Bloody Platoon lined the firing pits in one of Fort Mollitiam weapons ranges. The Guardsmen practiced with M36 Kantrael Pattern lasrifles, their workhorse, as well as the Kantrael Short Pattern, Triplex, Locke, and M35 Galaxy patterns. Bullard even tutored Tattersall in operations of the Long-Las, sitting beside the prone Whiteshield and monitoring his groupings with magnoculars.

As lasbolts seared and crackled, other troopers drew their sidearms. Autopistol gunshots rang out loudly and brass cartridges tinkled on the mats they had spread over the pits. Others drew stub pistols and hammered away at the targets with heavy caliber slugs. Some of the Shock Troopers had pulled out some larger pistols from the armory and laughed when a particular weapon’s kick made their wrists ache.

But the loudest sound of all was Carstensen’s bolt pistol. Striding up to the pits, she breathed deeply, held out her massive weapon with one hand, and squeezed the trigger. The shell ripped right through the center of the artistic interpretation of a deranged, snarling heretic. Those watching cheered and as the rest of her rounds tore the target to shreds. By the time her magazine clicked empty, only scraps were left.

Joining Bloody Platoon was the company’s weapons platoon. These men operated extra heavy bolters, tripod-mounted grenade launchers, recoilless rifles, and Saber Turrets. Similar to the platforms along the fortress ramparts, these consisted of twin-linked autocannons, heavy bolters, lascannons, or quad-mounted heavy stubbers. These various models pounded away at targets down the range, roaring loudly and kicking up clouds of dust.

There was no qualification test, Bloody Platoon merely wanted to use one of their last days of furlough shooting for the sake of it. They chatted and smoked as they took turns in the pits to shoot untroubled or conducted contests of speed and accuracy. All smiled and laughed, exchanged their bets of choc-bars and lho-sticks, teased, and jested.

Marsh Silas walked down the line, his ears ringing from the gunshots. As he did, the men of Bloody Platoon faced him. Drummer Boy lifted his hand in salute.

“Sir!”

“Quit it, men, enjoy yourself.”

“Sir!” cried Walmsley Minor.

“Knock it off, knock it off.”

“Sir!” Monty Peck, Mottershead, Logue, and Foley said in unison.

“Throne, I am plain Marsh Silas and I will be treated plainly. Keep your eyes down range.”

He stopped by Carstensen as she reloaded. She smiled at him while he covered his ears. Lining up her sights on another target, she clutched it with both hands and fired rapidly. Holes cut through the next paper target so close together the hole widened until the sheet split in half. Guardsmen cheered and clapped their hands.

“Hard to review your grouping when there’s no grouping left, ma’am,” said Effleman.

“You definitely are Cadian, Commissar,” put in Holmwood. “You shoot like one, that’s for damn sure.”

“The man’s right,” Marsh said. “We all better practice more if we want to compare.” Guardsmen around them nodded and grunted in agreement, then took up their arms once more. Entering their shooting positions, they waited for the targets to be replaced, cleared the range, and opened fire. Arms akimbo, Marsh cast a happy glance at Carstensen.

“I seek to inspire,” she said with a smart smirk.

The Lieutenant grinned and tapped her on the shoulder before going to the end of the line. A few tables were pushed together along with some camp stools. Usually reserved for the range masters, it was occupied by Walmsley Major and Hyram. The two men were serving as the coordinators for the shooting day.

“I’ve attempted to speak with Colonel Isaev several times since we’ve been here but he’s apparently been too busy,” Hyram said to Walmsley Major. He sipped his recaf loudly and hastily smoked his lho-stick. “We’ve eliminated the threat in the west but Drusus said he was a harbinger and that he has a master.”

“We never get the robed fellow neither,” said the platoon sergeant, who slurped his own recaf. “Blessings, with the Warpsmith dead, maybe whatever attack they was plannin’ got called off.”

“The Archenemy never sleeps, are not quick to give up, and hasty to conduct their vile affairs,” warned Hyram. “Throne, I still think about the kiddies they kidnapped from that village.”

