It was the hardest salute Marsh Silas ever gave in his life. He kept his arm, waiting for his grandsires to return the gesture. Instead, his grandmother approached and inspected the Honorifica upon his chest.
“So it is true. I thought we were wrongly informed, I never believed Faye’s young welp would ever amount to anything beyond a pitiful Interior Guardsmen. Look at you, a full-fledged Shock Trooper and officer at that.”
Marsh Silas lowered his arm but Colonel Cross snatched his wrist and forced it back up.
“Keep that hand up. Don’t you know anything about discipline? Bloody Militarum, what’s it coming to these days? In our time, the Shock Troops were filled with men, not little boys playing at soldier.”
“Unhand me,” growled Marsh and ripped his hand away from his grandfather.
“It appears you’ve forgotten respect.”
“You have never known it,” he replied curtly. “I’ll tell you what I have not forgotten; every slap and kick, when your wretched wife chased me with a knife, when you struck me with a fire poker. You pathetic creatures could hardly lift a laspistol, so you best speak far more kindly to me.”
“Speak only when spoken to, dog,” snarled Colonel Cross. “You think that rank makes you any different? You’re but a hound we cast away to the rankers. Dogs belong in packs.”
Marsh Silas’s eyes flitted away from his grandfather’s. Beyond him, he could see Carstensen and Hyram turning in his direction. Their happy expression fell, replaced with concern.
“Eyes front, welp!” Madam Cross snapped and for good measure she jabbed him roughly in the stomach with the end of her ebony cane. Marsh recoiled but managed to remain upright. “Just like your mother to breed a weakling. What Dayton ever saw in her is beyond me. A good noble boy marrying a common wench like her...”
Marsh bit his lip and did his best not to tremble. He was seething with fury but knew if they saw him shake they would think it was fear. Once again, he was a child unable to defend himself and was forced to endure the abuse. He wanted to throttle them until they stopped quivering but with so many prying eyes, he would come off as a murderer and a traitor.
“How did you ever make it off Macharia?” his grandmother asked. We were quite certain the Hive would swallow you whole. Is your mother still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To be expected of vile refuse,” scoffed the elder Cross. “What does she do to live now? Pass chems? Sell her body?”
Marsh’s hands curled into fists.
“No, sir. She works dutifully in a manufactorum producing weapons for soldiers across the entire Imperium.”
Both his grandparents snickered, the medals on their chests jostling and jingling. Marsh Silas swallowed hard. He felt alone, singled out, zeroed on, and there was no escape. Such feelings of utter helplessness and vulnerability remained dormant for so many years and for them to finally return was more than frightening, it was appalling. The chain of command was never so detested, the honorifics befitting of the stations above him so disgusting. His fists remained at his sides no matter how much he wanted to wring both their necks for this and for all they did before. Just to see their evil smiles wiped from their poxy mugs would be enough.
“Excuse me.”
Commissar Ghent walked up beside Marsh Silas, his hands folded behind his back. He stood up very straight and looked very formal. “Lieutenant-Colonel Cross and Major Cross, I presume?” Before they answered he bowed his head but did not salute. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Might I ask why you are here this eve?”
“We were invited,” Madam Cross answered huffily. Marsh Silas had not been informed. A movement caught his eye. A sneering Inquisitor Orzman melted away. Of course, Marsh thought.
“I see. Pardon me for the intrusion but I feel it necessary to remind you that you are speaking to a recipient of the Obscurus Honorifica and thus must speak and act in a manner of respect. This man is a Hero of the Imperium.”
“Did you ever think anyone would ever refer to the welp in such a way?” sneered Madam Cross.
“Lieutenant Cross,” Ghent replied firmly.
“This lad is our kin and we may speak to him as we like.”
“No, you may not,” the Commissar corrected. “If you would like, I could direct you to the articles prescribed underneath the oaths of officership you took as well as countless editions of primers which dictate how one should act in the presence of an Honorifica recipient in dress uniform and at formal functions, whether you are a common trooper or a general officer.” Ghent sidestepped a foot closer to Marsh Silas. “Punishment for failing in this regard can be quite severe, ranging from heavy fines to flogging.”
“Is there an issue here, sir?” Hyram asked as he walked up between Commissar Ghent and Marsh Silas. Carstensen came around the platoon leader’s other side. Suddenly there was Holmwood and Mottershead appeared.
“I tell you there is, Lieutenant-Precept,” Madam Cross snarled. “This Commissar thinks he can do as he pleases, instructing us on how to behave with our grandson.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but this night he is not a grandson but a hero,” said Hyram. “Commissar Ghent is an authority on these matters and I default to his judgment.”
