Darkness reigned in the great chamber. Wretched stokers in rags and armed with shovels fed the raging forge fires with heaps of refuse or scrap. Flames roiled and exploded in their pits, their color shifting from orange to green to purple and back. In those fires were ghastly images of agonized faces and glowing eyes. In the light, the stokers cast huge, jagged, and terrifyingly misshapen shadows on the moist brick walls. Strange oozes flowed from in between the blocks. In the center of the chamber was a gigantic pit made of riveted, blackened metal plates. Decrepit cranes, hissing steam and leaking oil, lowered bundles of metal plates to the peons assembling the machine.
In the flashes of ghoulish firelight, the metal skeleton of the monster rose in the pit. Figures in robes inscribed with bastardized Gothic runes and unknowable glyphs, circled the pit and bellowed incantations in strange tongues. The tones, the sounds, the words they spoke, did not seem like they were meant to be spoken by humans. Finally, the door to the chamber was thrown open. Hulking forms in black and gray power armor dragged in a large, stripped, dying transhuman. He was suspended by chains within the shell of the monster in the pit. Blood streamed down his body and trickled onto the red metal.
All the hulking figures backed away and the sorcerers closed in. One massive figure in power armor stalked towards the shell. He raised his arms and bellowed in a demented voice. Suddenly, the fires grew explosive and wrathful. Around the chamber, dormant pillars of smooth, shining, black stone vibrated. At the top of the pillars were dark, glass orbs that took on a purplish hue. Suddenly, the flames transitioned to a magenta pigment, shot out from the forges, and struck the nearest orb. Fire shot out from either side of it, connecting to the next orb and the next. As these beams shot out, the shadows on the wall danced and writhed. Once the ring was complete, the flames shifted to pulsing, dark energy which then rose to a spike suspended from the ceiling. White energy coursed through it, lighting up the daemonic runes on its sides. Crimson lightning swarmed around it, collected at the point, shot downwards, and struck the chained up figure. His eyes bulged, he threw his head back, and pulled against his chains. But, he gritted his teeth and eventually stared at his captors.
“You might tear my soul asunder, you might fetter me with unholy magics,” he said. “But not even your gods can lead me astray from my Emperor!” He screamed as the energy reduced his flesh to ash.
----------------------------------------
“Sabinus!” Marsh Silas whispered as his eyes snapped open. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he was comforted to see the walls and wooden boards of the barracks. The lamp pack on Hyram’s desk had been left on all night and its light was dying. Hyram was still slouched on the surface, the side of his face resting on his hands. Carstensen had moved to another chair next to Marsh in the night and her head rested on his shoulder.
Marsh breathed deeply as his racing heart finally slowed down. The air in the barracks felt stale. He glanced at his wrist-chrono; it was nearly reveille. Anything but stirring seemed preferable, then. Hyram deserved to sleep a little longer and Carstensen felt very warm. Marsh smiled as he brushed some of her orange locks from over her eyes. Shallow, steady breathes passed between her open lips.
He kissed her cheek and her eyelids fluttered open. “Reveille,” he whispered. “Can you wake Seathan up?” As Marsh Silas stood and stretched, the Junior Commissar gently shook the Lieutenant.
“Another few minutes,” Hyram moaned.
“Come on, old friend,” Carstensen said kindly. “Morning air will do you well.”
Marsh Silas left Hyram’s quarters. On any other day, he would have unceremoniously marched through the barracks shouting, ‘reveille!’ But this morning, there was a stillness and quietude in the barracks. The peacefulness of it seemed too delicate to break with a shout. So, he went to every individual Guardsman in the entire platoon. With a gentle jostle or a whisper in their ears, he woke them up. Old friends met him with dreamy gazes and warm smiles. ‘Marsh Silas,’ they all said in greeting. Even the Whiteshields Rowley and Tattersall, curled together in the same bunk, greeted the platoon sergeant with comforting expressions.
Donning their soft covers and khaki coats, Bloody Platoon left the barracks together and ambled down the slope. It proved to be a murky morning that threatened snow. Across the channel, Kasr Fortis continued to rise. White working lights glittered all across the city-scape and cranes dipped and rose. In the weeks they had been gone, it had turned into a veritable fortress, worthy to be called a kasr. Marsh Silas took some solace knowing that the efforts of his platoon created a rebirth for an ancient citadel of their homeworld.
Joining the other platoons of 1st Company, they assembled for review. Banners snapped on the flag poles, though the rest of the base was quiet. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were already waiting with the rest of the command squad. Once, Captain Murga and First Sergeant Hayhurst would have stood there; Marsh remembered the former soberly and was happy the latter was long-gone.
The names were read off and Guardsmen responded loudly. There were a number of names which went unanswered and were far greater than they’d ever been before. Some were old names from Bloody Platoon; Queshire, Jupp, Eadwig, Millard.
“Private Yeardley,” the company sergeant called. Marsh Silas’s eyes dropped in the silence. “Private Graeme! Private Leander! Private Merton! Private Rayden! Private Soames! Corporal Webley! Sergeant Clivvy!”
