The Conscript

“Targets within range,” hissed Mina over the comms.

“Locked and ready,” said Ordan.

Frad wondered how many times he had heard those words. It had become a ritual, a routine so well practised that every step was automatic.

“Confirmed. Let's go.” Frad's whiskers twitched. He scratched the lucky white patch of fur on his head, then he lowered the nose of his fighter towards the sandy brown planet. His team followed in a perfect line, five ships gliding as one.

“Base at 12 degrees.”

“Enemy spotted.”

With a cool mind, Frad glanced at the rough landscape of this remote desert world. A row of jagged mountains rose like teeth under the violet sky, threatening yet somehow familiar.

“Releasing K bombs,” said Argalan, his voice faint.

The planet's surface shook loudly and black clouds burst beneath them. Frad's ship sailed over the destruction and he blasted onwards.

Ahead a small village of metal domes lay untouched. He saw a few figures standing on a roof wielding a small cannon. They shot wildly, spraying streaks of metal shards into the sky. Frad targeted the settlement and fired a mini missile.

As he flew overhead he peered at the rebels through a long-range scope before they were destroyed. Something about their appearance disquietened him.

He gasped for a moment. They were Tharverns. He had killed hundreds of them before but he had never seen ones who looked so much like him. They even shared the unusual black and white markings on his head that he thought made him unique. Was this where I was taken from? he wondered.

His breath stopped. His vision faded and his mind slipped into unwanted thoughts. The ship flew aimlessly, with only his autopilot preventing a crash. A memory came to him from his youth, from before he began his training with the Dark Fleet.

He recalled a village like the one he had seen, with the same sky and jagged mountains in the distance. He smelled a warm oaty odour, a welcoming soup. A tall Tharvern reached down to him. My parents? I shouldn't be able to remember this, he thought.

“Frad, are you hit?” yelled Mina.

“No,” he gasped. Ashamed, he tried to think of an excuse for his loss of control. “I had a weapons malfunction. Got a bit of a fright.” He took a deep breath and tried to correct his course. “I'll fly up and around and rejoin the formation. Cover for me.”

“Yes, Captain,” came the reply.

_____________________


Back at their base, the five crewmates sat in the mess hall.

“To another success!” said Bracken, raising his glass. “The glorious legend of the Dark Fleet continues.”

“To the Fleet!” replied Ordan. “That was a near perfect run. It's a shame about your ship's problems, Captain.”

“These things happen,” said Frad. “The ship is working again now.”

“Oh?” teased Mina, baring her fangs. “I spoke to an engineer who told me that there was no malfunction recorded in your craft. So what happened, Captain?” She spoke the title with a tone as close to mockery as she dared.

“If you want to know, then I don't mind telling you,” said Frad, choosing his words carefully. “You are my comrades after all. I had a troubling experience. I remembered being on that world.”

“But we haven't been there before,” said Ordan.

“He means from before he was trained,” trembled Argalan. His yellow eyes opened wide and his fur stood on edge. “That was a Tharvern world after all. But I'd suggest you keep quiet about that. You should speak to one of the psychs. They can help you forget again.”

“It doesn't matter if you came from that world,” said Ordan. “We're your family now.”

Mina said nothing but grinned. “Ordan's right,” she said.

Frad looked at the others - Ordan, with his small tall nose and his peculiar body that was hairless apart from the top of his head; Mina's sharp teeth and fearsome claws; Argalan's fuzzy smile and Bracken's half-cyborg body.

They were a mixed bunch, he thought, but they had been friends for years. Ordan was right - squadron 74 of the Dark Fleet was the only life he had ever known.

“Here's to us, fighters of the 74th,” Frad said, and they raised their glasses of blue fire. Keen to change the subject, he asked, “Who's going to the Verana pleasure moon next week? There's a transport ship and we all have leave.”

“I am,” said Argalan, his eyes lighting up. “I'm going to buy the largest case of marcatine I can find and smoke it until I drop.”

“For me,” said Ordan, “It has to be the Palace of Joy.”

“You filthy ape,” grinned Mina. “I hear they have pleasure robots for every species now.”

“So will you be going there, Mina?” teased Ordan.

“You'll never catch me in there,” she replied. “But I shall be going to Verana. I've heard they have a restaurant that serves roast Barovian ape meat. It's the closest I'll ever get to eating any of you.”

“Barbaric!” Argalan snorted.

“I wasn't sure about going,” murmured Bracken. “What's the point in a pleasure moon when you don't feel pleasure any more.” He waved his metallic arms as if to demonstrate. “But I'll be with Argalan smoking the finest marcatine this side of the galaxy. That still works for me.”

