Chapter 15
When Marsh Silas woke up, he was face down in the pillow and his morning stubble was soaked in his own saliva.
He did not remember anything after they finished their drinks the previous night. As he tried to recollect, no images filtered through his mind. Instead, certain feelings manifested within his body, like muscle memory. Weightlessness, a sensation of being carried or floating, and a terrible sickly feeling permeating in his gut. It was all he could recall.
Propping himself up on one arm, he wiped the saliva away from his mouth. Certainly, it was not the most pleasant way to wake up, but he thought it was preferable to a water-filled foxhole, muddy trench, or dusty underground bunker.
Wresting himself from the rumpled sheets, he swung his legs out and rubbed his eyes. Immediately, he held his head as a terrible ache washed over him. Bowing his head, very much hungover, he noticed that his boots and heavy socks were off. So too were his winter coat, tunic, and low-peaked cap. On the nightstand beside the bed, his grooming kit was placed.
Scratching his chin, he could not muster the energy to feel surprised.
Hurry up, wash, and dress. We've made breakfast.
Barlocke's voice came like a slow chill traveling up his spine, splashing into his mind, and spreading like a widening puddle. Marsh Silas shivered, then glared angrily downwards. He almost wanted to stamp his feet on the floor.
I doubt that would bar my voice from your mind.
"Stop, please," Marsh groaned, "bad enough I wake up with this here pain, now I have ta' listen ta' you."
When the Inquisitor laughed, it didn't seem so much to rumble within his head. It was more akin to rainwater trickling down the beaks of the low-mounted golden eagles on Kasr spires. But when he breathed for respite, it came like a gentle breeze. Once more, Marsh shivered and had to rub his arms just to get the cold out.
Don't worry, young sergeant, you will adjust soon enough. Now, on the double-quick!
Marsh Silas rose from bed, scratching the back of his head. "Peace and quiet, by the Emperor, I've found no such thing with you."
I heard that.
"Good!" he responded venomously.
Despite his mounting irritation, Marsh Silas took a quick shower in the apartment bathroom. The cramped space had seen far better days, although to the likes of the veteran Shock Trooper it was akin to the tales of Pleasure Worlds. Privacy was something Guardsmen rarely received. Only in the Kasrs could they find it. Of course, that was because a Commissar or Astra Militarum officer was always nearby and could be alerted to any horrid heretical act.
After drying off, shaving, and dressing, Marsh took a brief moment to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror. His blonde hair was neatly kept and combed and he looked fresh, even if his disposition failed to match it. Satisfied, he stopped just one more time to kneel and play to the miniature shrine built on the table opposite of the bed.
A green laurel sat upon a smooth wooden base, so polished it caught the lamplight. In the center was the golden I-shape of the Adeptus Ministorum. In the center, the Emperor's visage was carved into the flag face. It was almost as if his armored form were stepping out of it. Both of his arms were held slightly behind him, giving him the effect of floating from the golden icon. On either side of the center was a semicircle, with lines carved into one and small points along the curves. Behind the God-Emperor, the two gave shape to Holy Terra's sun.
Making the symbol of the Aquila on his breast and intertwining prayer beads in his fingers, Marsh Silas recited a morning prayer. "O' God-Emperor, I thank Thee once more for seeing Mankind to another tomorrow. I shall earn this day by good works and righteous acts, to ever remain in your light."
Kissing the beads, he tucked them into his belt pouch, patted it, stood, and headed downstairs.
Stopping at the top of the steps, he noticed the female detachment from the previous night was gone. Making a quick headcount, though, Bloody Platoon was presented and accounted for. Most filled the tables, talking quietly, smoking, and playing cards. Another group lined the bar; at the very end, two seats were vacant.
Trundling down the steps, he raised his voice. "Have you men made your morning prayers?"
"Yes, Marsh Silas!" came the reply.
"Derryhouse?"
"By the God-Emperor, I swear!"
"And what about you, ye Chimera crewmen?"
"I made sure they did," Tindall assured him, "the grease ain't addled our faith, marching man."
Marsh Silas checked in with a few groups before taking his seat. Many of the men were well-rested, fed, and eager to get back into the field. Each smiled as they shook Marsh Silas's hand, saluted, or thumped each others' backs.
