Cadia was an old and proud planet. A newcomer to the Fortress World might have thought it was shocking to see people so pleased to be in uniform and paying such little mind to the Archenemy’s proximity. What a world it was; entire valleys crisscrossed by trench networks and bunkers, mountaintops dominated by firebases, tunnel networks which ran through entire mountain ranges, and the mighty kasrs, built not for beauty but defense. For all the miles of fortifications, they led back to these mighty citadels characterized by moats, high walls, automated turrets, thousands of firing ports, bunkers, towers, heavy guns, barbed wire, rail networks to move ammunition, interconnecting tunnels beneath the streets, and countless fortified structures. Every roadway was erratic, constricted by rockcrete barriers, and reinforced gun positions with overlapping fields of fire. Platoons of heavy vehicles stood vigil on the streets, entire regiments manned the walls or conducted patrols. There was little greenery and their grand architecture, from cathedrals to honor halls, were all built to protect against invasion. Although dark, brooding, and stoic, true Cadians found beauty in it all. To see the banners waving in the breeze, massive posters of war heroes posted on the walls, and hearing the Commissars and preachers recite doctrine and scripture reminded Cadians theirs was a life of privileged duty.
Yet, all knew of Holy Terra’s grandeur. There were virtues instilled and expected in every Cadian—discipline, courage, sacrifice. But there were also traits expected of them as Imperial citizens. These lessons were founded in the birthplace of mankind. All heard of fabled Terra, its grand, shimmering golden architecture, the wide and winding boulevards, the marvelous cathedrals, and proud statues. So many cities across countless worlds attempted to emulate it but all fell short. It was where the God-Emperor enlightened and uplifted humanity to become the most illustrious beings in the galaxy. Such a tremendous feat was not lost on Shock Troopers like Marsh Silas.
All Cadians loved their homeworld and would die to defend it. Even if they were honored with service elsewhere, they would never call another planet home. Yet, like every citizen within the Imperium, there was that alluring, far away dream to set foot on Holy Terra. To kneel in the cathedrals, raise their voices in prayer, and pay respect to He who guided them.
Marsh Silas, never having left Cadian soil for all that long, wondered if he would see any vestiges of that Terran glory when Barlocke finally led them into Kasr Fortis. Remnants of statues, crumbling spires of cathedrals, rubble-covered avenues; anything that carried the Throne World’s visage. But with each passing day, his hope of finding any extant indications of the fabled cities dwindled. Besides, he was Cadian through and through. There would be no set of clothes for him besides his fatigues and Flak Armor. No other calling would ever tempt him from making war upon the Imperium’s countless foes. A kasr would always be infinitely more attractive, no matter his desire to merely glimpse something denoting Holy Terra, even if it was just a shadow within the rubble.
Squatting in the OP with Drummer Boy as he had for several mornings after their return, he gazed at the ruins with his magnoculars. Kasr Fortis stood partially masked in a fog bank under a gray sky. It appeared just as foreboding as it had the day before and the day before that. There was no wind and the channel currents were eerily still. Light snow was falling, covering what was visible of the skeletal metropolis with a thin layer of white dust.
He lowered his scope, sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a long, wet streak. Turning around, he sat on the parapet and leaned against the wooden bracing lining the hole. Drummer Boy sat in the corner across from him. Their M36 lasguns were propped up against their shoulders, the barrels pointed skywards. Both pulled the chin of their tactical hoods up over their noses and tightened the cloaks they wore. With each shaky breath came a small white cloud. As soon as they appeared, they faded away.
Seeing Drummer Boy shaking even worse than him, Marsh scooted over and wrapped his arm around the Voxman’s shoulders. Drawing each other close, Drummer Boy then leaned his head against Marsh’s shoulder, taking a long quivering breath through his teeth. Marsh ran his hand up and down his friend’s arms followed by a few firm reassuring pats.
“The winter fatigues will be in soon,” he said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible despite his chattering teeth.
Cadian fatigues were generally heavy but that was because of their light ballistic weaves. Prior to their transfer to the Kasr Fortis sector, the 1333rd were conducting operations in warmer climes. Poor-weather uniforms hadn’t been in supply for that region but they were sorely needed now. The region around Kasr Fortis was noted for its long summers and winters as well as the short but heavy rainy seasons in between.
