There was a crescendo of crackling lasrifles, blaring bolters, and thunderous mortars. Engines growled, shells whistled, boots tramped, heavy stubbers rattled. All the while, there was a deep roar from thousands upon thousands of warriors, resonating through thick smoke and fluttering flames. Underneath that layer of carnage were fields of corpses, strewn over tangles of razorwire and crumpled rockcrete. Frozen familiar faces, upturned, their eyes acrimonious and sorrowful, hands outstretched. Cuyper. Mottershead. Giles. Eastoft. Stainthorpe. Albert. Brownlow. Walcott. Knaggs. Fletcher. Queshire. Holmwood. Bullard. Rayden. Soames. Webley. Merton. Graeme. Afdin. Yeardley. Papa.

  Lilias.

  Marsh Silas opened his eyes slowly. He blinked and lifted his head from the moist pool of saliva upon his pillow. His billet within Fifth Row barracks was still dark and the desk, shelves, cabinets, and lockers within were indistinguishable black shapes. Not a single light glowed through the window of his door.

  One arm hung over the side of the bed. It felt heavy. He pushed himself up—everything felt heavy. There was a tremendous weight in the front of his forehead and just moving his jaw made him wince. He heaved himself onto his back, his dog tags jingling across his bare chest. Pawing the bedside table, he finally turned on the lamp and hissed. It was as if his eyes were being fried on a hot skillet.

  He peered at his wrist-chrono. 0230 hours. He still had a few hours. Readjusting and sliding deeper into his bed, he reached for the light again. But his eyes opened back up. The sheets felt damp. Throwing the blanket aside, he saw a blotchy stain on the crisp white sheet. Marsh pulled this back and saw a dark patch on his own trousers. “Not this again.” Sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he launched his head into his hands. At the same moment, his toes struck something glass. An empty bottle of raenka rolled across the floor and bumped lazily into the wall.

  Shaking his head, he forced himself to stand. He went to his private washroom, cleaned up, and donned a fresh pair of pants. Muttering to himself all the while, he bundled up the soiled sheets along with his pants, and peeked his head out the door. Bloody Platoon slept soundly. Feet and arms hung from upper bunks. Just about every pitch of snore imaginable rose and fell from the sleeping Kasrkin, from the most shrill nasal draw to the cacophonous roar of a choked exhale. Wit and the other Ogryn snored the loudest of all, practically overtaking those who slept nearer to them.

  At the very least, we’ve gotten used to that, thought Marsh Silas. Padding on bare feet, he crept to the barracks’ laundry room just down the hall. Hand on the latch, he checked one last time as he pushed the door open.

  The lights were already on. Some of the machines hummed and clanked. Folding some sheets at a table in the center of the room, Tolly looked up. She appeared haggard, with dark bags under her eyes. A half-smoked lho-stick hung limply from her lips. Her heavy-lidded eyes widened as she looked at Marsh Silas.

  “Sir? Is something wrong?” she asked. Marsh Silas gazed at the bundle in his arm and rearranged it as best he could.

  “Lightfoote, what are you doing up so late?” he asked back. Tolly put down the blanket, put out her lho-stick, and ventured closer.

  “I can take care o’ that for you, sir. Go back to sleep.”

  “Find your bunk and rack out.” Marsh stood as tall as he could and pointed swiftly at the door. But the movement caused some of the sheets in his arm to slip. He did not have to look; Tolly’s surprise said enough. Shutting his eyes, he could already imagine the gossip spreading through the barracks like a brushfire.

  “Here sir, lemme handle that for you.” Tolly smiled softly and tugged the bundle from Marsh’s gasp. “Lock the door, so no one else will come in, eh?” As the Ratling hurriedly placed the blankets into one of the auto-washers, Marsh flipped the bolt. Apprehensively, he walked over to Tolly who shut the lid and started the machine. She wiped her hands and beamed up at him. “I’ll have this ready for ya in less than an hour. If ya got some spares, I’ll go make your bed.”

  He did, and Marsh Silas could have fetched them himself. He wanted to, if just to escape the Ratling’s company. But he was unable to speak, nor look directly at the her. Awkwardly, he lingered by her, one hand on the table.

  Tolly waited patiently. Marsh cleared his throat but he still did not have a word to spare. “Well, I’ll jus’ go about my duties then, sir,” she said. “I do appreciate a little company, though.”

  She walked back onto the footstool near Marsh’s feet and continued folding the blankets. He watched her for a time—she seemed less tired. Her smile, although small, had become permanent.

  “I thought all Ratlings were lazy,” said Marsh, his voice low and ragged.

  “Oh, I’d much rather be abed, but that’s most of us, Halfling or not.”

  “You should have assigned one of the other Ratlings to take care of it, or at least ordered one to assist you.”

  “Bah!” Tolly waved her hand. “Let the scoundrels sleep. They’ve done enough work for the day. I can handle this stuff.”

