When Marsh Silas woke up, he was face down in the pillow and his morning stubble was soaked in his own saliva. He did not remember anything after they finished their drinks the previous night. As he tried to recollect, no images filtered through his mind. Instead, certain feelings manifested within his chest like muscle memory. Weightlessness, a sensation of floating, a terrible sickness permeating in his gut. That was the extent of his recall.

Propping himself up on one arm, he wiped away the saliva, matting the hair on his forearm. It was not the most pleasant way to wake up. He by no means felt renewed and his head was throbbing. A rested man could wake up full of energy but he felt as if he had no strength to call upon. But, he admitted it was better than waking up in a water-filled fighting hole, muddy trench, or a dusty underground bunker.

Freeing himself from the tangled sheets, he swung his legs out and rubbed his eyes. Immediately, the pain in his head increased tenfold. It felt like so many hammers were driving chisels into his skull. Bowing in an effort to ease the turmoil, he noticed his boots and heavy socks were off. Everything but his trousers were stripped away and neatly folded on the rickety wooden stand beside his bed. On top of it was his grooming kit. There, next to his boots, was his rucksack and wargear, too. Blinking, it steadily dawned on him.

Hurry up. Wash and dress, we’ve almost finished making breakfast.

Barlocke’s voice came like a slow chill traveling up his spine. It splashed into his mind and spread like a growing puddle. Marsh Silas shivered then glared at the false floorboards. He almost wanted to stamp his feet on the floor like his elders did when he made too much noise as a child.

I doubt that would bar my voice from your mind.

“Stop, please,” Marsh groaned into his hands. “Bad enough I woke up with this pain, now I have to listen to you.” When the Inquisitor laughed, it didn’t seem to rumble in his head. It was more akin to rainwater trickling down the beaks of golden eagle fixtures on kasr spires. But when he breathed for respite, it came like a gentle breeze. Chilled, Marsh had to rub his bare arms just to get the cold out. Don’t worry, you shall adjust soon enough. Now, on the double-quick!

Marsh Silas rose from bed, scratching the back of his head. “Peace and quiet, by the Emperor, I’ve found no such thing in your company.”

I heard that. “Good!” he responded venomously.

A quick, hot shower dispelled some of his mounting irritation. The cramped space had seen far better days but to the likes of Veteran Guardsmen like him it was akin to the tales he heard of Pleasure Worlds. Privacy was something a Shock Trooper rarely received and one relished it on furlough.

After drying off, shaving, and dressing, Marsh took a brief moment to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror. His hair was neatly kept and combed; he looked very fresh, even if his disposition failed to match it. Satisfied, he stopped just one more time to kneel and pray to the miniature shrine built on the table at the foot of the bed.

A green laurel sat upon a smooth, wooden base polished so finely it caught the lamplight. In the center was the golden I-shape of the Adeptus Ministorum. The Emperor’s visage was carved into the face instead of the typical Ecclesiarchy symbol of a skull. It was designed to appear as if the Emperor was marching out of the icon and his arms were held slightly behind him, giving him the impression of angelic flight.

Making the Sign of the Aquila on his breast and intertwining prayer beads in his fingers, Marsh Silas recited a morning prayer. “Oh, Master of Mankind, I thank Thee once more for seeing humanity to another tomorrow. I shall earn this day by good works and righteous acts. Forever and always, I shall strive to remain in Your gracious light.” Kissing the beads, he tucked them into a tunic pocket, patted it, and headed downstairs.

Stopping at the top of the steps, he noticed the female detachment from last night was gone. A quick headcount confirmed Bloody Platoon was present and accounted for. Most filled the tables, chatting, smoking, and playing cards quietly. Another group lined the bar, guzzling recaf and devouring their breakfast. Two familiar seats at the very end were vacant.

Trundling down the steps to joyous greetings, he raised his voice. “I trust you’ve made your morning prayers?”

“Yes, Marsh Silas!”

“Ooh, not so loud,” Marsh said, waving his hand. “And you Derryhouse, you filthy heathen?”

