Nobody brought a blanket, as such field equipment was deemed unnecessary for such an operation. Veteran Guardsmen, however, often brought a series of miscellaneous items with them on any operation in the chance they encountered less than usual complications. It just so happened Corporal Effelman of 1st Squad brought a canvas sheet with him in case gas mask visors broke; strips could be cut off and taped onto the cracks to seal them. With this canvas, they carried Captain Murga all the way back to the rally point.
With Effelman, Monty Peck, Honeycutt, and several others, Marsh Silas placed the bloody corpse onto Walcott’s litter. After all the troops who were able to stand took a moment to view the body, the platoon sergeant covered him with the canvas. Slowly, he drew it over his face and tucked the edges around his head.
Many of the men who remained around the litter said prayers in protection of Murga’s soul or offered humble well-wishes as he journeyed to join the God-Emperor’s eternal army. Although muffled or garbled by their gas masks, some men shed tears and stifled a sob. The air was still far too toxic according to Sergeant Stainthrope’s readout, leaving them unable to dry their faces and wipe their eyes. Men were confronted with their grief and were unable to suppress it all.
Resting his forearm on his knee, Marsh stayed by Murga for a time. Lieutenant Hyram knelt beside him and looked upon the canvas for a time.
“He seemed a good sort to me,” he said in a low tone.
“Aye, he was,” Marsh replied. “He wasn’t the first company commander I had outta the Youth Regiments, but he was certainly the finest. Fair. Brave.” He looked over at Hyram. “A queer thing it is. You can’t call o’ man yer friend, but you’ve seen’em for so long, heard’em almost every day at the roll, fought beside him, just gotten used to him being around, and suddenly he’s gone. Doesn’t matter how well you knew him, you’ll feel his absence here,” Marsh tapped his chestplate over his heart. “Shame he couldn’t have gone out on the battlefield.”
“He died protecting his men. I think that is enough solace for a leader,” Hyram said. Marsh could only nod as he rose. Unable to gaze at the corpse of his company commander any longer, he turned and walked to the perimeter of the ruined structure now serving as their rally point. Although the western edge was nothing but a forest of twisted metal limbs and fractured rockcrete walls, the other sides were in relatively good condition. Many of the collapsed walls and piles of rubble provided both concealment and cover from enemy fire. Guardsmen from the Heavy Weapons Squads were able to burrow into some half-buried locations within the base of the fallen tower, forming hardpoints in the perimeter. Many of the line troopers on watch were crouched or prone among the walls and slabs. In one of the few interior rooms that wasn’t filled with wreckage, Honeycutt formed a casualty collection point where he and the Field Chirurgeons were busily tending to the wounds of over a dozen troops. Men moaned through their gas masks and uttered prayers for salvation.
Doing his best not to listen to their cries, Marsh pressed his shoulder against a wide column and peered out at the street.
“They seem to be holdin’ off for now, sir,” he said as he looked back towards Hyram, who was gazing around the opposite corner. Despite having fought a hard battle against overwhelming odds and surviving capture, the junior officer’s posture indicated he was no worse for wear.
Once again, Marsh Silas found himself prideful in his immediate superior and felt satisfied he played a part in helping him. Soon, it transitioned back towards his frustration and he smacked him heavily on his pauldron. Hyram looked back quickly, confused. “That was a damn fool thing ya did, sir. You and the Drummer Boy could have been ripped to shreds. Only by the God-Emperor’s grace did you survive!” the platoon sergeant hissed.
“We owe it all to Him and the Captain,” Hyram replied. “I had no other options and we needed you to find us. We are pressed for time on this night, Staff Sergeant. We still have a mission.”
“First an artillery barrage and then a flare in the middle o’ a heretic city! Before you was just some timid replacement and now you’re some kind o’ wild man! Just what will ya do next?”
“That is yet to be seen, Marsh Silas,” Hyram said in a surprisingly amused tone. Marsh scoffed, shook his head, and then tapped the platoon leader on his chestplate.
“You’re like an autogun slug that bounces off rockcrete and goes flying through the air again. From now on, we ought to call you Lieutenant Ricochete!”
