Like his walk with Barlocke a few days earlier, Marsh Silas found himself among the flowers once again. 2nd Company was conducting maneuvers in the field on the left side of the road so he and Asiah drifted to the right. While those Guardsmen stalked through the flowers with their lasguns in a low-ready posture, Marsh and Asiah merely strolled.
She hadn’t spoken yet. Her hands remained stuffed into the pockets of her brown, woolen coat. The gray apron she wore rippled in the wind; from its front pocket hung the handkerchief he’d given her before. But as they entered the deeper parts of the field closest to the beach, she let her hands float above the petals much like Barlocke had. Sometimes, a fingertip lingered on a soft, brown bud or squeezed a green stalk. Both hands were quite pale from the cold.
“I could see about getting you a pair of gloves, Miss.”
She shook her head. “Well, is there anything else you need?” Asiah made no indication. “What about your people? Have they anymore needs? I’m but a humble sergeant but I’ll see what I can do.” Again, she did not gesture. Marsh swung and clapped his hands together a few times, then procured his pipe. “Would you like a little tabac?”
This time she shook her head. Marsh Silas gave up and looked over at 2nd Company as he put his pipe away. The point man froze, raised his fist to signal a halt, and then stretched his arm out to the side. As he lowered himself to his knee, every man in the company mimicked him. Only the very tops of their olive drab tri-dome pattern helmets were visible.
“Are you allowed to be beyond the perimeter?” Asiah suddenly asked.
“Commissar Ghent ain’t come to put a bolt through my head. That’s enough permission.”
This didn’t make her laugh as he hoped but she did emit an airy breath. She bent over, plucked the head of a flower from its step, and twirled it so fast the petals became a yellow blur.
“I’ve never seen flowers until I came here. They’re rather pretty, don’t you think?”
“Never put much stock in…oh, well, yes, they’re…nice, I suppose,” Marsh said, shrugging. Asiah suddenly stepped in front of him and was able to push what remained of the green stem through his collar. The flower rested over the metallic pin displaying his rank insignia. Craning his neck, he tried to peer down it. He smiled and rolled his shoulders. “Well, it appears I’m out of uniform.”
Asiah smiled a little. Then her eyes glimmered a little.
“It suits you well. I hope I’ll have a little time to take Galo through the fields and put a flower in his hair.”
Marsh, who’d been trying to appear pleased, felt his face drop. Sorrowfully, he looked down at his boots.
“Miss, please…”
“My boy is not dead. He’s out there, somewhere,” Asiah said emotionlessly. Marsh Silas ran his gloved hand over his face.
“I’m very sorry about yer boy. Truly, I am, for all those young souls. I promise you, I have not forgotten what’s happened. I will make those heretics pay for your child.”
“Stop speaking of him as if he does not live!”
“None o’ us saw a boy which looked like your son. Hair like mine, a small scar, I remember what you said. I wouldn’t forget that face. He wasn’t there.”
He was starting to say it more for himself now. To entertain thoughts the boy was lost during the frantic withdrawal action would be catastrophic. But he’d stood in the prison where they were, he ushered them out, he was one of the last men to fall back; he would have seen him. No, he was not going to torture himself. But Asiah’s expression remained steadfast. She stood braced, as if in the face of a great wind, and glared up at him.
“Galo is alive.”
Marsh scoffed and waved his hand, annoyed now.
“Unless you got a direct link to the God-Emperor, I must disagree with ya.”
“Easy for you to make jokes. It’s not your son out there.” Her hands balled into fists. “Do you even have a son?”
Marsh Silas shrugged, shook his head, and squinted into the wind. All he wanted was a little peace, a brief escape from this ever-befuddling morning, and yet he faced again challenge and condemnation.
“No, miss, I don’t.” He held his breath, preparing himself.
“Then how could you expect to understand what it’s like to lose your flesh and blood?”
“Hey, I lost my father right before my eyes!” Marsh snapped. “I think I have some idea, woman.”
“Then you have what I do not; peace. At least you know he is dead. But my boy—”
Marsh Silas threw his arms up in exasperation and towered over the little woman.
“Woman, I don’t know why ya keep doing this to yerself! It pains me, it truly does, but the boy is dead. I wish we could o’ done something! But he was gone by the time we arrived. I’m sorry!”
“If you haven’t seen him, and I haven’t seen him, and no one else has seen him, there’s no proof he’s dead!”
“Proof? You want proof?” Marsh Silas pointed down the cape road. “Get yourself a 9-70, tramp up the north road, and take a look—”
Tears streamed down Asiah’s cheeks, cutting lines through the dust. Anger gripped every feature as she sniffed and shivered. Her brow remained wrinkled and furrowed, her watery violet gaze burned with indignation. Both fists shook like leaves in the wind and her lips quivered.
Marsh Silas could not stay angry; it left him like warmth snatched away by winter wind. He eased his posture and softened his face. “Emperor take me. I’m most sorry.”
“He is out there,” she said bluntly, her voice choking back a sob. “If you had a boy of your own, you would not give up hope so easily. Hope is all I have.”
Asiah brushed by him, knocking her shoulder against his. Standing a full head taller, robust of muscle, and clad in armor, he was hardly staggered by the tiny woman. He turned to watch her leave; she hastily dabbed at her eyes with the white cloth. Marsh Silas expected her to throw it away but she clutched it tightly.
Hope, he wondered, but what of faith? Marsh concluded it was a mother’s grief and nothing more. It did little to erase his guilt. Pious souls always did, after all. The God-Emperor dedicated his life to creating, guiding, and protecting the Imperium. Now, entrapped on the Golden Throne, Marsh and his fellow soldiers owed Him everything. Yet, they could not always give their Overlord what He justly deserved. Each day was a failure and thus the Imperial Cult dictated guilt was to be woven in their faith.
