It was relieving to be around so many Cadians. Gruff, deep voices filled the cavernous Imperial Navy headquarters. Officers and senior enlisted men from eleven other regiments and dozens of naval vessels bore violet and purple eyes. The sight of so many Cadian dress uniforms, adorned with badges, braids, sashes, and medals, made Marsh Silas feel as though he were home.
But his eyes were drawn to the others in the massive briefing chamber, bedecked with projectors, monitors, burning incense, and golden skulls on its gray walls. Strangers from other regiments were nothing new to him. The guardsmen of the 45th Altridge, their spirits now with the God-Emperor, had become family to him beneath the walls of Kasr Sonnen. Yet, like many of the off-world regiments posted to Cadia for a tour of duty or training, they had come from some unknown planet. Backwaters, distant frontier worlds, sectors deep in Imperial space that had never known strife—places without heritage. Those venerable bastions which did produce soldierly souls once seemed to only exist in the pages of tomes.
Yet, here stood officers of the Vitrian Dragoons, clad in onyx-colored, crystalline scale-mail armor instead of dress uniforms. Their fully-encased helmets gave them a foreboding appearance, yet the golden aquilas on their helms and chests gave them a resplendent flare. They held themselves as if they were being inspected on the parade ground. Then, there were Phantine Skyborne officers, with their baggy trousers and shining boots. Pendants depicting Saint Phidolas, the great leader who led humanity to their homeworld, decorated their cream tunics along with many medals. One could easily see the legacy of honor that descended from those ancestors who, like the Vitrians, fought at the Sabbat Worlds nearly two centuries ago.
Maccabian Janissaries, they were a fearsome looking lot. Dressed in blue long coats beneath superbly-forged steel armor, they also wore exquisite helmets with cheek and neck guards. Yet, the faceplate was molded after their patron, the Living Saint Drusus, savior of the Angevin Crusade. Each mask possessed empty eyes with the line of a tear falling from the left socket. Unlike the poise of the Vitrians, these men held themselves menacingly, as if they could barely contain the zealous urge to find and slay the Imperium’s foes.
Finally, there were the rough-hewn, flakweave clothes of the Asgardian Rangers. These were Rough Riders who wore animal pelts and hide jerkins—fitting enough for feudal world men. Many had choppy or long hair and some had long beards of red and blonde. Grim and pale, wuite a few carried longswords over their shoulders. At least they are not Attilans, thought Marsh.
All different in appearance, uniform, attitude, and undoubtedly, their methods of warfare. Marsh Silas could not claim to be entirely at ease around them, for they were strangers still, but he knew he was curious to see how these regiments fought beyond the pages he had read.
Murmurs coursed through the crowd of Cadians. Some sparked conversation with the Vitrians, while the Phantines were quite chatty in their odd accents. But, like him, most of his kindred were content to stay among themselves. All lit lho-sticks and stubs, or contented themselves with a glass of firewine. Marsh puffed on his pipe and allowed Hyram and Gabler to light their own smokes in the bowl. Princess Calanthia, beside him as well, gazed at the pipe.
“Apologies, I can put it out,” said Marsh. Calanthia shook her head, reached into the pocket of her skirt, and retrieved a silver lho-stick holder. Sliding a premium brand lho-stick into the end, she lit it with her own gold-plated lighter. She took a long drag and released a large cloud of smoke that wafted over her black hat, studded with purple, avian feathers.
“I’m rarely afforded a chance to partake,” she said. Marsh smirked and chuckled quietly.
“I’m going to have to find some way to deal with the supply situation,” murmured Hyram to Gabler, then. “The haste has made a mess of organization and distribution. I saw some of the logs for the armored regiments, they currently have enough ammunition for only thirty days of fighting.”
“Grenades and explosives seem difficult to find, and my platoon is short,” hissed Gabler. “By the Throne, how am I to get them through this alive when we get into close action with Orks?”
“Rosenfeld and I went to go see the battalion commander and—”
“Don’t tell me, he said, ‘Kasrkin make do,’ and dismissed you?” grunted Marsh. Hyram nodded gravely. “Typical. He and the other BC’s noses are so far up von Bracken’s arse they’ve gotten used to the smell.”
“Hush, here he comes.”
Hundreds of booted feet snapped together as von Bracken, Lord Karl, and the 10th Kasrkin’s immense staff entered the chamber. With them were a number of other Rogue Traders, most of them older, paunchy, and finely dressed. A number of tech-priests with long crimson robes overflowing with cables, tubes, dense mechadendrites, joined them. There were high priests in ornate white robes, a menagerie of merchant and civil void captains, more than a few admirals, various adepts of the Administratum, and many aristocrats. Together, they occupied the empty space at the head of the colossal, whirring, clunking hololithic projector in the center of the room.