Marsh felt a terrible tremor rattle through his back and groaned. “O’ course we got the morning watch. Only night is worse than this. Never in my soldier’s life have I ever sat around so bloody much.”
It took three days for headquarters to drum up a plan for clearing the countryside in the sector but other than a buildup of supplies and some urban environment drills, there was no telling when the movement would take place. Inaction was taking its toll; Marsh Silas was used to a grueling operational tempo since he was a Whiteshield in the Youth Regiments. A Fortress World never lacked for fighting; a unit located in subarctic regions could find itself deployed to boreal forests or great plains the very next day. Men could go years without meaningful furlough; the longest Marsh went without was three years. The experience was hellish.
Since the regiment was seconded to Barlocke’s command, they’d seen very little action and their work details were very light. Although the men first enjoyed the reprieve, not knowing when they were going to commence operations was leaving them anxious. Rest was important for a soldier. Inactivity, however, could damage morale and weaken discipline in the ranks. So, Marsh did his best to keep the men busy in between their menial tasks and training regimens. They reinforced the trench network, adding further fortifications from barbed to extra sandbags. In between work parties, he drilled and drilled the men. It did more than keep their skillsets sharp, it impressed any officers who happened to be observing and warded off their Commissars. Especially Ghent; he was a drillmaster himself having trained some Marsh Silas and others when they were mere Whiteshields. He was on the lookout for lax or faltering troopers and an active, disciplined platoon would not merit his attention.
Some days, Bloody Platoon marched up and down the peninsula several times or performed mock patrols in the fields. At the range, they erected dummy targets and requalified with bayonets, lasguns, laspistols, grenades, and heavier wargear, too. Weapon and equipment maintenance were routinely enacted, much to the veterans’ boredom. But they still applied sacramental oils along with their cleansers and uttered prayers all the same. Marsh took them to the camp chapel to pray, too; it was good for their spirits and to be surrounded by the God-Emperor’s iconography reminded a Guardsman just what he was fighting for. But despite his best efforts, he and his men were still consigned to double duty in the OP.
“I’ve never wished for a fight so badly,” Drummer Boy said after drawing a shaky breath.
“We’ll have plenty o’ fighting soon enough.”
“Unless Barlocke says otherwise. What’s the Inquisitor playing at, you think?”
“If I knew what he was thinking, I don’t think I’d be a soldier for much longer.”
Barlocke; it all came back to him. Not even Cadian High Command swayed him; his authority over the regiment was supreme. No one would dare risk the Ordo Hereticus’s ire, let alone his. The man seemed to wear two faces; one was the immoveable, dark, tactician true to his station and then the face of Barlocke which Marsh Silas witnessed far more often. It seemed the Inquisitor saved all his smiles for him. Anyone with even a scant amount of authority spoke, all he did was wave his cap and put on the dark face.
The Vox-caster, left on by Drummer Boy, crackled and there was static. The Voxman leaned over, twisted a dial, and attempted to clear the distant signal.
“First wave…enemy warband…eastern Primus…defeated. 2139th, 499th, 1567th Regiments…one hundred percent casualties. Requesting reinforcements…”
“By the Emperor…” Drummer Boy murmured. He reached into his tunic, retrieved his prayer beads, and kissed them.
“We ought to be clearing these shitholes and getting back to the big fight,” Marsh muttered. “We are wasted here I tell you, wasted.”
Sometimes, he grew tired and afraid. But he was a true son of Cadia and that made Marsh Silas a fighting man. He was blessed to share the blood of his ancestors, the glory he wore was that convened by the billions of fallen Cadians before him and the grace the Emperor placed on such warriors. He still thought of the corruption of the children and wished to strike down those who caused it, even if that meant leveling that wretched pile of ruins. At the very least, he would slay the heretic psyker.
His and Drummer Boy’s complaining would have gone on far longer if the Walmsley brothers hadn’t arrived. Both wore cloaks over their fatigues, carried their M36’s over their shoulders, and kept their arms folded across their chests to keep warm.
“Marsh Silas, we are your relief,” said the elder Walmsley.
