"The Auspex isn't a permanent 'eye'—it can't stay active indefinitely unless the vehicle is already locked in an engagent," Lieutenant Rudolphson explained, tapping the side of his own head.
"Usually, during transit, a driver will cycle it on for a few minutes of scouting and then shut it down to let the power cells recharge. If you take out the engine, the battery won't be able to cycle. Within minutes, the Auspex will go dark. Most drivers will kill the scanners early anyway, because if the Auspex drains the cells completely, they won't even have enough juice to traverse the turret."
Rudolphson led Kian across the muddy camp to the motor pool. "If you want to know how to break a Chira, you talk to the man who treats them like goddesses."
They found the company's lead driver, Sergeant Niklas, huddled under the tread-guards of a Chira. He was wearing a grease-stained tank-crew helt and was visibly, aggressively drunk. When Rudolphson asked him how one might "theoretically" sabotage a Chira's engine, the Sergeant let out a wet, wailing howl.
He lunged forward, hugging the front glacis plate of the armored transport. "Natasha! You're too old! The Lieutenant has finally grown tired of you! He wants to send you to the reclamation vats! Oh, my beautiful Lady Natasha... I've failed you!"
Kian watched the drunkard's ltdown, barely containing a snort of derision. Rudolphson's face, however, was a mask of cold fury.
"I'm not talking about your wife, Nik! I'm talking about a rival's transport! How do we make a Chira's engine die—but only after it's traveled about forty kiloters?"
Kian leaned in. "It has to look like a chanical failure, not a bomb. It needs to stall exactly when he's deep in the wastes."
The drunken Sergeant sniffed, wiping snot onto his sleeve. He gave the tank's armor a tender kiss.
"Well... if it isn't my girl we're hurting... then it's simple. You don't need explosives. You need Ceramite Dust. Just half a fistful. You grind a piece of reinforced plate into a fine powder and dump it into the fuel reserve. It'll mix with the prothium and act like liquid sandpaper. The fuel filters will hold it for a while, but once the engine really starts to work... pfft. The pistons will seize and the manifold will lt. At a steady cruising speed, forty kiloters is about the ti it takes for the grit to win."
Kian noted the data. It was a "Grimdark" solution—elegant, low-tech, and lethal.
Sergeant Niklas stood up, swaying dangerously. "I've been driving these beasts since I was in the womb! I've spent twenty-five years in the pilot's seat! I even held a wedding ceremony for Natasha and ! Do not doubt my knowledge of the Machine Spirit!"
He jabbed a finger at Kian's chest, his breath slling of high-proof swill. "And another thing! If you really want to insult a transport, you have a man urinate into the fuel intake. The Machine Spirit... she is a jealous lady. She will be very angry. But if I catch anyone doing that to my sweetheart, I'll geld them with a combat-knife!"
Rudolphson grabbed Kian's arm and pulled him away. "Ignore him. Nik loves three things: frozen fish, rotgut amasec, and that tank. He's a lunatic, but he's the best driver in the Northern Sector."
Kian didn't ignore the last part, though. He filed it away. The Machine Spirit. In this universe, technology wasn't just wires and oil; it was an entity. Sabotage wasn't just about breaking parts; it was about offending the ghost in the machine.
As they drove toward the Mid-Hive transit hub, Rudolphson's tone beca more pragmatic.
"I'm going to be pushing the rebel lines hard this month," the Lieutenant said. "I have to outshine Winchester. That ans more skirmishes, and that ans more casualties. I need you to be ready to receive the 'broken cogs' and their families at your brewery."
Kian nodded. "My workforce is expanding. I'll take every able-bodied family mber you send . The vats never sleep."
Rudolphson remained quiet for a mont, his bionic eye whirring as it adjusted to the dim tunnel light. "Those green injectors... the Regen-Bolts. Can you sell a crate of them?"
Kian shook his head instantly.
"I barely have enough precursors to make them for my own crew, Rudy. You saw what it did for Joel. That's not a 'standard' pharmaceutical. If I put that on the open market, it would sell for half a million scrips per vial."
Kian knew the value of his "Green Stims." In a galaxy where bionics were expensive and slow to heal, a "liquid miracle" that could regrow muscle was priceless. If he turned into a simple stimm-dealer, he'd be assassinated by a rival guild within a week.
"I'm sitting on a mountain of gold I can't spend yet," Kian admitted. "I have to grow slowly. If I supply your entire company with Regen-Bolts, the Inquisition will be knocking on my door asking where I found a Standard Template Construct (STC) for bio-alchemy."
Kian looked at the Lieutenant. "But, because we're 'brothers,' I'll sell you one a month. One hundred thousand scrips. Use it on yourself or your best sergeant. That's the limit of my capacity."
Rudolphson sighed, but he didn't push. He understood the logic of the Hive—too much success too fast was just a different way to die.
"One a month," Rudolphson agreed. "I'll vox you when I have the credits. Now, get to the Mid-Hive. You've got a sister to find and spices to buy."
Kian jumped from the truck as it slowed near the lift, his mind already drifting toward the tactical challenge of the Winchester assassination.
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