  Marsh Silas smiled a little and nodded. Walmsley Major, ever since he became the platoon sergeant, stayed up longer than anybody going over fitness records, duty shifts, and training schedules. He needed to be doubly sure all was prepared for the next day. Before he became a squad leader, Drummer Boy would round up the other voxmen after every mission for ‘comms integrity.’ Together, they replaced batteries, altered encryptions, and tested every comms device in their arsenal, from their Clarion Vox-Arrays to the Taurox Prime suites. Rowley, his successor, conducted the same drill every night. Whenever he disciplined a man with pushups, Metcalfe performed just as many. He believed it was key to understanding proper leadership. Even Marsh could recollect many nights where he stood on watch for another man or Hyram stayed up late to finish his work.

  The platoon leader reached into his back pocket and took out his pipe. He filled the bowl and reached for his matches. But after patting his pockets, he groaned with the realization they were still on his desk. “I’ve got ya, sir.” Tolly struck a match, ignited the contents, and then lit a lho-stick for herself. She pinched the flame between her fingers and snuffed it out.

  “That’s a fast way to hurt yourself,” said Marsh across from the table and leaned against one of the broken auto-washers. Tolly shrugged, turned on the stool, and sat on the table’s edge.

  “My fingers ain’t so sensitive anymore. I’ve burned them on many a stove an’ kettle. And look here, I’ve got some extra knuckles.” She shifted her lho-stick to the corner of her mouth and held up both hands as if she were a pugilist. The fingers, although small and not outwardly deformed, were rather knobby. “I was swabbing latrines two posts ago and a sergeant thought I wasn’t working fast enough, so he jumped on my fingers. Broke all of’em cept’ for me wee thumbs.”

  She cackled as she puffed on her lho-stick. “Hurt like a son of a bitch, it did. But I couldn’t help me-self. I looked up and said, ‘well sarge, this job’ll take ages now.’ Old boy caned me for that.”

  Marsh Silas grimaced. Tolly’s arms bore quite a few scars. To an inexperienced eye, such wounds could be indistinguishable from one received outside of battle. But he’d been around such injuries his entire life. Those were marks left by lashes and rods, and the grisly dot-shaped burns from lho-stick butts. He gazed down at a faded scar on his side. It was hardly noticeable now, but he remembered what the burning hot fire poker felt like. The tip had burned as fiercely as his grandsire’s gaze.

  “I would have had that man clapped in irons,” said Marsh Silas after taking a long puff. “I do not tolerate corporal punishment. Captain Hyram and myself had it abolished within the regiment.”

  Marsh Silas paused as he lifted his pipe back to his lips. His brow rose hesitantly as he looked over at the Ratling sergeant. She had crossed her legs and was gazing at him thoughtfully, although she still smiled. It grew as they locked eyes and she tilted her head to the side. “I heard about that. Even if I hadn’t, those scars on yer back tell me enough. I ain’t the smartest Halfling on Cadia—the best looking, by far—but methinks that’s why you haven’t flogged Errol yet.”

  Her tone was not indignant nor smug. But it had enough weight to press Marsh and he wrinkled his nose in annoyance. Raising his chin and folded his arms across his chest, he looked down his nose at her. “Oh, come now!” pleaded Tolly. “You wouldn’t do that to one o’ yer men, how come yer doin’ it to one o’ my halflings!”

  “Errol stole from me. Giving my chrono back does not excuse the crime.”

  “Right sir, he should have kept it like all that food, medicine, and ammunition!” laughed Tolly. Marsh Silas recoiled slightly, tried to speak, and then pursed his lips. Try as he might, he was unable to contain the ghost of a smile. She had checked him, and he could not help but feel amused. The Ratling slapped her knee and pointed at him. “Aha, that was a little funny, eh?”

  “Do you lot ever take anything seriously?” scoffed Marsh. Tolly shrugged, leaned back, and swung her legs back and forth.

  “We do our best not to. Life’s hard enough as it is, ain’t it? Better to meet it with a little bit of cheer, jest, and fun.”

  “Is that how you describe theft, fencing, lechery, and gluttony?”

  “I seem to recall a host of drunken Kasrkin falling over themselves a few nights ago,” said Tolly. She planted her hands on her hips and leaned forward, squinting and smiling teasingly. “And Cadians don’t seem too shy about a good lay. And I made sure there ain’t no thieving.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and grinned as if she were very pleased with herself. “The first day, you told us we needed to be the best if we were to serve with the best. Well Tolly, I says, that’s a bigger chance than anyone else has offered us. Let’s not bungle it, shall we?”

  Tolly then pointed at the platoon leader. “Believe you me, if ye were one of them fellows like that sergeant, you’d have much more trouble on yer hands. We’ve been here for just a little while, but you don’t prance about like some of those highborn officers. Ya seem like a square trade.”

  “A square trade?” echoed Marsh, then chuckled. He liked the sound of that. Tolly finished her lho-stick and pointed the butt at the humming auto-washer.

  “If I had really wanted to rankle you, I'd have commented on that.” Marsh’s violet eyes flashed with anger. He expected the Ratling to shrink but she merely held up her hands. “Oi now, I ain’t gonna tell anybody it.”

  “I thought your kind would enjoy gossiping,” he muttered. Tolly snorted and started folding freshly cleaned towels from the basket on the table. It was an effortless, repetitive motion.

