Lux Perpetua

[Beautancus]

38 Miles Northeast of Święty Jerzy (Sankt Georg)
Księstwa Niemieckie (German Principality)
Cesarstwo Wielkosarmatska (Empire of Greater Sarmatia)


The squelching, sucking sound that the spade made as it bit deep into the saturated soil reminded Friedrich of something...something that lurked just behind his eyes, on the tip of his memory...something that should meant something to him...but didn't anymore, obviously. It was a small favor, Friedrich supposed, that it was raining. It would make digging this damnable drainage ditch that much harder if the ground had been as bone-dry and hard-packed as it had been some months back, during summer...a summer that had been as universally hellish as any in the history of his once mighty and proud homeland's history. A history that he likewise supposed to be over now, and likely forever more.

"Dig faster you fucking Niemcy pig-dogs!" In a voice that the thunder which occasionally rolled out over the early autumn landscape would have envied, the Jew-Khazar overseer that was in charge of Friedrich's particular chain-gang bellowed. He was definitely back to stalking down the line of ethnic Germans, and former soldiers/resistance fighters that had been dragooned into this task. The Jew's footfalls were remarkably heavy, as if a goodly sized rock was being dropped into the soaked earth with every step he took.

He was massive, after all. And truly fucking impressive, in every way.

None of the Freiheiters answered the Jew, they simply made a very plain show of digging harder and faster. At least the Sarmatian scum and their Jewboy sidekicks were feeding Friedrich and his comrades. That was better than Friedrich's own government would do for them- or had done for the Otchi. That thought brought a slight sting to Friedrich's chest, a tightness that he knew would never leave him.

He could still see the rather beautiful face of that aboriginal wench...as he'd entered her again, and again, and again- and finally plunged into her with his service knife, gutting her as surely as he would have a fish just pulled from the river. At the time, the amphetamines that he'd been issued had allowed him to reconcile it as his duty to his nation and his people...now, after nearly a month of withdrawals and nearly two months of brutal imprisonment by what was likely the most brutal regime in the modern world...well. He'd had a great deal of time to run over that time in his life, and was left universally wanting in his self-regard as a human being. If he was one at all, he was certainly a very poor excuse for one. And the damnable Sarmatians made sure to remind him, and his comrades, of that fact- at least a dozen times every day.

"You pig-dog rapists and thieves. You thought you would rule the world one day, didn't you? Bah. Not only are you, and your entire worthless fucking race stupid, but you're morally debased. You're not even worth the bread and turkey feet we feed you. I still don't see what Stary Hrodino is thinking, keeping you sorry bastards alive." The Jew paused behind Friedrich, his voice well louder than a clap of thunder now, or so it seemed.

The chill that ran through Friedrich's spine was ameliorated only by the knowledge that the monstrous Jew-Khazar had mentioned food, whatever the quality might have been. He usually only did that when it was growing near to chow time- and if the faint light-gray glow high above was any indication, it was growing near to that. And so, with increased fervor, Friedrich speared at the muddy, and ever shifting wall of the drainage ditch that he was more or less in.

Usually, if they made a show of really busting their asses at whatever task the Sarmatians had set them to, things went better. Friedrich had even been given a cigarette with his meal a few times- everyone had. There were some shreds of humanity amongst the bastards, despite the overwhelming brutality and general inhumanity that they normally displayed towards Friedrich- and from what he'd heard, all Niemcy in 'the former Freiheit.'

Friedrich's mind wandered for a few minutes, running back to his home, nestled in the foothills which were now apparently ceded to the homosexual Aquitanians to the south...he wondered over his parents several times a day, not to mention the fiancé that he'd left in their care. Griselda hadn't been happy when he'd been forced to take up the national colors- but what other choice did he have? No man, in no part of the Free-State had been able to expect any sort of social advancement without joining up. And once he'd secured a position within the Sicherheitskräfte, which though not so formal as the official military, offered much higher benefits and prestige within the martial society that had developed in his nation...once he'd secured that position, he was sure that he would be set for life. He'd have had a few years of truly nasty work ahead of him, but what military man in wartime hadn't?

Nobody had expected that the Sarmatians would intervene, and even when they had, nobody had expected they'd push all the way into the nation, to its demise. In the first days, there had been rumors that those actions were merely punitive, that the Sarmatians were only taking away Freiheit's means to wage a nuclear war...then there had been rumors that they would only seek to dislodge the government, and see that something more palatable was installed. Then there had been the rumors that the Council of Nations- and there was a thought that caused Friedrich to spit, the damnable Council of Nations, chock full of effete bureaucrats and ineffectual bankers...the Council of Nations was supposed to have intervened...By that time, Friedrich had been actively engaged in attempting to repel the first Sarmatians landings just north of Sankt Georg, and...

