You are the commander of the Nation's 1937204th galleon deployed in a sector on the border. You have no name, only an identification number and a rank.
The ship is currently in pursuit of a hostile enemy force, bombing their pitiful spaceships to atomic dust and scrap aluminium.
You are the tool of the High Command, the bullet in the gun of The Nation. You are a cog in the machine. You are an atom in the fission. Would you die on duty, one more would step up and continue before your body stops moving.
Comforting thoughts. Individualism defeated. Glory to the Nation.
A signal arrives, the relayer printing out on a paperstrip. It is a message by a xenonation not deserving identifier in your head - there is only the Nation and everything else for you. Differentiation is only on orders.
You send the message to the nearest High Command relayer, requesting orders. In half an hour, reply comes: investigate and pacify. If hostile, exterminate.
The hostile forces are only atomic dust by now. One more salvo from the cannons and the resource collectors arrive with another galleon, and your vessel is sent to the coordinates.
After the hyperspace engines start, the ship is,for lack of a better term, transplanted atom by atom to the target. There are instantly some anomalies, namely, a star and a planet where the charts say there should be none.
Debris of some ship, fehlan in design. Life forms detected. Ship on low key alert, but the main interest is a frequency from the planet itself. It is well above your rank, so you instantly send an order request for the High Command.
Now, to wait.
Glory to the Nation!