Duty Calls

2074 - Le Bastion Souterrain

The summons arrived while Lucas was tending the hydroponic gardens in Sector 4. Just a simple notification on his tablet, yet its weight pressed down on his chest like the tons of rock that loomed above them: "Report to Conscription Processing, Level B, 0800 hours tomorrow." The sterile font felt like a verdict, stripping away the comfort of routine.

Deep down, he’d known this day would come. Everyone did when they turned eighteen, crossing that invisible line between childhood and the burdens of adulthood. The gardens, his sanctuary filled with vibrant greens and the delicate scent of soil, would have to find someone else to measure pH levels and adjust nutrient flows. Someone else to whisper to the strawberry plants that never quite tasted like the ones in the old stories.

“Already?” His mother’s voice cracked when he showed her the notification that evening. Their living unit felt smaller than usual, the familiar grey walls pressing in closer, almost suffocating. She smoothed her maintenance uniform with trembling hands, the fabric worn but clean. “I thought… with your work in hydroponics…” Her words felt heavy, laced with a mix of disbelief and dread.

“They need soldiers more than gardeners,” Lucas said, trying to sound confident. The words felt rehearsed, like so many of the things spoken within the cold confines of Le Bastion. Protection requires sacrifice. Duty before comfort. The walls keep us safe, or so they were told repeatedly.

His mother's eyes darted towards the family shrine—a small shelf in the corner holding his father’s service medallion and a photo of a man Lucas could barely remember. Ten years ago, another tablet notification had blinked to life: “Radiation Security Officer Morel died maintaining the shields that protect us all.” The message had been simple, and concise. Just like everything in Le Bastion.

"I’ll be fine, Maman," Lucas reassured her, yet he could sense her unease. She was already reaching for her tablet, fingers trembling as she typed furiously, desperately searching for a loophole.

“Maybe if I speak to Supervisor Chen… Your work in hydroponics is essential to food production. Surely they could—”

“Maman,” Lucas interrupted gently but firmly, catching her hand in his. “You know it doesn’t work that way. Once you get that notification, it’s done. They don’t take exceptions.” His heart ached at the despair he saw in her eyes.

The evening meal was quiet, a stark contrast to the rising tide of emotions swirling in their small space. Their nutrition packets tasted even more bland than usual as if the flavors had retreated in anticipation of his fate. Lucas found himself staring at the artificial light panels above that simulated a day-night cycle none of them had ever personally experienced. Sometimes he wondered if real sunlight had felt as hollow, devoid of warmth or genuine comfort.

A soft chime announced the evening curfew. Through the thin walls, they could hear their neighbours settling in for the night; somewhere nearby a child was crying, while another family burst into laughter, blending into the symphony of a thousand lives packed into carefully measured spaces, each one living out meticulously controlled days.

“Your grandmother asked about you,” his mother said suddenly, breaking the thick silence like glass shattering. “She’s having one of her better days. You should visit before...” She trailed off, her voice catching on the unspoken truth.

They both knew the stories—whispers passed down about conscripts who lost touch with their families during training. For security, they said. To build proper focus and loyalty. Familiar phrases couched in the garb of necessity. Duty left little room for personal connections.

His grandmother’s care unit was three levels down, nestled within the sterile medical wing that always smelled too clean, as if they were trying to scrub away more than just germs. The walls were an unsettling shade of white, which somehow seemed to amplify the silence. Lucas found her sitting up in bed, her white hair stark against the grey pillows, a fragile angel in a world of steel and stone.

“Mon petit,” she smiled, reaching for him with paper-thin hands that trembled with age. Her eyes were clearer than they’d been in weeks, a glimpse of the vibrant woman he remembered. “I heard the news. Are they still calling them, then? Even now?” The question hung heavy in the air.

“Grand-mère...” Lucas felt a lump form in his throat, unsure how to navigate this delicate conversation.

“Such a waste. All of it.” She shook her head, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We thought… but no. They don’t tell the young ones anymore, do they? About the—"

She stopped abruptly, blinking in confusion as if she was lost in a fog. The clarity that had been so evident only moments before began to cloud over. “I’m sorry, who are you again?” Her eyes, once so full of wisdom, now flickered with uncertainty.

Lucas squeezed her hand gently, steeling himself against the undeniable ache in his chest. “Just a friend, Grand-mère. Get some rest.” He left quickly, his heart pounding as the tightness in his throat threatened to morph into something worse. In the dim corridor, a medical officer nodded as he passed, her expression unreadable. Lucas thought he saw her making a note on her tablet, the act feeling more like surveillance than care.

That night, he lay awake in his narrow bed, surrounded by the unsettling hum of air recyclers. Tomorrow, he would join the other recruits. He would learn to protect Le Bastion, maintain the radiation shields, and guard the walls that kept them safe from whatever horrors lay beyond.

Protection requires sacrifice, he reminded himself, each time reminding him of the duty he owed. But as sleep finally took him, his grandmother’s parting words echoed relentlessly: “They don’t tell the young ones anymore…”

Tell them what? The question haunted him, lingering like a shadow as he drifted into an uneasy slumber.