“By the God-Emperor and His Throne, I swear it!”

“What of ye and yer lot, Master Sergeant Tindall?”

“I can assure you, we can attend our divinities without the oversight o’ marching men like you,” the Chimera driver shot back.

“Apologies, I thought all the grease, oil, and fumes might’ve addled yer brains.”

A few laughs and hoots rose from this exchange but it was all in the best of brotherly humor. Marsh Silas was in a pleasant mood now and the hall’s warm atmosphere made it all the better. Everyone was smiling. Troopers could forget their proximity to the Eye of Terror or the determined Lost and the Damned renegade hordes roving on Cadia’s surface. Ever aware of their harsh realities, Marsh was thankful to see them happy before they had to set off once more.

When he sat down at the bar, he was surprised to see Drummer Boy and Barlocke in the kitchen. Looking past the rows of Amasec on the secondary counter, he watched all the attendants, cooks, and even the keeper himself busily cook breakfast. Thinly-sliced meat was sizzling on the stovetop pans, filling the hall with a salty, fatty scent. Aromatic spices, earthy and strong, mingled with it.

As hungry as he was, Marsh was more intrigued by the smell. All he could sniff last night was roasted Grox and toasted bread. Even at their busiest hour, the place hadn’t smelled so fragrant. When he caught Drummer Boy’s eye, he waved him over. The Voxman looked giddy. “Seems like you ought to have become the regimental cook.”

“Barlocke showed up just a little while ago with a whole mess o’ food! Fruits, vegetables, and meats o’ all kinds I ain’t seen before. Nothin’ like we’ve had in those ruddy rations.”

“I thought Bloody Platoon could use something a bit tastier than recycled Grox meat,” Barlocke said as he wiped his hands on a rag. He approached the bar and leaned on it. “A few final good meals before we set off back for the camp; something to truly mark the occasion.”

At first, Marsh Silas grew excited. Because Cadia served such a vital role within the Segmentum Obscurus and the Imperium as a whole, Guardsmen were afforded much more quality resources. Some quill-pusher up the chain recognized men who regularly fought long, hard battles needed decent grub. Cadians could expect reconstituted vegetables, grains, and meat that hadn’t been recycled too many times or stored for too long. If nearby Agri-Worlds had fruitful harvests, the food was even better. Meals in the kasrs proved to be fresher still but it was still a far cry from what was available in the officer halls or noble forums.

It was with that thought Marsh Silas scrutinized the food. High-quality meat, luscious colorful fruit, and nutrient-rich vegetables? Stockpiles of it were stored all over the kitchen on fancy silver platters such an establishment couldn’t possibly afford to own. The platoon sergeant’s gaze rose and settled on Barlocke, who smiled smugly.

“So, did you steal it, buy it…steal it?” a chiding Marsh asked quietly.

“Requisitioned is a more appropriate word.”

“Stealing is against the law.”

“Arrest me,” Barlocke dared, grinning wryly. “Have you not stolen equipment and rations before?”

“I only did it because I had to, not to enjoy myself,” Marsh said briskly. “Surely, you understand what a soldier has to do to see his next morning.”

“I do, more than you may realize. I spent the morning in another officer’s hall and convinced them to be more charitable. This is merely a contribution from such generous nobles.” At that moment, Drummer Boy returned and handed a plate to the Inquisitor. He promptly slid it across the bar and Marsh caught it. Juicy bacon strops, moist orange fruit on the side, and two pieces of jam-coated toast still warm from the oven made for a mouth-watering breakfast. To top it off, Barlocke placed a mug of steaming recaf next to it. “Enjoy.”

Marsh Silas stared at the plate. Earlier, he couldn’t imagine stomaching even the tiniest morsel of food. Now, his stomach tightened with hunger. But he looked at Barlocke sternly so as to hide his excitement. “Oh, worry not, I shan’t make too much of a habit. Besides, is a crime that benefits both people truly a crime?”

