The duo retraced their steps back to the quarter they were in before. Instead of returning to the soldier’s hall, they arrived at an officer’s salon. Light poured from the windows and muffled dancing music rang within.
As they approached, Marsh let Barlocke slip his arm out from his. The latter pressed a finger to his lips. This made the platoon sergeant look around. Upon gazing at the empty, interlocking, barricaded section of roadway, he shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. He found it curious, once again, that the security patrols were moving slowly tonight. Unless it was a shift change; if so, it was taking far too long.
Insistent and exasperated, Barlocke waved him on. The pair stacked up next to the large window to the left of the reinforced entrance. They hugged the rockcrete wall as if they were about to breach through the glass. Jerking with his thumb, Barlocke motioned towards it. Marsh crept closer and edged to the frame. Poking his nose across it, he peered inside.
Instead of synthetic wood paneling, the flooring was black and white tile. There were many marble busts of Saints and war heroes on bronze pedestals along the walls. Relic weapons were mounted on the walls; Bolt Pistols and familial power swords were featured the most. A giant, golden chandelier hung over the center. The light its candles cast was absolutely brilliant. One could have mistaken it for electronic lamps instead of flames. Opposite from the doorway was a grand marble staircase. The first flight was short and led to a landing. Two more flights of stairs, one on either side, extended to the second floor pavilion which wrapped around the great room. Marble-encased rockcrete pillars went all the way up the ceiling and white lattice topped with a gold-trimmed ebony railing connected them, creating a series of arches along the entire second floor. Tied to the base of each column were long banners depicting the winged skull of the Astra Militarum, the Aquila, and the standards of long deactivated or destroyed regiments.
On the ground floor, to the left of the staircase, was a platform. An elegantly dressed band played lively dance music with a variety of brass and stringed instruments. To the right of the flight was an entryway. Occasionally, this opened up and servants brought out silver platters to a pair of long tables placed against the walls. Both were covered in white tablecloths and dozens of platters were set on each. Succulent, exotic meats fresh from the oven sizzled on the plates. Loaves of crumbly bread were sliced and slathered with creamy butters, jams, and jellies. Trays contained piles of red, green, and yellow fruit. There were pastries and frosted cakes at each table end. Everywhere, there were bowls of juice and bottles of liquor. Crystal glasses lined the tables next to them like rows of assembled Shock Troopers. Attendants in elegant black suits or dresses stood by the tables like sentries. There were no servitors.
A mixture of nobles and officers filled the hall. Nobility tended to incorporate camouflage patterns into their clothing. Many of the lordly men wore evening jackets with urban combat fatigues. Many young noblewomen wore dresses with colors sported by various regiments. Some even had olive drab blouses and khaki skirts like the standard Cadian pattern uniform. Others bore red, gray, and lush green based on their regimental colors. One clique among them forewent dresses altogether and wore tunics with trousers. A minority wore tight corsets, flouncy hooped skirts, and bustles lined with ribbons; clearly not Cadian natives.
Officers wore their dress uniforms; their tunics were adorned with gold, silver, and bronze medals on the left side of their chests while ribbons decorated the right. These ribbon racks were like those fruit dishes. Many of the older soldiers had surgically reconstructed faces, bionic implants, or very terrible scars. Only a few lacked such marks. There were young men and women who were in unbloodied Youth Corps regiments or possessed a kasr posting. An even smaller, pampered looking lot sipped their wine and averted the gazes of older officers. It was obvious these were the men whose families purchased their commissions.
“Look how these fine folk dine. I suspect many are honorable soldiers and dutiful leaders. But is not the common trooper worthy of such rewards? Look down the yonder road. These people dine in comfort knowing those poor fellows stand in this wretched cold with empty bellies. Is that fair, Silas?”
“But it is a Guardsman’s duty to…” he stopped himself, exhaled, and looked down. “...there've been many a-night where I wished I could’ve had a fine meal like that instead o’ standing watch. I cannot lie.”
“Right. Well, I won’t stand for it. Let’s teach them a little lesson and have a little fun doing so. See those tall bottles of brandy at the head of the far table?”
Marsh Silas looked again. It took a minute’s searching but he saw them. The bottles were dark yellow and were uncorked. When the pair withdrew, Barlocke eagerly clapped his hands. “That’s Raenka. It comes from Feudal Worlds and wouldn’t you believe it, it’s some of the most delicious brandy in the entire Imperium!”