“She’s wounded, first sergeant!” Marsh Silas hollered. He was able to keep his voice from quaking. Each of those names struck him like a bullet. With each blow, came an image of their youthful, proud, and gallant faces. To see them so crisply, to feel their very presence in the platoon even after they were gone, it wounded him in a way that hurt more than a saber stroke or lasbolt singe.
Eventually, the review was over and the order was given for the platoon to have liberty—freedom to attend the mess hall, the chapel, and return to their barracks. As other Guardsmen drifted off to eat breakfast or rack out again, the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon congregated at the chapel. It was a humble building, as most Astra Militarum structures were. But the stained armaglass windows were still beautiful and the golden Aquila mounted over the entrance gleamed in the weak morning light.
Preacher Kine and his assistants were already praying for the souls of the dead in front of a massive altar in front of the pews. It took the shape of a massive golden Aquila and there were small alcoves throughout its detailed feathers for incense and candles. Hundreds of aromatic wicks burned and the flames flickered in the subdued lighting of the chapel. Bloody Platoon filtered into the rows at the front. All knelt, bowed their heads, and closed their eyes. One by one, they made the Sign of the Aquila upon their breasts and their lips moved in silent prayer.
Marsh Silas took a moment to join the others. More than the sweet candles, colorful stained armaglass, or the humble incantations of the priests, the mere presence of being among his platoon proved to be a salve for his soul. To his left were Hyram and Carstensen, both clutching their prayer beads. On his right were Rowley and Tattersall, earnest and pious. Everywhere he looked were the blonde-haired heads of his comrades. Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor, the twins. Arnold Yoxall, Felix Gladwin, whom they called Drummer Boy, Babcock the flag-bearer, and Honeycutt the cantankerous medic. Holmwood, Mottershead, and Stainthorpe the squad leaders, as well as Cuyper, taking over 3rd Squad for the time being. Foley, Logue, Monty Peck who sang a beautiful prayer, Hoole, Keach, Derryhouse, Bullard, Tatum, Olhouser, Synder, Foster, and so many more—his brothers.
He finally bowed his head. “My Emperor,” he said under his breath. “I ask Ye who giveth life and taketh it away, to keep always in Your radiance, these names. The brave Whiteshields who now rest beneath their mother earth: Webley, Leander, Rayden, Soames, Merton, Graeme…and Yeardley. All of them gave their lives not just for You, but us, for all Cadia. I know not if their deaths were mine-own failure, the cruel randomness of war, or part of Your divine plan. I wish to make them a part of my idealization of the future for this Imperium. Even in death, I believe they still play a part in this future.”
He took a breath and looked up at the ceiling. Marsh Silas did not wish to cry. Swallowing hard and drawing breath, he resumed. “Keep them with You, keep them close, I beg Thee. I will give my life, my soul, my heart, whatever it is You desire from me, so long as their souls may rest in peace alongside the comrades we have lost in these battles. Old friends and new friends alike, departed, but I take solemn solace that they rest with You, now. Please keep them, now and forever, my gracious Overlord.”
Marsh heard sniffling to his left. Hyram’s head rested on the backrest of the pew in front of them. He trembled with every restrained sob. Carstensen reached over and took the platoon leader’s hands. But the longer he looked, he realized Hyram was not forlorn. He smiled as he cried. Something within him had reached a peace. Perhaps, in his prayers, he had allowed the Whiteshields and the other Guardsmen to rest. It still hurt, but it was the beginning.
Feeling his own tears streaming down his cheeks, to see them on the Whiteshields’, and so many others, Marsh knew they were healing. All took heart in the brave examples set by their comrades and allowed them to leave.
“Marsh Silas,” Rowley whispered after some time. “May Tattersall and I visit Clivvy in the medicae, please?”
An approving nod from Carstensen gave Marsh comfort they could all go. He squeezed her hand as he stood up.
“I will walk you out.”
When they left the chapel, the two Whiteshields waited for Marsh Silas to lead them over, but he stepped in the other direction. Kindly, he nodded at the medicae. “Go on, you two. You do not need me to gaze over your shoulder, now. I will say hello to Clivvy soon.”
As they left, he turned to the gate. Passing by the sentries on duty, Marsh walked along the road for a short ways, then veered into the fields on his right. Stretching his arms out, he let his hands glide along the soft yellow flower petals. Some patches had grown so thickly in his absence he had to part them to pass through. Eventually, he walked onto the beach, not far from the dune he and Carstensen liked to sit on, and observed the crashing waves.
One large, seething wave smashed onto the shore. A cloud of white spray flung from the water. It took the shape of man, coagulated, and from that sheen of foam came Barlocke’s ghost. The Inquisitor's fragment loped up from the water until he was beside Marsh Silas.
“Do you honestly think it is your failure?”
