The sun was still high over Army’s Meadow. Yellow flowers—the flos infinitius—and sparkling, glassy green waves smashed on the shoreline. Down the paved road which wound through the peninsula’s center came the motley, misfit band of Bloody Platoon. Their heavy winter uniforms were stained brown and white from dirt and snow. Shoe packs were blocky with cakes of dirt. Dull dents, pale scratches, and dry stains covered their chestplates. All wore beards and stubble as well as dust on their faces. But their swinging gait was strong and swift, they all wore smiles, and even the walking wounded were joining in:
“At the frontline, on Cadia’s soil,
Who shall stand in defense, who will commit to the toil?
Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon!
Come to slay! Seize the day!
Bloody Platoon is on the way!
Traitors, heretics, xenos surge upon the Imperium’s shore,
we’re ready to go, at the fore!
Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon!
Come to slay! Seize the day!
Bloody Platoon is on the way!”
Marching abreast of the column, Marsh Silas had handed over his weapons and rucksack to Sergeant Holmwood so he could carry Jupp was shot in the ankles. Honeycutt extracted both bullets but they caused extensive damage to his feet and calves. Even with nullifiers and stimulants, it was too painful to walk. Unwilling to take up one of the field chirurgeons’ litters when more wounded men needed them, Jupp allowed the platoon sergeant to carry him upon his back. Despite his aching feet, Jupp joined Marsh and the others in their song. When they finished the second verse, they passed through the gate into their base of operations. At the front of the column, Hyram raised his fist into the air and Bloody Platoon gave a loud cheer. Despite fending off the ambush, they still managed to return to base ahead of schedule and before any other outfit in the 1333rd Regiment.
Waiting for them was Colonel Isaev. He looked impressive in his winter khaki uniform and a dignified, olive drab mantle covered his right shoulder. In bold white print it bore the Regiment’s numerals. On the left side of his chest were his ribbons and medals, which glinted in the sunlight. He wore a low-peaked khaki cap with a black bill. On the front was a golden Aquila pin. Behind him was a retinue of staff officers and senior enlisted personnel. All were impeccable in their military dress.
Hyram ordered the platoon into several lines. The platoon command squad stood in front of the first ranks and in front of them was Hyram, Carstensen, and Marsh Silas. Jupp was still on his back, arms laced around his neck and his legs in the platoon sergeant’s hands. Colonel Isaev stormed up to the platoon leader and towered over him. He did not even bother to return the junior officer’s salute.
“Lieutenant Hyram!” he roared. “Just what do you think you’re doing back in camp from your patrol so early!?”
“Sir! 1st Platoon has completed all its assigned maneuvers, reconnaissance, and engagements with the enemy. As per regimental command’s orders, the pl;atoon is now reporting to the officer commanding to notify him of the mission’s success! Sir!” Hyram belted, his hand still poised at his brow.
“And why is that your platoon is back before any of the rest!?”
“Sir, Bloody Platoon is the best damned platoon in the entire 1333rd Regiment!”
Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, lips pursed, Isaev lingered menacingly over Hyram. The platoon leader continued to keep his hand raised in salute. Suddenly, Isaev smiled and leaned back. He returned the salute and then shook Hyram’s hand.
“Well done, Lieutenant. You and your platoon truly embody those values which we deem Cadian. Get your wounded men to the Mediace center for treatment and then set to work on your after action report. I’d very much like to decorate your cited men as soon as possible.”
“Of course, sir,” Hyram replied. While Isaev and the platoon leader strolled deeper into the camp, Marsh Silas turned around and repeated Isaev’s command. Walcott and Hitch were kind enough to take Jupp and Holmwood returned Marsh’s wargear. After donning his rucksack and throwing his weapons over each shoulder, he jogged to catch up. Already with Hyram and Isaev was Junior Commissar Carstensen. Politely, Marsh followed directly behind the trio and didn’t make his presence known.
Hyram was speaking of their encounter with the heretics and was pointing at his data-slate. “Here, this one was a month ago. This one here and this one here, four weeks ago. Three weeks here, two weeks here, and this was today’s action. We’re coming across a great deal of heretics out in the hinterland which is, theoretically, supposed to be clear right now. Now, we didn’t find anything on our assigned route. Not a single camp, compound, repurposed fortification, or even a sentry’s post. We found no trace whatsoever of heretics. Yet they assault us in the field and they probe us here, sir.”
“Son, there are Sentinel and Valkyrie patrols out there every single day and night. I receive and review reports daily; there are no signs of a buildup at all.”
