Sergeant Tarot was going to die.

The Shunted boiled before him, screaming towards his position in a mass of limbs and weapons and terrible shapes. Some flew. Some slithered. Some were even vaguely humanoid. All were a mix of red and black and silver, with circuits and blades and guns mixed and merged with their bodies. They did not shout or scream as they charged. The only sounds they made were the scrabbling of limbs upon the ground, the discharge of energy weapons, and the omnipresent hum that Tarot could feel in his teeth.

As he watched, another ship slammed into the planet's surface a few kilometers away. It's hull burst, and another mass of techno-organic horror burst forth, shifting and sliding as they made their way towards his position.

The planet, which Command had named Finalis, had been heavily defended. Had been. The entire Third and Seventh fleets had come here, along with every ship the Durians and the Pryg could muster. The threat of the Shunted had united the great powers in a way that had never been seen, but their combined might hadn't amounted to much in the end. Those fleets were gone, now. Only the Shunted remained above him.

Finalis had its own defenses. Was, in fact, a defense itself. The planet wasn't really a planet at all, but an ancient machine. It's weapons destroyed the Shunted vessels by the millions, but one or two an hour were managing to break through to the surface. One or two an hour was more than enough.

Auto-turrets spun up, a torrent of plasma scything into the monsters. Sgt. Tarot reveled in the extra firepower while he could. They would only be operational for another hour at most. Their mech-suits had already run out of power. Most of the combat drones had been destroyed. He shared a look with Parker. The Lance Corporal had lost her helmet, the only trace of its former existence being the mess it had made of her carefully braided hair. During one of the lulls in combat she'd applied green and black makeup in stripes across her skin. Called it her warface. The others had been taken so much with the idea that they'd done the same. No one would see it under their helmets, but they knew it was there. Camouflage was useless against the Shunted, but it was a tradition as old as the Marine Corps itself.

Lance Corporal Parker was going to die. The thought sent a cold shiver down the sergeant's legs.

Sergeant Tarot didn't want to die. No one did. While he was nominally a Christian, he'd never really been sure there was a heaven. Or that he'd be allowed in if there was. No, death was the same unknown it always had been. A one way trip with no telling what was on the other side. He'd found himself praying anyways. Silently, under his breath. He'd always done that when things got rough. He guessed he'd keep doing it if he somehow made it out of here alive. Which he wouldn't.

Sergeant Tarot was going to die.

With the turrets active, the Marines focused their fire on the flyers. The Shunted couldn't fly very high. Or rather, they could, but anything that went over eight meters above the surface would be atomized by the planet's defenses. The Shunted had learned quickly. The eggheads at Command said they were smart. Smarter than humans, even. They just didn't think like people did. No creativity, and very little self preservation. They preferred speed, numbers, and overwhelming force over strategy. It had worked for them so far.

The flyers were dispatched with ease. The Stellar Marines were the best. Had been since they were the United States Marines. A tradition of excellence in warfare that had persisted for hundreds of years. The other species believed it was because of their technology. Autotargeting. Mechanized warfare. They were wrong. Technology was a tool. It was a hard heart that kills. The Marines were the best because they were trained to be. The Marines were the best because they were the Marines.

The auto-turrets were still mopping up the ground forces, but it looked like none of the Shunted would be able to reach their position. The Sergeant's surge of pride and relief didn't last long. The wave from the most recent ship would be on them in another minute or two.

He wondered how the others were doing. Another twenty Marines were escorting an alien, an orphan, and a pair of eggheads down the only working elevator they'd found on this planet. Apparently, Finalis was some sort of ancient safeguard against dimensional invaders that had been left behind by some long dead civilization. The Shunted weren't from this reality, and while they could be fought by conventional means, a whole galaxy's worth of adaptive techno-organic locusts put the war firmly in their favor. The fact that they could turn dead people and tech into more of themselves didn't help. This was their last chance. The final hope for humanity, and the universe as a whole. Either Finalis would destroy the Shunted, or the Shunted would kill them all.

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The Shunted knew it, too. They were coming to stop it with everything they had. Sergeant Tarot took a moment once again to curse whatever mechanism prevented their alien pal from authorizing more forces to land on the planet. One dropship with thirty Marines wasn't much to stand against the full might of an extra-dimensional army. Ten Marines to guard the entrance was even less. Tarot and his squad would buy as much time as they could, but he didn't know if it would be enough. Reaching the core of the planet would take a long time, and the Shunted would move awfully fast once his people weren't blocking the way.

