Chapter 83: The Siege of Stupidity
After the military truck rattled back to Lieutenant Rudolphson's sector, Kian went through his usual routine. He sold his standard batch of "Voss Reserve" to Rudolphson's regulars at the "Distributor Rate" of 8 scrips per 100ml. The soldiers were eager to take the stock and head out to flip it for a profit in the other camps.
Once the "clean" business was done, Kian gathered Shiv and a few trusted men. They loaded up several crates of a very specific, "special" vintage and began the trek toward the encampment of Lieutenant Winchester.
This specific batch of amasec hadn't been filtered. It was laced heavily with the "Heads"—the high-proof, methanol-rich impurities from the first stage of distillation. To a human liver, it was liquid sandpaper. It didn't just get you drunk; it caused instant nausea, violent tremors, and a headache that felt like a bolt-shell to the temple.
They soon reached Winchester's perimeter. The camp was a mirror image of Rudolphson's, yet somehow worse. Soldiers lay slumped on cots in the midday sun, cards were scattered in the mud, and the air of apathy was thick enough to choke on.
Lieutenant Winchester was a Spire-born noble. While he held the title of Company Commander, he rarely graced the barracks with his presence, preferring the recycled, scented air of his family estates in the Spire. His men hadn't seen their commander in two weeks. Without the "Brotherhood" Rudolphson fostered, these soldiers were little more than armed bums in green flak-suits.
Kian strolled into the center of the camp like he owned the place. He kicked a crate open, pulled out two glass bottles, and clinked them together. Clink.
The sharp sound of glass drew the lazy eyes of every derelict in the vicinity.
"Listen up, heroes of the Imperium!" Kian shouted. "Voss Reserve is having a flash-sale! Pure grain-spirit! Tastes like a Saint's tears and hits like a krak-grenade!
"Promotional discount today only! One bottle for 5 scrips! Three bottles for 20 scrips!"
A PDF sergeant materialized in front of Kian, his eyes bloodshot. He snatched a bottle and twisted the cap off. "Three for twenty? You think I'm an idiot? I'll take one for five." He paused, glaring. "If this is 'Chem-Swill' from the Sump, I'll have you put against the wall."
The sergeant tipped the 100ml flask back and downed it in a single, practiced gulp, as if he were taking a vial of medicine.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
The sergeant smacked his lips, blinking rapidly. His pupils dilated until his eyes were entirely black. He snatched a second bottle.
"Damn... hit me too fast. I didn't catch the notes. One more!"
Another 100ml of high-proof methanol vanished down his throat.
Kian winced internally. That was 200ml of pure poison. He expected the man to drop dead on the spot.
The sergeant swayed. He looked at Kian, gave a wobbly thumbs-up, and shouted: "GLORIOUS!!"
Then he collapsed face-first into the mud, snoring loud enough to rattle the truck's fenders. He was out for the count.
Seeing the "quality" of the brew, the rest of the company swarmed Kian. They were so desperate for a buzz that none of them realized Kian's "3 for 20" deal was actually an idiot-tax. They shoved scrips into Kian's hands, grabbed their flasks, and began drinking right there in the dirt. No food, no water, just pure "Heads."
Kian watched the carnage with cold satisfaction. These men wouldn't be able to stand, let alone aim a lasgun, for at least three days. Winchester's "Glorious Purge" was DOA.
As the camp descended into a collective stupor, Kian's gaze drifted toward the corner of the motor pool. There sat the Chimera Armored Transport.
He waited until the last of the sentries had slumped over a sandbag, then he crept toward the vehicle. He used a master-key he'd "borrowed" from Sergeant Niklas to click open the fuel intake.
Kian turned his back to the tank, acting as a shield. He pulled a container from his rig and poured a slurry of Ceramite Dust and low-grade mineral oil into the promethium tank. He'd practiced the movement so many times in Rudolphson's camp that he could do it with his eyes closed.
Once the "sandpaper" was inside, Kian looked around. The coast was clear. He quickly unzipped his trousers and added a "personal touch" to the fuel mix.
It wasn't for efficiency. It was to insult the Machine Spirit. According to Niklas, the spirit of a Chimera was a jealous, proud lady. Pouring urine into her veins was the ultimate dishonor. It would ensure that the moment the engine started to struggle, the Machine Spirit would simply give up in disgust.
Kian zipped up, kicked a few empty bottles aside, and strolled out of the camp.
He returned to Rudolphson's sector and gave the Lieutenant a sharp nod. "The trap is set. Tomorrow, Winchester becomes a casualty of war."
He spent a few minutes purchasing several Remote Detonators from Rudolphson's surplus, then gathered Shiv.
"Shiv, take the earnings back to the brewery. Hire more men—double our construction speed. I want the bulkheads reinforced and the still-room expanded."
Kian then headed into the forest. He found Parson, the rebel liaison, waiting in the shadows.
"Take me to Silas," Kian commanded, mounting a cyber-steed behind the rebel. "We have a war to plan."
Parson spurred the beast, and they galloped into the dark toward the rebel warren.
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