Chapter 20

"I believe her, Staff Sergeant."

"Why, how, could you ever trust a xeno?"

Marsh Silas and Lieutenant Hyram were standing outside of the cell, speaking in hushed tones. The latter was standing against the wall beside the door while the former stood in front of him, arms akimbo. While the platoon sergeant glared, his superior officer jammed his hands into his pockets and kept his head lowered. It seemed as though he was embarrassed to be having the conversation and just could not meet Marsh's gaze.

Taking his pipe from his lips, Marsh Silas turned it around in his hands as he muttered and shook his head. "Sir, all I've done is fight'em. Greenskins, Aeldari, it matters not. Different names, different looks, but they're all the same. You want to know why?"

"Because they want to kill us, sir. They are enemies of the Imperium and they would do anything to kill us. I'm not gonna let that happen." He pointed towards the entrance to the cell, still wide open. "She may be bound, but that don't mean she could be tryin' to pull somethin'. Captain Giles told me misinformation can get a lot of Guardsmen killed."

Hyram folded his arms across his chest and ran his hands up and down his arms as if he was cold. Turning his head, although still refusing to meet Marsh's eyes, he leaned to the door. Peeking around the corner, he shot a quick glance at Maerys the Ranger. Following his gaze, Marsh leaned to the side as well. Still bound to the chair, she stared forward although her icy blue eyes did not seem to notice them. Their expression was faded, distant; her mind was elsewhere, beyond the cell's confines.

Both leaned back behind the wall. Hyram shook his head while Marsh continued to puff on his pipe.

"She does not have much reason to lie."

"She has plenty of reasons to lie!" Marsh hissed. "She's a prisoner. She's in and around us. We ain't got no way o' checkin' if she's lying or not. We ain't got them tools the Alien Hunter has. When he comes, he'll make her crack."

At the mention of the Inquisitor, Hyram finally looked up swiftly. Violet eyes glaring, he let his arms drop, stood up straighter, and raised his chin.

"No, I will not let this happen. No tools, no torture. It will not come to that."

"Why? What do you care about some dirty, filthy xeno bitch?"

"Dirty? Filthy? You keep saying these things."

"Because they're true, sir!"

Every day, both in the cathedral to the training yard and to the battlefield, from priests to instructors to Commissars, it was preached xenos were one of the greatest enemies. Like Chaos, like traitors, heretics, and mutants, they were to be eradicated. For humanity, they reserved their greatest scorn and would stop at nothing to wipe the Imperium of Man from the face of the galaxy. In the songs they chanted on the march, they mocked the xeno races they fought. When the Commissars made their speeches to reinvigorate the men, they belittled xenos as barbaric and inferior. Priests opened their religious tomes and slammed their fists on the altar, decrying them as unworthy and declared the God-Emperor wanted the xenos to be slaughtered. Even the posters plastered on Kasr walls showed the differences between loyal, xeno-hating subjects and the nasty, soiled citizens who displayed sympathy for their enemies. More often, it showed fantastical depictions of Aeldari, with high, pointed ears and animalistic features, being crushed underfoot by marching Cadian columns. Even the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer showcased such scenes.

He explained it all to Hyram. From youth to adulthood, Marsh heard it in address after address. Each time he heard it, his resolve to kill grew deeper and his hatred for the xenos became all the more vibrant. Just looking at the Ranger, bound, silent, and helpless within the cell, made his heart swell with animosity.

Looking back at Hyram, he was surprised by the officer's shocked expression. Suddenly, the platoon leader reached out and took Marsh Silas by the shoulder. His violet eyes bore a tragic, imploring countenance.

"Marsh Silas, you have encountered these foes many a time, yes?"

"Not as much as those Chaos worshiping traitors and soulless heretics."

"Have the posters, the Primer, any of what your teachers said ever been wrong."

