Chapter 22
Like every Shock Trooper born since the Emperor's hand first sculpted Cadia, Marsh Silas spent most of his life looking at fine food through the blast windows of officer halls. Even before he became a true Whiteshield, he would marvel at the various meals officers were treated to. Absolutely everything he witnessed from a distance in those years was now right in front of him. Exotic, succulent meat with crispy skin, seasoned with strange spices, and stuffed with fruit. Piles of green, yellow, and red fruits Marsh Silas never heard of before sat in huge silver bowls. Leafy green vegetables remained in covered pots; when someone took off the lid, the steam would pillow out. There were cobs of maize, slathered with butter, and a myriad of smaller dishes containing cheeses, crackers, and something the menial servants called 'dip.' Some were spicy, others sweet. Much to his liking, he found big bowls of cooked brown and white rice. One entire table was devoted entirely to desserts. Glazed truffles, sugar-dusted pastries, cream cakes, and bowls of rich chocolate.
But what caught the platoon sergeant's eyes more than anything were the bread-stuffs. On the main serving table, there were big, rectangular silver platters carrying nothing but biscuits and loaves of bread. Every biscuit was slightly toasted so the outside was crunchy but the inside was quite warm and soft. The loaves were a rich, light brown color and each slice was incredibly soft. Growing up in Kasr Polaris, he considered himself fortunate when they were able to get black bread. For the few years he spent on Macharia, what constituted bread was actually recycled crusts congealed together with a low-nutrient paste. Similar stuff was a staple of their rations when their supply chain was loose or broken. But when they were well supplied, they received brown bread. As for biscuits, they were served hardtack which was nothing more than water and compressed flour. They were tougher than most of the meat they were served.
Standing next to the main serving table with his empty plate, Marsh Silas was reminded of those youthful days. He and the other children, all of them either low nobles like himself or from lower classes, would gather around to stare for as long as they could. Usually, a Commissar or some other officer would come along and break up the crowd. Other times, one of the mess hall attendants would shut the armored blast door over the window. Marsh and the other children found that remarkably cruel.
For most of his life, he believed the closest he'd ever get to such delicacies would be those windows. But it was his old friend Inquisitor Barlocke who changed that. During their fateful, two-day furlough to Kasr Sonnen nearly a solar year before, they managed to talk their way into an officer's hall. This was due more to Barlocke's status as an Inquisitor rather than clandestine capabilities or tactics. While he distracted the crowd with a bogus investigation, Marsh Silas pinched two bottles of Raenka imported from some Feudal World. It was a terrifying but utterly exhilarating experience, made all the more thrilling by the 'Inquisitorial requisition,' of a courier's motor-bike. Such a memory was so sweet to him now.
"You haven't put anything on your plate yet, Staff Sergeant," Captain Giles said as he walked up beside him. The company commander was dressed superbly in his green uniform, the coat trimmed with gold and his chest brimming with medals. He was clean shaven, his scholarly face bearing a new proud scar over the right cheekbone. His blonde hair, kept short but plump, was parted on the left side and neatly combed.
"There's just so much, sir," Marsh replied, embarrassed, "It's hard to pick."
"Well, take your time," Giles assured him and added a clap on the back.
The Captain moved down the table, using various spoons and tongs to fill his plate. Marsh, still unsure what to do, gingerly took up the nearest set and began to moderately stack his plate. When he reached the end of the table, he found some of his friends waiting for him. Babcock, Drummer Boy, Foster, Hoole, and Caferro the grenadier.
When they saw him, they all snickered. Drummer Boy pointed at his plate.
"Come now, Marsh Silas, won't you try somethin' new?"
"He ain't the adventurous sort, now," Caferro teased, flashing him a smile that was missing half its teeth.
"I don't blame'im, some o' this food is too damn sweet," Hoole complained as he prodded some grox meat with his fork. "One o' them servants said this meat was cooked in honey. What the hell is honey? Ain't no concoction I ever heard of."
