Marsh Silas and Carstensen jogged ahead of the Whiteshields. It was their evening run and the young ones were already panting hard. Their boots shuffled along the pavement, their heads swayed, they coughed loudly, and smaller ones like Yeardley and Rowley had to help each other along.
Since Carstensen joined the training effort, their routine had grown even more arduous. She and Marsh rearranged some of the regimental training mockups to create different environmental courses. The Whiteshields were trained in advanced urban warfare tactics from street fighting to room clearing. Another unit resembled breastworks, trenches, and tunnels for subterranean and siege warfare. Both theaters were equipped with targets, scenarios, and various traps Marsh Silas and Carstensen devised.
But the final room was something the duo called the ‘fast chamber.’ It was an obstacle course with paper targets, both hostile and friendly, arrayed throughout the area. Individual Whiteshields had to negotiate the course as fast as they could while hitting every single target. It was timed, unlike the others, and points were distributed for faster completions. Deductions occurred if a trainee shot a non-hostile target rather than receiving a rod or a fist.
At first, Marsh was concerned the competitive aspect would affect the squad’s camaraderie. But under Carstensen’s guidance, the Whiteshields were motivated rather than downtrodden or incensed when a friend performed better. They pushed themselves to match or exceed their comrades’ scores. After they finished the arena, they organically exchanged ideas and tips to help one another. Even as other platoon sergeants scoffed at the persistence of their training the Whiteshields, they carried on undeterred.
They were becoming so proficient, they did not need to spend as much time on their average shooting drills, leaving more time for the mockups. However, these intensive scenarios proved taxing. By evening, they were all but spent and could not maintain their usual pace. Now, entering the final lap—the racing finishing—they appeared unable to go on.
“Methinks we ought to cancel these night runs,” Marsh Silas said to Carstensen as they trotted. “If we train them into the ground they won’t have enough strength to carry on if there’s a fight.”
“This is what they need. The harder we make their training, the more adaptable they’ll be for the fights to come,” Carstensen said, hardly winded. She had doffed her hat and coat in exchange for a khaki fatigue jacket and a rucksack. If it were not for her black trousers, she might have appeared as a true Shock Trooper.
Marsh Silas glanced over his shoulder. The Whiteshields were still lagging behind. He smirked and ran closer to Carstensen.
“You look splendid in that jacket.”
“It’s yours.”
“It is?” he asked, bemused. “I don’t remember loaning it to ya.”
“It’s your spare. It spends all its time in your footlocker, so I took it upon myself to air it out from time to time.” She glanced at him with her teal eyes. “I trust that will not be an issue.”
“Not in the slightest,” Marsh said back. “You look like a proper Cadian in that.”
“Alas, it is as close as I may ever come.”
Before the conversation could continue, there was a bellow behind them. Marsh and Carstensen turned just in time to watch the Whiteshields sprint by them. Both the platoon sergeant and Junior Commissar slowed to a mere trot and exchanged a surprised glance.
“Why, they are determined to make a good show of it. They must really want to run me into the dirt this time. Can’t imagine why, they always win the race,” Marsh said, tipping his hat back.
“Only because you let them,” Carstensen said disapprovingly. She flashed him a curt smile and nodded at the party of Whiteshields. “Well? Get on after them.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Marsh Silas cheered. He ran at full tilt, grasping his M36 by the weapon’s furniture and pumping his legs hard. As he neared the bridge, the Whiteshields were already completing their circuit. Each one tapped the waist-high stone column punctuating the ends of the bridge’s guard trails—their custom during each run. Panting and chortling, the Whiteshields ran past him.
But Marsh Silas was in his prime. Despite the weight in his pack and burning lungs, he felt his blood coursing and muscles throbbing. He propelled himself along, his smile growing more and more delighted as he tapped the bridge and raced after his trainees. They were halfway up Army’s Meadow. Carstensen was just passing them, apparently enjoying her lonesome jog.
“You still have time,” she said nonchalantly as Marsh bolted by her. He was gaining on them now. Graeme, running at the back of the squad, spotted Marsh Silas coming and frantically waved his hand.
“Here he comes, here he comes! Faster, faster!”
“Come on, Whiteshields!” Clivvy shouted from the front. “Let’s show the sarge we can run him into the ground, too!”
