“I believe her, Staff Sergeant.”
“Why? How could ever trust a xenos?”
Marsh Silas and Lieutenant Hyram stood outside the cell, speaking in hasty, hushed tones. The latter was standing against the wall beside the door while the former stood in front of him, arms akimbo. While the platoon sergeant glared, his superior officer jammed his hands into his pockets and kept his head down. He seemed embarrassed to be having the conversation or was too ashamed to meet Marsh’s gaze.
Taking his pipes from his lips, Marsh Silas turned it around in his hands as he muttered and shook his head. “Sir, all I’ve done is fight’em. Greenskins, these Aeldari or whatever silly name Barlocke says they have. Different names, different looks, but they’re all the same. They all want to kill us, sir. They are enemies of the Imperium and they would do anything to see our empire destroyed. I ain’t gonna let that happen.” He pointed towards the ajar cell door. “She may be bound but that don’t mean she could be tryin’ to pull something on us. You know Captain Giles? He says a bad bit o’ intel can get a lot o’ good men killed!”
Hyram folded his arms across his chest and ran his hands up down his forearms. Still refusing to meet Marsh’s eyes, he opened the reinforced view port. It was wide enough for the pair to look through at the same time. Peeking through the crack, Narsh shot a quick glance at Maerys the Ranger. She was still at the table and sat in an almost prim fashion. Although, her eyes were downcast and both fists were balled up on her knees. The expression she wore was hard and concentrated.
After a few minutes, Marsh slid the cover of the port back over it. Hyram shook his head while Marsh continued to smoke.
“She does not have much reason to lie,” Hyram murmured.
“O’ course she does!” Marsh hissed. “She’s a prisoner, she’s amongst us, she’ll do whatever she has to do to survive. Failing that, she’ll try to lead us astray so her alien cronies can land without resistance. There’s no way to know if she speaks the truth or not. Only the Alien Hunter will, and Barlocke said he has the means to do it.”
Hyram looked up swiftly at the mention of the Inquisitors. Violet eyes glaring, he let his arms drop, stood up straight, and raised his chin indignantly.
“I will not let that happen. No tools, no torture.”
“Why? What do you care about some dirty, filthy xenos bitch?”
“Dirty? Filthy? You keep saying these things.”
“Because they’re true, sir!”
From the cathedral to the training yards, from priests to Commissars, it was known xenos were one of the great enemies. Like the traitors, heretics, and mutants, they were to be eradicated. They reserved their deepest scorn for humanity and would stop at nothing to combat them at every turn. To think these despicable creatures believed they could overthrow the Imperium of Man! Such conceit! It merited mockery in the songs they chanted on the march. Commissars invigorated their men with speeches belittling xenos as barbaric and inferior. Priests opened religious tomes and slammed their fists on the altar, decrying them as unworthy, deserving only death in the eyes of the God-Emperor. Even the posters plastered on kasr buildings showed the difference between loyal, xenos-despising subjects and nasty, soiled citizens who displayed sympathy for their enemies.
He explained it all to Hyram. From youth to adulthood, Marsh heard it in address after address. Each time he did, his resolve to kill grew deeper and his hatred for the monsters became all the more vibrant. Just looking at the Ranger, silent and helpless within the cell, made his heart burn with animosity.
Hyram’s looked surprisingly shocked. The platoon leader took Marsh by the shoulder, his gaze bearing a tragic, imploring countenance.
“Marsh Silas, you committed the Primer to memory, did you not? You know, as well as I, the book is filled with as many lies as there are truths. Have their portrayals ever misguided you?”
“Jus’ like you to bring that up,” Marsh groaned.
Like any Guardsman who first received the book, he laughed at the frumpy looking Aeldari who looked like fussy malcontents rather than warriors. Even the depictions of the drooling, overweight, stubby Orks were great amusement. Nobody laughed after encountering their first Ork WAAAGH! Witnessing that sea of hulking, massive Greenskins flowing over Imperial positions and reducing men into shredded limbs or piles of red paste, had made him lose all humor for the pictures.
