Lauraine stared at the obelisk which stood in the center of the Fifth Row Barracks lobby. Her hand swept slowly across the marble face and the imprints of the names scratched against her fingertips. She lingered beside it, underneath those many laurels which wrapped around the pillar, and merely breathed in.

  “Emperor above and within me,” she whispered, eyes closed. “I ask of Thee to always keep these honored names with Ye. I shall keep them with me and in my humble, pitiful attempts, maintain the examples they have so bravely set.” Her hand dropped, she took two steps back, and she clapped her hands three times. Then, she locked her thumbs together, creating the Sign of the Aquila over her chest. She held her hands there for some time, gazing upon those names and the blank spaces underneath them.

  “I pray my name will be upon it one day.”

  Lauraine jumped. Leaning in the entrance to the corridor was Master Sergeant Walmsley, Marsh Silas’s platoon sergeant. He was taller, slightly more so than the Knight-Lieutenant, and a bit more broad in his chest. His green utility fatigues were crisp and his black leather boots shone in the amber ceiling lamps. Dirty blonde, his hair was short save for a low, messy ridge in the center.

  He walked beside her and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “But I pray also it will be some great length of time before it is etched into this sacred marble.” Walmsley Major affectionately tapped the obelisk and flashed a big, brotherly smile at her. “Marsh Silas ain’t here just yet, he had to fetch a few folks. But he let me know you were a-coming, so I’ll be your escort.”

  Walmsley Major led her down the hall, passing many dormitories, classrooms, and offices. A few enlisted men and the occasional Adeptus Administratum staffer wandered by. Lauraine, feeling small beside the immense Kasrkin, clutched a leather letter carrier close to her chest. “Worry not, you are in a place of honor, aye, but it is still a place of comrades. You will find the men of Bloody Platoon to be just as jovial as they are in the soldier’s halls. You need not carry yourself as if you are on parade or as a mouse.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pushed open the doors and the pair walked in just as an amasec bottle smashed on the wall beside them. Shards of glass sprayed through the air and billowed onto the floor. Kasrkin hooted and hollered as they jumped off bunks, took long swigs from liquor bottles, and tossed the empty glasses at one another. Corporal Raskob, blindfolded, sat in front of one of the central columns. Balanced on his head was a round, juicy, dew fruit. Above it was a corkboard embedded with knives. Across from him, Corporal Hawthorne stuck his tongue out as he prepared to throw his own blade.

  Some Kasrkin circled a communal table, slamming their playing cards on the surface. Corporal Tattersall cackled as he slammed down the winning hand. Crazy Stück roared and leaped across the table. The card game devolved into a tussle between all the players and the table was quickly thrown on its side. Friends constrained one another in headlocks, grapples, and pins.

  Atop some of the bunks, the blankets were pulled tightly over the mattresses. Springs squeaked and squealed as pleasured moans rose from underneath. A rather vivacious Interior Guardsman, clad only in a loose tank top, leaned over Jacinto to talk to Walmsley Minor. The white-haired psyker’s pale pallor was bright red and he squirmed as the woman leaned closer.

  Wide-eyed, Laurain looked up at Walmsley Major. The platoon sergeant’s violet eyes glowed incandescently. He reached into his pocket and blew on a whistle. Immediately, the raucous barracks grew still and silent. Blankets were thrown off, revealing half-dressed Kasrkin and women from the Interior Guard. Hastily, they extricated themselves from their partners and collected their clothing. Meanwhile, Bloody Platoon gathered up; they were unshaven, disheveled, drunken, dirty, and more than a few were missing their clothes.

  Walmsley Major planted his hands on his hips. “You fucking imbeciles!” he hollered. “Throne, and I mean Throne, you’re Kasrkin! You are the pinnacle of the Astra Militarum, the elite of an elite, the very best Cadia has to offer the Emperor and the Imperium, and this is how you conduct yourselves!? I should not have to walk into the barracks to see knives being whipped at each other!”

  He marched over and snatched an amasec bottle from a weaving and wavering Lance Sergeant Fleming. “And how many times do I have to tell you dolts to stop hiding booze in your racks!?”