Lord Karl approached the edge of the table and opened his mouth to speak, although he hesitated when he saw Princess Calanthia. His brow furrowed at her. She smiled coyly, pressed the lho-stick holder to her lips against, and puffed on it smugly. The old Rogue Trader cleared his throat to compose himself, and then clapped his hands together once.
“Officers of the Astra Militarum and Navis Imperialis, I thank you for gathering here. Soon, you will embark on a great effort to restore commerce and prosperity to this realm. In this undertaking, I, Lord Karl Kikkert-van der Byl of the trade clan Kikkrt and head of the House of van der Byl, see no man more fit to lead it than a true hero such as Warden-Colonel von Bracken!”
There was applause in the chamber. Marsh Silas forced himself to join and he clapped his hands stiffly. To see von Bracken’s satisfied grin as he viewed the congregation hurt almost as much as his ribcage.
“Lord General,” muttered Hyram over the din.
“The title has been bought and paid for,” said Calanthia, tiredly.
“The man has not even attended any of the proper war scholas for the rank.”
“It is not as if the Astra Militarum lacks for generals,” remarked Overton. The major tilted his head to the side and elbowed Marsh’s arm. “A lack of good generals, now that is true.”
“I aim only to perform my duty,” said von Bracken. “This campaign is a noble affair and we shall execute it with lightning speed. These xenos monsters must not be allowed to persecute their debased war of aggression and thievery. We have given them a taste of what is to come, for they have lost much of their air power in their feeble attempt to claim Hydraphur. When we land upon Vellania, we will give them a true education.”
Marsh’s eyes flitted to Constantine, who had removed himself from the commander’s side. The prince’s single eye, striking though it was, became a mirror of disinterest. Such ostentatious oration was naught but flummery to him. It was reflected as much by the plain faces of the Asgardians and some of the Phantines. Even company commanders of the 10th, like Rosenfeld, did not quite seem as enthused with the old man’s speeches as they used to be. Although Bristol never made a habit of hiding his disgust, it appeared more vehement than ever. Liaison officers are glorified diplomats, thought Marsh, and that is hardly the face of one. Bristol caught him looking, bounced his eyebrows, and nodded irritably towards von Bracken. Marsh could not help but smirk.
Von Bracken ordered the hololithic projector to be activated. Grainy holographic images flickered, cycled, and finally formed. There appeared a world growing steadily familiar to Marsh’s eyes from many long hours of study. Vellania rotated slowly between the two mountings, the hologram large enough for a man to sit inside. It was not a planet of continents such as Cadia, but rather a great landmass that dominated much of the western hemisphere, center, and beyond. Huge tracts of pasture land characterized the west, while a golden stripe of wheat and maize dominated lands of the east coast. A vast freshwater ocean took up much of the eastern hemisphere and wrapped around the world-continent to the north and south. To Marsh, it appeared as the embrace of a doting mother, and he remembered Faye sadly.
Red-robed tech-priests lining the circular projector twisted knobs, tapped keys, and pulled levers. White lenses appeared, highling sections of the planet with accompanying text. Approaching the western side of the planet, he motioned to the largest white mark. “Lieutenant-Heraldus Romilly, if you would share the latest reports.”
“It appears that the Vellanian Guard forces are reduced to a quarter of their original strength. Many of the smaller fortified settlements have been overrun, their arms looted and the cattle stolen. What villages and townships the Orks do not raze are converted into camps. The siege of the capital continues. Governor Maurizia Ovidio has combined surviving PDF regiments with her household guard as well as those of the local noble families, and they continue to hold the outer walls.” Romilly shifted the documents in his hands and glanced nervously at von Bracken. “Sir, if I may, I’d like to mention the current states of the sieges at Fort Serdan and Domitala—”
“That can wait,” said von Bracken. He pushed in between two of the tech-priests and pointed at Ebba. “This is our priority. Ebba must be liberated. We must preserve the seat of power on the planet, as well as its processing, rendering, and packaging facilities, the tanneries, and slaughterhouses. Crucially, too, is the city’s spaceport and equally important, the Cathedral of Grand Prospect.” At this, the various priests bowed their heads and made the Sign of the Aquila over their hearts. One deacon, an older man with long, white hair, tapped his staff on the rockcrete floor.
“I will raise one thousand Frateris Militia to join this war and reclaim our holy sites!”
“Thank you, Deacon Fusco,” said the general. “We will value their zealotry.”
And what of the people? Do the subjects of these noble scions not concern you? Barlocke’s agitated voice came like the tremor of a throbbing headache. Marsh Silas winced and held his temple. Tens of thousands perish beneath the Ork tide and yet he speaks of meat houses and factorums? Are we so degenerated that we value industry over humanity? Is the house of worship as significant as the worshippers?
