Chapter 11

Cadia, as it stood that chilly morning, was an old and proud planet. It possessed a distinct culture. A newcomer to the Fortress World might have thought it was shocking to see people so pleased to be in uniform and paying such little mind to Archenemy's proximity. What a world it was; entire valleys crisscrossed by trench networks and bunkers, mountaintops dominated by fortified base camps and tunnel networks, and of course, the mighty Kasrs, built not for beauty but defense. For all the miles of fortifications, they led back to these mighty citadels characterized by moats, high walls, automated turrets, firing ports by the thousands, bunkers, towers, heavy guns, barbed wire, small rail networks to move ammunition, interconnecting tunnels beneath the streets. Even the roadways were characterized by erratic patterns, heavy barriers, bunkers, reinforced checkpoints with overlapping fields of fire. Platoons of heavy vehicles stood vigil on the streets, entire regiments manned the walls and patrolled the roads. Even civilians, enjoying their short time off-duty from the factory or auxiliary facilities, casually marched in step. There was no greenery and no grand architecture, yet true Cadians found a beauty in it all the same. To see the banners and flags waving in the breeze, massive posters of war heroes pasted on the walls, and hearing the preachers and Commissars on the street reciting scripture and doctrine respectively reminded Cadians of their privileged duty.

Yet, all knew of Holy Terra's grandeur. There were virtues instilled and expected in every Cadian—discipline, courage, sacrifice. But there were also traits expected of them as Imperial citizens. These lessons came all the way from the birthplace of mankind. All heard of the fabled world, its grand, shimmering golden architecture, the wide and winding boulevards, the marvelous cathedrals, and proud statues. It was where the God-Emperor enlightened and uplifted mankind to the most illustrious beings in the galaxy. Such a tremendous feat was not lost on the soldiers of Cadia.

All Cadians loved their homeworld and would die to defend it. Even if they were honored with service elsewhere, they would never call another planet home. Yet, like every citizen within the Imperium, there was that forlorn, far away dream to set eyes on Holy Terra. To kneel in the cathedrals, raise their voices in prayer, and pay respect to He who guided them.

Marsh Silas, never having left Cadian soil for too long, wondered if he would see any vestiges of that glory when Barlocke finally led them into the Fortis ruins. Remnants of a statue, crumbling spires of a cathedral, rubble-covered avenues, anything that carried the image of Holy Terra. But he was a Cadian through and through. There would be no set of clothes for him in all his life than his fatigues and flak armor. No other calling would ever tempt him from making war upon the Imperium's countless foes. Although he would always find a Kasr infinitely more attractive, there was still a desire to see Holy Terra, even if it was just shadows within a ruin.

Kasr Fortis stood forebodingly under a gray morning sky, partially masked in a fog bank. There was no wind so the channel waters were eerily still. Light snow was falling, covering what was visible of the skeletal metropolis with a thin white dust.

Sitting in the observation post with Drummer Boy, Marsh Silas stared at the ruins. Both were shivering, even under their heavy cloaks. Their lasguns were propped up against their shoulders, barrels pointed skyward. Both pulled the lower parts of their tactical hoods up over their noses. With each shaky breath came a small white cloud. As soon as they appeared, they faded away.

Seeing Drummer Boy shaking worse than he, Marsh threw his arm around the young Guardsman's shoulders and drew him close. Drummer Boy leaned his head against Marsh's shoulder, taking a long shaky breath through his teeth. The platoon sergeant ran his hand up and down the vox-operator's arm, followed by some firm, reassuring pats.

"The winter fatigues will be in soon," he said, trying to be as reassuring as possible despite his chattering teeth.

Guardsmen's fatigues were already very heavy. Being in the lower north, Cadia's natural cool climate, and the short periods between winter and summer, it was rarely warm on the planet. Cadians managed just fine without winter wear for only a short time; at most, a Guardsman needed a standard-issue patrol cloak to stave off the wind during such periods. Raincoats were issued but rarely used because of the lack of rain. Snow was the only steady precipitation in their region, and it snowed for most of the year.

