When dawn arrived, the fields in front of the base were strewn with rigid corpses. Their arms were twisted upwards, as if reaching for the sky, and their legs were twisted in terrible directions. Grisly piles of bodies were on either side of the road, some so high a man could have waded waist-deep into them. Severed body parts littered the road and dark, dried blood stained both pavement and flower petals. Much of the flowers closest to the perimeter were shredded or burned away. Shallow craters marked every mortar shell that landed among the enemy. Here and there were a few bones stripped of flesh or a small collection of putrid intestines spilled from their owner. In a few places, the heretics managed to breach the outer wire by throwing themselves on the fencing. Such gaps were filled with bodies, many strung across or clinging to the barbed wire. Some even lay at the foot of Master Sergeant Tindall’s Chimera, still parked in the main gate. But the turret was empty and the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter was in the hands of another crewman.

  Marsh Silas was over at the left flank with some members of Bloody Platoon. With their M36’s slung over their shoulders, they watched the morning waves wash up on the beach. Sunk into the damp sand were the bodies of countless heretics who attempted a flanking maneuver during the middle of the night. Over the course of the battle, the ocean dragged away some of the dead while the remainder sank into the sand. Only the heads and shoulders of the dead were visible turned halfway towards the base as if they were breasting a rainstorm. Most of the equipment they dropped was taken by the sea as well, but a few premium autoguns were stuck into the sand like grave markers. Fat beach flies buzzed in sable clouds above the bodies, burrowing into their open mouths, eye sockets, and ears for their feasts. Above, seabirds circled and occasionally descended to tear away strips of flesh.

  Upon observing this, Caferro, the grenadier of 2nd Squad, flicked his lho-stick onto the ground and snubbed it out.

  “Guessin’ them birds care not if they feast upon holy Cadian flesh or the corrupted skin of the enemy.”

  “Like them awful black bugs,” Jupp began, still smoking his own lho-stick, “they’re impartial as to who they devour.” At this, he shook his head, took a final drag on his smoke, and then flicked it away. Despite being ordered to recuperate from his wounds several weeks earlier, Jupp considered himself healed enough and joined the fray during the night. Marsh Silas was proud of him for that. He was proud of the entire platoon; they accounted themselves well during the battle. It was not the heaviest nor most terrible skirmish they ever fought; while it seemed harrowing, they sustained a number of such attacks before and all agreed such acts were folly. As insignificant as a battle could be, Marsh did not think it fair or wise to pass up on the bravery of warriors. Not only were they courageous, Bloody Platoon fought keenly and in tandem with the rest of the regiment. It was all he could ever ask of them. Even the Whiteshields did well.

  Deciding he should check on them, Marsh turned on his heel and tramped back towards the front gate. Along the way, he passed many Shock Troopers from all the companies in various states of ease or rest. Some cobbled together enough driftwood to make morning campfires. A few used the opportunity to roast a few dried meat strips or brew recaf. Others drew a heavy coat or poncho over themselves as a blanket, got down by the flames, and slept. Most kept watch, policed wargear, collected ejected charge packs littered on the ground, or checked on other Guardsmen. Medics and Field Chirurgeons plied their trade, treating the worst cases at a temporary aid station close to the perimeter. Less serious cases were marked with triage tags that had all but the green, category-three strip torn away. Some Enginseers prowled around, servicing heavy weapons and vehicles that were engaged in the fighting.

  Marsh Silas spotted the Whiteshields, still holding ground within the sandbag bastion adjacent to the gate. Clivvy, Webley, Tattersall, and Leander were all keeping watch. Graeme was too but he was struggling to stay awake and his head continued to droop, rise, droop, and rise. Yeardley and Rowley were dead tired; they sat on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, their backs against the sandbags. Both had removed their helmets and Yeardley’s head was resting on Rowley’s shoulder. Their breathing was gentle and steady. Across from them, Soames was laying on his back with one leg over the other and his arms folded behind his head. He wore an unconcerned, disinterested expression. Merton and Rayden, were both awake but resting.

