Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

The Valkyrie touched down, jostling all the occupants. Those who were asleep stirred, blinking and stretching groggily. Marsh Silas sat at the end of the passenger compartment with Galo. Across from him, Hyram sat with the prisoner and Barlocke. As for the Ranger, she sat placidly and betrayed no emotion. Giles, Eastoft, Carstensen, Drummer Boy, Honeycutt, Babcock, and the other Guardsmen who found themselves in the same aircraft were all staring at her. Even the door gunners could not help but stare at the unconcerned xenos.

The engines died down, the cabin depressurized with a loud hissssss, and the ramp lowered. Hyram was the first one on his feet.

“Look lively. Let’s hand off the prisoner and return to the barracks.”

“C’mon lad, I’ll take you to your mama once this business is done,” Marsh said to Galo, who was sleepily clinging to his arm. Yawning, the boy nodded and got up. He was wearing Marsh Silas’s headset which doubled as ear defenders. Hand in hand, they trundled down the ramp.

Army’s Meadow was bathed in light from sentry campfires, spotlights, industrial lamp towers, and lights strung between barracks, tactica control centers, and regimental headquarters. Enginseers conducted repairs on battered Chimeras back from the field and crewmen toiled alongside servitors. Infantrymen who spent time in the field disembarked, rejoining comrades or reporting to officers and NCOs. Others trickled from the Skyshield-pattern landing pads and returned to their billets.

Colonel Isaev and a security detail waited for them at the bottom of the pad. Members of Bloody Platoon who touched down in previous flights were waiting, too. Word had spread that the Aeldari prisoner was on-base, so many came over to look. Murmurs passed and hissed throughout the congregation.

Logue and Foley were entrusted as the Ranger’s escorts. They brought her up to Isaev and pushed her down onto her knees in front of the regimental commander. Isaev studied her for a moment, then spit on the ground beside her.

“So, you’re the xenos scum who shot several of my men. Thank whatever heathen gods you mongrels worship that we have not cleaved your head from your shoulders. Today, you receive the rare gift of the Imperium of Man’s restraint. I assure you, it shan’t last long. Resist, attempt to escape, or disobey an order, and your death shall be swift.”

“I would expect nothing less, Colonel,” the Ranger replied politely. Grimacing, Isaev grabbed a lock of her hair, yanked her to her feet, and pulled her so close.

“Do not test me, filth! Speak in such tones again and I’ll let my men introduce you to their bayonets. A standing order in Cadian regiments is to keep your blades sharp at all times. You’ll never come across a dull blade among our wargear.”

To make himself truly understand, he forcibly turned her head and then motioned to a throng of Shock Troopers. Many were still holding their M36 lasguns and they proudly held them up to display their bayonets. Many more held up mono-blades and trench knives. Cold steel shone yellow and gold in the base’s amber lights.

Colonel Isaev let go of her hair and shoved her back to her captors. Captain Giles approached her, took a sack hood from his cartridge belt, and placed it over the Ranger’s head. “Take this thing to the stockade. No harm is to come to it until the Alien Hunter arrives,” Isaev ordered, pointing to a blockhouse located beside headquarters. As she was dragged away, the Colonel shook Barlocke’s hand. “You have my thanks, Inquisitor. To put Cadia’s security above your own goals was very honorable of you.”

“I serve Cadia as I do every planet in this Imperium, Colonel,” Barlocke said with a curt bow. He swept his arm in Bloody Platoon’s direction. “These men are deserving of credit as well. We came together as one to seize this foe.”

“Indeed. 1st Platoon did well throughout the operation. I have many reports indicating their valor. A decoration ceremony will be held in the coming days. Lieutenant Hyram?”

“Sir?”

“Your ability in the field has been noted as professional and efficient. It appears 1st Platoon is in good hands.”

“Thank you, sir!” Hyram exclaimed, then beamed at Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant grinned and tapped the Lieutenant on the back.

“Dismissed.”

