Fort Carmine—the regimental depot and the home of the 10th Kasrkin Regiment. It was one of the many garrisons within Kasr Proelium and certainly the grandest. High, white ferrocrete walls crowned with crenelated battlements overlooked the surrounding, jagged roadways. At each corner of the pentagon-shaped fortress was a great Bastion-pattern tower topped with lascannons or autocannons. The barbican gate was taller than a Sentinel combat walker and the Bastion towers on either side bristled with heavy weapons. A massive red-gold Aquila icon stood vigil over the gate. Beneath it was a bronze plaque which read, ‘Fort Carmine: House of the Red Banner Regiment: Defenders of Cadia Now and For All Time!’

  Hyram finished his lho-stick as he approached the open gate. Flicking it away, he dug into his coat’s breast pocket and pulled out his identification papers. A party of five men from the Regimental & Facilities Security Force—the RFSF—were manning the barbican. The officer of the watch, Lieutenant Hendrickson, held up his hand.

  “Halt, present your ID.”

  Hyram opened the little black booklet which had a golden Astra Militarum icon stamped on the front. Hendrickson took it, examined the open page, and then snapped it shut. “Thank you, Captain Hyram. You may proceed.”

  Uttering a polite farewell, Hyram passed through the giant gate. The day was sunny, but walking through the enormous barbican was like stepping into the darkest cavern. His footsteps echoed on the rockcrete pavement. When he exited to the opposite side, he held up his hand to shield his eyes.

  The grass of the courtyard was freshly cut by servitors and the sweet scent hung in the air. Men walked across the grass, others chatted, and a few ran around on the gravel perimeter in their physical training uniforms. Officers and their aides hurried towards the triangular shaped headquarters tower which stood at the opposite end. Everyone called it the ‘top,’ as it mirrored the highest point of the fortresses’ pentagonal shape. It was always busy with the horde of Militarum, Administratum, Navis Imperialis, Adepta Sororitas, and Adeptus Mechanicus staff which composed the bloated headquarters company.

  In the center, the huge regimental standard fluttered beautifully in the warm breeze. Hundreds of Kasrkin in their duty uniforms were assembled around it. This was the 2nd Company—Beta, call sign Blizzard—commanded by Captain Hereford. The review appeared to be going smoothly as Hereford and his command squad glided through the formation. So as to not get in the way, Hyram skirted along the gravel until he got to Fifth Row, where the 1st Company’s troops were housed.

  Taking off his cap, Hyram went through the massive doors where he entered a well-lit, tiled floor lobby. On either side were two staircases led up the next floor, which had a balcony overlooking the entrance. The company’s ceremonial banner hung from the railing; depicted in the center was an gold-trimmed ebony cross flanked by fields of crimson. A circle in the middle of the cross displayed the regimental and company numbers.

  Below the flag were polished wooden cases with glass plates. Inside were picts from Kasrkin long-dead, the remnants of a Carapace chunk or a damaged weapon carried by fallen heroes, small banners and flags, helmets, and more 1st Company memorabilia. Other display cases contained relic weapons—the Hellgun of a famous trooper or the sword of a noted officer. Quite a few contained cushioned trays carrying dog tags; some were rusty, others damaged, and some were still glinting in the light. Tucked against the stairwell walls were small dioramas of famous battlefields; miniature Kasrkin stormed up hills seized by xenos or held redoubts against rampaging Orks.

  In the center was a marble obelisk wreathed with laurels. The top was fashioned into the shape of the Aquila. Inscribed along the walls of the pillar were the names of every soldier who had died in the company. The front and left sides were completely covered while the back and right still had about half their respective spaces.

  As Hyram passed it, he reached out and let his bare fingers graze the marble. The surface of the blank space was smooth to the touch. But then he felt the bumps of the names and he inhaled deeply. The weight struck him, but only momentarily. He reminded himself why he was in the barrack and recalled his excitement.

  He went through the next set of doors until he came to a heavy oaken door. A plaque on the side read, ‘1st Platoon.’ Smiling slowly, Hyram turned the handle and threw open the door.

  “Chaaaaaarge!” someone screamed. Hyram watched as two men who had pillows tied to their torsos sprinted into one another. Both groaned as they fell onto their backs. The men on either side of them guffawed. Monty Peck knelt and held out his arms.

  “Draw!” he yelled. “No points awarded!”

