Picter lens flickered and bulbs popped. Blinded, Marsh Silas held his smile as best he could. Various adepts, officers, and nobles, all filling the regimental commander’s office, applauded enthusiastically. Servo-skulls equipped with picters hovered overhead, capturing the event. Others, with speakers jammed between their cracked teeth, played triumphant tunes of blaring brass and soaring strings.
Warden-Colonel Johann von Bracken dropped Marsh’s hand, stepped by him, and then shook Hyram’s. Again, countless picter lenses flashed. Then, von Bracken hooked his arms around the two captains, brought them shoulder to shoulder, and then stood beside the pair.
“Here’s one for the cover sheets,” he declared boastfully. Polite laughter rippled through the crowd as the picters took their final shots.
Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a quick glance and did their best to appear stately. They wore identical dress uniforms; stark white trousers, black boots, and deep emerald tunics adorned with golden epaulets and leather collars. Each wore the brightly-colored Illustrious Amber Sash of Valor. Large and a number of new medals and badges ran along their lengths. Gaily colored ribbon racks occupied the left sides of their chests with their highest awards pinned above. Marsh, however, bore a silver lanyard tethered between his lapel and right shoulder. On his shoulder was a bordered, golden medallion—the Cadian Master in Marksmanship Badge.
It was one he was proud of, though he little registered it at that moment. The proud, frozen smile and happy crinkle to his eyes took much energy to maintain. An ache began to spread through jaw and he wished the affair were over; such ceremonies had lost their charms. At least Hyram looked grand, his scars giving him a ferocious appearance despite his pleasant smile and bookish demeanor. His blonde hair, slick with pomade, glowed in the light. The medals upon his tunic shone.
Eventually, von Bracken held up his hands and the crowd settled. As the imagists shuffled out of the room, he waved his hand forward. Another wave of khaki uniform-clad morale officers—propagandists—drew forward. Each one came with a pict-servitor at their sides, who shambled and dragged their legs. A few even rolled forth on treads. Some bore the recorders in their eye sockets, others had lenses studded across their chests. No emotion was evident in their gaunt, pale, frozen faces. Saliva ran from their mouths, mucus from their nostrils. Marsh averted his eyes.
Von Bracken returned to his desk and motioned to the two officers. “Now, I know you have many questions, but the allowance of time permits us to entertain only a few. Boys, take it away.” The staffers pushed in and thrust their recording devices into Hyram and Marsh’s faces. Both men recoiled slightly but did not drop their charitable expressions.
“Lieutenant-Captain Cross, being a triple recipient of the Obscurus Honorifica and having received the Star of Cadia five times, how do you feel knowing you committed another great feat?” asked one of the staffers, a small off-worlder with dark hair.
“Proud, indeed, but prouder still, for I did not act alone. My platoon was with me, but also the Kasrkin of countless comrades through the 1st Company as well as our Special Troops Company and the men who operate our armored vehicles.” Marsh Silas then put his hand on Hyram’s back. “I must exalt our executive officer, Staff Captain Hyram, the credit for a successful mission must go to him as well. It was he who devised the multi-pronged attack to retake the station.”
“You do me much honor,” responded Hyram. “But without your bravery, and the dedication of every soul involved in the operation, I doubt my plan would have come to fruition.”
“So you see, he provides intellect, and I the brawn,” joked Marsh. Attendants chuckled as another of the interviewers approached. She was a tall Cadian and more regal, undoubtedly a product of one of the noble soldier families.
“We know you to be a man of cunning as well, Knight-Captain. A solar year ago, your strategy destroyed two hostile forces at Station Rapitur without loss of life among your unit.”
“As my dear friend puts it, the strategy would come to nothing if it were not for the daring and cooperation of so many Imperial forces. That night, the Militarum Tempestus, Astra Militarum, Aeronautica Imperialis, Navis Imperialis, Navis Maritimum, Naval Intelligence, and even Astartes warriors worked together to achieve success. It is when we act as one united force, rather than disparate factions, that we uphold the God-Emperor’s vision and advance His wishes.”
Marsh Silas’s eyes dropped, remembering the twelve-thousand meter freefall through a thunder and lightning storm. Stealing into the enemy trenches, rescuing the station staff, dueling with beaked, horned beastmen, fires, mud, Heretic Astartes sorcerers, and the way the island split under orbital bombardment. So much of that night remained undisclosed to the public. He cleared his throat, looked up, and smiled wider. The same interviewer brought the recorder back to her lips.
“Returning to your most recent accomplishment. To preserve our war industry, this must surely be a satisfactory feeling.”
“To protect the infrastructure of our sacred homeworld, it surely is,” admitted Marsh. His tone grew sober and his violet eyes grew steadfast and resolute. “But I draw greater satisfaction from knowing we saved over thirty lives that day. It is my regret we did not arrive sooner and prevent further loss of life.”
