“And there they are, descending as though they were angels, Knight-Lieutenants Cross and Hyram and their party, landing with the skill and precision expected of any Kasrkin!”
The narrator’s excited, expeditious tone accompanied black and white footage taken from multiple picters present throughout the kasr. Marsh, carrying Lauraine, Isenhour, who carried Romilly, Hyram, and Drummer Boy gently touched down on the asphalt to uproarious applause by the onlookers gathered below Drasquez Tower. It was a graceful landing and the chosen angles which focused on the platoon leader made him appear very heroic. His stoic gaze and calm expression, accompanied by Lauraine’s wide-eyed marvel, only heightened this effect. Many members of the crowd rushed forward to grab their hands and congratulate the Kasrkin.
As the footage ended with triumphant brass and strings played over a shining, golden Aquila, the lights of Rynald Ceremonial Hall brightened once more. Marsh Silas and his platoon sat perpendicular to the stage underneath the massive screen and the audience before it. The crowd stood, turned, and applauded the Kasrkin sitting in a wide booth above them. The men and women of Bloody Platoon smiled bashfully, nodded, and waved.
Marsh Silas lifted his left arm, causing the many crosses and medals on his chest to tremble. He was clad in a green tunic, white trousers, and black leather boots. Golden shoulder boards complemented golden buttons going down the right side of his tunic’s lapel. A brown belt wrapped around his waist with a golden Aquila on the front. On his right side, a white cord ran from his lapel to the shoulder board. Attached to the board was a golden badge bearing the Astra Militarum’s winged skull. To his left, Hyram wore a similar outfit, while Bloody Platoon wore dress uniforms of green and khaki patterns.
“They conveniently left out the immediate aftermath in which we had to run for our lives from falling debris,” Hyram whispered.
“Or how our escape was a desperate effort devised by Isenhour at the last possible moment,” Marsh dryly added.
Even as the screen withdrew into its mount, the applause continued. The reverberation within the chamber was deafening. Rynald Ceremonial Hall was a great auditorium of white marble flooring, smooth granite columns along the walls, and rows upon rows of finely carved benches made from axel-trees. Red banners hung between every column, flags hung over the main entrance and the two side exits, and oil paintings hung on the walls both on the first and second floors. Above, an armaglass dome protected by a blast shield that could be closed or opened by the push of a button allowed blazing evening sunlight to pour through.
Cadian officers, dignitaries, priests, and nobles filled the seats and the balconies above Bloody Platoon’s booth. Among them were many off-world visitors; politicians, merchants, and aristocrats all clapped. Picter-equipped Servo-skulls drifted above the crowds, capturing the event. Many cherubs floated among them as well, their pale angelic wings flapping elegantly. The child-like constructs sang and chirped in High Gothic. Chubby hands dipped into wicker baskets filled with flower petals which were then scattered over the heads of the platoon and the stage.
“Those little things unnerve me, Knight-Lieutenant,” Lauraine said.
“You are not alone in this regard,” Marsh muttered, glancing up at one who cooed at him. A dribble of saliva ran down its cheek as it smiled. “I’ve not seen many in my time.”
“I’m already uncomfortable enough as it is,” she continued, adjusting the leather collar of her khaki uniform. “I’ve not been to a ceremony since I graduated from Whiteshield training and entered the Interior Guard auxiliaries.”
Marsh Silas gently pushed her hands down and fixed the collar for her. Lauraine leaned closer to allow him, but she averted her eyes from his.
“It will be easy. You walk onto the stage with us, step forward when your name is called, they pin the medals to your chest, shake your hand, and salute you. You salute, take a step back, and your part is done. When they finish, Warden-Colonel von Bracken will share a few words and then we will depart for the banquet hall.”
“This place has a banquet hall, too?”
“Fort Carmine is deceptively larger than it appears,” Marsh said, but the words soured in his mouth. Deception is all we’ve had all these months, he thought. It has become as routine as the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon. Barlocke’s forlorn but curious voice sent meandering, cold waves down Marsh’s back. If I were still alive, we would not be in this predicament. I would only have to close my eyes and let my mind wander o’er and through the thoughts of the people all around me to find the spy. His frustration increased the frequency and heat of these waves.