However, cold weather arrived early and the regiment was now without proper winter fatigues. The cloaks and other heavy clothing they kept in the communal chests was given to the men going on watch because they were the most exposed to the elements. Morning and nighttime were the worst times to pull watch. Men who guarded their posts in daylight fared better.

Having been put on watch early in the morning without proper clothing made Marsh Silas very cross. Grinding his teeth, he shook his head. "Never in my soldier's life have I ever sat around so bloody much," he grunted.

Despite the approved plan of action in clearing the sector of all settlements and removing untainted populaces to the nearest Kasr, the regiment remained in the perimeter. Three days passed with no order from Inquisitor Barlocke to move out. The inaction was taking its toll.

It was not just the recent idleness; since he was a Whiteshield in the Youth Army, he was always on the move. Unlike the many garrison postings throughout the Imperium, a Fortress World never lacked for combat. At the Eye of Terror's edge, there was a heap more to deal with. When one operation concluded another was already starting. A regiment in the subarctic regions could find itself deployed in a matter of days to the boreal forests or the great plains. Sometimes regiments would go entire months, even years, without any furlough. The longest stretch he endured was three standard years without leave and he found the experience utterly hellish. Under the command of Inquisitor Barlocke the regiment was committed to hardly any missions and spent most of its time encamped at Army's Meadow.

With this newfound time, he did his best to keep the men of Bloody Platoon busy. Inactivity was bad for a Guardsman's morale and risked the breakdown of discipline in the ranks. So, Marsh Silas had the men reinforce their trench network, adding further fortifications from barbed wire to extra sandbags. Being deeply entrenched already, it was becoming increasingly difficult to find parts in Army's Meadow which weren't already beyond full strength. In between work parties, he made the men drill, drill, and drill. Drilling consumed a vast amount of time, kept the men sharp, and impressed the regimental officers. Specifically, Commissar Ghent: extra drilling kept him pleased and warded him off from enacting disciplinary actions. Some days, the platoon would march up and down the peninsula several times or practice mock long range patrols and tactical formations in the flower friends. Other times, Marsh Silas ordered them to practice with their bayonets, erecting dummy targets for them to jab and scream at. He kept them attentive to their weapons, keeping them clean and in good order with sacramental oils and prayers. Even the humble M36 lasgun possessed a Machine Spirit. Lobbing rotten vegetables from the rations, caring for their other wargear, and keeping punctual with their prayers were also common activities the platoon sergeant maintained. Much to Bloody Platoon's aggravation, he made his men remove the ammunition from their auto-pistols, polish them, and place them back in the magazine after they broke their fast. It was very good for morale, even if it was challenging.

It was hard work and Marsh Silas knew it. But he was trained in such ways under Commissar Ghent in the Youth Army, and he was still alive. So, he trained the men, and prayed to the God-Emperor it would pay off.

Despite his best efforts there was still too much downtime. Oddly enough, in these periods of regimental passivity he found himself drawn to the observation post. Gazing upon snow-dusted Kasr Fortis day after day increased his curiosity as well as his fear to finally head over. Despite the pit which grew in his gut each time he clapped eyes on it, he was beginning to find it quite beautiful. Although, it was a sad sort of beauty; the snow masked its ancient wounds and bequeathed an air of dignity.

Drummer Boy drew a shaky breath.

"I've never wished for a fight so bad."

"The plan's been made, but it's Barlocke keeping us here."

"Aren't we wasting time, then? What's he playing at?"

"If I knew what the bastard was thinking, I wouldn't be a Guardsman for much longer."

It always came back to Barlocke. With the 1333th firmly under his control until he deemed his business finished, he could direct them any way he wished. Even Cadian High Command would be slow to criticize him; no one wished to earn the ire of the Ordo Hereticus. The man wore two faces; the immovable, dark, taciturn face familiar to his station and then the face of Barlocke, which Marsh Silas witnessed more often. He put on the former expression when dealing with anyone who exercised any kind of authority. One reminder of his Ordo and a flash of his Inquisitorial cap, they were silenced. Not since the first week they arrived on Army's Meadow had a representative of CHC inspected the camp. Either they were afraid of him or they trusted in his abilities, and Marsh Silas was certain it was the former.