The tavern's atmosphere was quite pleasant. Everyone was smiling. It was as if they had forgotten their proximity to the Eye of Terror or the determined hordes of Chaos entrenching all over Cadia. Ever aware of their duty's harsh realities, Marsh Silas was glad to see them happy before setting off once more.
When he finally headed over to the bar, he was surprised to see Drummer Boy and Barlocke behind it. From the bar, one could see past the many bottles of Amasec into the kitchen. All of the attendants and the tavern master were busy cooking. Thinly sliced-meat was sizzling on stovetop trays, permeating the tavern's air with a musky scent. Aromatic spices mingled with it.
As intrigued, and hungry, as he was, Marsh was confused. He had not smelled anything like that cooking last night, even at the busiest hour.
Drummer Boy came over. He looked giddy.
"Seems like you ought ta' have been the regimental cook," Marsh Silas joked as he sat down.
"Barlocke showed up a little while ago with a whole mess o' food! Fruits, vegetables, and meats, all kinds I ain't seen before. Nothin' we've ever had in those ruddy rations."
"I thought Bloody Platoon could use something a bit tastier than average recycled Grox meat," Barlocke said as he stepped out of the kitchen and approached the counter. "A few final good meals before we set off back for the camp, so to speak."
At first, Marsh Silas was excited himself. Cadia, being at the Eye of Terror's maw, afforded decent rations. Someone, somewhere up the bureaucratic chain decided that as prime defenders against the hordes of Chaos, they needed decent rations. Cadians could expect some vegetables, grains, and meat that hadn't been recycled too many times or were sealed for extended periods. It depended on the harvests from nearby Agri-Worlds, but they were dependable enough. Food in the Kasr's proved to be fresher still, but it was a far cry from what was available in the officer halls or noble forums.
It was then that Marsh began scrutinizing the food. Succulent foreign meats, fresh colorful fruits, and nutrient-rich vegetables? The food seemed oddly familiar to that of the officer's hall just across the road.
His violet gaze rose and met Barlocke's. The Inquisitor smiled smugly, folding his arms on the bar top and leaning forward. His face was but a small space away from Marsh, who was shaking his head.
Leaning forward, Marsh's face was hardly a hand-length away from Barlocke's.
"So, did you steal it, buy it...steal it?"
"Requisitioned is a more appropriate word."
"Stealin' is against the law."
"Arrest me," Barlocke dared, grinning wryly and quirking an eyebrow. He slid a plate in front of Marsh Silas; thinly-sliced Grox bacon, moist orange fruit to the side, and two pieces of buttered bread still warm from the oven. Next to it, Barlocke placed a cup of steaming hot recaf.
The Inquisitor filled two more mugs with the same brew and handed one to Drummer Boy. He raised it. "Well, to the Emperor and Imperium?"
"To the Emperor and Imperium!" Drummer Boy chimed with a big smile.
"May He always watch over us and the wings of the Aquila never furl," Marsh Silas added. The three clinked their mugs together and took a long sip. "Whew, real tasty, that."
Marsh Silas began eating while Barlocke leaned on the bar top, peacefully sipping his recaf.
After taking a bite of a large, crisp piece of Grox bacon, Marsh looked at him. "Why do you keep on thieving from them lords and ladies? It ain't fittin'."
"I have great respect for your officers, but lords and ladies? I've none for them. Your officers will fight to the bitter end, I have no doubt, but you'll find your base nobles will corrupt and flee. It was they who abandoned my homeworld to anarchy when I was but a boy." Barlocke smiled a little. "I stole from them then and if it's for the betterment of others, I'll do it again."
Marsh Silas frowned.
"Cadian nobles are of tougher stuff than wherever you came from."
"I admire your loyalty," Barlocke said. "Yes, some of them will fight until their last breaths. But all men have breaking points. You'll see one day, the illustrious nobility of the Imperium will cower while loyal Guardsmen like you fight for what is right. You will see. When Cadia stand against a tide of Chaos or an Ork WAAAGH once more, your Guardsman will hold the line and refuse to bend or break. Your officers will stand among you until the end. Nobles? Some will fight, others will make a show of it before fleeing. Most will crumble if they attempt to live and fight as you do. You will see, you will see, Marsh Silas."