  Joining them, he wordlessly knelt in front of Yeardley and Rowley. For a few moments, he regarded them with a sweet smile. But upon seeing Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, First Lieutenant Eastoft, and Captain Giles nearby, he reluctantly shook Yeardly by the shoulder. The lad looked upon him with glossy, sleepy eyes.

  “Keep restin’, but put some space between you two,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Staff Sergeant, must I? I was dreamin’ of things so sweet and woke only to find them true,” Yeardley said in a voice thick with fatigue. His gaze fell on Rowley who had not stirred. Marsh nodded, waited for him to move over, and then joined Clivvy. She continued to gaze at the hundreds upon hundreds of corpses in the fields.

  “Your first combat action,” Marsh Silas remarked with a wry, crooked grin, “you must be proud.”

  “I pray to the Emperor we have done our duty,” was all Clivvy asked.

  They had. Providing covering fire, securing a vital position, and holding fast against repeated assaults without water, food, or breaks. Shoulder to shoulder with Veteran Guardsmen, they fought very hard, communicated, and filled gaps. All the training they had endured had paid off and after the intensity scenarios he and Carstensen designed for them, their morale was more solid than rockcrete. Much to his relief, all ten survived without suffering a wound.

  Marsh Silas looked at the lines of covered corpses outside regimental headquarters. The majority were Whiteshields who had been neglected during the fight. Some frenzied souls attempted to counter charge and were slaughtered. Others had sought their comrades, but lacking direction, were killed as they tried to locate them. Many simply lost their heads and forgot their basic principles—even after a decade of difficult training, they were still kids. Although they had an idea of what war was, those perceptions were shattered upon the first shot.

  “Sergeant Clivvy, what you and your squad have done is absolutely enough,” he said, putting a hand on her back. “I am proud of you, but you should be proud of yourselves.”

  “Thank you, sir, for giving us the opportunity,” she said back. “Without you, Junior Commissar Carstensen, and everyone else, I believe most of us would not be standing here. I will always be grateful for this opportunity to learn and I shall not waste it. None of us will.”

  When Marsh Silas looked at the others, he saw the same resolution etched upon their dusty, haggard faces. His heart swelled; they were not Shock Troopers yet, but they would be soon.

  Some hushed, heated words behind him caught Marsh’s attention. Hyram was standing in front of Captain Giles; the former was talking rapidly and his violet gaze was drawn in a narrow glare. Taking off his helmet, he ran his fingers through his sweaty, blonde locks and then clutched some. Looking exasperated, he continued to speak and gesture towards the perimeter. Giles kept raising one hand and spoke in a calming tone. Nothing soothed the Lieutenant became more agitated. Finally, Eastoft approached and offered a quiet but nonetheless sharp reprimand. Silenced, Hyram lowered his head and mumbled an apology. Accepting it, Giles placed a reassuring hand on the platoon leader’s shoulder. Then, he turned his attention to Eastoft and said something firm. His executive officer betrayed no emotion and simply nodded.

  Marsh Silas knew what just happened despite not making out most of the words. Once again, Hyram was furious that heretics were able to move across the sector unmolested. He was pressuring Giles for a punitive expedition. But once again, the company commander’s hands were tied by the regimental commander’s standing orders. Giles wanted to get out there too but he had orders too. Both officers were stuck; neither of them liked it but there was nothing they could do. It was just the same, obtrusive dance.

  Lieutenant Hyram was left standing alone after Giles and Eastoft left him. Taking his leave of the Whiteshields, Marsh Silas decided to join his comrade and cheer his spirits with good news. “Sir,” he greeted him, “would ye like to hear of the Whiteshields?”

  “Go ahead,” Hyram said, sounding somewhat distant but not entirely disinterested.