The vox-set crackled and Drummer Boy adjusted the long-range frequency. A net call live from the battlefront was broadcasting.

"First wave...Chaos warband...eastern Cadian Primus...defeated. 2139th, 499th, 1567th Cadian Regiments wiped out. Survivors regrouping. Reinforcements requested..."

"By the Emperor..." Drummer Boy murmured. He reached into his tunic, retrieved the Gothic cross on his chain, and gripped it tightly.

"Thought it'd be worse than that," Marsh Silas sighed wearily. "We ought to be out clearing these shitholes and getting back to the real fight. We are wasted here, I tell you, wasted."

Like any true son or daughter of Cadia, Marsh Silas was a fighting man. Once the fears were shunted and the training kicked in, he was at home on the battlefield. Nerves wavered, held, and collected themselves. Even Cadians sometimes did not want to fight, growing fatigued of constant battles. But a few days in camp without anyone to shoot at and they were rearing for a fight.

It was one of the many reasons why Marsh Silas considered himself blessed by the God-Emperor to be a Cadian. The spirits of his ancestors, the millions of fallen Cadians, and the Emperor placed in him a fighting will that would never break.

Eventually, the Walmsley brothers arrived. Both wore cloaks over their fatigues, had M36's slung over their shoulders, and kept their arms folded across their chests to keep warm.

"We're your relief, Marsh Silas," said Walmsley Major.

"Please tell me I'm needed somewhere," sighed the platoon sergeant as he and Drummer Boy stepped out into the trench.

"You're always needed, Marsh Silas," said Walmsley Minor, extending a hand and pulling Marsh Silas out of the trench. When he was up, the latter wiped the snow covering the former's Aquila on his helmet. Walmsley Minor smiled amiably. "But there's nothing for you right now."

"I feared you'd say that," grumbled Marsh Silas. "Has the payroll or winter wargear arrived?"

"I've heard nothing," Walmsley Major said with a grunt of exertion as he hopped into the trench.

"By the Emperor I hope something happens soon," muttered the platoon sergeant. "Come, Drummer Boy. Let us find something hot to drink."

The pair decided to go warm up in the barracks. After clattering down the ladder, scattering so much snow at the bottom, they found Arnold Yoxall brewing some recaf at the communal stove. Both Marsh and Drummer removed their cloaks, helmets, and gloves, setting them down on the table. They unslung their lasguns and propped them against the edge.

Yoxall offered a kind smile.

"Fresh as it can be," he said as he filled two tin mugs. The pair gratefully accepted and gripped the tins with both hands. It was at a temperature which normally would have caused a palm to instinctively snap away. But their hands were so cold they held the cups just to heat up. As they carefully sipped and stepped from foot to foot, Yoxall started filling a fourth cup. Marsh Silas noticed and nodded at it.

"Someone else a-coming?"

"It's for the lieutenant."

Marsh Silas' inquisitive expression faded into one of annoyance. Lieutenant Hyram was bedridden with a severe case of trench foot. Or at least, that's what Honeycutt wrote down on the report to the regiment. In truth, Hyram was depressed, taken to his bunk, staring at the pict-captures of his wife and son. According to Honeycutt, he hardly ate and barely spoke. All he did was lie under his blanket, keeping it pulled up to his chin as he stared at the picts. Occasionally, he would extend a finger and gingerly touch the cheek of his wife or trace the face of his son.

Three days he remained in his bunk. Marsh Silas was cold when they last spoke, although now he was beginning to grow angry. Enough was enough, he decided. Pity could not replace reason.

After quickly downing his recaf, wincing as it burned his throat, he set the tin down.

"Arnold, I think it's time we did something about the lieutenant."