  “All soldiers enjoy scuttlebutt and rumors. But I ain’t one to bring up someone’s condition like that.” Her green eyes flitted up, her brow briefly drawn in concern. “Are ye sick?”

  Marsh Silas blew a smoke ring and scratched the back of his head. “I know not. I caught something a month back, but it’s gone away. At least, I think it has.” He blew another smoke ring and rubbed his forehead. Fatigue returned, along with that foggy alcoholic weight. The pressure rose in his crown and throbbed in his temples. “It happens at night,” he said. “Only at night. Never in the day, never on a mission. I can’t speak of it with my men, it’s disgraceful.”

  “Well, we must all be lackin’ in grace for we’ve all done it before.”

  “I’m a Cadian, a Kasrkin, and an officer. We don’t do it.”

  “Sick ones do.” She shrugged. “I can’t make you see a doc. I might be your personal aide—” The pain in Marsh’s head pulsed and he rubbed his temples. “—but that still ain’t my call.” He opened one eye. Tolly looked back and smiled pleasantly. “Go see Honeycutt or that Halfling-hating Sister. It might be easier to talk to her seeing as she ain’t one of yours. Throne, it must be, if you’re telling me. It’s all on you, Cap’. I ain’t yer mama.”

  Marsh Silas considered momentarily. Puffing a few more times on his pipe, he pushed himself off the auto-washer and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He walked closer and eyed the Ratling skeptically. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and batted her eyelashes.

  “When my sheets are ready, set them aside. I’ll collect them on the morrow. Then, get yourself to bed.” He walked to the door, grasped the handle, and stopped. Shaking his head, he looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t like setting unfair precedents. If a soldier acts poorly, he ought to be punished.” Marsh looked over his shoulder. “Errol will have extra duty for the next twenty days, including these nightly duties.”

  Tolly’s eyes shone and she leaped off the table! Marsh found himself turned around as the Ratling took his hand in both of hers. “Oh, thank you, sir!”

  “Make no mistake, this is not leniency. Everyone must still pull their weight, and I won’t tolerate any further thievery in the unit. Further offenses will be met with harsher punishments.”

  “Understood, sir! I’ll make sure they work twice as hard. I’ll keep Errol in line.” She suddenly released a belabored breath, undid her bandanna, and dabbed her forehead. “And I thought I’d have to share yer bed to change yer mind.” Before Marsh could properly retort, she leaned back, sultry, and pulled the top of her tank top down, exposing much of her bosom. “We still could—”

  “Cease with your coquetry and finish up,” snapped Marsh. Tolly giggled as she scurried back to the auto-washer, and Marsh slipped out the door. Dour still, but his headache had passed at last.

  ***

  Papers rustled and drawers scraped as Marsh Silas searched his own quarters. He looked under his mattress, then the bed frame, and even pulled his desk away from the wall. Going back to his open wargear locker, he looked around his suit of carapace armor, checked the shelves above and to the side of it, and even examined the dusty bottom.

  There was a tap at the door and a squeak as it opened. “Good morning, Marsh Silas,” greeted Master Sergeant Walmsley. Marsh shot an annoyed glare over his shoulder at the big, burly, bearded platoon sergeant. He froze and blinked. “Sir?”

  “At least he isn’t bloody dead,” muttered Honeycutt, who had just poked his head in. “Sir, would you make haste? I’ve got nigh-on one hundred wretches to examine and you’re one of them.”

  “I will be there momentarily, be off with ye!” The medic left, complaining loudly. Marsh waited until he was gone, then pointed at the empty vambrace unit of his armor. “I cannot find my slate-monitron.” Propping himself up on his knees, he threw his arms up in exasperation. “I have not touched it in ages and the moment I wish to tinker with it, it’s gone.”

  “You might have to suspend the search for now, sir. Hyram is on his way with some news.”

  “That man can never send a message or a runner, can he?” Marsh stood up, fixed his uniform, and then went to the door. The barracks was alive that morning. After morning roll call, PT, and breakfast, the majority of the platoon had just finished showering. Dozens were hastily getting dressed, buttoning tunics and tying their bootlaces.

  Those who were already prepared had started to line up by the doors of two of the barracks offices. One was occupied by Warrant Sergeant Honeycutt and the other by Sister Ruo. The medicae exams were still ongoing—between training and punitive missions against Kasr Proelium’s crime syndicates, there had been little time to conduct them in full.

  Commissar Fremantle performed inspections, prowling up and down the rows of bunks with his keen eye. But he had short, kind words for those he passed and merely had to point at a crease in a bedsheet or a crooked tunic collar. On the far side of the barracks, Commissar Seegar inspected the Ogryn. Some of them struggled to close the large buttons of their gigantic shirts and some broke the belts they tried to wear. More than once, Seegar had to stand upon a footlocker to help them. Wit, however, seemed more capable and steady with his hands and helped Hack with his uniform. He had a big grin for each of his Ogryn and gave them each a big clap on the shoulder.

