-Individually they are impressive, but their tactical doctrine sucks, and without psi-power, their big hits are not very impressive,- /sniffed Bastrid, reporting on the Obsidian Serpents' to Anatolia's Strategic Circle and me. -They initially weren't very happy to be split up among my squads and relegating to picking off the wounded xenos... but given how many wounded xenos there were, and how fast the kill numbers started rocketing, they couldn't make any kind of a logical argument, even if meant they didn't get to shoot the glorious big enemies. And,- he /added thoughtfully, -it conserved a lot of their ammo, so they didn't need as much resupply.-
-Well, they are sulking in their ship right now, so their performance is not your issue any longer. Hopefully the demonstration of teamwork with allies and effectiveness will open up some avenues of thought... but given their obdurate personalities that their hypno-training tends to hardcode into them, they will probably selectively forget this incident and go back to their normal tactics rapidly.- I did not hold out much hope for them, and word of them had spread rapidly throughout all the forces fighting on Janus Prime.
If the sneaky bastards wanted to pull their shit again, they were going to be 'strongly advised' to pick some battlefield all to themselves, or they might be running into a friendly artillery barrage. Either that, or get on the tactical roll and start obeying orders like good little warrior drones meant to die for the good of the empire.
On the other hand, the Thunder Bulls' reputation was soaring. Although they hadn't had a lot of time to rebuild their numbers, the Emperor's genetics and that +4 to all Stats was truly impressive when compared with equipment of that level... and active development of psionics. They were being employed as augmentation squads, deep strikers, heavy weapon crews of incredible mobility, and even area commanders where needed, and racking up quite the merits as they did so.
Them all having their own Markspace to work with also meant that battlefield communication was definitely not an issue, and being able to tap into the resources of the rest of the Markspace definitely didn't hurt.
Including the Elevator Music to Heaven. They had a rather glory-hungry, semi-fanatical mindset to begin with, and with Chalice's tunes pounding through them with a few tens of thousands of others singing along, they wouldn't mind dying fighting in the slightest... because they WOULD be remembered, and all those thousands and thousands of other warriors were there with them, watching and fighting as they did...
So, I had me a new pet not-a-Legion of Imperial Legionnaires.
The legal eagles had been over a lot of old documents concerning them. The consensus was that as long as they didn't gather in full strength and exhibit numbers that qualified them as a Battalion, they were not bound by the laws strictly governing and restricting the Imperial Legions.
Therefore, what would be happening is that we would be making multiple Companies of Thunder Bulls, but each of them would be based on their own vessel, and the intention was to stage them in different areas, especially in zones heavy with Warp influence.
They would never be a Legion, only Companies of Thunder Bulls, possibly the most dangerous of all Imperial Legionnaires... with the possible exception of some hush-hush elite companies based in the home system of ancient Tellus.
Captain Dornal was a fountain of information about the relatively closed world of the Imperial Legions, including views on other Legions, their doctrines, and different subdivisions within the many different battalions of the Legions proper. While the Coronals and Umbrans had a lot of similar information, the viewpoint of the Legions themselves as regards their brethren was a unique addition.
The Serpents, for example, had multiple different tactical doctrines by Battalion, but they were all marked by callous disregard for civilians, a preference for ambush tactics, and a general attitude of not working well with others. The Fire Serpents, often called the Salamanders, were known for casually putting cities to the torch to burn out any hint of rebellion or corruption within, cleansing it to the ground to be built back up again properly, for instance. The Poison Serpents were experts in the use of nerve toxins both gaseous and weapon-bound, and all too willing to deploy them even if allied and exposed troops were caught in the area of effect.
For all that, they were Imperial Legions, and generally successful at their tasks. If you wanted a rebelling world pacified, the Serpents were among the best at doing it, with fear, subterfuge, and mass slaughter all used without qualms to get the desired results. Naturally, in this shitass universe, they had some diehard supporters from on high who agreed completely with their methods.
The Bull Legion, on the other hand, was known for more straight-up tactics, shields, heavy armor, brute force, and both artillery and armored support vehicles. Having to rebuild their vehicular and support squads by company to complement this doctrine was one of the key items in their rebirth, and their open tactics lent themselves more to use with the Coronals than the Umbrans. However, as was tacitly pointed out, they did wonderful jobs as diversions for subtler work, as they were Throne-blessed professionals at being the bull in the china shop.
Sneaky folks love them some big, clumsy diversions.
These big, clumsy bulls now happened to be psions. The implications were impressive.
Sure, they wanted the power and armor-punching of the Sun Shots, and certainly weren't going to be denied in that area. However, there were many, many other things psions could learn to do, which had nothing to do with being the big clumsy bulls, and would probably shock the heck out of those who knew what the Bull Legionnaires were famous for. Some very unexpected surprises were good things.
The constant combat had definitely helped the new and old Thunder Bulls develop rapidly, and the high-performing gear was only better. There was a whole new world of development open to the Thunder Bulls, and the Coronals and Mentats were the best teachers they could have in this area.
They were eager students, indeed.
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Aura was busybusybusy these days.