Marsh Silas thought back to his encounters with Orks and Aeldari. Many of the heroic posters belittling the Ork menace showed a brave Guardsman standing at even height with a drooling Greenskin. The first time he encountered an Ork WAAAGH! He was far more terrified of them than he imagined. Clad in piecemeal armor and wielding massive axes, they charged with a determined fury not incomprehensible to a human. Standing two times, three times, or even four times bigger than a man, they were terrifyingly quick. Entries in the Primer detailing the Orks declared them dumb, unable to coordinate, and lacking any tactical sense. During that first engagement, Marsh learned they did not need tactics. Wave after wave of Greenskins came on, zealous in their thirst for combat. To see rabid xenos taking Cadian positions was something he never imagined.

And the Aeldari, who were depicted as so weak they could not even stand up straight, also proved to be a far different foe. Raiding parties were rare, at least in the sectors Marsh Silas served in, but nobody ever detected their entry on the planet's surface. Attacks they committed were precise and lightning fast. Before defenders could even call for reinforcements or artillery and air support, they were either wiped out or destroyed to a point they were combat ineffective. Even if somebody was able to communicate fast enough, the Aeldari would melt away long before the first Vulture gunships, Avengers, or Marauder Bombers could support them.

Standard ambush doctrine dictated the best way to escape one was to charge the enemy. Militarum drill instructors said feeble xenos such as Aeldari would break the moment they were threatened by Cadian bayonets. The first charge Marsh Silas ever made against them proved their oratory entirely incorrect. If they were determined to, the Aeldari held their ground and would not retreat unless imperiled by overwhelming odds. Weapon systems they used were far beyond Marsh's comprehension and many fell around him. By the time he was close enough for bayonet range, he needed to take cover for he was one of the few remaining. Even then, the Aeldari could fight in formation and were adept at counterattacking, feigning retreat, flanking, and wheeling around the battlefield. Vehicles moved with such speed the turret rotation speed on some armoured assets the Cadians fielded could not keep up.

To refuse Hyram was to lie. Marsh's lips moved a little but he made no sound. Folding his arms across his chest, the officer pursed his lips, raised an eyebrow, and looked at him expectantly.

Eventually, the platoon sergeant sighed, lowered his gaze, and nodded. Just as quickly, he looked back up and pointed the neck of his pipe at him.

"Sir, that don't change the fact they're a bunch o' disgusting, vile things."

Hyram put an arm on his shoulder and walked him over in front of the doorway. With his other arm, he motioned towards Maerys. "Look at her, Marsh Silas. Really, really, look. What's so disgusting about her?"

Marsh looked at his commanding officer for a few moments, wary and unconvinced. Shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth, he slowly looked at the Ranger. At that very same moment, Maerys lifted her gaze and met his violet eyes. Even in the dull, unflattering light of the weak industrial bulb hanging overhead, her blue eyes seemed to twinkle. Not a single blemish, freckle, or any kind of mark other than the scar from her left cheekbone up to her eye decorated her skin. Even the scar, faded some but still noticeable, added an attractive, subtle ferocity to her otherwise soft, placid features. Her skin was almost as pale as snow and seemed so smooth. Having her black armor removed left her in her long coat and all-weather suit, but past it Marsh could see her slender frame and curving thighs. Yet, she was not frail; her posture denoted strength and vitality. The white-blonde hair cascaded naturally down to her shoulders, waving, thick, and voluminous. It was as if she was not out in the Cadian hinterland for weeks, as her locks seemed plump and healthy, whereas theirs was left coarse and straw-like until they came back to base. Eventually, she offered a charming smile made all that more attractive by the light, natural pink hue to her lips.

"Them pointy ears is quite unnatural," Marsh finally said, looking at Hyram.

"By the Emperor!" Hyram groaned, throwing his arms into the air and walked a few paces away from the cell. Turning around, Marsh watched him rub his forehead. When the officer turned around, he looked very perturbed. "Doesn't this feel wrong? To standby and let someone be tortured for information they simply don't have?"

"Sir, they're an enemy of the Imperium. Of course I don't."

"Regardless if she's telling the truth or not, you don't care that she's going to be tortured?"

