Chapter 19

The Valkyrie touched down, jostling all the occupants. Those who were asleep stirred, blinking and stretching groggily. Others, awake despite their fatigue, stood up.

Marsh Silas, who was sitting at the end of the compartment with Galo beside him, looked back towards the front of the aircraft. Hyram was sitting beside the prisoner, wearing a serious expression. Barlocke was on the other side of her, examining a data slate. As for the Ranger, she sat placidly and betrayed no emotion. Across from her, Captain Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, Carstensen, Drummer Boy, Honeycutt, Babock, Logue, and Foley, sat in the troop bay. Everyone was staring warily at the xeno, who seemed unconcerned with their curious looks. Even the door gunners on either side were looking over their shoulders at the Ranger.

As the engines died away and Marsh could hear more clearly, there was a loud, hissing sound. The cabin depressurized and the ramp lowered. When it did, Hyram was the first one on his feet.

"Look lively, men," he said. "Let's hand off the prisoner and then we're due for a rest."

"C'mon lad, I'll take you to your mama," Marsh said to Galo, picking him up with one arm and placing him on his good shoulder. The boy smiled eagerly and held onto his webbing.

Army's Meadow was bathed in light from sentry campfires, lamps strung on barracks, tactica control centers, and the regimental headquarters, and industrial lighting fixtures. Enginseers conducted repairs on Chimeras back from the field and crewmen filtered into the crowd. Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, and the other company commanders were waiting for them. Much of the regiment, having heard there was an Aeldari prisoner, gathered around to get a look at her. Members of Bloody Platoon who already touched down in previous Valkyrie flights were waiting too, if just to greet their remaining comrades.

Everybody's boot clanged on the ramp as they walked down. Army's Meadow was bathed in lights from industrial fixtures, lamps, and campfires from the sentries on duty. The party walked up to Colonel Isaev and saluted, including Galo. Logue and Foley shoved the Ranger in front of the regimental commander. He looked her up and down, then leaned in close.

"So this is the xeno scum who shot three of my men. Thank whatever bastardized gods you mongrels worship we have not cleaved your head from your shoulders. Today, you receive the rare gift of the Imperium of Man's mercy. I assure you, it will not last very long. Resist, attempt to escape, or disobey an order, your death will be swift."

"I would expect nothing less, Colonel," the Ranger said politely. Grimacing, Isaev grabbed a lock of her hair and pulled very hard until they were nearly face-to-face.

"Do not test me, xeno filth! Mouth off to me once more, and I'll let my men introduce you to their bayonets. A standing order in Cadian regiments is to keep your blades sharp at all times. You'll never come across a dull blade."

To make himself truly understood, he turned her head and motioned to a throng of the Shock Troopers. Many were still holding their M36 Kantrael Pattern lasguns and held them up to show off the bayonets. Others held up their combat and trench knives. The cold steel shone yellow and gold in the base's lights.

Colonel Isaev let go of her hair and shoved her back towards the raiding party. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft caught her; the latter took a sack hood from her kit bag and placed it over the Ranger's head. Isaev pointed towards the regimental headquarters. "Take this thing to the cell."

Captain Giles and Eastoft took her away. Colonel Isaev stepped up to the party, still standing by. "Thank you, Inquisitor Barlocke."

"Thank Lieutenant Hyram, Colonel. Were it not for his actions, we would not have trapped the Ranger."

Marsh looked at his commanding office. Hyram was still standing at attention, so he kept his head up and was looking straight ahead. But he noticed his violet eyes filled with surprise for a moment, then they flitted down for a moment.

Walking over, Colonel Isaev nodded approvingly and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good work, lad. You'll be decorated for this action. I'm very proud of Bloody Platoon's service these past two weeks."

"Thank you, sir!" Hyram replied loudly.

"That'll do for now; round up your men and return to barracks."

"Yes, sir!"

As Colonel Isaev and his retinue of staff officers marched back towards the regimental headquarters, the rest of the regiment began to drift towards their barracks as well. However, Bloody Platoon lingered, respectfully waiting for their commanders to come with them. Barlocke walked in front of Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen. Taking off his hat, he closed his eyes and breathed in the nighttime, sea air.

Copying him as clandestinely as possible so the others did not notice, Marsh was happy to take in the salty air. It was far fresher than the dry, rotting prairie grass. Even though two weeks of constant combat, cross-country movement, and living in the rough was a glorious duty he was happy to fulfill, it was good to be back in the security of their base.

