One Size Fits All

[bluntblade]

  It takes considerable will to disagree with a Primarch, but the Iron Hand is sufficiently unhappy about the situation. “This is not our way, Lord Guilliman.”

 

  The Lord of Ultramar inclines his head, but he is unmoved. The gesture is simply a necessary acknowledgement. “I appreciate that, but the Galaxy has shown it has little respect for ‘our ways’, whatever those may be. The circumstances must dictate our actions.”

 

  Captain Reznar Brodarek considers his response. He stands among a score of other Tenth Legion officers, but only five of them align themselves closely with him. A sword sits within a stylised cog on their pauldrons - the mark of Clan Mardach. The rest of the officers bear different sigils.

 

  Neither Guilliman nor his lieutenants - Drakus Gorod of his bodyguard and Tetrarch Valentus Dolor - are ignorant as to what this all signifies. The Clans of Medusa are not like the Chapters of the Ultramarines, relatively interchangeable components of a greater machine. Each Clan was conceived as an army in its own right, with its own supply chain and rigid hierarchy.

 

  Guilliman appreciates the virtues of such a system, for he has studied it in detail. But in the wake of the Dropsite Massacre, he sees more drawbacks than strengths. Ultramarines Chapters hold to a uniform base structure, allowing for easy consolidation in the case of severe losses. Guilliman doesn’t doubt that Remus Ventanus and Eikos Lamiad, stranded on Calth, have done exactly this with their companies. This is less easily achieved with the Iron Hands.

 

  Brodarek is keenly aware of that perception. The circuit-tattoos which cover one side of his face shift as he frowns. “Circumstance would seem to favour your way of doing things, Lord Guilliman.”

 

  “I am a Primarch. My mind can compass matters with rather more alacrity than even one with your considerable gifts, Captain Brodarek.” No boast there: it was a simple statement of fact. He held out a hand, palm up. “We have only the practical to work with, so let us consider the situation at hand. Your forces number one thousand, five hundred and seventy-one. The gene-wrights in the Fortress of Hera advise us that we have-” he glances to the Apothecary stood nearby.

 

  “After our culturing efforts, Lord, four hundred and twenty sets of gene-seed.”

 

  Brodarek and his fellows look mildly uncomfortable, save for those whose augmetics preclude subconscious body language. They doubt the Ultramarines have grouped these by Clan origin.

 

  “I can give you aspirants and wargear.” At that last point, a captain wearing the profiled skull of Clan Atraxii runs his eyes over the assembled Ultramarines. He’s plainly wondering how Konor-wrought sub-patterns will look in Tenth Legion colours. “They will be sufficient for you to fight as two units of something approaching Chapter-strength. But that will only work if your force is collated into something cohesive.”

 

  “From what we have heard of our kin, Meduson of Sorrgol has not had to resort to such.”

 

  “I do not doubt that your kinsman has benefitted from his approach, but Meduson is not preparing for a long countermarch to Terra. We are, and we will profit from unity in our approach.”

 

  Another officer, this one clad in bulky Tartaros plate and marked by the emblem of Clan Kreto, growls at that. “And would you have us reorganise ourselves accordingly? Ten companies of ten squads?”

 

  Guilliman gives him a tolerant look. “Below the Chapter level, Captain Mearann, you may do as you please. Retain whatever structures seem best to you. They may help to reintegrate your forces back into their old shapes when this is all over.”

 

  Brodarek exchanges a look with Mearann, who appears mollified. So do the others.

 

  Then he turns back to Guilliman. “We will confer on this.”

 

-----

 

  Gorod waits until the Iron Hands are well away from the chamber before he speaks. “They were the most difficult yet. I’d have expected the Scars to be more trouble than the Iron Hands.”

 

  Dolor shakes his head. “The Great Khan designed his Legion to be adaptable. I saw how they fight in the Ullanor campaign; Brotherhoods break off from one another, flow into new shapes and do so all over again. We can only hope that it serves them well out there, beyond the storm. For those we have on our doorstep, it's just a matter of placing Brotherhoods together.”

 

  “Valentus,” Guilliman chides him. “You digress.”

 

  “I do, Lord. Apologies - the Iron Hands are an altogether different case. There is perhaps no Legion more rigid in structure and philosophy.”

 

  Guilliman nods. “To the point that I half expected them to refuse stock from our domain. But see there, Brodarek and his fellows have yielded to necessity. They will do so on this matter as well, just as the Fists and Scars have.”

 

  “And what of your brothers?” Dolor presses. “Do they know of the Codex yet?”

 

  “That,” Guilliman says, “is a matter for the future. We do… as necessity dictates.”

[wammnebu]

I really like this. Its a great piece of Gulliman in his element. Tedious Negotiations. Plus you learn a lot about the different legions just by seeing them argue over logistics. Really nice work!

[bluntblade]

Cheers :) I find that the politicking can be susprisingly fun when you find some conflict to root it in.

[Brother Lunkhead]

Nice work on this one Brother bluntblade I enjoyed the back and forth between Guilliman and the Iron Hands contingent.