A steady, rhythmic, beeping stirred Lauraine. She forced her eyelids open and blinked slowly. Dim, overhead lighting engulfed her vision briefly. When she grew accustomed to the glare, her eyes rolled to the side. Although some of her own thick, brown locks partially obfuscated her gaze, she registered the medicae monitors and readouts.

  All the numbers, lines, and various marks across the screens meant little to her. But nothing was red or beeping too fast, so she took that as a good sign. Breathing in relief, she reached up to push her hair from her eyes. A tug on her forearm caught her attention; an intravenous hookup was plugged into her skin. Her eyes followed the cord to the bag hanging on the metal stand. Just as she did, Marsh Silas stepped forward, outlined by brilliant sunlight pouring through the window.

  The officer smiled down at her. He was clad in his dress uniform—black boots, white trousers, and a dark emerald tunic adorned with golden epaulets. A black sash was drawn across his chest, and a silver cord from the middle of his lapel ran up to his golden Master Marksmanship Badge, mounted on his shoulder board. Newly pinned medals, crosses, and stars lined the sash and hung above his voluminous ribbon rack. Clean shaven and his hair freshly trimmed, Marsh Silas appeared as the epitome of a Cadian soldier.

  On the opposite side of the bed was Captain Hyram. He wore an identical uniform which was equally bedecked in decorations. He too wore the dark sash although he lacked the Master Marksmanship Badge. It was no matter, for he too proved to be the very model of an officer and a gentleman.

  “They told me you will be released in a few days. The doctors wish to observe you while you regain your weight,” said Marsh Silas. Lauraine hazily remembered being brought to Fort Carmine. Her captivity and the escape had left her bleary-eyed and exhausted. Once she was transferred from a litter to a rolling stretcher, she had fallen asleep. In the days since that night, the patient recalled only the occasional faces of physicians, nurses, orderlies, and visiting friends.

  “Did…” Lauraine coughed as her voice croaked and caught in her throat. “...did everyone get out? For our part of the operation, I mean.”

  Marsh’s violet eyes twinkled tenderly. He pulled the guest chair from the wall over to the bed. Leaning forward, he gently pushed her errant locks from her eyes.

  “That’s right. Everyone. All the hostages, the raiding force, even the crew of the downed Valkyrie. Every single one of them.”

  “Fremantle lost his eye, Freya lost her front legs, Marsh Silas suffered burns to his lower legs. I think most everyone came out with some kind of wound—a bullet, shrapnel, broken bones, even lasbolts—but we all emerged with our lives,” said Hyram. “And our enemy was obliterated; no one survived Rhodes’ bombardment.”

  “Thank the God-Emperor,” breathed Lauraine as her head dropped back on the pillow.

  “Much of that operation’s success has to do with your devotion, Lauraine. I thank you deeply.”

  “Fret not, I was merely doing my duty.” Lauraine winked. Marsh Silas nodded but his smile retracted a little. His brow rested heavily over his eyes. Lauraine reached over and touched his hand as it rested on the edge of the bed. “You are thinking of him now. Haight had to die, Silas. There was no saving him. He was trapped between two worlds, two forces, two ideas that he cared nothing for. Even if your path set him free, there was no returning for him.”

  The light shining through the single window changed. What had been robust and warm transitioned as banks of clouds obscured the sun. A dreary gray emanated through the glass and the room suddenly felt so very cold.

  Marsh gazed at her somberly and then placed his other hand over hers. He ran his palm back and forth across her knuckles. His entire air changed as he stared above and past her. Even Hyram grew sober and lost the warmth of his face.

  “To gaze at him in those final moments felt as though I were looking into a mirror of myself, or at least, a version of myself,” murmured Marsh Silas. “A fellow caught between two worlds, aye Lauraine, you’ve spoken true. We now bear the Onyx Sash, an award most mysterious, its criteria known only to the bearers. It was not administered during the ceremony, instead in private, away from so many prying eyes. I know what it is now: the Onyx Sash is a prison of truth.”

  Lauraine’s confused gaze shifted to Hyram. The executive officer breathed heavily, walked closer to the bed, and sat on the edge. Placing his hat in his lap, he looked at her in a fatherly way. Hyram was like that; an older man, a family man, who looked on younger folk in a protective, caring manner.

  “We were debriefed not only by Cadian High Command, but also by representatives of agents of several Holy Ordos of the Inquisition seconded to the Internal Guard. The Ordo Hereticus, Ordo Malleus, Ordo Militarum, and Ordo Aegis. Everyone involved with the operation on our part was subjected to rigorous interrogation and testing, even you.”

