At the heart of the "Heart of Gears" Industrial Park stood the Gear Tower, a structure rising two hundred meters into the smog-choked air.
"Both of you stand by here. I'll be down shortly," Sisyphron commanded. He left the two Storm Troopers—who stood like immovable gate guardians—at the foot of the tower. Straightening his collar, he pushed open a pair of massive brass doors intricately engraved with gear patterns.
While this location was undoubtedly the administrative core of the park, it wasn't merely a command center; it was also the private residence of Tech-Priest Zol Crick.
The interior was surprisingly opulent, devoid of the grease and grime that plagued the factories outside. Thick, sound-dampening carpets lined the floors, and walls were adorned with precision blueprints from various Forge Worlds—though most were decorative replicas. The air was heavy with expensive incense, a scent designed not only to mask the smell of machine oil but also to soothe frayed nerves, making it a favorite among high-society tech-adepts.
Tech-Priest Zol sat upon a life-support throne in the center of the hall. Most of his body had long been replaced by machinery; countless data cables extended from the throne, plugging directly into ports in his occipital lobe and spine.
As usual, Sisyphron was greeted by the standard daily state of a Mid-hive High Tech-Priest. They had no need to venture outside; so long as they were hardwired into the data-stream, every movement within the industrial park was mapped directly into their consciousness. Which lathe was slowing down, which servitor was slacking, or even which latrine was clogged—if they wished to know, there were no secrets. This sensation of "ruling the world without leaving one's room" was addictive, yet it also bred a certain technological lethargy.
Zol didn't even bother to open his eyes. He was currently patrolling his domain through the sensory feeds of hundreds of servo-skulls. That was until Sisyphron slammed a heavy tactical backpack onto the table.
Clatter—
The zipper slid open, and thirty pristine boxes of "Andy Bio-One" spilled across the mahogany surface.
Zol's remaining organic eye snapped open, glowing with a sudden luminescence, and the data cables connected to his throne twitched. He unplugged one lead as a servo-arm extended fluidly to snatch a box of the medicine. A look of pure joy crossed his features.
"Ah, old friend, you always bring such wonderful surprises," Zol's voice buzzed through a vocal synthesizer, smooth with a metallic edge. "The black clinics below have run dry recently. Only you seem to have a never-ending supply."
While the Adeptus Mechanicus preached that "the flesh is weak," that was mostly for their own spiritual benefit. For the high-level technicians under their command—those not yet eligible for full augmentation—the flesh remained their working capital. If a skilled machinist were amputated due to a severe infection, it represented a literal loss of property for Zol.
Thus, antibiotics were a vital necessity here. In the past, he'd had to grit his teeth and pay the Helios Group's exorbitant prices or, in dire straits, settle for the Plague Doctor's "Green Soup." The other black-market medicines were even worse—utterly unmentionable.
But in the last two months, the Plague Doctor had clearly found a powerful benefactor. The quality had seen a massive upgrade. With Sisyphron as a high-quality, low-cost channel, Zol had long since blacklisted his other suppliers.
Sisyphron pulled up a chair and crossed his legs. He sat with total confidence; he was the client today.
"Tech-Priest Zol, the medicine is here. As per our usual arrangement, I need you to build something for me."
Zol toyed with the medicine box, asking nonchalantly, "Speak then. What contraband is it this time? A lens array for a high-power las-cannon? An optical cloak capable of bypassing Imperial surveillance? Anything but a Titan, and we can talk."
Sisyphron looked at Zol and spoke with a casual tone: "I want to build an orbital dock."
"..."
The air suddenly went still. Only the hum of the server fans behind the throne remained. The medicine box in Zol's hand hit the table with a dull thud. The aperture of his electronic eye narrowed to its minimum setting, staring at Sisyphron as if looking at a lunatic who had just escaped an asylum.
"What did you say?"
"An orbital dock," Sisyphron repeated. "Capable of mooring starships, performing vacuum repairs, and resupplying."
Zol took a deep breath and shook his head with a mocking chuckle. "Sisyphron, did you take the wrong medicine this morning? Or has staying in the Under-hive for too long let the radiation burn your brain? Do you even know what you're asking for?"
Zol stood up, his mechanical tentacles waving behind him in agitation. "An orbital dock is a massive undertaking that only a Planetary Governor or a Fabricator-General can authorize. Even with a permit, you'd need millions of tons of specialized steel, anti-gravity generator arrays, and vacuum void shields. This isn't just a technical issue—it's a resource issue!"
Often, people misunderstood industrial manufacturing, thinking that technology alone was enough. In reality, while Zol had the technical prowess—thousands of tireless servitors, expert technicians, and illegal DAOT blueprints—to theoretically craft a small dock, it simply wasn't worth it. The investment was colossal and the return period was agonizingly long.
Furthermore, Forge No. 7 had been in a state of semi-isolation since a certain Warp storm nearly severed its trade routes. Industrial output was mostly for internal consumption, with only the lords of the Upper Hive managing to export goods via a few remaining smuggling vessels. Building a multi-billion-credit dock in this climate was pure folly.
Most importantly, it was too conspicuous. You could run a black-market factory underground, but hanging a dock in the sky? The Inquisition would be coming down in a shuttle the very next day to audit your soul and ask if you were planning a rebellion.
