Chapter 20


Darkness reigned in the great chamber. Wretched stokers in rags and armed with shovels fed the great forge fires with heaps of refuse or scrap. Flames roiled and exploded in their pits, their color shifting from orange to green to purple and back. In those fires were ghastly images of agonized faces and glowing eyes. As soon as they appeared, they disappeared. In the light, the stokers cast huge, jagged, and terrifyingly misshapen shadows on the moist, red brick walls. Strange oozes flowed from in between the blocks. In the center of the chamber was a gigantic pit made of riveted, blackened metal plates. Decrepit cranes, hissing steam and leaking oil, lowered bundles of metal plates to the peons assembling the machine.

In the flashes of ghoulish firelight, the metal skeleton of the monster was built in the pit. Figures in robes inscribed with bastardized Gothic runes and figures unknown to a human eye, circled the pit and bellowed incantations in a strange tongue. The tones, the sounds, the words they spoke, did not seem like they were meant to be spoken by humans. Finally, the door to the chamber was thrown open. Wearers in black and gray Power Armor dragged in a large, stripped, dying man. He was suspended by chains within the shell of the monster in the pit. Blood streamed down his body and trickled onto the red metal.

All the hulking figures backed away and the sorcerers closed in. One massive figure in Power Armor stalked towards the shell. He raised his arms and began bellowing in an unholy, demented voice. Suddenly, the fires grew explosive and wrathful. Around the chamber, dormant pillars of smooth, shining, black stone began to vibrate. At the top of the pillars were dark, glass orbs that began to take on a purplish hue. Suddenly, the flames turned to a pink-purple, shot out from the forges, and struck the nearest orb. Fire shot out from either side of it, connecting to the next orb and the next. As these beams shot out, the shadows on the wall danced and writhed. Once the ring was complete, the flames shifted to pulsing, dark energy which then rose to a spike suspended from the ceiling. A line of energy from each orb rose and struck the point of the spike. White energy coursed through it, lighting up the daemonic runes on its sides. Black and red lightning swarmed around it, collected at the point, and shot downwards and struck the chained up figure. His eyes bulged, he threw his head back, and pulled against his chains.

"My Emperor, preserve me!" He wailed in agony. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his eyes bulged with horror, and he struggled against the chains so hard the metal drew blood. "Save me!"


Marsh Silas's eyes shot up and his mouth moved on its own.

"Sabinus!" he whispered. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he was comforted to see the dirt walls and wooden boards of the underground barracks. The lamp pack on Hyram's desk had been left on all night and its light was dying. Hyram was still slouched on the deck, the side of his face resting on his hands. Beside Marsh, Carstensen was asleep on his shoulder.

Running his hand over his face, he listened to his own, rapid heartbeat. The air in the barracks felt stale. He glanced at his wristwatch; it was nearly a half hour before reveille. Although Carstensen felt warm beside him, he decided he needed to breathe in fresh air. Carefully, he extricated himself from the chair and gently rested her head back against the pillow behind her head. He didn't remember anyone putting that there. By the Emperor's grace, Carstensen didn't stir. Marsh Silas smiled as he brushed some of her orange locks from over her eyes. Her lips were parted slightly and her breath came out shallow but steadily. It was pleasant to hear.

Marsh whisked a blanket from Hyram's bunk and put it over the Junior Commissar's lap. He fetched the spare on top of the foot locker and put it over Hyram's shoulders. Carefully, he exited the Lieutenant's quarters and found himself in the dark tunnels and rooms of the barracks. Everybody was still asleep and most of the lights were out. Snoring filled the air and occasionally somebody coughed. Men were curled up under their blankets in their bunks. Others had fallen asleep at the tables when they tried to get a hand of cards before lights out. Empty bottles of Cadian Amasec, a hardy but bitter brew, were among the cards.

He took a few moments to put these bottles away in case any Commissars or higher-ranking officers made a snap inspection. Almost every platoon carried a secret store of liquor even though it was contraband and commanding officers knew the standard alcohol ration sometimes wasn't enough. So the unspoken rule was to keep the bottles out of sight.