It bothered him; she seemed to be faltering. But he could not bring himself to declare her a heretic. With all this newfound time, he decided he would go to the chapel and pray on her behalf and for the protection of her little son’s lost soul. Perhaps then, he would not feel so regretful having failed Asiah and the other parents.
How different this shame felt; it was more than failure. A hill could be lost but later recaptured. Vehicles damaged by shells could be repaired. Lost limbs could be replaced by bionic arms and legs. But those children? They could have survived, rescued before the corruption took hold. They should have survived. It was all together right that they should; they would have become more loyal citizens within the Emperor’s light and acted as the Guardsmen of tomorrow.
Could. Should. Would. Such words never tormented him before in his life. Even if he stood out among the flowers until his next watch, Marsh Silas believed there’d be no alleviation of this conundrum. Life before that terrible day, the ambush, and Barlocke’s arrival suddenly seemed simpler. More and more, he felt beset by something within.
“Emperor, forgive me,” he whispered, his voice nearly lost in the snowy wind. He closed his eyes, pressed his palms together, and folded them out, hooking his thumbs in the sign of the Aquila. “I beg thee, clear my mind.”
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Marsh opened his eyes slowly, grimacing. Who else could it be?
“You’ll never believe it,” Barlocke said. “Two days leave in Kasr Sonnen. Just you, me, and the men. I’ve even secured transportation.”
“I do not wish to know how you managed to talk old Isaev into that one.”
“It wasn’t so much convincing him as it was telling him what I was about, my dear! Let’s round up those bloody gunmen and head out!”
***
Of course, Bloody Platoon was very surprised and especially elated to have furlough so suddenly. Anything to get away from the cold, the boredom, and sad days; many considered this to be their leave which was promised prior to Barlocke’s requisitioning of the regiment. Although still quite crestfallen, Marsh Silas was buoyed as he immersed himself in his comrades’ celebrations. Getting away from the camp might actually do me some good as well, he thought.
Master Sergeant Tindall and his squadron of Chimera APCs were assigned the task to transport them to Kasr Sonnen. Far away to the east, the fortress-city was always in sight of Army’s Meadow. It stood atop the Dagger Mountain range which ran parallel to the winding coastal road on its western side. It was a highly advantageous geographical position; the western basin provided little landfall for invading armies, the northern part of the range was low and flat while the south was composed of bluffs, ridges, hills, ravines, and crags. From the air, the range appeared as an ancient dagger which merited its name by Cadia’s first people. Kasr Sonnen itself sat on a mass called the Cross-Guard, the highest peak in the entire range. Just to the south was the smaller but just as jagged Locket Mountain which was guarded by a sprawling Redemption-pattern fortress. The entire mountain range itself was honeycombed with tunnels, bunkers, Firestorm Redoubts, Aquila Strongpoints, casemates, automated batteries, and a subterranean railroad which began in Kasr Sonnen and terminated at the range’s northern tip. To the east, Sonnen Plateau was defined by flat earth with a series of ridgebacks to its north and east. A decent location for enemy invasion, it was however penned in by the terrain and was under so many thousands of guns.
The only method to reach Kasr Sonnen other than its underground rail lines or by air was by following the road which looped around Locket Mountain. It ran north for a short way before veering west up to the Cross-Guard. The mountain road passed through three large adjacent ridges with manmade gaps and tunnels for passage; they were called Aust, Gallus, and Piscator, named for famous Cadian generals. Eventually, the road wound up the steep slope until it reached the gate of Kasr Sonnen.
Standing in the open turret hatch, Marsh observed the passing ridges with awe. They were truly massive and were studded with gun positions. Long Earthshaker Cannon barrels protruded from bunkers located even on its steepest precipices! Far above, he could see the walls of the kasr looming and thousands of artillery pieces mounted on and within its gargantuan walls.
It wasn’t much longer before they approached the outer barbican, a fortified gatehouse. Interior Guardsmen patrolled the ramparts or stood next to Sabre Gun Platforms of every pattern. Tarantula Sentry Gun turrets spun in sharp angles, searching for hostile targets. A few Earthshakers poked out of the barbican’s massive firing ports while a ring of turret emplacements, built into the walls on either side, guarded its flank. Their Battle Cannons were carried by tank-like turrets built on heavy, reinforced structures defended by lines of static defense three ranks deep. Rows upon rows of barbed wire, tank traps, and caltrops, bordered the road.
The gate opened, revealing an already lowered double-leaf bascule bridge and the interior barbican at the end. Tindall slowed the Chimera down as they crossed. Marsh gazed over the edge at the deep moat water below. Above him, the double-layer walls were topped with Aquila-pattern Macrocannon turrets, Earthshaker Cannons, and Hydra Flak emplacements.
When the second gate opened, they were flagged down by a Captain, a Commissar, and their checkpoint retinue. Tindall dropped the rear hatch and Barlocke strode out to meet them. Marsh could not hear what the Inquisitor had to say to these men over the rumbling engine, but once he returned, they were waved onward. He caught a glimpse of their pensive expressions; typical, having just been in the presence of an Inquisitor. Marsh leaned out and offered his hand, which Barlocke took. He sat on top of the Chimera turret while Tindall closed the hatch and waited for the inspection teams to finish surveying their vehicles. Once a lack of contamination was confirmed, they drove forward.
