Chapter 82: Lieutenant Winchester's Purge Begins
The four members of the "K" family returned to the brewery. Shiv gave a sharp rap on the Sanctum's heavy blast door, and Kian Voss emerged, drenched in sweat from his gravity training, wearing only a light tactical undershirt.
He swept his gaze over the newcomers. The transformation was exactly what he had expected. Gone was the high-born resentment and the "High-Cold" posturing. The visit to the Effluent Chute had stripped their ego bare. They stood with their muscles tensed, their posture corrected, looking like "Big-Girl" versions of death-worlders.
"It seems we can't skip the 'CG cutscenes' after all," Kian muttered. "One tour of the Sump and everyone suddenly finds their manners."
Kastor, the father, bowed his head with profound respect. "Master Voss... thank you for taking us in. We understand now. The Sump is a grave, and you are the only thing keeping us from being buried in it. From this day on, our hands and our lives belong to the Syndicate."
Kian grunted. "Good. I have a use for 'Peak Human' genetics. Kastor, Kael—you two are built like Ogryns. I want you carrying rifles and holding the line. Can you do it?"
The father and the younger brother nodded in unison. They understood the local logic: those who carry the guns are the kings of the dirt. In the Underhive, a rifle was both a tool and a status symbol.
Kian beckoned Little Joel over. "Joel, take these two. Put them through the PDF basic training cycle. Focus on discipline. I want them squared away."
Even in the 41st Millennium, the Astra Militarum and the PDF relied on the ancient rituals: standing at attention for hours and the "Holy Rite of the Squared Bed-roll." It was the cheapest, most effective way to grind a civilian's spirit into the shape of a soldier.
Little Joel was a soft-spoken kid, and Kian knew that putting him in charge of two hulking "Tigers" was a risk. But this was a Compliance Test. If the two brutes refused to take orders from a boy, they were a liability. If Joel reported any insubordination, Kian would purge the entire family.
"Mrs. Lise," Kian said, turning to the mother. "You'll join Sansa and Mina in the Logistics Wing. You handle the cooking and the primary starch-prep for the stills."
Lise nodded, her face showing the first signs of relief.
Finally, Kian looked at Caleb, the legless soldier in the wheelchair.
"You. You're in Logistics too. You'll peel tubers and monitor the pressure gauges. But hear me well—there is to be zero consumption of spirits in my brewery. If I catch the scent of alcohol on your breath, I'll kick your chair into the nearest sump-pit myself. Your drinking cost your family their lives in the Spire. Don't let it cost them their lives in the dark. Clear?"
Caleb flinched, hiding his face in his hands as he began to weep. It looked like genuine repentance, but Kian knew the nature of addicts. They repent when the bottle is empty and lie when it's full.
"Everyone has the duty to monitor him," Kian announced to the group. "If he drinks, you report it. If you shield him, you're just as guilty. I'm splitting the brewery into four sectors: Living Quarters, Fermentation Hub, Logistics Staging, and the Aging Vault."
Kian intended to use physical distance to assist the sobriety. He ordered Shiv to expand the brewery's bulkheads. "Once this batch sells, I want you to hire that crew back. We're doubling our capacity. I want ten tons of grain moving through these pipes next cycle. And build Caleb's hab-unit as far from the stills as the walls allow."
The following week was a period of industrial growth. Reno had fulfilled his end of the bargain, running a high-pressure guild-pipe into the brewery, providing a steady flow of purified water.
In the training tunnels, Kastor and Kael stood at attention for three hours every morning under Little Joel's watchful eye. Kael bristled at the PDF "nanny-tactics," but every time he looked at his father's grim face, he swallowed his pride and squared his shoulders.
Then, the Tactical Vox in the Sanctum screamed into life.
It was Rudolphson. His voice was tense. "Voss! Get to the camp. Winchester has made his move. He's filed a 'Purge Petition' with the Colonel to attack Elder Silas's camp. The Colonel is stalling him with red tape, but he's marching at first light tomorrow!"
Kian kicked open his blast door, the Long-pattern Marksman Rifle slung over his shoulder.
"SHIV! LOAD THE TROLLEY! WE'RE MOVING THE PRODUCT!"
The brewery erupted into motion. They had just finished bottling the latest batch of Voss Reserve. Even Shiv's mother, Mina, was helping. Since her Regen-bolt injection, her "Industrial Lung-rot" had vanished; she moved with the energy of a woman twenty years younger.
They loaded the crates onto the cargo-trolley and thundered up the rail-line toward the surface. Rudolphson was already waiting at the Great Ventilator with a heavy transport truck.
"Is the brat at the camp?" Kian asked as they transferred the crates.
"No," Rudolphson grumbled. "Winchester and his 'Albos-Arbor' retinue are at the Battalion HQ getting their final blessings. They'll be back with the company at dawn."
Kian let out a cold, dark chuckle.
"Perfect. He's not there to play warden. I've got a special gift for his soldiers. I've brought a few cases of my 'Blind-Eye Sump-Swill'—the heads and tails from the first run. I'm going to sell it to his men for a pittance.
I guarantee you, by tomorrow morning, his entire frontline will be drunker than a bunch of grox in a fermenting field."
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