"If ya don't like it get some of the meat that ain't been roasted in it," Foster said with his mouth full of meat. "Whatever it is, it ain't half bad."
"Marsh Silas won't know if he just sticks to bread and rice," Babcock said, bringing their attention back to the platoon sergeant's rather unimpressive plate.
Timid, daunted by the choices, and wary of the line that was forming behind him, Marsh Silas hadn't really picked anything exotic. There were a few slices of gravy-soaked Grox meat, two buttered biscuits, and a hearty helping of white rice, also buttered. Marsh Silas was by no means fussy when it came to food; no Guardsman had the luxury to be picky. No matter how bland or disgusting a ration was, a soldier ate it because that was all he had. There was no alternative to indulge; it was either eat, starve, or scarf it down under a Commissar's gaze.
"There's too much for an ol' soldier like to pick from," Marsh grumbled as tore a large chunk out of the biscuit with his teeth. After the initial crunch, the warm, softer center tasted so well he couldn't help but hum a little. Holding the plate with one hand, he finished the biscuit, butter accumulating at the corners of his mouth. With the fork, he shoveled rice into his mouth. It was the best he'd ever tasted! There was a subtle sweetness to it moderated by the savory taste of the butter and it was incredibly soft. Too often the rice the men were served could get overcooked and become tough to chew. This was like eating the rice his mother used to cook.
Standing with his friends, he gazed out at the great hall within the Kasr garrison. The walls were paneled with polished wood which shone in the light of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Imperial Cult iconography as well as portraits of Cadian heroes covered the walls and long banners bearing skulls and the Imperialis. Each of the long serving tables was made of very dark, fine wood and was covered by crimson tablecloths. In between the big dishes were tapered candlesticks seated in gold metalworking. There were also a dozen hearths in total and a fire was roaring in each. Combined with the warm light overhead and the vast array of candles, the flames created an orange ambiance in the room. Smoke from pipes and lho-stubs filled the air.
A band positioned on a small stage near the third hearth on the right side of the hall played soft but elegant music Marsh Silas never heard before. Their gentle melodies seemed to weave through the air, spiraling around the officers dancing before them. Those tunes they played seemed to speak a kind of pleasant story. Yet, as bows crossed strings, palms beat drums, and the subtle air of brass accompanied it all, the musicians were stoic, as if they were not moved by their own rhythms. Meanwhile, the smiling officers who danced were lost in the music's gaiety, swirling and spinning gracefully.
The women who danced with them were just as nimble and lithe in their movement. Most of the women on the dance floor were officers of Cadian stock, too. But there were quite a number of noble women from off-world who had married into Cadian families and other upper class women there to be courted. Marsh Silas, being a platoon sergeant for some time and working directly alongside officers, was exposed to some of the commissioned culture. Many nobles across the Imperium wished their daughters to marry Cadians; after all, they were known for their courage and honor. Already, many single women and officers were meeting under the watchful gazes of Sisters hailing from the Orders Famulous. They were there to monitor courtships and ensure good matches between the off-worlders and officer cadres. Of course, there were a few off-world men but they seemed to be daunted by the scarred, strong faces of Cadian women. Meanwhile, the Cadian men were quite pleased with the dainty, powdered faces of the young women brought from other sectors. One by one, the new courting couples would step onto the dance floor and smiling idiotically, would begin to sway to the rhythm.
Smiling to himself, he remembered the exotic and silly movements Barlocke taught him and Bloody Platoon during that same two-day furlough. At first, everyone thought it ridiculous, even mad. But in the end, as the old music box rattled, they locked arms, spun around, stamped their feet, and drunkenly held one another as they swayed back and forth.
"Marsh Silas." Ghent's stern voice woke the platoon sergeant from his observations. The Commissar's uniform was complete and magnificent with its many rows of medals. All that was missing was his hat, exposing his short, blonde hair. "You cannot just linger among your comrades for the entire evening. There is more for a hero to do than merely fight, get his medal, and stuff his face with all manner of food. Come along."