“It has been our endeavor, in many of our missions, to save lives,” added Hyram. “A stretch of land, a piece of machinery? These are important and worthy of defense.”
“But the soul of a loyal Imperial subject? That is vital and must always be protected,” finished Marsh.
“It is what drove us to fight at Station Rapitur as well as countless other theaters on Cadia itself and other planets within the sector.” Another of the interviewers took the lead after a brief bustle of voices and microphone prodding.
“Knight-Captain Cross, Knight-Captain Hyram, you are both heroes and rising officers. Heroes of the Siege of Kasr Sonnen, Knights of Cadia, Holn, Partox, Benefactors of the successful Lilias J. Carstensen Center of Officership and Commissariat Excellence…” His breath hitched. Marsh stared ahead, his violet eyes distant and dark. “...do you feel fortunate to serve in the 10th Kasrkin Regiment?” Marsh felt Hyram’s glance, followed by his hand on his upper arm.
“Naturally. The Red Banner Regiment is one of the oldest Kasrkin units and dates all the way back to Cadia’s foundation,” said Hyram. “Its tenets of sacrifice and service to fellow men are agreeable to us.” Hyram squeezed Marsh’s arm and the latter smiled once again.
“To be a part of it and forge new histories bearing this proud number is truly an honor,” added Marsh Silas.
“I may have taught them very much, but I assure you I did not instruct them to say that,” joked von Bracke, earning a chorus of moderate laughter. “Now, how about some closing remarks?” he asked, motioning towards the pair. Marsh Silas and Hyram glanced at one another. The latter bowed politely while the former swallowed.
“I encourage all Cadians to continue in their works for the God-Emperor and the Imperium of Man. We must forever combat the mutant, the xenos, and the heretic. Obey your Commissars, hear your Priests.” He heard von Bracken’s chair scrape across the rockcrete flooring and leather letter carriers snap shut. “I also believe all men should grow. Act anew, think anew; push yourself, so that tomorrow you may wake an improved man. This is the truest way we serve the Emperor as well as one another. We all have a destiny, granted to us by the Master of Mankind, and we will only fulfill such destinies so long as we disentangle ourselves of stagnation and complacency.”
“The Emperor protects!” von Bracken cut in. The sentiment was echoed by all in the chamber. Propagandists bundled up their equipment and led their pict-servitors away. Attendants filed through the entrance. Menials collected room lighting, dismantled props, and carried them all away. When the door finally slammed shut, Marsh and Hyram walked to the front of von Bracken’s desk and turned around. The regimental commander’s spacious office once again became still.
Sequestered within the headquarters tower of the 10th Kasrkin’s regimental depot, Fort Carmine, it was a stately place. Paintings of Bracken family heroes lined the walls, countless frames of militarum academy certificates hung between them, and the regimental standard stood in each corner of the room. Ancestral weapons from bolters to swords occupied glass display cases as well as rows upon rows of golden medals. Even von Bracken’s desk was ornate, with Aquilas and Imperialis icons carved into the sentinel wood.
A rear window provided a perfect vantage of the depot; a pentagon-shaped fortress replete with Bastion towers, a landing bay on the southwest walls, a large barbican on the southern wall, and a flagstaff in the grassy, green center. White gravel paths ran along the perimeter and countless regimental personnel, work parties, dignitaries, and adepts crossed the grounds. Behind the walls rose the spires and towers of Kasr Proelium. Formations of aircraft swept by, VTOLs buzzed overhead, convoys of heavy vehicles rumbled through the jagged, interlocking streets. Atop the distant, outer ramparts, Earthshaker batteries thundered.
This view was quickly obstructed by an immense clique of staff officers, liaisons, priests, and adepts. They clicked their heels together as the Warden-Colonel stood up, resplendent in his gold-trimmed crimson tunic and blue trousers. Twelve rows of glittering medals crossed his chest and lined the Exalted Jade Sash of Meritorious Service as well as his other sashes. Dark haired, goateed, scarred, purple-eyed, he appeared as a dashing leader worthy of the planet’s highest award, the Ward of Cadia.
His smile was fleeting, however, as were the showy expressions of the countless men behind him. Regimental Sergeant Major Boatwright, tough, clean-shaven, balding, appeared particularly unenthusiastic. Lord Commissar Debenhem, gnarled with scars and strong-jawed, paced behind Marsh and Hyram. Confessor Colton, with his crooked back, long gray beard, but immaculate white dress, eyed them suspiciously. Prefect Hampton, however browbeaten he appeared, seemed to be anxious to leave. Major Bristol, a liaison from the 54th Psian Jakals, hardly paid them any attention. Beside him, the regimental executive officer, Prince Constantine, whose tunic was as dark as his black hair, gazed out the window. When von Bracken finally walked around the desk, the Prince looked forward; his right eye was covered by an eyepatch, leaving his left searching and dark.