Yoxall gazed grimly at Marsh Silas.

"And what might that be?"

"Look, when Barlocke is gone, Hyram is all we'll have. Hyram can't lead a platoon and he can't hold up during or after combat. How are we to survive if we are poorly led?"

Yoxall drew closer.

"You're not talking about killing the man, are you?" he hissed.

"By the Emperor, no!" Marsh Silas snapped back. "That'd make us no better than the Traitor bastards. I say we tell Ghent, all proper like, of what's happening and let him do what he does best."

"Snitch? You can't be serious."

"It's for our survival," Marsh Silas corrected. He then added, "We serve the Emperor by being good Guardsmen. How can we be doin' that with a poor leader? See, the Emperor demands we serve. He demands that we sell our lives dearly if need be, but not needlessly so. Would He want us to die because of an officer's poor call?"

Arnold Yoxall shook his head.

"I doubt He would want us to turn in a fellow Cadian, a fellow servant, just because he's afraid. I think He would be rather ashamed of us, wouldn't you agree?"

Marsh Silas pursed his lips, and looked at his feet. Wordlessly, Yoxall shoved the tin cup of recaf into Marsh's hand. "You're the platoon sergeant. Where you go, I go. What orders you give, I follow. Tis' my pledge. You outrank me. But as your mate, it would truly be a most despicable act."

He left after that, leaving Marsh Silas angry and red-faced. All he could do was refill his tin and try to regain his composure.

Arnold Yoxall and Marsh Silas lived the soldier's life together since they met during the latter's second year in the Youth Army. Sharing foxholes, digging trenches, staving off wave after wave of maddened Chaos followers; through so much hardship they grew close, just as the other men of Bloody Platoon were. War, in its infinite destructiveness, possessed the curious attribute of bonding Guardsmen to one another. Still, the sheer proximity of the soldier's life made it impossible for Guardsmen to be unacquainted with one another. Every trooper's mannerisms and habits were known to the rest of the platoon.

Marsh Silas was keenly aware of Arnold Yoxall's; he was a dedicated Cadian, deft with his craft, and more pious than the rest of the platoon put together. Each day, he rose before the roll call to utter a prayer and to start brewing recaf. When he was praying, he kept his head severely bowed to prove his piety to the God-Emperor. On missions which he took a lasgun, he believed it would be light duty. When he carried his meltagun, everyone knew he believed they were in for a rough time. Somehow, he was able to obtain an extra pair of identification tags. In addition to the originals which he wore around his neck, he kept the other pair somewhere else on his person in case he lost the originals. Like Marsh Silas, he enjoyed eating the imported rice which came with their rations and always tried to save a little extra for later. Out of the entire platoon, he was the third most frequent contributor to the communal chest, the second behind Marsh Silas and the first place belonging to gruff old Honeycutt. Most of all, he was a kind man with high morals and expected a lot out of his fellow Guardsmen.

It was no surprise he disapproved.

Drummer Boy's loud slurping interrupted Marsh Silas's thoughts. He drummed his fingers along the tin mug.

"Are you really gonna tell Ghent?"

"I don't know now," Marsh Silas muttered. "I just don't want to see any of the men killed because o' the lieutenant. Overton never led us into a bad fight. I think Hyram could. If we can get him outta here, our chances are better."

"Turning him over to Ghent would see him executed," Drummer Boy said quietly. He stared down into his mug. "I don't like him much either, Marsh Silas, but he don't seem like a bad man. I think..."

The vox-operator shook his head and shrugged. Marsh Silas's lips twitched into a soft smile. As the youngest man with the least experience, Drummer Boy was the kid brother of the entire platoon. Everyone else had six, seven, eight, or nine years of combat notched on their belts. Marsh Silas was still going after ten, while Babcock and Honeycutt were alive after a dozen. As such, Drummer Boy was rarely consulted or taken seriously by the other members of Bloody Platoon. They treated him well and loved him as a brother Guardsman, but never as a bastion of knowledge. When he spoke up, his words were deflected with humor and jest. Even Marsh Silas kept the Drummer Boy in check, believing he still needed to become at least a sergeant until he could begin voicing his thoughts.