“I do not know. It feels like it. My mission was to raise those Whiteshields up with proper training and attentive care. To teach them how to be soldiers who could not only fight but survive. With only three of them left and one of those left in critical condition, who can say if it made a difference to the gray heads in regimental command? I am wondering if it was all worth it.”
“Any attempt to improve the lives of others, whether it fails or succeeds, is worthwhile.” Barlocke put his arm around Marsh Silas and pulled him close. “But to devote oneself whole to the task, to make these differences worthily, is even more honorable.”
“Perhaps it was worth it, but was it enough?” Marsh Silas asked. “Is that going to be the cost of progress? How will restoration appear when it is bought with thousands of lives?” He looked up as the wind changed direction and the waves softened. “So many suffer in the Astra Militarum but I wonder just how many languish under the Imperium’s own, crumbling weight and our enemies also.”
“Sabinus,” Barlocke murmured.
“You saw the dream as well?”
“Was it a dream? A vision of the past? The influence of my residual power bleeding with the Warp, bearing its events to your subconscious? Only the Emperor can say.”
“Sabinus. This name is new to me and yet I feel its weight. To know a servant of the Emperor, and one so fabled as a Space Marine, died alone and in great agony….” The words left him and he shook his head sadly. “...I cannot help but think of Rayden and Graeme. Of all my departed Whiteshields.”
“I was a witness to many acts of torture,” Barlocke said grimly. “Hiver gangs ripping each other apart, fellow Inquisitors taking a faster and more grisly route in their investigations. But all fall short of the insidious and disgusting machinations of the Archenemy. The Astartes are the bravest and the noblest of us all. My heart grieves to know a loyal servant met such a terrible end.”
He inhaled deeply. Why, Marsh did not know; after all, Barlocke’s appearance was nothing more than a trick on his mind. The Inquisitor looked at him and smiled cheerfully. Behind him, the sun rose to its full height and the wind was driving off the remnants of the fog bank. Even the cloud barrier overhead was moving on. A cool, murky morning became radiant as polish gold. “But, with the destruction of the Defiler, I believe Sabinu’s soul has found its way back to the Emperor. I think he would be grateful to know that a brave cadre of mortals, including young Whiteshields, were able to avenge him.”
“I ain’t through yet. One day, we will not merely avenge the fallen. We will protect the living. When this Imperium rises again by the hands of so many pious and brave hands, when we do away with the corrosive old orders, heal the wounds, and build anew, then we shall have a new bulwark to preserve life and destroy the Archenemy. What challenges on the path is the path, just as Lilias and I have spoken of.”
Barlocke’s ghost smiled tenderly. He pulled away from Marsh and walked in front of him. Slowly, the visage faded away and drifted back into the platoon sergeant.
“And I think,” the Inquisitor said slyly, “you are about to take one step further on that path.”
“Silas!” Hyram called from above the dune. “We’ve been summoned to headquarters by Captain Giles.”
***
Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Carstensen stood at-ease in front of Giles’s desk. The Captain and Lieutenant Eastoft, already standing beside him, appeared quite pleased. The company commander finished typing a report on his cogitator and then rose to his feet.
“I apologize that this could not be discussed during the morning review with the entire formation,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “It does not possess the same gravitas as this dingey office. But this has only just been delivered to my desk and I dared not let it sit for long.”
Giles took a scroll from Eastoft and unfurled it. “I have in my hand a missive composed by regimental command. It details all the honors that 1st Platoon is due to receive. The details are immense; every man in the platoon is jumping up by at least one grade, there are over a hundred citations for valor, several unit distinctions, and the platoon has been granted a Review of Decorations and the Lineage of the Battleflag.”
Both were enormous occasions. The Review of Decorations constituted a concentrated effort by the Departmento Munitorum to study the individual careers of each Guardsman in a unit. Carefully documented, any medal, promotion, or pay raise that was documented but never processed would then be expedited to administer the proper boons to the man in question. But the Lineage of the Battlefag was an even greater honor! By default, many Cadian platoons carried a standard that was a direct reflection of their company flag. But the Lineage of the Battleflag allowed a platoon to compose their own banner to carry into combat, singling them out as a veteran and brave unit.
How tremendous it was for Bloody Platoon in less than a year rise from the ranks of an obscure Shock Trooper regiment to the annals of Cadian history. Marsh Silas did not have to look at Carstensen or Hyram to know they thought and felt the same elation as him. He, as well as they, knew it was their efforts as a unit, as brother soldiers, that earned the benefactions of the Emperor. The sobering reality that their fallen Guardsmen, whom they loved so dearly, had helped purchase this feat. Yet, this did not diminish their pride; those who had been lost had died so their fellows could carry on.
Giles no doubt noticed the emotions on the three comrades’ faces. “There is much to review, indeed! But I will start with you three, for there are truly great tidings for each of you. Lieutenant, we’ll begin with you.” Giles cleared his throat in an official manner and raised the scroll. “For your initiative, daring, and leadership during the Long Patrol and the Battle of the Hills, you are hereby awarded the Macharian Cross as your foremost honor and a promotion to First Lieutenant, as well as a brevet promotion to the rank of Lieutenant-Precept.”