No man ever doubted the Aeldari again after their first small arms ambush with the foul aliens, either. One did not so much as see them as watch the air fill with shurikens; those discs sliced through Flak Armor with the ease of a blade sinking into flesh. Lithe figures darted and swept around, cleaving soldiers’ limbs and heads away. Minutes later, they were gone. Not so much the fools as the book claimed. Just when Guardsmen started to believe they were naught but choice attackers, the Aeldari surprised them with formations of swift, otherworldly vehicles skimming just above the ground. Their strikes were as quick as lightning flashes and as powerful as thunderclaps. As much as the Commissars barked, there was not a Veteran Guardsman who believed in Aeldari weakness.
To refute Hyram was to lie. Marsh’s lips moved a little but he made no sound. Hyram raised an expecting eyebrow. “See? You let your anger blind you.”
“Even if they ain’t what they seem, that doesn’t change the fact they’re a bunch o’ disgusting, vile things.”
Hyram threw the view port shield back again. He clapped Marsh on the back and pointed at it. When the platoon sergeant resisted, Hyram guided him by the arm to the port.
“Look at her, Marsh Silas! Really, really, look. What’s so foul about her?”
His wary, unconvinced, bitter gaze shifted from his commanding officer to the Ranger. At the same moment, Maerys looked up at the door. Even in the dull, unflattering light of the weak bulb, her eyes twinkled handsomely. All that blemished her face was a faded scar which began on her left cheekbone and then ran up around her eye. It added an attractive ferocity that complemented her sharp, pronounced features. Her smooth skin was pale but still kissed by the sun. Even though she was clad in her coat and all-weather suit, Marsh made out the subtle signs of a slender frame. Yet, she was not frail; her posture denoted strength and vitality. The black mane cascaded naturally to her shoulders, wavy, thick, and voluminous. It seemed as though weeks or even months in the Cadian hinterland hadn’t left her worn out. Every lock was plump and healthy, whereas his was coarse and straw-like even after washing it after the operation. Eventually, she offered a charming smile made all the more alluring by her lips' natural hue. When she smiled, her pointed ears seemed to perk up.
“Them ears are quite unnatural,” Marsh finally said, glancing at Hyram.
“By the Emperor!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms into the air and walking away. Before Marsh Silas could think of something to say, Hyram opened the cell door once more and entered. Groaning angrily, Marsh followed and shut it behind them. The platoon leader whirled around. “Hatred, anger, these do more than blind you, they cloud your thoughts! Does this not feel wrong? To stand idly by and let someone be tortured for information they simply don’t have?”
“Sir, she’s an enemy of the Imperium. Of course, I don’t.”
“Regardless if she’s telling the truth or not, you do not care that she is going to be tortured?”
“Why would I?” Marsh pointed at her with his thumb. “I’ve fought her kind before. Friends o’ mine died. Just today, she shot several of the men and gave us a good thumping. You remember that?”
“I do.”
“Really, you do?”
“I bloody do!”
“Or has she cast a spell on you?”
“My people are natural-born psykers,” Maerys finally said. “Although, my own potential is limited and I choose not to call upon this gift.”
“Stay out of this, wench! This is between me and this fool right here!” Marsh shouted. For a moment, they fell silent. Neither could maintain the stare-down. Their rigid postures eased and Hyram inhaled calmly.
“I have no love for the xenos either, but punishing someone when they’re telling the truth? Does that not seem wrong?”
“But she’s just a xenos. What’s wrong if an alien suffers torture?”
“Forget her race in this instance.”
“Huh? That don’t make no sense. That thing is a xenos and nothin’ else.”
“Try, Marsh Silas! Imagine…imagine if…” Hyram rubbed his chin. His eyes popped and then he pointed. “Imagine if she were one of your men and he was being punished for an infraction he did not commit. Even though he was innocent and telling the truth, the Commissar was still going to flog him. What then?”
“But she ain’t one o’ our men—”
“Just try. You summoned empathy for me, why not her? Look at Maerys and imagine she was under your command.”