Thinking if he broached his plan for Hyram to the other non-commissioned officers𑁋Walmsley Major, Holmswood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, Babcock, and Honeycutt𑁋he would receive mixed results.

"Speak up, lad," was all he said. Drummer Boy's face lit up, but he quickly reigned in his excitement.

"I think o' him as a Whiteshield. He's got some know-how, but not all the training pays off when you first fight. Gotta work things out. Remember how green I was?"
"You still are," Marsh joked. Drummer Boy laughed a little.

"I think you ought to train'em up a bit, instead o' getting all sore of him. Teach him, like you taught us."

Marsh Silas did not speak for a moment. He was about to, but the words stuck in his throat. So instead, he looked down at his recaf, tracing the rim with his finger. It was all he could do, presently. When he finally looked up, he smiled kindly at Drummer Boy and nodded. Downing his drink, he set it on the table then clapped a hand on the vox-operator's shoulder. They lingered there, sharing a brotherly smile. Eventually, he let his hand drop and left to deliver the mug of recaf.

He found Lieutenant Hyram still in his bunk, the standard issue blanket pulled right up to his chin. Curled up on his right side, his back was to Marsh Silas. In his hand, he clutched the pict-capture of his son.

Hyram's wargear was carelessly spread across the room, half-unpacked. A small bucket in the corner reeked of urine and excrement. To any normal individual, this would have made their nose curl and their gut cringe. Guardsmen smelled much worse on a daily basis so Marsh Silas was largely unaffected, although still found it highly unsanitary.

Unsure of what to say or do, the platoon sergeant stood silently, dumbly, in the threshold. Steam continued to drift up from the recaf. He thought the strong smell would attract the junior officer's attention, but Hyram remained transfixed on the pict-capture.

Marsh Silas cleared his throat. Still, nothing. He took a single step.

"Sir?"

"Go away," came the response, muddied and muffled.

"Sir, I brought you some recaf. As the platoon sergeant I think you ought to drink it."

He set it down on the small, wooden table beside the bunk. "Now I'm no medic here, but a shot o' recaf is sometimes the difference between life an' death! Why, on a cold night, just one cup'll keep you warm for hours, and𑁋"

"Got plenty to drink, right here sergeant," Hyram slurred. He did not turn to face him. Instead, he reached under the blanket and pulled out a bottle of liquor. Marsh Silas was very surprised to see it.

Hyram tucked the bottle back up to his chest. He said nothing more. Marsh Silas squeezed his hands into fists, gritted his teeth, cursed under his breath, and left the room. Lieutenant Hyram. Inept, cowardly, and now, a drunk; he was going to see Ghent.

Storming by Drummer Boy and thundering up the ladder, Marsh Silas entered the cold again, if just to cool off. He did not know about people outside of Cadia, but he assumed that anyone who tried to change thoughts to kindness only to find them entirely wasted was cause for anger anywhere.

Back in the cold, he adjusted the strap of his lasgun and rubbed his hands together. Sure that his feet would carry him right down to the Commissar's office in the field headquarters, he was surprised by his hesitant boots. Instead, he tugged out his ebony pipe, tapped tabac into the bowl, lit it with a match, and began to smoke.

Finding the platoon leader drunk would certainly lead to a bolt shell in his skull. Ghent was as fair as a Commissar could be but he usually skipped corporal punishment and sought to solve a problem at its root, by tearing out the root. To see Hyram gone would put Marsh Silas at ease and he would gladly gamble for another officer. Yet he would be causing the man's death. Despite his apathy he was hesitating, and it bothered him greatly. Get rid of the cowardly drunk, and surely the men would receive a better officer. Yet the bureaucratic system of the Astra Militarum sent Hyram to Bloody Platoon; was there a chance they would send another fool? Was he too fixated on his old CO and friend, Overton? If he could not let go of that absence, would the boots of the platoon leader even be filled? Beyond that, he spent his soldier's life keeping his men out of the crosshairs of Commissar Ghent's bolt pistol. By the grace of the God-Emperor, he succeeded so far. Hyram would be the first man he neglected and that neglect would result in death. Could he live with that? After all, he was a platoon sergeant. Surely, the lieutenant was part of the platoon too.

