Thurs AM, March 20th 1966

When we returned to the infirmary, sitting on top of a desk was the reward. It was a syringe containing a sickly yellow liquid. The terse note accompanying it indicated that the injection would cure Private Westcott. The message had been typed, and there was no signature upon it, but there was only one place it could have originated from—the mysterious voice.

Having been promoted to de facto medic for the squad, it had fallen to me to do the injection. Having tapped the man's arm, I found a vein and spiked him. The aftermath was an anticlimax, nothing happened. I had no idea whether I'd done something wrong. Which was entirely possible, probable even, given my lack of training. Still often, medicines take time to work, and nothing else could be done now but wait for an improvement.

The rest of the evening was nervy but peaceful. Hodges said he'd throw together something hot for us all in the mess hall. An hour later, he served up generous portions of creamed ground beef on toast. The meal might be called Shit on a shingle (S-O-S) by most Marines, but Hodges' version was surprisingly palatable. Robinson definitely thought so. The man ate three helpings of the stuff.

I finally racked out around twenty-one hundred hours, but it was a long time before I could sleep. My mind was full of questions with no answers -

Where had the rest of the Marines gone?

Who was the mysterious voice?

Would we ever meet them?

What exactly are the Imperial Numeri, and what are we expected to do as their soldiers?

Do we even get paid?

Would we ever see other humans again?

Eventually, though, exhaustion overcame my concerns, and I did indeed sleep. At least until Hodges unceremoniously woke me with a cup of cold water, when it was time for my watch at 5 am.

In the brittle early morning light seemed normal, but it was just an illusion. Nothing will ever be the same again. If I'm right, then Arthur C. Clarke was correct. Humans aren't alone in the universe.

The others are rising now and beginning to discuss our options. Sarge appears incredibly nonchalant about the entire situation. It seems that in his eyes, nothing has changed. Whether orders come from an unknown entity or an unseen general doesn't matter. The squad has a mission objective, and we will fulfill it to the best of our ability, or die trying.

Let it be noted that, from a personal perspective, I would prefer to avoid the latter part of that statement.

--

The sound of retching brought me out of my reverie. In the infirmary, young Private Westcott was awake. His eyes were unfocused, and drool dangled from his lower lip. Going by the mess on the floor, he'd just finished throwing up. "What the hell did you give me? My mouth tastes like a bloody ashtray."

I pulled on the lab coat that had been hanging by the door before answering him. The coat was tight across the shoulders, and I hoped he wouldn't notice. Forcing the butterflies in my stomach to settle, I took charge of the situation. "Lie down. I need to check you out. You've been unconscious for nearly a week." The kid immediately stopped complaining and laid back on the bed. Never underestimate the power of a white coat, give someone the trappings of an authority figure, and people presume they know what they're talking about.

Up close, the kid looked even skinnier than he had the night before. His face had slightly more color than previously, but his cheeks still had sharp angular sharp edges. Being unconscious is a great way to diet.

"Open wide," I requested, playing the part of a dutiful doctor and placing a thermometer into his mouth. That would keep him quiet and stop him asking too many questions while I figured out what to do. There was a stethoscope atop one of the bookshelves, so I grabbed that, attaching it around my neck in what I hoped was the correct manner.

The rest of the squad stood at a respectful distance watching me interact with my patient, although the smirk on Robinson's face told me what he thought. Doing my best to ignore the man, I continued the check-up.

"This might be slightly cold," I warned as I listened to the young man's chest. The regular drum of his heartbeat sounded reassuringly in my ears. "Very good, all seems normal. How do you feel?"

"Fine, doctor. Ready for duty." He smiled innocently. It was the smile of someone who had never had blood and guts rain down on them from the sky. Poor kid, he'd learn.

"How is he doing?" Sarge interrupted. Having indulged my amateur theatrics, he was impatient to get things moving.

"Private Westcott appears to be perfectly healthy. The medicine appears to have done the trick, with no obvious side-effects." I still wasn't wholly happy that we'd injected the man with an unknown substance, but he would have died without it. I mentally shrugged, the mysterious voice appeared to be playing straight with us. So far, at least.

"Very good," Sarge turned away from me and addressed the Private. "Get dressed; we'll meet you in the mess hall in ten minutes. Most of the units have left the camp, and we're expecting an important announcement shortly, so be prompt."