“I’ll take it,” Hyram laughed. Marsh looked back at the road, smiling under his gas mask. He felt the Lieutenant’s hand on his shoulder. “How is the Junior Commissar?”
“A knife to the shoulder ain’t gonna stop her.”
“Nonetheless, we should check on her before Barlocke’s briefing.”
The pair were about to leave the perimeter when a voice hissed someone was approaching. Both Guardsmen immediately returned to their positions and raised their lasguns. The quiet sounds of Shock Troopers checking their charge packs and unclipping grenades from their bandoleers could be heard throughout the structure.
Although his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, Marsh Silas found it difficult to locate the intruders. Whispers over the micro-beads, filled with static, did not help. Eventually, he was able to glean from the exchange of the Heavy Weapons troops the unknown aggressors’ locations. Aiming down his scope, he saw a short column of shadows coming carefully down the road. Their demeanor was cautious and deliberate.
Hyram must have spotted the difference between their movement and the average heretics. “Drummer Boy, to me,” he hissed. When the Voxman arrived, he took the voice amplifier wired on the right side of the Vox-Caster and raised it to his lips. Marsh reached over and grabbed his wrist.
“If they’s heretics, we’ll expose our positions.”
“I think they know very well where we are, Staff Sergeant.”
Marsh contemplated only for a moment.
“Carry on, sir.”
“This is Lieutenant Hyram, 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment. Identify yourself this instant or prepare to be fired upon!”
The column halted. Marsh’s finger slid into his M36’s trigger guard. A figure stepped forward.
“This is Regimental Commissar Ghent, 1333rd Cadian Regiment.”
Marsh and Hyram exchanged a quick glance.
“Bloody Platoon, get those lights on,” Hyram ordered. As soon as the various helmet and M36-mounted lamp packs were alight, he waved. “Step forward into the light, sir! Slowly now!”
A few tense minutes passed before Commissar Ghent, missing his cap and his dark garb was shredded, appeared with eight other Guardsmen. Each man, save for Walmsley Major who was hefting his Heavy Bolter with both hands, had their arms raised in the air. Hyram stepped out of the structure and waved hastily. “By the Emperor, to me, quickly now!”
As Ghent led his group in, they were swarmed by the other Guardsmen. Everyone embraced, bumped their helmets together, shook hands, and exchanged salutes. Walmsley’s Minor and Major put down their equipment, hollered, ‘brother!’ in unison, and hugged one another so tightly they nearly fell over. Marsh stood by as the twins spoke to one another in hushed tones, an arm around one another and a hand on the back of the other’s helmet. There were playful jeers mingled with prayers of thanksgiving and laughter.
As the joviality continued, Marsh drifted among the men, indulging in their happy greetings while he counted their helmets. When he finished, he nearly lost his breath. Elated yet still in disbelief, he repeated the process again, then once more. Each time, he came up with the same number. Utterly relieved, he sat down on a slab of rockcrete, rested his hand on his helmet, and laughed quietly. As he gazed upon the ground, still trying to come to terms with his findings, he saw two black boots standing in front of him.
“You have the accountability of your men, Staff Sergeant?” Commissar Ghent asked.
“Sir, yes, sir. Bloody Platoon is present and accounted for, every single one of them. Thank the Emperor,” he breathed.
“Very well,” Ghent said, his voice betraying no satisfaction as he left. Marsh watched him avoid the crowd and join Captain Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, and Inquisitor Barlocke. Out of the men came Hyram who practically had to wrest himself from their arms. He sat down beside Marsh and put an arm around him.
“It’s a miracle. A miracle of miracles, Silas.”
“You got that right, sir,” Marsh said.
“You seem glum.”
“Pah. ‘Very well,’ that’s all he says after what we’ve been through tonight. Very well.”
“Don’t fret on two little words, Marsh Silas,” Hyram said, affectionately tapping the platoon sergeant’s helmet. “Save that for our lessons, why don’t you? Now, let’s find the Junior Commissar and tell her the good news.”