"Why would I?" Marsh jerked his thumb over his shoulder and pointed at her. "I've fought her kind before; I've lost good men𑁋friends𑁋to their lot. And she shot three of our men. You remember that?"

"Yes, I do."

"You remember?"

"Of course, I bloody do!"

For a moment, they fell silent. Both looked away awkwardly. It was Hyram who spoke first. "I have no love for xenos either, but punishing someone when they're telling the truth? Does that not seem wrong?"

"Not really. She's a xeno after all."

"Put aside the fact that she is an alien."

"Huh? That don't make no sense. That thing is a xeno and nothin' else."

"Try, Marsh Silas. Imagine...imagine..." Hyram rubbed his chin as thought. His eyes popped and then he pointed. "Imagine if she was one of your men and he was being punished for an infraction he did not commit. Even though he was innocent and telling the truth, the Commissar was still going to flog him. What then?"

"But she ain't one o' our men𑁋"

"Just try to imagine. Look at her, and imagine she was under your command."

Reluctantly, the platoon sergeant turned around halfway and looked at Maerys again. For a few moments, he just stared at her plainly. At first, he just wanted to look at her for a short period of time to give Hyram the impression he was actually giving his point any consideration. Then, he would turn around, shrug, and tell him he did not.

But as one minute passed, then a second, his eyes softened slightly and his eyebrows began to raise. Suddenly, it was not Maerys the Ranger bound to the chair, but young Drummer Boy, who was always smiling, tuning the Vox-caster, and fighting as hard as he could. Despite his youth and lack of experience compared to the other men, no one doubted his dependability or determination. Next, he saw Babcock, their color-bearer, who was stout, stalwart, and fearless. Everyone knew him as a loyal subject, not just to the Emperor and the Imperial Creed, but to his fellow Shock Troopers. Combat situations could become dire at any moment, but all one had to do was gaze at Babcock waving the regimental standard to find their courage again. Then, Arnold Yoxall, his close, true friend, tied to the chair, head bowed and face ashen. Why would he be there, detained and questioned like some Hiver scum, when he strictly observed the Imperial Creed and fought just as hard and bravely as any other Guardsman? Arnold Yoxhall, who stood beside Marsh Silas when the 540th Youth Corps made its final stand𑁋could he stand by and let him suffer when he was innocent?

Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Honeycutt, Efflemen, Monty Peck, Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, and Stainthorpe, Bullard, Derryhouse, Hitch; even imagining the new arrival, Junior Commissar Carstensen there, filled Marsh Silas with dread. Bloody Platoon were not preachers but they were loyal and faithful. None of their number would ever go so far as to violate the tenets of the Imperial Creed.

For a brief moment, the fire in his heart went out. Punishment and torture, despite the truth𑁋it was wrong. He would not want any of his men to undergo any of the sort, even if they had committed a mild violation. As much as he respected and feared Commissars and Inquisitors, these were his men and his foremost duty after serving and obeying the Emperor was to keep them alive.

Soon, his gaze hardened. Yet, before him was not one of his men. It was an Aeldari Ranger: a xeno. One of the tenets of the Imperial Creed was to vilify the alien. She was not one of his men, she was not human, and she did not revere the Emperor, the one, true god. But each his mind traveled to this realm of thought, her face quickly took on one of his men's. Immediately, the anger rising in his chest dissipated and was replaced by a sense of wrongness.

Slowly, he took his pipe from his mouth and looked back at Hyram. The platoon leader seemed to understand. He stepped towards him, smiling. "You see? You see?"

"I suppose I do," Marsh said. "But sir, she is just a xeno. And a prisoner at that. We ain't supposed to help'em. It's wrong."

"But letting someone who is no harm to us, who is telling us the truth, be subject to torture, that is wrong as well." Hyram put one hand over his heart, his fingers disturbing the Eagle Ordinary medal hanging on his chest. He put his other hand on Marsh's shoulder. "I pray to the Emperor each morning, each night, before each meal. I revere him with all my heart and soul. Was it not for him, I would not have the honor to serve with men of valor. Here, I can give back unto Him, who gave life to me. But this? Enemy she may be, but I believe she speaks truthfully. To see her tortured, that's wrong. My soul, my soul, Marsh Silas, would feel wrong. I am not sure I could live knowing I stood by when I could have stopped something unnecessary."