“Well, you did not perform too poorly,” grunted von Bracken. “I wish you two would stop taking every one of these damned propaganda reels to recite a sermon about your heroic ideas. You should talk more about the entire regiment and try to stay focused on the mission.”
“Yes, sir,” Marsh Silas and Hyram answered stiffly. They felt spittle on the back of their heads as Lord Commissar Debenhem snarled from behind.
“Just because you are showered with plaudits and awards does not give you leave to espouse and preach! You may occupy noble stations but you are officers first!”
“You would do better to properly articulate that humanity must forever abhor its enemies,” Confessor Colton added. “Your fanciful musings are not a part of the Imperial Creed.”
“However impertinent they appear to be,” cut in Prince Constantine, “we have other matters to attend to. Warden-Colonel, shall we move on?”
When the commander agreed, Constantine met Marsh’s gaze. The latter provided a small nod which was reciprocated by the Prince. He had fought alongside Bloody Platoon during the Raid on Station Rapitur. Though he was not quite a friend, Constantine was a true warrior, was respected by the lower soldiery, and did not concern himself with politics or policies.
“Quite right. It is the matter of the latest reorganization proposals you submitted.” Von Bracken drew a manuscript from the top drawer of his desk and held it up. “Tender for Additional Personnel. A bit long, but poignant nonetheless and well-written.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered Marsh and Hyram.
“Myself and my staff have read through it and our consensus agrees with your conclusion, in that specialized non-Kasrkin rated personnel filling certain roles within the regiment would free active Kasrkin to partake in combat operations and additional training. However, we wish to address certain aspects of your proposals.”
Von Bracken flipped through some of the pages. Marsh Silas’s fingers tightened and balled. “Your first proposal suggests these roles—armorers, non-combat medics, porters, quartermasters, clerks, and a clique of heavy troops—be filled by newly trained Cadian personnel. My command staff and I believe this will not be in the best interest of the 10th.”
He stood up, parted the retinue, and approached the window. He tilted his head forward as he stroked his goatee. His dark locks fell around his sun-kissed skin. The acrimonious, authoritarian attention of the immense staff remained affixed to the two young officers. Both remained as still and solemn as statues. Marsh did not quake, he merely gazed back, his violet eyes steady, piercing, and stoney. His teeth did not bare, his lips did not purse, nor did the muscles of his jaw bulge. Nor did his gaze wander, falter, nor break. He had faced fiercer foes, after all; Amilios the Rogue Inquisitor, the Warpsmith Drusus, Iron Warriors Consus and Summanus of the Silvered Maw, Major Manco the Pyromancer, and Ankhbayar and his Eyes of Wandering from the Thousand Sons. The Black Legion, the Traitor Guardsmen of the Marked Men and First of Minnath, the renegades from the Band of Dusk, even his own, previous regimental commander, Colonel Isaev, who sought to kill him. Dead or gone, but all defeated. Some withering relics in uniform would not daunt him.
The commander turned back. “The Kasrkin are the elite guard, vaunted throughout this Imperium. Our weapons, our armor, our tactics have spread to countless scions near and far. Although they might style themselves as such, they are no Kasrkin. Whiteshields, Interior Guardsmen, Shock Troops, they all look up to us, warriors who stand so close to the Adeptus Astartes. It gives them inspiration—is that not a tenet of the schola I sponsored for you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But a menial, or a common soldier, joining our ranks? Even if they will not wear Cadian carapace nor be registered as Kasrkin, that will matter little to them. What precedent shall we set by letting such attachments roam freely in the regiment? Do we want the soldier halls to fill with rankers claiming they’re Kasrkin? No! They have no right to such a claim; they have no right to bear our mantle when we are the very best of both the Astra Militarum and Militarum Tempestus.”
Marsh noticed Major Bristol bristle. The Psian Jakal was a professional but rugged looking man and the slightest derived word of the Militarum Tempestus would irk him.
“By all accounts, sir, they oughtn't be classified as the latter in the first place,” said the Major. Von Bracken glared at the officer and was prepared to retort.
“Sir, we offered this solution as the primary proposal as we believed it to be the most seamless,” cut in Hyram. “Although these personnel would not be Kasrkin-rated, they are indeed Cadians. After their training, they could interface very well with the unit. If successful, the adoption across multiple regiments would open up many more occupational specialities for Cadian soldiers.”
“But where does our unit pride go? Where does our distinction go?” asked von Bracken. “Do you really want to share those greatest glories with such personnel?”
“Frankly, sir, it’s not about pride or glory. It’s about enhancing our combat capabilities and our capacity to wage war efficiently,” said Marsh Silas.
“Who do you think you are, Guiliman himself?” snapped Debenhem. “If you want reform, go bother some politicians.” He was silenced when von Bracken raised his hand.