Marsh Silas was hesitant to go into the aid station. It always tore him up to look at his wounded comrades. Sometimes, it was harsher to gaze upon the maimed than the dead. A Guardsman who stood among fallen friends could take solace that they were now at rest and their souls ascended with the Emperor’s. At last, they knew peace. But no matter the amount of pain nullifiers and stimulants the medics and Field Chirurgeons pumped into them, they suffered. One could see it in their violet eyes; wide, bulging, and filled with agony. Sucking shallow breaths through clenched teeth they wondered if this was their final sacrifice and they would meet the Emperor.
Ultimately, Marsh followed Hyram into the room. As it was covered and withdrawn to the center of the foundation, Honeycutt took the liberty of setting up a series of lamp packs on stones or in cuts along the wall faces. On either side of the room were two lines of men laying down with their heads on their rucksacks. Reddened bandages covered their arms, legs, or laced around their shoulders. Men groaned, taking the pain as best they could. Honeycutt was bent over Fleming, who’s trousers were rolled up to his knee. While another Field Chirurgeon held him down, the medic probed for the autogun slug in the fleshy part of his calf. Fleming emitted a steady hiss through his gas mask.
Honeycutt’s head bowed over the wound, as if he were at prayer. Suddenly, he looked up.
“I’ve found it,” he said. “Brace yourself, grenadier.” With one swift motion, he withdrew the tool and Fleming rolled over, slamming his fist on the pavement.
“Damn it all! It hurts worse than the bullet itself!” he hollered.
“Quit that bawling. Be you a Cadian or be you some Agri-World maiden, hm?” Honeycutt said as he began to stitch the wound.
“I ain’t ever been to no Agri-World,” Fleming moaned.
“Well, I have, and I assure you the young women there are not shy about getting on their backs for a brave Guardsman,” Honeycutt said in a snide tone.
“Sounds lovely,” Fleming groaned. “If that’s all it takes for an easy woman.”
“Aye, so start acting like a soldier.”
After he bandaged the wound, the medic looked up at the doorway. Looking between Marsh and Hyram, he pointed to the adjacent corner. Junior Commissar Carstensen sat on a block of rockcrete. She had taken off her olive drab shirt and draped it over her shoulder and her dark thermal layer was similarly drawn aside. She was left in a standard issue khaki singlet. On the floor beside her was her chestplate. She seemed very calm as she stared into the room. Bandages were wrapped around her shoulder but the knife was still embedded in the flesh.
When she finally noticed the pair gazing at her, she stood up and approached.
“Lieutenant, Staff Sergeant, it is very good to see you both well. The Emperor protects. What is all that racket?”
“The rest of the men, Junior Commissar!” Hyram exclaimed. “All of Bloody Platoon has been reunited.”
“Praise be to Him.”
“How do you fare, Junior Commissar?” Marsh asked, pointing at the knife. Carstensen cast a glance at it, seemingly forgetting that it was still there. She shrugged slightly.
“It shan’t stay for much longer. I have made that very clear to Sergeant Honeycutt,” she said in a terse tone. At that, the medic looked up and shook his head disapprovingly. “With another dose of nullifiers and a combat stimulant, I shall be able to rejoin you in this fight.”
“Good, we’ll need every soldier,” said Inquisitor Barlocke as he entered the room. Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, and Commissar Ghent followed him. The squad leaders—Stainthorpe, Holmwood, Queshiire, Mottershead, Walmsley Major, and Foster of 5th Squad—came after them. Also present was Drummer who managed to squeeze into the room; he and the others circled around the Inquisitor.
Barlocke took a brief look around before turning his attention to Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Carstensen. “Bloody Platoon has been rallied and thus we must sally forth to our objective. We cannot take the wounded with us; they shall remain here with a skeleton guard, maintaining this as our fall back position. From here, we shall proceed with all haste to the factorum. We don’t have the numbers to mount a frontal assault so we must default to infiltration. With the Emperor’s guidance we shall locate our mark. He is especially dangerous and powerful, so I will see to him personally. It will be up to you to dispatch his followers and dismantle whatever vile contraptions he may have at his disposal. Once we’ve eliminated the target and destroyed the factorum, we’ll rally here and signal for extraction.”
He turned around and pointed at Drummer Boy. “Will you be able to establish a link with Regimental Command?”