“Please tell me I'm needed urgently,” the platoon sergeant grumbled as he stood up.
“Oh, you’re always needed,” Walmsley Minor joked, helping to pull him out of the trench. “But if you are wanted, there is little for you.”
“I feared you’d say as much,” grumbled the veteran. “Any word on payroll? Or winter wargear?”
“If there was any sign, you woulda been the first to know.”
“Of course. Come, Drummer Boy, let us find somethin’ hot to drink.”
The pair decided to go warm up in the barracks. After descending the ladder, scattering so much snow carried on their uniforms at the bottom, they found Yoxall brewing recaf in the communal chamber. Both men rested their mantles, helmets, and gloves on one of the tables and propped their lasguns against the edge.
“It ain’t the freshest stuff in the world but it’s certainly hot. Drink up, comrades.”
The pair gratefully accepted and gripped the tin mugs with both hands. Such heat would have burned a man’s palms on a warmer day. But their hands were freezing and the warmth was especially soothing. As they carefully sipped and hopped from foot to foot, Yoxall started filling a fourth cup.
“Someone else a-coming?” Marsh asked, nodding at it.
“It’s for the Lieutenant.”
His inquisitive expression faded into one of annoyance. Hyram was still bedridden with a severe case of trench foot. Or at least, that’s what Honeycutt wrote down in his report to Captain Murga. In truth, the man was still in sorrow and remained in his bunk. All he did was lie under his blanket and stare at the pict-captures of his family. He hardly spoke, ate, or drank. Honeycutt and his three Field Chirurgeons each took turns bringing him his meals.
Marsh Silas had not been to see him since that first night. There was nothing he could do and he didn’t need Hyram’s help managing the platoon. His deference shifted to anger, however, and he was recalling what he said to Giles. Give him a chance—such rot! To see the hard-nosed Honeycutt of all people covering for him made him even madder! Marsh tried to make the medic stop coddling him but he was rebuffed. ‘I don’t tell you how to be a platoon sergeant; you don’t tell me how to be a medic,’ was the curt reply. But this was getting ridiculous.
“You too?” Marsh grunted.
“Come now, the man has had a hard time of it. He fought well that day.”
“Aye, that was just one day, and he’s back to bellyaching in his bed.”
“We wasn’t doin’ so well ourselves after that affair,” Drummer Boy said into his mug.
“But we be on our feet now!” Marsh protested. “If that man doesn’t get us killed on the field, Ghent or Hayhurst will end up punishing us instead o’ him.” He took a long drink from his mug, wincing as it burned down his throat. Gasping a little when he finished, he stared into the remaining brown liquid. “Pity cannot replace reason. It’s time we did something about the Lieutenant.”
Yoxall set the mug down so sharply on the table it nearly spilled. He stepped closer and leaned in.
“Tell me we are not speaking of killing the man,” he hissed.
“By the Emperor, no,” Marsh whispered back. “That’d make us no better than traitors. I say we tell Ghent, all proper-like, of what’s happening and let him do what he does best.”
“Snitch? You can’t be serious.”
“It’s for our survival,” Marsh assured him. He added, “We serve the Emperor as good soldiers. How can we be doin’ that with a poor leader? See, the Emperor demands we serve. He demands we sell our lives dearly if need be. But needlessly so? Because some fop makes a bad call? I doubt our Lord would want that for us.”
“And would He wish us to turn in a fellow Cadian, one of His very own servants, just because he is melancholic? That I certainly doubt. The Emperor would be ashamed of us. Why, Throne, I am ashamed to even speak of this!”
Yoxall picked the mug meant for Hyram back up and pushed into Marsh’s hand. “You’re the platoon sergeant. Where you go, I go. What orders you give, I follow. Tis my pledge. But as your mate? You would shame not only yourself but this entire platoon.”
He left after that, leaving Marsh Silas angry and red-faced. All he could do was refill his own mug and try to regain his composure.
“I hope that doesn’t sour things between you,” Drummer Boy said quietly.
