“Carstensen the Cadian…” the Commissar mused. “…I can still hear it ringing in my ears.”
Marsh Silas, though his eyes were closed, smiled and wrapped his arm around Carstensen. He sat against the mound of pillows piled up in front of the headboard and she leaned back against his chest. Her skin was still hot to the touch and a sheen of sweat covered her shoulders. They had pulled the sheets up to her neck even though the room Wulff had given them was quite warm.
Below, the sounds of Bloody Platoon’s merriment drifted through the floor. They sang many jaunty songs of soldiering, proud tunes depicting brotherhood, and bawdy ballads of women. Whenever they finished, there was a bout of raucous laughter so intense it shook the reinforced window panes. Then, there would be a great series of clinking sounds as they bashed their drinking glasses together and downed another round of amasec.
Carstensen laughed a little and pressed further into Marsh. “I’m glad we left the ceremony. Would we have stayed; I fear these good Guardsmen would not have had the celebrations they truly deserve. However many plaudits they heap upon us, no matter the accolades and promotions and bonuses, this is the Bloody Platoon.”
There was a great cheer below as the men finished another song. They both laughed as their friends stamped their feet and slammed the tables. Even with so many pounding up the stairs with their partners for the night, the sounds of their gaiety were still enough to shake the entire building right to its foundations.
“We soldiers always find a way to make an affair our own. Though, ‘twas a grand ceremony, was it not?”
The Commissar turned around in the sheets so she was lying on top of him. Smirking and giggling, she reached up and traced lines across his cheeks.
“It surely must have been, for here lies a Hero of the Imperium.”
“I did not carry my achievements alone. Look at thee! For here lies Commissar—not Junior Commissar—but Commissar Lilias Juventas Carstensen. Sald-Grati born, officer of the Officio Prefectus. Warrior, leader, and an upholder of the Orders of St. Gerstahl and Captain-Commissar Bachmeier. Surely, I am in the presence of glory.”
Carstensen’s green-blue eyes sparkled thoughtfully. Lowering her hand to his chest, she pressed her cheek against it and was quiet for a time. Marsh ran his hand up and down her back, pausing over some of the scars. Still, his love did not speak. Wrapping his other arm around her, he nuzzled her closely and kissed the top of her head. She exhaled, her breath feeling quite cool as it washed over his skin.
“I am no longer from Sald-Grati,” she said. “Ever since I left for the Schola Progenium, I have had no world. Once you attend there, no planet is your own. Not until you find yourself placed into a regiment and adopt their ways can a Commissar say they have a home once again.”
Rolling off of Marsh, she sat shoulder to shoulder with him. Her tone was not melancholy but gentle in its curiosity and even in its reflection. “Too many Commissars forget that. They see themselves as the product of a Schola, a purveyor of rules and order. They are the Prefectus—the Commissariat incarnate. I say no, we are far more. We are men and women with beating hearts and blood in our veins just as any other Imperial subject. Noble, commoner, officer, soldier, we are all human.”
Rolling her heads towards Marsh, she rested her chin on his shoulder. “Commissars walk away proud, too proud sometimes. We think we know what’s best for all. How to stand, how to talk, how to eat. We order and demand. Silas, that is not what we must be. Remember what Barlocke used to say? We must become more. He was right, however strange the fellow was. All this time I have tried to set an example. I wanted to be courageous to inspire others to be brave. I wanted to stand when others ran so they might turn around to face the foe. I wanted to learn so that I could teach. A good teacher is one who never stops learning.”
Marsh Silas put his arm around her and pulled Carstensen closer. He kissed her on the forehead and nuzzled some of her orange locks with his nose.
“My love, you are all of that and more. Those medals given to you tonight are proof you have succeeded.”
“Sweet Silas, nay,” she said, almost sleepily as she settled comfortably into him. “It will never be enough. There is so much to do. Success will only be so if the lessons can be passed on. I know not if von Bracken will agree to this proposal. If he rejects us, I will remain undeterred to see the schola built. I will find a way. One day I can further rise, further prove myself, if I can just inspire a few, then they will pass it on. Even if just for a few, if I can help them, then I will have done my duty.”
Marsh Silas parted from her slightly. Carstensen looked up at him as he gazed into her. His violet gaze was glittering and thoughtful. Eventually, he smiled and leaned back against the pillows.