  “They racked up the kills, hung tough, they did everything that was expected o’ them as Guardsmen. All ten are still standing.”

  “And there we see it,” Hyram murmured. “Look what happens when a few souls take it upon themselves to make a difference in the lives of others. You were right, Silas.”

  “It’s a little victory. There’s more to do with the Whiteshields; if we can make another bit of progress, then we can make another, and another. In that way, we should set that precedent. They wised up before they were forced to. A lot of Whiteshields I fought with could have used the same preparation.”

  Their conversation paused as Master Sergeant Tindall’s Chimera rumbled to life. With the treads grinding on the pavement, he reversed the APC, made a one-hundred eighty degree turn, and drove his vehicle to the motor pool. With the gate cleared, some platoons were ordered back to their original positions and to their barracks. After watching the Chimera drive away, Marsh tapped his tired platoon leader on the back. “Apologies for my remark about your son.”

  “You have my own for striking the Whiteshields,” Hyram said.

  “I understand. C’mon, friend, let’s get some recaf in you and then you can complain all you want to good ol’ Marsh Silas about how much regimental command bothers you.”

  “Aye, I could do that.”

  “Movement!” a Guardsman shouted.

  Marsh and Hyram turned sharply towards the gate. They became aware of a steady hum of distant engines. The former raised his magnoculars and gazed down the road. Single headlights, arrayed in a convoy, slashed through the murky morning mirth. Hyram took the magnoculars from Marsh’s hand; the cord was still around the platoon sergeant’s neck and he was yanked over slightly. Carstensen joined them, reached across Marsh to take the scope from the Lieutenant’s hand and jerked him once more.

  “You have your own!” Marsh croaked as he loosened the cord from around his neck.

  “Could they be reinforcements?” Carstensen asked.

  “If so, they are very late,” Hyram said, taking the magnoculars back.

  “Throne, just take them!?” Marsh groaned. Grunting, he took them back and looked through. “I ain’t heard anybody put out a call for reinforcements.”

  He observed dozens upon dozens of olive drab Astra Militarum motorbikes. When he counted thirty, there were still more crossing the bridge. Suddenly, figures wearing sack hoods and masks rose from the rear of the bikes. The riders balanced lascarbines and autopistols on the shoulders of the drivers. Others emerged in Heavy Stubber-equipped sidecars. Some carried bottles of liquor with rags stuffed into the neck. Lighting them with matches, they held the bottles high into the air. Then, the cavalcade let out a great screeching cheer and opened fire on the perimeter.

  “Take cover!” Hyram shouted as lasbolts and bullets filled the air. Marsh and Hyram guided countless Guardsmen to various spots, pushing and shoving them out of the line of fire. Marsh was already halfway to a sandbag redoubt when he turned around, took his platoon leader by the wrist, and led him into cover. Both of them dove down just in time. One of the leading heretic bikers swept by and the passenger swung a sword at them. It missed the pair only by a hair.

  Sitting up, Marsh took aim, led the target, and fired several lastbolts. Three missed but the fourth struck the sword-bearer right in the back. It blew open his coat, burned and blasted away his flesh, and exposed his broken spine. Another shot hit the tire, tearing it apart. Shaking and then falling over, the driver slid across the pavement from the bike. Before the heretic could stand, Sergeant Queshire drew his trench knife, and punched him across the jaw with the adamantium knuckles. Pouncing on him, the leader of 3rd Squad proceeded to beat the attackers face in.

  Many Guardsmen stood back up and fired at the attackers as they flooded into the base. Some of those who rode in dismounted from the bikes while they were still moving. Most were quickly cut down but a few succeeded in engaging the Shock Troopers in hand to hand combat. Some brave Cadians were gutted or had their throats slit, but comrades avenged them swiftly. Attackers lobbed their fire bottles at various bunkers or fighting holes, forcing the defenders out.