He said it with such certainty, smugness, and coldness that Marsh Silas could have shivered. Very nearly, he did, and hoped Barlocke was wrong.
I am not wrong. I have seen it. You will too. I will show you.
Barocke patted him on the forearm. "Young sergeant, keep eating, you can't waste such fine food. Drummer Boy cooked it himself!" Standing up, he waved to everyone. "Who wants a refill on their recaf?"
There was a resounding response from several of the men. Walmsley's Major and Minor, Yoxall, and Honeycutt all budged in around Marsh Silas. With a large pitcher in hand, Barlocke made a great show of filling their tin mugs back up. The strong aroma of recaf grew so strong as to be overbearing. Steam wafted around Marsh as he tried to eat. But he was happy to be among his fellow Guardsmen; they were smiling, joking, and laughing. It was always a sweet sight to see such battle-hardened men receive a well-earned rest and find a little peace in their lives.
"Ya gonna finish that there Grox bacon, Marsh Silas?" Walmsley Major asked, leaning over and placing a meaty hand at the rim of his plate.
"If you're not, I'll gladly eat it," Walmsley Minor said, leaning forward on hieft left side. Marsh pulled the plate closer to his chest.
"Hey, hey, hey, now, I ain't done yet," he said, feigning an insulted expression. Yoxall reached over his shoulder with a fork, tried to stab a piece of the meat. "Hey!"
"You don't look so hungry, man," the demolition expert said with a cheeky grin. Even Honeycutt joined the scramble for the remnants on Marsh Silas's plates, trying to steal a slice of bacon. Despite their teasing, Marsh laughed; he knew none of them were really going to take any. In the end, however, he playfully abandoned his plate and the others pretended to fall on it like ravenous dogs. But the men settled down and laughed, feeling quite silly as they sipped recaf and stuffed their mouths with Grox bacon.
Watching with amusement, Marsh Silas chuckled and walked behind the bar counter to give them room. Sipping his recaf, he watched as Drummer Boy took some empty dishes back into the kitchen. Barlocke, right behind him, turned around and waved his hand to Marsh. Lingering while the two disappeared, he cast one last look to the rest of Bloody Platoon. Seeing they were contained and jolly, he decided to follow.
As he stepped in, he realized only twice in his life had he ever set foot in a kitchen. The first was the Cross family's fortified estate house in Kasr Polaris. Despite the heavy rockcrete material and the typical jagged roadway architecture in front of the house, inside it was quite lavish. The kitchen was no exception; it was spacious, warmly lit, had an island countertop in the center, two sinks, and industrial cooking appliances. But he was a young boy in that place; most images of it were fuzzy. More so, he recalled its warmth, soft lighting, and the constant smell of aromatic spices and cooking food.
The other one he remembered was the kitchenette in his mother's apartment. It was cramped, with a few tiny counters or cupboards, a dented sink, a rusty oven, and a greasy stove top. Its only true quality was the window in between the cupboards that looked out over the militarized city on Hive World Macharia.
Just thinking of that place made Marsh Silas shiver and he was glad he would spend the rest of his life on his beloved homeworld of Cadia.
The tavern kitchen was large enough; there was a long center counter with iron railings attached to the ceiling. Pots and pans, large and small hung from the hooks. As well, there were countless utensils; tongs, ladles, whisks, tenderizing hammers, stirring spoons, and big butchers' knives. Beyond were three cavernous ovens and a trio of wide grills. At the very end were a pair of sinks so deep they seemed to be bathtubs. On either side of the main floor were cupboards, lockers, and crates brimming with foodstuffs.
The floor was dirty and some of the metal corners of the big cupboards were scratched or dented. Above, the white lights were aging, smudged, and were so dim they made the kitchen look far filthier than it was.
Most of the staff were busy at the sinks, washing dishes. Barlocke and Drummer Boy were back at the grill, using a flat spoon to flip bread.
"Just get it to a wonderful golden brown. No black, you might as well chomp on charcoal."
Drummer Boy deftly flipped the bread high into the air, caught it with the flatter side of the spoon, and placed it back on the grill. The butter it was coated in sizzled. Barlocke patted him on the back. "Let's turn the heat down just a little..."