Colonel Isaev and his retinue of staff officers marched back to headquarters. The mob of Guardsmen around them thinned out as well. Bloody Platoon lingered, respectfully waiting for their commanders to come with them. Barlocke walked in front of Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen. Taking off his hat, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

Copying him as clandestinely as possible, Marsh was happy to take in the salty air too. It was far fresher than the dry prairie grass. So much fire and smoke had filled the air during the operation he thought he wouldn’t be able to smell again. Even though he relished the opportunity to fight the heretics, it felt very good to be back in Army’s Meadow..

Inquisitor Barlocke nodded at Junior Commissar Carstensen.

“You fight very well. I hope you think the same of your new platoon.”

“They’re capable Guardsmen,” was all she said. Barlocke nodded and turned his attention to Marsh Silas.

“And you are proud also?”

“I am always proud o’ these men,” Marsh Silas affirmed. He glanced over at Hyram, who was gazing at him. Smirking a little, the platoon sergeant reached over and biffed the officer’s shoulder plate. “Even this one.” Bashfully, Hyram chuckled and looked away.

“I knew you had it in you, Lieutenant,” Barlocke said kindly. “For now, I bid you a fair evening. I must away to my devotions; there is an old friend I must contact.”

The trio watched the Inquisitor drift towards headquarters. Once he was gone, they looked down at Galo who seemed quite disinterested in the whole affair. Marsh Silas and Hyram smiled at one another and without a single word started walking to the refugee camp. Bloody Platoon tramped and trudged along behind them. They assembled just outside the cordon for the civilians. Many were heating up their rations or combining contents in a pot of stew boiling over the largest campfire. Those at the tertiary fires disinterestedly poked the embers as they waited for the communal meal. Huddled together, they shivered under ratty blankets and worn cloaks. But their heads perked up when they noticed the Guardsmen approaching. Some stood up.

“Miss Asiah?” Marsh asked. None of the civilians moved. “Asiah?” he asked again, louder this time.

Something stirred in a tent at the end of the camp. The flap was cast aside and Asiah appeared. Dark bags hung under reddened eyes. Her face was dirty from the day’s work. In the firelight, Marsh saw the clean tear tracks on her cheeks. Her hair was bound in a fraying bun.

“Silas?” she murmured as she approached, as if in a daze. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped. One hand went to her stomach and pressed firmly. Did she feel the phantom of her babe kicking within her? Tears flowed like rivers and when she spoke, there was nothing but a choking sound. Smiling, Marsh took the headset and blanket off of the lad. “Galo!” the mother shrieked.

“Mama!”

Both burst into tears and ran for one another. Asiah scooped the boy into her arms and spun around, laughing and sobbing by turns. She smothered him with kisses and held his head under her chin. Again and again, she said his name while Galo wept. Each sob wracked his tiny frame, shaking him as if he were bearing a terrible chill. All the trepidations and fatigue which once clung to him like some dark shroud fell away with each teardrop. Soon, he laughed and nuzzled his mother. Asiah dropped to her knees and they embraced lovingly.

Many of the onlookers, civilians and Guardsmen alike, smiled warmly. Some of the mothers, although happy, turned away. Old fathers covered their eyes as the scene drew on. There was a misty look in many of the Shock Troopers’ faces. Violet, lavender, and purple eyes remembered mothers, however crisp or vague. Marsh Silas recalled the smell of fresh buttered rice, a pair of fingers playing with his blonde hair, and being wrapped in warm arms in front of the firelight.

He felt Hyram squeeze his shoulder. The Lieutenant was smiling tenderly and his own eyes shimmered. Even he saw his beloved Sydney. Seeing his gaze, the remembrance on each and every soldier’s face, and the delighted mother’s joyful cries, Marsh finally understood.

Asiah finally stood up with Galo at her side. A gust of wind rippled from offshore, stirring the fires, pulling at scarves, and tousling the woman’s hair. It spilled free from its knot and flowed with the gust. She stared back at Marsh Silas, smiling with a warmth he never thought she’d feel again.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice fragile. “There is no more to say but thank you.”

Instead of continuing, she walked over and kissed him. Even when their lips parted, she held onto him for several moments. Blinking and blushing, the platoon sergeant slid his arms around her. Eventually, they parted but only slightly, arms still around one another.

