It was past midnight when we arrived. For days, the convoy of captured trucks had carried us deeper into the mountains, bouncing their way through rutted jungle tracks. You couldn't see much - the Staaters had tied the canvas tightly over the truck bed, and aside from an occasional glimpse through the wooden slats of the floor, we were blind to the outside world. On the first night, Ezra told us what he'd seen, of the long columns of other prisoners being marched down the road, those unfortunate enough to not get assigned to one of the trucks, or of Staater soldiers up to their waists in the mud, trying to haul out heavy equipment that had become stuck. The soldier assigned to drive us didn't seem to understand the controls and had one of us ride up front to show him. But when he'd eventually figured out how to handle it on his own, Ezra had been sent back with the rest of us.
The guards soon had us out of the trucks and formed into a rough line by the side of the road. We were a pathetic looking lot - the shattered remnants of a once-proud army. Sunken faces, tattered and rotting bits of cloth that had once passed for uniforms, scraps of tire and canvas in the place of leather boots that had long ago fallen to bits. We just stood there, waiting, the night air punctuated by violent fits of hacking coughs. Eventually a pale faced Staater officer appeared, coming up a narrow path, and motioned to the guards to follow him. The column slowly worked away from the road, up the rough trail. I stumbled several times in the dark, but after fifteen minutes or so we finally broke out of the trees and scrub, and into a clearing, lit by lanterns. On the far side, a row of bamboo tables was set up, a soldier behind each. "All of you, into rows!" yelled the officer, and we quickly formed a sloppy row in front of the tables, sitting there, waiting until the man in front of us had finished. Eventually it was my turn and I made my way forward. A thin man sat behind the table, pen in hand, the light from the flickering kerosene lanterns reflecting in his spectacles. "You will give me your name, rank, unit, planet of origin, and trade!" I automatically gave him the information without even thinking, and was then marched off to the side, to wait with the others who had already gone through.
The sun had risen by the time they were done recording us. Some of the men tried to catch whatever bits of fitful sleep they could - we were all exhausted, it must have been weeks since we'd gotten a decent amount of sleep. I stayed up, listening to an endless barrage of "Name, rank!" Most of us were from B-Company, Ninety-Eighth Provisional - there were a few scattered voices listing other units, even a few 'moro boys, Emperor knows where they came from. The pale faced officer from before had returned, and we were off again, this time up a gravel road.
The first signs we saw of the camp were the watchtowers - spindly, wooden legged tripods rising out of the short scrub, with soldiers in mustard-uniforms perched on top with auto-guns. A wide band of the forest had been cut back around the fence marking the edge of the camp. The column was directed in, the gates shut behind us.
The camp had no official name, but we gradually took to calling it Camp Sunshine, a bitter reminder of the cloudy skies that always seemed to be overhead. The compound was new, only a few weeks old, or so we would learn from the older prisoners. Lines of bamboo posts with barbed wire strung between kept all the different sections of the camp isolated. There were no real buildings - bamboo huts with thatched roofs made up the only shelters I could see - but the long barrack huts still looked a damn sight finer than the miserable dugouts along the Muscon River where we'd been dug in the past month. The guards marched us through what they called processing. We were stripped, inspected by medics, sent through a series of showers and anti-louse and mite sprays, before finally emerging on the other side, skin raw. Finally, we were divided up and assigned to huts, about forty-men each.
I think it struck most of us for the first time in the morning. I know it struck me, as I was stretched out on the sleeping mat. I am a prisoner. We were all prisoners. The commissars had told us what happened to those who yielded to the enemy. Listed as killed in action to our family, we would effectively vanish from the rolls of the Guard. Not that it would matter - the xenos and traitors wouldn't take prisoners, no matter what their cards and leaflets said. It was just a trap, a trick by the weak to try and avoid having to fight those so much stronger than they. I somewhat guiltily felt the stiff safe-conduct pass in my pocket. The officers had become very angry when troops had started to pick them up after artillery barrages, and tried to stop us, beating a few of the men as an example to the others. They didn't have much success in our company though. They were so small, and easy to hide. On the back there was a beautifully engraved icon of the Emperor, and none of the men wanted to let go of them. I had only picked it up because of the icon - I think most of the men did for the same reason.