Marsh Silas watched for a time. Barlocke continued to instruct the Drummer Boy in soft, gentle tones. Even for the most simple tasks, he praised the young Shock Trooper. One might have blushed at such kind encouragement, but Drummer Boy remained diligent. Deftly, his hands treated the meal he prepared. The attitude he carried was the same when Marsh Silas was going through weapon drills or cleansing rituals for their lasguns. It was almost funny.
Looking over his shoulder, he gazed at Bloody Platoon. His friends were still fighting over the last of the Grox bacon in a playful fashion. Sergeants Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, and Babcock were all standing off near their rucksacks with mugs of recaf. The noncommissioned officers were smiling and talking quietly among themselves, sometimes laughing or clinking their steaming mugs together. Some of the corporals were playing a card game, and the majority of rank and file Shock Troopers were spread at the tables or bar, finishing their meals or sipping strong recaf. Even the Chimera crewmen were contented as they spoke and ate.
Even away from their officers and their Commissar, the men were orderly, respectful, and held themselves like real Shock Troopers. Marsh Silas looked at his friends again to see Walmsley Major standing on the tips of his toes as he slid a piece of bacon into his mouth. Everyone else was trying to snatch it from his , he looked into his mug and shook his head.
Perhaps, he thought jokingly to himself, not all of them. But he was still proud and very happy.
But as he finished his recaf, he could not help but sigh wearily. Every Guardsman looked forward to the prospect of furlough. It was never a guarantee and it was very easy to lose it, even among the highly regimented Shock Troops. Commissars who perceived a lack of effort, discipline, or bravery would take away any designated furlough. Senior officers rarely contested the action as they trusted the Commissars; junior officers never put up any kind of defense lest they face the dangerous end of a Bolt pistol.
Nonetheless, when Guardsmen managed to achieve furlough, it was sweet for the time it lasted. But as it drew to a close, an ominous dread fell over them. The grim reality of their duty sank into their minds, hearts, bones, their very souls. Often, one felt it even as they refused to engage with it. Then came the disappointment when the officers and Commissars rounded them up, directed them back to the nearest delousing facility, processed them, and then led them back to the front. Adjustment came quickly as the Guardsmen settled back into their duties and routines. Yet, it was never pleasant. Some considered whether it was even worth going on furlough when it was so short. Prolonging the inevitable, Marsh Silas thought, seemed rather cruel.
"And what eventuality is it that you fear?" Barlocke asked him. Marsh jumped a little as the Inquisitor refilled his tin mug with steaming, sweet-smelling recaf.
"You know what it is," Marsh grumbled, rubbing his temple as if trying to bring warmth to his mind. Setting the handled pot on the counter beside them, Barlocke chuckled as he raised his own cup to his lips. After he took a sip, he sighed loudly and continued smiling.
"The one which awaits us all. Well, most of us," he added with a little shrug.
Marsh rocked his cup back and forth a little, sloshing the contents around as he chewed his bottom lip. Eventually, he set it down hard atop the counter he was leaning upon.
"Sooner we leave the better. If we're going to get back into the fight, better to do it now than wait until later."
"We're scheduled to leave tonight, Silvanus."
"Got to get them to focus. Prepare their wargear, service their lasguns, make sure they have everything they need for the sweep and clear operation."
"You're a Cadian through and through," Barlocke chuckled into his mug.
"Aye, but not a very good one I reckon," Marsh sighed, taking a slug of his recaf. When he lowered it, he found Barlocke gazing at him curiously. For a moment, he did not speak and instead reached up and rubbed his mangled, scarred right temple. Then, he ran a hand down his smooth cheeks which seemed pale gray from his early morning shave.
Eventually, he stepped back from the entryway between the two shelved walls holding rows of Amasec bottles. He leaned against the trim of the entryway, rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, and smiled very sweetly.
"Cadians are taught self-sacrifice are they not? Thus, that means they are unafraid to die, no?'
"That's the idea."
"But you are not."
Marsh Silas held his tin mug with both hands and drummed his fingers against the side. Taking a short sip, he glanced over at the men of Bloody Platoon to make sure none were paying attention. None were looking his way, so he took a step closer.
"I like to think if I had to, I'd lay down my life for the Emperor, the Imperium, and those men out yonder. I tell myself I can, and that I should. Better me than them, yes? But when we find ourselves in the fray, I'm very afraid and I ask the Emperor to spare me. To spare us all."
