Chapter 446 – Let the People Suffer, the High Lords Bear the Infamy!
"I really don't know how Malcador manages to handle so many affairs of state while still having the energy to hold long conversations with Father."
At this moment, Horus began to see Malcador in a new light.
Every day Malcador processed an immense volume of paperwork, yet still had the time and energy to tend to other matters, while even maintaining his mental state with ease.
He even had the leisure to play political games with the Primarchs.
As the saying goes, the old ginger is spicier. Right now, Horus was so exhausted he could kill someone. Sitting in this position was no enjoyment at all—it was pure imprisonment!
"No, this can't go on. I've got to find a way to trade places with Malcador."
Horus now regretted not choosing the title of Warmaster instead. If he had, he would likely be feasting and drinking on Cthonia right now.
Instead of this—drowning under Infinity Imperial bureaucracy, pinned to this desk with no rest and no freedom.
Looking at the mountain of documents before him, Horus, seething with frustration, swept them all off the desk in one violent motion.
He'd had enough—!
Just then, hurried footsteps sounded outside the office. Horus instantly recognized the gait—it was Abaddon, his trusted commander.
Sure enough, Abaddon stepped into the hall with a bitter expression and pleaded, "My lord, let us return to Cthonia. Terra is truly not a place fit for anyone to live."
Like Horus, Abaddon and the warriors of the Luna Wolves had faced no shortage of headaches in recent days.
In matters of administration, they were no match for the seasoned old foxes. Many who had been parachuted into key positions either blundered badly, leaving Horus to clean up, or were swiftly undermined by their subordinates.
Each day they lived frustrated, stripped of real influence, their supposed authority meaningless.
Even Abaddon, who counted among the more educated of the legion, seemed no better than an illiterate when compared to the High Lords.
As Regent's aide, he was buried under paperwork no less than Horus himself. The sheer volume of tasks made it impossible to keep up.
The pressure weighed heavily: a single misstep could unleash chaos within the Imperium, and he would be to blame.
Politics was not war.
In most cases, the difficulty of not making mistakes in politics far exceeded the challenge of winning merit in battle. It was often the cautious politicians who rose step by step, whereas the logic of military advancement was almost reversed.
In war, even failure could be redeemed by victories. A commander could err, then atone with new glory, and even be promoted further.
But the Luna Wolves—bred to force results regardless of cost—inevitably erred again and again, and in politics the consequences of such errors could be catastrophic.
Their contributions on Terra had not been entirely useless, but more often than not they proved a hindrance.
Abaddon saw it clearly and felt only anxiety. "My lord, for the sake of our sacrifices for the Imperium, please, allow us to return to Cthonia.
If this continues, the Imperium itself may soon suffer for it!"
Abaddon was no incompetent fool who shirked responsibility. He simply knew he had no talent for politics. Since he could neither achieve results nor even avoid blunders, why keep trying? Fighting wars was far more suited to him.
Anyone who wishes to persist in a field must feel some feedback of success.
Yet for the Luna Wolves, producing results in politics was beyond impossible; even not failing was a rare gift.
Abaddon had once thought Terra's High Lords and administrators mere useless parasites. But now he realized the truth.
As the center of Imperial authority, only the sharpest political minds could rise to Terra. Even the most "ordinary" official here was a peerless schemer among mankind.
If these people struggled, what chance did anyone else stand?
It was undeniable: the Imperial bureaucracy housed the distilled essence of human politics. Their intelligence and cunning were leagues beyond anything Astartes could match.
Intellect was not the same as emotional acuity, nor as wisdom.
There were plenty of "clever fools." Astartes who could grasp the most complex battlefield tactics were still reduced to bumbling automatons when faced with the labyrinth of administration.
Now Abaddon finally understood why supply trains for the Primarchs' armies were always delayed and disrupted, and why problems that seemed easy to solve in theory never reached resolution.
Every political decision triggered a cascade of consequences. Without preparation, forecasting, and groundwork, rash choices could bring disaster beyond imagining.
Abaddon now saw these mortal officials in a new light. They were far from the greedy fools he had once imagined.
Yes, corruption abounded; parasites sucked at the arteries of the Imperium. But remove them entirely, and those arteries would rupture, bringing disorder and collapse.
The difficulty of reforming the Imperium was far beyond anything the Luna Wolves had ever imagined.
"My lord, let us not wade deeper into this mire. Let us gather our things and return to Cthonia—while there's still time."
