The evening barrage moved westward and the subterranean dugout grew still. Marsh Silas gazed at the wooden beams and boards across the earthen ceiling as he would wait for the passing of a bomber formation over Kasr Sonnen. Although the shells that fell upon the Dagger Mountain fortresses did not entirely fade like aircraft engines.
He shifted his pipe to the opposite corner of his mouth and slid his lamp-pack to the top of the small wooden table he hunched over. His forefinger ran down the long, jagged, staggered trench lines that crossed the Sonnen Plataeu. In their sector, the 45th Altridge held to their left, and the 95th on their right. Manpower shortages were so pervasive that instead of one or two companies on the front, what remained of entire regiments had to stand-to. White Consuls occupied several hardpoints along their lines now that the Blood Ravens had left them vacant. Seeing the designations for each squad brought him some comfort.
Someone descended the steps leading down from the trench. Their footfalls were deliberate and heavy. Black, muddy boots appeared, followed by an equally dark uniform. Its lapels were red as blood, as was the high-peaked cap which was adorned with a silver, winged skull. Orange locks wreathed a strong, squarish face. The stubby nose was that of a pugilist’s and a scar ran from the left corner of the mouth. Aquamarine eyes, like an icy surf in winter, gazed into the dugout.
“The Band of Dusk must have new gunners,” said Lilias, removing her hat. “The barrage fell short, so I inspected the lasrifles with the spare time.” She dropped her hat on the table as Marsh chuckled. Wordlessly, matching one another’s soft smile, they coiled their arms around each other and kissed. Her lips were ever so slightly rough from the cold and they scratched against his own. But he did not mind, leaning deeper into her and placing his hand on the back of her head.
Their lips parted and Marsh held her head against his chest. “What is the matter?” she asked quietly as he rested his chin atop her head. “It is has only been an hour.”
“It always feels much longer.” Marsh Silas finally let go of her. Lilias touched his cheek, running her thumb back and forth across his dirty, tanned skin.
“You will need eyeglasses like Hyram if you continue to stare at maps in this light.” She started to roll it up but stopped when she noticed the stack of books beside it. “Training manuals?”
“I brought some with me before we left Kasr Sonnen,” said Marsh. “I’m still a fresh officer, so I ought to learn as much as I can and whenever I can. It passes the time, and occasionally there is a decent lesson to be had. The best ones I am going to note, for when we open that officer schola, it should have a good librarium accessible at all times; education oughtn’t be confined to lecture halls.”
“Hyram’s nose is always between pages, he should have some suggestions,” said Lilias, making Marsh smile. “Perhaps, when this battle is over, we can pen a few of our own manuals.”
“I would rather dance with you first, even if there was no music to be had. Then, we could set about to the work,” said Marsh, reaching for his recaf. Just as he drank, he heard more boots thudding down the steps. Walmsley Major appeared, covered in mud and soot, his big face haggard.
“Sir, you are wanted at OP one.”
Marsh Silas, already clad in his flak armor, only had to don a fleece cap and his helmet. M36 in hand, he followed the platoon sergeant out of the dugout. Although he wished she would remain and rest, he knew there was no stopping Lilias Carstensen from following.
Emerging into the cold, night air, he was bombarded with the acrid scent of trench. A terrible, pervasive rot of uniforms, boots, rotted food, and decomposing bodies. Those were the worst of all, those awful lumps and shapes that shored up sandbag bulwarks, trench walls, and lay out in no man’s land. Discarded meat from a butcher’s shop, stinking and spoiling; to the inexperienced, it would have been so overwhelming as to force them to empty their stomachs.
Down the duckboards to the east, the wood path creaking and splashing in the muddy ocean beneath them. Sentries on the firing step poked their nose over the parapet, listening intently for movement. Men crouched in cuts in the parados or lay in shelves carved into them. None had blankets, so they wrapped themselves in tattered canvas sheets found or stolen from the rear. Teeth chattered, palms rubbed together, and always there was a hoarse cough.
No lights burned in the trench. It was an impenetrable darkness but Marsh’s eyes had adjusted. The path was quite familiar to him. He had tramped it so many times before, it was all a memory. His boots were already thick with mud despite the duckboards. It was a slog, a battle to lift each leg. At once, the fatigue of so many days at the front flooded back to him. Little food, no sleep in the last thirty-six hours, his nerves attacked by gas and shells. His eyelids drooped, his back ached. He would have given anything to simply lay down. Crack! A rifle shot. A snap of energy surged within, rousing him, causing his heart to beat faster. There it was, the soldier’s paradox; to be utterly exhausted yet to be so sharp and alive at any moment.