“But this brings me to your secondary proposal, which would be to fill these positions with specialized personnel from other Imperial institutions.”
Marsh and Hyram had debated it for many nights and stayed up late to draft both proposals. They had long-talked about the second; a platoon Enginseer to handle maintenance, Sister Hospitaller for non-field medical treatments, Sister Dialogous for administrative aid, followed by a smaller number of non-Kasrkin Cadians to fill the remaining slots.
“This would skip the need for training and would limit the logistical burden of supporting these troops. For instance, in regards to pay.” Hyram and Marsh Silas exchanged a dubious glance.
“Insofar as we understand these servants, they do not get paid as we are.”
“Precisely,” said Hampton. “Our coffers are for permanently assigned personnel to the regiment and just think of the demand if we were to grant them equal pay?”
“They are still specialists in their field who can interface, as you say, with us. The burden is quite lessened. Yet, this still leaves the issue of the supply porters, and assistants to the support squads,” said von Bracken. “You will have to give them up or come up with another solution.”
“Menials and a few adepts from the Departmento—” began Marsh, but Hampton pointed.
“The Departmento Munitorum’s contingent of the regiment cannot spare anyone to support a platoon.”
“Abhumans,” blurted Hyram. Marsh looked at his friend in shock, as did the rest of the present gathering. “Abhumans, sir. The Munitorum often forms logistical battalions out of Ratlings. A handful to serve as cooks, porters, and quartermasters would be a boon. As well, the Militarum Auxilla fields Ogryn in various roles. A squad assigned to the support section would make a dramatic difference. Not merely as ammo-haulers, but as combatants themselves!”
“You must be soft in your head, Staff Captain,” grumbled Colton. “The Emperor tolerates these Abhumans only because of their services and yet you would place them side by side with humans sculpted in his image!?”
“The Captain has a point.” Hampton hastily calculated sums on his wrist-mounted cogitator. “Such Abhumans hardly make half-pay and require far less accommodations than the average soldier, let alone Kasrkin.”
“Ogryn are half-wits and Ratlings are dirty little creatures,” complained Sergeant Major Boatwright. “Ill-disciplined thieves, but they do make for good cooks and baggage-hauling would suit such cowardly creatures.”
“You would sully the 10th’s name in incorporating such things,” muttered Debenhem. “You would make an experiment of us with those who are dirty and unclean; the Red Banner Regiment is not a magos’s laboratory.”
“But it would be an inexpensive solution that has the potential to enhance our capabilities,” said von Bracken. “Anything that makes the 10th more effective is of interest to me. Hyram, Cross, I set it to you like this: one enginseer, one hospitaller, one dialogous, an additional squad of Ratlings, and a squad of Ogryn led by their own Commissar. Bloody Platoon will be afforded these attachments and, if you achieve favorable results in the future, I shall consider expanding this model to each platoon in the regiment. Accept?”
Marsh Silas and Hyram looked at one another once more. The latter winced, but then rolled his head and shrugged slightly. Exhaling heavily, Marsh nodded.
“We understand, sir.”
“Good. I shall provide my signature and file the transfers immediately.” He took up his quill and dipped it in the adjacent inkwell. As he started scribbling, he gazed up at the pair. “I ask that you withhold on further proposals for some time, gentlemen. I appreciate initiative but there is much I must do and I cannot devote such time to these intricacies.” He put down his quill and held up his hands. “I understand you are only trying to aid me. Well, even if this one will not veil us in glory, at the very least it will increase our efficacy in the field.”
He stood up and shook their hands. “As for you two, the regiment has bestowed thirty days of leave for your recent actions. Make your arrangements and depart tonight. Dismissed.” Marsh Silas and Hyram saluted. Von Bracken and the officers returned the gesture. Major Bristol refrained, stomped by the pair, and shouldered Marsh as he did. Ignoring him, Marsh and Hyram pivoted on their heels, collected their hats, and exited the chamber.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
In the hall, they joined the teeming masses of adepts, officers, scribes, and menials hurrying back and forth. They became torrents in the headquarters corridors, ebbing and flowing like the currents of a river. The two friends navigated the course, stepping aside for retinues of scribes and saluting superior officers as they passed.
“Abhumans,” muttered Marsh as they walked underneath great banners and morale posters. “I had thought they’d refuse the prospect. Now, I fear we will be heaped with countless troubles.”
“You speak of the Ratlings? I don’t remember them much when we were still in the 1333rd other than preparing our meals.”
“I am surprised they let dirty little devils like that cook for us. I hear they are mighty fine marksmen but I doubt it. It will not be long before we are swamped with complaints of thievery. You know they breed quickly—do you want to care for some Abhuman whelp?”
“I am more concerned about the Ogryn,” Hyram admitted. “Great hulks, resilient, brave, but more muscle than brains. I doubt any of our inter-platoon literary courses will be of any use.”