Barlocke took a mug from the Voxman who also brought one of his own. “Well, to the Emperor and Imperium?”

“To the Emperor and Imperium!” Drummer Boy chimed, holding up his mug. “May He always watch o’er us!”

“May the wings of the Aquila never furl,” Marsh added. They each took a drink and sighed. Marsh started to cut into the bacon. “You know Barlocke, Cadian nobles are made of tougher stuff than the folk wherever you came from. Might not be charitable like ya say but at least they take to the fields with their troopers. Most o’ the time.”

“On that we agree. The well-to-do and privileged of my homeworld gorged themselves on the spoils of the working class. I took great pleasure in stealing from them as a boy. When we needed them most, they fled the planet, abandoning it to anarchy. I have no doubt your betters would fight to the bitter end.”

He leaned against the bar again close to Marsh Silas. “I admire your loyalty. Your respect towards the upper castes is genuine. But they’re still men with flaws and not all of them will act honorably when the time comes.”

“But what will you do to them when you bring about your great changes? Take away their wealth and rights?”

“Emperor-willing, we’ll see every denizen granted the same wealth and rights without having to take it away from anyone. Right now, we need folks like them. But one day we won’t and that day shan’t be one of hangings or seizures, it shall be a day of balancing the scales.” Barlocke took a sip and smacked his shoulder. “Don’t waste such fine food, keep eating.” He pushed himself from the bar and cupped his hand around his mouth. “Who wants a refill on their recaf?”

There was a resounding response from several men. Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Yoxall, Queshire, Hitch, and Monty Peck all crowded around Marsh with their cups outstretched. Barlocke whisked a pot from the kitchen and started filling the cups. Steam billowed out and the aroma of recaf grew so strong it became almost overbearing. But the platoon sergeant was happy to be among his friends; they were smiling, joking, and laughing.

“Ya gonna finish that thar bacon?” Walmsley Major asked, leaning over and placing a large hand on the rim of the plate.

“If yer not hungry, I’ll gladly eat it,” added his twin from the other side.

“Hey, hey, hey, I ain't done yet,” Marsh said as if he was insulted. Yoxall reached over his shoulder with a fork and tried to stab a strip. “Hey!”

“You always eat enough for two fellows, muscle man. Why not share?” the Breacher said with a cheeky grin. Everyone piled in on the scramble for the remnants on his plate like ravenous dogs. Despite their assault, Marsh laughed and hunched over the dish. It was a fun game for a time and he knew they weren’t really going to take any. But in the end, he let them have it: it was only right to share.

As they feasted, he walked behind the counter to give them room. He followed Drummer Boy as he carried empty dishes back to the kitchen. Barlocke, right behind him, waved Marsh onward. As he ventured further in, he realized he’d only set foot in a real kitchen twice in his life. The first was the Cross family’s fortified estate house in Kasr Polaris. Although smaller than most fortified manses, the interior was still lavish and the kitchen was no exception. Its images were fuzzy, for he’d only been a youth, so he remembered the warmth, soft lighting, and the constant smell of spices. The other was the kitchenette in his mother’s cramped apartment. A dented sink, rusty oven, greasy stove top, tiny counter, and a few cupboards were what he remembered. That and the window which looked over the militarized city on Hive World Macharia. Just thinking of the place made him shudder in disgust and he felt happy he was on Cadia.

The hall’s kitchen was large with a massive center island and iron rungs suspended from the ceiling. Pots, pans, tongs, ladles, whisks, tenderizing hammers, stirring spoons, and big butcher’s knives all hung from the hooks. Three cavernous ovens and a trio of wide grills lined up against the far wall. At the very end were sinks as deep as bathtubs. Pantries, cupboards, and lockers packed with food were on either side of the main floor.

The floor was a little dirty and there were a great deal of scratches on the big appliances. Above, the aging white lights were smudged with grease and were so dim they made the kitchen darker and filthier than it actually appeared. Most of the staff were busy at the sinks washing dishes while Barlocke and Drummer Boy worked at the grill. The former watched while the Voxman carefully slid a spatula under a slice of toasting bread.