“But sir, I’ve conferred with other platoon leaders as well, they’re being hit in the same fashion.”
“And none have brought tangible proof of an enemy base. I highly doubt there is one. This is most likely a spillover from other fronts. Groups of renegades who are cut-off or escaping like the cowards they are. Your worries are for naught, Lieutenant.”
Marsh Silas raised an unimpressed eyebrow, pursed his lips, and shook his head. He recalled how quickly Colonel Isaev seized upon the notion that the filthy xenos were planning to assault Cadia just by the mere presence of a single Pathfinder. Briefly, he wondered whatever happened to the escapee but then put it out of his mind. There was no use in mulling over it. Isaev was of an old breed of Cadian stock; self-assured, overconfident, and paradoxically paranoid and oblivious. Marsh once thought he quite admired the Colonel but after months and months of sustaining ambushes without his response, he was doubtful of the man’s qualities. These faults seemed so fresh, but the more he pondered, the more he realized these flaws were always present. Before, he’d been blind to them. After learning from Barlocke for so long, he possessed a keener eye for the failings of those authority figures he was raised to always believe.
My dear Silvanus, even without me at your side, you are always learning. Barlocke, or rather the fragment of the Inquisitor, resonated within Marsh’s mind. By now, he was accustomed to it and did not shiver so much when the perplexing chill ran down his spine while warm breath flooded his head. Shifting his shoulders, he turned partially away from the others.
“Hush yourself, I am trying to listen.” Well, so am I. Now that you’re hissing I can’t quite hear them. “We both know that ain’t true,” Marsh whispered. Oh, you’re no fun. “We’ll speak later, I promise.”
Junior Commissar Carstensen turned around sharply and gazed at him. Standing up straight, he did his best to appear normal. For a few moments, she held a piercing glare that eventually softened. She slowed down to walk beside the platoon sergeant. “Junior Commissar,” he said, bowing his head.
“Staff Sergeant,” she greeted. “Is your back sore from the march?”
“Ol’ Jupp ain’t too heavy a man but I ain’t opposed to kicking these here boots off and getting some rest,” Marsh replied, looking down at his shoe packs. “Yerself, ma’am?”
“Quite fine.” She walked with her hands folded behind her back, as if she were inspecting a work detail. Her orange locks swayed back and forth across her shoulders. The sun shone on her pale face, giving it a slight pinkish hue. Marsh found there was something hesitant about her. While she faced forward, he caught a glimpse of her blue-green eyes occasionally glancing at him. Carstensen’s lips remained tightly pressed in a thin line.
Just as Marsh was about to speak, trying to find something about the platoon to say, she turned her gaze. “I would like to inspect the perimeter of our section before we begin adding to the defenses. I’d like to gauge where our weakest points are and what kind of materials we need. It would be of most aid to me to have your assistance in this matter.”
“O’ course, ma’am,” Marsh replied, smiling a little. “I’m yer humble servant.”
“Very good,” she said, snapping her gaze forward again. Just as quickly, she brought it back. “Staff Sergeant, you are a servant of Lieutenant Hyram before me, and a servant of the Emperor before all else.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marsh said, trying not to chuckle but failing. He was worried she might take offense but she just blinked and looked ahead once more. Both focused on Hyram and Isaev, who had walked ahead somewhat. He was standing in front of Colonel Isaev and wearing a pleading expression. Both arms were outstretched and his data-slate was in his right hand.
“Sir, I ask again for your permission for a long-range reconnaissance mission into the hinterland.”
“Your patrols are long enough, aren’t they?”
“No, sir. We only hike a few kilometers away from the camp and stay on the roads or visit locations previously cleared. The same can be said of our flight and walker patrols. We cannot gather any meaningful intelligence just by maintaining our cordons, we must strike out. I am confident Bloody Platoon can make this march; we need only our wargear and supply drops, sir.”
Isaev took off his hat and ran a gloved hand over his bald head. The breath he took was irritated and the smile he offered was condescending.
“Son, I understand you’re eager for further glory after your experiences with the Inquisitor. You’re all eager for more medals.” Hyram’s hands fell by his sides and his eyes narrowed apathetically. “I can appreciate a junior officer for taking the initiative. But I can’t have my men running around chasing fanciful mysteries. Your request is denied.”
“Yes, sir,” Hyram said flatly. Once the commanding officer and his retinue departed, Marsh and Carstensen joined the platoon leader. A deflated Hyram slid his data-slate into his satchel and buttoned the flap. Turning around, his expression grew furious. “Did you hear that? Eager for medals? As if we covet them! We’re trying to neutralize a potential threat, surely he must see that!”