Something touched his shoulder. Had a man on the firing step reached out? He grasped the outstretched hand. It was cold. An arm jutted out of the trench wall, as did a booted foot, an elbow, two bare feet, and the moldered face of a Guardsman. A missing eye, broken teeth, hollowed out cheeks, an expression of pain and horror. Quickly, he departed this stolid sight in the grayness.
Further on, a small candle glowed ahead. Two Guardsmen sat on grenade crates on either side of an old barrel. They placed cards on the makeshift table; the bigger one on the left groaned while his skinnier companion snickered. It was a relief to see but one smile in this ghastly place.
“Who is winning?” whispered Marsh.
“This little bastard is taking me for everything I’m worth,” complained Harmon.
“You ain’t worth all that much,” countered Nichols. He flashed a grin at the platoon leader. “You ought to join us, sir. I promise to go easy on you.”
“Don’t listen to him, sir, he’s a filthy cheater,” said a replacement, Winfield, from his cut.
“Why, I never!”
“I’ve yet to meet a soldier who did not cheat at cards,” joked Marsh.
“I am too honorable to cheat,” defended Harmon.
“Of course you do,” said the platoon leader. “You’re just rotten at it.”
Nichols and Harmon both laughed as Marsh Silas departed. It was brief, but necessary, for both him and those men. Such encounters lifted the spirits which so easily fell in the depths of a trench. A chuckle healed just as well as any tonic, salve, stim, or bandage.
The first observation post was just ahead. Although it was referred to as such, in truth it was a small bunker built from felled trees. Mesh netting had replaced the foliage and branches that originally obscured it. While a Guardsman maintained the watch, two more manned a heavy bolter.
Figures stood outside the entrance and Marsh quickly recognized them. There was the tall, humble form of Captain Giles. Beside him was Lieutenant Eastoft, slimmer of profile. Commissar Ghent, always so strong, stalwart, and unaffected by turmoil and fatigue, was there also. The fourth was more authoritative and imposing. The mere sight filled him with a dreadful apprehension and he regretted whatever was about to be said. How he wished he could have stayed in the dugout.
“Lieutenant Cross,” grunted Colonel Isaev, his gnarled face twisting into a scowl.
“Sir,” greeted Marsh.
“Is there any way to greet me?” complained the regimental commander. “What is this bloody army coming to when officers will not click their heels, stand up straight, and salute?”
“We’re in a frontline trench, sir,” said Marsh, sarcastically. “I would not wish for a sniper to pick you off.” He knew he should not have said it, for there was no disguising the acrimonious tinge on his tongue. Such indulgence in his own apathy was dangerous. Yet, why did he feel such delight in pressing his superior? Was that the enlisted man he once was still prodding at authority?
“If we were not so depleted of officers, I would have you locked in the brig for insubordination,” growled Isaev. “There’s a push coming, we just don’t know when. Command does not want a repeat of previous defenses. It is desired that any offensive be firmly and swiftly checked. For that, we need information.”
Marsh’s teeth clenched. His stomach dropped and tightened in the same instant. Isaev led him into the observation post and Marsh did not believe he could move his legs, for they possessed the weight of a rockcrete slab. He did follow, however, and looked through the post’s magnocular set. Across no man’s land, only about one hundred twenty meters away, was a vague series of shapes in the gloom. Uneven earth that made up the parados, tangles of razor wire, squat bunkers, sandbags, gun pits, fire bays. Like their own line, it was almost entirely dark; if a heretic in the Band of Dusk were foolish enough to smoke a lho-stick on the firing step, Scout Sergeant Isenhour or Bullard the marksman would snuff out both the light and the soul.
“That enemy barrage did us a service by shattering our wire. Our earlier bombardment tore theirs apart as well. A raid would be most agreeable. Twelve men, two to lead is enough.”
He did not need to explain further. Marsh knew the score; jump into the enemy’s trench, grab one or two of their number, haul him back alive, and pray there were no Heretic Astartes across from them.
“When?”
“Why, immediately.”
“Now, sir?” hissed Marsh. “That is not fitting. My platoon has had no time to prepare.”
