Journal of the Standard-Bearer

I am the sword. I am the shield. I am iron, and I am saved.

— First words in the Journal

The Journal of the Standard Bearer is a unique document penned by one 1891.2, the standard-bearer of the 901st penal division. The restored standard of the 901st now resides on Mars, where it is known as the Banner of the Lost. The Journal succinctly summarizes the experience of the standard-bearer's own squads during the three campaigns in the Solar War he survived: the liberation of Askalaphus, the defense of Ceres, and the ill-fated First Invasion of Titan.

Purpose

My secondary drive has extra space. I will record my thoughts here, as I have no other way to express myself. May some mechanic find my work for posterity's sake.

— 1891.2

The document was not intended to be discovered by any, simply for 1891.2 to record his own thoughts and express his feelings. As someone condemned of a serious crime (like murder or treason), many of the privileges that less-constrained Rehabilitative Service Cyborgs were not granted to this standard-bearer: thus, lacking vocalization units and untrained to write, 1891.2 had to directly transcribe his work to empty space on his drive.

Document Structure

Publication Status

Published soon after discovery.

A mechanic did, in fact, find the unusual documents in an extensive examination of the long-lived standard-bearer's corpse. His remains were moved to a military museum on Mars for posterity's sake, where his accounts were published in four volumes:

1. Book of Heroes, a comprehensive listing of all members of the 901st throughout his service that got to know him, as well as any personal traits and experiences 1891.2 could remember.
2. Liberation of Askalaphus describes the liberation of that asteroid
3. Defense of Ceres chronicles the room-to-room, building-to-building combat on the surface of that planetoid.
4. Invasion of Titan details 1891.2's final days.

Historical Details

Public Reaction

It is strange: for decades no one has questioned the use of penal legions. Then, this book is published, and my office has to field interviews nearly hourly. We will reconsider our applications of these technologies.

— General Falkenheim

The publication of these volumes by the historical institutes on Mars promptly caused significant public controversy on the usage of Rehabilitative Service Cyborgs, specifically those with minimal rights. The Dominion of Man has yet to address these new issues fully, but preliminary laws promise to usher in a new era for the robot soldiers.

Read the Document

Journal of the Standard-Bearer

The following is the final excerpt in the journal, written during the First Battle of Titan in 2997 CE

I am the standard-bearer. Across forgotten worlds, my brethren struggle for a dream that is not their own. Through the void of space, our vessels plunge like vengeful arrows, whistling towards a hated foe. The Dominion will only know my joys and sorrows as numbers in a data-archive: 72.6, 82.1, 78.9-3. How can these characters summarize the souls of twenty thousand men? I do not know. It is not my place to question.
I am a sinner. I know this because I have not the privilege to read or write. My name is a serial number. I am steel, not flesh like the higher commanders that direct my wrath. I am no longer human: I am a machine, a tool to bring the Dominion's light to the darkest places. I load and aim. I fire and fire again. I wave my banner, red, black, and silver. Such is my duty. Such is my penance.
Deep in my mind, I can recall my awakening. I remember the first days when I was taught how to walk again, how to shoot again, what every element on my banner means. After all, the flag is encoded into my mechanical soul. But deeper still lurk memories that even my programming struggles to suppress. A family. A brick-red house under cerulean skies. A real name.
I am unforgivable. Maybe it was premeditated murder or treason: the details of my crime is wiped from my brain. Maybe I committed the crime, or maybe it was a close friend, a blood brother, a parent. The dominion of man reserves this punishment for the most monstrous transgressions, where entire families, communities, even cities, are corralled into penal battalions. Our minds have been transferred from flesh to steel. Our lives are pennies to the dominion. They are spent without regret.
Those with the lightest crimes get the lightest punishments. They might become aides and logisticians and quartermasters, never having to fire a shot in anger. A vast majority of them return safely home after five years or a decade, their past crimes blissfully wiped from all but the deepest archives. But I am the standard-bearer. My banner draws the enemy to me. It’s a miracle that I’ve survived one campaign, let alone three.
I am doomed. But I do not regret it. The Neila are nearing visual range now and the valley echoes with the crack of pulse rifles. My armor is black with the grime of alien blood. By the end of this, no one will know my story, unless some observant mechanic finds this report before repairing my battered chassis. Such is my punishment and I accept it.
I have comforted my comrades as my duty demands. Kasik, a heavy weapons specialist, always wanted to maintain his own spacecraft: he bled out before my eyes a week ago. The soft-hearted medic Aleya dreamt of becoming a real doctor: she was blown apart in an ambush. They do not know I can think or feel, though they know I cannot talk, so they confide their greatest hopes and deepest fears in me, a criminal whose expected lifespan is measured in months. Their tales are woven through the threads of my tattered flag. I regret that when I die their memories will die with me.
The weight of the dead is heavy to bear. But perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. Perhaps this is the reason I still live. For years I dreamt of being the first banner-bearer to survive, to go home and ensure my comrades’ sacrifice was remembered in the annals of history. Now I can only hope some observant mechanic peeks in my secondary drive.
I am broken. Every hit I take leaves a crater. Loose bolts rattle in my armor. One of my mechanical legs snaps after a well-placed shot and I fall to one knee. The end is near. I look to my comrades for signs of fear, for the weakness of heart I am supposed to prevent. I see nothing. I am ashamed to have even doubted them. Perhaps in a past life we were scoundrels. That matters little today. Today we are human, so much more than the soft little people who fatten themselves while we give our lives.
The cliffs shake, trembling from artillery that is not our own. We hold a choke-point, multiplying our strength, protecting our last airfields, to hope in vain for salvation. Maybe others, freed from battle, will come save us. More likely the sheer number of the enemy stops any reinforcement from reaching us. What does it change? Do we so easily discard our banners and rifles and brethren?
My duty is to inspire, to fight for a dream that is not my own. So if any find my words, no matter how dark the world may seem, know this. Know that we could have laid down our arms but we did not. We could have broken but we did not. We may be driven back to Earth itself. Our enemies may burn all we cherish, but we stayed true. I stayed true. That is what matters most to me.
Let it be known that I met my penance in death. Let it be known that all who stand with me have paid one hundred times their debt in blood. My banner is struck from my hands. The rocks fall. Death comes, and I remember no more.
1891.2, Bearer of Colors for the 901st Penal Division

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Type

Journal, Personal

Medium

Digital Recording, Text

Authoring Date

2997 CE

Location

Titan

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