“Tis but the work of the Imperial Guard,” he said with a shrug. He bowed his head. “Miss Asiah, I beg for forgiveness. My faith in the Emperor and my hope should have been much stronger. As strong as yours. I am sorry and ashamed to have ever doubted you.”

She slid her hands down his arms until their fingers laced. Asiah squeezed them reassuringly.

“What was said, what was felt, what was done, matters no more,” she said, her voice still threatening to break. You have delivered my son to me. May the Emperor bless you.”

Asiah turned to Hyram, embraced him next, and went to kiss him. The Lieutenant turned his face a little so her lips landed on his cheek. Asiah parted from him and went over to Carstensen. Just as the former lifted her arms, the latter swiftly held up her hand.

“You’re welcome,” she said, quickly and bluntly.

Asiah went on to every man in Bloody Platoon to kiss them. By the time she finished, there were fifty red-faced Guardsmen beaming with pride. Going back to her son, she whispered something in his ear. Stepping forward, he looked up at Marsh Silas, clicked his heels together, and saluted.

“Thank you for bringing me back to mama!”

Marsh saluted back without hesitation. Hyram followed suit as well as the rest of Bloody Platoon. Junior Commissar Carstensen’s hands remained by her side. But when Marsh and the others gazed at her for long enough, her icy gaze shifted back to the youth and she raised her hand.

“Emperor’s blessings, miss,” Hyram said. “May He always look over you and young Galo.”

“And may He ever protect you and your men,” Asiah replied. Hyram knelt in front of Galo and ruffled his hair.

“Thank you for your company, young sir. Be good and listen to mama, now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Atta boy.”

Marsh bent over and patted the lad on the cheek.

“You’re a good little fella,” was all he said. Bloody Platoon said their goodbyes one by one, turned around, and trudged back to their barracks. Marsh was the last to leave, joining Hyram and Carstensen. Over his shoulder, he watched Asiah and Galo disappear into their tent, hand-in-hand.

They walked in a piecemeal fashion, nobody really talking, some striking a match to light a lho-stick for a comrade. In that moment, the monotony seemed to return. Patrol, combat, return to base; the ancient rhythms of their war. But each man held his head in a thoughtful way and their pace was not as swift or soldierly as before. In this way, Marsh Silas knew their mind was drawn back to the goodness of it all. It was one of the sweetest feelings they had ever known.

In the barracks, Marsh Silas doffed his wargear save for his khaki uniform. He made his rounds, ensuring all his men were well. Sleeping arrangements were made for Carstensen in Honeycutt’s makeshift first aid station. It was far bigger and the contents could be moved around so a cot could be added. Although he was ready to lay in bed and let sleep take him, he volunteered his services. Just as he was about to join her, Hyram poked his head out from behind his curtain.

“Marsh Silas? Spare a moment and join me.”

He brushed aside the curtain. Hyram sat at his desk, lighting a wax candle seated in a tin pan instead of his lamp-pack. “At ease.”

“Sir.”

“Sit please.”

He dropped onto Hyram’s personal chest which sat beside the desk. The officer smiled at him. “I thank you for these past weeks. I was close to giving it all up when you found me drunk. All my hopes seemed so foolish up to then but you reminded me why I want to be a Shock Trooper. I was such a burden to this platoon before. I am surprised you decided to help at all.”

“Well, before I thought you was just some fella who thought he’d like to play soldier so he could jump up to an office somewhere. But you was runnin’ away from one. It reminded me…” he laughed a little and tapped the table with his palm. “Well, I always wanted to be a Shock Trooper. All I ever wanted to be, since I was but a boy. Here I am, Emperor be praised. You wanted the same. Just tried to think o’ what you was going through and I guess I found a piece o’ myself.”

Marsh cleared his throat awkwardly. “I must admit, I thought o’ letting Ghent take you.”

“I know. It’s alright.” Hyram laughed. “I would not blame you. Although, I’m quite relieved you did not.”

“Aye, me too. You’re a good man. I shoulda seen that earlier.” He thought of Barlocke and grinned. “I was lacking in my empathy, I suppose.”

Hyram smiled and looked down at the parchment on the table. He’d written something in fresh ink, though it appeared unfinished.