Reluctantly, the platoon sergeant turned halfway. Maerys stared back plainly. At first, he just wanted to look at her for a short period to give Hyram the impression he was giving this ridiculous notion any consideration. But as one minute passed and then a second, his eyes softened slightly. Suddenly, it was not Maerys the Ranger bound to the chair, but Drummer Boy, who was always smiling. Next, he saw Babcock, their standard-bearer—stout, stalwart, and fearless. Then, Arnold Yoxall, his dear friend, bound to that chair and detained for some quip. Why should he be there, treated like some hiver scum when he observed the Imperial Creed and fought as diligently as any other Guardsman?
Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Honeycutt, Efflemen, Monty Peck, Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, Bullard, Derryhouse, Hitch, Cuyper, Fleming, Logue, Jupp, Foley, even Junior Commissar Carstensen. Each face flashed by and the dread in his stomach grew. Bloody Platoon may not have been preachers but they were loyal and faithful. No one deserved an unjust punishment.
The fire in his heart fizzled. Punishment and torture, despite the truth—he wouldn’t want that for anyone. Whether it was some off-world fool who just happened to trip and fall out of line or a noble Cadian son who misplaced a charge pack, no one deserved to suffer such harm from mere mistakes. Inquisitors demanded subservience; Commissars expected respect; he delivered both to each party as required. But there were other authorities he respected, that of the Emperor and comradeship. His duty was to keep those men alive, no matter what.
Soon, his gaze hardened. Before him was an Aeldari Ranger, not one of his friends. He was to vilify the alien, for she was not human nor did she revere the one true god. This was what he tried to return to each time, trying to reignite the flames, but each time a notion of wrongness washed it out.
Taking his pipe from his mouth, he looked back at Hyram. The platoon leader understood and he smiled. “You see now?”
“Perhaps, I do. But sir, what would you have us do? Helping a prisoner? That’s wrong.”
“But letting someone who is no harm to us suffer unduly is also wrong.” Hyram put one hand over his heart, his fingers disturbing his single row of medals. “I pray to the Emperor each morning and night. I trust him with all my heart and soul. Were it not for Him, I would not have the honor to serve with men of valor. Here, I can give back to Him; He who breathed life into me. But this? Enemy she may be, but I believe she speaks truthfully. To see her tortured, that would poison me. My soul would be tainted from having to stop something unnecessary.”
Hyram squeezed Marsh’s shoulder tightly. “I could not live with myself. My heart is heavy with the weight of truth withheld from those pitiful refugees. Does it not bring sorrow to your own?”
It did. He tried to stave it off, forget, pretend it did not bother him. Each time it struck him, in fleeting moments of reflection or in dreams, he loathed the man who spared them the harsh realities of war. To carry the secret was his burden and he wished it was not so. A stronger man would have told them everything no matter how deeply the truth cut. At times, it took great effort not to weep.
When he locked eyes with Maerys again, he did not see hostility, malice, or resentment. There was no pleading expression begging for aid nor one that displayed the hatred he wished to feel. Hyram squeezed his shoulder again. “I cannot let something unjust occur. My soul would be forever restless, no matter how often or fervently I prayed.”
“So, what would you have us do? You ain’t talkin’ of letting her go, are you?”
“By all the Saints, no!” Hyram exclaimed. “That would be treason. No, she’s our prisoner and she shall remain so. Circumventing the torture, that is all I wish.”
“Circum—”
“Bypass, avoid.”
“Right, then. How do we go about that? We’re just a couple o’ gunmen; we gonna walk up to Inquisitor Sault and say, ‘no, ya can’t do that,’ because I get the feeling Ghent will find a reason to use that Bolt Pistol after all.”
“Well, I haven’t quite figured it out yet,” Hyram answered sheepishly. “But we have two days and there’s two of us, surely we can think of something.”
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Hyram said this with an optimistic smile. Marsh rubbed his jaw, his expression heavy and exhausted from it all.
“Sir, I don’t know if this is wise. I am sure the Emperor would not want this.”
“Maybe He would.”
“Madness, sir.”