" I'm not joking," Sisyphron said, his expression unchanged. "My boss has plenty of resources. He just needs your technology and personnel."
"Your boss?" Zol sneered, sinking back into his throne. "Not another upstart from nowhere, I hope? Even if your boss monopolized the entire black-market medicine trade of the Mid-hive, he couldn't afford the keel of an orbital dock. Besides, I'm not taking the job."
Zol waved a polished mechanical hand. "Too much risk. I have a good life now—selling parts, collecting rent, taking the occasional small project. Why should I risk the Inquisition's gaze for your project?"
Zol began to rattle off excuses. "And even if I were willing, you'd never clear the approval process. The vampires in the Mid-hive Management Committee would bankrupt your boss just on the 'stamping fees' alone..."
He kept deflecting, citing the Inquisition, the Committee, the maintenance of his servitors, and even the "political winds" of the Upper Hive. In short: the project was too hot to handle, even for more money.
He knew exactly what was going on. Sisyphron wanting to build a dock meant his mysterious boss wanted an exit strategy. Getting involved was an easy way to end up as a scapegoat.
Sisyphron listened quietly to the rambling. He knew building a brand-new dock was unrealistic, and Andy didn't expect one. But Sisyphron had other methods. As the saying goes: if you want to open a window, people will refuse; but if you threaten to tear off the roof, they'll suddenly agree to the window.
"Fine, stop the nonsense," Sisyphron interrupted Zol's chatter. "I know building a new one is hard. Let's change the plan."
Sisyphron leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a forbidden secret. "In Sector 9... isn't there already one there?"
Zol's voice cut out instantly. His waving mechanical tentacles froze mid-air.
"It's an abandoned base, but the keel is still there, isn't it? And I've heard rumors that there are other things buried underneath it..." Sisyphron stared into Zol's electronic eye, a fox-like smile spreading across his face. "Since building a new one is out, can I 'borrow' the old one? It's a forbidden zone anyway—no one watches it. And you happen to have the connections..."
Zol fell silent. Now he was truly in a bind.
Sector 9 was nominally an abandoned forbidden zone, sealed by the Adeptus Mechanicus centuries ago and now under the jurisdiction of the Mid-hive Management Committee. In reality, it was the "private territory" that the Helios Group had recently been focused on developing. Even a High Tech-Priest like Zol had never personally seen the inside of Sector 9.
Zol had guessed there was a ship down there because Helios had rented several heavy excavators from him recently. Now Sisyphron was asking for it by name. This wasn't "borrowing"—this was an invitation to rob the Helios Group's home!
Zol extended a mechanical hand—where every finger except the thumb was a screwdriver—and scratched his bald scalp with a cringe-inducing metallic rasp.
"Well..." Zol's electronic eye spun as he stammered, "That place... the situation is a bit complicated. You see, while the land rights are unclear, some very important people are currently working in there. I'm just a technician; I can't really intervene in such matters."
Despite his words, Zol was weighing the pros and cons. Most importantly, he had long been dissatisfied with the Helios Group. To those capital giants in the Upper Hive, the independent factories and Tech-Priests of the Mid-hive were nothing but high-level servants. Every time Helios contracted them, the blueprints provided were redacted versions, the deadlines were squeezed to the limit, and the pay was pitiful—with a portion often withheld as "quality assurance."
Even more infuriating, Helios had forcibly "requisitioned" dozens of his heavy engineering servitors to speed up their "10th Generation Factory" project. In the end, they had returned nothing but scrap metal, without even paying for the depreciation. It was an insult to a Priest of Mars and a desecration of the Omnissiah.
Now, Sisyphron's mysterious boss was clearly aiming for Helios. Zol didn't know what resources this man possessed, but if he could let them fight like dogs... no, have a "friendly commercial exchange"—it was a win-win for Zol regardless of the outcome.
If Helios won, nothing happened; Sector 9 was already in their hands. If Sisyphron's boss won, Helios's power in the Mid-hive would be weakened, perhaps even forced to cough up their monopolized market share. As the one who "pointed the way," Zol might even get a slice of the pie.
At this thought, Zol's internal calculations were practically audible. Since someone was brave enough to mess with Helios, why not give them a map?
"Sigh, though I cannot intervene directly..." Zol sighed, his tone shifting. "As an old friend, I can't bear to see you wandering around like a headless fly."
The mechanical tentacles behind him retracted fluidly. Seconds later, Zol fished an old, oil-stained data slate from a pile of junk on his life-support throne.
"This is a topographic map I... intercepted by chance not long ago. It's a structural diagram of the underground pipeline network in Sector 9. It's currently guarded by Helios's private security forces and a host of heavy automated turrets."
Sisyphron reached for the data slate, but Zol kept his hand pressed firmly on it.
"Listen, Sisyphron," Zol's voice became solemn, almost warning. "I didn't give this to you. You found it yourself in a trash pile. If Helios comes knocking, or the Inquisition comes looking, I know nothing. I am just an honest Tech-Priest selling parts. A law-abiding citizen like me would never set foot near a forbidden zone like Sector 9."
Sisyphron grinned. "Tech-Priest Zol, what are you talking about? I found this in a trash pile myself, didn't I? Now, give me back my property!"
He yanked the data slate away and tucked it into his coat.