It was if he were waking up with the warmth of the afternoon sun in his arms.
When Marsh Silas opened his eyes, he found Carstensen lying on her side and nuzzling against his chest. Her head was tucked under his chin and her cheek pressed to his skin. One arm remained draped around him while her other hand nestled in his chest hair. Carstensen’s mouth slightly parted and her warm, gentle breath washed over him. Some of her orange locks covered her eyes and one particularly long strand hung to the corner of her mouth. Both of their bodies were exposed nearly to the waist, the blankets having been pushed down in the night. His eyes traveled down her toned musculature, the defined lines along her shoulders, arms, and criss-crossing her abdomen. The battle scars along her forearms and midsection, the subtle curves of her torso, her small, athletic breasts, the veins in her arms, the strength to the angles of her jaw.
How could he not stare? Wearing a sleepy smile and still blinking himself awake, he just took her in, unable and unwilling to look away. Reaching over, he gently clutched her chin and ran her thumb along, just as he had last night when they drifted off to sleep. Finally, he kissed Carstensen on her forehead. At this, she stirred a little bit, smiled, but then fell back to sleep without ever having opened her eyes.
Marsh Silas knew he would not be so fortunate. He pawed at the wrist-chrono on the nightstand and checked the time. It was 0600. He looked up and was greeted by pale morning light flooding through the windows. Fluffy snowflakes fell lazily and created a small shelf at the base of the glass.
Slowly and carefully, he extricated himself from her arms. Finally on his feet, he drew the blankets up to her shoulders. Stirring again, her lips pursed and she made a small mewl, but soon her face relaxed. Marsh brushed the hair from Carstensen’s mouth and tucked it behind her ear. Then, he went to the window.
A column of troops marched down the crooked street while sentries patrolled on the sidewalks. On a motor-bike came a dispatch rider who wore leather satchels on both shoulders. Of course, there were many vox-drones zooming in every direction overhead. Not long after the rider entered the garrison, a Chimera rolled by, its treads leaving dark tracks in the snow. Eventually, a pair of servitors came along and cleared the streets, sidewalks, and barricades of snow.
Cold air filtered through the glass and his skin prickled. The air of the room was heated but standing undressed, he couldn’t help shivering. So, he hurried back to his side of the bed, knelt, and made the Sign of the Aquila.
“My Emperor, my Creator, my Guardian. I thank Thee for bestowing unto me another day in Your light.” He opened one eye, peeking at Carstensen, then closed it again. His smile grew. “And I thank Thee for bequeathing me with a gift greater than my own life: the life, heart, and soul of another of your loyal and faithful servants. It is through her You have made the future seem so much brighter. I can offer no greater repayment than what You already have from me: my life and my service. Gifts small and unequal to those You have given me. For that, I am sorry and ashamed my Lord, but know you will always have them in me.”
He collected his grooming kit and went to the washroom where he first used a brush and cleansing paste to scrub his teeth, knowing Honeycutt would be performing an inspection at some point. Any man who hadn’t cleaned his teeth was going to be subjected to a cuff on the ear, a colorfully creative reprimand, and remedial training that would leave his wrist and forearm burning by the end. Then, he ran the water in the shower until it was warm. He took his time, scrubbing hard with the soap provided by the establishment. This stuff was different from the regulation cleanser provided by the Astra Militarum. It was softer and the scent was sweeter than the sterile smell of Militarum-issued bars.
Just as he closed his eyes and ran his head under the water, he heard the sliding glass door open. A cold hand touched his back and he smiled. “I bid you a fair morning, Commissar,” said Marsh.
“I am Lilias here, not Commissar,” came her whisper. Carstensen wrapped her arms around him and swayed from side to side. She kissed the back of his neck and planted more across his shoulders. Then, her fingers ran up to his soapy hair and massaged his scalp.
“When we have our own manse, I pray we spend each morn like this,” Marsh said.
“When the great work is done, and we have made good, then we shall.” They rinsed Marsh off and then she squeezed by him. “All done? My turn, lest you use up all the hot water.”
“Yes, yes, clean up, you stink.”
“Who’s fault is that?”