“The coot believes what he wants to do and ignores everything else,” Marsh said tiredly. When he noticed Carstensen’s sharp glare, he smiled nervously. The Junior Commissar composed herself and looked over her shoulder.
“While the Staff Sergeant may want to rephrase his words and rethink his tone, I cannot help but agree with him. The Colonel is quite complacent now. All we can do is continue our patrols and pray we find evidence of a buildup he will accept.”
“Aye. Let us find Captain Giles and make our report.” Marsh Silas turned to give the order to those members of the platoon who were lingering nearby, but Hyram turned him around. “Have Walmsley Major do it. I imagine he needs a little more experience in directing the men about. You, methinks, have some interesting news awaiting you.”
Marsh Silas smiled stiffly. He yelled for Walmsley Major to take over, and the Staff Sergeant happily did. As the remainder of Bloody Platoon trundled away, the trio went to regimental headquarters. Each one showed the security officers their identity papers before entering the bustling facilities. Servo-skulls drifted over the heads of numerous Militarum and Administratum officers and workers. Staff officers and aides hurried back and forth with stacks of parchment. Scribes pounded away at cogitators and terminals. Dozens upon dozens of voices rose across each other.
Avoiding the main body of terminal, cogitator, and augur stations that filled the center of the building, Marsh and his companions walked by a series of officers until they came to one marked as ‘1st Company.’ All three took off their hats and Hyram knocked on the door.
“Enter!”
They walked in and formed a line. Two desks on opposite sides of the room face each other, as well as a third perpendicular station on the far well. Giles was on the right, Eastoft on the left, and the former’s Voxman sat at the Vox-station against the wall. All three were typing at their cogitators, collating reports.
Marsh’s eyes were drawn to the fourth figure in the room. Regimental Commissar Ghent was standing beside Giles. His head was uncovered, exposing his neatly trimmed blond hair. The scarred fellow was already staring at the door, as if he were expecting the party.
They raised their hands in salute. Giles did the same and sat back. “You’re back in one piece. Well done.”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“I will issue a full report on our patrol within the hour sir, I just wished to make a preliminary report in person,” Hyram said. He used a more formal tone when speaking to superior officers. That was his noble heritage talking. Marsh was getting more familiar with Hyram’s ‘barracks,’ tone which was hard and rife with cursing.
After giving an overview of the ambush and other enemies they encountered, Hyram handed over a slip. “These are the decorations recommended for the Guardsmen who distinguished themselves.”
“I’m unsurprised to see your name here, Marsh Silas,” Giles said with a huff. Marsh, in return, offered a polite nod. The Captain’s expression grew a little somber. He dug into his desk and pulled out a notification sheet. “Well, Staff Sergeant, I wish I didn’t have to moderate the distinction Hyram gives you with sorry news. Your application for officer training was again rejected.”
Marsh’s smile fell. He shifted uneasily on his feet, ran his hand up and down the strap of his M36, and looked down. But then, his gaze snapped up.
“On what grounds, sir?”
Giles exchanged a grave glance with Ghent. Before the company commander spoke, the Commissar took the report from his hands. He walked around the desks and stood in front of Marsh.
“A lack of noble background; your disinheritance by your grandsires has made you a common trooper. Furthermore, the Board of Cadian Officership Training and Indoctrination cites a lack of leadership displays in your record as well as an unacceptable level of distinction.”
“Sir, if I may,” Carstensen suddenly said. “Staff Sergeant Cross has received the Winged Skull, a medal which denotes initiative, bravery, tactical acumen, and above all, leadership, among officers and non-commissioned officers. We should also consider he has been promoted to the ranks of Leading Trooper and Master Corporal during his career—two ranks many Cadian enlisted men never attain. It should also be taken into account that he was personally offered apprenticeship by the Ordo Hereticus and received an award of thanks from the same organization. Surely, to be cited by the Inquisition shall suffice?”
“Perhaps it should,” Ghent said, then held up the sheet. “But the Board thinks otherwise.” He gave the paper back to Giles and whirled around to face Marsh Silas. “What’s it going to be, Staff Sergeant? Apply again?”
“Yes, sir,” Marsh replied coldly.
“This will make it your third attempt. What makes you think this will be different?”
“I will find a way,” Marsh Silas mustered as he looked up from his boots. His face was awash with determination and his violet eyes shone with fire. “I will find a way to show them I am worthy enough to become an officer.”