Hyram’s violet eyes lit up. He looked down at Carstensen and Marsh, both of whom affirmed his excitement by their own nods and smiles. “With that promotion comes a new billet: you are assigned the command of the weapons platoon.”
The platoon leader’s smile faded. His attention snapped back to the Captain.
“The weapons platoon?” Hyram echoed.
“Yes, you’ll be in charge of our Sabre Gun Platforms, larger mortar systems, heavy grenade launchers, and reserve Heavy Bolter teams.”
“I’m leaving Bloody Platoon?” Hyram asked quietly. Giles lowered the scroll, walked around his desk, and placed his hand on Hyram’s shoulder.
“I know you are close with these men. They were your first true command. Fret not, for your advancement will keep you close by. Besides, Bloody Platoon will be in good hands.” Hyram nodded, but his dejected gaze went to Carstensen and Marsh. The former stood between the two Guardsmen and she reached out to hold his arm. The Lieutenant offered silent gratitude, wrapping his hand around Carstensen’s and keeping it there for some time.
Giles opened the scroll back up. “Junior Commissar Lilias J. Carstensen, for your inspiration, examples of fortitude and faith during the Long Patrol and the Battle of the Hills, you are hereby awarded the Order of Commissar-Captain Machmeier, a Cadian Commissar and hero of old, as your chief decoration. Extended by the Officio Prefectus, you are raised to the rank of Commissar.”
Carstensen’s hand dropped from Hyram’s arm. Marsh looked over at her with an excited grin. But she remained stock still, stoic, and unreadable. Hyram and Marsh exchanged a perplexed and worried glance. Even Giles and Eastoft appeared unnerved by her lack of reaction. Then, her eyes glimmered.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice restraining her emotions. “I am humbled and honored to don this mantle.”
“No one is more deserving of it. It has been a long time coming and the troops of this company owe you very much,” Eastoft said earnestly. Giles then walked around his desk until he was in front of Marsh Silas. He inhaled deeply and excitedly.
“And lastly. Senior Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, for your gallants acts throughout the Long Patrol, your immense courage under fire, speedily reinforcing a crucial point in the offense during the Battle of the Hills, and for displaying great valor in dispatching the traitor smith, the Cadian High Command believes that no honor may do justice to your feats but the Obscurus Honorifica.”
It was as if some freak wind had snatched the air from his lungs. Marsh thought all vigor in his legs would give out. Sapped of all strength so suddenly, he trembled in his boots. Never in all his life, even in the wildest imaginings of a starry-eyed youth dreaming of becoming a soldier, did he think he would ever earn such a prestigious honor. The sacrifice of all the millions, billions, and trillions of Cadian warriors who came before him, the people of his blood, his own family lineage, washed over him like an ocean wave surging towards the shore.
Giles extended his hand. “Silas Cross, you are now a true Hero of the Imperium. Congratulations, and I wish you well on your journey. It will be some time before we see you again.”
Marsh took it, but paused.
“Journey?” he echoed.
“Yes. Your submission to the Cadian Officer Training Schola has been approved. By the review of your decorations, management of the platoon, tutelage of the Whiteshields, and your capable leadership in rallying a unit under fire to great acts, you are deemed worthy and capable enough to be considered for commissioning.”
“I…I…” Marsh gazed at his companions. Hyram nearly had tears in his eyes. Carstensen was bright with pride. Marsh Silas turned back to Giles. “...does that mean I will leave the regiment?”
“That’s a negative. With Lieutenant Hyram taking over the weapons platoon, I need an officer to assume his command. Commissar Carstensen will remain to assist with the platoon and maintain your post while you take a leave of absence for your training. I cannot think of a better man to take over a group of veterans than one of their very own.”
Marsh Silas’s mind drew back to the barracks. It was the last time he would ever rouse the platoon for reveille. It was not in the platoon leader’s duty to wake his men but the platoon sergeant’s instead. The life he’d known for years was over. He wanted it, not for his own sake, but for the path he tread. After so many rejections, he thought it was just a far-off fantasy. Yet, here he was, at the end of another journey and yet it never felt more like a dream.
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“Do you have a recommendation as to who should assume the role of platoon sergeant?” Eastoft asked kindly.
“Walmsley Major,” Marsh said without hesitation. “He’s the most experienced NCO other than Babcock. I know Babcock will never give up that flag.”
“Very well. You will both be departing by Valkyrie at 1630 hours to Kasr Sonnen. There, you will be transferred to your respective Scholas,” Giles said. “Ensure you have your belongings.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The decorations which have been listed for you and those that are noted on this list will not be awarded in a ceremony here in camp,” Eastoft explained. “Due to the involvement of other regiments, some of which are still conducting operations, it has been postponed. A grand event will be held in Kasr Sonnen in four months' time at the end of the winter season. By then, combat operations will have ceased in this sector and all personnel will be available.”
