Two months dragged by. Marsh Silas had nothing to do but attend his rehabilitation courses, pour over Bloody Platoon’s after-action reports, now penned by Hyram, and go to the soldier’s halls at night to drink his boredom away. Days passed at an unbearably slow pace. Bloody Platoon’s mission tempo was very high and they would be gone for days at a time. When they did return to Fort Carmine, the usual bravado, levity, and comradeship returned, but it was just so fleeting. Haight or Osniah would relate intelligence regarding the two Traitor Guard regiments operating in the region. Then, his men would depart once again—without him. His only company was the occasional friend in the regiment visiting him and the blasted after-action reports.

  Marsh Silas sat in his office, pipe between his lips and his hair clumped in his right hand. He took a moment to breathe deeply. Letting go, he turned in his seat and looked through the open door. All the bunks in the main chamber were empty and the barracks was very still. None of the lamps were on and the only light came from the gray glow of a rainy sky. From the confines of his personal quarters, he could hardly hear the rain rhythmically pounding on the windows. Thunder rumbled, but it was a mere muffle through the reinforced walls of the fort.

  Turning back, he heaved a heavy breath and continued examining the reports. It was the same news again and again. Bloody Platoon proceeded to an objective, usually some repurposed ruins, a seized facility, or a mountain compound. Either the target area would be evacuated and nothing of value was found or there would be a larger than predicted enemy force the platoon would fight through. Although they caused moderate casualties, the objective was rendered null by the absence of high-value targets, productive intelligence, and captured weapons caches. Neither Bloody Platoon or any of the other units in Avalanche Company appeared to be making any headway against this heretical incursion.

  He slid one report to the left side of the desk, and placed another in front of him. His eyes scanned left to right and back again, his violet gaze deepening as his brow furrowed. Occasionally, Bloody Platoon assaulted a target successfully, seizing a cache and destroying a complex. If they did recover evidence of any kind, it was passed over to the intelligence department at regimental command. Yet these reports provided no meaningful results. The next target would be empty or there would be another ambush waiting for Bloody Platoon. Even their victories were scant and hollow.

  “Why?” Marsh asked aloud. “This should lead to something useful. A high-ranking enemy officer located in a lightly defended cavern system who has access to Imperial weapons—this is a prime target who is unsuspecting of our actions. But Bloody Platoon’s infiltration uncovered nothing.” He whirled around in his chair to face Barlocke’s projection, who was lying on his cot. His hands were folded across his chest and he was twiddling his thumbs around each other.

  “It all comes back to the rat, my dear,” Barlocke said without opening his eyes. “Uncover the traitor who is leaking our movements to the enemy, cut his head off, and then all will be well.”

  “This is by no means a simple intelligence leak on the part of a filthy rat,” Marsh grumbled, turning back to his desk. His eyes drifted from the maps mounted on his wall, covered with dozens of pins and notes, to the data sheets on his cogitator screen, and back down to the reports on his desk. “Two different Traitor Guardsmen regiments are at work. They do not appear to be allied with each other; they’re operating in different sectors of the region, and both are gaining ground.”

  “Your lovely golden locks will turn gray if you think this hard,” Barlocke teased.

  Marsh, ignoring his friend, stood up and went over to the second map hanging on his wall. He studied the red and blue arrows indicating the enemy’s movements over the past few months. More pins and dots indicated enemy holdouts Bloody Platoon and other units had assaulted.

  “When we strike against one, the other acts. They hit a convoy, they raid a supply depot, and they get away. We are being misdirected.”He stood closer, his nose practically against the paper. “There must be something I do not understand.” Marsh winced as pain slowly spread through his left arm. It was still in a sling for safety and to mitigate overuse. But keeping it immobile caused such stiffness that when he flexed his fingers after a period of rest, it would create discomfort.

  Aggravated, he slid his arm out of the sling and carefully rotated his arm. His sleeve was rolled up, revealing the jagged, brownish scar where the shrapnel had amputated him.

  “You should be careful.”

  “I should be out with my men, not relaxing here.”