Marsh Silas didn’t really know why that made the liquor so special so he just smiled and nodded. The grinning Inquisitor turned and immediately made for the door. The platoon sergeant hastily caught his hand.
“Wait, if I go in there I’ll be shot for sure!”
“Nonsense.”
“If not, it’ll be a flogging.”
“What? That’s…no, no that’s just silly,” the Inquisitor said in an unconvincing tone. Marsh Silas frowned and this made his compatriot chuckle. “Trust me. I shall make sure nothing happens to you.”
“Emperor, protect me…”
With a cavalier swing of his step, Barlocke strutted to the doors and threw them open. He strolled in and placed his hands on his hips. Marsh remained right behind him. The band stopped playing with a screech on their strings. Conversation and laughter ceased. All turned and faced him. Servants bringing fresh food out to the tables halted and nearly crashed into one another. Many of the party goers’ expressions became pensive and pale. Others looked outright terrified and failed to conceal it.
“Good evening, my fair ladies and gentlemen of Cadia. I am Inquisitor Barlocke of the Imperial Inquisition.” He held up his Rosette as proof, although his outfit corroborated the statement well enough. “Worry not, there is no need for excitement. I sincerely doubt any of Cadia’s finest would stray from the Emperor’s light. Tonight, I would beseech you as leaders of soldiers to think of those very men and women tonight. Those whose efforts as well as your own permit you to dine in peace? Is charity not a part of the Emperor’s word? I ask that we extend thanksgiving to our brave warriors this evening!”
He paused. Whether he was expecting a resounding applause or a frenzied acceptance of his speech, he got neither. Instead, a major from the 808th Artillery Regiment who was gazing at Marsh Silas approached.
“Forgive me, Inquisitor,” he said and pointed at Marsh. “Enlisted men are not permitted to enter such an establishment. Furthermore, even if you would allow enlisted men into these halls of privilege, I doubt there would be enough room.”
Marsh Silas wanted to break for the door but Barlocke reached around, laced his arm across his shoulders, and ushered him forward. His black leather boots squealed along the tile as he was pushed to the forefront.
“Enlisted this handsome man might be, sir, but he has been seconded to my command. My authority is the only authority he is to abide by until I release him from service. He shall stay. Although, you make a fair point. As beautiful as this place is, we would have to squeeze ourselves in and no one would be able to so much as lift a glass to their lips! I propose a great showing, to take these delectable dishes down the road to the sentries manning the checkpoint…”
Marsh Silas wrung his hat in his hands and stared down at the floor. Every time he so much as moved an inch Barlocke would squeeze the base of his neck and make him stay. He felt so conspicuous in front of his betters. So great was his distress that he could not even hear Barlocke’s speech.
When I lead the procession from the hall, sneak to the back of the hall and seize a few bottles of Raenka. Marsh Silas looked around quickly. The sensation within his head was eerie and unsettling. It was like a whisper, yet not the kind he uttered within his own mind. Not even his own conscious thoughts possessed a paradoxical nature of weight and buoyancy. Like the steady, gentle beating of a drum, the words bounced and drifted within his skull. Was it the Eye of Terror speaking to him!? Had it finally penetrated his mind? No, I shall resist, he thought; the Emperor was the one true god and I will let no other power but His into my soul!
Calm down, it’s only me. The voice was familiar and soothing. A wave of warmth washed through his mind and he suddenly felt as comfortable as if he’d just laid down in a feather bed. Blinking, he looked over his shoulder at the Inquisitor.
“Barlocke?” he whispered out loud. He didn’t respond, continuing to regale his audience with his audacious plan. Of course! Quit gawking and prepare yourself. Go…now!
“Here, let us all collect a tray and sally forth! Follow me, my friends!” Barlocke grabbed the nearest tray of sizzling bird wings. Mumbling, the crowd took up the platters and filed out. Many of the servants’ shock transitioned to glee and they merrily scampered after the Inquisitor. All of them, young and old, lost the dignified, stoic expressions they wore earlier.
Marsh Silas eased through the crowd, carefully avoiding any collisions or missteps. By the time he reached the back, he was sweating and hoped no one noticed. He unbuttoned his jacket, snatched two bottles by the neck, and stuffed them into an inner pocket. Two seems like enough, he thought as he closed his coat. Take two more, please. Marsh shivered at the sensation of his quick words. Their haste made him feel very cold.