“We made’em pay for that, though,” Walmsley grunted. As Marsh sat down, Walmsley Major pushed over a third cup of recaf. “The Lieutenant here was jus’ telling me that Isaev still hasn’t recommended that the local commanders put their forces on high alert.”

“Unsurprising. Isaev has made himself scarce since the ceremony.” Marsh paused to drink. “More than likely, he does not want to appear foolish in front of the garrison commanders. He’d have to admit he ignored the reports of his subordinates and was forced to respond when they encountered heretics in the hinterland.”

“We all have more decorations than him now. I doubt he wants to be seen with us lest he feel inferior,” added Hyram. He finished his recaf and pushed away from the table. “I’ve got to see to my platoon. Oh, and Silas, would you make yourself available in the ceremonial bailey this eve? Let’s say, oh, 1700 hours?”

“For what?”

“Just be available.” Hyram winked at Walmsley Major and walked off. Marsh glanced at his platoon sergeant and shrugged.

“Never mind that, sir,” said Walmsley. “For now, we need to finalize the changes of command in the platoon.”

Marsh Silas nodded. Although Bloody Platoon had taken time out of their furlough to parade, drill, and brush up on small unit tactics at the various courses in the fort, he had put off promoting anyone into the vacant squad roles. For the time being, they had been temporarily led by the assistant squad leaders.

The Lieutenant took out his pipe and started smoking. With a wave of his hand, Walmsley Major pushed the roster in front of him. “3rd Squad needs a new squad leader. Queshire will be missed, but they need someone.”

Sergeant Queshire’s death at the hands of the Defiler was a blow to Bloody Platoon. He had been in the Guard almost as long as Marsh Silas and was an efficient combat leader. Experienced, clear-headed, amiable, loyal, hard-working, he could be counted on for any task. Perhaps, he was a little relaxed for a Shock Trooper and didn’t bear the typical Cadian physical attributes but Marsh Silas had found this to be a good aspect. Queshire did not frighten easily and was perturbed by very little.

“He will be missed. The natural pick is Cuyper, he was assistant squad leader, he took over when Queshire perished, and he’s already attended leadership courses. It’s time for a promotion. But that does mean we have to elevate someone to the assistant’s position.”

“Might be tough. Maybe we ought to take someone from another squad.”

“We do not have the numbers that we once did and cannot afford to be choosy,” said Marsh. He exhaled and released a cloud of smoke. “The days of Barlocke’s protections are long over.” Well, I like to think I can still be of some good. Marsh Silas smiled softly and looked at his boots. ‘I know,’ he thought, then looked back up. “Fleming’s a tough one and though he’s quiet, he’s smart. Give it to him.”

“Very well.” Walmsley Major scribbled on the roster. “Bloody hell, I don’t know how you did it all them years. Not knowing how to write. Hyram’s lessons make this a trifling.”

“A good memory is a tool of its own. Now, somebody needs to take over the heavy weapons section. Your twin should do the trick.” Walmsley Major’s smile faded and he put his field quill down. He pursed his lips and shifted his gaze to the side.

“Aye, about that, I ain’t sure that’s such a good idea, sir. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m using my position to advance my brother.”

“Walmsley, we are all brothers here. No one would dare accuse of such a thing. We all know Walmsley Minor, he’s been your assistant for years. It’s only natural he should take up the mantle. Make it so. Fill in the gaps with Whiteshields at your discretion, but keep Tattersall training with Bullard. Another marksman would be quite useful.”

Walmsley Major nodded, wrote down on the roster, then set the quill down. He slid the paperwork across the table, Marsh signed it, and slid it back. But the platoon sergeant did not take it. Instead, he leaned forward on the table.

“One more thing, old friend. You need to let these gunmen call you ‘sir,’ now.”

“Walmsley, just because I have this bar does not mean—”

“I’m your platoon sergeant now and it’s important you listen. Folks have called you that for a long time, even a non-commissioned officer’s rank merits it. You never balked at it then, so don’t balk now. It comes not just from a place of respect but also discipline. You’re right, we’re all brothers, but now you are the commander, not the helper. You’ll always be Marsh Silas, but that word is necessary to ensure these men remember that you’re not just Marsh Silas. You’re one of us, that won’t change because we call you sir, but it might change into something else if they don’t call you such.”