"Could you live with it?"

Marsh Silas whirled around. Inquisitor Barlocke strode up. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled tight and low. The collar of his jacket was buttoned very tightly and his head was somewhat down, most likely against the biting wind.

"How did you...?"

"Silas, you are at war with yourself over this Hyram. You think him a threat to the livelihood of your men, yet isn't an indecisive platoon sergeant just as dangerous?" He did not give Marsh time to answer. "You must make a decision. Get rid of him, or help him as the Drummer Boy says."

Barlocke must have been listening and craftily followed when he left, Marsh Silas figured. But a pit in his stomach warned him there was more to it. Still, he was growing more upset now that Barlocke was besieging him once more with his riddle-like demands and prodding questions.

"If something is to be done, you do it." This made Barlocke raise his head and he flashed a nearly sinister smile.

"Only you have power in this matter, Marsh Silas. I cannot decide for you."

It sent a chill down his spine. Marsh Silas felt whatever defenses he had whither and dissipated. Any resistance he could offer melted and he felt exposed, like he was dashing across a field without any cover.

Barlocke then laughed, tipping his hat back. He took Marsh Silas by the shoulders. "Or maybe you are just torturing yourself. Decisions demand such but we can leave it be for now."

Stupefied, Marsh Silas did not speak or move. Barlocke threw one arm around his shoulders and began walking down the slope with him. Charity replaced the brief darkness which defined his expression mere moments ago. His posture and mannerisms were like that of a dearest friend.

How a man could veer from emotion to emotion so fast, Marsh Silas could not understand.

As they walked down the slope, Barlocke continued to speak. "Often I find a distraction helps when it comes to making a decision. Something to take the mind off matters."

"How can you make a decision if you don't think about it?"

"Oh, the mind works even if we occupy it with other thoughts. Leave it be and the answer might slowly make itself apparent to you." He paused to think, then laughed. "Or you might just have one stark realization and then you will know what to do. The way we make our choices is varied, Marsh Silas. You'll see this in time, trust me."

The camp proper was well populated. Men were drilling or standing watch. Enginseers maintained fortifications and vehicles. Officers inspected redoubts and lined up troopers. A Commissar was beating some serfs part of a work detail assisting some Guardsmen. Of the latter, they looked on with grim resignation as the Commissar brought the cat o' nine tails down again and again the serfs' backs. Near the southern edge of the camp, where the remaining untainted refugees were currently housed, they were working on a set of entrenchments as well. Colonel Isaev could have sent them to the nearest Kasr𑁋Kasr Sonnen, named for the nearby planet, or the planet named for the citadel, none knew𑁋but he decided to keep them. As he heard it, Isaev wanted to be sure the civilians were untainted before sending them away. To ensure their loyalty, he kept them as laborers.

Marsh's pity grew each time he clapped eyes on them. Among them, he saw the lady Asiah, eyes far away as she toiled to shore up a dugout. When she took a moment of respite, she looked around. Quickly, he averted his gaze. He did not wish to meet her eyes. She still believed her boy was out there, somewhere. Isaev would not permit a search. Marsh Silas, as much as he felt for her, agreed with the colonel.

A convoy rolled in and began unloading crates of wargear. It was the winter clothing requested by the regiment.

"I should see the wargear dolled out, sir."

"I'm sure the men are quite capable of doing so on their own. You mustn't baby them. Anyways, I wish to speak to you about the platoon."