Inquisitor Barlocke motioned towards Junior Commissar Carstensen with his hat.

"You fight well. What do you think of Bloody Platoon?"

"They're capable Guardsmen," was all she said. Barlocke nodded, then turned his attention to Marsh Silas.

"You did very well, indeed. I hope you're proud of the men."

"I'm always proud of them, Inquisitor," Marsh replied. He looked over at Hyram, who was looking back at him. Smirking a little, the platoon sergeant reached over and biffed the officer's shoulder pauldron. "Him too." Bashfully, Hyram chuckled and looked away.

"I suppose Bloody Platoon will make a Cadian of you yet, Lieutenant," Barlocke said. "For now, I bid you a goodnight, I have to contact an old friend."

The trio watched the Inquisitor trundle away. Once he was gone, they looked up at Galo, who was disinterested in the whole affair. Without exchanging a word or glance, they turned and walked towards the refugee camp.

Hearing the tramping and trudging of booted feet behind him, Marsh Silas turned around briefly. Bloody Platoon was right behind him. Smirking, he knew there was no deterring them, so he said nothing and allowed them to follow.

Most of the refugees were in the tents provided to them by the regiment. A few low fires were still burning. Some of the civilians were around them, disinterestedly poking them with sticks. Huddled together, they shivered in their raggedy clothes. Scattered around them were the remnants of a few morsels of food or ration packets. Tools for digging trenches, filling sandbags, and reinforcing entrenchments were propped up against crates.

Everyone took off their helmets or soft covers.

"Miss Asiah?" Marsh asked. None of the civilians looked up. "Miss Asiah?" he asked again, louder this time.

In a ten at the end of the camp, he could see something stirring. The flap of the tent was pushed aside and Asiah appeared. Dak bags were under her reddened eyes. Her face was dirty from working all day long. In the firelight, Marsh Silas could see the clean, tear tracks cutting through the grime on her cheeks. Her blonde hair hung in a frayed, loose bun.

Before she could even speak, her eyes widened and lips parted. One hand pressed against her heart and the other clutched her stomach. The fabric of her jacket tightened in her grasp.

"Galo?" she gasped.

"Mama!" the boy yelled and burst into tears.

Marsh crouched down and Galo jumped from his shoulders. Mother and son ran towards each. Asiah scooped him up in her arms and hugged him tightly. She laughed and cried for joy. Galo did as well and clung to his mother as if he would never let go around. After a few moments, Asiah knelt and parted the boy from her. Looking him up and down, she held his face and ran her fingers through his hair. Giggling as she checked him over for cuts or bruises, Galo wiped the tears from his eyes. Assured he was not hurt, she hugged him again. This time, her jubilant cries were stifled as she buried her face in Galo's shoulder.

Standing by, Marsh Silas watched and smiled. During the airlift, he thought he would feel proud to return the boy to his mother. Instead, he felt satisfied, accomplished, and beyond that, happy. Plenty of times he indulged such a feeling; it came from the crude jokes swapped across campfires or the barracks card table, successfully completing missions for the God-Emperor and Imperium, limiting the casualties and suffering of his men, and enjoying their company in the Kasr taverns and canteens. Yet, this was different. It was a contented, reserved warmth that filled his chest and revitalized his weary bones.

It was difficult not to recall the rescue operation's outcome from so many days ago. Yet as he watched Galo barrage his mother with tales of his time in the hinterland and she bombarded him with as many questions, he realized this is what he may have felt if they brought all the kiddies back to their parents. By the grace of the God-Emperor, he was able to bring one back alive. Closing his eyes, he thanked Him for his blessings.

A hand on his shoulder made him open his eyes. Hyram was looking at him and wore a similar expression to his own. Marsh could only guess he was feeling the exact same way as he was. Both nodded at each other and looked back.

When they looked forward, they saw Asiah standing in front of the fire with Galo beside her. A gust of wind rolled from the sea behind her; it tugged her hair free of its knot and it cascaded down her shoulders. Even her scarf was loosened and flowing with her locks. She stared at the officer, the sergeant, and the Junior Commissar, whose uniforms were worn and dirty and whose faces were coated with dust. Bloody Platoon, standing behind the trio, were all equally filthyDespite their mounting fatigue, they all managed to smile, including Carstensen.

"Thank you," she said, her voice broken with sobs, "thank you."

Walking over with Galo, she threw her arms around Marsh's neck and kissed him deeply. When her lips parted from his own, she held him tightly for a few moments. Blinking, blushing, the platoon sergeant held her back for a few moments. Eventually, she parted slightly, sliding her hands down his arms until she held his. They smiled at one another.