Barlocke was shaking his head.
"There's nothing wrong with that."
"Yes there is, yes there is!" Marsh hissed. "As long as I remember, outta all them tenants they taught me, sacrifice was the first of them all. When I was young, it meant something to me. Now that I've seen war so long, death is terrifying." Marsh turned away, looked into the kitchens, and grinded his teeth. "I'm bloody ashamed o' myself. I just get so afraid."
"I've fought with you several times; you were very brave and quite capable in all of our engagements so far."
"How can you say that? I was scared for my life."
"Still being able to act despite your fear is what bravery is all about, Silvanus." Barlocke stood up straight, stood beside him, and looked out at Bloody Platoon. "And what fool isn't afraid of death?" he asked the platoon sergeant. "Out of all who call themselves citizens and servants of the Imperium, there are only very few who are unafraid to lay down their lives. I do not rank myself in their number."
Marsh's head turned slightly and he looked up at Barlocke from the corner of his eye.
"But you be an Inquisitor. You lot are supposed to be fearless."
"Tis true, I've seen much and fear little. But I do not wish to die. I'm going to live as long as I can help it. I find what you said very agreeable; we are better servants alive than dead."
Scoffing, Marsh Silas shook his head.
"I don't remember saying that to you."
"Ah, I suppose I must have overhead you saying that to someone recently."
"I'm sure you did," Marsh said, smirking as he finished his recaf. Sighing as the sweet, warm beverage settled comfortably in his stomach, he set his mess tin on the counter beside him.
Taking out his ebony pipe, he rubbed his thumb against the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. Stuffing some tabac leaves into it, he struck a match and dipped it in. When the flame caught and smoke began rising from the leaves, he waved the match out, slid his hand into his pocket, and began puffing on the old pipe. Wispy, gray smoke rose in front of him and wafted upwards until it swirled in a lackadaisical fashion above their heads. Glancing out of the corner of his eye again, he could just see Barlocke smiling as he gazed at the Shock Troopers in the dining room. Looking back into the dimly lit kitchen, he watched Drummer Boy finish toasting a few more slices of bread. Nimbly buttering them, he set them on a dish on the flat counter space between the grills and ovens, and placed a few more slices on.
After taking a few more puffs, he opened his mouth and let the smoke roll from his mouth. Two streams drifted steadily out of his nostrils. "Those who are unafraid, you said, to give up their lives for Emperor and Imperium, do you think them foolish?"
"Hm? No, no. I still have great admiration for their like. Death is not something they dream of, yet they believe it has meaning. No, not foolish. I pity them."
Turning so he could show him his incredulous expression, Marsh looked up at the Inquisitor. But Barlocke refused to meet his gaze as he stared mystically ahead. "Do not mistake me; we must never leave the Emperor's light and must obey his word. That does not mean we should not be left wanting; love, livelihood, comfort, security, meaning. The priests and the Commissars will say that service is its own reward, and it is, at least I think so. Do you?'
Marsh Silas nodded eagerly and earnestly. Barlocke shook his head a little and smiled. "But it is human for us to want. Remain pious, contribute, serve in some way, to have a choice in how you serve and what you want from life, that is acceptable. It should be. The Emperor did not want us to be slaves; His vision was to uplift us to our greatest potential. He wanted humanity to reach its pinnacle. And do you know what is an innate trait of humanity, young Silvanus?"
"Piety?"
"Of course."
"Loyalty?"
"Naturally."
"Servitude?"
"Mhm..."
Barlocke looked at him, his expression urging him on. Marsh tapped the stem of his pipe against his bottom lip.
"Choice?"
"Yes!" Barlocke said, turning him and clapping him on the shoulder. Marsh could not help but blush at the prideful expression on the Inquisitor's face. "Choice! The Emperor wanted us to have and to make choices!" He chuckled.
His delighted expression soon faded back into neutrality as he turned again. Taking a sip of recaf, he traced his finger around the rim. "Tis why I pity those few whose hearts are devoid of fear. Like those of the Adeptus Astartes, the Adepta Sororitas, and the..."
Here, his voice trailed off. Marsh narrowed his gaze. For a moment, the Inquisitor's mouth hung open slightly. Both lips trembled and quivered. Soon, his eyes began to glimmer as tears threatened to fall.
