Ghent’s leather boots thudded on the rockcrete flooring of the hallway. His gait was quick and determined. On either side of the hall, his staff of stout senior Commissars, rough-looking Drill Abbots, and numerous grizzled Cadian NCOs, all stood at attention. One by one, they clicked their heels and snapped their arms to their brows as he passed. When he did, they fell in step behind him and matched his speed. Dozens upon dozens of boots clapped on the flooring, creating a fast, machine-like rhythm. Fixing his high-peaked cap low on his brow, he held up his arms and pushed the doors open.
They flew back so hard they slammed against the exterior walls. Ghent marched onto the balcony overlooking the square courtyard. Pale light filtered over the battlements of the building, which were patrolled by troops and monitored by automatic defenses. Marble statues depicting famous Cadian officers and Commissars gazed down from every side. Windows lined each side, revealing the torrent of cadets and staff members flowing through the inner chambers.
At each corner of the courtyard was a small bed of mulch with a great tree growing from it. The bushels of leaves decorating the branches were turning orange, red, and brown. Some had fallen on the stone paths below or scattered across the open center. Standing in a disorderly mob was a cadre of young Cadet Commissars. They wore black jackets with blue trim instead of red and did not bear a skull upon their caps. All carried M36 lasguns over their right shoulders and a khaki soldier’s duffel bag over their left. Each face was young and unblemished. Turning around, they marveled at the stout trees, beautiful armaglass windows depicting battle scenes, and all the golden Aquilas and Officio Prefectus emblems mounted above the four doorways.
Ghent gripped the railing and leaned forward, his long face growing into a scowl.
“You people will stand at attention!” he barked. All the cadets jolted and quickly lined up into five rows of ten. The staff filed down the stairs leading down from the balcony and remained on the steps. Ghent stood up straight and raised his chin. “I am Commissar-Captain Ghent, headmaster and senior instructor of the Lilias J. Carstensen Center of Officership and Commissariat Excellence. To either side of me, you see my subordinates, men and women of the Adeptus Ministorum, Astra Militarum, and Officio Prefectus. We are the teachers, you are the learners, and the lessons begin now.”
Without turning around, he pointed upwards. Below the icons of the three branches he listed was a golden plaque. “Bear witness to the inscription of this golden plate. ‘Leadership is not a birthright nor can it be purchased. The might of the Emperor’s Army may only be considered mighty if the many millions, billions, and trillions of her warriors are led by men and women who not only earn the right to call themselves leaders but continuously prove it each day. To be a leader, an officer of any grade, is to bear a burden for others. Those others are your life. You must prove yourself worthy of their trust. You must prove that you will die for them and that you will not spend their lives unnecessarily. Bravery, compassion, intelligence, loyalty, faith, and the capacity for inspiration and teaching—make these facets a part of you. Bear them in your heart of hearts, and you may then call yourself a leader.’ Who, among you, can tell me who uttered these words?”
None of the cadets raised their hands. Some were shaking. Eyes flitted about. Ghent’s scowl deepened. He pointed upwards once more, this time to a marble statue standing on the battlements above. Depicted was a woman in Commissariat garb, her coat flowing, her locks of hair cascading from underneath her hat. In one hand, she clutched a Bolt Pistol and was waving it, as if ushering unseen souls forward. The other was clad in a clenched power fist.
“The namesake of this Schola: Commissar Lilias Juventas Carstensen. Carstensen the Cadian, to the likes of you! Hear the name, and you shall bring your fist to your heart, hard, and cry her name. Carstensen the Cadian!”
“Carstensen!” the cadets hollered and thumped their chests.
“Carstensen the Cadian!” Ghent hollered.
“Carstensen!”
Ghent leaned back, chewing the inside of his cheek. He smirked, chuckled, and braced his hands on the railing again.
“Commissar Carstensen was the bravest of the brave. She could inspire tenacity and courage in a fly with a glance. A touch upon the shoulder could make a man move mountains. You will learn of her and her record. Look upon the pages of her life and you will see a Commissar with a career that spanned a decade filled with great deeds, not by executions of cowardice, insubordination, or failure. Do you know why? Because men in the presence of such a leader who exemplifies all those valorous qualities never lack. They look upon one such as her and strive! She was a leader and men followed her anywhere, for she was one of the few in this life who knew where she was going! That is what we at this venerable institute will try to show you.” He folded his hands behind his back. “If you are not stupid, you just might be ejected from this Schola and survive in the Regimentos. If you pay attention, you just might pass. If you apply yourself beyond what you think you are capable of, then maybe…”
He noticed movement at the covered entrance behind the cadets. A blonde-haired, broad-chested, square-faced officer with trim blonde hair, stubble, and burn scars on the right side of his neck sauntered up to the column. Removing his beret and tucking into the loop on his shoulder, he then reached into a satchel hanging from his shoulder. He produced a pipe and a small box of tabac and lho leaves. The mixture was deposited in the bowl of the pipe, a match was struck, and a moment later the man was smoking. Ghent slowly smiled. “...then maybe you shall earn the right to call yourself a leader.”
