Chapter 161: The Maintenance Vault
The gang boss instinctively recoiled several paces, his hand twitching toward his holster. He wanted to turn aggressive, but the sheer mystery of Kian's arrival—descending from a private nobility-tier lift—forced him to suppress his violent urges.
"Master... forgive my intrusion," the boss began, his voice tight. "But identify yourself. Why have you emerged from a sanctuary of House Campella?"
Kian didn't answer. He simply raised his hand, pointing his middle finger directly at the boss's face.
The gangers hissed, hands flying to their weapons. They thought it was a crude insult, a challenge to their authority in their own warren. The boss's face turned a mottled purple, his jaw set for a kill-order.
But then, his eyes caught the glint of the ring on Kian's finger.
He saw the specific series of microscopic High Gothic runes etched into the adamantium band. Those were the sigils of the Inner Circle—marks that only a High Factorum or a direct blood-proxy of House Campella was authorized to wear.
The boss's lungs seemed to collapse. The "Warlord" persona evaporated instantly, replaced by the posture of a groveling servant.
"By the Throne! Forgive me, My Lord! An Imperial Auditor has descended to inspect our humble production! Please, step forward! Lead the way, Excellency!"
Kian let out a bored, rhythmic hum. He folded his hands behind his back, puffed out his chest, and adopted the "Aging Bureaucrat" persona he'd seen in a hundred Spire-propaganda picts.
"And you are... what was the name?"
"You may call me Little Hank, My Lord!" the forty-year-old brute squeaked.
Kian nodded slowly. "Very well, Little Hank. Tell me: what is the output of this facility? What is the Tithe-yield for this cycle?"
"My Lord, we specialize in high-viscosity Promethium Blends and heavy-duty Industrial Lubricants."
Kian nodded with the gravitas of a man judging a planet's fate.
"Oil is the lifeblood of the Imperium, Hank. It is the sacred ichor that allows the Machine God to breathe. We must ensure absolute stability in the production lines. We must grasp the cord of safety, tighten the noose of efficiency, and master the secrets of the sanctified forge. Remember the 'Spire Five': 4 levels of inspection, 3 tiers of control, 2 core objectives, and 1 standardized truth.
"Little Hank... your journey toward industrial perfection has only just begun."
Across the plaza, half the gangers looked like they were going to fall asleep from the sheer boredom of the administrative lecture. But Little Hank was staring at Kian with wide, hopeful eyes.
Initially, he had doubted Kian's ragged uniform, but this level of meaningless, high-level bureaucratic nonsense? This man is definitely a Spire-Steward, Hank thought. Or at least a very high-ranking secretary. No one else talks that much without saying anything.
"Yes, Excellency! Your wisdom is like a beacon in the Sump! We shall memorize the 'Spire Five'!"
Kian patted the man's massive, scarred shoulder and pointed toward a nearby structure that was emitting a deafening mechanical whine.
"What is that hangar for?"
Hank turned, pride swelling in his chest. "That is our Trolley-Forge. We have the complete suite of maintenance tools for the Underhive rail-trains. Most gangs in this sector rely on us to keep their cargo moving. They pay us heavy tributes in scrip and scrap to appease their machines."
"Only trolleys?" Kian asked, his tone skeptical.
Hank straightened his back. "It started that way, Lord. But after decades of reclamation, we've acquired Spire-tier lathes and heavy-duty stamping rigs. We can repair almost any terrestrial vehicle now. If the parts are provided, we can even hand-forge a light scout-car from raw iron!"
The man was clearly a master of "Sump-Engineering." Kian saw the opening and decided to test the "Gothic Aggro."
"Impressive. But tell me, Hank... can your 'Mastery' extend to a Chimera Armored Transport?"
Hank's jaw didn't just drop; it hit the floor-plates. He looked around frantically, as if the Arbites were listening from the pipes.
"Lord! Please! Do not joke of such things! My facility is a 'Clean' shop! I would never touch unlicensed military hardware! The Lex Arcanum would have us all recycled!"
Hank's eyes were darting everywhere but Kian's face. Kian smirked. The idiot is lying through his teeth. He's definitely fixed a tank or two for a corrupt PDF officer in the past.
Kian coughed, his expression becoming predatory. "I'm being serious, Hank. Can. You. Fix. A. Chimera?"
In Kian's mind, he saw the dozens of stalled, abandoned Chimeras in the Spire streets. Some had run dry; others had their treads fouled by meat and rubble. A few had been hit by the mad PDF's anti-armor fire. Most were structurally sound. If Kian could repair them, he wouldn't just have a militia; he'd have an Armored Division.
Hank shook his head like a frantic child. "No, Lord! No technology! No knowledge! I have never seen a Chimera in my life!"
Kian sighed, clasping his hands behind his back. "A tragedy. I was looking for a partner for a truly... monumental... windfall. But if your 'Mastery' is limited to toys, I shall have to find someone with a bigger heart."
Little Hank froze. "A... windfall? My Lord... may I ask the scale of this... opportunity?"
Kian leaned in, the scent of expensive amasec (from the Lady's stash) on his breath.
"A minor logistical issue," Kian whispered. "The war in the Spire has left a dozen Chimeras 'stalled' in the neutral sectors. The High Command wants them recovered, but they don't want to deal with the Adeptus Mechanicus. You know how the machine-heads are—incense, prayers, and a ten-year repair cycle just to tighten a bolt.
"The military is looking for an 'Independent Contractor' to perform rapid-cycle maintenance. They're offering 500,000 Scrips per functional unit returned to the line. I've been looking for a crew to take the contract."
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The sound of Hank's heart rate accelerating was almost audible in the quiet corridor.
Five hundred thousand scrips per tank. Ten tanks. Five million scrips. That was half a year's revenue for the entire factory in one weekend of work.
Hank's face went through a spectrum of internal struggle—the risk of tech-heresy versus the promise of legendary wealth.
Finally, with an expression of pained, greedy resolution, he looked at Kian.
"My Lord... it just so happens I have a 'friend'..."
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