Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

“Spit it out, you ain’t gotta swallow it,” Marsh gasped, letting go of the woman’s hair. Panting heavily, he turned around and zipped up his trousers. Taking a cloth resting on the edge of the bed, he swabbed the sweat from his broad chest, neck, and face. Finished, he put on his olive drab undershirt and his tunic. At first, he planned to leave immediately, but he glanced over his shoulder at the soldier he was with.

She was the one with curls he noticed before. Still on her knees, her body bare, she wiped her sweat away with a towel. Leaving suddenly did not sit well with him and he sat on the edge of the bed.

The room was small, with a bed in the center, a stand on either side, a tiny bathroom with a toilet and shower, and a small golden Aquila on a pedestal. The rockcrete walls bore false wooden paneling, allowing the dull light of the bedside lamp to make the room glow warm. The only true adornment was a poster hung over the bed. Two uniformed Guardsmen, one a handsome man, the other a gorgeous woman, stood in front of a bright figure bearing a vague appearance of the Emperor. Marsh couldn’t read most of the text on the top and bottom, but saw the word, ‘duty,’ more than once.

He looked back at the woman. Her violet eyes were vibrant in color but there was dissatisfaction in her gaze. The curls which were so charming earlier were mussed and loose. What was her name? He hadn’t learned it. That too made him feel worse. Neither spoke of the kasr they grew up in, the training fortresses they attended, which Youth Corps regiments they joined, or the proud day they were emitted to the Shock Troops or Interior Guard. Cadians could speak that way to one another—it was like coming across a long-lost friend. But the words evaded him tonight.

It even felt wrong to watch her. She went about the room, collecting her belongings. She noticed him staring but she went on undisturbed. Nervously, Marsh rested his hands on his thighs, running them up and down to his kneecaps just to occupy himself. When she went to the bathroom, he thought about leaving again but now he thought it would seem like fleeing. What would she say then? Would she be hurt or find him pathetic?

The water ran for only a few moments. She reappeared with the dampened cloth pressed to forehead. She was wearing her undershirt and trousers now.

“It was not supposed to end that way,” she said after inhaling deeply.

“I know it,” Marsh grumbled. The Interior Guardsman came around to his side of the bed but stood apart from him.

“Care to tell me why?”

Indignation spiked; who was this impertinent soldier of a Home Regiment to question him, a Shock Trooper, who fought far more battles than her? He might be bound to Cadia for the time being, but at least there was the chance he’d be honored with off-world service! But his impulsiveness dissipated; he remembered that was not going to happen soon. Arguing was out of the question, he knew what he’d done, or rather what he hadn’t. He couldn’t explain it as he hardly understood it himself.

“You’ve had enough men on you tonight,” he told her, “I doubt I’d make much of a difference at this point.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away.

“It is our duty,” she told him. Marsh felt uncomfortable and did his best to hide his expression. How could she not feel exhausted from it? Did she not feel like an animal on an Agri-World, bred over and over again to produce offspring for the slaughter? Was this truly a call to duty she felt or was it something she grudgingly put up with lest she fall under suspicion of dereliction? The questions lingered on his tongue but the courage to air them was fleeting. She’ll run to a Commissar and see me thrown in the stockade, he thought.

“How many children have you born?” was all he managed to say. She stopped, looked up quizzically, then proceeded to complete her uniform.

“Thirteen. I bore my first when I was but sixteen,” she answered flatly as she slid her winter socks on. “With the Emperor’s blessing, I’ll have another.”

Marsh leaned forward and held his forehead. Immediately, he knew there were women with many more children than that. Again and again, forced onto the delivery table, screaming, bearing more soldiers. He lowered his hand and held his chin to keep his jaw still.

“You must think about them often.” It slipped out all the same.

“Why would I?”

“But, they are your children. Your flesh and blood. Do you not bear love for them?”

Now completely dressed, she came around the bed again. Her gaze was harsh but her smile was hard and mean.