Marsh felt the sting of her hand on his behind. Grinning, he caught her wrist, pulled her back, and planted a deep kiss upon her lips. Caught off-guard and blushing, she quickly hurried into the shower, suppressing a lovely smile.
While she washed, Marsh dried off a little bit and then put the towel on the edge of the counter. Letting the tap run to fill the basin, he carefully removed the small adhesive bandage he kept on the bridge of his nose. He winced as he revealed the scarred notch. Reaching into his grooming kit, he took out another khaki-colored bandage and pasted it over the old wound. By then, the basin was full, so he splashed some on the stubble across his cheeks, then applied shaving soap. Taking out the straight razor, he scraped the stubble away, repetitively wiping the remnants on the towel before dipping the blade back into the steaming hot water. Multiple times, he had to wipe the mirror as the steam fogged it over.
“Are these the problems a fellow on a Civilized World has to deal with each morn?” he said into the mirror.
“I was thinking the very same,” Carstensen said. “Since last night, I haven’t had one military thought. Shameful.” There was a coy tone to her voice that revealed she wasn’t as ashamed as she said. This made Marsh smile as he shaved.
The water turned off, the door slid open, and one of Carstensen’s legs emerged. Marsh Silas could not help but watch her exit the shower. He dipped the razor into the water again and tapped it on the rim of the porcelain basin. “On my first furlough, we got to attend a special event put on for the local troops. Some political general decided a troop of dancers ought to be brought in to entertain us. Those ladies were quite leggy and wore the most flouncy, scanty dresses you ever saw in your life. Had a funny name, too. Something like, ‘Bertram’s Babes,’ or ‘Bertie’s Babies,’ can’t quite recall. None of us ever saw anything like that before seeing how Cadian folk don’t tend to wear anything but their uniforms. Of course, the dogfaces’ tongues were a-wagging, let me tell you.”
Carstensen wrapped herself in a towel and gave him a smokey look.
“I suppose you’d like to see me in one of those ridiculous costumes,” she said. Marsh Silas held up his hands as if he were surrendering.
“I said no such thing!” Carstensen came over, coiling one of her arms around his torso and running her hand up and down his chest.
“Do you think I would not wear it well?”
“My fair lady,” Marsh Silas breathed as her hand ran a little lower down his abdomen. The sensation made his stomach drop pleasantly and a feeling of titillating lightness crept up his back. “You would wear anything well, madam.”
“I like that answer, although I think Commissariat crimson and black will suit me for the time being.”
Carstensen kissed him on the temple and then slipped out of the washroom. Marsh Silas continued shaving, smiling the entire time. Seeing his own expression, he decided he had never smiled so much in his life. It was by that conclusion he also determined he had never felt so glad in all his years. There were plenty of moments for joviality in a soldier’s life and during his times of youth. But this seemed to overshadow them all.
Done shaving, he splashed some more water on his face, and wiped it all down with the clean end of his towel. Wrapping another around his waist, he went back out into the bedroom. Lilias sat on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off, the other curled back so she was nearly sitting on it. She bent forward slightly with her open grooming kit beside her. Her aquamarine eyes focused on a palm-sized mirror she balanced against the bedpost. Holding a comb in her right hand, she worked it through her damp hair, rooting out the tangles and knots in it. The pale towel she wore slid down her body and eventually opened up a little, exposing her breast. But she did not notice, or if she did, she was completely unconcerned. Perhaps she was too concentrated, was simply comfortable, or both.
As he watched, he went over to his jacket and retrieved his ebony pipe. He sprinkled tabac leaves into it, struck a match, but paused before lighting it.
“Would you prefer I smoked outdoors?”
“It is my wish you remain and smoke your pipe here, my love. Smoke away,” Carstensen said without looking up. The Lieutenant dipped his match into the bowel and soon began puffing. Then, he sat down close behind her, his own towel slipping loose as well. When she paused to brush a few locks back, Marsh plucked the comb from her hand. Taking a handful of her orange hair, he ran the comb through it.
Gently and slowly, he worked until every lock in his hands was smooth. Over her shoulder, he saw Carstensen’s reflection in the small mirror. Soft, tender, blushing, happy. “If this is the life that awaits you and I once we are no longer soldiers, then I suppose it is not a bad one.”