“I’m afraid they may not be agreeable to the tempo we maintain in such a regiment. We might just end up leaving them behind, or, there could be worse troubles. What of their feeble minds? You remember the Traitor Ogryn we slew in the past?”
The pair came to a set of stairs, waited for the foot traffic to pass, and then hurried down. Hyram started to chuckle.
“I do, and I worry, true. But we mean to build a better future for the Imperium, surely these Abhumans are a part of that.” Just as Marsh scoffed, Hyram eyed him warily. “The soul of a loyal subject, those are your words. If one is faithful and dutiful, will their appearance truly matter?”
Marsh Silas stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He ran his hand through his blonde locks and scratched the stubble on the back of his head. Eventually, took out his pipe and tabac pouch, shaking his head all the while.
“I had wanted to continue enfranchising my fellow Cadians before we dealt with other such people.” Marsh lit the contents and flicked away the match. He puffed a few times and looked up at the ceiling. Bright white lights hung over their heads. “We have made some success, building the schola, fostering good relations between the various sects of the Cadian Militarum, and emphasizing education and inspiration within the ranks rather than dread and fear. But there is still so much more to do, and I had thought to rationalize the regimental system before anything else.”
Hyram stepped out of the main aisle of the hall and lit a lho-stick. Shoulder to shoulder with Marsh, he took a long drag and shrugged.
“We must keep our minds open to this development. That has yielded much of our success. To think, to empathize, to make better men of ourselves. Let us not forgo these maxims.”
“Those words have not lost meaning for me yet,” said Marsh Silas. “So, I will try.”
“Excuse me, Knight-Captain Cross?”
Marsh Silas looked past Hyram to see a short-haired sergeant in khaki fatigues. He was younger than the two officers and not as heavily scarred. However, he was tall and strong, and held himself with a manner of fresh confidence, reflected in his bright purple eyes. Saluting sharply, he cleared his throat. “Pardon the interruption, sir, I know not if you remember me. My name is—”
“Holzmann,” said Marsh. Immediately, he held out his arms and the tall officer embraced the rather surprised NCO. Clapping him on the back, Marsh stepped back to look the fellow up and down. Holzmann smiled sheepishly, the confidence replaced by bashfulness. “Aye, you were a corporal in the Shock Troops when I last saw ye, and a brave one at that.”
Well over a solar-year ago, Marsh Silas led an ambush against a convoy of heretics who had captured several Cadians. A complete success that had recovered much intelligence, they were surprised when the prisoners revealed they had killed their guards and planned to die fighting. Holzmann, a medic, instigated the insurrection against the traitors and broke down in tears in immense relief.
“Yes, sir. I was transferred to the 95th afterwards. I served with them during the Raid of Port Ollan and in the security cordon during the Raid on Station Rapitur.”
“The Nine-Fivers, they’re good soldiers and better friends,” remarked Hyram.
“I had not known you were so engaged during our battles,” added Marsh Silas. He looked at the insignia on his sleeve and his smile glowed. “Why, look at you now: a Kasrkin.”
“Yes, sir!” beamed Holzmann. “After you rescued me, I decided I would follow your example. I did all I could to learn and make a better soldier and man out of myself. I became a platoon medic and, despite all my fears, I gave my comrades and the enemy everything I had. I suppose it’s all paid off, for I was made a full medic and selected to join the 10th Regiment.”
“Congratulations, my good man.” Marsh and Hyram shook Holzmann’s hand. “Have you a post yet?”
“Nay, I am still awaiting assignment. For now, I am still formally a part of the Training, Integration, and Sustainment Company. I’m assisting in medicae coursework.”
Marsh Silas knew that many inductees in the TIS-Company were often subjected to a long wait. Having a ready pool of fresh replacements in the regiment itself was another of Marsh and Hyram’s approved proposals, and it served well. Gaps in the regiment were speedily filled. However, when their mission tempos declined, replacements could become stuck there for some time. It was a problem Hyram was all too aware of and was attempting to remedy.
“I pray you do not have to wait for too long, sergeant,” said the executive officer.
“Thank you. I just wish to congratulate you on your success, sirs. I will continue my labors so that I may join your ranks soon. Perhaps, we shall make war on the enemy together!”
“That is appreciated, sergeant,” Marsh said. He noticed movement in the congested hallway behind Holzmann and saw Lieutenant-Precept Gabler. Her long, wavy brown hair was wrapped into a loose regulation bun. Her green bionic optical, located on her left eye, was cold and lifeless, but her single violet eye brimmed with energy. Upon seeing Marsh Silas, she waved her hand and ushered him over.
Marsh Silas touched Holzmann on the shoulder. “Make yourself known to Bloody Platoon when you have the occasion, they’ll want to bring you to the halls for a drink.” The parties said their goodbyes and Marsh, with Hyram beside him, approached Gabler.