“Are you afraid?”
“You don’t even have a plan.”
“I will soon!”
“I’m not dying over some damned xenos!”
There was a heavy knock on the cell door. Marsh and Hyram both jolted. Composing themselves shortly, they opened it and found Drummer Boy standing there. At first, the platoon sergeant worried he overhead the argument through the heavy door. But he realized the Voxman looked out of place because he was standing in the stockade; no Guardsman wanted to end up in such a dingy, dreary, dank place.
“Marsh Silas, quarters for the refugees have been allocated in Kasr Sonnen. They leave today. That lady, Asiah, wanted to say goodbye to you. Inquisitor Barlocke said you were here.”
Before he could even respond, Hyram turned his back to the pair.
“Be gone, Staff Sergeant, and say your farewells.”
“Barlocke wished for us—”
“I am capable of guarding a single xenos,” Hyram said harshly. “We shall take it in shifts. It will be more sensible that way.”
His tone was blunt but damaged. Marsh knew the Lieutenant was disappointed in him and it hurt him badly. Shifting his cap and extinguishing his pipe, he followed Drummer Boy into the corridor. Slowly, the cell door slid shut behind him and sealed.
***
Outside, many Guardsmen present at the ceremony were already back in their field uniforms and resuming their typical duties. Shock Troopers toiled with extra sandbags, barbed wire, and even placed extra mines along sections of the coastline. More bunkers were being added to the winding trench perimeter and huge machines poured rockcrete into the casings.
The refugee camp was being cleared out by a party of menials and servitors. Tents were pulled down, campfires stamped out, tools gathered up, and the huts were knocked over. Another work party stood by, ready to extend the line and turn the location into a defense block.
Five of the 1333rd Regiment’s Chimera complement were arranged in a convoy in front of headquarters. Beside each one was a group of civilians dressed in fresher clothes and carrying what few possessions they had. Some wore personal backpacks, others carried suitcases, but must just had canvas sacks with a rope sling.
At the rearguard, Marsh spotted Asiah and Galo. Walmsley Minor was already there, kneeling in front of the boy. He was giving him one of his ration packets. After the young lad said thank you, he hugged the Guardsman. Asiah embraced him also. Just as she withdrew, Marsh and Drummer Boy approached.
“Got everything you need?”
“Yes, sir!” Galo grinned, exposing a number of gaps in his teeth.
“Part of me wishes we could enjoy a few more days o’ yer company, but as one of my friends likes to say, the Emperor’s got plans for us all. Don’t he, lad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take care, young man.”
The two hugged. When Marsh stood up, he mussed the boy’s hair a little which made him giggle. Looking at Asiah, he returned her kind smile. His first instinct was to embrace her but instead he held out his hand. In turn, she brushed it aside and hugged him anyway. When they parted, he found her gasping one of his hands in both of her own. “May the Emperor bless you and your boy’s future, Asiah.”
“The same to you, Silas.”
“I shall never forget your faith.”
“It was not faith alone,” she said, leaning closer and speaking in a hushed tone.
“What else could there be?” he inquired, bemused.
“Love,” she whispered although her voice was nearly drowned out by the rumbling Chimera engines. “Love is its own force, Silas Cross. You might say they are interwoven, merely one and the same. But trust, faith, hope, love—these are not the same articles. Each is a power of its own gifted to us by the Emperor.”
She planted a small kiss on his cheek. One of the crewmen standing in a Chimera hatch called for the refugees to board. As they filtered in, Asiah picked up her bag and ushered Galo up the ramp. “May the Emperor keep you all!”
The three Guardsmen stepped back as the ramp rose. Engines roared and smoke poured from the exhaust pipes. Master Sergeant Tindall, standing in the turret of the first vehicle, waved his hand forward and the convoy left the camp. The APCs rolled down the cape, crossed Mason Bridge, and trundled away along the southern coastal road. Even when they were long out of sight, the trio continued to stare into the distance.
“I used to think so little of the folk who lived outside the kasrs. Backward, foolish, treacherous. But they are not so different from us, are they? May the Emperor forever keep them.”