"I must apologize, Miss Asiah," he said, "my faith in the Emperor, and in hope, should have been much stronger, as strong as yours. I should never have doubted you."

"What was said, what was felt, what was done," she began, her voice still breaking as the tears rolled down her cheeks, "matters not, no more. You have delivered my only son to me. May the Emperor bless you."

She then looked at Hyram, embraced him, and went to kiss him. Hyram turned his face a little so her lips landed on his cheek. Asiah parted from him and went over to Carstensen. Just as the former raised her arms, the latter held her hand up.

"You're welcome," she said, quickly and bluntly.

Asiah went to every single member of Bloody Platoon and kissed each one. By the time she finished, every single man was red in the face and beaming with pride.

Going back to her son, she whispered something in his ear. Stepping forward, he looked up at Marsh Silas, clicked his heels together, and saluted.

"Thank you for bringing me back to mama," Galo said.

Marsh did not hesitate and saluted back. Hyram followed suit, and so did the rest of Bloody Platoon. When he looked over, Marsh saw the Junior Commissar was not joining in. He made no expression or sound, but when she looked over and met his eyes, she too raised her hand.

The salutations ended.

"Emperor's blessings, miss," Hyram said. "May He always look over you and young Galo."

"And may He ever protect you and your men," Asiah replied. At that, Hyram went over to Galo and knelt in front of him.

"Thank you for your company little man. Be good and listen to mama, now."

"Yes, sir!"

"Atta boy."

Marsh Silas bent over and ruffled Galo's thick head of blonde hair.

"You're a good lad," was all he said.

Bloody Platoon said their goodbyes one by one, turned around, and began trudging back to their barracks. Marsh was one of the last to leave, joining Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen. He watched as Asiah and Galo, hand-in-hand, disappeared into her tent.

Walking with Hyram and Carstensen, Marsh said nothing. Nobody spoke throughout the entire platon. In a piecemeal fashion, they plodded up the slope. Some men took out lho-sticks, lit them, and began smoking. Others drank what little water remained in their canteens or nibbled on a nutrition bar from their ration pack. A few looped their arms around another man's, helping him walk and bear the weight of his heavy rucksack.

Entering the bunker and descending the ladder, they journeyed to their combs. When they reached theirs, Hyram and Marsh Silas realized there was no space allocated for Carstensen. Honeycutt volunteered the medical comb for her use until they could dig her a proper space in the barracks. Instead, she opted to set up her sleeping back next to Marsh and Yoxall's sleeping cuts. Still unsatisfied, Marsh offered his own bunk and Carstensen accepted.

As he dropped his gear and rolled his sleeping back out on the flooring beside his bunk, he was ready to fall asleep the moment his head rested on his bundle.

"Marsh Silas?"

He looked up. Hyram was leaning halfway out of his personal quarters. "Do you have a moment?"

"Yes, sir."

Marsh got up and brushed by him. Hyram let the curtain fall back into place, then sat down at his desk. Instead of a lamp pack, there was a wax candle burning in a small, tin pan at the corner of his wooden table.

"At ease."

"Sir."

"Would you sit?"

There was a small crate containing Hyram's other belongings beside the desk. Pulling it out slightly, Marsh sat down and looked at him. The officer was smiling at him. "Thank you for your help, these past weeks. I was close to giving up when you found me drunk. Figured I'd get caught eventually and face Ghent's Bolt pistol. All my hopes seemed so foolish up to then, but you reminded me why I wanted to be a Shock Trooper. I know I have a long way to go𑁋"

"𑁋a long way, sir," Marsh said jokingly. Hyram chuckled.

"A long, long way, before I can be like Overton, but I'm going to keep trying. I wanted you to know that."

Marsh regarded him for a moment, bent over with his hands clasped between his knees. Eventually, he sat up a little bit and rested his left arm carefully on the table. Leaning in a little bit, he nodded his head to the side.

"Sir, I don't know much about anythin', really. But if you want my piece, I don't think we need ya to be like Good ol' Overton. I think we need Lieutenant Hyram, to be Lieutenant Hyram."

The officer blinked a little, smiled tenderly, and looked away.

"Thank you, Staff Sergeant." He cleared his throat. "Junior Commissar Carstensen recommended you for a medal. I concur. I'm going to draft the citation right now and take it to Isaev personally in the morning."

