22:00, 05.06.2047 – Museumsquartier
The National People's Militia consists of all men and women who have reached the age of twenty and are no older than fifty-five. It serves as an inexhaustible pool of soldiers upon which the Party may draw at any time. In an emergency, the state was thus capable of fielding an army of up to four thousand troops—ready to strike down the enemy.
To maintain combat readiness, training exercises are conducted every six months. In the event of a partial mobilization, parents with young children and couples expecting a child are generally exempt, in order to minimize the human suffering caused by deployment to war.
In front of the garrison, activity followed a regulated routine. The garrison had space for a single company—thirty soldiers. Like all buildings, it had been hastily assembled from wood, tarps, and corrugated metal. Its task was to support local security forces in defending against mutants and civil unrest. Near the platform, a large board displayed the numbers of those who had been selected.
Outside, security personnel unloaded crates of ammunition, weapons, and uniforms from the interior of the fortress onto the parade ground. One of them carefully filled out a checklist. The bamboo crates were meticulously separated from existing stock and recorded in the logistics inventory.
Number by number was written onto the board in white chalk—behind each one a human being, a life. David hoped his number would not appear. Not because he wished to evade his duty to defend the motherland—after all, it was the task of every individual to sacrifice themselves for the common good—but for his mother and little Tanja, he hoped he would not have to go.
His father and older brother had already fallen in combat. His father might still be alive if his mother had reported her pregnancy to the authorities one month earlier. The conscription office had intended to demobilize him—but he died before that could happen, killed in hand-to-hand combat in the Blood Trench.
To this day, David blamed his mother for his death. Of course, he knew no one was truly at fault, and yet… it gnawed at him to know there might have been another way.
Gabriel pulled him back into reality, out of the swamp of doubt and what-ifs. And then they saw it: both numbers had been drawn. Both had been selected by lottery to leave their families and join the armed forces. A cold shiver ran down David's spine at the thought of how he would tell his mother.
In total, thirty soldiers—men and women—were chosen to take up armed service. A non-commissioned officer marched onto the parade ground.
"Comrades, I demand your absolute attention!"
The crowd fell silent instantly. David stared at the short man with tension and fear. His bearded face was marked by deep, horrific scars; an eyepatch covered his right eye—likely the result of a fragmentation grenade. On his swollen chest he wore the Wounded Badge. His gray, knee-length field coat was frayed at the edges; a pistol holster hung from his belt.
How strange it was—people ready to die for ribbons and flags. To be mutilated, to kill, for gleaming metal medals. David caught himself thinking this. These were sacrifices for the Union—yes, for all of humanity, which seemed to have survived Armageddon only here, in Vienna.
With an authoritarian roar, the highly decorated commander shouted:
"All those not selected are to leave this area immediately! The chosen will form six groups of five—straight lines!"
The crowd obeyed without hesitation. The square emptied quickly, leaving only the conscripts standing in perfect formation.
"So. I am Non-Commissioned Officer Oberhauser, commander of this company," the soldier announced. His posture was like stone—unyielding, resolute, heavy.
"By this conscription, you are now part of the People's Army—the armed arm of our council-based power."
His single eye swept across the assembled recruits like that of a cyclops David remembered from schoolbooks.
"We are being transferred to the garrison of Agricultural Station Rosa Luxemburg to refresh your training. There we will join the two other companies of the Twenty-Third People's Regiment."
His voice fell silent for a moment—an eternity for those assembled.
"You are to report back here no later than 23:45. Any delay will be considered desertion and punished accordingly. Dismissed!"
The non-commissioned officer raised his left fist."For our Consul and the Party!"
The response echoed back—multi-voiced, mechanical, almost lifeless:
"To the Consul's honor!"
Each person would now have to face what was likely the hardest conversation of their life—one that brought more questions than comfort. Questions no one dared to ask. Despair searched for every form, every crack, to carve itself into the hearts of those left behind.
David and Gabriel parted without words. Gabriel grinned—mocking, defiant, almost childlike. As if to say: We will be heroes. We will fulfill our duty to the Revolution.
David did not return the smile.
In this world scarred by radiation, scarcity, and hunger, war was no longer an exception—it was the condition of the world itself.
What was he supposed to think? He only wanted to fulfill his duty, like everyone else. Protect his fellow citizens. Defend his home.
But how could he do this to his mother? How could she endure losing him as well—after his brother, after his father? He had no intention of dying. No one ever did. And yet everyone knew: no one returns from war unchanged. Perhaps, he thought, no one would want him afterward.