Effelmen, Logue, and Foley appeared among them as well. Fleming, Caferro, and Keach did as well. More members of Bloody Platoon began to gather around them.
“He saved many lives and fought with great courage,” Carstensen added. “You should be proud of him.”
“Silence, you up-jumped doll,” Madam Cross spat. Carstensen caught Marsh’s rising arm.
“Even senior officers should not address Commissars of the Officio Prefectus in such a manner,” informed Ghent “First an Honorifica bearer and now Commissars. I must say, you are not doing your family name proud. Silas has done more for it in the past eleven solar years than you have in two decades.”
Lieutenant-Colonel Cross scowled at Marsh Silas and then at Ghent. Pushing aside one of his withering white locks and adjusting his collar, he tried to stand as tall as he could. But he could not hope to match the gaze of any of those men and women before him.
Then there was Drummer Boy, puffing out his chest, and Walmsley Major and Minor, folding their arms across their chest. Clivvy, Rowley, and Tattersall arrived, standing in front of Marsh Silas with determined eyes and firm jaws. Even Valens, Captain Giles, and Lieutenant Eastoft marched up, taking their place among the men.
“Who do you think you are, Commissar?” Madam Cross snarled. “His new father? And what of you, Lieutenant? His elder brother? The only reason he bears our name is because of our son and he ensured we would never be able to strip him of it. He is an orphan in all but name.”
Ghent bristled, his lips moving just a little to momentarily reveal clenched teeth. Hyram looked around and finally put one hand on his hip.
“What if he is? What if I am his brother? What if these Whiteshields are his children?” he asked, motioning to the pair of young ones. Then, he put his hand on Drummer Boy and Babcock’s shoulders. “What if this dear Voxman is his younger brother and this honorable man is his elder brother?” He nodded to Carstensen. “What if this Commissar is his wife?”
Every single Guardsmen in Bloody Platoon gathered around him then. Not a man who was present at the ball was absent from this meeting. Each one stood as firmly and bravely as if they were forming a line on the battlefield. Their gazes were as piercing and cocksure as any soldier in the face of an enemy. Marsh Silas marveled, looking back and forth to see all his comrades. His heart swelled so much he thought it would burst and it took every ounce of his strength to hold back his tears. Softly, he smiled down at his boots for a moment, unable to take it all in, before forcing himself to look back up.
Lieutenant-Colonel Cross looked at all the faces, confused.
“Just who are all of you?” he asked in mild disgust.
“His family,” said Hyram. “Bloody Platoon.”
“And the platoon cannot be beat,” Ghent added.
The two elderly officers looked around again. Their tunic collars were tight against their wrinkled, bird-like necks and beads of sweat rolled down their powdered brows. Eventually, they began to retreat. But his grandfather whipped around and pointed at Marsh Silas with his cane.
“You might think yourself special, lad, but we remember the sniveling little boy who was fortunate enough to be born in our home. Your name is Cross but you add nothing to our lineage.”
“Good,” Marsh said. “I am making my own lineage.”
“Your own—” But he ceased when Marsh took a threatening step towards him. The Lieutenant grabbed the old, short man by his jacket and yanked him close.
“You may have cast me out to the dogs, but now I have returned as the leader of the pack.” Marsh let him go roughly. “Be gone, old man, and take the withered slut with you.”
His grandsires spluttered but hurried away. Before Marsh Silas could thank any of his comrades, Ghent, Giles, and Eastoft stepped in front of him.
“Ignore them, they’re corpses that managed to move their legs a little,” Eastoft said bluntly.
“I think this occasion might have lost its charms for this platoon. Would you not agree, Commissar?” Giles said. Ghent just nodded. “Indeed. Lieutenant Hyram, you may depart with your men to the barracks, collect your passes, and proceed to any establishment of your choosing. I am quite confident you will observe the Tenets of Garrison in the absence of a commanding officer.” Giles smiled, then nodded to the great doors at the far end of the hall. “Well, what are you waiting for? Off with ya.”
There was no order. Marsh Silas, Carstensen, Hyram, and the rest of Bloody Platoon put aside their dishes, waited for the attendants to open the doors, and marched right out of the hall. In their resplendent uniforms, they cut through the late winter air, snowflakes settling in their hair, until they came across the perfect soldier’s hall.
***
It was warm, candles burned brightly on the walls, and the overhead bulbs cast a tender ambiance. On either end of the small hall, coal fires burned in hearths. The flames crackled, snapped, and roared pleasantly. Bright street lamps shimmered through the blast windows on either side of the door. All the table and wall-mounted candles were scented, radiating a sweet, almost pastry-like smell. The smoke congealed with that from so many lho-sticks and hung over their heads like a raincloud. Rather than choking the air, it made it all the sweeter.