Hell, it could be this whole last stand was worthless. Maybe the bastards had found another way down. It was a big planet. There had to be more than one way in. Comms had cut off as soon as the others entered the elevator. They could all be dead and the Sergeant would never know.

Time passed. The Marines fought. After the turrets stopped working, the next wave reached their position. Lenard and Paulson died. Parker got infected. As the circuits traced their way over her skin, Sergeant Tarot told her she'd done her duty. He ordered her to close her eyes. He didn't think she heard him. He covered her eyes with his armored hand and whispered "I'm sorry." When the deed was done he pulled the pin on the grenades in her belt and tossed her over the barricade. He couldn't risk another Shunted building itself out of her corpse.

Tarot turned back to his squad. There were only five of them left. Six counting the Sergeant. "Where's Nelson?"

Private First Class Hayes shook his head. "They breached his armor. He got infected." He pointed over the barricade. "Pulled the pin and threw himself over."

Sergeant Tarot nodded. "He was a good Marine."

"Yeah." The others agreed.

Sergeant Tarot steeled himself. His legs wanted to shake, but he refused to let them. His squad couldn't see him scared. They deserved better. "Well boys and girls," he tried to keep his tone light. "Looks like this is the end of the line." He swept an arm towards the battlefield. Thousands upon thousands of corpses littered the ground in front of them. "We're out of toys and we're almost out of ammo. The next wave of cockroaches will be our last."

"Do you think we bought enough time, Sarge?" Baca was the shortest person in his squad. She was also his favorite. Hard edged and squared away, but she was soft on the others. She mothered everybody she could get away with, and had even dared to hug Tarot himself once, when he'd lost his boy. She told bad jokes and baked good cookies. Tarot would kill to have one of those cookies, now.

"I know we did." The Sergeant knew no such thing. "The LT wanted us to hold this position for six hours. We've kept the bastards out for twenty-three. If our people haven't hit the core yet, they'll hit it soon." He took off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his brow for the first and last time of the day. "There's only one thing left to do."

"We won't get to see it, will we?" Private Snow was the most philosophical of the squad that was left. Paulson had held the title before, but he was dead now. "If we win or not. We'll never know."

Another Shunted ship slammed into the surface. Sergeant Tarot felt the vibrations through his boots. A second ship crashed a second later, farther away. The closer ship was twenty clicks from their position. They had ten minutes at most.

"That's the hell of being a hero, Snow." Tarot took a deep breath through his nose. The air smelled of blood and ozone and the strangely sweet musk of dead Shunted. "You don't get to know for sure. All we can do is follow orders and hope for the best."

"Heh," Baca snickered. Tarot couldn't see her face, but he knew she was grinning. "He thinks we're heroes."

"He's wrong," PFC Nightwalker rumbled. He was the biggest man in the squad, and usually the quietest.

"You want to rephrase that, Nightwalker?" Sergeant Tarot frowned at the man. "While you still have your health?"

"Heroes are chumps." The Private First Class shrugged. "Amateurs. The rest of the platoon's babysitting some of them, and they'd be dead without us." He drew himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest. "We're Marines. We get the job done no matter what. That's better than heroes."

"Fair enough." Sergeant Tarot gave him a nod. He spared a glance for the mass of Shunted racing for their position. "You lot are the best damned men and women I ever served with. I'm proud of you all." His leg twitched. Tarot forced himself to keep still. He would allow no tears, no weakness, no hint of fear. His squad would see him as he'd always been, stone-faced and unflappable. They deserved all the courage he could muster. It was the last thing he'd be able to do for them. "Is our going away present still primed?"

Private Snow checked the device. A low yield nuclear warhead. It would vaporize everything within two kilometers, and ruin the day of any Shunted that were farther out. It would also damage the elevator, and there was a risk the EMP might mess with the planet's defenses, somehow. "Primed and ready, Sergeant." Snow unstrapped the detonator from his arm. Each of the Marines had had one, but Tarot's had been smashed during the last fight. Snow handed over his.

The Sergeant took the detonator. It was a small thing. He flipped a switch and the button on top blinked red light. One push, and it would be done.

Sergeant Tarot was going to die. His Marines were going to die. There would be no miracles. No reinforcements. No last minute rescue. Another ten minutes, maybe less, and it would be over. They wouldn't be around to see if the mission was accomplished. They would never know if humanity was saved. All they would know is that they did what they could. Sergeant Tarot could only hope it was enough.

"Alright, Marines." The Sergeant donned his helmet one last time. "Let's give these bastards one last surprise."