“We shall see,” was all Ghent said, his tone even. He brushed by the trio and walked out of the office. They waited until the door shut behind them before looking back at Giles. The Captain looked uncomfortable and offered a small shrug. A loud tap on Eastoft’s keyboard broke the silence and she continued her report. Giles cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, Cross, it’s a shame. But you’ll be getting this medal,” he tapped the slip on his desk. “And after reviewing your record with the XO, we’ve determined to promote you to the rank of Senior Staff Sergeant.”
Marsh blinked with surprise. It was a highly respected rank which denoted long-term, able service as an NCO working on the platoon-level. Not every Cadian sergeant earned the distinction for such a promotion, similar to the grades of Leading Trooper and Master Corporal. If a man was dogged, determined, and blessed by the Emperor, he might be fortunate enough to receive one in his career. Each of these came with a permanent increase in wages and, of course, made a Guardsman’s transcript look all the more favorable.
Giles walked forward and shook Marsh’s hand. “Congratulations, Senior Staff Sergeant Cross.”
“Thank you, sir,” Marsh said, smiling.
“We’ll see if that may expedite the next application. I already have the documents you submitted before; I’ll make the alternations and send it along.” Giles started walking back to his desk, then turned around. “Oh, Lieutenant Hyram? There’s one more issue to discuss. Due to a lack of replacements for the regiment after the Raid on Kasr Fortis, Cadian High Command has finally acquiesced and shall be affording the entire regiment a pool of Whiteshields.
Marsh squeezed his eyes shut and subtly shook his head. ‘Whiteshield,’ was a colloquial term for young Cadian Probitors who spent their entire youth training to become Guardsmen. Denoted by the white stripe upon their helmets, they often served in their own units known as Youth Regiments, derived from the Cadian Militarum branch known as the Youth Corps. Highly-trained and fervently motivated, they were nonetheless inexperienced.
Giles held up his hands. “I know, I know, placing Whiteshields in Veteran platoons may not be sound. But the regiment needs bodies and these young men and women are available. Do the best you can with them while they’re alive. If that’s all, you may return to your barracks.”
When they were back outside, they marched through the main compound in step towards the bluff their barracks sat upon. Marsh Silas felt Hyram’s hand on his back.
“Next time, my friend. At the very least, I am happy you’ll be around with us a while longer.”
“I’ll try as many times as I have to,” Marsh assured him. “I need to become an officer if I can help more folks. I’ve done as much as I can for Bloody Platoon. We don’t have no corporal punishment, no wage suspensions, nothin’ to embitter a man for minor infractions. We take care o’ these fellas and keep them on good paths. But that’s just one platoon.” He threw up one hand in frustration. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Jus’, I dunno how I’m gonna do it all if I’m stuck as a sergeant.”
“Ye shall succeed soon enough, friend,” Hyram said. “For now, all we can do is our duty…which appears playing wetnurse to Whiteshields. Why did Giles talk of them as if they’re already dead?”
“Whiteshields don’t last too long when attached to other units,” Marsh explained. “They’re so wired from their training and indoctrination they just want to throw themselves into the fight. You either get a bunch o’ kids who die in droves trying to prove to the Veterans they’re good soldiers, or they flee when they realize just how hard the missions we face are. Then, it’s a matter of being shot down by Commissars. Hell, I’ve seen some kids who tried to run bayoneted by their own men. They’re going to be more of a burden than an asset.”
“Maybe I can find a way for Giles to divert our batch to another platoon or company. We’ve suffered no casualties since the Ambush at Army’s Meadow. We don’t need them.”
***
After removing his Flak Armour and scarfing down a quick meal of porridge, made kindly by Drummer Boy, and reconstituted meatstuffs, Marsh Silas went topside again. Donning his soft-cover, low-peaked NCO cover, he waited in one of the observation pots dug into the trench. He took out his pipe, lit the contents, and began smoking. After taking a few puffs, he sighed and smiled a little.
“We have some time. How do you fare, old friend?”
I’d like to say sifting through your conscious memories and thoughts tends to be entertaining but you wouldn’t believe the monotony. A Shock Trooper’s life appears droll. But I’m as content as I can be, Silvanus.
Losing Barlocke at Kasr Fortis just moments away from rescue was still an open wound. Often, Marsh Silas’s meandering dreams fell upon the scene: the brave Inquisitor standing firm with sword and pistol against the foe. Bullets sparking against his armor, daggers glancing off. Bodies piling up at his feet, hands trying to pull him down, arms wrapping around him. In that way he disappeared, with the dark blue wreath of his power sword and bright yellow Ripper Pistol muzzle flash proving he was still among their throngs. No trace of him was ever discovered by recovery teams. Day by day, hope dwindled away.
