V2 Chapter 25: The Highest Honour: The Star of Terra
Duvette stood on a heap of rubble and ruins. The dust settled on his black commissar's greatcoat like dirty snow in the lower hive.
From the half-collapsed building cluster not far ahead, occasional laser fire and muffled explosions still came through, accompanied by a few distorted heretic screams.
Six full weeks had passed since the landing war on Formal Prime began.
Four weeks after the spire battle, Chaos warlord Shebol Red Hand had vanished entirely. Without the supreme commander and the restraint of the faith icon, the entire Formal Prime heretic army had completely collapsed, losing all structure.
What had once required thousands of Astra Militarum lives to push through in frontal assault had become a long, bloody pacification war.
The surviving heretics had broken apart and scattered like rats into the deepest, darkest building interstices and abandoned passages of the hive city, fighting individually in meaningless, desperate resistance.
As the force most skilled at close-quarters urban warfare in the entire battle zone, Duvette had led the 112th back into those narrow, dark buildings to hunt what remained.
He responded to the advance reports coming through the communications channel without much thought.
His attention was on his palm, where the bone carving rested: the token Joghaten Khan had tossed him after the battle.
[Legion Relic: Token of the Wind]
[Aura: Hunt]
[Effect: The Legion under your command deals increased damage while moving. The faster the speed and the longer the charge is sustained, the higher the damage.]
[Do not try to stop the wind.]
So I get to drag-race as well.
Duvette turned the bone carving over in his hand, carved from the bone of some fierce beast he had no idea what, feeling the faint trace of air current on its surface that seemed like it would never dissipate, then carefully tucked it back into the innermost pocket of his coat.
Four weeks since the spire battle that could only be described as a miracle.
After that Warp catastrophe that had nearly swallowed the entire planet was stopped, Duvette had not received any orders to return to the rear for rest. A command transfer had kept him at the front for continued operations.
Fortunately, the cleanup zone assigned to the 112th carried extremely low combat intensity: scattered, disorganised cultists with no coherent resistance.
For the 112th's veterans who had just gone hand-to-hand against a Bloodthirster, this level of pacification work was essentially a holiday.
Duvette leaned against a broken column and looked up at the grey plasteel overhead, hoping the Chogorian man would keep his mouth shut and not report every detail.
Because in this universe, intensely xenophobic and intensely fanatical, labels like "Living Saint" or "Emperor's Chosen" had never been good things.
For ordinary people at the bottom, such a label was a hope of salvation. For the Imperium's senior figures, it was a massive political whirlpool.
Once confirmed, it would draw in the fanatical Ministorum Cardinals, and those operating like mad dogs with life-and-death authority: the Ordo Hereticus and the Ordo Malleus.
Even with Juno's protection as Lord Inquisitor, one wrong move would guarantee problems in sufficient quantity to be genuinely difficult.
Just then, the encrypted data-slate at his waist emitted an extremely sharp alert tone.
Duvette frowned and picked it up.
The screen showed a direct order from the highest expedition command, a group message distributed to all senior officers in the battle zone.
The content was simple: all receiving officers were to immediately drop everything and present themselves aboard the expedition flagship Absalom in low orbit within five standard Terran hours, to attend the post-battle victory banquet for the Formal Prime campaign.
Duvette looked at the order on the screen. He knew what it meant. The most critical political moment had arrived.
He immediately opened the full regiment channel and ordered all combat units to cease pursuit and return to the nearest front-line camp at maximum speed.
After returning to camp and briefly instructing Deputy Commander Dylan and Adjutant Evan to manage the camp in his absence, Duvette straightened his commissar's greatcoat, somewhat worn from long combat, and brushed the dust from his shoulders, and boarded a transport lander to low orbit alone.
Several hours later, inside the flagship Absalom.
The interior of this enormous battleship, enormous as a moving city, was cold and solemn with Gothic architecture. The high metal dome was carved with bas-reliefs of Imperial heroes throughout the ages.
In the corridor leading to the designated banquet hall, Duvette passed batch after batch of naval personnel and Astra Militarum generals.
When these people saw Duvette walking alone in the corridor, they stopped as they would for any officer of his rank, standing at attention and saluting or nodding in acknowledgment.
But Duvette's extremely sharp gaze picked up something from those expressions and body language: an extremely subtle, difficult-to-detect distancing.
He paid no attention to it. He returned each salute without expression, without slowing his pace, following the guiding servo-skull deeper into the ship.
As two heavy carved auramite doors slowly swung open on both sides with the muffled engagement of mechanical gears, Duvette entered the banquet hall.
The hall's dome was occupied by a large number of floating servo-skulls. Their hollow eye sockets emitted a faint scanning red light, and the nozzles below continuously sprayed a dense, somewhat pungent incense into the air.
