The 81st's regintal commander was a man with a short fuse. He ca up in his scout vehicle, saw his soldiers' bodies on the ground, said sothing unprintable, raised a PDF-pattern submachinegun, and emptied a magazine into the sky.
"Which one of you Emperor-forsaken wastes of gene-stock killed my n?! Step forward!!"
He had a big voice and a fearso reputation and he was accustod to both doing the work for him.
He had not accounted for the possibility that soone on the other side had a bigger voice and less to lose.
Kian was on top of a Chira before the last echo of the submachinegun died. He grabbed the pintle-mounted Lumberer-pattern Heavy Stubber, racked the charging handle, swung the barrel, and opened up.
DOOMDOMDOMDOMDOM.
Twenty-millitre rounds chewed a line across the dirt road, each one throwing up a spray of earth, walking directly toward the scout vehicle and then along its length — punching through both front tyres, collapsing the vehicle onto its rims, stopping with the last burst close enough to the commander that he could have asured the distance in boot-lengths.
The 81st's commander discovered that he had broken into a cold sweat at so point in the last three seconds.
Kian released the trigger, sniffed, and put a very deliberate spit over the side of the Chira.
"Your mother's sha! You think you're hard?! Those n on the ground — I put them there myself! You want to do sothing about it, co at from the front, you miserable waste of rations!
All units — weapons on that vehicle. He moves, he's the first target!"
The 109th found their spine imdiately. Every weapon in the formation ca up. The Chira turrets tracked to the sa point. Several hundred barrels and four armoured vehicle guns, all pointing at one man in a broken-down scout vehicle on an open road.
The 81st's commander was a genuine combat veteran who had led his regint through serious fighting. Right now his legs were doing sothing involuntary and he was very unhappy about it.
His soldiers were watching him. He couldn't flinch visibly.
He dropped the submachinegun and jabbed a finger at the Chira.
"Which unit are you?! You fired on my n — do you have any idea who you're dealing with?!"
Kian pointed a middle finger back.
"I know exactly who I'm dealing with — the sa sad accident I had to apologise for when you turned up! You want to have this conversation or do you want to keep shouting?!"
The 81st's commander was red to the hairline. A full regintal commander, a man who had fought his way across contested territory for months, being spoken to like this by a battalion commander.
He was also, privately, regretting the decision to drive his scout vehicle to the front of the formation. The intention had been to project authority and end the situation quickly — arrive with presence, dominate the scene with rank and personality. In his experience this worked reliably.
The problem was the Chira. His scout vehicle had the armoured protection of strong feelings and an optimistic attitude. The man shouting at him was inside a vehicle built to shrug off autocannon rounds. If it went loud, the outco was not complicated.
"I made a tactical error," he muttered to himself, quietly enough that no one heard it.
He raised his voice.
"You have no discipline! I'm not engaging with this. Explain to why your people stopped my vehicles and killed my soldiers!"
His own troops noticed that their commander — who typically operated on a policy of zero explanation, maximum volu — had suddenly elected to ask a question. Several expressions went carefully neutral.
Kian spat again.
"Your people fired first and put my battalion's second-in-command in the dicae tent! Your vehicles were passing through 109th Regint's operational area, and instead of showing so basic courtesy, your n pulled weapons on soldiers from my regint. You want an explanation? That's it.
I'm putting this clearly: if the 81st doesn't account for what happened to my officer, nobody here is leaving today. We settle it here, last man standing. Let's see whose fist is harder."
He actually had no reliable information on who had fired first — Hans was in treatnt and not available. But that was beside the point.
In any dispute involving his regint, the other party was wrong. This was a matter of principle, not evidence. If he couldn't hold that line in front of a thousand soldiers on both sides, he might as well turn in the command.
The 81st's commander understood the dynamics perfectly. Right and wrong had stopped being relevant. This was about leverage and positioning, and right now he was sitting in a broken vehicle with no cover while the man he was arguing with was in armour.
He shifted his weight to rise from the seat.
Kian's hand moved to the Heavy Stubber.
The commander sat back down.
He said a word that wasn't for polite company. Then, loudly:
"Current situation noted. What exactly do you want?"
Kian's expression didn't warm.
"My battalion's second-in-command is down. He may not co back from it. Your soldiers are responsible. You'll compensate accordingly."
He pointed at the road — at the immobilised haulers, their tyres flat, loaded to the brim.
"Those vehicles and their cargo cover the dical costs."
The 81st's rank and file exploded.
"You've got so nerve — that food was bought with blood!"
"You want supplies, go to the front line and earn them! There are plenty of rebels up there waiting for you!"
"Those loads go to my family! You touch them and I'll—"
Kian picked up his vox-handset. His voice went flat and quiet, which was worse than shouting.
"Want to test ? Let's test each other.
Artillery — respond."
"Artillery receiving. Awaiting orders, sir."
"All batteries load incendiary chemical rounds. Set targeting coordinates on the current grid. Await my command — one full salvo, fire for effect."
He lowered the handset and looked at the 81st's assembled soldiers.
"Here's where we are. Those ten loads of food — they either go to the 109th Regint, or they go up in smoke. Your choice. You've got until I decide I'm done waiting."
[End of Chapter 214]
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