Marsh Silas just nodded stiffly, his violet gaze drawn in concentration. It all seemed so easy when the Inquisitor was in command several years ago. Although his days were hardly simple thanks to Barlocke’s constant bombardment of peculiarities, Marsh had not faced the predicaments of leadership then. To imagine him gliding among regimental headquarters, his whims unchallenged, appealed much to his distracted heart.
A tap on his elbow got his attention. Hyram’s eyes darted towards the stage below. Von Bracken had assumed the podium and leaned into the laud hailer affixed to it. The vaunted Cadian officer was dressed in a beautiful red tunic with green trousers. Across his chest was the Exalted Jade Sash of Meritorious Service adorned with many badges. A dozen rows of golden, silver, and bronze medals and crosses adorned his chest. His goatee was finely trimmed and his smile appeared as glowing as ever.
Behind him stood a retinue of staff officers and their menials. Prince Constantine was in front of them, clad in white trousers and a black tunic which accentuated his own dark locks. He wore his sashes and medals also. Unlike the commanding officer, the regimental XO did not smile and his eyepatch made him appear all the more grim. Beside him was Major Bristol, dressed in a dour black dress uniform and ebony beret. He looked even less enthused to be present. Major Osniah bristled between the highly decorated Cadian officers around him. While their chests were bedecked with ribbons, medals, and badges, he possessed only a few.
“Lords and ladies, princes and princesses, you folk of esteem, I thank the God-Emperor for bringing us together this day,” von Bracken began and the applause finally ceased. “The scene we have just witnessed is just one testament among many which characterize the men and women we honor this day. They themselves are a living attestation to the success, honor, and courage of the Kasrkin of the Red Banner Regiment. Our flag flies red for it exemplifies our commitment to sacrifice for our Emperor and Imperium! Furthermore…”
“He does enjoy the sound of his own voice,” Hyram whispered.
“Why did he even call for this ceremony?” Marsh Silas hissed. “Our victories have been piecemeal and without strategic success. We merely restrain a tide of traitors rather than overcome them. While we sit and listen to speeches and treat ourselves to fanciful meals, they are out there plotting and working. I tried to express to him that the Traitor Regiments are obtaining footholds throughout the area of operations. He has barely been in this theater, so he had no idea!”
Hyram nodded solemnly, understanding Marsh’s frustration. But his astute expression shifted into one of smugness and he grinned obnoxiously. “What?” Marsh asked, perplexed.
“Spell ‘frivolous,’ why don’t you?”
“Oh, brother, if we were not being recorded at this moment,” Marsh said through gritted teeth as he flashed a false smile at a Servo-skull picter. “I would have you in a headlock that would pop your eyeballs out of their sockets. I know you are attempting to alleviate my anger so I might enjoy the evening.”
“Is it working?”
“...and now, I ask 1st Platoon to descend to the stage to receive their decorations!” von Bracken swept his hand towards Bloody Platoon. The band played and the crowd applauded once again. Together, the Guardsmen stood up. Their chests glistened with medals. Even Cornelius, their humble priest, wore his own decorations on his simple shield robes. Cobb and Freya marched along; the canid’s little medals jostled on her flakweave coat with each stamp of her paw. Jacinto sheepishly fell into line, his own khaki tunic adorned with medals he earned throughout the previous year. Fremantle walked behind him, ushering him forward whenever the psyker hesitated by the picters.
The audience stood up again as they clapped. Behind the affluent and influential nobles and officers sitting in the first rows were other members of Avalanche Company. Prince Osgood looked on with an air of dismissiveness but Gabler, beside him, remained bright and chipper. Marsh came abreast of her and she leaned out from her bench with her fist raised. Marsh Silas tapped it with his own.
They marched onto the stage and lined up. Von Bracken turned back to the podium. “We shall dispense the awards. It is only fitting that we should begin with the leader of this platoon, Knight-Lieutenant Silas Cross. A man of rising eminence, as only a Hero of the Imperium and a man decorated by several Adeptus Astartes chapters can be.”
