It was a day of rest in the 1st Platoon barracks. Most of the Kasrkin were absent, leaving the hall still and quiet. Most were away at Fort Carmine’s campus canteen or were drinking at the local soldier halls. Some were attending one of Marsh’s literacy evaluations which was currently being proctored by Hyram in the former’s absence. Those who remained slept in their bunks, read from a selection of tomes acquired by their commanding officer, penned letters, or maintained some part of their wargear.

  The overbearing scent of high-grade black boot polish permeated the barracks but it was such a common smell none of the occupants were bothered. Corporal Raskob, 2nd Squad’s lean grenadier, devoted part of his wages to purchasing polish as he was dissatisfied with the standard-issue brand. Despite his enlisted rank, the quiet lad was from an upper class Cadian family and was used to finer things. Across the room, the assault machine gunners of 6th Squad, Corporal Messer and a fellow they called Ironsides, sharpened their combat knives. Both were big fellows as a result from carrying the heavy Echon Pattern Mk. III Assault Stubbers. In their hands, the Cadian-pattern combat knives seemed especially small. The steady, slow, metallic grind of the blades on the whetstones carried through the barracks.

  Occasionally, Cornelius sang a higher note in a hymn from his private chamber. His musical voice drifted through the hall like a whispering wind. When they heard him, the Kasrkin looked up briefly from their activities to listen. The preacher’s room also maintained a small shrine to the God-Emperor and platoon members visited him often for private prayers, confessions, and to read scripture. Like Marsh Silas and Hyram, he was keen to teach and his eagerness was only exacerbated when the two officers enfranchised his ability to interact with the men. But at this particular moment, it was Jacinto the Pryomancer who sat with him behind closed doors.

  Sitting in his own private quarters, adjacent to the platoon commander’s, Commissar Fremantle paused from his typing. The quietude of the barracks was pleasant but strange. It was rare for a room of battled-hardened, callous, foul-mouthed, and hard-drinking Kasrkin to be so calm. Due to their raucous games and roughhousing, it was easy to forget these men were professionals. More than that, they were men—distinct in personalities, individuals in their interests.

  Knight-Lieutenant Cross said as much when Fremantle assumed his position within the platoon. Marsh Silas made his relationship to these men and, more importantly, their kinship with one another very clear. He set a standard in the platoon and the Kasrkin met or exceeded the line he drew every single day. Fremantle could not point to faults which merited disciplinary actions beyond unofficial reprimands or basic punishments, such as a bout of pushups. At first, he balked at such light actions but he accepted Marsh’s recommendations and realized later these were far more fruitful than being too severe. He had accepted that he would revert to more severe punishments only if they were truly merited.

  Such a level of restraint was not dwelled upon during his upbringing in the Schola Progenium, nor was it incorporated into his further training within the Officio Prefectus. During his tenure with the Cadian Interior Guard, he dealt with a number of lacking scallywags. A lashing or the occasional shooting was enough to keep the laggards in line and reliable troopers on edge. Such violent responses often rooted out the occasional cultist who filtered into the ranks as well.

  Here in the 10th Kasrkin, he was not confronted with the same idlers, loafers, and malcontents. There was no need for it; these were highly-trained, extremely loyal, and very motivated soldiers. To act so severely was unnecessary in the first place, and Marsh Silas applying further constrictions upon his abilities proved to be an intriguing challenge.

  Sit with them, talk with them, make their troubles your own, appeal to their sensibilities, address issues with your voice and not your gun—this was the impartation extended from the Knight-Lieutenant. ‘Kindness and reason,’ he added, ‘may amalgamate with inspiration and discipline.’ Fremantle often dwelled on these and like any able Commissar, he worked with his Astra Militarum officer, not against them. He knew some of his old mentors would see Marsh Silas as a poor exemplar of Militarum values. Others would balk at receiving criticism and instruction of how to act as a Commissar from a mere officer. But the man’s record proved otherwise. His rhetoric touched the hearts of every single man in his platoon and affected people even outside of it. Fremantle could not deny he was encouraged by this. But even after working hard to establish himself among the troops, he still felt as though he had fallen short..

  Carstensen. That was the name he thought of in these moments of reflection. To hear the veterans speak of her, it was as if they were adulating a Saint. Hero of the Imperium, Savior of Kasr Sonnen, she was an example the men still followed. Despite all the stories told to him by the Kasrkin who survived Army’s Meadow, the official records of her exploits, and the occasional tale spun by Marsh Silas himself, all seemed to fall short of the magnitude of her grandeur. Nor could he comprehend the greatness of her simplicity; the men fondly remembered her just for her conversations and for sitting with them. Sometimes, on the parade grounds, in the halls, even en route to a mission, he wondered if they were truly listening to him or recalling her lessons.