“You know, from the day we Cadians can walk, we’re taught to strip a lasgun. They teach us that Cadians are more than just able soldiers or keen marksmen. Sacrifice is woven into our very souls. No one understands it better than us. Thus, a Cadian oughtn’t be afraid to die. Well, very often, I am afraid. Life in service to the Emperor and the Imperium is so sweet. Who would want to give it up so quickly? I should be ready to lay down my life but I so dearly cling to it. But I still throw myself into the fray and look how many times you had to save me.”
Running his hand through his hair, he exhaled long and heavily. “Even our burials fill me with dread and disdain. You’re returned to mother Cadia, an honor many Cadians who are sent far away do not receive. But, once you’re dust, you are merely dug into for the next burial. Should I not be pleased at such a thought? Am I not Cadian? I should find the honor but all I see is a pit where I am forgotten to all. Not even my name will remain on a tombstone. But on I fight, knowing that such a grave will be mine if I give my life up on my homeworld’s soil.”
Marsh Silas sat up and showed her his back. It was crisscrossed with ten different scars. On the left side of his abdomen was the fresher scar from the Battle of the Cove, when he was wounded by shrapnel. “See? Long ago, I made a mistake. On a training exercise when I was not yet half a score, I tripped on a ravine road and dropped two cans of Heavy Bolter ammunition down a gorge. When we returned to camp, ol’ Commissar Ghent tied me to a flagpole and I got ten lashes as punishment. I accepted it, for I made myself a poor excuse of o’ Cadian that day. We make mistakes, we falter, we fail, we suffer setbacks. But I vowed to myself not to let it happen again.”
Turning slightly, he ran his fingers over a very faded scar on his right side. “That there is a gift from my grandsires. Papa, Dayton was his name, was on the 1,011th Cadian Airborne’s regimental staff before commanding his own regiment. Faye, mama that is, she was his attendant. They fell in love. But my grandsires hated him for marrying someone not of noble blood, however middling our ancestors were. They did not see me as Cadian and took every opportunity to torment me. When papa was away on campaign and mama was at the manufactorum once, they hit me here with a red-hot fire poker.”
Carstensen reached out but he took her hand and slid back into her arms. “Papa was murdered after I came back from the Month of Making and they sent us away to a slum on Macharia. They told me I would never be a true Cadian nor anything of any worth. I made sure I’d prove them wrong.”
“You have.”
“That isn’t the point, though.” Facing Carstensen, he cupped her cheek and touched her lips with his thumb. “Cadian is not really about being so. Methinks, truly, to be not only Cadian, but to be human, if ye try, always try, and never, ever give up. I suppose, what I am trying to tell you are truly human, that you will be one of the greatest changes to the Imperium, and—”
“I love you,” she finished for him. Marsh Silas smiled at her.
“Aye, I love you.” He kissed her and pressed his forehead against hers.
“We’ll do it, Silas, we’ll make a difference for everyone. Bloody Platoon is the start; soon, it will be the whole Astra Militarum, then the Imperium. Maybe, in our lifetimes, just a small part, but oh, will it be worth it all. We will make it all gold, all gold…”
----------------------------------------
The surf crashed on both shores of Army’s Meadow, the water as black as the night sky. Only the white breakers and foam gave indication of its tumult. All the flowers swayed and rustled. Behind the walker, a Chimera trundled slowly; shadowy figures sat on the top of the vehicle and another stood in the turret’s open hatch. In front of the APC marched a lone Guardsman.
Its running lights aglow, a huge swathe of white light emanated from the Chimera. The man was illuminated in its beam, his blonde hair tousled by the breeze. His face was stained with dust and tears. Even as the night winds nipped at his neck, he did not flinch or shiver. The boots he wore, already worn from months of damage, crumbled from the long walk. In his arms, he carried the body of a Commissar in a resplendent, brand-new uniform. The bottom of her tunic was torn by a knife and her abdomen was saturated with blood. Her skin was as pale as snow and her red locks covered her eyes.
The Shock Trooper’s face was expressionless. Though stiff in his posture, his face remained placid. Even as tears continued to course down his cheeks, his gaze remained fixed on the road ahead.