They bucketed along but it was too late. Marsh bounded abreast of the squad, passing each one individually. Groans, jeers, and protestation abounded but Marsh paid them no mind. Suddenly, he felt someone leap onto him. Rowley clung to his rucksack and tried to haul him back. Graeme, Tattersall, and Webley all did the same. Marsh tripped and found himself under a pile of Whiteshields. But he clawed onwards, dragging them along. All laughed as they struggled to keep him pinned.
“Go, Yeardley, go!” Rowley cheered. Yeardley dumped his rucksack and took off running. But the platoon sergeant shook like a wet hound, throwing enough of the Whiteshields off that he could run. He sprinted after the little Whiteshield and soon came up to him. Running shoulder to shoulder, they stormed through the gate, across the compound, and up the slope—the finish line was the top.
Marsh scanned right. Yeardley’s eyes were filled with determination. His smile was gone and he was concentrating only on the finish. His zealousness was something to admire then. Marsh Silas planned to win this time, but he could not deny this erstwhile soldier his victory. The shatter to his morale would be too great for him to handle, Marsh Silas thought. For him? Or for you, dear friend? He did not respond. Marsh slightly slowed his gait and Yeardley drew ahead. With a jump, cheer, and a cartwheel, he reached the finishing zone.
“Yes! Yes!” he cried. “I beat you Marsh Silas, fair and square!”
“Sure did, kid,” Marsh said, drawing breath. He put his hand on the side of Yeardley’s neck and smiled affectionately. “Ya did good. Keep yer spirits up jus’ like that, and you’ll win any firefight.”
“Yes, Senior Staff Sergeant!” Yeardley panted. “Do you think we’re ready enough to go on a real patrol? I tire of the mockups, I want to go out!”
“What is that I hear!?”
Marsh and Yeardley turned. Standing behind the communication trenches overlooking the channel was a party of officers led by Colonel Isaev. With him were several staff members, Regimental Commissar Ghent, Captain Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, and Lieutenant Hyram. Isaev and Ghent looked particularly incensed and the former stormed over to Marsh. “What is the meaning of this, Staff Sergeant Cross?”
“I always lead my Whiteshields—”
“Your Whiteshields? How possessive of you. Those men and women are not yours, they are merely under your command. That does not include your tutelage. How much time and resources have you wasted on these games?”
“No games, sir,” Marsh protested. “We’re running’ them through training scenarios so they’re better prepared for any enemy we come across.”
“I fail to see how this has translated into their behavior. They fail to do any meaningful work, sequestered away for your dithering lessons while the others set themselves to real, honest labor. They’re Whiteshields; they may be green, but they know enough.”
Marsh Silas’s blank expression shifted to one of disbelief. He looked to the side to see other Whiteshields wandering aimlessly around waiting for directions while their platoon NCO smoked with two of his compatriots. Others were scraping out a rusty fuel drum for no foreseeable purpose. When a few came to the sergeant to ask a question, they were brushed away with curses and fists.
“Sir, they aren’t doing anything meaningful nor are they being taught. These Whiteshields with me are indeed learning.” Marsh motioned towards the entire squad, now assembled around him with Carstensen. “I’m teaching them how to be better soldiers. Respectfully, sir, we should take it upon ourselves to act this way with all our Whiteshields. If we invest ourselves in them, it will only help the regiment in future engagements.”
“Watch your tongue, boy,” Isaev menaced, poking Marsh hard in the chest. “I will not sustain criticism of my handling of the regiment. Do not protest. Stand at attention! My nerves are already worn thin from your platoon leader’s incessant pleadings to conduct long range patrols in the region. Even if I were to indulge in such fantasies, your platoon cannot go out with such foolish Whiteshields.”
Isaev snapped his fingers and his retinue of staff officers followed. Commissar Ghent, Captain Giles, Eastoft, and Hyram lingered. Deflated, Marsh Silas ordered the Whiteshields to return to their quarters in the barracks. Quietly, they shuffled away. Once they and the majority of the procession had passed, it was Ghent who approached Marsh Silas.
“Do not treat them like your children, Senior Staff Sergeant,” Ghent said coldly. “Remember, these are soldiers first. Do not make things easy for them.”
“Sir, I do no such thing,” Marsh insisted.
“In your mind, perhaps. Out there, beyond the wire, is the real test. But they won’t be ready for it unless you test them now. You do no such thing, it is merely a masquerade of you pulling their strings to mimic the movements of those who know.” Ghent pulled away and shouldered by Marsh Silas. Before he ambled down the slope, Carstensen approached him.