Donning his heavy khaki coat, an olive drab scarf, and his NCO watch cap, he went to the exit and clambered up the ladder. The cool, sea air was very pleasant to breathe and he inhaled deeply the moment he was outside. In the distance, the sun was just beginning to show itself behind a wall of murky gray snow clouds. Wind whipped the waves and the channel was filled with smashing breakers. Across the water, Kasr Fortis was much higher than before. Tall spires armed with searchlights, Tarantula turrets, and various weapons blocks towered over the buildings below. Thick walls topped with bunkers and riddled with pillboxes surrounded the base. Valkyries continued to airlift supplies and great cranes hoisted materials to various construction sights across the island. In the low-light of morning and in the gray of incoming bad weather, lights didn't shine as brilliant. The little white beads took on a glittering effect, as if they were winking very quickly.

Marsh Silas took the time to light his pipe and puffed on it. The smoke filled his lungs with the sweet, earthy, smooth tabac. He turned around, trundled down the hill, and walked through the base. A fog bank was coming in from the south and began to engulf the camp. Moments later, a deep, mournful horn began sounding every few minutes and more lights were turned on by the garrison troops. It was surprisingly quiet throughout the base. Even in the early morning, activity abounded between shift changes for the watches, Enginseers and their servitors operating at the motor pool, or some clanking machine within a motor pool. But there was a stillness to the base. Tools, engines, and guards were silent. Flapping and snapping high up in the breeze, the flag was about the noisiest article in the entire base.

Occasionally, a few men on patrol or going to relieve another watch appeared out of the fog, greeted him, and disappeared again. Buildings familiar to his sight loomed large and mysterious in the rolling fog. Yellow lamps glowed in some of the windows and he saw them long before the buildings appeared. To him, they looked like big, square eyes peering back at him. In some of the lit-up windows, he could see officers and enlisted men at work. From the mess hall wafted the scent of cooking, salted meat, although he didn't feel hungry at all.

Finally, he arrived at the gate. The man standing there was Staff Sergeant Jublaski, the platoon sergeant from Third Platoon. He was clad in full Flak Armor and he was rubbing his gloved hands together. A scarf was wrapped around his neck and pulled up over his lower face. Even with his black tactical hood on, he needed the extra layer against the wind.

"Mornin', Staff Sergeant," Jublaski greeted, extending his hand. Marsh Silas took it firmly.

"Mornin'. All is well?"

"Indeed. Well done and good show during the battle, my man."

"And to you, friend."

Although Marsh Silas hadn't witnessed it, he heard the tale during the march. Jublaski was moving up with Third Platoon and encountered two heavily entrenched Heavy Stubber positions. Most of the men were pinned down and the troopers in the front were all wounded. Jublaski managed to drag three of them back, then at great risk, flanked the positions across open ground. Once he was parallel to them, he knocked one out with grenades and then overtook the second with a bayonet charge.

It was a great feat but unsurprising to the likes of Marsh Silas. He knew him back from the days in the 540th Youth Corps and he always distinguished himself as a brave, capable soldier. Officers had come and gone through Third Platoon and not all of them were reliable. But Jublaski could always be counted upon.

Marsh offered him his pipe but his old friend shook his head. "Say, think I might be able to go beyond the wire for a little while? I need to stretch my legs."

"Ain't supposed to let anyone out unless they's part of a training exercise or some other detail. But ain't nobody ever comes by this early and it's foggy out. Go on, but not too far, now."

Marsh Silas tapped him on the shoulder with his fist and nodded appreciatively. He exited the compound and proceeded down the road. When the barbed wire entanglements, trectworks, and sandbag walls disappeared, he turned left into the fields. Stretching out his arms, he felt the flowers against his hands. Some had grown quite high in his absence and he was forced to part them to pass through. Eventually, he walked onto the beach and observed the crashing waves.

He sat down on one of the small dunes and pulled his knees up to his chest. It wasn't long before he heard a familiar hum inside his head. The inside of his skull vibrated slightly and it felt very warm.

Would you like to talk about it?

"I ain't so sure," Marsh grumbled, then snorted. "Not sure I want to be talkin' with someone who's livin' in mine-own head." At this, Barlocke chortled knowingly. I've had some time to rest and gather my strength. What power I have has grown and I think I'd like to try something new. Close your eyes.

