A haze of lho-stick smoke hung above the heads of the Kasrkin gathered in the soldier’s hall. The conversation was soft but constant. Knives and forks scraped against pewter plates as men cut into thick Grox cutlets. They bit into butter-slathered cornmeal biscuits and scooped up spoonfuls of diced carrots mixed with peas. Empty glasses accumulated next to their plates which were swiftly taken away by the menial staff or topped off with beautiful, brown amasec. Others sipped from crisp white mugs filled with strong aromatic recaf. Some drank sweet brews, but most of them indulged in a mix that had more bite; Cadians always enjoyed a kick.

  “You actually gonna eat that, brother, or shall I?”

  Walmsley Minor looked across the table at his twin, who was just dabbing his lips with a napkin. Even when they weren’t on duty, Walmsley Major looked every inch the platoon sergeant. Tall, muscular, grizzled—it was as natural as when Marsh Silas was promoted all those years ago. His twin had picked up some scars since the days in the 1333rd, having received a large bullet graze across his left cheek. A year later, the horizontal mark had faded into a thin, brown smear. Another scar, left by errant flying shrapnel, left a cut that curved from his chin to the right side of his mouth. It was quite visible even though he’d grown a full beard, like so many did in the Kasrkin; the hair did not grow where the metal had sliced.

  With a teasing smile, Walmsley Major reached across and pinched the edge of the plate. Walmsley Minor turned his knife around in his hand as if he were about to engage in hand-to-hand combat and feigned a thrust. His brother laughed and pulled his hands back. “Alright, alright. So serious, isn’t he, fellas?”

  Sitting beside him in the booth was Cobb, the handler, and on the floor next to him was his canid, Freya. Cobb had cropped black hair, lush purple eyes, and a dark complexion. Freya had a black snout and equally ebony ears as well as a shadowy tail and midsection. Her chest, legs, and face were a golden brown color. Beside Walmsley Minor was Staff Sergeant Werner, in command of 5th Squad. Werner was tall and stocky, like most Cadians, and had a hard face but an amiable smile.

  “Squad leaders ought to be serious,” he said as he took a slug of amasec. “Lose your edge and you lose your men’s respect.”

  “Maybe for you,” Walmsley Major said, “but this here platoon has had some different examples, you see. Marsh Silas, well, that man has a different fire in his heart. He don’t have to yell or bluster or whatever at you. He acts. He earned our respect a long time ago because he believes you earn everything. That’s the kinda man you want in charge. He wants to become a better man, and when you see how he strives, you strive yourself.”

  “But banning corporal punishment? Writing and letters courses?”

  “Literary competency courses,” Walmsley Minor corrected smugly. “Marsh and good ol’ Hyram came up with that one. They think all soldiers ought to be able to read an’ write, and anybody who wishes to can learn.”

  “Wish to?” a bemused Werner asked. “I thought it was mandatory.”

  “You’d be a fool not to attend,” Walmsley Major said. “Made all the difference when I went to the NCO Schola. They’re pushing to make it mandatory. I have no doubts von Bracken will accept.”

  “Seems like the Lieutenant will do anything to enfranchise a man,” sighed Cobb. “But he still doesn’t like Freya” He pulled a piece of the Grox cutlet off and held it up. “Atten-hut!” Freya licked her chops, sat back on her hind legs, and straightened her back so her front paws were up. “Salute!” The canid lifted her right paw near her face. Cobb grinned. “Good girl, Freya,” he said and tossed the piece of meat onto the ground. She eagerly lapped it up, chewed, and quickly sat back down.

  Cobb did the same trick again, much to Walmsley Minor’s and the others’ amusement. But Cobb’s smile swiftly faded. “He always calls her names and we always seem to be left out of missions. That was the first time this whole month he called us up for a task. What’s the point of even having a canid handler in the platoon if an officer won’t use him and his dog?”

