Chapter 310: Photo Fees at the Tourist Attraction
The next two weeks of transit gave Kian and the Son of Vulkan plenty of time to talk.
He learned the Astartes's name: Nor'n Sokonov, of the Crimson Bite Chapter. Roughly eighty percent of the Crimson Bite's Astartes traced their gene-line back to Vulkan.
"So, sir — you said you were fighting Orks on the Forge World. How was the campaign going, before you went down?"
Kian asked between bites of a ration bar.
Nor'n, sitting on an ammo crate that visibly groaned under his mass, answered evenly.
"A Warboss emerged among the greenskins. Under his command, the human line on the Forge World was bending badly, losing ground continuously.
And the longer the campaign dragged on, the faster Ork weapon technology escalated. War machines, aircraft, powered infantry — all of it appearing in greater numbers as the fighting continued. Every battle got harder than the last. We lost more brothers than I'd like to count.
Before I went down, the hive command on that world was already debating whether to authorise nuclear ordnance."
"That part I can confirm," Kian said. "I caught a Gretchin on that hulk back there, broke him properly — body and spirit — and got everything out of him. Short version: yeah, they used the nukes. Extensively."
Nor'n let out a slow breath. Something like grief surfaced in his red eyes.
"Large-scale atomic deployment carries consequences beyond measure. The surface will turn to irradiated waste. Repeated detonations will throw enough dust into the atmosphere to block sunlight, dropping surface temperatures to lethal lows. And once the upper atmosphere is shredded by repeated blast waves, the surface loses its protection from ultraviolet exposure entirely. Within a generation, that world won't support a single living thing."
Kian could tell the grief was genuine. This wasn't performance. Nor'n was actually mourning the slow death of a planet he'd fought to defend.
Seeing the giant's mood sink, Kian tried to lighten things up.
"So hey, speaking of which — you trashed your power armour, lost your bolter, your chainsword, basically your entire combat loadout. Your Chapter Master's gonna murder you when you get back, isn't he?"
Nor'n's grief-stricken expression snapped instantly into a completely different kind of distress — pure, personal anxiety.
...Oh no. He's right. I lost an enormous amount of consecrated equipment. Is the Chapter Master going to have me flogged?
Why is this mortal like this. I don't actually want to talk to him anymore.
Seeing him recover from planetary grief into garden-variety dread, Kian considered the conversation a success and moved straight to the next item.
"Anyway, sir — I did save your life. Asking for one small favour isn't unreasonable, right?"
Nor'n composed himself and nodded.
"Speak. Whatever is within my power, I will do."
Kian pulled up the saved imagery of the Sword-class escort on the console.
"This ship got captured and converted by the Orks. After they all died, the scrap layers fell off on their own and exposed the original hull. I had it checked over — most of the systems are intact, it's just the propulsion that's gone. Swap the drive section and it'll fly under its own power again.
Sir, you're a noble warrior of the Astartes. Could you maybe... use your connections to get this thing repaired for me?"
Nor'n's brow furrowed hard the moment he understood the actual ask.
"Mortal. Do you understand what a vessel like this represents?
Setting aside whether my life is worth one warship — even assuming my Chapter had both the means and the willingness to restore it, do you have any concept of what's required to crew it? A ship that size needs a minimum of ten thousand trained personnel. Do you have ten thousand experienced spacefarers sitting around?"
Kian heard that and immediately understood he'd overreached.
Right. Astartes were prestigious, sure, but they were military specialists, not refit contractors. Wrong department entirely.
If he'd rescued a Mechanicus Magos or the heir to some Rogue Trader dynasty, that might have gotten him a ship. Save an Astartes, and the best he could hope for was gratitude — not a multi-decade engineering favour that wasn't even in his rescuer's wheelhouse. Astartes had xenos to kill and heretics to purge; they didn't have a century to spare repairing some minor noble's salvage project.
Recognising a lost cause when he saw one, Kian let it drop without further argument. Getting his own ship would clearly take a different path, and a longer one.
The cabin went quiet for a while. Nor'n, for his part, felt genuinely bad about it. He'd been saved, and had nothing meaningful to offer in return — that sat poorly with him.
He noticed the spare suit of mortal-grade power armour stowed in the cabin and considered offering to forge Kian a proper custom suit himself, as partial repayment, given his own skill at the craft.
He opened his mouth to make the offer.
Kian, bored and entertaining himself in the meantime, started humming a little tune.
"♪ Sunshine, rainbows, and a little white pony, doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo... ♪"
Nor'n closed his mouth again.
Two weeks later, the shuttle returned to Secundus-496b and docked at the orbital station in low orbit.
Standard procedure for anyone returning from an Ork-cleanup operation: full decontamination. Ork spores were a genuine biohazard, and letting even trace spore matter reach the planet's surface was not a risk anyone was willing to take. Technicians routed the shuttle straight into the station's full decon bay — gas treatment, liquid sterilant spray, UV bombardment, the works.
Only once the readouts confirmed zero microbial contamination was the crew cleared to disembark.
The hatch opened.
Kian stepped out. Behind him: a three-metre-plus Space Marine.
The station — and within minutes, the entire upper hive — detonated with the news.
An Angel. The Count had gone out on a salvage run and come back with a literal Angel of the Emperor.
Every noble of standing in Hive Tenebris lost their minds simultaneously. The moment word got out, entire households were loading onto shuttles, hauling themselves up from the surface to the station, purely for the chance to lay eyes on him.
An Angel of the Emperor. Seeing one in person — that's worth dying for, if it comes to that.
Close to a hundred shuttles, carrying nearly a thousand nobles between them, jammed the station's modest dock facilities and packed the corridor outside the decontamination chamber wall to wall.
The chamber doors slid open.
A towering figure stepped through — armoured, powerful, radiating the kind of presence that made the assembled nobility feel, collectively, like they were standing in the literal presence of divinity.
The crowd lost what little composure remained. They surged forward as one, desperate to kiss the Angel's armour plating.
Then a figure shot out from behind the Astartes and planted himself directly in the gap between the Angel and the crowd, throwing both arms out and bellowing at the top of his lungs while landing what could generously be described as a flurry of wild haymakers on the nearest nobles.
"BACK! EVERYONE BACK!! I found this Astartes! I dragged him out of a scrapheap with my own two hands!
Photos are ten credits! Printed copies, twenty! Kissing the boot, thirty!"
"Nephew! It's your Uncle Zeppelin! Let me kiss the boot first, surely family gets priority—"
"Family waits in line same as everyone else! Back of the queue!"
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