But he swiftly cleared his throat and took another drink, finishing his recaf. When he turned to face Marsh Silas, he smiled sadly. "I respect them, honor them, and hold them in the highest regard. Do not mistake my pity for contempt. They serve the Imperium just as you or I do. But, it saddens me to know they will never know life like you or I ever will."
Marsh Silas could feel the sadness resonating from Barlocke. It was like the shockwave that came from a nearby grenade, except it was one wave after the other and far less concussive. But he could feel it hitting his body, washing over it, and passing off into the unknown. Instead of fighting it, Marsh closed his eyes for a brief moment and let himself bask in it. For a moment, it felt like tears would roll down his cheeks from such heartache.
Drawing a breath, he opened his eyes, curled his hand into a loose fist, and gingerly tapped it twice against Barlocke's shoulder. This seemed to make him wake up from his miserable languor. He then squeezed his shoulder as he would one of his Guardsmen, assuring them he was beside them and understood.
Tenderly, Barlocke reached up and patted the top of his hand. Inhaling and sighing, Barlocke put a hand on his hip and looked back out at the men. "What I would not give for a little music? What kind of music do you like?"
"All I know are marching tunes."
"As colorful as they may be, that's all those songs are good foršmarching! I mean something you can dance to, young sergeant!"
"Ain't nobody in this here platoon can dance, Barlocke."
Frowning, the Inquisitor looked around. Going into the kitchen, he conferred with the tavern owner. Bemused, the owner disappeared into a back room. A few minutes later, he returned with a strange device. There was a square base made of synthetic wood and a horizontal slot on the front face. Built into the top of the box, which was no bigger than a charge pack can, was an oddly shaped brass tube that turned into a very wide, open funnel.
"...I traded for it when I served with the 801st Artillery Regiment. The Civilized folk on Vanity II would play us music from time to time."
He set it down on one of the tables, took a disc out of his back pocket, and slid it into the tray. Tapping a button beside it, there was a brief crackle before music Marsh Silas never heard before spilled out of the funnel. Everyone ceased their conversations and looked up in surprise. The notes were jaunty, upbeat, and quick. Instruments foreign to his ears twanged and plucked, and a steady beat behind them immediately made his foot tap. Suddenly, Barlocke snatched his hand and brought him out.
"Dance with me, my dear Silvanus!"
"What, Iš"
"I'll teach you! Don't look at your feet and follow my lead! Don't laugh, Drummer Boy, you're next!"
###
By the time the Chimera's rolled into Army's Meadow, the men were still laughing. They disembarked and assembled in good order, smiling, giggling, and bouncing on their feet. The songs they listened to, from the slow and elegant to the breezy and buoyant, still rang in their ears. Captain Murga and Commissar Ghent were more confused than anything else as they inspected the men, but quickly restored order among the Shock troopers.
Standing side by side in front of the platoon, formed, Inquisitor Barlocke and Staff Sergeant Marsh Silas delivered a report on the conduct of the men during their brief, two-day furlough. Both the company commander and Commissar were very pleased with the platoon's health and respectable activity in Kasr Sonnen. Not a word was mentioned about joyriding, stealing Raenka, or dancing for the better part of the day, even as the men concealed their giddy grins and stifled their snickers.
When they were finally dismissed, Barlocke said goodbye and goodnight, before making his way to the regimental headquarters. Marsh Silas led Bloody Platoon up the slope and to their barracks. Along the way, they greeted their friends in Second and Third Platoons as well as saluting non-commissioned and commissioned officers. One by one, they descended the ladder and filtered into their bunks.
Marsh Silas, along with Yoxhall, Drummer Boy, Walmsley's Major and Minor, Honeycutt, Logue, and Foley, pushed through the mass of men as they dumped their wargear and took off their heavy coats. It was noisy; men coughed, conversed, and laughed, rucksacks jingled and rattled, straps snapped, and boots thudded on the dirty flooring.
Tired, but otherwise comfortable, Marsh Silas sat on the edge of his earthen bunk as he took off his flak armor. Setting it down on the floor, he stood and turned around to take off his jacket.
"Goin' up," said Yoxhall from behind him.