By the Emperor, it felt magnificent to be back in a kasr! To be surrounded by its heavy bunkers, blockhouses, pillboxes, high walls, sandbag-lined emplacements, spires, Bastion Towers, and the Aegis Defense Lines which mirrored the geometric patterns of the road made him feel secure. Throngs of Interior Guardsmen of the Home Regiments patrolled the roads and occupied heavy gun positions. Anti-air guns and searchlights scanned the sky while automated defenses observed the city. Every building was built of strong rockrete and bristled with guns. Massive banners bearing the Aquila, vestiges of the Emperor, Imperial Saints, Cadian heroes, or the winged skull icon of the Astra Militarum, were illuminated by lights. They swayed and fluttered in flurries of snow. Bronze statues of notable Cadians appeared in the darkness, surrounded by bunker complexes.
Off-duty troopers, still clad in body armor and fatigues, marched in step down the roads. Priests stood in cupolas overlooking the streets, their voices crackling through Vox-amps. Others led choirs down the street, chanting hymns and incantations. While the preachers sang, their menials held up holy relics while others swung golden chalices filled with burning incense. Commissars paced before blocks of troops awaiting assignment, espousing tenants from the Cadian edition of The Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer as well as other cants.
“Who do we serve!?” one Commissar shouted to a company of troopers.
“The Emperor!”
“Who are we!?”
“Cadians!”
“What is the Guard!?”
“The Emperor’s Hammer!”
“What is your duty!?”
“To crush the Emperor’s foes!”
“What is duty!?”
“Life itself!”
“What is the Imperium!?”
“All we hold dear!”
“What is glory!?”
“Death!”
Other formations, from squads to entire regiments, marched down the roads and sidewalks in perfect, mechanical unison. Multiple times, their convoy had to stop for several minutes to allow them to pass. Armored convoys of Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks rolled by while other heavy vehicles sat in entrenched positions along the roadways. Huge formations of Valkyries returned to base, landing at the sprawling Skyshield ports. They passed more banners and big posters of famous Cadian heroes both living, such as Lukas Bastonne, and dead, such as those of Lieutenant-Precept Kade and Master Gunnery Sergeant Hass. Huge speakers were beside these posters, belting out marching music or prerecorded dialogue from a Commissar.
“Here are the visages of Imperial heroes!” the crisp Cadian voice thundered. “Gaze upon them so that you may find examples of courage and faith! Carry on, Cadian sons and daughters! Commit to the Emperor’s work as they have and march ever onward to victory!”
It made Marsh’s heart swell.
By the time they finally reached the disembarkation area, night was falling. It was a motor pool but also a processing center for incoming and outgoing troops on furlough. To keep Cadia’s population stable, disease control was a priority. While checkpoints possessed basic scanning equipment for contamination, it was required for all visiting troops to process through the Officio Medicae centers. As well, Interior Guardsmen conducted sweeps to ensure there were no wanted men hiding among a troop complement. To complete the search, incoming personnel were inducted through a cleansing rite administered by a priest and if need be, they would be interviewed by Ordo Militarum Inquisitors or, if such agents were unavailable, Ordo Militum personnel. Even Enginseers were present to evaluate the health of the vehicles’ Machine Spirits.
Marsh Silas had been through this process countless times but it still made him uneasy as he stood in formation. Guardsmen, Commissars, priests, Medicae personnel, and an Ordo Militum Inquisitor started their inspections. Standard procedure was to open one’s rucksack and place it on the ground in front of their feet. While Medicae teams hosed down the vehicles, the Militum agent’s retinue searched them for contraband, treasonous or heretical literature, illegal totems, and other paraphernalia. When they finished, the vehicle interiors were scrubbed down. Concurrently, a similar search of the men’s uniforms and rucksacks were conducted. Medicae doctors, assisted by Diagnostor-equipped Servo-skulls, surveyed each man for illness.
As they checked through his bag, Marsh glanced over at Barlocke. He, of course, was not subject to the search and was happily chatting with the Ordo Militum Inquisitor. Their conversation seemed so at ease it was as if they knew each other. Considering what kind of man Barlocke was, Marsh decided he wouldn’t be surprised if that was true.
Everything was in order and the platoon was led into the building by a Commissar. The rockcrete interior possessed tile floors and white or gray walls. Servitors mopped the floors while others attended to light fixtures or adjusted holy banners which hung on the walls. Behind counters and in multiple offices, Medicae menials pounded away at cogitators. A sterile smell hung in the air.
A secondary medical screening was held as they marched deeper into the building. Here, they were separated from their uniforms, armor, weapons, and other belongings as these would be scrubbed down by servitors and menials in an adjacent cleansing chamber. Stark naked, the men proceeded in line between two parallel rows of doctors; the one on the left held a Data-slate while the one on the right had an array of injectors. These fellows wore white, sealed suits, glass visors, and rebreathers; Marsh found them unsettling as they spoke and moved with no nuance or emotion.
“Name, rank, serial number, unit,” said the one with the slate.
“Silas Cross, Staff Sergeant, CAM-29-505-301, 1333rd Cadian Regiment,” Marsh said to the doctor on his left. The specialist put down his device and picked up his own injector.
“Step forward.”
Each doctor pricked him in either arm, making Marsh wince. Guardsmen routinely required immunizations and updates on their physical boosters before going back into the field. But this was the final net which could catch a man who was ill or tainted by corruption. Huge holy icons, from golden busts of the Emperor to huge silver Aquilas suspended from the ceiling covered the hall. Purity seals were everywhere and priests recited scripture, burned incense, and regularly cast sacred oils and water over the men as they padded through.
Anyone harboring a disease was taken away by the Medicae staff for further examination. Most men in that fellow’s unit would end up in quarantine for a few days. As to what would happen if a corrupted soldier was discovered, Marsh Silas was not sure. He’d never seen it with his own eyes, but the Ordo Militum guards who stood stoically in intervals throughout the hall were an indication. This reminded him of a man named Tor, whom they rescued from a doomed regiment back in 970.M41. Jovial, easygoing, quick to tell a joke, he quickly made a place for himself in the platoon. Upon returning to a kasr, he was cited as being ill and taken away. No one saw or heard from Tor again.