Oh, the money flowing through her fingers. She laughed to think of it, and the dreams of the poor girl whose soul she had finally being satisfied. Mom Sama herself didn't directly handle so much money, being more centered on the things that were generating such a monstrous amount of funds.
Aura's crack team of suborned and very, very devoted lawyers, accountants, financiers, and marketers, all done up as fashion models, dancers, seductresses, and fashionistas, were cutting a swathe through a high society incredibly distracted by the war for survival of the planet outside, gossiping, whispering, passing rumors and making them, plumbing depths of conversation and teasing out golden nuggets... and then turning them into cold, hard money in the board rooms of some very wealthy individuals.
Rantha Corps had inherited the assets of Huldeiver at some very favorable rates from the Emperor's Hands, much to the dismay of the predatory noble clans and merchant houses of Crownspire chomping to snatch such assets up.
Of course, Huldeiver was involved in many things, and many of his businesses simply wouldn't be able to survive without the treasonous activities he was involved in. Those were sold off rapidly, or swapped for other strategic assets of 'lesser' importance that were useful to Rantha Corp's expansion. That some of the buyers were silent partners in Huldeiver's activities was naturally not unknown to curious Ranthas and their teams cracking open the operating activities of the businesses involved, and the Umbrans and the Juris were watching all this with a great and poisonous amount of interest.
Said buyers were probably going to be lethally unhappy with their purchases, subsequent deaths, and the asset foreclosures in the near future.
Most importantly, she had been buying up land. Lots and lots of land.
Needless to say, bombed-out warzones were going for slivers on the credit, and firesales of factories whose workforces had been slaughtered and Xenos had rampaged through were being disposed of like acid about to drop on balance sheets. Aura laughed and laughed as she arranged deal after deal, because the Rebuilding and Restoration funds were already pre-approved for anything the Ranthas were putting their hands on, and there were more G&G people every day looking to be put to work.
The purchasing of massive amounts of land outside the city flew under the radar by dint of simply replacing the paid stooges of those interested in tracking land movements and purchases in the city, a simple task given how many spots were suddenly available for promotion in so many areas. That the people didn't really want to go wandering off to process paperwork near warzones was naturally not a consideration for truly loyal servants of the empire, and in remarkably little time an entire section of the planetary government was occupied by remarkably talented nobodies who weren't on the bribery rolls... but got onto said rolls with great enthusiasm to report absolutely nothing of interest was going on.
Aura disembarked her hovercar with all the flair of a famous actress leaving her ride, and given the Hov-Royce valued at a small starcraft that she got out of, it was only appropriate. St. John Briggs, her crude, rather squat, definitely ugly, and highly protective Briggs Brother, had merely to scowl to send robots, cyborgs, and dock workers scampering out of the way with equal quickness. Her small team of a secretary, lawyer, accountant, and publicist walked with her as they came up to the dock of their newest acquisition, title transferred over not an hour ago.
"What do you think, St. John?" Aura asked, stopping to survey the length of the personal yacht of the deceased Mr. Huldeiver.
St. John Briggs had a pair of heart-melting blue eyes that were at complete odds with his abundance of stiff body hair and rather ape-like build. He was even more squat and simian than the average Briggs Brother, which, instead of detracting from his appearance, somehow made him even more magnetic and ominous.
He also loved to personally chauffeur her. The other Ranthas were all very jealous of Aura. St. John Briggs ignited ALL their Fuzzy Buttons.
He rumbled deep in his throat, like breaking rocks, and made her heart skip in delight. "It's gaudy. It's ostentatious. It screams waste of money. It's not Imperial Standard design. It flaunts so many laws and regulations. It's probably got to be purged from prow to stern to remove alien psychic elements, and gutted from inside out to remove xenotech elements snuck into it, and applying proper Ranthatech is going to be a total pain." His hairy knuckles cracked thoughtfully. "Damn, you glorious Hags and helpers, it's freaking perfect for you. I get to be the monkey spoiling it all, and you'll get to look down with that total arrogant new blood vibe on all that old money."
The Rantha Hag and her helpers all smiled widely, eyes gleaming as they swept over the non-Imperial Standard design and polished auric-gold hull of the Golden Touch. "It is such a tasteless fashion travesty," Aura agreed, her heartmelt blue eyes, the exact same shade as St. John's, sparkling. "We shall be able to work wonders with it, dears, wonders!"
She pointed ahead flamboyantly, and in the Markspace dozens of eager eyes got ready. "Let's go spend some money on utterly useless frivolities, shall we? I want to be throwing parties on this hedonistic tribute to excessive wealth next week!"
There was a chorus of /cheers as the group strode up the docking ramp, getting ready to do what needed to be done, and with much better style than the last owner of this vanity ride. Conspicuous consumption would never look so good by the time they were done.
They'd have to rip out at least some of the weapons, as none of them were dumb enough to want to ride in this thing without escorts. Higher defense and wining and dining flutterheads and old sharks with money and power would be fine.
And, they were going to have to find a crew, who would have to be good looking, charming, graceful, sexually enticing, and far, far sharper than those aboard this golden eyesore would believe. Happily, there were a large number of ambitious young men and women totally willing to play the femme fatale or the dashing debonair and take these rich sots for everything, and have a clear conscience doing it, too!