“Just get it to a wonderful golden brown. We don’t want to chomp on charcoal.” Drummer Boy deftly flipped the bread in the air, caught it with the spatula, and placed it back on the grill. The butter it was coated in sizzled. Barlocke patted him on the back. “Lovely, now let’s turn down the heat a little…”

He instructed Drummer Boy in the softest, gentlest tones. Even for the simplest tasks, he praised the young Shock Trooper. One might have blushed at such kind of encouragement, but the Voxman remained diligent. The attitude he carried was the same Marsh Silas wanted to see when he ran the men through physical training, weapon drills, or cleansing rituals. It was almost funny but he was glad to see Drummer Boy was still smiling.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the NCOs were all congregating as they drank recaf. Occasionally, they made a joke and laughed. A few corporals were standing with them, too. Most of the platoon was still spread among the tables or the bar. Everyone still held themselves in that strong, dutiful Cadian way. But they were grinning and just so jolly. It’d been too long since he’d seen them so at ease and comfortable. Even with combat operations recommencing soon, he could feel their vigorous spirits and was confident they’d return to the work eagerly.

He chuckled a little. All that waiting and resting after that hard day, how blind he’d been to what the Inquisitor was doing for his comrades. Marsh Silas smiled at Barlocke’s back. He was not sure how to thank him for this kindness, but he had a feeling that the man didn’t seek gratitude.

Although Cadians were glad to return to their duty, they were still men unused to comfort. Sometimes, it was hard to split from it, especially when it was so short and unexpected. Nobody liked it when their officers and Commissars came to police the men, reprocess them, and eject them from the kasr. Readjustment back into the Militarum routine was swift but was not always pleasant. Marsh worried that it would be harder this time and most of all for him. But he would not dwell on the inevitable.

“And what eventuality is that?”

Marsh Silas jumped as Barlocke topped off his recaf. Marsh grumbled and looked away.

“You know what it is,” he said as he rubbed his temple.

“Tis the one that awaits us all.”

“It’s jus’ hard not to think about it. I want to enjoy what time we have left; we’ve got until tomorrow evening here. But I know before long I’ll start worrying about how much ammunition we got, how much support we’ll have in the field, how long it’d take for reinforcements to reach us if we get ourselves pinned down, and just how many of the men will…” He shook his head. “I’m just fretting. I want us all to be ready when we finally head out.”

Marsh walked back out to the shelving unit which held all the Amasec bottles. Light gleaming through the green and brown bottles took on new hues and distorted shapes which dazzled his tunic. Barlocke joined him with his own cup of recaf. He was chuckling.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“You’re a Cadian through and through.”

“Aye, but not a very good one I reckon.” After he took a sip, he found Barlocke gazing at him curiously.

“Cadians are taught self-sacrifice are they not? Thus, they should be unafraid to die.”

“That is the idea.”

“But you are.”

Marsh Silas held the mug with both hands and drummed his fingers along the sides. Taking a short sip, he looked through the spaces between the bottles at the platoon to make sure none were looking his way. They were still involved in their meals, drinks, and company. He drew closer to Barlocke, still looking through the Amasec bottles.

“I like to think if I had to, I’d lay down my life for the Emperor, the Imperium, and those men out yonder. I tell myself I can and that I should. Better me than them, yes? I accept that with all my heart. But I jus’ get so afraid for them and for me, too. Sometimes, when we are in the fray, I feel very scared and I ask the Emperor to spare us all.”

“There is nothing wrong with that.”

“Yes, there is!” Marsh hissed. “They tell us, glory is death and death is when our duty ends. That used to really mean something to me. It still does but I just say it now. It seems so terrifying when I should be happy to lay down my life. I just get so ashamed of myself, ashamed o’ the fear. Look at me, I’m not even on a battlefield and I’m already jittery.”

“I’ve fought alongside you several times. You were very brave.”

“How can you say that? I was scared for my life.”

