Subject: Staff Sergeant Power

Species: Human

Description: Mammalian humanoid, no tail. 6'2" (1.87 m) avg height. 185 lbs (84 kg) avg weight. 170 year life expectancy.

Ship: USSS Liberty

Location: Tanar {plentiful harvest}

"I hate this fucking planet," Private First Class Brint said over comms.

I immediately turned to him and gave him the sign to shut the fuck up. Comms security was a priority on this assignment. The gont insurrectionists may have comm trackers, and if they do the boot had just given them our position. He winced and signaled his understanding.

Brint's the only gont on my squad. But not the only boot. We were down to 8, but got enough fresh graduates to fill our ranks back up to the classic 13 man model. Ten humans, one gont, one alumari, and the stereotypical knuknu medic. All five of the replacements are PFCs, which doesn't bode well for my mental health. Mental health is a luxury in the Marine Corps, though.

The humans on the squad are myself, Private First Class Boyle, PFC Reinhardt, PFC Johns, PFC Rogers, Lance Corporal Higgs, LCPL Livingstone, LCPL Hart, Corporal Chang, and Sergeant Gruff. The Alumari is SGT Intornathalogi, Int for short. The knuknu is Corpsman Yunk. Int, Yunk, and Gruff had been on the squad nearly as long as I had.

Squad 1, 120A Battalion, 13th Marine Regiment. We'd been in the shit since the insurrectionist's coup attempt. From planet to planet we'd been fighting them, digging them out of caves and freeing the locals from their terrorist tactics. Early on we even had some boarding action. Looking around this backwater planet in the Hran system, I sorely missed the boarding.

Each squad has 3 fire-teams and one medic. I lead fire-team Alpha, Gruff leads Bravo, and Int leads Charlie. Squads are normally led by a lieutenant, who also leads fire-team Alpha. Things get complicated once you hit the grinder, though.

Our LT, First Lieutenant Harold Riggson, had been hit by an anti-armor grenade about six months back. He should've been dead immediately, but the guardian suit kept him alive long enough that no amount of counseling will ever get his death out of my head. Ribs splayed open like fingers, lungs... God. The corpsmen are known as the angels of death, and that day had demonstrated why perfectly. Yunk had held Riggson's hand as he turned off the life support on his suit.

From that moment on I was in charge. Command had not seen fit to grant us a spare officer, so it's up to me to lead these shitheads into the fire and try to make sure they make it back out in a big enough piece to continue to the next fire. After a week of on-base leave we got five new PFCs to fill our ranks.

These privates were running me ragged though. I sent them a knife hand and gestured for them to increase their spacing. They signaled understanding and complied. Dumbasses. It's instinct to stay close to each other, but it's an instinct that's better served in cattle.

I felt sorry for Gruff. His entire team was now made of boots. He jokes that it's what he gets for surviving. Griping aside, though, things could be worse. At least the recruits are trained, for the most part. Not like the gont regimentals we had to serve with earlier on in this war. THEY didn't even have the excuse of being new to the job.

The training makes all the difference. Marine corps training is the most grueling in all the galaxy. Probably. I had heard that we had made first contact with some new aliens, and I don't know about their training. It's pretty unlikely that it's tougher, though.

We go through 8 months of basic training on Hellwurld, then even more training depending on our MOS. As infantry we go through a full 14 months of training, minimum. Other specialties get to go to different planets to train, but we grunts stay on Hellwurld.

If you're one of the gen-alts, like me, you have to go through 18 months of training and genetic therapy. There are a lot of reasons to get the gene therapy. First, it allows you to use the advanced guardian armor, which increases strength and speed by a lot. Second, it helps you be absolutely jacked and tall as all hell. I'm 7'3", and on the shorter side of the gen-alts. I'm also more ripped than I have ever been, even when I was bodybuilding as a teen. Third, you get higher pay, lifetime pay and benefits, and more career prospects when you retire from the corps.

Seriously, if you're a gen-alt with a brain the sky's the limit. Even with a dishonorable discharge you've got more career prospects than a civilian who hasn't had the therapy. Considering how difficult it is to get the therapy outside of the armed forces, it's a pretty distinct advantage. One that I am not dumb enough to turn down. There are two catches, though. You have to join infantry for 10 years, and it can kill you.