“I’ll have to calibrate the amps and get somewhere high, but I should be able to.”
“Splendid.” He turned once more and gestured at Lieutenant Eastoft. “With the only functioning Data-slat, you’ll be on point with myself and Marsh Silas. Captain Giles, Commissar Ghent, I appoint you to the rearguard to supervise the flow of the platoon. Lieutenant, Junior Commissar, maintained the center of the column. Sergeant Queshire, you bear wounds, and Foster, the majority of our heavy weapons are not suited for such a mission. You two will remain in command here. Walmsley Major, you and your brother shall accompany us in the event we require a Heavy Bolter.”
“Yes, sir,” the Sergeants said together. Barlocke surveyed the present personnel again and then nodded.
“To your posts, prepare to move out.”
Marsh watched as the men filed out of the room. Barlocke was the last to go. Before he passed through the doorway, the platoon sergeant caught him by the elbow. The Inquisitor gazed down at him.
“Thank you, for keeping your promise—your vow,” Marsh whispered.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Heavens, man, thank me once we’ve returned to Army’s Meadow. We can exult in our victory then.” His tone was affectionate and brotherly, bringing a smile to Marsh’s face. Giving him one final pat on the shoulder, Barlocke left. After lingering for a few moments, he decided to follow suit.
“Staff Sergeant,” came Carstensen’s cool, collected voice. He turned and found Honeycutt withdrawing an injector syringe from the Junior Commissar’s shoulder. After he applied an adhesive bandage to the injection area, Carstensen nodded towards her wound. “Aid Sergeant Honeycutt in this affair, if you please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He knelt in front of her and then looked at the medic. On the flat side of a nearby rucksack, Honeycutt laid out a pair of forceps with small, absorbent pads beside it, a field suture applicator which he promptly loaded with staples, two trauma pads, and a roll of fresh bandages. After reviewing his tools, he took off the bandages already wrapped around her shoulder. With his Diagnosticator, he scanned the wound and then took note of the information readout on the small screen.
“We shan’t risk one of your arteries and the blade is not too deep, but the extraction shall cause damage to the flesh even in the most successful of circumstances. No matter the outcome, there will be bleeding and it will be painful despite the nullifiers. We are not in the best location for such an operation𑁋”
“See that it’s done and quickly now,” Carstensen insisted. Honeycutt grumbled and tapped Marsh on the helmet to get his attention.
“Take hold of the knife with both hands. Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to be ready with the pressure dressing? That’s it. We need to stem the bleeding as quickly as possible. On my first command, Marsh Silas will withdraw the blade. On my second, Lieutenant, you’ll apply the pad with a great deal of pressure. On my third, you’ll remove the pad and I will begin layering the sutures. During that process, you’ll need to keep the wound clean so I can see it; use the forceps, Lieutenant. Are you ready?”
“We’re ready,” Marsh and Hyram said together. Honeycutt pointed at Carstensen, who nodded.
“Junior Commissar, I am unable to provide you with anything to bite on, so do try your best not to bite your tongue off.”
Marsh Silas was certain such a comment even made in a light tone to ease the tension would be taken cordially by the Junior Commissar. But to his surprise, Carstensen released an amused huff and shook her head slightly. She raised her good hand, gripped Marsh’s left wrist, and looked at him.
“It appears, Staff Sergeant, as I was by your side for your treatment, you are here for mine. The Emperor has seen to make us bound in blood.”
“I am honored by such a bond, Junior Commissar,” the platoon sergeant mustered truthfully. Then, he found himself chuckling. Carstensen tilted her head to the side, curious. “Welcome to Bloody Platoon, ma’am.”
Everyone drew breath. Their gas masks and visors were partially shaded by one another’s hunched forms. On the walls, their shadows blended together in the lamplight.
“Mark.”
Marsh pulled. It came out faster than he expected. Carstensen gasped as if she were submerged in frigid water and her fingers dug into Marsh’s wrist so intensely each nail drew blood. “Mark.” Hyram leaned forward and pressed the white pad against the wound. With one hand grasping it and putting the other on the opposite side of his shoulder, he pushed it as hard as he could. The Junior Commissar sucked in air through clenched teeth. Dropping the knife, Marsh leaned in, placed one hand over the other, and pressed against the pad as well. Even Carstensen added her palm.