Before long, Bloody Platoon made merry. Half the men lined the bar and guzzled amasec over dishes of smoked Grox, steamed vegetables, and toasted brown bread. Others circled the tables to play card games where they smoked and drank. Instead of staking Thrones, the men bet high-quality lho-sticks, fresh tabac leaves, and pastries they ‘liberated,’ from the grand hall. Nobody wanted to bet their wages as everyone was promoted or prevented by at least one grade. With their new income, many enjoyed a monetary bonus which came with some of the medals. Gambling with eatables and luxury goods was far more civil.
Marsh Silas sat at the bar, waiting for another bottle of amasec. He felt warm, full, and happier than he had all evening, although he wasn’t drunk just yet. His unlit ebony pipe dangled loosely from his lips as he waited. Turning from the bar, he surveyed his men with a satisfied smile. The Emperor was surely treating them well that night as there wasn’t another soul in the tavern. Of course, he knew that with so many high-ranking officials from the Astra Militarum, Ecclisarchy, and Adeptus Administraum, security was increased tenfold across the entire Kasr. Almost anyone who wasn’t on furlough pulled double-watch; a number of those on leave were, more than likely, impressed into sentry duty, too. Even though there were many empty chairs at the tables, the place seemed comfortable and full thanks to Bloody Platoon’s vigor and noise.
Out of the many soldier’s halls he visited over the years, this one was ranked among the best. It was just outside the garrison and well-fortified, making it a good position for defense. As well, there were many paintings on the walls depicting great Cadian battles. Some were of the Shock Troops staving off another enemy invasion, the proud warriors cheering over the corpses of Aeldari and Orks. Others showed scenes of Battlefleet Cadia storming forward among the stars and plowing through the ruins of a hostile fleet. Mounted on hooks were battered Cadian pattern helmets, half-destroyed M36 lasguns, or a piece of flak armor which once belonged to a hero. Below each one was a brass plaque with the name, rank, date of death, and heroic act of the trooper.
Marsh Silas turned around completely and leaned back against the bar. Sitting at the table near the window, Hyram and Carstensen spoke over their meals. The former downed his fifth glass of amasec and was positively chatty. As for the Commissar, she paced herself well and seemed pleased with the conversation. On the other side of the double-doors was another blast window and the Whiteshields sat together. Derryhouse and Hitch, both of whom served in the Special Weapons Squad and wielded plasma guns, were with them. Even though everyone was relaxing, Hitch examined an optical reflex scope and gave a lesson to the young ones. Derryhouse tried to make his friend stop so Rowley, Clivvy, and Tattersall could enjoy their meals.
Adjacent to them, Babcock sketched his design for the platoon standard. All the NCOs pressed in around him. Everyone held cups of amasec and their buzzing conversation contained a myriad of constructive criticism, outright disapproval, joyful reciprocation, and well-meant suggestions. Despite the barrage of so many opinions, Babcock jotted everything down.
Everyone laughed and chattered. This is the real party he thought. All his life he imagined the splendor and grandeur of such a ceremony. But to follow it up with a party filled with gloating, nosy nobles nearly spoiled it. He didn’t realize just how stifling that haughty air was. No, the soldier ceremonies they held before were much better and this was the way Bloody Platoon knew how to celebrate. This world of theirs was familiar and good.
He heard the glass bottle being set down on the counter. Marsh turned around to see two bottles instead of the one he ordered.
“You sure you won’t take Thrones for it?” he asked the keeper.
“Nonsense. It’s the first time I’ve had a living hero visit here. Heroes eat, drink, and sleep for free,” said the keeper. She was tall, broad of chest, and was missing her right eye. Instead of a bionic, the socket was an amalgamation of brown and beige tissue. Her uniform indicated she was an auxiliary, more than likely a battle-tested Shock Trooper who managed to return after a career throughout various sectors of the Imperium.
She leaned on the counter and put one hand under her chin. “Heroes, officers, and Commissars—rare sights, indeed.” Marsh followed her gaze back to Hyram and Carstensen at the window. The keeper chuckled and shook her head. “Sure, they was in camp with us and fought the tough ones with us. But they never spent no time with us when we was on furlough. If they’re in here with you, that means they’re right special.”
“You couldn’t be more right, ma’am,” Marsh Silas said to her as peeled away from the bar and walked back over to his two friends. As he sat down, Hyram pointed at the pict of his son.
“Sydney—that’s my son, here—he’s such a smart lad! He took up his letters with no issue, was on his feet after a solar year, and spoke his first words not too long after that.” He put down the pict, took a swig from his glass, sighed loudly, and picked the pict back up. “So Sydney—my son—is studying with a Sister Famulous hailing from the Order of the Ever-Sun!”