“It matters not. You have night and you are Cadians. That is enough.”
“Will there be artillery? Air? How are we to come back with no support if it goes loud?”
“You will send them over or I will have you stood against a wall, with your back to the guns.” Isaev briskly marched towards the entrance, then paused. “Oh, and take your three Whiteshields with you. If they aided in the dispatch of the Warpsmith, then they will surely be a boon.”
This he said with poisonous sarcasm, deadly and needling. It hung in the air even after he left. Marsh Silas rubbed his forehead then ran his hand down his face. Drawing breath, he murmured a prayer and ventured out. Giles took off his helmet and scratched his short crop of hair.
“No apology can suffice, Marsh Silas,” he said. “The most I could do was get the Colonel down here to say it himself. I did not want you to think I desired this.”
“A raid is a quick, sharp thing,” said Ghent. “Make it no bigger than it has to be and minimize all hazards.” There it was, that strange yet ripening softness of the old teacher.
“Who will you pick?” asked Walmsley Major. “There are forty of us now and most are fit.”
“He wants the Whiteshields,” said Marsh, stroking his jaw. Walmsley Major groaned and spat angrily. He muttered something less than flattering about the commander. “Rowley, Tattersall, and Clivvy, that leaves nine. Give me Nichols, Harmon, Logue, Foley, Symonds, those new chaps Winfield and Killam, and Ilbert. Tell Isenhour he’s coming too, I want a good sergeant among the men.” He glanced at Walmsley Major again. “I think we ought to take this one in.”
“No, you and I,” said Lilias.
If he could carry it out on his lonesome, he would have done it. Such a way might have been easier, cleaner. He was but one man, however, and this was not a hill of scattered defenders, but the fangs of a hostile army. How badly he wished to say no to her. To take anybody but her. Yet, she would not forgive him. Commissar Carstensen was a fighter and she would not shy away from any battle. No man would be sent on a task if she would not take it up herself. How could he deny her?
“You will supervise, and I will be the one who goes in.”
“With your sword?” she asked. “The trench will be too confined. Let me go in.”
“And why should you?”
For the first time in weeks, a smile tugged at Lilias’s lips. Not that soft, secret smile she saved just for him. It was something smug and cocksure, even playful. Her stubby nose lifted and her eyes glinted. She swept her left arm out and then gestured to her power fist gauntlet on the opposite.
“Why, this of course.” This resulted in a few snickers from the officers and nearby men.
“Damn your eyes,” whispered Marsh, withholding his own laughter. “Very well. Gather them up, tell them to dump anything that rattles or can’t kill a traitor, and rally at the sap trench.”
“I will notify the sentries and put Hyram’s platoon on alert if it all goes loud,” said Eastoft. “The challenge will be ‘soaring,’ and the answer, ‘eagle,’ Lieutenant. Remember it.”
Marsh Silas left and felt the energy now. It was not a robust, vibrant feeling, but rather a cold electricity, like watching a lightning bolt flash in a distant storm. The flash was visible but the heat could not be felt. Stopping by the dugout, he discarded everything possible. Cartridge belt, canteen, his kit bag, rucksack, magnoculars, even his sword and M36. All he decided to take was his armor, ripper pistol, two grenades, trench knife, whistle, and night-eye goggles.
He checked his wrist-chrono and gazed upwards as he hurried. The cloud barrier held but the wind picked up. A bright moon would be a death sentence. Ahead, he saw the party gathering. There was a faint, burning smell. Isenhour had burned some cork and the Guardsmen used it to blacken their faces. The Scout Sergeant held it out and Marsh hastily covered his hands and cheeks.
When he finished, he briefly took the trench periscope from Walmsley Major. He studied the shape of the broken entanglements; there was almost a direct path from their sap trench to a breach in the enemy’s wire. He dropped down, fixed the night-eye goggles to his helmet, and activated them. The world became a dull, hazy green. Although their darkened faces lacked definition, he still saw the apprehension, angst, and agitation in their eyes. Men drew ragged breaths, drummed fingers against their trigger guards, or if they sat, bounced a leg.
Isenhour leaned closer. “We could just say we went, sir,” he whispered.
“Isaev will know and then it will be all our heads,” replied Marsh, who then entered the center of the group. “Nothing clever or fancy. We move low and quiet across no man’s land. We jump in, nab a sentry, and drag him back. If all goes well, there shan’t be a shot fired. Ready?”