It was quiet, that first proper day in the camp. People silently organizing what few things they had left. Lying down, leaning against the centerposts of the hut, looking out across the camp, waiting. Waiting for something to happen. We were alive - why? When the bombs-with-eyes had been hitting all of our camouflaged positions, as the order went up to retreat and a ragged line of troops and trucks commandeered by terrified officers began to fall back, away from the river, we hadn't been thinking of that. When the enemy troops had broken through our trench-lines with ease, and soldiers had instinctively begun tossing down their rifles, waving the safe-passage cards over their heads like madmen, crying out at the approaching tanks, floating-tanks that were moving faster than anything so large had a right to, we hadn't thought of that. But now, for the first time, we did. We'd heard the stories the commissars made weekly. Gruesome things, of men who had fallen into the hands of staaters, and been slowly hacked to pieces, buried alive, or eaten. But instead, they had taken us to a camp, a permanent camp. There, they had cleaned us, fed us, given us fresh clothes, even if they were only simple khaki smocks and sandals. The wounded had been taken to the camp infirmary. This wasn't anything like we had expected.
"Do you think a righteous cause will be victorious in the end?"
We were taken off guard by the question. A slender man calling himself Phuong had come to our hut on the third day. He didn't have a uniform, and spoke without the heavy accent that most of the Staater troops had. He'd told us that we were his charges for so long as we were in this camp. He was there to watch us, handle any problems, and to educate us. The first questions had been simple and short - what planet were we from, how had the officers treated us. But this?
There was a long pause. I didn't know what to make of it, and it seemed I was not the only one. Finally, Aniba spoke up in a timid voice. "I believe that justice will persevere in the end... even if we might not see it in the world around us." His eyes darted around the group, looking for any glint of disapproval.
"Of course a righteous cause will be victorious!" Phuong exclaimed. "True victory comes only to the righteous! This is why The Emperor was successful at driving back Man's enemies! That is why his sons led The Great Liberation! And that is why we will be victorious as well."
A murmur went up from among us. He wears the emblem of the traitors and yet he praises the Emperor? Phuong simply smiled, and with one hand drew forth an embossed icon from his breast-pocket. It was a solid brass plate, and seemed to glow in spite of the lack of sunlight. The edges had the heavy wear that comes from a lifetime of use.
"My father's," he stated. "He was granted it after saving the life of an officer in his Guard regiment. I've kept it with me ever since he died. I myself am a follower of The Faith, and believe in Him. I am not alone - each and every Free-State soldier around you is a devout and honorable man. Your leaders have been telling you things, things that are not true."
With that, he seemed to be done for the day, and hoisted himself to his feet to leave.
A light voice spoke up, questioning. "But, 'if, you 'follow the Emperor, why w'uld you be workin' for the Staaters?"
Phuong seemed amused by that and smiled. "Because I'm loyal to The Emperor." he said. And with that, he turned and walked out of the hut, leaving us to ponder what he had said as the day waned.
"Your leaders have been lying. They have lied to you, mislead you, sent you here to die, while back home they continue to deceive your families. The militarist-clique grows fat off the spoils of this never-ending war, while it is the People alone who suffer." I wasn't sure how many weeks had gone by at this point. The days had just seemed to merge together. Sometimes we would be put to work on some part of the camp, clearing brush or hauling up walls for new barrack-huts - new prisoners were still coming in - others, we would have nothing to do but lie down in sprawled heaps in the hut, trying desperately to gain some refuge from the heat that had begun to creep into the days. But there was one constant, and that was Phuong's talks. By now, we'd come to look forward to them, and even the most hesitant among us had become willing to speak up and ask questions. "So why do they fight this war? On several occasions The Emperor has stated his desire for peace. Who would go against his great wisdom? The Carrion-Lords of Terra, and they alone!" He slammed his right hand into his left palm for emphasis. Phuong was normally a very calm man. But whenever he spoke of Terra, and those he said sat there, a sharp look came into his eyes.
"When his sons were no longer there to stand with him, the Lords of Terra began to work against him. Their hearts blackened by greed, they sought to conspire against him, and usurp his rightful duties. Now, The Emperor is a prisoner in his own palace, once loyal guards now serving only to isolate him from his true servants. The militarist-clique who falsely lead the People in his name care not for his most wise decisions, but instead seek nothing but their own personal gain! They have sent out entire generations of brave men to die. And having failed, they selfishly refused to conduct themselves with honor and do the right thing, instead calling on the mourning families of Man for yet more sons to be sacrificed." There was an energy now, a tension in the air around us. He continued, voice softening. "But there are those who have seen past this trickery, ones who are still loyal. We raise the golden banner of the Terran Free-State over our heads. Your leaders have told you many things about us. They say that we are traitors. If to fight for The Emperor is to be a traitor, then we hold that label proudly. They say that we work with xenos. Did not he himself, in his wisdom, say at Patargius that there are some beings among the Cosmos with whom Man could hope to co-operate with? And in his Great Crusade of Liberation, were there not those we call alien who were granted sanctuary and protection by his soldiers? Who are the Lords to go against his enlightened policies? During our struggle, we have found beings that see and understand the wisdom of His grand and benevolent rule. Though Xeno, even they recognized the evil being wrought upon his children. Being great in wisdom and humility, they wept upon learning of the bondage he has been placed in by the High Lords. They came to us, the loyal and honorable servants of The Emperor, and pledged - pledged their mills and foundries, their fleets, their blood. They fight with us, fight to see the Carrion-Lords torn down, and him - to have him resume his rightful place. His wise and benevolent rule will unify the Galaxy in harmony."