“As well, we must not forget that Mekboss Grog-Rod has committed a great offense against the Adeptus Mechanicus. I beg Magos Gilga to plead his case.” Von Bracken gestured to the tallest, most misshapen of the tech-priesthood present. Eight, red optical lenses glowed where his eyes should have been. He was riven with many slithering servo-tendrils. Marsh could not keep his gaze upon him for long. Is that what Little Mac hopes to one day become, he thought.
“The Orks stole from us one of the Omnissiah’s greatest war machines,” he said in an eletrical growl. “The Hellhammer known as Gladius Pacificus was forged in sacred fire upon Hydraphur and has, for one hundred twenty years, guarded the realms of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It has become a weapon in the hands of filthy xenos. Such defilement must be corrected; it is paramount that Gladius Pacificus be retaken, not destroyed, so that we may restore it to holy service.”
“You heard him,” cut in von Bracken. “That means no artillery or air strikes or orbital bombardments against the Gladius Pacificus. We must recapture it at all costs.”
“Rogue Traders, the Adeptus Ministorum, and now the Adeptus Mechanicus,” murmured Marsh Silas to the princess. “My commander makes promises he will fulfill with our lives.”
“That is how the game here is played, Master Cross,” said Calanthia. “Those who seek power curry favor with those in possession of it. It is the quickest way to obtain it for yourself, even if it is but a fraction.”
“That is not my way,” said Marsh, scornfully. Calanthia irritably rolled her eyes.
“You are a mere captain, I hesitate to question what your ways are.”
“Our recent victory against the Orks proved the effectiveness of a drop attack,” continued von Bracken. Holographic lenses flickered and the image of Vellania shifted to an aerial view of Ebba. Its scale increased to include the vast pasture lands to the west. More lenses traced the areas outside the walls, phase lines that cut vertically across the plains, and a large cordon about one hundred sixty kilometers to the west. “The 10th Kasrkin, 17th Cadian, and the 12th Phantine Skyborne will drop from low orbit and attack a primary Ork base at this location. Once a foothold has been secured, we will launch an armored thrust across the Fields of Careen and break the siegeworks surrounding Ebba. We shall roll up their flanks and create a defensive ring around the city. Then it’ll just be a matter of mopping up. Further details shall be released in packets prior to our departure…”
“Mopping up,” echoed Hyram, quietly. “Did you hear that? Mopping up! Throne!”
“The only thing we’ll be mopping up is blood if we stage dramatic assaults like that,” said Overton. “The snow was stained red outside of Talorn…”
The two great doors to the chamber suddenly opened loudly. All turned and a series of gasps and startled cries rippled through the crowd. Striding through the entrance came dozens of Astartes, their towering, power-armored frames moving with slow, precise, yet utterly powerful poise. The fusion packs hummed, the servos of their ceramite plates whizzed, and with each footfall there was a heavy, metallic clunk of armor.
Many individuals sank to their knees and covered their faces. Others made the Sign of the Aquila and bowed their heads. Prayer beads were kissed, holy icons grasped. Some shook, some wept, some fainted. Yet it seemed as though those Space Marines did not notice or care.
Marsh Silas smelled the smoke of his campfire. Across its crackling flames and through the haze, he saw the face of the Blood Raven, Captain Thule, and the Imperial Fist, Captain Galen. Two demigods, descendent from the God-Emperor, who looked upon him with kindness. He remembered their lectures; the Astartes Praeses, the Iron Warriors, Consus, Summanus. Almost in tears, he recalled how Galen plucked his own medal from his chestplate to pin on Marsh’s tunic. How his heart ached, remembering how that Son of Dorn died for him.
The Astartes paused in front of the hololithic projector. They wore ashen chestplates and greaves. Their gauntlets, vambraces, and shoulder plates were a deep, dark blue—a sea at dusk. Although their helmets bore the same hue, their face plates were bone-white. Much of their trim was silver as were their Aquilas. For their icon, there was a hooded, crimson-robed figure clutching a sword, its tip before their feet. It was not a badge Marsh Silas came across in any tome before.
“Oh, venerable warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, you surprise and grace us with your presence,” said von Bracken, overcoming his amazement. He might have met Space Marines outside of Kasr Sonnen as well, but even he was not immune to the overwhelmingly powerful aura of these fabled transhumans.
Slowly, the sergeant surveyed the chamber. The red lenses of his helmet passed over Marsh, then returned to him. His large fists tightened, his head dropped down, and he marched through the crowd. Officers stepped aside, a few nearly stumbling as the sergeant approached. Finally, the giant towered over Marsh Silas and gazed down at him. Knees shaking, Marsh nevertheless stood before him, removing his low-peaked cap and bowing his head.