"Alright cock-suckers. Time for grub, which I will remind you- I offer against my best judgement."

Friedrich allowed himself a half-hearted smile and jabbed his spade down into the bottom of the trench, for the first time realizing that the fresh blisters- and old calluses alike- had all burst anew, some of them even bleeding. He sighed, and turned to search for an appropriate handhold to haul himself up and out of the ditch- and froze.

The line of ever present guards had assumed a much tighter formation on the far side of the ditch, with that massive Jew-Khazar glaring down at them, seemingly directly at Friedrich.

"In the name of God Almighty, and the Emperor whose Rule is the Pleasure of the Almighty, I- Starszy Chorąży Timon Akhundów, Loyal Son and Soldier of both the Khagan of Khazaria, and his Liege-Lord, the Emperor of Greater Sarmatia am bid to inform you all that you have been found guilty of no less than seventy-nine counts of crimes against humanity, eighty-three counts of unlawful resistance against Agents of the Emperor, four hundred and six counts of blasphemy against God Almighty, nineteen counts of pedophilia, and last- but certainly not least- innumerable counts of sodomy. For these crimes, you have been sentenced to death by firing squad. Likewise, and as a result of the heinous nature of your crimes, and by virtue of the fact that this sentence may only be carried out- on you- once, the remainders of your families have also been sentenced to death, for they are as guilty as you, for birthing, enabling, and encouraging you in these most deplorable acts. God will not have mercy on your souls."

Friedrich had a moment to recognize the spreading warmth in the front of his trousers for what it was before the line of Sarmatian and Khazars soldiers opened fire. At least four rounds struck Friedrich in the center of his mass, all of them rending his lungs before blowing dollar-coin sized holes in his back. Slumping against the far wall of the ditch, certainly very aware that he was bleeding- and suffocating- to death, Friedrich slid down into the muddy water at the bottom of the ditch, that final phrase ringing through his mind...maybe it was a good thing that his family had been on the other side of that arbitrary 'Red Line' after all...

 

[Beautancus]

Tabor Skrucha (Camp Penitence)
Księstwa Niemieckie (German Principality)
Cesarstwo Wielkosarmatska (Empire of Greater Sarmatia)


Life, though far from normal, had begun to have a bit of that feeling for the young 'Niemcy' woman that had been born as Wilhelmina Ohm. It, life that was, retained every bit of the harshness that the vast majority of the overwhelmingly Teutonic population of the former Freiheit had come to expect, and even understand- at least in some part.

As Wilhelmina understood it, this was simply the way of her not so beloved homeland's new, and apparently permanent masters. Though she knew very little of their homeland, save that it was a place of great expanses of natural beauty and industrial horror, she had gathered (both from in increasingly personal knowledge of their history, which they seemed so enthralled by; and from their collective character) that the sort of casual brutality and indifference to discomfort and wanton vice that marked them so deeply was the result of a litany of tragedies, both personal and national. This was not to say that she thought them purely bestial, on the contrary, they were a great deal more humane than she would have ever allowed for, especially when their missiles were raining down upon her nation.

She had even discovered some level of comfort and satisfaction, and certainly security, in the arms (though he rarely embraced her in the conventional fashion) of one of their lesser warlords, tasked with the oversight of her uncultured but strategically vital farm-country. One Brawencar Lowrenc, who's rank was equivalent to something like a Colonel, and had likewise been confirmed a sort of lesser nobleman, a Knight or Ritter as he'd explained it to Wilhelmina.

That was far more than she could ever have hoped for in the wake of the invasion and occupation, and probably even before that, given the modest means that had defined her family...even before the lot of paramilitary bushwhackers loyal to the defunct Faust regime had robbed and murdered her parents- a fate that she would have shared with them, had her home not been so old and dilapidated as to allow her to pull up the kitchen's floor boards and hide there until the whole ghastly business had been done. It might have even been a traumatic event for her, had her father not been a truly abusive bastard, having taken to molesting her when she was 14.

Because of this that she'd been left wandering the countryside, with no particular goal in mind, picked up by a passing patrol, and rewarded for the information concerning the number and direction of the Faustian guerillas. With a bit of proper nutrition, and regular baths, she'd apparently become attractive enough (she was buxom, but not at all pretty in her own estimation) to garner the attention of Colonel Lowrenc.

