Chapter 80: The Pick-up
One standard cycle, while Kian was in the Sanctum grinding his Psionic focus, the "Star-Crossed Lovers" vox channel crackled to life. Lieutenant Rudolphson's voice came through the static, sounding weary. The soldier who had drunkenly wandered into a minefield was officially "processed." He and his family were being purged from the Mid-Hive registry and would be arriving at the Grand Sump-Lift the following morning.
Kian immediately mobilized his core team. He gathered his five able-bodied men, outfitted them in his newly manufactured Grade-4 Russian-pattern Full Carapace Armor, and handed out the PDF autoguns.
They marched into the Neutral Zone Safe Zone looking like a specialized kill-team—sealed helmets, tactical masks, and reinforced plating. The "Sump-rats" loitering near the pumps saw the heavy-metal silhouette of the Voss Syndicate and scattered into the pipes, terrified of a "Map-Clearing" event.
Intimidation worked for a moment, but Kian knew the rules of the Sump. The Grand Lift was the "Feeding Trough." When a thousand fresh victims fell from the light, the rats would return by the thousands, driven by a hunger that outweighed their fear of military hardware. He remembered the blood-bath with Joel's family; he wasn't going to play that game again.
As the lift began its ascent, Kian split his forces. He left Little Joel, Big Joel, Shiv, and Silentium to guard the employee transit lane at the bottom.
Kian himself donned a heavy, tattered traveler's cloak over his armor, stashed his rifle in a large backpack, and stepped onto the lift.
In Hive Tenebris, there was no "Gun Control." In a universe where Xenos invasions happened as often as rain, the right to bear arms was a necessity. However, Kian didn't want to draw the immediate attention of the Enforcer details on the platform. He blended in with the exhausted Mid-Hive laborers heading up for their shift.
The lift reached the Mid-Hive hub. The technicians shuffled off, and the Enforcers began herding the next batch of "Dispossessed" onto the platform. These were the broken remains of the middle class—clat-workers and factory clerks wailing and screaming as the shock-mauls drove them forward.
Kian's eyes scanned the crowd. He found them quickly: a young man in a wheelchair, his legs severed at the knees and wrapped in blood-stained gauze, surrounded by two hollow-eyed parents and a terrified younger brother.
Caleb. The drunken soldier.
Kian stepped forward, waving his hand over the crowd. "Cousin Caleb! Over here! I'm here for you!"
Caleb looked up. Recognition flared in his pale face. He nudged his father, pointing at Kian. Kian kept waving until he was sure they saw him, then he went quiet, his gaze shifting to the Enforcers.
The Enforcer detail had noticed the shouting. Two of them, clad in heavy black carapace and brandishing glowing electric batons, stared Kian down with visible hostility. They were looking for any excuse to "recharge" a civilian's nervous system.
Kian knew that a direct approach or a standard bribe wouldn't work in front of a thousand witnesses. He needed a "Tactical Distraction."
He sat down cross-legged on the metal floor, pulled a heating kit and a tin of "Cluck-Thump" Grox-meat from his pack. He set up the alcohol-tab and opened the lid.
Within minutes, the red oil inside the tin began to bubble. The scent—a violent, intoxicating explosion of ancient Terran Szechuan-style spices, heavy salts, and rendered fat—drifted across the platform.
The effect was instantaneous. In a Hive where even the "wealthy" were now eating flavorless starch-paste, the smell of real, spiced meat was like a psychic attack. The prisoners stopped wailing, their noses twitching. Even the Enforcers—men with high salaries—felt their mouths flood with saliva. They hadn't smelled anything this rich in years.
Kian ignored them all. He used a fork to spear a fatty chunk of Grox-meat, holding it up so the red oil shimmered in the light. He took a slow, exaggerated bite.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
The sound of a hundred Enforcers swallowing in unison echoed through the lift.
Kian stood up, wiped his mouth, and looked at the Enforcer Captain. He didn't say a word. He simply placed four unopened tins of Grox-meat on the floor and kicked them toward the Captain's boots.
Then he looked at Caleb's family and shouted: "Cousin! When we hit the bottom, follow me to the side-gate! I've got a hot meal waiting!"
The Enforcer Captain looked at the tins, then at Kian. He signaled to his team with a subtle tilt of his head.
When the lift hit the Sump floor, the "Audit" began. The Enforcers were just as brutal as always—unlocking shackles and kicking the prisoners into the muck. But when they reached Caleb's family, the shock-mauls stayed silent.
A heavy-handed Enforcer simply gripped the wheelchair and shoved it toward the "Employee" lane where Kian was waiting. No shocks. No beatings. They were "cleared" for transit.
Joel's squad, standing guard at the gate, breathed a sigh of relief as they saw Kian emerge with the new recruits. While the mob of Sump-rats fell upon the other 990 prisoners like piranhas, Kian's convoy slipped into the employee tunnels and vanished toward the brewery.
Back on the lift, as the doors closed for the return trip, the Enforcer Captain picked up the four tins. He felt their weight, a rare smile touching his scarred lips.
"If that rat ever comes back for more people," the Captain muttered to his squad, "make sure you give him a clear path."
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