by Nolan Conrey

---

This short story is set outside of the Sapient Union, in Glorian space.

---

The last twenty days passed, a painful blur.

There were only 62 of their unit of 100 left.  They all knew that they were expected to end up with a unit of at least 50, but were more than that allowed?

Their first test of the day was test-firing, to show their skill.

Aiming under these circumstances wasn’t that challenging for them at this point.  Even their worst marksmen were able to achieve par times.

Then they cut down the time.

“If any of you fail to achieve Par Time, you will be shot!  In the unfortunate case of more than one of you failing, well . . . you’ll have to pick who dies.”

No one failed to achieve par time.  Lukis was starting to feel his nerves, and he did not know if he could make it, though, if they cut the time down again.

But they moved on.  The next was a combined field-test; in full kit they had to cross a no-man’s land to reach Guardian Drones before mortars came in.  There was gas on the field, so any damage to your suit’s seal would mean death.

They all made it across, survived the gas and the mortar rain.

Then they were issued ammo for their rifles.

“You will engage in a live-fire exercise against enemy machines!  You will survive and defeat the enemy!”

How the hell could they do that? he wondered.  Though they had progressed to the point of being able to usually defeat the machine men, they still took heavy casualties.

In this case, though, something was different.  The machines did have live-fire weapons, but their full armor was able to take the hits; he and his unit had Guardian drones, too, which intercepted the majority of incoming shots.  They’d never had those in prior training, and the difference they made was huge; almost every round fired by the machines was intercepted.

Their prior training had them conditioned to not exposing themselves, which made it even easier.

The machines had no Guardian drones, no defense at all except some partial armor.

He destroyed the last one himself.  27 and 14 outflanked it, forcing it to move to new cover, when he and two others bracketed it with fire.  It tumbled into a shell hole, and his bloodlust made him move to the lip.

The machine man’s face just had the barest hint of features like eyes, nose, and mouth, its expression eternally passive.  It was trying to take up its weapon with its only remaining arm, but was having trouble reaching it.

Lukis felt like it was justice when he opened fire and destroyed it.

He and the others were cheering by the end; there was only one wounded, 18, and he was walking.

Their win seemed crazy, impossible, but he did not dwell on it, cheering with the others.

“Prepare for Operation 2,” the announcer said.

They hadn’t been told of another operation, but they gathered up.

“You will run it again,” they were told.

They did it again.  This time, one of their group was injured, badly.  A round slipped through his Guardian drone fire, taking him in the side where he had no armor.

The Medics took his body away.

“Again.”

They ran it again.  The machines had better weapons now.  They lost five men, three more badly wounded.

“Again.”

He lost track at ten runs.  But they kept going.  More and more of their group was wounded.  Two more in the next run were killed.  Another was wounded, but not badly enough to be pulled out.  He died on the next run.

The Medics gave them stims, which amped them up but made thinking clearly a little harder.  They kept going on.

By the time they were done, there were only 52 left.

“That’s enough,” they were told.  “You have passed your final test.”

No one felt like celebrating, dragging themselves into the barracks.

“You may wear your armor as you rest,” the Sergeant told them.  “You’ve earned the right.”

The next day they held a parade.  They got to march, after cleaning their armor, through the camp.  They were given crests to put on their helmets, which they returned after the march.  There was genuine excitement again; the officers gave speeches praising them.

“You have shown the capability of greatness.  No longer are you subject to summary execution!  You have earned the privilege of a court trial.  You have begun your path towards proving you are a True Glorian!  Fight well for the Emperor.  Die well.  Your valor will determine how you are remembered, and what bonuses your family will be paid.  Now, take a rest day.  By the Grace of the Emperor.”

They got to drink their fill; all the Barracks Grog they could handle, and even their Sergeant came in to give them some good words.

“A lot of Glorians think that you Ouans are lesser – that you lost that spark inside that made you able to be Men.  But I looked at you that first day, and I saw; some of you still have it.  And by the Emperor, I’d drag it out of you or you’d die in the trying.  Now look at you; you’re on your way to being real Men.  It’ll do.”

And one by one they received their new nicknames.  01 became Fist, 07 Blitz.

Lukis got his message in his HUD and opened it.