The training for infantry is as intensive as it is long. The first month deprives a recruit of sleep to ensure they sleep when they're told to. Months 2 through 4 are disciplinary training. Drill, formation, call and response, and even how to shave, eat, shower, and shit like a marine. 5 through 6 is weapons theory, 7 through 8 is weapons practical. You learn what the guns do, and then how to make them do it.

For infantry, 9 through 11 is tactical theory, and 12 through 13 is tactical practical. Squad formations, camouflage, enfilade, defilade, and the military crest are all covered and practiced. They don't cover proper spacing for some fucking reason. Month 14 is the crucible and then graduation. From then on you're a Marine.

Months 15 through 18 are only for gen-alts. The first two weeks are the actual gene therapy, genetically altering you until you're what most species would consider a super-soldier. You get over that particular fantasy the first time you do CQC with a gont, though.

The next two weeks are learning how to move again with your new body. Breaking cups and doors is common. The next month is physical training to get the most out of the genetic alterations. The last two months are learning to utilize the advanced guardian armor.

Persons other than grunt do a more condensed version of infantry training before they go off to learn their real jobs. They learn the same things we do, but not as in-depth. A prime example is that POGs aren't trained on sidearms. They also don't know how to defend against a breach and clear. Despite my disdain for the boots in my squad, I'm still glad they aren't POGs.

The ground crunched to signify a change in the terrain. Tanar is a gont farming world, with rock deserts scattered throughout the otherwise temperate terrain. Of course, it's got jungles and arctic zones and shit like that, but the grasslands and deserts are the only thing I've seen on this shithole.

Int says that the rocks are the precursors of sand, but I ain't a geologist. All I know is that somewhere in this pebble pile is a cave that's acting as a base of operations for a particularly nasty set of dog-taurs that need to be put down. And they're ready for us. I was tempted to do a weapons check, but I'd already done one before we set out and I wasn't about to let them catch me with my pants down.

I hefted the C21B to the ready position and double checked the safety. Weapons have to be condition 0 on patrol, but sometimes the movement of the rifle can fat-finger the switch. It only takes a tenth of a second to fix, but a tenth of a second is the difference between who shoots first. I glanced around, making sure everyone was covering their sectors. The boots were sulking, but otherwise doing their jobs. Good.

I heard a soft bing from my helmet and felt a soft jab in my lower lip. Chow time. As I chewed the nutrition stick I thought about how grateful I was for the notification. Without it, I would have jumped. Being poked in the face will do that to you. I took a sip from my helmet's straw as I finished the chow. The nutrition sticks are an important part of a Marine's balanced diet. They'll keep you going for up to a month without an actual meal. A month and a half for gen-alts.

A lot of marines would rather starve to death. The sticks taste terrible and have a waxy texture that sticks to your teeth. There have been many attempts to make them more palatable, but it usually ends up with a new terrible taste and the same nasty texture. The taste is like ramen that's been cooked and dried several times with way too much salt and sugar and some sort of chemical compound. Like bleach or something.

The nasty taste has led to the belief among some of the dumber marines that the guardian suits recycle our shit to make the sticks. In actuality, the suits feed our shit to our reactors and recycles our piss into water. Each suit carries one gallon of water and 60 nutrient sticks. The fact that engineering doesn't let us "reload" our own suits doesn't help the rumors.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I sighed to myself as the grass behind us faded from view. Command believes that the gonts have anti-vehicular measures, so we were having to hoof it. I'm of the firm belief that this is a managerial overthink, but it's not like I can bitch about it to my squad. So I just had to internalize my frustrations and wonder what possible type of anti-vic could take out guardian suits along with a vehicle.

They'd dropped us 20 miles from the gont base, which was about 10 miles more than necessary. Whatever, we'd already marched 12 miles, so we'd be there soon. The humans on the squad are still looking fresh, like we're just out for a Sunday stroll. But that's because we were all gen-alts. Aliens could go through the program as well, but the benefits weren't as pronounced and the risks were greater.

Int, Yunk, and Brint are looking tired. The only reason they made it this far is because of their guardian suits. I think I should call a rest, we don't have much farther to go and we'll likely be better off if everybody is fresh.

ZZT ZZT ZZT

A familiar and unwelcome sound. The sound of a directed energy weapon hitting shields.

"CONTACT RIGHT!"

"COVER YOUR SECTORS!" I shouted while aiming toward our right flank.

