Part IV: Chapter 25
Bloody Platoon was cheered when the doors opened one late afternoon and Whiteshield Sergeant Clivvy came limping in. She wore her khaki uniform as well as her soft cover which hardly fit correctly as her hair had grown out from such a prolonged stay in the wards. Her movement was stiff and sometimes when she walked she drew a sharp breath or noticeably winced. But Clivvy remained energetic and came in wearing the biggest, happiest smile.
Everyone jumped to their feet and crowded around her. There were many warm embraces, especially from Tattersall and Rowley, and endearing, brotherly biffs from the veteran Guardsmen. As the crowd dispersed, Marsh Silas and Carstensen approached the pair.
"It is good to see you well. I trust you have been declared fit for duty by the Medicae and have not done something so foolish as breaking out," Carstensen said sternly as she smiled. Everyone snickered and chuckled as Clivvy looked at the men on either side of her. Arms akimbo, she looked up at Carstensen and grinned proudly.
"I broke myself out from there. I got tired of lying around."
She wasn't the first Cadian in Bloody Platoon to do such a thing. All the Guardsmen wounded during the previous battle had eventually busted their way out of the Medicae to rejoin their mates. It was going against orders and could be punished administratively, but officers and even Commissars tended to overlook it. They were more than happy to receive soldiers to bolster their ranks and it was a good sign the troops were devoted to their duty and their comrades. Not to mention the Militarum medics and Medicae staff were more than happy to free up another cot; casualties were always pouring in from distant battlefronts.
Carstensen pretended to be unhappy and Marsh Silas leaned over to her.
"Perhaps the good Commissar shall disregard your insubordination just this once."
Broad-chested Walmsley Major, towering over Clivvy, elbowed her in the shoulder.
"Yer chances are good; Commissar Carstensen has been in a better mood of late," he joked knowingly.
His younger brother, Walmsley Minor, put his arm on the elder Walmsley's shoulder and turned his attention to Marsh Silas.
"Aye, I can't imagine why."
Carstensen turned as red as her overcoat and pointed at them.
"Pushups."
"Yes, ma'am!" they both shouted and hit the floor. While the two brothers counted off, much to the amusement of their comrades, Carstensen turned her attention back to Clivvy.
"Try not to make it a habit, Sergeant Clivvy. You're back and that is good enough."
She gave Clivvy a clap on the shoulder which had become her most outward display of comradeship. Although no one said it to her face over the weeks, the troopers joked kindly that it was akin to an outburst of sisterly emotion and affection. Marsh Silas found it funnier more than anybody else but that did not stop him from knocking a few heads around.
"And just after afternoon PT, clever timing," Marsh Silas teased, clamping his hand atop her head and ruffling her hair. "If you wasn't a recovering casualty I'd make ya push."
"I'd be happy to start pushin', Senior Staff Sergeant!" Clivvy boasted. "I've got my strength back."
"Save it for now. You've spent nearly the entire furlough cooped up in the Medicae. Make merry, for there are but a few days left," Marsh said kindly.
"Yes, Staff Sergeant. Oh, Lieutenant Hyram would like to speak with you at the garrison office."
"I'm on my way." Marsh Silas retrieved his cap and coat, buttoned up, and went to the door. Just as he opened it, letting some of the cold Cadia air into the inn, Carstensen pushed it close. She leaned in, her lips right beside his ear.
"Don't be long. You'll want to keep me in a good mood, won't you?"
"Absolutely, my love," Marsh assured her with a wink and a smile.
He stepped out into a snowy Kasr Sonnen, the jagged avenue now very familiar to him. As he walked, he saluted the sentries on patrol and made way for the servitors keeping the walkways clear. A column of Leman Russ MBTs rolled down the road, making the ground tremble underneath his feet. Troops rode on the backs and sides of the massive vehicles. Tank commanders with olive drab helmets, khaki and green soft covers, or padded black leather tanker helmets, stood in the turrets. They struck strong, dominant, and stoic postures. On either side, Shock Troopers and Interior Guardsmen marched along. The air was filled with tramping feet, rumbling engines, and powerful voices. Truly, it was a scene of martial beauty and Militarum might.