“Junior Commissar Carstensen has recommended you for decorations. By my observations, you’ve distinguished yourself several times since we’ve come under Inquisitor Barlocke’s command. I’m drafting the citations for you and the other men right now. I shall take it to Captain Murga in the morning.”

Marsh was about to speak up but the Lieutenant silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I shan’t hear any defense. Tis only right to do so.” He only scribbled a few more words before looking at Marsh thoughtfully. Slowly, he turned the page and slid it towards the platoon sergeant. “Can you read this?”

Looking between him and the sheet, Marsh released a heavy breath and leaned over it. He squinted and mouthed a few letters he recognized.

“By…the…rec…rac…”

“Rec, that’s correct. Go on.”

“…c…ca…co…I can’t do it, sir.”

“The word is, ‘recommendation.’ It’s a long word with five syllables—”

“Syllables?”

“Look at the first two words. ‘By,’ and, ‘the.’ Each one…” he thought for a moment here. “…makes one sound. Each sound a word or s part of a word makes is a syllable. ‘Recommendation,’ has five. Rec-o-mmen-da-tion. Try it, from the beginning.”

“By, the, rec…o…mmendation…”

“Good, go on.”

“By the rec-o-mmendation of…L…L…” Marsh grumbled and rubbed the back of his head. One hand balled up some of his hair and the other scratched the scruff on his cheeks. “Why’re you making me read this?”

Hyram sat his field-quill down, folded his hands on the desk, and gazed excitedly at him.

“You are teaching me war. In return, I’ll teach you your letters. A fair exchange.” He reached out with one hand.

Blinking in surprise, Marsh Silas gazed at the citation card, then at Hyram, and finally at his hand. Looking back up, he scoffed and waved the Lieutenant off.

“No disrespect, sir, but you ain’t no teacher.”

“Nonsense!” Hyram blurted. “I taught my son how to read and write. I am sure I can teach a scallywag like you. If I have a hound in me like you say, then so do you!”

“Now that you mention it, you’d probably have an easier time getting a dog to write than me, sir.”

“Nevertheless, I am willing to try. Are you?” Hyram frowned and tapped the card with his other hand. “You can read a map and make out numbers, but neither a tome or a document. Don’t you want to know what the rest of it says?”

Marsh Silas pursed his lips in an unsure fashion. Slowly, his gaze fell back to the citation. Most of the words were just bizarre combinations of squiggly marks to him. Here and there, a letter was legible, but put together even the characters known to him were jumbled. The longer he stared, the more he felt baffled by them. Yet, he grew intrigued. Years of watching staff officers pour over Data-slates, letters, and plans flashed through his memories. Adeptus Administratum Scribes in myriad offices throughout the kasrs scribbled and scratched incessantly on winding sheets of parchment. Even these lowly sorts who could not even muster the courage to do battle knew what the words meant. Priests opened their holy books and made thunderous speeches in the name of the Emperor. All his life, he could never read along and never understood any of the marks written on the pages. From youth to soldier, he was always on the periphery of their knowledge.

Setting his jaw tight than ever, Marsh Silas took Hyram’s hand. The Lieutenant grasped him firmly and with his other hand squeezed his wrist. Two determined gazes and steadfast smiles met in the flickering candlelight.

***

“By the order of Cadian High Command and Segmentum Obscurus Command, the following Guardsmen of 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment are hereby awarded the Crimson Skull for treating wounded men under fire. Step forward: Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, Sergeant Jameson Honeycutt, Lance Corporal Third Class Walcott, Lance Corporal Fourth Class Maurer, Lance Corporal Second Class Palle, Lance Corporal Second Class…”

In step with the other awardees, Marsh Silas took six paces towards Colonel Isaev. Their khaki fatigues were freshly pressed. Each one wore their medals and ribbons on their overcoat; medals were fastened to the upper left side of the breast, medallions decorated the center part of the same side, and ribbons decorated the right. Each man was clean-shaven, their hair was trimmed, combed, and gelled with pomade. Marsh wore his hair in a side part. The smell of standard issue soap and shaving cream hung in the air. Both the platoon sergeant and the other personnel wore low-peaked caps with black bills.