“Have you gone soft, Staff Sergeant?” she scoffed. “My children were whisked away from me as soon as the Medicae surgeons cut them from my belly. Wherever they dwell, they are under the protection of the kasrs with the guidance of the soldiers who have come before us. The sooner they learn, the sooner they can join us in battle. There is no time for love. Let the nobles fret about marriage and where to send their pampered little sods. For us, the common soldiers, we bolster the ranks; ours is the true contribution.”

She lifted her shirt and ran her hand across the bulbous, brown scar. “Each time I have brought life unto this world, it is here they’ve cut. Tis no scar but a glorious badge of honor. I have born Cadians who will hold the line against the heretic, the traitor, the xeno, and mutant one day. I am proud to bring such soldiers into the service of the God-Emperor.”

All Marsh Silas could picture was a mewling little babe, surrounded by Medicae surgeons, orderlies, medical-pattern servitors, and Sisters Hospitallers. Their silvered scalpels caught the stark white operating light, illuminating the blood from her belly. Amid those pathetic cries they stood by, uncaring and disassociated, until some gloved hands carried the babe away. Then, they set about stitching the incision; it was as if nothing had occurred.

Did those tiny, helpless hands grope for a mother and father’s embrace? No matter if they did or not, they were placed somewhere dark and cold, attended only by an indifferent servant. The Emperor needed soldiers but was this how He wanted them to enter life? If he influenced everything, Marsh Silas wondered, why did he give loving parents to some children and not to others? How did He make such decisions? Marsh’s wider family was cruel, but his own parents loved him. It just didn’t seem fair.

The woman stepped closer and he gazed uneasily at her grim smile. “Any woman who whines at the loss of their child is a weakling unfit to call themselves a Cadian. Any whelps they produce will be fragile, sickly, and unworthy to bear arms. I doubt they would survive long enough to make it to the Month of Making. Those who carry themselves with strength and piety will bring about greater warriors for tomorrow. You’d do well to remember that, Guardsman.”

She departed while Marsh Silas sat in the room for a while longer. The words rang in his ears. It was not long before he heard other voices, like whispers. ‘Keep your mind closed like the gates of a kasr and ye shall never fail in your duty,’ one senior enlisted man shouted on the day he arrived at the training fortress in Kasr Polaris. ‘If they are to be opened, ye shall be left defenseless to the ruminations of heretics and the vile influence of xenos!’

That sergeant seemed so sure of himself. He believed in every word passing between his lips. Marsh Silas, a wide-eyed youth with dreams of becoming a Kasrkin and hero, trusted him immediately. He still did. Surely, there were temptations before. If he could resist those, certainly he could withstand Barlocke’s.

But what if the Emperor intended him to listen to this Inquisitor? If He wanted Marsh Silas to open himself up to these ideas, why wait until now? Why did he have to spend his entire upbringing rejecting all that came before? Priests spoke of divine lessons—was this the one he was to receive? Was Barlocke the Emperor’s agent or another fool spouting nonsense? He was not like those crazed pastors who were quickly swept off the streets or those weakling tithed troopers who secretly worshiped strange, boorish gods. Barlocke’s words wove into him and he found sense in them, even if he did not understand or grew upset.

Is this what he meant? To fill one’s head with questions and then to search for the answers? It seemed so much easier said than done. Was everything he learned wrong? Faithful, loyal, incorruptible servants—priests, instructors, Commissars—they could never be wrong. Or was it like what Barlocke said of the Primer? Page upon page of useless, empty words, pictures of lies, monsters so ill-defined. It bore into him then when he first saw the likes of Orks and tasted defeat at the hands of the Eldar. To think of it now filled his mouth with the same bitter taste. Maybe Barlocke really was speaking the truth.

Drawing his prayer beads from around his wrist, Marsh rubbed them between his palms. Slowly at first, then a little faster.

“My Emperor, I beg Thee for focus, for calm, for You to show me the way out of this affair. I know not what to do and I…I need You. Please, what do I do?’