  Holding position, Marsh kept low and picked off targets as they came in. Beside him, half the Whiteshields kept low and supported him with their own fire while Clivvy led the other half to engage those enemies still coming through the gates. When he stopped to reload, Marsh turned slightly—one of the bikes was coming right at him. Queshire dove into him and the two flattened on the ground. The squad leader swiftly stood up, held his M36 by the barrel, and smacked another enemy driver right off his mount. This promptly sent him into the path of Tatum who had just finished refueling his Flamer tank. Howling, Tatum set the heretic on fire, then turned the barrel, and engulfed three more bikes. When they came out of the flames, the heretics leaped off their vehicles, screamed, and pranced around as they attempted to extinguish themselves.

  Marsh and Queshire backed into the Whiteshields’ redoubt. The squad created a sheet of laser fire which swept riders from their bikes. Rowley caught a bullet in her chestplate, sending her sprawling. Yeardley assumed her position as she recovered and shot down the gunner who fired at his friend. More assailants tore through the grass, purposefully crashed their bikes into the perimeter, and leaped off towards the redoubt. Marsh drew his power sword, hit the activation key on the hilt, and just as blue energy wreathed the blade, he beheaded the heretic.

  One attacker sprang over the sandbags and grappled with Clivvy. But she broke his grasp and kicked right onto Marsh’s blade. Merton, Rayden, Soames, and Tattersall formed a bayonet wall and drove off more heretics attempting to mantle the sandbags. Graeme hit one with the stock of his M36, then dragged him over the top, and beat his face in with his weapon.

  The battle grew chaotic and the perimeter became disrupted. Pockets of Shock Troopers made separate stands together, parrying assaults with bayonets and grenades. More fire bombs exploded, setting stalwart men on fire or spreading flames to nearby facilities. Brave Guardsmen threw blankets over the flames or removed fuel canisters and ammo crates away from them, taking the risk to ensure their supplies did blow up. Bikers were bayoneted and shot off their vehicles. Lasbolts, shrapnel, and bullets flew in all directions.

  Suddenly, the heretics retreated. They were not winning, but they had been holding fast. But Marsh Silas saw what they were after. Throngs of heretics washed the motor pool. Those who attempted to seize the Chimeras were slaughtered by their infuriated crews. The Chimera jockeys fended them off with knives, autopistols, and even wrenches. Master Sergeant Tindall stood with one foot in the turret and the other on the rim. In his hands was a semi-automatic shotgun and he killed one after the other.

  “Try to take my Chimera!?” he screamed furiously at a heretic clambering up with a knife. He fired a slug into him, tearing part of his shoulder away. He swept the barrel on another and blew the heretic’s head open. “The Emperor has the Imperium but this is my Chimera!”

  The heretics failed to take any of the heavy vehicles. But a number stormed into a shed and drove off with nearly all of their motorbikes. Marsh Silas narrowed his eyes. Spotting one bike they failed to capture, he mounted it and then activated the engine. It’s been a while, do you feel prepared to take this vehicle out?

  “Faith is reserved for the Emperor,” Marsh said aloud as he tested the handles and pedals. “But have a little trust in me, would ya?”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Tearing out of the shed, he fishtailed onto the main road, and sped to the gate. Hitting the brakes, he brought himself abreast of Lieutenant Hyram. “I’m goin’ after them! They ain’t gettin’ away with the Emperor’s materials so easily!”

  “Then you better get moving!” Hyram hollered.

  “I’m coming with you!” Carstensen shouted, jogging over and mounting the back of the bike. She attached the safety straps to her belt and loaded a fresh magazine into her Bolt Pistol. Fleming, who was a short distance away, drew nearer.

  “Junior Commissar, you may need this!” He tossed her his grenade launcher, which she caught with one hand, and then managed to catch the belt of shells he threw after it. Throwing the belt over her, she checked the cylinder of the grenade launcher and then snapped it shut.

  “Drive on!” she ordered, tapping Marsh’s helmet.