The entire regiment was assembled in the wide, paved courtyard. Officers stood with their command squads in front of their respective units. All were clad in crisp fatigues and soft-cover headwear. Many were already decorated earlier in the morning and their chests glowed with previous awards. Even the refugees were present for the occasion, although they were a few meters distant from the main body of Shock Troopers.

Colonel Isaev finished reading the transcript and was approached by two officers carrying moderately sized wooden chests. Each one was made from polished redwood and there were gold carvings decorated the latch. Under the lid was a blue cushion covered with medals. The Crimson Skull was a silver medal with four golden skulls facing each cardinal direction. Each skull was connected by a black cross with a circular ruby embedded in the center. The medal itself was suspended on a silver and gold clasp; the ribbon consisted of a red column in the center, two thin white strips on either side of it, and two medium sized columns bordering those. A golden bar ran along the top of the ribbon.

Marsh felt lightness in his chest as the Colonel fastened the award to his tunic. It joined two rows of gold, silver, and bronze complemented by an array of colorful ribbons. There was his Merit of Terra, an honorable award for postponing his demobilization several years ago. He was proud to bear it; it was a mark of great distinction among the Astra Militarum because it signified a man who embraced the opportunity to serve despite the many perils he faced. Other awards, such as the Administratum Medal, were still worthy of distinction. Guardsmen who protected the establishments of the Administratum were entitled to such a decoration; he remembered staving off several waves of cultists who tried to seize a Departmento Munitorum arsenal to better arm themselves. Of course, there were his Eagle Ordinary decorations but he did not vaunt this as much as his single Eagle Extraordinaire. Although it too was a golden Aquila medal, the ribbon colors were reversed; two gold columns flanking a blue bar. He earned it during the Battle of Pylon 4,559; a glorious day in which the young Whiteshield of the 540th charged a heretical gun position, cleared it with a grenade, and under intense fire attacked a second position. Upon the opposite of his breast were his Ribbon Intrinsic awards; although not medals, he was proud of these unit commendations.

Not all of his awards were happy memories, however. Below his ribbon rack was the Triple Skull. A large square medal with a thinner, horizontal bar running across its center. On the bar was a large white skull with smaller, bronze skulls on either side. Only the few survivors of destroyed regiments received such grim awards. Those who served in the 540th Youth Regiment—most of Bloody Platoon and some men sprinkled throughout the other companies—wore it.

Colonel Isaev shook his hand and they exchanged salutes. He was not a man to overly praise a Guardsman for his medals; after all, most of his chest was covered in them. After Isaev finished pinning the last medals, he took a single step back while the chest-keepers snapped the lids shut and walked back. “You have fought long, hard, and well. Your Service to the Emperor, the Imperium, and Cadia have not gone unnoticed. Serve Him, follow…”

My, my, my, dear Silvanus, don’t you look handsome with all those ribbons on your chest? Marsh gritted his teeth. Barlocke’s voice came like a cool whisper whispered directly in his ear. He could practically feel his lips by his earlobe and his hands grasping his shoulders. He looked around and found Barlocke standing apart from the formation. Leaning in the entrance of regimental headquarters, he folded his arms across his chest and gazed at the ceremony. Although he could not make out his expression entirely, Marsh could tell Barlocke was quite amused rather than enthralled.

Snapping his attention forward again before anyone noticed, his smile faded and he set his jaw. Oh, I beg your pardon. I’ll let you enjoy your little trinket ceremony. Once it’s over, fetch Hyram and join me by the stockade.

“…For the Emperor, for the Imperium, and for Cadia!” Isaev shouted. The regiment’s echo was thunderous. They were dismissed and the platoons dispersed. However, the majority of personnel remained in the courtyard. Friends in opposite units who had not seen each other in weeks regaled one another with stories of action and daring. Men congratulated one another for their new decorations. Marsh Silas navigated countless handshakes, back-claps, and embraces as he tried to get to Hyram.

The Lieutenant was shyly shaking hands with Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft, for he earned the Heroic Achievement Medal, Gallantry Star 3rd, Militarum Medal 1st Class, and the Junior Commandant’s Cross for leadership. Before he could reach him, Captain Murga snatched his hand and shook it firmly.

“Well done, Cross, well done. I was very happy to see you in front of the regiment again.”