Argalan turned to Frad. “What about you? What will you do?”

Frad's mind was elsewhere, but he nodded. “It's been a long time since I've been to the Palace of Joy, so I think I'll go there as well. We can go together – me, Ordan and Mina - unless she changes her mind again.” They all laughed.

_____________________


Frad returned to his quarters early that evening, leaving the others to continue their celebration. He felt exhausted and needed to rest.

He was awoken without warning by hands grappling his shoulders. It was early in the morning. A group of guards dragged him from his quarters to see the Commander. They did not speak as they marched him through the corridors of the base. He didn't need to ask why he had been summoned.

In the Commander's hall, the large green-skinned amphibian sat on a throne on a marble floor surrounded by screens. Two masked guards stood by the door and turned to Frad as he was brought in.

His captors positioned him opposite the Commander then filed out of the room. Frad waited in silence.

Frad had met the Commander occasionally as a squadron captain, but they had never been on friendly terms.

“Captain Frad,” croaked the Commander, finally looking up from his screen and standing up. His enormous mouth gaped wide as he spoke to reveal a vast red maw. His bulky frame towered over the smaller Tharvern.

“Commander,” Frad replied, hardly daring to meet his eye.

“I am told that you had an unexpected memory during the attack yesterday. Tell me about it.”

"How would you know that?" trembled Frad.

"Somebody close to you told me." The Commander grinned widely. "Tell me."

Frad stuttered as he described what happened, trying as much as he could to sound like he had a small mishap. When he had finished, the Commander looked deep in thought.

“I can see that would be a disturbing experience. It is certainly possible that you were taken from that world, but even if we had such records available I would not be able to tell you.

“The Dark Fleet is a noble organisation, with centuries of legend behind us. People throughout the galaxy fear us, and with good reason. We are excellent killers. Tell me, do you ever think about the people you are asked to kill?”

Frad replied honestly. “No. We are trained not to think about them. Yesterday was the first time it happened, and it felt awful.”

“I see. And do you think this experience will affect your future work?”

“I hope the psychs will be able to help me.”

“They do marvellous work, don't they. Every now and then one of our crew suffers a lapse such as you have. It is nothing to be ashamed of. But it raises a question. What will you do if we cannot fix you? What happens if you cannot continue?”

“I don't know. I have known no other life.”

“You have a fantastic life,” the Commander smiled warmly. “We look after you like our own children. You have comfortable quarters and good food, and are you not well rewarded for your work? You deserve that.

“And when your working days are done, you can look forward to a pleasant retirement. Do you often think about retirement?”

“Not really,” said Frad. “I had thought it would be a long way away.”

“Perhaps.” The Commander's smile turned sour in an instant. “I'll be honest, Captain. These cases rarely end well. Once the damage is done, the psychs can almost never restore you to a true warrior's mindset.”

“Oh,” Frad was lost for words.

“It is likely that you are heading for an early retirement. But do not worry, all will be well, and we shall look after you. Now return to your quarters,” said the Commander, summoning a weak smile. “We will speak again soon.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

Frad turned to leave the room, but as he approached the door a doubt came into his mind. He paused and half-turned back to the Commander, and he spotted him signalling to the door guards, who in turn reached for their guns. It was clear they meant to kill him.

Frad's combat instincts took hold, and he grabbed the arm of the nearest guard and pulled him downwards, falling to his knees. The guard tumbled over him, while the other drew his weapon and shot.

From underneath the first guard, Frad grabbed the gun from his hand and shot into his body as it lay above him. Then he shoved him to one side and shot the second guard. Before he fell, he managed to hit Frad in the leg. His leg stung - the metal pellet stuck deep in his flesh.

Frad limped to his feet and pointed the gun at the Commander.

“Is this what you call retirement?” raged Frad.

“Captain Frad, you must understand,” the Commander's face still held a grin but his big eyes goggled in fear.

“No,” barked Frad. “No more. The Dark Fleet is a murderous organisation of brainwashed killers. Perhaps once it had a noble cause, but that has long gone. How many millions of innocents have we killed for money? We are nothing but greedy mercenaries. It ends now.”

He shot the Commander in his fat throat and he fell, sputtering blood all over the white floor.

Frad heard the sound of footsteps outside approaching the closed door. It would only be a matter of seconds before the guards entered.

He could wait until they broke in, and then they would surely kill him.

Instead, he decided on a bold course of action. He took the bloody helmet of the dying Commander and placed it on his own head. Then he pressed a button to open the door and confidently faced the confused guards awaiting outside, his gun in his hand at his side.

“Welcome,” he said, with a broad grin. “I have new orders for you.”