“Sir. Were you not an instructor once?”
“I was,” Ghent said over his shoulder.
“Would you take up the mantle once more?” she asked. Ghent turned slightly, then shook his head.
“I had ten years to train the men and women around you, Junior Commissar, and many of them did not survive their first encounter with the enemy. A few weeks, a few months—what makes you think what you’re doing will save any of their lives?”
“I will show you differently sir, and so will Staff Sergeant Cross,” Carstensen replied firmly. Ghent said nothing and left them. As she watched him leave, the Junior Commissar’s hands balled into fists. She clenched them so tightly her shoulders shuddered. Marsh Silas approached her and gently clasped her arm. At his touch, she grew still. Her head turned just enough that her orange locks swept across her eyes. Behind them, her teal gaze burned incandescently, but cooled as Marsh looked into her.
Hyram, Giles, and Eastoft approached the pair and Marsh let his hand drop. Giles, always amicable-looking, flashed him a radiant smile. Boisterous, talkative, and intelligent, his positive demeanor made him well-liked throughout the regiment. He had always treated the platoon sergeant with kindness and respect as well; if it were not for their differences of rank, Marsh would have considered him a real friend.
“I do appreciate what you’re doing for those Whiteshields. It’s…a very thoughtful and considerate idea. I pray that it serves them well.”
“Ghent and Isaev remained unconvinced,” Eastoft put in, “much like the Colonel does about the ambushes in the hinterland. Continue training them and the evidence will speak for itself.”
Whereas Giles was warm, Eastoft was cold. Quiet, calculating, and dependable, the trim woman had years of experience in multiple regiments. Much like her superior officer and friend, she had gained her commission from the ranks via inspection, rather than purchase, award, or schooling. Although Giles authenticated Marsh’s applications for officership, it was she who did the majority of the necessary paperwork. Despite her administrative strengths, Bloody Platoon recounted her bravery during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. She was just as capable a soldier as she was a clerk.
She approached Marsh Silas and nodded, her regulation bun bobbing. “Just like your officership, you must not give up.” Marsh Silas nodded resolutely in return. He felt as though she believed in him, Carstensen, and the Whiteshields far more than Giles did.
“Although I believe the efforts regarding the Whiteshields to be very important,” Hyram started, approaching the small party, “we cannot overlook the developing situation outside our gates. They grow more brazen than before. There are reports of ambushes on convoys—not thin-skinned vehicles, but tanks. If the enemy is willing to attack tanks and is fielding equipment to do so, it is quite clear this is a motivated, driven, and dangerous force.”
“Lieutenant, once more I express my agreement with you,” Giles said, his voice thin and stressed. “But there is no convincing Isaev for a patrol of the kind you’re volunteering for. My hands are bound.”
“I grow weary of the Colonel’s complacent policy lines,” Hyram seethed. “I want to take Bloody Platoon out into that big country, range it, and root out the heretics in their strongholds. If we can eliminate them now, the odds will be far more even when the eventual attack comes. My platoon, out there, living in the rough, getting resupply drops every few days, moving quickly and quietly. We may very well ambush the ambushers!”
Marsh Silas wanted to give a little cheer. How he adored his friend and platoon leader’s growing aggressiveness! He knew most of it was born from his concern of the overall strategic situation. His combativeness was born not just from fire in his heart but his robust acumen. Hyram possessed a unique tendency for seeing things bigger than the platoon. It made him all the more ferocious and capable.
Giles and Eastoft shared a knowing smile, obviously pleased the man once thought to be the least promising officer in the entire 1333rd Regiment was shaping up to be one of the best. Yet, their faces fell and all they could offer were their sympathetic, violet gazes. Giles reached forward and squeezed Hyram’s shoulder.
“You’re a good officer and a better man. I thank the Emperor for having you, but you’ll have to come up with something else if you want to get out there. I haven’t a clue what could convince the old man. Retire for the evening, Lieutenant. You all should, you have been very busy. Unlike many others in the regiment.”
As the two officers drifted away, Hyram’s head hung low and his shoulders sagged. He didn’t look very soldierly at that moment. Instead of upsetting Marsh, the sight made him rather sad. An officer in low spirits was just as bad as a platoon suffering from low morale. As well, he did not enjoy seeing his good friend disappointed in such a way. Hyram turned away and muttered something to himself. Marsh knew when the Lieutenant was admonishing himself. The man was harder on nobody than himself and often he didn’t need to do such silly things. Rarely, he committed grievances meriting such self-deprecation.
