Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Next morning, Marsh Silas and Hyram stood at-ease in regimental headquarters. Standing on the opposite side of the deactivated hololithic projector, Colonel Isaev and his immense staff stared back at them. It was a wall of experienced officers with scars and bionics. A few Scribes waited to scribble notes on their long, winding sheets of parchment. Servo-skulls buzzed and other surrounding staff members tapped away at cogitator

Both men had dark bags under their eyes and their faces were taut. Marsh Silas felt his heartbeat increasing the longer Isaev studied Hyram’s written report. His eyes scanned back and forth, back and forth. Occasionally, his eyes narrowed or his brow furrowed. None of the officers around were looking at the report over his shoulder, merely gazing grimly at the pair. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were the only ones bearing softer, concerned expressions.

“You say, ‘the prisoner revealed her warhost’s destination after physical means and intense questioning.’ Would you care to elaborate, Lieutenant Hyram?”

“Yes, sir. We sought to overwhelm her with vigorous, prying questioning to wear down her resolve. Thus, it came down to a matter of fists and the prisoner finally gave up this information.”

“You should have started the other way around,” Isaev muttered. “The report lacks one aspect. Did she give any reason as to why an Aeldari warhost would seek to attack Cypra Mundi?”

“Yes, sir. She…the xenos said they wish to weaken our grip in the Segmentum to facilitate further troop movements to other battlefronts as well as use it as a potential staging ground to strike at more vulnerable sectors.”

“Leave it to xenos scum to disrupt our effort to staunch the corrupted blood which flows forth from the Eye of Terror like an oozing wound. Unsurprisingly, they wish to fracture the bulwark which protects this Imperium. Our failures and defeats benefit the xenos just as much as they do the Archenemy.”

“Colonel, we should pass this information onto Segmentum Command. The Aeldari are arrogant people, more so if they think they can fight the fleet there. By launching a surprise attack, they think they hold the advantage. With the fleet on standby, they shall find an open maw ready to devour them,” Captain Giles instructed.

“Very well.” Isaev folded his hands behind his back and assumed a stately posture. It was as if he thought he stood before a great pavilion and was ready to deliver a speech. “Gentlemen, you have done Segmentum Obscurus a service as well as the Imperium at large. Our empire is beset by crisis after crisis and the aversion of one more will save many thousands of lives. For that, I thank you.”

But he approached the hololithic projector and gripped the edges. His gaze grew menacing. “That does not excuse your disobedience in the face of clear, regimental-wide orders to do no harm to the prisoner. You should not have even been in the alien’s cell. You did not request permission to conduct any kind of investigation and you interceded in official business of the Ordo Xenos.”

“Sir, the men were just trying to contribute,” Captain Murga said. Marsh Silas felt a surge of hope sweep through his chest as his company commander rose to their defense. He stepped out of the crowd of officers with First Sergeant Hayhurst beside him. The latter wore a pleased grin on his mug and his delightedly macabre gaze was directed at Marsh. Murga did not seem to notice him. “We encourage initiative and acts of courage in the Shock Troops. These men are deserving of praise.”

“Aye sir, feats of courage on the battlefield but not the breach of bulletins delivered by the Colonel himself,” Hayhurst piped up.

“Your company sergeant has the truth of it, Murga. You should know better,” Isaev said, cutting off the Captain.

Sweat dripped down Marsh Silas’s neck. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back. What was it going to be? Deduction or suspension of wages? Demotions? Flogging? Execution by firing squad or an ignoble hanging? Already, he could feel the blindfold being wrapped around his eyes or the hood being thrust over his eyes as the noose tightened. Would they permit him one last smoke of his pipe? What was going to happen to all the men?

Isaev skulked around the projector, his massive hands clenched into fists. He towered over the two young Guardsmen. “Good soldiers never cross orders. Even if you rendered able service, we cannot allow this violation to go unpunished.”

“And why would the Emperor wish for two of his loyal servants to be punished for an act of service?

Marsh turned around as Barlocke strolled into headquarters. He wore a dainty smile and his swagger was very relaxed.

“Inquisitor, these two men interrogated—”

“They were under my authority to do so,” Barlocke said, taking off his hat and walking in between Marsh and Hyram. He took each one by the shoulder. “Weren’t you?” Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a baffled, exasperated glance before snapping to attention once more.

“Yes, sir!” they blurted together.

“See? Zealousness should be appreciated in young Guardsmen. I gave them an opportunity to prove their skills and it has surely paid off for all of us. We should all feel blessed by the Emperor to have these energetic, eager souls ready to find ways to contribute to our fight, no matter what.”