Could he trust him? The tales of witch hunters did not match Barlocke. He did not persecute, judge, or purge in the way their stories described. Yet again, those teachers of his lied. Or they were wrong, mischaracterizing an entire caste of people based on tall-tales. Marsh knew some Inquisitors were bloody-minded; he’d seen those of the Ordo Malleus serving the Internal Guard destroy entire kasr blocks worth of inhabitants just because a few coveted heretical icons. He hadn’t given it another thought. Now, he could hear those citizens crying for the Emperor to save them from His very own servants. Mysterious and unknowable, yet Barlocke would do no such thing he believed. After all, he promised he would protect the men of Bloody Platoon and none of their number had fallen. Possessing that much will and strength was enough to make Marsh Silas envious, but he knew what Barlocke would say. It was not just those facets alone: it was knowledge that granted him power. The knowledge bestowed by those tenets he espoused earlier.

Why was he sitting there agonizing over such matters? There was a rogue psyker on the loose, people—children—were missing and dead, and heretics were prowling throughout the countryside. Yet here he sat, befuddled over some strange riddles set forth by that odd man! Marsh Silas keeled forward, yanking his prayer beads from his wrist, and rubbed them hastily in his palms.

Marsh couldn’t stay in this blasted room any longer. He truly was a coward, running away from every dilemma presented to him this day. There would be no further contemplation.

Donning his cap and coat, he walked into the hall. Arnold Yoxall was passing through, his face coated in a thin film of sweat.

“Giving up so soon?” the Breacher asked teasingly.

“Jus’ wanted to have another drink with the men.”

“You won’t find any company down there; most of them are putting the women on their backs. I expect we’ll be bunked down for the remainder of the night.”

Soldier halls offered free accommodations to Guardsmen on furlough; all a man had to do was pick a room and bunk down. Some larger, higher quality rooms were reserved for those who could pay. Those rooms were vacant this evening, although he was sure Barlocke would rent one if he ever returned.

“Well, it’s a quiet drink for me, then.” Marsh’s reply was mired with feigned enthusiasm. He sorely wished for the company of the Walmsley brothers, Drummer Boy, or any of the NCOs. Yoxall patted him on the shoulder as he walked by.

“I’d join you friend but there are seeds that need sowing.”

He strolled into his room and slammed the door shut behind him. Marsh, feeling gloomier, drifted downstairs. All the chairs and benches were empty. Crumb-covered plates and half-empty glasses littered the tables. Here and there, puddles of spilled liquor sat on the false floorboards. A few menials cleaned up the mess.

Marsh ordered some food from the keeper and was served two slices of Grox meat with a side of toasted, buttered bread, and a pile of steamed vegetables. Instead of Amasec, he just drank water. The alcohol was catching up to him. Although he did not feel dizzy or sick, he did feel much lighter inside. He shouldn’t have indulged so greatly; it was no doubt playing havoc with his troubled soul.

Eschewing a fork and knife, he merely picked one slab up and chewed on it. Salty and hearty, it tasted good even if it was cold. Without conversation, his eyes wandered. He watched the cooks in the back clean up the kitchen and stow away their pans, pots, and utensils. When he glanced back into the main room, his eyes fell on the stool where Barlocke sat. His unfinished glass of Amasec was still there.

It was impossible not to recall the Inquisitor’s speech, like malignant murmurs of a ghost’s sorrowful voice trapped within one’s own mind. It would all come down to trust, wouldn’t it? The Ordo Hereticus snuffed out the slightest sign of heresy or treason. Anyone who didn’t prove to lock their heart was a suspect. Why would Barlocke encourage him to find a key to open it? Why, why, why? If he did indeed follow in this path, would the Inquisitor turn and imprison him, or maybe he was going to taint his mind in some way? The possibility was terrifying.

He was a psyker after all and it seemed to matter so little. Sanctioned psykers Marsh fought alongside before were often decrepit, bent-over creatures inanely muttering to themselves. They wore odd clothes, carried strange staves, and were prone to maniacal outbursts. Ghent was forced to execute plenty in Marsh’s time. None stayed for long, dying in the fray of combat or destroyed by the very power they attempted to manifest.

But Barlocke was different. He’d been everywhere, or at least it seemed that way, and the man said he spent his life studying. Surely, he was adept, skilled, and enlightened to concepts Marsh Silas could not even dream of. An Inquisitor knew more of faith than almost any servant, perhaps better than some dour priests. Faith meant just as much to Barlocke as it did to Marsh Silas, and the longer he dwelled on it he started to believe it meant even more. If he was willing to endanger himself for the Emperor like that, he couldn’t be a liar. Surely, he was more attuned to their Lord if he understood His true will.