“Aye. This is something I could become very accustomed to,” Marsh replied. “You know, I think we should call upon Warden-Colonel von Bracken.”
“So early?”
“He appreciates initiative. You already have the outline prepared, yes? Let us submit for his review and ask for his sponsorship. With the back of a high-ranking, famous Cadian with a fortune behind him, surely Cadian High Command would accept.”
“I am sure they would appreciate another academy for officers and Commissars.”
“Ah, but it would be more than that, wouldn’t it? A place where they learn to become teachers, not just leaders. Providers of inspiration, courage, and strength, not mongers who threaten and bludgeon. You’ll show them. We’ll show them that leaders do not have to be terrorizers.”
“It is a dream and a mission,” Carstensen whispered. “Very well. We will go to him as soon as we are able.”
“Good. Hopefully, the man will not be too bothered by you having stolen me from his niece last night.”
“How can I steal what is already mine?”
Marsh Silas took his pipe away from his lips, released the smoke in his lungs, and kissed her. It grew deeper, more passionate, and before long he had rolled Carstensen onto her back. His towel slipped off entirely and her own opened entirely. Their bare bodies pressed against one another and their fingers interlocked. Propping himself up, he gazed at her and Carstensen bashfully looked away. How the Commissar looked so lively and womanly when her cheeks flushed! She was intoxicating to Marsh Silas and it took every ounce of strength not to kiss her again.
“How I must resist,” Marsh teased her.
“And resist you must, or you’ll spoil the evening’s events,” Carstensen teased back. She plucked his pipe out of his hand and began puffing on it. After releasing a few smoke rings, she turned it around in her hands. She ran her thumb over the golden Aquila emblem and then held the pipe up. In the light from the lamp, it shone like a freshly polished Militarum boot. “This is of a very fine make, above your wages when you were an enlisted man. Are you sure it wasn’t acquired by barter or theft?”
Marsh Silas could see by her smirk and the playful glint in her eyes that she was trying to tease him. He slid down and rested his head on her breasts while she leaned back against the pillows and continued smoking.
“Long before I was born, my papa was stationed on a developing Lumber World designated as AWD-657, but it’s probably called something different nowadays. His regiment stood on guard as great machines cut down the forests. He came to discover the wood harvested from these trees was as black as night and quite heavy. Apparently, the wood is used for fancy things like figurines and canes. So he decided to take a chunk for himself and later on paid half a Terran year’s wage for a craftsman to forge him a pipe. That became his war pipe. I don’t know if he ever intended it to be passed down, but after he died it became my war pipe.”
He inhaled deeply. In that breath, he could smell not only the sweet soap they used, but also Carstensen’s alluring natural scent of deep earth. Readjusting slightly, her breast softer underneath his cheek, he closed his eyes.
“Your father passed when you were young, like mine.”
“Yes, but he didn’t have the opportunity to die so gloriously in battle. Let’s not speak of such sad things on a good morning.”
“A morning can always become good again, sweet Silas.”
Marsh opened a sleepy eye and craned his neck to look up at her. Carstensen smiled warmly at him, the pipe dangling from her closed lips. Her fingers ran through his hair, petting and playing with his golden locks. He closed his eyes again.
“When he came back to Cadia with mama, he was no longer in command of a Shock Trooper regiment. He expected a posting in the Interior Guard. Instead, a regiment tithed from some distant world, its name I cannot remember, lost its commander and he was asked to take over. I recall he said they were nothing but a bunch of laggards, shirks, and cowards, and he did everything in his power to train them. Well, they must have resented that because one night when he was on furlough, someone came a-knocking on our door.”
Marsh opened his eyes. He didn’t wish to see the images replay in his head. “One of his soldiers shot him. While the sentries posted nearby tore after him, I tried to dress my father’s wounds using a few tricks I picked up during the Month of Making. Nothing worked. He bled to death in the doorway.”
“Did they find the scoundrel who shot him?”
“I never found out. My father’s parents sent me and mama packing swiftly after that.” Marsh Silas brought his hand up and rested it on Carstensen’s stomach for a moment. Then, he traced circles around her belly button; her muscles quivered beneath his finger. Carstensen’s hand slid to the back of his head.