“Before you leave, there is one more item to discuss,” Giles said. “It has also been noted that due to your efforts that the 1333rd Regiment will be adopting a Whiteshield Integration Program based on your training doctrine with your squad of Whiteshields. Between the success and survival rate of your trainees and the casualty rates of other squads, Regimental Commissar Ghent has seen the value in instituting this program to properly train replacements and fresh recruits to work alongside veterans.”
Suddenly, Marsh’s head felt as though it were submerged. There was a brief blackness. In that darkness, he saw faces: Graeme, Leander, Merton, Rayden, Soames, Webley, and poor, poor Yeardley. In this moment of grand achievement, of singular recognition not only by his superiors but all of Cadia and Segmentum Obscurus, of course Ghent had to offer one last slight against him.
“How dare he mock me and those Whiteshields so,” Marsh growled aloud.
“Son, he does no such thing. He has personally insisted on adopting this measure. Why, he was the one who cited you for the Honorifica!”
“Silas, this is what you wanted,” Hyram said. “You succeeded. Whiteshields of the future will—”
“Ghent? That man hates me. All my life, he has taken every opportunity to insult, rebuke, and scold me. This is the same man who flogged me long ago and executed one of my dearest friends. That very same man who told me I’d never amount to another—that man who smiled at me as I performed pushups in the mud, rain, sleet, and snow? Who offered no help to our Whiteshields? Suddenly, he acquiesces? Nay, this is a foul trick and I will not stand for it.”
Marsh snatched the scroll from Giles’ hand and stormed out of the office. He passed through the massive chamber, still alive with activity. Officers, clerks, scribes, enlisted staff, logisticians, and more exchanged hundreds of reports. Cogitator keyboards and terminal boards clattered under their fingers. Quills scratched against parchment and seals were stamped.
Ghent’s office was located on the far side of headquarters along with other high-ranking regimental personnel. It was in the left corner of the building and a bronze plaque hung beside the door. The words, ‘Regimental Commissar Ghent,’ were stamped on it in sleek ebony letters.
Finding no guard and the entrance open, Marsh stood outside it. “Commissar Ghent, Senior Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir!”
“Granted,” came the disinterested reply. Ghent was behind a polished wooden desk. On either side were rows of candles, their wicks all burning. Wet wax trickled down the black metal stands. Stacks of paperwork stood on either side of the center, where a small cogitator sat. Cabinets lined the walls, as well as a pair of lockers containing his wargear. On a stand behind him was his coat and his cap. Without his overcoat and Flak Armor, Ghent was far thinner than he normally appeared. His blonde hair was short and trimmed. Aside from a few weathered scars on his face, it appeared he cut himself shaving as there was a dull red line on his lower left jaw. While his fingers danced across the keys, his eyes remained fixed on the screen. “What do you want?” The platoon sergeant held up the scroll and the Commissar’s eyes flitted up to it. “Yes?”
“Is this some kind of trick? Or is it a jest?”
Ghent’s gaze turned into a glare and his lips formed into a nasty snarl.
“You had best change your tone with me, child.”
“I’ve always known you’ve taken great delight in punishing me, but this? You mock and insult myself and my Whiteshields!”
“I know not what you speak of!” Ghent jumped to his feet. “You come in here throwing accusations at my feet without explanation or evidence! I have half a mind to tie you to the flagpole and give you another ten lashes!”
Marsh Silas slammed his hands on the desk, sending many of the parchment slips flying.
“You’re always lookin’ for an excuse, ain’t ya!? Well, why don’t ya just shoot me this time, huh!?”
“I have half a mind to!”
Suddenly Marsh felt hands grasping him from behind. Hyram and Carstensen latched onto him and began pulling him out of the room.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir!” Hyram said. “Marsh Silas is just upset! He forgets himself, the bloody fool!”
“I didn’t give you permission to enter. Get out!” Ghent shouted. At this, he put his hand on the holster of his Bolt Pistol. Both Hyram and Carstensen stopped but didn’t let go of Marsh Silas. The Commissar’s glare was as cold as ice and sharp as a dagger. But Marsh’s blood was up, a tumult of grief and fury bubbling over from a life of torment. He stood unbowed and braced like he was going to make a charge.
Ghent pointed at the door with his other hand. “Both of you get out. Now.”
Marsh could feel their eyes on him, his companion and his lover. Anger was blinding, grief deafening. If they spoke to him, he did not hear. He felt their absence a moment later. Ghent took his hand off his sidearm. “Close the door.”
The platoon sergeant reached back and slammed it shut. Ghent pointed at the chair across from the desk. “Sit down.” But the Guardsmen didn’t budge. Ghent slammed his fist on the edge of his desk. “Now!”
Marsh finally obeyed. Ghent came around, turned the chair so it faced the door, and stood over him. “If you were any other man I would have you shot right here. Not outside, not by a firing squad; you would meet your end in this room and I would not care how much of your blood got on my boots. I would not pay any mind as to how your company commander or platoon felt about it.” He leaned over Marsh, grabbed the back of the chair, and got right in his face. “Any, other, man,” he snarled, staggering the words. He let go quickly, causing the chair to roll back into the desk. “It is only out of respect for your recent accomplishments and to the Regiment I shall spare your life. Now, speak clearly and quickly.”
