Chapter 65: High-Proof Diplomacy
The distillation was finished. Now came the bottling phase.
Over the last few days, Shiv had been working the Underhive like a bloodhound. He had scavenged, bartered, and "taxed" over five thousand 100ml dose-flasks. He'd even secured crates of caps, a manual crimping press, and a mountain of shipping boxes.
The flasks had been sterilized in boiling vats—a necessary ritual to appease the Machine Spirits of hygiene. Though they didn't have enough glass for the entire batch, Shiv had supplemented the haul with low-grade Water Guild canisters capable of holding twenty liters each. It was enough to move the product.
After half a day of frantic manual labor, the Voss Reserve was bottled, boxed, and ready for market.
Kian pulled out his tactical vox-unit and dialed the encrypted channel: 350234-KMYY.
"Rudy, the 'Spirits' are moving. Can you provide a heavy-lift escort to the wire?"
"Already?" Rudolphson's voice crackled through the static. "Hold on. I need to check if the Commissariat Inspectors are on the prowl."
The wait lasted nearly twenty minutes. Kian used the time to practice his gravity manipulation, keeping five bolts suspended in the air.
"The coast is clear," Rudolphson finally voxed back. "The Commissars are busy interrogating a 'defeatist' in the motor pool. I'm bringing a heavy truck to the extraction point."
Kian signaled his crew. They loaded the cargo-trolley to the brim and began the journey to the surface.
This time, the convoy was a serious operation. Kian brought Shiv, the Silent One, and Little Joel.
Little Joel was no longer sitting in a wheelchair. He was standing on his own two feet, his posture straight, his eyes bright with the fire of a man reborn. The Regen-Bolt had worked—his shattered spine had knitted back together in a display of medical power that defied planetary logic. Kian wanted to show him off; it was a demonstration of strength. A man who could fix a broken soldier was a man the PDF would protect at all costs.
As the trolley approached the Blackwater Cult's territory, Kian glanced at Silentium.
"Stay sharp. If those mutants twitch, pull their souls out through their ears."
The Psyker said nothing, but a cold, purple aura began to shimmer around his fingers. The Warp-pressure in the tunnel spiked, making the air taste like copper.
The mutants stayed back. They huddled in the shadows of their pipes, watching the trolley pass with eyes full of hunger and fear. Their twitching, mutated noses caught the scent of the amasec, but the psychic pressure from Silentium kept them pinned to the walls.
I'll have to purge this warren soon, Kian thought. I can't have a pack of 'Unclean' sitting on my supply line.
They reached the Great Ventilator. Rudolphson hadn't arrived yet, so the crew sat on the crates to rest. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the tall grass of the forest.
Little Joel was the first to react. He snapped his rifle up, his training taking over. "HALT! IDENTIFY OR BE PURGED!"
Kian reached out and pushed Joel's barrel down. He recognized the man. He signaled the stranger to approach.
"Master Scavenger! You remember me?" the man panted, running forward.
Kian smirked. "Of course. Parson, right? The rebel I saved from a shallow grave."
This was the prisoner Kian had used to find Silas.
"Elder Silas has assigned me as your permanent liaison," Parson explained. "He's established a hideout near the vent. If you need trade goods or wish to send a message to the Cell, tell me. It saves you the trek into the deep woods."
Kian nodded. "Convenient. Tell Silas I need another three tons of starch by the next cycle. I'll trade one PDF-pattern autogun for the lot. Also, tell him I want 'luxury' produce—fresh greens, fruits, and livestock. Enough to feed fifteen people for two weeks."
Kian reached into his satchel and pulled out a vial of Refined Narthecium Antiseptic. He tossed it to Parson.
The rebel caught it with trembling hands. He knew the value of this white powder; it was the difference between a minor wound and a gangrenous death. "Blessings of the Throne upon you, Scavenger! I'll be back with the haul before the sun sets!"
Parson whistled, and a Cyber-Steed—a bio-modified beast with mechanical legs—galloped from the trees. He mounted the creature and roared away at a speed that rivaled a scout bike.
Minutes later, the rumble of an Imperial engine filled the air. A PDF heavy truck rumbled toward the vent, searchlights cutting through the smog. Lieutenant Rudolphson hopped out of the cab, followed by two of his trusted regulars.
Rudolphson went to greet Kian, but he stopped dead when he saw the boy standing next to him.
"Joel? Little Joel?! You're... you're walking?!"
Joel grinned and gave a textbook Imperial salute. "The Emperor protects, sir! But Master Voss provides the medicine!"
Rudolphson turned to Kian, his eyes full of shock and suspicion. "By the Golden Throne, Kian... how? The Twin-Serpent doctors said his nerves were charcoal. They wanted 300,000 scrips for a Logis-Spinal Graft. Did you perform tech-heresy on my boy?"
Kian leaned in, his expression enigmatic. He pulled a Regen-Bolt from his pocket and slid it into the Lieutenant's breast pocket like a fine cigar.
"Don't worry about the 'how,' Rudy. Just keep it for a rainy day. If you get shot or stepped on by an Ogryn, jam that into your neck. It'll stitch you back together before the blood hits the dirt."
Rudolphson pulled the green injector out, staring at the mysterious, unlabeled device. "What is this? Is it Rejuvenat? Alchemy? Where did a scavenger get Spire-tier stimms?"
Kian patted the Lieutenant's shoulder, a cynical grin on his face.
"Don't ask questions, Rudy. Just accept that knowing me is like finding a sleeping Necron in your family crypt—it's a terrifying amount of good luck."
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