“Did you ever crave vengeance?”
“I was angry. But Ghent sent me to the chapel to pray before I left. I kept going even after we were shipped to Macharia. The Emperor soothed my soul. He saw fit to use me for higher reasons: fighting in His battles. Pursuing vengeance woulda been right selfish of me.” He chuckled to himself. “Although pursuing you might be selfish, too.”
Carstensen’s embrace tightened and he felt her lips against the top of his forehead.
“No. We belong together. It is the Emperor’s will, I know it in my heart of hearts.”
Marsh Silas smiled. He was so comfortable he could have gone back to sleep. But he shifted a little and lifted his head so he could look up at her. Again, he shifted his head to look up at her.
“Your papa?”
“There was no heroism involved. Reports indicated he fell while advancing with the troops.”
“You said you were sent to the Schola Progenium. What of your mother, then?”
“She died not long after him. There was no sickness. It just so happened one day I awoke and she did not. No one told me anything so I could only rely on gossip among her servants. Some spoke of a chem overdose, others murder, but one said she died because she was heartsick for my father.”
“Heartsick?” Marsh echoed. “Can someone really die of that?”
“Only the Emperor can say.”
Marsh Silas nodded a little. “After we speak to von Bracken, let us visit the cathedral. We’ll say prayers for your parents and mine. Then, we’ll see where our feet take us.”
“That sounds lovely.”
So the two extricated themselves from the comfort of their bed and donned their uniforms. Marsh Silas decided to add his ribbon rack to his khaki tunic. With the new decorations, it was becoming rather large. For a moment, he gazed at the golden Obscurus Honorifica, unsure if he should wear it. But Carstensen took it from his hand and pinned it to his chest above his ribbons. Beside it was his Medallion Crimson as well as the Triple Skull, which were worn on the left side of the chest above the ribbons on a standard khaki uniform.
Carstensen tugged at his coat, adjusted his belt, inspected the ribbon rack a final time, and nodded. Arms akimbo, she invited Marsh Silas to do the same. Like him, she wore her ribbon rack on her dark coat with the Order of Commissar-Captain Bachmeier above it. The golden medal shone brilliantly in the dull lamp light. He made sure her jacket fitted evenly on her shoulders and that her cuffs were rolled correctly. He was quite certain that she left those adjustments for him on purpose. Carstensen was always immaculate in her dress and would have spotted such oversights very quickly.
Side by side, caps under their arms, they walked to the door of the apartment. Marsh Silas grabbed the doorknob but Carstensen caught his hand.
“What if some of the men are out in the hall and see us?” she asked.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
I checked. You’re all clear. Be quick, though, Color Sergeant Babcock is nearly dressed!
Marsh Silas squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as Barlocke’s voice drifted away.
“Let’s put our faith in the God-Emperor.”
The door swung open and revealed an empty hall. Marsh Silas breathed in relief. “Thank you,” he said, both to Barlocke and the Emperor.
Carstensen betrayed no further emotion and the pair went to Hyram’s door. Marsh Silas rapped his knuckles against the wooden trim. “Lieutenant Hyram, sir?” There was no response. He knocked again. “Sir? Are you up?” Marsh glanced at Carstensen. “Maybe he’d wake if you’d call him ‘father.’”
“You’ll pay for that one, Silas. Go and wake father, I’ll go below and see who is up.”
As Carstensen marched to the steps, he stared after her. “Father?” he echoed jokingly. Carstensen stopped by the railing, faced him, raised her chin, and clicked her heels.
“You heard me,” was all she said, and disappeared down the stairs in a huff.
Chuckling to himself, Marsh pushed the door open. All the lights he turned off the previous evening were still dark. Only one lamp glowed through the second door: the bedside light he left on. He found Hyram all curled up in the sheets, the picts of his wife and son still in his hands. Fresh saliva dribbled from his mouth onto the pillowcase. He was snoring very loudly.
To see Hyram, an officer who was a soldier’s soldier but still very much a gentleman, in a state more disheveled than those long days in the hinterland, was both humorous and shocking. Marsh Silas couldn’t help but stare for a few minutes, smiling that delighted crooked smile of his. Eventually, he reached down and shook his friend by the shoulder.
