07:00 – July 7, 2047 – Taubstummengasse / Agricultural Sector
Andreas could not bear the sight of the heathens in his god-fearing homeland. To him, they were vermin, heretics of a new, godless faith.
The "Keeper of Truth" — the Shepherd of the Faithful — had commanded his flock to punish the parasites who fed on the fruits of the Lord. They had broken into God's garden, stolen His gifts, desecrated and destroyed His house, repurposing it as building material for one of their crude, unadorned barges.
It was considered the duty of every believer to bring the Lord's punishment upon these blasphemers. Today, Andreas believed, he would enter the Realm of the Enlightened as a martyr. He hoisted the prepared water canister onto his shoulder — an improvised incendiary device, crude but lethal. He did not only want to take the heathen fighters with him into death, but to turn the garden itself into smoke — an offering against the greed of the occupiers.
Now he could atone for his sin and do penance for his wrongdoing. He had not helped his brother defend their homeland. His brother now lay upon a pile of corpses. The heathens had not even granted him burial in their cemetery. Only as fertilizer, only as feed for fungi. Not even one night was he allowed to rest by the eternal flame of warmth — the warmth of Sol. Now Andreas had been given a second chance. A chance for forgiveness.
Beneath his cloak were strips of paper with prayers and hymns, carefully bound around his limbs — consecration, protection, symbols of his devotion. The atheistic brood, he swore, would pay for the desecration of this station.
Other brothers and sisters stood ready alongside him to take revenge. At the same time, infernos were to be ignited in other locations, destroying everything useful to the enemy: farms, fortifications, and military depots. All of them gave their lives believing in heavenly reward.
As a precaution, Andreas slipped a small pistol into the inner pocket of his robe and left his sparse dwelling. The station corridors bustled with activity: people shopping, being treated in the so-called People's Infirmary, even laughing. This indifference disgusted him. It was bad enough that the heretics lived here — but that citizens of the Confederation had accommodated themselves to them, even treated them kindly, was blasphemy. They too, he knew, would burn in purgatory.
The loudspeakers cut through the murmuring with a metallic voice:
"Esteemed citizens, you are now officially part of our great Union — part of our shared effort not only to survive, but to thrive. Thanks to your contributions, rations have been increased and will be distributed shortly. We remind you that work-stamps are the only accepted currency. For the honor of the Consul and the Party."
In a side alley, Andreas saw an old man being searched by the Political Commissariat — accused of hoarding supplies. The Food Oversight Authority and the SSD behaved like a damn Stasi, confiscating food and goods. They called it enforced equalization. An egalitarian society, they claimed, required sacrifices: surplus was seized and redistributed to the needy.
The man had sinned. He had compromised with them. He would atone in the light of Sol; he would burn for his guilt.
Andreas forced the thought aside. His duty outweighed any single life. His salvation, he believed, depended on this sacrifice.
The occupiers were reshaping the station according to their vision. Workers busily tore down churches and other holy places, replacing them with standardized, monotonous buildings. Even the sacred cathedral — with its eternally burning flame symbolizing redemption and eternal life in the heavenly realm, regularly replenished with blessed oil by brothers of the abbey — had been extinguished forever.
Its desecrated remains now lay neatly sorted in front of the platform. The Holy Scriptures had been burned en masse in the central fire pit. Most people submitted to their new masters; some were even glad to become subjects of the Union.
Today, all would be purified by the avenging firestorm of the Lord and His disciples — just as the Shepherd had promised.
Holy icons were painted over with revolutionary slogans. Even the ornate mosaic of the Savior had been removed, carefully chiseled away and replaced with the likeness of the Consul. On the marketplace, youth brigades preached class consciousness and the philosophy of techno-socialism. Everyone received a small red book: "Banner of the Revolution", written by the Guiding Star himself. Andreas knew — this work could only have come from the Devil.
Andreas now stood close to his target: the great mushroom farm.
Welded shelving made from rebar lined the walls, forming cultivation tiers. Mushroom mycelium spread through thin soil mixed with excrement and wood shavings. Plump white fruiting bodies rose over the edges — it was harvest season.
What a tragedy that these fruits of heaven now had to be destroyed.
Two soldiers stood at the entrance, searching workers for signs of sabotage. Nervously, Andreas glanced at the old clock on the wall. In five minutes, he had to be at his position. Hopefully the inspections would not be too thorough today. If they were, he would have to resort to lethal means.
He was first in line; he had befriended the guards. Hopefully, that cleverness would pay off.
"Look who it is," one of the guards called.
"Stefan! Hey, how are you?" a man said warmly. Andreas' insides tightened at the feigned friendliness.
"Same as always. By the way — the cucumbers were delicious."
How easily some could be bribed, and how effortlessly he deceived them, Andreas thought.
"Anything special with you?"
"No, just a water tank." He gestured to the canister on his back.
"All right, you can go."
They waved him through. Outwardly, he appeared calm and unconcerned. Inside, hatred burned.
He passed the checkpoint with slow, deliberate steps and positioned himself at the district's main intersection.
Now he only had to arm the mechanism and trigger it.
He sat down on the floor, pretending to water one of the racks. Discreetly, he screwed an old, oily detonator into the canister's opening. A short electric pulse would activate the device. Inside the container were metal fragments, excrement, and a napalm-like substance.
Within seconds, the entire square would be engulfed in flames. Jagged metal shards would kill many, and those who survived with injuries would likely die from secondary infections. Food production would collapse.
Once more, he let his gaze wander over the mushroom garden.
Every sense spoke to him: men and women working diligently, harvesting, fertilizing the soil, watering the beds. Some were accompanied by their children, teaching them their craft. The air was thick with the smell of compost and freshly cut mushrooms.
A spark of doubt flared.
Did he have the right to end this happiness? Was it right to kill so many innocents? Was it right to destroy the food supply just to starve the enemy?
Without these yields, the Union would face famine. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, would die. And what of his home station? Who would feed it if not the fruits of this garden?
Doubt gnawed at him, tasting of fear and shame.
But he swallowed it down.
No, he thought. The Lord knew His children, and He would receive them into His heavenly kingdom. The unrepentant would face purgatory.
Soon, he would be reunited with his brother, who had followed God's call in the fight for the station.
With that thought — his lips twisted into a strange smile — he ignited his revenge.
The revenge of the faithful against the heretics.