Isaev, who stepped back as the Inquisitor approached, blinked and tried to find something to say. Before he stuttered much further, he cleared his throat.

“You are quite right, Inquisitor. Thank you for taking the initiative, boys. You’re dismissed.”

“Sir, there is more,” Hyram quickly said. The officers, who were just about to return to their duties, reassembled grumpily. Isaev turned around, exhaling in annoyance and gazing at the junior officer with disinterest. After a moment, he waved his hand a few times. “The Ranger revealed the location of one final heretical bastion on the mainland.”

Heads that were dropping to examine reports or Data-slate messages snapped back up. Isaev stomped forward.

“Well, go on then, speak up!”

“Sir, may I?” Hyram pointed at the projector and Isaev nodded. The Lieutenant hurried over, turned a few knobs and hit a few keys on the panel, and the holographic display appeared. It focused and enhanced on a location along the northern coast of the basin where they had done much fighting in the past weeks. The view panned to the west and then and highlighted a cove.

Hyram stepped back and pointed at the projection. “Here. The heretics have converted this cove into a basecamp from which they launch many of their mainland operations. From the Ranger’s observations, they have a cache of supplies, a permanent garrison, and most distressing of all, boats. Not true oceangoing craft but on a calm day they can use these skiffs as a ferry to Kasr Fortis. The enemy still has one tether left to their mother base.”

“Did the alien speak of numbers? Defenses?” Captain Giles asked, joining Hyram beside the projector.

“She knows the garrison is large, for there is a cavern complex in the rock. Although there is little in the means of defense, they have constructed a few makeshift bunkers from repurposed sheet metal and armor plates stolen from vehicle hulks. They do have some barbed wire and a number of sentry towers. Heavy Stubbers, autoguns, some lasguns.” Giles zoomed in even further and switched it from the aerial perspective to a horizontal view.

“It boasts a natural defense. High bluffs without a path overlooking it from west to north, jagged sea rocks to the south, and even more along the beach. The only entrance is between this passage here.” He pointed to a gap in the stones.

“Our scouring of the hinterland was aggressive and complete. Are we really going to trust the word of xenos filth?” Isaev huffed.

“She might have conjured up this myth to make the beating stop,” Giles said thoughtfully. “But we did encounter some small cave systems throughout the operation. It fits the methods of this particular cell of heathens. It correlates to our data, correct Eastoft?”

“Approximately eleven different cavern complexes of varying sizes were used by the enemy to store supplies and wargear. They also used them as hideouts when their positions in the settlements became untenable,” Eastoft said, opening one of the post-operational records on her Data-slate. “As well, 1st Platoon discovered the slaves awaiting transport at the unmarked dock. Water-access is a recurring trend with this foe as well and the cove’s seclusion makes an even better port.”

“If I may, sir, I think the risk of ignoring this potential target is too great,” Hyram said, his arms held out a little. “This still provides those heretics hiding in Kasr Fortis a line of communication and transportation. It is wiser to sever it before we assault the city.”

“The good lieutenant is correct,” Barlocke cut in. “Whether or not it is occupied, it merits investigation. I would make a very poor Inquisitor if I failed to evaluate every kernel of information presented to me. We shall perform a recce and confirm this tip-off. If there is no hostile presence, fine. If not, we will attack. We may yet discover more about the foe which waits for us across the channel.”

Isaev approached the hololithic projector with his hands on his hips. He kept shaking his head and releasing drawn-out, heavy breaths. Marsh Silas was waiting for Barlocke to dictate they were going to entertain this potential threat no matter the Colonel’s feelings. Yet he remained silent, merely looking at him with an amused little smile. Hyram kept glancing at Marsh, nervously wringing his hands.

“Aerial reconnaissance will be too conspicuous,” Isaev grumbled. “We’ll need to send an OSR team.”

“Sir, permission to—” Marsh stepped forward but Barlocke swung his hand back so that it almost struck him in the mouth. The Inquisitor smiled charitably.

“Worry not. I have assets in the area, they will reconnoiter the target location.”

As hushed, surprised whispers passed between the staff, Barlocke brought Marsh and Hyram together. Holding them both by the shoulder, he stooped and grinned at them. “Thank you for this, my darlings. It will serve us very well in the coming days. Inquisitor Sault will be here on the morrow. Until then, maintain your current watch shifts. You’ve made a good show of it.”