  Marsh tore through the gate. The heretics had just crossed the bridge and turned onto the northern road. Rumbling over the bridge, he turned the bike sharply and chased them. He felt Carstensen move around behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as she stood up, balanced her feet on the paneling that ran on either side of the passenger seat, and raised the grenade launcher. Her crimson coat billowed in the wind and her high-peaked cap was blown away. Orange locks spilled across her forehead and flowed backwards. Carstensen’s ocean green-blue eyes were blazing and her teeth gritted.

  Now that is a warrior! Barlocke followed it up with crisp, delighted laughter which filled Marsh’s chest with a similar feeling. His heart fluttering, he grinned confidently and pressed on. They were soon upon the fleeing enemy. As they closed in, the heretics looked over their shoulders and did their best to turn their guns on them. But Carstensen took aim, led the targets, and squeezed the trigger. Grenades arced towards the enemy, landing in their midst. The impacts sent some of the enemy bikes off course, careening into ditches and breaking the necks of their riders. Relying on the concussion, she picked off targets one by one. Shrapnel impaled countless heretics while the force of each round threw men off and broke their bodies on the pavement.

  Carstensen opened the cylinder, letting the spent shell casings spill out, and then reloaded. When she fired again, she scored a direct hit on the nearest bike. The engine exploded and the heretics were reduced to bloody husks. Marsh Silas and Carstensen both cheered. “Did you see that!?” Carstensen cried gleefully.

  “Wonderful shooting, Lilias!” Marsh encouraged her. She destroyed several more. But then the enemy changed tactics, reduced speed, and were soon around and behind them. One fired an autopistol at Carstensen. The rounds missed her flesh but the impact against her chestplate staggered her; the grenade launcher fell from her grasp. A bike on the left side closed in and the heretic riding it attempted to grab her. She snatched his arm and planted the barrel of her Bolt Pistol against his chest. The shell tore right through him and the bike slammed into an embankment. Turning again, she shot the heretics on their right and several that had drawn behind them before they could bring their blades down on the pair.

  More dropped back. Carstensen was still engaging targets to the right and rear. Marsh found himself eye to eye with an enemy driver. Digging into his holster, he brought his Ripper Pistol to bear and riddled him with armor-piercing rounds. The bike and its driver fell into a ditch. Aiming forward, he expended the rest of the magazine into the rear of the motorbike in front of them. Shooting out the wheel, the vehicle became unsteady and the occupant fell off. As he bounced by, Carstensen shot him with her sidearm.

  “I’m out!” she yelled as they drew close to the few remaining bikes. All the others that had attempted to surround them were dead. Dozens of burning and wrecked bikes as well as countless bodies littered the road behind them. But there were still five more to go. Marsh knew the Junior Commissar did not want them to escape; he didn’t want to let them go either.

  He felt her arm wrap around his chest. She pointed forward. “Get me closer!” Marsh didn’t need to ask why. Carstesen activated her power fist and the weapon glowed with blue energy. Drawing beside the nearest motorbike, Carstensen gave a cry, raised her power fist, and brought it down on the front of the enemy bike. The impact crushed the forward wheel, forced the carriage down onto the road in a shower of sparks, and created cracks in the pavement. Both the driver and the rider were flung forwards, flailing through the air. Both landed hard and broke their backs on the pavement.

  The next two attempted to fight back. One drew back to Marsh and Carstensens’ left and the other on their right. Marsh tossed his Ripper Pistol back to Carstensen; she nimbled dodged a sword thrust, took a magazine out of Marsh’s pouch, and loaded the weapon. Leaning back to dodge another swipe, she flipped the Ripper Pistol back into Marsh’s hand. Leveling it, Marsh blasted the attacks on their right and killed them both. A single rider on the left attempted to attack with a sword, but Carstensen reared her power fist back and hit him square in the face. The heretic’s faceplate was crushed and he was thrown from his vehicle like a leaf caught in the wind.