Once the injections were over, with each man’s arms usually pricked six to twelve times on either side, they went through a brief lobby. Here, servitors handed out towels, soap, cleansing paste, toothbrushes, and razors. Through the next door was a communal washroom. The tiled walls were lined with showerheads, sinks, and mirrors; long metallic benches ran through the center. This was a welcome place for any Cadian Guardsman. If he was fortunately blessed by the Emperor, he was stationed in a kasr or in a camp with showers. Those who weren’t would go days, weeks, even months without washing. Shock Troopers like Marsh Silas liked to joke the only ones who couldn’t stand to have Cadian grit on their skin for too long were those feeble tithed regiments, bellyaching and yearning for their homes. But in truth, a man could only go so long before he desired to be clean once more.
The shower unit was long complete in Army’s Meadow but those were rather spartan affairs. Oftentimes, the water was cold and a man only had a few minutes to scrub down. During the transfer process in kasrs, however, they were expected to thoroughly wash no matter how long it took. Guardsmen were more than happy to oblige!
Bowing his head under the water and scrubbing the accumulated dirt out of his hair, Marsh started to sigh involuntarily. It was very satisfying to feel those small clots of earth roll off his skin. Feeling the black under his fingernails washing away, the hair on his chest matting down, his skin becoming so smooth—it was like being reborn.
He threw his head back, causing his identification tags to jingle. Turning around, he scrubbed his chest with the soap bar. The washroom was filled with huge clouds of wafting steam from so many showers. Everyone was under the water, their hair damp around their heads. Suds slid down their sinewy frames and coated their blonde locks.
“I don’t know whether to pace myself until it’s time to leave with a woman or to get blind drunk for the night.”
“Ah, but you must do yer duty!”
“Aye but we’re here for two nights; one for drinking, one for women!”
“What about food?”
“That’ll work itself out, won’t it?”
“Amasec and a girl, that’s a meal in itself, lads.”
The conversation continued to be boisterous. There was not a single frown among their faces. Marsh was glad Lieutenant Hyram did not come; his dour mug would have ruined the entire occasion. Turning again, allowing the water to run over his chest, he applied soap to the scruff of bead he wore and picked up the razor. He ran his thumb over the palm mirror to wipe away the fog, but it fell from the bracket under the shower.
“Blast,” he said as it landed in a pile of soap bubbles in front of the drain. Thankfully, it didn’t break.
“Take mine.” Barlocke, standing under the showerhead next to Marsh, handed him his own square mirror. Marsh gingerly plucked it from his long fingers and placed it in the bracket. But his eyes lingered on the Inquisitor. Barlocke shut his eyes while he washed and appeared quite peaceful. His long, dark hair cascaded over his shoulders and back. Despite his slender stature, he was rippling with defined musculature. Everything was perfectly outlined, as if painted by an artist’s brush. A multitude of scars decorated his body; pale bullet pocks, faded slashes from a saber or dagger’s edge, and the irregularly-shaped brownish splotches from grazing lasbolts. The man was immensely pale, ghostly even.
Barlocke opened one eye and smiled at Marsh. Hastily, the platoon sergeant looked forward and started shaving. “My, what a journey this is just to enter a little city,” Barlocke said.
“It’s important stuff,” Marsh replied, carefully dragging the blade across his cheek. It left a clear swathe in the white soap and revealed a clear patch of skin. “Or so they say,” he said, more as a joke.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Dogged defense against any and all, it appears,” the Inquisitor continued wistfully. “It is good Cadia is a Fortress World; if it was some other place, a man might lose all aspiration to travel when confronted with such barriers.”
Barlocke glanced over at Marsh just as he opened his mouth to speak. “Aspiration is another word for hope.”
“Hope,” Marsh repeated, remembering Asiah. He cut another streak through the suds.
“You wouldn’t want to be stuck in one place for your whole life, would you? Like some of these poor Hivers, trapped in their same smog-covered block for their short, miserable days.”
This made Marsh’s hand hesitate over the next patch.
“Off-world service is considered a great honor amongst my people. Folks still say it’s honorable to defend the homeworld, too,” he said. “I do love my home but…”
“It is alright if you wish to strike out even if you bear such adoration for Cadia. No one should judge you for that.”
Marsh looked back at the mirror, which was fogging over, and swept the razor over his cheek again.
Once the men were finished, they dried off and proceeded down another hall. A final, tertiary medical inspection was held. Men walked between two diagnostic screens which confirmed he was clean and harbored no infection. All a fellow had to do was stand for a moment, the device would chime, and the Medicae overseer waved them on. They came to the repository room; to the right were metal benches, coat hooks, and cubby holes. To the left were a series of glass windows with ports just above the rockcrete countertop. Behind the glass were racks and shelves where their deloused belongings were stored.
Marsh waited his turn and approached the glass.
“Silas Cross, Staff Sergeant, CAM-29-505-301, 1333rd Cadian Regiment.”
The menial returned with a bundle and Marsh went to the other side to dress. To be clean and don fresh fatigues was a great feeling; the clothes still held the body but were more comfortable and airier. All three silver Aquilas he wore—the emblem on the front of his helmet, the badge on the upper left portion of his chestplate, and his belt buckle—were polished and gleamed in the white overhead lighting.