To become a more able servant for the God-Emperor, not by promotion, accolade, or favor, but by becoming a greater individual than he already was? It seemed irresistible. Even if it did not come to that, if he said the Emperor wished him to learn, then why should he refuse? Disobeying his benevolent overlord’s demands would make him a traitor, nothing more. He feared that more than death.

The Imperial Creed dictated all subjects had a place under the Emperor. Every single one had a role to play. Perhaps, to join this Inquisitor in his journey for a better Imperium was his. Was it that simple?

“Stop,” he said, holding the sides of his head. “Please, please stop.”

He lingered at the bar for a while longer. Time seemed to drag by. The hall’s comforts were all but lost on him. Each bite of food grew blander, the water did not quench his thirst, and he felt strangely cold despite the heaters. All he felt was exhaustion and not even the liquor-induced, full belly kind of fatigue a Guardsman on furlough enjoyed. Going to sleep on the bar seemed enticing, but even in his sorry state he’d know that was unseemly for a platoon sergeant.

Marsh pushed the plate away and dropped a few pieces of throne-gelt on the counter. “Enough of this.” He was going to clear his head. Buttoning his coat collar and tugging his hat low over his hair, he journeyed into the night air. Snowflakes spiraled and danced in the lamplight. It was getting even colder. Marsh slid his gloves on and his boots crunched in the snow. Although he had no particular wish to see any one person and perhaps, he did not realize it, he was following the same path Barlocke took.

Utility servitors, equipped with small plows in front of their chassis, trundled along the sidewalks and roads to keep them clear. Snow banks were accumulating in front of the Aegis Defense Lines and other barricades. Interior Guardsmen manned their posts, keeping a strict vigil on the street and the sky. Some stamped their feet to shake the cold from their legs. Others rubbed their gloved hands together. All were smoking lho-sticks and Marsh could see the little orange glows they emitted in the bleak light of the lamps and searchlights. At the keystones of these street-by-street defenses were tanks and armored personnel carriers. Their engines were active and warm so many Guardsmen could be found gathering around them. Conversations were quiet, the muffled voices lost in the wind. Frequently, a squad would lock hands and pray together, their heads bowed into the circle.

Banners fluttered and flags snapped, intercoms played quiet hymns, and priests led silent candlelight processions. Marsh Silas heard and saw but did not experience any of these sights and sounds. Like a wraith, he passed slowly along, unnoticed and blind to all around him. When he did look up, he could not muster those feelings of pride and comfort. What he would give to go back to camp; obey orders and stay silent like Ghent said. Life in the Astra Militarum seemed deceivingly simple when the Commissar put it like that; maintain wargear, obey the Imperial Creed, leave no enemies standing, and die fighting. Clear, plain, and simple.

He found himself stopping next to a Bastion Tower. This one had a magnificent poster of an Imperial Guardsman storming through a breach in a wall, his bayonet poised and his face filled with zealous determination. Again, only a few words stood out to him in that jumble of text at the bottom; ‘faith,’ ‘duty,’ and ‘courage.’ It was like staring at the man he was just a few weeks earlier. Oh, it all felt like years now. How he longed to be that devoted man again. Yet, the longer he looked, the more pity he felt. Was the man capable of becoming more?

He walked on, passing bunkers, casemates, halls, and fortified habitation blocks. Looming out of the darkness emerged one of Kasr Sonnen’s fortified cathedrals. The forward section was a long, rectangle with high columns along the exterior walls. At the top of each column was an eagle with a bowed head. The face of the building bore an immense, ornate golden sculpture of the two-headed Imperial Aquila. One head gazed to the left—its open eye denoted by a large, glistening orb of ruby—while the right head bore no eye. Underneath it was a circular armaglass window of deep maroon, pale blue, verdant green, and more than a few panels of gold and slimmer vertical panels on either side of it.