Quickly, Marsh Silas followed behind the Commissar. Ghent looked over his shoulder. "Just because you bear the Honorifica does not mean you can forgo the formalities and respect due your betters."
"Yes, sir."
"Remember to stand up straight."
"Yes, sir."
"And smile."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't talk with your mouth full. Actually, give me that plate." Ghent snatched it from his hand and shoved into the empty hands of a passing server. "Speak clearly, firmly, but do not shout. Make eye contact as you answer their questions. And by the Throne, don't ramble."
"Yes, sir."
Ghent led him over to a party of Cadian officers of varying ranks, local nobles, and off-world noblewomen. The senior officers wore different colored tunics and coats, as their high station allowed them some leeway in the design of their uniforms. Some wore white, others black, and others chose standard field khaki. The noblewomen wore resplendent dresses of crimson, lavender, and gray along with hooped skirts, gowns that stretched across the floor, and snow white or fur gloves that ran all the way up to the elbow. Some wore their hair in long, cylindrical curls while others wore their voluminous hair high up. Many wore jeweled necklaces of gold and silver and golden circulets studded with rubies, emeralds, or sapphires.
Much to his relief, Hyram, Carstensen, and a newly promoted and breveted Staff Captain Haupt. The engineering officer raised his glass to Marsh Silas, who respectfully nodded. Carstensen and Hyram both looked happy to see him.
"My lords and ladies," Ghent said as he approached. "I have the privilege of introducing you to Senior Staff Sergeant Cross, platoon sergeant of the First Platoon of the First Company, bearer of the Obscurus Honorifica."
Marsh Silas bowed as low as he could before standing at attention.
"Well done, young man," said one of the majors. "You're a credit to the homeworld."
"And to the Imperium!" added a haughty noblewoman on his arm. She approached Marsh Silas and took his hands in hers. She was a little older than him, a tad taller too, and did not have violet eyes. "I have been told your story many times over this eve, although I wish to hear straight from the man of the hour. Tell me, what was it like to make that dash?"
Marsh Silas, a little red in the face and working hard to maintain his polite smile, glanced at Ghent and the others. They all looked at him expectantly.
"Well, my lady," he began stiffly, "if I had not felt the Emperor's hand guiding me, the grim necessity of our predicament, and the many lives resting upon my shoulders, I doubt I would have been able to make such a dash. We Shock Troopers are the very best, second to very few across this entire Imperium. To make my way across a field I already survived, swept by fire and shell, was very daunting to me."
"But on you went!" she said, squeezing his hands. "What drives a man to do such a thing?"
"Orders!" joked another major. Everyone chuckled politely.
"I would call it courage, dear madam," Haupt said.
"But what do you call it?" the lady asked, her hazel eyes peering into Marsh's.
"Faith, my lady," the platoon sergeant answered, then looked at Hyram and Carstensen. "In the Emperor, but also in my comrades. If they had not fought so ferociously, the foul enemy would have brought more of his weapons to bear on me. My survival is owed not to fleet of foot or training or technique. It is to them and our Emperor."
There were a few moments of silence as the officers stared at him frankly. But the noblewoman seemed enthralled, inhaling and gasping at the same time. She removed one of her hands and held it over her heart. The major who originally addressed him chuckled.
"You're a very well-spoken sergeant."
"The Emperor surely must have touched your shoulder," the noblewoman said. "It was said you weaved around falling shells and stormed through bullets as if you knew right where they were about to hit!"
Marsh Silas turned a little red as Barlocke's laughter flooded his head. Smiling bashfully, he shrugged and nodded his head to the side.
"Yes indeed, my lady. What the Emperor saw in a small sort like me is a mystery, but it is not my place to question His immense generosity."
"You're quite right about that lad," a robed priest with thick gray hair said, wagging his finger. But then he added affectionately, "It is good to see a Guardsmen with such piety."
Marsh Silas felt humbled to be recognized by a member of the Ecclesiarchy. It was an immense honor but helped to make him feel more comfortable under the curious eyes of so many esteemed officers and cultured ladies. The one before, who had yet to voice her name, let go of his hands.