His smile faded a moment later and he clapped his hands. “You will be escorted to your quarters by my staff. There, you will be briefed on the regulations, provided a tour of the grounds, and provided with materials. The Emperor protects! Now, get out of my sight!” he yelled with a wave of his hand.
Like a pack of hounds, the accumulated staff charged down the steps, corralled the cadets, and at a trot, forced them through the doors on the right side. The clattering died away, leaving only Ghent and the lone figure. The latter stepped forward, released a breath of smoke, and flashed a crooked grin. Ghent returned it and held out his arms. “Not a bad speech for an old dog, wouldn’t you say Marsh Silas?”
“Looks like you’ve been reading from the same books as me!” Marsh declared. Ghent walked down the steps and the two men saluted each other. Their arms snapped down into a handshake. Then, they embraced; Ghent tapped him on the back with one hand and rested his other on the back of Marsh’s head.
“Let me get a good look at you, boy,” Ghent said when they drew away. He kept his hands on the officer’s shoulders. Marsh had grown another couple of inches in height and he was bulkier with muscle than before. “My, those bio-enhancements did wonders for you. Pity they did nothing for the face; you are just as ugly as I remember.”
“Looks like you could use a little augmentation yourself, you seem a little on the thin side, old man,” Marsh joked back. They both snickered and started walking. The pair journeyed into the next courtyard as they walked. “You’re running a tight shift around these parts, it seems. All that yelling reminds me of the training yards in Kasr Polaris.”
“It’s more than just that, rest assured. Carstensen’s lessons revolved around balance. These men and women will learn to embrace her ideals and bring them anew to the battlefield. But she never forgot they were soldiers—it is a hard life, and every one of us must live it hard if we are to survive.”
“How many classes have graduated now?”
“Since the academy was built and staffed. Release rates per subaltern and cadet commissioning programs have been in excess of one hundred per class. The turnover rate for the training courses for already-commissioned personnel produced several hundred officers and Commissars last solar year. It far exceeded our expectations for the Scholas year.”
“She’d be damned proud,” Marsh said quietly.
“She is, son,” Ghent replied. He felt the Lieutenant’s somber air. The Commissar offered a smile as they passed under the shadow of another tree. “Well, how the hell have you been? Speak to me.”
“Not much in the way of news. I’ve made my residence here in Kasr Sonnen with Hyram and his family.”
“How is that fool?”
“Very well. He’s the most hardworking man in the whole company.”
“He better make CO eventually.”
“We’ve received a three day furlough as part of our thanks from the Imperial Navy. Rescued one of their officers.”
“Typical Navy; the moment their polished shoes touch a planet’s surface they need the Astra Militarum to save them.”
“The Navy pinned some medals on my chest. I’m just glad we got the two blokes out of there in time.” Marsh shook his head. “We got some pretty good intel, we’re going to be hitting—”
“Silas, you shouldn’t talk about your missions so carelessly,” Ghent said, raising his head.
“Why? It’s just you and me.”
“And I’m sure you’d probably say that about any friendly face you come across. You need to be more careful.” Marsh Silas made a dismissive sound and rolled his eyes. Ghent’s face hardened. “Your heart is too damned big, Silas. You are too accepting of people. I know you want to make life better and turn the Imperium on its head. Well and good, but not everyone you meet is appreciative or receptive to such idealism. Furthermore, not everyone within our ranks is true to the Emperor. Remember the 659th Regiment’s betrayal?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He saw Marsh’s lips tighten.
“All too well,” Marsh growled.
“Then you know not every person you come across cannot be trusted. I know you like to keep your hand open for most people, most of all the common Guardsmen. You’ve shown that an officer can be a leader and a brother to his troopers. But an officer ought to act cagey from time to time, especially when it pertains to information about the safety of his men.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” Marsh said with disinterest.
They walked into another courtyard which recessed further into the facility. This one was larger than the previous ones and lacked grandeur. It was a training yard. Cadet Commissars were performing pushups in six rows. Drill Abbots, NCOs, and other Commissars circled around them. The leader, a senior Commissar, was counted off.
“Seventy-five, seventy six, seventy-seven…”
Ghent and Marsh stood by the formation and watched, smiles on their faces. The former laughed and clapped the Lieutenant on the back.
“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”
“They’re sweet now, but it was hell then,” Marsh replied. “Pushing in snow, rain, muck…”
A particular wheezing caught their attention. A Junior Commissar of average physique was struggling with each pushup. Her arms quivered, her legs shook, and sweat poured down her red face. Finally, she collapsed and her cheek pressed into the grass. She sucked for air. Before one of the instructors stormed over, Marsh strode up to her. Ghent watched, a curious smile on his face, as Marsh Silas knelt beside her.
