Marsh Silas II: Bloody Platoon

Chapter 44

Marsh Silas sat in front of Ghent's desk. It hadn't taken long for the Commissar to get his empty office back in order. The cogitator screen cast a green glow which clashed with the dull, amber light emanating from the lamp mounted on the far wall's filing unit. Reports were stacked upon one another on the left side of the desk, creating two columns of parchment. Both of his ashtrays were already packed with lho-stick stubs.

It seemed impossible for Ghent to feel fatigue. He'd been on the front with the troops ever since the battle began and he still maintained his stoic professionalism. Unlike the others who possessed purple bags under their eyes, worn and weathered skin, stiff hair, and a little less weight, he still had his health. His gaze remained sharp, inquisitive, and focused even after spending so many months in the field.

His fingers danced across his cogitator keyboard. When he finished, he rolled his chair over to the other side of the desk, skimmed through his reports, and lifted four copies. After reviewing them, he snapped his fingers loudly. A Servo-skull which hovered in the corner of the room buzzed over to him and extended its mechanical arms.

"Deliver these to all company commanders directly," he said. The minion bobbed, snatched the paperwork, and floated through the open door. Ghent sipped his recaf, pushed the keyboard underneath the cogitator's platform, and gazed between the Marsh and Hyram. Both were dressed in filthy khaki fatigues and held their soft-cover caps in his lap. There were smears of brown dirt across their knees, splotches of dust on the pant legs; there were deep, black stains on Marsh's sleeves and tunic.

"Sir, why have we been summoned? We were preparing for Lilias's funeral. It is soon."

"I am aware. The timing of this summons was out of my hands. Let us not tarry." Ghent's eyes narrowed and settled on Marsh Silas. "I trust you will change prior to the funeral."

"Aye," said Marsh, absently.

"Say, sir."

"Aye, sir."

"You should have already been out of them."

"Commissar, sir, Silas has been—"

"I am speaking to Lieutenant Cross, not you, Lieutenant-Precept Hyram," Ghent lectured coolly. His attention turned back to Marsh, who stared past the Commissar at the wall. Marsh saw nothing and very little passed through his mind. He remained slumped back in the chair with his hands resting in his lap. His stained, dirty hands were clasped together.

After his pause, Ghent stood up and checked his wrist-chrono. Huffing aggravatedly, he started sifting through more paperwork. "As dictated by the reforms of the honorable Seward Rosencranz, High Chancellor of the Estate Imperium, in the event that an Imperial servant gives their lives for the all-mighty and all-knowing God-Emperor, if they are in possession of a will, it is to be proctored by their immediate commander or, dependent on rank or Adepta, proctored by their local superior. Myself, being the regimental Commissar and thus holding personal authority over all Commissars, Junior Commissars, and Commissar Cadets within the 1333rd Regiment, now serve as proctor for the departed's will."

Setting the page down, he folded his hands behind his back. Ghent's brow suddenly furrowed and the man seemed heavier, as if put-upon by some unseen force. It lasted but for a moment, just long enough for Marsh Silas to recognize it. Soon, he held his head back up. "I thus have the immeasurable honor of overseeing the deliverance of a message carried by an Imperial Cipher. Aide?"

A fellow hurried into the room. He was a fresh-faced Junior Commissar who seemed younger than Marsh Silas. His uniform was well-composed and the colors were so glossy it appeared like it was brand new. The purple in his eyes was bright and fiery. "Fetch the Cipher."