  “But I was—”

  “One does not need to be awake for an Inquisitor to find his mark,” warned Marsh Silas.

  “All were cleared of any taint, but because of the presence of daemons, as well as Heretic Astartes identified as progeny of the Traitor Legion known as the Thousand Sons, and the close affiliation of spies in higher ranks, the true nature of this event has been sealed, buried, and revised. The Marked Men were not aligned with the Thousand Sons, nor did they conjure daemons into our realm. They were merely another band of traitors attempting to rebel on Cadia. Already, agents of the Inquisition and Adeptus Administratum have buried the records. We have all been sworn to secrecy under penalty of death.”

  Hyram shook his head and gazed at her, disappointed. “Even our promotions are hardly more than a sham,” said Hyram. He gestured to Marsh Silas. “Promoted to Lieutenant-Precept, breveted to Lieutenant-Captain, and I myself promoted to Staff Captain, all so our esteemed commanding officer Warden-Colonel von Bracken can appear as though he were encouraging us as his pupils all along.”

  Marsh Silas’s grip on Lauraine’s hand tightened. It was not painful, but a change severe enough to notice. Hyram’s looked away from Lauraine and stared at the wall. “Our citations for our awards have been altered to make no mention of the beastmen or daemons we encountered. The true acts are known only to us and our commanders.”

  “Records of the regiment, our operations, our very own personal files, now bear many lies,” grunted Marsh Silas. He winced and gritted his teeth. “It makes a man ashamed to know that his acts are not his own, that he plays in part to conceal the truth because of superstition and fear. Our mission could be passed down and taught; it could arm generations of both soldiers and civilians against the wiles and danger of the Old Enemy. Instead, this bureaucracy mistrusts them with even the slightest embers of truth.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as if struck by a tremor of pain. “Haight was caught between two opposing forces. In this pursuit of a better Imperium, I fear I now find myself trapped also. A vision that life can be wonderful, righteous, just, not subservient to fear and oppression; that man will one day rise again to greatness instead of treading this meandering path. But against me now will always be people of my own race who will attempt to obstruct that, who propagate that fear, who will abuse and use others for their own whims and wishes, who covet and horde. They are the ones in control, and this vision we all now share is anathema even though, if they could open their eyes, they might see this future is for them also.”

  Lauraine squeezed his hand then. Marsh Silas did not stir nor open his eyes, but she still smiled at him.

  “But it is not a mirror, brother. For you have rediscovered a gift the Emperor gave to us all and that so many have so sadly forgotten: hope. Haight had lost all sight and believed nothing would ever change. You do. You not only maintain hope for yourself, but you seek to spread it for so many others. Bloody Platoon, the Emperor’s Shadows, the Aeronautica Imperialis, the Navis and Maritimum Imperialis, and so many folk both common and highborn—and me.”

  Marsh Silas opened his eyes, then. Slowly, the light returned and the window flared. It was not the radiance as before, but a sudden white light. Something pure, that in all its stark gleaming, there was an invitation. The entire room was illuminated in that wonderful paleness, which made the medals on her comrades’ chest glitter, their violet eyes twinkle, and weathered skin glow.

  Lauraine sat up, leaned forward, and grasped Hyram’s hand as well. “There is a worthiness in people. Even if those above us do not see, you do. I know I can make some difference for others. I have already, and will continue to do so. It is why I will return to my post at the logistical corps, finish my tenure, and then transfer to intelligence. There, I will put all that I have learned to good use and continue aiding my fellow man. So long as you never lose sight of that vision, Silas, if you continue to remind humanity of that great gift, then you will never be trapped. The mirror will be shattered.”

  Tears welled up in Marsh’s eyes. He laughed a little, then took Lauraine by her cheeks and planted an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

  “I promise to never lose those sparks. Oh sister, I came here to provide some comfort to you in your awakening, and it appears you have done so much more for me in the end,” he said. He wiped his eyes and smiled warmly. “Oh, how Lilias would have loved you.”

  “Are you sure you would not enjoy a new posting among this platoon?” asked Hyram. “You are our sworn sister.”

  “Who would refuse such an opportunity? Alas, you have no need for me, for your platoon is already on the path. I will go and tend to other souls in need of hope. Rest assured, I will always be a friend of the Bloody Platoon and I pray our paths cross many times in this golden future.”

  Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a knowing glance and a smile. The latter suddenly exited the room while the former started disconnecting some of the monitoring devices. “Silas? Are you allowed to do this?”

  “If the doctors say you are able to speak and move around a little, then I doubt they’ll mind all that much.”

  Hyram pushed a wheelchair into the room and brought it to the bed. He attached the stand with the fluid bag into a slot on its backrest. With ease, Marsh picked Lauraine up and placed her gently into the wheelchair. “You may not have been able to be a part of the awards ceremony, but may I be damned if you do not get to enjoy the celebration.”

  “Oh no, not another ball, please,” Lauraine croaked.

  “Throne, not in the slightest.” Hyram as he placed a blanket over her legs. “It is our party.”

  Lauraine was wheeled out of her ward, down the hall, and then through the doors of Fort Carmine’s medicae center. They hurried across the grounds, where menials and servitors were busily cleaning up and removing the staging for the awards ceremony. Almost no one else was on the campus. Passing through the doors, they found the lobby and corridors also devoid of any life. But as they approached the barracks entrance, Lauraine heard laughter, yelling, and even music.

  Marsh Silas pushed the door open. Immediately, dozens upon dozens of faces turned around. Kasrkin, Imperial Navy Breachers, Navis Maritimum sailors, and Aeronautica Imperialis crews all cheered and held up their glasses.

  “Lauraine!” they all cried. Everyone in Bloody Platoon came forward to shake her hand, squeeze her shoulder, or embrace her. Lauraine smiled and laughed by turns as her friends came by to say hello. Even Commissars Ghent and Fremantle, the latter now adorned with a blue bionic optical piece over his injured eye, came by to welcome her back. Cornelius the preacher sang a hymn of return for her, and Lieutenant Gabler, now a Lieutenant-Precept, and Prince Osgood, offered their thanks for her service. Then, Tanzer and her men, as well as Foxley and many other pilots, approached to praise her bravery.

  She was taken over to the tables assembled in rows at the center of the barracks. There she found Cobb and, sitting on the tabletop, Freya! The hound had received two, sturdy, bionic legs, and upon seeing Lauraine, she stomped her robotic paws in excitement.

  She giggled as Freya leaned down and lapped her face. Lauraine scratched her neck and rubbed her ears.

  “A hound’s spirits are never low for long,” said Cobb happily. “Just like us dogfaces, eh sir?”

  “That’s right. She’s a damned good soldier, isn’t that right, Freya?”

  Upon hearing the officer say her name, Freya turned, sat back on her hind legs, and lifted her front legs. Her right paw rose up until it nearly touched her brow, and the mechanical paw swerved to come parallel with it. Scoffing in delight, Marsh Silas returned the salute. “That’s a fine trick you’ve taught her, Cobb.”

  “I didn’t teach her that, sir,” the handler admitted. “Guess she picked it up on her own.”

  “What a fine soldier you are, little sister,” Marsh said to the hound, and rubbed her ears. Freya just panted happily as her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

  The platoon leader stood beside Lauraine and held out his hand. “Well, to the business! I’ve held off on this moment until Lauraine could be present and not confined to a cot. Because she could not attend, I was given the charge of awarding her medals. For her relentless pursuit to counter the enemy spy network, providing intelligence that sealed the fate of our foes, acts at Port Ollan, her brave defense at Drasquez Tower, and courage in captivity, she is to receive the Order of Cadian Militarum Merit, Star of the Dual Governors, Medal of Valor 2nd Class, Bravery Star 1st Class, and Merit of Cadia.”

  As he spoke, Hyram pinned each of the medals to Lauraine’s tunic. Looking back at all the proud and humble gazes of her comrades, it became impossible to withhold her tears. Marsh Silas put down the list and put his hand on Lauraine’s shoulder. “As well, she is subject to Bloody Platoon’s third award of the Dual Governors’ Unit Cross for Valor, the highest unit citation in the Cadian order of decorations. With these medals and acts, she has been elevated to the rank of sergeant.”

  Everyone applauded, cheered, and whistled. The squad leaders came forward next. Arnold Yoxall carried a folded flag in his arms.

  “On behalf of the platoon, we induct you as we’ve done for everyone who has fought alongside us all these days, as friends of the Bloody Platoon. We also honor you as an honorary squad leader of the platoon, and bestow upon you our banner.”