  “Bloody hell, I tire of this silence. Who wants to play a game of 30-Platoon?” Walmsley Major’s rough voice rang through the barracks. A chorus of others responded followed by shuffling feet, scraping chairs, and creaking bunks.

  Fremantle kept his desk beside the doorway so he could peer out at the platoon. He leaned out to watch some of the Kasrkin gather up in the center of the barracks. They kept a number of chairs, benches, and tables to hold briefings, although it often served as a designated area to play card games and drink. The men pushed two tables together before circling chairs around them. As Walmsley Major started to deal, the others lit their lho-sticks. A thin, gray haze of smoke rose above their heads and rolled lazily in the white lights embedded in the rockcrete ceiling.

  As they started to play, their conversation grew pleasant. Swearing and laughing, bright smiles split their scarred and bearded faces. Purple and violet eyes twinkled with delight. Fremantle watched and it was irresistible not to smile, too. He found these moments to be quite pleasant despite their strangeness; ever since he eased back, he found himself delighted by the troops around him. Happy, motivated troops provided an energy he enjoyed.

  He leaned back and regarded the dull green cogitator screen blankly. His report was finished and edited twice already. It was complete—he didn’t need to stress over it any further. Signing it, he sent the file to Hyram’s terminal and deactivated the machine.

  Without donning his head cover, the Commissar exited his office and approached the table. The Kasrkin saw him coming and stood up. Walmsley Major, the platoon sergeant, had gathered Raskob, Ironsides, Messer, Lynwood the medic of 1st Squad, and Wyndham, a gunner in 5th squad. He was as bulky as the two machine gunners as he bore his squad’s heavy plasma gun. Staff Sergeants Metcalfe and Werner had also joined the congregation.

  “As you were, continue the game,” he said, doing his best to sound charitable. “Who is in the lead so far?”

  “Apparently this fancy feller,” Ironsides grunted, jerking his thumb towards Raskob. “You’d think soft living would make this bastard less of a card player.”

  “I haven’t known a soft bed since I left home at fourteen, just like the rest of you lot,” Raskob snapped as he slapped a card on the table. Commissar Fremantle tapped his shoulder.

  “Easy soldier, they risk your ire to make you less reasonable. Beware the trap.”

  “Aye, you’re right! Thank you, Commissar.”

  “Commissar, would you care to sit with us?” Walmsley Major asked, smiling as he motioned to the empty chair beside him.

  That was something he was not used to. During his time in the Interior Guard, troopers rose to attention in his presence while others scurried away. No one addressed him beyond, ‘yes, sir,’ and, ‘no, sir.’ Friendly words and polite offers were never exchanged. Fremantle accepted it as part of his station for so long that to receive such a warm remark still shocked him.

  “You can do more than offer me a seat,” Fremantle said confidently. “Deal me in.”

  The men clapped eagerly as he sat down. Walmsley Major slid him some cards and he looked them over. “I’ve never actually played the game before. But I know how it works. I used to watch the men of the 572th Home Regiment play it. You can trust me to play along fine.”

  One by one, each member started to place a card face-down in front of themselves. Each participant had six and created a line towards the center of the table.

  “Sir, any word on when Marsh Silas will be back?” asked Lynwood, her lho-stick bobbing on her lip.

  He resisted the spike within him that demanded the platoon leader be referred to by his rank. The informal, war name was one of respect, not a breach of fraternization regulations, he reminded himself.

  “The conference’s duration is greater than expected but it should not be for much longer. I am sure he is sharing his dissatisfaction with the denial of artillery support during our last mission.”

  “More like he’s raising hell,” Walmsley Major said after taking a drag on his lho-stub. “The man’s got a temper. He suffers no nonsense.”

  “I think every fella that night wanted to throttle those artillerymen,” Messer added.

  “Nay, nay, it was not their fault,” Wyndham said, waving his hand. “They got an order directly from the intelligence section o’ the regiment. From whom, they don’t know, for it wasn’t signed.”

  “Such orders must be signed to be obeyed,” Raskob grunted.

