Chapter 40: The Ethanol Shortage
The blast doors of the Grand Lift hissed open, and Kian Voss stepped out into the Mid-Hive. This time, he walked as a registered citizen. He had the clearance and the time to traverse the sectors, and he intended to perform a full recon of the "civilized" world.
He scanned the industrial skyline, his eyes catching a specific crimson emblem: The Order of the Twin Serpents.
The Order was the planet's primary private medical guild. In the schizoid reality of the 41st Millennium—where technology was both miraculous and stagnant—medical guilds held terrifying power. In the core systems, the Orders Hospitaller performed divine healings, and the Rejuvenat Covens could extend a noble's life by centuries, making them young again with blood-alchemies and gene-washes.
Even a backwater guild like the Twin Serpents possessed tech far beyond the imagination of the ancient 3k era. Kian knew that Rudolphson's bionic arm had been grafted in one of their clinics, billed to the PDF's logistics fund.
They could have saved Little Joel, too. A mechanical spinal graft was simple work for them. But Joel was a common soldier, and the PDF didn't cover "disposable assets." Because the family couldn't pay the exorbitant medical fees, the Order had filed a debt-claim with the Enforcers, resulting in the family's citizenship being revoked and their exile to the Sump. It was a perfect microcosm of the Imperium: a glorious machine that ground human lives into grease.
Kian walked toward the local clinic, curious to see the face of the "enemy."
He was stopped at the door by a massive brass-framed notice board.
[OFFICIAL DECREE: TWIN SERPENT CLINIC G-12]
WARNING: By entering a patient-practitioner contract, the citizen agrees to immediate payment upon services rendered. Failure to settle medical tithes will result in summary revocation of citizenship and exile to the Underhive by the Lex Arcanum.
Note: Debts are hereditary. Should the patient expire, the burden falls to the kin. Praise the Throne.
"Lovely place," Kian muttered. "Nothing says 'healing' like a side of collective punishment."
He pushed through the heavy doors. He expected a sterile, high-tech hospital. Instead, he recoiled. The clinic was a thirty-square-meter room filled with the stench of rot and chemical cleaner. Shelves along the walls were crammed with mismatched jars of stimulants and salves.
The center of the room was dominated by a jagged metal operating table. Beside it sat a pile of surgical saws and clamps, still stained with fresh, wet blood—clearly, the "doctor" hadn't bothered to clean up after the last session.
Behind a desk sat a man in a filthy, blood-spattered white robe. He had his boots up on the table, a Lho-stick dangling from his lip, and was lazily reading a local pict-scroll.
"You got credits?" the doctor asked, not looking up. "What's leaking?"
Kian ignored the question. He pointed to a machine in the corner, about the size of an industrial pressure cooker. It was a Centrifugal Sedimentation Matrix—the final piece he needed for his Medicae Station.
"How much for the mixer?" Kian asked.
The doctor's eyes flicked over the top of his scroll. He looked Kian up and down, then let out a derisive snort. "You here to waste my time? Get out before I vox the Enforcers."
Kian reached into his pocket and pulled out the roll of 100,000 Agri-Scrips. He fanned them out, letting the doctor catch the scent of fresh ink and high-denomination scrip.
The doctor's boots hit the floor with a heavy thud. His lazy expression vanished, replaced by a subservient, oily grin. He stood up and pulled out a chair for Kian.
"Ah! A customer of quality! Please, sit, sit! Forgive my manners—the dregs usually come in here with nothing but copper and complaints. Now, why would a man of your... means... want a Matrix?"
Kian sat down, leaning back. "My business is my own. Is it for sale?"
The doctor's eyes darted around, calculating. The Twin Serpent's creed was simple: everything had a price, including life itself. He looked at Kian's PDF-style gear and guessed the man was a black-market contractor.
"It is for sale," the doctor purred. "But that is high-tier Mechanicus-certified hardware. For you? Two hundred thousand scrips."
