Chapter 12
Like his walk with Barlocke just a few days ago, he found himself among the yellow flower fields. They walked through the field to the right to the road. Second Company was conducting infantry formation drills on the left. While they stalked through the flowers with their lasguns raised and their shoulders hunched, Marsh Silas and Asiah walked very slowly with their backs erect.
She didn't speak much. Marsh Silas noticed she still kept the handkerchief he gave her in the pocket of her weathered jacket. Like Barlocke, she let her hands hang low and her slender fingers graced the petals.
He cleared his throat. "Miss, you cold?" Already clad in his new winter jacket, he thought about offering it to her. She was not shivering but he thought it polite. His mother always told him to be extra polite to ladies. His father, on the other hand, reassured him that Cadian women were very tough and good manners weren't as important as learning how to handle a lasgun. In this instance, he thought both parents possessed valid points and didn't see why both couldn't be applied.
Asiah just shook her head. Marsh Silas grunted. "Want to smoke?"
Again, she shook her head. He just sighed. There was nothing to say and nothing to do as they strolled through the flowers. Briefly, he turned his attention to Second Company across the road. As part of the drill, the pointmen would occasionally freeze, raise their fists to signal a halt, and stretch an arm. This was another signal indicating for the platoon to crouch. In a patrol stance, it was wise to just mimic the pointman or lead scout's movements until ordered otherwise. When the pointmen raised their fists and leveled their arms, Second Company disappeared from sight. Only the very tops of their olive drab tri-dome pattern helmets were visible.
"Are you allowed to be beyond the perimeter ?" Asiah suddenly asked.
"I'm pretty sure, miss," Marsh answered, looking over his shoulder. "Commissar Ghent ain't come to put a bolt shell in my skull so that's a good sign."
Asiah didn't laugh. She bent over and plucked the head of a flower from its stem. Slowly, she twirled it so the petals almost became a blur.
"I've never seen flowers before," she said. "They're rather pretty, don't you think?"
"Sure." Marsh Silas accompanied his answer with an unconcerned shrug. Asiah stepped in front of him, reached up, and was able to pin what was left of the green neck to his collar. He tried to peer down at it. "Hope mean old Ghent doesn't shoot me for being out of uniform."
It wasn't enough to make Asiah laugh. He wasn't sure what to say. So he relented, waving his hand almost as if in defeat. "I'm really sorry about your boy, miss. Damned sorry about all of them kiddies."
"My boy is not dead. He's out there, somewhere," Asiah said emotionlessly. Marsh Silas ran a hand down his face.
"Miss, we saw all them kids and your's wasn't among them."
He was saying it more for himself now. The fighting was so frantic and lasted only a matter of minutes, he wasn't sure if they were able to collect all of the children. But he looked. He looked! That rotting structure was empty, devoid of life, its occupants composed by three dead heretics. There were no children he saw. And he brought up the rearguard during their flight back to the hill. If any of the children were left behind, he would have seen them.
Yet, no one gave them the exact count of how many children there were to start with. Could one have slipped away prior to the rescue? He shook his head and did not want to torture himself further.
"He's alive."
"Unless you gotta direct link to the God-Emperor, miss, I'm gonna have to disagree with ya."
"Easy to make jokes, isn't it?"
"Wasn't meant to be one. It's the only way I can figure it." Marsh Silas waved his hand a little. "Your boy was important to you. I understand. But it's like the Commissars and the priests say, we can't just lie back when something awful happens. We have to keep up the fight, and keep serving the Emperor. Even if your boy was still here, that comes first."
Asiah stopped and turned to face him. Her hands were balled into fists and she was glaring at him.
"Do you have a son?"
Marsh Silas shrugged a little, bracing himself for the verbal berating. He waved his hand defeatedly and sighed.
"No, miss, I don't."
"Then how could you expect to understand to lose your flesh and blood?"
"Hey, I lost my father," Marsh snapped, "so I think I have some idea of what it's like."
"Then you have what I do not; peace. At least you know he is dead. But my boy..."
Marsh Silas threw his arms up in exasperation.
"Woman, I don't know why you keep doing this to yourself! It pains me, it really does, but the boy is dead. I wish we could o' done something, but we failed!"