Marsh Silas came up beside Hyram and hooked his arm around the fellow’s shoulders. He jostled him and ran his hand up and down his shoulder. The Lieutenant shook his head sadly.
“What are we to do?” he murmured. “Why are those we trust with command often so blind to threats so clear to those who obey them? All I want to do is be a good soldier and destroy the Emperor’s enemies. Why do His other servants want to stop that?”
“I used to think fellow Cadians could do no wrong. Barlocke opened my eyes to the troubles within this sacred branch o’ the Militarum,” Marsh said. “Isaev is one o’ those problems.”
“And I suspect he is all too eager to prevent further action on our part,” Carstensen said. “While the rest of the regiment was driven from Fortis, it was Bloody Platoon who forged onward. We were wreathed in glory. Credit went to us and the fallen Inquisitor—not him.”
“If that’s true, then he is a pettier man than I ever imagined,” Marsh growled. He walked away from Hyram with his hands on his hips. “There’s got to be a way to convince him to let us out and that helping out these kids are the right ways to go about this.”
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“Silas, can we not bind these goals?” Carstensen said. “Perhaps, if we can show him that the training for the Whiteshields has paid off, then he will authenticate the patrol.”
“Yes, Lilias!” Marsh said, hurrying over to her. “A wonderful idea. It is as Eastoft says, the evidence will speak for themselves. Results are what matter to those bigwigs, so let's give them some!”
“It will have to be an exercise beyond the mockups, similar to what we’ve experienced in the field and relevant to the operation,” Carstensen said.
“A patrol up Army’s Meadow, not a run, at night, practicing stealth, and engaging in a mock ambush. Sir, can you whip some o’ those gunmen of ours to stage a mock attack on the Whiteshields when we take them on a simulated patrol?”
Hyram looked between the platoon sergeant and Junior Commissar several times. His violet eyes were wide with surprise. The studious, astute expression he often wore shifted to confused curiosity. He lifted a finger and pointed at them.
“Yes, of course…but did you just call her Lilias? And you, you called him Silas.”
Marsh and Carstensen looked at one another hastily, their cheeks dusted with pink. Both stepped away from one another.
***
The next night, the moon shone brightly in an open sky. The wind was calm and ocean waves gently lapped the shore. Marsh and Carstensen walked side by side behind the formation of Whiteshields. They were arranged in a staggered column and were slowly making their way down the road. Heads swiveled and M36s barrels swept from side to side.
Yeardley’s boot skidded on some gravel and the squad seemed to jolt as one. Heads turned, checking the noise, before the formation continued. Clivvy, leading from the front as usual, communicated via swift hand signals for everyone to remain quiet. Her and Webley were quite adept with silent signaling. Soames tended to be too lazy regarding them and Graeme was struggling to remember each code. It was not for lack of trying, though. Yeardley, on the other hand, was taking opportunities to make humorous shapes with his hands or communicate silly messages. At one point, he seemed to outline someone rotund before pretending to kick this unseen person in the seat of their pants. There were a few titters and Carstensen snapped, ‘noise discipline!’ As the quiet returned, Rowley and Graeme started to tremble.
Marsh Silas, although confused, found himself smirking. But he felt Carstensen seething behind him. He knew if noise discipline were lifted she would be filling his ear with every critique. There were many he thought of himself; poor discipline regarding hand communications, a lack of effort, a pace that was far too slow, and general absence of bearing.
“We have so much work to do with them,” she whispered. “They lack refinement. We should not put them through a trial tomorrow night.”
“Lilias, please, I assure you they’ll do well. They’ve covered this plenty o’ times during their own training. With all we’ve shown’em, their morale and discipline are solid.”
“Long range reconnaissance is not a part of Whiteshield doctrine. What we’ve taught them does not translate directly to an exercise of this nature. They need more time.” But Marsh Silas just smiled and walked ahead of her, arms outstretched.
“Just trust me,” he assured her. You’re beginning to remind me of someone. He was tall, dark-haired, pale, and beyond handsome I’m told. ‘Jus’ shut up,” Marsh thought as he walked to the front of the formation. You would’ve looked very fine in an Inquisitorial jacket such as mine. A long coat, one of those caps. If you grew your hair out and dyed it… ‘I ain’t playing these games with you,’ Marsh thought, not unkindly.