"Well, I just wanted to meet a young hero like you so badly. You are a very special man. But you must enjoy the evening. Surely, there must be a lovely lady you can dance with."
"Ah, my lady, that is highly irregular," one of the other ranking officers cut in. "Sergeant Cross is an enlisted man."
"True, sir, but he also comes from a noble family," Hyram interjected. "Low nobility, naturally, but nobility nonetheless."
"Oh, yes, yes," one of them said. "Cross. I have heard that name somewhere before."
Marsh Silas, red in the face, could only look down at his boots.
"There you have it," said the noblewoman. "Now, let's find you a—"
"I shall," Carstensen volunteered, stepping forward.
Marsh's eyes bulged while Ghent's head snapped in her direction. Before he could protest, Carstensen took Marsh's hand and led him to the dance floor. All his quiet pleas to halt were ignored. Even voicing his concern over Ghent's suspicions and what all the nobles would say didn't seem to matter either. She was determined to see him on that floor. Waiting for an opportune moment to enter the crowd, she turned him around, put her left hand on his shoulder, and held his right hand out to the side. "Put your hand on my lower back."
"Lilias, this is a fool's errand! We'll be found out."
"Nonsense. Come now. Did you not tell me Barlocke once taught you and the men to dance?"
"Yes, but not something like this."
"How fortunate I was raised on a planet of culture," she said smugly. The song changed but maintained a bouncy air. Carstensen swept them onto the dance floor and began spinning them slowly around. Marsh Silas felt like he was running to keep up. "Very good," she assured him. "Don't look down. That's it. Very good, good show. See? Not too difficult at all. Just look at me and let your feet do the work."
It was the easiest and quite honestly the best order he ever received. Marsh Silas gazed right into Carstensen's wonderful oceanic eyes, the swirling seas of glassy green and crystal blue. They were accentuated by the paleness of her face merely tinged with the winter sunlight they endured for so long in the hinterland. She was so strong in mind and body; the tough cheekbones, her tough brow hidden by her orange bangs, the scars on her cheek, the little one on her lip, and a big one on her forehead.
So sweet was her smile that Marsh Silas could not help but mirror it. The longer he stared, the quieter the music seemed to become. All around them, the movements of the other dancers were so blurry they began to vacate his vision. Soon enough, all he could see was her, as if it was just them on the dance floor.
Carstensen tilted her head to the side and laughed a little. "It seemed like you needed saving again."
"My great defender," Marsh cooed. "Where would I be without you?"
"Dead on a heretic's doorstep, I imagine."
Marsh Silas laughed and nodded.
"Is it true? You do miss your home, Sald-Grati?"
Carstensen's smile softened but did not fade.
"No. It was a world of comforts and luxuries you could never imagine, but it was also a place where one learned to perfect the self. Education, to be cultured. From the moment I could walk I was thrust into an environment of learning and art. To dance, to paint, to play the harp. My mentors were more constant than my mother. All was arranged for me, even my prospective husband. Some youthful twit, the son of some merchant or other." She sighed and shook her head. "It is a sad thing to say but my father's death was my salvation. Whatever fate the Schola Progenium saw fit for me was acceptable; there was no particular desire to be a Commissar as my father before me."
"The Emperor thought otherwise."
"When it was declared I was for the Commissariat, and Cadia no less, I dedicated all my energies to become the best I could be. For years, I've worked, struggled, learned, and fought to make myself worthy, to give back to this grand Imperium, and to the Emperor." She lowered her gaze a little. "I never dreamed I would live long enough to become a full Commissar."
"You have done more than merely live," Marsh assured her. "The Emperor has rewarded you for your good works."
"He is most generous, for He has not only bestowed unto me this rank," she said. Her arm snaked closer, her fingers nearly touching the bottom of his neck. She applied just a little pressure and he bowed his head slightly so she could speak into his ear. "But with you also."