"If you haven't seen him, and I haven't seen him, and no one's seen him, there's no proof he's dead!"
"Proof? You want proof?" Marsh Silas pointed down the cape. "Get yourself a nine-seventy, tramp down the road, and take a look—"
Tears were streaming down Asiah's cheeks. Her expression remained angry, her brow furrowed, and her eyes glaring. Yet her lips trembled, her fists shook, and her eyes glimmered. The tears cut lines through the dust on her cheeks.
Marsh Silas could not stay angry. He eased his posture and softened his face. "Emperor take me, I'm most sorry."
"He's out there," she said bluntly. "If you had a boy of your own, you would not give up hope so easily."
Asiah turned around and began walking back to the base. She dabbed at her eyes with the same white cloth he gave her.
Marsh Silas half expected her to throw it away into the flowers, but she clutched it all the same. He felt more guilty than ever. Every Imperial citizen felt a degree of guilt, after all. The God-Emperor dedicated his life to creating, guiding, and protecting the Imperium and now he was entrapped on the Golden Throne. He always put the Imperium first and suffered for it. Guilt was a part of the Imperial Cult and thus the human spirit, or at least the faithful human spirit—this he learned as a youth attending the local fortified cathedral. Although, it was subtle and more innate than being a pervading presence on their shoulders. Some wore it heavier than others and many did not wear it with required reverence. Guardsmen were blessed by the Emperor, as their sheer amount of activity did not grant them enough time to kneel in a chapel. Morning, evening, and meal prayers were the most a regiment could manage even when encamped. Sometimes Guardsmen just had to whisper their prayers on the march as they cradled their holy icons.
He was faithful, and thus guilty by default. This he believed with all his heart, and it drove him to be a better servant of the Imperium. He lost men and friends before, and he regretted their deaths. Another degree of remorse. Yet this shame was different. It was more than a failure of an objective. This time there were faces, and they had to look defeat in the faces of tainted children and anguished parents. The grief was right there before them, and if they were faster and fought harder, just maybe it could have been prevented. Those children could have survived, rescued before they were corrupted. They should have survived. It was altogether right that they should; they would have become loyal citizens of the Imperium and the Guardsmen of tomorrow.
Should. Would. Could. These words never tormented him before in his life. He would have stood among the flowers for hours, but a biting wind blew through him and shook him from his thoughts.
Marsh Silas took the petal from his collar and held it in his palm. After staring at it for a time, he turned his hand over and let a gust of wind carry it away. Then, he clutched his collar tight and shut his eyes.
"Emperor, forgive me. Clear my mind, I beg Thee."
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned around. Of course, it was Barlocke.
"You'll never believe it, Silas," he said with a grin. "Two day's leave in Kasr Sonnen. Just you, me, and the men. They'll even give us transportation there."
Marsh Silas blinked.
"Just like that? How'd you manage to convince old Isaev to say yes?"
"Well, it wasn't so much convincing him as it was telling him what we were about, young sergeant!" Barlocke laughed. "Let's round up those bloody gunmen and head out!"
###
Bloody Platoon was very surprised and elated to be getting two days in Kasr Sonnen. It was in sight of Army's Meadow, although not a short journey away. The aged fortress-city was in a geographically advantageous position, sitting atop a low mountain range Cadians called the Dagger Mountains. To the west was the winding sea road and their cape, with little land for an enemy force to deploy and within the range of the Kasr's guns. Running north and south was the range itself, a series of irregular bluffs, ridges, hills, ravines, and crags. The north was flatter and spread out, while the south was more narrow and rocky. From an aerial view, it appeared like an ancient dagger, hence its name. While the Kasr proper occupied the highest, flattest peak, called the Cross-Guard, the ranges were honeycombed with tunnel networks, reinforced bunkers, and entrenchments. Landing or approaching from the north or south was hazardous for any attacking force.
The eastern approach provided the only viable land route up to Kasr Sonnen. Most of the east was flat land, exposed to the excellent field of fire to the long range artillery guns along the range. However, a minor continuan of the Dagger Mountains was Locket Mountain. It was smaller than the Cross-Guard, but formidable in its own right. Complemented by its own range of flat-topped hills and wide, bushy, rocky ridges, it was a natural obstacle for any land army. There was no approach for infantry and armor to outflank the ridges and hills.