  Two of the Ratlings, Fenton and Cary hurriedly padded through the barracks as they collected the laundry sacks hanging from the bunks. They tittered with laughter as they sped along, clearly making a race of the task. Marsh eyed them suspiciously as they hurried to the laundry room. Walmsley Major leaned on the door frame and peered around at them. “Those ones might have taken it, sir.”

  “Sir, sir!” Errol the Genius followed with his own bundles. He slid to a stop near the pair and saluted. “Sir! Just wanted to say thank you, sir!”

  Marsh Silas returned the salute. “Carry on, private.” The Ratling nodded, picked the bags back up, and nearly ran into Tolly. She stepped out of his way and held up a plate to Marsh.

  “Here ya are, sir.” Two eggs with perfectly golden yokes still sizzled and popped. Grox bacon was laid beside them as were two slices of buttered toast, and a sliced fruit. A particular savory aroma rose from the bacon and eggs. “I was told ye had not taken breakfast, yet.”

  He took the plate, pierced the yoke with the fork she provided, and cut into it. A cautious bite revealed a rich yoke, savory herbs, and a flavor of salt he had not experienced before. He hadn’t even known there were different flavors. The grox bacon was even better, and there was even a sweet, honey-like undertone to it. Marsh looked down at the plate, then at Tolly. “My word…”

  She winked and sauntered off. “Yer welcome, sir!”

  Marsh ate hastily and looked over the bemused platoon sergeant. He shook his head. “I doubt it was them. They have been too busy.”

  “Aye, they’ve been pretty useful so far.” The pair started to walk down the center of the barracks, greeting the Kasrkin as they went. “Sir, I took the liberty of reviewing some of our new recruits’ dossiers again. The Ratlings all had top-rated marksmanship scores. I know it doesn’t change their capacities, but I’d like to see for myself.”

  “Good morrow, Ironsides,” said Marsh as they passed by the gunner. The large Kasrkin, his face as hard as his nickname, nodded as he polished his pistol. “It’s your platoon, Walmsley.”

  “Quit fussing!” Rowley said to Drummer Boy. “You’re not the platoon voxman anymore, I am. I’ve changed the codes, swapped the batteries—”

  “What about the crystals? You can’t have forgotten about the crystals.”

  “Do I look like a fool!? Yes, and the crystals—don’t you have a squad to lead?”

  Marsh and Walmsley Major shared a knowing glance and entertained smile. Just then, Seegar brushed by them with a brisk salute. The pair stopped and watched as she marched up to Fremantle. He appeared unphased by her swift, dogged approach. “I must protest the arrangements of this barracks,” she said. “Commissars should be in their own quarters as befitting of their station.”

  “The Officio Prefectus demands we hold ourselves to a higher standard than the average servant in the Imperium, indeed. But we are not pampered lords, Commissar, and this is not a Pleasure World hostel.”

  “It is ill-disciplined. They will not obey us if we are seen as just another member of the unit.”

  “Perhaps, if you are seen as such, you will have their respect. I assure you, that is what breeds true discipline. Or is that something you needn’t worry about in leading Abhumans?”

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  Seegar’s irritated expression darkened. “Leave the Ogryn out of it,” she said.

  The conversation faded as Marsh and Walmsley Major came abreast of Sister Lada’s office. Although the door was open, they could not see her. They certainly could hear her. The Dialogus busily typed at a rate that could have put an auto-savant to shame. It was as if she were pounding on the keys of her terminal. Even when she stopped, there was no respite, for her quill scratched loudly and rapidly across parchment scrolls.

  The quill stopped, there was a quick thwip as the scroll was rolled up, then a snap of thread, punctuated by a loud stamp! A newly bound scroll was flung atop the pile which rose upon a visible table. “I reckon it’s worth investigating in there sir, but only if you dare,” warned Walmsley Major.

  “Dare I must,” replied Marsh. Walmsley mockingly placed a hand over his heart as if he were attending a funeral procession, then laughed as Marsh Silas shoved his empty plate into his hands. The platoon leader approached the door, rapped his knuckles on the trim, and leaned inside. “Sister Lada, I beg your pardon…”

  The Sister’s head whipped up from her terminal screen. She wore a pair of oversized spectacles which had frames built into the sides, as well as a series of glass enhancements over her left eye. They protruded so far as to pass the length of her lithe nose. Her eyes appeared much larger than they actually were. “…may I trouble you for a document?”

  “Are you in need of a requisition form?” She pulled a slip pinned to a board above her desk and dipped her quill in the inkwell.

  “Hold fast. I’d like to review our equipment logs. I’m afraid something might be missing.” Lada pushed away from her desk and her rolling chair carried her over to a large cabinet behind her. She threw the drawer open and her fingers raced across the top of the accumulated folders. Tugging a bundle out, she flipped through the contents and held up several documents.

  Before he could even say thank you, her eyes darted up and down the pages. “Yes, I’ve noticed several discrepancies. It appears some of the wargear in need of repairs haven’t been returned and there is no indication that they have been restored.”

  “Well, I’ll look into it, you may—” Lada jumped to her feet and breezed by Marsh Silas, who hurried after. At the end of the barracks, nearest to the entrance, was Little Mac’s workshop. Tools whirred, buzzed, and hissed. Hammers clanged and wrenches clicked by turns. Something sizzled and the smell of hot, welded metal wafted from under the door. White-blue flashes briefly illuminated the red-hooded enginseer through the glass window.

