Even though the majority of fighting over the past six months occurred in the valley, Kasr Sonnen was still in disrepair. Many of the Bastion towers were marked with holes, entire complexes were reduced to ruins, piles of rubble covered the streets, and soldier halls were naught but hollows. Despite the smoke and debris, there was still a grandeur to the kasr. Huge recruiting posters displaying Cadian heroes looked all the more inspiring when riddled with bullet holes. Frayed banners still waved. Soldiers were posted throughout the ruins, even embedding themselves among the fallen buildings. Leman Russ tanks stood among the piles like islands. Songs of prayer played over the kasr-wide intercom system, processions weaved between the destruction, and soldiers gathered by the fires to sing.
It took all day for the convoy to reach its billet. Paths had to be cleared by servitors and engineers. Along the way, Interior Guardsmen, Shock Troopers, Whiteshields, auxiliaries, and so many ordinary citizens appeared to cheer the returning soldierly. There were whistles, shouts, songs, and a great deal of flag-waving. Many troopers posted to the kasr’s defense during the long siege jumped onto the Chimeras to give the beleaguered Guardsmen water, lho-sticks, and rations.
Marsh Silas still heard all the aggrandizement and jubilation ringing his ears when they reached their quarters. Unable to get to one of the kasr garrisons due to blocked roads, the 1333rd Regiment was finally bivouacked in the grand cathedral—the very same one he visited during their short furlough nearly two solar years ago with Barlocke and again with Carstensen after their first night abed together. Even though the adamantium plates which covered the rockcrete were scorched and many of the armaglass windows were shattered, the cathedral was still a place of great beauty. Torches illuminated alluring frescoes in warm, orange light and the golden metalworking of Aquila figurines glowed grandly.
Guardsmen filled the pews. Wounded men were allowed to lay down, resting their heads on the shoulders or laps of their friends. Others clustered together on the floor, wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Honeycutt changed the dressings on Marsh’s legs and gave him a shot of nullifiers. It was the first time he had one in a long time and the medic had to scrounge for it. To feel no pain, just fatigue, was a great luxury. He was even able to walk, albeit stiffly and slowly. After making his rounds, he wanted to find someplace to sit down. But more outfits from the battlefield were arriving and bedding down in the cathedral as well.
Unwilling to take a seat from an enlisted man, he found a column behind the last pew on the right side of the cathedral. Most of Bloody Platoon and the remains of the 1333rd were on this side, anyway. Leaning against it, he looked over the heads of his comrades. Sisters Madriga sang from the shrine at the front of the cathedral. Their voices were not majestic or powerful; instead, they maintained a steady, beautiful chime. There was a great calm to it, gentle and caressing in its tone. It was almost like listening to a lullaby. Resting his head against the stone, Marsh thought he could fall asleep. But his smile widened as he felt an arm wrap around him.
“Before we departed, Chaplain Anato told me that a funeral procession for Captain Galen will be held in Kasr Sonnen after the battle ends. I told him there would be no better place to end then at this very place.”
“What better place than within the house we wish to be wed? Would you want to wait for them to repair the damage?” Marsh whispered to her.
“And forgo golden sunlight filtering through the holes in the roof? I think not.” Carstensen nuzzled him. “That is a reward that will go unmatched, but this? Here we stand in a house of the Emperor, protected and shielded by His love and soothed by His singers. It comes close.”
Marsh put his arm around her as well. Torchlight blooming above them illuminated Carstensen’s face. It made her orange hair glow despite how dirty and shaggy it was. Her eyes, usually a sparkling miasma of aquamarine, were dark from the low light.
“My dearest girl, you’ve spoken true,” Marsh replied before planting a kiss on the top of her head. He breathed her in; her locks smelled like Cadian earth.
“These are your first smiles all evening. You’ve been so quiet. Please, speak to me.”
Marsh Silas chewed his bottom lip a little. Eventually flashing her his crooked grin, he ran his hand up and down her side. It was not a mask he wore nor did he try to reassure her. The embrace was born from sincere affection and she responded in kind, pressing further into him.
“Lilias, I thank you. I was falling,” Marsh said to her. “I could feel myself descending to someplace where only darkness and despair reign. I saw this siege, its mundanity, its nothingness, its abyss, and I saw the Imperium. Tottering towards mutual destruction with its foes. Little by little, I felt my courage, my strength, my spirit, ebbing away. Little wounds again and again, making me brittle, until all it took was one blow to send me toppling.” He held her close and pressed his forehead against her own. “You caught me and pulled me back from the precipice. You reminded me what courage is. You are the bravest of the brave.”
Carstensen did not speak for a great while. Instead, she gazed out over the pews, eyes mystic and searching.