The southeaster road—the only road—was split into three separate, smaller routes by the dense terrain which formed a semicircle at the base of Locket Mountain. The routes passed through natural gaps in the otherwise impassable ridges; these gaps were called Aust, Gallus, and Piscator, after famous Cadian generals. After the gap roads reconnected at the foot of Locket Mountain, the road wound up the steep slope until it came to Kasr Sonnen.
Marsh Silas observed the passing ridges and hills with a mixture of awe and apprehension. He felt very small among them, and not in a way he appreciated. One felt tiny in a Kasr too, but there was an aspect of security. For a Cadian native, there was also a sense of belonging. Cadians felt truly at home within the Kasr walls. Out here, among these ridges and hills, he felt like he was being watched. He hoped the ride would be over soon.
Soon enough, they convoy passed through the massive reinforced gate in the Kasr wall. Speed was reduced as they approached the checkpoint. A Commissar and an officer flagged them down. Barlocke clambered out of the Chimera and spoke to them. The engines were rumbling and Marsh Silas, standing in the open turret, was not able to hear them. But he could tell all were apprehensive to see the Inquisitor. Seeing the way some of the line troopers were glancing at each other, they were most surprised to see one.
After just a few minutes, the Commissar saluted, and waved. The checkpoint barrier was lifted and Barlocke began to return to the Chimera's side. Instead, he sidled up next to a trooper, spoke to him briefly, and then came over. Marsh Silas leaned over, extended his hand, and helped pull him up.
At a slow pace, the Chimeras proceeded down the sharp, jagged roads of Kasr Sonnen. Troops stood behind reinforced rockcrete barricades, Leman Russ main battle tanks guarded intersections, and heavy bolter barrels poked out of bunkers. Guard towers, pillboxes, blockhouses, barbed wire, high walls, heavy guns, sandbag emplacements were everywhere. On rooftops, beside the roads, in front of establishments, and on the walls themselves. So many robust spires, Almost every structure was surrounded by or bristling with Cadian troops and arms.
It made Marsh Silas feel very proud.
After a very short journey, they took a turn to disembarkation area. It served partly as a motor pool and as a zone in which incoming or outgoing personnel could be documented.
The Chimeras were registered by the gate personnel and parked. Many other vehicles were in the wide, heavily defended compound. Units of varying sizes from other regiments were also present.
However, passing the checkpoint and parking their vehicles were only the first steps in the entry process. Once all the men were out of the vehicles, they assembled in formation. A security team led by a Commissar searched all of the vehicles. Their goal was to find any suspicious or dangerous items left behind. After they finished, Enginseers proceeded to check the Chimeras, assessing the vitality of their Machine Spirits and ensuring the vehicles were properly maintained. Finally, an Officio Medicae team surveyed the vehicles for any signs of disease or bacteria.
Once the vehicles were cleared, the Commissar reviewed the assembled unit. Whether it was an entire regiment or a squad on Kasr leave, they were scrutinized. The Commissar conferred with the unit's present senior personnel, confirming the member's name, rank, and unit. Then, the present troopers as a whole were identified. The information from the initial gate checkpoint was then cross-examined to confirm the Commissar's findings.
If all appeared in order, the Commissar passed them off to an Astra Militarum officer who would take them to a processing facility within the compound. All members of the unit were registered in the Kasr's security database and designated accordingly to their purpose within the fortress-city. For Guardsmen on leave, they would be labeled as 'Detached from Regiment, Under Arms.' It was a designation code for armed Guardsmen on leave who could be called to a Kasr's defense in an emergency despite not being with their regiment. It was a standing order on Cadia for all troops, whether on leave or not, to keep their arms and armor. Chaos or xeno incursions were so common that all available troops needed to be at the ready. It was because of this standing order that Bloody Platoon and the rest of the regiment were able to recall so quickly upon the Inquisitor's arrival.