“Still acting despite your fear is what bravery is all about, Silvanus.” Barlocke took a moment to touch the scar on his temple, tracing it. For a moment, he closed his eyes and hummed a little. It seemed like it hurt him. Then, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Marsh and looked past the bottles, too. “What fool doesn’t fear death? Out of all who call themselves citizens and servants of the Imperium, there are only a few who are truly unafraid to die. I do not rank myself in their number.”

Marsh turned slightly and looked up at Barlocke from the corner of his eye.

“But yer an Inquisitor. You lot are supposed to be fearless.”

“It is true I’ve seen much and fear little. But I do not wish to die. I am going to live as long as I can help it. I find what you’ve said before to be very agreeable; we are better servants alive than dead.”

“I don’t remember sayin’ that to do you,” Marsh scoffed.

“Yes, well, you may have thought it and felt it, one way or another,” Barlocke teased. Marsh rolled his eyes and pulled out his pipe. It was difficult with one hand but he managed to light the contents and start puffing on it. Wispy gray smoke flowed between the bottles, casting strange images on the other side. It was like watching water float through the air. After a few puffs, Marsh opened his mouth and let the smoke roll out.

“Those who are unafraid to give up their lives for the Emperor, do you think they are foolish?” Marsh asked as the cloud of smoke dissipated around his head.

“I still hold great admiration for them. Death is not something they wish for but they believe it has meaning. But I do pity them.”

Marsh turned now, flashing an incredulous expression up at the Inquisitor. But Barlocke refused to meet his gaze as he stared mystically ahead. “Do not mistake me, we must never leave the Emperor’s light. Always, we obey His word and strive to complete his works. That does not mean we should be left wanting; love, livelihood, comfort, security, purpose. Priests and Commissars will tell you service is its own reward, and it can be, at least I think so. Do you?”

Marsh Silas nodded eagerly and earnestly. Barlocke shook his head a little and smiled. “But it is human for us to want. Remain pious, contribute, serve in some way, to have a choice in how you go about that service and what you want from life, that should be acceptable. The Emperor did not want us to be slaves. His vision was to uplift us to our greatest potential, to reach our pinnacle. Think about all I’ve said. What is the true gift our Lord gave us?”

Familiar words came flooding back. Dedication. Loyalty. Faith. Honor. Duty. Sacrifice. Servitude. They were comforting in their familiarity and he felt their weight. But Marsh drew deeper into himself, thinking not as a Shock Trooper, but as Barlocke.

“The ability to choose.”

“Yes!” Barlocke said, turning suddenly. Marsh could not help but blush at the prideful expression on the Inquisitor’s face. “Choice! The Emperor wanted us to have choices and make decisions. Yes, you are understanding now!”

His delighted expression faded back into its indifference. “Tis why I pity those few whose hearts are devoid of fear. Like those of the Adeptus Astartes, the Adepta Sororitas, and men like the…” His voice trailed off, his mouth parted slightly, and his lips trembled. Were those tears glimmering in his eyes?

Barlocke swiftly cleared his throat and took a long drink. “Do not mistake my pity for contempt. I respect them. I honor them. I hold them in the highest regard and esteem of which they are deserving. They serve just as you and I do. But it saddens me to know they shall never know life like you and I ever will.”

Marsh Silas felt the sadness resonating from Barlocke. It was like the concussion one felt just outside the blast radius of a fragmentation grenade. He could feel it hitting his body, washing over him, and passing off into the unknown. Momentarily, he thought it was fitting for someone as strong as Barlocke to indulge his grief like that. Yet, he found himself unwilling to put up his guard against this notion. Instead of resisting it, Marsh closed his eyes and let himself bask in his friend’s melancholy, to take it upon himself in some way. For a moment, it felt like tears would roll down his own cheeks from such heartache. Is this what he wanted him to practice with Hyram?

Drawing a breath, he reached up and squeezed Barlocke’s shoulder. This stirred him from his languor. Smiling at his feet, he placed his hand on top of Marsh’s and held it tightly. Sniffing a little, he turned and beamed. “What I would give for a little music. What kind of tunes do you like?”