“Who are you to wear so many medals of the Adeptus Astartes?” asked the sergeant. Marsh looked down at the left side of his chest. Below the highest Astra Militarum and Cadian decorations were those he received from the Astartes Praeses and other chapters he fought beside. He remembered how his heart froze when he awoke to them after his battle with Summanus. Later, each of those chapters had cast a medal into the sea for Carstensen. How he wept.
“They were awarded to me, my lord,” said Marsh. “For my actions.”
“The act of a mere mortal cannot equal that of an Astartes,” growled the sergeant. “Admit to your theft or their fabrication.”
“I can do neither, for these were awarded to me,” said Marsh. His throat grew drier and his heart throbbed in his throat. Heat trapped within his tunic grew unbearable and sweat pooled on his back. “My record can indicate as such and I can recall the citations from memory. My most recent decoration is the Order of Shadows. It was awarded by Captain Yori, commander of the 3rd Company of the Emperor’s Shadows for acts of valor while on Cadia in the previous solar year.” He was about to disclose the contents of those operations—at least those aspects he could divulge—when the sergeant stepped so close his battle plate was nearly at Marsh’s nose. He forced himself to look up at the slab of ceramite before him. The Kasrkin did not want to move; whether it was out of some stubborn resistance, fear, or both, Marsh Silas could not tell.
“This deception fails. Reveal your crime. I will issue no further warning.” The Space Marine’s hand fell to the hilt of his power sword, still sheathed at his side. All Marsh could think was these were not the heroes out of legend, not those warriors cut from the fabric of the Emperor’s making. He closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to make his tongue wet again, so he could speak.
“He does not need to defend himself against you,” said another, his tone deepened and metallic from his helmet’s voice-grill. All looked to the door as several other squads of Astartes ventured in. One team wore ochre armor with black highlights, their badge an attacking gryphon. Another was clad in silvery plate and bore an ‘M,’ as their icon—the High Gothic symbol for one thousand. But those warriors who led them wore black power armor with golden trim. Theirs was a symbol of a wreathed, gauntleted fist clutching a hammer.
The new sergeant marched over and looked down at Marsh. “He is Silas Cross. His deeds were recorded by Chaplain Anato of the Imperial Fists and made known to their successors. He is the avenger of Sabinus and Galen, slayer of the Warpsmith Drusus and Warsmith Summanus, and a Hero of the Imperium.” It was not difficult to remember the fire that wreathed the Iron Warrior or the many servo-tentacles of Drusus. The vision of Sabinus, defiant even as his soul was ripped apart, came to him once more.
The crowd gasped as he made a fist and brought it to his chestplate. “We, the Hammers of Dorn, regard Captain Cross as a true ally to all who trace their heritage to the Praetorian. I, Sergeant Seppel of the 4th Company, vouch for his honor. And if you would cast doubt upon him, Revenant…” Seppel faced the other Astartes, his voice darkening. “…then I would challenge you.”
The other Hammers of Dorn formed a line, while those other ghostly Astartes joined their sergeant. Ten against ten, two rows of plasteel statues gazing at one another. No emotion betrayed, no movement made. Surrounding them, a sea of faces locked in astonishment, dread, and fear. All waiting and wondering, wondering and waiting. Marsh Silas found his voice and, though his legs were leadened, stepped forward.
“No blade need be raised on my account,” he said, raising his chin and holding his hat over his heart. “Such a suspicion is merited, for I am but a man.”
The two sergeants looked down at Marsh Silas, then back at each other. Their hands left the hilts of their swords. While the other ventured to the projector, Seppel nodded at Marsh.
“It is rare that the librarius of any chapter records the deeds of a man.”
“I vow that I shall forever be worthy of the honor,” replied Marsh, and he bowed as Seppel joined the others at the projector. There they gathered and stood, their lenses fixed upon von Bracken and Lord Karl. Both exchanged a glance and the former cleared his throat. Grandly holding out his arms, he offered them a grateful smile.
“This is a blessing from the Emperor of Mankind,” he said. “We had not applied for aid nor expected it at this hour. Lords, I am humbled that our campaign has attracted your attention.”
“I am no lord, I am Sergeant Osmund,” said the Astartes that menaced Marsh. “We are the seventh squad of the 2nd Company of the Knights Revenant. We are not here to answer a petition nor graciously provide our blades. Were the Angels of Light, fellow sons of the Primarch Sanguinius, not on Vellania, we would not find ourselves before you. They fight a noble battle against Orks and we will join our kin. We do not ask to embark, nor do we submit to your command, we tell you we are joining this campaign.”
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“As do the Knights of Gryphonne,” said one of the ochre-armored Space Marines. “I, Sergeant Landric, obey the tenets of the Codex Astartes. We are to wander this galaxy and protect the Emperor’s denizens from those who would do them harm. The people of Vellania are under siege and cry for aid. They will have it.”