He paused to finish the contents of his glass. While Marsh Silas worked to get the cork out of the first bottle, Hyram continued. “My family has been judged worthy enough to receive such a teacher and Sydney—my son, you see—gets on with her very well.” Marsh looked sideways at Carstensen, who flashed a wry smile. Her elbow on the table and hand on her cheek, she looked back at their comrade and listened politely. “My wife, not so much, but that’s another story. The Sister sends me messages every so often about Sydney—my little son right here—and tells me about all the progress he’s making. He’ll be far more intelligent than his father, that’s quite certain.”
Marsh finally uncorked the bottle. Hyram swiped it from his grasp, took a swig from it, burped, and then filled his glass all the way to the rim. He took a big sip, sighed loudly, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His face was very red. “And...what was I talking about?” he blinked like a man just waking up from a full night’s rest. That’s when he noticed the pict of his son on the table. Picking it up, he giggled and displayed it. “Right, I was telling you about Sydney! See, that’s my son here,” he said, pointing at the pict again. Then, he looked at it himself and giggled. “What a handsome lad! He’ll be far more fetching than his father!”
“What about his mother?” Carstensen asked sardonically and cast a glance at Marsh Silas again from the corner of her eye. The Marsh smirked. Under the table he reached over and wrapped his fingers around her left hand. She acknowledged his grasp with a little squeeze and the corners of her mouth rose even further.
“His mother!?” Hyram exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table. All the glasses and bottles rattled. “A gem, I tell you, a gem, not to be outdone by any woman!” He dug into the breast pocket of his tunic and yanked out another pict. This was of his wife on their wedding day in her white gown, veiled, and with a large Ministorum golden icon around her neck. Planting his elbow on the table, Hyram held it up and pointed at the image. “See? I didn’t pick her myself you see, my parents did, and our courtship was supervised by a Sister from the Order Fam...Fum...Famously...you know the one.” Marsh nodded politely while Carstensen gazed out the window, suppressing her smile. “She was very happy on the day we wed. I was not.” Hyram blinked a little, his smile disappearing for an instant.
“Pour me a drink, Lieutenant,” Marsh said.
“Indeed, I shall!” Hyram exclaimed, who then began giggling as he filled the cup halfway. “You don’t give me orders, I give you orders. I ought to write you up for in-substantiation, Sergeant...”
“It’s Lieutenant now,” Marsh said, holding up his glass. “And it’s insubordination.”
“You don’t teach me words, I teach you words,” Hyram laughed, then pointed at the image again. “Isabella doesn’t like the Sister, though. She wants to teach Sydney herself. She knows her words, too, and she can sing! You should hear in the cathedral!”
Suddenly, there was a bright flash next to the table. Everyone looked over to see Valens armed with his picter. The regimental pict-capturer had walked out as well. He had rarely left the platoon’s presence ever since the Long Patrol.
Another flash emitted from the picter and the trio was binded. Lowering his equipment, Valens revealed himself to be blushing and in good spirits.
“Smile for this one, now,” he ordered. Hyram merely turned, offered a big, toothy, drunken grin whilst he pointed at the pict of his wife. Carstensen lowered her other arm onto the table and leaned a bit more forward to be properly seen. Marsh turned in his seat so he was facing Valens, but didn’t let go of Cartsensen’s hand. Grinning, he raised his glass towards the young soldier. “Now, say: for the Emperor!”
“For the Emperor,” the three friends chimed. Valens snapped the pict and, chuckling, Marsh Silas looked back at Carstensen. He quite enjoyed her deadpan tone. But there was another flash as Valens snapped a final pict. Snickering, he tottered towards another group of drinking troopers.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Hyram jammed the picts of his wife and son into his breast pocket and stood up shakily.
“Excuse me for now,” he burped, “I have to find somethin’ to piss in...”
“Very good, sir,” Marsh said. As Hyram staggered away, the Lieutenant waved to catch Drummer Boy’s attention. He was enjoying a cup of Amasec with the other Voxmen and the Field Chirurgeons saw him and hurried over. “Go with Seathan and make sure he doesn’t piss in someone’s cup or drowns in the head or some damn fool thing.”
Drummer Boy hurried after Hyram. As Marsh Silas continued drinking, Carstensen stood up and went to the other side of the table. Sliding into Hyram’s chair, she folded her arms across the edge and gazed at Marsh. Her expression was nearly crestfallen. Confused, Marsh could only look back with his cup half-raised to his lips. His eyes darted around, trying to figure out what the Commissar seemed so concerned about.