Once the registration was complete, the troops were subjected to a medical screening conducted in a connected Officio Medicae facility. The screening was two-fold; the first part inspected their belongings, the second their health. In general, all the gear was cleaned, scrubbed, steamed, and otherwise rendered sterile. Orderlies, assisted by servitors, carried out these tasks. While the cleansing was ongoing, doctors checked the naked Guardsmen with servo-skulls implanted with diagnostors. If a trooper was found to be infected with a common virus or other treatable illness, they were simply quarantined, monitored, and given medicine. When deemed not to be contagious, they were released. Others, carrying more severe diseases, were rarely seen again.
Bloody Platoon well remembered the disappearance of a fellow they called 'Primus' Tor. He was complaining of headaches when they arrived on leave. After registering, he went into an examination room but he did not come out the other side. All recalled him being a decent man.
When the medical inspection concluded, all who were cleared proceeded to a large community washroom. The walls were lined with showerheads, sinks, and mirrors, and long metallic benches ran through the center. These benches could be moved to become a barricade in case of a breach.
Here, the men were given grooming kits in order to bathe. It was required that the personnel also brush their teeth, as well as shave and trim their hair to meet Astra Militarum regulations.
If the Emperor's light was shining on a trooper, he was placed in a base that had showers. Army's Meadow was fitted with a shower rig, but they were open, exposed to the elements, the pressure was low, and hot water was limited. Here in the Kasr, the stream was strong, the water remained hot, and the room filled with steam.
Marsh bowed his head under the water, scrubbing the accumulated grit out of his hair. Water flowed down the back of his head, the front, and the sides. He could hardly hear a thing. When he finally lifted his head, he took a long breath and happened to look left. Standing under the showerhead beside him as Barlocke.
Many of the Cadians in Bloody Platoon were of sinewy builds. A few, like Marsh Silas, bore strong, defined frames. Barlocke, despite being slender, was rippling with defined musculature. However, a multitude of scars marked his body. There were pale bullet pocks, faded scars from a saber slash or dagger point, and the irregularly-shaped, brownish, splotch where plasma, laser, or fire once grazed him.
He couldn't help but wonder how a man who saw that much action managed to survive. Marsh Silas had fought for a standard decade but that was due more to the Emperor's grace than any amount of skill. Perhaps the God-Emperor favored Barlocke. He was an Inquisitor, after all.
Finally, the men would be inspected once more by medical personnel. If they passed the medical inspection, their clean and fresh belongings were returned to them. All would dress and reassemble in a compound on the opposite side of the facility. Another officer reviewed the troops, again in formation, cross-referenced their registration information, and then allowed them to depart.
Marsh, now clean shaven and his hair neatly combed, stood beside Inquisitor Barlocke in front of the platoon. The air around the men smelled of pungent soap and uniform linens still warm from the steam press. Their freshly polished flak armor glowed dull in the light pollution of the Kasr. Cool wind tugged at their long coats as the first lieutenant before him checked his dataslate. It was very chilly and it was beginning to snow. Eventually, he nodded and cleared them. He saluted Barlocke and departed.
The platoon and their Chimera complement were reformed into a column by Marsh Silas. When they were ready, he spun around on his heel to face Barlocke. The Inquisitor was watching with interest.
"Ready to move out," Marsh said. After a brief pause, he added, "where exactly are we going?"
"You shall see. Follow me!" Barlocke turned on his heel and began strutting down the street.
"Forward, march!" Marsh Silas cried. Just as they began moving, Barlocke turned around, still walking.
"And why not sing us a little tune, young sergeant!"
Marsh Silas grinned a little, and then looked to his right. He spotted a trooper in the column whom they called Monty Peck. This man was a Cadian through and through, but was noted for his wonderful singing voice. Singling him out, Marsh called on him to sing along.
"Scale the Kasr's tower,
to taste the maiden's flower.
I hope it isn't sour!
Oh, I hope it isn't sour!
She might begin to glower,
At my coming at this hour.
My, she's awfully dour!
Of course she's awfully dour!
But I've come too far to cower,
She's yet to feel my power.
Yes, I aim to plow'er!
Tonight, I aim to plow'er!
Everybody snickered at the tune. It was one they all knew from their days in the Youth Army. Marsh Silas and Monty Peck repeated it several times while Barlocke led them down the jagged roadways.