“My blessings are about to run out,” he said aloud. Two more, man! Be brave!
Mumbling a prayer, Marsh grabbed two more, slipped them into the other pocket, and feverishly buttoned up. Carrying the bottles in his coat was awkward; they were full, heavy, and icy. Much to his horror, though, he could not find Barlocke in the hall! Much of the crowd was still exiting the building and he couldn’t find a way through. Practically shaking, he waited at the rear of the mob as he waited his turn to pass through. Come on Cross, he thought to himself, you’ve faced down heretics and xenos before!
Eventually, there was a break and he squeezed through. Marsh Silas crossed to the other side of the street and looked for Barlocke. His wide-brimmed hat was impossible to miss and the man towered above most people. He was already down at the checkpoint, jovially overseeing the exchange. Wide-eyed enlisted Guardsmen gingerly took a plate from each of the confused nobles. All he could foresee was a disciplinary action breaking out. But as he drew closer, he started to hear laughter. Here and there, an officer joined a squad of troopers in a pleasant conversation. NCOs, noticing not all the women had time to fetch their coats, offered their scarves or overcoats. These were graciously accepted and soon lordly ladies were conversing with common troopers. Even the noblemen smiled as they gave out treats from their very hands. Soldiers, officers, and nobility mingled in the streets! To see old aristocratic warriors sitting on top of the barricades drinking recaf with corporals on either side of him was a tender sight.
“The Inquisition thanks you! You are all a credit to your homeworld!” Barlocke chimed as he waded through the crowd. Standing atop a crate, he took a deep bow which was met with applause. Afterward, he quickly grabbed Marsh Silas by the hand and led him to the opposite side of the intersection.
They skidded to a stop in the snow and Barlocke whirled around. “Well done!” he congratulated. “And look at that, two peoples come together to remember they are of one blood. Why, isn’t it beautiful? This is a night they shan’t forget, methinks. Do you think this will become a good custom?”
Marsh Silas stared at him. Barlocke put a hand over his chest. “Why do you glare so?”
“You was in my head!”
“Come now, I was just speaking to you. I was not prying. Besides, even if I was you wouldn’t have known.”
“That don’t make me fell no better” Marsh complained. “Is my head that weak? I mus’ be weak o’ will, may the Emperor forgive me.”
“No shame. Only a rare few possess a constitution to resist a psyker’s powers, young Silvanus.”
It did little to reassure him. He could still hear Barlocke’s voice in his ears. The words were not so much like an echo but more of an occasional breeze coming from within. A shiver ran through him. Barlocke wore a pleading smile. “Come now, wasn’t that fun?”
“Don’t seem right to be takin’ their liquor. I mean, I’ve stolen some wargear here, rations there, but it was always from some cache, not a person. Couldn’t you have jus’ asked for it? You being an Inquisitor, after all,” he said, trying to take his mind off it.
“That wouldn’t have been as much fun.”
“Didn’t realize fun was something you Inquisitorial types knew anythin’ about.”
“Just because it’s one of the few words you can spell doesn’t mean you know how to enjoy it.”
“Watch it,” Marsh growled, waving a fist. Barlocke chortled and pushed it away.
“Take heart, a little good was done here. I do despise classism such as this. People need to be reminded they are not so different. Remember, Silas, it only takes little lessons like this to teach folks we are all one people under the Emperor. To divide ourselves in such ways weakens our resolve. One day, there shall be no castes.”
“You just used your mind tricks on them.”
“I did not! I merely showed them what they are at heart: comrades. My word, you’re so doubtful.” Barlocke then smiled excitedly. “Enough for now, let us find a good place to drink!”
“Find? Let us back to the soldier’s hall, it’s closer and it’s already warm.”
“But it’s dull! Let us find somewhere with a view.”
They walked for some time, weaving down the blocky roads and drifting through checkpoints. Most of the soldier’s halls were two stories tall and packed away into other structures. All the very tall buildings were built for defense or administration. Even though he could commandeer a high-rise Administratum office, Barlocke insisted he wanted more than a mere window.