Marsh’s belief that his friend still drew breath continued to smolder like hot embers after a blaze. When his fragment made itself known, the seasoned platoon sergeant was overjoyed to not only hear the Inquisitor’s voice but feel it as he had so many times before. Since this discovery, Marsh would remove himself to a reserved, quiet place in camp and talk with him. But as time passed, the enormity of this condition sunk in. Inside him was a fragment of another human being’s soul and mind. Their thoughts, feelings, personality, beliefs, and experiences now all existed within him. In some regard, he felt a great responsibility as the carrier and caregiver of this fragment. But he also felt a burden, more so than the task his friend had set him on. More than anything, he felt a great sense of sadness. While the fragment gave him hope, his presence also fostered a growing resignation in the Senior Staff Sergeant that Barlocke truly was gone.
He was fairly certain the fragment was well aware of this but they never spoke about it. Conversations went on much in the way they had before. It gladdened his heart. Barlocke, teasing and cheeky as ever, often infiltrated at the worst opportunities. In these instances, he made it difficult to focus on what Marsh was actually doing and it took a silent reprimand to make him relent. Occasionally, a quip or a joke was shared and members of Bloody Platoon would look upon their platoon sergeant with confusion when he laughed seemingly at random. Whenever Marsh went to sleep, they often spoke before he closed his eyes. If they were alone or removed, they talked as well. In these ways, the loss and mystery of his old friend were quite alleviated—partially, at least.
“Find anythin’ interesting while you been pokin’ around in there?” Marsh asked as he lowered his pipe.
A minor noble’s son you are, or rather were. Stripped of your right to familial titles when your father was killed, I wonder, does that ever bother you?
Marsh Silas tapped his bottom lip with the pipe’s neck, closed one eye as he gazed up at the sky, and hummed a little. Eventually, he nodded his head to the side and shrugged.
“Sometimes?” What an unattractive answer. “Whatcha want from me, Barlocke? It’s only by the Emperor’s blessing I was allowed to keep my name. I ain’t ever getting those titles back and why would I want’em? I got my own titles: Senior Staff Sergeant. That’s good enough for now.” Ah, but would you not prefer it to be Subaltern? Then, 2nd Lieutenant? Marsh Silas gritted his teeth and his brow furrowed. “O’ course, I would.” Query, Silvanus: do you think you are justified in your frustration? After all, you decided on your own volition to refuse sponsorship as an Acolyte of the Inquisition.
Marsh Silas’s eyes fell to his boots. “Look man,” he said, “I do not regret my choice. Sure, it was right there in front of me. Maybe it was merited, perhaps not. But I do not wish to be given anything. You said for change to take place in the Imperium, we must change as well. Well, I am changing. A gift is a gift. But no handouts, not like this sword and the stripes Overton granted me. I will earn my keep, earn this commission, and show folks that’s how we ought to serve the Emperor and the Imperium. Titles, money, grants, just because o’ yer name or yer blood, that must cease. I’ll prove it, just like others have, and I’ll make a difference for these gunmen while I can.”
Barlocke’s breath flowed through his mind like warm, summertime wind. Marsh, soothed, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “But I can’t do that anymore for Bloody Platoon. I need to help some other damned platoon get to where we are.” There’s no guarantee they’ll promote you out of the company or even Bloody Platoon, you realize this? Hyram himself might be promoted and you give the mantle of command. “It’ll be a setback,” Marsh said, stroking his chin. “But at the very least I’ll have my commission, and my advancement will allow me to rise to the company level eventually.”
A handsome chuckle reverberated through Marsh’s skull. It created a bouncy recreation in his veins and sinews. Then it shall be regimental command, yes? “My own regiment,” Marsh murmured. “If I can rise to such a position, I’ll be able to reach out to so many different people. I’ll be able to help them. Emperor, please give me strength, I want to help them.” Marsh puffed on his pipe and blew smoke into the air. “That’s faraway, Barlocke, and I will prove that I can achieve such stature. For now, I just have to figure out how the hell I’m going to show them I can earn this commission.” If you say so, Shock Trooper. Ah, stand fast! She approaches!