“Did ye not come here long ago with Barlocke?”
“He found me here, once,” Marsh Silas said. “Aye, much transpired beforehand. We quarreled, he revealed his power to me, and knowing my mind was troubled, foresaw my coming here. We spoke at great lengths and got up to a little mischief, but a kind that resulted in a kindness I knew not existed. Such was the night we truly became friends. He had a way of opening me up, even if he left me quite confused most of the time. It takes a special kinda fellow to test you. Such a strange man, and a good friend.” I miss you too, Silvanus.
“You still think of him very often,” Carstensen said. “You attempt to embody his vision for a better Imperium. You find resolve in all he showed you.” Carstensen turned in his arms and rested one hand on his chest and the other on his cheek. She smiled so lovingly then, brightening up her dirty face. How could he not brush his fingers against her cheek and press his lips to hers?
They parted a little, their eyes dreamy. “Sometimes, I wonder where my own courage comes from,” Carstensen admitted. “All I ever wanted to be was a Commissar who was worth following into combat. I didn’t want to shoot anyone to make them obey. How, I used to wonder, how will I fulfill this dream? Will I ever be strong enough? Then, I realized it when I came to Army’s Meadow. You. You, Hyram, Babcock, Drummer Boy, Holmwood and Stainthrope, the twins, the Whiteshields, Tatum, Bullard, Monty Peck, Derryhouse, Olhouser, everyone. You all were the key. It was a matter of finding people worth leading, worth fighting for, worth dying for. Now, I have the strength to bring this to all Guardsmen, known and unknown, to teach generations to come.”
Carstensen slid her other hand up, lacing it through some of Marsh’s blonde locks. For the first time, she seemed close to tears. They glimmered like gems in the firelight. Her smile persisted through it all. “We all have moments of fear, doubt, and weakness. You, like many, have the spirit to draw yourself out of the abyss. Yet, you are a mere man. There are times where the reservoir runs dry. That is when you must tap into another well: our comradeship, this brotherhood which the Emperor has created, in which we shall always find our will. Remember, whenever we face the great nothing which appears in the fog of war, the Emperor gives us each other to remind us these battles are worth fighting.”
She squeezed him tightly. “It will not be the last time, Silas. We will face the insurmountable again and suffer these wounds. When you find you can no longer summon the will to fight on, come to us, as we come to you, our leader. You are our spirit, the platoon’s beating heart, and we are yours. Remember that and you will never give into futility again.”
They kissed once more. Marsh knew he had nothing to say. Carstensen turned so their shoulders were together and she rested her head upon his. In turn, he pressed his cheek to her head. One arm around the other, they closed their eyes and listened to the Sisters Madriga. Their songs wove around and around them, veiling them as though their words were a blanket. Together, enraptured and carried, they were warmed for the first time in many months.
Standing silently, they watched the men of Bloody Platoon each approach the shrine. Lighting incense, they knelt, made the Sign of the Aquila over their hearts, and bowed their heads. Some came together, forming rings and holding hands. Quite a few turned away, their glistening eyes visible from the end of the cathedral. Those Guardsmen were at peace now but the survivors of the regiment were sorrowful for those comrades who could not bask in that quiet glory. No proper funeral for the departed could be held yet as there had not been enough to recover. Some merely disappeared, lost in an artillery barrage or buried underneath a collapsed bunker. Hopes were high for the recovery effort—the battle fought after the cataclysms of war—to turn something up. Identification tags, part of a uniform, a body, or at least part of it. Knowing their souls were now astride the Emperor’s provided some consolation; Marsh promising to write to their families as well as include bonuses and backpay gave a little more.
But they, as well as Marsh Silas, wished each of those fallen men—from Bloody Platoon, the 1333rd, the 45th Altridge, the 95th, the 217th, the lost 577th, all the rest—were with them now. So, the men bade their resting comrades goodnight and farewell. All turned away, sorrowing, the tears gleaming on their cheeks. Burning incense sticks appeared all over the shrine like so many beacons and the soothing smoke swirled throughout the temple. Each tendril seemed to sweep around and embrace the men who, one by one, fell asleep in the pews.
“How they say goodbye,” Marsh Silas murmured, his eyelids drooping even as the tears fell.
“We must say goodbye to this nightmare,” Carstensen said to him. “That means saying farewell to the fallen. Life marches on, Silas, and so do we.”
“March you do.” The pair knew that voice. Marsh Silas and Carstensen turned around. Von Bracken, still in carapace armor, approached them. He seemed very, very pleased. “I promised that if you got your men through alive and carried the day with your methods, I would sponsor and convey your proposal. A schola, to teach Commissars and officers both minted and experienced, how to inspire, teach, respect, and lead. You were out in that valley for six months, in snow, wind, rain, and mud. You shared their burdens, gave them hope, and uplifted those around you. It was with that zeal and passion that led you to this morning’s feat.”