Along the way they passed a great many people. Other Guardsmen on leave, who maintained a disciplined appearance. Guardsmen assigned to the defense of Kasr Sonnen, standing watch at the numerous reinforced checkpoints or on patrol. Mingling between the two were auxiliary personnel who were drilling in available areas. Only a few civilians were seen; the shift change at the factorum had not changed yet. When the shifts changed, the streets would come alive with civilians, flooding from their homes and the facilities they worked like so many insects from a hive.
Despite Kasr Sonnen's irregular roadways, banks of weapon emplacements, and lines of stalwart defenders, grand Imperial architecture was everywhere. With a thin layer of soft white snow upon everything, it looked even more beautiful than before. At an intersection, a grand statue of a fallen hero would stand. One was of a Space Marine from the Angels of Vigilance, who called Pervigilium their homeworld. Although Marsh Silas never personally clapped eyes on these fabled warriors, he felt all the more secure by their presence in the Cadian Sector. Other statues depicted various Cadian generals and Guardsmen, as well as Sisters from the Adepta Sororitas. Many who were not of the Fortress World laid down their lives on the planet's surface, and it was all the Cadians could do to honor them.
At one barracks compounded they passed, there was a massive pillar with a golden Aquila topping it. In the center of the city, there was a fortified cathedral. The structure stood tall and there was a massive circular window over the wide entrance. Every so often they'd pass a series of statues, representing events from famous battles. Thongs of Guardsmen raising flags, heroically charing, or standing stoically, were just some of these depictions.
Many walls were covered in tall posters. Some called for enlistments, featuring an officer pointing towards colorful explosions. Another poster called for vigilance, showing lines of Guardsmen with their weapons shouldered and their bayonets pointing skywards. One demanded obedience to the God-Emperor, featuring a stern-faced Commissar pointing towards the viewer. Stylized portraits of Cadia's many famous soldiers and heroes were portrayed.
It made Marsh Silas very proud, and thankful, to be from such a prestigious world.
Eventually, Bloody Platoon arrived at a quarter of Kasr Sonnen devoted to entertainment. One street in particular was defined by a number of taverns and officer halls. were placed for Cadian Guardsmen to eat warm food and bed down during their leave, although many took the opportunity to consume alcohol that was beyond their normal liquor ration. Besides the fortifications, they might have appeared as any other saloon on an Imperial world. A bar, tables, chairs, some musical entertainment, and an adjoining apartment complex for troops to sleep in. Officer halls were dignified establishments reserved for the Cadian elite. Here, lavish food was served, gentle music played, and many officers could find a noble Cadian lady on his arm. Enlisted men were never allowed in.
As the column broke up, Barlocke led the way into a tavern called the 'Gunner's Joint.' When they barged in through the reinforced double doors, they were met with a scene of troops sitting at tables. All were drinking, smoking, eating, chatting, or playing a card game. But they all stopped when they saw the Inquisitor. The music stopped and it became dead silent. A haze of lho-stick smoke hung in the tavern, which reeked of alcohol and roasting meat. Barlocke, Marsh Silas, and Bloody Platoon stared through the cloud and the occupants stared back.
Suddenly everybody snapped up and stood at attention. Marsh Silas looked at Barlocke, who glanced at him, and winked.
"Everybody out!" Barlocke shouted. "By order of the Holy Inquisition!"
Immediately, all the Guardsmen present put out their lho-sticks, slugged their last drinks, and gathered their kits. In less than thirty second, all had left for another tavern. Only the bartender and his staff remained, shaking in their boots.
Barlocke elbowed Marsh Silas's bicep. "Now we have the place to ourselves."
Bloody Platoon dispersed throughout the tavern. Everyone set their kits down in an open space near the door and braced their weapons against one another. Men placed their orders, took up card games, and lit their lho-sticks. Soon, everybody was chatting quietly, drinking, and eating some half-decent food.
Marsh Silas followed Barlocke over to the end of the bar, taking the furthest stools on the right. Barlocke took the end seat, Marsh the second to last, and the Walmsley brothers sat to his left. On the rare occasions they earned Kasr leave, Marsh liked to sit in between the Walmsley's. They were both characters, easy to speak with, and were always pleasant company. Next to Arnold Yoxhall, he served with them the longest. It was obvious when he sat next to Barlocke, they were confused by the disruption to their usual seating arrangements.