Marsh Silas folded his arms on the table, leaned forward, then took his pipe from his mouth. He rubbed his temple and finally looked at the platoon sergeant.

“You’re right. I wanted this, I should accept this. I suppose I feel the weight of its responsibility now that I am the commander. Barlocke took care of us when he still lived and Hyram relished the challenge when the Inquisitor left us. We didn’t sustain a loss for nearly a year under his leadership. Now, I worry I will not be able to do the same. Von Bracken is watching, yes, I’ve got to pull this platoon through whatever hell awaits us to get the Schola. But, I want to do our duty and ensure these men still live. I want to look them in the eye like Barlocke did to me and promise none of them shall fall. He believed in those promises.” I still do.

“I understand, sir. But you and I both know that just ain’t how the game goes. So, get the platoon through, not each individual man. Then, you will keep Barlocke’s promise.”

“So I must, then. It is my destiny. It was Barlocke’s to awaken mine, I suppose. The Emperor has a plan for us all.” I just wish he had not cut mine so short.

“Do you really think the Inquisitor is dead, sir?”

“I pray he is not. Maybe he escaped and was lost, or was swept away on another quest.”

“I hope so, I would not mind seeing that bugger again. Rather him instead o’ that one.”

Marsh followed Walmsley’s nod towards the gate. His brow furrowed immediately. Approaching the gate was Inquisitor Orzman. He wore khaki trousers, a dark green tunic, and a black leather coat with a wool hood attached. He popped his collar and pulled his hood down low. Glancing around briefly, he then slipped through into the kasr beyond.

“Orzman, the man who processed and taunted me the night we dined with von Bracken. He was there during that ceremony—he was the one who invited my grandsires to harass me, I am sure of it.” Marsh gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood stressed under his grip. “Throne, I bet the bastard knows more about Barlocke than he’s letting on.”

He doused his pipe, tucked it into his kit bag, and stood up. “The platoon’s yours, Walmsley. Stay at the range for as long as you please, then take them back to the hall. Cause no trouble.”

“Sir, looks you’re about to start some yourself, so just…hey, sir, slow down. Ah, just remember to get back here at 1700!”

Marsh jogged on. Quickly, he flashed his papers to the sentries at the gate and hurried out onto the street. Orzman was far ahead of him, walking speedily down the jagged streets and weaving between the Aegis Defense Lines. He moved swiftly and with elegance. He slid between columns of marching Cadians, flowed around roadblocks, and passed through checkpoints with but one wave of his Rosette. Just like Barlocke’s, it was bone-white, in the shape of an Inquisitorial-I with a skull in the center.

Marsh Silas kept his peaked cap low and followed from a distance. “Barlocke,” he whispered, “what can you tell me about this pupil of yours?”

Ah, that would spoil the fun! Well, I suppose I can tell you a few things. Orzman, once upon a time, was a Guardsman like yourself. He hails from a place called Tallarn in Segmentum Tempestus and served in the Desert Raiders. I came across him some ten solar years ago. While his swordsmanship and piety were certainly to be admired, it was his clandestine agility which spoke to me. When the need for Agents in my retinue arose, I handpicked some of the best men available for a mission. Orzman was the only one who came back. He’s intelligent and perceptive, again, two very useful qualities in a Throne Agent, so be wary. Oh, but he’s a full Inquisitor now! I am so proud…

Marsh Silas paused at the corner of a building next to the road and peered around. Orzman continued walking, unconcerned and seemingly unnoticed by so many walking by him. Usually, when an important looking fellow happened by, Cadians snapped to attention or at the very least issued a salute. But he remained unassuming, dressed little better than a tithed-trooper on leave.

He slipped around the corner before Orzman drew too far ahead. “He sounds dangerous.”

