Chapter 69: The Vulturous Chirurgeon
After settling matters with Rudolphson, Kian Voss moved deeper into the Mid-Hive. He navigated through a series of transit-shuttles and reinforced gene-gates, heading back toward the district held by the Order of the Twin Serpents.
As he walked, Kian witnessed the "Mid-Hive Malaise." It was like a gothic version of the Great Depression. Pedestrians shuffled along with bowed heads and grey, hollow faces, their spirits crushed by the industrial grind. Fragments of their desperate conversations drifted through the stagnant air.
"A week since the synthetic starch factorum opened, and I haven't seen a real vegetable since," one laborer groaned. "Everything tastes like sawdust and wet cardboard. What's the point of breathing?"
"Be glad you're eating at all," his companion hissed. "I heard they're cutting the labor tiers again. If you lose your job and can't pay the air-tax, it's the Sump for you. My brother was 'Dispossessed' last month. Emperor knows if he's still meat or just ash by now."
Kian adjusted his hood, concealing his face. If this were a strategy game, the "Civilian Satisfaction" meter would be flashing a violent red.
As he turned a corner, a shadow detached itself from a dark alley. A man in tattered, multi-colored robes approached a complaining passerby, whispering with a feverish intensity.
"Citizen... do you know why you hunger? Do you know why the Spire-Lords hoard the harvest while you eat grey sludge? Have you heard the word of the Verdant Lord? He who brings the bounty... He who feeds the soul..."
Kian didn't stop to listen. Chaos cultists, he thought. The moment the belly is empty, the Daemons start offering snacks. Standard procedure.
Kian reached the Twin-Serpent Clinic. He didn't bother knocking; he kicked the heavy metal door open and stepped inside, only to be met by a scream so sharp it nearly turned him around.
A man was strapped to the jagged metal operating table. Dr. Drax, the resident chirurgeon, was hunched over him, wielding a small industrial power-saw and a pair of serrated forceps. Blood was spraying the floor in wet, rhythmic pulses.
Kian watched for a moment, realizing what was happening. The man on the table had lost both thumbs—likely a factory accident. Drax was currently attempting to graft two primitive, rust-colored mechanical thumbs onto the raw stumps.
To Kian's eyes, the augmetics were appalling. They looked like something a blacksmith would forge for a stable-hand, not precision medical gear. He doubted the man would ever feel his fingertips again.
Drax spent another thirty minutes sweating over the "surgery" before unbuckling the patient.
"There. You have thumbs again. Now, remember your anti-septic rituals," Drax barked, wiping his bloody hands on his filthy white robe. "If you fail to settle your monthly installments over the next fifteen years, your factory-cog and your hab-unit become the property of the Order. Now, get out! Throne's blood, man, did you soil yourself on my table? The stench is appalling! I'm adding a 'Sanitation Fee' to your invoice!"
The patient, pale as a ghost and barely able to stand after an unanesthetized surgery, was shoved out the door. Kian half-expected the man to drop dead in the street from shock.
Drax ignored the blood-soaked table and turned to Kian with a wide, oily grin.
"Ah! My favorite customer of quality! What brings you back to my humble sanctuary? Do you have a fever? A growth? Come, lie down—I'll open your skull and see if we can't find the source of your worries!"
Kian shook his head. "Let's skip the 'consultation.' I'm afraid if I talk to you for more than five minutes, I'll find a 5,000-scrip charge for 'Air-Usage' on my bill."
Drax slammed a hand on his desk, feigning offense. "Master Voss! You wound me! I am a man of the healing arts! My rates are a bargain... though for a psychiatric evaluation, I would usually add another zero to that figure!"
Kian rolled his eyes and pulled ten 500ml bottles from his pack, lining them up on the desk. This was the "High-Proof" medical ethanol he had refined at his Medicae Station. To ensure the purity, he had even used his Psionic Sight, monitoring the molecular vibration of the spirits until they hit the perfect 75% antiseptic threshold.
Drax's eyes bulged. He snatched a bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a deep, appreciative sniff.
"Praise the Master of Mankind... you actually did it! Real ethanol!"
He pulled a glass hydrometer from a drawer, tested a drop, and watched the needle settle at the perfect mark. He checked all ten bottles with the frantic energy of a man finding water in a desert.
"Beautiful! Pure! I'll take them all! Five hundred scrips for the lot!"
Drax reached for the bottles, but Kian's heavy, armored hand slammed down on top of them.
"No. That was the 'Introductory' rate. Now that you know I can deliver the goods, we need to talk about the Real Price."
Drax froze, his face twisting as if he'd just bitten into a lemon. "What?! You want more? You demon! You heretic! You are corroding my holy soul with your greed!!"
Without a word, Kian began putting the bottles back into his bag. "Fine then, 'Holy Man.' I'll take my 'corrosive' alcohol to the clinic three blocks over. I hear they're down to using recycled engine-coolant to wash their saws."
Drax's expression shifted instantly. He lunged across the desk, grabbing Kian's arm. "Wait! Stop! Don't be hasty! We can negotiate! We are men of commerce!"
Kian smirked. "Oh? You're not worried about your soul being defiled by my 'dirty' booze anymore?"
Drax let out a huff of resignation. "Dirty booze becomes warm gold after the proper transmutation. Sit down. Let us discuss the tally."
The doctor poured Kian a cup of bitter, grey "Black-Leaf Tea"—mostly sawdust and synthetic caffeine. The vulturous chirurgeon sat back, his hooked nose twitching as he rubbed his spindly hands together.
"So, my 'quality' customer... how much of a mark-up are we talking?"
Kian held up four fingers.
"What?! Forty scrips per bottle?! That's a four-fold increase! Impossible!"
Kian leaned back, crossing his arms over his flak plate. "Forty scrips per one hundred milliliters. That's 200 scrips per bottle. Don't haggle with me, Drax. I'm the only one on this planet moving high-purity grain spirits while the Governor is hoarding the starch. Take it, or I walk."
Drax began to pace, ranting about "overhead," "friendship," and "the sanctity of life."
Kian listened until he was bored, then stood up and reached for the bag. "Listen, you vulturous leech. If you were actually saving lives, I'd give you a discount. But you're a debt-collector with a power-saw. You sell misery for a living. Don't play the high-road with me."
Drax stopped pacing. He slumped his shoulders, putting on a look of submissive, pathetic compliance. He leaned over the desk, his hooked nose nearly touching Kian's chest.
"Fine... fine. But tell me... if I start saving lives... truly saving them... would you consider a 'Benevolence Discount'?"
Kian stared at him, speechless at the man's audacity. The doctor was literally trying to "grind" a moral buff to get a better trade deal.
Kian grabbed his pack and headed for the door. "Buy the booze, Drax. If you want to be a Saint, do it on your own time. I've got a Cathedral to visit."
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