Kian Voss found a heavy iron reinforcent bar, lashed the mangled Tox-Mother to it with so industrial wire, and hoisted her over his shoulder like a piece of salvaged scrap. He strode into the heart of her private bio-alchemical laboratory.
"Alright, sweetheart," Kian said, his voice echoing inside his helt. "It's ti to prove your utility. Give the guided tour. What do all these shiny toys actually do?"
The Tox-Mother felt the cold iron against her spine. Being carried like a common object was a soul-crushing humiliation for the forr queen of the Hounds, but the primal urge to keep breathing overrode her pride. She began to speak, her voice a dry, hacking whisper.
The lab was a masterpiece of "Dark-Adept" engineering. It was packed with synthesisers, atmospheric purifiers, thermal-regulators, and rows of bubbling incubation vats. There were even a few high-end surgical suites equipped with laser-scalpels.
The Mother had used this equipnt to synthesize her "Onslaught-Stimms" and the growth-catalysts that birthed the Chem-Sows. Kian walked past several large glass tanks filled with a glowing green slurry. Inside, several human shapes were floating, their bodies distended and shifting into the recognizable bulk of a Sow-in-training.
Kian whistled, his eyes scanning the monitors. "This setup didn't co cheap. You didn't find this in a Sump-bin. Where did it co from?"
A flicker of bitter nostalgia crossed the Mother's pale face. "I was once a High-Chirurgeon in the Spire," she rasped. "I treated the ailnts of the Great Houses. One noble... a minor Lord... took an interest in my 'beauty.' He wanted to treat his gout, and then he wanted to play 'Private Gas' in his inner chambers.
"I refused. I wasn't a plaything. So, they manufactured a 'clerical heresy' and had purged. I fell to the Sump with nothing but my knowledge and a few loyal technicians. I used my final Spire-connections to smuggle my equipnt down here. I built a warren, took a factory, and used my needles to ensure I would never be 'Dispossessed' again."
Kian smirked behind his visor. A Spire-doctor with a grudge. How very cliche.
"Interesting story," Kian said. "Now, let's talk about the 'ta.' What's the monthly revenue? Who do you ship to?"
"1.5 million scrips a month," she answered. "I have eight million stored in a coded vault. My primary patron is Lady Crimson."
Kian's pupils dilated. Lady Crimson—the noblewoman who ran the "Red Lady" wine brand.
The Wine Monopoly, Kian thought. If I use the Mother's shipping ciphers, I might be able to slide my 'Sanctified Vintage' directly into Lady Crimson's distribution network. I could kill her brand from the inside.
He pushed the thought aside for a mont, looking down at the human nugget on his shoulder.
"Alright, darlin'. Conventional data is settled. Now for the 'Hard Audit.' Why should I let you keep taking up space in my Hive? Why should I feed you starch?"
The Mother panicked. "The formulas! The neural-toxins! The steroid-catalysts! I am the only one who knows the specific chemical ratios for the Sows! If you kill , the secret of the at-Tanks dies with !"
Kian shook his head slowly. "I have a Level 2 dicae Station and a Tech-Priest on speed-dial, sweetheart. I can reverse-engineer a chemical in a cycle. You need to offer sothing better."
She began to babble, offering research data on "Grox-hybrids" and claiming she could hand-craft an Astartes from scratch.
Kian grew bored. He walked out of the lab and into the main plaza, where nearly a thousand surviving Hounds and his own Voss Guard were gathered. He took her hand—her only remaining limb—with a mock-gentleness.
"Co here, dear. I'm going to take you for a ride. We call this 'High-Altitude Testing'."
Kian gripped her wrist, planted his feet, and began to spin. He used his Strength 23 to swing her body in a rapid, horizontal circle, treating her like a human hamr-throw.
The Tox-Mother let out a deafening shriek as she beca a blur of black leather and pale skin.
"The big windmill goes round and round!" Kian sang in a jarringly cheerful voice. "The scenery here is so beautiful today! The sky is grey, the pipes are grey, and everyone's having a wonderful ti!"
As he reached peak velocity, Kian let go.
The Mother was launched into the air like a cannonball. She flew sixty feet toward the vaulted ceiling, her scream fading as she hit the apex of the arc.
Kian didn't wait for her to hit the floor. He snapped his Lasgun up in a fluid, practiced motion.
Bip.
A single ruby beam of sun-fire caught the "projectile" mid-air. The Mother's body didn't just fall; it exploded in a spray of superheated steam and charred leather.
As the remains of the "Old Managent" rained down as ash, Kian turned to the silent, terrified crowd.
"The Audit is concluded," Kian announced. "I now possess the G-9 Reactor, the four Stabilizer-Vats, and the trade routes of the Alchem-Hounds. Welco to the Voss Syndicate. Today's lunch is Grox-at."
The takeover was clinical.
Kian purged the "Wraiths"—the hardcore addicts—and replaced them with 1,500 reliable workers from his original brewery. The "Voss Guard" was split into two wings to garrison both facilities.
With his workforce now numbering 6,000, Kian ordered a massive recruitnt drive. He wanted his standing army to hit 600 soldiers. In the "Space-Feudal" logic of 40k, a man with six hundred armored regulars and a tank wasn't just a gang leader—he was a Baron of the Pipes.
His industrial plan was coming together.
The Fertilizer Plant provided the high-energy explosives.
The Stabilizer Plant provided the chemical tempering agents.
Combined, he now possessed the primary ingredients for Munitorum-grade Propellant.
Kian looked at the lathes and stamping machines in the repair shops. With a bit of re-tooling, he could use the Plastocrete and Ceramics to manufacture his own bullet-heads and casings.
"I have the lead, I have the powder, and I have the triggers," Kian whispered. "It's ti to stop 'salvaging' war and start 'exporting' it."
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