“It won’t. He and I simply speak in stark words,” Marsh replied. He and Arnold Yoxall lived a Guardsman’s life together since they met as young men in the 540th Youth Regiment. Sharing fighting holes, digging trenches, staving off waves of maddened heretics; their friendship was forged in fire. The bond was strong as steel. Yoxall was a dedicated man, deft in his craft, and more pious than the rest of the platoon. Everyone trusted him and his abilities as a Breacher. Always scrounging, he was a frequent contributor to the communal wargear chests. And there were plenty of times where he found an extra ration of rice to share with Marsh Silas—he knew the platoon sergeant loved it. Yoxall was a dependable, respected man and in turn he expected a lot of his comrades. His disapproval hurt, but it was no surprise.
Drummer Boy’s loud slurping interrupted Marsh Silas’s thoughts. He tapped the side of his tin mug.
“Are you really gonna tell Ghent?”
“I don’t know now,” Marsh said. “I just don’t want to see any o’ the men killed because o’ him. Overton never led us into a bad fight. I fear Hyram could. If we can get him outta here our chances are all the better.”
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“Turning him over like that, he’d get tried and executed,” Drummer Boy murmured. “I didn’t like him all that much at first but he don’t seem like that bad a man. And he did indeed fight on the hill. It makes me think.”
Drummer Boy was the youngest and least experienced man in Bloody Platoon. Everyone else had six or more years in the Shock Troops. Marsh was going on ten, Babcock and Honeycutt were still alive after twelve. Somebody with only a few years out of the Whiteshields wasn’t to be taken seriously. But it was only a jest; he coordinated the other Voxmen throughout the platoon and they wouldn’t function in the field without him. Marsh valued the young man just as he would Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, Babcock, Honeycutt, and Walmsley Major. It was safer talking to his junior than any of them, anyway.
“Go on, speak up.”
“He’s like a foolish Whiteshield who managed to slip through unnoticed. He’s got some know-how but not all that training’s paid off yet. He’s not incapable, just green. We was all green once.”
“Especially you,” Marsh joked, eliciting a small laugh from his man.
“He’s a problem, for sure, so maybe we ought to train him up instead o’ bellyaching about him. A good start might be a little kindness, seeing as he’s a kind one himself.”
Marsh Silas was about to speak but the words struck in his throat. Instead, he looked down at the mug Yoxall gave him. Steam was still rising from the recaf, wafting very gently in thin wisps. The mug itself was no longer hot enough to burn his hand. He held it still enough so the fluid didn’t slosh around. It was smooth enough on the surface he could just make out his own face in the brown water. His violet eyes were sunken, ashamed, and chagrined.
Inhaling deeply, he smiled at Drummer, downed his own drink, set the mug down, and ventured deeper into the barracks. He didn’t hesitate in front of Hyram’s quarters and pushed through the curtain. The Lieutenant was still in his bunk, the standard issue blanket pulled right up to his chin. Curled on his side, his back to the room, he was still gazing at the pict-captures of his family. None of his wargear was stowed and there was a steel bucket in the corner of the room, reeking of urine and excrement. An unaccustomed individual might have curled their nose as their gut curdled. But Guardsmen were quite used to those foul stenches. But it still wasn’t sanitary.
Unsure of what to say or do, the platoon sergeant stood silently, dumbly, in the threshold. Steam continued to drift up from the recaf. He thought the strong smell would attract the junior officer’s attention, byt Hyram remained transfixed on the picts.
“Sir?” Marsh asked. No response—Marsh took a single step forward. “Sir?”
“Go away,” was the muttered reply.
“Sir, I brought you recaf. I think you ought to drink.” He set it down on the small, wooden table beside the bunk. “I’m no medic here, but a shot o’ recaf is sometimes the difference between life an’ death. Why on a cold night, just one cup’ll keep you warm for hours, and—”
“Got plenty to drink right here, Staff Sergeant,” Hyram slurred. Instead of rolling over, he reached under the blanket and held up a gray bottle of Amasec.
“That uh…ain’t part of the liquor ration, sir,” Marsh said awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “You might want to get rid of it. Here, why don’t I take that and this here bucket outta here? We’ll clean you up.”
Hyram started tucking the bottle back under the sheet. Marsh gently grasped the neck but the Lieutenant wrenched it from his grip. He didn’t even bother looking up. Dark bags still hung under his eyes and his collar was covered in alcohol stains.