“Well, well, if it ain’t the big heroes?” she teased. Clasping her hands together, she pressed them to her cheek, stuck out her lip pitifully, and widened her one good eye. “Oh my, aren’t they just so grand? Why, they make the pretty ladies weak and all the laymen envious!” She gasped, pretended to brace herself against the wall, and fanned herself with her hand.
“My, you could be an actress with that kind of display,” joked Hyram.
“Not with that face,” muttered Marsh with a smug grin. Gabler laughed and punched him in the shoulder. “Yes, yes, mock all you want.”
“Later, for I have business here. How’s that fever, Silas? You look well enough.”
“It’s those propaganda paint jobs. I still feel quite ill.”
“Too bad, you ought to go to the medicae.” Marsh waved his hand. “Oh, Major Rosenfeld beckons; he awaits you both in Grigori’s office. I warn ye, there are many other officers and men there to collect their dues.”
“I imagine this will be a chewing out; I have yet to collect my wage for this month,” said Marsh Silas to Hyram. “Very well, thank you. If we do not see you before our departure, I wish you well, and I humbly ask that, when possible, you check in with Bloody Platoon in my absence. Just to, well…” Gabler flashed him a handsome smile and she took his shoulder.
“Worry not, friend, I will call on your platoon from time to time. Fare thee well, oh brothers, I shall see you again soon.” Snappy salutes were followed by affectionate embraces, and punctuated by a few playful jabs. The duo continued trekking through the tower, thankful the cavalcade of Imperial staffers thinned out the closer they came to the middle levels. After descending another set of stairs, Marsh glanced at his friend, who still smiled.
“No smart remarks, I thank you,” he said to Hyram.
“I’ve none to give. I merely thought that was far more pleasant than doing another propaganda piece.”
“Tut, tut, brother, morale bulletins.” They both snickered. “If we get to see the reels air on the network, you know full-well they’ll dub us over again.” They reached the bottom floor, composed of a wide lobby and security checkpoints. Droves of visitors, from noble patrons to menials, waited to pass through the inspection queues. Behind the bulwark of Regimental & Facilities Security Guardsmen was a long counter with adamantium bars lining the stalls. Clerks processed the denizens as quickly as possible. Arguments broke out, stacks of paperwork fell upon the counters. Wall-mounted cameras scanned the area while turrets suspended from the ceilings remained still. Tarantula Sentry Guns armed with heavy bolters pointed at the doorway. Huge posters that read, ‘The Emperor Protects,’ and ‘The Emperor Knows,’ hung on the walls behind them.
Marsh and Hyram flashed their identification papers to a pair of sentries and entered a lift. The doors slid shut, the lift shuddered, and then descended. “Blast the old man,” muttered Marsh. “He continually entertains our proposals and then complains of them. He wishes to make examples of us but we must sing only his tune and not our own.”
“We must tread carefully. Von Bracken can see sense, but he seeks glory, success, anything that garners clout. All will make for an impressive record, one that would serve him well when he doffs his armor and dons the robe of a politician.”
“A far cry from Isaev, who coveted accolades yet knew not what to do with them.” Marsh puffed on his pipe. “It is well von Bracken appreciates initiative. All he needs is proof.”
“Precisely. As with all of our plans, it will forever be proven in war. Remember, Silas, almost everything we ever do to advance the Imperium must be vindicated on the battlefield.”
They enjoyed the remainder of the ride in silence. One by one, the numbers above the doors descended until it reached the level above the dungeon. With a hiss, the cabin opened and the two friends entered a world of gnarly, rockcrete bricks instead of the smooth, gray walls on the surface. Beneath Fort Carmine was a vast network of passages, storerooms, various barracks, and arsenals. Just like the humble Cadian-pattern infantry field bunker, the installation joined the subterranean lairs of Kasr Proelium, joining the city together as one great fortress.
They approached a heavy security door guarded by Literati—guards of the Adeptus Administratum—clad in armor and black mantles. “Did you get your slate-monitron inspected?”
“I attempted to, but the damned enginseer blamed me. He specified the machine functions per its design and thus should not be tampered with. Any problem with it lies with me.” Again, they held up their papers, the checkpoint supervisor cleared them, and two of his men opened the door. Its locks thunked and hinges squealed. “And now I’ll have one to bother me right in Bloody Platoon.”
“Do not judge the red robes so harshly. Just as the Adeptus Administratum and Astra Militarum have their obstinate faults, so too does the Adeptus Mechanicus. Fret not, for I have a candidate in mind that might suit your platoon’s idealism.”
“Oh, now I am filled with dread.”