He came forward and shook both their hands. “Lieutenant Cross, Commissar Carstensen, it is without any doubt that I say you have upheld your end of this bargain and proved your ideals to be effective. If such merits and tenets spur warriors to such feats, then I welcome an institution that teaches your methods of warfighting. You have my sponsorship.”
Marsh Silas and Carstensen stared at von Bracken. A disbelieving laugh croaked from the former. Carstensen covered her mouth with both hands and turned to face Marsh. He turned at the same time and clutched her wrists. Their faces lit up and their eyes twinkled. They couldn’t speak, merely exchanged a series of startled and excited gasps. Laughing, they embraced and staggered from side to side.
Hastily, they kissed and came over to von Bracken to shake his hand. The Warden-Colonel graciously accepted. “Now, I will need you to submit a copy of—” Carstensen reached into her jacket and procured a packet. She quickly placed it into his hand, much to von Bracken and Marsh’s surprise.
“You had it with you?” he asked.
“I carried it with me through the entire siege. I kept it close to my heart.” She placed her hand over her chest. “To remind myself what I was fighting for.”
“Truly, how could I deny such a prospect when you believe so fervently in it?” von Bracken asked. He held up the packet. “I will safeguard and write up my proposal. I will see you again soon.”
Von Bracken left while Carstensen and Marsh embraced again. The Commissar laughed happily into the latter’s chest.
“We did it, we did it,” she kept saying. “The schola will be built, my schola, our schola! It’s real, Silas, it will be real! We did it!”
“You did it,” Marsh said into her ear. “You did it, Lilias.”
“Our dream, my dream, it is true,” she murmured. Carstensen stopped back and took his hands. “Come, let us slip away! We shall find a soldier’s hall, find good food and drink, and bring it all to the men to celebrate. Come, come!”
Holding hands, they ran out of the cathedral. They made it halfway up the steps before they froze. Walking up the steps and putting his weight on a cane, was Colonel Isaev. He paused and gazed grimly at the pair.
“Mobilize the regiment. Now.”
***
What has happened? Did the enemy turn back our forces? Is there a new battle to be fought? We don’t have many supplies. Our uniforms are still in poor shape. I didn’t even get rations for three days. Does anybody have any grenades? Emperor, please keep us. Are those bloody generals going to get us killed? Worry not, they know what they’re doing. Oh, do they? Another trench, I don’t even want to think about it. The rain may have ended but there’s a storm coming, lads. Enough of that talk. Why? Where are we even heading?
These were the hushed words Marsh Silas listened to over the clatter of wheels. Bloody Platoon rode in freight trucks pulled by an armored steam engine. Trains like these ran via the underground tramway that sprawled underneath Kasr Sonnen and the Dagger Mountains. Every bunker, gun position, subterranean barrack, and depot were connected by these tunnels. Facilitating protected troop movements and quick distribution of supplies, the trains ran all day and night from Kasr Sonnen to the northern tip of the range.
It wasn’t the first time he’d ever ridden on such a loud, noisy, metal contraption. Many kasrs had similar railroads and even smaller ones that ran through their fortress walls like the veins in his forearm. But he’d never been on one for this long. The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Huge lamps hung throughout the massive, cavernous tunnel. Each one created an aura of white light with an interval of darkness between it and the next one. Signal lights at junctions shone green along their rails while those over other tracks glowed yellow and red.
Guardsmen walked alongside the rails in long columns, their heavy footsteps drowned out by hissing steam and rattling wheels. The train passed huge artillery chambers occupied by Earthshakers, Colossus and Heavy Siege Mortars, missile launcher batteries, Aquila-pattern Macrocannons, Icarus-pattern Lascannons, and Punisher Gatling Cannons. Large cranes dipped into ports in the rockcrete flooring and raised ammunition crates out. Sentinel Power-lifters carried huge shells or wide palettes of ordnance to gun positions. Enginseers, Tech-Priests, menials from the Labor Corps, and Cadian engineers worked on catwalks and shouted orders. Sparks flashed from whirring power tools. Chain gangs laid new tracks and realigned rails. Hammers rang as they pounded spikes.
It was nothing like an average Cadian camp. One could hear singing from the men who were off-duty, the bombastic shouting of a sergeant or Commissar leading troopers on PT or a detail, and the men’s chatter as they labored. In here, there was naught but industry and machines. All the Guardsmen they passed were sullen, dirty-faced, and hollow-eyed. Some wore helmet-mounted lamp packs which glowed yellow, white, and red. Such beams cut through the haze and darkness. The deeper they traveled through this dark, cold, mechanical world, the more Marsh Silas felt as though something strange and terrible was approaching.
