Hadrian stood at the head of formation, the white of his uniform finely pressed and creased by his quarters auto-cleaner, the smart mag fibers forming it perfectly to his body, and black boots polished to a shine by his own hand.
His dark hair neatly trimmed hidden beneath his equally white officer cap, an M with a bronze bar through it pinned to the front signifying his rank.
He was what was known as a Bar Marshall, a specialized rank on Grecia for officers in training who were authorized to the field early. Most commonly it just a rank used to babysit boots, an authority to keep privates out of trouble while off duty and nothing more.
For his squadron it was a legitimate rank for a legitimate commander. Much like those under him he was a soldier but not by his own will or choosing. By outside Imperial terms, he and his comrades are what is known as an S.U.D or Soldier Under Duress, a soldier forced into service without a draft.
In simpler terms he was a child soldier, having been sold by his own mother into slavery at the young age of eight, soon after finding himself in indentured servitude to the Principality of Grecia, once the trafficker ship carrying him was seized by system authorities.
Humanity was in the midst of a centuries long era of migration, branching out into the stars. A myriad of systems and a myriad of worlds. A thousand times a thousand chthonic marbles hosting life settled one after another by the embraced by the wings humanity sprouted to aloft into the stars.
Long ago It had been agreed that humanity would remain whole, United as one race, one species within the void of twinkling lights.
That the far reaching settlers would bend the knee when civilized space caught up was expected. Rare was refusal and oft were any rebellious sentiments scoured from the face of the galaxy under the Human Empires Axian-steel heel. Grecia had refused.
The tenth auxilia. That was Hadrians squadron. Slaves all, standing behind him in uniform cohesion; chins up, hands stiff against their sides and feet together. Their fatigues were baggy and grey, a one-size fits all issue, and heads buzzed unlike his own.
their boots ugly and tied manually unlike his own sleek smart seal ones.
It was inspection day a bi-monthly event involving all auxilia, not all of which were slaves but none of which were citizens. The children of criminals, or void adrift castaways.
He stood in contrast to his soldiers not just in uniform, but in stance, his hands behind his back and feet shoulder width apart and head canted forward. A soldiers posture should evoke discipline while an officer should evoke focus.
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His squadron, designation Europa, was comprised of four teams of five, each with a designation all their own. Caliban, Camelot, Roma, and Avalon.
Upon recruitment he was far from the most physically capable but he had made a mind for strategy and tactics clear early on. ‘A clever brat’ He was called, soon finding himself the leader of team Roma and then the squadron itself.
You may be wondering ‘why let a slave lead slaves?’ To answer. ‘Is it not easier to let dogs lead dogs when you’ve leashed the head of the pack?’ That was how it is, and that is how for young Hadrian it must be. Becoming a full fledged officer was his one ticket to freedom and he was well on his way.
The most uniform, the most disciplined Europa, had yet to fail Bi-monthly inspections in quite some time.
Of course this time as well they passed. The tink of boots the tickle of breathe from his nigh nose-to-nose superiors inspecting every facet of his uniform to the length of his hair.
The feeling of discomfort, the feeling of being under a microscope the feeling of anger when one of the inspectors hands lingered a little too long on one of his female adjutants, but his face betrayed nothing.
‘FOR WHAT DO YOU FIGHT?!’ An female officer in a dark blue uniform thundered at the fore of the anteroom.
“FOR GRECIA, FOR THE BLOOD WE CALL GRAIN!” All ten Auxila bellowed in return. The motto of the Grecian military.
“Squads five, eight, seven, four, and two are to remain! All others dismissed!”
‘Vasavi, Calidon, Numidia, Ghaul, and Persia’ the usual flunks. Hadrian thought as he stepped in a stiff march leading Europa from the anteroom, boots clapping on the floor.
Always sloppy, always disorganized. He simply couldn’t fathom failing something so simple as inspection day. A quick glance at the formation gave him a clue. Untied boots, rolled sleeves, pants sagging. ‘How could they be so stupid, so inept?’ His eye twitched in disdain.
He couldn’t imagine what barracks inspections were like for them either. Europa always passed those as well, he made sure of it. Strict and harsh was the attitude he used when his squadron erred.
The ones who were brought in after Europa established itself were always in some way easily frustrated by his demeanor, but he didn’t care if he was hated for it, because his direct superiors would be far harsher.
It was more than his job and responsibility to keep them in line. He wanted to protect those under him, I’m whatever way he could.
They were fortunate to have him leading them. He had been given a proper officers education, being both smart and lucky to have been taken a shine too by his direct officer, Captain Melina Cartwright.
He felt a small pride at how quickly he’d taken to what he was being taught back then, falling in line, proper posture, military jargon, target practice.
The one who was always praised, the one who was rarely ever beat. The one who after a few months was put behind the screen of a computer to study everything required to be an officer and then four years later, he was Bar Marshal Hadrian.
Europa strut out of the room. Each team in uniform order Roma, Caliban, Camelot, and Avalon. However this was not the end of their day, next up would be combat training.