Marsh stepped back, his eyes wide and brow raised. Then, it furrowed. Teething gritting, hands balling into fists, growling under his breath, he stormed out of the room. Lieutenant Hyram; inept, cowardly, and now, drunk. It was time to see Ghent.
Stomping past Drummer Boy and thundering up the ladder, Marsh Silas entered the cold again. It did little to soothe his burning temper. Everyone else was wrong, he was sure of that now. His heart still mourned the corruption of those poor souls too but he was still fulfilling his duty. Not languishing in his cot like some mewling little babe. He had every right to be angry with that man! Yet he knew everyone would be against him now. When did they become a bunch of bleeding hearts?
He adjusted the strap of his lasgun and pulled out his ebony pipe. He was so furious his hands shook as he tried to light the tabac leaves. It didn’t help that he was marching down the hill towards headquarters. He’d find Ghent there and he’d set Hyram straight if he didn’t immediately put a bolt through his head for drunkenness. And he wouldn’t care, not in the slightest.
His hand clutched his pounding forehead. At the bottom of the hill, his feet grew heavier. The hand clutching the bowl of his pipe shook. When he stopped, he groaned at the sky. Snowflakes fell on his eyelashes and melted on his cheeks. For a few brief moments, the cold actually felt pleasant. Marsh shut his eyes, feeling the flakes melt.
“Could you live with it?”
Marsh Silas turned around. Barlocke was standing very close to him. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled tight and low over his brow. The collar of his jacket was buttoned up to the collar and his head was lowered against the wind.
“How did you…”
“Silas, you are at war with yourself over Hyram. You think him a threat to the livelihood of your men, yet isn’t an indecisive platoon sergeant just as dangerous?” He didn’t give Marsh time to answer. “You must make a decision. Get rid of him or help him as the Drummer Boy suggests.”
Barlocke must have been listening and craftily followed Marsh when he left. Or maybe he really was a psyker after all. It was far from his mind, though; Marsh felt besieged and fists started to shake indignantly.
“If something is to be done, you do it.” This made Barlocke raise his head and he flashed a nearly sinister smile.
“Only you have power in this matter, Silas. I cannot decide for you.”
It sent a chill down Marsh’s spine. He felt whatever defenses he possessed whither and dissipate. He felt exposed, like he was dashing across a field without any cover. Barlocke just laughed and tipped his hat back. Leaning close, he took Marsh Silas by the shoulders. “Or maybe you are just torturing yourself! Decisions demand as much but leave it be for now. Walk with me, let us speak for a little while.”
Stupefied, Marsh found his voice gone and his legs heavy. Barlocke wrapped an arm around him and started walking further into camp. Charity replaced that brief darkness of his; his posture and mannerisms were like that of a dear friend. How could he just veer from emotion to emotion so fast, Marsh wondered.
“How can you make a decision if you don’t think about it?” he asked.
“Oh, the mind toils even if we occupy it with other matters. Leave it be and the answer might slowly make itself apparent to you. Or you may think long enough and hard enough until one bright realization strikes you, and then you shall know what to do. There is more than one way to make a choice. You’ll see this in time, trust me.”
Marsh squirmed under the Inquisitor’s grasp and hoped none of the denizens working within the main compound would take notice. Enginseers maintained fortifications, weapons, and vehicles with their servitor teams. Officers inspected redoubts and lined up troopers. A company Commissar was beating some menials who dropped an ammunition crate, spilling Heavy Bolter belts across the rockcrete. He whipped them savagely while nearby Guardsmen watched apprehensively. Marsh thought he heard Barlocke whisper something. He looked up to see the Inquisitor staring intently at the Commissar. A moment later, the political officer ceased the punishment and ordered the menials to report back to their barracks.
Further on, they found some of the refugees assisting menials who were moving more cargo. Marsh’s pity grew each time he clapped eyes on them. Among them, he saw the lady Asiah, eyes far away as she struggled to carry ammunition boxes in either hand. When she delivered them to a nearby dugout, she wiped her forehead with her apron and looked around. Quickly, he looked down at his boots, unwilling and unable to meet her eyes.
