Subject: Option for Ouan Conscripts
Name: Lukis Onnu
Age: 17 Standard Earth Years
Home: Elnath IV, "Eziter" (Planet)
Status: Compensated Conscript
Conscript selected by automatic number selection. Collection process uneventful.
Average metrics in most ways. Non-practicing member of the Ouan Faith.
Despite Elnath's conquest into the Glorian being within living memory, the Conscript has no history of Rejectionist Thought.
Seems pliable enough. He could work.
Expectation of survival of basic training estimated at 57%.
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Lukis Onnu looked out at the field of blasted bodies and scarred soil and felt his stomach rebel.
He couldn't vomit, not now. This was a time of life and death.
A shrill whistle blew in his ears; the officer was holding up his clicker, and turning on the sound in their ears.
No pretending you didn't hear it when it was hooked directly into your brain. Nothing to do but obey.
They ran forward, the ground soft and giving, churned up by hundreds of artillery shells. He slipped, he slid and fell. But he got back up, because he knew they did not have much time.
"40 seconds. Look at Onnu-21, he's making good time," a massively enhanced voice was saying from the sky. He did not know for whose benefit it was.
But they were referring to him, he realized. His number in the unit was 21.
He stumbled, started to look back, but fear impelled him on. Forty seconds, he didn't feel like he'd possibly gotten halfway across the field yet.
"Thirty seconds. Onnu-21 has slowed but he is still ahead of pace. Many are falling behind, however."
Lukis did not know if some audience of people were actually watching; they didn't tell them that sort of thing.
They only told them that they had a minute and a half to cross this field before the mortars began to fire. If they weren't in the bunkers at the other side by then, they would just have to hope that one of the shellholes would protect them.
"We're not looking for you to die," their instructor had told them. "But you need to understand the seriousness of war. For Gloria Aeternus."
He leaped a small shell hole, but realized that there was a massive one on the other side, almost five meters deep.
He tumbled and slipped down the side, mud clinging to his clothes and his face. He rolled until he reached the bottom, where muddy water had accumulated. His feet splashed into it, and he froze for a moment.
The voice was more distant now. "Onnu-21 has fallen into a shell crater. I don't know if he'll have time to get out."
Across from him was a corpse. Eyes open, staring sightlessly. His right side was shredded, his leg missing below the knee, his arm at the elbow.
They had been told that these were the bodies of executed traitors, repurposed for something useful.
But the body across from him was wearing a conscript uniform, not the rags of a traitor.
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He sat, frozen, a moment longer, then threw himself back up the side of the crater wall. His hands dug into the soil like when he'd run up the wilting dunes of plantlife on his homeworld. This was much wetter, but he still went fast, scrambling up the side he knew would collapse if he wasn't careful.
Dragging himself over the top, he saw that there was only ten meters left. He ran, throwing up mud, but the ground here was somewhat flatter, as if shells did not often hit this close to the bunkers.
"Onnu-21 is back up. His time is acceptable. Gego-17 definitely isn't going to make it," the voice said.
Lukis reached the edge of the concrete; small domes were here with sunken stairs that led to an open door. The door that would seal on each one to protect them from the artillery.
He went down, but then looked back. Out towards the field.
"Ten seconds. Onnu-21 is hesitating. Gego-17 does not have the time."
He saw someone running. They were two-thirds of the way across, but ten seconds was not enough time.
Behind him, he realized that he saw a few faces peering out of shellholes. Some had decided it was better to just seek cover than to try and outrun the shelling.
"Five seconds. Onnu-21 is running out of time."
Panic made him duck into the bunker. The door closed after him just two seconds after he cleared it.
Then he felt tremors in the earth as artillery shells began to hit outside.
He went deeper; this was only the spiral steps that led into the bunker proper.
The spiral steps were tight, each one covered in mud from all the boots that had trekked over them before. At the bottom, the stairs opened into a wide, if low-ceilinged room.
Every part of it felt grungy; there was water trickling down the walls in places, fungus seemed to cling to the corners, and mud had been tracked everywhere.
The other conscripts were all here, milling in two groups that had wildly different moods.
On one side, they were huddled in fear, pressed together, eyes downcast. But the other group was cheering, laughing. They had cans of beer, and seemed in joy.
"Last one," an officer said. He eyed the mud on Lukis.
"I didn't think he'd get out of that hole," one of the officers said about him without even turning to face him. "Glad he did, he's got good legs."
"Just cowardice," another officer said, sneering. "He'll get his in one of the later tests."
One of the medics came to him. He was a big man, made bigger by implants that gave him another ten centimeters of height. He seemed towering.
"He made it, his future will take care of itself," the Medic said. He reached up, grabbing Lukis by the head. Lukis wanted to fight, but he had already learned it was a very bad idea, and the Medics had enhancements in their arms that let them hold on impossibly hard.
The man jabbed a needle into his neck. "Take your shock block and have a drink. Might as well enjoy it while you can."
The injection felt cold, then suddenly very warm. Then his fear melted away, replaced by euphoria.
Or . . . he didn't know; it felt like the elation of surviving. But now there was no fear or panic or anything over it, letting it dominate his feelings.
He'd survived!
Another officer issued him his beer. The man smiled, but did not seem happy.
The other conscripts, free of their fear beckoned him over. The Medics went through and dosed them all, and soon they were all enjoying the fruits of victory.
Giving no thought to those who hadn't made it, Lukis thought. But he could not hold onto that thought; his happiness, or the drugs, seemed to keep him from focusing on grim thoughts.
After the first beer they only had Barracks Grog, the mild alcoholic and protein-rich drink that everyone loved to hate. It did the job, though, and the sense of victory and joy became overwhelming. They sang songs, the old songs of their homes, but always someone started in with one of the barracks songs, and that overrode it. But they were fun, easy songs.
"Gloria Aeternus!" they cried, arm in arm and laughing. Most of the officers had left, but the few left seemed pleased.
Until a whistle went off in their ears again.
For a horrifying moment, Lukis thought that now the next test had started.
But instead, a ranking officer came in. He walked stiffly, his clean and perfect uniform horrifyingly out of place in the filthy bunker.
"Congratulations to you who have survived your first Field Run. This time you had a minute and a half. Next time you will have one minute. By the time you're done, you'll be crossing the field in thirty seconds." He paused, his eyes going over them. "The next run will be in ten minutes. You have only ten days to improve. We are expecting you to rise to the challenge."