Shaking his head, he nonetheless obeyed. He waited, waited, and waited, the wind biting at his cheeks. Eventually, he heard footsteps.

"Hello, Silvanus," said a familiar voice.

Marsh Silas's eyes shot open and he turned to his left. Barlocke the Inquisitor stood over him, clad in the long, black trench coat he used to wear. His silver, lightweight frame of Power Armor was missing. All he wore was the dark trousers and olive drab sweater underneath. On each hip was a holster; the one on the left was empty.

"How can this be?" Marsh murmured.

"Old friend, it is not so," Barlocke said as he sat down beside him. He took off his wide-brimmed cap and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. "When I fused part of my being with yours, some of my residual power came with it. It ebbs and flows, sometimes growing stronger, sometimes waning, for I am but a mere fragment now and I cannot tap into the energy I once did to utilize it." But he smiled confidently. "By the Emperor man, I am still strong, even if I'm just a mere fragment of my mortal self."

"So, you ain't really here?" Marsh asked. Before the Inquisitor answered, he reached out and clasped his shoulder. He half-expected his hand to drop right through him, as if he was reaching through mist. Instead, he felt the soft leather of Barlocke's coat and the strength of his shoulder underneath. Slowly, he withdrew his trembling hand. "You certainly seem like you're here."

"A convincing trick," Barlocke said modestly. As disappointed as he was, Marsh managed to smile.

"It is good to see you once more."

"And you," Barlocke said, leaning back and propping himself up on his arms. "How I miss walking through these fields. It was like a private garden, away from all the trenches and foreboding Kasr walls. What a chance that crushing a heretical cult would lead us to a place of beauty."

Marsh Silas nodded in agreement before looking back out to see. The wind was still driving the fog bank along and the sunrise was fast approaching. But the first rays were still nothing murky gray glows. Taking his pipe from his lips, the smoke flowing from its bowl, he began to turn in his hands.

"You saw the dream as well."

"Was it a dream? A vision of the past? Only the Emperor can say."

"Sabinus. This name is new to me and yet I feel its weight. To know a servant of the Emperor, and one so fabled as a Space Marine, died in such pitiful agony..." The words left him and he shook his head sadly.

"I was a witness to many acts of torture," Barlocke said grimly. "Hiver gangs ripping each other apart, fellow Inquisitors taking a faster and more grisly route in their investigations. But all fall short of the insidious and disgusting machinations of the Archenemy. The Astartes are the bravest and the noblest of us all. My heart grieves to know a loyal servant met such a terrible end."

He inhaled deeply. Why, Marsh did not know; after all, Barlocke's appearance was nothing more than a trick on his mind. The Inquisitor looked at him and smiled cheerfully. Behind him, the sun began to rise to its full height and the wind was driving off the remnants of the fog bank. Even the cloud barrier overhead was moving on. A cool, murky morning became radiant as polish gold. "But, I have a feeling Sabinus's soul was able to find its way back to the Emperor. I think he would be grateful to know that a brave cadre of mortals were able to avenge him. And the Emperor of Mankind would no doubt be proud as well."

"I ain't through yet. One day we'll find whatever hole that Drusus called home and we'll destroy it. We'll make sure it won't ever happen again. Even if I am unable, I'll make every heretic I come across pay for Sabinus and for turning their backs on the Emperor's glory. I have had nothing but hatred for the enemy and now it burns brighter than before." It felt good to say it aloud, rather than merely feel it. Yet his heart was still heavy and he shook his head sadly. "I would prefer it if this Sabinus still drew breath."

Barlocke reached over and squeezed Marsh's shoulder. To feel the touch of a project was strange to Marsh Silas, but not disturbing. It soon became familiar enough to be comforting. The platoon sergeant smiled as he looked down at his pipe.

"You cannot save everybody, Silvanus."

The pressure on his shoulder released and Marsh looked up. Barlocke's projection was gone. He found himself more disappointed than he thought he'd feel. But it wasn't long before he heard his friend's fragment, melded and joined with his own mind, drawing breath. It felt as though cool wind was passing through his head. I hope we can speak like this again, Silvanus. I will rest now, gather my strength, focus it, hone it, and improve upon it. I promise.