The platoon sergeant walked next to Clivvy and faced the Whiteshields. He walked backwards as they crept forward. “You hear somethin’ moving to your immediate front. What do you do?”
“Recon by fire?” Leander suggested.
“Find cover?” Yeardley asked. Marsh pointed at Clivvy as she raised her fist into the air.
“Keep your eyes on the pointman,” he said. “Sergeant Clivvy has issued a stop order you’re all familiar with.”
She leveled out her arm, indicating for the squad to crouch. After everyone was still and covering their sectors, she raised her head and scanned the environment around them. Her actions were very deliberate. She even took it upon herself to walk a few meters ahead to inspect the verdant fields on either side of them. Eventually, she stood up straight and waved for the formation to continue their patrol. Everyone rose except for Merton, who apparently was distracted or merely not paying attention. A boot in the pants from Carstensen got him moving, though.
Once they were formed up and walking again, Marsh Silas strode confidently through the squad. “Very good,” he said, continuing to walk backwards. “At night, rely on your senses no matter how full the moon is. Reserve micro-bead communications until you’re really, really, really sure the enemy is not close by. The same goes for speaking aloud. On a darker night, you must be even more careful with how you move and communicate. Movement is key; heel-toe, be slow, avoid rocks, sticks, and leaves. Never, ever, turn on a light unless absolutely necessary.”
The patrol continued until they reached the bridge. Each Whiteshield ceremoniously tapped the stubby anchor column and then assembled in a line for Marsh’s final words of the evening. “You’re doing very well. Be sure to focus and don’t act rashly. Obey your squad leaders but never be afraid to pitch an idea or relay vital intelligence. If you have an idea, share it, it may be o’ use. That’ll make you a better soldier and who wouldn’t want to be more than they already are? We should strive to become more, should we not?” I daresay, Silvanus, you are certainly unoriginal.
Marsh Silas checked his wrist-chrono. It was getting late, and this was the third time they’d patrolled up the peninsula. Despite a few hitches, they did well enough and he did not see the point of going on for a fourth time. “Off you go, hit the showers and then it's off to bed with ya. Rowley, Graeme, a moment if you please.”
The squad seemed reluctant to let their two friends stay behind, perhaps fearing they were going to be reprimanded. Both Whiteshields exchanged a skittish glance but marched up to Marsh Silas and stood at attention. He smiled at them. “At ease. I saw you two were shakin’. No shame, no shame. No Cadian goes into battle without fear. You must learn to bear it, as there is no extinguishing it. An officer or sergeant or, Emperor forbid, a Commissar may not always be there to press you. Sometimes, that might be a good thing.”
He glanced over at Junior Commissar Carstensen, who was glaring incandescently at him. He cleared his throat and smiled nervously at the Whiteshields. “Our present Commissar is exempt, of course.”
“What Staff Sergeant Cross is explaining is that in the field, you cannot indulge your fear,” Carstensen added firmly. “You will suffer it only until the bullets fly. When the very first shot cracks over your head, then it will leave you. But, if it ever persists, you must never sustain or give into it. People depend on you to keep your heads. Now go.”
Both said their goodbyes and hurried back to their squad. Ever loyal, the others waited nearby. The band merrily talked as they went back to the camp. Marsh sat on the anchor for a few moments, lit his pipe, and breathed in the salty night air. He gazed at the moon as he puffed away and found it quite beautiful. But he felt Carstensen’s gaze on him.
“There was no need to be harsh with them,” he protested.
“Twas not admonishment, merely truth. If they cannot bear it then they aren’t fit for the service.”
“I am trying to be different with these Whiteshields. I am teaching them with an open hand, not a fist.”
“And that is what we are doing, Silas. Kindness must be moderated with discipline and hard truths. We both wish to deviate from the typical training these Whiteshields go through. Much of it is bunk, we both know that, but not everything our instructors imparted is useless.”
She makes a good point, even if I disagree. Barlocke’s voice was steady and cool, washing through Marsh’s skull. However, it might appear simple to pick and choose what you keep and what you do away with. But change may be mired by such thoughtful acts. Progress should not be paused for the sake of keeping old practices, no matter how useful. It is better to forge onwards and create something better and new.
Marsh Silas let the words fade, their echoes reverberating within his mind. Carstensen waited patiently for his response. Once his head was clear, he stood up and smiled amicably.