Without hesitation, Marsh began reading from the report.
“It is upon the personal recommendation of Commissar Landon Ghent, Regimental Commissar of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment, that a new policy be instituted to train Whiteshields so as to better integrate them with more experienced personnel. The Whiteshield Integration Program will drill new assignees in advanced small unit tactics, courage-building exercises, reconnaissance and patrolling, and other important facets characterizing an infantry regiment. Their model will be based upon the successful structure provided by Senior Staff Sergeant Silas Cross and Junior Commissar Lilias Carstensen.”
He glared up at Ghent. The Commissar’s expression was softer than before. “Seven of those Whiteshields died. One has been critically wounded. Only two—two—are still on their feet! What about that appears successful? I have made mistakes!”
“You’ve learned to read?” Ghent asked, impressed, his lips twitching into a smile. It faded as he swept a report from his desk and thrust into Marsh’s hand. He tapped it once. “Then, read this to me.”
“Whiteshields, 1st Platoon, 1st Company: seventy percent casualties. 2nd Platoon, 1st Company: one hundred percent casualties. Whiteshields, 3rd Platoon, 1st Company: one hundred percent casualties. Whiteshields, 1st Platoon, 2nd Company, ninety percent casualties. Whiteshields, 2nd Platoon, 2nd Company: eighty percent casualties…” Marsh Silas lowered the page and looked up. Ghent folded his arms across his chest.
“There are almost no Whiteshields left. The rabble you, Carstensen, and your trainees came across? They were the few survivors from across the regiment. Out of a hundred, there are twelve left. Your squad had the least casualties.”
“You attempt to mend my spirit with numbers?” Marsh growled, tossing the page back on the desk. Ghent eyed him, then came back around the desk.
“How many were in the Probitor class you graduated with?” Ghent asked.
“You should know, you trained us.”
“How many?”
“One thousand, five hundred and sixty,” Marsh answered flatly.
“You became the 540th Youth Regiment. By the time you reached the age of majority, there were barely four hundred of you left. I extended all of my knowledge to you. I created the most rigorous and demanding training I thought possible. Yet, seventy-five percent of your regiment died.”
“Stop talking about percentages and numbers!” Marsh hollered. “My Whiteshields were not numbers to me!”
“None of you were numbers to me either!” Ghent yelled back. He caught his breath and composed himself. “Silas, hear me now. There is only so much a man can do. He can devote himself entirely to a task and it can still end in failure. But what you have done is not failure. Rowley and Tattersall are still alive. Clivvy will make a full recovery. Your efforts, your training, your belief that these children were worth teaching, saved their lives.”
Ghent held up his hand as Marsh went to speak again. “Yes, the others are gone. You feel responsible—that is because you are a leader. You are going to be an officer and a commander of men, not an assistant in someone else’s command. This is a taste of what is to come. It will always feel like a mistake, you will always wonder if there was something different or better you could have done.”
The Commissar rolled down his sleeve and turned the underside of his forearm towards the platoon sergeant. On it were many faded but otherwise grisly scars. Each one was thin across the skin. “This was my punishment from Drill Abbot Sutton of Kasr Polaris’s Schola Progenium. For every mistake I made I was dealt a blow from the steel rod he carried.”
Marsh Silas stared at the ghastly, brown marks. The skin around them was utterly deformed and sinewy. None of the muscles seemed to have developed correctly. All the flesh up to his wrist was malformed from a childhood of beatings. Ghent rolled his sleeve back down and smoothed out the wrinkles. “I never forgot. Twas’ not the rod itself, it was what it inspired: the desire to never make the same mistake twice.”
Ghent stood up in front of Marsh and gazed down at him. “I know you will become a great leader because you will learn, adapt, and do everything in your power to prevail. Not only to succeed in any task, but to ensure that you take care of the lives entrusted to you.” He picked up the casualty report. “This? I gaze upon this and see naught but many lives that could have been saved if we had listened to you. If we followed your example, perhaps there would be two dozen Whiteshields left or maybe even fifty. To escape without loss or sacrifice is a fantasy. This is war, Silas. This is what we do. We are Cadians; we are born to fight, we live to fight, and we often die. Whether this is the way things ought or oughtn’t to be, that is the state of affairs as they are now. Your training, designed to prepare them for any soldier’s task, also prepared them for that sacrifice. Do you understand?”
Marsh Silas’s hands curled into fists on his lap. His gaze fell and he gritted his teeth. He hated to hear all of it.
“Yes,” he finally said, forcing the word out. Ghent’s hand on his shoulder forced him to look up.
“I seek not to assuage your feelings. I merely speak the truth. That is all I have ever done with you since you were an eager lad who desired to become a real Cadian soldier. This may not have been the success you envisioned, one where all ten of those brave young souls were still with us, but you have nonetheless proved victorious in your quest for change.”
