11:50 – 27.06.2047Taubstummengasse / Marketplace
Engineers fortified the station.
They constructed machine-gun nests and barricades from sandbags and concrete blocks. In the no man's land, barbed wire sprawled like untended roses, and between the steel tangles rose tank traps welded from reinforcing steel.Nothing and no one would break this fortress.The station was completely in the hands of the Union.
On the marketplace, the army—together with the Political Commissariat—established a field hospital for soldiers and residents alike. The bodies were divided into two piles: civilians and military personnel. They lay stacked atop one another like store mannequins, intertwined, grotesque in their stillness.
Right beside them stood a field kitchen supplying food to both the inhabitants and the occupiers.Until the station was officially annexed, it was legally classified as a Union protectorate—under the direct authority of the highest-ranking political commissar. Union martial law and the Agreement of Seibenhirten prohibited any unjustified actions against civilians and prisoners of war. Though there were hardly any of the latter. These crusaders preferred to die rather than be captured by heathens. To die as martyrs and ascend to the Seven Heavens of Sol.
The Union had banned religion—this opiate of the masses that promised salvation in the afterlife instead of improving the present.
David and Gabriel sat together in front of a loudly crackling fire. A kettle hung above it. They had not slept for a single second all night. Of their company, only seven had survived.That the two of them remained physically unharmed bordered on a supernatural miracle.
David stared at the teapot. It was decorated with a pink floral pattern on a white background, yet blackened with soot along its base. Rusty spots clung to it like barnacles, slowly but relentlessly devouring its beauty.
He thought of the comrade from his platoon who had poured him tea a few days earlier. She had not survived the assault. Her body had been pierced by a bayonet—straight through the torso.She had lost too much blood as she lay on the cold tiled floor. Too much.A few hours later she died of shock; the medical staff had run out of blood plasma. Too few reserves. Too many casualties.
The hospital's triage had decided to let her die in order to increase the survival chances of others.A logical and morally defensible decision—but was it the most humane one, to sacrifice those who had made the victory possible in the first place?
Now her lifeless body lay with the others—on the pile.
Her battered, mutilated remains would be used as fertilizer for the agricultural stations. Her equipment would be passed on to the next soldiers—as the cycle of war demanded.
David could not bear to imagine how many others had worn his coat before him, used his weapon, or stood in these boots.
A gentle touch on his shoulder tore him from his thoughts. Hesitant, almost uncertain—it was Gabriel. His eyes were reddened; in his right hand he held a cigarette. They exchanged no words; both were too exhausted. But David understood.
He merely nodded. Gabriel guided the cigarette to David's mouth. The glowing butt rested between his cracked lips. He normally didn't smoke—but after what they had survived, the bitter smoke was a welcome distraction.
He inhaled deeply. His lungs filled; the smoke burned his throat.It felt as if a glowing liquid were flowing through his veins.
Then he exhaled—and with the smoke, his nervous tension faded for a brief moment.
His fragile calm was disturbed only by the bustle around them. Voices, footsteps, the metallic clatter of tools—the attempt of life to reorganize itself. The residents tried to come to terms with their new reality. Hesitantly, they trusted the occupiers, accepted their free rations and the strange work-stamps. Yet as always, there were those who wanted nothing to do with it.
They prayed in secret—palms pressed to their foreheads, fingers spread wide like sunrays. The Greeting of Sol was now forbidden.But what did David care? He was a soldier. He had orders to follow. Even if he didn't always agree with them. For now, they were allowed to catch their breath and relax—just a little.
At least until the siren sounded.
"Esteemed residents of the station," boomed the metallic voice from the loudspeakers, "the Commissariat reminds you that martial law remains in effect until further notice. It is further emphasized that no violence may be committed against cooperative individuals. Saboteurs, underminers of military strength, and provocateurs will be executed immediately. Please follow the instructions of the administration. Food ration distribution will begin shortly."
David grimaced and said mockingly:
"As if we have any say here. The moment we show even a hint of weakness, this whole filth will rise up under our asses."
Gabriel looked at him, exhaled cigarette smoke into the cold air, and replied calmly:
"The Commissariat knows that. Once the Southern League understands that they won't get this station back, they'll beg for peace on their knees."
He poured tea for both of them.
"Do you really believe these religious fanatics will just accept this?" David continued. "They send half-grown children to the front, blow themselves up with explosive belts. For them, this isn't a defeat—just a test by their damn lord. Don't be naïve, Gabriel. This crusade ends only when one of us has lost everything."
Gabriel wanted to respond—but he remained silent.He merely took a sip of tea and stared into the distance.
Then the cold, metallic voice echoed again from the loudspeakers:
"The second platoon of the Twenty-Third Infantry Regiment is ordered to proceed to Grün-Kirchen-Gasse."
They hastily finished their tea, grabbed their rifles, and headed toward the agricultural sector.
The marketplace was bustling with activity. People stood in long lines to receive rations or visit the wounded in the field hospital.David and Gabriel pushed through the crowd, weapons held tightly. They tried to watch every movement—but it was futile. Too many bodies. Too many hands. One grab, and a piece of equipment could vanish.
They crossed the former battlefield, passed cultivated beds and the foul-smelling composting facility.In front of the church David remembered from the fighting, a crowd had gathered.
A political commissar and several construction workers stood on the steps of the building—and it was obvious that the residents were anything but pleased with their plans.
The commissar waved the soldiers over frantically. They followed his gestures and positioned themselves between him and the crowd.
Then he tried to shout over the noise:
"Esteemed citizens, please step back—or you will be classified as provocateurs!"
The crowd roared in response:
"You heathens can't do this!" shouted a man.
"Where are we supposed to mourn our dead!?" cried an elderly woman with tears in her eyes.
The believers held candles before them and hummed a prayer in melodic rhythm. Seals and paper strips were fastened around their wrists, inscribed with praises, pleas, and intercessions. Some held blood-stained cloths belonging to dead family members. They wanted to place these offerings on the altar—at the Eternal Flame. An oil lamp that never went out, fed with blessed oil. A symbol of Sol, the flames he had gifted humanity from the sun.
The priest leading the crowd stepped forward and pleaded:
"Please, leave us this place! The House of the Lord must not be desecrated by you!"
"Silence!" the commanding officer barked. "Since this building serves no civilian purpose, it will be dismantled and repurposed!"
These words only fueled further outrage.
Then the political commissar drew his pistol, grabbed the clergyman by the collar, and pressed the cold barrel against his temple.
"If you do not withdraw immediately, he will be executed for incitement to rebellion!"
The priest stared at the ceiling, as if desperately searching for a sign from his god.The people—moments ago filled with rage—froze. Everyone knew he meant it.
"Clear the square!" ordered the commissar in the red cap.
The soldiers obeyed.
Slowly, heads lowered, the residents retreated—like cattle driven toward slaughter.