After several minutes, Honeycutt wedged in between Marsh and Hyram. “Mark.” Everyone released the pad and Hyram tossed it onto the floor. He immediately took up the forceps and patted down the edges of the gash, which were stained red with blood. Blood continued to seep out of the wound and he quickly cleaned it as well. The medic picked up the field sutures, pressed the port against the top of the wound, and squeezed the trigger. Carstensen jarred with each impact but didn’t make a sound. It was a dreadfully slow process; Honeycutt stapled downwards vertically, ensuring each stitch was level and maintained an even amount of space between them. The intervals were mere slivers, drawing the separated skin back together.
It took two layers of sutures to fully seal the wound. Casting the field suture kit aside, Honeycutt ordered Marsh to hold the extra trauma pad against the wound, and then wrapped the bandages around Carstensen’s shoulders. When the roll was halfway finished, he cut the end and tied off the layers around the wound. Reaching into a pouch on his cartridge belt, he retrieved another injector, loaded a syringe filled with stimulants into it, and injected the contents into her bicep.
Marsh Silas finally breathed and only became aware how long he’d been holding his breath. Noticing, Carstensen reached over and tapped him on the side of his helmet.
“Deep breaths.”
“We’re done here,” Honeycutt said finally. “Medicae surgeons shall conduct a more thorough procedure once we return to Army’s Meadow. Lieutenant, would you care to assist me in a few more operations?”
“Of course.”
The pair headed over to a 3rd Squad casualty, Cuyper, who was shot at the top of his thigh. A corporal, Cuyper was a veteran and a survivor of the 540th Youth Regiment like Marsh Silas. He bore pain well but even the strongest Shock Trooper could not escape from desperate wounds.
Doing his best to ignore the pained cries of one of his comrades, the platoon sergeant turned back to Carstensen who was breathing steadily but heavily. For a time, he simply remained crouched in front of her, offering his presence. Over the next few minutes, her breathing became less intense. Still unsure of just what to do, Marsh gingerly reached out and pulled her thermal layer down. When he first touched it, he looked up at her visor and waited for a command to stop. She said nothing and he continued to bring it down before tucking it back under the belt line of her field trousers. Then, he helped her lift her arm and slide it back into the empty sleeve of her heavy black jacket. As they did, Carstensen breathed sharply but still made no comment.
He was about to help her put on her chestplate when she pointed at his wrist. Marsh glanced down at the five, red, half-circular nail marks left in his wrist. Four were in a line on the left side of the bluish-gray veins and a lone fifth one was on the opposite side. Both of them regarded the wounds momentarily before the platoon sergeant picked up a lengthy scrap of bandage left on the ground from the roll cut by Honeycutt. Wrapping it around his wrist proved difficult with one hand until Carstensen helped him tie it off. When they finished, they looked at one another. Marsh pressed his palms together, brought them in front of his heart, and closed his eyes.
“Give this one strength in her limbs, quickness to her hands, courage to her heart, to see this night through to victory or to everlasting glory.”
He opened his eyes. Someone turned a lamp pack around to provide more light for the wound. In that instant, Marsh saw her green-blue eyes glimmering beneath her dusty visor.
“This is where you belong, Staff Sergeant,” she said quietly. “Whatever the Inquisitor has promised you, whether it is knowledge, gifts, or simply more than a Guardsman’s life, does not equal to being what we are in our heart of hearts.”
Marsh couldn’t reply and Carstensen did not wait. “Don my armor and let us go, together.”
***
Bloody Platoon formed up, keeping intervals between squads, and penetrated deeper into Kasr Fortis. They moved slowly, carefully clambering over wreckage in their path, stopping to secure intersections, and combing through deserted buildings when too many obstacles blocked their path. At times, there were no alternative routes and one by one, the Guardsmen crawled through natural tunnels or gaps in the piles of twisted metal timbers and piles of rockcrete. As they drew nearer to the dead city’s center, the march grew harder. Occasionally, Barlocke would order a brief stop order to allow the unit to rest and replace the filters in their rebreathers and gas masks. The further they went, the more difficult the path became. More than once, they had to retrace their steps and find a new passage when presented with a fallen building or a collapsed, flooded roadway. All the while, the night air grew colder and snow fell heavily.