“Sergeant Caelinus,” said the leader of the silver-plated giants. “The Brotherhood of a Thousand will not stand idly by while fellow Astartes plunge into the fray, nor shrink from a cause that is just. We pledge to fight alongside the warriors present and those on Vellania.”
Before von Bracken could speak, Sergeant Seppel strode forward and pointed at Marsh. “My captain gave my squad leave to join this campaign solely for the name of Silas Cross,” he said. “He fought alongside the Imperial Fists, Subjugators, and Excoriators. Thrice he proved himself an ally to the sons of Dorn, and we will repay him in kind.”
“If there is a battle to be fought by a mortal friend of the Astartes,” said Caelinus, curiously, “then it must be a battle worth fighting.”
“Esteemable lords,” said von Bracken, less charitable both in his tone and expression. He seemed to search for words, his cheeks blossoming red as they continued to evade him. Imminent statesmen, deacons, magos, admirals, and the princelings of Lord Karls household, looked on apprehensively. “You have stated your cases candidly. With the power afforded to my noble blood and rank, I accept—”
“Cease your prattling, general,” grunted Osmund. “We do not submit ourselves to your command.”
“We shall elect a Force Commander among ourselves,” said Landric. “It will be he who decides how we cooperate.”
One by one, the Astartes squads stomped out of the chamber. Sergeant Seppel nodded at Marsh Silas as he left. All he could do was stiffly reciprocate and stare at the open doors long after they had departed. It was then he became aware of the burden in his chest. He released as he surveyed the room. Denizens were left in stunned silence. Some still knelt or prayed while others struggled back to their feet. Hushed, awed conversation steadily spread, the soldiery and nobility all admiring and marveling at the encounter.
But von Bracken’s flushed face stood out among them, his dark eyes locked on Marsh. The commander’s chagrined, furious envy was plain to the captain. Unsure of what to do or say, he averted his eyes. Lord Karl whispered to von Bracken, and without a word, the great retinue departed. Much of the crowd followed in their wake.
“You are known to Astartes?” asked Princess Calanthia, dubiously. Marsh Silas gazed at her a moment, then smiled confidently. He extended his arm and the lady gingerly took it.
“There are men like von Bracken whose way is to curry favor and purchase appointments. But now you see mine. If I am to have a place or reward, it will be earned by acts and gained by merit, nothing less.”
****
Hyram departed on an errand and Overton returned to the 412th. Marsh Silas was left with Calanthia. He would have preferred to return to his platoon right away to handle matters, but von Bracken’s order persisted. In the days since they secured Jonkhers, he had been to see her several times. Each was an exercise in the fuddy-duddy affairs of painted nobles and their fancy meal services. Although, the walks through the gardens had been pleasant, much to his surprise. They were calm, quiet places filled with greenery and flowers. Of course, no commoner found themselves there.
He felt more at ease back at Jonkhers Spaceport where the host were temporarily quartered. With the princess on his arm, he led her through the vast armada of vehicles waiting to board the transports again. Ranks upon ranks of countless Leman Russ tanks and their many variants loomed over them. Every Chimera APC, from the humble medicae Samaritan to the battle cannon-equipped Chimedons, had its place. There were Basilisks, their Earthshaker Cannons leveled, Hellhound flame tanks, Griffon mortar carriages, and Hydra flak tanks. Sentinel walkers, Tauros fast attack vehicles, Atlas recovery vehicles, Centaur utility crawlers, and plenty of Tauroxes, had their place.
What truly caught his eyes, however, were the heavy companies of the 309th Cadian Armored Regiment. Macharius tanks were more imposing than the typical Leman Russ, and well-armed with twin-linked battle cannons and mega-bolters. Some even possessed the long-barreled Vanquisher cannons! Then, there was their super-heavy company; no less than three Baneblade variants towered over Marsh Silas and Calanthia.
“Look there,” said the former, excitedly pointing at the main-line pattern in front. “Terror Ferreus, the Iron Terror! Why, what a fantastic sight. That one there, Lux Cadia, isn’t that a noble name? It’s a Stormlord; its Vulcan can devastate an entire company of infantrymen. Per Lutum, ah, that’s a good name. What I would give to see that Shadowsword’s war record—a Titan-killer surely has felled many foes.”
“It is surprising a man of your humble background would know High Gothic,” said Calanthia as she stared at the nameplates.
“I would have been content to know not a single word, but somehow I have become a knight, a count, and an officer, so I study when I can,” said Marsh Silas.
They let a party of enginseers, Militarum mechanics, and crews pass by. Together, they fussed and toiled over the vehicles. Although, one man trundled behind them, drinking from an amasec bottle. After plugging it with a cork, he tossed it to a sergeant who had strung a hammock between two Leman Russ tanks parked across from the Baneblades. Without looking up or removing the cap from over his eyes, the tanker caught it, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and drank.