“Thank you, sir, that means something coming from you.”

“I’m very proud to have men like you under my command.”

“And I am honored by your leadership,” Marsh replied earnestly but hastily. Hyram was disappearing into the crowd and he could feel Barlocke ushering him on.

“Keep up the good work and one day you might find advancement again. Remember, we fight for Emperor and Imperium, but we earn a wage and the Guard is a place where a man can make himself.”

“Yes, sir!”

Marsh appreciated the Captain’s kind words even if he was detached at the moment. Eventually, he collected Hyram and the pair proceeded to the prison block. Barlocke was leaning against the wall next to the security door. Two grim looking sentries were standing guard.

“You certainly took your time” Barlocke said, smirking.

“Tis a soldier’s sacred tradition,” Marsh huffed, “such a thing should not be rushed.”

“Oh yes, yes, your very fine ceremonies, speeches, flag waving, and congratulating each other. Your baubles of gold and silver are second rate to the knowledge of good works.” Barlocke led them through the door and talked over his shoulder. “You’re a man of stouter convictions, you should learn to appreciate the act and not the trinket.”

“These ain’t trinkets,” Marsh defended, “these here medals mean something. Each has a story to tell.”

“Spare me, you can’t learn much of a man just by glimpsing at his chest. There may be a soldier who has done a great deal of living and partaken in many adventures yet wears but one medal. You won’t learn anything from a glance.” He glanced back, disinterested. “Those medals would do you more service if you sold them.”

“Such a suggestion is unthinkable, man,” Marsh growled.

“I am in agreement, Inquisitor, you should not make light of the deeds these medals represent,” Hyram added.

“Oh, you both have so much to learn,” Barlocke sighed and quickened his pace. They journeyed down the halls and passed dozens of empty cells. At the end was an adamantium door instead of barred barriers. Two men stood on either side and they stood at attention, weapons out and pointed vertically. “You’re dismissed.”

“But Inquisitor—”

“Make haste!”

The two men scurried away. Barlocke inputted the code and the door was released. Inside was a reinforced rockcrete bastion with only a small barred window on the opposite wall. One lightbulb hung from the ceiling, far out of reach of even the tallest man. A cot suspended from the wall was to the right, a chair and table were under the window, and to the left was a toilet. The Ranger sat cross-legged in the center of the room, her eyes on the window. All she wore was her white coat over her black field suit.

She did not turn when they walked in. Marsh’s hand rested on his laspistol holster as the door closed behind them. Even though she was not clad in armor and was stripped of any equipment, he knew that she was dangerous.

“Here she is, our prize,” Barlocke mused. Marsh was certain this would get a reaction out of the pompous alien but she did not twitch, shudder, or reply. This made the Inquisitor laugh. “My colleagues, although I am quite capable in handling this matter, I dare not deny the Ordo Xenos their quarry. Inquisitor Sault, an old friend of mine, will be arriving in two days’ time. Until then, this individual is in my custody.”

Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a confused glance. Barlocke turned around, arms folded across his chest and his ponytail hanging over his shoulder. “Until he arrives, the regiment will be remaining encamped. You two are hereby assigned as the Ranger’s guards and you shall remain with her until her departure.”

“Sir, we do have a platoon to lead,” Hyram reminded him.

“I should think the Junior Commissar is quite capable of handling their affairs in your absence,” Barlocke replied airily and raised his eyebrows.

“What would you have us do? Stand by and look tough?” Marsh mumbled.

“Oh, naturally,” Barlocke tittered, patting Marsh on the cheek as he opened the door to leave.

“You will not stay?”

“Oh, I must finalize my plans! Very busy matters to attend to. I trust Sault to deal with her. Why, the man has instruments that put the fear in me and there is very little I fear. He’s rather…creative when it comes to these methods. I’ve seen him prolong a xenos’ torture—pardon me, interrogation—for days on end. By the time he’s through with them, you can’t even tell what kind of xenos they are. Or rather were. Ooh, I do shudder at the thought.” He smiled charitably. “I’ll be off then. Hyram, here’s the code.”

Clang! The door shut and Marsh was left with Hyram and the prisoner. It was incredibly silent within the cell.

