Kian peered into the vial. There were roughly thirty small, waxy pills—thirty tickets back to the Golden Throne.
"How much?" Kian asked.
Nephal didn't even look up from his ledger. "Two thousand scrips."
Kian let out a sharp hiss of air. "Two thousand?! For a handful of poison?"
Nephal slowly drew his stub-pistol, spinning it casually on his finger before pointing the muzzle at Kian's forehead. "This one is cheaper. Two hundred scrips per shot. You want the 'bulk discount' instead?"
Kian muttered a curse under his breath about "greedy grox-leeches" and counted out the 2,000 scrips.
Nephal took the money, snapping the bills between his fingers with a look of genuine pleasure. Finally, he was seeing so "return-flow"—getting back the credits he'd paid Kian for loot. It felt like a true Imperial transaction.
Kian pocketed the vial, then paused. "Hey, Nephal. If I wanted to start my own crew... a proper outfit... what does that take in this hole?"
Nephal stopped counting. He looked at Kian, his expression unreadable for a mont. "You're looking to form a Syndicate?"
"I need people to handle the grunt work," Kian said. "I can't be everywhere at once, and I'm tired of lugging my own scrap."
Nephal considered this. He leaned back, his chair creaking in the stagnant air. "Follow ."
He led Kian into a private, soundproofed room at the back of the shop. Once they were seated, he spoke in a low, serious tone.
"In the Underhive, there are two types of organizations. The first is a 'Rat-Pack.' These are small groups of dregs who huddle together for warmth and protection. No fixed territory, no stable inco, no future. They're just scavengers waiting for a bigger predator to eat them.
"The second is a 'Chartered Syndicate,' like us—the Fertilizer Syndicate. We have a fixed hierarchy, a Boss like Iron-Eye, and most importantly, we have a Spire Connection. Boss Iron-Eye has a registry in the Spire; our fertilizer production is an official part of the planetary Tithe. We provide 'True Jobs.' Do you understand how important that is?"
Kian nodded. In the grim darkness of the Underhive, a "True Job" was a shield. Without one, you were just at. With one, the Guilds and Enforcers had a reason to let you live.
Chartered Syndicates like the Fertilizer or Chemical Hounds were essentially feudal manors. They recruited families, gave them work in the vats, and turned their able-bodied n into soldiers to protect the assets.
"To start a proper Syndicate," Nephal continued, "you need a Spire ID, a legal charter from the Governor's tax-scribes, and a functional industry to contribute to the Tithe. You have none of those things."
Nephal gave a thin smile. "However, you can start a Rat-Pack. With your credits and your... unique lethality... you could easily maintain a dozen loyal scavengers. If you're willing to fold them into Boss Iron-Eye's auxiliary wing, I can provide the logistical support."
Kian shook his head. "I didn't crawl out of a grave to be another man's lieutenant. I'll keep my autonomy."
Nephal laughed. He wasn't offended; he respected the ambition. A man with Kian's secrets was bound to rise. It was better to be his friend than his master.
"In that case, let's start small," Nephal said. He raised his voice. "Shiv! Get in here!"
The door creaked open, and the boy who had acted as Kian's spotter during the Sump-War stepped in. "Yes, Boss Nephal? Master Voss?"
Nephal looked at Kian. "You need a hand with the 'grunt work.' Shiv is a good kid. He's sharp, he knows the pipes, and he saw you kill a Chem-Sow without breaking a sweat. He's yours, if you want him."
Shiv stood frozen, looking between the two n. He was being sold—or promoted. He wasn't sure which.
Kian looked at the boy. Shiv was a survivor. He'd run the "straight line" against a monster and lived. He had the right instincts.
"Shiv," Kian said. "You want to work for ? I'm a hard master, but my gear is better and my rations are actual food."
Shiv rembered the sound of Kian's rifle. He rembered the feeling of 300 scrips in his pocket—more than he'd earned in a year. "I'm in, Boss. Tell who to bleed."
"I don't need you to bleed anyone yet," Kian said. "I need you to scavenge."
He pulled out a roll of 1,000 scrips and slapped it into Shiv's hand. Shiv nearly collapsed from the weight of it. In the Underhive, his usual pay as a lackey was 50 scrips a month. This was a king's ransom.
"That's your 'Signing Bonus,'" Kian said. "Don't get drunk. Don't lose it. I've got a list for you."
Kian was officially running a "Scav Run." In the logic of the System, Shiv was his first automated resource-collector.
"Go into the scrap-yards. I need ten ters of plasteel piping, twenty reinforced timber planks, and a bucket of high-tensile bolts. Deliver them to the service-hatch at the end of Corridor 4. If you do it quickly and quietly, there's another five hundred in it for you."
Shiv clutched the money, his eyes wide with fanatical devotion. "Pipes, wood, bolts. Consider it done, Boss! I'll strip the walls of the Hive itself if I have to!"
Shiv sprinted out of the room, fueled by the sheer power of Agri-Scrips.
Kian leaned back, satisfied. "It's good to have employees, Nephal. It really lightens the load."
Nephal watched the exchange with a calculating eye. "A thousand scrips for a scavenger... you're either the most generous man in the Sump, or you're building sothing very dangerous, Voss."
Kian just adjusted his rebreather and stood up. "Why not both?"
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