“That doesn’t make me a hero,” Marsh whispered. “None of it does.”
“We must not have been on the same field.”
“What joke is this?”
“Do I look like a man with a sense of humor?” Ghent growled. He stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back. “You exposed yourself to overwhelming enemy fire, assumed command of a faltering unit, reinforced a dangerous gap in the line, destroyed one of the Archenemey’s vile contraptions, and dispatched one of their agents. This is all the work of a great soldier.”
“Commissar—”
“You were an Honor Graudati from the Whiteshields with a distinction for Kasrkin potential. You attained the ranks of Leading Trooper, Master Corporal, and Senior Staff Sergeant; most Cadians fail to achieve even one of those ranks. You have been honored by the Holy Inquisition and now Segmentum Command. You have always had the potential to do great things. I had to make difficult decisions to make sure you were shaped into the soldier I hoped you’d become. You have.”
Marsh Silas looked up sharply. His violet eyes glowed angrily.
“Is that why you killed Clement for saving me all those years ago? You rewarded his bravery with a bolt shell.”
“He was going to hold you and Overton back. If he still lived when Overton ascended to his officership, Clement would have become a platoon sergeant instead of you. Wisdom and bravery do not equate, Silas, and Clement did not have nearly as much as you remember. But you did.”
Tears welled up in Marsh’s eyes. He wiped them on his sleeve but a single tear still ran down each cheek.
“Aye, a child who could neither read nor write was more knowledgeable than his dear friend,” he said bitterly.”
“Look deeper. You are the soldier you are now because you did not have someone hanging onto you nor giving you undue praise. More than that, you pushed yourself. For all I put you through, you put yourself through much more. You could have just drifted through training and skirted under the eyes of your teachers but you didn’t. You might have broken under the pressure, but you didn’t. I thought you might have when your father was murdered. It’s why I made sure you were drafted back into the class after you returned from Macharia so you had time to heal.”
Marsh blinked in surprise. He had thought it was divine intervention on the part of the Emperor; only His will could have seen the three friends reunited in the most unlikely circumstances. All this time it was Ghent who orchestrated the reunion?
Ghent knelt in front of him. “But you did not break nor did you merely pass. Clement was free to coast and that made him weak. He would have made you as much as well. Your energies were destined for higher things. You used everything to feed the fire the Emperor lit in your soul.”
The Commissar stood up, folded his hands behind his back, and stared down at Marsh Silas intensely. “It is difficult to accept rewards when one does not think much of themselves. But this medal, like all medals, is not a reward. It is an earning. Whenever you fasten it to your tunic, whenever you feel the ribbon between your fingers, whenever you polish the gold, remind yourself you earned it. If not for yourself, then for your Whiteshields and your comrades.”
Ghent went back to the other side of his desk, sat down in his chair heavily, and rearranged some of the paperwork. He glared up at Marsh Silas. “I have said my piece and you have nothing more to add. Now, remove yourself.”
Marsh Silas slowly stood up, went to the door, and looked over his shoulder. Ghent was already typing again, even though there were still papers all over the floor. He seemed to be unaware that the platoon sergeant was lingering in the room. It was as if the conversation never even occurred. All at once, feeling empty, sad, and relieved, he opened the door and closed it behind him. Hyram was immediately upon him and clutched his shoulders.
“By the Emperor, man, what possessed you to go in there? I thought we were going to lose you!”
Before Marsh Silas could respond, Carstensen pushed between the two. She reared her arm back and slapped the platoon sergeant across the face. He did not reel too much, but his eyes widened and he felt the need to blink a few times. Slowly, he held his stricken cheek and looked back at her. Carstensen’s shoulders heaved as she drew breath, as if she had been holding it the entire time. Her blue-green eyes were seething with anger and her lips were drawn back just enough to reveal her clenched teeth.
“Are you upset with me?” he asked her quietly.
“Don’t you ever do something so stupid again!” she hissed. Then, after a brief searching glance to ensure no one was looking, she embraced him for a moment, and then released him. Marsh Silas smiled while Carstensen composed herself. She turned her back and left the building. Hyram, clearly tired and his nerves shot, pinched the bridge of his nose underneath his eyeglasses before following him. Marsh Silas lingered for a few moments, still rubbing his cheek, his feelings unknown even to himself. Eventually, he shook his head a little and hurried after the others, the orders for decorations still clutched in his hand.
***
“But when I return, I will take command. Perhaps then, we’ll have some new Whiteshields to train up,” Marsh Silas said kindly. He knelt beside the medicae cot Clivvy rested on. Many tubes were connected to her forearms and she had to wear a breathing mask. Much of her midsection was covered in bandages to protect the surgical sutures.
Too weak to speak, Clivvy just nodded. Groggily, she raised her hand and Marsh Silas wrapped his own around it. “I am so, so proud of you. You are a credit to your comrades and to Cadia. In a few months' time, when the regiment marches into Kasr Sonnen, you will find me waiting for all of you. It will be an honor to stand under the banners beside you to receive these decorations.”
