They gave you a bed, a locker, and a gun.
In that order, the moment you signed up.
The bed was a cot with a thin pad that smelled of a horrible smell I can't even begin to describe, there was a faint hint of industrial cleaner, but it was more of a suggestion.
My locker was dented, like someone's head had been previously slammed into it, and the lock was something you had to buy yourself.
A G-4a pulse rifle was the gun that was given to me.
It was heavy, cold, and complicated.
The dorm was a long, low-slung prefab structure, its walls vibrating with the constant hum of the camp's geothermal generators.
It reeked of man, not in the good erotic way, in the 'deodorant isn't a thing' type of way.
Wet fur, sweat, boot polish, energy cells.
Light came from harsh lumen strips bolted to the ceiling, a white so bright it was almost blinding.
My cot was at the end of a row.
I had the privilege of picking it due to me being one of the earlier sign-ups. It was the farthest from the door.
A stupid idea, that distance might equal safety.
I was hunched over my rifle, trying to follow the diagram in the Basic Field Manual.
The parts swam before my eyes. Firing pin, conduction chamber, reservoirs.
Geortarian mumbo jumbo, and while I could speak it passably, the technical manual was borderline incomprehensible.
The words were little black snakes, coiled around the page.
"To ensure mexaik rrandor of the primary rrhek'in conduit, the operator must first xuozhon-dukondr-zikoder the safety haalxits'un"
Were those even real words?
I mouthed the sounds silently. Nonsense.
Guttural, complicated, reading it was already hard, speaking it was on another level.
My saving grace were little diagrams on the page that helped me kind of understand what I was even looking at.
A shadow fell over the manual.
"You're holding the sear spring wrong. It goes counter-clockwise to the torsion bar, not with it. You do it your way, the bolt will jam on the third shot and blow back in your face."
The voice was flat, devoid of any inflection that could be interpreted as helpfulness.
Before me was a wolf Hir-Soger, tall and lean where I was still lanky. His fur was trimmer short and a sleek grey. His eyes a pale yellow. He wore the standard grey fatigue pants with a black undershirt, and he looked at me and my disassembled rifle like an unpleasant sight.
K'arib.
"Oh," I managed, fumbling with the tiny spring. "Right. Counter-clockwise."
He didn't move. Just watched my clumsy fingers. "You're from the soon-to-be Protectorate." The way he said 'Protectorate' my country of Undeb Dehulm, made it sound like a disease to get rid of.
"Yeah," I said, touching my neck scales. "Coastal province."
"Hm." He dismissively hummed. "They really just take anyone now, I see. Don't jam it. I'll be on cleaning duty throughout the month. Brains are mushy. Hard to scrape off surfaces."
He walked to his cot, two down from mine, and lay down, staring at the ceiling as if examining it.
I finally got the spring in.
A jam, a blowback. I pictured it in my head. The vivid bloody picture. My parents getting the notification.
We regret to inform you your son died due to his incompetence...
"Don't let him scare you."
A new voice, warmer, laced with amusement.
Another Hir-Soger, this time a Lynx dropped onto the cot next to mine with a sigh.
He was older, maybe mid-twenties, with tawny fur and clever green eyes that had wrinkles at the corners.
His face was the friendliest I'd seen around. "The G-4a is a pain to deal with, let alone troubleshoot. It's designed so the Geortarian farm boys can't break it... Most of the time, there have been a few incidents in the last couple of months... Anyways, I'm Pherron."
"Farsi," I said, relieved to be talking to someone who didn't look like they were contemplating murder.
"I know. They brief us. 'Local integration asset.' Means you know the land, right? The Undebian desert..."
I nodded. "Yeah. I know how to move around it. Admittedly, its pretty surface-level knowledge, but the higher-ups don't know that."
"Eh, that's more than most of these furballs," Pherron grinned. "I'm here for the same reason a lot of us are, I'd bet. The paper."
"The... paper?"