“Amen,” Marsh Silas said, then put an arm around each man. “Come, let us rest in warmth.”
“You seem low.”
“It ain’t nothin’.”
“Was the Lieutenant having words with ye?”
“No. Well, yes. I think I’m not to be punished if that’s what yer getting at.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and his shoulders sagged. There was more to say but he was unwilling to speak, for Hyram’s sake.
“If yer heart troubles you, why not visit the chapel?” Walmsley Minor suggested.
“I dunno if I’m ready to listen to another sermon. ‘Abhor the xenos,’ Kine will say. But is that all we have to do? Are we forbidden from doing anything else?”
“All of those tenets are meant to be taken plainly,” Drummer Boy said. “Not much interpreting to be done there, methinks. Killing them, fighting them, all o’ that’s just orders.”
“Well, if that’s the case, if the tenet just said hate’em, what would it be like if we didn’t have orders?” Walmsley Minor asked. “If we wasn’t goin’ out of our way to kill’em, and they weren’t trying to kill us, wouldn’t we just leave each other alone?”
“Who can say?”
Marsh Silas was listening to the conversation. He watched his boots as the trio ascended the hill. But the words ran through him, weaving with Hyram’s mantra. It rang in his ears, threatened to roll from his tongue.
“If there was something you knew you could stop, if that something was wrong, and it would not be altogether wrong to stop it, would you do it?” Marsh asked absently.
“So long as it didn’t violate the Imperial Creed or betray some order and didn’t put my comrades in peril, I suppose I would,” Drummer Boy admitted after a moment.
“Guess my answer’s the same,” Walmsley Minor put in.
Marsh Silas just nodded, his brow low and heavy.
In the barracks, those members of Bloody Platoon not on duty were eased in their bunks, partaking in recaf or card games, or maintaining their wargear. Bayonets and fighting knives ground against whetstones. Scrubbing tools swept around M36 muzzles, the melt barbs scratching against the metal. Lho-stick smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scent of cleaning solutions and anointed cleansing oils.
Some men were shirtless, the suspenders of their trousers hanging loosely by their waist. Others wore sweaters, olive drab undershirts, or their plain khaki uniforms. No one was wearing their medals anymore.
Coming to their quarters, they found Walmsley Major, Yoxall, Foley, and Logue at rest. Yoxall was examining some of his tools and Walmsley Major was polishing his laspistol. Foley napped in his bunk while Logue was adjusting the sights on his custom autopistol. Drummer Boy returned to his Vox-caster and Walmsley Minor joined his twin. Marsh decided to rest and went to his cot. He found the blanket neatly folded exactly to the specifications listed in The Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer: Cadia.
“Now, who went and did this? Was it you, Yoxall?”
“Nay, ‘twas the Junior Commissar.”
Marsh looked at his rack again, shocked. He glanced back and shook his head.
“Ya sure?”
“Blind fool, she did it right in front of ye,” Yoxall said. “You were too busy gussying yourself up for the awards ceremony.
“Hey!” Marsh said, pointing at him and glaring playfully. “We was all gussying up.”
As they snickered, Marsh Silas left their quarters and worked his way through the tunnels to Honeycutt’s office. Standing just outside the threshold, he watched the two occupants for a time. The medic was over by his cache organizing his various tools and supplies. Carstensen sat at a small table located next to her cot. By the glow of her lamp-pack, she was reading through various documents stacked on it. Her coat was draped over the backrest of the chair and her cap sat next to the parchment.
Marsh grinned and knocked on the timber outlining the entrance.
“Dammit, Staff Sergeant, you know that bothers me. Get in here,” Honeycutt barked over his shoulder. Chuckling, Marsh Silas entered. “Doesn’t look like something’s wrong with you, so you best have some kind of unpleasant condition or you’ll be leaving here with a wound for bothering me.”
“I always thought you was the most charming fellow in this platoon,” Marsh replied, smiling sweetly. Honeycutt growled and went back to examining an invoice. Turning to face Carstensen, he cleared his throat. “Ma’am?”
