Human society, even in the nightmare of the 41st Millennium, operates on the grease of relationships. Favors are the real currency, and "connections" are the thickest armor a man can wear.
Kian Voss hadn't expected that a simple signet ring from Lady Nightingale would unlock the loyalty of an entire industrial sub-sector. He had just secured a partnership with the masters of Underhive logistics and fuel production.
"Enough with the pleasantries," Kian said, adopting the tone of a high-born overseer. "Little Hank, have your n prep a high-speed cargo-trolley. I need to visit my northern assets. I have business that won't wait for your Machine Spirits to finish their prayers."
Hank didn't dare question him. A man wearing the House Campella Ring didn't "ask" for transport; he commanded it. "Imdiately, My Lord! We shall assign our fastest driver to your service!"
Kian used the trolley to reach his own brewery. He didn't stay long. He entered the facility and summoned Shiv. He pulled out ten bottles of Sanctified Spirits and slamd them onto the table.
"Listen up, Shiv. The Hive is dying. The rot is spreading. From this mont, the Voss Safe-Sector is under total Quarantine Protocol. No one enters. No one leaves. Seal every bulkhead with reinforced plastocrete. I want the ventilation shafts barred and the floor-rails monitored 24/7."
He pointed to the bottles. "This is the 'dicine.' Every man, woman, and child in my service drinks a cap-full of this every cycle. Boil the water. Cook the at until it's charcoal. If I co back and find a single pustule on a single worker, I'll burn this whole conduit to ash. Do you understand?"
Shiv's expression turned grim. He recognized the "High-Alert" tone in Kian's voice. "I understand, Boss. I'll personally oversee the 'purgation' of the vats. We'll turn this place into a fortress of hygiene."
Kian nodded, satisfied. He grabbed his high-power Auspex Vox-Radio, a fresh satchel of dical supplies, and several bottles of Sanctified Oil. He returned to the rail-trolley and sped back to Little Hank's factory.
He didn't waste ti on a goodbye. He stepped back into the private lift, scanned the golden ring, and vanished from the Sump.
Back in the Mid-Hive Distillery, Kian delivered the radio to Lady Nightingale.
She dialed the family frequency with trembling fingers. After a few minutes of encrypted binary-chatter, she looked up at Kian, a genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion.
"My family is sending a recovery wing," she announced. "They are launching atmospheric craft from the Spire-Tip. They will land at the surface-pads and send an armored detail through the Mid-Hive transit hub. They should be here within the hour."
The Voss Guard—the twenty soldiers Kian had led through the fire—let out a cheer that shook the vats. They were already dreaming of the One-Million Scrip bonus.
Kian leaned against a distillation tower, checking his Lasgun. "One hour, My Lady. We'll hold the gate. Just make sure your boys don't start shooting at us when they see the PDF stripes."
"I have already given them your tactical signatures," she promised.
Exactly forty minutes later, the air outside the distillery began to vibrate. It wasn't the rhythmic thud of PDF boots; it was the heavy, hydraulic whine of high-end machinery.
A rhythmic banging echoed off the main iron gates. Kian cycled the locks and stepped back.
The gates hissed open, and even Kian found himself montarily blinded by the light of the escort's searchbeams.
A Chira Armored Transport rolled in, followed by several high-mobility scout cars. But the real spectacle was the infantry.
Nearly a hundred House Nightingale Retainers marched into the kill-floor. Every single one of them was encased in Mortal-pattern Power Armor.
These weren't the demi-god Astartes, but they were the peak of human military technology. The suits featured servo-augnted exoskeletons that doubled the wearer's strength, integrated rebreathers with three-stage filtration, and a thick layer of high-gloss white-and-gold ceramite plate. They were connected by power-cables to massive backpack batteries, feeding their Heavy-Barrel Lasguns.
To a commoner, one of these soldiers was worth a hundred PDF regulars. To Kian, they represented a logistical goldmine.
The lead soldier—a giant standing over two ters tall—unclipped his helt. His voice was a deep, vox-filtered bass.
"We are the Campella Household Guard. We are here for the Nightingale. Where is the Asset?"
"I'm here," Nightingale said, stepping out from behind Kian's squad.
The guards imdiately ford a protective ring around her, a priest in environntal robes stepping forward to fan her with sacred incense and mutter the Ritual of Purgation.
Once the "faith-based" decontamination was complete, the Guard Commander scanned her with a bio-auspex. "You are fatigued, My Lady, but the spirit-residue is clean. We must return to the Tip. Your father is... impatient."
Nightingale nodded. She gestured to the two heavy luggage-cases sitting on the back of a scout car. "The settlent for my brothers-in-arms?"
The Commander waved a hand. Two armored soldiers hauled the cases into the distillery and flipped the lids.
The Voss Guard nearly collapsed. The cases were packed with high-denomination scrip-rolls. Neatly stacked, shimring, and absolutely real.
One million scrips per man. In the Mid-Hive, these twenty "stinking soldiers" had just beco the new economic elite. They were staring at the money, so of them drooling, others weeping.
Nightingale turned to Kian, offering a graceful, knowing smile.
"Sergeant Voss... or perhaps I should call you 'Partner.' I am intrigued by your industrial foresight. Once the Hive is sanitized, co to Spire-Tip 11. We have much to discuss regarding the distribution of your... 'Holy' vintage."
With that, she was ushered into the Chira. The armored column roared to life and thundered out of the facility, disappearing into the Mid-Hive smog.
Kian watched them go, his hand resting on the Signet Ring. He didn't waste a second. He turned to his stunned squad.
"You lot! Lock the doors! Stay with the Joels! I'm heading back to the Spire!"
"Now, Boss?!" Egghead shouted, clutching a bundle of money. "The place is a war-zone!"
Kian's eyes glead with the light of a man who saw only profit in the fire.
"Exactly! The admins are busy and the servers are wide open! I'm going to loot that Spire until my backpack breaks!!"
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