Beyond the entrance was a vast, brightly lit Pursary chamber. Unlike the dirty, old bricks of the tunnels, this room bore a resemblance to the clean aesthetic above ground. Great columns bearing Aquilas, Imperialis, and winged skulls gazed down from the walls. Massive, stark, white lights glared brightly overhead. Much like the headquarters lobby, a long, barred counter stretched across the room. Clerks spoke through the bars, slid sealed packets across the counter to waiting personnel. A cordon divided the lanes to each stall along the service board; there were only a few enlisted lanes which were packed with personnel while several lanes for officers remained less occupied.
Marsh Silas shook his head as they walked over. “Why hasn’t he reviewed our equal measures proposal for the payroll? There are far more enlisted men than there are officers, they should not have to stand for so long while officers march in and out with regularity.”
“He dismissed the first outright. I told you we should not have proposed a withdrawal of distinction between commissioned and enlisted men, that’s far too radical for his noble self.”
“But he has not responded to the equal division of lanes proposition, either.”
“You heard the man, he tires of our proposals for the time being. There is naught we can do but wait for his review. Don’t try to give up your space for them; last time did not end well for you nor the enlisted man.”
Marsh Silas shook his head, he pointed at the men in the opposite lanes with his hat. “You know she would not stand for that,” he said.
“No, she would not,” agreed Hyram. He then tapped Marsh on his shoulder. “Do you really think the Abhumans will be trouble?”
“It’s not just them. Sororitas, an enginseer, an extra Commissar? New faces, new authorities, and the dynamics will change. I still have to speak to Cornelius and Fremantle about it all. Then there is Jacinto. How will these newcomers react to being around a psyker?”
“Aye, just because Bloody Platoon is acquainted with their kind does not mean they will be. They did not know Barlocke.”
“It will be hard work. I see many troubles. Yet, I think we may create cohesion among the unit in the end.”
“Even with many doubts you still believe in success.”
“I must. We all must, if anyone is to gain anything in the end.”
“Only you will gain something from it,” came a dry voice.
Marsh Silas scoffed and turned around. Sidling up behind him was Major Bristol. The Tempestor Prime wore a severe set of ebony fatigues fringed with silver trim. Scarred, with a short stubble of stubble, and short, combed brown hair, he possessed keen, confident brown eyes that were forever vigilant. A black beret was tucked into the strap on his shoulder. Below it was the 54th’s insignia; the sharp, triangular, stylization of the infamous jakal.
Bristol strutted up, lit a lho-stick, and took a long drag. Exhaling, he blew a cloud of smoke directly into Marsh’s face. The platoon leader waved his hand, scattering the mist, then grinned.
“Major Bristol? If you are here with us, then who is on latrine duty?”
The Jakal snorted, then tapped Marsh’s new awards, some of which he pinned himself, albeit with great reservation. “Look at all those medals. I could melt you down and turn you into a new Golden Throne.” He finished his lho-stick, dropped it on the rockcrete floor, and stamped it out. When he looked back up, his chiding smile had faded and his eyes were more insightful than before. “Cross, why is it that you and Hyram must always make yourselves known at headquarters? None of your fellow officers appear as often.”
Marsh Silas smiled smartly, folded his arms across his chest, and faced Bristol entirely. He shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth. “When one has a great many plans to enact, he cannot sit idly. Especially if it is to benefit many, or even one. For that chance, he must at least try.” Bristol rolled his eyes and scoffed. He threw his hand in the air, paced momentarily, then stepped back.
“Not this destiny business again. The Emperor you and I serve has great power over us all but you, my misguided man, think too much of yourself. Quit this business. You’ve got a section of men to lead, Cross.”
“If we are in want of guidance in the dispatch of xenos, we will be sure to come to you,” interrupted Hyram. “But you need not advise us in regard to leadership. That is above your station.”
“Consider it amicable advice from one soldier to another,” said Bristol. “Look to your men and not these fanciful ideas. Shoot at only what you know you can hit, you see?”
“Cross! Hyram!”
The pair were drawn to the open gate at the far end of the commissioned lanes. Major Rosenfeld, their company commander, stood before the gate. Brown haired and tall, broad in his chest, his thin mustache and monocle gave him a more bookish air that clashed with his simple duty uniform. Despite his station, he did appear as a rather kindly man, with his soft eyes and cheeks.
With a wave of his hand, he ushered them over. Marsh and Hyram spared no further words or expression on Bristol. They joined Rosenfeld at the gate, who promptly spun on his heel and led them outside. The party passed row after row of scribes, clerks, and menials pounding away at terminals and cogitators. Streams of paper flowed from printers, totaling the regimental finances from payroll stock to costs from provisions. These men and women, adepts of the Estate Imperium, Departmento Processium, Departmento Gradio, Questors, Assay Corps, Office of Records and most of all, Office of the Imperial Pursary, were robotic in all their motions. None emoted nor spoke. Clad in plain brown robes and forced to wear bionics as their eyes long worn from industrial lights and constant reading, they appeared dour to Marsh Silas.
