Chapter 66: The Sump-Bazaar
The crates were offloaded from the military transport into the heart of the PDF forward camp.
Kian looked at Lieutenant Rudolphson as the soldiers handled the bottles with more care than they gave their own lasguns. "How are we moving this? What's the price point? Are there any 'Red Tape' protocols I should be aware of?"
Rudolphson let out a dry, hacking laugh. "Red tape? Voss, unless the Departmento Munitorum sends a high-level Inspector to perform a surprise discipline audit, you can sell what you want, when you want. You can go hab-to-hab, tent-to-tent. Every grunt in this sector will buy at least one bottle just to stop their hands from shaking."
He leaned against the truck's fender. "Or, you can pay a 100-scrip 'Usage Fee' and set up a stall in the Regimental Bazaar."
Kian blinked. "You have an internal market? That sounds like a flagrant violation of Imperial Guard protocol. Does the Colonel know?"
"The Colonel knows that the Governor pays us in prayers and moldy starch," Rudolphson spat. "We have no combat insurance, no disability pensions, and we're the only things standing between the rebels and the Spire's luxury gardens. The Governor should be crawling out here to thank us on his hands and knees."
The PDF soldiers nearby chuckled, clearly used to this brand of cynicism. One of them started telling a joke about the Governor's personal diet of 'Grox-tongue and Saint's-blood.'
"The Governor doesn't treat us like humans," Rudolphson continued, "so morale is non-existent. As officers, we maintain order by letting the men indulge. Drinking is the only way they forget they're in a death-trap. I've reached an agreement with the other Company Commanders: as long as there's no active combat mission, half the men are allowed 'Recreational Leave' in rotations. If you understand their pain, they'll spill their blood for you when you need a promotion. The Colonel? He's the one who authorized the Bazaar in the first place."
Kian marveled at the sheer, beautiful rot of the Imperial hierarchy. Every time he learned more about the local PDF, he realized how easily this planet would fall if an actual threat ever arrived.
They began the initial sale. Rudolphson called over his company—120 men who had spent the last week smelling promethium and fear.
In less than an hour, Kian sold over six hundred 100ml flasks. At the "Friends and Family" rate of 8 Agri-Scrips a bottle, he raked in 4,800 scrips instantly.
"The profit margin on liquid escapism is terrifying," Kian muttered, counting the stained notes. "Eight scrips a bottle is the standard?"
"Actually, the market rate just spiked to ten," Rudolphson corrected him. "When you head to the other encampments, charge ten. You gave my boys a discount because they're 'Voss Associates,' right?"
Kian smirked. "Right. Associates."
"Come on," Rudolphson said, gesturing to the truck. "Let me show you the Bazaar."
They drove a few kilometers toward the inner Hive-wall, stopping at a massive training ground that had been completely enclosed by heavy military tents and sandbags.
The Bazaar was a den of iniquity dressed in Imperial olive-drab. At first glance, everyone looked like a soldier. Upon closer inspection, Kian realized half of them were civilians in scavenged uniforms—merchants and "camp followers" who had bribed their way in.
Kian walked through the rows. It was a carnival of the grimdark.
He saw "Special Services" tents where female camp-followers worked under the protection of NCOs. There were stalls selling illicit chemical stimms, black-market tobacco, and—of course—booze.
Kian pointed to a man at the end of the row selling clear liquid from a rusty drum. "A competitor?"
Rudolphson looked at the man with pure disgust. "That dog-breath? He sells 'Chem-Swill.' It's industrial ethanol mixed with battery acid. It tastes like a plague-pit and gives the men a migraine that lasts for three cycles. It can't compete with real grain-spirits."
Kian nodded. His "Voss Reserve" with its micro-dose of Sanctified Spirits was going to dominate this market like a Primarch in a playground.
"So," Rudolphson asked. "What's the move? You want to set up a permanent shop here, or go camp-to-camp?"
Kian thought about his limited manpower. He had his brewery to run and "Raid-Time" to maximize. "Too much micro-management. I'll make your men the distributors. I'll sell to your 120 regulars at 8 scrips a bottle. They can take them to the other companies and sell them at the market rate of 10. It's a 'Voss Bonus' for your boys. It keeps them happy, keeps them rich, and keeps my supply lines guarded."
Rudolphson's eyes lit up. "A 'Logistics Bonus.' I like it. My men get extra scrips, and they'll treat your brewery like it's a Holy Relic."
They returned to the command tent and summoned the regulars. When the men heard they were becoming "Voss Distributors," the excitement was palpable. They emptied their pockets, spending their entire monthly salaries to buy as many bottles as they could carry. They then vanished into the surrounding encampments like a swarm of very thirsty locusts.
Ten minutes later, Kian saw the first wave of soldiers returning, their faces glowing with victory and their pockets full of fresh scrip. They had sold out instantly.
"Throne's teeth," Kian whispered. "The demand is bottomless."
Rudolphson and Kian sat down in the tent to finalize the audit.
[BATCH REPORT: 1,400 LITERS]
Wholesale Price: 80 Scrips per Liter (8 per 100ml).
Total Revenue: 112,000 Agri-Scrips.
Kian began counting the stacks of scrip. Per the agreement, 30% went to Rudolphson for protection and logistics.
Rudolphson's Cut: 33,600 Scrips.
Kian's Net Profit: 78,400 Scrips.
"Nearly eight grand in a single trip," Kian breathed, staring at the small mountain of paper wealth.
This was just the beginning. 78,000 scrips was the limit of his production, not the limit of the market. He hadn't even touched the other regiments, the Mid-Hive civilian sector, or the medical alcohol market.
Kian Voss was no longer just a scavenger. He was the Liquid Gold King of the North.
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