Marsh Silas slowly smiled as he gazed back at the crashing surf. A new bank of snow clouds was rolling across the sky, blotting out the sun. But the rays shone brightly enough that the morning did not darken.

"Thank you, old friend."

###

Just as Marsh Silas returned to the barracks, he saw the hatch thrown open. It was only sensible to allow those already ascending the ladder to clamber up. He stepped aside and leaned back against the rockcrete wall. In a better mood, he prepared to say something snide and clever to the first Bloody Platoon trooper who appeared. Instead, Captain Giles appeared. Marsh instantly pushed off the wall, took off his cap, and stood at attention. "Sir!"

Giles dusted off his trousers while Lieutenant Eastoft also appeared. She donned her own cap over her blonde hair. Instead of getting him in the typical fashion, Giles walked by and clapped him on the shoulder. His smile was tender and affectionate. Eastoft followed quickly, offering a respectful nod and a dignified smile. They walked outside just as the first snowflakes began to fall. After peering apprehensively out the doorway for a moment, he descended the ladder and drifted through the barracks. Everyone was getting up in such a lackadaisical fashion that the platoon sergeant checked his wrist watch to make sure he hadn't come back too early. Reveille was still just a few minutes away yet the men took their time getting dressed, sluggishly shaved at the wash basins, and even began brewing recaf on the stoves. It would have been distressing to a career soldier like Marsh Silas but the appearance of the company commander and executive officer left him more confused than indignant. Surely they must have noticed the sorry state of the groggy platoon. Why was there no rebuke? Only Lieutenant Hyram could know.

He arrived at the platoon leader's quarters to find him still at his desk. Wide awake with a fresh cup of recaf and wearing his wire-frame eyeglasses, he was studying a report. Carstensen was awake as well, sipping steaming recaf from her own mug. Without looking up from the parchment, Hyram extended a third tin mug out to Marsh Silas.

"Complements of our erstwhile Drummer Boy," he said. Tentatively, Marsh plucked it from his hand but didn't drink. Tapping his fingers on the side of the cup, he looked between his two friends and waited for them to speak. When neither did, he cleared his throat. Hyram finally looked up and smiled softly. "Sergeant Clivvy has survived her wounds."

Marsh's heart leaped. The brave lass! All thought her lost after she jumped on the grenade with her helmet, even under Honeycutt's care. He was sure the other two surviving Whiteshields would be overjoyed to hear the news.

"Wait, there's more," Carstensen said, catching his arm just as he was about to push through the curtain.

"Captain Giles just delivered news that the entire regiment will be standing down for the day per Colonel Isaev's orders. Reveille will not be sounded, the mess hall shall serve meals accordingly, and the Interior Guard garrison will maintain the day's watch."

He fixed his eyeglasses and examined the parchment once more. "We also have a host of promotions to go over, beginning with you, Silas. You have been promoted to Senior Staff Sergeant."

Marsh only blinked while Carstensen patted him on the back. Senior Sergeant was an esteemed rank and not every NCO achieved it. It was labeled as a discretionary rank, awarded by superior officers on the company level or above for acts of bravery and aptitude in a NCO's capacities as a platoon sergeant. To receive it was an immense honor and an incredible boon to future advancements for NCOs.

Hyram smiled, stood up, and shook his hand. "Well done." Marsh could only smile dumbly while Carstensen tapped him on the back. "And congratulations are in order for you as well, Junior Commissar, because I have the immense honor of addressing you as Commissar Carstensen."

Her eyes widened and glimmered. She looked between them in shock. Chuckling, Hyram took her limp hand in his. "Well done, well done." Marsh smiled proudly at her. He found himself unable to resist the urge; he threw his arms around her, embraced her tightly, and kissed her on the cheek. Carstensen blushed madly and wriggled from his arms.

"Silas! Not in front of the Lieutenant," she protested, taking a step away and fixing her coat. Hyram chuckled politely and was clearly unconcerned with such a spontaneous display of affection, even if it defied countless regulations.