He took her shoulder and pushed her up a little. Wheezing, the exhausted cadet stared back. She was so tired she could not even speak. Marsh Silas looked at her, his violet eyes soft and twinkling. “You must never give up.”
“G-give…up…on what?”
“You. Yourself. Your willpower to survive. Those who follow you will rely on it more than you. Never give up on yourself, for if you do, you will give up on all those around you. So push, cadet, push.”
The Junior Commissar stared idly for a moment. Then, her indigo eyes flashed with fire. She gritted her teeth, growled, and turned back onto her stomach. She dug her fingers into the earth and pushed. Shivering, she extended her arms and pushed all the way up. “One more,” Marsh said. Grunting, she performed another. “Another, cadet. That’s it. Give me one more.” She pushed, her bloodshot eyes straining. Ghent leaned against the column, folded his arms across his chest, and smiled. Marsh bent lower beside the cadet as she struggled. “Just one more, cadet. Do it.” When she finally locked her elbows and straightened, the formation leader called an end to the exercise.
Falling to the grass, the cadet breathed raggedly. But as the others were commanded to stand, so did she. She tottered to one side, then straightened up and held up her chin. Standing beside her, Marsh Silas nodded, squeezed her shoulder, and whispered something into her ear. He came back to Ghent then.
“What did you say to her?”
“Just what you used to say to me when I was pushing.”
“No, just now, in her ear.”
“Oh, that,” Marsh huffed. He puffed on his pipe and released a cloud of smoke. “Told her she’s going to change the Imperium.” Then, he flashed one of his crooked smiles. “They all will.”
Ghent reached over and tapped Marsh’s shoulder. He then pushed off the column and approached the formation.
“Junior Commissars! Right face!” They turned in unison. “I have the honor to present to you Knight-Lieutenant Silas Cross, Defender of Kasr Sonnen and Army’s Meadow, and a Hero of the Imperium. He is also the benefactor of this very Schola; the funds which have afforded the bricks of these walls to the books in your classrooms, and the curriculum you study, have all been granted by this man.”
Without orders, the formation of Junior Commissars snapped to attention and raised their hands. Marsh Silas approached them, reciprocated the gesture, and then put his hands on his hips.
“Commissar-Captain Ghent is too kind. The idea for this Schola was inspired by its namesake, as were many of its lessons. As well, I will not deny the gravitas due to individuals such as Ghent and all those you learn from, who have helped give these teachings form and meaning. I extend my humble thanks to you all for choosing this Schola. You will become extraordinary. You will, as Carstnesen once said to me, be unshakeable.”
The formation saluted before being ushered away by their instructors. Marsh Silas turned around and grumpily shook his head. “You don’t have to tell them that.”
“They ought to know who is bringing about this great change,” Ghent said. “So, what will it be, lad? Would you like a tour of the new facilities; Afdin Hall for Rhetoric and the Arts has been finished. After that, we’ll leave for dinner and drinks—what do you think of that?”
“It sounds swell. But I’d like to see her first.”
“Absolutely,” Ghent said with an understanding smile.
The institute sat on a natural hill within Kasr Sonnen, allowing it to look over much of the western part of the fortress-city. A secluded, covered terrace extended from the walls below the battlements. Grooved, marble columns supported a ceiling with a fresco depicting the Battle of Kasr Sonnen. In the center was a great wall of charging Guardsmen, their faces all contorted as they bellowed. Their bayonets and swords gleamed in the golden sunlight radiating from behind the broken ridges of the Gaps. At the very front of that sea of soldiers was a Commissar in a red-trimmed ebony coat, her orange locks flowing like an ocean current. Beside her was an erstwhile Lieutenant, ushering the men on. On her other side was a platoon sergeant, joining the rush with a flag attached to his M36.
Marsh Silas regarded this for a few moments after walking across the rockrete flooring, which was covered with yellow petals. Wind infiltrated the terrace, casting these petals all around. On either side and lining the railings were great garden beds where the flowers grew. They looped into a semicircle at the end of the terrace. Little streams of pure water ran in troughs around the beds. A marble statue, white as clouds, stood there on a great, round pedestal. Via little canals and trenches, the waters which fed the flower gardens formed a moat around it. On the base was a golden Aquila, bordered by the icons of the Astra Militarum and the Officio Prefectus. Below it was an epitaph, ‘Carstensen the Cadian: Hero.’