“Sir, rouse yourself.”
“Why don’t you rouse yourself out of my room,” mumbled Hyram.
“Come on, sir, you need to wash, you smell awful. Phew, I can still smell the amasec on your breath.”
Upon hearing that, Hyram rolled onto his back, and exhaled deeply towards Marsh Silas. The cloud of repellent breath made his skin crawl. “Alright, if that’s the way you’re gonna be about it.”
Going to the washroom, he found an empty glass cup. He filled it with cold water, walked back into the room, took the picts from the officer’s hand, and dumped it on Hyram’s face. The Lieutenant shouted angrily and sprang from the bed with his drool-covered pillow. He swung wildly at Marsh Silas who chortled with laughter as he ducked and dodged across the room.
Eventually, Hyram gave up. He tossed the pillow on the bed and sat down on the edge, running a hand through his damp hair.
“My bloody head,” he complained, rubbing his temples. “I haven’t drank like that in a long time. What a poor example of a Cadian officer.”
Marsh Silas, pipe in hand, sat down next to him.
“You’re among your men, sir. They’re proud Cadians but they’re common-folk, too. They like it when you act like them. What counts is you act like an officer on the battlefield. Of course, when you’re at the head of your own regiment one day, you might have to check such behavior.”
“Oh, I’ve spent too much time with the grunts to become a true gentleman.”
He was certainly a humble man. Marsh Silas admired that in his friend. Putting his pipe back to his lips, he handed the picts over to him. Still rubbing his head with one hand, Hyram gazed at them for a few moments. A strange, mystic sort of smile crossed his face. “What would my Isabella think of me now? Before I was nothing more than a clerk, a Militarum attaché to the Departmento Munitorum. I took my drink bitterly, quietly, and alone in the family study. Now I lead missions, sleep in open country for days on end, charge enemy positions, bark orders, pin medals, and drink myself to oblivion with those damned wonderful rankers. I have never been so happy.”
He put the pictures on the nightstand, bowed his head, and held it with both hands. “I need a new head.”
“I think your wife would be damn proud, sir.”
“Stop calling me that. We are both Lieutenants and brothers.”
“You possess a higher grade.”
“Unimportant.” Hyram looked up slowly. His violet gaze was somber and without the light from last night. There was an understanding in those eyes, though, and a sweetness in his smile. He reached over and patted Marsh on his cheek and stood up. Immediately, he clutched his aching head again but finally righted himself. With a sigh, he journeyed into the bathroom and left the door open a crack. Water began running. “Well, what do you have in store for Bloody Platoon?”
“Between their aching heads and full bellies, a whole lot of nothing. They’re on furlough, we’ll save the drilling for later on.”
“I was asking after the happy couple.” Marsh Silas blushed.
“We plan to visit von Bracken to introduce him to Carstensen’s proposal—you’re welcome to come along. Then, she and I will visit the cathedral.”
“If you are to be wed this day, I’m coming along.”
“Throne, we just wish to pray!”
Hyram laughed as the water ceased. Marsh waited for him to towel off. Looking around, he spotted the parchment they had signed last night. He chuckled as he reread Hyram’s drunken scrawl. Carstensen’s and Marsh’s own signatures were quite clean in comparison.
Hyram came out of the washroom wrapped with a white towel around his waist. Both identification tags swayed across his chest. Once, he had been quite a skinny fellow but now he was quite impressive. The small gut had flattened into hard muscle and his shoulders were well-defined. Veins wove down his forearms and hands. In proper Cadian fashion, he bore plenty of scars now.
Sitting on the bed, Hyram took a packet of lho-sticks from his coat pocket, slid on out, and lit the end with a match. He leaned back, took a long drag, and gazed sleepily at Marsh Silas.
“When you two have children, don’t name your son after me.”
“I…beg pardon, brother, I was not quite prepared for this conversation.”
“I’m named for my father. I’ve always hated that. How can a man be expected to serve his Emperor when he is always in the shadow of someone else? You, me, and Carstensen, we are forging a future of change. So let us not dwell in the past; give your son a name of your own choosing.”