Instead of putting his helmet on, he decided to wear his low-peaked NCO cap. The olive-drab color was deeper, the black bill shone, and the silvered Aquila pin on the front was also glistening. Placing it over his neat, blonde locks, he examined himself in a mirror and nodded. Turning, he found Barlocke waiting for him, arms akimbo, his gaze sly, and his smile exceedingly confident.
His voluminous hair shone and spilled over his shoulders. The heat of the showers hadn’t left his cheeks, turning them pink. Fresh purple, yellow, and blue purity seals decorated his cuirass and coat. Swinging on its chain was the Rosette, the ivory clean and glinting.
“Well? I do hope I look worthy of my station,” the Inquisitor said haughtily.
“Why not cast your gaze in yonder mirror?” Marsh said instead, jerking his thumb towards the glass. Barlocke shook his head and walked over.
“Tsk-tsk, Silas. Beware, a mirror can never be trusted.” He adjusted Marsh Silas’s collar a little bit and smoothed out his coat. Marsh hoped none of his comrades were looking; he found he couldn’t look at Barlocke for his face was very close. Gazing at this spectacle in the mirror would have made him feel even more embarrassed.
“You look quite fine, Inq…Barlocke.”
“You look quite fetching yourself.” Barlocke stood up. “There, that’s fixed it. For a Militarum man, your collar was quite askew.”
“I hadn’t finished just yet,” Marsh defended.
“Oh, you’re such a sensitive soul,” Barlocke cooed.
“Let’s get a move on and be done with this ruddy affair.”
Bloody Platoon was directed to a registration center by the Adeptus Administratum. After each man showed his identity papers, contained in a little black book, the representative of the unit was requested by an Ordinate. This was usually the commanding officer of the formation but in this case, it was Barlocke. After showing them their orders for furlough, Bloody Platoon’s status was changed from ‘Active Duty,’ to, ‘Detached from Regiment, Under Arms on Furlough.’ It was Administratum-language for declaring a unit, although resting, was still equipped and ready for combat at any given notice. It was necessary for off-duty units on Cadia to be able to respond quickly to invasions, incursions, and other emergencies. Although, no Cadian was ever far from their arms and armor.
Bloody Platoon and the Chimera crews who ferried them to Kasr Sonnen formed up in the compound on the opposite side of the transfer block. A first lieutenant and a Commissar were required to recite some standing orders for the platoon—a mere formality for such Veteran Guardsmen. Clean shaven, their hair combed, they hardly looked the part now! The scent of armor polish, sterile soap, and fresh linens from the steam press filled the cool night air.
When the officers finally gave them permission to enter the city, Marsh turned to Barlocke. “We’re ready to move out, sir,” he said excitedly. After a brief pause, he added, “where is it that we’re going?”
“You shall see, follow me!” Barlocke took the lead and Marsh spurred the men to walk on. They marched in step out onto the sidewalk and headed deeper into the kasr. The Inquisitor walked a few paces ahead, his gait quick and jaunty. “Give us a jaunty tune, why don’t you?” he asked over his shoulder.
“As you wish. Monty Peck!?” he called into the platoon.
“Aye, Marsh Silas!?” came the reply. Monty Peck was the best singer in the entire platoon and knew just about every Cadian song there was. His voice could be arrogant, strong, or beautiful; it depended on the cadence. Together, they decided there was only one song fitting enough to sing now they were on furlough.
“Scale the kasr’s tower,
to taste the maiden’s flower.
I hope it isn’t sour!
Oh, I hope it isn’t sour!
She might begin to glower,
at my coming in this hour.
my, she’s awfully dour!
Of course she’s awfully dour!
But I’ve come too far to cower,
she’s yet to feel my power.
yes, I aim to plow’er!
Tonight, I aim to plow’er!”
The beat of the song matched the steady tramp-tramp-tramp of their feet crunching on the snowy pavement. Everyone snickered at the end. Marsh Silas and Monty Peck sang it several times more while they traversed the irregular roads.
It was good to pass through the martial scenes again. This time, there was a shift change at the manufactorum district. Mobs of Imperial denizens came filing past, their jumpsuits smeared with oil stains and coal dust. So filthy that their skin was black, they ambled by, some of them old soldiers unfit for service but still contributing by toiling in the factorums. Other Cadian Shock Troopers were on leave and passing between one of the many soldier’s halls. Servitors swept and shoveled snow off the road, ignored by those walking by.
They passed Bastion Towers, sprawling garrison complexes, fortresses, train stations leading to the underground, and grand fortified cathedrals. Marsh thought they would walk all the way to the massive citadel in the center of the city at the rate they were going. But, Barlocke eventually stopped in front of an enlisted man’s hall. It was a great block of a building; the blast curtains were raised, allowing the warm light within to flood through the windows and onto the street. It was plain and simple compared to the commissioned halls which were occupied by so many officers, lords, and ladies of the upper Cadian caste. Such places were well-provisioned with lavish meals and staffed with dutiful servants and merry bands. Soldier halls were simpler, with a series of tables, chairs, benches, and a bar where men could order food and drinks. The Cadian elite could choose to mix with the enlisted castes at such establishments, although the latter could never enter the grand halls.
This hall was called, ‘Gunner’s Joint.’ Barlocke barged through the double doors and surveyed the scene. Marsh and Bloody Platoon remained in the threshold. The place was full with troops occupying every table. All were drinking, eating, chatting, smoking, or playing various card or knife games. Their conversations ended when they spotted an Inquisitor standing before them.
“Everybody out!” Barlocke shouted. “By order of the Imperial Inquisition!”
Immediately, every Guardsman present stamped out their lho-sticks, slurped their drinks, and gathered their kits. Within thirty seconds, all scurried out of the hall. Only the bartender and his staff remained, shaking in their boots.