  Righting the table and placing the bottle on it, he started walking back to the front of the crowd when he stepped on something caked onto the floor. Walmsley Major groaned, lifted his boot, and pointed at the white frosting along the bottom. “I shouldn’t have to tell you fools that mess hall food stays in the mess hall! If this were any other platoon, this’d be a flogging offense! And that, that—” Walmsley Major pointed to the four Interior Guardsmen as they fled the barracks. Most of the women were still barely dressed. “—this is the fifth time in as many months I’ve caught you sneaking in tarts from the Interior Guard, begging your pardon Lauraine.”

  “Hello, Lauraine!” Crazy Stück chimed and waved.

  “Can it, Stück!” Walmsley barked. “Look, I understand you’re all in high spirits after our string of victories after many setbacks. But you fools need to quit bringing in the women-folk. I am running out of excuses as to why some of your bunks smell like cheap perfume. There’s only so many times I can say that Rowley forgot to bathe again.”

  “Hey…”

  “Shut up, Voxman!” the platoon sergeant shouted, pointing the flat of his hand at her. He then staggered away, clutched his hair, and groaned. “Oh, Emperor on Terra. This is it, this is why first sergeants hate everybody. Back in the 1333rd, I used to wonder, ‘my word, why is First Sergeant Hayhurst so bloody furious all the time?’ Now I know, because every first sergeant, sergeant major, and RSM spent his days in the platoon grade dealing with fuck-ups like you! When I make first sergeant, I’m going to hate you, I’m going to hate all of you just as much, if not more, because you did nothing but make every bloody day bloody fucking hell!”

  He leaned against one of the columns. Sorrowfully, he shook his head and moaned exasperatedly. Eventually, Walmsley Major pushed himself off the column and glanced at his wrist-chrono. “Alright, alright, alright. Marsh Silas will be here in fifteen minutes. If we start cleaning now, we should be able to make the place look right. Monty Peck? In fourteen minutes, I’ll dislocate your shoulder. With a blessing, we shall catch Marsh Silas in the hall and he’ll stop to ask after your injury. That should give everyone else a little more time to make the bloody barracks presentable.”

  “Wait, why me?”

  “Because it’s your turn! Now, start cleaning! And Hudnail pay attention; the women are gone, get your cock back in your trousers!”

  All of the Kaskrin snapped to their duties. Tables were turned back up, racks straightened, cards collected, alcohol was disposed of, knives slid back into their scabbards, and clothes were donned. Lauraine stood by, rocking on her heels as she watched. Walmsley Major pushed his way through the hurrying soldiers, looped his arm around hers, and led her through the commotion. “As you can see, these are the acts which are never quite recorded on any grand edifice,” the platoon sergeant said.

  “It’s quite alright, Master Sergeant.” She assured him with a bright smile. “They are warriors at play. They’re even rowdier here than at the hall…”

  “Yes, yes. Here, you just wait in Marsh Silas’s quarters while I whip these raggedy fellows into shape.”

  Lauraine hurried into the room and Walmsley shut the door behind her. Marsh’s room was very tidy and clean. There was not much to it. On the wall over the platoon leader’s cot were some pennants, banners, a string-instrument mounted on hooks, and picts posted on the pale rockcrete. Over the desk were some shelving units stocked with books and a few framed pict-captures.

  She examined a red-haired Commissar clad in the black and red jacket. Standing under a street lamp, she stared off into the darkness of a snowy night. Her eyes wandered, but her posture remained rigid and her expression was resolute. Carstensen the Cadian, so fabled, so exalted, yet, so distinctly human. It was a far cry from all the massive recruiting posters bearing her visage pasted on so many kasrs’ walls. But that dogged determination was more evident in this small pict.

  Other images revealed Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Carstensen in more casual airs. Some were of the entire platoon. She recognized many faces from serving them in the soldier’s hall. But some she had never glimpsed before. She knew those were the ones who rested at Army’s Meadow or Kasr Sonnen.

  Lauraine’s eyes fell and she sheepishly walked over to Marsh’s well-made cot. Setting the letter carrier and her backpack down, she sat down slowly. Her head turned, her eyes traveled. Both palms drummed against her knees and one leg started to bounce. The hands of her wrist-chrono ticked audibly and she slid it to the other side of her wrist.

  She looked around again. Next to his desk was a waste bin. Most of the contents were empty matchboxes and scraps of parchment. But on the very top of the pile was a bundle of papers. Instead of the thin, plain white sheets or the soft tan material that the Astra Militarum and Adeptus Administratum utilized, it was a familiar yellow. The ink across its pages was far bolder and there were various headings and subheadings along the front page.