“We’re ready, Marsh Silas,” came the resounding reply. He reached out and tapped Winfield on the cheek. It was enough to make the lad smile. He was young for a Shock Trooper, but at least he was not too green. The Whiteshields had enough experience then to be resolved; theirs was not the eager expressions months before, but of grim determination. What warriors, he thought.
Taking one last breath and nodding at Lilias, he heaved himself through a break in the parapet and into the sap trench. One by one, the party followed. The process was long and laborious, their flak armor restraining them, their joints sore from the cold. Each was stiff as they crawled their way down the sap. At the end, about twelve meters out from the parapet, Marsh waited for the rest to join him. His heart beat faster then. Carstensen drew beside him and blew into the chamber of her bolt pistol. He did the same with his ripper.
Symonds was the last to come up. Marsh scanned no man’s land one last time. Craters, mounds of earth, destroyed tanks, half-sunken armored personnel carriers, broken barricades, collapsed tunnels, and everywhere, everywhere, corpses. Piles of them, fields of them, draped over concertina wire, filling up shell holes, twisted, severed, disintegrating, a feast for rats.
He pulled himself out. For the first few meters, he found he could not rise. The thought of a sniper in the dark kept him down. Marsh forced himself up, first to his knees, and then into a squat. Pausing, waiting, anticipating the shot. It did not come. With the party in tow and Lilias beside him, he snaked through no man’s land. They traced the rims of impact craters, refusing to look at the bodies which filled them. Crawling under wire, pausing by vehicle hulks, creeping over carcasses. Footfalls were deliberate, precise, as quiet as could, mere presses into mud that soon froze.
They passed through the enemy’s wire. Marsh paused and crept forward by turns. In the fuzzy picture of his night-eye goggles, he saw no sentries. The guards kept low, listening in the dark rather than watching. He raised his pistol out in front of him; the suppressor was their only chance of slipping into the enemy trench undetected.
Just two meters from the parapet, he looked left for an instant. Just like a proper Cadian entrenchment, their lines were studded with fire bays. With the natural turn of the trench, one bay was directly to their left. At that moment, he cursed himself, and Isaev. Marsh looked back and saw a hooded head poking above the sandbags. An autorifle barrel appeared beside it. His arm snapped up, his eyes focused, and he squeezed the trigger. Thunk, thunk! The head disappeared and the weapon clattered.
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“Imperials!” Marsh turned left and was blinded by a spotlight. Heavy stubber rounds ripped by him. He tore his night-eye goggles away just as heavy stubber just as Symonds faced was shattered by a burst of rounds.
“Grenades!” shouted Marsh. Rowley dove, released the pin and spoon from a fragmentation grenade, and lobbed it at the fire bay. A detonation rocked the bay, knocking out the gunner and the light. Tattersall slipped into a depression and whipped one into the trench ahead of them. Harmon, rising from the ground, was about to throw one but a rifle shot tore open his throat. He collapsed, writhing, clawing at his neck.
Detonations send clots of earth through the air and the enemy fire ebbed. “Get in! Get yourselves in there!” shouted Marsh as more autorfile shots rang out. He rushed to the edge of the parapet and shot a heretic running for a communication trench. In a blur, Lilias rushed by with half the party. Lasguns flared and fists flew. Cadians threw themselves upon the stunned defenders, wounded by the grenades. One of the masked figures drove a knife into Isenhour’s forearm but the Scout Sergeant headbutted him unconscious. Killam was pounced upon and was gutted by a dagger before having his throat slit. Foley leveled his double-barreled shotgun and blasted his killer off. Logue was struck across the fire with a rifle stock; the crack of his broken jaw was audible even over the blare of screaming and shooting. But he shot his opponent in the chest before turning the corner and cutting down a party of reinforcements.
Lilias, with her deactivated gauntlet, clobbered a heretic senseless and threw him back into the arms of Clivvy. Just as quickly, she turned and blew a traitor apart with her bolt pistol. Cadians stumbled over the bodies filling the bottom of the trench. Mortar rounds fell and other heavy stubbers fired in their direction.
“We’ve got three!”
“Pull them out! Everyone get out!” shouted Marsh. “Tattersall, Clivvy, take him, go!”
“I’ve got this one! I’m going!”
“Take my hand, Commissar!”
“Keep going! Don’t lose your nerves!”
“Last man!”