The pair came to a stop at an intersection to allow a convoy to pass. Chimeras, Hellhounds, and Leman Russ tanks rumbled by. Blocks of troops marched with them while motorbike outriders drove on the flanks. Those drivers were clad in facial masks, carried laspistols on their hips, and M36’s across their back. Headlamps lit up the snow-covered junction.
Barlocke suddenly pounded his fist into his hand. “There’s an idea!” Without another word, he ran over to the nearest motorized infantryman and stepped in front of his bike. The driver dimmed the lamp on his vehicle, extended the brake, and removed his goggles.
“Inquisitor, sir!” he greeted, saluting. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I need your motorcycle, by order of the Imperial Inquisition,” Barlocke said. The cyclist stared at him, glanced at Marsh, and then back at the Inquisitor. He towered over the Guardsman and narrowed his eyes. “Dismount, Guardsman!” He practically leaped off. Barlocke jumped into the seat, checked the dials over, and started testing the handles.
“I-I’m very sorry Inquisitor. It’s just that this vehicle is my responsibility and I fear my CO will have me flogged if I turn up without it when we disembark.”
“That shall not happen, my good man.” Barlocke whipped out a field-quill and parchment, scribbled a requisition order on it, and signed it. “See that mark I’ve made? It is the token of an Inquisitor, any officer worth his salt shall know it. He won’t accuse you of lying. And dear friend, I thank you and promise to return it to you on the morrow. For now, take this.”
Barlocke gave him a handful of throne-gelt. The trooper’s eyes widened; it was a month’s wages for a lance corporal like him.
“Thank you, sir, thank you so much!”
“No, thank you! Mount up Silas, we’ll be off now.” Marsh Silas gingerly sat down, wrapped one arm around Barlocke and pressed the other against his coat to balance the bottles. “Have you ever ridden one before?”
“Never.”
Barlocke revved the engine, kicked up the brake, and shot forward. He weaved nimbly in front of and around tanks and armored personnel carriers. Guardsmen on foot darted to the side as the Inquisitor braked hard and veered from side to side. The wheels threw great clouds of snow into the air and Guardsmen who did not realize an Inquisitor was at the realm shook their fists and shouted insults as they were pelted. Although he could not reach full speed due to the jagged roads, Barlocke nonetheless pushed it as hard as he could. Each time they came careening towards one of the sharp locks, Barlocke deftly braked, drifted, and angled the bike around the corner.
Marsh Silas snatched his cap just before it flew off. Barlocke’s own hat slipped down the back of his head, remaining fastened around his neck by the cord. The platoon sergeant was holding on tightly and clenching his teeth, just waiting for a crash. He wondered if the motorbike’s Machine Spirit was as terrified as he was.
Officers called on them to slow down and waved their lamp packs. Barlocke just ignored them and they were a blur as they passed by. Over the roaring engine, clattering frame, and blasting wind, the Inquisitor laughed happily. Daring to look up, Marsh raised himself and looked over his friend’s shoulder. They were bucketing along, tearing past all persons and machines. Kasr Sonnen was but a dark mass and the snow pecking his cheeks hurt.
As scared as he was, not only for his life but for violating so many kasr laws, Marsh started to feel elated. The speed energized him and made him feel so carefree. His adrenaline pumped and his heart pounded. More and more, he enjoyed the thrill of feeling the speed increase. Part of him wanted to whoop for joy at such a happy affair!
Go on and do it, Silvanus! You’ll regret it if you don’t! Barlocke’s voice filtered through him like a gust of cold air, yet it felt utterly delicious to breathe. He rose high in the seat, balancing one hand on Barlocke’s shoulder. Marsh thrust his fist into the air and shouted as loud as he could.
“Bloody Platoon!” he screamed. “The Thirteenth-Thirty-Third!” Barlocke laughed and joined him. “Hail to the Emperor! Long life to the Imperium of Man!”
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“Silvanus and Barlocke” The Inquisitor shouted.
“Barlocke and Silvanus!” Marsh called back.
***
The ride came to an end when they pulled up to a heavily defended compound located on the eastern wall. It was only a few hundred meters away from the barbican they passed through earlier. A duty officer approached, registered their vehicle, and allowed them entrance. Barlocke’s cover story that he wanted to make an impromptu inspection of the ramparts was instantly accepted.