Not as dangerous as I am or...was. “Could I take him?” There was silence. “Barlocke?” You’re dangerous too, let’s just say that. “Oh, well thank you for believing in me,” Marsh muttered, rolling his eyes.

The pursuit dragged on for some time. Pale, yellow skies shifted to dull gray and orange. Lights began to turn on over the roads. Soldier halls filled with the sounds of merriment from singing to clinking glasses. But Marsh Silas would not give up. Wherever Orzman was going, he needed to see it. If there was even the slightest chance it could lead to a clue to finding Barlocke, he was going to take it. The prospect of seeing his old friend was beyond tantalizing. Or, at the very least, he could find some way to get back at this man.

He came to another corner. Orzman stopped up ahead to converse with a few sentries near a checkpoint. The Lieutenant studied him; the agent did not make many gestures when he spoke. Those who spoke to him seemed perturbed by his presence.

A hand touched Marsh’s shoulder. Jumping, he turned around only to see Barlocke standing there in his black coat. “Barlocke!?”

“No, I am but the projection of the fragment residing in you,” the image said. Marsh Silas couldn’t hide his disappointment but Barlocke touched his cheek. “Come now, let’s see what my old friend Orzman is up to.”

“Right...”Marsh Silas peeked around the corner again, as did Barlocke, looming over him.

“My, he’s put on a little weight.”

Orzman finished talking to the sentries and pressed on.

“Come on,” Marsh Silas hissed and slid around the corner.

“This is quite exciting! I miss going on missions!”

He looked up at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was smiling happily as they moved alongside the road. As they passed the sentries, they waved at Marsh Silas as he held up his papers. Nobody acknowledged the Inquisitor even though Marsh heard his shoes on the pavement and quiet sweeping of his long coat.

They hooked a corner and came upon a vacant road. “Have you any idea what this place is?”

“A service route,” Marsh explained. “They’re for auxiliary troops and citizens to get to the manufactoria. A garrison presence is only heavy during shift changes and you won’t see many men on leave bothering with these roads.”

Orzman was at the end of the route. He picked up the pace and managed to hurry to the end before the agent got too far away. Waiting a minute or so to let the distance grow between them, he pressed on.

Manufactoria, or industrial worker districts, were very different from other places in a kasr. Here, factorums sprawled and towered over the jagged network of roads, bunkers, and towers. Huge smokestacks pressed against the sky and there were forests of pipes and tubes connecting facilities and engines. There were arches and bridges of pipes overhead which rattled as steam and sludge passed through them.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

As night fell, the lights in these workshops, factorums, and adjacent buildings burned brightly. They cast red, orange, yellow, and golden light in irregular streaks along the ground and gave a dull glow to air. It was such a loud place, filled with the whirr of engines, clanking of gears, roaring fire pits, rumbling conveyor belts, and the steady slam-slam-slam of assembly line presses. Convoys of Cargo-8’s, Cargo-20’s, and Goliath Trucks occasionally rumbled by.

Massive tractors and Sentinel Powerlifters toiled in huge yards filled with scrap heaps. What metal that wasn’t driven into another pile was collected, dumped into great bins, and pulled through one of the great doors of an adjacent factorum. Some walkers carried metal pilings, twisted rebar, and the remnants of Imperial vehicles so destroyed there was no chance of repair, and dumped them into great furnaces linked to their mother factories.

Among these machines were many Administratum subordinates and menials shoveling and dragging metalloid hunks around. Labor Corps servitors and worked alongside them. Penal workers, under the vigilant eyes of their guards, pushed debris with their bare hands. Emaciated, clad in rags, filthy from their hair to their bare feet, whipped and prodded by their work masters, the drags carried on.

His feet failed him and Marsh Silas stopped to look at them through a fence. “I’ve never actually been to a work district before,” he admitted to Barlocke, standing beside him. “It reminds me of...”

He looked down. The image of the Dark Factorum in Kasr Fortis appeared, digging into his mind like the claws of some ruthless beast. Its ghastly lights, fire-filled crags, belching engines, and hordes of poor slaves forced to work...no, it wasn’t right to compare such a horrid place with a necessary function of the Imperial war machine. These laborers, put upon as they were, served a purpose much higher. If they worked hard, they would join the Emperor in everlasting glory.