Marsh Silas raised his head, his cheeks glowing.
"My heart belongs to you, Lilias."
"And my heart to you," she said, her lips nearing his, "my heart of hearts. Silas..."
"My love," he murmured, his lips nearly grazing hers.
Suddenly there was a great applause. Both of them stopped and looked around frantically, thinking they were noticed. They were relieved to see the band bowing at the conclusion of the song and the dancers were clapping for them. After adding their own applause, they glanced at one another. Taking the opportunity as the crowd transitioned, obscuring them from outside observers, Marsh Silas took her hands. "One more dance?"
"A drink first," she said, then giggled. "Of water."
"I shall return swiftly," he said in a cheery way. While Carstensen waited beside the dance floor, he hurried back to the food tables. Finding two crystal glasses, he went to a flowing bowl filled with icy water and used a ladle to fill them up. As he walked back, he noticed many members of Bloody Platoon were congregating away from the majority of people. Even the men who bore an Honorifica were among them instead of being assailed with questions.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, eating slowly from the plates in their hands. Marsh looked around, thinking there wasn't enough seating. But the dining tables on the other side of the hall had many empty chairs. Some of the men chatted while a few remained absolutely fascinated with the food on their plates. Aside from those few, most of them looked quite somber. The most melancholy of the bunch were the two Whiteshields able to join them that evening, Rowley and Tattersall. Probitors like them rarely attended such grand events and he thought they would be more than overjoyed to be a part of it. Instead, they remained closer together and under the watchful, even protective gazes of the older Guardsmen. Still so young, they seemed very small compared to the adult Shock Troopers.
Marsh Silas saw Hyram was chatting with Carstensen. Knowing he had a few moments, he walked over to Bloody Platoon.
"What are you lot looking so miserable about?" he asked. "Are you not enjoying yourselves?"
"There's just so much going on," Rowley said nervously. "All the officers keep asking questions and I've told the same story over a dozen times now."
"When do we get to go back to the barracks?" Tattersall asked, clearly embarrassed seeing as he was speaking towards his boots.
"Go back? So soon? This eve's hardly begun." Marsh looked up at the others who didn't seem convinced. "Come now. The Emperor has rewarded us with a splendid evening of good company, fine food, and rest."
"It don't feel no rest to me," Fleming said, ladling mashed starch from one side of his plate to the other.
"Aye, ain't got much of a stomach this night," Sergeant Mottershead said, sliding his plate onto a nearby table. "These nobles and ladies from far away disgust me. They take part in our victory without having any part of it. Tis no celebration of our feats; it is a mere party. It is despicable."
"This ain't like the other ceremonies we've been to," Olhouser added. "Those were all-soldier shows. So many o' these folks ain't got a lick o' understanding about what it means to be a Cadian."
Everyone began to nod and mumble in agreement. Marsh Silas looked out and studied the faces of men from the regiment scattered across the hall. Many were looking at the off-world nobility, who were often chortling about something inane or gabbing over a trifling, with great disdain. Many gazed into their drinks and did not engage with anyone except friends. Others were overtly repulsed by the reaction of their betters as they told stories of their exploits.
Only a little earlier, everyone seemed so eager and joyful to be in attendance. So many were driven to tears during the ceremony, still in disbelief they were to be rewarded in the eyes of the Emperor. The majesty and grandeur of the ceremony itself was exhilarating to the soul. All were too humbled, or perhaps too nervous, to really take in what was happening. They were just thankful to the almighty Emperor to have lived and to be honored in the company of their comrades. And that is when the realization sank in for Marsh Silas, just as it had for his friends. There were not as many brothers in arms among them as when they first set out on their glorious mission. Sergeant Queshire, Jupp, Eadwig, Millard, nearly all the plucky Whiteshields were gone. The badly wounded Guardsmen were not among them either. Bloody Platoon was down to half strength.