Both ordered Amasec and drank up. Marsh sighed contentedly while Barlocke eyed the glass.
"Pretty good stuff, isn't it?" Marsh asked.
"I've had far better, but what can you expect from an import? I've been to many places and tried a great deal of liquor. I almost tried Fenrisian Ale the Space Wolves are so fond of, but I wasn't sure I'd survive. Those Wolves are good company." Barlocke laughed a little. Marsh huffed.
"Besides the low-grade liquor ration we get, this is all we get on Cadia. Well, us gun men at least." He ordered a refill then drank it in one slug. Barlocke watched him curiously, then shrugged.
"I suppose I can't be choosy," he said and downed his own glass. After letting it settle, he doffed his hat on the bar top and leaned forward. Marsh Silas, meanwhile, took out his ebony pipe, sprinkled the tabac leaves in, lit them, and began smoking. The Inquisitor took notice, and the staff sergeant offered it. Smiling generously, Barlocke to the pipe, puffed on it, took a long drag, and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he took the pipe from his lips, and exhaled a great deal of pale gray smoke. "Now, that's very good."
"Smooth, eh?"
"Indeed," Barlocke said. He turned the pipe around and observed the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. Rubbing his thumb across it several times, he chuckled and gave it back. "Such a fine pipe. Did you have to trade for it?"
"It was my papa's pipe."
"Some family heirlooms are swords, others are tomes, but for good Marsh Silas, it's a pipe," Barlocke said, smacking him on the back. Marsh chuckled just a little.
"About all he could pass down."
Barlocke turned in his seat so he could face Marsh. He propped his elbow up on the bar top and rested his cheek on his raised fist. A smile crossed his pale face.
"Tell me, Silas, how is a Militarum man like you not across the road in that officer's hall?"
"Some o' the noncoms in the regiment don't like me much, not to mention I kin' barely read."
"Hayhurst thinks jus' because I was friends with the last platoon leader, fellow by the name of Overton, I didn't earn the promotion to platoon sergeant." He remembered the first sergeant yelling at him in regimental command not too long ago. "He's right about the sword. It was Good Ol' Overton's, and he gave it to me before his transfer went through. I didn't earn it."
"Don't let the jealousy of Hayhurst alter your perception, young sergeant. A gift that sword is, but you know how to wield it. Who cares if a man has earned a weapon or not, so long as he knows how to use it?"
Marsh, who had his cip refilled again, turned it with his free hand. He felt Barlocke staring at him and looked back.
"I reckon so," he finally answered. "But I like being a sergeant. I know what I'm doing here. Jus' what an officer is supposed to do, I know not."
"You seem to know enough that Hyram isn't fulfilling his duties," Barlocke retorted, "you say an officer's position is foreign to you, yet you presume to dictate what that gentleman is to do?"
Marsh Silas frowned.
"No. Well, I mean, jus'...look, I know he's got to lead the men and he's got to fight. He ain't done that."
"Surely, he did during our previous action. It must be why you haven't thrown him to Ghent."
Marsh Silas wasn't sure what to say but the double doors opened again, and that caught their attention. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a number of off-duty female Cadians from the Interior Guard filter into the tavern. At first they seemed surprised by how empty it was, but settled in all the same. Some began drinking, a few ordered some hearty meals, others joined the card tables, and a few immediately went up the stairs to the apartments. Some Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon followed.
Taking a sip of his drink, Marsh turned to face Barlocke.
"Look, it ain't about what the fellow's gone and one. It's about what he ain't done. He just isn't fit to be leadin' troopers like us. We're all veterans, even Drummer Boy. Me and some of the other men are slated for the Kasrkin if we serve well enough and long enough. If we's to keep fighting for Emperor and Imperium, a good leader is what we be needin'."
"Some great leaders are forged in battle. Some are born. Others are molded," was all Barlocke said.
"Why you talk like that? Why you always be talking in flowery ways that sound like some, some, riddle?"
Barlocke shrugged coyly.