Hyram squeezed his shoulder tightly. "My soul, Marsh Silas, I could not live with myself. It is heavy with the weight of the truth we withheld from those pitiful refugees. Does it not bring sorrow to your own?"

Of course, it did. As much as Marsh Silas wanted to deny him for the sake of refusing him and preserving his own faith, each time he thought of his actions he despised himself. Following a line of reasoning, he could find justification; spare the poor mothers the full truth and some of their woes would be availed. Peace did not come from such rationalizations, however. Even if he could move on, focus on the present, and perform his duty, his regret surfaced at night when all was quiet and the men were asleep. How he wept that first night. Sometimes, his chest tightened and he could feel his eyes brim with tears. But they did not fall. Resisting urge after urge to weep took effort he grew tired of.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Maerys already looking at him. She was not fragile or ailing from lack of food, drink, or rest. The longer he looked at her, the more he began to think she was far stronger than he thought before. Her light blue eyes met his violet ones, within, he could see no hostility, malice, or resentment. There was no pleading expression asking for aid nor one that displayed any kind of hatred.

Nervously rubbing his jaw, he turned back to Hyram. He squeezed his shoulder again. "I cannot let something unjust occur in these next few days. My soul would be forever restless, no matter how often or how fervently I prayed."

Marsh rubbed the back of his neck. Glancing over his shoulder, he peered at Maerys again. He expected her to be staring at them but instead she was looking down at her feet. Sighing, he ran his hand down his face and looked back.

"You ain't talkin' of letting her go, are you?"

"By the Emperor and all the Saints, no!" Hyram exclaimed. "That would be treason. No, she's our prisoner and she shall remain so. Circumventing the torture, that is all I wish."

"Circum-"

"Bypass, avoid."

Marsh nodded hastily.

"And how are we supposed to get around that? We're just a couple o' gunmen; we gonna walk up to Inquisitor Fabricius and say, 'no, ya can't do that,' because I get the feeling Ghent'll find a reason to use that Bolt pistol after all."

"I haven't quite figured out how yet. But we've got two days and two nights to find some way to do it. There's two of us, we can surely think of something."

Hyram said this with an optimistic smile. Marsh rubbed his jaw, took out his pipe, and exhaled away from his commanding officer.

"Sir, I don't know if I can do this. We don't protect xenos, we don't help xenos. The Emperor would not want this."

"Maybe He would want this!"

"That's madness, sir. I can't."

"Are you afraid?"

"You don't even have a plan."

"I will."

"I'm not dying over some damned xeno!"

"Marsh Silas?"

Hyram let go and turned around, letting Marsh look down the hall. At the corner of the corridor was Drummer Boy. He looked handsome with his moistened air and fresh tan fatigues.

The Voxman cleared his throat and pointed back the way he came. "Word just came down from the top: the refugees are being relocated to Kasr Sonnen. Barlocke came to me an' asked if you wanted to see the lady and her boy off. Probably won't seem'em again."

Marsh Silas looked at Hyram. The platoon leader stepped aside.

"Go ahead, Staff Sergeant. She is bound, I doubt I'll have much trouble watching her. Relieve me at nightfall and assist Junior Commissar Carstensen with whatever she needs."

"Barlocke said that both of us should𑁋"

"I'll be speaking with him in short order. Go."

The tone in his voice was blunt and damaged. As he brushed by Marsh Silas and stood in the doorway, the platoon sergeant could not help but gaze over his shoulder at him. All he could see was the officer's back and his hands by his sides. Both slowly curled into fists. Eventually, his head lowered a little.

Marsh exhaled, letting the pipe smoke flow from his mouth and nose. He did not feel ashamed, but he knew he let the Lieutenant down. For that, he was sorry, but could not bring himself to say as much. Turning, he walked down the corridor and headed outside.

