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.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"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