"Just how I speak, young sergeant. I beg your pardon if I vex you."
"Vex?"
"Confuse."
Marsh shook his head and finished his drink. The Amasec was sitting comfortably but he was rather annoyed with Barlocke. It was he who said, after all, some quiet time in the Kasr would alleviate the weight upon his shoulders. Sitting side by side, the Inquisitor saw fit to test him, prod him, and make him feel stupid. Often, he thought he was but did not need others to remind him.
Barlocke didn't seem to grow his mounting aggravation. His attention was on the women. Many bore battle wounds, fresh as well as ancient. More members of Bloody Platoon were breaking off, silently joining the women heading up to the apartment section.
"I didn't realize your women were so keen to take men to private rooms," Barlocke said, amused. "I've been on worlds where women didn't even so much as look at a man."
Marsh looked at one of the women. She had short, curly hair that was blonde like his. Her smile was quite pleasant and her violet eyes glowed wonderfully. One of the Chimera drivers was talking with her. A few moments later, the two headed upstairs.
"I doubt they want anything to do with you," Marsh said. "They be wanting Cadian sons from Cadian men."
Barlocke seemed like he was about to say something witty or clever, but stopped short. His expression became curious. Marsh, who just had his glass filled, was about to take a slug, noticed the confused look. "Those women don't want some off-worlder's seed. They're Cadian women, so they want a Cadian fellow," he said, the edge of the glass a few standard inches from his lips.
"You mean it's not just some simple, fun tryst?"
Marsh Silas put down his glass and explained that as soon as Cadians came of age, they were encouraged to mingle with the opposite sex. It was drilled into them from a very young age that reproduction was key for the Fortress World. Common phrases officials on the planet used were, 'If you do not have children, who will fight the wars of tomorrow?' 'Who will hold the line when we are gone? Your children.' 'It is not a pleasure. It is a duty.' Those spaces on the second floor of the tavern, Marsh went onto explain, weren't just so off-duty troopers could have a place to stay for the night. It was so men and women had easy access to space in which they could perform their duty to the planet. There was nothing simple or fun about it.
Throughout the explanation, Barlocke's face darkened with disgust. His lips pursed and his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something bitterly repugnant. Eventually, he turned in his seat so he was facing forward. It was almost like he could not stand looking at the women anymore. Marsh Silas eyed him curiously, then turned as well. He raised his glass and began to drink.
Barlocke shook his head. "So there is no love. Children are born, then they die. I have been to many places, Mash Silas, and to see one more devoid of the passion between humans cuts deep into my soul."
Marsh Silas finished his drink and set the cup down on the bar top hard.
"It's for Cadia. It's the Imperium. It's for the Emperor," was all Marsh Silas said.
"I don't think He would want such a thing for his people."
"Should we stop having children then? Because there goes Cadia. And if Cadia falls, what happens then?"
"That's not what I mean!" Barlocke responded sharply. "I wish things were different for the Imperium, so we didn't have to practice such things."
Snickering, Marsh turned and faced him.
"So, let's go to the Eye of Terror, kill all within, and bring peace," he said jovially. Barlocke stared into his violet eyes, his own growing very dark.
"It's just a joke to you, isn't it?" he said slowly. "You fight, you fuck whoever ends up in your bed, and sometime later your child is born. You are unknown to them, and they are absent from your mind. You're a young man and you've been with many women, haven't you? How many exactly, I wonder. Twenty? Fifty? A hundred, perhaps? How many heirs of Silas are there, then?"
"Enough, man." Marsh's brow was furrowed and his teeth were beginning to clench.
"How many sons? How many daughters? How many, how many, young, courageous, Silvasnus?
"Would you just shut up?" Marsh Silas said. He was clutching his pipe in his left hand, which was shaking awfully. Barlocke drew closer, sinister and accusatory.
"How many find themselves in your Youth Armies? How many have died already? How many, Silvanus? How many sons, how many daughters?"
"Leave me alone," Marsh said through gritted teeth.