He approached slowly. It was quiet here. The trickling water was soft, the wind gentle. Even the flames of the braziers at the foot of every column seemed hushed. Each of his footfalls was silent. Marsh Silas stopped in front of the moat and looked up. It was a life-sized statue, depicting Carstensen standing in full dress uniform. Her hands were by her sides, the right veiled by a depiction of the Fist of Lilias. Her sidearm—Carstensen’s Justice—hung from her belt. But she did not wear her hat and her hair was depicted as flowing around the right side of her neck, as if tousled by the wind. Her eyes were fashioned from two aquamarine gemstones which glittered in the firelight. The lips were carved into the small smile she saved only for Marsh Silas.
After staring up at her for a little while, Marsh opened his coat and retrieved a small bouquet of yellow flowers. He smelled them before setting them down on the edge of the pedestal. He took off his hat and gestured to them with it.
“I picked those myself from Army’s Meadow. To look at the place now, you’d think nothing ever happened there. The fields have grown back. Here and there, the land dips into a depression left by the shells but those are grown over.” He started turning his hat over and over in his hands. Marsh laughed a little. “They built a new base. Bigger than before. Kasr Fortis is rebuilt too. I took a trip there during my last extended furlough. It’s formidable and quite lovely too. That whole region is safer now because of what we did.”
He nodded his head as he talked. His eyes darted up to hers for a moment before he looked past the statue at the city beyond. The sun was setting, casting a brilliant miasma of golden and pink light across Kasr Sonnen. “I am…sorry about the view. I ought to have told them to face you towards the city so you didn’t have to stare at the door all damned day. You would have preferred a view with the water. Alas, the city’s walls are too high. You remember how we used to stand in the parapet at Army’s Meadow to watch the sunrises and sunsets? Or if we had a little time, we’d go sit on the beach for a time.”
Marsh Silas laughed a little. “Oh, oh, remember the dune? It was the one near the spot Barlocke and I used to spar at. We’d go there because it was out of sight? We got up to a great deal of mischief there, you and I, before I shipped out for COTI. Yes, that was wonderful.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head a little. A deep inhale was followed by an equally long breath. Resting his hat on the pedestal, he started to pace. “Ghent’s doing a mighty fine job of running the place. I was very happy when he agreed to be headmaster of this Schola. I think he’s even happier here than when he was serving in the regiments. This is what he was built for. Your legacy is in good hands, Lilias, very good hands.”
When he stopped, his side was facing her. He looked up at those sparkling aquamarines. But his gaze was lost and forlorn. “I know you weren’t one for fine gems or rings or such. But it didn’t feel right to have those eyes of yours made of marble. Your eyes…your eyes were always filled with determination, strength, courage, and compassion. They glowed with it all. The stone couldn’t have captured that. Neither do these gems, but they suffice. Throne, what’d I do to look into your eyes one more time. I’d give anything, from my heart to this arm,” he said, lifting his left hand up.
Marsh Silas ran both his hands through his hair and released a heavy breath. He turned to face the statue and met the gems with his own gaze. “Bloody Platoon, they’re…they’re alright. You probably know that but I thought I’d just say it. We’re just keeping up with the good work, like we always do, and trying to have some fun when we can. New faces, but they’re all a part of the family now. Even the damned dog, I suppose. The new Commissar, he’s a young lad by the name of Fremantle. He’s a decent sort, a good soldier, but he’s not you. He’s trying his best, though. But Bloody Platoon’s alright, they’re alright, I’m alright, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Marsh lowered his head. “Everything will be alright. You taught them well. You showed us what valor really looks like. None of us have forgotten about you and what you did for us. It takes a very special kind of person, I think, to devote your life to others. Someone who would strive, struggle, and sacrifice all for the betterment of others. You were one of those few, truly special folks. Just about one of a kind. I am but the actor, imitating your greatness. You were blessed by the Emperor himself. We were all blessed to merely have been in your presence.”
His breath hitched. He shook his head. “I miss you, Lilias. I miss you so, so much, my dearest love.” Marsh Silas looked up one more time, his violet eyes glimmering. He kissed his palm and wrapped his fingers around Carstensen’s hand.
A gust of wind rippled through the terrace. Yellow petals brushed against his coat and cheeks. Marsh’s eyes remained shut until he heard a kind of wisping. He looked to his left to see a kind of dust pulling away from himself. It took the form of a man and coalesced into a familiar, pale face outlined by long, dark brown hair.
Barlocke’s fragment gazed down at him sorrowfully. Marsh looked back, his eyes filling with tears. His lips moved, but his voice fled. He shut his eyes and his hand fell from Lilias’s. Barlocke stepped closer and wrapped his hand around Marsh. In turn, the young man rested his head against his friend’s shoulder and put his arm around him. Barlocke pressed his cheek to the top of Marsh’s head and nestled his nose into his blonde locks. The two companions stood that way for some time, illuminated by the golden-pink sky and orange flames, listening to the gentle trickles of water, guarded by the visage of Commissar Carstensen, the Cadian.
