My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 417: The Victor Is Guilliman
For Roboute Guilliman, there was always work—especially now.
Papers piled up in his office like an avalanche. Two command tablets had already been pressed to the point of breaking. Information crashed over him like a tidal wave—from Legion deployments to the settlement of refugee ships.
There were simply too many refugees. Guilliman had been forced to urgently open four additional spaceports to house them, while accelerating screening procedures and identity clearances.
Anyone else—even another Primarch—would have been crushed beneath the countless, tedious, overlapping documents.
But he was the Lord of Macragge. He was Roboute Guilliman.
You might question the efficiency of anyone else in the galaxy, but never his.
Guilliman set down his pen.
Finished.
A deep, satisfying weight settled in his chest—the pleasure of completed labor. He lifted his tea and savored it.
He now had seventeen minutes and thirty-six seconds of rest.
Next, intelligence reports from the eastern reaches of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar would arrive. Three minutes later, Macragge's security data would update. After that, Legion redeployment...
Guilliman sipped his tea, expressionless, staring at the two Primarchs sprawled across from his desk.
Angron had tipped his head back against the sofa, asleep. His relaxed muscles rose and fell with his breathing.
Mortarion, meanwhile, was bent forward, studying a map of Ultramar spread across the low table. From time to time he circled or marked points with a pen.
Sensing movement from Guilliman's side, Mortarion lifted his shadowed gaze.
The two exchanged a wordless stare.
At that very moment, the sleeping Angron produced a perfectly timed snore.
Guilliman drew in a long breath.
"If you would be so kind," he said politely, "the two of you may find somewhere else to pass the time."
He watched Mortarion slowly raise one eyebrow.
"Then Triumph Avenue," Mortarion replied, pulling the map of Macragge closer and tapping it with his pen. "There is an amusement park there."
Guilliman calculated that the probability of hurling his teacup at Mortarion's head was not zero.
"…You want to go to an amusement park?"
He raised a hand, prepared to summon the Ultramarines to escort these two humanoid ornaments out of his office.
"No," Mortarion said slowly.
"You should close it. And every other entertainment venue. You may leave certain taverns open for emergency water distribution, but everything else should be shut down. Schools should implement full lockdown management. Then a curfew. And restricted transit and sealing of each district."
Guilliman fell silent.
In the end, he chose to recalibrate Mortarion's position in his internal assessment.
"Now?" Guilliman asked. "Ultramar is not under attack. This would cause unnecessary panic and destabilize public morale."
Mortarion opened one hand.
"Destabilize morale?"
The Lord of Death scoffed.
"They have ample food—grain, vegetables, meat, even a wide variety of spices. Water is plentiful and clean. The air is breathable without filtration. And you say that under such conditions Macragge's morale would falter?"
On Barbarus of old, such circumstances would have caused morale to soar.
Guilliman remained silent. Mortarion watched him as though his conclusion were self-evident.
Guilliman recalled a previous conversation with his mother. Mortarion came from Barbarus, a death world. There was an innate divide between them. He could not understand Guilliman, just as Guilliman could not understand him.
Guilliman paused, striving to phrase his words with restraint.
"Macragge is not a military world. Its people have not undergone total mobilization."
Mortarion faltered.
"You do not require mobilization—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes flickered with incredulity as he stared at Guilliman, as though seeing a fish that had grown legs and was running about on land.
Mortarion let out a derisive laugh.
"You've spoiled them, Guilliman."
"It is their right," Guilliman replied.
Mortarion stared at him. For a fleeting instant, Guilliman thought he saw Death itself—scythe in hand—standing there in confusion. But Mortarion lowered his head.
"Very well," he said.
"I have already warned you, Roboute Guilliman. If you are willing to trust me, then this is what you should do."
Guilliman set down his tea. He straightened in his chair, resting his forearms on the desk, fingers interlaced.
"Mortarion," he said gravely,
"I respect you, and I am willing to trust you. Of the three of us, you are the most adept at countering psychic threats. In many matters, you perceive dangers the rest of us cannot."
"But Ultramar has its own laws of operation. I understand your intentions. Yet if we abruptly impose a curfew and the measures you propose, Macragge will immediately descend into disorder caused by those very policies. I do not wish my people marching in protest through the streets of Macragge over their right to move freely at night."
"Marching?"
Mortarion repeated, as if he could scarcely believe it.
"Marching. At a time like this?"
Guilliman felt irritation flare. He had chosen his words with precision.
"Yes. Marching. When policy is unreasonable and disrupts the public's stability, people march. But under my governance, Macragge has not seen such unrest in fifty-three years—"
"You should shoot them."
Mortarion said it calmly.
He had already glimpsed what he believed to be the false foundation beneath this so-called paradise. It was not paradise because Guilliman himself was extraordinary—
It was paradise because it had been fortunate.
It had not yet felt the scorch of war.
Mortarion rose and left the chamber. He had said what needed to be said. Now they would see whether this paradise could remain fortunate.
Guilliman stood abruptly. He looked genuinely angered by Mortarion's final remark. Leaning forward on his desk, he called after him:
"Ultramar possesses a comprehensive defense system and ample standing forces. There is absolutely no need to interfere with civilian life—"
He spoke with conviction. He had simulated countless scenarios of invasion. War would begin at the Mandeville Point. The Ultramarines' orbital reconnaissance arrays would detect the enemy first. Fleet engagements would follow. Missile silos on nearby worlds would provide support. Then boarding actions—or perhaps the fighting would descend to the surface…
An intricate chain of events composed the structure of war. In such a war, civilians had only one role: to supply his Legion, bolster morale, and replenish auxiliary forces.
Guilliman inhaled sharply. Mortarion, he felt, had been deliberately testing his patience.
"Mortarion, look at yourself. The reason you demand that the people of Macragge—mmph!"
Angron suddenly clamped a hand over Guilliman's mouth.
Guilliman shot a startled glance sideways and saw that the Red Angel—who had seemed asleep moments before—was now standing beside him.
Angron made a quieting gesture.
After Guilliman gave a stiff nod of understanding, Angron slowly removed his hand.
"He's not in a good mood. We should be a little more understanding, Guilliman," Angron said softly.
"You can complain to Lady Euten when this is over. Mortarion doesn't have that option."
"He most certainly cannot go to her!" Guilliman shouted.
Angron only offered a helpless smile.
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