Barlocke commended him on keeping the platoon drilled and busy. He could not help but notice, he remarked, many were still visiting Kine and the other priests. It was clear they were disturbed by their actions, no matter how justified it was by both military conduct and by the God-Emperor. At first, Marsh Silas thought this may have been admonishment, but he said that it was natural for men to feel that way. Cadians were accustomed to victory and defeat. They could stomach one or the other. To see innocents under their charge corrupted and then ended by their hands, was a disappointment difficult to bear.

Barlocke smiled kindly. "Much like you, I think the men of Bloody Platoon need a distraction."

"Give them some targets to shoot at, sir𑁋"

"Barlocke."

"𑁋Barlocke, if these gunmen can get back to work, the bloody work, if you'll allow it, they'll be fine."

"Gunmen," chuckled Barlocke, "why do you call them so?"

"They be men with guns," Marsh Silas answered flatly, thinking the reason quite obvious.

"In the same way a mason must set aside his tools to rest his arm, or the scribe his pen to rest his mind, so too must men with guns. Let us spend a night or two in the Kasr, instead of this camp. Warm beds, hot food, and drinks which burn our throats."

"We are not slated for furlough."

"Let us see about that," Barlocke said, clapping his hands together. "Go on, then, since you're so keen. Distribute the new fatigues to Bloody Platoon while I speak to the colonel."

###

Bloody Platoon, and the rest of the regiment, were soon clad in winter clothes. These were not just heavier versions of their standard issue fatigues, but rather fur-lined clothing, longer overcoats, and a thermal layer. Snowfall, as frequent as it was, did not build up like it did in other sectors. In sectors where it was nearly winter year round, troops were issued heavier fatigues of pure white or dark green camouflage, complemented by gray-white or lighter green flak armor. In the Fortis Sector, the plains were characterized by stubbly yellow grass which persisted throughout the colder months. Along with the rocky ridges, it was suitable to keep the standard issue tan coloration for fatigues.

Marsh Silas stood at the Chimera's rear and handed out all the new kits to the eager hands of his men. Each man said their thanks, murmured a grateful prayer, and quickly went back to the barracks to change.

He was glad to see them smile. Sometimes, he thought, all a Guardsman needed was a fresh change of clothes to feel good as new.

Walmsley Major came up next. He was rubbing his hands together. Marsh Silas gave him two kits.

"Minor's just behind me," the heavy gunner said, confused.

"Take that to the lieutenant's rack and leave it for him."

"But I have to get back on watch double-quick, Marsh Silas!"

"Is that a complaint I hear?" Marsh said with a frown. "Now, you will do as you are ordered, Guardsman. Remember that you're a Cadian, you're built of tougher stuff."

"Yes, Marsh Silas," Walmsley Major sighed. Marsh gave a firm clap on the shoulder.

"Besides, if I see him again today I'll likely shoot him."

This made Walmsley Major laugh. He took both kits and began to turn.

"Shoot who, Staff Sergeant?"

Marsh Silas snapped to attention as Commissar Ghent sidled around the vehicle's corner. The Commissar's back was very straight, his head high, and his hands were folded behind his back. On his left hip, his sword was sheathed, and his bolt pistol was holstered on the right. He inspected Marsh Silas from head-to-toe, then Walmsley Major, who was also at attention. "Be away."

"Sir, yes sir! Glory to the Emperor and the Imperium!" Walmsley Major shouted. He collected the kits and quickly jogged away.

"Marsh Silas, step over here with me. The rest of you, collect your uniforms, change, and return to your posts. Double-quick!"
A cry of 'Sir, yes, sir!" rang out. The men charged the Chimera as if it belonged to the enemy and snatched up the kits. Commissar Ghent and Marish Silas walked towards the refugee quarters until the former stopped them at the edge of their camp. Again, Ghent looked him up and down. Marsh kept his heels together, back straight, chin out, and his chest out. Making a circuit around him, Ghent finally spoke.

"So who is it that you mean to shoot?"

"Sir, it was a joke, sir!"

"Of course it was." Ghent stopped in front of him, his heels clicking smartly. "I could not help noticing you and the Inquisitor speaking once again. He seems rather taken with you and your soldiering."

