Thurs PM, March 20th 1966

I convinced Sarge to wait a couple of hours before we headed out again. Everyone is aware that this is likely be a suicide mission. We are heading into a hostile situation against unknown forces who have weapons far beyond our own armament. If ever there was a mission which was FUBAR (F’ed Up Beyond All Recognition) before it even began, it was this one.

The others are dealing with this situation in their own ways. Westcott was last seen huddled in a bunk crying. While Robinson and Schmidt are in the mess hall playing poker and drinking, I consider it a blessing that so far they have stuck to only gambling away their belongings and the game hasn’t regressed to strip poker.

Myself, I’m writing this diary entry. It can be considered a warning to those who find it. Humankind is not alone in the universe, and our neighbors are not friendly.

We are conscripts in a galactic army. In the same way the armies of old punished their conscripts, so do our new masters. Instead of floggings and hangings we have miniscule robots floating in our blood streams.

The implementation is all that differs, the end result is the same, either we complete our missions or die.

--

By the time we reached the craft, it was late afternoon, and the sun had started its descent. Our group huddled on the edge of the burnt clearing.

"What do you see?" Sarge asked as he carefully checked the flat ground in front of us.

To my casual eye, the scene appeared unchanged from earlier today. Hodges' corpse was visible about twenty yards into the clearing, exactly where he'd fallen earlier. A cold shiver flickered through my body as I considered it was entirely possible we would join him in death before the day was out.

A country boy, Robinson, was an experienced hunter and more observant. He pointed out something a short way from us. I rubbed my spectacles on my shirt to clear the moisture which had collected. There, where he indicated, lay the remains of a golden jackal, almost cut in half by the laser beam.

"Interesting," I mused. "A jackal wouldn't have been a threat."

"So? I hunt deer, they've never been a threat to me either." This is the Robinson I'm used to, aggressive and belligerent. It's almost a relief to have him back.

"Why do you hunt deer?" I asked patiently.

"For the meat, mostly. Some do it for the antlers, but I like me a bit of venison."

"I see where Brains is going with this," Sarge interjected. "They're not hunting, they've had time to retrieve the bodies if they'd wanted to."

"Westcott, get anything you want to keep out of your backpack and then hand it to me," I instructed.

"Sarge?" The kid asked questioningly.

Sarge raised an eyebrow at me but nodded. The newbie did as he was told without questioning further. He was a far better Marine than I'd ever be.

I swung the pack by its straps several times, letting it build up speed and then released it. The pack flew across the devastated area. It hit the ground and then tumbled across the floor for another fifteen feet.

As soon as it was hurled into the air, the turret rose and tracked it. The barrels glow built steadily as the pack tumbled across the earth. I mentally counted the time it traveled, one second, two seconds. The backpack had stopped moving by the time I'd reached three. Settling into a floppy mess about fifteen feet from where we stood hidden behind the treeline.

We waited for the turret to fire. The seconds ticked slowly away. Somewhat to my surprise, the turret didn't fire, instead, the glow dimmed, and it settled back into the craft.

"It didn't fire?" Robinson sounded confused, perhaps even a little disappointed. He fidgeted nervously. "What do we do now?"

Sarge shrugged and looked at me, waiting for me to speak.

I felt the weight of their expectation settle upon me. No pressure, but if I got this wrong, we were all going to die a horrible death.

"I'm not sure," I admitted, then before Robinson released his frustration upon me, I continued. "Perhaps a second test might tell us more?"

This time I used my backpack, and instead of hurling it, we strapped it to a long branch.

I figured there were two possibilities with the turret, it was either automated or someone manned it. If it was manned, they wouldn't fire simply because something was moving, if it was automated, it'd respond only to movement.

The jackal implied that this was an automaton. Perhaps, not unlike the original bot that we had fought, but I wasn't willing to risk our lives on that presumption.

Once again, the turret aimed, and the glow intensified. However, this time, after five seconds, there was a crackle of power, and Robinson sprawled to the floor as the weight of the branch suddenly lightened. What was left of the backpack was a smoking ruin.