  Carstensen reloaded for Marsh again and gave him back his weapon. Coming up to the second to last bike, she instead brought her power fist down on the rear wheel. The bike reared backwards; just as the occupants tumbled back, Marsh turned in the seat and fired a burst into both driver and rider. “One more, Silas, one more!” Carstensen cheered. “Let’s finish this!”

  The last rider leaned back and attempted to shoot Marsh in the face with an autopistol. Carstensen was too fast and struck him in the arm with her power fist. This tore off his forearm, leaving a bloody stump at the elbow. Wailing, the rider clutched his wounded arm. Marsh took the opportunity to shoot him in the chest, knocking him off the bike. The driver hunched forward, putting all his weight on the handles and pedals in the vain hope of escaping. How badly Marsh wanted to see the heretic’s terrified face!

  Instead of simply knocking him over, Carstensen hand shot out and she wrapped her fingers around the heretic’s throat. Using the advanced strength of the power fist, she lifted him slightly off the seat. Shrieking, the heretic attempted to hang onto the bike as it tottered. Carstensen’s hand slipped around Marsh again and took his Ripper Pistol. Pressing the barrel against the enemy’s head, she grinned. “Emperor’s blessings, heretic!” she shouted and squeezed the trigger. She threw the body away while the riderless bike careened across the pavement.

  Marsh slowed the bike down and caught his breath over the humming engine. Looking over his shoulder, he found Carstensen doing the same. Neither spoke, merely gazing into one another’s eyes. At the same time, they both smiled and began to laugh.

  ***

  After collecting the grenade launcher, the drive back to camp proved far more leisurely. Marsh sat half-hunched at the controls as he gently followed the southern road to the bridge. Along the way, they observed their carnage; smoldering wrecks and many broken bodies. It was a very satisfying sight. Chuckling as he weaved through the debris, Marsh glanced over his shoulder.

  “I think the Emperor is very happy with us this day, Lilias,” he said loudly.

  “Very happy indeed,” she replied. She was sitting down and had her arms wrapped around Marsh’s middle. She was not leaning against him, merely keeping herself steady.

  “They were making for the northern road. No doubt that’s where one of their hiding holes is. We have to get at them soon. No doubt, Hyram is already making a stink at headquarters.”

  “Twas the Inquisitor who taught you to drive this? I knew you were capable but not so skilled!” Carstensen said, changing the subject. It surprised the platoon sergeant but he was glad to speak of other things for a time.

  “He was a good teacher,” Marsh replied. He grinned at her. “As soon as I was able to, I attended a training course and got my Militarum license for it. Tindall might be permitted to pilot a Chimera but at least I have this machine!”

  After that, they did not speak much for a time. Marsh didn’t mind at all. He was content with the morning’s affair; they deflected another heretic attack and were able to wipe out their final assault wave. Now, the mist was gone and the morning sun was shining very brightly over the coast. Deep blue water sparkled in the sunlight, the air was crisp and clean, and soon the road was clear. It proved to be a smooth, enjoyable ride. Although, he did feel somber as he recalled those days he spent with Barlocke, driving out into the countryside for the scouting runs. How enjoyable it was to have space and freedom from the camp and to be in the company of one he held so dear.

  Carstensen said something but it was drowned out by the engine. “What was that?” he asked.

  “I said I apologize for the other night!” Carstensen said. Marsh blinked and looked back momentarily.

  “In the shower unit? Of all things, that’s on yer mind, Lilias?”

  “It was inappropriate of me to speak to you while you were in such a...bare state!” she said. Marsh didn’t know if she was trying to be funny but it made him snort a little. “Even if we long for time together, I should have chosen a better occasion to speak with you!

  “I’ve been out of my uniform in front of others for many years, Lilias, doesn’t bother me a bit!” Marsh said with a cheerful smile. “Besides, any time with you is time well-spent!”