Barlocke departed, ambling out of headquarters in an even happier mood than when he arrived. He was so jaunty Marsh expected him to break out into a tune or a silly dance like he performed at Kasr Sonnen. While the staff started to discuss operational goals and strategy regarding this new target, the two Guardsmen remained fixated to their spots gazing at the entrance.

“I did not tell him we split the duty into shifts,” Hyram murmured.

“Are you truly surprised he found out?” Marsh muttered in return.

“I’d like to say yes.”

***

It was by the Emperor’s blessing Bloody Platoon was not assigned to trench duty that evening. All were engaged in average routines; praying, maintaining wargear, resting, cooking, eating, partaking in individualized remedial training overseen by noncommissioned officers, or the medical personnel dealing with sore and blisters.

After briefly reporting to Junior Commissar Carstensen, still busy with paperwork, Marsh returned to his bunk. As he dropped onto the cot, he felt a flood of relief. Although the distaste of lying left a bitter flavor in his mouth, he was glad to have garnered valuable intelligence from the affair. Knowing they prevented, or at the very least stalled, Maerys’s torture at the hands of the Ordo Xenos Inquisitor filled him with a sparkling sensation. A feeling of rightness and goodness. Even as he struggled to rationalize it with the tenets listed in the Creed, Hyram’s moral code had truth in it. The feeling of goodness overshadowed that of guilt, regret, anger, and confusion. To have trusted the Lieutenant as well left him feeling satisfied. He may have had further to go as a platoon leader, but he was a very decent man. More than that, he was honorable; that was a kind of man worth trusting and following.

However, he did not enjoy it for long. Relief followed long periods of gripping, terrifying stress. With his own emotional battle over and the threat of punishment gone, he breathed easy. All the anxiety which gripped him, like the claws of a dread beast, released. It was as if the pressure kept him upright and awake; with it gone, he felt as though he could not get up. Soon, he fell asleep with his boots still on.

When he finally woke, it was late in the afternoon and he was hungry. Drummer Boy politely cooked him a plate of fried Grox-strips and rice, one of his favorite dishes. He enjoyed the meal immensely in the company of his friends and they were even joined by Carstensen. Although she appeared out of place among the men in various states of dress, or undress for that matter, she ate quietly and did not reprimand them for their crass jokes. They made merry as they dined and sang quite a bit. So pleasant was their mood they all had seconds; there wasn’t enough for all so Marsh split his share with the Junior Commissar. Parting in good company, Marsh changed into his sweater, donned his peaked cap, and left for the stockade.

When he arrived at the cell, he did not spy on them like before. Instead, he walked in without greeting or ceremony. He found Hyram kneeling in front of Maerys, seated on the chair. Open on the floor next to him was a basic first aid kit. Gently, he rubbed a sanitization pad against her burned palm. Maerys winced just a little bit. Her expression was calm and stout, but it soon grew amused.

“That is some peculiar hair upon your face.”

“Oh, these?” Hyram motioned to his long, bushy sideburns. He laughed shyly. “I used to be a clean-shaven fellow, though my dear wife had a dream of me with these one night. She told me and I decided to see how I looked. I wasn’t very fond of them at first, but my son was. He calls them my ‘whiskers,’ wouldn’t you know? Between that, and my wife touching them so often, I decided to keep the style. It’s grown on me.”

“Whiskers,” Maerys echoed, then laughed a little. She raised her uninjured hand. “May I?”

Hyram blinked, then nodded. Maerys reached forward, her long, slender fingers tentatively touching the platoon leader’s facial hair. After curling a few strands around her fingers, then brushing her hand against the back of them, she drew away and laughed again. “So strange.”

“You’re very curious.”

“I’m a searcher as much as I am a wanderer. I seek and find out. Although, this is as close to a human as I’ve ever gotten.”

“And I to one of your people. Come, let’s get back to that hand.” After he cleaned it, Hyram applied anti-burn cream. This made the Pathfinder smile.

“I think it might be too late for that, Lieutenant.”

“It can only help you,” was his reply.

Squeezing the contents onto her palm, he cupped the bottom of her hand and used his thumb to rub the cream in. Each little circular movement he made was soft and smooth. Once the cream saturated the red scars, he wiped away the access and proceeded to wrap her hand with bandages. He doused a cloth with water from a canteen and started wiping away dried blood from the cuts on her face.

Maerys watched him for a time, although not quite making eye contact. When he finally finished, Hyram gently touched her cheek and guided her face from side to side. “I do not think these are too bad. You shall heal soon.”