###

Outside, many of the Guardsmen present at the ceremony were resuming their usual duties all over base. Shock Troopers were reinforcing their positions with extra sandbags, razor wire, and extra mines on the beach. In some locations along the trenchline that ran around the entire base, sandbag bunkers were being constructed with heavy metal sheets as rooftops. In the regiment's two week absence, some of the original makeshift bunkers were cleared. Moldings were in place and were being filled with rockcrete to make true hardpoints along the line.

A party of Guardsmen were clearing out the area reserved for the refugees. Tents were pulled down, campfires kicked out, tools gathered up, and the general area cleared of anything. Another work party was standing by, reading to extend the trench line and turn the location into a new defensive block.

Five of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment's complement of Chimeras were arranged in a convoy in front of the regimental headquarters. Beside each one was a group of refugees in fresher, less worn clothes and carrying what few possessions they had. Some had personal backpacks and others carried suitcases, but most just had a canvas sack with an attached.

At the final Chimera, he spotted Asiah and Galo. Walmsley Minor was already there, kneeling in front of the boy. He was giving him one of his ration packets. After the young lad said thank you, he hugged the Guardsman. Asiah also embraced him. Just as she withdrew, Marsh Silas came up.

Galo immediately stood at attention and saluted. Chuckling, Marsh returned the gesture. He took his pipe from his lips and dumped on the ground so he didn't get smoke in their faces. Crouching down, he smiled at him.

"Got everything you need?"
"Yes, sir!" Galo grinned, exposing his toothy grin. He was missing quite a few, but Marsh remembered being at his age and how often his teeth fell away.

"Part of me wishes we could get to enjoy a few more days with ya, but like my papa used to say, the Emperor's got plans for us all. Doesn't he, lad?"

"Yes, sir."

"Take cary, laddy."

The two hugged. When Marsh Silas stood up, he mussed up the boy's hair which made him giggle. Looking at Asiah, he returned her kind smile. His first instinct was to embrace her, but instead he held his hand out. In turn, she brushed it aside and hugged him anyways. When they parted, he found her grasping his hand in both of her's. "May the Emperor bless you and yours, and your future, Miss Asiah."

"And to you, Silas."

"I shall never forget your faith."

"Twas not faith alone," she said, leaning closer and speaking in a hushed tone.

"What else could there be?" Marsh Silas asked, smiling in bemusement.

"Love," she whispered, though it was nearly drowned out by the rumbling Chimera engines. "Love is a faith all on its own, Silas Cross. You might say they are interwoven, one in the same. Trust, love, faith, just different titles for the same article."

At that, she planted a small kiss on his cheek. One of the crewmen in the lead Chimera called for the refugees to board. As they filtered in, Asiah picked up her bag and put a hand on Galo's back. "May the Emperor keep you," she said, "come Galo."

"Bye!"

Marsh Silas, Drummer Boy, and Walmsley Minor all stepped away from the Chimera. Asiah and Galo walked up the ramp with their group of refugees and it closed behind them. Engines roared and exhaust lifted from the rear of the APC's. Master Sergeant Tindall, standing in the turret of the first vehicle, waved his hand and ducked down. A moment later, the Chimeras began rolling down the road. The trio watched them pass through the fortified gate and disappear down the wind road between the yellow flower fields.

For a little while, they stood there looking down the road long after the Chimeras were out of sight.

"You ever feel like ya known someone for many, many years, when it's only been a couple o' days?" Walmsley Minor asked suddenly.

"Yes," Marsh Silas and Drummer Boy answered in unison.

"Come, let's return to the barracks," Marsh said, turning around. Minor was on his left, Drummer Boy was on his right. Together, they trundled slowly towards their post.

"You see low, Marsh Silas," Minor said.

"It ain't nothin'."

"Was the Lieutenant having words with ya? Did ya do somethin' wrong?" Drummer Boy asked.