“Brother, take it from me, nobody gives a shit about your father. They only know your name and that’s the only Seathan Hyram worth caring about. You’ll always be your own man.”
Hyram looked at him in surprise, then smiled tenderly. Stubbing his lho-stick in the ashtray, he nodded and stood up.
“Very well. I’ll be down shortly. Break your fast with your lady love before these malcontents stir.”
Marsh Silas left his friend and journeyed to the first floor. Only a few men were up. Monty Peck hummed to himself as he consumed a few strips of Grox bacon. Drummer Boy sat beside him, face-down on the bartop next to an untouched mug of steaming recaf. The Whiteshields were wide awake, apparently doing well after their first battle with amasec.
Carstensen had taken the table she, Marsh, and Hyram sat at the previous night. Two plates were on the table; both had a slice of buttered bread, three strips of Grox bacon, two golden Grox eggs, and a piece of orange fruit. Next to each plate was a mug of recaf.
“Well, isn’t this lovely?” Marsh said as he sat down across from her.
“I worked very hard on it,” Carstensen said with a sly tone.
“Hyram’s coming with us to von Bracken’s office.”
“You’ll have to share or fix him a plate of his own.”
“Hey, that’s your father.”
“Don’t make me dump this plate on your head.”
Hyram joined him, drank only recaf, and waited for them to finish eating. Together, the trio left the soldier’s hall. Kasr Sonnen’s streets buzzed with soldiery. Plenty of Guardsmen were on leave and many more were on sentry details. Heavy vehicles rumbled down the roads, Enginseers led parties of servitors between different facilities, aircraft touched down at the aerobase, and entire regiments marched in formation to the kasr’s gates. Passing through the pavilion of a sub-garrison, they heard a regimental commander giving a rousing speech to his assembled troops. In another compound, troops who were about to be deployed were blessed by dozens of preachers.
After passing through the gate checkpoint, flashing their identification papers as they did, they went all the way to the private officers in the headquarters building. Many times, they stopped to have their papers checked. They struggled through the masses of scribes, menials, servitors, Tech-Priests, staff officers, and adjutant NCOs which stormed through the halls. Everywhere, hundreds of voices spoke, vox-arrays crackled and transmitted, Servo-skulls bumbled by, and Commissars delivered speeches to the hundreds of cubicle workers.
They finally came to an office with a temporary plaque outside bearing the Warden-Colonel’s name. Marsh Silas knocked on the heavy metal door.
“Who calls?”
“Lieutenants Cross and Hyram, and Commissar Carstensen!”
“Enter, enter!” The trio removed their hats, lined up in front of his desk, and saluted. Von Bracken stood up and returned the gesture. His office was modest and lacked the furnishing a regularly posted officer had. No paintings or personal possessions, just a cogitator, a desk, some storage and filing cabinets, and a few chairs.
Von Bracken sat back down and held out his arms. “Well, to have three heroes standing before me, truly I am blessed!”
“We are likewise honored, sir,” said Carstensen. “It is rare to become acquainted with an esteemable hero and devoted servant such as you. It is because of your reverence that we have come to submit a proposal.” Carstensen held up a packet of paperwork. “I am planning to construct a new academy. The student body would be composed of already commissioned officers and Commissars of any rank to attend extra coursework to enhance their capabilities. But, the majority of the students would be individuals seeking commissions and Cadet Commissairs. Drill Abbots, Commissars, and Astra Militarum officers would facilitate their education and oversee their growth and bearing as leaders of soldiers.”
She slid the papers onto his desk. Von Bracken eyed them warily before picking them up. He flipped through the pages slowly.
“New academies are built all the time through private sponsorship and official Militarum decrees,” he said. “Although I have never encountered junior officers who have the desire to build a schola. It is not a bad theory but this curriculum is…different.”
“It is meant to be, sir,” said Marsh Silas. “Forgive me, but I shall speak frankly. Too often are Guardsmen harassed, heaped, and terrified of their Commissars and others in the officer corps. These men and women are brave and true, yet they are treated with contempt by their leadership. It is as if they have been deemed to be cowardly failures before the first shots have been fired. This saps morale in garrison and blights their fighting spirit in combat. Guardsmen are not so ready to fight when they think there is someone of their own ranks ready to shoot them in the back.”