“Your codename is Bastard,” it said.

What the hell kind of name was that?

“What’d you get?” one man yelled, slurring and barely audible over the shouts and partying.

“Can’t hear you,” Lukis said, shrugging him off and stepping away.  Feigning going to the bathroom, he looked at his face in the bathroom mirror.

To be a bastard was not a good thing . . . and yes, his father was dead, but he’d known him.  He had been a beloved son, this was . . .

It bothered him.

A shout out in the main room that killed off all the jubliation startled him.  Fearing a fight, he went out, but saw that everyone had fallen into attention, and a group of officers were walking down the middle of the room.

He slipped in with the others and saluted, but was noticed.  The officer scowled but moved on.

“You are all to report, in full kit, outside of the barracks in ten minutes,” the officer said.  “I expect to see you all.  Go!”

They began a mad scramble to the barracks; ten minutes was not a lot of time, but even moreso than getting in full kit was the sluggishness of their own actions after drinking so much.

Lukis saw that half of the unit was present by the time he came out, and the last few came out not long after.  He didn’t know how long it had been, but not everyone was here when the officer came out.

“Three missing,” he said.

“That’ll put us at forty-nine,” their Sergeant said, his voice electronic in his helmet.

“Just two then,” the officer said.

The last three hurried out, and the Sergeant directed two of them away.  The last glanced after his compatriots, but got in formation.

A few moments later they heard the sound of shots.  Lukis flinched, staring at the officer, who watched them calmly.

“Being late is unnaceptable,” the officer said.  His eyes went over them.  “Does anyone wish to discuss it?”

Lukis’s mind went over the grand speeches they’d been given earlier.  But he did not say anything, nor did anyone else.

“Dispense weapons,” the officer said.  He was watching them all, amused.  As if daring them to resist in any way.

They were given rifles, and ammo.  Just one magazine each.

“Weapons live,” the officer said.

As one, they loaded their rifles and turned off the safeties.

“Divide into parties of ten.  Down the line, shoulder-to-shoulder.”

They got in lines, and Lukis wondered just how many here were thinking of shooting the mocking, cruel officer in front of them.

But no one raised their weapon.  They’d probably be killed before they could even get it up.  If their guns even worked.

“There is one last task for your unit before you are shipped out,” the officer said.  “I pride myself on efficiency.  One key to that is not to leave loose ends.  Your compatriots who were late cleared one up for me – having more than the standard number in a unit is not unheard of – but something of an annoyance.”

He paused in front of Lukis, staring into his helmet.  Lukis stayed still, and after a few moments he moved on.

“But there’s another loose end.”  He gestured, and a line of men came out.  Several stopped in front of each group of soldiers, twenty paces away.  They were gaunt, skin and bones, in loose-fitting smocks.  Chains bound their hands and arms, and they stared at the unit with fear.

Lukis recognized some of them, after a few moments of getting used to their new state; they were men from their original group who had been removed or dropped out.

“Ready!” the officer barked.

Around him, his comrades raised their rifles.  The condemned men began to beg – to them, to the officers, the emperor, or the Infinite.  But their leg chains were hooked onto the ground, and they could not do anything.

“Take aim!”

They all aimed at the cowering men.  Lukis found his weapon was shaking.  He knew the man in front of him, they had talked.  He was from the same world as Lukis.

He could have been my neighbor, he thought.

“Fire!”

The peal and cracks of rifles firing went through the air, his helmet bringing the sharp sound down a little.

He hadn’t fired.

Suddenly behind him he heard shouting.

“Point and fire your weapon, soldier!  Fire now!” the man was screaming at him.  He felt a bump as a pistol was put to his head.

He would either die now, or he would kill himself, he thought.

“This is your last warning!”

Lukis looked down his sights at the man.  He was already down, shots from several of his fellows.

But he was still alive.  Still breathing.  His arm was moving feebly.

This was mercy, Lukis thought, as he pulled the trigger.

---

FINIS

---

< Conscript Part 4 |

by Nolan Conrey

---

This short story is set outside of the Sapient Union, in Glorian space.

---

They had little such downtime, though.  Almost every day they were training from morning until night.  Some days the canteen had little or no food for them, and even the Barracks Grog got rationed.