Barlocke withdrew slightly, observed him for a moment, then put on his hat. He left some money on the bar top, gathered his kit, and proceeded to walk out of the tavern. Marsh Silas watched him go and asked for another refill. As he sat, he folded his arms on the table. Both of his feet were braced on the rung around the stool, and he was stamping his right foot very quickly against. The hand which held his pipe continued to shake. He was so angry he didn't notice the freshly fill glass in front of him or that his pipe was steadily burning out. Suddenly, he dropped his pipe on the bar top, leaped off the stool, and barged outside.
The snow was still falling steadily. Kasr Sonnen was covered in a thick layer of white. It appeared that the cold drove everyone else in; even the guards who were previously stationed along the roadway were gone from their posts. Jovial music drifted from the officer's hall and the light within flowed through the windows, illuminating the road and the falling snow. Barlocke had already crossed the road and turned to walk back the way they came. "Hey!" Marsh Silas called out to him. The Inquisitor stopped, but did not face him.
Squeezing his hands into fists, approached the barricade at the road's edge. "I've had enough. Jus' who are you? You're an agent of the meanest, baddest branch o' the whole Inquisition, and yet you've always got a smile, you've got a story to tell, some lesson to teach and you're kinder than my own family ever was to me. What are you about, man? Be you an Inquisitor, or some imposter who took up the black jacket?"
But there was no reply. Snowflakes gathered on Barlocke's hat and shoulders, and nestled into Marsh's hair. "Before you came here, everything made sense. I kept my men alive and fought for my Emperor. Since you arrived, I've been fretting and worrying and puzzling about everything it seems like. Keep your mind clear and closed, that's what the Commissars, the priests, my instructors, everybody has ever taught me. And you seem like you be wantin' to unmake that! Like you want to unmake me!"
He softened his tone and his fists uncurled. Marsh Silas shook his head. "I was happy in my service. I just want to do my part. Why do you have to torture me so? Why?"
"Because, Silvanus," Barlocke began, "I want you to be the individual you ought to be. Not some mindless drone serving as an instrument to the Astra Militarum. I want you, need you, to see that not all is well in our Imperium. You must grow, Marsh Silas."
He turned, finally. "I want you to use the mind the Emperor gave you. Open your mind not to the machinations of our dark foes, but to the prospects of what humans can be under His will. We cannot be the greatest in the galaxy if we do not attempt to learn, Silvanus. If you do not learn, you will not grow. If you will not grow, you will be nothing but an automaton. If you continue as such, you have failed the God-Emperor and Imperium.
Then, the Inquisitor smiled kindly. "Do you think the Emperor rose to His power because he closed his mind? No! He learned, he taught himself; he created questions, and answered them. Do you think I came to my position by lack of initiative or trapping myself in my own mind? No. It is because I studied, because I learned, because I grew."
"Open my mind?" Marsh Silas echoed. "No, you're trying to trick me. You're a psyker, after all!"
Barlocke laughed at this.
"Did you only just figure it out or were you waiting for the right moment to tell me?"
"You're playing with my mind, trying to fill my head with...with..."
"Heretical thoughts?" Barlocke shook his head. "No, I've never used my powers to manipulate you. I've peeked now and again, certainly, but never tried to use you. Nor am I trying to turn you away from the Emperor. I'm trying to guide you back to Him. I want you to become the man you can be. You can't become that man if you don't try to answer the questions before you, and make decisions of your own will, the very same willpower our Emperor gave us."
Marsh Silas did not respond. He could not. Barlocke stared at him, wearing a curious expression. He then crossed the street, strode right up to Marsh, and placed a hand on his cheek. "Still don't believe me? Still think I'm speaking heresy?" He didn't wait for Marsh to answer. "Your soul, your mind, your will; why would the God-Emperor bestow these faculties to you, if he did not want you to use them?"
Barlocke's hand dropped, he turned around, and began walking away. He raised his left arm again, fist clenched. "I'm going to help you, Marsh Silas. I'll show you. But it all comes down to you."
He lowered his arm and departed. The sharply changing sidewalk was illuminated by intervals from street lamps. Under these, Inquisitor Barlocke walked, appearing in light, disappearing in darkness, returning and leaving again, again, again. Then, he was gone. Marsh Silas stood and stared until a shiver roused him from his stupor. Turning, he went back inside.
Word Count: 6,695