  “Twas not an order,” Fremantle said as he placed another card on the table. “It was a communique drafted by the intelligence department indicating there were friendly forces in the area and they advised to cancel fire missions in the area of operations lest Cadian units begin calling strikes upon one another. If it were an order, it would have required a signature, but a communique need not be signed if it bears the department’s seal.”

  “Which means that if there is a dirty rat up there,” Werner mumbled, “it can’t be traced to them.”

  “An investigation through the intelligence wing may yet reveal the mole,” Fremantle assured him. “That is, if Knight-Lieutenant Cross is not stonewalled by departmental staff. With Militarum, Navis, Adepta Sororitas, and Administratum personnel working together, there is much bureaucracy to fight through.”

  “Lots of folks don’t like admitting they’re wrong,” Ironsides muttered. “Have you ever had to deal with that before, sir?”

  “From enlisted men to commissioned officers all the way to regimental staff members—yes, I have.”

  “So you think it’s good that Cross is right to ruffle feathers on the chain of command?” Metcalfe asked disinterestedly. Walmsley Major glared at the squad leader and put down one of his cards loudly to catch his attention.

  “That’s Knight-Lieutenant Cross to you,” he said gravely. Metcalfe rolled his eyes. Beside him, Werner cleared his throat.

  “Well, I agree with him. I know Marsh Silas ain’t your average officer and he has these grand ideas that might make him seem odd or misguided, but he’s a good fellow. He’s got people in mind and if getting high-falutin officers off their asses and doing some good work is part o’ that, I’m for it.”

  Fremantle hesitated on his second to last card, then gently plucked it from his hand. After eyeing the others, he placed it in his lineup and sat back.

  “I must say, Staff Sergeant Werner, I am in agreement.”

  The participants turned their cards over. Men groaned as they fell short in their count compared to other members. Raskob, again the winner, took the pot—five packets of premium lho-sticks. Cards were traded in and dealt out once more. As they waited, Valens arrived with Cobb. Freya trotted between the pair. Robust greetings were shared between the new arrivals and the players. Offered seats, Cobb sat beside Commissar Fremantle. When he pulled up a chair between them, Freya hopped up on it.

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  “So, how’s it feel to be a hero?” Walmsley Major asked the canid handler.

  “Oh, not me. Freya is the real hero, aren’t ya girl?” Freya barked happily in response. Spittle flecked onto Fremantle’s cheek and he had to wipe it away.

  “I heard you’re getting a medal for what you did,” Lynwood said. “Congratulations to you.”

  “Wouldn’t you believe it? Marsh Silas is giving us both medals! You think he’s coming around to Freya?”

  “Surely, he must. Even the Commissar seems to like her.”

  “Ha! What gives you the impression I would make friends with a four-legged beast like this?” Fremantle responded. Then, with a grin, he glanced at Freya, then held out his palm. The canid immediately brought her paw down quickly and they shook hands. Freya panted happily, wagged her tail, and licked Fremantle on the cheek. As he wiped away the slobber, the Kasrkin around him laughed. “Ah, that’s a good girl,” he said to her, scratching the dog underneath her neck.

  “She sure is. You ought to have seen her!” Walmsley Major laughed. “She shot through that window like a fur missile.”

  “Hey Cobb, put some cards down in front of her, I want to get a pict. Then strike a funny pose with your own deck. Commissar, would you be troubled if you appeared in the shot?”

  “I don’t think I would. Shall I strike a pose also? Direction, if you please, direction,” he said in a haughty tone, mimicking the actors who appeared in their morale films. The group kept laughing.

  Cobb had Freya place both paws on the edge of the table and they placed five cards in a vertical line in front of her. Fremantle clutched the side of his head, digging his fingers into his short, dark hair, while Cobb adopted a bemused expression as he looked at his cards. Valens snapped the pict and the men chortled.

  “Thanks, Commissar,” Valens laughed. As Freya sat back, Cobb leaned across her and offered Fremantle a lho-stick. The Commissar nodded in thanks as he took it while Walmsley Major lit it for him.

  Just as they were about to start the next game, they heard Cornelius’s door open. Jacinto came out, clad in his khaki duster coat and an olive sash wrapped around his waist. Black tubes ran from the base of his skull and neck into the mechanism he carried on his back. In combat, more tubes ran from this device to his Force Stave to amplify his power. Much of these tubes were covered by his gray and white locks.

  As he walked by, he peered out from under his hair. Pale freckles ran across his cheeks and nose, giving him a boyish youthfulness. Fremantle glared at him and the psyker grew smaller. But, he stopped behind Walmsley Major and watched everyone flip through their cards.

