Chapter 16: The Marksman's Toll and AP Rounds
[DING! You have delivered 38 PDF Identity Slates to Lieutenant Rudolphson.]
[Reputation Rank: Rudolphson (PDF Logistics) — Rank 0 → Rank 1]
[UNLOCKED REWARDS — PDF REQUISITION]
Standard Sidearm: 800 Agri-Scrips
Mark IV Autogun: 3,200 Agri-Scrips
PDF Flak Plate (Grade 3): 1,500 Agri-Scrips
PDF Flak Helmet (Grade 3): 1,000 Agri-Scrips
[SPECIAL REQUISITION]
Mid-Hive Citizen Cog (Registry Forgery): 100,000 Agri-Scrips.
Note: Hive Cities are fortresses of bureaucracy. Every transit gate is equipped with Gene-scanners and Biometric Cogitators. Without a matching citizen profile, the Mid-Hive remains a forbidden paradise.
Description: Rudolphson has connections. He can "borrow" an inactive citizen profile and splice your gene-code into the Hive Registry. It's expensive, dangerous, and requires a massive bribe to the Administratum scribes.
Kian's breath hitched. A Mid-Hive Identity.
Since he'd landed in this nightmare, he'd been a rat in the sewers and a scavenger in the dirt. He'd never even seen the Mid-Hive. What was up there? He knew that to live in the Mid-Hive meant you were a "True Citizen." You had rights. You had air that didn't taste like recycled farts. You earned at least 2,000 scrips a month.
And more importantly, the Mid-Hive shops probably sold the high-end Sanctum upgrades he couldn't find in the Sump.
But the price... 100k. He currently had 40k in his stash. He wasn't even halfway there.
"I need to farm harder," Kian whispered.
In the corner of the tent, Rudolphson turned on a desk lamp and opened a heavy, leather-bound ledger. He began the grim work of recording the names from the dog tags to report the casualties to the Departmento Munitorum.
Kian ignored him for a moment, using his combat knife to flip the roasting potato slices on the electric heater. "Hey, Rudy," he said, not looking up. "I've run into a bit of trouble lately. I need something with a bit more... 'bite.' Can you help a brother out?"
Rudolphson's pen paused. He didn't look back. "Define 'bite'."
Kian scraped a charred slice of tuber onto a plate. "The Alchem-Hounds and the Fertilizer Syndicate are going to war in the Underhive. A dealer named Nephal is paying me five grand to act as a 'Special Contractor.' I'm taking the job."
Kian looked at the Lieutenant. "But the Hounds have these Chem-Sows. Mountains of meat with scrap-iron plates nailed into their chests. My pipe-shotgun just tickles them. You got any surplus 'problem solvers' in your armory?"
Rudolphson turned around, his bionic eye whirring as it focused on Kian, gauging his sincerity. Kian held out a steaming slice of roasted potato on the tip of his knife.
A silent exchange passed between them. The Lieutenant took the potato, blew on it, and took a bite. Then, he reached under his cot and pulled out a heavy, olive-drab weapon crate. He flipped the latches and revealed a long-barreled rifle.
"Mark VI 'Vindicatus' Semi-Auto Battle Rifle," Rudolphson grunted, checking the bolt. "Standard PDF issue for marksmen. It fires the heavy 8.9x55mm slug. But unlike the standard autogun, this one has a reinforced heavy barrel. It's designed to handle High-Velocity Overpressure rounds. At 300 meters, it'll punch through 15mm of hardened steel."
Kian let out a low whistle. He reached for the gun, but Rudolphson pulled it back.
"This settles the debt for the last extraction," the Lieutenant said firmly.
Kian nodded. "Debt settled."
He took the rifle. It felt glorious. It had a black polymer stock and a rugged, industrial frame. It looked like an ancient Terran M14 that had been redesigned by a Gothic architect.
[TACTICAL COGITATOR SCAN]
[Item: PDF Marksman Pattern Battle Rifle]
Value: 4,500 Agri-Scrips
Weight: 5.5kg
Precision: 89 | Effective Range: 800m
Muzzle Velocity: 1550 m/s
Ammo: 8.9x55mm Heavy Slugs
Status: High-Tier Precision Instrument.
"What about the spice?" Kian asked. "The ammo?"
Rudolphson handed him three 15-round magazines and two boxes of ammunition—50 rounds each. "This is Armor-Piercing (AP) Hardcore. It's high-pressure stuff. If you try to fire this in a standard full-auto rifle, the gas port will melt and the gun will jam. But in this battle rifle? It'll sing."
Kian checked the ammo's stats.
[Item: 8.9x55mm High-Velocity AP Slugs]
Armor Penetration Grade: 5
System Note: Capable of ignoring most civilian and makeshift armor. Guaranteed to penetrate Chem-Sow plating.
"Perfect," Kian grinned. "Piggy's going to have a bad day."
The two men sat by the heater, eating the last of the stolen potatoes.
"So," Kian asked, "How much do the families actually get? The pension for these tags?"
Rudolphson's face went hollow. "1,500 Agri-Scrips. One-time payment."
Kian nearly choked on a potato. "Fifteen hundred? That's it?"
A Mid-Hive citizen earned 2,000 a month. A soldier dies for the Emperor, and his family gets less than a single month's salary for a middle-class clerk?
The Governor wasn't just a tyrant; he was a scavenger worse than Kian. No wonder the rebels were winning the hearts of the farmers. No wonder the PDF was a mess of drunks and gamblers.
They finished the meal. Rudolphson kicked over a folding cot for Kian. "Sleep. Tomorrow morning, my men will smuggle you through the checkpoint into the Mid-Hive transit hub. Don't wander. Take the Grand Lift straight to the Sump. I don't need you getting arrested on my watch."
Kian lay down, his hands behind his head. "Got any more jobs for me while I'm out there?"
Rudolphson was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke. "My Colonel gave me an order. I'm supposed to clear the Great Aquifer Reservoir to the west in two weeks. It's a vital water source, but the rebels have seized it. Word is they've got a thousand men entrenched there."
He paused, a shadow of genuine fear crossing his face. "Two PDF companies were sent in last week. They never came back. According to the few survivors who reached our lines, it wasn't just a firefight. They reported 'distorted screaming' and... ice."
Kian sat up. "Ice? It's the middle of the equatorial summer."
"Exactly," Rudolphson whispered. "I need a scout. Someone who isn't officially on the roster. Go to the Reservoir. Find out why my men are screaming in the dark. If it's what I think it is..."
Kian's mind raced. Distorted screams. Localized freezing.
In Warhammer 40k, that usually meant one thing: Warp Taint. A Rogue Psyker or a Sorcerer of the Ruinous Powers.
"A thousand rebels and a freak with 'the gift'?" Kian smirked, though his heart was pounding. "That sounds like a lot of High-Value Loot. I'll look into it."