Many were growing hungry and thirsty. The toxicity levels were still too lethal to remove their masks. Nobody complained but Marsh Silas’s own dry throat and rumbling stomach were indicative of the platoon’s predicament Still, they carried on ably. A new oppressive feeling prevailed over the platoon’s head, however. Marsh could feel it, a heavy weight settling onto his shoulders. Kasr Fortis seemed to loom larger over Bloody Platoon, appearing darker and more sinister. More and more, the Guardsmen looked up and around them, expecting heretics to come charging out of every alley and building. Even if it didn’t seem like it, Marsh knew just by the claustrophobic environment they were coming closer to the factorum.
After nearly two hour’s marching, they found a stretch of uninterrupted road. While the pavement was cracked in many places, there was no wreckage from the city or debris from the ancient battle. For a time, the march became easier until Eastoft raised her fist. Marsh mimicked the gesture to the platoon and then approached her.
“The Data-slate is dead,” she murmured.
“Can this track take us to the manufactorum?” Barlocke asked.
“I can’t be certain, the display was incomplete…”
Marsh Silas glanced around. He knew the maps were unreliable and without a Data-slate they were simply blind. But he noticed a post on the side of the road with a metal plate upon it. A layer of dust covered the surface. What else could it be but a marker, he thought, quite used to the signs throughout modern kasrs. He dusted it off and squinted at the faded but otherwise legible black letters and arrows. His eyes slowly widened.
“This is the right way!” he hissed. Barlocke and Eastoft came over.
“What do you mean? None of our equipment is reliable,” Eastoft interjected. But Marsh excitedly pointed to the sign.
“It’s a directory! It says the factorum is a few kilometers up this road as well as other buildings in the district. It’s a main access route.”
Barlocke confirmed and Eastoft huffed.
“I didn’t think you could read, Staff Sergeant,” was all she said.
“I’ve been taking lessons,” Marsh said proudly. Barlocke clapped him on the back and the journey continued.
Thankfully, the route remained clear and they progressed smoothly. But it did not last for long. A massive, dark shape emerged on the street. When the column approached it, they found an impassable roadblack. It was a piecemeal fifteen meter high wall made of thick wooden boards and welded metal plates.
“We’re going to have to double back and find another way. This is a dead end.” Eastoft pointed to both sides of the street where similar walls blocked the allies. The buildings themselves were in ruins and not one offered a promising route.
“These were built by human hands. They’ve fortified the surrounding area,” Barlocke murmured as he observed their surroundings. Then, he looked back at Eastoft. “Any more diversions and we’ll be wandering around until daybreak. There must be another way.”
“We cannot blast through, that will surely alert the heretics to our presence.”
While the assistant intelligence officer and the Inquisitor continued to discuss their dilemma, Marsh Silas signaled the rest of the platoon to rest. As they sat down, he looked around once more. There had to be another way.
The entrances to the buildings weren’t blocked but he found he could barely push in past a meter before encountering an obstacle. When he came back out, he ignored the ongoing conversation and walked towards the wall. Standing before it, he ran his hand over the wooden boards and metal sheets. Despite its ramshackle appearance it felt very sturdy. There was not a single loose seam or gap in it.
After releasing an irritated sigh and hanging his head for a moment, Marsh turned around and trundled back towards the platoon. Instead of stepping over the cracked road, he strode upon the walkway bordering it. Besides hushed whispers, all he could hear was the mournfully moaning wind and his heavy boots on the pavement. Thud. Thud. Thud. Clang. Marsh stopped and looked down. Beneath his right foot was a rectangle grate that was three meters long and over a meter across. Hinges ran along the left side and on the right was a latch with a padlock. Turning on his helmet-mounted lamp back, he observed the print on the plate beside it. ‘Runoff Access,’ were the words he could make out.
