Kian Voss extended his invisible psionic feelers, sliding the ethereal threads into the rear hatch of the Command-Pattern Chira. With a sharp ntal twist, the lock-chanism clicked, and the ramp hissed open.
Instead of a squad of soldiers, Kian was t by a wall of high-end vox-arrays and flickering cogitator terminals. This wasn't a troop transport; it was a mobile nerve center.
Unfortunately, the "Nerve Center" was currently full of corpses. Four PDF Command-Adepts were slumped over their displays, blood leaking from their ears and eyes. They had been killed by the kinetic overpressure of the rebel's suicide IEDs—their internal organs turned to mush while the armor remained largely intact.
Kian unceremoniously dragged the bodies out and dumped them into the street. He was moving fast; they hadn't started to sll yet, and the Chira's sealed environntal systems had prevented the "Laughing Rot" from converting them into Poxwalkers.
He perford a rapid "Asset Grab" inside the hull.
[LOOT ACQUIRED]
2x Las-Carbines (Short-pattern, high-cycle).
4x Master-crafted Las-pistols.
12x High-Explosive Frag Grenades.
These were Storm-Tithe veterans; their gear was the gold standard of the PDF. Kian moved to the driver's cab. He checked the power cells—they were nearly full. The fuel gauge showed half a tank of prothium. But when he mashed the ignition rune, the Machine Spirit gave a sickly, tallic groan.
He hopped out and tried the manual crank-handle. He spun the handle with his Strength 40 muscles until the air hissed, but the engine refused to ignite. The internal manifolds were likely warped by the heat of the previous explosions.
"Engine's junk," Kian muttered. "But the hull is worth a Spire-wing."
He jogged back to his Twin-Linked Lascannon Chira. He pulled a massive plasteel towing-cable from the rear storage and hitched it to the Command vehicle's front bumper. He slamd the gear-lever and throttled up.
Slowly, the combat tank began to haul the command station through the marble boulevards. Because of the weight, Kian couldn't speed; he had to move at a slow, grinding crawl to avoid snapping the cable. Fortunately, the "Luminator Cleanup" he'd perford earlier had cleared the nearby streets. He reached the Nightingale warehouse without seeing a single giggling face.
Kian scanned his ring, the lift doors opened, and he dragged both armored beasts into the elevator.
[EXTRACTION INITIATED: TOTAL ASSET MIGRATION]
"Families, we are eating good tonight!" Kian cackled, checking his HUD. "One Cogitator Array, two Chiras, twenty-four Las-pistols, six Las-rifles, ten heavy-shotguns, and two hundred Grade-7 Bolts. I'm having a 'Carbon Coma'! I'm drowning in loot!"
Kian was high on the dopamine. With this haul, he could outfit several chanized platoons. He would beco the absolute Warlord of the Northern Sump.
But first, the ritual. He couldn't bring Spire-rot back to his vats.
He set up a periter of Sanctified Candles and Sacred Incense around the pile of guns and the tanks. As the holy smoke began to swirl, Kian pulled out a bottle of Sanctified Spirits and sprayed the amasec across the armored hulls.
He struck his lighter.
WHOOSH.
Brilliant golden flas erupted, dancing across the plasteel. The spiritual heat didn't damage the paint, but Kian felt the "Psychic Stench" of the Warp evaporating into the exhaust fans. Every trace of Nurgle's influence was burned away in the Emperor's light.
Ten minutes later, the lift hit the Sump-Level. The doors opened to reveal Little Hank's "Reception Committee."
Hank stepped forward, then stopped dead, his eyes bulging as he looked at the two massive Chiras occupying the lift.
"My... My Lord..." Hank stamred. "You actually did it? You brought back the Imperial Steel?"
Kian stepped off the ramp, throwing an arm around Hank's shoulder and pointing at the vehicles.
"This one needs a deep-cycle maintenance script," Kian said, pointing to the Lascannon variant. "The other one needs a total engine-reconstruction. You understand the protocol, Little Hank?"
Hank's head bobbed like a frantic toy. "Understand! Crystal clear, Excellency!"
"Good. You fix these girls, and the Voss Syndicate will ensure your scrip-rolls are as thick as a Leman Russ's armor."
Hank shivered. "My Lord... I told you... it's not . I have a 'friend.' A very talented friend who specializes in unauthorized armor repair."
"Right, right," Kian smirked. "Everyone has a 'friend.' Just get to work."
Hank ordered his n to bring out a heavy-duty industrial hauler. The gangers were awestruck as they towed the Chiras out of the lift. Kian watched the hauler work—it was a high-torque beast that moved the tanks with ease.
"Hey," Kian called out. "Borrowing that hauler. I'll bring it back in two cycles."
Hank's face twisted in agony. The hauler was one of his factory's most vital assets. "Lord... please... that machine is the heart of our logistics. If it's lost..."
Kian didn't argue. He reached into his loot pile, grabbed a pristine Storm-Tithe Las-rifle, and tossed it to Hank.
"Take this. Give it to your kid as a toy. Now, give the keys to the hauler."
Hank clutched the high-end energy weapon, his jaw trembling. To a gang-boss, a real Las-rifle was worth more than his own life.
"If you put it like that, My Lord... the keys are in the ignition."
Minutes later, the lift was clear. Kian roared the hauler into the elevator and ascended back to the Spire. The Nightingale armory was empty, so he turned his attention to the streets.
He drove the hauler through the darkened boulevards, a nomadic predator hunting for steel. He used his flar to clear any Pox-hordes that blocked his path, then checked every abandoned vehicle he found.
So were too far gone—scorched husks with zero salvage value. But others were "Biological Hazards."
Kian found a third Chira slumped near a bridge. He used his psionic touch to pop the rear ramp and imdiately recoiled, nearly vomiting into his rebreather.
The interior was a nightmare. A dozen Poxwalkers were inside, but they weren't just "trapped." Their bodies had fused with the leather seats and the plasteel walls. at and tal had beco one, forming a pulsating, wet organism that filled the hull.
And the floor... the floor was covered in a writhing carpet of Sump-Grubs—maggots the size of fat sausages. As the door opened, the grubs turned in unison, dragging their bloated bodies toward Kian like hungry puppies.
"Throne preserve !" Kian shrieked.
He didn't check the engine. He didn't look for credits. He raised the flar and emptied an entire tank of Sanctified Fuel into the hull.
He turned the corrupted tank into a roaring pyre, watching as the "at-Machine" shrieked in a dozen human voices before being silenced by the fire.
☆☆☆
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