"Ah, sir, it's𑁋"

"It's the least I can do to repay you. You could have reported me to Captain Murga or Commissar Ghent and gotten a new officer. Instead, you took a chance with me," Hyram said. The platoon leader took out a sheet of paper from his officer's folder, which was actually a satchel with a button flap and that contained maps, orders, and other writing tools. Just as he began to fill in the citation sheet, most of which was already prewritten, he stopped and looked up. "Come around beside me."

Moving the crate over, Marsh Silas looked down at the sheet. Most of what was written was indecipherable to his eyes. Tapping the first words under the title for the card with the rear of the pencil, Hyram looked at him. "Can you read this?"

Looking between him and the sheet, Marsh sighed heavily and leaned forward. "By...the...rec...rac..."

"Rec, that's correct. Go on."

"...ca...co...I can't do it, sir."

"The word is, 'recommendation.' It's a long word with five syllables𑁋"

"What's a syllable?"

"Look at the first two words. 'By,' and, 'the.' Each one makes one sound. One sound is one syllable. 'Recommendation,' has five. Rec-o-mmen-da-tion. Try it, from the beginning."

"By, the, rec...o...mmendation..."

"Good, go on."

"By the reco-mmen-dation of...L...L..." Marsh grumbled and rubbed the back of his head. He looked up, his brow furrowed in frustration. "Why're you making me read this?"

Hyram set the pencil down and looked at him intently.

"I'm going to teach you how to read and how to write, Marsh Silas. You are teaching me war. In return, I'll teach you your letters. Is it a deal?"

Bling in surprise, Marsh Silas gazed at the citation card, then at Hyram, and finally at his hand. Looking back up, he smiled and scoffed.

"No disrespect, sir, but you ain't no teacher."

"Nonsense!" Hyram blurted. "I taught my son how to read and write. I'm sure I can teach a hound like you."

"Now that you mention it, you'd probably have an easier time gettin' a dog to write than me, sir."

"Nevertheless, I'm willing to try. Are you?" Hyram frowned and tapped the card with his hand. "You can read a map and make out numbers, but not a tome or a document. Don't you want to know what the rest of it says?"

Marsh Silas pursed his lips in an unsure fashion. Slowly, his gaze fell back to the citation card. Most of the words were just bizarre series and combinations of squiggly marks to him. But the longer he stared, he felt more intrigued by what it said. Throughout his career as a Guardsman, he watched staff officers pour over data slates, letters, and plans. Scribes of the Adeptus Administratum in the myriad offices in the Kasrs scribbled incessantly on long, winding sheets of parchment. Priests opened their holy books and made thunderous speeches in the name of the Emperor. All his life, he could never read along and could never understand what they all wrote. From youth to soldier, he was always on the periphery of their knowledge and men like Ghent and Hayhurst mocked him for it.

Setting his jaw, Marsh Silas held his hand out. Hyram, who previously lowered his, smiled gleefully and took it quickly.

###

"By order of the Cadian High Command and Segmentum Obscurus Command, the following Guardsmen of First Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment are hereby awarded the Crimson Skull for treating wounded men under fire. Step forward, Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, Sergeant Cornelius Honeycutt, and Field Chirurgeon Adriaan Walcott, Field Chirurgeon Maurer, Field Chirurgeon Palle, Field Chirurgeon..."

In step with Honeycutt, Walcott, and other medical personnel, Marsh Silas took six paces forward towards Colonel Isaev. All three were wearing fresh, tan-colored winter fatigues. For the occasion, each wore previously awarded medals on their left breastplate. Each man was clean-shaven, their hair was gelled and combed, and their faces were freshly-washed; the smell of standard issue soap hung and shaving cream hung in the air. Both the platoon sergeant and the medic wore their low-peaked tan caps with black bills. Walcott wore an enlisted man's soft cover which was a green box-cap with a shorter bill.

The entire regiment was assembled in the wide, paved courtyard in front of regimental headquarters. Officers stood with their command squads in front of their respective units. All were clad in crisp fatigues and soft-cover headwear. Many were already decorated earlier in the morning and their chests glowed with previous awards. Even the refugees were present from the occasion, although they were a few meters distant from the main body of Shock Troopers.

As Colonel Isaev lowered the parchment he was reading from, one of his staff officers came forward with an ornate, polished wooden box. It was made from rich, redwood that shone in the stark, late morning sunlight shining down on Army's Meadow. It was not huge, but large enough that he needed both hands to open it.