He stepped away from the edge of the freight truck, a cart just big enough to convey a platoon. Most of Bloody Platoon sat on the floor of the cart. Eyes were downcast and faces were long. A full day had not passed and they were going back into the fight, for all they knew. No one had time to collect supplies, rearm, or even get new uniforms; they wore the same filthy fatigues they’d been wearing for six months on the Sonnen Plateau. Caked mud and bullet holes permeated their outfits and flak armor.
Carstensen stood stoically, one hand on the side of the truck. She looked ahead, her locks flowing from underneath her cap. Hyram was in the truck behind theirs with his platoon, eyes lost, face empty.
How much longer was this going to take? Whatever this was, he just wanted to find out and get about to the bad business of it all. Marsh stroked his cheek tiredly. It wasn’t a very good soldier’s mentality but how else could he feel? Battle seemed so far away as he dined in splendid company. He hadn’t wanted to return to it just yet. It’s alright to be upset, Silvanus. Marsh rested his chin on the edge, then glanced over his shoulder at the platoon, so lusterless and detached. His eyes fell to his boots as he gnawed his bottom lip.
It had truly felt like falling. Each blow forced him closer to an edge he hadn’t seen. With each stagger, he felt the vigor which always seemed to fill his heart evaporate. He withdrew within himself—stooping so he could keep his head down, covering himself from a cold he never quite felt before. Through it all, a miasma of shame dogged him; each time he felt weak, he felt worthless. Yet, the courage to return fled again and again. Why, if he so despised it, did he malinger?
His fingers tightened on the rail and he looked back at his troopers. They look spiritless, he thought, then his eyes widened. He looked at the Commissar and she gazed back, attentive to his alerted posture. Balling his hands into fits and setting his jaw, Marsh walked to the center of the truck and got on a crate.
“Alright, listen up you lot,” said the Lieutenant sternly. “Once again, we’ve been called upon to do the work which each of us was born for. It matters not the place, nor the enemy, nor the time. You know why?” The Guardsmen glanced between each other searchingly. “Because we are Cadian Shock Troops,” he said resolutely. “You can fight on empty bellies and go without sleep for days, pull a twenty-five klick march and fight a battle at the end of it.”
He jumped down from the crate and paced between them. “If ye think tonight you don’t have the right stuff for the fight ahead, let me remind you, we’ve faced daunting tasks before. The Cove, the undead, Kasr Fortis, the Long Patrol, the Warpsmith, and this bloody siege. Look upon your standard,” he ordered, pointing at the battle flag Babcock held. “See those banners along the border? Each of those is a victory. Again, again, again, I’ve seen you overcome the worst. We’ve done it together, as a platoon! Now, what does Commissar Ghent always say about that, then?”
“The platoon must not be beat!” Rowley chimed as she jumped to her feet. Marsh Silas smiled wide and waved his fist at her.
“The platoon must not be beaten, outstanding!” Marsh declared. “Now, aren’t you the ones who stormed the shore of Kasr Fortis?”
“Yes, Marsh Silas.”
“Aren’t you the dogfaces who threw back the Iron Warriors time after time?”
“Yes, Marsh Silas.”
“And isn’t this lot before me the same ones who put the Black Legion to shame?”
Stolen novel; please report.
“Yes, Marsh Silas!”
“We’ve got a mission. We will see it through. We always do. We’re the Bloody Platoon, and what does that mean?” Marsh Silas asked and held up his forefinger. Every single Guardsmen held up their own.
“First to spill blood, first to shed blood!”
“Outstanding, Guardsmen, outstanding,” Marsh said with a firm nod.
There it was. The lights in their purple eyes. A gleam that said, ‘I can go anywhere, fight anyone, and do anything.’ This was the way a Cadian was supposed to look. Seeing their faces brighten made his own heart beat harder. He had to reach for it but he meant every word. It was just as much for him as for them. Marsh Silas found his smile would not fade. He was starting to feel like a soldier again; Carstensen’s proud gaze and sweet smile made him feel all the better.
The engine slowed as it came to a fork and the switch operator changed the points. A yellow light flashed green and the train sped down the right tunnel. Far, far in the distance, there was a bluish-white light. It started to get bigger. Soon, the dark cavern walls gave way to a giant snowshed covering the tunnel. Beams of moonlight poured through the openings, dazzling the train and its occupants. Marsh Silas felt as though he could reach out and catch a handful of such light, but his fingers passed through the rays. Some of the men kissed their prayer beads or the Aquila worn around their necks. He took hold of his own silver Aquila and ran his thumb over it a few times.