"Goin' up!" Marsh Silas echoed as he crouched down. Yoxhall, barefooted, stepped onto the platoon sergeant's shoulder and slid into the top bunk. He sighed loudly and happily. Marsh just chuckled. After taking off his jacket and heavy trousers, he placed both on the hook they nailed into the wooden bracing they used to shore up the earth around their bunk. Now in his standard fatigues, he undid the suspenders from his trousers and let them hang loose around his side. Just when he knelt to untie his boots, he noticed light emanating from Lieutenant Hyram's quarters.
For a time, he nearly forgot about the platoon commander. Kneeling on the floor, he stared at the olive drab curtain hanging from the horizontal bar at the top of the entryway. It was still and he could hear nothing from behind it.
As Honeycutt went around the comb, turning off the lamp packs and blowing out candles, they were plunged into darkness. Eventually, only the thin beams of light escaping from between the ends of the curtain and the edge of the wooden-trimmed entryway remained.
Feeling a sense of responsibility wash over him and hearing Barlocke's words echo within his mind, Marsh Silas inhaled sharply. Determined, he rose to his feet and went to the curtain. "Sir, Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir."
"Granted," came a quiet, groggy reply after a few moments.
Pushing the curtain aside, Marsh Silas entered. He found the room undisturbed, although a rank smell of urine and feces hung in the air. Wrinkling his nose, Marsh Silas took out a handkerchief, he entered deeper into the room and found a sizeable metal bucket nearly filled to the brim with a strange, brown-yellow soup within.
"Oh, sir, this ain't no way to be," Marsh gasped. Looking around, he found a white cloth on Hyram's desk. Taking it, he wrapped it around the handle and brought it to the passage. "Drummer Boy, get over here."
The Voxman poked his head in and immediately turned green. Marsh held out the bucket. "Here, take this topside and dump it in the sea. Wash the bucket with seawater first, then use some spare soap from the platoon chest."
"Do we really need this bucket? Can't we just throw it into the sea, too?"
"It's a platoon item, Drummer Boy. Take it, go on, and for the love of the Emperor, don't drop it."
Reluctantly, Drummer Boy took the handle and the cloth from Marsh Silas. Pressing it to his mouth, he disappeared through the tunnel works. Even from inside Hyram's quarters, the staff sergeant could hear Guardsmen groaning, coughing, and swearing as Drummer Boy made his way topside.
"I'm sorry, Marsh Silas. I just ain't had much inclination to come out."
"The Emperor must be watching over you; if Commissar Ghent or Captain Murga caught you like this, they would have shot you."
"They think I'm ill, so they've left me alone," Hyram wheezed.
Marsh Silas walked over to him. The lieutenant was laying on his right side and was facing the wall. The pict-capture of his son was still in his hand as well as a brown bottle of Amasec. From the smell alone, as Barlocke taught him, it was not the cheap kind either. When he stepped forward to lean over Hyram, just to see his face, the fronts of his boots bumped into several empty bottles on the flooring. Each one clinked and rolled away.
Hyram looked very pale. Dark bags sagged under his eyes and the stubble was very thick on his cheeks. In all the time he stayed in the bed, it seemed as if he had not been able to sleep at all.
Animosity began to rise and rise inside Marsh Silas. Seeing this man, this Cadian, residing in his own squalor and making no effort at all was infuriating. All his life, Marsh was around the most martial Cadians, who were courageous, skillful, experienced, and pious. Some retreated, some broke, some went insane, but so many did their duty. Here, this man seemed so low and little. It was as if he stole another Cadian's violet eyes and tuft of blonde hair, replacing his own with the facades.
Yet, his glaring eyes softened and his clenched teeth parted. As he recalled his numerous conversations with Barlocke, he knew he was not the perfect Cadian either. No matter how brave the Inquisitor thought he was, Marsh knew the fear in his chest defied the Cadian beliefs he held so dearly. Just the previous night, he too was drunk, committed theft, and took a ride that he definitely should not have. What's more, Marsh had no wife and son of his own and his feet were planted on the soil of his homeworld. Hyram's family and home were far, far away from here. Who was he to judge this man?
Sighing, he reached forward and clutched Hyram's upper arm. His eyes widened from their hazy squint and he turned slightly, looking at Marsh Silas. In turn, the staff sergeant offered a small, kind smile, and rubbed Hyram's arm a little. "There, there, sir, no shame. We all miss our comforts."