“It must be hard,” Barlocke murmured, “to imagine your mother working in such a place.”

Marsh gripped the links of the fence. Some of the workers noticed him lingering, seemingly alone. A few stopped to look back at him. One was no more than a little child, too frail and skinny to bother training. Alongside him was a similarly feeble older girl.

Unsure of what to do, Marsh smiled a little bit and nodded. Neither of them returned the gesture. The girl took the boy’s hand and led him away to some carts. Marsh’s sad smile disappeared.

“Let’s go, before we lose him.”

Marsh turned around and was suddenly forced against the fence. Just as his hand went to the holster on his hip, he felt the cold steel of a blade against his throat.

“Lose who?” growled Orzman, pulling back his hood. “Why are you following me?”

Marsh glanced out the corner of his eye. Barlocke’s visage stood aside, blinking with concern. There was nothing he could do and Marsh knew it.

“Where’s Barlocke?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“You think I know something!?” Orzman snarled. “You were the last one to see him. I should be asking you that question.” He pressed in so close their noses nearly touched. Some of his dark hair spilled over his forehead and covered his furrowed brow. “I read the after-action report but I want to hear it from you.”

Marsh Silas’s fingers grazed the grip of his Ripper Pistol.

“He told me life is cruel, unforgiving, and unfair, but that it’s still worth living. He told me to live and disappeared in a crowd of heretics so I could achieve my destiny.” With his other hand, he reached up and clutched Orzman’s wrist. “I am going to become more than what I am. A greater soldier to serve the Emperor and change the Imperium forever, just as Barlocke wanted to do.”

The Throne Agent withdrew his blade, sheathed it, and backed off. Marsh Silas took his hand away from the holster and stood up straight. Orzman sheathed the knife and shook his head.

“The Emperor has a plan for all of us. He sculpted our futures with His own hands, molding us like clay. I was born of sand and sun, you of bayonet steel and warrior bones. Inquisitor Barlocke...” Orzman shut his eyes and pursed his lips. “...if he is still alive, then he is seeking his destiny as well. That does not mean it involves you or me. If he does need us, he will come for us.”

Orzman spoke solemnly. Every word bore a weight and a sadness he simply could not disguise. It seemed as though the same gravity pulled him downwards, making his shoulders sag and his head hang low. Even his hands were limp by his sides.

Eventually, he turned away partially. “He was my friend. I loved him just as you did.”

That was all he said before he donned his hood and disappeared down the road, weaving between the interlocking barriers. Marsh watched him until he was out of sight. Picking his cap up from the pavement and brushing the blackened snow off it, he put it on and turned away.

“Come, let us leave this place.”

***

Marsh Silas, winded, jogged back through the gates of the fortress. It was a few minutes after 1700 and cursed himself for his lateness. Barlocke’s projection, running nimbly beside him, appeared quite unconcerned.

“Oh dear, it appears we missed it.”

“Blast.” Marsh paused and braced his hands on his knees. He gazed up at the fragment and waved his hand. “You may go and rest. You’ve used much strength, oh fragment of my friend.”

“Fragment I am, but I am still Barlocke. I remember how to commune with the Warp and draw on its power as I did once. The light is dimmer than before but it flickers brighter every time I connect with it. Perhaps one day, I can manifest myself and join you on the field of battle again.”

Marsh just nodded and started sorrowfully at the ground. “Don’t be so sad. Your friends will understand.”

“They’ll think me mad, chasing an Inquisitor because I haven’t learned to let go.”

“And after speaking with Orzman, have you let go?”

Suddenly, the massive lights across the ceremonial bailey turned on. Stark white light bathed the entire compound. Standing in a row were Hyram, Carstensen, Commissar Ghent, Captain Giles, and Lieutenant Eastoft. Assembled across the bailey was Bloody Platoon in full wargear! Beside them, Walmsley Major raised his voice.

