Chapter 47: Establishing the Brewery
Kian had a vast stockpile of Tox-Stimms and Onslaught-Stimms sitting in his crates. He started the first cycle of the Medicae Station, inputting eight Tox-Stimms to begin the refinement of bio-alchemical precursors.
The refinement protocol took only twenty minutes per batch. It was highly efficient, allowing Kian to move on to other tasks while the Machine Spirits of the centrifuges whirred in the background.
A sharp, rhythmic rapping echoed from the Sanctum's heavy blast door. Kian drew his sidearm, checked the reinforced peep-slot, and saw Shiv standing in the corridor.
He cycled the locks. Shiv stepped in, dragging two massive vats of nutrient starch. "Boss, here's the ration haul for the week. Do you have more work for me?"
Shiv was Kian's first "True Employee." He handled the mundane grunt work—collecting the starch-rations from the Safe Zone and delivering them to Kian's door. It saved Kian valuable raid-time.
Kian rubbed his chin, looking out at the dark, cavernous pipe corridor beyond the door. The grain supply was secured. The distribution channel through the PDF was prepped. Now, he just needed the factory.
"Shiv," Kian said, pointing to the tunnel. "I'm tired of looking at these bare walls. I'm claiming this sector. I want to build two fortified bulkheads fifty meters to the left and fifty meters to the right. This hundred-meter stretch of the corridor is going to be my private territory."
He leaned against the frame. "I need muscle for a 'Pouring Job.' Find me a crew. I'll pay a hundred Agri-Scrips a day per man."
Shiv's eyes widened, and he immediately shook his head. "Boss, that's way too much. Those sump-rats will kill each other for ten scrips. If you pay a hundred, they'll think you're a Spire-Lord with a soft head. You'll be a target."
"Ten scrips a day then," Kian corrected himself. "You hire the men. You buy the materials—Ceramite dust, scrap-iron, and high-tensile rebar. You report the expenses to me. The walls have to be thick enough to withstand a krak-grenade. If you finish this on time and with good results, I'll give you a PDF Autogun as a bonus."
Shiv nearly started drooling. An autogun. In the Underhive, a military-grade rifle was more than a weapon—it was a promotion to a higher caste of existence.
"Boss! I'll have a crew here before the next shift-bell! I'll build you a fortress!"
Shiv sprinted away, disappearing into the dark. Kian smirked. He'd always intended to arm Shiv; the boy was his "Factorotum," and a manager needed teeth to enforce his master's will.
Within the hour, Shiv returned with thirty men. They were tough-looking thugs from the Fertilizer Syndicate, scarred and dirty, but they all bowed their heads as they approached. "Master Voss," they muttered in unison. To them, Kian was a "Big Gold" sponsor—a man with more credits than sense, which was the best kind of boss to have.
They arrived hauling bags of Ceramite Dust and twisted metal scrap. In the 41st Millennium, Ceramite was the universal foundation. Low-grade dust was used as industrial concrete; high-grade plates were used to armor Space Marines. It was the material that built the Imperium.
Kian directed the construction. He wanted the bulkheads positioned to enclose a hundred-meter "Safe-Sector" around his Sanctum. The pipe itself was six meters in diameter—a massive, reinforced circle of ancient plasteel.
Shiv's crew went to work with frantic energy. They used industrial drills to bore holes into the existing pipe walls, hammering in thick iron rods to act as "teeth" for the new bulkheads. Without these anchors, the walls would just tip over if someone pushed too hard.
Kian demanded the walls be half a meter thick, with sheets of salvaged steel plate sandwiched in the center. At that thickness, the "Wall of Voss" would be a "Wall of Sighs" for any gang trying to breach it with small arms.
If a rival group brought a heavy melta or an autocannon to his door, Kian figured he'd just bite his suicide pill and let them inherit a crater.
The crew worked with surprising efficiency. By the end of the first cycle, one wall was already standing. Per Kian's instructions, they left a gap for a double-width heavy door and a channel at the bottom for the floor-rails.
Every major conduit in the Underhive had built-in Logistics Rails—relics from the Hive's construction intended for small, automated "Cargo-Crawlers." Over the centuries, most of these corridors had been abandoned, and the small rail-trains had long since been stripped for parts.
Kian needed a functional Sump-Trolley. His brewery would require tons of grain. Moving that much weight twenty kilometers from the surface vent on foot was impossible. He needed to re-establish the rail line.
By the second day, the second wall was finished. A twenty-millimeter thick plasteel gate was bolted into place and secured with a heavy mechanical lock.
Kian now stood in a hundred-meter stretch of private, fortified darkness. His "Territory."
The walls were done. Now came the hard part: building the high-output purifiers, the industrial-scale vats, the heating coils, and the fermentation furnaces.
He needed a Sump-Trolley, and he needed scouts to walk the rails and ensure the path to the Great Ventilator was clear.
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