Lifting the lid, Isaev pulled out one of the meals. The Crimson Skull was a silver medal with four golden skulls facing north, west, south, and east. Each skull was connected by a black cross with a circular ruby embedded in the center. The medal itself was suspended on a silver clasp with a golden latch, and a ribbon red vertical bar in the center, two thin white strips on either side of it, and two medium sized black bars bordering those. A golden bar ran across the top of the ribbon.

Turning, Isaev flashed one of his rare smiles that looked all the more ghastly by the exposing scar running from the corner of his mouth. But Marsh's heart swelled with pride as he pinned it to his tunic. It was placed at the end of his single row of medals; his single Merit of Terra, Administratum Medal, and the Eagle Ordinary. Above the row was the Triple Skull medallion and to its right was the Ribbon Intrinsic.

The first medal was defined by a golden skull on a silver medallion with a golden wreath wrapping around both sides and almost meeting at the top; ribbon was a thin vertical white bar bordered by a large blue one on the left and a similarly sized one on the right. Following it, the Administratum Medal was a silver medal with a golden skull in the center, wrapped in a twirling, white banner. Its ribbon was defined by two horizontal; the top was white and the bottom was light blue. The Eagle Ordinary was a simple golden medal in the shape of the Aquila, with etches to denote the wings. A thin, vertical, yellow bar was in the center of the ribbon, with rich, dark blue on either side. Pinned to the ribbon was a bronze skull, denoting a second award of the medal. Above, the Triple Skull was a large square medal with a thinner, horizontal bar running across its center. The base square was black on the upper left and lower right corners; it was yellow in the two other corners. On the horizontal bar was a large, white skull, with a smaller, bronze skull on either side. As for the Ribbon Intrinsic, the reddened brass was in the shape of a shield. In the center was the Aquila's double-head. Hanging diagonally from the bottom were two ribbons; a large, black column made up the center, with two white vertical borders followed by black borders.

After the Crimson Skull was pinned to his chest, Marsh Silas saluted and Isaev returned it. When their hands dropped, they shook hands.

"Every time I look at your chest, I remember why I became a Shock Trooper," the Colonel whispered in his ear.

Unable to speak, Marsh just smiled and nodded. He did his best to contain the pride swelling in his chest and he silently thanked the Emperor for his decorations. Etched into his memory were the ceremonies of the previous awards; postponing his demobilization, defending a Logis Strategos facility during a planetary attack, rescuing a wounded comrade, holding ground during an enemy counterattack, and holding the line with the survivors of the 540th Youth Corps. It was for that same action he was awarded the Triple Skull; men like Arnold Yoxall, Babcock, and the Walmsley brothers fought with him that day.

After Isaev pinned the award on Honeycutt and others, who all had dozens of the medals pinned to their chests, Isaev turned around to the regiment. "You have fought long, hard, and well. Your services to the Emperor, the Imperium, and Cadia have not gone unnoticed. Serve Him, follow orders, smite the enemy, and you will be honored. Our foes have been countered, but there is still much work to be done. Rest, heal, and prepare for your next assignments!"

My, my, my, dear Silvanus, you do look handsome with all those medals on your chest.

Marsh gritted his teeth. Barlocke's voice came like a cool whisper, as if the Inquisitor was right behind him and his lips were beside his ears. He could almost feel his hands grasping his shoulders.

Barlocke was standing by the regimental headquarters entrance, arms folded across his chest, head bare, a satisfied grin on his face. Doing his best not to attract any attention, Marsh looked forward again and tried to keep his mind clear.

Oh, beg your pardon, I'll let you focus on this little ceremony. Once it's over, fetch Hyram and join me here.

For some time, Colonel Isaev continued his speech. Eventually, after making his point several times over in different flavors of colorful language, who threw his fist into the air. "For the Emperor! For the Imperium! For Cadia!"

"For the Emperor! For the Imperium! For Cadia!" the entire regiment thundered.

"Dismissed!"

The regiment dispersed. Marsh attempted to head over to Bloody Platoon, but Captain Giles stepped in front of him. Immediately, he shook his hand and clapped him on the back.

"Good on ya, lad. I hope you're proud a' yourself for earning that."

"Yes, sir, I am, sir," Marsh said.

"It was good to get back out in the field. It's been some time; next time the regiment rolls out in force, I think I'll come again too. Working with Bloody Platoon is always a pleasure."

"First to spill blood, first to shed blood," Lieutenant Eastoft said, walking up beside her commanding officer. When Giles let go of Marsh's hand, Eastoft took it. "You've brought great honor to yourself and to your men."