“I’m sorry for how your family treated you this night,” she finally said. “They were cruel.”
“Don’t be. You all put them in their place and gave me courage to stand up to them after all these years.” Marsh set his cup down and began to trace the rim with his finger. “They’ve always been that way. Made life hard on me and my mother.”
“Surely, your father must have defended you both.”
“He was our shield but he was not always present. My mother was demobilized but he had risen to command his own regiment, the 2,566th Mechanized.” Marsh looked out the window. It snowed heavily outside and the jagged, interlocking streets and barricades were blanketed with a sheet of white. Patrolling Guardsmen in heavy overcoats and cloaks all carried an accumulation of snowflakes on their shoulders. Curfew was a ways off and many lights were still on, illuminating the swirling trails as they descended from Cadia’s cloudy nighttime sky.
Marsh rested his chin on his hand. Such nights reminded him of his home in Kasr Polaris, waiting for his mother to return from the factorum and for his father’s next furlough. “My papa’s parents coveted a higher station. Although their careers were over, his was taking off rather well. By merit and achievement, he had risen from a lowly platoon leader to a regimental commander in a matter of years.”
Marsh Silas couldn’t help but laugh. “It reminds me of Hyram. That man has the makings of a great leader so long as he can keep away from the drink.” Carstensen’s smile was quick but affectionate. He knew she agreed with him. “But a marriage to a woman of matching or even higher nobility would have accelerated our family’s rise. Instead, he married his regimental sergeant majo, my mother Faye. They had met some years before on an off-world assignment and served together for a very long time.”
“Your grandparents disapproved because your mother hailed from a lower caste.” Carstensen folded her hands together. “I can understand, although I do not agree. A soldier who rises by merit alone and not just by their station is just as loyal, faithful, and brave a subject. I can think of many nobles who would be honored by such a match.”
Marsh Silas smiled and looked down at his cup.
“Would your father and mother approve of me? A man who rose from the ranks?” he asked teasingly, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction before it became too sad to bear.
Carstensen blinked, chuckled, and looked out the window.
“Neither still live so they will have no say. But, I can imagine father having a few words to share. Mother, less so. Although, those caretakers of mine would've opposed it in every way and I’m sure the family of my betrothed would take grave insult.” From the corner of her eye, she glanced at Marsh Silas and smirked. “I could live with that.”
He smiled and took another sip from his drink while Carstensen continued. “Sald-Grati is always far from my mind. It is home no more. Cadia is, although I shall never be Cadian.”
Marsh Silas looked up immediately, shocked and confused.
“Don’t say such things!” he said, reaching across the table and grasping her hand. Carstensen shook her head and touched the top of his hand.
“Tis true. A Commissar’s duty to learn and take up the customs of the regiment they are assigned to. Their language, songs, and culture; to blend that culture with the discipline of the Astra Militarum as a whole. To become a Commissar not just of the Officio Prefectus but of that regiment also. Many Commissars forget that, but I have not. There is much to be learned still and I am perfectly eager and willing. But my blood is not of this world, my eyes will never turn violet, and I will never bear Cadian sons or daughters.”
She looked at Marsh Silas who maintained his perplexed expression. Carstensen’s eyes fell to the table. “It is the expectation for the population to reproduce to ensure Cadia shall have generations of soldiers for millennia to come. Even the Commissars must obey this order. I have...tried. Other officers, naturally, never .anyone I possessed any feelings for.” Abruptly, she looked back out the window and shrugged dismissively. “I was given leave for fertility treatment. None of the Medicae’s medicine worked and I was declared barren.” She took her cup of amasec from across the table and drank it all. She set it down and leaned back in her chair. “It was my duty in life, given to me by the Emperor and the Officio Prefectus, to become Cadian. No matter what success I shall achieve, I will fail that mission. Alas, I carry on.”
Carstensen did not sound or appear downtrodden. But there was an element of disappointment in her voice, easily missed by anyone not so intimately acquainted with her. Marsh Silas leaned back and looked at his love for a very long time. Many times, he opened his mouth to speak but every word did not seem to offer any amount of comfort or reassurance. Eventually, he stood up and sat in the chair between her and the window. Turning halfway, he smiled at her.
“You know, I ain’t a very good Cadian. Sure, my eyes are violet and my hair is the color tundra grass and my family’s name goes far back. But, that ain’t what makes someone Cadian. We’re tough, battle-ready, brave, and disciplined. But look at me! Brave? I’m afraid quite often. Disciplined?” He nodded at the rowdy, carousing men of Bloody Platoon, half in their cups and regaling each other with vulgar jokes. “If I was not with you, I’d be with those fellows right now.”