  Angry shouts and disappointed moans filled the air. Men passed around lho-stick packets, choc-bars, and handfuls of Thrones. Walmsley Major, sitting on one of the bunks, scraped two zeros onto a chart he had drawn on a chalkboard. As the two men staggered back to their feet, Monty Peck walked into the center of their makeshift lane. “Next contestants: Drummer Boy versus Rowley!”

  Several Kasrkin took coils of rope and tied pillows to the two Voxmen. One was fastened to the chest and the other was fastened to the stomach. Both donned helmets, shook hands, and walked to the opposite ends of the lane. Hyram carefully approached the wall of spectators. He hoped to watch the full spectacle but Walmsley Minor, standing opposite the Captain, spotted him.

  “Attention!” he called. Everyone clicked their heels together, snapped their arms to their sides, and turned to face Hyram. The Captain couldn’t help but smirk.

  “Attention?” he echoed, looking the Kasrkin nearest to him up and down. He scoffed playfully. “Is that anyway to greet your old friend?”

  Everyone laughed and the Bloody Platoon old-timers crowded him. There were handshakes, embraces, and claps on the back. It felt glorious to be among his dearest companions once more. He seized any opportunity Hyram could get away from the company commander to spend time with them. To hear their deep voices, to feel their boisterous energy, to drink, smoke, and eat among them—that was the life he was used to.

  As they drew away, Hyram put his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene. “I see you’ve figured out today’s entertainment. Pray tell, what’s the name of the game?”

  “Soft Charge!” exclaimed Corporal Raskob, a grenadier. He was one of the men already in the 10th Kasrkin prior to the induction of the 1333rd Regiment’s survivors. Despite that, he was a good fellow, with a bright face and a chipper voice. “It’s pretty simple really, sir. Two fellas strap these here pillows on and take a good run at each other. Whoever remains standing gets a point; if they manage to knock their opponent over, they get another point.”

  Hyram surveyed the room. Everyone seemed to have some kind of foodstuff or a fistful of money. Even the squad leaders, Staff Sergeants Monty Peck, Foley, Metcalfe, Werner, Walmsley Minor and Gunnery Sergeants Yoxall and Wulff, had something to offer.

  “And the betting?” Hyram asked cheekily.

  “Well, that just makes it more exciting, sir!” added Corporal Tattersall. Hyram nodded astutely, grasping his chin and nodding. After a few moments, he clicked his tongue.

  “You must be very bored.”

  “We are, sir!” came a resounding chorus of dissatisfied grunts and groans.

  “We haven’t heard a shot fired in anger in three weeks,” Metcalfe complained.

  “Warden-Colonel von Bracken told us we did a swell job on the ambush rescuing those prisoners, but nobody’s given us anything since,” Lance Sergeant Clivvy added. “We rise early, complete our work before evening, and there is naught for us to do!”

  “Can’t you do anything about it, sir?” Drummer Boy asked. “Can’t you get us a mission?”

  Hyram suppressed his smile, ran his fingers through his thick blonde locks, and heaved a heavy breath. Walking sorrowfully through the crowd, he gave a solemn shrug. Shoulders sagged all around him. Disappointed troopers grumbled and swore as he passed by. As Hyram came abreast of Walmsley Major, he locked eyes with him. Although he maintained his frown, he winked, and the platoon sergeant’s purple gaze lit up.

  “Play your games while you can, Bloody Platoon.” The men laughed as Hyram said farewell. As he went to the side door on the opposite end of the chamber, he listened to the sound of the Kasrkin cheering and betting. Just as another cry of, ‘chaaarge,’ tore the air, he knocked on the door.

  “It opens!” came Marsh’s voice.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The platoon leader’s office doubled as his quarters. His cot was on the right side of the room, the entrance to his personal lavatory was opposite from the door, and on the left was his desk. There was a stacked filing unit beside it and next to that, a tall, metal, free-standing locker. Marsh was bent over his desk and pounding away at his cogitator keyboard. On a shelving unit mounted on the wall above were a number of books, mostly treatises on small unit tactics, officership, and histories of the Kasrkin. But there was room on the shelves for a number of framed pict-captures. There was Bloody Platoon partying in a soldier’s hall, another of Marsh and Hyram standing and smiling side by side in a field, and of course, more than a few of Carstensen.

  “Silas, do you see what those men are doing out there?” Hyram asked, motioning towards the door after regarding the picts for a few moments.

