The crushing three gees finally relented, lightening to almost nothing as our acceleration ceased and the brick was caught by the automated guides on the system node. The sudden weightlessness was a shock to the system after hours of constant pressure. In the darkness of the sealed compartment, the sound of retching filled the air as several of the orcs, their inner ears and stomachs tuned to high gravity, whined in protest and lost what little was in them.
Charming. A new olfactory layer to this journey. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to focus on the mechanics of the ship around me, the hum of the capture fields, anything but the reality of my situation. There were no windows, no viewports or monitors, just the oppressive metal walls and the shared despair of two hundred souls who had no idea what was waiting for us on the other side of that door.
Eventually, with a hiss of equalizing pressure, the doors were opened. Harsh, white light flooded in, making us all blink. The exits were flanked not by mere petty officers with sidearms, but by soldiers dressed in full, intimidating space armor, their visors down and reflecting the bleak interior of our prison. They held plasma weaponry, the barrels glowing with a faint, menacing blue light. These weren’t just guards; they were a statement. And not one of them identified to my senses as less than full bronze rank. Attacking them wouldn’t be a fight; it would be immediate suicide. The Fleet had been very smart at this end of the line.
We were hustled out, our manacles clinking, and lined up again on the deck of a vast hangar bay. The drill was the same: tallest at the rear and shortest in front. This meant I was right out in front, standing next to the few remaining dwarves who hadn’t been offered a pardon yet, with the elves and the hulking orcs forming the rear. At three foot six, I was entering a growth spurt for my age, which was probably why they had assumed I was a young adult instead of a child. We were split into four lines with brutal, impersonal efficiency.
It wasn’t like we were actually joining the fleet. The fantasy of ‘volunteering’ was gone, stripped away by the armored figures and the grim reality of our surroundings. We were kidnapped muscle, raw material to be thrown into the forge of war against the Chaos Lords directly. The real fleet was made entirely of those that had come out of that forge hardened over tin or bronze, veterans who had earned their upgrades. At our average level of only wood rank, even the orc’s innate toughness and heavy-world strength, elven grace and speed, and dwarven durability probably wouldn’t help much if things turned violent. All of us were hungry, stomachs growling audibly, which made sense after eight hours in a capsule, another three hours in a transport brick, and now waiting in line under the gaze of plasma rifles.
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The hangar bay was immense, a cavernous space of echoing noises and cold air that smelled of ozone, lubricant, and sweat. Heavy metal gantries crisscrossed overhead like the skeleton of some great beast. To one side, parked in neat rows, were hulking, armored, and wheeled vehicles that looked like they could drive through a mountain. And everywhere, there were more recruits, over a thousand of them, all shackled, all under the watchful guns of heavily armored troopers. The majority were orcs, their grim faces set in lines of resentment and weary acceptance.
Then he arrived. Another petty officer, but this one was different. He looked like a bigger, older, and significantly meaner version of an orc, though he was clearly a half-orc—just one who had been sculpted by war and system modifications into a parody of orcish toughness. He had a jaw that looked like it could crack rocks and a glare that could stop a heart.
“Okay, you worms!” he yelled, his voice a whip-crack that echoed through the bay and silenced all other noise. “Welcome to Penal Battalion one-three-two! I know most of you aren’t impressed from prisons or penal colonies; the majority of you just tried to run away like cowards when the call came.”
A low, dangerous growl started to build from the orc contingent behind me. It was a sound like grinding stones, full of promised violence.
The Petty Officer didn’t flinch. He took a step forward and glared right back at them, his own presence somehow magnifying to fill the space. It was obvious—not just from his size, but from the aura of sheer lethality that rolled off him—that he could rip them into pieces if they protested, probably all of them by himself.
“Shut up!” he roared, and the growling cut off as if severed with a knife. “You aren’t part of my clan yet, but if you don’t scrot up too badly someday you can be. Your clan isn’t out here, and unless you want to be exiled you WILL obey every command from someone higher leveled than you are, human or orc.” He grinned then, a terrifying sight that showed enlarged lower canines, a deliberate affectation to speak their language. “And if you want to take it up with me personally later, I promise you will get plenty of chances. The sparring rings are always open.”