"No. Well, yes. I think. I'm not in trouble if that's what you mean." Marsh sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"You can always talk to us," Minor said chartiably. He smiled kindly and tapped him on the back. "You're always there for us, so we're always here for you."

"Thanks. I guess I'm just wondering about what's right."

"One only has to look to the Emperor to know what is right and what's not," Drummer Boy said confidently.

"No doubt about that. I ain't encountered anything in my life that could be solved by faith." Walmsley Minor put in. But he thought for a moment and then shrugged.

"Well, faith don't exactly stop bullets, now doesn't it?" Drummer Boy said, leaning forward so he could look at him past Marsh Silas. The younger Walmsley brother frowned and glared at him.

"The Emperor knows what's right," Marsh began, "he wouldn't a' bothered writing anythin' down if it wasn't right. I've heard the preachers thump their chests listing the tenets. 'Abhor the xeno,' they said. But is that all we have to do? Are we forbidden from doing anything else? Do I just take it at its word?"

"All of those tenets are meant to be taken plainly. Not much interpreting to be done there, I suppose," Minor said, shrugging. "Killing them, fighting them, all o' that's just orders."

"Well, if that's the case, if the tenet just said hate'em, what would it be like if we didn't have orders?" Drummer Boy asked. "If we wasn't goin' out of our way to kill'em, and they weren't trying to kill us, wouldn't we just leave each other alone?"

"Who can say?" Walmsley Minor replied.

"If there was something you knew you could stop, something that was wrong, and it would not be altogether wrong to stop it, would you do it?" Marsh Silas asked them.

"If it didn't violate the Imperial Creed, or go against orders, and didn't put my comrades in peril, I guess I would," Drummer Boy said after a moment.

"Guess my answer's the same."

Marsh Silas just nodded, his brow low and heavy.

Eventually, they journeyed up the slope, entered the barracks, and climbed down the ladder. At the bottom, they headed to their comb. Along the way, they met many other members of Bloody Platoon. Some were sharpening their bayonets, cleaning their weapons, priming grenades, or performing purification rituals to satisfy their Machine Spirits. From their weapon maintenance kits, they took out tubes and bottles filled with holy oils. Taking stark white cloths from their kits, they doused the cloths with some of the oil, then proceeded to run it over the barrel and the sides. Extra special care was taken to polish the golden Aquila that adorned the sides of their M36 lasguns. Others burned incense in small, cylindrical chambers mounted on necklace-sized chains. Smoke filtered out of the holes in the chambers.

Almost all of the Shock Troopers were smoking lho-sticks and the acrid smell of burning tabac and lho-leaves permeated throughout the tunnel network. A thin, gray cloud of smoke clung to the ceiling and swirled in the lamp light.

Men walked around shirtless, chattered incessantly, joked, laughed, and playfully mocked each other. They tossed each other rations, canteens, cleaning tools, helmets, clothing, grooming kits, and other assorted items they carried around.

Coming to their comb, the two found Walmsley Major, Yoxall, Foley, and Logue at rest. Walmsley Major was polishing his laspistol while Yoxall inspected some of his explosives. He was the only one not smoking. Logue was adjusting the sights on his custom autopistol while Foley napped in his bunk. Drummer Boy immediately went to his Vox-caster, turned up the speaker volume, and began monitoring the battle network. Walmsley Minor joined his brother.

"Where is Junior Commissar Carstensen?"

"Honeycutt, Babcock, an' her made her a space in the medical comb. She'll be staying there for the time being," Yoxall.

"Time being?" Marsh chuckled. "I think she's going to be a rather permanent sight, men."

He could see the apprehension on their faces. Walmsley's Major and Minor looked at one another and rolled their eyes. Logue muttered something under his breath and shook his head. Foley kept snoring. Yoxall's eyebrows bounced as he returned to his work.

"Hurrah," Drummer Boy replied, resting his chin in his palm as he stared at his Vox-set.

"Keep that to a minimum," Marsh ordered as he doffed his soft-cover non-commissioned officer's hat on a hook in the boarding beside his bunk. He was surprised to find his own sleeping kit already placed back into the cutting in the dirt wall. The sheet was folded exactly to the specifications in the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer.