“Sometimes supplies can’t reach the front.  Things get too hot.  You gotta learn to do without,” their Sergeant told them.

The meds stove off the hunger pains in their bellies, but not the dull loss of energy.

Would they really get these stims if they had no food?  Lukis didn’t know, but he doubted it.

After one such hunger day they had their first mock-battle.  The enemy were just machines that looked like men, but they moved like professional sprinters and tumblers, hard to track.

“This time only they will have harmless laser weapons.  If you get a kill sound,” a sharp squawk came into their helmets, “then stop and put your hands up.  You’ve been killed.”

They went out.

Lukis went all of twelve steps when he got a squawk in his ear.  “Sniper, at 110 degrees,” a cool computer voice told him.

He put up his hands, looking out and saw a figure highlighted.  His comms were off so he couldn’t even talk to the rest of the unit, warn them.  He saw the sniper take aim again and again, the red words ‘KILL CONFIRMED’ popping above its head like it was a video game.

He looked around, and saw that probably half of the unit was dead already.  Surprise and confusion took the rest before long; the machines moved to flank them, and before five minutes was up they were all dead.

“Fucking pathetic,” the Sergeant said.  “You’re all meat, all of you.  The xenos will be fucking your sisters tonight, you’re a shame on humanity.”

Lukis found that he did not flinch at the casual horribleness of his statements.  He did not find himself believing that aliens were really coming their women, but he had to admit that he didn’t really know.  He had never met an alien.

“You’re gonna go again.  And again, until at least one of you survives the ten minute mark.  If you unlikely bunch of shits manage to win – which I doubt – then you’ll even eat tonight.  So watch the mech boys carefully, learn their tactics, and maybe you can do it.”

They fought the whole rest of the day, getting one break and half a pint of Barracks Beer.

He looked, he tried to observe.  He spoke with the others, but no one had any useful ideas.

It didn’t matter; the machine men beat them every single time, all day.

By the end of the day, they were so tired that they could barely move.

“That’s the enemy,” their Sergeant told them.  “The Sapient Union are cowards by nature.  They fight using machine men.  They’ll lube ’em up with your blood, if your performance today is any indication, and humanity is fucked.”

One man raised a hand.  “I thought it was just our sisters,” he said.  A chorus of laughs went through the crowd.

It was 09, Lukis saw.  The man had always struck him as believing everything they were told, not the type to make a joke!

But the man looked exhausted, his eyes hollow.  Maybe he didn’t care, or he thought that this kind of joke was okay.

Lukis knew it wasn’t.

The Sergeant took out his sidearm and shot him.

He fell, a slightly surprised look on his face, while the Sergeant, red in the face, turned towards them all.  “You think this is funny?  How funny do you think he finds it now?” he roared.  “I was gonna let you retards rest, but now you’re running it ten more times!  Get out there, and some of these bullets are going to be live!”

The rest of the night passed in terror.  Night fell and they could barely see, even with their helmets enhancing enemy targets, the ground was just a dark blur.

Twice he thought he was going to take a real bullet, he heard real gunshots.  But it must have been a coincidence, someone else taking a real round.  

In their ninth run, he found one of the victims.  He wasn’t dead, just laying propped up against the mud, breathing hard and holding the wound on his stomach.

He’d taken off his helmet, but even with his face uncovered Lukis did not recognize him.  He watched with eyes wide, the stark white of them standing out against the dark ground more than anything else.

“Medic!” Lukis screamed.

“21 is calling for a Medic,” the announcing voice called.  “No Medics are available.  Leave the dead.”

“He isn’t dead!” Lukis said, the panic prompting him to go on.

“Leave the dead.”

An observation drone hovered right over him.  They were armed; it could shoot him at any moment if he did not obey.

He could not look back at the wounded man, and went on.

They did not take any games that night; but they came close.  The machine soldiers were fast, accurate, and coordinated.  They didn’t throw their lives away in vain, and they often predicted their human enemies’ actions with startling accuracy.

But they had exploitable behaviors.  You could give them apparent openings, and they would operate on what they could clearly see and move into a trap.

It wasn’t a great advantage.  But the machines weren’t immortal; a good burst from their light-guns would cause them to shut down.

