Martin bolts upright in his bed, sweat pouring down his face and onto his bare chest. Rain patters softly on the window and gray light fills the small room. With a sigh, he swings feet off the bed and onto the cool wooden floor. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he rises and walks across the room, with the sounds of Emily’s breathing mingling with the rain outside. The light flicks on quietly as Martin shuffles into the bathroom and plants his hands on the sink, staring into his own brown eyes. The door of the cabinet squeaks open as he pulls on it. A few items clatter into the sink; he replaces them and pops a few aspirin into his mouth. With another yawn, Martin drags himself back out of the bathroom and into bed next to Emily. The light from the bathroom shuts off as he pulls the covers back over his torso. 
	Emily rolls over and puts her arm over Martin’s warm chest and looks into his eyes, “What’s wrong?”
	Martin turns his head and looks directly into her eyes lovingly, “Nothing, I had the dream again and I have a headache. Just go back to sleep.”
	“Just try to fall back asleep, it may not happen again.”
	“I hope not,” he replies as he turns his head and stares back at the ceiling. 
	Emily sits up and then leans over Martin, putting both arms on either side of him and kisses him softly. She then pulls away and lays her head down on his chest listening to his breathing and heartbeat. He gently strokes her back, moving her long black hair out of the way. They lay both happy and content with each other. 
	With a deafening shatter, the window bursts apart and two figures crash through carrying automatic rifles and wearing body armor. The moon glints off the black helmet and protective plates of their armor, as they land with thuds on the floor. One of the armed intruders storms over and tears Emily off of Martin, forcing her to the floor, cuffing and gagging her. Martin begins to yell in protest, leaping to his feet and pointing, but the other invader covers his mouth and pins him to the bed. His knee firmly placed in the center of Martin’s back.
	“Martin Johnson, you are under arrest. Remain silent or we will be forced to terminate you. By order of Chancellor Stanton.” The man informs him without compassion. 
	“But I didn’t do………..” As the words fumble out of his mouth, the officer slams the butt of his rifle into Martin’s head. The room dances and swirls before his eyes, however it finishes as he feels the cool metal of the cuffs slide over his wrists and a blindfold is placed over his disoriented eyes.  A rough hand pulls him to his feet and into the hall. A harsh push sends Martin careening down the stairs, rolling and hitting each step, landing at the bottom with a yelp of pain. The hand again, lifts him, and pushes him out of where his door would be. A light pierces the blindfolds fabric, then disappears as quickly as it appeared, again the hand pushes Martin, this time he is met by other hands which lift him onto a cot. These hold him down as a needle pierces his arm and swirls of color appear before his eyes, until he finally drifts into unconsciousness. 
* * * * *
	“Rise Defendant. By verdict of Council Jury and my hand, you and your wife are sentenced to death of this court’s choice or service in the armed forces conscript units, as well as lifetime exile from this city and free reign in this nation. These are punishments for the crime of treason. What is your choice?”
	The paleness on Martin’s face faded even more as he heard the verdict. His life was over. No home, no family, no future, his life has come to an end.  His blue jumpsuit, shaved head, and shackled arms showed the stature of a convict and true. His head droops down and a tear drips from his eye; he turns his head slightly to see his wife staring at him with terror and sorrow in her eyes, slowly tears begin to pour from her eyes as well and she buries her head into the blue arms or her jumpsuit. Raising his eyes to meet the glare of the judge before him, Martin calmly whispers, “I am no traitor, I will be proud to serve my nation.”
	“You chose exile, so be it. Remove these wretches from my sight, may the Fathership forgive you.”
* * * * *
	The R-76 rifle in Martin’s hands feels clumsy and heavy. The black polished stock serves as the main housing and component of the rifle. The barrel is placed on top of the housing and in a position adjacent to the chamber. The clip curves and attaches to the bottom of the gun between the handgrip with the trigger and the other grip, with which to steady shots. The rifle also has a stock to rest against the shoulder. The gun weighed close to a twenty pounds, with the clip, bullets, and attachments included in the weight. A strap was usually attached to a position on the barrel end and to a place on the stock used to brace on the shoulder.
	When picked up, the rifle transfers energy from the user to the rifle itself, powering: the scope on top, the electronic stabilizers, gimbals, and laser aim sight. The grip draws this energy from the user’s hand clenching the guns trigger grip. It drains a small portion of the electricity used in nerve impulses and minor mechanics.
	“Listen maggots! I am First Sergeant Derek McPherson, your officer. I am your mommy. I am your daddy. I am your god! When I tell you something, you respond, ‘Sir, yes Sir!’ Say it maggots!” 
	“Sir, Yes Sir!” 
	“Well at least you poor bastards have some enthusiasm. Listen up! You each are holding your weapon. It is the Ronaldson model 73 Assault Rifle. With your scope, you can blow the head off another puke like yourself at 500 feet. On your torso, shoulders, thighs you have the standard AI breastplate. It will stop most small arms and automatic weapons. On your hips you should see a thick leather belt, on it are pouches. The two on your left hip are two extra clips of ammo. On your left hip you should have a pouch containing four grenades. These are standard concussion/fragmentation grenades, don’t pull the pins, while its still in the pouch. On the back of your belt you will find a holster, in it is a Ronaldson Canine. It has a sixteen bullet clip and will save your ass more than once. On your feet you have a pair of AI boots. On the left foot a combat knife in an attached sheath has been placed, while on the right foot are two clips of ammo for your Canine. After this little greeting session you will be marched to the armory to pick up your field packs and helmets. These will strap to your back. In them you will find: a canteen, one pair of night vision goggles, two pairs of socks, two extra pairs of combat fatigues, an armored flashlight, toiletry kit, and weapon maintenance kit. When you maggots get your helmet it will have a strap under your chin and the microphone will need to be lowered over your mouth. After this put the earpiece in your left ear. Lets move to the armory now and get the gear.” 