Marsh Silas walked forward so he was on von Bracken’s right side. It felt as though he were a prized possession in a merchant’s auction. The Warden-Colonel spoke not as an officer but as a presenter boasting of his fine wares.
Von Bracken reached over and pointed to Marsh’s ribbon rack. “As you can see, he’s got quite enough metal on there already.” Polite laughter wafted through the crowd. “We have many acts from the past six months to recognize. For bravely rescuing a Valkyrie maintenance crew, the Aeronautica Imperialis bestows the Benevolent Hawk Medal in Gold. The Aeronautica Imperialis also recognizes his bravery aboard a Valkyrie flight during the Battle of Hill 277 with the Aeronautica Medal, 2nd Class.”
Officers came by and started pinning the new medals above his current awards. Marsh’s green tunic grew heavier. “From the Militarum Tempestus, the Tempestus Cross, Scion’s Merit Cordon in Silver, and Cordon of Heroism. For tactical acumen in countless operations, the Macharian Cross, Winged Skull, and the Astra Militarum Medal of General Merit. Cadian High Command extends…”
On and on, the awards were read out. Marsh Silas did not hear the rest of them. He gazed into the crowd, seeing strangers from within his regiment and without. To imagine the spies sitting among them filled him with fury. No doubt, they were smirking with glee as the Imperium of Man wasted its time with another awards ceremony. Those noble lords and ladies had no idea, nor did they care, happy just to get a free meal and gawk at the soldiers who defended them. He wanted to go back to the barracks already.
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***
Marsh Silas did his best to stay among the platoon but he was consistently called away by patrons to discuss some of his adventures. He regaled them with tales recent and old, choosing the most exciting ones as he knew these were the only ones they wished to hear. Every time he drifted back to his comrades, he was called away once more.
The band played soft music he was unused to. Cutlery, silverware, liquor glasses, plates, and platters tinkled. Roasted meats were carved up and their savory smells mingled with the aroma of steamed vegetables. Various alluring vintages of Old-Foiz, sweet Dammassine, and fine amasec radiated from glasses and bottles.
All the while, the patrons chattered and buzzed—Marsh heard everything. Merchants whispered prices and deals to politicians. Dignitaries spoke of relations between the various worlds in the Cadian Sector. Aristocrats vaunted their personal wealth by displaying necklaces, rings, and finely tailored clothes. Some of the noble women, ignored by their husbands, took up the company of unsuspecting enlisted men, undoubtedly finding a comparably rougher man far more stimulating. Lords advertised their debutant daughters and the eligible bachelors, from single officers to princes, turned their heads. Von Bracken surrounded himself with the gentry of Cadia and other planets as well as countless officeholders. He had finished speaking of the ceremony and told many stories regarding his own exploits.
Spell frivolous Hyram had said. Marsh did not need to when the crowds around him so exemplified the word. He broke away from another group of round-bellied merchants and powdered ladies as fast as he could. His platoon mingled with Gabler’s Kasrkin and spying Hyram, Lauraine, and Gabler sharing a conversation, he hurried over and joined them.
“If I have to tell one more Pleasure World oaf about that leap from the tower, I’m going to volunteer for a commission in a penal legion,” he said, exasperated. He swiped a glass from a passing menial’s tray and drank the contents in a gulp.
“Oh, how horrid that you receive the adulation of countless patrons for your service,” Gabler said mockingly. “Would you smile for a change? Your face will become frozen with a frown and you’re ugly enough.”
“Pardon me, Lieutenant Gabler, I seem to remember there is still a war to be fought,” Marsh grumbled, setting his empty glass down on another tray.
“These lights, these picters, the white tablecloths, the fine drink and food,” Hyram listed, swirling amasec around in his glass. He tapped Marsh’s chest with the back of his hand. “Barlocke did not think well of these ceremonies. He saw them as nothing but a trivial case of self-aggrandizement that did nothing but make us feel better about ourselves.”
“He did, and I’m beginning to agree with him.” It’s about time. Marsh rolled his eyes. “Although, I found his comments regarding our medals quite disparaging. I may find these events distasteful but I respect these awards.”