“Believe me when I say, Lieutenant,” she said, smiling wider than ever before, “I have sustained wounds far worse than your sergeant’s fists.”

“Staff Sergeant,” Hyram corrected playfully. Maerys bounced her eyebrows a little, understanding the difference. But the officer looked over his shoulder and smiled at Marsh Silas. His expression was tender and thankful. Leaning against the wall beside the door with his arms folded across his chest and one boot against the rockcrete, the platoon sergeant blinked. Almost in embarrassment, he smiled and shrugged shyly. Hyram’s eyes glowed with warmth and he nodded.

Turning back to the alien, Hyram applied adhesive bandages to the bigger gashes. “But he is not my sergeant; he is the platoon sergeant. A very good one at that.” From the corner of his eye, Hyram glanced at Marsh and continued smiling.

Maerys finally shifted her gaze to Marsh Silas, as if she had not seen the Veteran Guardsman standing in the cell with them. Briefly, her smile faded. If she was resentful for the wounds he gave her, Marsh was unsure. Her stare was hardened but not accusatory. Even though she agreed and even demanded he strike her, he understood her animosity. Looking down at his hands, he was surprised he was able to do it. It was so rare when the 1333rd Regiment took a prisoner. Those surrendering heretics they did not execute on the spot usually committed suicide. Yet, when finally confronted with a foe in chains, he could not live with himself by letting her endure undue punishment. Even laying his hands upon her made him feel sick inside. The word and feelings of a xenos meant little to him, but he accepted her enmity.

If such feelings stirred within her, they seemed to dampen. As her gaze softened, her hard eyes glittered beautifully.

“I thank you both. The risk you took upon yourselves is not lost on me.” Inhaling sharply and sitting up, she offered an amused expression to the ceiling. “I never believed I would utter such words to mon…to humans. But, I am in your debt.”

“Well, methinks we ain’t gon’ to be able to call upon such debts,” Marsh Silas said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he loped over. “Seein’ as yer gonna be sitting in an Ordo Xenos cell for the rest o’ yer days.”

“My interment changes nothing. I shall find a way to repay you.”

“You have already given us crucial information. I believe that is repayment enough, Maerys,” Hyram assured her.

“The information was for you, Seathan,” she replied and nodded at the platoon sergeant. “It is he to whom I speak. I have repaid him with nothing.”

“I ain’t got no desires but to serve the Emperor, protect the Imperium, and keep my men alive. That is all and nothing more.” He spoke resolutely and believed every word he uttered. Although, his mind was drawn to Barlocke’s vision, and felt there was a great deal left unspoken.

Maerys eyed him thoughtfully. Her mouth twisted into a wry smile and both eyes gleamed as she studied him. It was as if he was entirely new to her, an oddity not to be gawked at but regarded with fascination. Mingled with such expression was one of disbelief. It reminded him of Barlocke, who was dark, piercing, difficult, and yet somebody he would follow into great danger and obscure unknowns. She may have understood that notion in Marsh even if she did not know who the Inquisitor was.

“It is hard to believe you,” she said, “you do so remind me of the dreamers.”

The conversation did not continue. Hyram finished treating her wounds and stuffed the medical kit under his jacket, no doubt trying to hide it from officers who would reprimand him for taking care of a xenos. The platoon leader promised to be back in the morning. As he passed by Marsh, he paused. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, the two Guardsmen looked at one another. Hyram smiled softly eventually and patted Marsh on his shoulder. The platoon sergeant, in turn,tapped him gently in the stomach with his knuckles. Marsh closed the door behind him and Maerys returned to her cot. Instead of sitting in the chair, he went back to the wall and sat down with his back against it. For a time, they maintained the other’s gaze; it was not a grim stare-down or an expression of challenge. Simply regarding one another, his vibrant violet eyes meeting her bright blue ones, without word or movement.

He did not know why he looked for so long. Perhaps, it was just that she was different and a Guardsman’s life was monotonous. It was difficult to look away from anything abnormal although it was not her race. She possessed a strange presence, constantly collected and formidable. In a way, he admired her stoicism and endurance.

Bowing his head, he took out his ebony pipe. Before he struck the match, he ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. After staring at it, he lit the contents and waved the match out.

“Say, them Paths you was talking about,” he started, tired of the silence. “You been on any o’em or did ye just leave straight out?”

“I completed some of the Paths. That of the Awakening, as most Asuryani do. Although it was envisioned that I should tread the Path of the Seer, I walked others which fell under the Path of the Artisan. Poetry, painting, singing. For some years, I journeyed along the Path of the Dreamer.”