"Thank you, ma'am," Marsh replied, smiling as he tried to look past her and see where Hyram was. There were many Guardsmen moving around the base now, but he could glimpse Bloody Platoon clustered just beyond the masses. Most likely, they were waiting for him to join them.

"Ha, you'll never hear her say that!" Giles laughed, clapping his adjutant on the back. An expression of annoyance crossed her angular face and her violet eyes flitted in the Captain's direction.

"Sir, please."

"She can take heretics firing cheap autogun slugs over her head but not a little tap on the back."

"Fighting the enemy is a matter of duty, but your...taps, aren't."

"Ha! She and I came up in the Youth Armies, together, did you know that, Marsh Silas?"

"Beg pardon, sir, ma'am, I've got orders to report to Inquisitor Barlocke."

"Ah, go on then, lad. Good on you."

Marsh saluted and walked around the pair. He looked over his shoulder at them, then continued on to Bloody Platoon. After a few paces later, he heard a light voice calling his name. Looking around, he spotted Asiah and Galo standing in front of the other refugees. Both were smiling and waving at him. Grinning back, he waved and continued on. Just as he turned to jog over to his men, Captain Murga stepped in front of him. Like Giles, he thrust his hand into Marsh's own grip.

"Overton was right to make you his platoon sergeant. I remember when he first requested your promotion, I was a little unsure if you'd make the cut. Today marks another time you've proved me wrong. I tell ya what, son, if you keep this up, I'll make you the company sergeant once Hayhurst is demobilized or promoted."

"Oh, thank you, sir. I have orders from Inquisitor Barlocke."

"Better see to it quickly. Good work, son."

"Thank you, sir."

As he moved aside his company commander, he finally got to Bloody Platoon. Even then, he faced a gauntlet of congratulatory handshakes and pats on the back. Every single man in Bloody Platoon wanted to extend their praise. Grateful as he was, he wormed through them and eventually came upon Lieutenant Hyram conferring with Junior Commissar Carstensen. He explained Barlocke wanted to see them and the platoon leader left Carstensen in charge.

When they came up to the Inquisitor, Marsh was nearly out of breath. Barlocke smiled down at the pair, then motioned for them to follow. Going inside regimental headquarters, they passed through the rows of desks and passed corridors of offices. Staff officers, senior non-commissioned officers, priests, and a swath of Adeptus Administratum personnel such as scribes and menials, filled each floor of the structure. Guardsmen manned the bunkers that ran around the entire building.

Winding their way through, they eventually came to a series of storage rooms. However, they diverted into another hallway and came to a few isolated rooms. One of the heavy steel doors was guarded by two Guardsmen. As soon as Barlocke waved his hand, they departed. Going to the keypad, he tapped a code in. The door hissed and opened. Within, the Ranger sat on a chair; her hands were tied behind it and both ankles were bound to the legs of the chair.

"Here she is, our prize," he said. The Ranger looked up, eyed each one, then just looked forward. Folding his hands behind his back, Barlocke turned around and straightened out. For a moment, he actually appeared official for a change. "A colleague of mine from past days, an agent of the Ordo Xenos, will arrive in two days time. In that time, in lieu of an Alien Hunter, I have full custody of this xeno until he comes."

Marsh Silas and Hyram looked at each other, puzzled. When they looked back, Barlocke continued. "Until he arrives, the regiment will be remaining encamped. I'm assigning you two as the Ranger's security guards."

"Sir, we do have a platoon to lead," Hyram said.

"I think Junior Commissar Carstensen will be more than capable of handling their affairs in your absence."

"So, what do we do?" Marsh said. "Stand around, look tough?"

"Generally."

Barlocke began to leave. Marsh caught his sleeve.

"Whoa, whoa, where are you going?"

"Just to finalize my plans. Inquisitor Fabricius Sault is coming here on short notice and I hate to be a bother. I want to have all the materials he needs to conduct the interrogation."

"I can't imagine what materials an Inquisitor would use," Hyram said, looking at the Ranger.

"Oh, they're the kind of instruments that put fear in me. And my old friend Fabricius, he's rather...creative. I've seen him prolong a xeno's torture𑁋pardon me, interrogation𑁋for days on end. By the time he's through with them, you can't even tell what kind of xeno they were. Ooh, I shudder to think of it." Barlocke smiled charitably. "I'll be off then."