  Lauraine released a small, choked gasp of delight as she spread it out. It was a miniature of Bloody Platoon’s standard, like the one that hung from Marsh’s Mk. 2 barrel. A standard of golden trim, a green cross, white fields, and a center circle filled with red and a white skull. Written on the banner above the skull were the words, ‘1/1/10: Bloody Platoon.’ On the banner underneath it were new words Hic Manebimus Optime.

  “And from the NCOs in the platoon, we put together a little something,” said Gunnery Sergeant Wulff. She placed a bulging parchment packet in her lap. “We put together our bonuses and a little bit of our salaries, for all the days you missed while in captivity.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”

  “We insist!” Wulff winked then. “NCOs stick together.”

  “Thank you,” said Lauraine, tearfully. “Thank you, everyone.”

  “No, thank you!” Crazy Stück came forward and placed a plate of steaming grox strips beside her. “You’re one of us!”

  “You might want to get a new plate. Something tells me this man enjoys his additives,” joked Ghent.

  “I didn’t do anything to it, sir, I swear by the Throne!”

  The assembly laughed. Marsh Silas raised his hands to quiet everyone, and when they grew silent, he put his hand on Staff Sergeant Werner’s shoulder.

  “Now, we’ve all gotten a slew of promotions. But there’s three more we must attend to. I have spoken with Lieutenant Gabler, who is in need of a new platoon sergeant as her previous second has been transferred to another company. I have recommended Werner for the job, for he bears an immaculate record and has years of experience, and I think his embrace of our ideals shall find a good home in 3rd Platoon. If any of that is a failure of qualification, one only needs to look at the wounds he received saving our hides from being devoured by a Defiler!”

  Werner bowed his head humbly and shook many hands as his friends and squad mates came to congratulate him on his promotion. Marsh Silas embraced him before facing the crowd once again. “So, it falls to me to decide who replaces him as squad leader. I think it is time to look to one who has been with us for so very long, and in all that time, has been a most dependable fellow we all have relied upon and looked to when the fray grew fearsome.”

  Marsh Silas walked through the open space before the tables and came up to Drummer Boy. The voxman blinked in surprise as the platoon leader put his hand on the back of his head. “Felix Gladwin, our own drummer boy, who rose from the ranks and became our platoon’s senior voxman for many years. Intelligent, hardworking, valorous, he has been our link to the airpower, artillery, and armor which has saved our hides time and time again. After he assumed the command of Werner’s squad at the Battle of Station Rapitur, I now give him the command.”

  Drummer Boy’s big eyes widened and filled with tears. Everyone crowded in to jostle and smack and hug their little brother. Hyram broke through the crowd to give the man a dearest embrace, holding his head against his chest. By the time it was over, Drummer Boy’s face was flushed with pride.

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  Marsh Silas led him back to Lauraine, and extended two pairs of golden NCO stripes. “My lady, would you like the honor of fastening his new insignia to his collar?”

  “I would indeed!”

  With Hyram and Marsh’s assistance, Lauraine stood up and replaced the previous signifiers with the new set. Then, Hyram handed her the NCO Initiative Medal, which she then pinned to his chest. After testing it was secure, she biffed the clasp with her fist, causing him to stumble. He staggered so far the Kasrkin behind him had to catch him. Everyone laughed, even Drummer Boy, who came back and hugged Lauraine.

  “Lastly, the new platoon voxman must be selected. Trained by Drummer Boy himself and tested in combat, young Rowley is fit for the job methinks.” The young vox-operator sprang forward and shook his hand.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant-Captain! I will not let you down!”

  “I know it!”

  Lauraine, who had taken her seat once more, leered up at Marsh Silas. He eyed her back, the corner of his mouth smirking.

  “What’s next? Shall you be announcing a pilgrimage to the Throneworld?”

  “Although it pains me to say it, I shan’t. Now, we shall indulge in the company of our brothers and sisters, dine, drink, and make merry this day. Our final celebration, however, will have to wait until the final day of the week.”

  “The week?” echoed Gabler.

  “I always thought Bloody Platoon enjoyed themselves too much,” sneered Prince Osgood. Gabler rolled her eyes and elbowed the man.

  “Can it! What I mean is that Major Osniah’s execution is planned for the final day—there won’t be any time for celebrations.”

  Mirroring her confusion, the crowd all looked towards Marsh Silas. Lauraine peered up as well, and noticed both the platoon leader and Hyram were grinning quite happily. Without any word or further gesture, this confident, excited expression spread to every member of Bloody Platoon.