Passing the turret emplacements, armed with Battle Cannons, he flashed his identification papers at the front gate and was given access to the garrison. Inside the center bailey, he entered the eastern wall and went to the third level. Passing through countless rooms manned by Militarum officers as well as Departmento Munitorum and other Administratum staff, he knocked on the door to a secluded little room at the end of the fifth chamber.
"Enter," came a tired voice.
Lieutenant-Precept Hyram was hunched over the only desk perpendicular to the window. Paperwork was piled up to his right and the terminal to his left bore a blank screen. Three lho-sticks were snubbed out in an ashtray and smoke drifted from a fourth between the officer's lips. Steam swirled from a recaf mug near his hand.
Hyram removed his glasses and sat back in the creaking, wooden chair. "Thank you for coming. It's time we addressed a gap in Bloody Platoon's leadership."
"Third Squad needs a new squad leader," Marsh said and dragged another chair over.
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.
Marsh Silas took off his cap and lit his pipe. "He'll be missed."
"The question I have been avoiding for so long is who to promote. Corporal Cuyper is the natural choice, obviously, but then I would have to promote someone else to fill the role of assistant squad leader. I wonder if it would be better to elevate someone from another squad to the position."
"Begging yer pardon, sir, but we don't have the numbers to play around with like we once did," Marsh said, puffing smoke into the air. He tried, and failed, to make the smoke rings Carstensen did. "The days of Barlocke's protection are long gone."
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.
Hyram tapped the edge of his desk and groaned.
"Bloody Platoon and the 1333rd Regiment are still combat effective, but one more battle could change that. We need real reinforcements, not Whiteshields. I'll speak to Captain Giles and see what he has to say." He winced and rubbed his temple, clearly nursing his hangover. "At this rate, I'm ready to approve whomever you recommend for assistant squad leader."
"Fleming, sir. He's got the grit and the know-how to do the job. And he can still act as the squad's grenadier."
"I'll send the orders to Captain Giles. They should go through today." Hyram quickly filled the promotion sheets, made a duplicate, and then rolled them up. "Come, let's get some air. This office reminds me too much of Cypra Mundi."
They donned their caps and coats, found a stairwell leading to the ramparts, and strolled slowly along the battlements. Sentries scanned Kasr Sonnen as well as the skies with their magnoculars. Troopers stood alongside Sabre Gun Platforms and automated Tarantula Turrets, which spun slowly around, searching for targets.
Hyram appeared exhausted but concentrated. His head hung a little low and his shoulders sagged. Marsh, unsure of what to say, reached over and just pressed his hand into his friend's back as they walked. "What you said about Barlocke..." He shut his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "...it was only after he was gone did I realize how difficult command would be. I wanted the challenge. Didn't quite think so when I got here, it took the right people to get me on my feet." This he said with a knowing, sideways, affable glance. "But Barlocke took care of us."
"He made me a promise. He believed in promises."
I still do.
"Yes. When he died, it made me think. If he, the psyker we were taught to abhor, the wise man, the great Inquisitor, could die like that, what does that mean for us? Now the Whiteshields and a dozen of our men are gone. Each death took something away from me, a little piece of my soul. Now our time in this wonderful place is almost up. I am not sure if I can face another death. How I wish Barlocke still lived."
"I still think he's alive. He's just lost. Or maybe he's on another mission. The Emperor has plans for'im. And for me, you, for everybody. We all have a destiny."
"And what of the Emperor's plans for you and I? What of Lilias and Bloody Platoon?"
Hyram veered away and gently braced his hands on the edge of the battlements. Marsh joined him and for a little while they watched all manner of aircraft depart and arrive at the nearest Skyshield Port. Valkyrie transports took off, turned in formation, and sped away. Vulture and Vendetta gunships landed for a quick rearmament before flying out on more gun runs. A few Sky Talons buzzed in carrying gargantuan supply crates, vehicle transport boxes, and prefabricated fortification equipment.
There was a lonely quality to the aircraft taking off and landing at the Skyshield Port. The crew inside didn't dismount to rest or eat. Their return to home base was quick, thankless, and in a few minutes, they were back flying over hostile territory. How torturous that window of time must be, Marsh Silas thought, for the brave souls of the VTOL crews. To be safe in one moment and then to catapult oneself back into the fray just another moment later.