Turning around, he grinned and planted his hands on his hips. "Now who went and did this? Was it you, Drummer Boy?"

"Er, twas the Junior Commissar, Marsh Silas," the Voxman replied.

"Twas?"

"Twas. Saw it with mine-own eyes."

Marsh looked over his shoulder at his rack again. He looked back.

"You sure?"

"She did it right in front of ya, ya blind fool," Yoxall said. "You was too busy gussying up for the awards ceremony."

"Hey!" Marsh said, pointing at him and glaring playfully. "We was all gussying up."

A few of the men snickered as Marsh Silas turned around. From his gear, he picked up a small, wooden box. It was much smaller in comparison to the medallion crate the regiment kept, but it was of the same type of redwood. A golden crest of the Aquila was attached to the top of the lid. Popping it open, he carefully took each of his medals from his chest and placed them into the box. Once they were all inside, he snapped the lid shut and tucked the box away.

All the Shock Troopers carried one of the boxes, which they called the award chest. Each man who was decorated was to place his medals and ribbons that were not required to be worn at all times into the chest. Only when he was further awarded or was at a particular function, which was rare, were they to put them on.

After putting it away, Marsh Silas decided to check in with Carstensen. He took a walk down the hall, greeting other members of Bloody Platoon as he went. Many bumped their fists against his or simply said, 'Marsh Silas,' as he passed by.

When he reached the wooden-trimmed entryway to the medical space, he tapped on it.

"Dammit, boy, you know that bothers me. Get your ass in here," came in Honeycutt's voice. Chuckling, Marsh Silas walked in. The medic, sitting at his desk looking over an inventory invoice, tipped his low-peaked cap back and glared up at him. "Doesn't look like something's wrong with you, so you best have some kind of condition or you'll be leaving here with a wound for fucking bothering me."

"I always thought you were the most charming man in the platoon," Marsh replied, smiling sweetly. Honeycutt just shook his head and resumed his reading.

The supplies that once filled the room were now pushed back against the far wall and were stacked very neatly. Every crate, footlocker, ammunition box, water barrel, and other containers were accessible without having to move the others around. Everything related to Honeycutt's duty was pushed to the left. The examination table, which was just a typical wooden table they scrounged some time ago, was right beside his desk. Much of his medical supplies were placed on his desk or the examination table. Underneath were satchels and kit bags stuffed with pill capsules, syringes, bandage rolls, holy oils, hymn books, and surgical instruments.

On the other side, there was more space. A cutting in the wall was decorated with her sleeping bag. Her rucksack and armor was on the floor beneath it. Her Commissariat cap hung a hook nailed into the wall. To the right of it was another wooden table with a burning candle on it, several texts, a pile of parchment, and a field quill. Junior Commissar Carstensen was busy writing something.

Clearing his throat, the platoon sergeant clicked his heels and saluted. "Ma'am!"

Setting her quill and rising, Carstensen returned the gesture.

"At ease. Come in, Staff Sergeant."

Marsh Silas walked in and stood beside her as she sat back down. There was another chair between the table and her bunk. She pointed at it. "Sit."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you have anything to report?"

"Lieutenant Hyram and I have been tasked by Inquisitor Barlocke to guard the prisoner. He is taking the day shift while I take the night watch. Is there any way I can assist you in his absence?"

"Not currently. You can go about your typical duties, Staff Sergeant," she said, her eyes remaining on the page as she continued to write.

"Yes, ma'am." Marsh Silas stood up and went to salute. Instead, she leaned back at him.

"Actually, stay. I might have a use for you."

Once again, the platoon sergeant sat back down.

"How may I be o' service, ma'am?"

"Does this platoon have any particular marching songs, creeds, mottos, anything of the like I should be aware of?"

"Well, you may o' heard it already, but Bloody Platoon, bein' the First Platoon o' the First Company, we like to say we're the, 'first to spill blood, first to shed blood.' We say that to fire ourselves up and, well, it's pretty much true. We're the hard-hitters of the regiment."