They rode a lift which was packed with Guardsmen on a shift change. At first they were quite stiff around the Inquisitor; it reminded Marsh Silas of how he and his friends first acted around him. But Barlocke told enough jokes that they were laughing and lackadaisical by the time they were halfway up. The lift passed level after level; one was a battery of Earthshaker Cannons, another a Heavy Bolter gun deck, and a third was a massive barracks. Many tiers went on; batteries, arsenals, gun positions, and quarters. Grease, oil, and the metallic scent of machinery permeated the elevator shaft. It was hot inside. Various sounds flowed throughout the great wall; grinding gears, clanking wheels, staining pulleys, rattling belts, humming engines, hissing steam, cranking winches, banging hammers, and chattering rivet guns. Intermixed with the cacophony were yelling Guardsmen, their voices traveling throughout the walls like ghostly wails.
When they reached the top, the gate opened and the group walked onto the snow-covered ramparts. To walk from the cramped, humid environment of the shaft to the brisk cold made all except Barlocke shiver. After a cordial farewell, the group of Guardsmen marched jovially along the westerly ramparts. Marsh followed Barlocke in the opposite direction. They passed more Earthshakers and Battle Cannons, Hydra Flak Emplacements, Tarantula Sentry Guns, and an assortment of automated turrets. Heavy weapons crews occupied bunkers, spires, towers, pillboxes, and casemates.
“You aren’t afraid of heights, are you?” Barlocke asked.
“I find them agreeable. Comes with fightin’. You always want to be on ground higher than your enemy.”
“We always want to be higher.”
They came to a bay which jutted out from the wide ramparts. This was a nest for snipers to occupy in times of siege and a simple observation post during intervening periods. The area was only wide enough for about four or five men to stand in. Armor plates were bolted to the outer railings and sandbag walls covered the interior.
Barlocke decided they would hunker down here. Breathing contentedly, he leaned against the left side of the position with his back against the railing. He took off his hat and set it down on one of the crates someone had used as a stool. Marsh Silas did the same. Leaning against the front railing, Marsh opened his coat and placed all four bottles of Raenka on the other crate.
He was about to tug one of the corks out when Barlocke took the bottle. He reached into his belt and pulled a Power Blade from its scabbard. The steel was silvered and the cross-guard and grip were shaped like the Inquisitorial-I icon. The pommel, which served as the power cell’s activation, was an obsidian skull. Barlocke prodded the tip into the cork and yanked it out. Marsh took this bottle and went to drink it. But the Inquisitor grabbed his wrist.
“No, no, no, Silvanus. Smell it first.”
“Why?”
“Because this is prized brandy!” he replied incredulously. “Savor it.”
“I just want to drink it.”
“Humor me.”
“I can sing the Kasr Flower again, that one’s quite droll.”
“That’s not what I…just smell the damnable brandy, it’ll take but two moments.”
Marsh rolled his eyes, held the mouth of the bottle close to his nose, and inhaled deeply. After a moment, he shrugged.
“Sure, smells pretty good.”
“But what does it smell like?”
“How should I know? What kinda fool goes about sniffin’ liquor, anyhow?”
Barlocke groaned, shook his head, clinked his bottle against Marsh’s, and they made a toast to the God-Emperor. Finally, they had their drink. The flavor was unlike anything Marsh Silas ever tasted before. It was rich without being overbearing and sweet without curdling the gut. Although the cold made it feel like he was drinking ice, it made him feel so warm. It resonated in his core and spread throughout his upper body. Local Amasec did not even compare! After each sip, he could not help but sigh.
For a while, they remained that way. Side by side, leaning against the railing, drinking silently as they observed the Sonnon Plateau. The snow was lightening up and the cloud barrier was beginning to break. Rays of moonlight pierced through the sky and shone on the brilliant snow layer which covered the plains and ridges. Wherever the moonlight touched, the snow took on a bluish tone, creating these azure pockets between swathes of darkness. Lines of white coursed down the dark stones of the ridgebacks. Cutting through it all was a long convoy with their headlights gleaming. It looked like a singular bright beam was traveling slowly through the center of the valley.
Marsh Silas found himself smiling. He decided to take more time to just look out at his beloved homeworld. It was like gazing at a painting, although no artist would ever be able to deliver Cadia’s beauty.
“I know much of what I’ve said to you tonight seems like madness,” Barlocke said suddenly. “Sometimes, it really does feel that way. My duty would be so much easier if I could just take the slightest shred of evidence and purge the accused no matter the collateral cost. I can’t pass death off that easily, though. I take the harder route, Silvanus, but that one is the most righteous.”