Marsh chuckled while Calantha frowned. “I thought Cadians were all stoic,” she said.
“On the battlefield, surely. Off it, well, a man needs his rest,” said Marsh. He recalled the rowdy barracks parties Bloody Platoon had. It had been sometime, even before they had left the homeworld. Whenever the last few were, he couldn’t remember exactly when, he was not sure if he had joined in. Perhaps, before they left Hydraphur, they could have their own celebration.
They left the depot and passed through the supply yard. Promethium barrels were stacked in their thousands and cargo containers were as high as hilltops. As extensive as it looked from ground-level, Marsh Silas knew Hyram was right. It was not enough to sustain them for a long operation. If the battle outside of Kasr Sonnen had taught him anything, no was ever truly swift.
“Most of the sops sent to court me invite me to take in a show at the theater or they spirit me to the high-rise, private saloons. Here, I find myself being marched among boxes and barrels.”
“Courting noble ladies wasn’t a part of my training,” said Marsh, sarcastically. “Come, my lady, you know neither of us wish to be here.”
“But we must do our duty, no?” asked Calanthia, tiredly.
“If Bracken wished to furnish us with more supplies, he ought to be here, not I.”
“Even with a marriage pact, my lord father would not give them so willingly. His days of plying the void and seizing treasure are long over. Now, he counts his coins and keeps them close. Those titles he bestowed to you and your friend are merely skimming from the top. Anything and everything is done on the cheap, even war.” Marsh Silas scoffed as they turned a corner in the yard’s pathways. Menials piled up crates and caches of weapons while officers watched and cataloged them.
“What a fool I was to think my general pursued the war effort,” he grumbled.
“A union between one of his top officers and a princess would certainly yield some influence.” Calanthia shrugged coyly. “It is all politics.”
Marsh debated on how to respond beyond the stagnant outcomes they had reached before. But his eye caught a familiar figure up ahead. He found himself smiling to see Little Mac, of all people, standing over the folding desk of a young Cadian logistics officer. She disinterestedly dipped her quill into an inkwell and signed a report, which was then added to a stack of paperwork. Her purple eyes were glazed over and threads of blonde hair had worked out of their regulation bun.
“You have not placed a proper requisition order that has not been signed by your immediate superior,” she said coldly to the enginseer. “You have not even brought it in appropriate triplicate, so I should not even entertain this conversation, enginseer.”
“You cannot withhold the creations of the Mechanicus from one of its servants.”
“Would Mars like its products returned?” asked a half-asleep sergeant who sat beside the officer. He leaned back in his chair with his boots on the edge of the table. “That’ll be a nuisance.”
“You are not entitled to them even if you wear the red robe. Be gone, meddler.”
“I am this enginseer’s commander, lieutenant, what is the problem here?” asked Marsh, tersely. The officer set her quill down sharply and folded her hands on the table.
“This enginseer demands nearly one hundred Atrox-pattern tactical axes,” she said, curtly. “To do so without any of the correct forms is tremendously irregular, sir.”
But Marsh Silas instead gazed at Little Mac. The enginseer looked back, his pale lips locked in a thin line. Stepping closer, the Kasrkin tried to find his eyes in the darkness of his red hood.
“You’re trying to replace the weapons the Munitorum took from us.” Little Mac’s head fell slightly, as if he were trying to hide his face. Pulling his hood further down, he turned away.
“Initiative is valued here,” he murmured. “And an ax would do well against Ork flesh.”
Marsh nodded, and turned back to face the officer. She gazed up at them, unamused, doubtful, and icy. He smiled warmly at her.
“What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Naomi Tarlis, sir.” She gazed sharply at the medals on his chest, then back at him. “I know who you are.”
“Well, I beg your pardon, but this enginseer is not making a nuisance of himself. He merely wishes to aid the platoon, that is all. We will secure for you the right papers, and—”
“How surprising,” she snorted. “And I thought you Kasrkin were just here to bully me into relieving more supplies. See that you do get the papers.” She slid another form in front of her and took up her quill once more. When she looked back up to see Marsh’s burning glare, she drew a belabored breath. “Good day, sir.”
Marsh stepped back from the table and put a hand on Little Mac’s shoulder. “Come, we are off to the barracks. We will deal with that eventually—you may enlist Sister Lada for aid.”
“I should not have to,” muttered the enginseer. “But I will join you. Hyram returned just as I left, earlier. He is waiting for you.”
“Ah, marvelous!” Marsh took Calanthia by her arm again. “Come, you’ll want to see this.”