“Of course you do.” Marsh and his companions turned to find Major Bristol standing behind him. “It’s easy to like something when you are given them so easily. Cadians pass out medals like a preacher administers alms to the poor.” Bristol drank a large glass of Old-Foiz before shoving it into the hands of a passing menial. From that same servant he snatched a full glass. He did not appear inebriated but the man was looser than usual. “You don’t know a thing about medals.”
“I beg to disagree, sir,” Marsh replied curtly. “A medal is not just an accolade, it is a story. The tale belongs to not only you, but to the men and women you served alongside in those moments. Cadians respect and embrace this tradition so that the sacrifices our Emperor bears witness to become a bloodline we pass down from generation to generation.”
“I could have sworn I read that somewhere,” Bristol muttered into his glass.
“My late wife said as much in so many words,” Marsh said. “I included it in a foreword in the curriculum texts studied at the Lilias J. Carstensen Center of Officership and Commissariat Excellence.”
Bristol appeared annoyed, but then his gaze fell to his glass. Lauraine cleared her throat and bounced on her heels momentarily.
“Your lady wife sounds like a very wise woman. I would have been honored to meet her.”
“The honor would have been her’s,” Marsh said humbly. “She enjoyed the company of brave soldiers who put their fellow men before their petty opinions.” This he said while gazing at Bristol.
The Jakal sniffed, shrugged, and departed. He fell in with some of the politicians who were singing the praises of the Kasrkin. Within moments, they appeared taken aback by whatever the liaison officer said.
Lauraine breathed easily. She finished her amasec and coughed, clearly unused to the blend. Nervously, she eyed Marsh and managed a smile.
“Will you speak of your wife a little? I have heard of Carstensen the Cadian quite often and the great dreams she held for the Imperium. My admiration soars for her ideals.”
“Then there’s not much I can offer, for you seem acquainted with her already.”
“No, the woman herself! Was she really your wife? Not everyone seems to know.”
“Well, in all but name. A good friend bonded us as future man and wife in a legal and religious ceremony. Afdin was his name and he helped me become more open to the prospect. Love, art, teaching, these were great tenets to him. And Lilias, well, she was as receptive to these ideals as I was. It is why if you visit her institute, you will find a hall named for Afdin, where an officer or Commissar may learn finer things. Singing, instruments, speechcraft, these all have a place in a young officer’s arsenal.”
“Commissar Carstensen truly wished for people to learn, did she not?” Lauraine said, awed.
“Aye, she did…she…” He ran his hand across his cheek and looked away. Jacinto ambled towards the exit, followed by Cornelius and Fremantle. “...I beg your pardon, excuse me.” Marsh Silas hurried over and stopped them. “Where are you off to?”
“Oh, I do not indulge in these dining events for long,” Cornelius said humbly. “I am a preacher and I must observe a life devoid of many pleasures. I have eaten my fill, drank enough, and spoken to a few souls, but now I must attend my altar.”
Marsh Silas nodded slowly, but his gaze fell on the psyker next. Jacinto rubbed his hands together skittishly. He looked down so his white locks covered his eyes. Medals glittered on his chest and his new badge of rank displayed proudly on his breast.
“I a-am g-g-going with him,” Jacinto said. “I d-d…do not l-like it h-h-h-here.”
“Why not? This night is for Bloody Platoon and I recall you are a part of that platoon,” Marsh put his arm around the psyker’s shoulders. “Come, Savant-Warrant, drink, eat hearty, and talk a little.”
“N-nobod-dy wa-wants t-t-to t-talk to m-m-me. Th-t-they act a-as though I-I’m dan-dangerous. I t-tire of their a-a-accusatory g-gazes. I know y-you m-made them l-let me j-j-join the cer-cer-ceremony. T-they d-d-did n-not want me.”
“Oh, Jacinto, please stay,” Marsh said. “Stay with your friends in the platoon and pass the time with them. I know these events are rare for you; it’s up to you to make sure we get to see more loyal and pious psykers like you get honored. You have fought for your fellow man; show those who did not bear witness to your exploits that you belong with them.”