"The discharge papers! The veteran's benefit stamps. The ticket out of the mud for my folks." He said it plainly. "Serve your term, don't die, get the paper. It's simple."
I just stared at him. He'd said it out loud, the desperate bargain I'd made with myself when I signed the conscript forms. The one that felt like swallowing a shard of glass.
Before I could answer, the door at the far end of the dorm crashed open.
Everyone in the room, maybe fifty Hir-Soger of all species snapped to a rigid, terrified attention beside their cots. I scrambled up, knocking my manual to the floor, standing as straight as I could.
Commander Zhezish entered.
He was a German Shepherd, built like a beast with a pelt of black and tan fur. He marched around. His boots were polished to a mirror shine, his uniform was sharp and spotless, and his eyes swept over us, examining each one individually in a fraction of a second.
His snout was long, his teeth a bright white. He carried a shock-baton loosely in one hand, its tip giving off a faint, blue crackle.
"At ease, maggots," he said, his voice a low humble that was somehow frightening. The room relaxed into a less rigid state.
His eyes landed on my fallen manual, then on me. A slow, wide smile spread across his muzzle. Yet, his eyes remained cold.
"Ah. Our new local guide. Cruthfior." He walked over, the click of his heels the only sound in the room. He stopped, looking down at the manual, then up at me. "Having trouble with the picture book, soldier?"
"No, sir. Just reviewing, sir."
"Reviewing... You know, in my homeland, children play with toy version of this rifle. For their sixth birthday." He leaned in slightly. The smell of his cologne, something tangy and chemical overwhelmed the dorm stink. "But you're not of the tough lands of Geortaria, are you? You're an asset of the Undebians. Tell me, asset. Why are you here?"
The question hung in the air.
Pherron was staring straight ahead.
K'arib hadn't moved from his bed, but I could feel his icy attention. Even if it didn't look like it, every eye in the room was on me.
I recited the words from the recruitment propaganda.
"To serve the Union, sir. To bring stability to the Protectorate."
Zhezish's smile widened. He had beautiful teeth might I say. "Liar." The word was soft and delicate. He didn't raise his voice. "You're here for the same reason almost everyone here is! For the paper. For the money. For the little perks they throw at good, little dogs." He tapped the shock-baton gently against my chest. "That's fine. I like selfish men. Selfish men follow orders if they keep them safe and paid."
He straightened up, his voice rising to address the whole dorm, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. "Remember this, all of you. Your reasons don't matter. Your homes don't matter. Your feelings most certainly do not matter. You are a tool for our rulers, the K'onoma. Long live the king, Aratheus K'onoma."
"Long live the king." Everyone in the room chanted in unison.
"And I was chosen by our rulers to handle all of you good little bullets. You will go where I aim you. You will do as I say. And if you are a good tool..."
He reached out and patted my cheek. It wasn't a hard slap, it was degrading. A master patting a pet.
"... you might even get that paper you want so badly. Now, pick up your picture book. We march as 0400. Welcome, Cruthfior. Try not to break before we get some use out of you."
He turned and strode out, the door shutting with a soft, final click behind him.
The room stayed silent for a second after he left. Then, slowly, the noise returned.
I bent down, my face burning, and picked up the manual. My hands were shaky.
Pharron let out a long, slow breath beside me.
"Well," he said quietly, his voice now tired. "You've met the boss. Congratulations. The trick is not to give him a reason to notice you."
"But I didn't have much of a choice had I? I'm the only Undebian around, a new recruit and my manual was on the ground, I was bound to be noticed."
"Yeah, it just is like that for everyone who joins, but give it some time, you'll be like K'arib, he's almost become invisible to the commander, he didn't even stand up."
I looked at K'arib. He was still staring at the ceiling. I looked at Pherron, who offered a weak shrug. Then I looked down at my hands.
I was seventeen and a tool. And I had just met the man who owned me.
The manual's words blurred in front of me.
All I could see was that perfect, smiling muzzle.