“I hear you, Lilias. I say we focus on our present tasks at hand, and then we may reconvene and figure out just what we’ll do. As for me, I think I'll wash myself before I turn in.”
He went to leave, but she grabbed his hand. Carstensen pulled him back so he faced her. Her gaze was hard.
“I understand it is easy to glib about Commissars. Even though I wish to change the institution and remedy its many flaws, I ask that you still respect it.”
“Lilias, I—”
“I am not hurt. I just feel as though…” she stopped and squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. When she opened them, her gaze softened and her lips parted, imploring. “What more must I do to convince you that I am on your side? That I will not harm these Whiteshields or anyone else?”
“You need not prove yourself further, Lilias. I am sorry.”
“I know you did not mean to offend me. I just…I am trying very hard to be the best Commissar I can be for these soldiers, and to become a Cadian.”
“Cadian? Lilias, what you said last night—”
“Another time. Let us depart.”
“Very well, then. You may go, but I will wash first as well.”
Marsh Silas tipped his soft cover but was surprised as Carstensen kept pace with him. They didn’t share a word all the way to the gate. Marsh Silas first deposited his excess gear by his bunk in the barracks and retrieved his grooming kit. By the time he came back, the Whiteshields had finished and were tramping back themselves. But Carstensen was still waiting by the shower unit.
There were two units and both housed up to sixty men. Each one was located inside a wide then filled with pipeworks stemming from large, cylindrical water tanks outside. Attached to wooden timbers and beams, the pipes ran the length of the massive row of showers. The row ran down the center of the tent on a wooden platform. Each stall was about waist high with a showerhead directly above it; the tray of the actual stall was metal with wooden trim. A Guardsman could place his grooming kit on a short shelf on the right side of the stall, just out of the water’s reach. Uniforms and other wargear were stashed on a wooden bench a meter or so outside of the stall.
Normally, Guardsmen did not wash themselves every day and depending on the post, a shower could be a true luxury. But the base on Army’s Meadow was well fortified and supplied, allowing it to expand its infrastructure for frequent washes.. Even with showers readily available, enlisted men could not shower without permission from their immediate superiors, that being their platoon leader or the senior NCO in their outfit. Marsh Silas, being an NCO, did not have to ask for permission so long as his duties for the day were complete.
It was empty within the unit. Marsh shivered as he undressed. As he took off his shirt, he looked at Carstensen, standing in the stall beside him. She was still in her uniform and gazing at him sternly. “Are…are you planning to wash as well?” the platoon sergeant asked her.
“Negative.”
“Then why are you—”
“Is my company disturbing you?”
“Not at all. You’ve seen me in worse ways than this,” he said as he took off his belt. Once he shed his uniform, he turned on the water and ducked under it swiftly. It was immediately hot and a sigh passed through his lips. Steam billowed off his muscular frame while his blonde hair was matted down. Streams flowed over the winged skull icon tattoo he had over his shoulder blades. Taking his time, he scrubbed his hair and enjoyed the suds sliding down his chest. After rinsing, he reached into his kit and produced a palm-mirror. Propping it against the post of the stall, which ran all the way to the overarching beam, he drew his razor and shaved his stubble.
When he finished, he washed his face again and set the razor down. Turning to grab his bar of soap, he found an amused Carstensen now leaning on the divider.
“It is interesting to see you partake in your pleasures,” she mused.
“A hot shower is a luxury to warriors such as us, eh?” Marsh said, unsure of what else to say. He felt silly, standing frozen under the running water as the Junior Commissar stared at him.
“By all means, do not let me stop you. Take your time and continue, please.”
Warily, Marsh ran the soap over his chest. He looked away from her for a time, but could not sustain it. Carstensen’s silence was overwhelming and he looked back at her. She was still watching him, her chin resting on her hand.
“You’re jus’ torturing me for my smart remarks.”
“Perhaps.” Carstensen sneaked a smile.
“Well, make yerself useful and get my back!” Marsh teased. He held out his soap to her and she eyed it with a frown. Marsh wondered if he overstepped and released a nervous bout of laughter. He prepared to offer sincere, rapid-fire apologies so as not to offend her again.