He peered through the rusty bars. Below, he saw green water glinting at the bottom. On both ends of the compartment below were aging metal doors.
“Barlocke, come see,” he hissed and pointed down. The Inquisitor and Eastoft knelt beside him and looked as well.
“It’s just a sewer, Silvanus.”
“Nay. See that there? I remember the manufactorums in Kasr Polaris sent their waste into the sea via a network of underground pipeways. Laborers were always fixing the pipes through access tunnels which ran with the pipes. This is one of’em! Emperor willing, we can follow it right to the factorum.”
“Very promising. Shall we have a look? Come, lend us a hand.”
Yoxall easily snipped the rusty lock with his heavy cutters. Marsh, Barlocke, Eastoft, the Breacher, and several other Guardsmen lifted the screeching metal grate up and placed it on the opposite side of the walkway. Stainthrope, armed with a chemical reader, scanned the contents of the water and found that, while polluted with factorum runoff, it would not offer any danger. Still, Marsh and Barlocke made sure their boots were tied tight and their trousers were bloused. A spike was driven into the pavement, a rope was secured around it, and the pair descended into it.
After opening the door and flashing his light down it, Marsh swept his hand horizontally to indicate it was all clear. Barlocke turned around and looked up at the helmeted heads peeking over the edge. “We can’t rely on our short-range communications. Lieutenant Eastoft, remain here and we’ll light a red flare to signal you. However long the tunnel may be, you should be able to see the light in such darkness. Remember, it’ll be one red flare.”
Once the assistant intelligence officer climbed down and assumed her post on the raised platform opposite from the door, Marsh pushed the rest of the door open. With Barlocke at his side and their weapons raised, they moved steadily into the tunnel. Shoulder to shoulder, their feet sloshing through the ankle-deep greenish-brown water, the pale beams of their lamp backs lighting up the decrepit tunnel before them, they pressed on. As far as the lights could powergo, there was just more tunnel. Both walls were blank. Pipes ran across the ceiling. A few leaked and an occasional drop would splash into the water and disappear in their wake. It was cold. Wind from the surface filled the opening, blew through the door many meters behind them, and flowed into the tunnel. Each gust pressed Marsh Silas forward, forward, forward; it felt like there were a pair of hands pushing him onward, as if the unseen force wished him to visit the deep unknown of the dead kasr.
He felt the chill of the water on his sopping boots and damp pant legs. Despite his overcoat, thermal layer, and under shirt, Marsh felt the wind dig its claws into him. A shaky breath escaped his lips.
“Have you found it, Silvanus?” Barlocke suddenly asked. Despite his quiet tone his voice bounced eerily off the walls. “Your fear? That which you do not understand?”
Keeping his weapon raised, Marsh looked to his right. Barlocke was looking back at him. “This place is the manifestation of the heretic ideal: ruination. Pure, unadulterated, complete ruination. That is what Amilios wishes to unleash upon the Imperium; he confuses it for liberty and freedom. Silvanus, no matter what knowledge I bestow unto you, no matter how you shape yourself into the man that you could be, there is no understanding ruin. Woe to us, if we ever do. Treat it with fear, steel yourself with anger, and attack it with thy zealous faith.”
The words washed over him like warm air. Although his heart still pounded in his chest, Marsh was able to look ahead with greater focus. Still, the trek went on and on.
“Do you think you can do it?” Marsh asked, unable to bear the silence. “Take the life of your old companion?”
“No longer is he my companion.”
“A simple Guardsman I am, but even I felt the sadness in your tale.”
“I mourn him for the man he was, not the monster he is now. I shan’t let the memory stop me.”
“I trust you,” Marsh said. Deeper into the tunnel they went. It seemed never ending. The platoon sergeant’s legs were growing cold and weary. “Shall this bring us to our goal or lead us into the deepest center of the world?”
“It brings us to where we need to go,” Barlocke said. “Destiny, Silvanus, yours and mine, it draws us to destiny.”
“The Emperor’s plan?” Marsh replied, then thought for a moment. “My soul, my mind, my will, together with His light. The power of my decisions.” He chuckled to himself. “Had I known my choices would bring me to a hole like this, I would have made better ones.”