“At ease. Come, Staff Sergeant.” He stood beside her but her eyes remained on the sheet. “Your report?”
“Lieutenant Hyram and I have been tasked by Inquisitor Barlocke to guard the prisoner. He is taking the day shift while I take the night watch. Is there any way I can assist you in his absence?”
“Not currently. You can go about your typical duties, Staff Sergeant.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marsh was about to turn to leave but then she looked up.
“Wait a moment.”
“How may I be o’ service, ma’am?”
“Does this platoon have any particular marching songs, creeds, mottos, anything of the like I should be aware of?”
“Well, you may o’ heard it already, but Bloody Platoon, bein’ the 1st Platoon of the 1st Company, we like to say we’re the, ‘first to spill blood, first to shed blood.’ We say that to fire ourselves up and, well, it’s quite true. We’re the hard-hitters of the regiment,” he said, not bothering to mask his pride.
Carstensen slid a piece of parchment from the bottom of the pile and quickly scribbled something. Marsh could not make it out beyond a few words, although he was sure it was their motto.
“Any malcontents or laggards?”
“None, ma’am. This is a Veteran platoon. You’ll find them motivated and faithful. 1st Company is made up o’ men like that.”
She made note of this, too. Afterwards, she set her quill down and folded her hands together. Her emerald-ocean eyes narrowed at him.
“As the Junior Commissar attached to this platoon, it is important I’m made aware of any unique unit aspects as well as any cultural affinities. While I’m quite versed in Cadia’s customs, if you think of anything that may be of use in my understanding of the men under our command, please tell me immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you. That’ll be all.” He paused. “Thank you once again for recommending me for decorations. I am honored.”
“Do not thank me, thank the Emperor,” Carstensen said, turning her head and gazing tersely. “The Emperor demands we take such actions and when we do, we are rewarded. I am merely an extension. As I’ve said, brave acts should be rewarded accordingly. These medals you, myself, and the men wear are to remind us that our service to the Emperor and Imperium has meaning. When a Guardsman looks at his decorations, he is reminded of what his actions provide to the Imperium as a whole. Next time he goes into battle, he fights with greater vigor.”
She looked at him with a softer expression. “These medals remind him he is a righteous warrior, that the battles, his feats, his sacrifices, are necessary. Even if those acts must be sending a man to his death or risking your own life for something that is unmistakably right. You see, Marsh Silas, there are other ways to inspire Guardsmen to fight than threatening him. Let him look upon the medals, let him remember why he acted valorously before, and let him do it again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marsh said slowly. “I understand.”
“Good. Go on.”
He cast her one more, fleeting glance. Instead of wearing her hair in a knot, it still hung low. Her orange locks fell around her face and covered the collar of her black tunic. One swept across her forehead and she tucked it behind her ear. For a moment, her head turned slightly and he thought she might gaze at him. The tip of her pugilist nose, the scar, her strong features were outlined in the light. He left before she could turn completely.
Marsh returned to his rack. He sat on the edge for a moment, mulling and staring into the middle-distance. When he broke from the stupor, he reached into his footlocker and procured a plain wooden chest. A silver Aquila was emblazoned on the lid. He opened it, carefully removed his medals and ribbon rack, and placed them in the chest.
His eyes lingered on the Crimson Skull medal. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he ran his thumb over it, feeling the texture of the metal and the bumps of the crests. His thumb came to rest on the red ruby in the center. Bowing his head, he looked at the rest of the medals resting side-by-side in the chest. Despite being tucked away inside, the open lid let the dim light of the lamps hanging on the walls.
Looking up, he remembered the poor Guardsmen wounded in the square on that final day of the operation. He held his leg as blood leaked through his fingers. Violet eyes wide with terror, white teeth clenched that only parted when he screamed. Leaving him out there, to suffer his wound, to bleed out his last, when there were dozens upon dozens of able men who could save him was absolutely wrong. Doing nothing and leaving him to an unnecessary end was an impossibility.
Marsh Silas placed the medal back in the chest and snapped the lid firmly.