The trio journeyed through the supply yard and back to the small fortress they had landed in during the battle. After passing under the gate, they came to the prefabricated housing block for Bloody Platoon, one of many that now stood in between the bailey walls. Standing by the sentry post was Hyram and Flipsen. Instead of the fine armor he wore before, he was dressed in a fine but simple blue coat and khaki trousers. For the first time, he could see his face; short dark hair, scarred and angular in the face. He was of distinguished birth, but without arrogance in his blue eyes.
“Good to see you, Captain,” said Marsh Silas, extending his hand.
“And you, although I am a captain no more,” said Flipsen, embarrassed. He glanced at Calanthia and his eyes grew stony. “Princess.”
“Rik,” she said, evenly. “I trust you are well.”
“Your daddy stripped me of my home, title, and employment, and did not see fit to award me my last wage. I am many things—well, is not one of them.”
“And that is precisely why we asked you to come visit us today,” said Hyram, kindly. He stood beside Marsh Silas and put a hand on his shoulder. “We were quite ashamed to learn of your sacking. A man who fought so hard and brave oughtn’t be punished but rewarded.”
“The princess informed me you were a fine commander and of good character,” continued Marsh Silas. “As the captain of a household guard, I imagine you had many duties other than leading those warriors in combat.”
“Aye. I managed all their affairs; pay, supply, housing, transportation, and much more. One must be adept in all if he is to lead correctly.”
“I could not agree more.” Marsh came forward and placed a reassuring hand on Flipsen’s shoulder. “Much to our surprise, Hyram and I have been made counts of this planet, with property and income. These properties and incomes must be managed, yet we soon depart on campaign. Thus, we would like to offer you a job.”
Hyram reached into a letter carrier slung over his shoulder and produced a document. Flipsen gazed at it a moment before he took it. His eyes scanned left and right, growing wider and wider. He looked up, his jaw hanging. Marsh Silas chuckled and motioned to the paper. “I trust the sum is agreeable, as is your housing.”
“Indeed they are, sir,” said Flipsen, his voice nearly hoarse. “How can ‘thank you,’ suffice?”
“You needn’t say any word,” said Marsh. “We are glad to have you.”
“Come, my lad,” said Hyram. “We shall have a drink and discuss the particulars.”
Flipsen did not take his eyes off the parchment as he strided beside Hyram. When they were gone, Marsh faced Calanthia and smiled broadly. The princess eyed him suspiciously and smiled wryly.
“I was told you are a reformer, a man who builds anew from the bottom up. But a philanthropist? How very surprising.”
“Mine has been a soldier’s life. Heroism and butchery accompany one another on the battlefield. A soldier values honor, duty, and loyalty. But, methinks, we need more compassion between men. Those who walk within the Emperor’s light are often cruel and unforgiving, as your lord father has shown. He, von Bracken, those priests, they care not for denizens and soldiers alike. It is now up to us, to care and protect one another, and not always place our trust in those we would deem our betters. Then, we shall have greater oneness before the God-Emperor.” As he spoke, his eyes drifted to Little Mac. The enginseer faced him directly, and although Marsh Silas could not see his eyes, he felt his thoughtful gaze.
Calanthia’s delighted giggle captured his attention. For the first time, she truly smiled, yet it was sardonic and dry. Placing her hand on her cheek, she looked at him with an element of dispassionate pity. “Oh, Master Cross. You are just as arrogant as the rest of them,” she said. Before he could respond, she walked up to him and tapped the medals on his chest. “You think Astartes' honors and some noble ideas give you the right to change the Imperium? What about this cohort of abhumans, psykers, soldiers, and what-have-you will convince anybody of some great unity? There is no use to pursue such things, for those like my father and Bracken and all those preachers, bankers, technocrats, and puffed princes will never be convinced. It is they who have the power, not you, and they will only be convinced by coin and obedience.”
She drew back and opened a gold-plated pocket watch that hung on her corset. “You are a flighty fool with ideas above your station, but this farce of a courtship has at least been an amusing distraction. I thank you for it, but I will return home now, stifling as it is. Farewell, Cross.” She turned to leave, but after a few steps, looked back. “You are a misguided fellow, but not a bad one. I pray you survive.”
Gritting his teeth as Calanthia strutted away, Marsh Silas drew a ragged breath. A throb of pain, not great enough to be overwhelming but enough to notice it, coursed through his forehead. He pinched the bridge of his nose and ran his hand over his head. The whir of servos in Little Mac’s power-armored legs drew nearer.
“I…am sorry,” he said, his deep voice unsteady for the first time. Marsh brought his hand back over his face and exhaled heavily.
“Do not be, I am glad to be rid of her. I desire no wife.” Arms akimbo, he looked up at the enginseer. “Especially one so apathetic to what it is we try to do. But how can I claim surprise? We are surrounded by self-serving gnats who all but ignore if not mock the suffering of lessers. Yet these are the ones I must prove myself to? The spiteful and the greedy? How can they not see past their own selfishness? It drives a man mad, Macrae.” Suddenly, there was a crash from within the barracks and a roar of voices. The shouting went on and Marsh Silas squeezed his eyes shut. “Bloody hell, what could it be now?” he seethed.