After so long, the loss caught up with them and now it made this event intolerable. To see so many unconcerned and unaware of just what was lost in this great battle, this Cadian endeavor, made the deaths of treasured friends all the worse. It was sobering to Marsh Silas, whose heart was gladdened by this spectacular evening. He became aware of how his story was not meant to exalt in Cadian virtues but merely to entertain the noble lot in front of him.
But he swallowed his own discontent, not for his sake but for that of his troopers. He offered them all a smile and looked at them encouragingly.
"Friends," he began, "my heart is heavy as well. We have honored them and prayed for their souls. But..." He searched for the right words and came back to Ghent's lecture. Marsh looked back up resolutely. "...there is only so much we can do in the end." Bloody Platoon, distracted and forlorn, now focused on the platoon sergeant. "We fought. We won. The cost was high. Such brave fellows can never be replaced. But we knew them better than their own mothers, did we not? Would they want us to spend the rest of eternity with our heads bowed in the chapel? To be in constant mourning for their souls which you, as well as I, know have joined the God-Emperor? No, they would wish us to carry on as we always have; merry, proud, and rough, as the Emperor made us. Imagine how upset they must be to look at your glum faces."
A few of them chuckled or at least smiled. Marsh Silas set the glasses aside and put an arm around each of the Whiteshields. Leaning down so he could look them in the eye, he ran his fingers into their hair, spoiling their neatness. "And I know your dear brothers and sisters would not want you to spoil this honor. Hold your heads high and with valor for their sake, won't you?"
"Yes, Marsh Silas," Rowley and Tattersall said together.
"Good." Marsh stood up, arms akimbo. "That goes for all of you. If you can manage that for a little longer, I'll see to it that we'll find a way out of here so we can enjoy our furlough in our way."
"Yes, Marsh Silas," they all said, their voices more vigorous than they had been.
Nodding, the platoon sergeant turned to pick up the two glasses. But in the few moments he had set them down, a server or some other attendant had come and carried them away. Looking around, he tried to spy the man who took it. Journeying into the crowd, he looked around and around, careful not to bump into any of the soldiery or nobility around him. As he neared the other end of the hall, his pace slowed down. The crowd parted and leaning against the far wall was the Throne Agent Orzman. He held both glasses, one in each hand, and sipped from one his lift. The man gazed at Marsh Silas, menacingly and knowingly.
Unwilling to engage in any discourse with this troublesome sort, Marsh Silas melted back into the crowd and headed back to the refreshment table. Just seeing the Ordo Hereticus agent left a bad taste in his mouth. Seeing some of the noble ladies and officers he talked to before, he darted in the opposite direction so as to not get dragged into another discussion. Although he had overcome his nerve the first time, doing so again didn't sit right with him. He just wanted to have one more dance with Carstensen.
Reaching the table, he had to wait for fresh glasses as a server had taken them away. A few minutes passed and he felt silly standing beside the table not doing anything. Finally, a server returned and took their time setting the crystal glasses down on a tray. As soon as he departed, Marsh Silas snatched two glasses, filled them up, and turned around. He nearly bumped into two elderly officers, both of whom wore older variants of the green dress uniform. One was a man, nearly as tall as Marsh Silas, with pock marks on his forehead and cheeks and a thin mane of white hair. Beside him, the female officer was shorter, a little more stout, but more wrinkled in her forehead.
"Pardon me sir, ma'am," he said respectfully.
"Has it been that long?" the older officer, a lieutenant-colonel, snapped rudely. "You cannot recognize your own kin?"
Marsh Silas thought his heart would seize up and give out at that very moment. His violet eyes widened, meeting the domineering gazes of his grandparents. His grandmother, Madam Cross, was more rotund than she ever was before. In comparison, his strong grandfather had withered away into a gaunt, bent man. The years had not been kind to either of them and it showed not just in their haggard frames but also their uniforms. Medals were askew and out of order, belts were not straight, they were missing buttons. Both jackets bore an accumulation of dust and the ends of their sleeves were rather frayed. It was a despicable sight.