“All I know are soldier’s songs and marching cadences. Are you—”

“Colorful indeed! But I mean something you can dance to!”

“Ain’t nobody in this here platoon can dance, Barlocke, least o’ all me.”

Frowning, he looked around and promptly disappeared into the kitchen. Marsh walked out from behind the counter into the threshold separating the kitchen from the bar. Barlocke walked into another room with the hall keeper. A few minutes later, they returned and the keeper carried a strange device. There was a square base of synthetic wood and a horizontal slot on the front. Built into the top of the box, which was no bigger than a can of ammunition, was a curved brass tube that opened into a wide, open funnel.

“…I traded for it when I served in the 702nd Armored Regiment. The Civilized folk on Vanity II would play us music from time to time. Paid some fella a dozen Throne Gelt for this contraption.”

Everyone watched as the keeper placed it on the bar. He procured a disk from his back pocket and slid it into the slot. The disc slid into the slot and the men all murmured. With a tap of a button on the panel beside the slot, there was a crackling sound. Buoyant music spilled from the funnel. As scratchy as the sound quality was, it was a fun little tune. Instruments foreign to his ears twanged and plucked. A steady beat behind them made Marsh start tapping his foot without even realizing it.

Suddenly, Barlocke swiped the mug from the platoon sergeant’s hand and then snatched his wrists.

“Dance with me, my dear Silvanus!”

“What!? I—”

“I’ll teach you! Don’t look at your feet and follow my lead! Don’t laugh, you men, you’re all getting a lesson! Come, join us!”

***

That day was one of silliness, gaiety, and very unsoldierly things. Marsh Silas and Bloody Platoon enjoyed every moment of it. They drank and sang long into the night and into the next day. On their final day in Kasr Sonnen, they all journeyed to the cathedral to pay their respects and provide thanks for the Emperor’s respite. Then, the convoy rolled down the mountain side and journeyed all the way back to Army’s Meadow. When they arrived under a setting sun, they were still smiling, giggling, and bouncing on their feet. It was quite difficult to contain their high spirits as they disembarked and assembled for review.

Captain Murga and Commissar Ghent were visibly surprised and confused as they inspected the men. ‘Wipe those silly grins off your faces,’ the latter said. Everyone suppressed it though it was quite painful. Marsh Silas and Barlocke delivered a report on the health, attitude, and conduct of the Bloody Platoon during their furlough. Both Murga and Ghent were very pleased with what they heard. High-speed joyrides, trespassing in restricted areas, overindulgence in drink, and flamboyant dancing routines were not mentioned.

Dismissed, Bloody Platoon returned to their barracks. Barlocke said goodbye and goodnight before going to regimental headquarters. Marsh Silas led Bloody Platoon up the slope and they were very happy to see their barracks again. Friends in 2nd and 3rd Platoons greeted them and there were many handshakes.

Marsh Silas, Yoxall, Drummer Boy, the Walmsley twins, Honeycutt, Logue, and Foley pushed through the mass of men as they dumped their wargear and removed their winter coats. It was noisy; men coughed, conversed, and laughed, rucksacks rattled, straps snapped, and boots thudded on the floor.

Tired but otherwise comfortable, Marsh Silas stood in front of his bunk as he removed his helmet, ruck, and webbing.

“Going up!” Yoxall said from behind him.

“Goin’ up!” Marsh repeated as he crouched down. Barefooted, Yoxall stepped onto the platoon sergeant’s shoulder and slid into his bunk. He emitted an obnoxiously loud and happy sigh. When he finished disassembling his Flak Armor, he sat down on the edge of his bunk to take off his boots. As jovial as he was, he was ready to sleep. A long journey had a way of snatching away a man’s energy even if it was a smooth ride.

But just as he grasped the first laces, he finally noticed light emanating from behind Hyram’s curtain. Why, he’d nearly forgotten about the platoon leader! It was quiet in the Lieutenant’s quarters and the room seemed awfully still.

