Chapter 52: The Fires of Industry
The grain was loaded. Kian Voss bid farewell to Elder Silas and climbed onto the lead wagon. The convoy rumbled toward the Great Ventilator, Kian ensuring the drivers avoided the high-risk "Red Zones" where PDF patrols might be thicker.
Half a day later, they reached the rusted maw of the ventilator. Kian's crew of laborers was already bored, playing cards on the tracks, but they scrambled to attention the moment they saw the mountain of bags.
"Load the grain onto the flatbeds," Kian commanded. "We're heading back to the deep."
While the men hauled the sacks, Kian walked to the hidden maintenance vault and whistled. Silentium emerged, clutching his few belongings like a jittery scavenger.
"The Silk Road is open," Kian said. "You're coming with me. My Sanctum is well-fortified, and I've got enough space for your... oddities."
Silentium's eyes lit up. To him, Kian wasn't just a boss; he was the source of the Silence. He stepped onto the trolley and immediately raised his hand, intending to use a telekinetic gravity-surge to lift all the grain bags onto the cars at once.
Kian slapped his hand down. "Stop! Do not reveal your gift! It'll bring the Inquisition down on my head before the first batch of booze is even bottled."
Kian leaned in close, his voice a low growl. "Rule one in my Nest: No Warp-art on the walls. No playing with animal entrails. No 'livestreaming' the voices of Daemons. And most importantly, do not—and I mean do not—decide to 'start a big project' without asking me first."
In the 41st Millennium, Rogue Psykers were the ultimate "Idea Guys." One day they're quiet, the next they're trying to open a Rift because a voice in their head told them sacrificing ten billion people would be "funny."
"But Master Voss," Silentium whimpered, looking frail. "If I cannot use the power, how will I defend my body and soul from those who wish me harm?"
Kian looked at the freak's pathetic expression and sighed. "I'm not saying don't use it. I'm saying use it with tactical restraint."
Silentium tilted his head, confused. "Restraint?"
"Look," Kian said, picking up a rusted, jagged plasteel screw from the floor. "You love those 'Gravity Impacts.' They're loud, messy, and every Auspex within ten miles pings the signature. Instead, take this screw. Use your mind to accelerate it to the speed of a bolt-round. You put a hole in a man's skull, and nobody hears a thing. It's cleaner."
Silentium's eyes widened. A simple, elegant solution for murder.
"And if you want to be truly cruel?" Kian grinned darkly. "Find a man with kidney stones. Use your gravity-grip to move those stones back and forth through his plumbing. He'll be praying for death before you even break a sweat."
This was a level of petty, industrial-grade malice the Psyker had never considered. In a world where the water was full of heavy metals and the food was filth, nearly everyone in the Hive had stones.
"Master... you are truly a sage," Silentium whispered, looking at Kian with genuine awe.
"I'm an entrepreneur, kid. Now, get on the train."
As the trolley prepared to depart, Kian noticed a few rebel scouts eyeing the dark tunnel of the ventilator. They were wondering if this was a secret back-door into the Hive.
Kian gave them a predatory smirk. "Go ahead. Try it. It's called 'The Sump Theater.' It's a great show, but most people only see the first act before the mutants eat their faces. Stay on your side of the dirt."
The rebels took a collective step back. Kian signaled the start, and the trolley began its rhythmic clack-clack journey back into the darkness.
[VOSS DISTILLERY - SECTOR 0]
The trolley rolled into the brewery bulkheads. Kian immediately went into "Manager Mode."
He sent Shiv and a few trusted men to the Water Guild precinct. Their mission was twofold: deliver the Logistics Data-Slate to Reno to collect the 100k bounty, and escort Little Joel's family back to the brewery. He also gave them a shopping list for more chem-catalysts and fermentation vats.
Then, the work began.
Kian hired Shiv's thirty gangers at ten scrips a day—a wage that made them loyal as hounds. Their first task: peel and wash three tons of high-starch tubers.
The brewery floor became a frantic scene of industrial labor. The tubers were scrubbed, boiled into a soft pulp, and then pulverized into a massive, steaming mash.
Next came the chemistry. Kian added clear water and Alpha-Amylase Catalysts—the "Sump-style" yeast. This would trigger the saccharification of the starch, turning the potato-mash into a sugary slurry ready for the "Voss-pattern" Vodka.
The mixture was stirred in the massive vats, filtered through industrial mesh, and sealed into the fermentation pits.
"Five days," Kian muttered, checking the temperature gauges. "Five days for the Machine Spirit to do its work. Then we distill."
He calculated the yield. Three tons of grain would produce roughly 1,200 to 1,500 liters of 90-proof spirits.
In the Hive, the standard "Dose-Flask" was 100ml—a single, heavy serving of amasec sold for 5 Agri-Scrips. But that was before the famine. Now, with the population eating Corpse Starch and the legal distilleries closed, alcohol was the only escape left. The price was soaring.
"Even at the base rate," Kian whispered, his eyes gleaming in the amber light of the vats, "this batch is worth 75,000 Scrips."
He leaned against the cold ceramite wall, listening to the rhythmic hum of his brewery and the low, contented murmuring of the Silent One in the corner.
Kian Voss wasn't just a scavenger anymore. He was a Warlord of the Taps.
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