“Winfield, behind you!” It was too late. Crying out in horror, Winfield was dragged back in by two heretics and bayoneted to death. Each thrust of their blades caused him to scream and spasm. Marsh went to jump back in, but he was dragged back by Lilias.
“Go!” she cried. Grenades and mortars detonated around them, tracer rounds flashed by, lasbolts seared the air. The raiding party was a staggering rabble, dragging, kicking, and shoving their three prisoners with them. All was a flurry of voices and gunfire. Marsh could hardly distinguish his own words over it as he urged them back. Smoke swirled, chunks of muck rained down. Cadian heavy bolters roared and red lasbolts streaked over his head. His Guardsmen were mere shadows, staggering back as quickly as they could.
He saw Harmon, still squirming in the mud. Marsh snatched a strap of his webbing and dragged him. Each concussion from a shell or a passing round reverberated through his body. Nichols half-turned to return fire, noticed him struggle, and ran to assist. Just as he reached out, an autocannon shell removed his head. The trunk crumpled into a pile right beside him.
They passed through their own wire. It was just a few meters to their trench! They were not moving fast enough. Marsh turned around and hooked his hands underneath Harmon’s armpits. Just as he hefted him up, a bullet struck Harmon in the chest and his arms fell limply to his sides. A mortar landed close enough to knock Marsh Silas over. Shrapnel cut through his sleeves and his arms burned. He picked himself up and scrambled for the trench, not bothering with the challenge.
There was the sap! Members of the party practically threw themselves into it. Some ran by it and leaped into the trench. Marsh tumbled over the parapet and landed on his back. Walmsley Major and Ghent picked him back up. “Who is back!?” he yelled.
“Tattersall!” cried the Whiteshield. “Rowley’s with me and Clivvy, but she’s hit in the leg!”
“Isenhour!” yelled the Scout Sergeant. “Foley and Logue are here, and all three prisoners! Ilbert’s bought it and I ain’t seen the Commissar!”
Artillery rounds whistled and struck around their trench. Men dropped back into dugouts for cover while others spirited their prisoners up the communication trench. Marsh Silas ran back up to the sap trench and looked around. The exchange between their heavy weapons and Hyram’s platoon intensified. It appeared as if two walls of fire shot lances of light at one another.
“Sir, you better get down now!” yelled Walmsley Major.
“Not without her!”
Imperial artillery responded to the heretical guns. Huge pillars of soil and debris rose into the night. Dirt sprayed Marsh’s face as he stared over the sap trench. A mortar round forced him off the firestep. Below, where no one looked or heard him, he briefly buried his face into his hands. He was not even sure if he cried out, he could not hear his own thoughts.
Marsh forced himself back up. A figure dashed into the sap trench and dove into Marsh. Lilias had lost her hat and her orange locks were filled with muck. Both spoke hurriedly to one another, their words lost in the exchange. In a blur, they were down the trench and nearly threw themselves down the nearest dugout.
Guardsmen at the bottom picked them up. Marsh threw his helmet off and wrapped his arms around her. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off with a kiss. When they parted, he pulled her closer and she buried her face into his neck. Together they stood in the dim light of the lamp pack and dust which scattered with each shell impact. “Silas, not in front of the men.”
“It does not matter.”
“Silas.”
“Hush, I care no longer.”
Familiar music played. Something slow, yet still jaunty. Nothing like Cadian marching tunes. Groggy, Marsh lifted his head from the pillow, his eyes still blurry. Someone stood at the end of the cot building into the bulkhead. A man in a gray uniform and black helmet, his face concealed by a gas mask. Peering, piercing, penetrating. He unbuttoned the holster on his chest, withdrew a pistol, flipped it so he held it by the barrel, and held it out to him.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Marsh jolted and looked at the closed hatch on the other side of the room. He looked around the cabin, finding it nothing but barren, gray, adamantium bulkheads. A few lockers, the desk beside the cot, and Hyram, pushing him from the chair.
“A moment,” he called, snubbing out his lho-stick in an ashtray and standing. His eyeglasses were halfway down his nose and his shirt was untucked. He looked rumpled and tired. “Oh, I do apologize, my friend, did the music wake you? Or was it me?” said Hyram.
“That music,” said Marsh. “It’s familiar.”