“I’m glad my presence can keep at least one Guardsmen in check,” Carstensen joked dryly.
“Ah, those men love and respect you, Lilias. You’re honest, fair, and you truly inspire us on the field. Sometimes a little too well.” He looked out the window, enjoying the falling snow again. “Being Cadian is not about your family’s blood or where you’re frome. It’s not even about embodying every value. Cadia is an idea, a prospect that man has his limits, but for success or failure, all his efforts to carry on when all seems bleak and pointless is what matters to the Emperor most. To continually defend and improve upon all humanity. That’s what it means. He wrapped his arm around Carstensen and brought her closer. “You’ve earned every right to be called a Cadian.”
“I agree!”
Hyram drunkenly slammed his hand on the table, making both the two lovers jump in their seats. “Here, here!” He swiped the open amasec bottle and took a swig from it. Some of it dribbled down his neck and stained the collar of his tunic. Burping, he set it down hard on the table and pointed at Carstensen. “It’s time we swore you in as Cadian folk!” He wheeled around. “Keeper, parchment and quill at once if you please! Bloody Platoon, this night Carstensen becomes well an’ truly Cadian!”
A cheer rippled through the bar. Carstensen quickly looked back at Marsh Silas, who eagerly jumped to his feet, grabbed her hand, and dragged her to the center of the establishment. Everyone finished their drinks and gathered around. The keeper, amused, handed over the materials and Hyram laid them out on the bar top. He began to scribble something on the parchment.
“What’s that there, sir?” Honeycutt asked, not quite as drunk as the others. Snickering, Hyram leaned into the medic’s face.
“A very special and important document.”
When he finished writing, he whirled around and approached Commissar Carstensen. He cleared his throat and burped again. Swaying back and forth, he narrowed his squinting eyes at the parchment. “...I, Lieutenant-Precept Seathan Randolph Hyram of the Astra Militarum’s 1,333rd Cadian Regiment, in clear state of mind, hold on a moment...” Hyram stopped reading, grabbed someone’s drink, swallowed the contents, and tossed the glass at Drummer Boy. The Voxman barely caught it. “...hereby declare Commissar Lilias Juventas Carstensen, henceforth, is my daughter by adoption!”
“Excuse me?” asked Carstensen, bemused.
Everyone broke into excited laughter and raucous hoots. Marsh Silas joined them, clapping Carstensen on the back. Hyram slammed the document back on the table and signed his name.
“By her selflessness and bravery on the field of battle, by her dedication to the Emperor-God, and her years of meritorious service to Cadia, she has earned her right to be considered a Cadian. Commissar, if ye but sign your name the deed will be done. Mars Seelus, sign as the witness please and thank ya.”
Marsh Silas was over at the bar before Carstensen. Taking the quill, he smirked at his commanding officer.
“In High Gothic, sir?”
“Whatever you fancy,” Hyram said, bowing so low he nearly knocked his head against the bar top. Marsh Silas looked at the document; Hyram’s drunken handwriting was barely legible even. Seeing a squiggly line at the bottom upon which the Lieutenant signed his name, Marsh Silas made a straighter line underneath it and wrote down his own name and rank.
Turning around, he held the quill out to her. Bloody Platoon, separated into two packs on either side of the space in between Marsh and the Commissar, eagerly looked at her. Carstensen warily looked between the two groups of Guardsmen and then at Marsh Silas and Hyram. The former smiled softly and continued to hold out the quill. Hyram, too drunk to stand on his own, was supporting himself by leaning against the bar. He still managed to smile and blink at her.
Eventually, Carstensen’s smile spread and she marched proudly towards the bar. Graciously bowing, she accepted the quill from Marsh Silas and wrote her name on a new line next to Hyram’s. With the final scratch of the quill, she set it down and turned around. Bloody Platoon cheered powerfully and everyone congratulated her. Hyram threw his arm around her shoulders and jostled her. “What a glorious night! My little Sydney—that’s my son, you know—has gained a sister! And my wife didn’t have to do a thing! Just wait til I tell her! Come on now men, let’s swear her in!”
Everyone pressed in, piling their hands on her shoulders. The mass of men stank of salty food, bitter alcohol, and sweaty armpits. “Take it away, Smarsh Silas!” Thus, the chant began.
‘Who do we serve!?’ ‘The Emperor!’ ‘What is the Astra Militarum!?’ ‘The Emperor’s Hammer!’ ‘What is duty!?’ ‘Life!’ ‘What is the Imperium!?’ ‘Everything!’ ‘What is glory!?’ ‘Death!’ ‘What is death!?’ ‘Redemption!’ ‘Who are we!?’ ‘Cadians!’ ‘I said, who are we!?’ ‘Ca-di-ans!’