“Forward, march!” The platoon sergeant sang a cadence as they walked a circuit in front of the reviewing officers. Marsh Silas slowly joined the officers, his eyes wide in bewilderment.

“Welcome brother,” said Hyram. “It is very good to see you.”

“He was worried about you,” Carstensen said. Hyram turned bright red and turned around.

“I was not!” He recovered and clasped Marsh’s hand. “We never had a formal exchange of command ceremony, so we thought to do it ourselves as a surprise. Please, come in line.”

Smiling, Marsh stood between Hyram and Carstensen. Bloody Platoon finished another circuit, then marched towards the cadre. At a cry of, ‘pivot!’ the ranks changed direction to assemble parallel to the cadre. When they were in three even lines, Walmsley Major ordered them to halt, turn left face, and stand at attention. The platoon sergeant spun on his heel, turned around, and saluted.

“1st Platoon all present and accounted for!” he cried.

Captain Giles stepped forward, marched between the two formations, and faced Hyram. They saluted one another.

“Lieutenant-Precept Hyram, we thank you for your erstwhile, dedicated, humanitarian, and faithful leadership of this platoon. It is by your merits and achievements we hereby relieve you of said command and elevate you to a new station.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hyram said and the two men shook hands.

“Hyram! Hyram! Hyram!” Bloody Platoon yelled. Their strong, deep voices rose over the bailey and echoed through the cool, night air. Marsh saw tears run down his friend’s smiling face. Giles then walked in front of Marsh Silas.

“Second Lieutenant Cross, the duty to command this platoon now falls to you. You are charged to be dutiful, valorous, meritorious, and pious in the face of these men and your peers. Do you accept?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Then, in the name of the Emperor and befitting my capacity as commander of the 1st Company, I proclaim you as the commander of the 1st Platoon. Congratulations.”

“Marsh Silas! Marsh Silas! Marsh Silas!” the platoon yelled as the two men shook hands. After Eastoft shook his hand, Ghent came around. He stood with his hands down by his side and his chin up.

“The Emperor has been good to you,” he said stiffly. “Your family has raised you well. You have proven your worth to the Astra Militarum, but the effort is never over. Lead your Guardsmen with dignity. Fight your foes with tenacity. If you must give up your life, do so in honor.”

They clasped one another’s hands tightly. Ghent suddenly flashed that familiar smirk. Marsh Silas remained solemn as befitting of the ceremony, but felt cold all the same. Ghent fell back into line and Carstensen came around. She opened a small case containing a silver icon on it. It appeared as a vertical bar with an Aquila forming the top.

“This is the mark of Saint Felicie, a priestess who preached devotion and love between mankind. She fell in battle against cultists in M34, sacrificing herself in battle to protect her fellow warriors.”

Carstensen took Marsh’s identification tag chain out from his tunic and attached the icon to it. She arranged it beside the tags, stepped back, then pulled out her own chain. She too bore one of Saint Felicie’s icons. Marsh Silas smiled affectionately at her.

“Now, as your first act as platoon leader, we ask you to administer the promotions due to several individuals,” Lieutenant Eastoft said formally. Marsh Silas nodded, cleared his throat, and approached the men.

“Cuyper, Fleming, and Walmsley Minor, step forward.”

All three appeared from the front ranks and gathered in front of the Lieutenant. He gauged all of them briefly as he found his voice. “Cadian Shock Troopers value brotherhood, tradition, and order. You have all proven your dedication and adherence to those creeds as well as your ability in battle. Corporal Cuyper, Corporal Walmsley, you are now beginning a new journey in the lines of Cadian virtue. You are promoted to the rank of sergeant. Now, you join the most vital and important cadre of not only the Cadian Militarum but the entire Astra Militarum. Cuyper, I trust you with the command of 3rd Squad and you Walmsley, you are in command of our heavy weapons teams.”

“Thank you, sir!” they hollered. Marsh shook their hands and then came to Fleming.

“It is time, grenadier, for you to adopt a new responsibility. No longer are you a mere enlisted man, but by promotion to the rank of Master Corporal, you are tasked to assume the role of assistant squad leader under Sergeant Cuyper.”