Everyone hit the deck facing the directions that they were supposed to. Even the boots. Good on them. I scanned for our target, who was under the mistaken impression that we were their target. The terrain was mostly flat, but there were berms in the distance. Barely close enough for laser fire.

I increased my magnification and saw some rocks tumble down the berm. Bingo. I gestured toward the berm to apply a ping, letting the rest of the squad know where to look. Once I saw the waypoint, I checked the squad's vitals.

It was Higgs who had taken the hit, so he had to have called the contact. Lasers are invisible unless you're using infrared or smoke. The Directed Energy Rifles fire in short bursts to make it more difficult to trace them back. Which is why our suits have damage indicators.

I closed the status screen once I saw his shield begin to regenerate. The three hits had knocked him down to a quarter. That means they're using OUR fucking lasers. The furry fucks can't even play with their own toys.

"Staffsarnt Power," Chang said, gesturing to his MK48 grenade launcher.

"No, those are thermobaric and we'll need them for the cave. We're going to do this the good ol' fashioned way. FIRE-TEAM BRAVO! RUSH!"

"FIRE-TEAM RUSH AYE!" Gruff, Boyle, Reinhardt, and Brint answered.

Gruff and Brint began firing their C21Bs at the berm while Boyle and Reinhardt rose and began to charge. After three seconds of sprinting they hit the deck and began firing while Gruff and Brint began their rush. It was a very old and very effective technique for bypassing enemy cover. That berm that was covering the gont fucks was about to become their doom.

As Bravo was rushing, one of the gont popped their head up to take a shot. Their guardian helmet almost instantly vaporized, leaving a pink and red mist in its place. One shot, which means they don't have shields on their armor. The C21B fires .52 CAL SLAP rounds, which are brutally effective against armor. They're pretty effective against energy shields as well, but it takes two shots to break a shield, and a third to open the can. Gruff and Brint crested the berm and began firing. It was all over within three seconds.

"Contacts down," SGT Gruff said.

"Roger, regroup," I responded. Once they returned, I gestured at PFC Brint and said, "See, that's why you don't chatter over comms during a mission."

"Aye aye, staffsarnt," came the reply.

I gestured to Gruff asking how many contacts there had been. He held up a hand with all five fingers spread. A whole ass fire-team, probably with medic. The medic means that they expected to win this fight. Dumb and sad, but that's the insurrection for you.

Once bravo caught back up I gestured for us to continue. A rest would have to wait, we couldn't stick around here after contact with the enemy. They'd definitely called it in, and we'd be idiots not to expect more resistance. Worse, the enemy might bug out and run, which would be a problem. I was debating whether or not we should double time it when I got a call.

"Shocker Actual, this is Overlord."

I really hate my call-sign At least it kind of made sense though.

"Overlord, this is Shocker Actual. Go ahead."

"Shocker Actual, new orders. Return to LZ for extraction immediately. A development has occurred, we're taking care of this another way. You'll want to double time it, over."

"Roger that. Shocker Actual out."

I gestured for a halt. I tried desperately not to show how pissed off I was as I gestured the about face. 12 confused helmets stared blankly at me until I did the gesture again. When we began moving I gestured double time, feeling very sorry for Int and Yunk. Less so for Brint. As we jogged Gruff came closer and triggered his helmet radio.

"What's the word, staffsarnt?" he asked.

"Bird's gonna pick us back up. Something happened so they're going to take care of the cave a different way. We're running because they told us to, and you know what that means."

"Fuuuck. Whatcha think, A3 or A2?"

"Definitely A2. I'm pretty sure the Liberty is out of A3," I replied.

"Yeah, we've used a lot of them," Gruff laughed as he returned to his position.

Despite the exhaustion of three of our members we were able to make good time back to the landing zone. The shuttle was waiting for us, with its defense turrets deployed. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. This was unusual. Something's off. Command changes its mind about our missions all the time, but a pilot waiting ground-side? What the hell happened? I gestured a halt and ran up to the back of the bird, weapon ready but not raised. The pilot looked back at me.

"Ey, get the fuck in. I've been waiting for you, and we've got to get the hell out of here. Let's go, Marine!"

I gestured for everyone to load up as I took my seat nearest the hatch. I felt dumb, but I've learned the hard way that it's better safe than sorry. Plus it's likely that the something off I detected is much higher up than I can see. I did a headcount as my marines passed me to take their seats. Twelve plus me is thirteen. All here.