  “He likes dogs, don’t you worry. Captan-Commissar Ghent, our primary instructor back in the Whiteshield days, used to compare us to dogs. You’ve heard Marsh Silas say it himself; we’ve all got hounds in us, not because we can be trained, but because soldiers fight together like a pack. A platoon is a pack—neither can be beat. He just ain’t ever had no dog nor worked with one before. He’ll get used to her.”

  “But he still makes me muzzle her,” Cobb complained sadly. “Freya’s never bitten a team member in training or on the field. She and I worked together before we joined the Kasrkin. I didn’t have to muzzle her in the regiment I was posted in! Everyone trusted her.”

  Walmsley Minor peered over the side of the table as Freya saluted again and ate another piece of meat.

  “May I pet her?”

  “Of course, she’s not working right now.”

  Walmsley Minor reached out and Freya sniffed his hand. When she stopped, he reached around and scratched behind her ears. This made her tongue loll to the side and she started to pant. The canid tilted her head towards his hand and the way her lips curled back it seemed as if she were smiling.

  “What a good dog,” Walmsley Minor cooed as he pulled his hand away. Cobb handed him a piece of the meat, then repeated his commands to Freya. When she performed them, Walmsley Minor tossed her the Grox and she snapped it up eagerly. The four Cadians laughed and issued much praise to the canid, who happily wagged her tail.

  That’s when Walmsley Minor caught Marsh’s Silas eye across the hall. The Lieutenant had a very handsome but ultimately piercing violet gaze. He did not appear angry or disappointed. But Walmsley Minor had known that man since the 540th Youth Regiment was formed. He knew when his good friend was unhappy. Marsh broke it and returned to his conversation with Arnold Yoxall—no doubt it was something heady and complicated.

  Walmsley Minor finished his glass of amasec and pushed his plate over to his brother.

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  “Finally!” the twin exclaimed.

  “Aye, fatass, eat up. Look Cobb,” Walmsley Minor started, “here’s a little story about the Lieutenant. He was the best of us Whiteshelds and he advanced rapidly. By the time he was honored with Master Corporal, most of us were just earning our lances. Fella was an angry kid and he had a lot to prove, most of all to himself. He wasn’t the warm, embracing man that you are fortunate to know. We was all friends—”

  “We were all friends, you mean,” Werner snidely said. “Somebody hasn’t been paying attention in their literacy competency—”

  “Shut up.” Walmsley Minor held out his hand and pushed the Staff Sergeant’s cheek lightly, making him laugh. “So when he started swinging round’ all hard-like, we thought he just let things go to his head. But we realized he was just growing accustomed to the rank and trying to keep our hides from getting skinned by the enemy. He just needs to get used to something and find his feet.”

  “Aye, right now, he sees this furry gal as a tool,” Walmsley Major said, scratching underneath Freya’s collar as she walked under the table. “He gets used to having her around and seeing what she and you can do, then she’ll be a real member of the platoon.”

  “I pray you are right,” Cobb quietly said as he leaned out from the booth to pat Freya’s head. She looked up at him happily before laying down beside the booth.

  Walmsley Minor finished his drink and groaned as it burned down his throat. He stood and stretched.

  “I’ll get another round for the table,” he said and ventured towards the bar. He drifted between the tables, tapping friends on their shoulders or bumping his fist against someone else’s. Here and there, jests and colorful quips were shared. Sliding up to the bar not far from Marsh Silas, he hailed the caretaker, placed his order, and waited.

  The bell above the door jingled. Walmsley Minor turned and was surprised to see the Naval Security officer they rescued several nights ago. Major Caneus Haight was a tall, well-built officer of Cadian origin. His neck-length brown hair was swept back and his stubble was shaved away, save for a pair of finely trimmed, long sideburns. Instead of the dress blue uniform they found him in, he was wearing a crisp set of gray fatigues with golden epaulets. Handsome, narrow-faced, lacing scars, and purple-eyed, he walked with an air of cocksure confidence.