Even Carstensen joined in the final whoop. Hyram broke up the noise. “Let’s give three cheers for my new daughter!” he yelled.
“Hip-hip, hurray, hurray, hurray!” they all cried, throwing their arms into the air with each cheer. Then, they broke into another series of drunken whistling, hooting, and hollering. Marsh Silas, standing right beside Carstensen, raised his arm.
“Let’s hear three more for Carstensen the Cadian!”
At that, he bent low, wrapped his arms around her legs, and stood as tall as he could. Carstensen reached down and held Marsh Silas by the back of his collar to steady herself. After that initial shock, she soon smiled as Marsh made a small circle within the mass.
“Hip-hip hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” they roared in delight. Everyone reached up to touch her coat and grasp her hands as if she were a Living Saint. All the while, they cheered, “Carstensen the Cadian! Carstensen the Cadian! Carstensen the Cadian!”
All the while, Marsh Silas just could not take his eyes off her. He was beaming with pride. Maybe it was the amasec, but for a brief moment, her eyes seemed to take on a violet hue.
When he finally set her back on his feet, Hyram put an arm around each of them.
“As Lilias is now my daughter, and I her brand new papa, I hereby approve this match! Silas and Lilias! Why, that goes rather well together, doesn’t it!?”
“Sir—”
“Lieutenant!”
“Tut-tut, I’m father now.”
“I’m not calling you that,” Carstensen said flatly, making Bloody Platoon roar with laughter.
“The Emperor’s blessings for one thousand years!”
Everyone laughed it off as a joke. Marsh Silas breathed a sigh of relief and put his arm around Hyram’s neck.
“Come on, you’ve had enough, brother. Time to sleep.”
By the time Marsh Silas wrestled his commanding officer to the staircase, the man could hardly stand. Picking up the Lieutenant with both arms, he followed the keeper to Hyram’s quarters. She opened the door and allowed them to enter a rather spacious room. It was an officer’s suite, divided into a sitting room with comfortable chairs and tables, and a bedroom with an adjoining lavatory. First, they stopped in the bathroom so Hyram could vomit into the toilet. After cleaning his face, Marsh threw his friend on the bed and took off his boots, socks, tunic, and trousers so he was left only in his vest and braies.
He emptied every pocket and handed the clothing to the keeper. “Can these be washed?”
“Absolutely. I’ll show you to your quarters once you finish up here.”
She closed the door behind her. Marsh went back to Hyram who was moaning on the mattress. He first found a bucket from the lavatory and put it beside the bed. Then, he rolled the Lieutenant onto his left side facing the edge.
“You’ll be alright, friend.”
“I’m being tucked in by my old platoon sergeant,” Hyram mumbled against his pillow. “Just like how I used to tuck Sydney in. That’s my—”
“Your son, yes, I know.” Marsh patted his shoulder and then slid the picts of Sydney and Isabella into his hands. “You stay here with them now, I’ll take care of the men. I promise.”
Hyram nodded and smiled at the images. Marsh Silas turned off every light except the one on the nightstand. Even though his friend was awake, he walked softly towards the door. Gently shutting it behind him, he turned to the keeper. She pointed to the door next to Hyram’s.
“You’ll be staying here. And the Commissar in the room besides yours.” The keeper offered a knowing smile. “I hope you find that agreeable.”
“Very much, ma’am, thank you.”
The keeper departed while Marsh loitered in the hall. He was feeling very light in the head from all the commotion and the liquor. But it was a good sensation; he felt loose and comfortable in his boots. Upon seeing an icon of the Astra Militarum on a small stand in the hall, he happily made the Sign of Aquila.
Just as he came down the stairs, some personnel from another regiment filtered in. The men immediately gravitated to the bar. Meanwhile, the women immediately approached the troopers of Bloody Platoon. Unceremoniously, his friends left in the arms of the women and filed past him up the stairs. Some of the female soldiers were in quite a jolly mood and others were very much impressed to be among the highly decorated troops of the 1333rd Regiment. Apparently, word was traveling quickly. Others were more placid and concerned with the duty ahead of them.
Marsh Silas saw Clivvy, Rowley, and Tattersall stand up at their table. They looked hesitant as they gazed at the crowd of older soldiers filling up the hall. Marsh Silas looked between them and other service members. How many sons? How many daughters? How many, how many, courageous Silvanus? He hurried over to them.
“Come with me,” said Marsh.
“But—”
“No arguing,” he said hastily, ushering them up the stairs. He brought them to an empty room which had enough beds. It was small, but furnished comfortably. “Now, you have eaten and had your share to drink. It’s time to get some rest.”