Eventually, he tapped Hyram on the back.
"Every gunman who's been on leave has had the same thought you're having right now. It's just yer gut twisting at the thought of going back out there. Don't let the doubt get to you, sir. I trust you and so do the men. You'll get us out of whatever mess we find ourselves in."
Hyram stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back.
"Silas, when you and Lilias finally have a child—"
"Uh, that ain't gonna—"
"If the babe is a boy, don't name him after me. Give him his own name." Before Marsh could say anything, Hyram poked him in the chest. "And that is an order, Senior Staff Sergeant Cross."
"Yes, sir." Marsh smiled wryly and emptied his pipe over the edge. "I'll make it his second name."
Hyram punched the NCO in the shoulder and they laughed.
"You'll be due for a court martial at this rate, Marsh Silas." The pair leaned on the ramparts and continued to gaze out at Kasr Sonnen, taking in the Bastion towers which rose higher than many other armored structures. There were long, twisted lines of Aegis Defense Line barricades that locked into one another accompanied by trenchworks. Both were populated with bunkers of various patterns as well as Firestorm Redoubts near factorums, garrisons, barracks, and motor pools. A number of important transit networks and junctions were protected by Aquila Strongpoints, all equipped with a heavy turret and equally large cannon.
Hyram made a curious sound. "I've been thinking about that place you told me about, the one Barlocke took you two when Bloody Platoon was on furlough. Perhaps, we can take the platoon there tonight. Have a little promotion ceremony for Cuyper and Fleming, celebrate our fleeting time in this place, and pay respects to our old friend Barlocke. Perhaps, just have sundown."
Marsh Silas smiled wide.
"Yes, that sounds very fine." He thought for a moment and leaned on the railing of the ramparts. "You know, Seathan, there's something you ought to know. About Barlocke."
Silvanus...what do you think you're doing?
Hyram glanced at him with a smile.
"You knew him better than everyone else. I'm curious."
Ha, Silvanus, I don't think now is a good idea.
Grinning, Marsh Silas shifted his gaze a little.
"Barlocke is..." He saw the agent Orzman passing through the gate just below them. "...him."
"...what?"
"Agent Orzman, the man who processed me upon our arrival in the Kasr." Marsh gripped the edge of the rockcrete bastion. "He taunted me while I was in his interrogation chamber. He knows more about Barlocke than he was letting on."
"He is an agent of the Holy Inquisition. It is safe to assume he knows more about practically everything."
But Marsh Silas didn't hear that. He had already slipped away from the railing, pounded through the stairwells, and ended up at the bottom of the bailey. Quickly, he flashed his papers to the sentries at the gate and hurried out onto the street. Orzman was far ahead of them, walking speedily down the jagged streets and weaving between the Aegis Defense Lines. He wore khaki trousers, a dark green tunic, and a black leather coat with a wool hood attached. As he walked, he pulled the hood over his head.
Orzman moved swiftly and with elegance. He weaved 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. He put away his Honorifica so as to not draw any undue attention as well.
"Barlocke," he whispered, "what can you tell me about this Throne Agent 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 agility and clandestine nature 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. Be wary.
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 looked by, a Cadian 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 began to fill 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.
He came to another corner. Orzman stopped up ahead to converse with a few sentries near a checkpoint. The platoon sergeant 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. Barlocke did as well, 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!"
It was this moment Marsh Silas grew deathly afraid. Could the sentries see Barlocke? If they did, it wouldn't be so much of a problem but if Orzman saw the visage, would he suspect it was the real Barlocke? The fragment would not be able to sustain the projection for long. When it faded, Orzman would think him a heretic or a psyker then take him away if it wasn't an on-the-spot summary execution. If the agent saw it as the projection that it was, would the same fate await him?
He looked up at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was smiling happily as they moved alongside the road. As they passed the sentires, they waved at Marsh Silas as he held up his papers. Nobody acknowledged the Inquisitor even though Marsh could hear his shoes on the pavement and hear the quiet sweeping of his long coat.
They rounded a corner and entered a less-populated road "Have you any idea what this place is?"
"A service route," Marsh explained. "They're more for auxiliary troops and citizens to get to the factorum districts. A garrison presence is only heavy during shift changes and ya won't see many o' men on leave bothering to go on these roads."