Marsh exhaled a puff of smoke.

“Dreaming? That ain’t no contribution to your people.”

“I chose it to understand myself. It is a period of great meditation within oneself. I saw…” her eyes flitted downwards briefly. “I saw much and did not wish to look away. It is not uncommon for one who walks that Path to perish from starvation. I nearly died three times.”

“By the Emperor,” Marsh breathed. “Just from dreaming…”

“It is important to dream, Marsh Silas, but not to be lost in them. That was one reason, among many, I left Yme-Loc to become an Outcast. I did not wish to become lost upon any Path I chose.

For a moment, Marsh just nodded. Then, he felt rather clever and pointed the neck of his pipe at her.

“If ya are an Outcast like you say, ain’t you lost all the same?”

“In a way,” Maerys said. “I suppose I wanted to be lost by my own volition, even if lost in this instance does not necessarily mean what you mean.”

“Vo-lition?”

“To use one’s own willpower.”

Marsh just nodded and let his head fall back against the rockcrete. His eyelids started to droop. Although he managed to sleep, he did not feel rested. A good sentry never fell asleep on a detail and he was a fool to let sleep take him in the presence of an enemy prisoner. But she let him sleep the night before and he felt strangely safe. She knew there was no escape, anyway.

He heard her get up. Marsh opened one eye just as Maerys sat cross-legged in front of him. “Your friend. He seems soft of heart.”

“For now. I’ll make a Guardsman o’ him yet,” Marsh replied stoutly. “In all my soldier’s life, I’ve made plenty o’ fighting men and may the Emperor strike me dead if I can’t whip him into shape.”

“Try as you might, I doubt you’ll ever harden his heart. He is too kind for that. So are you.”

Marsh, who had closed his eyes again, opened them both. Maerys smiled at him, her head tilting slightly to the side. “Your eyes bear the Eye of Terror’s color and roiling tumult. Your face is hard and weathered by war. But you are not a man of hate.”

Taking his pipe from his lips, Marsh Silas exhaled. A concentrated cloud of smoke rose between them.

“Face me on the battlefield one day, xenos, and you’ll see just what hate can make a Guardsman do.”

“I am sure I will. I doubt not your capacity as a soldier but your face betrays it all. You are sweet of temperament just like the young human, Galo. You stand unbowed before your enemies but it is not your enemies you should fear most. You are young like a child and malleable like wet clay. Be wary of those around you; some will try to mold you, Marsh Silas. They will shape you into something they idealize or desire. Others, like Seathan who bears great compassion, will leave an imprint on you, not to change you, but to teach you something.”

Maerys closed her eyes briefly while she continued. “Outcast I am but a soldier still. All soldiers are destined for the battlefield. I know not when the day comes when we share one. Until that day, I shall remember you both fondly.”

Marsh Silas stared back, wanting to defy her musings as xenos blathering. No man in his right mind would ever listen to anything peddled by such scum. Yet the words struck him sharply and he remembered Barlocke’s many utterances, almost as if the Inquisitor was speaking in his mind. I promised to help you. I can teach you. I can show you so much more. I wish to help you help yourself. Was he clay in Barlocke’s hands? The thought terrified and exhilarated him. To be more than he was, a more steadfast soldier and servant, isn’t that what any loyal Guardsman wanted? Yet, would he have to eschew everything he knew; that which built his life up to now?

He looked at the Pathfinder, her eyes now distant. Perhaps, her mysterious rambling was insight and in this moment of doubt he longed for more. But as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice faltered. Maerys was just another xenos trying to play with his mind. At least, that is what his instincts told him and for once he wished they were wrong. He shut his eyes and fell asleep with the alien’s gaze still on him.

A jostling hand stirred him. Opening his eyes, he barely acknowledged Hyram’s urgent face as he stood up. He reached for his laspistol.

“Are we under attack!?”

“No! The Alien Hunter is coming at this very moment! Look presentable, and put that away before you kill us!”

Marsh tucked his sidearm into its holster and started smoothing out his sweater. Hyram neatened the sides of his hair momentarily before the platoon sergeant pushed his hands away.

“I can fix my own hair.”

“You lack a mirror, how can you be sure?”

“Well, I…” Marsh trailed off. He tugged his sweater down tight and wiped his face. “How do I look?”

“For an unshaved, out-of-uniform, rumpled bed of a man? Fetching!” Hyram breathed sarcastically as he fixed his own winter coat. “Should we wait in the cell or stand outside the door on either side? Will that look professional?”