At the very end of the cathedral was a vast cylindrical tower. This too was defined by intervals of columns, though they lacked the eagle figurines. Instead of a great armaglass dome at the top, it was just a flat roof, much like the base section. Casemates were built along the top, the guns protruding over the edge. Hydra Flak Platforms and their accompanying searchlights scanned the sky. Gilded armor plates were attached to the high rockcrete walls; it was just as much a fortress as it was a beautiful house of worship.

“The Cadian touch,” he murmured.

He crossed the street, approached the bottom of the steps, and gazed upwards. Even in the dim illumination of lamps and spotlights amid the cloak of night, the cathedral looked absolutely exquisite. A kasr just wasn’t complete without one: no Imperial city was. First, he made the Sign of the Aquila, holding his hands out at first, then bringing them back over his heart, and then holding them high over his head.

Depicted in the vertical, stained armaglass were images of the Emperor with His great golden suit and flaming sword. There were also holy men, Cadian heroes, Saints, and battles of ancient lore. To these honored dead he saluted and held his hand to his brow for a long time. Even as his arm grew sore and the cold stung his eyes, he gazed up at the reliefs. They brought some peace to him in their graceful familiarity, yet his heart was still roiling in tumult.

“What are you doing down there, child?” called a gruff, raspy voice.

At the top of the steps was a Chapel-Master wearing a long black robe with red trimmings and a tall white hat with a golden skull emblem on the front. Purity seals of all colors adorned his dress. In his hand was a long, gray staff with a torch at the very top, casting a flickering orange bloom around him.

“Paying my respects, Chapel-Master.”

“Come up here.”

Obeying, Marsh removed his hat, made the Sign of the Aquila in greeting, and bowed his head. The Chapel-Master afforded him a respectful nod. He was an old fellow with dark skin, gaunt features, and a long dark beard with gray streaks. “If you wish to pray, go inside. It is far warmer, child.”

“Many thanks, Chapel-Master.” Marsh Silas bowed again.

Inside, a row of square columns bordered either side of the protracted, carpeted nave leading to the Emperor’s shrine. Golden eagles, serving as buttresses against the ceiling, adorned the top face of each pillar. The entire ceiling was painted! Holy Terra was portrayed as extending its light to the furthest reaches of the Imperium and a particular bolt wrapped around Cadia. Imperial Saints from Gersthal of Imperial Army fame to Josmane of the Ecclesiarchy were depicted as winged individuals contributing to that light. Similar murals were painted on the walls between the armaglass windows lining the sides of the cathedral. They displayed Cadian battlefields below lush green plateaus and rich blue seas on Imperial worlds which knew no war: a reminder as to why Cadians fought. Chapters of the fabled Adeptus Astartes, such as the Angels of Vigilance who often came to Cadia in times of great strife, were also honored.

Rows of ornate wooden pews were on either side of the nave. Many soldiers, auxiliaries, and workers were seated in prayer. Some bowed their heads silently, others sang or hummed soft hymns, and a few held their arms up in their quiet zeal. Instead of paying homage from the pews, others ran their hands across the frescoes or knelt before them in the aisles and bays. Sisters Fenestrus clad in flowing azure robes polished the windows, skillfully removed cracked sections, and fused replacements into place. Although fires crackled in grand braziers and torches hung on every wall, every person appeared as a shadow.

Marsh Silas stopped at the crossing. A choir of Sisters Madriga sung an enchanting litany, their crystalline voices rising and resonating in the vast chamber. Clad in robes of white, their backs were to the nave. Before them was a curved, marble pulpit fashioned in the shape of the Aquila. But standing behind it was a towering golden statue of the Emperor, clad in power armor, the point of his sword fused into the marble pedestal, his head gazing not down at his subjects but to the heavens. All that could have made it appear more beautiful and glorious would be an armaglass fixture at the top of this encasement to allow the moonlight to dazzle the Emperor’s visage!

It felt good to be here. Marsh Silas liked to come to cathedrals, chapels, and other places of worship late. Less people congregated in the halls and he could hear the choir or the priest, if they so happened to be delivering a moonlight sermon. Throughout the morning or the day, so many hundreds or even thousands of voices harmonizing with the choir made the words unintelligible.