Carstensen took another piece of parchment from the pile and quickly scribbled something. Marsh could not make it out beyond a few words, although he was sure it was their motto.

"Any malcontents or laggards?"

"None, ma'am. Bloody Platoon is made up of veterans, men who have been at it for ten, nine, eight, standard years. Drummer Boy's the least experienced o' us but he's a very fine Guardsman and he knows a Vox-set far better than any other Voxman in the regiment."

She made note of this too. Afterwards, she set her quill down and folded her hands together. Her emerald-ocean eyes narrowed at him.

"As a Junior Commissar attached specifically to your platoon, it is important I'm made aware of any unique unit aspects on top of your homeworld's cultural affinities. While I'm quite versed in the latter, if you think of anything that may be of use in my understanding of the men under our command, please tell me immediately."

"Yes, ma'am," Marsh Silas said.

"Thank you, Staff Sergeant, that'll be all."

"Yes, ma'am." Marsh was about to stand up, but quickly sat back down. "Thank you, once again, for recommending me for decorations. I feel very honored."

"Do not thank me, thank the Emperor," Carstensen said, turning her head and looking tersely at him. "The Emperor demands we take such actions and when we do, we are rewarded. I am merely an extension. And as I said, brave acts should be rewarded accordingly. These medals you, myself, and the men wear are to remind us that our service to the Emperor and Imperium have meaning. When a Guardsmen looks at his decorations, he is reminded of what his services provide to the Imperium as a whole. Next time he goes into battle, he fights with greater vigor." She looked at him with a softer expression. "These medals remind him he is a righteous warrior, that the battles, the acts he performs, are necessary. Even if those acts must be sending a man to his death, or risking your own life for something that is unmistakably right. You see, Marsh Silas, there are other ways to inspire a Guardsman to fight than threatening him. Let him look upon the medals, let him remember why he acted valorously before, and let him do it again."

"Yes, ma'am," Marsh Silas said slowly, "I understand."

"Good. Go on."

Marsh Silas stood up. As he walked out, he noticed Honeycutt also getting ready.

"Going somewhere?"

"The field medicae center. I wish to check on our casualties."

"Anythin' wrong with them?"
"Nothing of the sort. I just wish to ensure they're being treated well. Their recoveries will be swift, I assure you still." Honeycutt chuckled as he walked on. "Bastards are refusing their pain medication, claiming they don't need it. What brave, bloody fools."

The medic disappeared down the hall. Marsh Silas took one look back at Carstensen. Instead of wearing her hair in a bun, she was letting it hang loose. Her orange locks fell around her face and covered the collar of her black, leather jacket. One swept across her forehead, and she tucked it back behind her ear. For a moment, her head turned slightly to the right.

For a moment, he thought she may look over her shoulder at him. He could just see the tip of her nose, the side of her cheek, and the corner of her lips. After a few moments, she looked forward again, bowed her head, and continued writing.

Marsh Silas tore his gaze away and went back to his comb. If any of his friends greeted him as he entered, he did not hear them. Reaching into his rucksack, he pulled out the small redwood chest. Opening it up, he picked up the Crimson Skull medal. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he ran his thumb over it, feeling the bumps of the skull and cross crests. His thumb came to rest on the red ruby in the center. Bowing his head, he looked at the rest of the medals resting side by side in the chest. Despite being tucked away inside, the open lid let the dim light of the lamps hanging on the walls and ceiling in. Each medal glinted and glowed in the dull lighting.

Looking up, he remembered seeing Castle near the edge of the square. He held his leg as blood leaked through his fingers. Violet eyes wide with terror, white teeth clenched that only parted when he screamed. Leaving him out there, to suffer his wound, to bleed out his last, when there were dozens upon dozens of able men who could save him was wrong. To leave him there was to let something preventable occur. Doing nothing and leaving him to an unnecessary end was an impossibility.

Marsh Silas placed the medal back in the chest and closed the lid firmly.

Word Count: 6,344