The train emerged from the tunnel and the whistle blew loud, long, and mournfully. It carried far over the northern plains, resounding over the hillocks and passing through every thicket. Without a cloud in the sky, the flatlands took on a gray and blue appearance. Still, eerie, yet wonderfully beautiful. In all its bleakness, Cadia still possessed its own natural allure. Marsh Silas hadn’t put on his helmet and the wind blew through his blonde hair. It proved to be a warm night; inviting temperatures always followed the rainy season. He breathed in the air, regardless of the acrid taste of engine smoke. He only glanced once at the Dagger Mountain range behind him; dark and jagged, it loomed forebodingly over the soldier.
There were figures next to the tracks ahead and quite a number of them. Drawing closer, they appeared to be motorcyclists. These Cadians wore goggles and face masks and carried lascarbines over their shoulders. With them as well were men on horseback, of all things. But these were not Cadians. They wore large, pointed, fur-brimmed caps and long, crimson coats. Each one held a hunting lance, the tips pointed skyward.
“Attilan Rough Riders!” Hyram exclaimed as he leaned over the rail. “I filled out countless requisition forms for such regiments, but by the Emperor, I never thought I’d clap eyes on them.” As the train came abreast of these riders, the Attilans spurred their mounts and started galloping alongside. The Cadians started their engines, turned on their headlamps, and drove with the horses.
The train negotiated a long, straight railroad running northwards. Ahead was another congregation of mounted soldiery both mechanized and on horseback, waiting on the right side of the rails. With them was a body of a few hundred infantrymen, standing in formation. One of the Attilans riding beside the engine raised his hunting lance into the air, hailing another ride. The engineer blew the whistle and applied the brakes. Gradually, the train came to a stop next to the main body of riders waiting at a barren road crossing. A great cloud of steam billowed from underneath the engine.
Soldiers from the formation jumped onto the carriages and released the side plates of the freight trucks. As they dropped with a loud bang, NCOs barked, “Dismount!” The Guardsmen jumped off, crossed the double-tracks, and Marsh found himself face to face with the 45th Altridge. He and Bloody Platoon filed down the front ranks, passing the decimated companies, until he found the 5th.
“Alm?” Marsh breathed in disbelief. Lieutenant Afdin, as if woken from a daze, looked up from his boots. His eyes widened as he realized who was before him. “What is this? What’s happening?”
“It’s madness, Silas,” Afdin said, his voice feeble and shaken. “You have to do something, anything, to make this stop. We’ve already been through two assaults today, we cannot go on another. Please, you have to try and stop this—”
“Get moving!” barked a Commissar. Marsh pulled himself away and organized his platoon with the rest of the regiment adjacent to the 45th. Soldiers rebounded the side plates of the trucks and everything grew quiet. Warm wind blew the smoke across the position; it flowed eerily in the moonlight, sweeping across the tight ranks of Guardsmen. Lights from motorcycle headlights caught the tendrils of smoke as they swirled and coiled around them. Black columns rose from the funnel of the leading engine as well as the pusher at the rear of the train. Their headlamps cast huge golden beams through the night. Searchlights mounted on the gun and turret carriages swiveled around.
“Guardsmen of the 1333rd!” Isaev called. Everyone looked to their left to see him laboring on a cane. Beside him was another regimental commander, although he was not Cadian.
“Atten-shun!” Everyone snapped their heels together, looked forward, and lifted their chins. Isaev limped in front of the regiment, illuminated in so many headlights. After reviewing them for a moment, he turned and pointed to the north with his cane.
“At ease. The traitor host has withdrawn; armor and infantry columns have crossed this rail line and dispersed into the western hinterland north of Army’s Meadow. A rearguard makes it stand in the east, occupying elements of the counter attacking army. Splinter units operate in the area as they attempt to follow as well as breakaway elements of the rearguard. Efforts must be made to prevent any more forces from rejoining the main host or attacking pursuing Imperial forces in the rear.”
Isaev tapped his cane on the metal rails, catching everyone’s attention, then pointed to the east. “What you see before you is Sandeera Ridge. On the other side is Forward Operating Base Kitley, and beyond that, Firebase Teetan. The ridge and both facilities have been seized by elements of the traitor host to safeguard the flank of egressing units following this road. Our regiment is going to spread out along the rail line around this road and interdict traffic. Colonel Osniah?”
Another senior officer approached. He wore a resplendent white coat bedecked with golden buttons and shoulder boards. His trousers were black and stained by tan dust. Despite commanding a line regiment, he wore black leather riding boots which came up to the knees with silver spurs. Unlike Isaev, his chest possessed only a few ribbons and very common ones at that.