  Marsh thought the Sister would knock but Lada threw the door open. The chamber was dark and the walls were lined with shelving units. Helmets, armor components, firearms, rebreathers, gas masks, flakweave apparel, goggles, night-eye equipment, tools, microbeads, charge packs, monoscopes, weapon optics, compasses, chainswords, and all manner of other equipment littered the shelves, floor, and workbenches.

  “Holy Terra,” murmured Marsh Silas. He stepped out of the way as Little Mac’s tech-tendril slid through the air and yanked a small toolbox from the shelf beside the door. The large manipulator arm swung a hammer down onto a Mk. 2 hellgun.

  “You, enginseer, where is the repaired wargear?” demanded Lada. Little Mac’s servo-arm and second tendril reached in different directions and retrieved two large bins. He dropped them on the floor in front of them and Lada dug through them. Eventually, she pulled out Marsh’s slate-monitron. “Here you are, sir.” The Sister smoothed out her shield-robes and then stood next to Little Mac’s table. “Listen here, enginseer. Whatever you take out from the platoon armory must be noted by form. Whatever is completed must then be logged and delivered to me. Understood?”

  “Mm,” grunted Little Mac. He made a few more adjustments on the hellgun and then held it up. “Lance-sergeant Gibbs’ primary weapon has been repaired with a twenty-seven percent improvement in power consumption.” His deep voice lacked inflection but Marsh pondered if that were sarcasm.

  As Lada angrily left to fetch the proper forms, Marsh fiddled with his slate-monitron. It turned on quickly, the screen was brighter, and the cycling between menus was smoother. Little Mac’s tendril tapped the edge of the device. “Repair difficulty was negligible; thirty-nine percent improvement in total functionality.”

  “Yes, well, my thanks. Next time, go through the proper channels.” Again, Little Mac grunted and reached under the table. Marsh’s eyes widened when he saw the bolt pistol Carstensen’s Justice placed on the bench. He clenched his teeth. “What in the Emperor’s name are you doing with that!?” he snapped. “Cease at once!”

  The enginseer gave no sign of stopping. Marsh Silas grabbed Little Mac by his chest harness and with all his might, forced him out of his chair. The armor he wore made him far heavier than he actually was and Marsh felt the tendons in his arms bulge. Throwing the enginseer against the wall, he stared up into the shadow that veiled his eyes. “Who do you think you are? Do you earnestly believe you may make off with whatever you please?”

  “I was ordered,” said Little Mac.

  “By whom!?”

  “By me.”

  Marsh gazed over his shoulder as Hyram entered the room. The executive officer of Avalanche Company studied the interior momentarily before taking Marsh by his arm. “Carstensen’s Justice has jammed several times in the last few ops. It is in my care and I asked him to fix it. Now, let him go. This is conduct unbecoming of an officer.”

  Casting one last violent, virulent, violet glare towards the enginseer, Marsh let him go and stepped back. Little Mac stood over him, his pale jaw set firmly. Then, he merely resumed his work as if nothing had occurred.

  Marsh followed Hyram back into the barracks and slammed the door behind him. The latter whistled and shook his head. “You need to mind your temper, Silas.”

  “That ruddy enginseer ought to mind my temper also,” replied Marsh. But he took a breath and composed himself as Ghent, Faye, Isabella, and Sydney entered the barracks. The boy quickly ran over to his father and jumped into his arms. Hyram kissed his son on the forehead and placed him on his shoulder.

  Marsh Silas smiled at his mother and kissed her on the cheek. Faye rolled her eyes and fought a smile. “Throne, you’re a softie.”

  “I am glad to see that Bloody Platoon is still a spirited unit,” said Commissar Ghent, dryly. Some of the men without duties had already started playing Black Five or threw knives at the boards mounted on the columns. Crazy Stück had gotten into a playful wrestling match with MacNile the breacher and Tattersall. Cobb jogged alongside Freya, ordering her to leap or crawl under bottom bunks. The canid barked happily each time she completed the maneuver. Further down the barracks, an argument broke out by the two medicae offices.

  Marsh scratched the back of his head sheepishly. Ghent strutted by and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll have a word with you in a moment, son.”

  “And I’ve got some marching orders for you,” said Hyram.

  “Tell me it’s a cult or a syndicate, I could use the exercise.”

  “The latter. The Firmin crime family looted a broken-down Cargo-8 and Regiment wants them dealt with.” The barracks doors suddenly opened and a squad of Liternati guards marched in. Their initial bluster was quickly cowed by a number of annoyed, unimpressed Kasrkin crowded in front of them. An officer meekly handed a document to Walmsley Minor, the nearest NCO.

  Before Marsh could say anything, Hyram held his hand up. “And that is where the good tidings end. The Munitorum has caught up with us. They want those power picks and other tools we took from Station Rapitur back.” As if on cue, Walmsley Minor looked back, disappointed, and nodded. It was a genuine order.