  “C-c-can I p-pl-play?”

  “Sure, pull up a seat,” the platoon sergeant merrily answered. Eagerly, Jacinto sat beside him. Walmsley Major slid his cards over, then put his arms around the lad. “Here, take my deck. Now, remember when we taught you how to play Black Five? It’s a little like that because this is all about adding. But instead of attempting to attain higher numerals of five, you’re trying to get as close as possible to the number thirty. You’re given six cards, and you can play as many or few as you want. If you’re feeling lucky, and you’ve got a bad hand or you’re short, you can draw another card. But, you have to play that card, not like the ones in your hand. So this might get you over thirty, and if that happens, you’re out.”

  “B-b-but, wh-wh-why would I-I-I t-take ri-risk-k-ks if-if-if I’m c-close?”

  “Because someone else might be closer, you see. You might have twenty-three—not bad. But someone else might have twenty-five, or more. Might be worth the risk if you can get a number or two over. Ready?”

  “He should not play,” Fremantle seethed. All the participants looked up. Jacnto sank in his seat. “He’s a psyker. He can use his powers to cheat.”

  “N-n-not a tel-tel-telepath, n-n-nor a di-di-di—”

  “Di-di-di what?” Fremantle snapped. “Spit it out.”

  “Di-di-diviner. P-p-pyromancy and s-so-some tele-k-k-kine p-powers.”

  “I care not for your little lies, psyker. Remove yourself from the table and retreat to your quarters.”

  Jacinto slid his chair back, but Walmsley Major kept his arm around him and squeezed his shoulder. The platoon sergeant offered Fremantle a deep, strong gaze.

  “With respect, Commissar, you ought to take it easy on the lad. He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s one of us.”

  “One of us?” Fremantle sniffed. “Master Sergeant, he is not one of us. He is different; he is touched by the Warp. He will never be like us and he represents dangers. Be grateful I do not punish you for that kind of fraternization with a psyker. Jacinto, be gone.”

  Walmsley Major kept his arm around him. The other Kasrkin, clearly upset, started to put down their cards. Fremantle had started to look at his hand again, but when he felt their dissatisfied gazes resting on him, he looked back up. “Jacinto. Go, now.”

  “Don’t move, Jacinto,” Walmsley Major said, his brow furrowing. The psyker looked absolutely terrified now and was squirming in the platoon sergeant’s grasp. Fremantle set his cards down and stood up.

  “Are you defying my orders, Master Sergeant Walmsley.”

  “By the Throne, I suppose I am.”

  “Why stand up for this disgusting little creature? Why put yourself at hazard to do so?”

  “Because we fought with a psyker before and he was a good man. He was our friend. He taught us that psykers weren’t just madmen toying with the Warp—they too are children of the God-Emperor and defenders of His realm. They are worthy and deserving of our respect and our friendship. Jacinto’s a good man, he’s a warrior, and he has shared in our troubles for many months now. I resent your treatment of him, sir.”

  “Your poeticism is unwanted and unfounded,” Fremantle said. His shoulders were poised and his fists shuddered by his sides. He felt his teeth gritting as his anger mounted. Who was this man to deny his order? He was just a non-commissioned officer and a disobedient one at that! “Release the psyker to his chambers lest I punish you for insubordination.”

  “What’s it gonna be, Commissar? Deduction or suspension of wages? Ten lashes? Twenty? Shooting?”

  Fremantle slammed his fist on the table, sending cards, coins, and lho-stick packets flying. Men who were still asleep jumped out of their bunks. Participants at the table slid their chairs away or stood up. Jacinto jumped in his seat.

  “H-h-he i-i-is o-on fire!”

  “Are you threatening me!? Will you set me aflame, monster!?”

  “I-I see y-your aura. I-i-it is f-fiery. Th-th-the others h-have c-c-calm, c-cool air.” Upon hearing this, Walmsley Major held up his hand.

  “Commissar, we ought to calm down. It appears you’ve got quite a temper too.”

  “You do not give me orders, Master Sergeant! By the Emperor, I will shoot you if I must!”

  “That’s enough, Commissar.”

  Everyone paused at the familiar, calm voice. Standing nearby, Marsh Silas stared passively at the situation. Smoke rose from his pipe. All the men still sitting stood up. After a few moments, the Knight-Lieutenant strode slowly across the floor. Each footfall on the tiled floor echoed throughout the barracks. He approached the table and slowly turned Jacinto’s cards over—the only ones that hadn’t been disturbed.