“My regiment will advance to Sandeera Ridge, push to Camp Kitley, and then Teetan,” he said. “No fancy maneuvers; this enemy is spent so a few bayonet pushes will scatter them. By taking back these locations, the retreating foe will lack support and will make for easy game. Tonight shall be a glorious night and we will veil ourselves with honors. Isn’t that right, Colonel Isaev?”
“Indeed. Now, to your posts!”
As the regiments changed direction, Marsh Silas ran back to Afdin with Hyram and Carstensen. He grabbed him by his shoulders.
“Why are you out here? Where are the fresh regiments?”
“Colonel Osniah was furious with us for making the charge alongside you. He said we had no orders to move up. We told him communications were poor and we seized the initiative to support friendly forces. He complained to General Battye, who rebuked him and told him to bring our men to rest areas. But Osniah volunteered us for further action.”
Marsh Silas’s hands dropped and curled into fists. He bared his teeth and glared angrily at the two senior officers conferring in the shadow of the train cars. None of their staff officers or advisors were present. Only they spoke, their faces hidden, their hats pulled low, their shoulders hunched.
“Osniah is upset he was unable to partake in the advance which broke the enemy position. He was absent from that glory and will not be honored, so he seeks to make up for the deficiency with bravado. He’ll send you on spectacular assaults even when you are depleted—he knows Cadians will be impressed.”
“This too is our suspicion. I level the same scrutiny against your own commander.” Afdin looked around and leaned close. “Silas, there is great discontent. We have spoken to our brethren in the 3rd Company; they were ordered by Osniah to attack a target of opportunity rather than support us at Elevation 142. He willfully ignored our calls for support and spent their lives dearly against a moot enemy position. Now, none of us have been fed, we have not slept, and Osniah has suspended our awards, promotions, and wages—our very livelihoods that our families depend upon! He said he will pay us when we heap further glory upon ourselves, but he truly means himself.” He motioned to the Altridge Guardsmen who shuffled drearily to their staging ground a hundred meters up the line. “These men do not have it in them. They will not fight when they are so mistreated and dehumanized. There is talk of mutiny.”
“No, you must not betray—”
“Nay, not treason, a cessation; to stop and declare we will fight no more until we are afforded our wages and respect, and given a replacement commander worth following. You believe in leadership dictated by reason, strategy, and humanity so do we.”
“To do so, you might be killed!”
“If we commit to this attack, we may be killed also. Better to die maintaining our resolve as men then perish as fodder for a colonel’s greed.” Afdin, despite his exhaustion and distress, spoke resolutely and his gaze was ever firm. The words he spoke were as stout as his bones, they were the air in his lungs, the burning in his eyes. It was with this quiet dignity and strength that he marched away to join his company.
Marsh Silas’s own surprised gaze faded. A wistful, forlorn expression took over, his violet eyes despairing, his mouth dropping, his breath catching. He looked away from the column of men marching so solemnly to their staging grounds. Steam billowed around him, curling around his face, rolling around his feet. It was then he felt the sensation of hands on his shoulders—a familiar grip. When he looked back at Hyram and Carstensen, their resolves were writ upon their faces.He tore away, marched towards Colonel Isaev, and planted his feet in the stubby grass.
“Colonel, sir, with respect, I believe I must inform you that neither our regiment nor the 45th are in fighting shape. We are stretched thin, wearied, and under-supplied. We do not even have enough ammunition to fight for three days, hardly any medical equipment, or rations for more a day.”
Isaev suddenly swiped his cane and struck one of the wounds on Marsh’s leg. He cried out and collapsed to one knee. When he saw Carstensen storm forward, he held out his hand in caution. It was not enough and Hyram had to grab the Commissar’s arm.
“I am through listening to your bellyaching, Cross!” snapped Isaev. “You and your cronies have been thorns in my side this entire solar year! You fill my ear with demands to go forth, attack the enemy for months! Then, you do nothing but mewl and whine when I order you up!”
“You should not have to suffer the trepidations of junior officers, my dear colonel,” oozed Osniah as he sneered down at Marsh Silas. “Even if he is a Hero of the Imperium, he is still a subordinate officer.”
“Quite right. If I were not in sore want of officers, I would have you shot this instant. I am putting you right on the road, Cross; yes, you will face any enemy armor head on. But allow me to remind you of your place!”
Isaev raised his cane again and swung. Carstensen’s hand shot from overhead and clutched it. The colonel glared menacingly at her while she gazed back, her aquamarine eyes dark and deathly. “Commissar, you had best unhand me!”
“It is unbecoming of an officer, no matter how high his station, to strike a subordinate for voicing concern over strategy. Tis not cowardice or belligerence, merely contribution.”