In the last match, Lukis and his unit managed to whittle their numbers down to just six.  But they still lost.  The machines feinted a forward assault with four losing two in the process, but their remaining two carefully flanked and then killed their last ten with precise shots.

The Sergeant, pissed, chewed them out for another hour and dismissed them.  They had just three hours to rest before wake-up.

The next day was an instruction day.  They sat and got Injection Learning all day, broken up only by the Sergeant occasionally swatting them across the back.  To make sure they remembered reality, he said.

The Injection Learning was never enjoyable, but with so little sleep he found his brain started hurting very early on, and his headache only grew in intensity.

All day they learned of their enemy’s tactics in an infantry fight: the pure drone warfare of the Bicet, the fast and aggressive tactics of the Dessei, the solid and defensible positions of the Sepht that slowly enveloped, and of course about the tactics of Depraved Humanity.

Their true enemy; they would have to overcome Depraved Humanity, liberate it from the Alien, and reclaim Earth.  It was their solemn duty.

Which made no sense to Lukis.  The one concept he had learned growing up that had seemed important to him was to live and to let others live.  You did not have to mix, but you could let live.  It had been the founding ideal of the Ouo Ledori . . .

But he knew what they wanted you to say, and interspersed through the hours of tactics were the political tests, making sure that you were loyal, that you were a good Glorian Soldier.

Gloria Aeternus.

The tactics of humanity did rely heavily on the machine soldiers, but they had real troops mixed in there, too.  The tactics suggested ways to tell them apart, but the Union machine soldiers were very good at seeming organic in their movements – until they sprung into action.  That was one of the best times to tell them apart, but since sticking your head out for too long got it shot off, and targeting drones were the enemy’s second-priority target, it really didn’t tell you much.

Every Glorian Soldier who kills a Depraved Human warfighter will receive a bonus of 2,000 Credits.

Every Glorian Soldier who kills a Xeno warfighter will receive a bonus of 5,000 Credits.

The words seared into his brain, and for the first time he found himself recoiling at the hideous thought of getting a bonus for committing murder.

Fear made him stop.  He heard the footsteps of the Sergeant approach, and he made himself be still.  Too much of a negative reaction, they might look at what it was that bothered him.  And they would not like his reaction to that.

“Something bothering you?” the Sergeant asked.

“No, sir!” he barked back.

The Sergeant smacked his back with his stick, then moved on.

---

< Conscript Part 3 | Conscript Part 5 >

by Nolan Conrey

---

This short story is set outside of the Sapient Union, in Glorian space.

---

Not every day was horrible.  Every Tenth day, after they passed another life-or-death training run, they got the rest of the day off.

Some of the others set up a drinking area on top of one of their small barracks hut.  Just a short ladder climb and some ad hoc chairs and crates for tables awaited you.  There was always plenty of Barracks Grog, even if it was shit.

They’d introduced that the first day; they could have as much as they wanted.  The pseudo-alcohol could give you a little buzz, but it never built up in your system enough to make you truly stupid.  He’d drank beer before, but this was new, and they had all taken to it.

It was strange to feel up high on the barracks; they never were up high, only in the buildings or underground.  The gravity on this world was heavy; Lukis did not know the name of it, they just called it Boot Camp.  The muscle stims and barracks grog had helped them adjust quickly.

Surely the whole planet wasn’t just used for training, right?  But maybe it was.  He’d caught a glimpse of it from orbit; the land largely barren, the seas a deep, ugly blue, almost black.  It seemed to look like a habitable world while lacking everything that made a habitable world seem nice.

Someone told him that the place hadn’t had any native life.  “Means we seeded it by coming here.  Every germ we shed is gonna make life here.  We’re ancestors!”  Later on, Lukis saw that in the Injection Learning.

From the tops of their huts, they could see all the way out of the camp, to neighboring camps, that seemed to exist at specific intervals.  One was slightly up a cliff side.

“They can see all the other camps really well,” one of his companions said.  Among themselves the use of their names or nicknames were discouraged.  After the fifth day they didn’t even hear their names from the speakers anymore; just their number.

09 was the speaker.  “I bet they can see into the women’s camp.  I bet they get a great view.”