  Carstensen didn’t respond. Marsh tried to be patient, but could not help but look over his shoulder. The Junior Commissar didn’t look troubled but she seemed somewhat hesitant. He smiled. “It’s a large base and a bigger regiment. There’s much to do but we shall still make time for one another. Throne, after this we might just get two days leave in Kasr Sonnen, that should give us some time to talk about, well, whatever this is. Hey, look, it’s yer cap!”

  Marsh braked gently and brought the bike to a stop a couple meters away from her crimson hat. Kicking the prop into place so it wouldn’t fall over, Marsh took off his helmet, hooked it on the handle, took off the safety belts, and retrieved the hat. Brushing the dust and grit off it, he turned to give it back. Carstensen was already off the bike and reached out for it. But the platoon sergeant remembered how she had playfully kept his pipe from his hands some days ago. Just as her fingers were about to wrap around the brim, he pulled it away.

  Grinning playfully, he pretended to hand it back again. Immediately, Carstensen knew what he was doing and frowned.

  “Revenge does not become you, Silas.” She reached for it but he drew it away again. She frowned. “Come now.”

  “Oh, I see how it is,” he said, stretching his arms out. “You can have a little fun with me but I can’t have any with ye?”

  Lilias sighed irritably but then she smiled. She made one more attempt for it and missed terribly. This made her giggle—not laugh, giggle. It was a sound Marsh never heard her make before and not one he thought she’d ever emit. He found it sweet to his ears and he smiled wide. Unable to resist himself, he pulled it back again. This time, she lunged for it, catching both his arms. Laughing, Marsh gave it up and let her take it. Still chuckling, Lilias stepped away and held it up.

  “Victory,” she said confidently.

  “I concede defeat,” Marsh said, bowing. When he stood up, he found her turning the cap over and over in her hands. He chuckled and shrugged. “Apologies, Lilias. I can’t help myself, I suppose. I’m very...I’m...well, you...” the words halted in his throat. He knew what he was going to say and suddenly found himself unable to speak it. Carstensen looked at him curiously and then her eyes widened. Turning slightly, she looked out to sea.

  “Yes,” she stammered a little, “I am as well. I mean, I am fond of you too. In you I find someone like-minded; someone who wants to help others, to guide them along, and improve upon these institutions the Emperor has bequeathed us.” She stopped turning the hat and faced him directly. “You were the first person to look beyond my rank. You treated me like a person. You saw me as more than a uniform with a gun who would do you harm. But we also talk of idle things, we laugh, we create ideas together. Just as you said a man’s name is awfully important to him, it’s those little things that mean so much to me as well.”

  Marsh felt his face heat up while his heart raced. Carstensen, her own cheeks dusted with pink, looked back at the sea. “It would be very nice if you said something now,” she blurted. Some wind hit them then, spilling her orange hair back. Marsh’s blonde hair was matted slightly but a few locks turned over. Rubbing the stubble on his jaw, he laughed a little.

  “I feel so close to you, Lilias,” he said. “We’ve shared many battlefields together and have been through some hard treks. You have steeled my spirit many a time. You’ve always encouraged me to be a better man and soldier. I think many others would have dismissed my ideas outright, and maybe I would have thought my plans misguided or ignorant. But you encouraged them, found commonality with them. All this planning and coming up with new ways to help folks, I’ve never done it. It’s new, exciting, and I won’t lie, rather daunting. You inspire me.”

  Carstensen tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She looked up at him but didn’t smile.

  “We are bound by rank, duty, and honor, set by the God-Emperor Himself. But the Emperor holds sway in all things, large and small. If the Inquisitor you speak so much about is to be believed, then the Emperor granted us agency. Then, perhaps, these feelings we have are justified by the Emperor’s laws, and the Emperor’s laws come before all else, even before our duty, and all we’ve said about dreams, perhaps that’s all this could ever be, but...but...”