“I will not let you down, sir.”

Marsh Silas shook his hand, saluted the trio, and dismissed them back to the ranks. He rejoined the line of officers. Barlocke’s ghost still lingered and looked on proudly. Just as he turned around, Hyram walked forward.

“To conclude this ceremony, we wish to remember a man who meant something to us all. Someone who was not expected to treat us with kindness or trust. An individual who valued thoughtfulness, initiative, kindness, and virtue. A leader, a teacher, a soldier, an inspiration who elevated our souls and spirits to a higher purpose. Tonight, we remember Inquisitor Barlocke.”

Marsh’s jaw fell. Hyram smiled fondly. “He and I used to sit by a firelight and speak of books we had read. Often, he’d ask me about my time on Cypra Mundi. Who would want to hear such mundanity, thought I. But to hear him ask after it, you would think I was the most interesting clerk in the Astra Militarum. At times, he frightened me; at times, I doubted him. But I never once doubted our friendship.”

Carstensen drew forward next. She put her hand over her heart and took off her hat.

“Barlocke was a true warrior and a combat leader. I did not always trust him. I do not think I could. But, in the end, I knew the Emperor was wise in creating a man such as he.”

Every Guardsman in Bloody Platoon then took turns. Drummer Boy, Walmsley Major, Arnold Yoxall, Logue, Foley, Bullard, Derryhouse—even Valens joined the formation! ‘He always had a good thing to say about my cooking!’ ‘He went out like a true soldier.’ ‘The man always shared in our hardships.’ ‘He sure did like them pretty flowers.’ ‘He always posed for a pict.’ ‘Always smiling and laughing.’ ‘I pray he made it.’ ‘I wish to see him again.’ ‘He was one o’ us—one o’ the Bloody Platoon.’

This outpouring of emotion, some men moved to tears and requiring embrace from their comrades, was too much for Marsh Silas. He never knew the stories ran so deep. When they swapped tales after Barlocke’s disappearance, it always seemed like a conversation in passing. Perhaps, the stories were too painful to tell, the memories too warm. For so long, it felt like only he and Barlocke shared tender moments. But the Inquisitor had touched each of their lives in one way or another. Everyone had a dear memory of him. He had been a part of their family. It was enough that Marsh Silas shed tears.

He was not the only one. Barlocke’s visage stood right behind him and bubbled with tears. Sniffing, snorting, wiping his cheeks and nose, he was a true mess. Marsh smiled and thought, ‘Are you alright, my friend?’

“Everyone’s just too kind,” he blubbered, “I was so wonderful.”

Marsh could barely stifle his chuckle.

“Silas, it’s your turn,” Carstensen whispered in his ear. Marsh looked around at the men. His smile grew smaller and sadder. Multiple times, he tried to speak but his voice faltered. Nothing he could offer would do justice to the man he called his friend, the man who was known to him more than any other and yet remained so mysterious.

“He was my dear friend,” Marsh finally said. “And I miss him.”

Nine words. Tears rolled down his cheeks. A weight lifted from his chest. He could feel the warmth of Barlocke’s visage as it faded. Marsh turned around and threw an arm around both Hyram and Carstensen, who embraced him. “Thank you,” he told them.

“I have not spoken.”

Ghent walked in front of the platoon. Nervous glances exchanged between nearly everyone. Marsh parted from his friends and stood aside.

Ghent turned around and faced the men. He kept his chin raised so he could look at them down his nose. “There is not much I could ever say about the Inquisitor that would be kind. I did not know him as you knew him. Not all he ever said I could agree with. But I saw how you looked up to him and he inspired you to commit great deeds in the name of the Emperor. He showed you that even soldiers such as you, whose names may never be known to a wider Imperium, can serve ably, honorably, dutifully, and achieve greatness for our Emperor.”

His eyes fell slightly. “Any Commissar can respect that.” Then, in front of the entire platoon, he took off his hat and raised his eyes to the heavens. “To Inquisitor Barlocke.”