  The largest interrogation chamber in Fort Carmine’s dungeon might have been oversized according to some. How much space did an interrogator and his victim need? Certainly not a cell one could have driven a Leman Russ tank into. Just how many braziers of holy incense, marquees of the Imperialis and Aquila, and sanctified relics to overpower a traitor and obtain their confession?

  Marsh Silas gazed through the one-way glass beside the door. Inside, all the various tools and placards were removed. Even the table was absent. A single dull, amber lamp suspended from the ceiling exposed the single prisoner. Osniah was blindfolded and strapped to a chair, the only furniture in the cell. He looked so small, pitiful, and lonely in that room.

  Handing his helmet over to the guard and adjusting his chestplate, Marsh nodded. The other guard threw the latch and the heavy, rusty, adamantium door squealed open. Marsh Silas crossed the threshold, waited for the door to shut behind him, and then strolled over to Osniah. After gazing at the haggard, thin fellow for a moment, Marsh removed the blindfold. Stepping back, he sneered and shook his head.

  “You…” he ventured.

  “What is this?” spat Osniah. “You and I made a deal, Cross! If I passed along the message to make the First of Minnath lag before moving to Station Rapitur, you said my sentence would be lightened!”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Marsh chimed, tilting his head and folded his arms across his chest. “I tell you, I might have found a penchant for cleverness and yes, there was some deceit involved. But I gave you my word, so fret not.”

  “I do not fret, I demand that you uphold your end of the bargain!”

  Marsh Silas gazed at him, unimpressed. After a moment, he tapped his foot and wagged his forefinger in the air.

  “Do you know much about Lilias Juventas Carstensen?”

  “Hardly. She was your woman.”

  “Oh, and so much more. A soldier, a teacher, a Hero of the Imperium. She believed that man, in its present state, could be more. That those entrusted with posts of officership could be more than just commanders, but leaders. Individuals who could pass on their knowledge to others and inspire them to great feats, rather than intimidate. Lilias lived for other people. That grand Commissar saw so much worthiness in people.”

  He walked slowly around and around Osniah. The prisoner eyed him warily as he completed circuit after circuit. “People say to me, ‘what a loss for you.’ Yes. But I say in return, ‘what a loss for the Imperium.’ In Lilias, there was a champion of change, a dream that people can uplift one another, enhance their lives, and draw closer together. Although she sleeps beneath the waves of the Fortis Channel, her belief still burns in our hearts and those young men and women who walk in the halls of her schola.”

  Marsh Silas stopped behind Osniah and gripped the backrest. “Do you know anything about her death? No, of course you don’t. She died on a road saving the lives of her comrades, a road we were on because of yours and the late Colonel Isaev’s vainglorious attempts to gain further accolades and success in combat, as you had been unable to participate in the charge that broke the Iron Warriors and Black Legion.”

  A shaky breath passed through Osniah’s teeth. Marsh leaned closer, his lips near Osniah’s ear. “Yes, a road by some tracks, not far from the place my platoon and regiment were forced to assail our comrades of the 45th Altridge Regiment. They fought alongside us throughout that blasted siege, they learned from us, clung together, and helped break that final line. Our success is theirs also. Your mistreatment saw them pause and demand for dignity, an act you punished with their deaths. We were the tools you used to kill those Guardsmen we called our brothers. Do you remember that? I do.”

  Marsh Silas placed his hands on Osniah’s shoulders, heavily. The prisoner trembled in his grasp as he squeezed tightly. “Alm Afdin was a good man. He loved to play his guitarran and sing. A steadfast educator of rhetoric and elocution, he thought himself unfit for the task of an officer. On the contrary, he had unwittingly prepared for it his entire life. Had he lived, I believe he would today trumpet the resolve of Carstensen's schola and my men’s beliefs in a very fine tongue. Why, we are even adding a new hall to the center to teach his craft. Verily, would it not have been wonderful if the man could host the courses himself?”

  He let go roughly and walked around in front of Osniah. Kneeling, Marsh Silas gazed into the traitor. His violet, piercing gaze deepened and darkened. “Let me ask this: if we were to travel back to that time, knowing this is where you would end up, would you risk everything for a little bit more glory? Would you cause these deaths knowing the prosperous futures they designed?”

  Osniah’s bottom lip shuddered for a time. Then, he swallowed hard and seemingly steeled himself. The Major raised his chin and looked down his nose in a posh fashion.

  “I need not entertain this fantasy. There is no use for such trivial nothingness.”