“It is good that young men such as yourself pay respect to the God-Emperor during the time of rest,” the Chapel-Master remarked.

“I am glad to honor our Lord, but I must confess I am selfish also. This night, my mind is troubled. I feel as though I ain’t been the most able o’ His servants. I came to find peace in His halls.”

The aged holy man motioned to the nearest pew. Marsh made the Sign of the Aquila before he sat and gave space for the elder to join him. Stroking his beard, he gazed sternly at Marsh Silas.

“Tell me, child, have you begun to doubt the Emperor’s word?”

Marsh Silas gazed over the heads of the choir at the mammoth statue. He leaned forward, resting his hands in his lap.

“The doubt I cast is upon myself. My life is the Emperor’s to use and I forever wish to be His servant. Yet, I wonder if there is a way for me to become a truer soldier. And, I wonder still, if it is a selfish thing, to want to become more than I am, even if it is to serve the God-Emperor.”

It was an honest but careful response. A Guardsman did not just have enemies to fear when it came to his survival. One wrong joke, a slip of the tongue, an admittance of any kind could see a man punished, cast out, or killed.

“We all wish to become better servants for the Emperor. Such a thing is not frowned upon, child, and is met with reward both in life and afterlife. But if you begin to covet these gifts, then it shall become sin, not service. It is the act that counts.”

“But are our acts ever enough?”

“Never,” the Chapel-Master said. He held up his finger in a scholarly manner. “We must spend our lives, however long or short, in constant and complete service. In life, even our greatest feats shall not suffice. When we, the faithful, perish only then have we fulfilled the God-Emperor’s mandate. For you see, service and sacrifice are intertwined.”

“I jus’…” Marsh started after a time. He leaned back and exhaled sadly. “…can I still be loyal, able, and faithful, if I carry on like I always have? Or must I change? Will that change be better?”

When he looked at the Chapel-Master, his heart sank. He could see by the glazed expression in the old man’s eyes that he did not understand his question. That, or he no longer cared for the conversation. Instead of searching for something to say, the priest rose and tapped the shaft of his staff on the rockcrete floor.

“Son, commit to your duty as it commands and obey the tenets of the Imperial Creed. Abhor the heretic, the xenos, the mutant, and defy all that which refutes our faith, and ye shall not stray from the Emperor’s light. But, I think you would do well to give the Emperor twenty ‘Pax Imperiums,’ before you leave tonight.”

Marsh Silas managed to smile and the Chapel-Master took his leave. He took out his prayer beads, clutched them in his palms, and bowed deeply.

“Pax Imperium, Pax Imperium, Pax Imperium…” he murmured. It was not the first time he was ordered to say those words of recompense. The words felt heavy on his tongue but the breath he spent on them seemed so light as to be lost. “…Pax Imperium…Pax Imperium…Pax…Pax Imperium…” His eyelids and brow wrinkled and his mouth had to form the words before he found the air to speak them. “…Pax Imperium…”

Two hands slid over his shoulders and slid to the base of his neck upon his final utterance. Marsh’s eyes opened and he stared ahead at the choir. One of the braziers behind him illuminated a long shadow which engulfed his own.

“You came here to outrace your mind,” Barlocke whispered, his lips right beside Marsh Silas’s ear. “But there is no escape, is there?” He let go and sat down in the pew behind the platoon sergeant. Marsh did not look over his shoulder.

“What is it that you want?”

“Well? Has your soul been soothed?” Barlocke asked, ignoring the question.

“You can’t tell?” He cast a glare over his shoulder. The Inquisitor sat with his legs crossed and his arms spread across the backrest as if he was lounging. With his head cocked, he peered at Marsh from under his wide-brimmed cap, exposing only one eye.

“I told you, I do not delve into you often.”

“Why restrain yourself?”

“Is it so hard to believe I respect you?” Barlocke mused. “Besides, if I delved into the mind of every single individual I met, what use would I have for language? Conversation is far more entertaining. Awful enough when I use my powers against the heretic. I wish not to discuss what lurks within. You would find it incomprehensible and all the same, that is better.”

