Chapter 50: The Long-Las Logic
The Cargo-Trolley encountered no further Warp-spawned oddities. After a long, grinding ascent, the tracks leveled out as they reached the Great Ventilator.
The Hive was designed with thousands of these surface vents. Originally, they were intended for logistical overflow, which meant they were naturally fortified. To prevent the starving masses from escaping and the "Unclean" from entering, the pipes were barred with massive plasteel cages.
This was where the two "Old-timer" welders earned their pay. They fired up their industrial torches, the blue-white flames biting into the ancient metal. Within minutes, they had cut a gap large enough for the trolley to pass through.
The trolley rolled out of the dark pipe and into the open air. The crew squinted against the sudden brilliance of the twin moons. The stagnant, recycled air of the Sump was replaced by the scent of ozone and wild grain. Kian Voss had officially established his "Silk Road."
Kian leaped from the power-head and turned to his crew. "Stay here. Guard the rails. Do not wander into the tall grass—there are things out here that will eat you before you can scream. I'm going to signal the delivery. Shiv, with me."
Shiv hoisted his autogun, looking nervous but determined. Kian led him toward the hidden maintenance vault where he had left his "neighbor."
"The trade route is open," Kian said to Silentium, who was still sitting amidst his chalk circles. "I'm moving back to the Underhive. I have a fortress-sanctum with thick walls and plenty of room. You want to stay here in the dirt, or do you want to move into a proper 'Nest'?"
The Psyker's eyes lit up. This man, the source of the Silence, was inviting him into his inner circle. He nodded frantically. "Yes! To the Nest! I will follow the Silence!"
"Pack your trophies then. And remember—the men at the vent are mine. Don't melt their brains."
Leaving the Psyker to gather his grisly belongings, Kian and Shiv trekked toward the PDF perimeter.
They reached Lieutenant Rudolphson's sector without incident. Kian requested an armored transport for a "private tactical consult." Rudolphson arrived in his open-top scout car and drove them into the No-Man's Land, where they could talk without the interference of PDF ears.
"Winchester is making a move," Rudolphson said, his bionic eye whirring as he checked the horizon. "He's found a rebel cell led by a man named Elder Varick. He's planning a 'Glorious Purge' to secure his promotion. I'll keep the vox-frequency open; the moment he leaves his command bunker, I'll give you the coordinates."
Rudolphson reached into the back seat and tapped a heavy, reinforced weapon crate sitting next to Shiv.
"Inside is a Long-pattern PDF Marksman Rifle. It's fitted with a 1x-20x variable optic and chambered for High-Velocity Overpressure rounds. I've diverted five hundred rounds from the battalion armory for you. Take some time to appease its Machine Spirit. When the window opens, I want Winchester's head turned into a red mist."
Kian gestured to Shiv, who handed the crate over. Kian cracked it open. The rifle was a beast—a long, cold length of black plasteel and reinforced wood. The scope was an absolute masterpiece of optics, worth more than the rifle itself.
"Consider him a memory," Kian said, closing the crate. "Now, what about my distribution? My brewery is online. I'm pulling grain today."
"Don't worry about the market," Rudolphson scoffed. "My regiment has three thousand men, and from the Colonel down to the newest conscript, they are all professional alcoholics. They spend their days in a drunken stupor just to forget they live in a trench. Your 'small workshop' won't be able to keep up with their thirst for a single day."
Kian felt a pang of typical scavenger disdain. This is the 'Grand Army of the Emperor'? A bunch of drunks in green flak-suits?
"Fine," Kian said. "I'll bring the first batch as soon as the stills are hot."
Rudolphson turned the car around, but before they reached the drop-off, he paused. "One more thing. A soldier in the neighboring company... a real 'Grox-brain.' He got drunk and wandered into a minefield. Lost both legs."
Rudolphson sighed. "Because it was 'self-inflicted negligence,' the Munitorum denied his pension. His family can't afford the medical debt to the Twin Serpents. They're being processed for exile to the Sump. You want them?"
"How many?" Kian asked, already doing the math.
"The cripple, his parents—mid-forties, still strong—and a brother in his twenties."
Kian considered it. A legless soldier was a mouth to feed, but it bought him three sets of capable hands. More importantly, it bought him loyalty.
"I'll take them," Kian said. "Tell the Company Commander that if he wants his men to keep drinking my Voss Reserve, he'd better make sure the 'processing' is smooth."
Rudolphson grinned. "Deal. I'll vox you when the paperwork is ready."
The Lieutenant dropped them at a hidden ridge and roared back toward his camp. Kian led Shiv to a concealed hollow, placing the sniper rifle and the ammo crate at the boy's feet.
"Hide here," Kian commanded. "Guard this rifle with your life. I'm going to the rebel camp to finalize the grain haul. When I come back, we head for the trolley."
Kian had intentionally brought Shiv on this run. He wanted the boy to see the "Big Picture"—the connections to the PDF, the high-tier hardware, the secret deals. He wanted Shiv to realize that staying loyal to Kian was a ticket to the Spire, while betraying him was a one-way trip to a shallow grave.
As Kian vanished into the rebel-controlled woods, Shiv sat in the hollow, staring at the heavy sniper rifle. He felt a swell of pride. He wasn't just a gang-thug anymore. He was the right hand of a man who traded with both sides of a planetary war.
With that, Kian Voss strode toward the rebel lines, his mind already calculating the proof of his first batch of moonshine.
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