  Marsh Silas’s gaze grew all the more deathly. His facial muscles tightened, his teeth clenched and gritted. Everything about his person darkened, until he quirked an eyebrow, chewed his bottom lip, and waved his forefinger again.

  “Now, you see, this is the kind of stagnation of thought that truly bothers me.” He stood up and started walking towards the entrance once more. “It has stunted our growth as a species and an empire. When man does not ponder, when he does not reflect, when he believes all is well and perfect, then he does not grow, he does not improve, he does not change. But, I am not angry at such people, all those stuffy adepts and close-minded generals and power mongering politicians. I just see them as brothers and sisters who have gone astray. Those who might be lost, can be led back to the path. This, my platoon and I, believe heartily.”

  He placed his hand over the switch to the other ceiling lamps. “Traitors, however, cannot be saved.”

  Marsh Silas flipped the switch. The sharp, white lights illuminated the chamber so suddenly he and Osniah were momentarily blinded. When his vision returned, he could not help but smile at the prisoner’s horrified, jaw-dropped expression. For lining the walls of the chamber were the men and women of the Bloody Platoon. Armored and uniformed, their violet, purple, and lavender gazes fell on Osniah with a rabid delight. Even Commissar Ghent and Staff Captain Hyram were present and positively giddy with excitement.

  “You, you told me my conditions would be improved!” cried Osniah.

  “And so they have! You were to be tortured, scalped, plucked of all your nails, castrated, beaten several times, flayed, and then burned alive at the stake. I reduced it to one beating and then the burning. So you see, I’ve kept my word.”

  “Wait, please, can’t we—”

  “Let the beating commence! Bloody Platoon, have at him!”

  With a roar, the Kasrkin stormed towards Osniah. The traitor’s pleas and cries were drowned out by laughter and the impacts of so many fists and feet. Filing by in two lines, they passed him, delivering as many blows as they could in the short span of time afforded to them. Toe-kicks, palm-punches, slaps, spits, headlocks, finger-breaking, headbutting—Marsh, Hyram, and Ghent stood together and watched.

  When the platoon completed their rounds, Osniah was slumped in the chair. Breathing raggedly, his clothing in tatters, bleeding from his broken nose and mouth, his teeth falling out, an ear ripped off, tufts of his hair pulled out, his right eye swelling shut, his skin bruising over, he had become a shadow of the man he was.

  Marsh Silas walked back over to him and towered over Osniah. “It shames me to say it, but because of the statute of secrecy applied to these operations, your execution will not be public. Only the denizens of Fort Carmine will watch them burn. I believe some do not even know what your charge is, only that you are some prisoner to be disposed of. We of the Bloody Platoon very much doubt you’ll sing at the pyre and lament your mistakes. So, we’ve all agreed to make sure everybody in attendance knows exactly what your charge is.”

  Snap. Marsh Silas turned. Behind him was Jacinto, a small, flickering flame fluttering from his finger. Commissar Fremantle stood beside him, a branding rod in his hands. Its stamp spelled out the word, ‘traitor.’ Jacinto enlarged the flame, then cast it over the end of the rod. When he retracted the fire, the end was glowing.

  Osniah only blubbered. Fremantle strode forth and extended the rod to Marsh Silas.

  “Would you like the honors, sir?” The Lieutenant-Captain contemplated for a moment, and then shook his head.

  “I think the honor should be Hyram’s.”

  “I am glad to provide the service.” The executive officer donned a pair of heavy gloves provided by Jacinto and took the rod. Bloody Platoon circled around Osniah, eyes deathly with delight and their smiles wide. Marsh cut Osniah’s binds and kicked the chair back. He knelt by his side, pinning his arm to the floor. Ghent crouched and pinned his limbs on his opposite side.

  “Give it to him slowly; the mark will truly set that way,” the Commissar growled. Hyram walked between him and Marsh and regarded the brand for a moment. Everyone in the platoon leaned over to watch. Finally, Hyram looked down at Osniah.

  “For Carstensen and the 45th.”

  The whoops and ear-splitting scream was drowned out by the chamber’s noise-nullifier system, but nothing prevented the rank odor of burning flesh.

  ***

  The sun flew high in the sky over Fort Carmine. Marching in even columns, Bloody Platoon led the prisoner onto the quad. Restrained by Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor, Osniah tottered and faltered. Naked and covered with fresh, black brands all over his chest and back, he walked so feebly he had to be dragged.