Marsh felt Barlocke’s elbow against his arm. The Inquisitor winked at him. “Now we have the place to ourselves. Keeper, all food and drink shall be paid for at the expense of the Inquisition.”
Bloody Platoon cheered and dispersed throughout the hall. Marsh went to the bar with Barlocke and the pair tossed their hats on the counter. Although his favorite drinking companions were the Walmsley brothers—easy to speak with even when drunk—and Yoxall, Marsh occupied the last stool at the bar with Barlocke sitting between him and the others. He caught their disappointed expressions at their routine being broken, but he knew there was no detachment from Barlocke now.
He put it from his mind. Everyone was occupied and jolly. No Hyram, no Hayhurst, no Ghent, no Asiah, no one to bother and confuse him.
The keeper gave both men Amasec. Barlocke clinked his glass against Marsh’s before they drank. Marsh groaned happily as the liquid burned down his throat while the Inquisitor eyed the cup warily.
“Pretty good stuff, isn’t it?” Marsh asked.
“I’ve had far better but what can you expect from an import? I’ve been to many places and tried a great deal of liquor. I almost tired Fenrisian Ale the Space Wolves are so fond of but I was not sure I’d survive. I tell you, the Wolves are good company.” Barlocke laughed while Marsh huffed, jealous and offended.
“Aye, aren’t ye fortunate to have shared time with the honorable Space Wolves. Well, this might not be up to the Inquisition’s standards or what have you, but a man takes what he can get. It’s far better than the liquor ration they give us. Cadian rum is very bitter stuff and none o’ us can afford the good imports the officers have.”
“I suppose I can’t be choosy,” Barlocke said and finished the glass. The two men allowed the keeper to refill their cups. Marsh lit his ebony pipe and puffed happily on it. With the Amasec sitting well in his stomach and the sweet, earthy flavor of tabac in his lungs, he felt very calm. He offered his pipe to Barlocke who’s dark eyes lit up. “Now, that’s very good.”
“Smooth, eh? Militarum might not have good liquor but they sure know how to get a man some fine tabac and lho-leaf combinations. So long as he pays his requisition fees. Or knows how to swipe a few extra pouches when no one’s looking.”
“Ah, now I know how you came by a pipe of such fine make,” Barlocke joked as he handed it back.
“Twas my papa’s pipe.”
“Some family heirlooms are swords, others are tomes, but for good Silas Cross, it’s a pipe,” Barlocke chimed, smacking Marsh on the back.
“It’s about all the man could pass down,” the platoon sergeant chuckled. Barlocke spun on the stool and propped an elbow on the counter to rest his chin in his palm. He smiled knowingly at Marsh, his thick eyelashes fluttering a little.
“Tell me, why isn’t a Militarum man like yourself not in one of those officer’s halls?”
“It can go one of many ways for a Cadian. If you show enough promise o’ leadership, a man can find himself accelerated to noncommissioned ranks and if he shows even greater talent, he may be selected as an officer’s candidate.”
“Ooh, a large word for you.”
“I’ll have a larger word for ya if ye ain’t careful,” Marsh said, which made Barlocke giggle. “Those fellas still end up fighting in the Whiteshields on the frontlines but they get more training. Others, they come up the ranks, get a battlefield commission or are landed in the lower or middle nobility which entitles them to pursue a commission. Nobles, well, they’re destined for a commission. Some go through the Whiteshields like any others, others receive their commission by inspection, while others still purchase a commission.”
“All these paths to becoming a leader and yet they were all closed.”
“My papa was of lower nobility and mama was a common sort; ‘twas no fortune to send me to the officer’s corps. Folk that trained us decided I was more useful as an enlisted man. I shed no tears o’er that. But…” he swirled his drink around in the cup. “…there was talk of a battlefield commission once our old platoon leader, Good ol’ Overton we call him now, got promoted and transferred out.”
“Say no more,” Barlocke said unhappily before taking a sip. “Hayhurst wanted the commission and made sure you didn’t get it. To think, such politics on the company-level of an Astra Militarum regiment. It saddens me deeply.”
Marsh Silas shrugged and took a slug of his drink.
“You know what Barlocke,” he said with a weary breath. “Can’t say I blame’em. I’m a good soldier, I know that. Ghent was one of my instructors and he surely tried to kill me when I was a Whiteshield. But I managed to do well. I was even granted Kasrkin Honors. I know how to handle these gunmen, and if ye put me behind an M36 I can kill just about anythin’. But a commission? Why, who wouldn’t want an opportunity to better serve the Emperor?”
“And himself.”
“Hayhurst wasn’t wrong. Overton and I went all the way back to our first days as Whiteshields. He promoted me as a friend, not just by merit. Even this power sword ain’t mine; it belonged to Overton and his family. For our comradeship, he gave it to me as a parting gift. It was once called Blade of the 657th in honor of his mama’s regiment, but I’ve taken to calling it the Blade of Overton, out of respect.” He ran his hand along the scabbard of the sword. “I ain’t earned it, nor my current stripes, and certainly ain’t earned a commission.”
Barlocke set his glass down hard and pointed at Marsh.
“Nonsense. Don’t let the animosity of someone like Ghent or the jealousy and stupidity of Hayhurst alter your perception. A gift that sword may be but you know how to wield it. Who cares if a man has earned a weapon or not, so long as he knows how to use it?’
“It ain’t just about that. I’m not sore o’er it. I rather like being a sergeant, I know what I’m about in this life. Jus’ what an officer is supposed to do, I know not.”
A satisfied grin spread across Barlocke’s pale face. He held the glass close to his lips, so close that his breath fogged over the edges.
“Seems you have enough knowledge to know how Hyram is failing in his capacity. You say the role is foreign to you yet you presume to dictate how to fulfill it to someone else?” he retorted before gulping his remaining drink.
