Chapter 137: The Iron Audit Begins
Before Kian Voss stood two hundred soldiers. Every man was encased in matte-black Grade-4 Carapace plate, their faces hidden behind vox-filtered tactical masks. They carried refurbished PDF autoguns, their chests crossed with canvas webbing heavy with spare magazines.
In front of the ranks, five wheeled 20mm Lumberer-pattern Heavy Stubbers sat like squat predatory insects, flanked by the idling bulk of the Chimera Armored Transport.
This was everything Kian had built since crawling out of the Sump-muck. It was his private army—the steel hand of the Voss Syndicate. Now, he was going to use that hand to seize a kingdom.
Kian paced the line, his heavy boots echoing on the plastocrete.
"They say 'to serve is to live,'" Kian's voice crackled through the area-vox. "But I say, to survive is to rule. In three cycles, we go to war with the Alchem-Hounds. You've bled in the training pits, you've eaten real meat, and you've felt the clarity of the Voss Reserve. Now, I want to see if you can hold a trigger when the world turns red.
"You are all grunts today. Nameless cogs. But after this audit? The survivors will be Sergeants. The heroes will be Lieutenants. Your rank will determine your meat-ration and your family's safety.
"Do you want to be a rat in the dark, or do you want to be the man holding the whip? Prove your worth on the field, and I'll buy you the Spire itself!"
He slammed a fist against his chest-plate. "Eat! Drink! The vats are open for the next three days! If you're going to the Emperor, go with a full belly!"
Three cycles passed in a blur of promethium fumes and battle-hymns.
The Tox-Mother was not taking the challenge lightly. Losing the G-9 Reactor was not an option; more importantly, the humiliation in the Mid-Hive demanded a tribute in blood. She had emptied her private coffers, recruiting over three thousand "Wraiths"—stimm-addicted junkies who viewed her as a goddess of the needle.
She had also hired a core of five hundred independent mercenaries—gunners with functional stubbers—and spent a fortune on her greatest breakthrough: Conditioned Chem-Sows.
Previously, the Sows were mindless monsters that ate anything in their path. But the Mother had developed a "Repulsion-Scent"—a chemical cocktail that triggered an ancestral nausea in the beasts. Her own troops were coated in the scent; the Sows would flee from the Hounds and charge blindly toward anything that smelled "clean"—the enemy.
"Hehehe..." the Mother cackled, standing amidst fifty dormant, steel-plated Sows. "The upstart will learn that the Sump belongs to the Chemist. I will liquefy his bones and bottle his screams!"
The Alchem-Hounds arrived at the Strategic Vault (Sector S-65) first, fortifying the central container stacks. They waited in the dark, the air thick with the scent of toxic breath and high-proof stimms.
Then, a low, rhythmic vibration began to echo from the opposite conduit.
The Voss Guard marched into the vault. It was a vision of professional lethality that made the mercenary gunners among the Hounds hesitate. This wasn't a gang; it was a mobilized PDF battalion in all but name.
Leading the column was the Voss Armored Rail-Destroyer. The second car of the cargo-trolley had been encased in reinforced plasteel, topped with a rounded, rotating turret. A massive, water-cooled barrel protruded from the cupola, currently covered in a protective canvas shroud.
The trolley stopped at the edge of the clearing. The Voss Guard fanned out, taking cover behind shipping containers with military precision.
Kian Voss stepped forward, his Lasgun slung over his shoulder. He looked at the sea of three thousand junkies and let out a sharp, derisive laugh. He raised his tactical vox.
"Oi! You pale-faced, drug-addicted bitch!" Kian's voice boomed across the vault. "Are you ready to have your backside audited by my boots?!"
From the heart of the junkie horde, the Tox-Mother let out a shriek of fury. "You bastard! I'll have you gelded! I'll make you eat your own manhood in the dark!!"
Kian grinned behind his mask. He raised both hands and extended two middle fingers toward the Hound lines.
"I'm not targeting anyone specific," Kian shouted. "I just want to say: Everyone here is Trash.
"You're all foundling-scum born from a recycling bin! Your only function in this galaxy is to waste the Emperor's oxygen! Why don't you do the Hive a favor and crawl into the recycling vats? Does it not shame you to exist? Did your parents see your faces and decide that death was a kinder alternative? Oh, wait—I forgot! You don't have parents! You were spawned in a vat of sludge and taught to call a pale, hormone-imbalanced leech 'Mother'! I've seen better faces on a Nurgle-beast! How do you even open your mouths without gagging?! You should just—"
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!!
The Hounds couldn't take it anymore. Kian's "Toxic Lobby" output had broken their fragile, drug-addled minds. A wall of lead from five hundred stubbers erupted from the Hound lines, sparks dancing off the plasteel containers around Kian.
He dove for cover, laughing. the "Aggro" had been successfully pulled.
"CHARGE!" the Mother shrieked. "TEAR THEM APART! BRING ME HIS TONGUE!"
The three thousand junkies let out a collective, chemical howl. They slammed fresh needles into their necks and surged forward—a tide of grey flesh and rusted iron.
Kian scrambled into the turret-car of the Rail-Destroyer. He tore the canvas shroud away, revealing the Wrathful Lumberer.
He gripped the spade-handles, his thumbs hovering over the firing plates. He pulled a heavy brass flask of Sanctified Spirits from his belt and poured it directly into the open receiver.
"Drink deep, my angry lady," Kian whispered. "It's time for a long, loud conversation."
He depressed the firing plates.
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!!!
The "Enraged" Machine Spirit screamed. A two-meter flame erupted from the water-cooled muzzle as the 20mm Lumberer began its unstoppable cycle.
The Strategic Vault was about to be repainted in a very specific shade of red.
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