“I…I know not! I usually just stand at attention if somebody who looks special walks by.”

“You’d look more intimidating if you stood outside the door and kept it shut,” Maerys offered.

“Quiet, prisoner,” Marsh snapped, pointing at her. He and Hyram briefly exchanged another glance before hurrying outside. As they did, Marsh glimpsed Maerys shaking her head. Standing stiffly on either side, they waited. It was not long before Barlocke came strutting down the corridor with another Inquisitor. Sault wore bronze pauldrons over a brown leather trench coat as well as a silvered power armor cuirass. Underneath his armor, he wore flowing red robes and black trousers. High Gothic letters in bold, black prints ran all along the robes’ golden trim. Sault wore no hat; he was dark-skinned, bald, clean-shaven, and wore a bionic plate on the back of his head. His eyes were of deep amber, as though they were gems catching light from the deepest, darkest recesses of a Mining World. On one hip he carried a sheathed power sword and on the other was a Bolt Pistol holster. Around his neck hung a silver chain and his Inquisitorial Rosette; it was ivory like Barlocke’s but the skull was fashioned from a sapphire gem.

Beside him floated a menacing Servo-skull; the floating head bore two red bionic eyes and long, metal neck. It was equipped with dozens of drills, needles, and injectors, each with its own mechadendrite-arm. Behind the Inquisitors was a retinue of Inquisitorial Storm Troopers; Scions of the Militarum Tempestus. They wore grayed and blackened Carapace Armor over maroon fatigues. Each carried a large backpack with a feeding system connecting to their Ryza-pattern Hot-shot lasguns. Marsh Silas recognized it from training manuals and was more used to seeing the Mk. 2 Hellgun carried by Kasrkin. Unlike those stalwart Cadians, these men walked with an air of pompousness and superiority. Each wore an Omnishield Helm, fully encasing their heads. The visors bore red eyes which unnerved the platoon sergeant. Two Inquisitors in one place made him feel even more uneasy.

“Not much to do on a planet like this, old friend?” Barlocke asked in a chipper tone.

“Cadia is a station for the Ordo Xenos to maintain a small advisory board for local commanders,” Sault said tiredly. “Many of my colleagues consider a posting here to be a career-ender. However, this development is an opportunity blessed by the God-Emperor. I thank you for holding this prisoner.”

“Thank me not, these two have done all the work!” Barlocke said proudly, sweeping his arm towards the two Guardsmen. Marsh and Hyram clicked their heels and saluted. “They have diligently guarded the prisoner and have not faltered in their duty. Indeed, they have even saved you a little work.”

Sault scowled at Barlocke.

“While I appreciate the Ordo Hereticus’s efforts regarding this prisoner, my Ordo specializes in their study and policing. You simply aren’t equipped as we are to handle such threats.”

“Come now! I’ve crossed blades with xenos plenty of times,” Barlocke huffed, appearing more offended than he probably was. “Besides, as I have the most authority in this sector, this prisoner was under my responsibility and thus I could do with her as I saw fit. These two Shock Troopers desired an opportunity to prove themselves, you see.”

The two soldiers, still saluting, quickly looked at one another before gazing straight ahead. Barlocke stepped between them and proudly placed his hands on his hips. “They wished to avenge their comrades’ wounds and muscle the information out of the prisoner themselves. Loyal and diligent, lads, wouldn’t you agree.” He pouted a little, wrapped his arms around the two men, and shook his head sorrowfully. “If only every subject were as willing and eager to act on behalf of the Imperium.”

Sniffing as if a foul odor caught his nose, Sault surveyed the two Cadians. Marsh Silas and Hyram, both uncomfortably close to Barlocke, exchanged another glance and then continued to stare at Sault apprehensively. The Alien Hunter eyed them suspiciously, then closed his eyes and exhaled loudly.

“Very well. On behalf of the Ordo Xenos, you have my thanks, Guardsmen.”

“I’ll transfer the information to your Data-slate once we’re back in headquarters,” Barlocke said. “I take it that means you won’t have to torture the creature, now?”

“Not here and certainly not soon if she released such information to mere Guardsmen. But, xenos are useful alive and pristine just as they are mangled and dead. For study, you see.”

Hyram turned very gray upon hearing that. Marsh just did his best to look unstressed. Nothing more was said and the cell was opened. When the two Guardsmen tried to enter, the Inquisitorial Scions shoved them aside. It was hard not to growl at them but Marsh let Hyram pull him aside. A cautious look from the Lieutenant reminded him the new Inquisitor did not need much provocation to punish the men.