A large strip dining table occupied the hall's centre, covered with pure gene-modified meat from distant agricultural worlds, fresh fruit, and high-grade alcohol in beautiful glass bottles.
Duvette was not among the first to arrive. Dozens of senior generals and commissars had already gathered.
The difference from his first entry into a hall at the beginning of this campaign was immediate. This time, when his military boots touched the red-carpeted floor, the entire hall shifted in an instant.
The buzzing conversation, the crisp clink of glasses: all of it went quiet the moment he stepped through the entrance.
Everyone stopped. Dozens of eyes turned simultaneously in a completely unified motion, all directed at him.
Duvette stood in the entrance and let the weight of those gazes settle. In those complex looks he could read appreciation and admiration, scrutiny and jealousy, and also a careful distancing laced with something approaching fear.
He sighed inwardly, showed none of it, and walked into the hall at an entirely steady pace.
He walked directly to a half-mechanical servo-serf holding a silver tray, reached out and took a tall glass filled with amber liquid.
Then he turned to face the hall, raised the glass toward the senior officers who were still watching him, gave a slight bow, and performed the standard Imperial noble's acknowledgment with unhurried precision.
He tilted his head back, finished the glass in one pull, and placed it on the serf's tray without looking back.
After that, he paid no further attention to the complex gazes around him.
Both hands in his coat pockets, he walked through the crowd, found a relatively secluded corner of the hall, picked up a plate, and began slowly working through the banquet food.
A few minutes later, the suffocating quiet in the hall broke. Conversation gradually resumed around him.
The officers talked, but their voices stayed low.
Duvette could feel those gazes still drifting toward him from time to time through the crowd. He could catch his own name occasionally in those fragmented whispers.
He was in the middle of using a fork to cut into a fresh synthesised meat steak, thinking about which food had the better flavour, wondering whether after the banquet he might manage to take some back for the regiment's poor bastards who only ever ate hard dry rations, when rapid, somewhat heavy footsteps approached from his side.
He didn't turn. He assumed it was Ibram Gaunt or Commissar-General Delane Oktar.
But when he looked up, it was Major General Petrov Duval standing before him.
A brief flash of surprise. This was the man who had locked him up. No particular bad blood between them, but they certainly had history. Not the kind where you caught up over drinks.
Petrov leaned close and lowered his voice to something only the two of them could hear. "Commissar Duvette, you have serious trouble."
"What?" Duvette put down his knife and fork, swallowed the meat he was chewing, turned and asked without particular inflection.
"What you did in the upper hive spire four weeks ago has completely spread through the entire fleet."
Petrov noticed that Duvette seemed somewhat unconcerned. He put down his empty glass and picked up his pace. "Everyone is speculating about what you experienced. The Warp corruption concentration in that space was enough to drive anyone mad. And yet your mortal regiment not only survived but assisted those Astartes in resolving everything."
Seems the White Scars didn't report it all, Duvette thought, taking another bite of the steak.
Petrov held Duvette's eyes and pressed on. "The expedition's Inquisitors and Ministorum Cardinals can't hold back from moving against you much longer. Next time it might be an Inquisitor with a group of Battle Sisters coming to arrest you..."
Petrov's words hadn't finished when, from the far front of the hall, those two largest gilded doors produced the heavy sound of opening.
On the podium, under several dazzling spotlights, several commanding figures appeared. The noise in the hall stopped immediately. Every officer came to attention and turned to face the podium.
Duvette turned his head. He saw Marshal Slaydo standing at the exact centre.
This supreme commander of hundreds of millions of troops still wore the power sword at his hip. His gaze cut like a blade.
On both sides of him stood several figures.
To his left: an Ecclesiarchy Archbishop in magnificent golden robes, holding a burning crozier.
To his right: an Inquisitor in a pure black coat.
Duvette met that Inquisitor's eyes for a moment. The suspicion and wariness there were entirely undisguised. He stared at Duvette without expression, as though he was deliberating whether to issue an arrest order.
At that moment, Marshal Slaydo stepped forward and coughed twice with full authority, pulling everyone's attention back to himself.
"Generals of the expedition!"
Slaydo's deep, penetrating voice filled the hall.
"I have called you here today not only because our campaign on Formal Prime has achieved its expected strategic objectives and completely crushed Chaos's designs! But also to commend the warriors who bled for the Emperor in this great victory, a victory worthy of being inscribed in the expedition's history!"
Slaydo's voice rose. "We will also award medals to the greatest meritorious soldier of this battle! As the expedition's supreme commander, I will personally present the honour! He, and the soldiers under his command, will receive true glory, the glory belonging to the entire expedition, which no one is to question!"
Slaydo hadn't named anyone. He didn't have to. Every one of the dozens of generals present, including the Archbishop and the Inquisitor on the podium, knew whose name was coming.