That chance meeting had come about in the confines of the local 'Mission,' where the Imperial Episcopal Reformed Church took in 'strays' such as Wilhelmina, and endeavored to Christianize them properly. Most of the 'Niemcy' that were taken in there were girls of marriageable age, and whatever younger siblings they might have had- all of which were put to work maintaining and expanding that same Mission. Colonel Lowcrenc was somewhat religious, as all proper Sarmatians were supposed to be, and had taken to looking to the needs of the young folk- mostly girls- there personally, from time to time.

It had so happened that Wilhelmina had been nearly doubled over, scrubbing at the dust collecting on the base of the pews in the main portion of the Mission's central building when Colonel Lowrenc had entered, chatting amiably with the missionary that governed the Mission. Though it had been slightly embarrassing, her more than ample posterior had attracted and held the attention of Lowrenc long enough for Wilhelmina to 'ingratiate' herself with the man...leading to a situation that was growing ever more fortuitous for her.

She'd been taken from the Mission, and officially tasked with 'maintaining the private quarters of Colonel Lowrenc,' more or less as a camp follower. That, amongst so many others, was an anachronism that the Sarmatians had maintained- and even honored- throughout the years, though they had applied the same astringently methodical organization to that particular 'tradition' that they did to all else in their vast military complex.

That was how it was explained on paper, though she was provided with a great many more creature comforts than most camp followers were afforded, even bordering on the luxurious.

She knew it was not so well with all her countrymen and women...but for her, it was as good as could be hoped for, and so- did not care.

 

[Beautancus]

Freistadt-Regional Relief and Relocation Camp 004
24 miles southeast of the "Quarantined Zone"
Księstwa Niemieckie (German Principality)
Cesarstwo Wielkosarmatska (Empire of Greater Sarmatia)


With the progressive crawl of time, moving out of the unforgiving, scorched Summer months and into what promised to be an equally inhospitable Winter (with a brief stopover in what had long been referred to as 'Otchi Summer,' what most other peoples in the world called Autumn), life in the camp held little promise save the exchange of one sort of misery for another...perhaps even more bitter than the shades of such that had been enjoyed in the preceding months.

Not quite freezing rain had inundated Camp 004 for several days now, driven down from the Arctic by a constant and biting wind- yet more evidence that the 'atheist deity' that Joseph Glück had taken to sloughing all blame off on took special delight in ensuring that life in the former Freiheit held as little joy as possible. What bit of news that was doled out to the 'displaced persons' herded into the Camp did indicate that the rain would be moving out, at least for a few days, after tomorrow- but that did Joseph little good today. As it was, he could only stand at the door of his ramshackle trailer, chain smoking stale cigarette after stale cigarette...and of course, curse the non-existent God up there in the blighted heavens for all of this.

Life had held a great deal of promise for Joseph, in those heady days of early summer. Having graduated from the University of Freistadt just weeks before, and immediately securing a job at one of the more prestigious, if state-run, investment firms that had come to dominate the financial landscape of the national capital, the promise of great wealth and near endless self aggrandizement loomed large in his mind- back then. He'd been in the office on the 23rd of July, when the first barrage of Sarmatian missiles had lanced down from the sky, all but eviscerating his unsuspecting nation.

It had been luck, and nothing but, that had seen Joseph out of the 18th floor office that he'd come to love above most things in the world- and something that defied all logical explanation that had kept him from being crushed or rent under the rain of concrete and glass that had followed, or preceded the total collapse of the same skyscraper that had contained his office. Those memories, of once bustling streets choked with dust and smoke- blaring sirens and hair-raising screams...those memories would haunt him until the day he died. Despite that intensely real knowledge, he still labored everyday to drink those same memories out of his mind, swilling down whatever bootleg and homebrewed poison- alcohol or other- that Joseph could lay his hands on.

That thought reminded him...there was a rumor that some enterprising chemist- not more than a few trailers down the row- had taken to cooking up something a little 'special' and certainly potent, here recently. There had been Sarmatians willing to smuggle this and that into the Camp from day one, for whatever favors or valuables that the Freideutschen unlucky enough to have been directed into this shithole could offer. That included ammonia and ephedrine too, or so the rumors said. Joseph reckoned that more than enough of a reason to venture out in the rain. There might even be a loose girl or two to be had there.

Turning to his 'rommie,' Emile- who had, apparently, been a courier in his own half-remembered life 'before the fall.' "Got anything that 'the man' might be willing to take in exchange for a little bit of this and that old boy?"