Marsh Silas quirked an eyebrow and turned around. Trudging down the trench was Junior Commissar Carstensen. She was far enough away that she wasn’t in earshot. As always, her hands remained folded behind her back and her black and crimson overcoat opened. Her orange locks were tied back into a bun that sat just underneath the rim of her high-peaked cap bearing a silver Aquila. Without a word she traversed the steps and stood beside Marsh Silas. Although he was standing at attention, she did not dismiss him. Marsh remained stiff and still, facing her with his chest puffed out, chin up, arms flat by his side, and heels pressed together.
Sea winds blew over them, rippling the mesh camouflage netting that covered the top of the fortified rooftop and draped over its sides. Carstensen closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and let out a satisfied breath. Without looking, she reached over and plucked Marsh’s pipe from his lips. Turning it over in her hands, careful not to upend the contents from the bowl, she seemingly studied it. Marsh continued to stare straight ahead, his eyes locked on the tight orange locks that showed from underneath her hat. Eventually, she looked back up and gazed at the sea.
“Do you wish to know what decorations you shall be receiving for your actions?”
“Methinks you’ll be telling me no matter my answer, ma’am,” Marsh replied.
“For treating a wounded man in combat, you have earned another Crimson Skull. For attacking the crest under Hyram’s order, you will be granted the Golden Aquila.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” Marsh replied. Carstensen looked at him from the corner of her eyes. She seemed to be in a low mood—not angry, but depressed. It was uncommon for her to entertain such emotions. Bloody Platoon, Marsh Silas among them, had come to rely on her steadfast devotion to duty and incredible bravery upon engaging the enemy. To hear her bellowing commands, belting out both prayers and orders, and ushering the men on to fight brought great resolve to a Guardsman’s heart. Now, alone with him, she seemed to lack the fire she displayed elsewhere.
Marsh Silas was more than surprised, he was concerned. When she finally turned, her blue-green eyes were level with his. She lifted the pipe, took a few puffs on it, and then put it to Marsh’s lips.
“At ease, Senior Staff Sergeant.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marsh raised the pipe slightly with his lips and then hooked his thumbs on the belt loops of his trousers. He expected they would begin their inspection of the line. Instead, she turned back and continued gazing at the sea. Unsure of what to say or do, Marsh did the same. It was turning out to be a beautiful day. The sun was at its apex and the light shone unabated on the deep, blue waters of the channel between Army’s Meadow and Kasr Fortis. Wind whipped the waves, causing them to break and smash into one another. White crests and spray appeared everywhere. Every so often, the wind would drop and the waves grew peaceful. Without the roiling water, the sun reflected on the surface and thousands of individual pockets of golden light appeared. This would last until the wind returned and the sea grew mad again.
Across the channel, Kasr Fortis was alive with activity. Having long since been cleared of heretics and any corrupting presences, legions of from the Departmento Munitorm’s Engineer Corps and Labor Corps, as well as Astra Militarum engineers, auxiliary Kasr workers, and Tech-Priests with hordes of servitors were busy building a new bastion on the island. Much of the ancient city was already cleared away, with aircraft and seabound ships hauling the debris away to be recycled. The foot soldiers of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment were not privy to the full details of the reconstruction. As a result, a betting pool was started within Bloody Platoon over whether it would be a permanent base of operations or a new Kasr. Most bets were leaning towards the former but a few believed the latter option was truer. The pool was getting close to one hundred and fifty Thrones. Marsh tossed a few in there himself and was prepared to add a few more when he caught sight of Kasr spires instead of camp towers.
Again, he found his eyes drawn to Carstensen. Her lips were tightly pursed and she seemed almost hesitant. Unable to deny his concern any longer, he cleared his throat and lowered his pipe. “Ma’am? Are you well?” Carstensen’s gaze turned sharply and her eyes seemed a bit brighter.
“A non-commissioned officer need not concern himself with the affairs of Officio Prefectus personnel,” she replied hastily before looking ahead once more.
“Apologies, ma’am,” Marsh said. He chuckled a little. “I suppose I’ve gotten quite used to ya, so sometimes I end up speaking like you’re one o’ my comrades.” The words were out before he properly thought about them. His breathing hitched and a startled cough passed between his lips. He nearly dropped his pipe as he turned to face her. “I don’t mean no disrespect to your authority, Junior Commissar!”
Carstensen’s lips twisted into a wry sort of grin.
“Calm down,” she ordered. “We’ve shared much blood together and I shan’t punish you for speaking out of turn.” Turning, she offered him a lightened expression. “Some would not consider such an affirmation of comradeship to be speaking out of turn, anyway.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Marsh replied, relieved.
“Ma’am,” she echoed, as if she were disgusted by the word. “Come, let us begin our tour.”