  Almost all members of Naval Security—the Navis Securitas, as they said in High Gothic—walked in that manner. Walmsley Minor had seen plenty of them since they started pulling more joint operations with their navy brethren. Men like that had to be brave; when they weren’t conducting boarding and defensive operations on a ship or running surface missions, they were policing their own ranks. Most of the trigger-pullers were downright dangerous men of strict character. But like any pious professionals, when the uniforms came off, they were like any other soldier; loud, rowdy, and in great want of liquor. Bloody Platoon had shared plenty of drinks with them and made many friends.

  But their officers, like Haight, were quite a different story. Diplomatic, charismatic, and possessing an air of greater knowledge, they always seemed to be up to something. Walmsley Minor preferred Militarum officers despite their peacock strides and haughty attitudes many displayed. That he could deal with; an officer who actually had some brains and self-confidence was dangerous.

  “Hey there soldier,” Haight said to Walmsley Minor. The Kasrkin straightened up and saluted, but Haight held up his hand. “Easy, easy. That round of drinks is on me.” The Major set a small stack of golden coins bearing images of the Throne on the counter top. “And not just yours. I’ll buy every damned man in this bar a drink!”

  There was a resounding cheer and the Kasrkin held up their glasses. Walmsley Minor nodded his thanks. He continued waiting and in his boredom, couldn’t help but listen to the conversation on his right.

  “Heard you like Raenka,” Haight said to Marsh, pulling out a bottle he tucked into his coat.

  “By the Emperor, how would you know that?”

  “I’m not an intelligence officer by any means, but I have my ways of finding things out.”

  “Bless you.”

  “No, I thank you and your brave men for rescuing me. Not my finest hour, I admit.”

  “There’s no shame in that, we’ve all had close calls. What matters is what we do afterwards.”

  “Well said.”

  “Ah, well, I study rhetoric. A friend in the trenches outside Kasr Sonnen…fostered my interest.”

  “It serves you well. Here, let me pour you a drink.”

  “Throne, I haven’t smelled that in three years! What memories. Anyhow, Major, it is good to see you well. Believe you me, there is no need to fret. We’ll be heading out again to give those blasted heretics a good bloody nose.”

  “Another mission? Well, I pray it is a good one.”

  “Should be a manageable affair…”

  The bartender slid a tray of drinks in front of Walmsley Minor. He nodded towards the Major.

  “He’s buying,” he grunted as he turned away.

  “Walmsley Minor!”

  He whirled around. Marsh was looking at him. The platoon leader looked stern. Walmsley Minor braced for a lecture about the dog. “I didn’t see you eat anything.”

  “Oh, yes sir. I’ll finish my plate soon. My brother wouldn’t have eaten too much, big as he is. I’m still getting a little used to the new grub.”

  Marsh Silas just nodded. Walmsley Minor turned back, relieved. It was not a lie. Ever since they became Kasrkin, they now had access to better soldier halls. Some were even reserved only for Kasrkin. The food and drinks were far better than any hall he’d ever been in. Even his own mother’s cooking couldn’t compare, though he hadn’t tasted that since he was half a score and four. He never thought he’d live long enough to experience such fine cuisine.

  He sat back down in the booth and handed out the drinks. As he suspected, Walmsley Major hadn’t eaten that much of his food. His brother wordlessly pushed the dish back. But Walmsley Minor just took a sip of his amasec and stared at the plate. The conversation between Werner and Cobb was muffled to him.

  A weight rested on his thigh. Confused, he leaned to the side and looked under the table. Freya had gotten up and rested her head on his leg. The dog was looking straight ahead, but when she noticed him looking, her eyes turned slightly. She nuzzled him a little bit more and panted happily. Walmsley Minor couldn’t help smiling. He reached over and scratched the top of her head right behind her ears. “That’s a good lass,” he said to Freya, who started to wag her tail. With his hand resting on her, he packed up his fork and started again.