It took a moment for Emile to realize just what he was talking about, but when he did it was almost comical to see the way he bolted upright on his cot. "Yeah, I've got a few of those Breotish timepieces left in here somewhere..." The former courier, who seemed as likely to have been an accomplished looter, went straight to rummaging through the 'bottomless box' that he kept carefully hidden under his cot. Sure enough, he produced a handful of gleaming Breotonian watches- and the more expensive sort at that. It was likely that most of them still worked too.

"That should get us something, no doubt about it." Joseph smiled, and motioned for Emile to hurry on with him out the door. Careful to lock the door- though the flimsy deadbolt on this trailer wouldn't stop even a half-hearted burglar- the two men sloshed down onto the muddy trail that was supposed to serve this part of the Camp as a road. Joseph counted out the trailers, it was supposed to be the eighth down- but there didn't seem to be anyone home at that trailer. The next trailer had blinds- which were down, one of them seemed to be taped flat against the plexiglass. With that kind of attention to secrecy, it had to be that trailer.

Joseph had been apprised of the 'secret knock' he was supposed to give at the door- and that bit of information bore out to be especially truthful. The door cracked open just a hair- there was a chain on the inside, which Joseph's own trailer certainly didn't have. That was, in his mind, the last piece of evidence he needed to prove that this was indeed 'the place.'

"Yeah, what do you want?"

"Horatio sent me."

"Who?"

"Horatio dude. You know, scrawny guy, blond eyebrows..."

The door closed, and for a second Joseph was worried- but there wounds of a chain rattling and a metallic slide scrubbing on the inside of the trailer, and the door popped open just wide enough for Joseph and Emile to get in. "Well c'mon man, we don't the rain coming in with you."

Joseph and Emile shot that gap quickly enough, and the door slammed shut behind them. The fellow that was there at the door didn't have the look of a chemist about him at all- rather the opposite, he fit the bill of the typical bouncer more than anything. But the guy sitting at the laminated particle board table in the trailer's kitchenette- that was 'the guy.' The glass stem sitting on that table was even more telling, and anticipation of what was in the bottom of that stem set Joseph's palms to sweating almost instantly.

"Horatio sent you huh? Haven't seen that fucker in two days, and he's usually beating the damned door down to get a little bit of a taste." The chemist situated himself in his chair- again, not the run of the mill item that the Sarmatians had afforded each trailer. That was probably payment for services rendered to someone previously, though how they'd gotten something of that obvious quality into the Camp without it being confiscated as beyond Joseph.

"Yeah, I must have seen him that night...but he recommended you highly, if you know what I mean."

The Chemist nodded, and lightly tapped the stem on the table- and then raised an eyebrow. "Much as I'd love to, you know I can't just give handouts. I gotta have something to give the guards, you know, to grease the wheels on this little machine I've been building up."

Joseph and Emile nodded at the same time, and Emile produced the watches. "Yeah, sure man- we understand that. I hope this'll get you and us all somewhere."

Inspecting the watches closely- this Chemist had probably been the type to sport such expensive gear before the abortion of a war that had ended their little slice of the world- he gave a curt nod. "Yeah, this'll get you boys what you're looking for. Have a seat, name's Anders."

"I'm Joseph, and the man with the gear here is Emile. We're kinda you're neighbors, few trailers down."

Anders smiled, and pushed the wire-rimmed glasses on his beak of a nose up a bit- probably a habitual gesture, judging from how red the bridge of his nose was. "Small world, and all that huh?" He slid the stem and a lighter towards Joseph and Emile- who took the stem first, since he'd been the one to cough up the goods. He paused for a second before igniting the lighter, "It's cool to light up in here ain't it? I mean, this shit is supposed to be volatile as hell when it's cooking."

"No worries man, this is just where I live. I do my cooking somewhere else."

Emile was already sucking on the stem by the time that Anders was done speaking, thick smoke rolling up the glass and into his mouth. He pulled away- at last- and passed the heated glass and lighter to Joseph, holding onto the smoke for as long as he could. Joseph repeated the process, the rush of the meth filling his body. Whoever Anders was, and wherever he'd learned his trade, it was readily apparent that he was damned good at it.

The stem went around for a few minutes, Anders even 'packed' it again. The big guy that watched the door didn't take a hit- but Joseph supposed that he wouldn't, or didn't, being that muscle bound. With the drugs running through them hard, conversation came easily- and minutes turned into a few hours quickly- chattering on about anything and everything that came to mind and sharing out stale cigarettes as they went.