“That is your friend,” Hyram said.

“I’d be lying if I said he don’t scare me sometimes,” Marsh said, still gazing at the door. Both men turned around and looked at the Ranger. Her back was still turned and she sat within the circle of light cast by the bulb. Together, they walked around to face her. She opened her eyes and gazed up at them. Some of her dark locks spilled over her pointed ears or flowed around her face.

After a few moments, Hyram raised his hand. “Hello—”

“Don’t talk to it, sir,” Marsh said swiftly.

“Greetings, human.”

“Shut up,” the platoon sergeant snapped. “Not another word.”

“Enough of that, Staff Sergeant. She can do no harm to us in this state.”

“Xenos can’t be trusted, sir.”

“Hush,” Hyram said. Exasperated, Marsh rolled his eyes and stepped back. The platoon leader smiled politely and bent over. “I am Lieutenant Seathan Hyram.”

The Ranger met his eyes for a few moments. Her small lips tugged in a half-smile.

“My name is Maerys.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Well, we’ve been acquainted one way or another, Lieutenant. It was the two of you who discovered me and who played so great a role in my capture.” Hyram was amused by this and, chuckling, jerked his thumb over at the platoon sergeant.

“This is Marsh Silas.”

“Don’t tell her my name!”

“A very peculiar moniker,” Maerys said, looking at him.

Grimacing, Marsh crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Taking out his pipe, he filled it with tabac leaves and started puffing. After he waved the match out, he flicked it at the Ranger. It hit her white coat, bounced off, and fell onto the floor.

“You should be acting more appropriately, Staff Sergeant,” Hyram admonished with a frown.

“Sir, why’re ya being so nice to this thing? Xenos are scum and enemies of the Imperium. Did you not know that?”

Hyram suddenly seemed embarrassed. Rubbing his arms as if he was cold, he went over to the table and sat in the chair. His gaze grew very distant and then fell to the floor.

“When your days are long and dull, when there are no views other than four walls and one door, and your company consists of statistical sheets, transfer orders, and material forms for as long as I have and you’ll soon forget everything your headmaster ever taught you.”

“Well, consider this remedial training, sir: xenos are a tricky lot and these ones are the cleverest of the bunch, jus’ like Barlocke said before.” Marsh stepped forward, leaned over, and poked her hard in the shoulder. “How do you know our tongue? Your puny brain ain’t got enough smarts to understand it.”

Maerys’s expression was unimpressed. Her brow relaxed as if she was tired and she leaned back, propping her slender arms on the floor.

“Mon-keigh, I’ve lived many decades and come across countless peoples. The galaxy courses with countless, variant voices. Even your Gothic tongue has divergent, multitudinous forms. Out of all the languages I’ve learned and encountered, yours was the least challenging by far.”

“You’re just saying that, xenos wench.”

“I am speaking your tongue at this very moment. Believe it.”

“All my instructors said—”

“And how can my brain be so minuscule in comparison to yours if my people are a ‘tricky lot,’ as you say? Certainly, to be clever, you must be intelligent.”

“Well—”

“How many tongues do you happen to know, Marsh Silas?”

Before he could say anything, she pressed on. “If you think your intellect superior, fetch my Long Rifle and read the Runes along the strap to me.”

“Oh, that won’t work. He cannot read all that much,” Hyram said immediately. Marsh Silas slowly turned his gaze towards his commanding office. Finally aware of what he said, the Lieutenant winced and rubbed his cheek. He offered an apologetic shrug.

“Thank you for bringing that up,” Marsh growled. He paced around the room. Each glance at the Ranger’s distracted expression made him angrier. It roiled in his stomach and he searched and searched for something to say.

“Well, we caught you, so what do ya think o’ us now, harlot?”

“Certainly surprising,” she chuckled in a chiming voice. The confidence Marsh felt when he came up with the answer flew away like Army Meadow’s yellow flower petals in the sea breeze. Inhaling sharply, he puffed on his pipe and glowered at her. Hyram continued to glance between the pair.

Before either Marsh or the Lieutenant spoke, Maerys uncrossed her legs and stood up. “I shall say, I am quite intrigued as to why I still draw breath. In my experience, you Imperials tend to shoot anything that doesn’t look like you. Even when it does, you still end up shooting.”