“Well, it was a bit of a surprise I forgot to share.” Hyram sheepishly turned off the music box. “Remember when we were still seconded to Barlocke and you all went on leave to Kasr Sonnen? You told me about how the man who ran the hall you stayed out had a music box. Well, as it turns out, the place survived the siege. Before we departed, I looked it up and bought the box from him. I thought having some music might pass the time, or be something to listen to while we play regicide.” He gestured to the tabletop game with its pieces arrayed on the board. “It might be enjoyable to learn.”
Thud-thud! “Yes, I’m coming! I wonder who that could be. Rhodes said the ship’s halls should not be carelessly walked, for there is a mutiny or two in the decks below.” He drew Carstensen’s Justice from the holster slung on the back of the chair and approached the hatch. Marsh glanced at the vacant space at the end of the cot before reaching for his own sidearm. The hatch creaked open and Hyram stood at attention. “Oh my, sir! Warden-General von Bracken, I had not realized you boarded the Gatekeeper.”
Marsh threw his legs out of bed and stood sharply as the general sauntered in. Von Bracken quickly returned their salutes and the men stood at ease. He surveyed the plain cabin, eyed Marsh Silas up and down, and then stood over the desk. Slowly, a smirk spread.
“I first learned to play this in the creche,” he said, picking up the finely-crafted, pale soapstone emperor piece. “Me and the boys would play after light’s out sometimes. I lost quite often, so I practiced while on fire guard. Commissars never liked it. If they found us, they’d beat us all. I never quite determined what was more enjoyable, winning the game or managing to finish one without those flatfooted bastards finding out.” His reminiscing smile seemed so boyish then. But it faded just as slowly as it arrived and placed the piece back down, softly. “Yes, well, as much as the admiral’s ship is quite comfortable, I am after all an old soldier. I need no palatial treatment.”
“There’s plenty of gunmen who would not mind a palace or two, sir,” joked Marsh, tiredly.
“Not all soldiers are counts, are they?” retorted von Bracken.
“Most aren’t lords, either,” said Marsh. The general did not glare or glower. There was only a brief squint that was gone in a blink. It was all Marsh Silas needed.
“I came to speak to you both directly. You’ve reviewed the operations packets. The drop assault will be massive, indeed. I have made some alterations that will be shared with the rest of the battlegroup when we are in Vellania’s orbit. Rather than seizing ground and then attacking, I wish for you all to drop directly onto the Ork base.”
“That facility will have many guns in it,” said Hyram. “Romilly’s reports indicated as such.”
“It did not stop you from dropping on that demi-fortress.”
“That was different sir, that was a smaller force without greater support,” said Marsh. “We will lose countless men and transports.”
“What we lose in manpower and matériel will save on time,” said von Bracken, sliding into Hyram’s chair and crossing his legs. “We cannot afford to dawdle, can we? Which brings me to my next point.” Again, he reached for the pieces on the circular regicide board. He picked up the citizen figure, which was plain and unassuming. “I’ve come to notice your new arrivals have made themselves at home in our regiment. They’ve been in the morale picts, I’ve heard. I received many complaints from the Militarum Auxilla office on Hydraphur. As for the psykers, well, many adepta across the planet had something to say about it. The enginseer too, although I suppose Magos Gilga thought it was a matter of vanity uncharacteristic of the Adeptus Mechanicus…”
“I know they did wrong by disobeying my command. They should not have fought, but fought they did. What was I to do, sir? Pretend that they had not defended Hydraphur from greenskins?”
“You could have punished them. Your new laws protect the Kasrkin from corporal punishment, but not the psyker or the mutant.”
“Abhumans, sir,” corrected Hyram.
“All that sets those gremlins and giants apart from a mutant is a mere registrar.” He ran his thumb over the piece and placed it back on the board. “They are those who serve and those who fight. Remember which ones are which, and get your affairs in order. If you allow these newcomers to run roughshod over our traditions and rules, I will end this experiment.” He grunted as he pushed himself out of the chair. “And I shall remind you, despite your playings as reformers and your new lofty titles, my dear counts, you are officers and soldiers first. Those prescribed duties come before all else, including your petty enfranchisement of the lowborn.”
Von Bracken’s gaze darkened, then. “Remember, I sponsored you both, your platoon, and the survivors of the 1333rd Regiment. You belong to me and there is much you owe.”
Thud, thud. The hatch door squealed open. Tolly’s bushy head poked around the corner. She seemed dour and cautious. Pushing it open, she revealed the tray she carried.