The camp’s lights were all on. Searchlights mounted on sentry towers swept across the surf and fields. Large lamp packs glowed along the double-layer fenceings lining the perimeter. Power tools sparked and flashed from the motor pool on the southern side of the camp. Campfires glowed among off-duty soldiers. Many of the buildings, including regimental headquarters, were brilliantly lit up. It must have been the first night in months that the camp’s light discipline order was rescinded, as the threat from enemy fliers was all but null.
The figure and the following Chimera approached the main gate. The sergeant of the watch stepped forward, one hand clutching the grip of his M36. He raised his other hand.
“Halt! Identify yourselves!”
Although the APC stopped, the Guardsman did not. Although he was showered by light from behind, his front was a shadow. The sergeant lowered his hand and raised his M36 halfway. “I said halt! Stop now, lest we open fire—stop, damn ye!”
He pressed the stock to his shoulder as the walking Guardsman nearly came abreast of him. Finally, the man stopped and so too did the sergeant’s barking. His face fell as he found himself staring at Marsh Silas, his eyes so moist and glassy they appeared broken. In his arms was Commissar Carstensen, lifeless. Lowering his weapon, the sergeant tried to speak. His lips faltered and as he lowered his gaze, he took off his helmet.
Marsh Silas continued walking. Behind him, the Chimera’s engine coughed and the vehicle followed him. He passed through the gate as sentries gathered on either side. Curious onlookers approached, lining the road. Some were familiar faces—the regimental security personnel assigned to the camp, mostly. Many were Guardsmen from other regiments convalescing after sustaining wounds outside of Kasr Sonnen. Others were veterans of the regiment, many of whom injured prior to the final charge outside Kasrk Sonnen or during it. Soldiers with casts around their arms and legs, men with missing limbs, personnel with newly installed cybernetic and bionic replacements, all joined the ranks.
One by one, they removed their helmets and hats. Guardsmen bowed their heads, held up their prayer beads and religious icons, and made the Sign of the Aquila. Others—officers, enlisted men, and auxiliaries alike—simply saluted. Menials, subordinates, and laborers all knelt. Some, who had served at Kasr Sonnen for those many grueling months and even fought at the penultimate battle, gathered close. They uttered, ‘Carstensen the Cadian,’ or, ‘hero,’ as Marsh passed by. Many reached out to touch her limp hand or touch the lapel of her open, bloody coat. Some covered their faces and wept into their hands.
Master Sergeant Tindall’s APC veered left to the motor pool. As the engine quieted, Marsh Silas heard footsteps behind him. Honeycutt, Drummer Boy, Isenhour, Wulff, and the others formed an escort around them. Marsh strode deeper into the base. He passed by the field medicae which looked grim in the dull, orange lamps along its roofline. The facility was so overloaded by wounded Guardsmen that a trail of them ran out of the entrance. Cots, tables, chairs, and creates were aligned along the walls for them. Those that could, rose in reverence, and watched the party pass by.
Marsh Silas walked onward, passed the detention block, the bunkers, and stopped only in front of the camp chapel. It was a modest little building, plated with adamantium over its rockcrete walls. Dark, armaglass windows lined its walls and led to a small, cylindrical tower. He attempted to shoulder through the heavy doors, but his comrades flowed ahead of him and threw them open.
Sweet incense burned. Golden shrines of winged skulls and Aquilas were adorned with rows upon rows of flickering candles. The pews were empty, the pulpit abandoned. Before it was a marble slab bordered with ribbed, golden runners. It served as an offering table; troops often left part of their monthly purse there or totems recovered from the honored dead. Whatever had been left there after the evening prayers had been collected and the slab was clear.
His footsteps echoed in the quiet hall. Marsh gently laid Carstensen down on the offering table. He straightened her legs and folded her hands on her chest. Marsh’s entourage assembled around the body while he sat on the edge, his fingers in Carstensen’s hair. She felt so cold. Gently, he pushed the locks from her eyes, long closed.
“Lieutenant?”
Giles limped up. The company commander hardly looked like himself. Emaciated from the long siege, dirty, still bearing bandages, he was a shell of an officer. His face fell as he gazed at the Commissar. Chewing his lip, he knelt with great effort and touched the top of her head. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Drawing a shaking breath, the Captain bowed his head over Carstensen and squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered to her. “Thank you, for everything.”