Marsh let go of her hand, brushed some of Clivvy’s hair back, and kissed her on the forehead. “Fare thee well, oh comrade of mine. I shall see you again soon.”
He stood up and threw his bag over his shoulder. Walmsley Major picked up his own and the two friends left the medicae. Outside, the sun was setting and the wind had calmed. Warm, orange light struck the coastal waters around Army’s Meadow. The rays glittered on the surface and the sky took on a golden haze. One might have forgotten it was still early in the long regional winter.
“I never left the regiment like this before,” Walmsley Major admitted. “A peculiar thing. I am excited, nervous, and saddened all at once.”
“Twas’ the same feeling which I felt when I left for my own NCO ascension training,” Marsh said. “I thought it would be but one time. Yet, here I am once more and again my feelings are the same.”
They approached the ramp to the Skyshield Landing Pad. The Valkyrie was waiting for them, its engines already hot. When they reached the top, they found Bloody Platoon congregated around the entrance to the troop bay of the aircraft. Many talked with another, but when Marsh Silas and Walmsley Major appeared, the platoon split, creating an avenue that led directly to the ramp.
Hyram, Carstensen, Rowley, Tattersall, and Walmsley Minor were closest. As the elder twin embraced his brother, Marsh went to shake the Lieutenant’s hand. Hyram pushed it away and wrapped his arms around his friend. The two companions hugged each other so strongly they swayed from side to side.
“What a miracle it has all been—a miracle of miracles. It has been hardly two years and yet it has felt like a lifetime,” Hyram breathed as they withdrew. “How heavily my heart weighs that I will not be among this brotherhood as I have before. But, I assume my new station knowing that you will take my place. Brother-mine, I wish you good fortune and every blessing of the God-Emperor.”
“Brother-mine, Bloody Platoon will not be the same without you. I know there will only ever be one true leader of this band. Not I, nor Overton, nor Barlocke, but you.”
Hyram nodded tearfully as Marsh turned to his Whiteshields. Before he even spoke, Rowley and Tattersall threw their arms around his midsection.
“We will miss you, sir!” they said.
“Throne, I shan’t be gone for long,” he assured them. “You keep an eye on our dearest Clivvy.”
“We will do you proud,” Rowley said as the pair backed away.
“You need not assure me, for I already know this to be true.”
Finally, Marsh Silas stood before Carstensen. The Commissar’s aquamarine eyes twinkled and she smiled softly at him. Marsh smiled back but could find nothing to say. Neither could she. Both their lips moved but alas there were no words. It could not stand. He picked up her hands in both of his and ran his thumbs across them. “Dearest Lilias, I wish not to part with you. I fear a day, a week, a month spent without you will be equally torturous.”
“Fret not, sweet Silas,” Carstensen said kindly. “I will keep you in mine, my heart of hearts. Keep me in your heart, my love.”
“My love,” Marsh whispered back, drawing closer. Then, to his great surprise, the Commissar shut her eyes and kissed him in full sight of the platoon. His shock subsided and he indulged in it, grasping Carstensen by her cheeks. One of her hand’s clutched the back of his head and the other rested on his neck.
When they parted, Carstensen was blushing. But she shrugged, causing her orange locks to sway. “They already know. I shan’t hide it from them, our comrades.”
Marsh looked along the two rows of Shock Troopers. They all smiled, and nodded.
“Aye, they’re a good lot, aren’t they?” Marsh looked back at Carstensen. “I will return to you soon, my love.”
“And I to you.”
Marsh Silas pulled away and stood between the two crowds. Friends on either side lined the way. At the very end, Walmsley Major was waiting for him with his bag slung over his shoulder. Friends on either side lined the way. But alongside him was a dark figure, ghostly and unseen to everyone but him. Barlocke’s apparition waited. His coat and long brown locks flowed with the gentle breeze that blew across the basin. Eventually, he placed his wide-brimmed Inquisitorial cap on, creating a shadow over his dark eyes. Smiling knowingly, the ghost turned around and ascended the ramp.
With a backward glance to Hyram and Carstensen, Marsh marched forward. Each man reached, shaking his hand, grasping his shoulder, and tapping his back. Arnold Yoxall, Drummer Boy, Babcock, Honeycutt, Walmsley Minor, Logue, Foley, Mottershead, Holmwood, Stainthorpe—everyone. Walmsley Major climbed up the ramp, extended a hand, and pulled Marsh inside. Side by side, they sat down on the benches just shy of the ramp. The crew chief spoke into his micro-bead and the Valkyrie lifted off. Just as it did, Bloody Platoon cried, ‘hip-hip-hurrah!’ again and again.
The engines drowned out their voices, the Valkyrie pulled away, and banked across Army’s Meadow. Below, Bloody Platoon still raised their fists into the air and chanted. Marsh Silas merely smiled and held his hand out of the Valkyrie until the ramp shut.