  “You had a sure hand, Jacinto. Twenty-eight. That’s a number worth sticking with,” Marsh Silas said with a smile. He dug into his pocket and pulled out an unopened choc-bar. “Here’s your winnings.” Jacinto peered cautiously at Fremantle, then delicately took the treat from Marsh. “Play another hand, men, there’s time yet. You too, Jacinto. Walmsley Major, I ask you to mind your tone and remember your rank when speaking with a Commissar. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Walmsley Major answered rigidly. Fremantle locked eyes with Marsh Silas, who’s brow hardened.

  “Commissar Fremantle, step into my office, if you please.”

  Fremantle obeyed and turned around. He was shocked to see Cornelius standing beside him. The preacher seemed irate, but he remained silent as the Commissar passed him by. Chin up and shoulders braced, Fremantle walked briskly besides Marsh. But the platoon leader put an arm around him and slowed him down. He smiled as though nothing was the matter. They walked nonchalantly into his room and Marsh shut the door.

  “Stand at attention, please,” Marsh said, pointing to the space beside his desk. Fremantle obeyed while Marsh hung up his coat and hat. He tapped his pipe out into an astray and put it away. Finally, he sat down on the cot. “I understand it is difficult to accept that a psyker is not only a human being, but a decent one at that. It must be frustrating that not even our priest does not share your vigorous contempt for Jacinto.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I also know part of your animosity is based on security. A psyker who misuses their power or makes a mistake puts us all at risk. But it is not just that, is it?”

  “I was taught to abhor the psyker, sir.”

  “As was I. But I met people who proved me wrong. All it took was accepting him to open myself up and release some of my bigotry. I ask you to attempt to utilize Jacinto in this endeavor. Educate yourself and from now on, Jacinto is going to be sleeping in the communal chamber with the rest of the men and so are you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fremantle answered, attempting to sound as emotionless as possible. Marsh Silas stood back up and folded his arms across his chest. He appeared thoughtful and curious. Eventually, he stopped in front of him and smiled.

  “I absolutely adored Lilias. She was my very first love and so far, my only love. I was the only one who experienced the tenderness of her character and the sweetness of her soul, those qualities which rooted themselves deep within her heart. Her heart of hearts, as she used to say. But from those roots grew other qualities; courage under fire, zealousness in faith, endurance when subjected to suffering, her desire to teach, and above all, the ability to reach out to others and inspire them in their most dire moments. I firmly believe without that love she possessed, that care for people, none of those aspects would have shone so brightly.”

  Marsh sized him up and down briefly. He shook his head and chewed his bottom lip. “I put forth to you a simple fact: Bloody Platoon would rather have your billet unfilled. Carstensen was the best Commissar they ever knew and living proof we could not judge someone by their uniform. You are not her. But you have the potential to be so. Do you know why?”

  “Because I am a Commissar also, sir.”

  “Incorrect. Because we all have the potential to become better individuals. I expect that out of everyone under my command. That includes you. You have applied yourself well so far, so I besiege you to continue to do so. For Bloody Platoon’s sake, for Carstensen’s, for Jacinto’s, and for yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marsh stepped closer and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “And let me make myself very clear,” he whispered. Marsh suddenly grabbed Fremantle by the collar of his coat, threw him against the wall, then locked his forearm against the Commissar’s throat. Fremantle grabbed his arm but did not attempt to remove it. “If you so frivolously threaten any of my men with death ever again, I will bury you. Am I understood?”

  “Yes…sir…” Fremantle groaned. Marsh Silas let go and stepped back. The Commissar took a breath, then readjusted his collar, and after a moment, resumed his position of attention. Marsh Silas smoothed out his tunic and sat down at his desk.

  “One last piece. Gabler’s platoon hit the target that Osniah gave them. Turns out they were ready for an assault. It was a hard fight—they lost one man—but they seized a small enemy compound built into the hills. Unfortunately, the survivors escaped with much of their equipment. All of the Traitor Guardsmen bore the same mark as our ambushers. They discovered locations for a larger mountain base and Osniah has confirmed the intelligence. Gabler is taking her men out again in two day’s time, but I am going to volunteer Bloody Platoon as a quick-reaction force in case they run into further complications. If we go out, you will be beside Jacinto every moment, am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Fremantle said, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily.

  “Dismissed.”