“To the Inquisitor!” Bloody Platoon thundered. “Barlocke! Barlocke! Barlocke!”

***

Carstensen’s lips were right next to his ear. Marsh buried his face against the side of her head, her orange locks covering his face. She was underneath him, her warm skin slick with sweat. Her hands gripped his back tightly and her fingers dug into his muscles. With each movement, they both released a subdued, labored, pleasured breath. The sheets coiled around their legs, the mattress wet from their sweat. They kicked the blankets off, exposing one another in the light.

“Kiss me, Silas.”

He turned his head and caught her lips. At that moment, he gasped into her mouth, shuddered, and collapsed upon her. Carstensen moaned a little and her legs quivered again and again.

After a few minutes of rest, Marsh pulled away, crawled up, and straddled her. Carstensen slid her hand up Marsh’s arm and cupped his chin with her other hand. The fingers scratched his stubble and ran along his jaw. Her thumb occasionally traced his bottom lip. The Commissar gazed at him through her orange locks, and Marsh looked back through his wet blonde hair.

Marsh’s dog tags swayed from side to side. The icon of Saint Felicie glittered in the lamplight. Even after the chain grew still, the symbol and the tags hung and spun.

“You were passionate tonight, my love.”

“As were you.”

“I am happy you enjoyed your surprise.

“It is an honor of which I am not worthy. But one I am grateful for all the same, Lilias.”

They kissed, parted, and lay side by side. Carstensen shifted her head onto his chest, pushing away his dog tags and the Aquila icon. Marsh Silas ran his hand up, down her back, and stared at the ceiling.

“I know that face. You have much on your mind.”

“It’s Ghent. I can never understand him. One moment he hates me, threatens me, punishes me, and the next he puts me in for medals and honors my dear friend. He even had a hand in returning me to the 540th to be with my friends when I came of age. Hell, he even got rid of that bully Hayhurst.”

He looked at Carstensen. “I remember on the training fields, he would push me down in the mud because I wouldn’t do enough push ups. So I resolved to do more push ups than anyone else; I went out on my own—”

“In mud and snow, pushing on the hard earth and he would watch, too!” Carstensen giggled a little. “You have told me many times before. Why, I could tell it myself.”

“Oh, could you?”

“You got to the top of my training group and what did he do? Say, ‘good job and well done,’ he most certainly did not. All he did was grin at me all mocking-like while I pushed.”

Carstensen spoke in Marsh’s rough, soldierly voice. When she finished, she pushed her face into his chest and snickered into it. The Lieutenant had tried not to smile but it was irresistible. His crooked grin spread wide and he kissed the top of Carstensen’s head. After she finished laughing, she pushed herself up and gazed into his eyes. “Try not to let your anger cloud your perception. He did it all for a reason.”

“What reason other than to be a cruel bastard? Maybe he was proud of me, but more than likely, he was just proud of himself for forging strong soldiers. He’ll always be a mean bastard.”

“Silas, my love...” Carstensen reached up and stroked his cheek. “...Ghent had a duty then. It has been nearly twelve years since those times. I think he wanted to push you to greater things. Does that not seem familiar?”

“Barlocke and Ghent are two very different folks. Barlocke taught me about destiny but Ghent just wants me to be a better soldier.”

“I was talking about you and those Whiteshields, and this Platoon.”

“Oh.”

“Just try to understand him a little better.”

Marsh grumbled and closed his eyes. Carstensen mimicked him playfully before lowering herself to his chest again. He embraced her, brought her closed, and nuzzled her locks. Outside, snowflakes fell gently, frosting the window over. Inside, the room was warm and silent. Sleep will come quickly, he thought.

Ba-woom. There was a dull, distant rumble, like a thunder clap. Marsh and Carstensen both sat up. Ba-woom...ba-woom...ba-ba-ba-woom. Sirens began to wail. There was screaming outside. The platoon leader jumped to his feet and went to the snowy window. Searchlights swept through the night, tracer rounds filled the distant skies. Illuminated in the lights were swarms of attack aircraft bearing the Eight-Pointed Star.

“Get everyone up!”