Kian Voss remained silent for a mont, processing the data. He looked at Sampson, the Labor-Factorum. "Tell —is the current workforce sufficient to keep the reactors at maximum output?"
Sampson gave a stiff, chanical nod.
"Fifteen hundred souls are enough to push the vats to the limit, Lord. The extra eighty individuals in the tally are our 'Mortality Allocation.' We maintain a surplus so that as the front line expires, production remains uninterrupted. We cycle in new blood from the Sump-dregs before the quota drops."
Kian frowned. "Mortality Allocation? How fast are you burning through these people?"
"One month," Sampson replied tonelessly. "On average, we lose eighty laborers every thirty cycles."
Kian leaned back, a "tactical recoil" in his posture. Throne's blood. A workforce of fifteen hundred losing eighty people a month? This wasn't a factory; it was a slow-motion execution chamber.
"Explain the causality. Why is the expiration rate so high? Are the gangs raiding you every night?"
"No, Lord," Sampson said, his voice as flat as a grave-slab. "It is the alchemical rot. As you have seen, the hab-shacks are welded directly to the reactors. Whether working or sleeping, the laborers are breathing the concentrated effluent.
"A child starts the vats at age ten. By twenty-five, the systemic failure begins. By thirty, the lungs are liquid and the bone-marrow is ash. Few survive past the age of thirty-five. Add to that the sixteen-hour shift-cycles... exhaustion leads to chanical errors. Most are crushed by the gears or dissolved in the runoff long before the rot takes them. That is the primary source of our attrition."
Kian let out a sharp hiss. Sixteen-hour days, sleeping in toxic fus, and an average life expectancy that barely hit adulthood. Even for the Underhive, this was inefficient.
He didn't care about "human rights"—that concept had died ten thousand years ago. But Kian Voss was a player. He viewed these people as Durability Points on a piece of equipnt. If your equipnt breaks every month, your profit margin dies with it.
He wanted to climb to the Spire. He wanted to sit at the table with the High Lords. To do that, he needed a stable power base, not a pile of rotting at.
"Change of protocol," Kian commanded, his eyes locking onto Sampson. "We are expanding the workforce to three thousand souls. We will implent a two-shift system. Every laborer works twelve hours, then rotates out."
He turned to Nephal. "You told you have haزمat gear? Respirators and sealed suits?"
Nephal bowed low, his hands clasped nervously. "I have one hundred and二十-five sets of environntal gear, Boss. Not nearly enough for a full shift."
"Give what you have to Sampson," Kian ordered. "Prioritize the high-heat and toxic-drain sectors. As for your shop—stop scavenging junk for a cycle. I want your 'Machine-Spirits' focused on manufacturing sealed fatigues and rebreather-masks. I want a suit for every man, woman, and child in my warren. I'll provide the credits for the materials."
Kian then looked back at Sampson. "The air around these reactors is poison. From now on, no one sleeps here. We are establishing a Residential District."
Sampson blinked, a flicker of confusion breaking his stony mask. "Lord? Where else can they go? The gangs claim every pipe."
Kian pointed to the main conduit, the one leading toward his Sanctum. "Five kiloters down that pipe is the brewery. You will send teams to seal every side-vent and maintenance hatch along that stretch with reinforced plastocrete. We are turning that five-kiloter tunnel into a barracks. When a worker finishes their shift, they take the trolley to the 'Clean Zone' to sleep."
Sampson's fingers twitched. He looked at Kian as if he were staring at a Living Saint. Better hours? Protective gear? Sleeping in clean air?
"Lord... if these edicts are enforced... the mortality rate will drop to single digits. The laborers... they will worship you as an avatar of the Omnissiah."
"I don't want worship," Kian grunted. "I want efficiency. And I want a Regint."
He leaned in closer to the Factorum. "I want that workforce hit three thousand within the month. But hear well: I only recruit those with Kin-Bonds. I don't want lone rats. I want families.
"The mothers and elders work the vats. The young and the strong? I'm pulling them for the Voss Guard. If a man knows his family is eating real at and breathing clean air because of , he won't just hold a rifle—he'll die to protect the hand that feeds them. Do you understand the logic?"
Sampson nodded, his eyes shining with a dark, fanatical light. He understood perfectly. This was the old "Hostage-Loyalty" protocol, but wrapped in a velvet glove of "Decent Treatnt." It was a leash made of gratitude.
"I understand, Boss. I will select only those with sothing to lose. I will find you two hundred of the tallest, strongest youths in the Sump. They will be your iron wall."
Kian patted Sampson's massive shoulder. "Do your work well. Follow my lead, and I won't just promise you a full belly—I'll promise you a future that doesn't end in a waste-vat."
Sampson bowed his head, his voice cracking with genuine emotion. "By the Throne, Lord Voss... for a chance at that, I would march into the Eye of Terror itself. Within thirty cycles, you shall have your army."
Kian watched them depart, his mind already calculating the tactical loadouts for his new two-hundred-man strike force.
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