Chapter 64: The Spirits of the Sump
The following day, the Voss Distillery finally reached its first milestone. The fermentation was complete, and the pungent, sweet scent of potato-mash filled the conduit. It was time to wake the Machine Spirits of the stills.
Kian directed his crew to haul the heavy, fermented sludge into the reinforced metal distillation vats. Each vat could process over a ton of mash at a time. They connected the reclaimed cooling pipes, hooked the heating elements to the high-output power cells, and flipped the master switches.
As they waited for the condensation to begin, Kian's eyes fell on Little Joel.
The young soldier was sitting in his mechanical wheelchair, methodically peeling a fresh crate of tubers with a combat knife. Kian could sense the tension in the boy's shoulders—the quiet desperation of a "broken cog." Joel was terrified of being useless, of becoming a burden that the "Syndicate" would eventually discard.
Kian reached into his tactical rig and pulled out a Regen-Bolt (the "Green Stim"). This was the high-tier medical injector he had crafted at the Medicae Station—the "Void-Blood Pump."
In the logic of the System, these stims were miraculous. If Kian used one, his health bar would skyrocket, and missing limbs would stitch themselves back together in seconds. But he wasn't sure how it would affect a normal person. His own physiology was "digitized"; Joel was still just meat and bone.
Only one way to find out, Kian thought.
He walked over to the wheelchair. Joel immediately dropped his knife and snapped a crisp, sitting salute. "Master Voss!"
Kian waved him down. "Roll up your sleeve, kid."
Joel hesitated, confused, but obeyed. Kian gripped the boy's forearm, found a vein, and slammed the injector home. He depressed the plunger, emptying the neon-green fluid into Joel's system.
"Go back to your hab-cell," Kian commanded. "Lie down. Pay attention to your spine. If you feel anything—even a tingle—you come find me."
Joel's breathing hitched. He looked at the empty injector, then at Kian, a spark of impossible hope flickering in his eyes. "Yes, sir!"
He wheeled himself away toward the makeshift sleeping quarters. Kian returned to the stills, watching as the first clear liquid began to drip from the output valves.
"Change the vats," Kian ordered as the first bucket filled.
Every distiller knew the rule of "Heads and Tails." The initial output was full of methanol and impurities—it came out a sickly yellow and smelled like industrial solvent. Then came the "Hearts," the high-proof spirit full of flavor. Finally, the "Tails," where the alcohol content dropped and the liquid became watery.
Kian's "Heads and Tails" were particularly nasty, but in the Underhive, "nasty" was a luxury.
"Collect the refuse," Kian told Shiv. "Dilute it with a bit of sump-water and give it to the laborers. Tell them it's 'Blind-Eye Brew.' Sell it to the dregs at the perimeter for a scrip a cup. Waste not, want not."
It was toxic, liver-shredding garbage, but for a starving Sump-rat, a moment of drunken oblivion was worth the risk of yellow eyes and organ failure. It was the "Emperor's Mercy" in a dirty glass.
By the time the entire three-ton haul was processed, the brewery held several massive ceramite basins containing 1,400 Liters of 90-proof potato spirits.
The crew stood in awe. This wasn't just liquid; it was a mountain of credits.
"Boss," Shiv whispered, his voice shaking with excitement. "Do we bottle it? Do we move it to the PDF camp now?"
Kian rubbed his chin. "Not yet. It needs the 'Voss Touch.'"
He returned to his Sanctum and retrieved a bottle of Sanctified Spirits. He looked at the 1,400 liters of moonshine and then at the small bottle of golden liquid.
He didn't pour the whole thing in—that would be a waste, and the pure "Holy Aura" would likely attract every Inquisitor in the sub-sector. Instead, he took a single capful of the Sanctified Spirits and dropped it into a 400-liter vat. He stirred it with a long plasteel paddle for five minutes.
He ladled out a bowl and handed it to Shiv. "Taste."
Shiv drank. His eyes snapped open. He stood perfectly straight, a look of profound peace washing over his face.
"Throne... it's amazing, Boss! I feel... clean. Like my soul just had a hot shower."
"Take another sip," Kian prompted.
Shiv obeyed. He smacked his lips. "It's still good. Very strong. But... that first sip was better. The second one doesn't have that... 'kick'."
Kian nodded. Perfect.
The "Sanctity Effect" was powerful enough to clear a lifetime of Warp-contamination in one go. Once a person's soul was cleaned, the effect of subsequent sips was diminished until the contamination returned.
This was the ultimate marketing strategy. The first sip would be a religious experience. The customers would spend the rest of their lives chasing that first "Soul-Wash," buying bottle after bottle of Voss Reserve just to feel that moment of purity again.
And because it was diluted a thousand-fold, the holy energy would dissipate within seconds of consumption. It would leave no trail for the sensors of the Ecclesiarchy or the Inquisition. It was a "Stealth-Relic."
Give me ten years of this, Kian thought, and I won't just be a businessman. I'll be buying my own Battle Barge.
He turned back to the crew, his mind already calculating the logistics of the first shipment.
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