“Nonsense. Where else would you rather be but here? One day this will be but a memory and it shall be sweet to you, like flowers along the windswept cape. Can’t you see them?”
Marsh looked over at him, confused, but then he felt the wind again. This time, it was coming towards him rather than behind. When he looked forward, he gasped as thousands of yellow petals swirled towards him. Petal clouds buffeted his chest, swept against his visor, and flew by his head. He looked over his shoulder to watch them go, but instead saw a deep green-blue wave break into the water. White foam sparkled in the lamp light and the tumultuous, breaking surf swept underneath him, soaking his trousers all the way up to his knees. Salt permeated the air and the wind blew ferociously, flapping his coat and casting more yellow flowers through the tunnel. He felt the wind against his cheeks, the soft petals caressing his skin, their candied scent filling his lungs. So familiar, so calming to his soul, he instinctively closed his eyes only to snap them back open. He reached up and touched his stubble-covered cheeks. Frantically, he searched his person for his gas mask but it was missing. All his wargear was gone; even his weapon disappeared from his hands.
Marsh turned to face Barlocke but found the Inquisitor striding across the white sands of the beach under a brilliant golden sun. The barefooted Inquisitor, his loose dark hair tousled by the wind, turned and flashed him a handsome smile. Even his garb was gone too, leaving him in a silken blouse and fine brown trousers. Marsh looked down. His own uniform was gone and he was clothed in the same fashion as his companion. A silver chain hung around his neck adorned with a golden Aquila nestled in his chest hair, and his prayer beads laced around his wrist. He felt his toes sink into the soft sand and with each step, his fear and shock subsided. All around, the islands, the land, were covered with beautiful golden cities. No towers, no guns, no artillery. Marsh Silas felt great happiness embed his heart and imbue his soul. For the first time, nothing came to his mind but the present. He closed his eyes and breathed it in.
When he exhaled, he opened his eyes. The tunnel was dark. His legs were moving automatically and the stock of his M36 was braced against his shoulder. Just ahead, his lamp pack illuminated the sickly green-brown water as it rippled. Then, a large metal door appeared. He looked back, found Barlocke standing just beside him, and Eastoft’s red lamp pack glowing like a dot at the far end.
Before Marsh could speak, Barlocke shouldered his bolter and stood before him. “That is what life could be in the Imperium. Everlasting peace; a paradise of our own making. That is what I strive to create for the Imperium, for humanity, and perhaps many others. You and I, Silvanus Crux, together, so long as you make good, usher in that growth within before spreading it without, and never be afraid to dream. Come with me and we can make that dream a reality.”
The Inquisitor brushed by him, twisted the handle of the door, and tried to pull it out. The rusty hinges screeched loudly. Recovering from his stupor, Marsh went around his friend’s side, took hold of the door’s edge with both hands, and pulled with all his might. Slowly, they managed to pry the door out of the frame. When there was enough room, the platoon sergeant went to the opposite side, threw his shoulder against it, and pushed. Finally, the door swung to the side.
Marsh turned around, crouched, and aimed his M36 through the entryway. He was more afraid it would just lead to another tunnel instead of hostile heretics. From the information he could read on sign, it was a way station with numerous control panels, switches, and valves. Most were broken and none of the instruments on the panels lit up. On one of the walls was a ladder leading to a hatch.
“This has to have taken us past that block,” Marsh said as he walked up to the ladder. “Let’s have a look.”
“No, I shall.”
Barlocke reached the top, pushed the hatch open for a few moments, allowing an orange glow to filter through, and then came back down. Wordlessly, he took the red flare from his belt, and took off the cap. Sizzling and casting sparks, the red flare burned brightly. The Inquisitor walked to the entrance and waved it several times. In return, Eastoft flickered her own red light. Dropping the flare on a raised rockcrete platform, Barlocke walked back to the ladder. He rested his hand on one of the rungs and climbed up. The hatch squealed open and the Inquisitor remained in the perch for a little while.
Then, he climbed back down. With one hand still on the ladder, he turned back to Marsh Silas and smiled. “We have arrived, Silvanus.”