Chapter 191: The Cause of Chaos Corruption
After that, everyone got a night's sleep in the estate.
The next morning, they headed back down to Mid-Hive.
Kian led the group down to the Mid-Hive distillery — he still had five soldiers posted there holding the fort.
The moment the soldiers who'd gone up to the Spire and bled for their promotions laid eyes on the five who'd stayed behind, the gloating began immediately.
One soldier pointed straight at the garrison men and announced to no one in particular:
"Who didn't get Spire clearance? Who got left behind?"
He pointed again.
"You lot. Servitors."
The five garrison soldiers looked like they wanted to headbutt the nearest wall. The anguish on their faces was genuine — the kind of expression that comes from understanding, in full and horrible detail, exactly what you missed.
Kian raised a hand. "Easy. I've got two hundred household slots to fill — you're all going in. Your families can come up to the Spire too. We eat together or we don't eat. Nobody gets forgotten."
With that, he dismissed everyone to go reunite with their families.
The unrest had ended. Mid-Hive was returning to something resembling normal — the Astra Militarum had withdrawn from the Hive proper, civilians were back on the streets, though the evidence of recent looting still marked the walls and shopfronts here and there.
Kian climbed into a maintenance runabout and drove toward the Ministorum Cathedral. He had business with the Priest — specifically, the question of his equipment.
Because he hadn't forgotten: sixteen lasrifles and sixteen powered exo-frames, all confiscated by the Ecclesiarchy when he'd been quarantined.
The exo-frames especially. The operational possibilities were considerable. He was extremely fond of them.
Get a high-capacity power cell installed, weld on some external armour plating — that's basically a budget Space Marine. Discount Astartes. Still counts.
He needed those back.
The runabout pulled up outside the Cathedral. Kian walked straight for the entrance.
If anything, the unrest had driven more people to prayer — the queue at the doors was substantial, citizens lined up to make their offerings.
Kian didn't queue. He found the duty preacher, pulled back his collar to show the devotional brand on his neck, and was shown through the private entrance immediately.
Deep in the Cathedral, in the receiving chamber, he found Confessor Pious with Sister Teresa — the Confessor was teaching, and Teresa was listening with the focused attentiveness of someone who had decided to take this seriously.
The results were visible. Teresa carried herself differently now — something settled and composed had come into her bearing. She'd also been present for a full exorcism rite, which had a way of accelerating a person's education.
The Confessor looked up at Kian with a mild, welcoming expression.
"Warrior of the God-Emperor. How may I be of service?"
Kian didn't go straight to his request. First, there was something he'd been thinking about.
"Confessor — the Rogue Psyker you destroyed. I noticed the robes carried markings from the Rejuvenat Order. Was he a practitioner?"
The Confessor's expression became grave. He nodded.
"He was. The Rogue Psyker was the head of this world's Rejuvenat Order — an Earl, and a master of life-extension treatments. He had performed rejuvenat procedures for a number of highly-placed individuals. He himself was over three hundred and fifty years old.
Even with access to rejuvenat treatment, his years were running out. I believe that is what drove him to Chaos."
Kian turned this over in his mind.
The Rejuvenat Orders were the pinnacle of mortal life-extension in the Imperium. A competent practitioner could add fifty or sixty years to a patient's life. A skilled one — two to three hundred. The legends spoke of masters who had kept subjects alive for a full millennium.
But for most, three centuries was the technical ceiling.
This one had reached that ceiling. And with his own end approaching, he had chosen to bargain with something that offered more.
Classic corruption vector. Fear of death. Oldest story in the galaxy.
"The thing about daemons," Kian thought, "is that they always deliver on the deal. Just never in a way you're willing to accept."
He moved on to his actual purpose.
"Confessor — when my soldiers and I were quarantined, the Ecclesiarchy's staff collected our weapons and equipment. Is there any possibility of recovering them?"
The Confessor smiled.
"Of course. Your equipment has been in my custody since then — fully purified and cleared. You may collect it whenever you wish."
Excellent. High-grade materiel like that was worth a substantial sum. He wasn't leaving it behind.
He stood to go, then paused — almost by reflex:
"Confessor — is there anything I can help you with?"
The Confessor looked at him with what could only be described as genuine warmth.
"Warrior of the God-Emperor — there is, in fact, a matter weighing on me.
During the unrest, the synthetic starch production facility was targeted specifically by the heretics. It is no longer operational. The Adeptus Mechanicus Enginseer has assessed that repairs will take no less than six months.
Six months without a stable food supply — by the Emperor's Grace, I dare not estimate how many of His people will die.
Warrior — if you have any means of securing food supplies, any way to keep His people fed, you would have the gratitude of every hungry soul in this Hive."
Kian noted the phrasing. No mention of payment upfront. With the Confessor, that was actually the better sign — when he didn't name a reward, the reward that came afterward tended to be significant in ways you hadn't anticipated.
And the man was, by any measure, one of the true rulers of this world. His reach was considerable. Kian had experienced that firsthand.
He hesitated, then decided on honesty:
"Confessor — full disclosure: I have existing contacts with the rebel forces operating outside the Hive wall. They hold significant agricultural territory. I can likely secure food through those channels.
But given current Hive policy regarding the rebels—"
The Confessor's voice was firm.
"Do not concern yourself with that. Act boldly. Whatever it takes to prevent the Emperor's people from dying of hunger is justified.
You have my backing. Whatever comes of it, I will answer for it.
The rebels stand against the Planetary Governor — not against the Emperor. They are still His subjects. They are still entitled to His light."
Something about the Confessor in that moment — Kian could have sworn the man was practically glowing.
In a galaxy as comprehensively bleak as the 41st Millennium, a genuinely righteous man was a genuinely remarkable thing.
Kian straightened.
"Your will, Confessor."
Business concluded, Kian glanced over at Sister Teresa.
"Teresa — how's the training coming along?"
Teresa looked slightly embarrassed. "I remain largely ignorant, I'm afraid."
The Confessor spoke up warmly:
"Sister Teresa is a diligent and dedicated student. She has committed the majority of the Holy Scriptures to memory, and I have occasionally observed the Emperor's light flickering through her.
In a few months, I intend to have her lead devotional prayer — to formally carry His radiance to the faithful."
Flickering light. Right. That'll be the Sanctified Rations. The wafers had measurable effects on psychic aptitude — regular consumption was accelerating her development in ways the Confessor was reading as genuine spiritual progress, which it probably also was.
I should bring her more of them. Get her eating one every day. Let the Emperor's essence soak in properly.
"Ahem — Teresa. Next time you get leave, go home and visit. Your brother will be coming up to the Spire."
With that, Kian took his leave.
The Cathedral lent him a cargo hauler so he could take all the weapons and equipment in a single run.
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