Unsure of what to say in return, Marsh Silas remained silent. Ghent gazed grimly at him, leveling his eyes. "I hope he is not planting any thoughts in your head. Think you're better than everyone else because you walk arm-in-arm with him? Fancy running off to become an Acolyte?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Really now? Doesn't that life seem infinitely more attractive to you? Better wages? Softer living? Less dangerous?"

Marsh Silas did not know the first thing about being an Inquisitor's Acolyte and wasn't even sure what one did. But he could tell Commissar Ghent was impatient for an answer he deemed acceptable.

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Hope to be an Inquisitor yourself someday!?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

Ghent grinned.

"Very good, Guardsman. We respect and obey the Inquisition, but remember, no service is as honorable or important as our own. The Inquisition is the protector of the Imperium, the Adeptus Astartes are its sword, and the Astra Militarum𑁋we are the hammer that crushes the foe! From the battlegroup to the regiment to the company right down the platoon, we are the hammer. Remember, Marsh Silas, the platoon cannot be beat."

"Yes sir, the platoon cannot be beat!"

"Who do we serve?"
"The Emperor, sir!"

"I said who do we serve!?"

"The Emperor, sir!"

"Who are we!?"

"Cadians, sir!"

"Who are we!?"

"Cadians, sir!"

"Who are we!?"

"Cadians, sir!"

Ghent's smile faded and he snatched him roughly by his flak armor's collar.

"Never forget what you are, for I shall swiftly remind you."

He let go, causing Marsh Silas to nearly stagger. Still remaining at attention, he watched the Commissar march off down the line. Once he was out of earshot, Marsh Silas grimaced, spit, and turned around. As he did, he was surprised to see Asiah standing to the side, staring at him. A forlorn expression resided within her violet eyes. Wind swept her loose hair across her shoulders and tugged at her gown.

Unsure of what he ought to say, Marsh Silas followed his mother's old maxim: remain silent. Remaining so, he stared back at her.

He realized just how unused he was to seeing someone in civilian clothes. Most of the population was enrolled in some kind of service, whether it be military, bureaucratic, or in the foundry. From the Cadian Shock Troops down to the auxiliary soldiers and workers wore uniforms befitting of their station. The bureaucrats, for that matter, were mostly military men and women anyways, so they dressed similarly. Their outfits were characterized by more elegant armor patterns and finer fatigues. Even the foundry workers, who toiled day and night producing wargear, wore grab denoting them as laborers. Living on Cadia, their attire was definitely reminiscent of their clothing in the Guard. Seeing an actual civilian, in normal clothes without any military or soldierly denotations and stylizations was very jarring.

Putting his pipe back to his lips, he puffed a little. The cloud disappeared quickly in the wind. Asiah continued to stare.

Marsh Silas rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. He glanced back up towards the barracks. Bloody Platoon was returning to finish putting on their kits, walking past the Basilisk battery now stationed at the trenches overlooking the beach. The artillerymen camped nearby, impatient for any targets on the water. The heretics were playing it safe, keeping their boats moored at the docks. Despite urgings from regimental command, Barlocke insisted the pier needed to remain undamaged.

Asiah was still standing there. She was composed, but there was a sense of distraught about her. More so, she was clearly fatigued from the labor.

In a way, she reminded him of his mother coming home from the foundry late at night. Utterly exhausted, speaking slowly, nearly shuffering across the cramped kitchen of their apartment on Macharia. When they lived on Cadia, in the house he was born in, there were servants who took care of the cooking. Looking back, he thought it must have been difficult for someone to work all day long, come back in the dead of night, and then have to make dinner for herself and her son. It was like marching twenty kilometers and at the end the Commissar ordered the men on a ten minute PT run.

Thinking of his own mother, Marsh Silas felt pity rise in him.

"Miss, would you like to...I don't know, walk with me for a moment?"

Asiah lingered, then nodded.

Word Count: 6,184