They were so engrossed in conversation that Joseph nearly missed the sound of footfalls at the stairs of the trailer- but he certainly wouldn't have missed the rather forceful pounding at the door. "It's Horatio man, let me in quick, I'm getting fucking drenched out here."

Anders nodded to his bouncer- and the big man unchained the door- which promptly exploded into his bulky frame. Dark figures swarmed in through the gaping doorframe, a rain-slick boot slamming down on the big man's exposed face with a sickening crunch...and the tell-tale red light of laser sights flickering over all three men around the table.

The Sarmatian- and that was the only thing he possibly could be- that was closest to them wore a gasmask, evidently assuming that the trailer would be a soup of toxic fumes, much the same as Emile had thought. When he spoke, his voice was clear enough for the malice to positively cut the air. "Yeah, Horatio sent us."

Joseph couldn't take his eyes off the barrel of the SMG that was now just a foot in front of his face. He pissed himself then and there, fully expecting that the last thing he would see would be the first bit of a muzzle flash. "You cocksuckers have two options. You die here, in about ten seconds..."

"Option two, whatever that is." Emile spoke up quickly, not casting a second glance at Joseph or Anders.

"Or, in about fifteen seconds." And the SMG's opened up.

 

[Beautancus]

Tabor Biczowanie (Camp Flagellation)
Niemcy Księstwo (German Principality)
Cesarstwo Wielkosarmatska (Empire of Greater Sarmatia)


It had seemed, at the time, that there'd been a certain wisdom in accepting the opportunity to take up the colors that would evidently be flying over the land that he'd been born and bred into. He'd done everything within his power to convince his countrymen that the native government that'd ruled here was nothing but a farce- worse than that, a Godless den of butchery and hedonism that would surely descend into chaos at the merest chink in the carefully constructed system that Denever and Faust had fashioned...

Those sentiments, while certainly still present in his mind, and somewhat proudly- as he'd been proven right, after all...those sentiments were bittersweet now. It was not that his faith, or any other portion of his personal ideology caused him any discomfort in the matter in which his countrymen and their utterly corrupt former government had been lain low.

No, not that in the least. He'd found that he shared far more in common with the thought processes and praxis of his new "overlords." As said, he'd even thought there was a certain wisdom in accepting the call to take up their colors.

It was just that he'd never expected that the ruthless bastards could be such brutal taskmasters, even towards "their own." Abstractly, he'd known- because he'd been warned by the recruiter that had signed him up- that the training that would see him inducted into the august ranks of the Troika Guard would be some of the harshest and most refined of any military organization in the world today. He just hadn't expected to have the damnable two hundred and thirty pound, six foot three tree-trunk of a drill instructor make a point of stopping and placing his oversized boot squarely between his shoulders after every thirtieth pushup.

He, or Walther Backe as he'd been known before taking up with this lot of soulless warmongers, pushed hard against that extra weight anyway. If he gave any less, the drill instructor would know, and would bear down all the harder. The peculiar burning that ran through most every muscle in Walther's body told him that they were nearing the end of this portion of the morning's regimen. Despite being unforgiving in nearly every way, the drill instructors maintained a carefully ordered, and precisely measured exercise schedule. It never lasted any longer, not even by a single pushup, than the previous session had. Against that, you could wager your soul.

In a way, Walther did just that, every morning. There was sure to be some payoff in the end. He'd been promised a new identity, as a "natural born Sarmatian, not merely a resident of the Imperial Overseas Territories." That status would afford him a litany of opportunities that his former countrymen would never be able to dream of. He would be allowed to emigrate to the heartland of the Empire Proper after he satisfactorily completed his six years of contracted service with the Guard- as an official member of the Imperial Episcopal Reformed Church, which had readily absorbed his own, albeit tiny and marginalized "Calvinist" congregation upon coming into the region.

If he chose to stay here, which he likely would, after mustering out, he would be gifted with an extensive land-grant, which was the promise of every Sarmatian and Khazar soldier of the Imperial Crown that rendered their service in these once God-forsaken lands.

Yes, that had been the logic that had thrust him down the course of this obviously idiotic enterprise. With that land, he would be able to do God's work, as God had intended for a man like Walther to do it. He'd be able to take a wife, and raise a family- and work the earth, as real men once had in these lands, all in the security of good faith.

If he survived this training regimen.

Again, abstractly, he understood the necessity of this biting cruelty. If it came to him ever having to actively defend his new colors, which it likely would, this savagery would pay enormous dividends. Until that day though, or at the very least now, it seemed like the rawer end of the deal.