I gulped. This was the moment of truth. "I think the turret is automated. It'll fire at anything that moves, but if we stand still before it fires, it'll power down."

"Are you sure about that?" Sarge asked. Just thinking about the question made my heart race, and I had to concentrate on keeping my breathing slow and even. "No," I admitted, thankful to put the pressure for the final decision upon someone else.

Sarge was silent a moment, staring out upon the alien craft. Furrows in his brow formed as he considered his options. A cigarette appeared from somewhere inside his uniform, and he puffed leisurely upon it as he made the decision that would either save or destroy us.

"Time to move out, I want a wider arc than last time. Everyone listens to Peters - when he says 'stop.' You freeze in place like you're playing 'Simon Says.' No messing around. Your life might depend upon it."

With no further ado, he started moving, making himself the apex of the formation and thus the most likely target if everything went wrong. I slotted in behind him to his right, watching as the turret swiveled and began to glow.

I counted things off internally.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

"Stop!" We froze in place. The turret had taken five seconds between shots earlier, but I wasn't taking chances with anyone's life. The image of Hodges' burnt head flashed into my mind as my eyes watched the turret, glowing gently above us.

Was I wrong, would it fire upon us?

I imagined an alien figure at its controls, laughing at our stupidity as we stood waiting to be shot.

Then the barrels glow dimmed, first becoming just a dull orange and then disappearing altogether as the turret retracted back into the craft.

"Go!" I indicated, lifting an arm, and the squad moved forward again, marching onward. With our stop-start pace, it took twenty minutes to cover the ground and reach the craft.

When we finally stood in its shadow, Westcott froze solidly in place and slowly asked. "Do you think it can see us here?"

The turret wasn't visible over the shiny metal side of the craft. "We're good," Sarge said confidently, not even looking up to check. "Nice work there, Peters. Any idea how to get into this thing?"

"Not really," I admitted, "I can't even see a hatch or any markings on it." The outer shell gave a dull sound when it was tapped. I shrugged, "Sounds solid here." The others caught on and repeated the taps over the rest of the shell, always being careful not to move within the turret's sight.

"It sounds different here," Robinson shouted back up to me. He was right. It had a more brittle sound like it was hollow behind that section. I flattened my palm against the metal. It was cold and smooth like I'd expected, but as I slowly slid my hand across it I could feel a slight ridge. Instinctively digging my fingernails into it, I pulled hard. There was a slight scraping sound as the panel slid back smoothly away, revealing a small metal lever.

"Your door, sir," I said with a smirk of relief. I'd never admit it to the others, but when the panel had started sliding, I'd nearly dropped to the floor convinced that a turret would emerge.

Most people see themselves as the hero of their story. In my case, it's fairly obvious - even to me, that I'm not even sidekick material.

A cough brought me out of my musings, "You might as well give it a pull. It's not like we've got anywhere else to go, son." Sarge indicated.

I shrugged and took a firm hold of the level, pulling it back slowly. As it sank to its lowest point, there was a click, and the wall beside us separated with a hiss. Immediately a ton of slimy goo slopped out of the ship in a flood. Standing directly beneath it, I was washed off my feet.

"Get back under cover," Sarge yelled at Westcott, who had instinctively moved away from the wave of goop .. right out into the open. I was busy wiping slime out of my eyes so I couldn't see the turret, but I could imagine its glow powering up. Looking sheepish, the young Marine returned into the safety of the ship's shadow.

Meanwhile, Robinson had predictably reacted to my misfortune by guffawing loudly. The big man had his hands on his knees. Every few seconds, he'd get himself under control and then look towards me, at which point he lost it once more.

I felt my cheeks heating up as I floundered to gain my feet. Which, of course, caused more mirth. If I die now, I swear, I'm going to haunt Robinson.

"Robinson, help Peters up." Fortunately, Sarge had little patience for comedy when we were on a mission. The words had a sobering effect on the company, and some semblance of professionalism returned to the team.