Von Bracken had put the papers down and sat forward. He clasped his hands together on the desk and stared at Marsh Silas, hard. It was enough to give the young officer pause but, feeling the presence of his comrades beside him, he kept on. “Lieutenant Hyram, Commissar Carstensen, and myself believe there needs to be a change in the styles and manners of leadership. Commissars are beacons of courage yet they do not act as such, they belittle and punish.”
“They push the lacking and punish the failures, that is their duty.”
“Sir, we are not advocating that we leave the malcontents and laggards unmolested,” Hyram cut in. “Such individuals require policing. But now the men who devote themselves to the Emperor and the cause. Those brave Guardsmen who strive for excellence each day, who only wish to fight and do their part for the Imperium. Such spirits are damaged when they are treated as criminals and cowards.”
“A Commissar should inspire valor, not dread,” Carstensen said. “I have served for many years in the Emperor’s armies. I have not had to flog, deduct wages, or menace my troopers to do their duty. I stand with them or in front of them, not behind. I eat their food, drink their drinks, sleep where they sleep, and act as they do.”
“One could criticize that they do not respect you.”
“On the contrary, the men of my platoon respect her all the more for it,” put in Marsh Silas. “Our Whiteshields learned from her and went on to act bravely in the face of great odds. This platoon spent a long time out in that hostile land and came through it, not because they were afraid of her bolt pistol but because they heard her weapon clatter along with their lasrifles.”
“We wish to pass on that which we have developed in the field; education, inspiration, and respect. When soldiers feel respected and trusted, they will do all in their power to uphold those tenets and pass it on to others. From the officer and Commissar corps, the effects will trickle down to the enlisted ranks just as it has in Bloody Platoon. Then, with new generations of Commissars and officers filtering into the ranks, they will enhance and uplift these soldiers who strive and sacrifice so much for their Emperor,” Carstensen finished.
Von Bracken nodded slowly. Tapping the pages a few times, he closed the packet, stood up, and folded his hands behind his back. He clicked his heels and walked around to the front of the desk. Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen remained stock-still as he paced back and forth before them. Eventually, he stopped in front of the Commissar.
“Have you the funds for this project?”
“I have amassed a modest sum from backpay,” Carstensen said.
“I have a small fortune attributed to my name,” added Hyram. Von Bracken turned his attention to Marsh Silas. He walked in front of him and folded his hands on his chest. The Lieutenant looked up at him.
“I do not have much, but I will spend every Throne if it could get this schola built.”
“It means that much to you, does it?” He walked back and sat on the front of his desk. “Between the three of you, it is not enough. You seek a sponsorship in me. Understandable. Crafty of you, even.” He smirked but it quickly faded. “I’ve seen men and women like you before, although their resolve never measured up to yours. They had plans and ideas. Some good, some bad, most unfeasible. Even those that did appear sound were washed away in the fires of war. Such is the fate of most soldiers. But I look into your eyes and I see these are not mere ideas to you. These are dreams—passions.”
Von Bracken breathed deeply, almost as if he were forlorn. “Such is youth, I suppose. I had many of my own. But your fires burn brightly and I cannot help admiring your spirits. I will not give you the answer you seek today, yet I will make you a promise.”
The Warden-Colonel stood up straight and tall, raising his chin and puffing out his chest. “There are battles to come. Great ones, indeed. If you three can prove to me your ideas are effective in the field before mine-own eyes, if you can pull your men through it intact, if you can demonstrate all these tenets you espouse, I will not only provide the sponsorship, I will propose it to Cadian High Command alongside you.”
Then, he smiled and turned his attention to Marsh Silas. “And when they agree, you and I will have to discuss your prospects about the Kasrkin. Do you find that all agreeable?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” the trio cried.
“Very good. Continue developing the curriculum and keep me informed of its progress. Now, be gone you three, before I change my mind.”
Salutes were exchanged and Marsh, Carstensen, and Hyram quickly vacated Fort Mollitiam. Standing together in the street under the snowfall, they grinned eagerly and embraced.