Slowly, he set the glasses down, rigidly stood at attention, and saluted.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Cross, Major Cross," he addressed them. It was the hardest salute he had ever given in his life and it was not returned. His grandmother approached and inspected the Obscurus Honorifica upon his chest.
"So it is true. I thought we were wrongly informed, I never believed Faye's young welp would ever amount to anything beyond a pitiful Interior Guardsmen. Look at you, a full-fledged Shock Trooper."
Marsh Silas began to lower his arm but Colonel Cross snatched his wrist and forced it back up.
"Keep that hand up. Don't you know anything about discipline? Bloody Militarum, what's it coming to these days? In our time, the Shock Troops were filled with men, not little boys playing at soldier."
Marsh Silas's eyes flitted away from his grandfather's. Beyond him, he could see Carstensen and Hyram turning in his direction. Their happy expression fell, replaced with concern.
"Eyes front, welp!" Madam Cross snapped and for good measure she jabbed him roughly in the stomach with the end of her ebony cane. Marsh recoiled but managed to remain upright. "Just like your mother to breed a weakling. What Dayton ever saw in her is beyond me. A good noble boy marrying a common wench like her..."
The platoon sergeant bit his lip and did his best not to tremble. He was seething with fury but knew if they saw him shake they would think it was fear. But it was not fear, not this time, only rage that he could not say anything. Once again, he was a child unable to defend himself and was forced to endure the abuse.
"How did you ever make it off Macharia? We were quite certain the Hive would swallow you whole. Is your mother still there?"
"Yes, sir," Marsh said through gritted teeth.
"Good! Refuse belongs with other refuse. What does she do now to live? Pass chems? Sell her body?"
Marsh's free hand curled into a fist.
"No, sir. She works dutifully in a manufactorum producing weapons for soldiers across the entire Imperium."
Both his grandparents snickered, the medals on their chests jostling and jingling. Marsh Silas swallowed hard. He felt alone, singled out, zeroed on, and there was no way out. Such feelings of utter helplessness and vulnerability had remained dormant for so many years and for them to finally return was more than frightening, it was appalling. The chain of command was never so detested, the honorifics befitting of the station above him so disgusting. His fist remained at his side no matter how much he wanted to wring both their necks for this and for all they did before. Just to see their wretched smiles wiped from their poxy mugs would be enough.
"Excuse me."
Commissar Ghent walked up beside Marsh Silas, his hands folded behind his back. He stood up very straight and looked very official. "Lieutenant-Colonel Cross and Major Cross, I presume?" Before they answered he bowed his head but did not salute. "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Might I ask why you are here this eve?"
"We were invited," Madam Cross answered huffily."
"I see. Pardon me for the intrusion but I feel it necessary to remind you that you are speaking to a recipient of the Obscurus Honorifica and thus must speak and act in a manner of respect. This man is a hero of the Imperium."
"Did you ever think anyone would ever refer to the welp in such a way?" sneered Madam Cross.
"Senior Staff Sergeant Cross," Ghent replied firmly.
"This lad is our kin and we may speak to him as we like."
"No, you may not," the Commissar corrected. "If you would like, I could direct you to the articles prescribed underneath Chapter One of The Infantryman's Uplifting Primer: Cadia which dictates how one should act in the presence of an Honorifica recipient in dress uniform and at formal functions, whether you are a common trooper or a general officer." Ghent sidestepped a foot closer to Marsh Silas. "Punishment for failing in this regard can be quite severe, ranging from quite heavy fines to flogging."
Ghent looked at Marsh Silas, who was gazing at him in bewilderment. "Put your hand down, son," he said gently. Marsh obeyed him and could see the anger burning in his grandparents' eyes.
"Is there an issue here, sir?" Hyram asked as he walked up between Commissar Ghent and Marsh Silas. Carstensen came around the platoon sergeant's other side. Suddenly there was Holmwood and Mottershead appeared.