He motioned outwards at the valley. “I could do nothing and let the Imperium toddle onward unchanged. Let it merely reside in its façade of grandeur, this rot we have mistaken for grandiosity. But by the Golden Throne, I want to see it become more illustrious, to return to the days when the Emperor strode among us. No, I want it to be better than that. I want life to be equal and prosperous for all.”
Marsh rubbed his forehead and sleepily gazed at the Inquisitor. Barlocke did not look agitated or sad, but he did appear forlorn.
“And that can be done by us growing…changing into better versions of ourselves?”
“Yes! Change comes from within, not without. So many people choose the easy way, to line their pockets, to abuse their power, rather than use it for any good. Everyone must better themselves in the coming years.”
Marsh Silas thought for a moment. He gazed at the brandy bottle, smirked, and swung it in circles a few times. The Raenka sloshed around inside.
“This brandy here is quite tasty,” he said. “And that bike ride was good fun. But it’s not like we was allowed to do any o’ that. You just pulled your status on’em. Ain’t that an abuse o’ power?”
Barlocke grinned, took a slug of Raenka, and then poked Marsh in the shoulder.
“You’re smarter than you let on. Yes, but it was insignificant, no? Four bottles of brandy and a ride? No one was hurt. If you think that qualifies for bureaucratic corruption, you’re more aligned with my goals than I am. But I’ve been far over this Imperium, far and wide indeed. I’ve seen planetary defense forces used like private armies by their governors. Regiments skulked from town to town, propagating false tax collections to fill their personal coffers. Senators, governors, generals hoarding wealth, relics, artifacts, and weapons. People forced to work shifts that last not hours but days, unable to care for their children, punished for the slightest infraction. Above all that, the bureaucratic system above and below your station is rotten to the core. Do you think this is efficient? You think this is good?”
Barlocke took a long, unhappy drink. His eyelids were shutting a little, giving him a sleepy and sad look. “Do you believe in destiny?”
“All the priests say the God-Emperor has a plan for us.”
The Inquisitor smiled tenderly. His pale cheeks were beginning to blossom. Marsh was feeling very warm and wobbly himself. Barlocke reached over and touched his cheek again.
“Most certainly, but the Emperor’s manifestation is everywhere. Destiny, fate, plans; the Emperor can change it all. I’ve read many a tome and studied holy scripture. With all my heart, I think in his true plan for humanity, he dreamed of us having a decision in our own lives, too. Not this, where we are corralled like livestock. He wants us to obey His will, of course, but He also wants us to act on our own initiative. Why give us notions of inspiration, creativity, action, and ambition if He desired us to be automatons?”
“Your soul, your mind, your will,” Marsh said wistfully. Barlocke biffed him in the shoulder.
“You remember! That’s right, He gave us those attributes, so let us use them!”
“Not so many of us are half as bright as you, though.”
“It was you who devised our attack on the trafficking post and it was you who led the counterattack against the ambush that first day.”
“That’s jus’ training and experience, not some strategist at work. Besides, corruption, oppression, illegal taxes, burr-ah-crazy—”
“Bureaucracy.”
“—that’s all above my pay grade.” Marsh took a swig of brandy and pointed at him while he held the bottle’s neck. “And shut up.”
“I promised to help you. I can teach you about that and more. Far more than the instructors taught you in your youth. I can show you so much.”
“Show me. Teach me. Help me. Rubbish,” Marsh spat and waved his hand. Barlocke grabbed him by the shoulders and drew closer.
“I wish to help you help yourself. To get on the path to becoming the man you can be instead of living as just another faceless Guardsman in an unknown regiment.”
“But what if I don’t wanna be more than that?”
Barlocke stared at him long and hard. As charming as he was, his dark eyes could strike fear in anyone. But Marsh Silas was too comfortable and steadily growing drunker, so it bothered him little. The most he could acknowledge was the sheer darkness of the man’s eyes. They burned like coals in a hearth.
“It is complacency like that which has steered our Imperium to this current state.”
“Compl…”
“Stagnation,” Barlocke said bitterly. “A rotten limb, diseased, infected beyond aid of prayer or medicine.” He smiled then and waggled a finger in Marsh’s face. “You ask me that, but I know you. You know somewhere deep within that I am right. All you’ve seen has come back to you and it is haunting. You know I speak the truth or else you would not have struggled for so long tonight.”