“Women’s camp?  There are no women in the combat corps!” 80, his other companion, said.  The highest-number man to be alive in the unit, which he insisted made him the senior.  

“There are women Dreadnoughts,” 09 replied mockingly.  “And they have to go through training like we do.  I heard from a guy that one of the camps nearby is for women.  So put two and two together . . .”

Lukis watched the two argue it back and forth.  He doubted that there was a women’s camp nearby.  He didn’t know enough about Dreadnoughts to weigh in, though.

The punishment for leaving camp without permission was execution, so it wasn’t like they were going to find out.

The argument died off, settling nothing.  They drank again for a few more minutes.

“Twenty days until we’re through,” 09 finally said.

“Yeah,” Lukis said.  “Just twenty days.”

“Feels like it’s been forever,” 80 said.

09 snorted.  “Yeah, you don’t take to it like I do.”

80 didn’t rise to the bait, though, as they all thought on what would happen once they completed their training.  In just the one month all of their lives changed drastically, and in twenty days it would do so again.

Lukis had no idea what would happen.  None of them did.  There was little concept given of what service was like, other than serving Gloria and doing what you were told, sometimes dying.

They didn’t even know where they’d be.  Sent off to serve as the Conscript Infantry in the Glorian Empire, but where?  A backwater planet, a space station?

All he knew was the most basic; serve out your time, then go back home until they needed you again.

Or make a career of it, if you took to it.  Lukis did not feel like he wanted to do this, even if he seemed to be okay at a lot of it.  He’d gotten an AI-generated kudos after starting the chant of ‘hold’ during their Holding Sit.

“Where do you wanna go?” 09 asked, glancing at him.

“I guess wherever they send me,” Lukis said.  Home, he wished.

80 slapped him on the arm.  “21’s just happy as long as he gets enough Barracks Grog!”

“That’s it,” Lukis said, taking a deep swig of his drink.

“I wanna go to Gloria,” 09 said.  “They say it’s the most beautiful planet in the universe.”

“Hey, don’t go getting sentimental,” 80 said.  “Look, we got new conscripts over there.”

Lukis sat up, looking out.  A whole line of a hundred people were walking into the Welcome Center.  It was not another structure, only half of one; a massive protrusion of mechanical parts projecting out of a wall that the conscripts had to go under.

The new unit of conscripts were herded forward, under the massive machinery, and sat down in chairs.  The chairs grabbed onto them, and a few screamed, until they were silenced by a shock stick or slap from an officer.

“Calm down!” a voice drifted over from the group.  “This is just for preparatory work.  Sit still and it will be fine.”

Next to Lukis, 09 laughed.  “Hard to believe we were ever shitters like that.”

Lukis could not help but to look at him in shock.  It had only been three weeks since they’d been the ones in those chairs.

“Oh, here it comes,” 80 said, pointing.  His Barracks Grog sloshed in his glass, out onto his hand.

A massive machine was slowly moving down the line.  It hung down from giant arms above, with meters of machinery built in.  Large cupolas in its underside and it would move over the heads of a row and then dip down, covering them almost to the chin.  There were uncomfortable sounds under there; discomfort and surprise that always culminated in a shriek of pain.  Strapped in their chairs, they could not escape the machine as it crawled towards them.

Lukis still remembered sitting down there when the machine came at them.  The shock block wasn’t enough to make the memory neutral in his mind.

When the machine lifted to go to the next row, you could see that it had shaved the heads of the conscripts, and burned a code onto the back of their heads.

The worst part was the least visible; the metal disc on the sides of each conscript’s head.  He’d focused on the forced cutting of his hair, the fear of a brand, not even noticed the implant.

The memory of the drill that had cut into his head, implanted the device through his skull was one he could not shake.

A quick injection after that, and a little spray of Flesh-Metal Conjoiner, and then it moved on.

A medic had given them all a quick check-over.  One simply looked into his eyes with a scanner.

“21 is fine,” he had said, moving onto the next immediately.

The headaches for the rest of that first day, and through the night, had been agonizing.  He’d gotten a fever, and the others in his barracks banged on the doors until someone came.  A Medic gave him another injection.

“Now go to sleep!” the man had barked afterward.  “Don’t bother me again, if he dies he dies!”