  Lauraine retrieved the bundle and smoothed out the crinkles. It was, indeed, a news bulletin from the morale offices. The article extolled Bloody Platoon and Gabler’s men for their recent efforts against the Traitor Guard on land and sea. Marsh Silas, of course, was the highlight. The heading read, ‘Cadian Heroes Do Not Rest on their Laurels!’ A pict of the young officer was featured just below the words. Despite the dark bags under his eyes, the sheen of stubble on his cheeks, his dusty face, equally dirty armor, and more than a few laser burns on his armor, he nonetheless appeared very heroic. He had a smile that, in its crookedness, became wholesome. Handsome, even. But there was something else more present—not pride, but a humble satisfaction.

  A sharp yelp from the other side of the door caught her attention. No doubt, Master Sergeant Walmsley had forced his reluctant volunteer into his diversionary role. She quickly opened the letter carrier, readjusting the paperwork inside before zipping it back up. Minutes later, there was a chorus in the barracks.

  “At ease!”

  “Knock it off!” came Marsh’s familiar bark. Lauraine jumped to her feet, smoothed out her uniform, and fixed her hair. The door handle turned and she jumped to attention. “Why is it that every week somebody seems to dislocate their shoulder?” Marsh Silas asked over his shoulder.

  “Guess the men are just a little too rough with their sparring, sir,” Walmsley Major answered nonchalantly as he followed him in. “Maybe they’re still getting used to the bio-enhancements.”

  “After two years? I should think not. Ah, Lauraine!” Marsh Silas smiled wide—a much happier expression than the one in the pict.

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  “Sir!” she saluted, but the officer embraced her instead. A few solid pats on the back nearly knocked the wind out of her. “Oh, hello, sir.”

  “Hello, indeed!” he chimed. “I am very glad to see you and not just for the news you bring. Walmsley, shut the door if you please.”

  Two more men entered just before the platoon sergeant complied. Captain Hyram maintained his academic composure while a man in ordinary Cadian garb wearing a balaclava joined him. As soon as the door shut, the man removed his mask.

  “Warrant Officer Romilly?” asked Lauraine.

  “Yes, he has come with information of his own at great risk to himself,” an irritated Marsh Silas grumbled. “You could have communicated with us via secure channels like before.”

  “You and your men cannot take all the risks, Knight-Lieutenant.”

  Marsh Silas nodded but whispered something under his breath. He took off his cap and went to sit in his chair. Just as he did, something caught his eye. Lauraine followed it, thinking he was looking at the letter carrier on the mattress. She winced as she realized it was the morale bulletin she had forgotten to put back into the bin.

  Lauraine quickly unzipped the carrier and handed the report over to him. Marsh spread it out across the desk and examined the contents. Hyram stooped over his friend and read along as well.

  “I did as you asked and vetted various arsenal logs across the kasr garrisons and surrounding units,” Lauraine explained. “I collected hard copies, interviewed armorers, and studied the equipment. I matched the serial number of the jamming device recovered from the ambush to one listed as missing.”

  “Although this device was recovered, it was not returned to the arsenal,” said Marsh Silas, his eyes scanning the report.

  “Standard operating procedure dictates that if a device is captured and utilized by the Archenemy it is to be examined and cleansed. If the taint cannot be removed, then it is to be returned to the arsenal,” Hyram said.

  “The report does state that the one you recovered was vetted and cleansed, not destroyed,” Lauraine said.

  Marsh Silas exchanged a glance with Hyram, and then the other two men. Setting the papers down, he reclined in his chair and rested his hands on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, his violet eyes growing dark and cloudy. His brows knitted over his eyes, his thumbs turned over one another, and both his legs bounced on the floor. The leather of his boots squeaked incessantly.

  Eventually, he swept a hand along the short hair on the side of his head and pushed some loose locks back. Marsh swiveled in his chair and cast a bright gaze at Lauraine. “Alright, you tell me.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “There is only one you.” He smiled and pointed. “What do you make of it?”

  “Well,” Lauraine hesitated. She took a breath. “Between this evidence and what you’ve told me of the detainee who was murdered, I can think of only two viable reasons as to why it was not returned. The first being that device was stolen at some point from the caretaker, who in embarrassment, simply failed to register its theft. Secondly, whoever was entrusted with the jammer is the spy himself and lied about returning it, trusting the layers of convoluted recordkeeping to disguise his act.”