	“Sir, Yes Sir!”
	When the sergeant finishes speaking he stands in front of the group and then turns briskly to his left and into the building there. The Sergeant is the most gigantic man Martin had ever seen. He stands eight feet tall and was well built, as far as Martin could tell due to the enormous suit of black armor encasing his body. The armor covered every inch of the Sergeant’s body, except for the head, which would later be covered with an armored helmet, which encompassed the officer’s entire head. Around Martin the other conscripts began to march behind the Sergeant. Each was adorned in the same AI breastplate and other equipment, AI standing for Armored Infantry. This black armored glinted like the Sergeant’s. The other twenty-nine conscripts around him made up a platoon. The platoon would be deployed together along with the Sergeant to serve a military purpose of some kind. The Conscript Service arranged the units into mixed units of every race and each sex; the only prerequisite was that the person must be able to hold and fire the rifle. The Conscript Service also took pity on Martin and his wife, so they were assigned to the same platoon and squad. Martin can hear her marching behind him as they enter the building and proceed through the glistening corridors of the armory.
	Another armored officer stood behind a desk built into the wall, through the window he was handing large leather packs and helmets. One after one each Conscript snatched their gear from the giant armored figure, some placing their helmets on their heads, some using them to cover more vulnerable. After some laughing the Sergeant bellows at a very large and strong looking Conscript closest to him goofing around. “What the hell is your name, son?”
	The Conscript still in a joking mood turns and replies, “Well, its Serial Number 45732 since I joined this piece of shit, but my real name is Bolt.” 
	The behemoth lifts his arm and lands a blow on Bolt’s shoulder. A snap echoes through the hall and immediately the Sergeant yells, “Medic!” Bolt falls to the floor yelling in pain. Within 30 seconds two Conscripts in similar AI breastplates, however a large red cross on a white circle is emblazoned on the chest, back, and shoulder pads. One medic plunges a needle into Bolt’s forearm, then carry him off down the hall, turning a corner. The Sergeant scowls at the remaining Conscripts and barks, “Don’t ever disrespect me such as Private Bolt, or you shall face far worse pain. Now to your barracks.” 
	Sergeant McPherson then begins storming down the hall, then out of the main door the platoon entered the building in before. Halting suddenly and spinning he faces the platoon and bellows, “In formation damn you!” This sends each Conscript running into place, then the Sergeant turns and continues marching, the platoon following suit. 
	The group passes other platoons training, marching, or exercising in the yard.  The Sergeant leads them to a large rectangular two-story building with windows rimming the walls on each floor and two large wooden double-doors at the front. The doors slide open themselves as the platoon enters. On each side of this room are twelve beds. Sergeant McPherson pulls a clipboard from his hid pouch and begins assigning bunks. Six names remain uncalled; Martin, Emily, and the injured Bolt remain among them. “The remaining Conscripts follow me.” Orders McPherson as he exits the room, entering another near it. This room contains two bunks, he reads “King and Planton. This is your bunk. You are each assigned the rank of Sergeant and given specific tasks. King due to your previous communication knowledge you are now the platoons communications officer. Your gear is in the footlocker. Planton, you are the platoon cook, due to your previous chef duties. The kitchen is upstairs, make yourself accustomed and ready to serve meals as well as train. The remainder follow me.”
	The Sergeant leads the remaining four out of the room and across the hall, opening the door and leading them in. “Dodge and Bolt.” A thin and scrawny recruit steps forward smiling. “Wipe that smile off your face boy. You are the platoon sniper. You should get your extra gear from the armory later. Get accustomed with the quarters.  The injured Bolt is the platoon heavy weapons expert. He was previously involved in rouge elements of the army until sent here, he has much experience in the heavy weapons area. You two follow me.”	 He then leads them out of the room and then into another room, this time more spacious with only one bunk. “Emily Johnson. This is yours.” McPherson points to Emily as he says this. “You are the platoon’s medic, due to your medical degrees and experience you are a good match. I will show you to the infirmary later, your extra gear is in the foot locker and closet. You are given the rank of Lieutenant.  Martin, follow me.” 
	McPherson leads him across the hall in an equally spacious room, then informs Martin. “Martin Johnson, due to your previous leadership in Rouge military operations and work in the police force, you have been selected as the Platoon leader. You are given the rank of Captain. In addition to basic training, you also will receive training on tactics, leadership, and anything else we deem necessary. Your extra equipment is in the footlocker and closet. Here is a schedule you must ready your platoon for.” As he says this, the Sergeant hands a different clipboard to Martin. “By the way, Captain, if you platoon causes any problems, you will be held responsible. I will be in to guide the way. Good day, Captain.” The Sergeant salutes and waits for Martin to return it, then walks down the hall.