As I lay down that night on my sleeping mat, thoughts flitted through my head. Half-remembered devotionals that Mother had read to me and my sisters - flashes of Speaker Anders making his rounds through the neighborhood, collecting up the children, taking us to the old willow on Memorial Hill. Sitting us down, telling us His words. What individual duty meant, the meaning of honor to our Brothers.
Then there were less pleasant memories. Shrieking officers, raging up and down a line of newly impressed conscripts with their bamboo-canes. Bellowing, telling us of the terrible things that happen to those who would surrender, the shame we would bring on our ancestors. My mouth twitched involuntarily as I thought about the deep scar left on my cheek by an angered cadet. They'd sounded like they'd been telling the truth.
But now I wasn't so sure. And if they hadn't been right about that, what about other things?
Phuong had talked a lot about surrendering with honor to us in our early days here. He'd managed to talk Jokin down when it looked like he was getting set to cut his own throat - after that, he seemed very concerned about us, about what we might try to do.
"They will not let a man who has, by no fault of his own, fallen into the hands of the enemy, be repatriated. Why? Are they so fearful of what they would tell?"
The question of why no soldiers had ever been repatriated had never crossed my mind, or anybody elses' back... before. It was laughable - no prisoners would live long enough for such a thing to happen, even if the staaters had been willing to prostrate themselves in such a way. But now we all knew better. Phuong said that the Free-State had tried to return prisoners who desired to go home - all they asked was that all such men pledged to never again take up arms against them and to simply return to their families in peace. The Lords refused.
Why? Vulkan, as we had been reminded, was taken prisoner by the Sidians, and had been ransomed. He was allowed to return with honor. Of course, the Sidians, as it turned out, were honorable men, pure of heart, who would later pledge themselves to the Emperor. But weren't the Staaters honorable too?
More weeks passed, more talks came and went. We'd managed to regain most of our weight by now, and our comrades had returned from the infirmary to stay with us. But then, we were told to assemble - everyone from our camp sub-section was to come to the parade ground. The Camp Commander was going to make an announcement. It took a while for all three-hundred or so of us to get all lined up, and then we waited for the Commander. There were already several people on an elevated platform before us. Phuong was there, as well as some other men I took to be the handlers of the other huts in our sub-section. One figure drew murmurs - it was an alien. Dressed in long mustard-colored robes, it had a flat, angular face, with greyish-blue skin and red eyes. It stood off to one side, swaying in the breeze.
The Commander finally arrived, and marched up the steps onto the platform. He was a wiry man, with a fringe of white hair around the temple, probably in his sixties. He turned towards us, and started to speak.
"You are men of honor and men of duty.
You have been told that you have an obligation to your family, to your fellow Man, to The Emperor. That this obligation will be long and hard, but you must carry onward. There are many paths that men take to avoid their duty - they may try to run, to seek refuge with bribes of gold or silver. Or they turn to the gun, hoping to find a sanctuary in death. But they will not find any.
You now have a choice. Your families need you, your fellow Man needs you, The Emperor needs you. You can stay here - slowly wasting away from apathy and sloth. Or perhaps you might seek another way. Throwing yourself futilely at the electrified fences, or charging a guard with a piece of bamboo, telling yourself that this is your duty.
But a true soldier of The Emperor knows not to take the easy way out. You must fulfill your duty, you can fulfill it. You can, by doing the right thing, instead of the easy one. Challenge the Lords of Terra, fight them, survive. Rebuild a better nation."
He paused for a moment, glasses shimmering in the light from the sun that had, at long last, decided to grace us with its presence.
"It will be a long, and difficult task. But victory will come to the righteous."
He made a small gesture with his hand, and a line of Free-State soldiers hurried out in front of him, carrying long bamboo racks. They set them down on the ground, in front of the camp platform, then lined up behind them. There were rifles on the racks. Long, gleaming, unmistakable.
"Any man who chooses to fight for the Emperor, may. Come forth and serve."
I stepped forward.
I was not the only one.
Authors Note: I would like to thank SirLagginton of the Spacebattles forums who took the time to proofread this and who did an excellent job helping me go over early drafts.