  Marsh Silas nodded, arms folded across his chest. He pushed himself out of the chair and approached her slowly. With a heavy hand, he grasped her shoulder.

  “Which of these theories speaks true to you?”

  “Sir, it is not up to—”

  “Lauraine, you’ve studied this information. You’ve demonstrated initiative. You do not have to wait on somebody of a higher station to do your thinking for you. Trust yourself, and speak.”

  “Sir, I speak only on a hunch,” said Lauraine, setting her jaw.

  “Real leaders do as much thinking with their guts as they do their head,” Hyram assured her, leaning against the desk with a confident smile. Marsh Silas nodded in agreement.

  “If an officer was entrusted with the device, more than likely he would have delegated the task to a subordinate. But no subordinate has been recorded as having received such an order. From the information I accessed, it vanished after the cleansing process. I believe that whoever was placed in charge of the item’s care is the spy himself. Alas, I was only able to discover that an officer of middle grade within the 10th Kasrkin Regiment headquarters company was tasked with its care. His name is undisclosed.”

  “I know it,” Romilly said. “Major Osniah. I was there when he volunteered to take the jamming device. Haight wanted to take possession of it but Osniah is in possession of greater authority.”

  “Osniah, that fucker,” Walmsley growled. “That man who ordered his own regiment on suicide runs and had us slaughter them when they demanded better leadership. I say we go to that bastard’s office now, drag him onto the campus, and burn him alive.”

  “I am just as eager as you but I beg for patience,” Marsh Silas said, pacing across the room. “I trust Lauraine’s guts on this, but they are just that, her guts.” He tapped her stomach and smirked at her. “HQ won’t appreciate them as much as we do. We must verify this intelligence in a…less than conventional manner, methinks. I have plans for Haight and now, Osniah. If they behave as I hope they do, then it will all but confirm their treason. I will deal with them shortly. But Romilly, you have news, speak it.”

  “Captain Yori has discovered the Marked Men’s main encampment: Port Ollan, long-abandoned and disused by the Interior Guard. There have been great efforts to repair the drydocks, no doubt for the Lance of the Torium. Two full companies of the Marked Men are defending it.” Romilly finished by reaching into his satchel and procuring a folder of various reports and pict-captures.

  Marsh Silas and Hyram’s eyes lit up and they grinned at one another.

  “Excellent, quite excellent,” Hyram said. “Silas, I already have a plan in mind.”

  “Good. Walmsley Major, get Romilly some Kasrkin clothing and get him back to the soldier’s hall. That shall serve as his safehouse until we can arrange transport back into the hinterland. Seathan, start drawing up the plans, I will fetch Rosenfeld, Prince Constantine, Bristol, and Gabler—right after I begin my ruse.” Marsh Silas put his cap back on and then took Lauraine by the arm. “Thank you for your effort. I worry that this evidence is endangered staying here, so for now, I trust you with its care. As for you, I humbly ask that you accompany me on my mission.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Lauraine collected her belongings, said her goodbyes, and followed Marsh Silas. The Knight-Lieutenant walked briskly, his smile confident, his head forward, and his shoulders braced. She had trouble keeping up until he took notice and slowed.

  “My plan is twofold. Osniah and Haight will take any information I give them in confidence and convey it to their respective regiments. Most often, this is a way for them to avoid our forces. But now I will give them a target of opportunity. What does a foraging army need, Lauraine?”

  “Food, ammunition, arms, medicine, uniforms…” Lauraine listed as they walked onto the quad.

  “They have their stores but they still need more. Would-be conquerors always need more. So, I will give both of them a fantasy to pursue and the chase should lead them directly into one another. These forces have put their temporary alliance to rest and oppose one another just as much as they oppose us. Let them fight it out.”

  “Distracting both and forcing them to fight will result in a depletion of manpower,” Lauraine said, nodding as she thought aloud. “Aye, and then there will be less forces at this port.”

  “You see it! You are so humbly demure and yet you conceal a sharpness, indeed. You will do much good for the Imperium.”

  “Thank you, Silas,” quietly said Lauraine, hiding her bashful smile.

  They journeyed across Fort Carmine’s campus and entered headquarters. Amid the flowing rivers of staff officers, clerks, scribes, attendants, servitors, and servo-skulls, Lauraine felt as though she would be swept away. Yet, Marsh kept his arm around her and she pressed in close to the officer. Sheepishly, she glanced up at him. His eyes stared straight ahead, ever motivated and concentrated.