“I brought recaf, sirs,” she said and stood awkwardly in front of the hatch. Von Bracken gazed between the two Kasrkin and then ventured towards the door.
“Your company will be in the first drop wave, gentlemen,” he said. “Such an honor is attractive to you, considering how eager you are to engage with the enemy. It is better than you deserve, Cross, for bungling the courtship.” He whisked by Tolly, shoving her by the shoulder so hard she nearly dropped the tray. “Out of my way, creature.”
He left with his personal retinue of guards and the door swung shut behind him. Tolly shuffled over to the desk and set the tray down. Hyram stood over and smiled gently at her. “Thank you. That was mighty thoughtful of you. And brave—there is a mutiny below, you know.”
“Well, Mistah Cross likes a little recaf late in tah day, I figured I’d bring one fer ye too, sir.” She handed the mug to Hyram first, and the second to Marsh Silas. When he looked down at the steaming, beautiful brown contents, Tolly leaned in. “Dun’ worry yerself. I didn’t spit innit,” she said, her voice both agitated and chiding.
“I did not…” Marsh withheld a groan and took a sip. “…it tastes very good, thank you.” Tolly nodded and picked the tray back. As she walked, he noticed something peculiar. New piercings line her ears, golden and silver studs all. “Why, those look charming,” he said, pointing at her ears. Tolly blinked, her fatigued, unenthused expression briefly rising. But she shook her head, as if remembering her dour mood.
“Thank ye,” she muttered. Marsh Silas’s growing smile faded. As she passed by, he found himself standing, suddenly.
“I expect you to bring a bit more cheer into a chamber,” he said lightly, “you are my personal attendant, after all.” The reassured grin he hoped for did not materialize. Tolly appeared both sadder and madder than when she walked in.
“Am I tat, sir?” she bit her lip. “Or am I just a nuisance fer ye?”
There was nothing he could say then to convince her otherwise. Marsh Silas’s head was awash from sleeplessness and von Bracken’s lecture. His attempts felt feeble and foolish. It was not the time.
“I will get the hatch for you,” he said somberly. Just as he opened it, a glass bottle shattered on the bulkhead across from them. Several menials and slaves were thrown to the deck and beaten by Naval Security guards armed with stun truncheons. Marsh Silas put his arm in front of Tolly and pushed her back into the room. “Stay here for now! That bloody revolt has worked its way up here. Why haven’t they rang the alarm? Tolly, was there anyone else out there from Bloody Platoon when you came here?”
“I saw Mac out t’ere, and Holzmann and tah Sister were goin’ over some books.”
“Blast! Stay here! Hyram?”
Both men stormed out into the hall. Voidsmen, Naval Security personnel, and officers wrestled with the rebels. Only a few of them possessed clubs, repair hammers, or just about any blunt object they had found. One even swung a broomhandle! Men tangled and rolled over one another. It appeared more like a drunken brawl outside a soldier’s hall than an organized mutiny. Little Mac had one of the mutineers against the wall by his throat, but another one rose behind him with a metal pipe. Marsh and Hyram stepped into the fray, battering their way through, and they both slammed the rebel to the deck.
Taking the pipe in hand, Marsh hit the traitor held by Little Mac and then pushed the enginseer back to Hyram’s cabin. But he remained, pressing his back into Marsh’s as he fought off another man. He heard a yelp behind him. The logistics officer, Tarlis, had just pinned a mutineer on the deck but another had wrapped his arms around her neck. She used the man’s weight against him and flipped him over, but was hit in the stomach by the one she was on top of. Before he knocked her off, Tanzer strode up and planted the heel of her armored boot into the man’s skull and beat the other senseless.
“You come with me now, this is no place for the likes of you!” she said to Tarlis.
“I am a Cadian, I can hold my—how dare you!” Tanzer yanked Tarlis hard by her arm further up the hall. Marsh turned as a rebel was thrown from the communal chamber. Ruo stormed towards him and struck him twice in the face. Holzmann came out next, clobbering a fellow in the face until he went limp. As the medic faced Marsh, he pointed.
“Gun!”
Marsh whirled around. A mutineer raised a pistol torn from a midshipman’s belt and pointed it at Marsh. Clang! Tolly slammed her metal tray over his head and the man careened over like a toppled building.