"Everyone in the platoon is jumping up a grade," he continued. "Even myself; I have been promoted to First Lieutenant and breveted to the rank of Lieutenant-Praecept. And Bloody Platoon has also earned two honors; the Review of Decorations and Lineage of the Battleflag."

Marsh Silas was in awe. Both were prestigious Cadian awards granted only by the commanding officer of an entire regiment and authorized by Cadian High Command. The Review of Decorations was an administrative review of a designated unit's battle record right down to every individual's actions. Dozens upon dozens, sometimes even hundreds of Adeptus Administratum Scribes and Curators, began studying every report, file, and record containing information about that unit. Thus, all the recommendations for unit members lost in the byzantine record base of the Cadian military could be ascertained and finally awarded. More often than not, it came with a promotion that could jump a soldier up by one or even two grades.

But the Lineage of the Battleflag was even more rare. Every unit in the entire Astra Militarum, right down to the platoon, carried its own standard. Design varied from regiment to regiment and homeworld to homeworld. Cadian flags generally bore a black cross patteƩ with a larger circle in the middle and red fields in between the extensions, although this color pattern was sometimes reversed. Symbols in the center varied but usually consisted of some blending of the Aquila, the Astra Militarum's icon, and aspects of Cadian culture, such as a tower representative of a Kasr. The 1333rd Regiment's icon consisted of a silver skull with golden wings. Above it was a horizontal scroll bearing the regiment's number. Below the symbol was a duplicate scroll that carried the platoon or company's number. On the Regimental Standard, it bore their homeworld's name in black letters. This rare Cadian honor allowed a unit to personalize their banner with appropriate colors and icons as well as to stitch their victories and notable feats on it which was a privilege reserved only for the Regimental Standard.

Marsh Silas could only marvel in wonder at the idea. The whole platoon would be overjoyed and Babcock would immediately set to work re-imagining the flag. "And each man is to receive many decorations for all our actions these past few months, even those who sadly draw breath no more."

It was a sobering thought. In the course of a few months, Bloody Platoon had shrunk from sixty Shock troopers and Whiteshields to forty-four soldiers. Marsh had been too relieved to be back in camp to really take into account how many empty bunks there were. No doubt, this day of rest would transition to one of mourning and many men would journey to the base's humble chapel to find comfort with the God-Emperor.

Hryam's hand grasping his shoulder stirred him from his melancholy. The Lieutenant's scholarly violet eyes gazed into his with a brotherly intensity. Serious, yet full of affection despite it. "But these awards will not be distributed until we are in Kasr Sonnen in two days' time."

"Kasr Sonnen? Why are we going there?"

"Why, for the awards ceremony and three week's furlough." Hyram squeezed his shoulder. "Marsh Silas, you are to receive the Honorifica Obscurus."

It was as if some freak wind snatched the breath from his lungs. Marsh could not speak or even think. His lips moved and his voice merely croaked. Strength seemed fleeting and his knees began to tremble. For a few moments, he thought he would collapse onto his knees. Never in all his life, even in the wildest imaginings of a starry-eyed youth dreaming of becoming a soldier, did he think he would ever earn such a prestigious honor. The sacrifice of all the millions, billions, and trillions of Cadian warriors who came before him, the people of his blood, his own family lineage, washed over him like an ocean wave surging towards the shore. And just like when one's head was submerged, there was brief blackness. In that darkness he saw faces; Graeme, Leander, Merton, Rayden, Soames, Webley, and poor, poor Yeardley. In this moment of grand achievement, of singular recognition not only by his superiors but all of Cadia and Segmentum Obscurus, all he could dwell on was his failure.

Marsh bowed his head solemnly.

"Sir, I am not worthy of such an honor."

"Commissar Ghent seems to disagree.

The platoon sergeant's head snapped up. Hyram nodded. "Twas not I who put you in for this award. It was Ghent."

Ghent? The man who hated him, who took every opportunity to insult, rebuke, and scold him? The same man who long ago flogged him and executed one of his dearest friends? That very same man who told him he would never amount to anything, that he was a poor excuse of a soldier? It didn't add up, it didn't make any sense.