Abaddon urged Horus. He knew his lord had long coveted this seat of power, but reality had to be faced. Blind pursuit of what was not theirs would only bring misery.
In simple words: a man must know his own limits.
If mortals wanted to serve as hounds to the Primarchs, let them.
If they wanted to line their pockets, so be it—call it hazard pay.
Let the common people suffer; let the High Lords bear the blame. Even if in wartime they must follow High Lords' commands, so be it.
But as for playing at politics? That was a game no Astartes could ever win.
Faced with Abaddon's heartfelt plea, Horus felt torn. He had boasted before Father and Malcador already, and now he was stuck astride a tiger.
Even if he wanted to quit, he would have to hold on a while longer. At least until the Emperor returned from his visit to the Universal Megacorp—only then could Horus raise the thought of stepping down.
Otherwise, he would be the laughingstock of the Imperium.
So no matter how wretched the post of Regent was, Horus had to endure. He could not allow Father to look down on him.
"Abaddon, you are my most trusted lieutenant. Now that we sit on the highest throne of Imperial power, how can we speak of giving up so easily?"
Horus offered comfort, repeating to Abaddon the same hollow words he often used to console himself. Though hardly convincing, what else could he say?
He couldn't very well promise Abaddon, Do well, and one day you'll be Regent too.
Abaddon would never covet such a cursed seat. A Warmaster's baton, perhaps—but that post already belonged to Horus.
"My lord, why not petition Malcador instead? Let him remain the Regent, while you remain Warmaster, and I your captain."
Abaddon pressed on, refusing to be brushed aside. His resolve to return to Cthonia was iron. If not that, then at least let him remain at Horus' side as a guard, perhaps commander of the palace guard.
But of course, that last was impossible.
The Emperor's personal guard—Arbites, Centurions, mysterious assassins—were the Imperium's most elite. Their only commander was the Emperor himself.
Not even the Regent had authority to meddle in their ranks. To try would be treason itself.
Seeing Horus hesitate in pained silence, Abaddon understood there was no return. If Horus did not speak the word, they would never leave.
So he played his last card: "My lord, if you truly will not go back, then we must change the situation.
We could at least find more allies—people who can share the burden and ease our load!"
Outsourcing is an art. A good deployment of outsourced personnel can, quite visibly, cut costs and raise efficiency.
On the way to the Imperial Palace on Terra, Abaddon had been seriously considering this issue. Find some mortals or other nobles, set them up as a cabinet team, and if something goes wrong, pin the blame on them. That way, they take the fall.
At worst, they'd be accused of negligence.
But if any merit was gained, it would be his to claim. Wasn't that just brilliant?
Establishing a system for handling affairs independent of the High Lords not only allowed him to keep suppressing and irritating Malcador's High Lords faction, it also expanded his own political influence and enhanced Horus's presence.
When Horus heard Abaddon's idea, his expression lit up. He hadn't expected his captain to actually use his head and come up with such an insight.
And it made sense—after all, the High Lords themselves were essentially Malcador's hand-picked "cabinet," a leadership team meant to help him manage state affairs.
If Malcador could do it, why couldn't he follow suit?
"But tell me, who are we supposed to get to help us? More mortals?" Horus's excitement didn't last long before the key problem struck him.
It was easy to say, "form a new High Lords council," but where were the people? They had none!
Pulling together a fresh team of mortal bureaucrats—what meaning would that really have? On Terra, how many mortals were truly willing to break their backs serving a Primarch?
Most of them had mentors and patrons among the current High Lords. In time, once their elders stepped down, those very High Lord seats would pass to them. Why should they worry about lacking positions?
The Imperium's educational resources were limited, and any mortal official who had managed to stay on Terra was already shrewd to the core. Every single one had long since pledged allegiance to some High Lord's banner.
In short, all the brightest minds of the Imperium had already been monopolized by Malcador's people. What remained were mediocrities—and pitting a pack of mediocrities against the sharpest political syndicate on Terra was nothing but asking to be humiliated.
On the surface, forming his own mortal cabinet sounded nice. But in practice, the road was already blocked. It just wasn't viable.
As expected, when Horus raised the question, Abaddon's mind promptly went blank. He too realized the problem of "no one to use."
The Luna Wolves were a bunch of blunt soldiers. Recently, they had even antagonized scores of mortal officials, executing quite a number. To now bow and beg those same mortals to serve as ministers would only be slapping themselves in the face.