“Now why’d ya have to go and bring him up? Or any o’ this! I was having a splendid evening,” Marsh complained, finishing his own drink. He pointed at the glass to usher the keeper over. “Top it off, will ya? Thanks. Look, Hyram…I jus’…he’s got men to lead and battles to fight.”
“He’s fought two so far and one of them quite well, too.”
“One little fight ain’t enough to convince me. He’s got to go.”
“If you feel that way, why didn’t you tell Ghent?”
Marsh was about to answer when the double doors opened again. He looked over his shoulder. A number of off-duty Cadians from the 4,789th Home Regiment filed in. Most of them were women. At first, they took stock of the nearly vacant hall; fifty men barely filled the corner of the lower floor. But they dropped their packs, ordered drinks and food, or joined the card tables. Others immediately went to the keeper, requested keys, and went to the apartments upstairs. Some Guardsmen from Bloody Platoon followed.
Taking a long drink from his cup, Marsh finally turned back to Barlocke.
“Look, it ain’t about what the fella’s done so far. It’s about what he ain’t done. Or what he ain’t gonna do. He just isn’t one of us. These are Veterans you see here; some like me, are slated for the Kasrkin, our elite guard, one day if we prove ourselves dedicated and able enough. If we are to keep fighting for Emperor and Imperium, we need a good leader.”
“Some great leaders are forged in battle. Some are merely born. Others are molded,” was all Barlocke offered, looking into his cup.
“Why do you talk so? You use such flowery words that sound like some kinda riddle.”
“Just how I speak, young man,” Barlocke answered coyly with a little shrug. “I beg your pardon if I vex you.”
“Vex?”
“Confuse. I’m just trying to get you to consider other alternatives, Silas. Have a little hope, like young Asiah has for her son.”
“I prefer my faith.”
“Faith and hope can coexist.”
“Pah, blasphemy.”
The pair finished their drinks and sat in silence as they waited for a refill. Marsh stared at the golden-brown liquid in the bottom of his glass. He felt that way now, as if all he had left were a few drops. Assailed in every regard and couldn’t even enjoy this treat. Did everyone and everything have something to say to him? A little peace, that was all he wanted after such tumultuous days. Wherever he searched for it, he was paid twice fold with trouble, and this bloody Inquisitor seemed to enjoy ushering it in.
The clink of the keeper’s bottle over Marsh’s cup stirred him. Barlocke was gazing at some of the women. They were Cadians of all types; some with darker skin, others with paler hues, some had natural blonde locks, others bore red or raven crowns. Not many women served in the 1,333rd and to see some after so long, Marsh longed to be away with one of them. If just to desert his present company.
One young lady with deeply tan skin and reddish-blonde hair walked upstairs with Drummer Boy. Barlocke snorted.
“My, the lad is handsome but to walk away with such a prize? I did not realize your women were so keen to take men into their rooms. I’ve been on worlds where women didn’t even so much as glance at a man. Including me, and I’m rather handsome!”
Marsh locked eyes with a curly-haired, short Cadian with sandy locks. She had a charming smile and a cheerful laugh that rose above all others. After a moment, she looked away shyly and walked away with one of the Chimera crew members.
“Ain’t got nothin’ to do with how ya look. There’s much higher work to be done.”
Barlocke seemed like he was about to say something witty or clever. But he stopped short, appearing puzzled. He gazed at Marsh Silas, who leaned in close. “Those women don’t want some outlander’s seed. They’re Cadian women, they want Cadian children from Cadian men.”
“You mean it’s not some simple tryst to enjoy?”
“It’s a night’s comfort to be sure but it is one of our sacred duties. You learn from the day you enter drill school that if you do not bear children, there will be no soldiers to fight the wars o’ tomorrow. That’s what they told us, word for word. When we are dead and gone it’ll be our children who hold the line. This is Cadia. We stand against the Eye. My people died in droves every day. There must be children or my people shall fade. Who holds the bulwark then?”
Throughout his explanation, Barlocke’s face darkened with disgust. His lips pursed and nose wrinkled as if he smelled something bitterly repugnant. Eventually, he turned in his seat so he was facing the bar and not Marsh. Surprised, the platoon sergeant stopped talking but eventually mimicked the Inquisitor and drank quietly.
“So, that’s the way it is?” Barlocke murmured, shaking his head. “No love. No romance. Two strangers share one night, a child is born, and one day that child dies with a gun in their hand. I have been to so many places, Silas, and to see just one more world devoid of the passions between humans cuts so deeply into my very soul.”
“Romance? Love? This is for Cadia. It’s for the Imperium, the Emperor, for everyone,” Marsh Silas defended.
“Do you really think that is what our Lord wants? For people to use one another just and send their child into a machine that will grind them up?”
“What would you have us do? Stop bringing children into this life? Because there goes Cadia, and if Cadia falls, what will happen?”
“That’s not what I mean!” Barlocke hissed sharply, briefly lunging into Marsh’s face. The platoon sergeant recoiled. “I understand why it is necessary but I wish it was not so!” the Inquisitor went on to say. “I pine for a day in which we no longer have to send children to fight our wars.”
This made Marsh Silas snicker scornfully. He finished his fourth drink, let it settle in his stomach which was still comfortable, and turned in his seat.
“Well, let us away to the Eye of Terror, kill all within, and bring peace,” he said sarcastically. Barlocke stared into his violet eyes, his own growing very dark.
“It’s just a joke to you, isn’t it?” he said slowly. “You just fight, fuck whoever ends up in your bed, and you give no thought to the child that is born. Like some merchant or noble on a Hive World bedding a common wench, leaving her to raise a poor bastard on the streets. Surely, you must have sired many sons and daughters by now. You are unknown to them and they are absent to you. How many heirs of Silas are there do you reckon? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred, perhaps?”