“But Marsh Silas, the Drill Abbots and Commissars told us that one day—”
“I know what they told ye,” he cut off Tattersall, raising one hand. “There’s plenty of time for that. It doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“Is it not our duty?” Rowley asked.
“Tis, tis, but not until I say so, understand?”
“Yes, Marsh Silas.”
“Good. Now go to sleep. Lock this behind me.” He slammed the door shut and went back downstairs. Most of the hall was empty save for the small contingent of males at the bar. Commissar Carstensen was back at their table, waiting patiently. Marsh took a seat across from her and she gazed at him curiously.
“The Whiteshields did not leave with partners. They have a duty to perform, Silas.”
Marsh swiped a glass and filled it to the brim with amasec.
“Let’s leave them be. They’ve been through too much as of late.”
“I thought you were attempting to be stronger with them. You know what coddling did.”
“I do not coddle, I’m giving them a little time to be young,” he said into the cup. He found he couldn't actually drink from it. “They’re just so small.”
Carstensen kept gazing at him.
“I noticed you did not take a woman either,” she said. Marsh Silas felt hurt suddenly. He looked at her, his eyebrows rising and his violet eyes widening just a little. Carstensen, her chin in her hand, diverted her eyes to the window.
“Why would I do such a thing?” Marsh asked huffily.
“Duty.”
“But you and I—”
“Love should not come before duty.”
“If you really believed that, would you have been so brave to share your life with mine?” Marsh asked cheekily. Carstensen smirked a little bit. His own smile faded and he shrugged. “I’m trying to make a difference for those children, Lilias. Barlocke made one for me, so I pass it on. If I can do that, maybe one day, this won’t be one of our duties.”
Carstensen seemed to hesitate on what she was about to say. Eventually, she stood up and walked alongside him.
“Very well. But I am ready to do my duty.”
“What? But—”
“Silas,” she said firmly. “I am ready to do my duty for Cadia. I hope you are willing to do yours as well.”
Utterly confused, Marsh Silas watched Carstensen walk to the stairs, putting her hand on the railing. Just before she was out of sight, she cast one glance over her shoulder. Marsh Silas stared, then his face grew flush. Picking up the glass of amasec in his trembling hand, he drank only a little and stood up. He felt the urge to adjust his collar and smooth out his tunic.
“Barlocke? Are you there?” he whispered so none of the other Guardsmen present would hear him.
Why, yes I am. Are you having a good night? Marsh Silas ran his fingers through his hair. “Indeed. Say, is there a way for you to...go to sleep or some such? Or just, go away for a little while? Maybe the rest of the night.”
There was a little cluck as Barlocke’s fragment seemed to click his tongue. It reverberated off the inside of his skull for a few moments. Why? Immediately, Marsh Silas turned around and looked out the window to hide his aggravated expression. “What do you mean why? You’re in my mind of course you know why!”
It’s just a harmless question... “Well I’m not going to play your games because I know you know!” No, I don’t! “Oh, please!” I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Look, just tell me first. “No!” Shh, you’re going to make a scene. You look like a madman. “Shut up!” What if somebody saw you through the window! “Be quiet!” Fine, fine, fine, I’ll go! By the Emperor, you’re such a child.
Barlocke said no more and Marsh Silas composed himself and made his way to the stairs. Suddenly, his legs felt heavier than ferrocrete and he had to force himself up the stairs. He felt more nervous than when he stepped onto the stage during the ceremony. What a silly thing, he thought, the human heart was in all its perfections.
Trundling down the hall, he passed Hyram’s room, then his own, and finally paused by Carstensen’s closed door. He raised his hand to knock, but just before his knuckles grazed the wood paneling on the reinforced armored door, he paused. Marsh Silas took a deep breath and opened the door. Carstensen was standing there, still in her uniform. She turned around to face him, her aquamarine eyes brighter than ever before.
Marsh Silas walked up to her and she closed the distance. Their arms slid around one another and they embraced tenderly even before the door swung shut. They parted just enough to share a kiss. Marsh Silas and Carstensen, holding hands, journeyed into the bedroom, leaving the door open. He began to unbutton his tunic but Carstensen merely took off her own coat before taking his hand again. With his tunic open, she pulled him on top of her as they collapsed onto the bed. Immediately, her arms snaked around his neck and her fingers dug into his hair.
As he kissed her neck, Carstensen sighed sweetly. One hand slipped under his tunic and ran up and down his back. Marsh Silas kept one of his hands on her cheek, his thumb running back and forth just under her eye.
“Should we turn off the light?” she breathed.
“No,” he whispered, raising himself up so he could gaze into her eyes. “I want to see you.”