That was a nice piece of understatement from the Sarge, but no point worrying Westcott, he'd discover what a clusterfuck this was in the fullness of time. With that, we left the man to get dressed.

In the mess hall, the others were animatedly discussing our situation. The entire topic was pointless; in my opinion, this was our boot camp. Whoever was in charge dictated the rules, we just had to endure them and survive. Nothing we did would change what was going to happen.

My choice was to escape into my imagination. I settled down in a corner with 'The Lord of the Rings.' It was one of the few books I had with me in camp. I'd read it several times, but it was a classic piece of escapism. Some soldiers took drugs. I had a safer way to leave reality behind. Within minutes of opening the book, I was transported into another world, oblivious to the problems facing me in the real world.

"Earth to Peters, come in Peters," Robinson repeated harshly, grinning. Looking up, I realized he'd probably been speaking to me for a while.

Refusing to rise to the bait, I carefully tucked the novel inside my rucksack, "Sorry, I was a million miles away. What's up?"

"It's nearly o-six-hundred, we were discussing what to expect." Sarge clarified with a little less sarcasm than Robinson provided, "I wondered what your take was."

"Err, I dunno really," I said, feeling somewhat stupid. It wasn't that I hadn't thought about this. It was pretty much all that had occupied my mind since the battle yesterday. Sarge kept looking at me patiently, and I felt compelled to fill the silence, talking through my thinking out loud. "After the incident yesterday, it's obvious that the Imperial Numeri training isn't comparable to that of the US Army. Harsh though boot camp is, I don't believe there is a huge risk of death during basic training." Heads nodded at this, giving me the confidence to continue. "From this, I infer that there was no way of knowing what the mysterious voice considers training. We should try and be ready for anything." It was a lame finish, I admit it, but those were the facts of the matter.

"I infer that Private Brain there knows nothing more than the rest of us ignoramuses." Robinson stage whispered, using an exaggerated mimicry of my accent. Hodges guffawed, causing Sarge to frown in their direction. I often wished that my family hadn't been so forceful in teaching me the 'correct' way to speak English. In civilian life, I am sure; it can be advantageous. In the military, it marked you, not only as different but also as someone who hadn't seen the harder side of life and is likely to wilt under pressure.

"Shut up, Robinson," I muttered. The man's hands curled into fists, and his nostrils flared as he glared at me. He took a step towards me, and it was only Westcott's entrance that saved me from a violent beatdown.

"Westcott, take a seat, and we'll fill you in," Sarge guided the young Marine to a seat amongst the rest of them. Rising, I reluctantly joined them.

Sarge filled Westcott in on what had happened. He didn't argue, but the young recruit’s wary look informed me that he thought this was an elaborate wind-up. That is until oh-six-hundred on the dot when the mysterious voice rang out loudly across the camp. It sounded perkier this morning, upbeat even.

"Congratulations on your success, recruits. You are to be commended on completing your mission and successfully treating your patient. The extra unit you now have in your squad should provide you with a tactical advantage in your mission today. I suggest you use it wisely."

"Yesterday's test was a basic entrance examination which all recruits have to undertake. This has provided us with a wealth of data on your species that will help us tailor a specific training regime for your squad."

The voice suddenly took on a sterner, more disapproving tone. "We were however disappointed to note that you interfered with the battle droid after it was disabled, we hope that the failsafe mechanism deployed was sufficient to dissuade you from any similar foolishness."

"Today's mission will be a simple survival exercise. Seven klicks west of here is a downed craft. Retrieve the body of the pilot and bring him to your infirmary to complete your mission."

"If you succeed, then you will be rewarded. Failure will mean you are dead."

There was a slight thumping noise as his speech finished, possibly the clicking of a switch or someone putting down a microphone? There was no time to mull this over as Sarge had stood up and was obviously about to speak. The man never seemed happier than when he had orders to follow.

"Right, you heard the man. Tool up, we leave in five mikes."

As we moved through the jungle, something felt different about today. Change was unsettling to anyone in a war zone. Predictability was important when every day included a genuine risk of death. Repetition kept you sane. We all knew that Vietnam was dangerous, but we had lived through yesterday. If we repeated today what we did yesterday, then we'd likely survive. This might keep you sane, but it also turned you into a control freak. After a while, you want to manage every little aspect of life around you, and if anything out of the ordinary happens, you react badly to it. I had no idea how I'd cope with civilian life when I return home.

