He let the threat hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “All of you are gonna get a basic UI when you hit the scanner,” he said, pointing a thick finger at one of the four glass-encased machines, each manned by bored-looking human techs, that our lines led to. “These are pre-marked as belonging to the 132nd penal battalion faction. All interface upgrades are LOCKED to recruits until you increase your rank. All of the upgrades you earn are out of your hands, and all of your advancement is OUR choice until you improve your tier.” He was essentially telling us we were property. Our progress, our very strength, would be doled out to us as a reward for obedience.
“There are only three ways out of the 132nd penal battalion.” He held up a meaty fist and began counting off on his fingers. “The first way is to do your time and retire—if you live that long. The second is to be re-assigned to another company, which only happens if you’re too much of a problem for even us to handle, or too badly broken to fix. And the third way…” he paused for a moment to let the grim certainty sink in, “…is on your back with a toe tag.” He scanned the crowd, making eye contact with as many as he could. “This battalion is made up of attitude problems, conscripts, and draft dodgers. We are bad, we are mean, our training is the hardest and the most deadly of any other fleet unit, and our recruits and warriors are the absolute best in existence for that reason. We do not do well with authority, and most of you will never leave this battalion, but if you do get reassigned, remember that you came from hell. It gives you a certain… reputation.”
He turned his specific glare back to the orcs. “And you scrotting orcs, you had better remember, you feel strong now, but you just had an easy start. Your homeworld did the heavy lifting. After tin, your lucky start becomes less and less relevant, and at copper, an unmodified human is probably going to be just as good at killing things and kicking ass as you are. There is NOTHING more humiliating than getting your ass kicked in a bare-knuckled brawl by an unmodified human that’s a rank below you, so keep that in mind before you start swinging your scrot around like it weighs fifty pounds.”
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His attention shifted. “Stunties!” he called out to the dwarves. The dwarves, to their credit, didn’t react to the slur beyond a few raised eyebrows. “You fellers has been officially pardoned. You are still conscripted, but you can fall out right now and head over to the 128th supply battalion, or stay if you prefer to fight. The fleet is not stupid, we know most of you never even knew there was a call, and we won’t hold you responsible for it.”
We watched as the short fellows debated for a moment in low, rumbling tones. It wasn’t a long debate. They were pragmatists, not glory-seekers. En masse, they headed over in the direction he waved, towards a harried-looking clerk holding a data-slate near a less imposing doorway. They were not stupid enough to join a meat grinder if there was other, safer fleet work to be had until their mandated time was up. They were likely to survive.
After the lines tightened up with the dwarves gone, the Petty Officer—Kratz, I’d learn—shrugged and shook his head. “That’s normally what happens, but the runts are even worse about sticking together than we are. Every once in a while, they elect to stay, and the 132nd is all the better for it. Good fighters, dwarves. Low center of gravity.” He sounded almost admiring.
His gaze swept over the elves, who stood with an air of aloof disdain, as if the entire proceeding was beneath them. “Girls!” he barked, and several of the elves flinched at the address. “Any of you got physical affinity?”
There was a hesitant silence. Then, one of the younger-looking elves, his features sharp and intelligent, slowly raised a slender hand.
“Spirit or nature?” Kratz demanded.
“Sorcery, sir,” the elf replied, his voice clear and melodic, even now.
“Scrot!” Kratz roared, the sound echoing off the gantries. “I was hoping to get a cleric or druid out of you lot, but sorcery means the warlock track. Not much use in the trenches. You all go to the front of the line, get your scans, and report to Petty Officer Anderson, over there.” He pointed across the bay to where a tall, bald human covered from scalp to knuckles in intricate, mystical tattoos stood watching. He was as high-tiered as any of the armored troopers, a bronze rank at least, his aura a calm, controlled pool of power.