"Well…"
Abaddon's brain had already overheated. After pondering for quite some time, he finally muttered something vague: "We could still try picking people from within the Luna Wolves. Maybe we'll find some suitable candidates."
He said it, but he knew full well it was nonsense.
Any literate Astartes with clerical skills had already been reassigned elsewhere. What remained were near illiterates.
Expecting them to spar politically with the High Lords' seasoned bureaucrats was as laughable as handing a wooden sword to a child and sending him to duel a veteran Astartes.
After listening to Abaddon's empty words, Horus sighed helplessly, waved him away, and told him to think of something better.
Still, even if Abaddon hadn't provided a practical solution, he had sparked a new idea for Horus: expanding his pool of governing talent.
People unentangled with the High Lords, gifted with genuine wisdom and ability. Strict conditions, yes—but not impossible to satisfy.
Looks like that's my only option.
After much thought, Horus finally made up his mind. In the name of Imperial Regent, he issued hundreds of decrees in quick succession.
The first was the creation of a new governing body—the Imperial Cabinet—deliberately designed to rival Malcador's High Lords council and assist him in managing affairs.
The brightest and most capable Astartes from the Luna Wolves were placed into this department.
They weren't given formal titles, but when handling documents, they held the same authority as the Imperial Regent himself.
Of course, Horus wasn't about to let these rough warriors take on everything. He only handed them specific types of documents.
Suppressing local rebellions, purging xenos raiders, distributing resources to the Primarchs—anything directly involving Primarch interests was delegated to his cabinet members.
It was a shrewd move. For once, the work matched the Astartes' skill set.
True, when distributing supplies, they would naturally prioritize the welfare of the Primarchs. But that was exactly Horus's intent—he needed his brothers' support.
Whether mortals starved, whether his decrees were rejected by the High Lords—none of that mattered.
Horus never aimed to achieve monumental feats or feed all Imperial subjects. As long as the system kept running without collapse, that was enough.
He knew he lacked true political genius, and he could never outmaneuver the High Lords. So he had to secure support from one group: the Primarchs.
That was his power base. If he angered his brothers for the sake of mortals, he would only end up pleasing no one.
That was why, when he heard that Hector had been siphoning supplies from other sectors, he turned a blind eye. The Space Wolves and Luna Wolves were close, and Horus did not want tension with Russ.
Beyond this, Horus issued a series of recruitment edicts, calling across the Imperium for talented governors.
Of course, such calls were never truly about plucking hidden geniuses from obscurity. They were about poaching.
The greatest political bloc was Malcador's High Lords council, but other factions still existed, ones not fully absorbed into it.
Horus's edicts targeted precisely those groups. As for genuine grassroots masters of political maneuvering? Let them stay where they were—he wanted no busybodies meddling.
And the conditions he offered were better than the standard perks of office, more lucrative and enticing.
This was, plain and simple, an invitation for ambitious bureaucrats to jump ship and gamble on a brighter future.
Anyone dissatisfied with their current lot.
Anyone nursing grudges against the High Lords.
All were welcome under him.
As Horus expected, once the decrees were issued, his cabinet quickly filled with personnel, and the mountain of files on his desk began to shrink.
Watching the papers diminish and his ministers grow, Horus finally savored the true joy of power.
Of course, the work didn't vanish—merely shifted. Critical matters still required his approval.
[Lord Regent, the Governor of Odul was assassinated by pirates twenty years ago. The current governor is in fact that pirate chief, now serving as an officer under the Dark Angels. Do we intervene?]
"What pirates? That man is a duly appointed Imperial Governor. Remind him not to forget paying his taxes. If he does, then deal with him."
[Lord Regent, the Death Guard are fighting another sector over a shipment of supplies. Mortarion claims he needs them to train recruits, but the sector governor insists they're for famine relief and rebuilding. What's our decision?]
"Half goes to Mortarion, half to Terra. As for the famine relief—let the Universal Megacorp's envoys handle it."
[Why only half for the Death Guard?]
"When I was made Regent, he was the only one who didn't show up on Terra. He needs to be reminded who leads the Primarchs."
[...]
As Horus processed more and more documents, his political instincts gradually sharpened. He learned how to weigh choices to serve his interests.
A sharp and cunning Primarch by nature, once freed from suspicion of the Emperor, Horus could finally display his unique charisma.
His cabinet was steadily taking shape.
Though they still couldn't compete with the High Lords, Horus had taken the first step, extending his political reach.
No matter the future troubles or crises, as long as the machinery of Imperial governance kept running, that was enough.
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