LABOUR FOR THE EMPEROR AND THE CELESTIAL COURT
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THWACK.
Franceline stared down at the catechism, which she had finally finished memorizing. What a strange little book indeed. It had been mass produced and distributed in all the fighting corners of the Empire as a war manual for the average soldier, bearing the seal of the I.S.P.N. 's approval no less - something extremely rare for physical media. Alas, she reasoned that it must've been for lower class recruits which didn't have holonet access. For the amount of people that the Empire had mobilized, one could reason that many other editions were in circulation, even in video or audio format. Yes, that seemed quite right to her, unlike the act of sacrilege which she had just committed by tossing the book carelessly against the surface of a crate after she was finally done with its teachings.
And yes, quite strange it was - trying to combine tactics, strategy and logic in a form palatable enough for the average grunt to understand, while also acting as a trojan horse for Imperial ideals and dogma. It didn't feel right to her. Entire chapters dedicated to conserving firepower being brusquely interrupted with quotes and poems about unseen powers belonging to unknown mystics. She loved the Emperor of course, but 2+2 never exactly equated to the supreme triumph of the will - something which the book was trying to prove, in a sense through its confidence regarding its own writing. Nay, the author or the committee of authors responsible weren't trying to prove anything - they were already convinced in their hearts and souls about the matter, and the ink on the paper was merely a reflection thereof. Artillery and thuribles, coexisting together. What nonsense.
She shook her head, and returned to scanning the cargo room with her eyes as if she was on her shift. Not for anything particular, no. A gaze insidiously ineffable it was, vacant of intent and unintelligible of feeling. It was a moment dedicated to the action itself, and the stimuli it personally gave back to her. A feeling of accomplishment, and establishing order in a place where she could directly see the results of her labour. Yes, not like the factories where her children upon completion were always packaged and sent away, but on a ship, on its way to war. Stacked shelves with ammunition, medical equipment, uniforms, armour. Expertly packed and padded crates of ordnance, and even larger ones dedicated to vehicle transport of engines just waiting to be turned on officially for the first time. How exciting, and tangible too! Unlike fabled space wizard magic, which always seemed to be in high supply and low demand in her life.
Ammunition, medical equipment, uniforms, discarded Imperial Engineer uniform left on the floor stuffed in one of the room's corners, armou- WHAT?
Her neck arched forward in disbelief as she rubbed her eyes. What was that thing doing there? In my cargo hold, on my ship, headed to WAR? She lunged over the crate upon whose surface she had dumped the booklet, and ran over to the poke at the interloper to her vision of perfect order. Unbridled anger started building up inside her as she reached to grab it with her hands. Pitch black, nominally distributed to Engineers. A 1000ish year-old design, "authentic" to the Imperial Engineer corps, without question. More specifically, this one belonged to ensigns, of which none were supposed to be aboard. Its chemical smell was the second hint she needed to solve the mystery. It was brand new, being shipped to the front for the war. She looked up. Aha, eureka. One of the crates hadn't been fastened appropriately, and the random eldritch turbulence of the cosmos had managed to shake it enough so that its contents had started spilling outside of their container. A quick fix, but first she'd have to fold the uniform.
She got right to it, using another crate's flat surface to her advantage. But when she was just about done, she saw her head's reflection above the folded coat's torso, which brought her pause.
During pre-Imperial times, before even the First Empire, traditional Balmorran wear for army engineers was not black. Black was a colour dedicated to another type of soldier entirely, whose name she had forgotten a few years ago during her studies. It was most improper to reminisce about planetary lore, downright seditious, but the lingering potency of the memory seemed to be stronger for her than Imperial taboos. At least for a moment. Her grandmother used to have some fine ceramics with men wearing black uniforms doing weird things like charging into battle and fighting without a care in the world, but their identity evaded her usual panoptic memory regardless of her efforts. Oh well.
Everyone upstairs was supposed to be in cryo-sleep at this time and she had always wondered how being in the military felt. For quite a few years now she had always been part of its tail, outside the rank and file - if not below them. The independence was greatly appreciated, but it came with a stringing loneliness most of her fellow citizens didn't have to feel. And what's more is that it had been self-imposed, a means to assist the Empire in what she felt to be the most efficient way possible, her way. Why was it then, that this unoccupied piece of kit was so beautiful and alluring? Seamless seams, thick but not overbearing fabrics and sharp corners dominated the cut, just like every other type of Imperial uniform. A true tailoring marvel, whose design's timelessness was hitherto proven in perpetuity by virtue of its own century-long longevity. A masterpiece.
Her limbs, usually numb because of her illness, tingled with excitement at the prospect of putting it on. Playing soldier was strictly forbidden as it constituted not only stolen valour, but potentially identity theft and impersonation. But she was alone, she believed. And it would hurt no one. In fact, it could prove to be a net positive for the Empire, should it convince her to enlist.
The circular logic of the damned book which she had dismissed earlier turned out to be awfully handy for internalizing excuses, and she employed what she learned graciously to convince herself that what she was about to do was alright. The turbulence, the imminent bloodshed. Seeing that wonderful thing made it all feel … connected, that was the word her imaginary lips were looking for.
As she put it on, it on felt like succumbing to the hooks of a path predestined for her, designed for her. And it was a superstition so foreign that it only served to heighten her excitement. No more logic, no more calculations, just feelings. Feelings which she had been taught from an early age to dismiss, and feelings which were due to be fanned further in a few days from now, when she'd enter the slaughter proper.
Franceline was by no means an extraordinary-looking woman. The nutritional value of an Imperial labourer's diet, her rough upbringing and her illness had guaranteed that she was destined to appear unremarkably average. But for once in her life, inside that black Imperial uniform whose tailored curves and pleated embellishments so expertly clung onto her body, she felt whole.
And safe.
Cushioned from critical thinking and her usual anxieties, untouchable by worries about her planet, and finally, and long last, serene.
This was nice. Her face was nice too, with its vacant smile. She liked the way it looked, reflected by the chrome surface of a nearby wall. Her expression and gaze were no longer unbiased as before. Now her eyes were hungry, and they liked what they were seeing. They were proud of the sight. All that pent up energy building within her, which at one point had been anger, demanded an escape. And going by instinct and instinct alone, the contractor's arm rose towards her forehead to perform the only gesture which she knew was appropriate for such moments of raw emotion.
A salute.
The tips of her gloved fingers grazed the side of her head, and through gritted teeth she candidly raised a question to herself:
"What are you?"
Silence. No one was going to reply for her in there, and only her own stifled chortle slightly threatened to pierce its veil.
Enough questions, she thought. No more this month, she demanded.
This was total war, not the nuances of allocating resources. The circumstances had changed. Now was the time for bullets.