It was not long before Eastoft arrived. Though in better shape than her superior officer, she too was worn, weathered, and wearied, even after several days of rest. She took off her hat and bowed her head. Suppressing her tears, she murmured something in High Gothic.
“Noster heros, dilectus heros.” Then she said, “rest well.”
Guardsmen from countless Cadian regiments flowed into the chapel. Many filled the pews, others created a procession. Removing their hats and clutching their prayer beads, they filed along in a steady, slow stream. Each took a moment to stop in front of Carstensen, then murmured a prayer, and finally, sorrowing, departed. There were words of affection, gratitude, guidance, and well-wishes as she her sold departed for the Emperor’s Celestial Army. Soon, the sniffling and sobbing of the bereaved fill the entire chapel. Men broke down and held one another, remembering that brave Commissar who led them all to victory.
“How did it happen?” whispered Giles to Marsh Silas.
“Ambush at the rail crossing of the MSR,” the lieutenant answered, lifelessly.
“Emperor’s hand, why on Cadia were you all the way up there? Last I heard the regiment was convalescing in Kasr Sonnen.”
“Isaev sent us up there.”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“He did?” Giles drew a hot, aggravated breath. “Damn him. Damn him. I will go to him as soon as I see him and complain.”
But Marsh Silas did not listen. His shattered violet gaze rested on Carstensen. She looked so pale, but incredibly peaceful, just like she did when she slept. Sometimes, her dark eyelashes would flutter as she dreamed. Other times, her lips moved, as if she were giving orders. The woman lived and breathed the Militarum life, even when she rested. But the lashes were still, the mouth remained immobile. Marsh Silas slid closer and rested his head onto her chest. He’d fallen asleep so many times like that, his cheek against her breast. Inside, he felt her heartbeat deeply, strongly—always so robust with vigor. Now, there was silence. His eyes shut as tears ran down his nose and faded into Carstensen’s tunic.
“Where is she?” came Hyram’s voice. Heavy boots thudded after him.
“Lieutenant, pause,” Giles replied softly. “I need to talk to you.”
“Sir, where is she?” was the platoon leader’s stern reply.
“Seathan…”
“Let me in.”
“Seathan. Stop.”
There were whispers. A long, depressed groan followed by a fist on the wall. Marsh looked up as his friend finally approached. Hyram was deflated. His shoulders sagged and his head hung very low. He lacked his sword, lasgun, sidearm, even his armor. All he had was Carstensen’s hat, clutched in his left hand.
Hyram walked over very slowly. His shoulders trembled and his lips parted, exposing two rows of clenched teeth. With each shiver came a new tear and a muffled, exasperated breath. After regarding her with the deepest sadness, he placed the hat on the pillow. Slowly, he sank to his knees and pressed his face to her shoulder. He wept harder than Marsh had ever seen. Most peculiar is that his sobs were silent, though to see the man’s face one might have thought he were screaming. Eventually, sniffing and wiping his face, he drew a long, grieving breath and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” was all he managed to say before his voice became choked. His purple eyes were overflowing. “I am so sorry, Silas. What a loss for you.”
Only then did Marsh’s steel leave him. His drawn expression weakened. The lips quivered, the brow rose, and the eyes widened with the pain. Fresh tears coursed down his cheeks. As his shoulders wracked with the coming sobs, Marsh keeled forward.
“What a loss for us all,” he said before covering his face. Hyram immediately came over to him and the two friends embraced. They clung to each other tightly, clutched the other’s uniform, and buried their faces in the opposite’s shoulder. Together, they wept and sorrowed.
Marsh’s hands balled into fists. “It’s not right. It’s not fair. She should have gone out on the battlefield. That’s where she belonged. Not on the side of the road like some beggar.” He shook violently, freed his right hand, and bashed it on the offering table. “Why did it have to be like this? Why did this have to happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Hyram drew away and pressed his finger into Marsh’s chest. He appeared desperate and imploring.
“Lilias saved us. Me, the men, we would have been cut down. If she had not subdued the rider, he would have detonated the explosives and killed us all. After you departed, more suicide bombers attacked us. It was their final gambit, many Guardsmen up and down the line perished, but we were prepared, all thanks to her.”