“I-I want to tell t-them I am a g-good sol-soldier and th-that I l-love the Emperor. But I d-d-don’t know how.”
“Your bearing, Savant-Warrant. Bear yourself as a proud, strong soldier and let them gaze upon you,” Fremantle cut in. “Let not their stares dissuade you from your purpose nor deprive you of an event held in your honor. Wear your icon outside your jacket. Stand up straight,” Fremantle pressed his hand into Jacinto’s back. Then, he cupped his chin and raised it. “Keep your eyes up and don’t let your hair droop so sadly.”
The Commissar took his hand and swept the young psyker’s hair back. “This is a start. You need not speak to them, merely hold yourself with a pride only a soldier can maintain. The way you hold yourself will speak for you.”
Jacinto looked between Fremantle and Marsh Silas. He drew a deep breath and then furrowed his brow. Fists clenched, he walked back into the crowd to join Bloody Platoon. Marsh watched him go with a smile, then looked at Fremantle.
“Thank you,” he said to the Commissar.
“He follows orders like a soldier, he acts like a soldier, he is a soldier of this platoon,” Fremantle replied. “I am trying, as you asked, to treat him as such.” The Commissar followed Jacinto into the crowd. Not a moment more passed before Cornelius started to go after them.
“I thought you were leaving,” Marsh said.
“Why leave when my flock is in need?” the preacher said with a hearty smile. As he walked away, he pointed at the platoon leader firmly. “It’s like you say: we are all brothers in the eyes of our Emperor. Let’s show them.”
Cornelius spun around a server, swiping a drink from the tray as he did. Raising his arms, he boomed with laughter and threw one arm around Jacinto and another around Fremantle. They talked boisterously with Gabler’s men and Bloody Platoon. Onlookers, who had given the psyker and the menacing Commissar space, watched them inquisitively. Some of the more curious ones, eager to converse with the heroes of the hour, bravely approached. Soon, the conversation grew. More Bloody Platoon Kasrkin joined in, as well as Gabler’s men. The officer herself and Hyram mingled in this myriad of personage. Even a few princes spoke to Jacinto and some well-to-do young ladies overcame their trepidations to approach the Commissar standing beside the psyker.
Something about the whole affair struck Marsh Silas as being altogether warmer. Even as von Bracken and the lords and politicians around him did not notice, many around their clique did. There were more smiles and handshakes, laughter and gasps of wonder.
Marsh Silas placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side. A smile slowly spread and he found himself chuckling.
“Clearly, there is an amusement in this scene which is lost upon me.”
Prince Constantine stood beside Marsh Silas, his face to the exit. His coat was draped over his arm and he had already put on his peaked hat. The man appeared especially fatigued and dissatisfied. Marsh Silas looked between him and the crowd, then smiled a little.
“My men have a way of astonishing me,” Marsh Silas said. “I pity them, sometimes, having to listen to me espouse day in and day out. It is easy to forget they’re actually listening. People can hear, but they do not listen.” He raised his finger and circled it. “Much like the souls gathered around us tonight, sir. Present, but drawn elsewhere. Seeing, but not witnessing. Hearing, but not listening. I thought this whole affair was wasteful and purposeless. Frivolous, you might say.”
His grin widened as he said this. Constantine stared back, betraying no emotion. “Yet, this time was not idly spent after all and it is thanks to my men and my friends. All it takes is a few determined souls with goodness in their hearts to help others stir themselves from their complacent preoccupations.”
Constantine looked over his shoulder and listened intently to the pleasant discourse emanating behind him. He turned back to Marsh Silas. “It’s hope, sir.”
“A hope for mankind like that requires an open heart,” Constantine remarked. “Do you really trust them? Rosenfeld, Bristol, von Bracken, myself, these old codgers behind me? Youthful aspirants like Lauraine?” He assumed a curious expression, curling his lips and raising an eyebrow. “And Mr. Haight?”
Constantine’s tone was threatening as he brushed by. Marsh Silas remained still, his jaw set. “You are quite certain to teach the Imperium of Man a lesson, Knight of Cadia. Come with me, and learn one yourself.”