“Well done!” said Hyram. “That old man will see that it is worthwhile indeed. When the snow clears and the heretics come out to fight again, we’ll show him!”
“Damn right we will,” Marsh said, then tapped Carstensen on the back. “I know how you and I will spend our days in this furlough.”
“We have much work ahead of us indeed. Let us not celebrate too early, let us set to our tasks and prepare for the coming days.” But she smiled at Marsh Silas. “After we say our prayers, first.”
Hyram bade them farewell and returned to the soldier’s hall. Marsh and Carstensen continued walking down the snowy streets. Many other auxiliaries, citizens, and off-duty Guardsmen were trickling from their various steads, halls, and barracks. A massive procession formed on the roadways as the grand cathedral loomed from the white haze. Hundreds and thousands of people waited on the steps while lay preachers sang on the steps.
As Marsh and Carstensen waited in the crowd to approach, the former smiled softly and slipped his hand around her own.
“We are making it happen, Lilias.”
“I know it.”
“When it is done, I am going to marry you in this cathedral.”
“I know,” she said with a smile.
***
Those days in Kasr Sonnen passed slowly, routinely, and pleasantly. Each morning, Bloody Platoon awoke in good spirits, metered only by their bad headaches, and broke their fasts together. Morning prayers were recited again and then they assembled for light drilling. Each detail ended in the central garrison. Newly promoted members of the platoon underwent additional training and coursework that came with their new ranks. When they were not in class, they took on light administrative work with Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft.
After their midday meal, everyone gathered around to watch Babcock work on the new platoon standard. It was a highly delicate process requiring great skill. But the Color Sergeant performed it diligently, his large hands deftly and gently weaving the thread. Much to the delight of the Whiteshields, Babcock asked them to assist. This duty consisted of fetching more material or holding certain parts of the flag. To them, it was an immense honor.
Some time later, the platoon broke up. Some went to the cathedral to pray, others went to the garrison to practice their marksmanship or attend weapons qualification training, and many more ventured across Kasr Sonnen to observe the statues and busts of Cadian heroes and Imperial Saints. By far, this was one of Marsh’s favorite activities and it was made all the better with Carstensen’s company. Hyram and many of their friends came as well.
Afterwards, Bloody Platoon regrouped for another marching drill and then light combatives training the garrison. That was great fun as they tussled, wrestled, and grappled with one another. At 1800 hours, they returned for the evening meals which always led to more celebrating. Although it was never as wild and rambunctious as their first night in Kasr Sonnen, the platoon made merry. Every night, Hyram assured Marsh Silas he would not drink too much and every night his erstwhile friend was forced to carry the drunken officer upstairs to his quarters.
Monty Peck entertained the platoon with a selection of songs and the vast majority of the men would join in. Whenever he sang, Monty Peck stood and danced on the bar top or dining table. He called these his ‘stages.’ When other units arrived, each man took a partner to perform his duty, save for Hyram, the Whiteshields, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen.
All the while, the three friends continued to labor over the curriculum. Hyram started designing the layout of the various halls from the sleeping quarters and dining rooms to the classrooms and courtyards. Marsh Silas organized the various staff networks; supporting faculty, the rank of the headmaster, the number of personnel afforded per units of cadets. Carstensen continually improved upon the curriculum, devising new courses, advanced training classes, hands-on application of their lessons, brief liaisons in regiments, guest speakers and the like.
In the soldier’s hall, in office space in the garrison, or just laying and sitting on the floor of one of their private quarters, they wrote, scratched, drew, crushed paper, laid new sheets out flat, and side by side, discussed, planned, and dreamed until they could do no more.
Every night, Marsh Silas and Carstensen made love, talked until the late hours, and fell asleep coiled in one another’s arms. Although she did her best to resist, she always fell asleep before him. Marsh liked to leave the bedside lamp on for a little while just so he could gaze at her. Eventually, sleep overpowered him. Extinguishing the light, he would nestle against the love of his life, thank the Emperor for another blessed day in His grace, and drift to sleep, dreaming not of memories but of colorful futures to come.
And for a time, life on Cadia was good. The men of Bloody Platoon would forever remember this time as ‘The Days of Gold.’