"I tell you there is, Lieutenant-Praecept," Madam Cross snarled. "This Commissar thinks he can do as he pleases, instructing us on how to behave with our grandson."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but this night he is not a grandson but a hero," Hyram said in his defense. "Commissar Ghent is an authority on these matters so I would default to his judgement."
Effelmen, Logue, and Foley appeared among them as well. Fleming, Caferro, Keach did as well. More members of Bloody Platoon began to gather around them.
"He saved many lives and fought with great courage," Carstensen added. "You should be proud of him."
"Silence, you up-jumped doll," Madam Cross spat. Marsh Silas began to raise his fist but Carstensen caught his arm.
"Even senior officers should not address officers of the Officio Prefectus in such a manner," Ghent said cooly. "First an Honorifica bearer and now Commissars. If I must say, you are not doing your family name proud. Silas has done more for it in the past eleven solar years than you have in two decades."
Lieutenant-Colonel Cross scowled at Marsh Silas and then at Ghent. Pushed aside one of his withering white locks and adjusting his collar, he tried to stand as tall as he could. But he could not hope to match the gaze of any of those men and women before him.
Then there was Drummer Boy, puffing out his chest, and Walmsley Major and Minor, folding their arms across their chest. Young Rowley and Tattersall arrived, standing in front of Marsh Silas with determined eyes and firm jaws. Even Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft marched up, taking their place among the men.
"Who do you think you are, Commissar?" Madam Cross snarled. "His new father? And what of you, Lieutenant? His elder brother? The only reason he bears our name is because of our son and he ensured we would never be able to strip him of that name. He is an orphan in all but name."
Ghent bristled, his lips moving just a little to momentarily reveal clenched teeth. Hyram looked around and finally put one hand on his hip.
"What if he is? What if I am his brother? What if these two Whiteshields are his children?" he asked, motioning to the pair of young ones. Then, he put his hand on Drummer Boy's shoulder. "What if this dear Voxman is his younger brother?" He motioned towards Babcock. "And this honorable man is another of his brothers? What if the Junior Commissar is his kin, also?"
Every single Guardsmen in Bloody Platoon gathered around him then. Not a man who was present at the ball was absent from this meeting. Each one stood as firmly and bravely as if they were forming a line on the battlefield. Their gazes were as piercing and cocksure as any soldier in the face of an enemy. Marsh Silas marveled, looking back and forth to see all his comrades. His heart swelled so much he thought it would burst and it took every ounce of his strength to hold back his tears. Softly, he smiled down at his boots for a moment, unable to take it all in, before forcing himself to look back up.
Lieutenant-Colonel Cross looked at all the faces, confused.
"Just who are all of you?" he asked in mild disgust.
"His family," said Hyram. "Bloody Platoon."
"And the platoon cannot be beat," Ghent added.
The two elderly officers looked around again. Their tunic collars were tight against their wrinkled, bird-like necks and beads of sweat rolled down their powdered brows. Eventually, they began to retreat. But the Lieutenant-Colonel whipped around and pointed at Marsh Silas with his cane.
"You might think yourself special, lad, but we remember the sniveling little boy who was fortunate enough to be born in our home. Your name is Cross but you add nothing to our lineage."
"Good," Marsh said. "I am making my own lineage."
The elder cross scoffed and walked away, muttering with his wife beside him. Before Marsh Silas could thank any of his comrades, Ghent, Giles, and Eastoft stepped in front of him.
"Don't listen to them, they're just corpses that managed to move their legs a little," Eastoft said bluntly.
"I think this occasion might have lost its charms for this platoon. Would you not agree, Commissar?" Giles said.
"I concur."
"Indeed. Lieutenant Hyram, you may depart with your men to the barracks, collect your passes, and proceed to any establishment of your choosing. I am quite confident you will observe the Tenets of Garrison in the absence of a commanding officer." Giles smiled, then nodded to the great doors at the far end of the hall. "Well, what are you waiting for? Off with ya."
Author's Note: Bloody Platoon + Company CO & XO + Attachment + Regimental Commissar = Marsh Silas Protection Squad. #protecMarshSilas
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