  On the large, gravel foundation which surrounded the flagstaff in the center of the fortress was a great pile of wooden timbers. Menials added more, creating a squat pyramid, while servitors doused the bottom with promethium. At the very top was a stake, adorned with chains.

  Assembled and formed around the pyre was the entire 1st Company, Captain Yori and the 3rd Company of the Emperor’s Shadows, Captain Rhodes with a complement of armsmen and Sergeant-at-Arms Tanzer with her Breacher team, as well as Captain Keleman and Commander Sung with their own bands of able seamen. Foxley, his fellow pilots, and their crews watched from the landing pads on the ramparts. Warden-Colonel von Bracken waited with Prince Constantine and Major Bristol in the aisle created by the formations.

  Marsh and Hyram halted in front of their commanders and the formation paused. After salutes were exchanged, Osniah was dragged forward. Von Bracken glared down at the moaning, meager form.

  “I shall spare no words for this creature. Take him, bind him, and let him burn,” he growled, then departed. Marsh nodded at his platoon sergeant, and the Walmsley twins forced their prisoner up the pyre. Marsh waited with Hyram, Constantine, and Bristol.

  “I suppose this is your vengeance complete,” stated the Prince. Marsh Silas shook his head slowly.

  “Perhaps, for the men. For me, just so. But truly, it’s never been about revenge. Osniah, the First of Minnath, Manco, the Marked Men, even that sorcerer, thought they could divide us. For a time, we were cast about, acting disparately, unknown to one another. A microcosm of the disorder which so afflicts on our beloved Imperium that it too relies on disunity and mistrust in the vain hope that it staves off its problems. It has allowed us to survive, but not grow.”

  Marsh Silas looked back at his platoon—his comrades—and smiled. “Yet, we strived for one another and fought side by side. All who have been saved have become saviors. United we stand, a force of order and protection for our fellow man.” He looked at Constantine with a warm smile. “When man discovers another’s worth, he discovers he is worth fighting for. Therein, he realizes his own worthiness to fellows known and unknown, and he is linked inextricably by the gifts the Emperor gave all his subjects. We must find ourselves once again, and we do so by finding each other. Staying with each other all the more, just like the squads of a platoon.”

  He gestured to Osniah. “With his departure, we prove that man united cannot be stopped by our enemies, that order prevails over disorder, hope will carry the day, and our brotherhood is what makes the Imperium stronger. Is that not right, Bloody Platoon?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” They cheered, and the cry echoed up and beyond Fort Carmine. Major Bristol laughed dryly and shook his head.

  “You’re a strange lad there, Cross, with plenty of fancy words and pretty ideas.”

  “They seemed to have taken root, for it was you who rescued the Lieutenant-Captain from the beastmen,” commented Constantine. Bristol scoffed and turned away.

  “I just could not stand the idea of a ponce like Cross meeting his end at the hands of something as harmless as a beastman.” He looked at Marsh Silas from the corner of his eye. “I still don’t like you much, Cadian, but I suppose Scions must look out for one another.” Marsh Silas shook his head, but found he could not help but smile.

  Walmsley Major and his brother descended from the pyre. Just as they did, one of the preachers carried a torch forward, but Cornelius stopped him.

  “I do believe we have no need for you, friend.” He motioned towards Jacinto, whose eyes popped and he looked around sheepishly. But a reassuring tap on his back from Fremantle made him stand up straight, approach the pyre, and sweep his hand to the side. A wave of flames emanated from his palm, leaving a trail of sparks in the air. It lengthened and billowed, suspended before the psyker. When it was longer than the base of the pyre, Jacinto smirked and exhaled sharply.

  The curtain of flame enveloped the pyre and instantly set it ablaze. As the smoke rose and swirled, the first tongues of fire lapped at Osniah’s feet. Until that moment, he had been sluggishly stooping and keeling over. But that heat made his feet lurch and new life sprang into him. He jumped and fought against the chains wrapped around his torso and arms. His shrill wails carried above the roar of the crackling flames.

  “For you, it might be justice,” said Constantine, his voice so low it was nearly lost in the conflagration. He looked at Marsh Silas with his own good eye and entertained the ghost of a smile. “But perhaps you will allow me to take a little vengeance of my own, symbolic as it may be.”

  “For the 80th, sir.” Marsh bowed his head. Constantine nodded, and then bowed very low. When he rose, he cast his gaze once more to the fire.