“Orders.”

Marsh walked in front over and opened his mouth. Smoke rolled out in a thick gray cloud. It hung between them momentarily before he released a big breath. The cloud wafted over to her. Maerys’s nose wrinkled and she swept her hand in the air to break up the cloud. Turning his pipe, Marsh poked her stomach with the neck of the pipe. “Where’s the rest of yer warhost?”

“Staff Sergeant, we don’t have any orders to interrogate her.”

“We don’t have any orders not to.”

“I know not of any warhost gathering to attack Cadia.”

“The bitch lies,” Marsh said to Hyram. Putting his pipe back to his lips and he backed away.

“I assure you, my people have no vested interest in your planet at this time. Our intentions lie elsewhere,” Maerys implored.

“Pretty typical for scouts to land before an invasion.”

“Invasion? Preposterous.”

“Just tell us your numbers and where to expect your warhost.”

“I cannot, for there is no such force.”

Marsh stormed over, grabbed her by the collar of her tunic, and threw her at the table. Hyram jumped out of the chair just as the Ranger landed against the edge. Just as she stood up, Marsh grabbed her shoulder and hit her in the stomach with his other hand. The blow was enough to send her into the chair.

Just as he was about to strike her again, Hyram grabbed Marsh by the back of his tunic, wrenched him away, and stood in front of him.

“What are you doing, sir?”

“Me? What of you!? We have orders to guard the prisoner, not to harm her!”

“Barlocke did—”

“I am making it an order! You will not lay your hand upon her again, understand?”

“Sir!?”

“Understand, Staff Sergeant!?”

Marsh took Hyram’s hands off his chest and smoothed out his tunic. The medals jingled as he did. Although his face was drawn into an aggravated grimace, he was surprised by the officer’s tenacity and firmness. As much as he disagreed and as disgusted as he felt the Lieutenant did not reciprocate his hatred for the xenos, he was a Cadian Shock Trooper.

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good.” Hyram fixed his own tunic. “Apologies.”

Marsh just nodded. He looked at Maerys. The Ranger was still sitting but did not look frightened or particularly pained. She looked even more placid than before. It was infuriating that she took it all so well!

“Don’t you want to know if these aliens are coming?” Marsh asked Hyram. “We need to be ready. What if they attack before the Alien Hunter arrives?”

Hyram scratched one of his sideburns thoughtfully. He seemed rather nervous. Marsh grabbed his shoulders. “Lives could be depending on this.”

“There is a warhost.”

Both Cadians looked at Maerys. She looked up at them; she had too different colored eyes. The left was a sharp and icy blue; the right was a golden, glowing amber. “But it does not come for Cadia. It gathers for a destination far from this cluster to counter a foe you cannot comprehend. If the Farseers speak true, then it is a graver threat to my people than you are. I shall say no more, but I assure you, the warhost does not come for your planet or your people.”

Marsh scoffed dismissively and expected the same reaction out of Hyram. But the Lieutenant walked over, knelt in front of her, and placed his hand on her knee. Maerys looked down in surprise but did not recoil.

“Do you swear this to be true?”

“I was not here to observe your people. I was making my way back to render aid to Craftworld Ulthwé, whom I have assisted in prior travels. Tis a mere matter of rest before continuing my journey, for the Craftworld resides within the Eye of Terror. I remained only for the half-starved child I found roaming in the waste.”

Her voice was slow, deep, and convicted. It was enough to even make Marsh Silas pay attention. Staring into her cold eyes, he waited for Hyram to speak. All he could see was the back of his platoon leader’s head. He made no movement or sound.

For a few moments, he worried the Ranger had cast a spell over him and was now in control. He did not know if these Aeldari could perform such an act but he knew they were capable of anything. Slowly, his hand fell to the holster attached to his belt once more. In a deliberate manner, he unbuttoned the leather latch.

When Hyram finally turned around and bore no signs of change, he felt relieved. But there was another expression, one of shock and realization. Standing up, he ran a hand down his face and pleadingly faced Marsh Silas.

“We cannot let her be tortured by the Alien Hunter.”