Marsh and Hyram watched him stroll down the hall, turn the corner, and vanish from sight. Besides the bustling and orchestra of voices filtering from the common room of the headquarters, it was silent in their corner of the facility.

"That's your friend, for you," Hyram said after a few moments.

"I'd be lyin' if I said he don't scare me sometimes," Marsh said, still looking down the hall.

Both men turned around, looked through the open doorway, and stared at the Ranger. She did not look at them.

"He didn't tell us the code," Hyram muttered. Walking into the cell, he crouched in front of her. Marsh followed and stood behind him. A dull, white light hung overhead, illuminating all three.

The Ranger's small, pink lips remained tightly pursed. Some of her pale locks covered her face. With her hair so disheveled, he could see her pointed ears. A silver stud was in each lobe.

Suddenly, she looked up. It was a slow, deliberate motion. Hyram stood up, cleared his throat, and smiled.

"Hello𑁋"

"Don't talk to it, sir," Marsh said hastily.

"Greetings, humans."

"Shut up," Marsh snapped, pointing at her. "Not another word."

"Enough, Staff Sergeant. She can do no harm to us in this state."

"Xenos can't be trusted, sir!"

"Hush," Hyram said, holding up his hand. Exasperated, Marsh rolled his eyes and took a step back. The platoon leader smiled politely and bent over a little. "I am Lieutenant Sean Randolph Hyram."

The Ranger met his eyes for a few moments. Her lips tugged into a half-smile.

"My name is Maerys."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Well, we've been acquainted one or or another, Lieutenant. From what I've overheard, you're the one who snared me in the trap," Maerys said. Hyram chuckled a little. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"This is my platoon sergeant, Marsh Silas."

"Don't tell her my name!" Marsh hissed.

"What a...peculiar name," Maerys said, looking at him. Grimacing, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall beside the door. Taking out his pipe, he filled it with tabac leaves, lit, and began puffing on it. After he waved the match out, he flicked it at the Ranger. It hit her white coat, bounced off, and fell on the floor.

Frowning, Hyram turned around.

"Act appropriately, Staff Sergeant."

"Sir, why're you bein' nice to that thing? Xenos are scum, enemies of the Imperium. Did you not know that?"

"Work in a cramped office staring at statistical sheets, transfer orders, and material forms for over two standard decades and you try remembering everything your headmaster taught you," Hyram said, standing up straight.

"Xenos are a tricky lot, sir, and these ones are the most clever of the lot, just like Barlocke said." Marsh stepped forward and jabbed her in the shoulder with his finger. "How do you even know our tongue? I didn't think your puny brain could wrap around it?"

For a few moments, Maerys stared at him. She wore an unimpressed expression, with a furrowed brow and tightened lips. Eventually, she quirked an eyebrow and shook her head.

"Mon-keigh, I've lived many centuries and come across many different peoples. The galaxy courses with countless, variant tongues. Even your Gothic tongue has divergent, multitudinous forms. Out of all languages I've learned, yours was the least challenging by far."

Marsh blinked in surprise.

"You're just sayin' that, xeno wench."

"I'm speaking in your tongue at this very moment," she said. "Believe it."

"All my instructors said𑁋"

"And how can my brain be so minuscule in comparison to yours if my people are a 'tricky lot,' as you say? Certainly, to be clever, you must be intelligent."

"Well𑁋"

"How many tongues do you happen to know, mon-keigh?"

Before he could say anything, she pressed on. "If you think your intellect superior, fetch my Long Rifle and read the Runes along the strap to me."

"He actually cannot read all that much," Hyram said instinctively.

Marsh turned his gaze slowly towards his commanding officer. As if finally aware of what he said, Hyram winced. Embarrassed, he shrugged.

"Thank you for bringing that up," Marsh growled.

He turned away and paced for a few moments. Hyram stood by, arms folded across his chest. Although he was not smiling, he clearly looked amused. Maerys, rather unconcerned, watched the platoon sergeant angrily walk back and forth.

Eventually, he took his pipe from his lips and pointed the neck at her.

"We caught you, so what do ya think o' us now, harlot?"

Maerys chuckled pleasantly.

"Certainly surprising," she said in a chiming voice.

The confidence Marsh felt when he came up with his answer flew away like Army Meadow's yellow flower petals in the sea breeze.

Inhaling sharply, he puffed on his pipe and glowered at her. Hyram continued to glance between him and the Ranger. Before he could figure out something to say, Maerys was the first to speak up. "I shall say, I am quite intrigued as to why I still draw breath. In my experience, you Imperials tend to shoot anything that doesn't look like you. Even when it does, you still end up shooting."