  “We’ve had these for over a year!” exclaimed Marsh as the Liternati fanned out.

  “That’s rather fast for the blasted Munitorum,” muttered Faye.

  “What a bunch of bastards,” remarked Sydney. Hyram and Marsh both snorted while Isabella picked the boy off his father’s shoulder.

  “Syd! What have I told you about that kind of language?”

  “Oh, come off it Mama Hyram, he’ll sling far worse in a few years,” counseled Faye. “Aye, it is rotten. But the Munitorum will have its way, even if its way is often senseless.”

  Marsh Silas watched as the Liternati packed the picks on their carts. They might have been tools, but they had cracked open armor and flattened helmeted skulls just as well as any power weapon. Even Fremantle’s power hammer was unceremoniously dumped into the pile.

  He remembered the moist, night air, the salty smell of the sea, cold raindrops, and the jagged lightning bolts of that night. A grav-chute drop many thousands of meters high through a storm, sharp melee combat, a daring rescue that saved every soul trapped in Station Rapitur, the destruction of two traitor regiments, and the flight of Heretic Astartes sorcerers. Even now, he heard the incoming salvos from the ships in orbit as they sank the peninsula into that wrathful sea.

  The black armor-clad Liternati guards gathered the equipment and departed hastily. Kasrkin swore under their breath and shook their heads.. Marsh Silas could have deflated, let his shoulders sag, and a disappointed groan pass his lips. But he inhaled deeply and retained his composure. As he waited for the right moment, he saw Little Mac standing outside of his workshop. He watched the last of the Liternati leave and continued looking even as the doors swung closed. His head turned and Marsh felt his hidden gaze.

  The enginseer retreated to his office and Marsh Silas finally faced his men. “They’re just tools. Our strength is not in our weapons or armor, but in our Cadian blood and faith in the Emperor. Understood?”

  “Right, sir!” was the reply. As the men returned to their activities, not jubilant but at least in less-dampened spirits, Marsh Silas approached his dear friend.

  “Ghent undoubtedly brings me poor tidings also,” he said to Hyram.

  The latter shrugged and smiled in conciliation. “It all depends on your point of view.”

  “Why, what a very Barlocke thing to say,” muttered Marsh Silas. I beg your pardon? Do not take your soon-to-be perpetual cantankerousness out on me. But the Cadian ignored the fragment and continued. “Such can be said about anything. It’s an empty phrase masquerading as sagely wisdom.” I am very wise, I’ll have you know! I am not speaking to you, Marsh Silas thought. Barlocke’s fragment harrumphed while Hyram merely shrugged again.

  It was not long before Ghent returned with Honeycutt. The fact the weathered, older medic allowed his examinations to be interrupted was beyond surprising. What foul-mouthed resistance had he put up? He couldn’t have, he seemed far too placid to Marsh.

  “I’ve been gathering personnel for Carstensen’s Schola and I have just about everyone I need. Medicae adepts, menials, and a cadre officers to act as administrators. But we both know training soldiers is an NCO’s job. I’ve gathered a number of seasoned medics from across Cadia’s militarum forces but I wanted someone with preeminent experience as the chief NCO.”

  “He extended me the offer, Silas, and I have accepted,” said Honeycutt. Marsh Silas made no attempt to hide his shock. The old medic, with white streaks in his hair, put a hand on Marsh’s shoulder. “I have led a life longer than most Guardsmen, brother-mine. Rarer still, I am one of those few who returned to Cadia. It will not be long now before the 10th is mustered for another great task. Emperor knows while I desire to come with you, I think my fighting days are over.”

  It was the first time in many years that Honeycutt’s voice seemed truly labored. His aged, violet eyes glimmered momentarily, a mere gleam to the man behind that crust of Cadian sinew and bone. “It is sudden, and I am sorry for it.”

  “Do not be,” said Marsh, his own voice heavy. He forced a smile and took Honeycutt by the shoulder. “You have served well and long, longer than any of us, and you deserve a rest.”

  “God-Emperor be praised, I am happy you agree.” Honeycutt reached into his tunic pocket and procured a scrap of parchment. “I know this upsets things, but I took the liberty of scouring the Training, Integration, and Sustainment Company and selected the best man for the job.”

  Marsh unfolded the note and looked up in surprise. “Holzmann? The man we rescued last year? I thought you would raise someone from our ranks.”

  “These fellows are all good medics but not all of them started their careers as such Holzmann was made a field chirurgeon as a Whiteshield, and then became a full medic. He might not have as much combat experience, but that’s not a requirement for a platoon medic, savvy?”

  “Aye, I savvy. Well, I’ll put in for his transfer. You, my friend, are done for the day.” Honeycutt started to protest. “I shan’t hear of it. Mama, Isabella, Commissar, Hyram, Syd, get this man out of this barracks and see to it has a pleasant day in the kasr. Take him to the cathedrals, the finest soldier halls, to the pavilions, and anywhere else he wishes. This old coot has earned a day of leisure on my purse. The rest of the platoon will join later to celebrate.”