Marsh turned forward again and folded his arms across his chest. He heard Barlocke slide forward. “I apologize for disturbing you earlier. The timing of it was not right.”

“Methinks there would never be a good time for somethin’ o’ that nature,” Marsh replied flatly. He exhaled and shook his head. “I…I did lay with a woman but I didn’t go through with it entirely. I couldn’t go through with it,” he admitted. He shook his head. “Never thought about it before. Just figured I was doing my duty and that was enough. Not once did I look back and think myself fortunate to have known my mama and papa. Now, I might have children who’ll never know me, children who could have just as easily perished as those poor souls we dispatched. I’m wondering if I’ve cheated them out of something. Perhaps myself as well.”

“It must be a beautiful thing to hold your newborn babe in your arms,” Barlocke said.

“Must be why Miss Asiah truly won’t give up on her boy.”

“Galo was all she had. The clothes on her back, her home, her new occupation, all of that was given to her by the Imperium. But not that little boy. He was hers and she loved him. Imagine losing the one you loved most.”

“I did once. My…”

“I know.” Barlocke stood up and joined Marsh Silas in his pew. He doffed his cap and ran a hand through his thick locks. “Life in the Imperium is unforgiving, harsh, and without ceremony. I wish little babes did not need to be taken away to a life of war. It happened to you and I find you just so sorrowful.”

“But I’m proud to be a soldier,” he insisted. “I thank the Emperor every day for making me a Cadian.”

“Yet you must forever stand against the Ruinous tide. Before you were born, you were destined to become a Guardsman. You played no part in that decision. Should we not be able to make our own decisions? To have some agency in our fortunes?”

“Some who stray from the light choose to become traitors and heretics,” Marsh scoffed.

“Very true. I plan to make great changes for the Imperium. Part of that glorious restoration does entail the defeat of such enemies.”

“But doesn’t the Imperium stand glorious already?” Marsh implored.

“Is any empire great when it conscripts its children before they are even born?” Barlocke countered. “Yes, this Imperium is magnificent. But it is not perfect, it is not as great as it can be, just as we are not as great as we can be. We must work, not just fight, to ensure it reaches perfection and failing that, to improve it from this monstrosity it is now.”

He leaned in close, his eyes energetic and indignant. The two men faced each other now and Barlocke squeezed Marsh’s shoulder. “Silvanus, from planet to planet there is corruption, stagnation, poverty, oppression, and far worse. If the Emperor strode among us now, I am certain He would be ashamed of us. He would undo such wrongs. As an Inquisitor, I shall do so in his stead. The Imperium must change or else it shall wither away and die. We will die with it. So, we must change for it is we the people who make the Imperium, not the other way around. That is what I want.”

Marsh Silas took Barlocke’s wrists and lowered his hands. It was a slow, sweeping movement, and their hands rested on the space between them.

“And what do you wish of me?”

“I want you to come with me. We will avenge those children and your departed comrades, we will uproot the enemy from his holes, and we will slay the rogue psyker. But that is just the first step. Afterwards, together, we can set about the great work I envision for our people. I see great things in you, I see the potential you have. You will help me bring about that change. A destiny beyond soldiering.”

The words did not cut into him so much as sink. A familiar feeling dawned, a stirring deep within which called not only on his mind and heart, but his very soul. Such passions rose when he marched with the regiment, when he saw the standard waving grandly in the thick of battle, when they sang songs of prayer. It was more than pride, it was zealotry, and it was those very feelings which made him desire to serve, fight, and suffer for the Emperor and the Imperium. Here, with this every vexing Inquisitor, he felt it once more.

Barlocke smiled sweetly and looked down as if he felt bashful. “Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes. I do not ask you to make your decision now. There is much time ahead of us for you to think. Allow me to keep my promise. We were to have a time of relaxation and all I’ve caused you is turmoil. It is time to correct that.”

“We’ve ate and drank our fill tonight. Excess is…”

“Hush now, friend. I will make sure nothing happens.” Barlocke stood up and offered his hand. Marsh Silas regarded it, smiled, donned his cap, and took his hand. The Inquisitor wrapped his arm around Marsh’s and together they strode out of the stoic cathedral.