Marsh snatched the report from Hyram's hand, spun around, and marched out of his quarters. He pushed through some of his comrades, ignored Hyram and Carstensen's calls to return, and hurried up the ladder. Fists clenched, his head uncovered, snow piling up in his blonde hair, he marched down the hill, across the compound, and right up to the entrance to Regimental Command.

"What business have you here, Staff Sergeant?" asked the sergeant in charge of the guard.

"I wish to make a report to Commissar Ghent," Marsh answered without slowing down. He went in, saluting any staff officer who set eyes on him. The massive chamber was always alive with activity and even on a day of rest, it was busy. Voxman monitored their communication sets and made numerous calls to other posts in the sector. Officers, clerks, scribes, staff members, senior enlisted men, quartermasters, logisticians, and more filed exchanged hundreds of reports. Typewriters and terminal boards clattered under their fingers. Quills scratched against parchment and seals were stamped.

On the far side of the chamber, where some of the highest ranking officers in the regiment had officers, was Commissar Ghent's station. It was in the left corner of the entire building and marked with a bronze plaque hung up on the rockcrete beside the door. The words, "Regiment Commissar Ghent,' were stamped on it in ebony letters.

Finding no guard and the reinforced door open, Marsh stood just outside it. "Commissar Ghent, Senior Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir!"

"Granted," came the uninterested reply. Ghent was behind a polished wooden desk. On either side were rows of yellow wax candles, their wicks all burning. Wet wax trickled down the black metal stands. Stacks of paperwork were on either side of the center, where a small typewriter sat. Cabinets lined the walls, as well as a pair of lockers containing his wargear and a locked footlocker. On a stand behind him was his coat and his cap. Without his overcoat and Flak Armor, Ghent was far thinner than he normally appeared. His blonde hair was short and his hairline receding. Aside from a few weathered scars on his face, it appeared he cut himself shaving as there was a dull red line on his lower left jaw. While his fingers danced across the keys, his eyes remained fixed on the parchment feeding into it.

Ghent racked the slider back and didn't look up at Marsh. "What do you want?"

The platoon sergeant held up the report and the Commissar's eyes flitted up to it. "Yes?"

"Is this some kind of trick? Or is it a joke?"

Ghent's gaze turned into a glare and his lips formed into a nasty snarl.

"You had best change your tone with me, child."

"I've always known you've taken great delight in punishing me, but this? You mock and insult me!"

Ghent jumped to his feet.

"I know not what you speak of! You come in here throwing accusations at me feet without explanation or evidence! I have half a mind to tie you to the flagpole and give you another ten lashes!"

Marsh Silas slammed his hands on the desk, sending many of the parchment slips flying.

"You're always lookin' for an excuse, ain't ya!? Well, why don't ya just shoot me this time, huh!?"

"I have half a mind to!"

Suddenly Marsh felt hands grasping him from behind. Hyram and Carstensen latched onto him and began pulling him out of the room.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir!" Hyram said. "Marsh Silas is just upset! He forgets himself, the bloody fool!"

"I didn't give you permission to enter. Get out!" Ghent shouted. At this, he put his hand on the holster of his Bolt Pistol. Both Hyram and Carstensen stopped but didn't let go of Marsh Silas. The Commissar's glare was as cold as ice and sharp as a dagger. It was enough to strike fear into any man who was in possession of their wits. But Marsh's blood was up, a tumult of grief and fury bubbling over from a life of torment. He stood unbowed and braced like he was going to make a charge.

Ghent pointed at the door with his other hand. "Both of you get out. Now."

Marsh could feel their eyes on him, his companion and his lover. Anger was blinding, grief deafening. If they spoke to him, he did not hear. He felt their absence a moment later. Ghent took his hand off his pistol. "Close the door."

The platoon sergeant reached back and slammed it shut. Ghent pointed at the chair across from the desk. "Sit down."

But the Guardsmen didn't budge. Ghent slammed his fist on the edge of his desk. "Now!"

Marsh finally obeyed. Ghent came around, turned the chair so it faced the door, and stood over him. "If you were any other man I would have you shot right here. Not outside, not by a firing squad; you would meet your end in this room and I would not care how much of your blood got on my boots. I would not pay any mind as to how your company commander or platoon felt about it." He leaned over Marsh, grabbed the back of the chair, and got right in his face. "Any, other, man," he snarled, staggering the words. He let go quickly, causing the chair to roll back into the desk. "It is only out of respect for your recent accomplishments and to the Regiment I shall spare your life. Now, speak clearly and quickly."