He stormed through the doors, down the hall passed the bunk rooms, and into the communal area. Bloody Platoon was scattered around the tables and chairs that sat beneath the Astra Militarum banners, Aquilas, and winged skull icons. Dozens of voices rose above one another as accusatory fingers flew from individual to individual. Tolly stood on top of a table to be level with Walmsley Major, who was red in the face. Wit stood between Sister Lada and Merriweather, both of whom condemned one another loudly. Her sister Aralyn stood beside Jacinto, who was shielded by Fremantle. He, along with Seegar, attempted to make their voices heard above the din. Ruo had just entered and, overcoming her surprise, rushed over to calm Lada.
Marsh Silas picked up the nearest, overturned chair, uprighted it, and slammed it on the floor. He had hoped the clatter would overcome the noise but, not knowing his own strength, smashed it into pieces. Yet, he had their attention nonetheless. “By the Throne, what in the fuck is going on!?” he hollered.
“Sir, Walmsley tells me we won’t be joinin’ in anymore fights!” shouted Tolly, desperately. “But you’s said we were tah go to tah range tah shoot betta!”
“Yes, to train with sidearms for personal defense, as I ordered. I made no mention of frontline duty.” Tolly’s big green eyes grew even wider. She hopped down from the table and grabbed his hand.
“Ya saw us fight! We were brave, weren’t we? We were good shots!”
“They are!” exclaimed Lada. “I was alongside them, we fought the Orks together.”
“You praise the abhumans,” asked Merriweather, darkly. “We fought the Orks, and it was our shields that protected you from the collapse of that building. Yet you do not extend the same praise to us.” Lada’s face burned brightly and she struggled to find a word in defense. But Walmsley Major groaned before she could.
“None of you were supposed to be present, you are a noncombatants,” said Walmsley Major as he slid into a chair, clearly fatigued. Lada’s eyes flashed angrily at the platoon sergeant. Before she spoke, Marsh threw his hands up.
“Can you all make peace!?” he shouted. “I have Ratlings demanding training, you Sisters insisting on joining us, and still there is chafing at the presence of psykers, and all of you, including you—” he pointed angrily at Little Mac, still beside him, “—seem unable to follow orders.” He then pointed at Wit and the Ogryn. “Why is it that I receive the least trouble from those blunts!?”
“Blunt?” asked Chug, aloud and confused. Marsh immediately bit his tongue.
“Oi, don’t call t’em tat!” cried Errol. Even Commissar Seegar seemed annoyed at the remark. Marsh was about to defend himself, but Lada pulled away from Ruo and strode up to him.
“I am a trained warrior, and I have fought as a battle-sister before. Had I been assigned somewhere else, I would be content with this present post. But you say this is a place where one may take on greater responsibility, breach their confines, and earn by merit.”
“It is, but not in this way—”
“Then why allow us to be honored?” asked Aralyn.
“You fought, I would not take that away from you. But that does change your disobedience. I have a great many things to prove to our superiors. I am already singled enough—if it appears I cannot keep control of my platoon, then this experiment will fail. You all must follow orders!” That made many of his soldiers uneasy. Merriweather gazed at him quizzically, her pale eyes possessed of some curious energy, then approached him. Her lone robes masked her feet, and she appeared to glide across the floor.
“Sir, did you not defy von Bracken’s order?”
“That was different,” he said through gritted teeth.
“How so, sir?” asked Ruo. “For I see no difference between our acts and yours.”
“Now you make common cause with the psykers?” he scoffed. His headache throbbed once more and he growled. “I’ve had enough! Do not forget that we are all servants of the Emperor and duty-bound to obey! You will fall in line and I will hear no more complaints! And make no mistake,” He pointed at Lada, the Ratlings, and Tolly. “None of you are Kasrkin! Now, quit my sight!”
Tolly’s imploring shifted to frustration. It was the first time he had seen anger in her glimmering eyes. She wiped her nose on her arm and stepped back.
“I’m not tryin’ tah be a Kasrkin,” she said quietly. “I’m just trying tah be the best soldier I can be.” With that, she collected her squad and returned to their barracks room. The sororitas passed him by, and despite Jacinto’s insistence, Merriweather and Aralyn departed also. Seegar led the Ogryn away and the Kasrkin dispersed; many of the latter did not meet Marsh’s eyes.
“Compassion, is it?” asked Little Mac, sarcastically. Marsh squeezed his eyes shut and drew breath. But when he turned to face the enginseer and explain, he was gone as well.