"Orders," Marsh grumbled.

Walking in front of her, he opened his mouth and let the pipe smoke rise from within. When a cloud hung between the two, he blew it into her face. For a moment, she closed her eyes and turned her face. Turning back, she glared at him. Tapping her middle with the neck of the pipe, the platoon sergeant leaned closer. "Where's the rest of your warhost?"

"Staff Sergeant, we don't have any orders to interrogate her.

"I know not of any warhost of my people gathering on the planet."

"The bitch lies," Marsh said to Hyram. Putting his pipe back to his lips, he stood up. "She's hiding what she knows."

"I assure you, my people have no interest in your planet. Our intentions lie elsewhere," Maerys implored.

"Pretty typical for scouts to come before an invasion."

"Invasion? Preposterous."

"Just tell us your numbers and where to expect your warhost."

"I cannot, for there is no such warhost."

Balling his hand into a fist, he swung it forward and hit the Ranger in the gut. A gasp escaped her lips and she bent over slightly.

Before he could land another blow, Hyram bolted in front of him, grabbed his shirt, and pushed him back.

"What are you doing, sir!?"

"We have orders to guard the prisoner, not to interrogate her and not to harm her!"

"Barlocke gave no such orders."

"Well, I'm making it an order. You will not lay another hand on her, understand?"

"Sir!?"

"Understand, Staff Sergeant!?"

Marsh took Hyram's hands from his chest and smoothed out his tunic. Although his face was drawn in an aggravated grimace, he was surprised by the officer's tenacity and firmness. As much as he disagreed with him and despite his disgust that the Lieutenant did not seem to share his apathy for the xenos, he was a Cadian Shock Trooper. Orders were orders.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Good." He fixed his own tunic and cleared his throat. "Apologies."

Marsh just nodded. He looked past him at Maerys. The Ranger was sitting back up now, plain-faced and seemingly undisturbed by the blow. Rubbing his chin, the platoon sergeant looked back.

"Don't you want to know if Aledari are coming? We need to be ready. Who knows, what if they attack before the Alien Hunter arrives?"

Hyram scratched his cheek and glanced over his shoulder.

"We don't have any orders to interrogate her."

"We don't have any orders not to interrogate her."

Hyram seemed nervous. Marsh put a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, lives could be depending on this."

"There is a warhost."

Both of the Cadians looked at Maerys. She was looking their way, her light blue eyes sharp and icy. "But it does not come for Cadia. It gathers for a destination far from these stars, to counter a foe you could never comprehend. I shall not say more, but I assure you, the warhost does not come for your planet or your people."

Hyram and Marsh looked at one another. The latter remained unconvinced, crossing his arms and shaking his head. But Hyram stepped over to her, knelt, and put a hand on her knee.

"Is this true?"

"I was not here to observe your people. I was making my way back to my home, Craftworld Ulthwé. The only reason I stayed was for that half-starved child roaming this waste." She leaned closer to him. "Our warhost must meet a threat far greater than you could ever pose to my people."

Her voice was slow, stern, deep, and convicted. It was enough to make Marsh Silas pay attention. Staring into her icy blue eyes, he waited for Hyram to say something. All he could see was the back of his platoon leader's head. He made no movement and no sound.

For a few moments, Marsh was worried she cast some spell over him and was now in control. He did not know if an Aeldari could perform such an act, but he knew they were capable of anything. Slowly, his hand fell to the holster attached to his belt. In a deliberate manner, he unbuttoned the leather latch that covered it.

When Hyram finally turned around and bore no signs of change, he felt very relieved. But there was a look of shock on the officer's face. Standing up, he ran a hand down his face and looked at Marsh Silas. It was as if he reached some kind of epiphany and the realization seized his entire soul.

"We cannot let her be tortured."

Word Count: 6, 840

Lore Notes: On the subject of medals, my sources stem from two separate wikis. One describes the Crimson Skull as a general medal, while another lists it under decorations awarded during the Medusa V Campaign. Yet its description does not specifically state this was a medal solely awarded in the Medusa V Campaign. As such, I have interpreted this information to mean the Crimson Skull is a general Imperial award, that was used as an example but not limited to the Medusa V Campaign, thus it can be awarded to Imperials outside of that campaign (which, in the context of this story, will not occur for nearly fifty years.) Any feedback regarding lore interpretation would be appreciated.