Marsh tore away from his grasp and finished his bottle. Barlocke did the same. They gazed at each other momentarily, glanced at the two remaining bottles, and chucked the empty ones over the side. The corks were removed and they started drinking again. Neither spoke for a while or enjoyed the nighttime scene before them, they just sat on the two crates and merely indulged in their drinks.
After a long gulp, Marsh Silas knocked the bottom of his bottle against Barlocke’s to catch his attention.
“Let’s say I wanted you to help me. What do ya think I ought to do first?”
“Learning to read would be a good place to start.”
“If you make one more damned joke about that I swear by the Golden Throne, I’ll throw you over this railing and face the firing squad afterwards!”
“It was no joke, Silvanus!” Barlocke laughed and held up his hands. Marsh just made a series of dismissive chortles and attempted to grab him. His drunken groping was easily fended off and at one point he fell sideways into Barlocke’s lap. Instead of righting himself, Marsh remained there. Barlocke started running his fingers through Marsh’s hair, sometimes playing with a singular lock or curling it around his fingertip.
“What then?” Marsh breathed tiredly. Barlocke hummed a little song as he thought.
“Hyram.”
“That fool?”
“You’ve yet to make a decision.”
“Course’ not.” Marsh pushed away Barlocke’s hand and sat up groggily. “You’ve gone and got me rambling through Kasr Sonnen feeling guilty and confused. I ain’t had much time for that puzzle.”
“You can’t leave him as he is. You can try to help him, even if you see that as coddling him. Or you can turn him into Ghent. Just because I aim to help you does not mean I’ll make your decisions for you. That would defy all that I believe in. But whatever decision you make, you should understand the man first. See what he has to say, empathize in his time of suffering.”
“I doubt that’ll make much of a difference,” Marsh said into his bottle before taking another sip.
“Young sergeant, you’ve barely taken any time to sit down and speak with your commanding officer. Don’t you think you should afford him that much before making a life-or-death decision for him?”
“I don’t owe him anythin’! I’ve got an entire platoon o’ men to take care of. If getting him outta here by any means helps keep them alive, I’ll do it.”
Barlocke leaned in close, eyes aglow.
“But what if sending him away imperils your platoon in the future? What if you have the makings of a great leader here before you that will one day save your life, your platoon, or perhaps spare an entire world from defeat? Surely, that empathy he bears which you define as weakness will act as a shield one day; will he not protect you from foolish orders and see that your men won’t be unduly punished? What if some man replaces him and he is so zealous he’d risk you all in a suicidal attack which costs everything but yields nothing to the Imperium in turn?”
Such images raced through Marsh Silas’s alcohol-addled mind. Diluted as his capacity was, he saw the images crisply. Good, stalwart men who never so much as thought of committing an infraction being tied to a flagstaff and flogged. Scenes of Shock Troopers forced from their entrenchments into a charging enemy they could have repulsed. What enemies he could not see for they were but shadows on the field. Some small, some tall, some huge, and these beautiful Guardsmen went right into their deaths. Smashed, broken, set aflame, bisected, riddled with bullets, all gone within moments.
Such scenes were disgusting and filled him with horror, but more than that, they broke his heart. If he were to set such actions in motions, would he have time to change them? Was he alone enough to prevent them? How could decisions reach that far into the future? When would the consequences of his actions finally manifest? Would the trade be worth it? Was it worth saving lives now if they were just going to be lost later? Living with that decision seemed so catastrophically bleak; he couldn’t make it.
Marsh Silas rubbed his eyes on his sleeve to prevent the tears from falling. Barlocke put an arm around him. “Do you see, sweet Silas? Your decisions do have power. You have the power to make a difference in the lives around you, such as I do, such as all the faithful and loyal have it in them. These were the Master of Mankind’s gifts to us. Use them well and wisely. Temper all you do with thought and patience. Understand that man, Silvanus, before all else.”
“Fine,” was all Marsh Silas could say. He stood up and walked to the other side of the bay. “Fine. Fine. Fine. If you think I can set myself on the path to becoming a better man by doing such a thing, then fine.”
“Will you follow me?”
“If you mean I will come with you once this affair is done, I know not. But for now, I am your man.”