By morning he’d been still alive, and feeling better.  But his mechanical port remained swollen and inflamed for the rest of the week.

The machine dipped on the second-to-last row.  The screams of pain were louder than usual, and as the machine lifted, one young man was thrashing.

Lukis leaned forward, his heartbeat picking up.  The machinery stopped, lifting higher so the officers and medics could step in.

Blood was splashing out of the man’s head.  It went down his side, onto the man next to him.  Red splattered the white pants of the medics.

Something had gone wrong with his implant; it had not gotten a hold and fallen out under the blood pressure.

One of the officers took out his gun, put it on the young man’s head, and fired.

The ringing blast of the gun fell away, and no other sound replaced it.

Lukis sat still, as did everyone.

“It was a mercy,” 80 said softly.

---

< Conscript Part 2 | Conscript Part 4 >

by Nolan Conrey

---

This short story is set outside of the Sapient Union, in Glorian space.

---

Thirty seconds to cross the field had been surprisingly achievable.

Looking back on it, he was surprised it had taken him as long as it had to make it across the first time.  His fear had made him run foolishly.

Growing the muscle mass had been quick; the growth shots and their high-protein diets made them swell quickly.

His mom had always told him he’d been too skinny.  Now he looked at himself in a mirror and his muscles were defined even when he did not flex.

But the Field Run hadn’t been the worst of it, not by far.

There was the Gas Run, where you kept having to run to different stations to get a mask, which would only last for twenty seconds before intentionally opening.  Double-dipping didn’t help, every mask opened as when that timer hit, even on the racks.  A few had made the mistake of trying and died gasping.

And far worse than the Gas Run had been the Holding Sit.  When mortar shells had been shot at them constantly from above, and they had to hold positions in the open.  All they could do was to huddle under their Guardian drones and hope their combat armor would protect them from the shrapnel.

Sitting in rings, being in the middle meant that there was less chance of ricocheting shrapnel hitting you in the ass.  But it also meant you were at the center of the target; if the Guardian Drones missed one mortar it’d land in your lap.

A few panicked and tried to run out the first time; they were in the same area as the Field Run, and they were so close to the bunkers.

But those who tried, hadn’t made it.  The mortar fire picked up immediately.

Their first shelling, he’d felt the man next to him try to run.  Crushed together so tightly, he could feel the muscles in his legs tensing, ready to carry him out once he thought he’d found the right timing.

“Don’t!” he’d yelled to the man.  He hooked his arm around the other man’s, and his neighbor with his other, locking him in.  “Hold!” he yelled.

“Hold!” another yelled, then another.  Rapidly many.

Then it became a chant.  “Hold!  Hold!  Hold!”

The man, who he only knew as 27, did not try to run, and they made it through.

Shock block washed away his fear and doubt.

It made one feel great after the training.  They made it!

Yeah, it was deadly.  But as long as you did what you were told, and you were good enough, you would probably make it.  The odds were on your side.

Some still hadn’t been able to take it, though.  Maybe the shock blockers didn’t work well for them, or maybe they were just cowards.

They were encouraged to jeer at the malingerers as ‘COWARD’ was branded onto their foreheads.  Afterwards, still bleeding, they were dragged out by the security officers.

“They will work to repay their debt,” the Sergeant had told them.  “No one gets a free ride!”

They said it like that was some kind of justice.  Lukis knew it was not, but he cheered with the others, even if half-heartedly.  

Many, he saw, really meant it.

During their second shelling, one shell slipped through the Guardian drone barrage.  No survivors in that group.

Before the shelling they were put into new groups, and Lukis noticed that the people who rated the poorest were all put together.  Older men, with slower reflexes.

He didn’t know if they hit the group intentionally to get rid of them.  But he wondered.  If anyone else did, they didn’t say anything, and he felt alone.  Hating himself for feeling glad it wasn’t his group.

The safest days were just weapons training, or the Injection Learning days.

The former were the best; even if you had to shoot a rifle all day until your ears rang and your body was sore from the recoil, it was a lot better than the alternative.

Injection Learning was supposedly to teach them tactics and formations and other information more efficiently.  A small headset you put on connected to the device in your head.  Images flashed in front of Lukis’s eyes, words repeated, followed by questions.  It was more than just flashing images, he knew, the Injection Learning was literally altering their brains through the device in their skull.  Sometimes the flashes of information were not even things on the screen, but his brain was being prodded in a way that made it visualize the information.

