Rome In The Sky: Daybreak

CH 4: Saints Into Martyrs

MIKKELSEN

An alarm went off.

The man bolted upright in his bed, rubbed his eyes, and then stood. One wall of the massive room was made completely of windows, opening out on the city below. The light of the skyscrapers of New America and the early dawn sun reflected off the black marble floor. The city stood stalwart and imposing, with towers hundreds and thousands of feet high, and highways leading across from one to another, made of glass, where cars and carriages and men on horseback could look straight through them down at the bustle below. Billboards and displays projected images of exactly what he wanted to be shown. It was his city, after all. He had molded and shaped it over the years he'd been in office.

He faced his metropolis and smiled.

'I will never tire of these lights.'

He went to shower.

He was thin, his body scarred and gnarled. Wires were implanted in his torso and right arm, and there was a metal prosthetic in the place of his right hand. He dressed himself in his duty uniform, a stiff black suit, the chest covered in ribbons and medals, and at the center of his chest, five small stars with wings in the center.

He opened the drawers in the vanity, picking out a watch from the display, and other various items he carried with him throughout the day. Everything had its place in the drawer, and on his person, copacetic and sterile.

He stopped by the bed to kiss his wife on the forehead. She stirred.

"Good morning," he said, before exiting the room. The long marble hallway was lined with doors on one side and windows on the other. Statuesque Praetor stood on either side of each door, as still as statues.

The man descended a flight of stairs, turned a corner, and faced a double door with an arch over it, guarded by four more Praetor. They opened it for him silently.

About a dozen officials sat at a table in the center of a conference room. A large screen was mounted to the far wall.

"The prime commander!" a man at the head of the table called out. Everyone in the room stood quickly when he entered.

"Be seated," Mikkelsen Astergaard said, before taking a seat himself and interlocking his fingers on the tabletop.

"Lindenheim, go ahead." He said, addressing the man in charge of the meeting.

"Early this morning," Lindenheim said, "our recruiters reported four hundred ninety-seven new cadets ready for Induction, roughly a battalion's worth of personnel. Seventy-two are from penitentiaries throughout the limits, thirteen percent were picked from the general population during the last draft, ten percent were recruited as joint trainees from local armed forces in the limits, and a whopping five percent are volunteers, an increase of four percent since last quarter."

"Volunteers?" Mikkelsen asked.

'I suppose our public image has been improving.'

"Certainly, sir. Bioengineers have been making long strides, and I believe these advancements are responsible for the attention. The fear of death is the primary item of contention with the draft, but our psyops have been hard at work. When in the past, the Jury SMR gene therapy has had inconsistent results due to a lack of research quality and resources, strides have been taken to standardize the process, leading to a more consistent product. We've been able to repair formerly lethal combat injuries with increasing success. This, alongside the recently developed Blur Combat Interface has created unprecedented survivability."

"Revenue?" Mikkelsen asked.

"Yes, of course. We've come upon what is likely the best turnout of taxable natural resources in the limits. The Miners of St. Rage are doing well for the conduction in our larger cities due to the tax on the silver mines."