“Don’t tempt me,” Carstensen replied in jest. At least, he interpreted it as one. Regardless of how she meant it, he continued scrubbing. Carstensen remained, contenting herself by smoking Marsh’s ebony pipe. Marsh was inclined to go about it in a hasty fashion yet he did not want to speed up this time he indulged so rarely. Hot water, peace, silence; even with Carstensen present, he had that. Having grown accustomed to her, he felt even calmer with her company.
Before he finished washing his abdomen, the drenched hair covering his pronounced muscles, he faced her again. Carstensen blew a smoke ring that overtook him. “Am I bothering you?” she asked.
“No, truly.”
“It is just…between our duties and the Whiteshields, we do not often have time to be together, just us two. And I…” Something flickered in Carstensen’s oceanic eyes. “...I find myself seeking this kind of quiet, private time. Not even to speak, but merely to be near you. It is quite clear to me you seek this also.”
Marsh nodded in affirmation as he prepared to shave. Carstensen reached over and picked up the palm-mirror, still balanced against the post. Inquisitively, she looked into it as if she were searching for something. There was nothing but her own pale cheeks, scar, the pugilist nose, and her gleaming eyes like the surf in daylight. So enraptured by her intense stare Marsh forgot that he himself was without any clothes and standing under hot water. Never before had he wanted to know so badly what another person was thinking. He wanted to understand just what she was looking for in the mirror, in herself. It was as if the answer were a mystery to her too and a part of him wanted to aid her in its discovery. How he wanted to say something but no words came to mind!
Do you wish for my aid in this matter? Fragment I may be, but this fragment is in possession of some power, I assure you.
‘Please,’ thought Marsh Silas, ‘say nothing more.’ Barlocke acquiesced to the platoon sergeant’s plea. Eventually, Carstensen set the mirror down on the shelf, allowing him to shave. “I was blessed by the Emperor when the Officio Prefectus sent me to Cadia. I wanted to go to the toughest front in the Imperium there was. To me, there was no better way to earn one’s rank in this most hallowed profession.” She spoke almost as if she were sad. It was so foreign to her speech that even Marsh Silas was surprised. “I got what I wanted. My prayers were answered. I have no regrets.”
Her finger ran back and forth across the divider between the two stalls. “A Commissar must be passionate, pious, zealous, and inspirational. Yet they must be ready to punish and even slaughter. Both are quite difficult to do, more than you may think. I am capable of both but war, in all its sirens, alarms, blasts, tragedies and horrors, glory and honors, has the most peculiar effect of dampening the soul, however stalwart.”
Marsh Silas finished shaving and turned the water off. Carstensen clenched the pipe with her lips and handed him his towel before continuing. “I brought with me the gusto Commissars are expected off. During those early days, plunging into battle, I believed I could keep up that bombastic zeal until the day the Emperor required me to join him. But those days folded into months and then into years. I have been at war a long time, Silas, as have you. My spirit is unbowed and I will give everything for this holy Imperium. But, there is that dampening. I do not know where and when, but in me there was a change. The fire still burns but perhaps not as ferociously. I learned that my energies needn’t all be spent at one time or another and there are some things a Commissar ought not to do, no matter how many times they’ve been told they should act. Do you understand me, Silas?”
“I believe so,” was the response. Marsh was fairly certain he understood but not entirely. He lingered on the ought and oughtn’t. Despite this vagueness, he felt as though he were the subject of it. He certainly hoped that was the case. “Lilias, maybe it don’t mean much from an ol’ soldier like me, but you truly aren’t like them other Commissars. You’re a warrior and your valor and bravery is something that inspires me each and every day. But you are far kinder than many I’ve known, and I’ve known a-plenty. I think you are the greatest Commissar I have known. And an even greater person, too. Even if your energies are directed at something—someone—else, that won’t change a damned thing.”
“I am happy to hear you say that.” Carstensen leaned back against the timber of the stall. The amber light above them warmly illuminated her face. She did not blow a smoke ring this time, but merely released a heavy, gray cloud. When it faded, she was smiling sweetly at him. “For I think the very same, now.”
Marsh Silas dressed and the pair exited the shower unit. The night was crisp and light snow fell. They stood closely together and gazed up at the purplish blanket of night. All the noise pollution of the camp—traveling voices, sparking tools, humming generators—faded. Marsh’s gaze fell on Carstensen and she looked back.
“You and I speak of dreams often,” he said to her. “Lilias, when I’m with you, it certainly feels like we’re in one.”
Carstensen’s hand slid down his arm and her fingers intertwined with his.
“Yes, it does,” she answered quietly.