Now I had wiped my glasses clear. It was evident that the craft's wall had extended to the floor, becoming a stairway—an elegant and efficient design. The interior was spartan; the stairs opened out into a wide flat area. There were no decorations, and the visible controls opposite the door were smoothly integrated into the wall.

Goo still filled the lower part of the ship. Within which a long command console was visible, still pulsing with flickering lights. Slumped over this in a tangled mess resembled a large squid. About three feet across, the purple creature's bulbous forehead appeared to have split open. Dark fluid from the injury was leaking into the surrounding goo.

"That must be the pilot?" Westcott said needlessly. I nodded absentmindedly, more interested in the controls behind the corpse. One in particular caught my eye, illuminated in a pulsing golden yellow, was the image of a small gun turret.

"Anyone want to volunteer to retrieve the body?" Sarge asked, obviously expecting none. For once, he was disappointed as I raised my hand.

"I'll do it," I grinned as I tucked my glasses into my shirt pocket and secured them; "Besides, I'm already saturated with the gunge." Flicking some goo from my hand at Robinson, I then quickly dove into the cockpit before he could react.

It was like swimming in syrup. Everything seemed slightly slower than usual. No sound reached me from above, and the light seemed filtered somewhat and somewhat surreal.

Ignoring the corpse, I headed straight for the command console. Many of the lights on it were illuminated in a dull red color, guessing I presumed this meant they were either turned off or perhaps more likely broken. The turret image was still illuminated in gentle green. After considering things for a long second, I reached out a timid hand cautiously and pressed down upon the button.

The seconds ticked away as I nervously waited for something to happen. I was considering pressing the button again, when it suddenly turned a deep red color and stopped pulsing. Immediately words swam into view in front of me.

Technological Affinity

You have demonstrated a logical nature and an affinity for the workings of advanced technology.

Nothing else happened. I hoped that the message was a good sign, indicating that I'd done something positive rather than just turning the gun into a more lethal killing mode.

My chest was feeling tight, and as the seconds ticked away, the urge to breathe grew difficult to ignore. It was time to leave. Pushing upward off the floor, I snagged the corpse and carried it with me to the surface.

Once it left the water gravity caught the corpse, tripling its weight. I needed the help of the others to drag the rubbery creature out. I couldn't wait to be away from it, the feel of its cold, clammy skin freaked me the heck out. Schmidt noticed my expression, "It's just like a fish."

Sarge had other concerns, "What were you doing down there?"

My chest puffed out slightly with pride, and I couldn't help but grin, "I think I've disabled the gun, Sarge."

"You think?" Sarge's face had gone red. Jabbing my chest with his finger, he drove me back against the side of the spacecraft. "How dare you take chances with my squad."

"What? I was trying to help, I thought you'd be pleased?"

"Pleased that you … you ... meddled with technology you don't understand." Spittle was flying from the man's lips as his anger rose. I flinched away from him, fearful that he would lash out. Sarge stood looking at me for several seconds. A vein on his forehead throbbed an angry red. Then he took a deep breath and visibly reined himself in.

"I know you meant well Peters, but as God is my witness, if you do something that stupid again, I will shoot you myself. Do you understand?" The calmness with which he spoke and made this promise was scarier than his apocalyptic rage had been earlier.

I nodded meekly in response, remaining silent, not daring to risk saying the wrong thing and potentially provoke the man.

A long moment's silence stretched out before Sarge continued, but his voice wasn't as cutting now. This was more like a lecture from a father to an especially stupid child. "There is a time and a place for breaking the rules and rolling the dice. It's when there is no other hope. We had a plan, it got us to the craft and would have gotten us out. Your rolling the dice hasn't improved the situation, I just hope it hasn't killed us."

We marched slowly out from cover. Leaving the safety of the ship's shadow, I led the team at the apex. This was my reward for having pressed the button. I couldn't argue with the logic. If it all went wrong, it was my fault.

We moved with slow, measured steps, watching cautiously behind us in case the turret rose. The ground crunched as we proceeded, we'd reached the halfway point now. Not much longer until we passed where Hodges' corpse had fallen.