“I would have rather died so she could live,” Marsh whispered. “She was meant for more, so much more. She wanted to do amazing things, Seathan. Incredible things. But she’s gone now. His voice broke. “Everyone is gone. So many friends. So many people. Afdin, Galen, Yeardley, Rayden, Webley, Soames, Leander, Graeme, Queshire, Jupp, Murga, Barlocke. And now Lilias.”
“She understood sacrifice more than any of us. There are greater—”
“Greater what?” Marsh asked, quaking angrily as he clutched Hyram’s hands. “What could have been greater than the change she was going to bring about to the Imperium? She was going to make a difference in all our lives, forever and for all time. Now how many will suffer without her!?”
“Calm, Silas. Let us not speak of this now. It is not the right time.” Hyram drew a wet, shaking breath. “Do you want to be alone with her?”
“I do not care anymore,” Marsh Silas said blankly.
“Then let the men be with her for some time.”
Marsh looked up. The procession halted to allow Bloody Platoon entrance.. Holmwood, Mottershead, Stainthorpe, Foster, Wulff, and Cuyper came forward. How broken, how crestfallen, how tearful were their expressions. To look upon their bleakness was enough to break his heart all over again. Casting one last look to Carstensen, he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. Squeezing both her hands tightly, he drew breath and attempted to part. But he did not move—he could not.
Hyram reached over and gently unwrapped his hands from hers. Smiling so sweetly, he held the lieutenant’s hands. “She is with friends and comrades, Silas. She will be alright.”
To remove his hands felt as though he were losing grip on a lifeline. Marsh rose unsteadily to his feet and had to brace his hand on the wall to get up. Coughing a little, he turned his back on her and felt a great wave of cold wash over him. He felt so despicable, so dishonorable, so incredibly pathetic. What kind Guardsman was he—no, what kind of man was he, to desert his love?
Hyram handed Marsh his soft cover hat which he left behind as well. He turned it over in his hands, fingers pressed against the black bill as he approached the doors. The squad leaders parted as he walked through. With tears in their eyes, they put their hands on either of his shoulders or his back. They murmured apologies, their voices too broken to carry the words. Standing aside, he let more comrades come forward. Holmwood was the first one to stand over her and immediately turned away, clutching his face as he cried. Mottershead knelt beside her and the hardened soldier lowered his head onto the slab, weeping. Cuyper took off his hat and his shoulders shook. Foster sat at the end of the bed and Wulff embraced Hyram.
Marsh Silas could no longer watch and went outside. Bloody Platoon filled and countless other soldiers waited.. The congregation divided to let him pass. As he did, they took off their hats and helmets. Many were already in tears. Some broke down and hid their faces. All of them reached out to touch his shoulder or squeeze his forearm. The Whiteshields Clivvy, Rowley, and Tattersall came up to him. Suddenly, they seemed so small and childlike. In the months outside Kasr Sonnen, they had grown quite fierce and worn. All three appeared taller, stouter, and braver. But now, they were sniveling and struggling to withhold their tears. Without waiting, the three embraced him wordlessly. For some time, he stood idly as they gripped his uniform and sobbed into his chest. Sighing sadly, his own tears running hot, he wrapped his arms around the children.
When he let go of them, they joined the procession as it moved into the dimly lit chapel. By ones and twos, they filtered into the chapel. Some spent only a few minutes inside; they came back out in the arms of their friends, weeping.
Marsh Silas felt someone touch his arm. Yoxall was beside him then. The Breacher’s eyes were red from all his crying. He didn’t speak or make any specific motion. Instead, he just leaned on the light post beside Marsh. Drummer Boy and Babcock, coming out of the chapel, did the same on his opposite side. The four friends stood in silence while Bloody Platoon and Guardsmen from the rest of the 1st Company walked by.
One by one, each one took out a lho-stick and struck a match. Marsh was the only one who didn’t. Yoxall reached into his kit bag and produced the pipe. He filled the bowl from Marsh’s tabac pouch and used another match to light it. Puffing on it for a moment, he eventually held the neck towards Marsh’s lips. The lieutenant, without any acknowledgment or true indication, merely parted his lips and took hold of the pipe. He shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted by the earthy, herbal mixture in his pipe. He could have fallen asleep there and then, propped up against the post with his friends’ shoulders pressed against his own.
“My brother is back!”
Their attention snapped to Walmsley Minor, running from the motor pool. After catching his breath, he looked up grimly. “My brother is back; they have the son of a bitch who had the detonator! It’s someone from the 217th!”