Along the wall opposite from the service cordon were large vault doors. Each was guarded by more Literati and turrets. Monitors strung along the walls surveyed the floor. Servitors pushed massive carts loaded with armored and locked payroll crates towards one of the great vaults. A diamond-formation of Literati clad in heavy carapace armor surrounded them. The army of clerks, still typing, hardly noticed the depository crew or the squeal of the cart wheels.
Marsh and Hyram’s footsteps were drowned in the orchestra of tapping keys and gurgling of printers. Rosenfeld led them to one of the private officers marked ‘Ordinate’s Office.’ Inside, another of the regiment’s adepts, Ordinate Grigori, raced his hands along his keyboard. Mounted on his back, a mechadendrite arm equipped with multiple quills signed countless documents on his desk. Segments peeled away with their own quills to scribble on long scrolls held between the teeth of servo-skulls. With lightning rapidity, these banners were filled, then a mechanism caused the scroll to roll up into the servo-skull’s mouth and it departed up a chute in the ceiling. Another mechanical arm appeared from Grigori’s back, slid papers envelopes stamped wax seals onto. Bundles of letters were deposited in servo-skulls bearing lockboxes who followed the scroll-bearers.
Old, heavy set, bearded, clad in black robes, Grigori wore a headpiece with a visor that came over his upper face. Many tubes ran from the device into his skull and a pair of thin struts jutted from the temples. Each bore a lamp which highlighted his work. No less than eight bionic eyepieces decorated the hood, all of them fixated on the multiple monitors before him and the various pages of parchment suspended in the air.
Rosenfeld cleared his throat. Grigori merely made a grunt. One of the sockets in his visor lifted from the headpiece and examined the walls. It scanned the hundreds of lockboxes, stamped with various High Gothic letters, that lined the back and side walls.
As he searched, Rosenfeld faced the pair. “Cross, this has to do with you. Hyram, as my executive, I wanted you present as a witness.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably once more. “Just to ensure all is in order. I understand you have an eye for such things due to your previous post.”
Grigori finally opened a box and took out a packet. He dropped it on a tray to the side of his cogitator. Sliding a series of documents out from the same box, he brought it before his side-eyes.
“Lieutenant-Captain Cross, based on your rank, bonuses granted by your awards, your noble stipend provided by Cadian High Command, and after taxation, is two hundred thirty-five thrones.” Marsh took his packet from the tray but Grigori’s second arm held up one of the pages. “The Pursary bequeaths to you the property known as the Cross Manse with all its furnishings and will deposit into your pursary account, subtracting a service fee, the combined capital of Lieutenant-Colonel and Madam Cross. Withdrawals from the account can begin after one cycle.”
Marsh Silas stared down at Grigori. His lips parted and his eyes widened. “What?” He did not wait for an answer and snatched the paper from Grigori’s metal hand. The ordinate continued to work, undisturbed. Marsh’s eyes scanned across the page. “It says here my grandsires have passed on and that I am to inherit their property and capital. But how can that be? I was long removed from any kind of will they left, as was my mother.”
Wordlessly, Grigori held up a short manuscript. Hyram took it, put on his eyeglasses, and leafed through the contents. Slowly, and in equal shock, he shook his head.
“I know not what to say, my brother, it is all confirmed. All this paperwork is in order.”
“So there can be no mistake?” Rosenfeld asked. “You can be absolutely certain?”
“Indeed, sir. This was not made in error, it clearly states the investigation concluded his grandsiers passed on naturally and there was no interference on the part of Marsh Silas, his mother, or any other concerned party. A copy of the will is present and indeed mentions him as the sole inheritor. How much is it?” Marsh Silas did not speak, he merely pointed at the bottom of the page he held. Hyram leaned over his shoulder. “My word, what a sum. I didn’t think they had so much…”
“Well, Cross, it appears you are the true head of your family now. I do apologize for your loss.” Rosenfeld shook his hand, though Marsh’s own grasp was quite limp. But the young platoon leader’s lips twitched into a smile and he emitted a small laugh. It broke into a chortle that made Rosenfeld rear his head in concern. “Lad, have you all your wits about you?”
“Indeed, sir, and I thank you for your sympathy, but waste it not on those cretins. There is no love lost between them and I.” Marsh Silas spun around and took Hyram’s shoulder. “This is it, Seathan! This is the Emperor’s reward for the good work! What was stripped of me has been delivered, and with my grandsires gone, I can bring mother out of that damned slum on Macharia and back to Cadia! We ought to put the transfer orders at once!”
Marsh Silas and Hyram collected all the necessary paperwork, saluted their superior, and hurried out the door. They drifted by the desks and slid through the gate which was promptly shut behind them by a Literati. But as they passed by the line, Marsh noticed Major Bristol remained. He stopped and whistled, catching the Jakal’s attention. Grinning, Marsh Silas held up the document.
“What’s all that?” asked Bristol.
“Destiny.”