“You will be shot for this!”
“I would rather die upholding all that I stand for than allow you to mistreat a man.”
Another pair of hands emerged, one taking the cane, the other removing Carstensen’s grasp. Regimental Commissar Ghent entered the space between them and turned his back to Marsh Silas.
“Colonel Isaev, there is no time to dispense such punishments. The regiment must be aligned.” Ghent and the Colonel exchanged many hushed, heated remarks while Marsh was picked up by Carstensen and Hyram. They supported him for a time, but Marsh also felt their hands pressed against his armor to restrain him.
Eventually, Isaev growled, threw up his hand, and stormed away with the peacockish Osniah strutting beside him. Ghent watched him leave and then turned around. “Get to your platoons, form the checkpoint.”
“Will you not take action?” Hyram hissed. “Your duty as a Commissar extends to all levels of a command; if any man, officer or enlisted, fails in the capacity of his duty, he must be dealt with. Isaev is going to get us all killed out here. And Osniah—”
“Colonel Osniah is not of this regiment, Lieutenant-Precept. Isaev is your commanding officer and you must not wrong him so.”
“But—”
“Listen to me!” Ghent hissed at the trio. “This war is not over. The enemy still has fight left in him. Summanus is out there, somewhere, plotting our destruction. All efforts should be made to prepare to defend against them. As for Isaev, you cannot make an enemy of him just yet—he is a regimental commander, in possession of power and clout. By siring his wrath, the schola and its school of thought you fought so hard to prove may be threatened. So, shut your mouths, do your jobs, and get your men through this.” Ghent pivoted on his heel and marched northward. Marsh, growling, took a few steps after him.
“You are as angry as I am, Commissar. You see the blunder as much as I do. The waste of it all. You say you stand with us, but you play no part; you still do not strike at our greatest enemy, both to our ideas and our lives.”
Ghent paused. He did not speak, turn, or look back. One hand rested on the pommel of his sheathed sword, the other hung limply by his side. Then, he picked his head up and kept walking. Groaning in exasperation, Marsh turned around and marched with his companions to the crossing. “Damn them all. Here we sit powerless and impotent while friends go off to die.”
“It burns in the belly, brother, but there is naught we can do,” Hyram said. “We are exposed and alone out here. Let us dig in along the rails while we can. Fighting holes along the embankment, I’ll anchor the lines with my heavy guns, you guard the crossing with your own.”
The orders were relayed. Bloody Platoon fortified the crossing, their 9-70’s cutting into the soil. Men filled sandbags and lined their pits. Others, posted on watch details, laying on the western embankments of the tracks, lasguns pointed forward. Heavy weapons squads deployed their weapons and pooled ammunition. Some only had their starting belts. Sentries patrolled the road while skirmishers formed a cordon on the eastern side.
Marsh labored alongside the men. He looked up occasionally, observing the work before returning to his own. Under that starry night, 9-70s chipped away, men panted and huffed.
The sound was rhythmic and steady. He looked up again, finding a figure standing before him. Isenhour, his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, looked northward in horror.
“They’re sending them already,” he murmured.
“What!? We’re not even dug in yet—” A whistle pierced the night. Several hundred meters away, the 45th Altridge bounded across open ground. They did not cry out, but so many hundreds of pounding feet and rustling rucksacks created a tremor in the earth and a thunder in the air. All around, Guardsmen of the 1333rd stopped to watch them go. When they were less than a hundred meters away from their target, Sandeera Ridge blossomed with muzzle flashes.
Marsh Silas raised his magnoculars and stood beside Isenhour, observing the attack through his rifle scope. The platoons of the 45th dispersed into intervals to negate the devastating effects of the hostile heavy stubbers. Grenades detonated rapidly, lasbolts sheared through the darkness. Clots of Guardsmen clawed their way up the slope. Some gained the crest and it came down to the bayonet. Bodies covered the ground, the slope, and soon, the top. Without any cheering, the Altridge warriors assumed the top and the gunfire died away.
No sooner had they settled into the position that a whistle blew again. They disappeared on the opposite side of the ridge. Sandeera, northeast of the road crossing, now obscured Marsh’s view. Explosions and automatic fire echoed over the docile landscape. Laser beams arched upwards. Dull, orange flashes briefly lit up the night.
Turning, Marsh used his scope to look down the line. Colonel Isaev, Osniah, and some of their staff members were talking. The latter was not even looking at the ridge! He was busily smoking and chatting with the junior officers around him. Isaev, too, was not observing the battle and no gestures were made to change positions.