Petrov, standing beside Duvette, heard those words, turned, looked at the commissar next to him with an extremely complex expression, and said quietly:
"Congratulations, Commissar. It seems the trouble I just mentioned no longer counts for much."
Medals?
Hearing the word from the podium, Duvette's hand paused on the glass.
His mind went briefly to Macragge. The Ultramarines presenting him with honours in the great fortress monastery, the Astartes' solemnity something close to overwhelming.
The scene in this banquet hall of the Absalom, while not as grand and sacred as the Primarch's homeworld, still carried the Imperium military's particular weight as dozens of senior generals stood at attention.
Duvette had no doubt the "greatest meritorious soldier of the Formal Prime campaign" was himself. After all, the White Scars Astartes who had genuinely played the decisive role were simply not in the hall.
As Slaydo's deep and solemn words echoed in the dome, the award ceremony formally began.
Dozens of senior generals and commanders in the hall received their corresponding honours.
When Slaydo read through a series of names, Duvette's gaze swept the crowd and stopped on a young officer.
Cadet Commissar Ibram Gaunt. At the conclusion of this brutal campaign, the word "Cadet" had finally been removed. He was now a true Imperial Commissar, with the qualification to be assigned independently to an Astra Militarum regiment.
Duvette raised his glass from his corner in Gaunt's direction.
After every other designated officer's name had been called, only Duvette remained.
He showed no trace of anxiety. He simply sipped the sour wine in his glass and looked toward the podium.
Accompanied by the low mechanical hum, a servo-skull formation descended slowly, unfurling the solemn decorations representing the Emperor's supreme authority.
Then two figures entirely enveloped in white robes, each holding a presentation box, came to stand beside Marshal Slaydo.
The Marshal's gaze moved past the crowd and fixed accurately on Duvette.
"Duvette Erdmann, Colonel-Commissar!"
Duvette set down his glass and walked out from the corner with long strides.
The Marshal read his battle merits aloud: "In the Formal Prime campaign, led the 112th to destroy an enemy war engine. In the final battle, assisted the White Scars Chapter in successfully resolving this extinction-level disaster!"
"Assisted." Very good. Duvette smiled faintly as the Marshal read through it.
"I will now award him the Sabbat Worlds Imperial Honour Medal, representing the highest honour of this sector!"
Thunderous applause erupted in the hall, some of it more willing than the rest. Just as Duvette was about to walk toward the podium steps, Slaydo suddenly raised his hand and signalled everyone to stop.
The Marshal looked at Duvette and spoke again, recounting the glory Duvette had earned on Macragge ten years prior: assisting the Ultramarines Chapter Master to slay the Hive Tyrant, covering the withdrawal, slaying a second Hive Tyrant, and more.
Duvette stood at the base of the steps. A flash of genuine surprise crossed his eyes. He paused, wondering why a victory banquet for this expedition was suddenly reaching back to events in Ultramar a decade ago.
Slaydo's next words answered it.
"With verification and agreement from the High Lords of Terra, Colonel-Commissar Duvette Erdmann is hereby awarded the Star of Terra, representing the highest honour of the Imperium!"
The hall went completely silent.
Then violent uproar broke across it all at once.
A living Imperial warrior had received the Star of Terra.
In Imperial history, this medal was awarded almost exclusively to heroes who had already fallen, and usually only sent out decades later to rest quietly in a hero's ashes.
Duvette was receiving it while alive. This meant his achievements had crossed every tier of recognition and received direct acknowledgment from the High Lords of Terra themselves.
In the uproar, Gaunt was the first to react, applauding hard for Duvette.
Immediately after: Commissar-General Delane Oktar and Major General Petrov Duval. The applause spread rapidly through the entire hall.
Everyone present was applauding, including the iron-faced Inquisitor on the podium. At this moment, regardless of any opinion or suspicion anyone carried about Duvette, all of it had to stand down before the Star of Terra.
Duvette walked up the podium steps to stand beside Marshal Slaydo in the thunderous applause.
Slaydo personally took the two heavy medals from the presentation box and pinned them onto Duvette's chest with complete solemnity. Then he seized Duvette's right hand, raised it high, and called out:
"For the Emperor! For Saint Sabbat!"
The hall answered in unison. The wave of sound shook the dome.
Slaydo released Duvette's hand and gave his shoulder a heavy pat, then handed him one more pin, rose-shaped. The Marshal told him this was the accompanying reward: a miniature refractor field.
Duvette gripped the rose-shaped pin and gave a solemn nod. The ceremony was over. He was turning to step off the podium when he heard the Marshal lower his voice beside him:
"Stay after the banquet. I have words for you."
Duvette's steps paused. A trace of surprise showed in his eyes that he couldn't entirely conceal. But he nodded inconspicuously at once, then walked down off the podium under the eyes of the entire room with long strides.