  Carstensen’s voice faltered. Marsh was unsure of what to say. For a few, quiet moments, they stared at one another. Then, Carstensen’s hat fell from her grasp. Although he was not close enough to catch, Marsh instinctively opened his hand. When he did that, Carstensen took his hand, stopping him. Then, she cupped his cheek and pressed her lips to his. He blinked in surprise, then squeezed his eyes shut, embraced her, and pressed himself deeper into the kiss. In that moment, which seemed to last for millennia, Marsh was immune to the biting wind or smell of the salty sea. He didn’t feel the weight of his M36 on his shoulder or the awkward metal of her power fist on his back. All Marsh felt was her body against his own, her warmth, the sweet taste of her soft lips, and how tenderly she held his cheek.

  When they finally parted, Marsh and Carstensen stared at one another with almost sleepy gazes.

  “...the dream might be worth living,” Marsh finished for her. Carstensen nodded and then looked away.

  “A good Commissar would regret such an act,” she breathed, then nodded her head to the side. “I suppose I am not a very good one, then.”

  “You’re the best one I’ve ever met, and I ain’t just sayin’ that,” Marsh said with a beaming smile. “As long as it doesn’t keep us from doin’ our duties, I think we have the Emperor’s blessing. Without Him, we would not have these swelling hearts, would we?”

  “We best hide this,” Carstensen said. “They will not understand.”

  Marsh agreed with a nod and lifted his head; his nose grazed her own.

  “We should return, now. Fleming will be missin’ that weapon o’ his.”

  “Pah, he may not get it back. I should have been a grenadier.”

  ***

  Marsh Silas and Carstensen returned to a chorus of cheers, whistles, and applause. Shock Troopers swarmed them; for the platoon sergeant, they had many back-slaps and playful punches. For the Junior Commissar, there were salutes, handshakes, and polite congratulations. The pair smiled as they progressed through the crowd. Eventually, they wormed their way out and found Lieutenant Hyram with the Whiteshields.

  “I want you to know just what splendid work you’ve done. The patrol simulation, last night's defense, today’s action—you’ve all acquitted yourselves so well. You are now a part of Bloody Platoon and do not let anyone tell you differently.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” The Whiteshields boomed happily. Hyram went up to Rowley, who appeared somewhat meek before him. He smiled down at her.

  “Go see Sergeant Honeycutt for the bruising.”

  “But sir, I’m quite well!”

  “No arguments young lady, now get!” he playfully pushed and the Whiteshield scampered off with a dissatisfied groan. Gathered around the young squad, Bloody Platoon’s veterans all laughed. Hyram whirled as Marsh and Carstensen strode over to them. “There they are, the conquering heroes!”

  Carstensen took a brief moment to throw Fleming his grenade launcher and remaining ammunition. Both exchanged soldierly salutes before the latter departed. Marsh smiled at Carstensen who nodded back at him with a knowing gaze. Both then turned to face the Lieutenant who was gazing at them curiously. “Are you two...well?”

  “O’ course, sir!” Marsh replied.

  “In good health and spirits, Lieutenant,” Carstensen assured him.

  “I ask because you two seem particularly...” he looked them up and down as if he hadn’t met them before. “...well, happy. Nearly glowing, I daresay.”

  Marsh and Carstensen exchanged a brief glance. The former offered a confident but carefree smile.

  “How could you not be happy after dealing a blow like that to the enemy?” Marsh said, then quickly changed the topic before Hyram could ask another question. “We chased’em north, sir. That all but confirms their station is hidden away somewhere in the hinterland. This the most brazen they’ve ever been. They think they own this country and are free to raid and steal. It must end.”

  “It certainly must,” Hyram said. His gaze drifted towards headquarters. Colonel Isaev was standing outside conferring with some of his staff officers. Hyram’s brow furrowed. “Our Whiteshields fought all night and morning. They’ve done more than enough. It’s high time they received their advanced training patrol.”