As Honeycutt went around the barracks, turning off lamp packs and blowing out candles, they were plunged into darkness. One by one, the men fell silent throughout the barracks. Everything became very still. The only light came from Hyram’s room; the last light. Marsh stared for a long time, his hands clasped tightly and his gaze hard. But he breathed deeply and let the indignation and the anger seep away until he was placid. He found his voice and stood.

“Sir, Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter,” he said as he rapped his knuckles against the entrance’s wooden trim.

“Granted,” came a quiet, groggy reply after a few moments.

Pushing the curtain aside, Marsh entered. The room was entirely undisturbed but the rank smell of urine and feces hung in the air far worse than he remembered. Taking out a handkerchief, Marsh covered his mouth and found the bunker nearly filled to the brim with a dank, brown-yellow soup.

“Oh sir, this ain’t no way to be,” Marsh gasped. Looking around, he spotted a handkerchief on Hyram’s desk. He wrapped this around the handle and brought it to the threshold. “Drummer Boy?”

The Voxman poked his head in.

“Yes Marsh…by the Throne, what is that stench? What is that you hold!?”

“Take this topside and dump it in the sea. Rinse it with seawater, then use some spare soap from the platoon chest to clean it.”

“Can’t we just get rid of it?”

“This is a platoon item, Drummer Boy. Take it and for the love of the Emperor, don’t drop it.”

He reluctantly took the cloth and handle from Marsh Silas. Pressing his hand to his mouth, he ventured into the tunnel works. Even from inside Hyram’s quarters, the Staff Sergeant could hear Guardsmen groaning, coughing, and swearing as Drummer Boy made his way to the surface.

“Sorry Marsh Silas,” Hyram moaned. “I just haven’t had much of an inclination to come out.”

“The Emperor must be watching over you. If Commissar Ghent or Captain Murga caught you like this, they’d have ya shot.”

“They still think me ill, so they leave me be.”

Marsh Silas walked over to him. The Lieutenant was on his right side and faced the wall. The pict-capture of his son was still in his hand and there was a brown bottle of Amasec beside him. Several empty bottles were caught up in the sheets. By the smell, he could tell this wasn’t a cheap import. How he managed to smuggle it on base he wasn’t sure. As he leaned over him, his boots bumped into several empty bottles on the floorboard. Each one clinked and rolled away.

Hyram was very pale. Dark, gray-purple bags sagged under his eyes and the stubble was very thick on his cheeks. His sideburns looked mangey, now. It seemed like he hadn’t managed to sleep at all despite confining himself to his bunk.

The animosity spiked within Marsh’s chest. Seeing this man, a Cadian, residing in his own squalor and making no effort at all was infuriating. All his life, Marsh was around the most martial men who were courageous, skillful, experienced, and pious. Some retreated, some broke, some lost their wits, but they did their duty in the end. Here, this man seemed so little and low. It was as if he stole another Cadian’s violet eyes!

But his clenched teeth parted and his gaze softened. Marsh remembered he was not perfect either. No matter how brave everyone thought he was, the fear he felt defied those beliefs the drill schools instilled in him for so long. What’s more, he indulged in drink, food, and a little mischief in Kasr Sonnen. He was hardly one to criticize now. The poor man had a family, too. What did Marsh Silas have? A mother who was far away and elders he prayed he’d never see again. Hyram had a wife and a little boy who were across many stars. Who was he to judge this man?

Marsh Silas reached forward and clutched Hyram’s upper arm. The Lieutenant’s hazy squint opened and he turned slightly to look at him. In turn, Marsh smiled kindly and rubbed the platoon leader’s arm. “There, there, sir, no shame. We all miss our comforts.”

He turned around and dragged the chair from Hyram’s desk over. Before he sat, he gathered the other picts and looked at them. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you, sir. It ain’t fair to expect you to become something you ain’t in a matter of weeks. I’m starting to think that it’s actually been rather easy for me. I was born here, raised here—mostly—and I’ve spent my life soldiering. You didn’t have that and it’s left you struggling.”