  Climbing the tower, they eventually came to a floor filled with private officers. Marsh Silas led her to a door with a bronze placard beside it. ‘Maj. Osniah,’ was inscribed upon it. He knocked on the door.

  “Knight-Lieutenant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir.”

  The door opened a moment later and the spindly, gray-haired officer peered out venomously. Marsh Silas just grinned back. “Hello, sir.”

  “What do you want?” sniffed Osniah.

  “I wish to inform you that I will be taking my men out to guard a supply convoy. It is carrying mission-critical materials for the sector.” Marsh Silas made a show of checking up and down the corridor. “I’d like to keep this off-channels, if possible.”

  “Very well, come inside and give me the details,” the Major said with a grunt, then glared at Lauraine. “Not you.”

  Osniah disappeared into his office. With a wink, Marsh Silas followed him and shut the door. Lauraine only had to wait for a few minutes before the platoon leader emerged once more. There was no final exchange of remarks, just a closing of the door. He walked away, he looped his arm around her own again.

  “I detest that man. But he has taken the bait.” He handed her a report with a miniature map, detailing the route, number of fictitious vehicles, and the contents. “Now, for Haight.”

  “It is hard to believe that Haight is a traitor,” Lauraine murmured as they walked through the officer corridors. “He always seems so kind and jovial in the soldier’s halls. Generous with his money, charitable to the men, and receptive to your ideas.”

  “A ruse of its own, I believe,” Marsh said coldly. “I had thought that I had made a friend of him.”

  “It seems that bothers you more than the abuse of your idealism.”

  “My idealism?” Marsh echoed, then he laughed politely. “I just wish to make some good out of life for other people.”

  “Begging your pardon, Silas, you say it without much gravity.”

  “I am just a small part in all things.”

  “It is no crime to think well of yourself, sir, especially when others do.”

  Marsh’s gait slowed and he offered a curious gaze. Lauraine, unable to maintain it, looked ahead.

  “I often receive a copy of morale bulletins. But I keep them not, for what I do is not about that. I need no accolades or acclaim or reward or praise, for there is still much to do and I do not seek such merits.”

  They entered an intersection of corridors. The walls were barren and empty. Every door was shut. Even the sounds of pounding keys and messaging notifications faded. Marsh’s sternness suddenly faded. Marsh Silas seemed depressed, deflated, and tired. With a somber glint in his eyes, his gaze fell and his gait slowed nearly to a stop. “I just want to help people. But, there are people like Haight who will use that willingness against me. I wonder if there is some failure with my desires. Will it ever bear fruit?”

  Lauraine slipped her hands into his, bringing the Knight-Lieutenant to a stop in the center. She gazed up at him earnestly.

  “You inspire me to do much more,” she said. “I think if I had not met you, I would not have fought as I did at Drasquez Tower nor would have persevered in the task you set for me so steadfastly. Before, I did not think much of myself either. Yet, here I am, aiding you in your mission to defeat these spies and traitors. I take solace and feel pride rise in my chest knowing that however small my part, I am making a difference.”

  She squeezed his hands and smiled confidently. “You told me I am worth something—that I can do great things. Not just for the Emperor, but for others. No Commissar, priest, or officer has ever convinced me of that. But you did.”

  Lauraine’s eyes glimmered vibrantly, her round cheeks glowed, and her smile was as bright as it was toothy. Having spoken so quickly in such little time, she had to catch her breath. But with her mouth open, a whistle blew through the gap of her two front teeth. The auxiliary squeaked and covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, how unsoldierly,” she muttered into her palms.

  Marsh Silas’s surprise disappeared with a bout of laughter. But his humor subsided into tenderness and he took her hands once more.

  “You say I inspire, but those around me often uplift me in return. You certainly have. I want you to go with us on this next mission.”

  “Really!? You think me ready?”

  “Do you feel ready?” Marsh asked.

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Silas?”

  Lauraine and Marsh turned sharply, letting their hands drop. Standing at the mouth of another corridor was Major Haight. He gazed at them curiously as his awkward smile grew. “I beg your pardon if I am intruding on your affairs.” The pair stared back at Haight, then exchanged a glance. Lauraine and Marsh Silas smirked at one another, then the former swiped the report from the latter’s hands.

  “Actually, sir,” Lauraine said. “We were just looking for you.”