" Rudolphson asked.
Kian checked the tent flap again. The nearest guards were thirty paces away, distracted by a card game. He leaned into the Lieutenant's ear, his voice barely a whisper.
"I have the location. I can get the equipment. I have the hands. My only problem is the raw materials. I need starch. Tons of it. I need grain."
Rudolphson's pupils shrunk. "You... you don't mean..."
Kian's eyes flared with a sharp, predatory light. "Exactly. I'm going to trade with the secessionists. I want you to provide the 'logistical oversight.' I need trucks and promethium to move the haul, and I need surplus munitions. We're going to trade Imperial lead for rebel grain.
"Once the Amasec is flowing, you'll be my primary distributor in the barracks. Why should your soldiers drink the Governor's watered-down swill when they can buy 'Voss Special Reserve'? We make credits, the veterans get fed, and everyone stays happy.
And if they ever get their legs blown off by a rebel stubber, I'll be the one ensuring their kin don't starve in a gutter."
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