  “You are not relaxed. Why don’t you lay down? I learned a wonderful massage technique on the Pleasure World of Latius XI. Ghostly fingers provide the lightest touch, hm?” Barlocke mused. Marsh Silas just glared at him and the apparition rolled his eyes. “You’ve been doing so much reading you’ll wear your eyes out. You’ll need eyeglasses like Hyram’s one day or bionic replacements. That reminds me, I met a few wealthy persons while in the Calixis Sector. They had lost their eyes to accidents or combat, but they had enough capital to afford bionic replacements which looked exactly like the human eye. Thus, they did not have to wear an eyepiece. Perhaps, if your eyes give out, you may…”

  Marsh Silas turned sharply and glared at the visage. Barlocke paused, then held up one hand in acknowledgement, and closed his eyes. Marsh returned to the map and stared. His fingers traced the arrows of one Traitor Guard unit—the Marked Men, as the company now called them—and then the movement of the other outfit, who had earned no moniker.

  “I continue to mull over what Prince Constantine told me. Have you encountered the forces of this dark force before?”

  “I hesitate to speak of it. You are strong-willed, as pious as a priest, and of course, you have me to protect your mind from outside forces. But even you are not exempt from the immense threat the mere knowledge of this vile creature presents.”

  “You must give me something. It cannot be the same deity Amilios and his Host pledged themselves to. We faced the Black Legion and the Iron Warriors as well. Captains Thule and Galen explained the Iron Warriors are subservient to none of those foul beings, while the Black Legion serves them all. Then, there was the Band of Dusk, who were lackeys of the Black Legion. I see no vestiges of their benefactors among either of these traitor bands.”

  “The first group you encountered, they have carried no symbols but the Eight-Pointed Star,” Barlocke stated. The ghost got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Their profile matches the templates of many similar factions I have fought before; they work against the Imperium but have no one to enfranchise them yet. It is through their acts they hope to win the benefactions of one particular lord.”

  “Unlike the Marked Men, who are clearly devoted to one in particular—one we have not encountered previously. Bristol and Constantine have and believe him to be the most dangerous.”

  “I agree with their sentiments, for I have faced his foes on many occasions. An intelligent enemy is the most dangerous one. Their overlord acts with sorcery, tricks, knowledge, and intrigues, thus, his followers emulate these facets. While others will cause decay, others will destroy or debauch, he will deceive. With doubt, he will divide; with deception, he will dictate. His followers may never even fight, for if they weave their lies and tricks carefully enough, others may fight for them.”

  Marsh Silas nodded. His finger traveled and wandered across the page. Misdirection. Misinformation. Separation. Ambush. False lead. Raid. Deception. One enemy force disappearing, another advancing, both avoiding each other, one acting while the other wavered. Marsh Silas’s eyes widened.

  “There must be two spies! Two separate groups that are acting separately from one another; despite this, their patterns indicate a near-complete understanding of the other’s movements. So much so, that when we harass one, the unassailed party is free to move. Each of these bands are being fed intelligence from a separate source in the department; a spy devoted to one would not deliver information to the other.”

  Barlocke stood and joined Marsh Silas at the map. The projection studied the notes and then went over to the after-action reports.

  “This is a bold idea, Silvanus,” Barlocke said without looking up. “But if they are rivals, they would be attempting to conceal this information from one another, would they not?”

  “True, but they have to maintain a masquerade of loyalty if they are to complete their missions within our intelligence department. Conferences, data exchanges, briefings, operational planning—by proximity, they are forced to expose their own information to the rival party.”

  Marsh Silas sorted a stack of paperwork and pulled out a form. It was a bulletin list of all of Avalanche Company’s missions in the past several months. He read through it quickly and corroborated the information with the map in front of him. “And we are the instrument by which they attack one another.. It is as you said, they are having others do their fighting for them. As they compete against one another for resources, they use us to slow the other force down. In this way, they mitigate casualties.”

  “A sound theory, although that does not explain the first ambush, the armored counterattack at the supply depot, or the Battle of Hill 277. If we are the sword they use to parry one another’s movements, why attempt to destroy us?”

  “Because we got too close to something,” Marsh said. “Uncovering evidence of their motives, obtaining a supply cache—we posed too much of a risk of destabilizing the equilibrium they have created between their two forces. Destroying one of our platoons would be worth the tradeoff.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Marsh Silas stepped back and regarded the two maps with a growing smile. “So, traitors, you make your methods known. Now, I can use this to find you.” He slid his left arm back into the sling and grabbed his overcoat.

  “We’re going out?”