There was a stampede of Guardsmen. Marsh Silas and his friends swept through the camp. The crowd stopped momentarily. Heads swiveled and searched. A small party of Shock Troopers descended from the ramp of a Chimera. At first, they dragged someone between them but they aggressively forced the fellow onto his feet.
Rowley tore off her Vox-caster and sprinted towards the group. She kicked the prisoner squarely in the chest, knocking him from Walmsley Major’s grasp. She, Clivvy, and Tattersall descended on the prisoner, kicking and beating him. Bloody Platoon gathered around them, pulling them off to get their turns in. Men pummeled and pounded, held the prisoner by his throat and smashed his face. One by one, in the glow of their lamp packs, they bashed the traitor again and again. Walmsley Major and his party did nothing to stop them. Even he joined in, kicking the man while he was down. Guardsmen swore and screamed obscenities into the man’s face. With each strike, the prisoner wailed and screeched, begging for it to stop.
Marsh Silas stood on the periphery of the onslaught and merely watched. Hyram appeared beside him, his face aghast, but did not end the affair. Anger clouded Hyram’s eyes and he charged into the group. Pushing and shoving his men aside, he broke them up just to clutch the murderer by his collar. Hyram proceeded to lay a beating on the man, punching him in the sides, the gut, and the face. Even from where he stood, Marsh Silas could hear the man’s nose break with a fleshy crunch. Looking up, the officer swiped a lho-stick from Yoxall’s mouth and pressed the lit end onto the man’s face. His scream was long and shrill.
Marsh Silas strode over. As he did, the cacophony of the Guardsmen’s rage ceased. The circle opened and allowed him to enter. Hyram stood up and held the traitor up. His lavender eyes were fractured like broken armaglass. Blood ran profusely down his face. Much of his skin was purple from the bruising. A few Guardsmen took the opportunity to spit in the traitor’s eyes before they got out of Marsh’s way.
Standing over him, the lieutenant gazed downwards. He handed his pipe to Yoxall, reached down, and grabbed the man by his tunic collar.
“Why?” was all Marsh Silas said. The Guardsmen blinked and opened his mouth. Blood and teeth dribbled out.
“I could…bear it no longer,” the man wheezed. “We murdered the 45th, our friends…who fought beside us for so long. No one cared enough to stop it. I am a murderer and I wanted no more part in it. I ran away.”
Coughing and spluttering, his head started to droop. Marsh shook him by his tunic’s collar and made him look up. Groaning, he managed to carry on. “They found me. Band of Dusk…they took me to the…Traitor Marines in silver. I spoke to him, the one they called Summanus.”
“Tell him,” Walmsley Major barked, slapping the murderer on the back of his head. “Tell him what you told me.”
“Summanus said he would save me from having to…murder innocent people. He said I’d never have to do it again. If only I obeyed, he’d save me. He placed me with other men who had our uniforms. They gave me the bombs, the keys, the truck…I wanted to live. I wanted to get away.”
“By murdering your own people?” Hyram asked. “You lowered yourself to traitorhood to save your skin! You are not Cadian, you are a coward and a murderer!”
“Murderer!” the traitor cried. “Murderer I am and so are you! We defiled our sacred trust with the 45th and disgraced ourselves! I have no honor left, aye, but at least I will walk away with my life. You tread towards damnation and death, whether it comes from Summanus or our own leaders!”
Marsh Silas hit him hard, then grabbed him by the throat. He dragged him across the compound towards the beach trenchworks. Many times, the man struggled and tried to free himself. All Marsh did was hit him again and pull harder. Bloody Platoon and countless other Guardsmen followed in his wake, jeering and yelling obscenities.
He forced him across the footbridge crossing the parapet then hauled him across the beach. Many times, the Guardsman’s flailing feet kicked up clouds of sand. Weaving down the invisible path between the minefields, he walked into the surf. Bloody Platoon and Shock Troopers fanned out behind him, but lingered where the waves washed over their feet.
The sea roared. Huge breakers crashed onto the rocks and mountainous waves rose and fell in the channel. Dragging the traitor until he was at waist-height, Marsh forced him underwater. Despite his wounds, the man put up stiff resistance and managed to rise. Marsh Silas hit him twice and pushed him back underneath.