  “For the 80th,” he murmured. The smoke grew so dark and thick it obscured the sun, cast a shadow over the campus and overtook much of the grounds. Osniah’s final cry was drowned out as his body was overtaken. The blackened body shuddered for a time, then grew limp. Below, Bloody Platoon laughed and clapped.

  “Burn, bastard, burn!” called Derryhouse.

  “Enjoy the darkness, fucker!” screamed Olhouser.

  “May the Celestial Army march o’er your bones!”

  “For Carstensen and the 45th!”

  “I don’t know about your fellows,” Walmsley Major said, striding from the front ranks. He pulled a fat lho-stub from his pouch and wiggled in his fingers. “I think I’ll content myself with a smoke.”

  When he said that, almost everyone in the platoon laughed in agreement and tapped out lho-sticks. Just as they did, an alarm rang out in the fortress, making them all pause. Calling voices made their heads swivel. Warrant Officer Romilly and Sergeant Lauraine jogged across the campus, waving at Marsh Silas.

  “Sir, sir! We’ve got some trouble!” the former panted. “A cultist band has escaped from the northern borough and they’ve assaulted a coastal garrison. An Interior Guard unit is pinned down in the compound and reinforcements have been requested.”

  Lauraine, however, smiled, placed her hands on her hips, and cocked her head to the side.

  “Sounds like there are some good men in need of assistance, and some bad men in need of shooting.”

  Marsh Silas’s eyes slid to Hyram. His friend looked back and immediately grinned. Together, they faced the Bloody Platoon, already armored and fitted with their arms. Eager smiles split their faces. The platoon leader nodded.

  “Let’s get to the trucks and make haste, then. My dear Prince, Major Bristol, would you care to join us.”

  Constantine shouldered the Black Bolter into his hands and loaded a magazine with frightening speed. Bristol inhaled lazily and then shrugged.

  “Fuck it. You lot know where the action is.”

  “Why ride when you can fly!?” hollered Foxley. He then turned his squadron. “Hop to it men, hop to it, get those engines running!”

  “By the coast?” Captain Keleman asked aloud. “My flotilla will be placed on alert and start steaming with all energies. You there, Romilly, transmit those coordinates.”

  “I will return to the Gatekeeper,” Rhodes stated. “Orbital support will be available, although I shall dispatch Tanzer and her team to join you.”

  “The Emperor’s Shadows have further missions to attend to,” said Captain Yori. “But we shall stride forth before the setting of the sun and join you in this operation.”

  “You’re not going anywhere without me!” Gabler called. “3rd Platoon, on me, on me!”

  As the formation split up and the various Imperial warriors hurried to their stations, Marsh Silas waved his arm. Bloody Platoon fell in behind him and they marched towards the landing pads. Gabler’s men rushed in line, Tanzer’s team followed, and the Astartes stomped along. Lauraine and Romilly fell in with their comrades, confident and eager. Marsh Silas looked to his left, finding Hyram, Commissar Ghent, Walmsley Major, and the first wing of his platoon. To his right, Cornelius the Preacher, Commissar Fremantle, and Jacinto the psyker and the other half of the men. All squad leaders, Yoxall, Monty Peck, Foley, Metcalfe, Drummer Boy, Walmsley Minor, and Wulff reported all members present and accounted for. Hellguns hummed with energy, magazines were loaded into pistols, scabbard taped to their chestplates. One by one, the men donned their helmets, though known of them had bothered to put their lho-sticks away.

  “Who’s got a light?” Walmsley Major asked.

  “I believe Jacinto does,” said Commissar Fremantle. Jacinto beamed, snapped his fingers, and tendrils of thin flames winked from his fingertips. They swept along the platoon, lighting up their faces as the ends of their lho-sticks and stubs burned. After lacing among the Kasrkin, the ropes of fire returned to his hand, formed, and took the form of a single flame flickering from his fingertip.

  “Babcock, raise high the standard of the Bloody Platoon!” Marsh Silas bellowed, throwing his arm into the air. Cornelius clapped his hands together, stomped his feet, and laughed.

  “Praise be to the Emperor: this lodge is best!”

  “This lodge is best!” Bloody Platoon cried, and Jacinto snapped his fingers once more. The flame burst away, casting a shower of sparks that rippled and flowed on the smokey wind. When the wind died, the sparks continued to dance and bob. But then, a new gust, westerly, caught them, lifting the smoke and sweeping the sparks with it all. How they rose, illuminating the haze, before suddenly dropping and flowing among the many helmeted heads of the Kasrkin, burning ever so brightly.