09:05 — 10.07.2047 — Gramscistadt
The station was alive with activity. Units of the Political Commissariat and elements of the State Security Service were sweeping through the residential sectors. Citizens barricaded doors and windows, believing—like children—that if they did not see it, it would not happen. Sahra knew these scenes all too well. The people suffered from paranoia—and rightly so. Everyone should fear what happens to those who betray Techno-Socialism. To those who would rather condemn hundreds to death by starvation than relinquish their sacred soil. Now all were paying the price. And she would carry out the will of the Consul, with sword and shield.
She had completed her training as a political officer only recently. With pride and reverence, she accepted her first deployment. The purge order had come directly from the Consul himself. The objective was to break the enemy and its morale, to eliminate the priestly caste, and—where possible—to re-socialize their devout militant followers. Afterward, the assimilation of the protectorate's population would proceed more smoothly.
She stood on the marketplace, atop a raised platform, a microphone positioned before her. With this marvel of technology, her voice would reach every loudspeaker in the station. This living machine would lend her its mechanical vocal cords, carrying the message of Techno-Socialism into every heart and every mind. For the loyal, this would be a moment of pride—their voice, like the heartbeat of the nation. For the enemies, it would mean fear and panic.
With a sharp motion, she adjusted her factory-new red beret, adorned with a metal pin bearing the symbol of the Union. In her rigid uniform she appeared like a pillar of concrete: slender, yet immovable. Her eyes tracked the progress of the operation, moving like those of a predator locking onto its prey. Before her, local representatives of the clerical caste were being dragged away. Some tried to hide among the residents—futilely. All of them would be captured, no matter the cost.
The inhabitants stared in disbelief at the spectacle. They leaned out from windows, from their standardized emergency shelters—simple tents made of hemp tarpaulin, supported by wood and steel. A child broke free from the gray uniformity and ran toward a monk with a shaved head, clad in a yellow robe. The monk was being dragged across the ground by two soldiers and an SSD officer, beaten and kicked, as though they sought not only to subdue but to desecrate and torment this living corpse.
The child—a small boy, no more than seven or eight—charged forward, screaming with raw hatred, flames burning in heart and mind, rushing toward the soldiers. A warrior trying to aid his brothers in faith. A loyal servant of Sol. But he did not reach them. With a dull, heavy crack, he was struck down, hitting the blood-smeared tiled ground face first.
He raised his hands to shield his face as the political soldiers turned their gaze upon him. Baring his teeth, he hissed at them. Tears streamed down his cheeks, carving clean paths through the dark red blood smeared across his face, forming small rivulets mixed with his tears, his blood, and the blood of his brothers. He clenched his fists, pressing his fingers hard into his palms, as if challenging them to a duel to the death.
Before the child could carry out his hopeless challenge, a woman seized him and dragged him back into one of the tents. The operation continued, silent and uninterrupted. The monk was bound together with two others and dragged toward the rail lines.
Before the platform, three monks who had worked in supply were marched past. They were bound with hemp ropes; their heads smeared with blood and dirt. They would be transported to re-socialization camps; the highest among them would be eliminated by execution squads. Their scriptures, holy images, and their crucifix substitute—a sun with countless rays—were publicly burned. Nothing of this purge of the collective would survive. Belief in the supernatural would die in this station today.
The troops drove the prisoners forward. They would be taken away by the next rail draisine departing from the platform and transferred to the facilities. Draisines were the most effective means of transportation available to the survivors. The Union made every effort to maintain this infrastructure: rail segments were serviced, telephone and power lines laid. This network of communication and transport ensured the agility of the TSUdM—like arteries through which blood pulsed, like nerves carrying electrochemical signals.
With a droning howl, the engine of the draisine roared to life. The first load was dispatched—two more would follow.
Sahra reached for the microphone. Her fingers closed around the cold metal of the device. She cleared her throat and pressed the transmit button.
"Brothers and sisters, citizens of our great Union—you have nothing to fear.Only counter-revolutionary elements are being removed.Those who do not belong to them have nothing to fear."
She paused; her voice remained firm, though a barely perceptible tremor crept into its tone.
"The concealment of information, the hiding or sheltering of enemies of the state will be classified as sabotage—and punished according to the law."
An old man, easily identifiable as a priest by his garments, was dragged from his hiding place. A rotting wooden barrel had been meant to perform the miracle his god could not—to protect him, to redeem him from this predicament. Guards dragged the man across the square. His head was bowed; he seemed to know he was one of the condemned—one of the heads of the hydra called religion.
This irrational belief, Sahra thought, prevented humanity from achieving true greatness. Only the Union promised a future beyond tomorrow, rather than clinging to the status quo. Only a society free from irrationality, free from the vices of tradition and belief in divine merit, could save humankind. Only the Leitstern possessed this grand vision—the lighthouse in the fog.
Sahra tore herself from her thoughts. The cleric was dragged past her. Their eyes met. She saw fear and despair in his brown eyes. With his last strength, the old man spoke:
"Even if you are heretics, servants of the devil—I pray for the salvation of your souls.May the Lord enlighten you, so that you may recognize your error and return to His embrace, to the Hüter der Wahrheit."
One of the soldiers raised his hand, clenched it into a fist, and struck the old man. Blood flowed from his nose. He opened his mouth, as if his body wished to make the pain audible for others—but no sound escaped his lips. Silently, he was taken to the draisine along with the other prisoners.
Sahra did not grant him another glance. This feudal caste would be eradicated within the territory of the Union today. Soon enough, with a rope around his neck, he would face his "savior."
The revenge of humanity upon false belief.