The gunfire stopped. Marsh lowered his scope. Minutes passed. No whistles, no explosions, no firing. It was as if there had not been a battle and the night could resume its placid quietude. Guardsmen turned away and continued their work. But even after the passage of a half hour, Marsh Silas found he could not. Something was strange about the silence. It was far too tense. Had the 45th fallen? Surrendered?
“No, Alm, do not do it, not now…” Marsh raised his magnoculars and enhanced over Osniah. The Altridge colonel was screaming into the handset from one of his vox-casters mounts. He waved his finger, stamped his foot, and then threw his hat onto the ground. Tossing the handset away, he shouted something at Isaev and his officers, sweeping his arms high and wide. “...no, no, no…” Isaev gestured towards his personal voxman, who then spoke into his handset.
“Sir, we just received a regimental communique…” said Drummer Boy, stilted and disbelieving. “...Osniah has declared the 45th Regiment has joined the enemy. They have betrayed the Imperium. Isaev has ordered that we are to attack them in the morning at 0700 hours. The Rough Riders will patrol the surrounding area to ensure none leave Camp Kitley.”
“How can they know!?” snapped Marsh. “How can they do this!?”
Silvanus, if you knew how many injustices have been committed in the name of the Emperor just from the mere misinterpretation of a word!
“He said that there is corruption, the same which saw the 659th Interior Regiment turn.”
“That was months ago!” Walmsley Major implored. “The Altridge may not have been exposed to whatever their corruption was. I was with them in Kasr Sonnen, sir, they were confined to quarters and had no access to the kasr.”
“Drummer Boy, you can monitor their channels with that set,” Hyram said. “Are they transmitting the situation to Cadian High Command?” Drummer Boy shook his head.
“Blast, they’re going to keep this off the net,” spat Arnold Yoxall. “Sir, I dare not believe our comrades have betrayed us. Not after they fought so long, so hard against the foe. If Isaev is trying to keep it off the net—”
“Then it may not be treason, truly,” Carstensen finished. “Afdin said mutiny; that does not equate to outright betrayal, Silas.”
“But what can we do but take our commanders at their word?” asked Honeycutt. “What can we do when they will view any protest of ours as treason on its own?”
Marsh Silas turned his back to his platoon, lowering his magnoculars as he did. He could not bear it. Tomorrow they would be forced against their brothers. No, he could not do it, not against poor Afdin, not his gentle soul. A teacher who enjoyed his craft, who trained great speakers, who delighted in music; even now, Marsh Silas could hear him strumming the guitarran beautifully in the trenches. An infinite reservoir of kindness and chipper attitudes, ready with smiles and good humor. Betrayal? To follow Isaev’s orders would be treason against the bonds of brotherhood!
Suddenly, the pusher engine at the end of the train whistled. The leading engine responded. A curtain of steam flowed from underneath the engine. That great cloud took a familiar form next to Marsh Silas; a long coat, flowing hair, a dark gaze. Shimmering in the mist was Barlocke. The projection locked eyes with him, and the platoon leader’s violet eyes flared.He stormed back over the tracks. Marsh passed through his own ranks, gazed at every face that was lit up by a lho-stick. Isenhour still stood on the periphery, gazing to the east, a lho-stick hanging from his lips.
“Is it time, sir?” he asked.
“You know where I am going?” Isenhour nodded. “I won’t give up the 45th so quickly. I am going to find Afdin, speak with him, and broker some agreement between him and Osniah to spare their lives. We might do some great good here this night.”
“Even if it means deserting your post and dodging Attilans?” Isenhour asked, hefting his lascarbine over his shoulder. Marsh Silas nodded, his jaw set and eyes narrowed. Isenhour flicked his lho-stick away. “Fuck it, I’m with you. Sidearms and Night Eye goggles only. We go around the ridge, not over it, and dodge their patrols. Keep up, stay quiet, and try not to shit yourself. We’ll leave at the very moment the train does.”
Marsh Silas doffed his wargear and adjusted his night vision device. Just before he lowered them, he cast his eyes to Carstensen, Hyram, and his men. His comrades stared back, hopeful and understanding. Smiling bravely, the platoon leader nodded at them. In turn, his people held up their forefingers. Carstensen placed her hand over her heart, and Marsh did the same.
Then, there was a loud whistle from the lead locomotive. It was reciprocated by the pusher engine. Firemen stoked the boilers with fresh coal and the shimmering orange lights from the cabins grew. Hissing steam and belching smoke, the engines started. Slowly at first, then gradually gaining speed, their pistons clanking and wheels pounding. Eventually, the massive train rolled down the line, leaving a tumultuous cloud of steam and smoke. Many Guardsmen watched until it was nothing but an orange dot on the gloomy horizon.
None of the officers or Commissars noticed two figures slinking to the other side of the embankment, slithering their way southward, and then east.