Marsh Silas could see Orzman 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 into the work district.
Factorum districts, or work districts as they were sometimes called, 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 the factorums and engines. There were arches and bridges of pipes overhead, many rattling as steam and sludge passed through them.
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. And 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.
Massive tractors and mech-walkers toiled in huge yards filled with scrap heaps. What metal wasn't being 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, were also at work. 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, the crags filled with fire, the belching engines, and the 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 poor mother working in such a place."
Marsh gripped the links of the fence. Some of the workers noticed him lingering alone in their eyes. 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 girl who was older.
Unsure of what to do, he smiled a little bit and nodded. Neither of them returned the gesture. The girl took the little boy's hand and led him away to get 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?" Orzman growled, pulling back his hood. "Why are you following me?"
Marsh glanced out the corner of his eye. Barlocke's visage was standing aside, blinking with concern. There was nothing he could do and Marsh knew it. He squeezed his eyes shut and growled.
"Where's Barlocke?" he said 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 close, so close their noses were nearly touching. Some of his dark hair spilled over his forehead, covering 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 blade 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 no matter where we come from. I was born of sand and sun, you of bayonet steele 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 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 was pulling 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 Silas 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 over his blonde locks and turned away.
"Come, let us leave this place."
###
Marsh Silas felt sorry at having missed the ceremony. He stood alone atop the walls in the very same spot Barlocke took him to. It was just as he remembered; chilly wind, lights along the walls, distant battle fires, thundering artillery guns. But to be here alone was more disheartening than it was gladdening. The empty space around him felt especially wider. Not even Barlocke's visage was enough to alleviate his woe. In fact, it made him feel all the worse.
"I can go," Barlocke offered. "Save my strength for another time."
"You've been gathering your strength for some time, fragment of my friend," Marsh said quietly.
"Fragment I am, but I am still Barlocke. I remember how to commune with the Warp and draw on its power like I did before. The light is dimmer than before but it flickers brighter every time I draw away. Perhaps one day, I can manifest myself and join you on the field of battle again."
He felt Barlocke's eyes on him. "Don't be so sad. Your friends will understand."
"They'll think me mad, chasing after a Throne Agent because I ain't learned to let go o' things yet."
"And after speaking with Orzman, have you let go?"
Suddenly, there were footsteps on the wall. Marsh Silas turned to see Hyram, Carstensen, and all of Bloody Platoon filing towards him. He parted from the railing and approached them.
"You're here," he exclaimed.
"We waited for you at the soldier's hall," Hyram said, "when you didn't show I assumed you'd already left for the place." He nervously rubbed his hands together and chuckled. "Had a little trouble finding the right place...and uh..."
"He was worried about you," Carstensen stated bluntly.
"I was not!" Hyram blushed and hurriedly herded the men around him. Once everyone formed a semicircle, he stood out in front of them with Marsh Silas and Carstensen. The space wasn't exactly large and everyone was packed in, shoulder to shoulder. "Well, we're gather here this evening—"
"You're already married, sir!" Walmsley Minor shouted.
"And Marsh Silas is taken!" added his elder brother.
Bloody Platoon erupted into laughter and Marsh Silas, Carstensen, and even Hyram could not help but join in. Eventually, they calmed down.
"We've had enough pomp and circumstance over these weeks to fill a lifetime. So I'll make this short. I know the men of the hour would appreciate that since they shy away from such things. Cuyper, Fleming, front and center, please."
When the two fellows were in front of them, he placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "You have done a superb job in keeping Third Squad together since the passing of Bloody Platoon's dear friend Sergeant Queshire. Cuyper, you are hereby promoted to the rank of sergeant and are now the commander of Third Squad."
Cuyper, strong, square-faced, and with closely cropped blonde hair, shook the Lieutenant's hand. Even though he was smiling, one could see the sadness etched into his violet eyes.
"Thank you, sir. I'll take good care o' the men."
"I know," Hyram assured him. "Fleming, we all know you as a man of few words and pure grit. That's what it takes to be a grenadier, but I think you are ready for a new challenge. With your promotion to full Corporal, you will be Cuyper's assistant squad leader."
Fleming now bore a bionic plate in either cheek but one could see his face light up with the news. He blinked a few times and his eyes remained wide for a moment. Then, his usual calm returned and he too shook Hyram's hand.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."