"We're loaded, let's go," I told the pilot.

The engines whirred up, a silent hum followed by a slightly louder whir and whoosh. It would've been quieter had the pilot closed the hatch.

"Why's the bay door still open, sir?" PFC Rogers asked the pilot.

"What, you don't wanna watch the detonation?" The pilot asked with a tone of amusement.

Thirteen guardian helmets immediately turned towards the bay door as the shuttle rose. I increased my magnification, looking for the cave we'd been trekking toward. I saw a fiery object head towards the ground from the sky moving very quickly. When it reached the ground everything went dark for half a second and we all saw the tell tale sign of an artificial event horizon.

"You were right, staffsarnt. It was an A2," Gruff said with awe in his voice.

"Damn, that's an A2? The hell do they need us for if they've got that?" asked Reinhardt.

"We're cheaper," replied Int. "Way cheaper."

"Even with the suits?" asked PFC Johns.

"Especially with the suits," HM Yunk chimed in. "Marines last far longer, leave less collateral damage, and you tend to get more bang for your buck. Plus you don't need an admiral to give the go ahead to launch marines."

Yunk was technically part of the navy, but like all corpsmen was an honorary marine. He continued his explanation as the event horizon vanished and the bay door closed.

"A WMD like the A2 costs three times as much as training and equipping an entire battalion of marines. And it costs twice as much as the lifetime payouts if all of those marines died or were crippled. The A3 is cheaper, but still more expensive than just sending us in to deal with it..." he paused. "Staffsarnt, why'd they change their mind?"

"Beats me." I said.

"You think it has to do with the attack on Sol?" asked PFC Boyle.

"Sol was attacked? By who?" I asked. I had basically locked myself down during leave and hadn't paid attention to the news.

"Yes, staff sergeant," Boyle replied, stiffening under the attention. "I don't know who exactly, but it's some sort of robotic thing. Like, a rogue VI or something."

"That's not it," Brint interrupted. "It's a first contact scenario with a hostile machine intelligence. We've also made contact with another galactic government called the Republic. They're supposedly helping us defend Sol, because they dragged us into their war with the robots."

"Yeah, that's right," Livingstone said. "The machines are called the Omni Union or something."

"I see. Dumb name. But yeah, that's probably it. We'll likely learn more when we get back to the ship," I said with a yawn and a wave that signified my intent to catch some shuteye.

I turned off my visor and closed my eyes as the other marines chattered amongst themselves. I slept the entire ride, and woke when the shuttle jerked from the docking clamps. When I turned my visor back on I saw that Gruff was the only marine awake. He nodded to me and I gestured a "shh".

I keyed my comms, "RISE AND SHINE MARINES! WE'VE ARRIVED AT THE BLESSED LANDING DECK OF THE U TRIPLE-S LIBERTY!"

Every one of the PFCs nearly jumped out of their suits, but the non-coms were nonplussed. They were used to my antics, not that it spoiled my fun at all.

"Five more minutes, staffsarnt," CPL Chang said.

"Abso-fucking-lutely not Chang. Get your ass out of my shuttle and stow your gear," I said, kicking his boot.

I chased the marines off the shuttle, smacking helmets and shouting the entire way. As I followed them down the gangway I spotted our platoon leader and company commander waiting for us. Shit. All thirteen of us stopped and saluted.

"As you were, marines," Captain Michaels said as he returned our salute.

"Y'all go get some chow or something. Staff Sergeant Power, a word please," Lieutenant Vasquez also returned our salute.

My marines walked away, each of them looking back at me. I could tell they were wondering if I had got into trouble or something. So was I, for that matter. It's not as if you find yourself talking to the company CO as a squad leader for any other reason very often.

"Don't worry, staffsarnt, you're not in any trouble," Captain Michaels said with a knowing smile. "We've got a special operation. Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir. Power, your squad is to report to the command room at 0800 tomorrow for briefing. I want a gear check done tonight, everything needs to be cleaned and reloaded ASAP," Vasquez said.

"Aye aye, sir."

"Excellent. As you were."

I saluted once more and after returning my salute the two officers turned away. I felt like I dodged a bullet only to land on a grenade. I jogged to catch up to my squad and passed along the word. After saying "I don't know" to a bunch of questions I found myself alone with my thoughts. Special Operation? How did the big green dick plan on fucking us this time?