  “As long as they’re not drawing blood or breaking bones, there’s no need for concern,” Marsh grunted without looking up. His fingers danced across the keyboard. Smoke rose from his pipe, clenched firmly between his lips.

  Hyram smiled a little. When he first saw Marsh Silas, that grizzled looking platoon sergeant he once was, he couldn’t ever imagine quite a literate fellow. Here he was, typing at ninety words a minute, his eyes glancing between the green screen and the numerous report sheets stacked beside it.

  “Feels like it was only yesterday we were squatting in subterranean bunkhouses, living by lamplight, and heating up our rations on pot-bellied stoves,” he reminisced as he sat on Marsh’s bed. “Do you ever miss it?”

  “When I’m stuck filling out fitness and supply reports, you bet your ass I do,” Marsh grumbled. But he turned around in his chair and smiled graciously. “But it’s damn good to see you, brother-mine.” He reached out with one hand and Hyram squeezed it. Afterwards, he swiveled back in his chair and continued typing. “Surely, something terrible has happened if ye have traveled all the way here to see your mates.”

  Hyram laid back on the bed and folded his hands underneath his head. He looked up at the amber ceiling light until his violet eyes started to glaze over.

  “It’s not that. Isabella was giving me an earful last night. She says I shouldn’t be going on as many ops as I have been.”

  Marsh’s typing stopped and the chair squeaked as he turned.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I cannot be upset with her. She worries. How can you be angry at someone for being concerned for you? But I tell her, it’s who I am. I may not be a platoon leader anymore and I’m certainly not the company commander, but sitting idly by while all you men go out? Unthinkable.”

  He looked up. Marsh was leaning on the backrest of his desk chair and puffing on his pipe. Even after becoming an officer, he still had the air and appearance of a weathered platoon sergeant. The bandage he wore perpetually across the bridge of his nose was still present. Two short scars he picked up last year ran parallel to each other on his left cheek, close to his eye. Most of the right side of his neck all the way down to his collar bone was covered by a blotchy brown burn scar from the incendiary bolt which exploded beside it on Army’s Meadow. The skin grafts were quite noticeable, too.

  “Well, old friend,” Marsh breathed. “You knew what you were in for when you moved her from Cypra Mundi. Just remember she’s looking out for you, and Sydney too; she wants the boy’s father to be around for a very long time.”

  “If my wife were Cadian she would understand that we must risk ourselves,” Hyram said to the ceiling. “Sacrifices must be made. Sometimes, the Golden Throne must be awash in our blood to preserve—”

  He felt Marsh squeeze his knee.

  “Aye, I hear you. But presently, we are in no such state that merits those sacrifices. Just bear the missus and spend what time you can with Sydney.”

  “I do my best. Do not mistake me, Isabella and I make a fine couple and we get along very splendidly. But, you know how it is. She is not who I would have chosen.” Hyram folded his hands on his chest. “It is just unpleasant, sometimes, to return to the manse and suffer such bleating. I wish to enjoy their company.” Hyram’s eyes widened and he sat up. “Say, dear friend, why don’t you make a home of my home!?”

  Marsh Silas coughed a little and lowered his pipe in confusion. “Isabella and Sydney never see you enough. The young fellow is always asking about his Uncle Silas. There is room aplenty! And it’s in Kasr Sonnen, too, that would bring you—” Hyram cut himself off. He blushed a little and looked away. “Apologies.”

  Marsh stared at him wistfully. He nodded and gestured with his pipe—an indication to go on. Hyram rubbed the back of his head. “Well…Army’s Meadow is just so far from here. It would bring you closer to our old home, those flowers…her.”

  Slowly, Marsh looked back at one of the picts of Carstensen. She stood with her shoulder to the camera, her head uncovered, and her orange locks spilling over her face. When Marsh looked back, he flashed Hyram his crooked smile after a few moments of thought. He upended the ash in his pipe into a tray and put it away.

  “I will think on it.”

  “Please do.”

  “My reports are done for the day. Would you like to drink at the regimental canteen or go elsewhere?”

  “Aha, but it is too early to drink and now that you are free, I can bring about the object of my visit!” Hyram declared boastfully. Marsh Silas rolled his eyes, then blinked. He grasped the back of his chair and leaned so far forward it seemed like he would topple over.

  “Is it a mission?”

  “Come with me to regimental headquarters and you may find out,” Hyram teased.