  “I shan’t sit on my ass when there’s work to be done!” Marsh declared. “Imperial subjects are out there risking their lives and are being toyed with. Men and women are captured, executed, or otherwise spirited away. No one in the regiment appears to know what to do to stop this eventuality or how. I will not standby while we Imperials are further driven apart while our enemies continue to succeed. If I am to build a better Imperium, then this is another block in its foundation; to strengthen our internal resolve against the machinations of the Archenemy so that we may become a cohesive bulwark, that we must work together, and preserve each other.”

  Barlocke smiled and shook his head sorrowfully.

  “The spies are more than likely a higher rank than you. One mistake, and they can exert their authority to have you imprisoned, investigated, and executed on false charges. Are you prepared for such a risk?”

  “All acts have risks, especially those which usher change,” Marsh Silas said firmly. “I will bear them. Will you join me?”

  “Always,” said the ghost, and then faded into Marsh Silas. The platoon leader donned his hat, emptied his pipe into the ashtray, kissed Carstensen’s portrait, and exited his room.

  Rain drummed against the windows of the barracks and the fort’s walls. Streams ran down the glass and the smooth rockrete walls. When Marsh stepped outside, the wind whipped his collar and the empty left sleeve of his jacket. He raised his collar so that it covered, his lower face, dipped his gaze, slid his hands into his pockets, and marched down the white gravel paths. Other than the RFSF personnel standing in their sentry posts, there was no one on the campus of Fort Carmine.

  As the regimental banner flapped on the flag mast, the tethers clanging against the metal pole, Marsh Silas suddenly felt very lonesome. To be alone in the center of this massive complex, without any familiar faces, with the martial Militarum noise drowned out by the rain, and to be the sole keeper of this newfound realization; he felt as though he were the loneliest man on Cadia.

  His gait slowed as he passed the flag, even as the driving rain bombarded his personage. Marsh dared to look up. As heavy, sharp raindrops assaulted his face, he watched the flag furl, unfurl, flutter, and flatten in a great gust of wind. A lonely banner maintaining its vigil among a great storm.

  Marsh thought of acts long behind him. Saving Asiah and her people, then her son, preventing Maerys the Pathfinder’s torture, defeating the Beast during the Battle of the Cove, destroying the Plague Zombies alongside Barlocke, rescuing Bloody Platoon in the ruins of Kasr Fortis, slaying Amilios, obliterating the cursed manufactorum, and losing Barlocke. Training the Whiteshields, teaching them the tools to survive and succeed, and how keeping just three of them alive was a victory; uncovering the growing host in the hinterland, dispatching Drusus the Warpsmith, and earning his commission. Improving conditions for Bloody Platoon, making a life with his beloved, saving Kasr Sonnen, then defeating the Black Legion and Iron Warrior host alongside the Space Marines of the Astartes Praeses. His great effort to save Afdin, bringing about justice for the 45th Altridge Regiment, and once again saving the entire region at Army’s Meadow.

  To regard how far he had journeyed, how long he had survived, knowing he had done so much but there was still so much great work ahead of him, made him feel all the smaller and lonelier. But his violet gaze squinted in determination and he marched faster towards the headquarters building.

  He pushed through the doors, ignored the menials who offered to take his coat, and hurried up the stairs. Marsh wound his way up through the tower until he came to the intelligence department. After saluting the sentires, he opened the doors and strutted into the chamber. Various officers, attendants, scribes, and other personnel were gathered around the deactivated hololithic projector. Paperwork was exchanged, reports filed, and more than a few heated conversations surfaced.

  Marsh Silas knew who he wanted to talk to: Major Haight. Although not a member of Navy Intelligence, he was officially attached as part of their Naval Security detachment. It was also clear that he was a savvy operator who was quite adept with data and analytics. Even better, he had influence within the chain of command; Marsh hadn’t forgotten how Haight secured attack aircraft to destroy the heretical armored column when they secured the supply depot. If he wanted to make an ally of anyone in the department, it was him.

  Haight was off to the side among a crowd of other Navy personnel. In front of him was a Militarum retinue represented by Major Osniah, who was red in the face and stamping his foot.

  “Dame ye, Haight!” he cried. “Why must you alway test me? I am trying to complete my work and relay my findings to the appropriate units, and yet you chastise me!”

  “Your work is shoddy, Major,” Haight spat. “I tire of having to correct your mistakes within this department.”

  “That is not even an aspect of your official duties!”

