Chapter 73: The Path of the Warlord
Reno let out a sharp, drunken bark of laughter. "Grounded! Emperor's teeth, Voss, you're literally ten kilometers underground. You couldn't be more 'grounded' if you were buried in a tomb!"
He drained his glass, his eyes widening as the "Soul-Wash" effect hit him for the third time. It was the most exquisite sensation he had ever experienced. Despite the high-vintage amasec he kept in his Spire-side villa, this crude potato-vodka had a "kick" that felt like it was scrubbing the very soot off his spirit.
"Good! Truly a blessed vintage!" Reno roared.
After a few more rounds of roasted Grox-fowl and spiced tubers, the atmosphere in the brewery turned conspiratorial. Kian leaned in, testing the waters.
"Reno, I hear the way you talk. You aren't just a Guild Overseer. You're a Spire-born 'Lord,' aren't you?"
Reno waved a greasy fork dismissively. "A fringe noble, Voss. A younger son of a minor house on the edge of the atmosphere. I don't have a seat at the High Governor's table. I'm just a glorified plumber for the Spire. Not worth mentioning."
Kian patted the bottle of Voss Reserve. "Do you think this would sell up there? Among the 'True' Nobility?"
Reno considered the bottle with a sudden, sobering gravity. "The taste is unique. The... 'clarity' it provides would make it a hit among the bored and the paranoid. But you have three problems, Voss. First, Spire-Lords don't drink 'Sump-swill.' It's a matter of status. Second, potato-vodka is a peasant drink. They want high-sugar spirits: Wine, Brandy, or Rum.
"And third," Reno added, pointing a finger at Kian's chest, "Your production line is a hole in the dirt. No noble is going to buy a bottle that was fermented next to a sewage pipe. It's an issue of 'Lineage'."
Kian was desperate to tap into the Spire's wealth. "So, give me a roadmap. How do I get my foot in the door?"
"First, move your operation to the Mid-Hive," Reno said, his speech beginning to slur. "You need a registered factory, a Mechanicus-blessed still, and a legal Tithe-license. I know of a few defunct distilleries near the Grand Lift. They shut down because they ran out of grain. You could 'reclaim' one for about a million scrips.
"Then, you need a noble guarantor. Someone to vouch for your 'Spire-Identity,' pay your bribe-taxes, and grease the palms of the Enforcers and the Administratum. I could do it for you... but my fee is 800,000 scrips. Half for the 'official' bribes, the rest for my 'consulting' time."
Kian did the math. 1.8 million scrips just to start being legal. He felt a wave of irritation. The Spire wasn't a city; it was a protection racket.
"And the ID?" Kian asked. "How does a rat like me become a Lord?"
Reno held up three fingers.
"One: Join the PDF and survive until you hit the rank of Major or Colonel. Officers of that rank are granted Spire-residency by default. Or, if you're lucky enough to be drafted into the Astra Militarum and survive a decade of galaxy-spanning hell, you might come home with enough medals to buy a title."
Kian shook his head. "I'm not joining the meat-grinder. I don't fancy being turned into a red smudge on a world I can't pronounce."
"Two: Marriage," Reno chuckled. "But let's be honest, Voss. You're not exactly a Spire-model. Unless you find a noble daughter who has a fetish for scars and the smell of gunpowder, you're not marrying into a title. You're a 'Hard-Tack' man, not a 'Silk-Sheet' boy."
Kian smirked. "I appreciate the honesty. What's the third way?"
"The 'Retainer' path," Reno said, stabbing a piece of meat. "You build an empire in the shadows. If your brewery earns a hundred million scrips a month, a Noble House will eventually notice you. They'll offer you a 'Consultant' role. You become their personal dog in the Underhive. You give them thirty percent of your profit, and they give you a Spire-badge. It's a pretty cage, but it's still a cage."
Kian's expression turned cold. "I don't do 'cages,' Reno. I want to stand tall while I make my money."
Reno looked at Kian—really looked at him. He saw the man who had 'died' and walked back into his office. He saw the man who had built a functional industry in a war zone from nothing.
"Then you have only one option, Voss," Reno whispered, his tone turning deadly serious. "You have to become a Warlord. You have to become so powerful that the Governor has to make you a noble just to stop you from burning the Hive down."
Kian leaned in. "Define 'Powerful'."
Reno held up one finger. "A Regiment. Not a gang of dregs with pipes. I mean a full combat regiment—three thousand men,全員全員全員, equipped with military-grade hardware and PDF-level training.
"If you have a squad, the gangs kill you. If you have a company, the Enforcers kill you. If you have a battalion, the PDF clears your sector. But if you have a Regiment? Then killing you is too expensive. It's cheaper to buy you. The Governor will give you a Baron's title, a family name, and a legal charter just to fold your 'private army' into his defense force."
Kian's mind raced. A Warlord path. It fit the "Extraction" logic perfectly.
"Has anyone actually done it?" Kian asked.
"Ten years ago," Reno nodded. "A rebel leader named Malchus crushed three PDF lines and laid siege to the Hive. The Governor personally went to the wall to negotiate. He made Malchus a Baron and turned his rebels into the PDF 996th 'Overwork' Regiment. They're still on the payroll today. Malchus is a Spire-Lord now. He's tired, he's overworked, and he has no holidays, but he's high-born."
Kian grunted. "Sounds like a plan. But to build a regiment, I need money. To make money, I need water and power. My batteries are running low, and filtering sewage for the vats is taking too long."
Reno, now thoroughly drunk, slammed his hand on the table. "Electricity is hard. The Mechanicus hoards the generators. But water? I AM THE WATER!
"Listen, Voss. If you can 'sanitize' that mutant warren near the effluent pipe—the Blackwater Cult—I'll run a high-pressure line from the Mid-Hive pumps directly to this conduit. Unlimited, high-purity water for your stills. No filters required."
Kian's hand stopped mid-reach for the bottle. "Unlimited Spire-water? Is that a contract?"
"I am Reno of the Mercator Aqua!" the Overseer shouted, before his head suddenly hit the table with a dull thud. He was out.
Kian looked at the sleeping noble, then at the Guild guards who were happily devouring the remains of the Grox-fowls. He stood up and beckoned his crew.
"Shiv. Big Joel. Silentium. Gear up."
Kian handed out the PDF autoguns. He gave each man six full magazines. He donned his own flak-armor and hoisted The Bulldozer—the drum-fed auto-shotgun. He checked his supply of gas grenades and remote detonators.
"What's the mission, Boss?" Shiv asked, racking his bolt.
Kian's eyes glowed with a cold, digital hunger.
"We're going to clean the neighborhood," Kian said. "My brain is locked on the 'W' key and the Left Mouse Button. We're going to the Blackwater warren, and we aren't coming back until every one of those 'Unclean' freaks is a memory.
I want my unlimited water, and I'm going to paint those pipes red to get it."
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