  “Then it is a mission!” In a flash, Marsh was on his feet. He put on his cap and coat, and threw open the door.

  After imploring the men to be gentler after Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor proceeded to ram each other with such force they nearly cracked skulls, the two officers hurried to the courtyard. Crossing the green, which was now practically vacant, they passed by the guards at headquarters and trekked inside.

  Each floor of the mighty tower was filled with all manner of offices, terminals, cogitator arrays, and hololithic projectors. Aides, runners, menials, and officers weaved and bustled around one another. Adeptus Administratum Ordinates shouted orders at their scribes and workers. Tech-Priests stomped by, their pistons clanking and their mechadendrite purring with energy. Columns of servitors plodded or rolled in tow. Servo-skulls hovered and buzzed overhead. Loudspeakers issued morale statements and religious excerpts.

  Unlike the platoon leaders, who made do with offices attached to their respective barracks, company commanders had workspaces within headquarters itself. This kept them closer to the battalion commanders as well as Warden-Colonel von Bracken. Hyram and Marsh Silas walked side by side towards Major Rosenfeld’s door.

  “You two!” barked a dry voice. Hyram heard Marsh swear under his breath. They turned around to see an officer in black fatigues ambling towards them. He had short brown-blonde hair and a stubble of beard. His face and forehead were squarish in shape. Bright green eyes burned with indignation.

  “Major Bristol, good afternoon sir,” Hyram said as he and Marsh saluted. Bristol got up close.

  “Get your hands down,” he snapped. “Throne! You bloody Kasrkin, why don’t you ever wear your berets? You belong to the Militarum Tempestus, now.”

  “Yes, but the Militarum Tempestus is still a part of the Astra Militarum,” Marsh corrected politely. “And If you may recall, the Kasrkin are sworn to the defense of Cadia first and foremost, thus we answer firstly to our homeworld, then the Astra Militarum, and then the Tempestus. We’re obligated to wear our peaked caps, not our berets.”

  “You bore me with your technicalities, Lieutenant.”

  “Knight-Lieutenant, sir,” Hyram said.

  Bristol huffed and folded his arms across his chest. He shook his head and lowered it, but still gazed up at them. Although he was tall, he was no Cadian.

  “I have the utmost respect for the Kasrkin and their many centuries of faithful service. I appreciate what you boys do out there too, even if you receive far too many medals for it. But the Tempestus Scions serve the Imperium at large, not just one planet. The fact that a commander must go through layers of paperwork for permission to request a Kasrkin bodyguard unit, let alone an entire regiment, is asinine.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” Hyram started. “You hail from the 54th Psian Jakals. You too have a homeworld. Surely, a Jakal like yourself intimately understands the disposition one feels towards their battle-stricken world.”

  Bristol glared at Hyram, then back to Marsh. The two Cadians smiled amicably back. After a time, the Tempestor Prime chewed the inside of his cheek and bounced his eyebrows.

  “Be careful with the way you speak to me. Most of these people see a couple of heroes, but I know you let that xenos bitch get off light. She’s still on the loose thanks to your kindness. I hope you haven’t forgotten that. I will surely not.”

  With a furrowed brow, Bristol spun around on his heel. After he disappeared into a crowd of officers and aides, the two friends gazed at one another. They both rolled their eyes and shook their heads.

  “That fellow is always angry,” Marsh said.

  “A liaison officer ought to have more dignity. But at least he is not as spiteful as the likes we’ve dealt with before.”

  “Aye, he is no Hayhurst or Isaev, that’s for sure. The reason for having one of those glory boys in our regiment eludes me.”

  “We are not of the Schola Progenium. Our regiments were not raised in the templates of their liking. Thus, we must bear their oversight. Pay the man no mind; he is just angry that he is obligated to pin Tempestus medals on our chests along with our Militarum and Cadian decorations. The officer and the Jakal, now, that will be a resource.”

  “I know you’re just trying to ease my temper towards the man.”

  “Is it working?”

  They stopped outside Major Rosenfeld’s door. Marsh groaned and ran a hand across his jaw.

  “I suppose it is, though I don’t want it to.”

  Hyram clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Chin up, dear friend! Once you’ve had your briefing, you’ll be in a much better mood. I guarantee it, you are going to like this mission.”

  “You seem so certain.”

  “It’s not every day the Astra Militarum gets to rescue a haughty Navy officer.”