Sarge stooped as we passed the body, hauling it over his shoulders. He alone carried the full weight of the soldier's death, both figuratively and literally. Watching the man stubbornly moving onward despite the weight, I knew I'd got lucky with the button.

Sarge had taught me a valuable lesson. Next time I'd know better … I hoped.

Everyone was exhausted when we reached the camp, but our day's work didn't end there. Ignoring our aching muscles, we dug Hodges grave and rolled his stiff pale corpse into it.

Placing a man's body into a hole and throwing dirt over it, seemed an inelegant way to honor a man's life. I think the Vikings had it right with their funeral pyres. They placed their honored dead on a longboat, then set it alight with flaming arrows fired from shore. That would have seemed a more fitting end for Hodges, a warrior's funeral.

Instead, the man now sits beneath the soil, food for maggots and worms.

Just after the eulogy had finished, the alien voice boomed over the camp. It showed no respect for our loss.

"Congratulations on completing your mission. Your squad depletion rate of 20% is far lower than projected by our simulation." The voice said almost distractedly as if we were a sideshow, and the bulk of his attention was elsewhere. "You will discover that the rewards for outstanding performance are substantial. Please enter the portal provided and enjoy your evening of relaxation. I will deliver your next mission parameters at 0800 hours tomorrow."

Then the voice fell silent.

In front of us, part of the camp vanished, replaced by a pair of large white double doors. There was no wall attached to these doors. They just stood alone in the jungle, not more than ten feet away from us. Each of the doors had a smooth flat surface with faint metal engraving laced upon it in faint silvery lines. The entire squad's jaws dropped open in shock as their appearance.

"What?" I heard a voice say, barely registering it as my own. My inquisitive nature took over, and I moved forward to examine them.

"Peters! Don't touch them!" Sarge barked, stopping me immediately. A flush rose in my cheeks as I stared at my boots, embarrassed by my lack of impulse control.

Cautiously, I resumed my examination of the doors, moving around them. I walked three hundred and sixty degrees around them, perplexed as to how they balanced when nothing anchored them in place.

"They have silver engravings which pulse with light. I saw similar things on the console on the ship. Not much more I can work out without… err… trying the handle."

"Go ahead," Sarge said, nodding at the handle.

I stared at it for a long second. Taking a risk on impulse was a lot different from making a conscious decision. My breath caught in my throat as I moved toward the front of the door and prepared to push them open.

As if by magic, they parted in front of me. Vanishing into nothing. Where they had stood was an opening into a large room with pale beige walls. A large black couch wrapped the outer walls of the room. It's surface resembled leather, but probably wasn't. Arranged at intervals in front of the couch were six small tables. There would have been for every squad member, I realized, if Hodges had made it.

"Well, that looks a damned sight more comfortable than the barracks here." Robinson chimed in as he peered over my shoulder. "Permission to undertake a scouting mission?"

Sarge shook his head, "Everyone assemble your full packs and gear. Meet back here in fifteen. "

Ten minutes later, I was back in front of the doors, this time weighed down by pack and gear. I shifted from foot to foot as I peered through the doorway. What was taking the others so long? Would it really hurt that much if I took a quick step inside before they got here?

"Good to see you being prompt, for a change." Sarge commented as he walked up. His left eyebrow rose quizzically, but he said nothing out loud about my proximity to the doorway.

The others arrived shortly afterward. Robinson made several trips, apparently intent on bringing as much of the armory with him as was humanly possible. Sarge nodded in approval.

The rest of us had packed more humane essentials along with our standard patrol gear. What looked like the handle to a frying pan sticking out of the top of Westcott's bulging pack. Catching the rest of us staring, the young recruit looked at the floor nervously. "Never hurts to be prepared, my old scout leader used to say." He muttered more to himself than anyone else.

I'd crammed all my personal effects into my gear. Books, shaving gear, and photos of my family would travel with me to wherever this door led.

Sarge smiled and nodded, "Right then, Westcott, give Robinson a hand with those crates. Peters, you were eager to get in there - lead the way."