  “You can’t do this to me, boy. I was fighting cultists in Segmentum Pacificus while you were learning how to crawl! And you still need to be examined!” But Isabella and Faye took Honeycutt by his arms and nearly dragged him out of the barracks with Hyram, Syd, and Ghent in tow.

  Marsh watched them with a smile until the doors stopped swinging. It faded and he rubbed his forehead. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Just what I need.” You should be happy for him. Not many Guardsmen live long enough to demobilize. “I am happy,” seethed Marsh. “But this could cause a world of trouble for the platoon. Holzmann’s a good fellow, and he can fight, but the last burden I need is another new face.”

  There was another angry shout from the other end of the barracks. “I wish Lilias were here,” the platoon leader snapped. He spun on his heel, balled the slip in his hand, and tossed it into a disposal bin as he stormed over to the medicae rooms. The line was still long and misshapen too now that the Ogryn were in it. Sister Ruo stood at the entrance, her arms folded sternly across her chest. Tolly and Markey stood in front of a sheepish Jacinto. The two Ratlings pointed accusingly at the hospitaller while Cornelius, in his shaggy preacher’s robes, held up his hands amicably.

  “Calm yourselves, now,” he soothed. “We are all adherents of the Emperor under this roof.”

  “Not him, not wholly,” said Ruo. “Not even a sanctioned witch is to be trusted.

  “Sanctions do not seem to matter at all,” complained Markey. “We aren’t even pyskers and ya won’t see us either.”

  “You were not made in the Emperor’s perfect image, just like this creature.” Rup was cut off by Cornelius’s booming laugh. He approached the Sister and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Hospitaller, as a humble authority on the God-Emperor, I can assure you He does not care how a subject appears so long as that subject is pious and loyal.”

  “How can they be expected to exercise piety and loyalty when they cannot even achieve the qualities which make us human?” demanded Ruo. Cornelius backed away, laughing exasperatedly.

  “I thought all ya Sisters were meant to be pleasant, kind, and pretty!” exclaimed Tolly. “So far, you’re only one of those things!” Before she could continue, she hopped aside as Wit walked forward. His gait was deliberate, as if he were carefully tiptoeing around the Ratlings. When he was in front of Ruo, who recoiled slightly from the large Abhuman’s presence and smell, he bowed so he could meet her eyes.

  “I knows the Emprah didn’t make us look loik da little’uns, but they’s still the Emprah’s people. Besides, look at’em, dey’s real small-like, they don’t mean no harm.” He pointed at Jacinto, who peered up mournfully at the Ogryn. “He might be a psykah, and his fire can be pretty scary, but he seems real nice for a witch. Oh, sorry dere’, you don’t liok bein’ called dat, do ye?”

  “T-that’s alright, S-Sergeant Wit,” stuttered Jacinto, slowly.

  “That’s enough,” said Marsh Silas. “The exams will have to be suspended, I have given Honeycutt the day. Return to your duties everyone.”

  Many of the Kasrin in line breathed a sigh of relief, annoyed at having to stand there for so long. Seegar rounded up the Ogryn and led them away. Tolly and Markey padded by and Cornelius departed with a disappointed Jacint. Ruo, her face stony, began to retreat into her office. “Hold fast.” Marsh looked over his shoulder, waiting for everyone to disperse. “I think I will have mine done.”

  “As you please, Lieutenant-Captain. Follow me.”

  It was not like the typical medicae offices with their stark white walls, numerous posters outline key aspects of hygiene, and bulletins warning against sexually transmitted infections and other diseases. Plain rockcrete with clean gray paneling encased the walls, and other than a few charts for eye examinations, there were only seals and holy totems.

  Marsh took off his shirt while Ruo examined his records on her desk terminal. “That’s quite the chart.” She squinted at the screen. “Countless gunshot wounds, stabbings, broken bones, a near-amputation at the left hand radial notch, and a…partial decapitation?”

  “An incendiary bolt shell detonated right next to my neck. My throat was torn open and my flesh burned at the same time.” Marsh sat on the table serving as a bench. “That was nearly three years ago. Lost a lot of good men.”

  “They are with the God-Emperor now, rest assured,” said Ruo as she typed.

  “Lots of good people in this platoon as well, Sister. Jacinto’s a fine man, and we treat him as a younger brother. You would do well to heed the Ogryn’s word, much as I’m surprised to say so.”

  “Any word uttered by any of those mutants is not worth heeding.”

  “You must curtail your animosity. I do not wish for us to breathe such bad air.”

  Ruo turned around, her gaze icy. “I have been around psykers before,” she said. “I have seen what they can do when they lose control or become infatuated with their power. Often, in their death throes of fire and lighting, they take many of the loyal with them. Too many. I will not let down my guard.”

  It was a truth Marsh Silas was only too well-aware of. Barlocke and Jacinto were powerful psykers which made them dangerous. Yet, each benefitted from a makeweight of intelligence and forbearance. To defend against the perils beyond was a sworn duty. “You will find him a different breed,” assured Marsh Silas. “A man worth fighting alongside.”

  “I am not to fight alongside any of you, as you have ordered me,” said Ruo, tersely. “When you have seen half a hospice and its occupants reduced to ash, you would be wary also.”

  “I trust Jacinto to ensure that will never befall us.”