Turning around, Marsh Silas took the chair from Hyram's desk and brought it beside his bunk. In the same instant, he picked up the pict-capture of the officer's uniformed parents. Rubbing the dust from it with his thumb, he sighed and looked up every so often. "I'm sorry for the way I've been treatin' you, sir. It ain't fair to expect you to become what you ain't in a matter of weeks. We've been training since we was born, and fighting for half our lives or more. Cadian you are, you're not like us. Not in the fighting sense, I mean."
Leaning back a little, he looked up at Hyram, still half-turned. "You got some big shoes to fill and I doubt you ever wanted to. I can't say that I know exactly what you're going through. I mean, my mother was no noble and she never made an officer grade. My father, he was a minor noble and a regimental commander, but nobody took him that seriously, especially after he married my mother. I'm just another Shock Trooper. But you, you've got a legacy you didn't want to be a part of and it must be right difficult seeing as your parents forced you into it."
"No, no, no!"
Hyram rolled over onto his left so he was facing Marsh Silas, and propped himself up on his arm. "They didn't want me to go. For my entire life, they kept me bottled up in that coffin they called an officer, pounding away at a terminal keyboard while other Guardsmen on Cadia and all over the Imperium fought and died for the Emperor. 'But son, operating a clerk's officer is a service to the Emperor,' they always said. But it's not, sergeant, it most certainly is not."
At this point, tears welled in his eyes. In his half-drunken voice, he continued. "I felt worthless. I felt like I had no agency, no choice in my own life! I wanted to enlist, my parents sent me to school. I tried to earn a commission by inspection, but they purchased it instead. I signed up for a combat post on Cadia, and they pulled strings to get me an officer on Cypra Mundi." He spat, but he was swaying from being upright and nearly got it on Marsh Silas's boots.
Wiping his mouth and sniffling, he shook his head. "So I bided my time, waited when they grew disinterested with me and doted over my son. When I was sure they weren't looking, I applied for a transfer and it was approved! Oh, sergeant, you should have seen the looks on their faces. I was so proud of myself."
He laughed drunkenly and slapped his thigh half a dozen times. "But how can I be proud, now? I haven't the training or the experience, I'm a coward, and I'm useless. I can't even get out of my own bunk! My boyhood dreams are just going to get people killed. Maybe I ought to just turn myself in and take the Bolt shell. I'm no good to anyone..."
Marsh Silas stared at him blankly for what felt like hours. Abruptly, he dropped the pict-capture on the floor, stood up, and snatched the bottle of Amasec from his Hyram's other hand. "Hey!"
Winding his arm, he pitched the bottle against the opposite wall. It shattered into pieces and the remaining contents spilled onto the desk. Whirling around, he found Hyram struggling to get out of his bed. Just as he did, he nearly fell over. Catching him by the collar of his fatigue jacket, Marsh Silas dragged him over to the end of his quarters, knocking the chair over in the process. Roughly, he held him up against the wall and kept his collar bunched in his fist.
"You're right," he growled, "you're no good, no good to anyone, except to the Emperor and Marsh Silas."
Hyram's head swayed and his violet eyes struggled to maintain Marsh's gaze. He shook him, trying to rattle his eyes back into focus. "I'm going to train you. I'm going to shape you and whip you up until you're a proper Shock Trooper. Until you can shoot the hand off a heretic at three-hundred meters, until you can lob a grenade across a field, and march in-step! You're going to become a Cadian Shock Trooper or you will die trying. Am I understood, sir?"
"Yes, Marsh Silas," Hyram responded meekly.
"I can't hear you!"
"Yes, Marsh Silas!"
"Who do we serve?"
"The Emperor!"
"Who are we?"
"Cadians!"
"And do you know the first thing Cadians learn?" Marsh asked him. Wide-eyed and sobered, Hyram shook his head. "They learn how to stand up straight!"
Grabbing him by the shoulders, Marsh made him stand up as stiff as he could. He kicked his feet until they were pointing out and his heels were pressed together. Slapping his arms down by his sides, he then placed his own hands on Hyram's shoulders. The officer looked as though he was terrified, elated, and exhausted in the same instant.
Marsh Silas leaned in close. "Tomorrow, the real training begins!"
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