Barlocke paused in front of regimental headquarters and looked down the road. Marsh followed his gaze; he could see a convoy of various APCs and trucks rolling down the coastal road.
“It might be the winter clothing delivery. I’ll have to doll it out.”
“So eager for a detour from your current task, my man?” Barlocke mused. “Why, I thought you were going to see Ghent?”
“Well, you told me to think on it and walk with you.”
“So, you wish to free yourself of my company?” The Inquisitor clicked his tongue and sighed sadly. “And I thought you would have liked to chat.”
“Why do you torment me so?” Marsh muttered.
“I do no such thing.”
“It feels like it. Let me away so I might attend my men, I’ve naught to say.”
“I doubt the distribution of fresh uniforms would occupy your men for long. Like you, I believe they need a distraction.
“All they need are some targets to shoot at, sir.”
“Barlocke.” He squeezed the back of Marsh’s neck. The platoon sergeant bristled uncomfortably.
“Barlocke, if these gunmen can get back to the bloody work, whenever you allow it, they shall be fine.”
“Gunmen?” chuckled Barlocke. “Why do you call them so?”
“They be men with guns,” Marsh answered flatly, thinking the reason was quite obvious.
“In the same way a mason must set aside his tools to rest his arm or the scribe his pen to ease his mind, so too must men with guns lay down their arms for a time. Let us away and spend a night or two in Kasr Sonnen. Warm beds, hot food, and drinks which scorch our stomachs.”
“But we are not due furlough.”
“Truly? Well, let us see about that,” Barlocke said, determined. “Go on then, if you’re so keen. I shall speak to the Colonel.”
***
Much to Marsh’s relief, the convoy that arrived in the next hour certainly did bring their winter coats. It was a cause for enthusiastic bustle as everyone eagerly lined up to obtain their new fatigues. Kasr Fortis did receive snowfall throughout the season but the rough land was defined by rocks and yellow tundra grass. Thus, uniforms were still issued in khaki but the men also received white liners for their olive drab helmets and Flak Armor. New boots, gloves, and jackets had fur lining and their new trousers had thermal layers.
Stations were erected at every one of the Trojan supply vehicles. Built on the sturdy, tracked Chimera chassis, they offloaded the crates of uniforms. Crane. Militarum Quartermaster-Sergeants assisted Departmento Munitorum menials break up the cases and distribute them. Cranes dipped in and out of the holds while quartermasters blew whistles and directed their placement. Marsh Silas, more inclined to pitch in then wait his turn, stood by one of the stations and waved his platoon members over. After changing into his own set, of course; he now felt very warm and his mood was far better. The likes of Yoxall, Drummer Boy, Hyram, and especially Barlocke, were now out of his mind. It felt much better to focus on a more soldierly duty.
Walmsley Major came up after Fleming. He was rubbing his hands together.
“Ain’t you supposed to be on watch?”
“Nothing stirs, Marsh Silas! It’s bloody dull and I tire of the cold.”
“Is that a complaint I hear?”
“Come off it, Minor still shivers in the OP! See? I’m not entirely neglectful of my duty. Here, give me two, I’ll bring him his kit on the double-quick.” Marsh acquiesced, smiling a little bit. After shoving two of the parcels into Walmsley Major’s hands, he thought he would leave. But the Heavy Weapons sergeant lingered. “Perhaps, I ought to take a third. For the Lieutenant.”
Marsh’s smile faded.
“Someone else will see he gets his uniform. You have work. And he ought to be on his own two feet to collect, just like the rest o’ us.”
“Ah, so you will take it, then?”
“If I have to see him again, I’m likely to shoot’em.”
“Shoot who, Staff Sergeant?”
Everyone in line snapped to attention as Commissar Ghent came around the side of the Trojan’s hull. He stood very straight, his chin was up, and his hands were folded behind his back. Each of his footfalls on the rockcrete pavement seemed louder than the humming engines, squeaking cranes, and buzzing of men in other ques.
Ghent walked around the station and faced Marsh Silas, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with Walmsley Major. The Commissar slowly looked at the latter. “Be gone.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Glory to Emperor and Imperium!” He collected all three kits and quickly jogged away. Ghent’s attention returned to Marsh Silas.