  “I would not be so quick to trust those who are unlike us.” Ruo finished her inputs, and then went through a routine Marsh was quite familiar with. He’d experienced it plenty of times with Honeycutt and just about time he was processed through a kasr after field exercises and missions. She examined his eyes, ears, mouth, checked his breathing, and tested his reflexes.

  She picked up his left arm and rotated it slowly from side to side. “It’s remarkable you have complete functionality,” she said. “Many who have sustained similar wounds are not able to turn their arms to the full degree.” She looked at his bicep, where he had been shot during the sweep and clear operations led by Barlocke five years ago. A heavy stubber slug had struck him when he attempted to rescue a wounded man from another platoon. He remembered Honeycutt’s desperate voice, ‘remember to stop the bleeding!’ Ruo ran her thumb over the scar and applied pressure to the muscle. “Your records indicate you lost nearly ten percent of the muscle, yet it appears otherwise.”

  “It must be my Cadian stock, I suppose.”

  Ruo dismissed the remark with a suspicious grunt. She went back to her terminal. “You are indeed hearty, and your bio-enhancements have only increased your resiliency. These previous blood tests are immaculate. You are quite the physical specimen. I’ve treated shambling hivers half your age who can hardly stand, let alone walk. Although, it is easy to see you are not sleeping well. The discoloration of your skin, especially in the face, might be a sign of jaundice. I’ll tender an appointment with the regimental physician for further examination.”

  Marsh Silas clutched the edge of the table and his eyes flitted away from her. “So I am sick?”

  “Other than a slight cold the basic medicae entry exam noted during your furlough, nothing outright. You seemed somewhat fatigued and labored.” She turned in her seat, crossed her legs, and rested her hands in her lap. “Are you experiencing any medical issues as of late?”

  “That obvious, eh?”

  “This is a procedural question, sir.”

  Marsh Silas leaned back and shut his eyes. He mumbled, though his lips did not shape any words. Hyram’s words from their furlough rang in his ears. It was not an order designed to control. His brother’s eyes had been filled with affection, not discipline. Tolly’s earnest expression appeared next. No judgment, concern, or dictation.

  He drew a deep breath, sat forward again, and forced himself to meet the hospitaller’s gaze. “I’ve been urinating while I sleep for nearly two months. I do not know what causes this malady. It has not happened since I was a small child. It’s despicable and I wish for it to stop.”

  Ruo typed a quick entry into his record. When she finished, she smiled kindly. “It is not infrequent that this occurs with adults. Sometimes it is brought about by many variables—by an illness, or overindulgence in alcohol. Even strain may cause it.”

  “Strain? As in burdens of the mind, such as we feel in combat?

  “It can occur outside of combat as well. Mental anguish or hardship, stress of your thoughts and feelings.” Ruo picked up a small ledger and turned to a new page. “Have you experienced this?”

  Marsh Silas looked down at the floor. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table. At first he nodded, and then managed to find his voice. “Yes. I feel taxed. By this venture, these new souls entrusted to myself and Hyram. What respite I have found has been fruitful but it hasn’t lasted. It appears with every positive development, a new hindrance rears its head. I can’t sleep most nights.”

  He shook his head. Ruo finished writing in the ledger. “Take your time,” she said in a calm, soothing voice. “I am here to assist you however I can. Do not be ashamed, for what you speak of is not a weakness. If there is anything else that ails you, you may speak it.”

  Marsh remembered his nightmare. But the breath in his lungs felt lodged. To force it out, he needed to cough. There would be no words on it. “I drink liquor before I slumber. Sometimes it’s just a few glasses, other nights, half a bottle, or a whole. Sometimes drunkenness is all that can make me sleep.”

  “I understand. This combination is the likely culprit for your enuresis.”

  “Enur…oh, pissing myself.”

  “Do not admonish yourself with such crudeness,” said Ruo as she opened up one of the cabinets beside her desk. Marsh Silas managed a light chuckle.

  “Tis a crude thing.”

  “There are far worse things.” Ruo pulled out a small capsule, made another note in her ledger, and then handed it to Marsh Silas. “Curtail your liquor consumption, and do not indulge in late night drinking. These are sleeping aids, take two with water only, one hour before you rest. Ensure you use the lavatory before you bunk down.”

  “Understood, Sister.” Marsh put his tunic back on and started to button it. “Thank you.”

  “It is my duty.”

  “And you commit your duty with great kindness, for which I am thankful.” Ruo stood as Marsh Silas did, and she bowed her head courteously. Marsh reciprocated the gesture, then jerked his thumb towards the door. “I wish you would extend it to everyone in this platoon, not just those of us born as you were. We must tread lightly among strangers, aye, but sometimes there is much to be learned from those who we call different. For here I am, here upon the word from a Ratling.” Ruo’s pleasant smile dropped. “Differences can exist between both strangers and brothers, after all.”

  Ruo’s eyes flitted downwards, but only for a moment. She bowed her head and clasped her hands before her. “I will dwell upon your words, sir.”

  “As will I,” said Marsh Silas, tiredly. “For I still have much learning to do myself, methinks.”