More Gatekeeper crewmen joined the fray and the party of mutineers was swiftly overrun. One by one, those who were still alive were restrained and marched back down to the lower level. Servitors and menials who had stayed loyal dragged the bodies away. Wounded voidsmen were collected and hurried to the ship’s infirmary.
Marsh caught his breath, then gazed sharply at Tolly. “I thought I told you…” Tolly’s big eyes narrowed angrily and she looked down at her bare, hairy feet. Marsh clenched his teeth, covered face briefly, and then exhaled. Gazing around him, he saw Ruo’s hardened eyes and felt Little Mac’s oppressive star. He knelt in front of Tolly. “Thank you,” he said to her, then looked up. “Get yourselves safely back to your quarters and stay there until we get an all-clear.”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.
“We will go together,” said Ruo. She, Holzmann, and Tolly started to leave, but paused for Little Mac. The enginseer regarded them briefly, then turned and went the opposite way.
Marsh and Hyram exchanged a glance before returning to the latter’s chamber. As the door shut behind them, they both loosened their tunic collars. Marsh sat back on the bed while Hyram slumped into his chair.
“I’m almost grateful for it,” he said. “I tire of Warp travel. To be out of realspace, it does us no good, Silas.”
“I hazard we would not be much better once we were out of it,” replied Marsh. He cupped his face with his hands and shook his head. “Why do they not listen? Why do they have to be so bloody brave?”
“I daresay we set bad examples,” said Hyram, drinking from his cup. “You or I cannot blame them for it. They have taken our own beliefs to heart—to hold their souls as their own and act upon their sensibilities. Barlocke was the master of that lesson and now we hold it in trust for him.”
“Barlocke did what he wished and got away with it, for he was an Inquisitor. We survive thanks to our records. But they? If this fails, the Sororitas will get sent away, Little Mac returned to his duty to the regiment. The abhumans? The psykers? They will be punished.”
“Our proposal was designed to increase the efficacy of the platoon and company levels by rationalizing our support system. Yet, the goal concerns only us, not them. They are the means to it.” Hyram uttered these last words sadly. He leaned back in his chair, held his cup tightly with both hands, and stared at the deck above them. “I think we have forgotten something crucial in this endeavor, Silas.”
“Forgotten? No, rather, we failed to realize it has evolved into something new.” He leaned back until his head was against the bulkhead. “Perhaps, it is not new either, it is the real purpose of it all. It is not just about our attempts to improve things as base as organization. It is, and should be, uplifting these subjects anew. To enfranchise them, and afford them the tools and opportunities to truly serve the God-Emperor and the Imperium. Not just carrying crates or doing paperwork, but by standing with comrades, no matter adepta and ordo or otherwise.”
“If we do so, we do it at our own risk,” said Hyram. “And theirs.”
“They seem willing to take the risks, don’t they?” responded Marsh, nearly chuckling. He met Hyram’s eyes and smiled sadly. “We think it safe to obey. We ought to obey our superiors, eh? But whenever we do, we are punished for it anyway. Look at what and who we lost when we acquiesced to Isaev? Our regiment lost its honor in eradicating the 45th, and I lost…we lost her. Now von Bracken seeks to keep us in his jaws and throws at the enemy for his own petty gain. I fear we will lose much if we comply. Yet, I am too concerned to resist.”
“We do resist, but he hems us in, now. There will be no way to deviate.” Hyram finished his drink and faced Marsh. “The only chance of any of us surviving at all is if we are all brought to bear and we are of one mind and spirit.”
“Which we are not. Just before the great battles begin, we are at our weakest. There is distrust and animosity, and so little time to remedy it. But I know which roots this sentinel tree grows from.” Marsh sat up and looked at the deck. “I am afraid, Seathan. Afraid and grieved, after all this time.”
Hyram did not speak as he rose, placed his drink down on the desk, and sat beside Marsh. He did not hold him, he only pushed his shoulder against his. Nodding, Marsh Silas smiled at his friend, then tapped his knee. “I know.”
“Say it to me, brother.”
“If we cannot avoid the storm, we must weather it. If we are to weather it, we must be strong. To be strong, we must be unified. And we are all one before the Emperor of Mankind, are we not?” Marsh ran his fingers over the prayer beads laced around his wrist, then dug his fingers into his collar. He pulled out his chain and let the dog tags slide away. Holding the silver aquila in his palm, he stared at it warmly for a time, then clutched it with his fingers. The violet gaze, dim and tired a moment ago, now glowed resolutely.