His eyes were wide and his clenched teeth exposed. He bared them like a growling hound. The violet of his irises glowed incandescently. Silvanus! Wait! Calm down! Marsh raised the sputtering fellow up, letting him cough and hack. Several times more, he struck him and pushed him back under. Silas! You need to stop, it’s important you stop! You can’t let your rage hold sway over you, it’s dangerous! Please—
“Shut up!” Marsh Silas screamed, letting go and clutching the sides of his head. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” He took hold of the traitor once more and pushed the man deeper into the water. The water turned white as he struggled. Waves struck them, soaking Marsh Silas though his uniform and dampening his hair. Snarling, he kept the man underneath the waves, squeezing his throat as he did.
“Lieutenant Cross, hold fast!”
Marsh looked up, his grip loosening. It was enough to let the criminal surface, vomit up seawater, and gasp for air. Standing on the beach and flanked on both sides by Guardsmen was Commissar Ghent. He stood erect, hands folded behind his back, chin up. The wind swept the trails of his coat from side to side. The cap was tugged around, but did not leave his head.
After a few minutes of contemplation, the Commissar strode into the water up to his ankles. “Lieutenant Cross, you are outside your jurisdiction to render justice unto this suspect. You are not only obliged but expected to deliver this man to an officer of the Officio Prefectus so the case may be reviewed and the appropriate punishment levied.”
“Leave me be, Ghent,” Marsh panted, poised to let his fist fly and dunk the murderer once more.
“You will address me as Commissar or Commissar Ghent, Lieutenant, and nothing else. You will exit the water and place that man at my feet, then standby for further orders. Am I understood?”
“You cannot deny me my vengeance!” Marsh Silas yelled, the tears running from his eyes lost in the seawater coating his face. “Who are you to stop me?”
“I am the regimental commissar!” Ghent bellowed. “Any infraction, however small, is to be reported to me and dealt with by me. You have no authority in this affair!”
“He killed our Commissar!” Bloody Platoon shouted. “We should be the ones to kill him!”
“His life is not yours to judge or take!” Ghent hollered, his voice overpowering the crowd’s. He then pointed at Marsh Silas. “You are angry and you are vengeful, but do not forget who you are: you are still a Cadian Shock Trooper of the Astra Militarum. You are all soldiers and there will be discipline. Cross, you will submit to my authority or face disciplinary action. His life is not yours to take, it is my duty to decide his fate. Come ashore and deliver him to me now.”
Marsh Silas cast his gaze towards the murderer. The bleeding, moaning, soaked criminal struggled to keep his head above the water. He reared his fist back for another strike, but suddenly Marsh gasped and let his hand fall. Turning around, he dragged the traitor onto the back and dropped him in front of Commissar Ghent.
Ghent regarded Marsh with cold indifference before ordering him and the others to back away. Walmsley Major and his brother forced the man to sit up on his knees to look up at the Commissar. The latter stared down his nose at the wretch and his violet eyes seemed to glow like white-hot coals. “You stand accused of murdering an officer of the Officio Prefectus, attempted bombing, and treason against the God-Emperor of Mankind and the Imperium of Man. Gathered around are witnesses, two scores and many more, to your charge. Would you offer a defense?”
The suspect’s chest heaved. If he tried to speak, it came out as nothing more than a garble. Eventually, he just managed to shake his head. “With the evidence presented to me and in the name of the God-Emperor, I declare you a traitor and a murderer subject to summary execution.” He unholstered his bolt pistol and pointed it at the man’s chest. “Presently.”
“Please, don’t—”
The bolt blew open the man’s chest, cracking the ribs and obliterating his heart. Blood splattered the sidearm and Ghent’s tunic. The body slumped backwards. He holstered it smoothly and pointed at Walmsley Major.
“Assemble a detail: take the body to the light post on the western side of Mason Bridge, strip him, cover his face, and mark him so that all who pass understand what a traitor looks like.” Walmsley and his team dragged the corpse away. Ghent walked into the center of the crowd. “You are not animals. You are not a mob. You are Imperial Guardsmen and there will be discipline in the ranks. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Commissar,” was the reply. Ghent faced Hyram sternly.
“Police these men and return them to their quarters.” Ghent turned, perhaps to offer the same stern command to Marsh Silas. But Marsh had already walked away, his back to the sea and to the platoon.