Leaning back a little, he looked at Hyram, who rolled onto his back. “You got big boots to fill and I doubt you ever wanted to replace a man. I can’t say I know exactly what torments you. I mean, my mama was no noble and she never made an officer grade. Papa was of minor, landed nobility; he was a regimental commander, but he gave up all his titles just to marry my mama. I’m just another Shock Trooper. But the Hyram name still means something and you’ve got a legacy you didn’t want to be a part of. To be forced into it by the Militarum or your parents or…”

“No, no, no!”

Hyram turned over and held himself up. He swayed and wobbled. “They didn’t want me to go. For my entire life, I was kept bottled up in that coffin they called an office, clacking away at a cogitator keyboard while other Cadians traveled all over the Imperium to fight and die for the Emperor. ‘But son, operating a Munitorum liaison officer is just as able a service,’ they always said. But it’s not, Staff Sergeant, it most certainly is not!”

Tears well in his eyes. “I felt worthless,” he continued in his half-drunken voice. “I felt as if I had no choice in my own life! I wanted to enlist but my parents sent me to school. I tried to earn a commission by inspection and they purchased it instead. I requested a combat posting on Cadia and they pulled strings to get me an office on Cypra Mundi.” He spat, but he was shaking so much from being upright that he nearly got it on Marsh Silas’s boots.

Wiping his mouth and sniffling, he laughed a little. He almost looked devious. “I bided my time, waiting when they grew disinterested in me and doted on my son. When I was sure they weren’t looking, I applied for a transfer and it was approved. Oh, Cross, you should have seen the looks on their faces. I was so proud of myself!”

He laughed drunkenly and slapped his thigh. But his joy was fleeting and he slumped against the side of his bunk. “But how can I be proud? What a fool I was. I haven’t the training or experience. I’m a useless coward. I can’t even get out of my own bunk! My boyhood dreams are going to get people killed. I ought to just turn myself in and take the Bolt shell. I’m no good to anyone…”

Marsh Silas stared and stared. Hyram grabbed the bottle and went to drink. Dropping the picts, the platoon sergeant grabbed it from him. “Hey!” Winding his arm, Marsh pitched the bottle on the wall. It shattered into pieces and the remaining contents spilled onto the desk. Whirling around, he found Hyram struggling to get out of his bed. He nearly fell over and Marsh caught him by the collar of his tunic. Knocking the chair over in the process, Marsh dragged him over to the far wall and roughly held him up against it.

“You’re right,” he growled, “you’re no good, no good to anyone except to the Emperor and Marsh Silas.”

Hyram’s head swayed and his violet eyes struggled to maintain Marsh’s gaze. He shook him, trying to force his eyes into focus. The platoon sergeant smiled. “I used to think ya had nothing in you. But I see it now. You’ve got the salt to become a soldier. You’ve got a dog in ya. I’m going to whip you into shape until you’re a proper Shock Trooper. We’re going to train on the battlefield until you can shoot the head off a heretic at three-hundred meters, lob a grenade across a field, and by the Emperor you will learn to march in step! You’re going to become a Cadian Shock Trooper or you will die trying. Am I understood, sir?”

“Yes, Marsh Silas…”

“I can’t hear you!”

“I said yes, Marsh Silas!”

“Who do we serve?”

“The Emperor!”

“Who are we?”

“Cadians!”

“I said who are we!?”

“Ca-di-ans!”

“And do you know the first thing Cadians learn?” Marsh asked him. Wide-eyed but smiling, Hyram shook his head. “They learn how to stand up straight!”

Grabbing him by the shoulders, Marsh made him stand as stiff as he could. He kicked his feet until his heels were pressed together and the toes pointed out. Then, he slapped his arms down by his side and forced his chin up just a few inches. He grabbed him by the shoulder and indulged in the officer’s terrified, elated, and exhausted expression.

Marsh Silas leaned in very close. “Tomorrow, the real training begins.”