The sun rose as we hacked our way slowly through the undergrowth, heading towards the billowing plumes of purple smoke, which rose above the trees.

It took an hour to force our way through the jungle to where the craft had crashed. The area around the vehicle had been scorched cleanly away, creating a wide clearing. Dark charcoal stumps stood as the only evidence that there had been jungle there at all.

The vehicle was like nothing I'd ever seen, resembling a huge smooth metal dart. Its point had been driven deep into the jungle floor as if thrown by a malicious God.

The surface of the ship was an elegant, polished silver metal. A terrestrial vehicle would have identifiers on it somewhere, a registration number, or country flag. There were no decorations, no tastefully attired women on this vehicle. It told nothing about those who might own it or even the vehicle's intent.

Golden rays of sunshine played off the metal surface, and through the branches of the foliage near us, the scene looked like the cover of a science fiction book. The backing chirrups of the local wildlife made the scene feel even more surreal.

Sarge wasn't taking any chances. We didn't move out towards the ship. Instead, we skulked around the edges of the clearing. Examining the ship from every conceivable angle and ensuring that no hostiles were waiting in ambush.

Finally, our circuit completed, the time came to advance on our goal. We pushed through the last of the undergrowth onto the blackened ground around the craft. The burnt dirt cracked under our boots as we walked upon it. An acrid taste coated my tongue as I breathed the warm, dry air in the dead zone. We moved forward slowly. The team spread out cautiously in an arc.

I was concentrating on stepping over a fallen tree's remains when one of my squadmates sprawled into me, his arm clutching desperately at me as we both sprawled onto the floor.

"What the …" I started to exclaim. Then I saw his face. Hodges was lying on the ground beside me. A large part of his jaw was missing, and his vacant eyes stared blankly at nothing. There was no blood, scorch marks on his skin showed where the wound had been instantly cauterized. Just like that, in a split second, one of the meanest, toughest sons of a bitch that I'd ever met was gone. The poor bastard hadn't even had time to scream.

I hadn't liked him. The guy has been an asshole. Like most of my squadmates, he had seemed borderline psychopathic, and he'd verbally nipped at me continually since we'd met. More than once, I'd thought he was going to beat the shit out of me. He hadn't though, despite everything, he'd shown loyalty to those in his squad. I stood observing his remains, unable to turn away from the gruesome sight.

Words swam into my vision. Strange though that was, I was thankful for their presence. They obscured his face.

Private Hodges is dead.

"Ambush!" Sarge hollered, I was still mentally frozen, waiting for my time to come, but he wouldn’t give up on me. Hauling on my arm he dragged me to my feet, "Get up, maggot!"

That got my attention, and the words vanished as the staccato of M16's split the air. Sarge and Schmidt vented their anger upon the hidden enemy. This time I managed to act, and my gun joined theirs, jolting in my hands as it fired. "Bzzz,' another beam of light spat out of the ship ahead of us, scorching the ground near Robinson.

I could see where the shot had come from. Right at the very apex of the ship, a tiny turret was mounted. After firing its barrel shone with dim golden light, the glow slowly began to intensify.

"Pull back." Sarge ordered. It didn’t take a great strategist to realize that we've no cover out in the open. It’s only a matter of time until we were all picked off.

"What about Hodges?" I asked. The guy had been a jerk, but he was also one of us. It seemed wrong to leave him here. A tiny voice inside my head reminded me that he's dead though, it's not like he was going to care.

"We need to get out of here now," Sarge repeated, more forcefully. This time he broke through my procrastination, and I nodded. "Fall back, fire bursts as we move. Try and hit the turret, but keep your eyes peeled. If anything else moves out here, waste it!"

Westcott stood there, his mouth hanging open. It flapped twice as he tried to comment and failed. Recognizing that he wasn’t going to be any help, I pushed him behind me. As a unit, we skulked back slowly, taking one crouching step at a time. Our suppressing fire helped to cover our retreat, but the bright laser continued its destruction, beams scythed past us, burning holes in the jungle.

I was terrified, and as we moved my damp trousers clung awkwardly to my legs. I wasn’t sure if it was dirt, Hodge's blood or if my bladder had betrayed me. I don't want to die.