“Enough o’ this, man, I say enough.” Marsh’s brow furrowed and his teeth started to clench.
“How many sons?” Barlocke said, whispering in a deep, even tone. “How many daughters? How many, how many, courageous Silvanus, how many will be fed to fires of war?”
“Stop,” Marsh Silas said. He was clutching his pipe in his left hand so tightly it shook. In his other hand, he held the glass in a vise grip so strong it threatened to shatter it.
“How many of your sires find themselves in your Youth Armies? How many have died already? Do you not weep for them? Do you not feel responsibility for their souls as their father? Do you even care? How many?”
“Leave me be,” Marsh growled through gritted teeth.
Barlocke withdrew slightly, ponderously observing him for a moment. Finally, he bounced his eyebrows, mouthed something, and stood up. He placed his hat over his head and buttoned his coat. Marsh was glad he was leaving and stared into his cup. Even when Barlocke placed his hand upon his shoulder, he didn’t look.
“It is no wonder you do not understand poor Asiah.”
It cut through him like a spike of ice. Marsh felt his hand drop away and heard the double doors open, then close. Releasing a labored breath, he swore a little under his breath while he pointed at his glass. His right foot stamping on the floor, he only sipped a little of his fifth drink and decided to smoke instead. The air in his lungs was becoming drier and less fragrant. Little by little, he nibbled the end of the neck between his teeth, leaving little marks on the wood. Around him the laughter and conversations faded away. More and more of his compatriots went upstairs with women. Only a few were left. It would be his turn soon.
Marsh slammed his pipe onto the counter, ignoring the sparks and ashes which spilled out. He didn’t notice the surprised faces of the Interior Guardsmen or listen to the disturbed plea of the hall keeper. Pushing through the doors, he found the snowy streets deserted. Lamps burned along the road, illuminating the clouds of snowflakes steadily descending from the black sky. No servitors, no wandering Guardsmen, no sentires keeping watch. Not a soul was on the road, except Barlocke, standing on the opposite side. He was just walking away, hands in his pockets, collar pulled tight around his mouth, and his brown hair spilling from underneath his hat.
“Hey!” Marsh Silas shouted as the snow filled his hair. “I’ve had enough. Jus’ who are you? You’re from the meanest, baddest lot o’ the whole Inquisition, yet you always have kind words and stories. You’re far gentler to me than most o’ my kin ever was! What are ya about? Be you an Inquisitor or some imposter who took up the black jacket? Speak!”
Snow gathered on Barlocke’s hat and shoulders. Marsh’s fists shook by his sides. “Before you came here, everything made sense. Now, I fret and worry and puzzle o’er just about everything it seems. Keep your mind clear and closed, that’s what the Commissars, the priests, everybody has ever taught me. Yet you seem like you want to unmake that—unmake me!” Slowly, he shook his head and his fists unfurled. “Why do you torture me so?” he asked softly, his voice fragile as glass.
“Because, Silvanus,” Barlocke began, “I want you to be the individual you ought to be. Not some mindless drone serving as an instrument in the Astra Militarum. I want you, need you, to see that our Imperium is not well. And that the illness lies within our people. You, I, we must grow anew.”
He turned, finally. “Use the mind the Emperor gave you. Open it not to the machinations of dark foes but to the prospects of what humans can truly be under His will. We cannot be the greatest in the galaxy if we do not learn. If you do not learn, you do not grow, if you do not grow, you will stagnate, and then there is only death. Continuing on as we do, we will fail the God-Emperor and the Imperium.” He sounded as if he was growing tearful. Barlocke held his arms out. “Do you think the Emperor rose to power and created this Imperium because he shut himself away? No! He sought knowledge, he created questions and found answers to them. And do you think I came about to my position by paying lip-service and blindly obeying my masters? It is because I chose to become more than I am and a man can only do so when he opens himself up to change.”
“Open my mind?” Marsh Silas scoffed. “No, you trick me. You are a psyker, after all!”
“Did you only just figure it out or were you waiting for the right moment to tell me?” Barlocke asked, laughing.
“You’re playing with my mind. Trying to twist it…”
“My friend, you are mistaken.” Barlocke shook his head. “I have never used my powers to manipulate you. Surely, I have peeked now and again, but never have I used you.”
“But what you speak of is…is…”
“Heresy? It almost pains you to accuse me of it, I can feel it. Is it because you are doubtful now of what you’ve known? That the Emperor never intended for us to live in such ways? I am not trying to turn you away from our God-Emperor, I’m trying to guide you back to Him. Become the man you can be. You can’t if you don’t try to answer the questions before you and make decisions of your own will. For it is that willpower the Emperor gifted us and we shame him by refusing to use it.”
Marsh Silas did not respond—he could not. Barlocke stared at him, wearing a curious smile. He crossed the street, strode up to the Cadian, and touched his cheek. “Still don’t believe me? Do you think me a heretic?” He didn’t give Marsh time to answer. “Your soul, your mind, your will; why would the God-Emperor bestow these faculties to you if he did not intend you to use them?”
His hand dropped, he turned, and walked away. He raised his left arm, fist clenched, just as he had on the night they first dined together. Slowly, he appeared in the street lights and disappeared in the dark intervals between them. “I am going to help you, Silas Cross. I will show you. But only if you let me.”
He lowered his arm, was bathed in lamp light for a moment, then disappeared into the shroud of night beyond the street corner. Marsh Silas remained, staring after the Inquisitor until a shiver roused him from his stupor. Turning, head hung low, he went back inside.