Several days later, every broadcast channel in Hive Tenebris was commandeered for a mandatory special program: Ten People Who Moved the Hive.
A presenter with the bearing of a retired academic sat behind a lecture podium, slapped a wooden gavel against the surface, and began in the most theatrical voice he could manage.
"Who rose from the lowest depths of the Underhive to stand among the great nobility of this world? Who stepped forward when xenos threatened our ho, when our defences had failed and our people were dying? Who, despite commanding wealth beyond imagining, looked upon the suffering of ordinary citizens and gave everything he had, asking nothing in return? Square jaw! Face of an angel! Holy blade burning gold above his head! Today, in our Ten Who Moved the Hive honours program, we turn our full attention to the Baron of Whitepaper City, Battalion Commander of the 109th Regint, Pious Crusader: Lord Kian Voss!"
The man himself was at that mont lying on an enormous bed in General Zeppelin's fortress tower, hands folded behind his head. Zeppelin was to his left. Cavendish was to his right. All three of them were staring at the ceiling-mounted screen.
The presenter spent two full hours praising Kian in High Gothic without repeating himself once, exhausted his entire vocabulary of superlatives, and finally signed off.
Kian raised a thumbs-up at the screen.
"Accurate. asured. Beyond dispute."
Zeppelin was still clutching a stuffed cushion, the haunted look of a man who hadn't fully processed recent events still visible on his face.
"Nephew. I genuinely thought you were dead. I thought you were finished. And then you pulled out that."
He gestured vaguely, trying to recreate the image of a power sword erupting in golden psychic fla.
Kian waved it off.
"It's not that impressive. Mostly useful for lighting cigarettes."
He produced one from his breast pocket, stuck it between his lips, snapped his thumb and forefinger together. A small golden fla appeared. He lit the cigarette.
Cavendish, from his right, cleared his throat carefully.
"Young master. That is the Emperor's blessing. Using it to light cigarettes may not be entirely appropriate. Do you think it might... irritate Him?"
Kian exhaled a smoke ring at the ceiling.
"He's on the Golden Throne running the Astronomican and holding back the Warp. He is not tracking my cigarettes."
He extended the fla toward Cavendish.
"Want one? It's not every lifeti you get to light a smoke off the Emperor's psychic fire."
Cavendish and Zeppelin exchanged a look.
Several minutes later all three of them were lying on the enormous bed blowing smoke at the ceiling, the ashtray balanced on Zeppelin's chest.
The General tapped his cigarette against the rim.
"I'll say this much. The Emperor's fire does sothing for the flavour."
"It does," Cavendish agreed. "Noticeably smoother."
"Keep talking like that," Kian said, "and I'll light one for the Inquisitor in the rafters and the Grey Knight under the bed as well."
The cigarettes finished. The banter wound down. Kian's tone shifted.
"Uncle. I didn't spend four months dying daily and set up a Hive-wide broadcast duel just to make a list of inspirational civilians. I did it for money, soldiers, and political leverage. Where do we stand?"
Zeppelin nodded, sitting up slightly.
"I know. I'm working on it. The military side is straightforward: you'll get a full regint, an elite designation, ten thousand n under your command. Spend a few years building your record in that role. Then we identify a general who needs to have an accident, I handle the logistics, and we manoeuvre you into the vacancy."
"No need. Point at the target and I'll handle it myself. Keep costs down. Manage the household finances properly."
"Absolutely not. You cannot have this kind of thing touching your reputation."
"Uncle. I am famously impossible to damage. And I am not going to let you spend money that will be mine in eighty years."
Cavendish stepped in before the argunt could develop.
"The military path is manageable. The title is the more complex question. Your current standing almost certainly warrants a Countship, but the grade of Countship varies enormously. A nominal title with no territory attached. A title with a tower and residential rights. A title with tens of thousands of square kilotres of land. Private military rights, taxation rights, legislative standing, a vote in the Planetary Governor's council — all of these are separate considerations that need to be negotiated rather than assud."
Kian turned to Zeppelin with mild curiosity.
"You're a Count, aren't you? If I get elevated to Count as well, does that complicate inheriting your title?"
Zeppelin shrugged.
"Titles don't cancel each other out. When you've had children, let your second son inherit mine. Solves the succession problem neatly and keeps your eldest from having to fight anyone for the primary estate. Better for everyone. And prepare yourself: within a few days, the Planetary Governor will almost certainly summon you in person. What you've done requires a formal audience and a direct grant of honours."
This caught Kian's genuine curiosity.
"What's he actually like? He's been locked inside that Spire for years. Is he just deeply committed to staying ho?"
Sothing nostalgic crossed Zeppelin's face.
"The Governor and I are the sa generation. Both from military noble families, both born on this world. We were children together, actually. He was a reasonable sort back then.
His ascension was largely accidental. The previous Governor couldn't et the Imperial tithe and was burned alive by the Adeptus Terra's representatives. This one paid the debt out of his family's entire fortune and got handed the title. He's been doing the job ever since.
My read on him: he runs hot at the start of anything and loses interest quickly. After seventy or eighty years behind a desk drowning in administrative docunts, I think he simply got tired of it and started pulling back.
Twenty years ago, just before the rebellion started, the tithe fleet arrived on schedule. The arrangent on this world runs through the neighbouring forge world: our agricultural output goes to them, they convert it into additional weapons production, the combined package goes to the fleet. That year a global crop failure hit. Yields collapsed. To cover the shortfall, the Governor began extracting what the land couldn't produce through direct force.
A coalition of ambitious nobles and starving farrs rose together, and the whole world went up. The tithe went undelivered. The Governor spent the next several years expecting the Adeptus Terra to send a punitive fleet. The fear of that broke sothing in him. He stopped appearing publicly, and that habit has calcified over a decade into what you see now."
Kian thought about it.
"So is he a tyrant or sothing else?"
Zeppelin was quiet for a mont before answering.
"He's a pitiable Planetary Governor. The sa as most of the ones who've held this world across the centuries. From the perspective of the farrs outside the Hive, he stripped them of everything they had and called it duty. From his own perspective, he was filling a tithe quota to keep the fleet from coming and collecting paynt in lives instead of grain. The rebellion felt to him like total betrayal by everyone he was responsible for. And that was the end of him, in the way that mattered."
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