Kian stood up to leave instantly. He wasn't a "whale." He knew the Matrix was a common civil-grade item produced in the Hive's factorums for about 90,000. This "Space-Squid" was trying to skin him.
"Wait! Wait!" the doctor scrambled around the desk, blocking the door. "We can negotiate! One hundred ninety? One hundred eighty? Fine! One hundred seventy! That's my floor! I'm losing money at that price!"
Kian kept walking. "I'll find another clinic. This one looks like a grox-slaughterhouse anyway."
"One hundred sixty!" the doctor shrieked, following him into the street. "You won't find a better deal in this sector!"
Kian stopped and held up three fingers. "Thirty thousand. It's used, it's dusty, and you haven't turned it on in two years."
"Thirty?! You're insane! I'll take eighty!"
They stood in the middle of the grey street, haggarding like merchants in an ancient bazaar. After five minutes of insults and fake departures, they settled on 70,000 Scrips.
They returned to the clinic. The doctor lugged the machine out, looking genuinely pained as Kian handed over the credits.
"You're a hard man, traveler," the doctor wheezed, wiping sweat from his brow. "This machine hasn't earned me a single scrip since I bought it—the people in this block are too poor to afford the refined drugs it produces. But it still hurts to see it go."
Kian stuffed the Matrix into his rucksack. With the Purifier and the Temperature Controller already in his Sanctum, he finally had the "Holy Trinity" of medical crafting.
[CONTACT UNLOCKED: TWIN-SERPENT SURGEON (DR. DRAX)]
[Reputation: Rank 0]
[UNLOCKED COMMISSARY]
Med-Kits, Bandages, Pain-killers, Antitoxins (Spire Prices).
[MISSION AVAILABLE: THE ETHANOL DROUGHT]
Context: Due to the rebel occupation of the grain-plains, the Hive has implemented strict food rationing. The distilleries have been shut down to preserve starch for 'Corpse Starch' production. This has caused a critical shortage of Medical-Grade Alcohol.
Objective: Deliver 10 units of Medical Alcohol (500ml).
Reward: 500 Scrips + Reputation.
Kian looked at the empty shelves. "Short on supplies?"
The doctor sighed, pointing to a half-empty bottle of clear fluid. "That's my last bottle of ethanol. The grain-ships aren't coming. The Governor is turning everything into 'Nutrient Paste' to feed the billions. There's no starch left for the stills. Soon, I'll be performing amputations with a rusty saw and a prayer."
He leaned in. "If you can find ethanol—real, medical-grade stuff—I'll pay 50 scrips a bottle. I'll take every drop you can carry. My brothers in the other sectors will too. The market is wide open."
Kian's heart raced. He had an infinite supply of rebel potatoes and a Level 2 distillery. He wasn't just looking at a "quest"—he was looking at a gold mine.
"I'll see what I can do," Kian said, his mind already calculating the profit margins.
He left the clinic and followed the main thoroughfare. He needed to deliver Joel's letter. The grey industrial blocks eventually gave way to a massive open plaza.
At the center stood a gargantuan structure of black stone and stained glass: The Cathedral of the Blessed Martyr.
The Ecclesiarchy—the state church of the Imperium—was a titan of power. Their cathedrals were everywhere, reminders that the Emperor was always watching.
The plaza was filled with pilgrims. They moved in slow, chanting circles, carrying votive candles and censers of holy incense. In the very center of the square stood a forty-meter-tall statue of the Master of Mankind. He was depicted in golden Power Armor, a massive Lightning Claw on one hand and a flaming sword in the other—the eternal warrior-king of humanity.
Kian stood at the base of the statue. He looked up at the stone face of the Emperor, then raised his hands to his chest. He crossed his thumbs and spread his fingers, performing the Sign of the Aquila, the two-headed eagle of the Imperium.
He leaned in and whispered to the cold stone.
"Praise the Space King."
☆☆☆
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