Barlocke’s cheeks flared pink and he smiled down at the metal deck. He gripped the bottle tightly in his hands.
“That makes me very happy. It won’t be easy, dear friend,” Barlocke said as he stood up. He finished the bottle of Raenka and dropped it over the railing. Marsh did the same. “The right path is never the easiest. But you’ve got the right heart to tread upon it.”
“You’re jus’ saying that.”
“I meant it.” Barlocke took him by his hands. “You’re special, Silvanus. I knew it from the moment I saw you. You have a destiny ahead of you.”
Marsh stared at him for a moment. He blinked slowly, leaning against the railing behind him for support.
“The Emperor has made a destiny for us all.”
“Yet he bestowed greater fates unto us both. I believe he intended to weave ours together, Silvanus, in one way or another.”
The Inquisitor drew very close. Wind tugged at his dark hair and his equally brown eyes twinkled. His bare, pale cheeks were dusted with pink and his lips maintained a ghost of a smile. No blemish except for that deep, pocked scar on his temple. His breath was sweet from the Raenka. Marsh looked back, his own violet eyes glimmering. He felt nervous and confused but that same thrill he experienced on the wild ride.
Barlocke ran his hand up Marsh Silas’s arm and cupped his cheek. He leaned forward and kissed Marsh Silas on one cheek. He let his hand slide down to his neck and kissed his other side. Taking a moment to gaze into his eyes, the Inquisitor kissed Marsh’s forehead. After another pause, he pressed his lips against Marsh’s. They felt very soft. It was only for a moment and he drew off briefly. His eyes were deep and intoxicating but Marsh stared back wide-eyed. Smiling, Barlocke leaned in again.
“The fuck you doing?” Marsh grunted and shoved Barlocke back. He stumbled a little bit and caught himself on the railing. Blinking rapidly, he stared at the Guardsman as if he was just awoken from a deep slumber. Marsh couldn’t tell if he was hurt, confused, or both. In any regard, Barlocke ended up smiling as he always did.
“Pardon, friend. Raenka is quite a powerful drink.”
Marsh folded his arms across his chest, turned around, and leaned down on the railing.
“It sure is,” he replied, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He looked across the eastern ramparts, watching Guardsmen clamber up ladders or enter emplacements. Someone called the time and everyone instinctively looked at their wrist-chronos. Marsh glanced at his own, but couldn’t quite make out the hands. It was too dark and his vision was a little hazy.
His head dropped. “Barlocke?”
“Silas?
“This right path, this betterment and destiny o’ mine…it ain’t gonna get me killed, is it?”
“I cannot promise that it will or won’t. But that is dictated not by destiny alone. As much as the God-Emperor holds sway over the galaxy, life itself is an entity. Life can be unfair.”
“It must be, if it sent me you.”
“Do you honestly believe I was sent to you? Perchance, it was you who was sent to me. Or were either of us sent? The Emperor may have merely set two lines of events in motion so that we would meet and carry out His will. Who is to say this isn’t an elaborate dream or a dreadful nightmare? Perhaps, we don’t really exist.”
“You have a wonderful talent of speaking very well yet utterly confusing me,” Marsh Silas said, tucking his chin against his arms. He turned around, leaning back against the rail, if just to stay upright. “We exist. I am here and so are you.”
Barlocke smiled a little.
“So, we are.”
“You know what I wanna know? Why me? You’ve said you’ve been all over, seen different places, all those different folks. But you come to Cadia on a mission and by some chance, you choose my regiment. Out of all the people you’ve met, outta this whole lot, why am I up here with you?”
Barlocke stared at him for a long time. His smile faded and the dark frigidity of his eyes returned. Once more, it seemed as if he was not just looking at him but into him. Marsh felt completely open to him, as if his heart, mind, and soul were exposed. As terrifying as it was, it felt exhilarating also. It was as if he was known for the first time, not just seen. Just maybe, he considered, he had not existed. It was only now that Barlocke opened him to the Emperor’s real gifts that he did. Maybe now the Master of Mankind could truly see him.
But Barlocke began to chuckle. Then, he threw his head back and laughed very hard. When he finished, he had tears in his eyes. Sighing happily, he wiped them away from the back of his hand.
“Dear, dear Silvanus, you ask why we are up here? To drink and talk! Why else would we have ventured all this way?”