Both men returned to the ranks, where they received handshakes, embraces, and affectionate smacks on the back. Once the men settled, Hyram continued.
"I'd also like to take the time to remember a departed friend, one we have not spoken of for some time. Inquisitor Barlocke was known to each and every one of us who served in the Raid on Kasr Fortis. He gave his life, not just for the Emperor and this grand Imperium, but so that we might live. We owe him more than anything we could ever give him. So, any of you who wish to speak of his memory, please come forward."
Hyram looked down momentarily and clasped his hands together. A little laugh escaped him. "We used to sit by the firelight, sometimes, and chat. Mostly tomes we had read in our time. Occasionally, he asked me about my days of boredom on Cypra Mundi. But to hear him question me about it, you'd think I was the most interesting officer in the Militarum. There were times he frightened me and times I worried what situations he'd lead us into, but that didn't change our friendship."
Hyram walked over between Marsh Silas and Carstensen. Drummer Boy was the next one to come up.
"Well, y'all have eaten my cookin' at some point or another. We all know how to dress a soldier's meal but I always liked it a bit more. Barlocke knew how to fashion some fine meals and I remember quite a few morns he and I cooked for the platoon." He hastily swiped at his eye, smiling sadly, and then pointed at Marsh Silas. "I still think about how he took us out to hunt the plague zombies. Riding motorcycles and then camping out for days at a time. We talked about life in the Guard and his way o' lookin' at things. It was like living in a story, those ones our mothers told us when we was put to bed."
He wiped his eyes again. "I miss him." With that, he joined the line. Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor were up next.
"He acted like a real soldier. Sure, he knew all them fancy words but he got dirty. I remember how he helped us dig trenches and fighting holes and such."
"And when we sat round' the fires for the evening," the younger Walmsley added, "he could spin a real yarn and would cuss up and down like the lot of us."
Much to Marsh's surprise, Valens was the next one up. He seemed small and nervous to be in front of so many eyes, just like when he received his award during the regimental ceremony.
"He was kind to me whenever we met. One encounter stands out to me. The Inquisitor was sitting atop a bunker in the trench, gazing out at the water, with a flower in his hands. You know, the yellow ones back at Army's Meadow. I asked if I could take his pict for the regimental log. Instead, he asked me to draw him."
"You can draw?" someone asked. Valens looked up quickly.
"Well, yes. I can sketch people and places and such."
"Oh."
"Never knew that."
"Nobody asked," Valens mumbled. "So I sat with him and sketched him. Whenever you take a pict or record something or draw, you're to add it to the regimental log. But I offered to give it to him. It's against the rules but he seemed too different, too special, to take his image away from him. But he asked me to keep it for myself and hide it away. I'll never forget that."
Carstensen walked up next.
"Barlocke was a warrior and a leader. Sometimes, I didn't trust him. Couldn't trust him. But in the end, I knew the Emperor was wise in creating a man like him.
One by one, every single man from the band of warriors who stormed Kasr Fortis came forward to speak of him. 'He was brave.' 'I admired him.' 'He sure scared me a bit but I woulda done anythin' for that man.' 'I felt safe with that feller around.' 'He showed me that's a bit more to that ol' Inquisition.' 'I wish there was more we coulda done for him.' 'No matter what happened, I know he earned his place by the Emperor.' 'I'd give anything to see him again.'
This outpouring of emotion, some men moved to tears and requiring embrace from his comrades, was too much for Marsh Silas. He never knew the stories ran 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. It was enough that Marsh Silas shed tears.
He wasn't the only one. Barlocke's visage was standing opposite him and was bubbling with tears. Sniffing, snorting, wiping his cheeks and nose, he looked like a real 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 took forward, glanced back at his friends and Barlocke, then looked 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 friend," Marsh finally said. "And I miss him."
Eight words. Tears rolled down his cheeks. A weight was 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."
Everyone turned around in shock to see Commissar Ghent standing at the rear of the crowd. They parted and he marched up. Nervous glances were 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." And then, in front of the entire platoon, he reached into his tunic, produced a bottle of expensive liquor, uncorked it, and raised it up. "To Inquisitor Barlocke."