Without hesitation, Marsh began reading from the report.

"It is upon the personal recommendation of Commissar Landon Ghent, Regimental Commissar of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment, that Staff Sergeant Silas Cross of the 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment, soon to attain the discretionary rank of Senior Staff Sergeant, be awarded the Honorifica Obscurus for courage and gallantry above what is expected of a Cadian Shock Trooper."

He glared up at Ghent. The Commissar's expression was softer than before. His lips nearly twitched into a smile.

"You've learned to read?" he asked, impressed.

"I don't deserve this honor. I failed in the field."

"Then we must not have been on the same field." Ghent folded his hands behind his back and stood so straight and tall that it was as if he was standing at attention. "I watched you cross that field three times. You exposed yourself to great danger, assumed command of a faltering unit, reinforced a strategic element of the attack, destroyed one of the enemy's terrible war machines, and dispatched one of the Archenemy's agents. These are the feats of a hero."

"So this is not some jest at my expense?"

"Have you mistaken me for someone with a sense of humor?" Ghent asked venomously. "I do not joke, least of all when it comes to honoring a hero."

"But I ain't no hero! I had ten Whiteshields under my charge. Ten children who needed schooling in war, and I failed'em. Seven of'em are dead and it's my fault. I tried to be somethin' I'm not and they died because o' it! By the Emperor, I should be punished, not rewarded!"

Ghent folded his arms across his chest, careful to avoid the dozens of medals upon his black tunic. His weathered lps formed an amused smile.

"I have served in the Emperor's army for a very long time and I have seen many wise and brave and foolish and cowardly soldiers come and go. Yet I have never once had one barge into my office demanding punishment." He began pacing back and forth. "You feel guilt for your failure, you inflict derision more destructive than anything I could ever say or do. Even if it is not on your mind, it is within your soul. You will never forgive yourself. That is punishment enough."

"No, it ain't."

"You seek the lash in the hopes that it will soothe your conscience, that a punishment inflicted by another will finally wash away the guilt. You're wrong." Ghent's voice became wistful and distant. Marsh, whose gaze had fallen on his boots, looked up. The Commissar rolled down his sleeve and turned the underside of his forearm towards the platoon sergeant. On it were many faded but otherwise grisly scars. Each one was thin across the skin. "This was my punishment from Drill Abbot Sutton of the Schola Progenium. For every mistake I made I was dealt a blow from the steel rod he carried."

Marsh Silas stared at the ghastly, brown marks. The skin around them was utterly deformed and sinewy. None of the muscles seemed to have developed correctly. All the flesh up to his wrist was malformed from a childhood of beatings. Ghent rolled his sleeve back down and smoothed out the wrinkles. "I never forgot them and I never forgave myself for my foolishness. Twas not the rod itself, it was what it inspired: the desire to never make the same mistake twice."

He shrugged, as if unconcerned with his own story. "I don't need to utilize the rod or the lash. Nothing I'd do to you could be worse than what your heart has already done to yourself."

"It just ain't right."

"Damn it, Silas, think" Ghent groaned, running his hands over his face. He knelt in front of him and held out his arms. "You failed the Whiteshields who died, but there are three who are still alive because you put them in line and steeled their nerves instead of coddling them. What do you think I have been trying to do for you since you first came under my tutelage!?"

Marsh blinked in confusion. Ghent looked at him, imploring him to understand. "I've known you since you were an eager lad who wished to become a soldier. Did I fill your head with dreams? Did I praise you for every little thing you did right? Did I ever give you anything? No! I made sure you had to push and fight for everything you achieved. And look at your accomplishments now! You were an Honor Graduati from the Whiteshields, you've been singled out as a potential Kasrkin recruit, you made Leading Trooper and Master Corporal in your career, and now Senior Staff Sergeant; most Cadians fail to achieve even one of those ranks. And you were honored by the Holy Inquisition and now the entire Segmentum."