By the end of the day, you knew everything they were showing you; you could answer questions without knowing how you knew the answer.

Always at the end of the Injection Learning was the propaganda.  A steady hour of it that dragged on and on.

Gloria was the home of humanity, since Earth had been taken by the depraved Rejectionists – those who Rejected the Emperor and brought mindless chaos.

Gloria was the New Earth.

Gloria Aeternus

They only had Gloria because of the Emperor.

Emperor Netanoric de Villard the First and Only, High Dynast of the United Glorian Republic and the 501 stars of the Hyades.

Gloria Aeternus

He had saved humanity from falling completely into depravity.

The humanity of the Sapient Union was depraved, chaotic, and under the sway of the Alien.  Humanity would never obtain their birthright and own the galaxy.

Gloria Aeternus

The Alien would weaken humanity and destroy it.

One day, the Emperor’s Avenging Armies would sweep the cosmos clean of the Depraved, Rejectionist, and Alien, and then they would have paradise.

Whenever Lukis thought of any of it, the words Gloria Aeternus popped into his mind.  He could tell the Glorian stories without ever knowing he’d heard them.  He noticed that the way he thought about things was altered; he sometimes wondered what the Emperor would want him to do, what he could do to make Gloria stronger.

But something key was missing.  That part was clear to him.  The imprinting was missing a bedrock, he thought.  He had not been raised hearing about the Emperor and the Glorian “truth”.

It was sometimes just confusing.  He was not Glorian, his homeworld of Eziter was from a small colony world that had been a part of the Ouo Ledory decades ago.  The place had a population under a million, and even with it being taken in the war between Gloria and the Ledory, not much had changed.

Neither, though, had he been particularly religious.  Sometimes the Propaganda spoke to him about Ouan religious ideals that he only knew passingly, disproving them, suggesting new meanings and interpretations and . . . he could only say it was logic in that it was intended as such.  He’d never had a strong belief, so tweaking those beliefs didn’t have much of an impact.

No matter how much they wanted to paint the Emperor as the Chosen of the Infinite, as the Ouo Ledory awaited, it did not mean much when he did not believe in the prophecy.

But it was still strange, going to bed having learned months worth of book-reading in a day.  He woke up with words on his lips, dreamed of pure information and tactics of 3D shapes on theoretical terrains, and specific tactical situations – watch out for the drones, there were always drones, and the gas bombs that would turn the skies a cursed yellow or red, and if you took off your helmet at all you’d die from them and seal any holes in your damn suit!

Death just swirled together into a morass, and he awoke with cramps from thrashing so hard in his sleep, his head burning with fever.

The first time it happened, a Drone came to him.  When it saw that he couldn’t get back to sleep, it swooped in and offered him a sedative.

Drugged sleep was even worse, though.  The same death states persisted, and he relived his own memories in even deeper dreams that felt real.

Lukis got his conscription notice from the network and the next day they came to collect.  One Collection Officer in heavy armor and a dozen sleek and deadly drones.

The man waddled up awkwardly, one of his legs a cheap prosthetic.  He’d just yelled for him to come out, that he had three minutes to appear.

His mother didn’t want him to go, but when he thought about hiding like she said, he saw the Fail State, and they all died.

He told her they’d just talk to the Collection Officer, tell him that he couldn’t go.  They had to do that much.

As soon as they let the man in, it became clear that there was no talking his way out of it.

The man explained the privileges and duties of a conscript.  Lukis remembered, exaggerated in the dream-state, how the place where the man’s mechanical leg met his flesh had been inflamed, the skin peeling.  Seeing him scratch at it disturbed him in a way he couldn’t put into words.

Every step of that tense day, he had to say the right thing, the thing they wanted to hear, or he would hit a Fail State and die.  His whole family would die.

He couldn’t let that happen, it was easy to just be taken along, and so he agreed to everything they said and left with them to be a soldier for Gloria Aeternus.

“Bye mom,” had been his last words to her, in the dream as it had been in real life.

---

< Conscript Part 1 | Conscript Part 3 >