“Well? Who do you mean to shoot?” His hands traveled from his back to his belt. One rested on the pommel of his power sword while the other gripped the leather holster of his Bolt Pistol. Marsh’s violet eyes swept between both weapons. He felt very hot underneath his new coat now. Ghent’s expecting, curious expression started to grow impatient. Behind him, the men of Bloody Platoon looked on, their horror hardly hidden. Yoxall stood among them, as well as Honeycutt and Drummer Boy. Their gazes were deep and concerned, yet also condemning.
His lips moved and he swallowed hard. Ghent loomed closer. “Sing out, Staff Sergeant.”
“A jest, sir, and nothing more.” He spoke very stiffly and did his best to conceal the disappointment which washed over him. Despite such feelings, he felt freed by the response as well. The dilemma which dogged him this morning was dispelled.
“Of course, it was,” Ghent said. “Step aside with me. The rest of you, collect your uniforms and be off.”
Marsh followed the Commissar over the other side of the compound, not far from the refugee camp. Their huts were reinforced with more sheet metal, wooden timbers, and canvas sheets tied over them. Still, they were ramshackle affairs and those who were too injured or feeble to work huddled around their campfires rather than stay inside their shacks.
Spinning on his heel and snapping them together, Ghent looked at him sharply. “You and the Inquisitor have been speaking often. He seems rather taken with you. A soldier ought to feel honored when he falls under the eye of one of the Emperor’s chosen agents.” But he leaned in closer, his gaze hardening underneath his red and black high-peaked cap. “I suppose you might think you are destined for something greater than soldiering. Have you dreamed of running off and becoming an Inquisitorial Acolyte?”
“Sir, I know not what an Acolyte is and I don’t think—”
“You are not meant to think, Staff Sergeant! Your duty is to follow orders, smite the foes of our Imperium, and lay down your life when the time comes! Do not forget who and what you are by indulging in delusions of grandeur. You might think yourself a would-be Inquisitor, and aye, such a life might seem attractive to you. But I will not stand for it, do you understand?”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Very good, Guardsman. We respect and obey the Inquisition, but remember, our service is just as honorable and vital to the Imperium. The Inquisition is the Imperium’s eyes, the Adeptus Astartes are its swords, the Navis Imperialis its shield, and the Astra Militarum, we are the hammer. From whole regiments right down to its platoons, we are the hammer. The platoon must not be beat!”
“Yes sir, the platoon will not be beat!”
“Who do we serve?”
“The Emperor!”
“Who are we?”
“Cadians, sir!”
“Cadians?”
“Fight for faith!”
“Ca-di-ans?”
“Fight for faith!
Ghent nodded resolutely. Marsh Silas thought it was over but then the Commissar snatched him by his chestplate collar. Menacingly, his lips pulling back like a snarling hound’s bared teeth, he leaned into Marsh.
“Do not forget that. You are Cadian. Not an Inquisitor. If you ever forget, I shall swiftly remind you.”
He let go roughly, sending Marsh Silas staggering back several steps. Although he managed to recover, by the time he managed to stand at attention once more, Ghent was marching away. Easing, Marsh’s shoulders sagged and he felt very exhausted.
“What a bloody morning,” he muttered. Assailed by comrades, Commissars, and Inquisitors at every turn, he felt further put upon.
“Are you well, Marsh Silas?”
He looked over his shoulder to find Asiah standing there, her blonde hair spilling out from a hood. Her nose was red from the chill and her big, pale violet eyes were drawn in concern.
“Fine,” was all he managed, looking back. There was a great deal on his mind and Barlocke’s little maxim was proving hard to entertain. Such a poor taste was left in his mouth he did not think even his tabac pipe would clear it. Staying out in the cold air proved just as distasteful a thought as returning to the barracks and the scrutinizing company of his comrades. What was there to do but roam aimlessly through camp? That’d be dreary on his own even if he wished to separate from his friends, and that perplexing Barlocke, for a time.
He blinked a few times and looked back at Asiah. She was turning away. “Wait, miss. Would you…” Marsh scratched the back of his head, “care to…walk with me?”