Sarge stopped firing, and swiveling his hips he threw a high lazy lob towards the glowing turret. The grenade tumbled through the air as he yelled 'Run!' Then we're off. All pretense at order gone as my muscles strained to keep up with the others. We reached the treeline, and after a minute, Sarge slowed his pace and then stopped. After a few seconds, I realized that I can't hear the buzz of the laser firing.

Tears flooded my eyes as I realized that we're going to live another day. Those of us that are still standing, that is. Hodges found his bullet today. Perhaps tomorrow I'll find mine.

Robinson conjured up a hip flask from somewhere, and offered it up, “To Hodges,” he said.

"To Hodges," I agreed nodding. The instant I tipped the flask back I regretted my rash action. The fiery brew spilled down my throat, making my eyes water. This was no delicate blend of Scottish whiskey. The local moonshine was distilled in a jerry can. Strong enough to strip paint, the brew tasted much as you'd expect, a cross between turpentine and paint stripper. Rumour had it that you'd go blind if you drank too much, but today I doubted that I'd live long enough for this to be a concern of mine.

For once, Robinson didn’t mock me, "You'll get used to it, kid. You did alright out there." Then the man I knew reasserted himself as he turned on Westcott, "Unlike this piece of shit, what were you waiting for, rookie?"

If anything, Westcott looked more terrified of Robinson then he did during the battle. His eyes fixed rigidly onto the man, as his body tensed. He resembled a deer about to run for its life.

Sarge stepped in quickly, "Enough, Robinson, stand down. This mission is over; we're heading back to base."

Robinson glared at the Sarge for a long second. I watched wondering if this is the time when he's going to flip out, and one of them will die. I’d place my money on Sarge being the man left standing.

Then the moment passes and Robinson casts his eyes to the floor, “Sorry, Sarge.”

We had nearly made it back to camp when the voice spoke again, this time with ear-shattering anger. "You are leaving the mission area. To do so will result in the mission being recorded as a failure, and immediate retribution will occur."

We looked at each other, then Robinson said what we were all thinking. "None of us signed up for this shit, what are they going to do? Fire us?"

Sarge seemed equally unconcerned. "A suicide mission isn't training. Let's get back behind the wire."

My thoughts were more worried than others. Thinking of Hodge's dead body, I had a definite impression that the only retirement plan the Imperial Numeri had available was a body bag.

When we arrived at the camp, reality shattered in front of us. There is no other way to describe it. An eight-foot-tall armored warrior suddenly materialized in front of us.

We could see this was no automation. Through the visor, a stern-looking austere man with a thin, angular face and a gentle purple hue to his skin glared at us.

Westcott gawped in shock, while the rest of us opened up with our M16's. At this range, he should have been reduced to a messy pulp instantly, but the bullets ricocheted off his suit with gentle pinging sounds. I could see slight scuff marks where they had impacted, but our assault would cause no more than a slight increase to the man's dry cleaning bill.

Sarge suddenly screamed in pain, dropping to the floor, clutching at his head. The veins on his throat stood out and seemed to pulse vivid red.

Words swam into display in front of me.

The nanobots in Sergeant Jones's bloodstream are causing internal trauma. He will lose consciousness in 5 seconds.

Ceasing firing, I watched helplessly as the counter slowly ran down. Then Sarge mercifully slumped to the ground.

Rapid footsteps behind me informed me that Westcott had bolted. That was undoubtedly an intelligent choice. My brain queried why my legs weren't similarly moving, but there appeared to be some communication difficulties in that department.

"You have inconvenienced me," the knight declared, "Teams do not choose to accept a mission. You either complete the assigned mission, or you will die. There are 8 hours remaining within the mission parameters."

With that, the knight turned away from us and vanished once again.

Then Sarge's bloodshot eyes opened, and he groaned. "What the heck are nanobots, kid?"

"Fucked if I know," I replied, helping the older man to his feet.

I kept quiet as I led Sarge to the infirmary, but my mind was troubled as I mulled over the knights' words. I didn't know for sure, but 'nano' meant small, and 'bot' was used in science fiction as an abbreviation of robot.

If there were microscopic robots inside of Sarge … considering the strange words which kept appearing in my vision, it was likely we'd all been infected with them. I wasn't a doctor, and I had no idea how to cure us of such a virus.