The Scions exited first with Maerys in between the ten men. She was shackled by the wrists and guided by two of the Storm Troopers. When she passed, she did not look at either Marsh or Hyram. Sault and Barlocke appeared next.

“I am surprised by the state she is in. I expected your two Guardsmen had to beat this scum into a pulp to extract even minor information.”

“Not everything has to be decided with fists, Sault,” Barlocke advised.

Marsh Silas and Hyram did not pay attention to their conversation. They watched the party of Scions reach the end of the corridor. Just as they turned the corner, Maerys finally cast a lingering look in their direction. She paused and this mere moment seemed to extend for a lifetime. Both eyes twinkled in the dim light, but then she was shoved onward by one of the Storm Troopers. Sault and Barlocke strode after them and disappeared.

Marsh Silas leaned back against the rockcrete wall and rubbed the back of his head. Hyram stood dejectedly in the middle of the hall.

“Come, let us return to Bloody Platoon and be done with this lunacy,” Marsh said. The Lieutenant nodded rigidly but didn’t move. Marsh walked up next to him, waited for a moment, then put his arm around Hyram’s. Together, they walked on.

“Do you think we shall ever see Maerys again?” Hyram asked quietly, his face forlorn and a latent sadness lingering in his gaze.

“I know not,” Marsh said. He wanted to say no but he did not quite believe it himself. “Come, why don’t we practice a little?”

***

Bloody Platoon was at the base gymnasium. It was a sizable hall filled with dumbbells, bars, benches, and various machines arranged into neat rows. While some Guardsmen jogged along the perimeter of the main floor, others lifted weights or performed burpees, pushups, and crunches. Marsh Silas laid on the bench, pressing a bar laden with thirty-four kilograms of weight on either side. Hyram stood over him, his hands hovering near the bar.

“Envelopment,” Hyram said.

“En…vel…four syllables,” Marsh repeated as sweat ran down his forehead. “E-n…v?”

“Yes, go on.”

“L…”

“V-e-l.”

“Bloody hell. E-n-v-e-l-o-p-m…e-n-t.”

“Very good!” Hyram exclaimed. Marsh did a final repetition, breathing heavily, and then placed the bar on the rack with the Lieutenant’s help. His bare chest glistened with sweat and he panted as he stood up. In the same motion, he held his hand out and Hyram slapped it with his own. He took Marsh’s place on the bench and took the bar off. “Oh, my word.”

“Come on, sir, you can manage.”

Hyram steadily started lifting and lowering the bar. Marsh drank from his canteen and resumed his vigil. “Defilade and enfilade.”

“Defilade being the state in which combatants are behind cover and are protected from enemy fire. Enfilade, or to be in enfilade, is to have enemy fire directed along your position or formation’s axis.”

“Which we call…?”

“Enfilading fire, or flanking fire.”

“Right. War has its many aspects, sir—”

“Aspects? Well, the lessons are paying off!”

“—careful I might not catch the bar if it falls upon your throat. War is fought in many ways. Sometimes, it’s a long siege. Or it can be an ambush or a raid. When you have small units like platoons conducting operations, it’s a game of maneuver. It’s important to find defilade or create our own positions. We always want to force our enemies into enfilading fire.”

Hyram finished his repetitions and placed the bar on its rack. Marsh sat down next to him and offered his canteen. “I’m sure there’s a part in yer book which covers that.”

“If it does, I haven’t found it yet,” Hyram breathed. “Can we walk a little? Fresh air would do nicely.”

They donned their undershirts but they were too hot to wear their coats. When they walked outside into the cold air, they found it revitalizing Trundling along at a slow pace, they just walked along the perimeter and waited to cool off.

“You still thinking about that xenos?”

“It is hard not to.”

“Well, it may not o’ been the right thing to do according to some,” Marsh said. He tapped his heart. “But I believe you. If it does our souls good, then I suppose we ain’t done no wrong by the Emperor.”

“Ah, the Emperor’s will!”

Marsh and Hyram stopped. They did not look at one another as they turned around. Barlocke was standing on the roof of a bunker they were passing. He was seated on the edge, his legs dangling over the sides in a carefree manner.

Laughing, the Inquisitor got up and jumped off the roof, landing low on his knees and bouncing back up. “Friends, well done. I am so happy you were able to prevent the needless torture of a hapless xenos and find some useful information. It’s good I have found you for I wished to inform you that Inquisitor Sault’s transport was ambushed and the Pathfinder escaped. Sault and his men were wounded but there were no fatalities.”