"To the Inquisitor!" Bloody Platoon thundered. Ghent took a long drink from the bottle and then passed it over to Walmsley Major.
"Now back to your quarters. You should not be up here. Fall out."
Hyram, Carstensen, and Marsh Silas hastily sent the men down the way they came. But as the platoon sergeant tried to hurry by, Ghent caught his arm and pulled him back. "Cross, a moment."
Ghent suddenly appeared uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and rolled on the balls of his feet several times, something he had never done before. "I think it's time we spoke about advancing your career."
"Sir?"
Ghent cleared his throat again and waited until the entire platoon was out of earshot.
"Due to your recent achievements, I think it would be wise to apply for an inspection of character and a commissioning to the rank of second lieutenant based on merit. You have plenty of experience, you know how to rally troops, you're a decorated war hero, and you've even learned to read. If approved, you would attend eight solar months learning how to command as an officer. Your annual wage would be increased, you would receive benefits, and it provide new avenues into the upper echelons of Cadian society."
Ghent coughed a little. "You would be able to create an estate and marry a noble woman of suitable stature, another officer if you so choose, or..." he cleared his throat for a third time. "...an Imperial servant of an appropriate station."
The hair on the back of Marsh's neck stood on its end and he turned a shade of pink. Overcoming his shock as best he could, he looked down at his boots.
"Would I have to transfer to another regiment?"
"Another company, that is all."
"I'd have to say goodbye to all my friends..."
"Cross, you have to be stronger than that. You're a capable soldier and..." Ghent trailed off. When Marsh looked up, Ghent was looking the other way. He sighed and walked by him. "...just think about it."
###
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 were coiled around their legs, the mattress wet from their sweat.
"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, they kissed, parted, and lay side by side. Carstensen shifted her head onto his chest, pushing away his dog tags and Aquila. "You were so passionate tonight, my love."
"And you as well," Marsh replied.
There was a long silence.
"What the Commissar said bothered you very much."
"I don't want to leave you or Seathan or the men."
"You'd only be in another company. We would still share the same battlefield and garrisons."
"But not the same beds. We would not break our fasts and share our meals and stories."
Carstensen traced circles on his pectoral muscle.
"Well, on leave, with our own estate...husband and wife would share the same bed every night."
Marsh Silas ran his hand up and down her back.
"I can never understand Ghent. He hates me, threatens me, punishes me, then he puts me in for medals and wants to promote me. I find out he had a hand in my reunion with my old friends. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who got mean ol' Hayhurst transferred out of the regiment."
He looked at Carstensen. "I remember on the training fields, he would push me down in the mud because I wouldn't do enough pushups. So I resolved to do more pushups than anyone else; I went out on my own, in mud and snow, pushing on the hard earth and he would watch, too! I got to the top of my training group and what did he do? Say, 'good job and well done,' most certainly not. All he did was grin at me all mocking-like while I pushed."
"Try not to let your anger cloud your perception. Maybe he was smiling because he was proud of you."
"Proud? Ghent doesn't have the means to be proud o' anyone. He's just a mean ol' Commissar, even if he did put me in for this here medal. I know he just wants to promote me to get me away from you all. He likes watching folks squirm."
"Silas, my love..." Carstensen reached up and stroked his cheek. "...Ghent's duty is to inspire and enfranchise his troops. That includes you. We know he wants to push you to do great things. Doesn't that 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 don't think that's it. Try to understand him a little better.
Marsh grumbled and closed his eyes.
Ba-woom. There was a dull, distant rumble, like a thunderclap. Marsh and Carstensen both sat up. Ba-woom...ba-woom...ba-ba-ba-woom. Sirens began to wail. There was screaming outside. The platoon sergeant jumped to his feet and went to the window. Searchlights swept through the night, tracer rounds filled the distant skies. Illuminated in the lights were attack aircraft bearing the Eight-Pointed Star.
"Get everyone up!"
Words: 6,810 | Pages: 17 | Font: Dante | Font Size: 12 | Line Spacing: 1.5
Author's Note: Sorry for the absence. I've been besieged with visiting relatives and friends for the past few weeks as a heavy IRL workload and I could only devote time to my DA content. I plan on being more steady now that, for the time being, it looks like people will be staying out of my hair.