  “You are short-staffed and so I contribute. It appears applying oneself beyond what is expected of him is quite abhorrent to the likes of you.” Haight smiled smugly and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. “Just try to be more professional with your work, it will save me the hassle of having to school you in front of our peers.”

  “Watch your tone, boy, lest this quarrel becomes a duel on the field of honor!”

  “I was not aware you knew what such a word meant!” Haight said, feigning bashfulness as he placed a hand on his chest. Osniah groaned in frustration before tearing himself away. Militarum, Naval, Mechanicus, and Sororitas personnel continued the hot debate. Contradictions, challenges, and arguments abounded between the various cliques.

  Marsh Silas took off his hat and unbuttoned his collar. He caught Major Haight’s attention and the two friends shook hands. “Apologies for the display, it has become very hectic around here.”

  “You’ll have no complaints from me,” Marsh Silas laughed. “I appreciate anyone who puts that scoundrel Osniah in his place. I am sorry to say, however, I have not come just for the pleasantries of conversation.”

  He led him apart from the crowd and put his good arm around him. “It has come to my attention that there may be more than one spy working in this department. I have reason to believe there are two. Whether they are working with their own small teams, I know not, but I am sure about the two, at least.”

  “This is a remarkable theory, Silas…”

  “Not so, I merely studied the movements of our enemies,” Marsh Silas said confidently. “Something must be done. The longer we dawdle, the enemy continues unimpeded and threatens more of our people.” The platoon leader looked around once again and leaned closer. “Major, you’re just about the only one I trust in this entire department. Will you work with me to uncover the rats?”

  “Silas, that’s very dangerous. If we act without the approval of any superiors, our endeavors may be mistaken for subversive acts.”

  “I know, but we need to save lives. There are too many sensitive locations in the region; supply depots, ports, listening posts. All vulnerable infrastructure, and thus many lives are at stake. This heresy is growing and until we can pin their forces down and destroy them, we must stave it off, blow by blow.”

  Haight nodded slowly, pondered, then smiled. He appeared thoughtful, his eyes glittering with delight. He shook Marsh’s hands again.

  “I’m with you. I’ve had my suspicions as to who could be leaking intelligence. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, compile a list of names, and investigate them. I’ll come to you and only you with my findings.”

  The two men clapped each other excitedly on the back and went their separate ways. Marsh Silas turned and put his hat on. As he did, he bumped into someone.

  “My apologies…oh, Warrant Officer Romilly, how do you do?”

  The shorter, thinner officer picked up the envelope he dropped and smiled, embarrassed.

  “I feel quite well. Actually, I am glad to have chanced upon you, Knight-Lieutenant. I am growing increasingly concerned about the intelligence leaks in this department. As you can see, everyone is under a great deal of pressure even if there is not much scrutiny.”

  Marsh glanced over his shoulder. The arguments between the various sects were growing all the louder and intense. Romilly chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “Although I know some of my colleagues would find this to be unbecoming of an officer, I shall utilize this frenzy to avoid some of the proper channels. Methinks that will actually be safer, in the end, to relay orders and information to the appropriate officers and units via secure couriers rather than full briefings.”

  He handed Marsh Silas the envelope. “Would you please deliver this to Lieutenant Gabler, please? An urgent development has occurred and I believe it merits immediate action by the Kasrkin.”

  “Has anyone else reviewed this information?” Marsh asked, gingerly taking the envelope.

  “Well, no, but I would not deliver it if I did not think it valid.” Romilly blushed a little and lowered his head. “Although I might not look the part, I loathe working in these offices. I am used to operating listening posts, being out in the country, and intimate with our foes. I prefer to be close to them, as I find it is far easier to gather intelligence rather than have to sift through countless reports to articulate my findings. Confined here, well, I feel restrained. I’d rather go out. Rest assured, only my eyes have seen this report and it comes from a reliable source.”

  “Yes…I’ll deliver it, it won’t be a bother,” Marsh said with a slowly spreading smile.

  “Oh, thank you sir, much appreciated.” They saluted and separated. Marsh walked through the doors slowly, tucking the envelope into his coat. He was still smiling. What do you reckon, Silvanus? “I think one of the spies just made himself quite known,” Marsh whispered. “Likes to be close to the enemy, hates being cooped up in the department, forgoing public channels?” Suspicious, indeed. “I’ll go with Gabler on this mission. If it’s a trap, then we’ll know Romilly is one of the spies. Throne, this investigation is going to solve itself!”