Ghent lowered his hands so that he was holding either arm of the chair Marsh sat in. "I had to make difficult decisions to make sure you shaped up into the soldier I hoped you'd be, that your potential wasn't squandered."

"Is that why you killed Clement for saving me? You rewarded his bravery with your Bolt Pistol."

"He was going to hold you and Overton back. If he still lived when Overton became an officer, he would have made Clement the platoon sergeant instead of you. Wisdom and bravery do not equate, Silas, and Clement didn't have nearly as much as you remember. But you did."

Tears were welling up in Silas's eyes. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand but a single tear still ran down each cheek.

"Sure, a child who couldn't read was more knowledgeable than his good friend," he grumbled sarcastically.

"You're missing the point," Ghent said, "you are the soldier you are now because you didn't have someone hanging onto you, you didn't have somebody giving you undue praise. You were pushed, one way or another, to achieve."

"So my success is all thanks to you, is that it?"

"Not at all. It was all a gamble," Ghent said. "You could have just drifted through training, skirting under the eyes of the Commissars and drill instructors, or broken under the pressure. I thought you would after your father was killed. It was why I made sure you were drafted into the 540th Youth Corps with your friends. so you would have time to heal." Marsh blinked in surprise. He had thought it was divine intervention on the part of the Emperor for all these years. Only His will would see the three friends reunited in the most unlikely of circumstances. But Ghent orchestrated the reunion for his sake?

"But you didn't break, just like I didn't under Drill Abbot Sutton's rod. Even if I could have pretended to listen, even though I could have broken like anyone else. I didn't let it dampen me, just as you did let me dampen your spirit. You used it to feed the fire the Emperor put in your soul."

Ghent leaned back slightly, still on one knee. "If one method of teaching fails, try another. But you must accept there is only so much a teacher can do for their pupils. It comes down to them. The seven are dead because of you, but also because of their own actions. And the three that are alive must credit themselves, but they owe a great deal to you as well."

The Commissar stood up, folded his hands behind his back, and stared down at Marsh Silas intensely. "It is difficult to accept a reward when one suffers from guilt. But this medal is not a reward, Silas. It is redemption. Whenever you fasten it to your tunic, whenever you feel the ribbon between your fingers, whenever you polish the gold, remind yourself this was your redemption."

Ghent went back to the other side of his desk, sat down heavily, and rearranged some of the paperwork. He glanced up at him. "Get out of my office, Senior Staff Sergeant."

Marsh Silas slowly stood up, went to the door, and looked over his shoulder. Ghent was already typing again, even though there were still papers all over the floor. He seemed to be unaware that the platoon sergeant was lingering in the room. It was as if the conversation never even occurred. All at once, feeling empty, sad, and relieved, he opened the door and closed it behind him. Hyram was immediately upon him and clutched his shoulders.

"By the Emperor, man, what possessed you to go in there? I thought we were going to lose you!"

Before Marsh Silas could respond, Carstensen pushed between the two. She reared her arm back and slapped the platoon sergeant across the face. He did not reel too much, but his eyes widened and he felt the need to blink a few times. Slowly, he held his stricken cheek and looked back at her. Carstensen's shoulders heaved as she drew breath, as if she had been holding it the entire time. Her blue-green eyes were seething with anger and her lips were drawn back just enough to reveal her clenched teeth.

"Are you upset with me?" he asked her quietly.

"Don't you ever do something so stupid again!" she hissed. Then, after a brief searching glance to ensure no one was looking, she embraced him for a moment, and then released him. Marsh Silas smiled while Carstensen composed herself. She turned her back and left the building. Hyram, clearly tired and his nerves shot, pinched the bridge of his nose underneath his eyeglasses before following him. Marsh Silas lingered for a few moments, still rubbing his cheek, his feelings unknown even to himself. Eventually, he shook his head a little and hurried after the others, the orders for decorations still clutched in his hand.


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Author's Note: The mentioned ranks of 'Leading Trooper,' 'Master Corporal,' and 'Senior Staff Sergeant,' are non-canon discretionary ranks I derived from real military and related organization's ranks to further expand the military machine of Cadia. The two unit honors mentioned are also non-canon and were created for the same purpose.