Barlocke swung around on his heel and started walking towards headquarters. Marsh stared ahead, wide-eyed. His hands balled into fists and the veins along his forearms bulged. He whirled around, stormed after the Inquisitor, and grabbed his arm.

“What was the point of all that, then!?”

“Silas, wait!” Hyram grabbed him by his other arm and tried to pull him back. But Marsh resisted and refused to let go of Barlocke.

“No! We risked our hides by lying for that xenos wench just so she could escape! We’re responsible for that!”

“Mm…hm…no, you’re not,” Barlocke said, tilting his head from side to side. “There’s no telling if the Aeldari would have mounted a rescue regardless if you prevented the Pathfinder’s torture or not. The outcome is unrelated to your actions.”

“You planned this. You wanted us to stop her from being tortured. You wanted us to sit there and talk with her.”

“You’ve become an even faster learner, Silvanus, that’s for sure,” Barlocke giggled as he freed his wrist from Marsh’s grasp. “Yes, I did.”

“What lesson, then!? Aiding the enemy? Being a friend to xenos?” Marsh growled. “That ain’t what the Emperor wants.”

“It is not so much aiding the enemy as it was preventing the unnecessary, as Hyram said. Maerys spoke truths; there was no Aeldari warhost bound for Cadia. Any intelligent man could have told you that but there would be no convincing your superiors otherwise. It was a good act. As well, being a natural scout, I knew she would have caught the traces of any remaining heretics; it saves us a great deal of work. Most of all, I wanted to see if you could find it in your flinty Cadian heart to extend a sympathetic hand to someone you’ve been raised to hate. You did.”

Barlocke smiled sinisterly at Hyram. “Tell me, Lieutenant, was it your sense of morality and justice that influenced you or was it her beauty?”

Hyram blushed and looked at his feet. Barlocke snorted. “Both, I imagine.” He pressed his hands together and leaned forward. “Silvanus, there is more to the xenos than you think. Just like the Junior Commissar, no? Not all of these political officers are spiteful, arrogant, unfair disciplinarians; some have heart and ideals. The same goes for the xenos; they are as complex as we. I ask you, who is the greater enemy we face? Xenos or the Archenemy? Only a fool would answer that both are of equal threat. The old enemy is the most dangerous of our foes and is just as hostile to the Aeldari. We find ourselves allies by our common adversary.”

“But the God-Emperor does not wish for us to make allies or kin of the xenos,” Marsh insisted. “We must make war on them for all time, it is His will.”

“It is, but only against those who make war upon us. You know very little of the Imperium outside Cadia, Silvanus. There are many xenos who accept Imperial rule and are protected by those same laws. Others pose no threat and are thus unworthy of the Emperor’s acknowledgment. There will be some who will never be a friend to the Imperium of Man and it is towards those xenos you should direct your hatred.”

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest; as self-assured and confident as ever. Marsh only gritted his teeth while Hyram continued to watch timidly. “Did you ever stop to consider,” Barlocke went on, “the Aeldari only make war on us because we refuse to let them go in peace?”

Marsh unclenched his fists and groaned irritably. He pressed his hands against his temples and paced. It was not long before his angry gaze rose to meet Barlocke’s amusement. “You agreed to learn,” said the Inquisitor. “You are learning at this very moment. You do not like it but enlightenment often does not sit well within us. Like the compartmentalized education a parent offers their child, it must be shed and replaced by acceptance of life as it truly is, not as they see it. Learn from those who have seen what you have not.”

He approached, invading Marsh’s space, and towered over him. He seemed to grow taller, forcing Marsh to lean backwards. “Do you wish to renounce our agreement?”

“No,” Marsh answered quietly. But he offered a final, defiant glare. “I want to serve the God-Emperor but I will not be made a pawn.”

“I have no intention of making you one. You will become the man you can be—that you should be. I seek not to change you entirely. I merely want to challenge your beliefs so that you rely on yourself and not the priests and Commissars.”

“Faith and duty is all we got, Barlocke,” Marsh spat. But the Inquisitor merely took his hat off his belt and placed it upon his head.

“Before I take my leave, allow me to posit a shard of knowledge for you to mull over. Across the Imperium, by the rising and setting of a million suns, loyal citizens bow their heads in prayer. But our first and greatest warriors, the Astartes, do not. They have lived far longer than you or I and they worship what Man can become. Those fabled warriors believe no man can become a god.”

Barlocke smiled and turned, his long coat sweeping just above the ground. “Challenge yourself, Silvanus.”