He slapped himself lightly across the cheek. Useless. It is what it is.
Slowly, he crossed the marketplace, past the latrines, into the residential districts—where barrack pressed against barrack.
Officially, they were called Collective-Solidarity Housing Units. Standardized, optimized, rationalized: minimal material and labor input with maximal space efficiency and optimal satisfaction of basic needs. During the time of the Revolution, their walls had been adorned with elaborate murals—scenes of heroism, solidarity, and humanity. Propaganda, art, and culture went hand in hand then, as they still did today. They were the aesthetic face of a new world, born from the utopian vision of total equality. But that dream had long since shattered against reality.
The once-brilliant frescoes had faded into pale shadows, covered in soot and dust. Over them now clung posters of the Liberated Youth, a subgroup of the Collective Youth, promising unity, collective thinking, and free self-development.
It seemed they were organizing a solidarity event—collecting surplus goods to support the "production battle of our workers' power."
David himself had once been part of a youth collective. Some called them dreamers, others pragmatists. Between realists and utopians, a quiet struggle had raged—whether the world should be changed or merely managed better. For the government, they were a model project; for many young people, the last hope that ideals still had a place in this gray world. How tragic that ideals had to shatter against the rock of reality.
A familiar voice tore him from his thoughts.
"Well, David, what are you doing out so late?"
It was Franz. "And thanks again for your vote in the leadership election—I'm shift supervisor again." His colleague noticed David's empty gaze. "You okay?"
David should answer him—no, he had to. But what could he say? Should he tell anyone at all? What if he simply disappeared? Would that be the best way out of this trap? Just go, fulfill his duty—and return. If he returned at all.
"What's wrong? You don't look well. Should I take you to the infirmary?" Franz asked warmly.
"No, it's fine. I just have trouble breathing when I sleep—thought a walk might help."
"That's the soot," Franz replied. "I've got coal-dust lung too… Doctors can't really do much. Our station needs better filters, but those are hard to come by." He coughed heavily, the sound of his lungs fighting mucus unmistakable.
Before the conversation could deepen and turn to David's predicament, he excused himself and continued toward his barrack. His mind was flooded with questions—and no answers. He could no longer run. Before he realized it, he stood before the door behind which his mother and little Tanja waited. Their soft voices reached him, muffled. His hand moved to the doorknob and gripped it tightly.
He only had to turn it. One movement away from those he loved.
But he couldn't. He wouldn't.
He could not bear to see his mother despair again, nor explain to Tanja that he had to leave—away from her, from everyone. Away from his home, his work, from all that mattered to him.
From his leather satchel, he pulled a dirty scrap of paper and an old pencil. In his neatest handwriting, he wrote the farewell he could not deliver in person:
"Dearest Mother,
I'm sorry you have to learn of this this way, but I cannot bear the thought of you and Tanja crying. Today, lots were drawn for military service—I was selected. Tomorrow I will be transferred to Station 'Rosa Luxemburg.' I will write as soon as I can.
P.S.: Buy Tanja something nice with my remaining work-stamps.
Your loving son,David."
The three transit stations—Nexus, the central hub once known as Stephansplatz; Rosa Luxemburg, the granary, a lush agricultural station formerly called Schwedenplatz; and Marxstadt, the largest manufacturing station, once Praterstern—were the industrial centers and birthplaces of the glorious struggle against reactionary elements, the forges in which the steel of techno-socialism had been shaped.
He signed the paper, folded it carefully, and dropped it—along with his remaining work-stamps—into the mailbox. He hoped she would endure it well.
The walk back to the garrison was the same monotonous march as always.
At reception, he checked in and was issued the gray standard uniform—one of countless identical products of the Union. Along with it came a web belt with more pouches than he would ever need, a steel helmet, mess kit, and canteen. The standard weapon of the People's Army was the VSG-3, the Volkssturm Rifle Type 3—a fully automatic rifle made from recycled scrap, like nearly everything in the Union. Finally, he received a bayonet for close combat and a gas mask—leather and reused glass. Its filters protected against poison gas and radioactive particles.
With this equipment, every trace of individuality vanished. At the latest behind the gas mask, a human became part of the gray mass—a nameless link in the collective armed force of the Union.
Flowing, blurred, gray.Torchbearers of the banner, of the ideals of the Revolution.Collective effort for victory.For a new world.
The other recruits received their standardized equipment as well. Thirty men and women, from different age groups and professions—now all part of the council power, hoping to build a better world through their sacrifices.