Log 1

Personal log: Sargeant Barna Elbaz, Heretic Division
Codename: Heretic-16

Sanctuary 11th, 145 BPC.

It's been a day's trip from the nearest ESRA bot lab where the Heretics are stationed. This unit, the Chariot, and I are being transported by railroad alongside many tribesmen and tribeswomen of the Bel-shimmani who are joining the fight against the Vanguard. It's been two months since the uprising began, and for the first time, a sense of cohesion amongst the rebel insurgents has begun to form. 

Governor Samas' cruel silencing of the New Babylon Rally still causes rippling effects in all of our hearts. Many call it "the tipping point" for desperate action, for things to change by the fire of our guns. I for one am glad that they finally took me to the battlefield. Ever since I joined the rising ESRA forces, tensions have been all-time high between the so-called Heretic pilots and the rest of the army. Even now, as the train stops by different stations along the day, I see the river of uneasy and hateful stares many of them give the Chariot and the shadowy pilot that dwells in it, which in this case, happens to be me.

It doesn't matter if we share the same cultural heritage, nor if I look like them in a way—brown-haired and green eyes, with long locks of hair down to our lower back, as our Bel-shimmani traditions dictate. Hell, I could even be a chieftain's son or a sage's sire, it wouldn't matter; the important thing, the unforgivable thing I had done in their eyes, was that I had been trained by the Vanguard during my high school days.

As a Bel-shimmani raised in a village that was extorted by pirates constantly, the answer to a good life with a promising career was with the Vanguard's Military Corps, the de facto military presence on the planet other than organized crime. When positions were opened for specialized training with robotized units—or bots, as we call them—I promptly signed up, leaving my home with high hopes of making Babylonia, this fringe and century-old colony of humanity, a better place.

The stations are difficult to live through, as the officer in charge of the train has to explain to most of the people waiting there that the bot on one of the wagon platforms is there to bring the fight back to the government. Still, everyone seems to know that for someone to pilot the complex humanoid systems of the bot, you have to receive at least a two-year training curriculum that involves engineering, communication, piloting, and more. No one simply pilots a bot by pulling levers and pushing buttons.

Sometimes, as the train traversed the forested lands of the central continent we know as Euphrates, I opened my cockpit's hatch and simply sat on top of its boxy and cubic chest. Most of the time, the sturdy arm cannons serve well to cover my figure from unwanted eyes as I take a breather to look at the starry sky with my own eyes. Babylonia's three moons had been always beautiful in the countryside, but there was no better place to stare at them than my village.

On one occasion, the train stopped where the railroad met with other lanes, a town called Suridan. It was a major hub for commerce with a rough history. First, it was a nice trade center for many villages spread through the area, then it became a major rathole for the pirates of the Eriba Cartel, where traffic served their very whims, and many people had to pay a fee for safe passage through there. Now, it had been taken by the rebel army after a hard-fought urban battle against the pirates. 

I made sure to stay in my cockpit the whole time, but I did notice that many of the rebel fighters were barely geared with any body armor and held ballistic rifles—a standard gun for Bel-shimmani tribesmen in Babylonia, and not nearly enough to compete with the more advanced weaponry of the Vanguard or the pirates. All of them wore green bandanas either on their heads or tied to their arms. The station had been the place of some violent fighting, as it lay in shambles, its roof crumbled over the weight of mortar fire or other form of explosive. 

As I observed the devastation caused by the rebel takeover, my eyes met those of a boy who had spotted the large bot amidst the wagons filled with people. He could not see me, but his eyes seemed aimed directly at where I was to the point it made me feel uncomfortable. I perished those thoughts, however, when the kid's face turned out to be not one of horror or fear, but of awe and inspiration. Although brief, such a moment gave me a bit of hope. As a marginalized bot pilot, you hear a lot of unkind remarks, even when they are not trying to be offensive. To see that another Bel-shimmani appreciated that even we, the so-called Heretics, were now siding with the rebellion, gave me a good sign.

My assigned platoon, designated Nisanu 3, should be a few hundred miles away from the city, deeper into the mountain ranges that surround it. The frontlines against the Vanguard are way farther, but to fight there is not my calling but behind our lines. 

It appears that the Eriba Cartel is trying to hold onto its territory in the mountain range. Those pirates disrupt rebel supply lines, making it harder than it already is to bring munition and equipment to the frontline. My assigned platoon was tasked with cleaning the rural roads in the mountains, liberating villages from the pirate presence, and seizing their armories and labs.

In a few hours, the train will stop near the Nisanu camp, where I should meet with my new comrades and embark on foot, all the while the volunteers continue forward towards the frontlines. In a way, I think that I'm getting off easy, the Vanguard is highly equipped for such a conflict, while the Pirates won't know what hit them.