Chapter 14: The Commissar Who Just Wants to Take It Easy
Duvette woke in his single-occupancy billet and lay for a moment looking at the white ceiling.
Three full days of uninterrupted rest in the middle of all this. That was not a small thing.
He sat up and worked his neck and shoulders. The bandaging was off his head. The burns across his back had settled to a faint tightness, nothing more. That recovery speed was not normal. He had a reasonable suspicion that he was himself a member of the Legion in the System's accounting, and that the aura passives were applying to him as well as his soldiers. This was welcome information. The last thing he needed was his troops becoming progressively more formidable while he himself went down to a stray round from a weapon he had never seen coming.
Someone knocked.
"Come in."
Evan pushed the door open with his shoulder. He was carrying a small tin cup of black coffee in one hand and an iron tray in the other, with a few pieces of hard bread and a small portion of steamed egg on it. Standard officer's ration. It was, as far as Duvette was concerned, one of the very few things in this universe that bore any resemblance to what he had eaten in his previous life. Considerably preferable to the gelatin blocks. There was also beer available, technically, but that was not currently appropriate.
"Your breakfast, sir."
Evan set it down on the small table beside the bed.
Duvette picked up the coffee and took a sip. Strong, slightly scorched, barely sweet. Fine.
Through the window, the snow had stopped. Everything outside was white under a flat grey sky. No sun but the light was adequate. The horizon was still and quiet in a way that had been making his stomach tighter every day.
He ate and checked the status display.
[Current Command: Ash Watchers, 101st Regiment, 6th Company]
Still only the 6th. He had expected that. In standard Astra Militarum doctrine, the regimental commanding officer handled tactical operations and the commissar handled discipline and loyalty. Their authority did not overlap. The commissar was not in the chain of command.
There were exceptions. Commissar Gaunt, for example, one of the three most famous commissars in recent Imperial history, had been given the extraordinary designation of Colonel-Commissar through a special appointment from his superiors, with the full commanding authority over the Tanith First and Only as a result.
Duvette was not going to have that kind of opportunity anytime soon.
There was one other scenario: if the regimental commanding officer was killed, the commissar assumed temporary command. Duvette dismissed that thought as soon as it formed. If the colonel was dead, his own situation would not be meaningfully better.
He was not interested in greatness. He wanted to live as long as possible and cause as little additional suffering to himself as he could manage. Something in the range of Commissar Cain's approach to service, one of the other three great names, would suit him perfectly well. Staying away from the most dangerous assignments, cultivating a reputation that kept the worst postings away, finding the occasional comfortable billet. If he happened to meet a beautiful Inquisitor somewhere along the way, that would be acceptable too. He gave that last thought approximately one second of realistic assessment and discarded it.
He drank the last of the coffee and set the cup down. A piece of bread and half the steamed egg were still on the tray. He pushed the tray across to Evan.
"Eat."
Evan looked at it. "Sir, that's your..."
"I can't finish it," Duvette said, and his tone made further discussion unnecessary. "You're still growing. Get bigger and stronger. You're supposed to be close protection eventually. Also, soldiers do not get officer rations as a rule and you should not waste the opportunity. Eat."
He was mildly pleased with the reasoning. Evan considered the bread and the egg and then Duvette's expression, and quietly said thank you and took the bread.
Duvette stood and dressed. The black commissar's greatcoat had been Hoffman's. His peaked cap as well. Both had been made available on a temporary basis while Duvette lacked his own, and they fitted well enough: he and Hoffman had been approximately the same height and build. He belted the coat, settled the cap, checked the bolt pistol's fit in the holster.
He looked like a commissar.
He walked out of the billet into cold air that was noticeably less sharp than it had been three days ago. Snow covered the entire camp in a clean white layer. Soldiers were clearing the paths and digging out the emplacements, their breath coming out in small white bursts in the grey morning light.
A quiet day. And still no attack on the defensive line.
That was the part that would not stop nagging at him. In the past three days he had spoken with Fox twice. Each time, the answer had been the same: the reconnaissance team dispatched to investigate the left tunnel fork had not come back. The command element had issued no new directives. The regiment could not abandon its defensive position without authorization.
The cult was waiting for something.
"Whatever it is," Duvette said to no one, his thumb working over the stubble on his jaw without conscious intention, "they are close to being ready."
He let his gaze drift to the horizon. White plain, occasional dark tree-shapes in the distance, total stillness. No artillery. The silence had become something that pressed on the ears.
"Good morning, Commissar. May the God-Emperor watch over you."
The voice was rough and came from his left.
A figure was passing along the far side of the camp, dressed in the standard Ash Watchers grey but with a deep grey cloak over it and a grey hood covering everything above the mouth. The eyes visible in the gap were sharp and very calm. On his back, wrapped in oiled cloth, was the long barrel of a las-sniper rifle, and on the exposed stock were several small scored marks. Kill tallies.
Finn Valentine.
The only soldier in the 101st who had been awarded the Marksman's Honour. The regiment's record holder for long-range accuracy. Also, by a considerable margin, the most fervently devout follower of the Imperial Creed in the entire regiment.
In the past three days, Duvette had made several attempts at conversation with him while learning the camp. The responses had been minimal each time. Whenever Valentine had free time he spent it reading, either from a worn copy of the Imperial Litanies of Redemption or from the Daily Prayers of the Emperor, both densely annotated. He was not hostile. He simply had very little interest in conversation that was not about the Emperor.
As now: Valentine had offered his greeting without breaking stride and was already a diminishing figure moving away through the snow, leaving nothing behind but a quiet grey shape and the crunch of boots.
Duvette exhaled.
A true believer. Getting along with that particular type required an approach he had not yet worked out.
Most soldiers' relationship with their commissar was complicated in the same direction: a mixture of awe, fear, and a specific variety of resentment that came from knowing the commissar could execute them at need. None of those feelings were warm. Fear kept order, and order kept soldiers alive, but a commissar who ran entirely on fear tended to be short-lived. That kind of authority attracted certain solutions, usually delivered from behind, usually fatal.
Duvette had no intention of dying to a poorly explained accident involving a friendly las-bolt.
He needed the regiment to trust him. Not to like him necessarily, but to believe he was the kind of commissar who would also bring them through, not just the one who would execute them for failing. That took time and it took performance and it took something demonstrable happening in front of them. He had not yet had the opportunity.
"Sir."
Evan's voice came from the billet doorway. The boy had finished the bread and collected both the cup and the tray.
"Colonel Fox's aide came by while you were outside. The Colonel is asking for you at the command post." Evan held the empty tray against his side. "He says there is new information."
Duvette's eyes sharpened.
"New information."
"The aide did not give specifics. Just that you should get there quickly."
Duvette nodded and looked once more at the flat white horizon. Then he turned toward the command post.
Evan jogged a few steps to fall into place beside him, boots breaking through the snow crust with each step.
"Sir. What do you think it is?"
"No idea," Duvette said. "But at this stage, anything is better than silence."
They moved along the cleared path through the camp. Soldiers stepped back and saluted as they passed. Duvette could feel the attention that followed him, the sideways assessments, curiosity at the edges of wariness.
He had not earned their full confidence yet. That was fair. He had been their commissar for less than a week in official terms, and the regiment's primary impression of him was that he was Hoffman's former deputy, Hoffman's designated replacement, and the officer who had come back through the ground with eleven soldiers and a notebook full of bad news.
He needed a win.