Fri, March 21th 1966

This morning when I awoke the room was clothed in shadows, only the dull glow of the consoles providing light.

Despite the peaceful night's sleep, my throat was dry and scratchy. This, I presumed, was thanks to the change in climate. The air in the room was warm and dry, a stark change to the hot and humid temperature I’d become accustomed to in ‘nam.

Breakfast had been served shortly after we’d awoken, a door opening in the wall allowing a small breakfast trolley to wheel itself into the room. Laid out upon it were a number of rectangular small brown squares and large glasses containing a milky fluid.

Robinson hadn’t even seemed concerned about what the items were, he’d scarfed more than his fair share while the rest of us were still considering the wisdom of eating.

--

The appearance of a shimmering purple skinned man in the center of the room interrupted my writing. As I concentrated upon him a legend with the word ‘Scrael’ appeared, his species I presumed. Wanting further information I pressed on, focussing on the legend - sadly a dull thunk sounded; ‘This subject is classified. Access denied.’ Damn, I’d have to resort to the old fashion method of actually paying attention, rather than passively reading. The being was bald with gentle lilac skin and on the edge of his face instead of a beard small tentacles twitched and stretched. He wore a simple white tunic, after everything else it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d announced he was the messiah come to save us. Sadly that was not the message he had come to deliver.

“Greetings Squad 304. Today's training mission will be a standard hostile xeno encounter. The exercise will begin in one earth hour. When the door appears, exit promptly as it is expected that both forces will enter the area at the same time. Eliminate any hostile forces that you encounter. Further information upon your mission can be found on your console if you require it.”

The figure froze in place, looking blankly across the room. Then its image slowly dissipated, leaving us alone once more.

“That’s it?” Sarge muttered.

“What the heck?” Schmidt chimed in.

“Well, that was that shortest briefing I’ve ever had.” Robinson quipped.

For my part, I ignored their complaints and sat down at my console. Instantly a flickering map displayed in front of me. It clearly marked Squad 304’s entry point upon it in the bottom left corner, in the top right a similar flag was marked ‘Enemy forces.’

“Sarge, help me make sense of this.” I called, beckoning with my hand.

“Is there a visual of the area at all that we can look at.” He asked after a while studying the holographic display.

“Dunno.” I admitted, feeling a little silly for not having checked. I mentally requested photos of the area. The map dissipated, replaced by a collection of small thumbnail photographs. Visually the area was much different than the blank map had implied. While there was a rolling plain there were also scrubby out crops of trees and rocks on the eastern side of the map.

Sarge thrust a stubby finger onto the map, pointing at a one particular copse of trees. “The rocks there look large enough to provide some cover, when the door opens we double time it to them. Understood?”

We nodded.

“Good, now strip your gear down to what you’d bring on a standard patrol. The enemy may well have the same plan, it's up to us to make sure we beat them there.”

Far sooner than I’d have liked, the door flickered into being without ceremony, swishing open immediately. The view outside was identical to the photos we’d seen earlier.

“Mission Three is now active.” Indicated the voice of our alien advisor.

“Go, go, go!” Sarge ordered firmly, shoving me physically through the door. The squad soon made light work of the half mile trek, skidding in gratefully behind the rocky outcrop we’d spotted on the map.

“Anyone seen the enemy?” Sarge queried.

“There,” Robinson pointed.

Squinting through my spectacles I could see a shimmer in the distance. “Is that a doorway?”

“Yeah,” Robinson confirmed, “looks the same as the one we left earlier.”

For a long while nothing changed, we watched the empty doorway and waited as wind blew across the open plain. Standing in the lull before the storm, my muscles were so taut you could have strummed a tune on them.

I was almost relieved when Sarge indicated “Here they come.” Small blurred figures could be seen in the distance, but they were too far away for me to make out details at this point. The dark shadow of the enemy force flowed forward across the open ground towards us, it was obvious that we were horribly outnumbered. There must have been a hundred or more of them.

Sarge had his binoculars out and was eyeballing them. “They’re bugs, giant beetles. Their bodies are black with blue markings on them and they have guns strapped onto their wide abdomen. Expected ETA of five minutes, keep your heads down and remember we’re Marines. Let's stamp on some bugs!”

“Oorah!” We responded with gusto. I’d enquired about the term when I’d first joined up, apparently it comes from the Turkish word meaning ‘Kill.’ In the current circumstances it seemed very appropriate.

As they got closer my ‘Identify Species’ ability kicked in, popping information into my vision.

Species: Scutelleridae (Skitters)

I concentrated on the text, willing it to elaborate and more information scrolled into view.

The Scutelleridae, commonly known as Skitters, are a hive based species. Each hive is reigned over by a queen who commands the common workers. Workers largely lack imagination and autonomy, and will sacrifice themselves for the betterment of their hive. Lacking creativity, their species has developed only limited technology and has not mastered space flight at this time.

It is rumoured that experiments have been made to integrate this species into the Imperial Marines as shock troops, but this has neither been confirmed nor denied officially.

“Sarge, they’re known as Skitters. They’re basically like ants with guns according to my nanobots. I expect they’re simply going to try and over-run us.”

“No details on the hardware they’ve got?” Sarge enquired.

“Afraid not, it did say that they have only limited technology through.”

“Alright, nothing has changed then.”

“What I’d give for some precision guided whoop-ass about now,” Schmidt commented as he lined up his shot. I nodded in agreement, an air-strike would have taken care of this situation without any risk.

“Ready.” The Skitters were closer now and I could see them in detail. Our enemies were each five feet long and scurried along rapidly on six spindly looking legs. Strapped to each thorax was a variety of weapons, guns and knives. Fortunately, it appeared that while running they were unable to use these.

“Fire,” Sarge commanded and we unleashed hell upon the enemy.

“Come get some!” Robinson predictably appeared to be almost enjoying the mayhem. His fire was wildly erratic, raking across the enemy.

Schmidt was quieter, firing at a controlled steady rate, he aimed before taking a shot. Efficiently placing bullets where they’d hurt the enemy the most.

The Skitters waded stubbornly forward ignoring the incoming rounds. Many of the enemy crumpled, collapsing into themselves as bullets penetrated their carapaces, The others kept coming. The alien creatures didn’t react to the carnage inflicted upon their brothers beside them.

Westcott hadn’t fired once. He stood watching the chaos, his face had gone white, and his eyes were flicking around rapidly. Without thinking I cuffed the kid around the head.

“Get yourself together, you can have a breakdown later. If we’re still alive.” I smiled wryly at my own wit. Circumstance was changing me, only a few days ago I had been the NFG. Now I was one of the tormentors, harrying the new kid into action.

Sarge was the conductor of the orchestra, “On your left Peters.” He warned, as the enemy closed. I fired a volley directly into the chest of an advancing Skitter who staggered and fell.

Westcott took down the two behind it with wild firing. “Great shooting,” I shouted encouragingly.

Several huge explosions rocked the ground making me brace my feet. Liberal amounts of earth rained down upon me. Robinson and Sarge were throwing grenades into the incoming horde as they closed.

Dozens of corpses now lay on the field before us, but more were still coming. The survivors of the first group had stopped moving and unstrapped their guns. Now a ragged volley of incoming fire spat back at us. Fortunately their weapons didn’t seem to fire particularly quickly, more resembling bolt action rifles of yesteryear than the guns we carried.

Robinson popped up from behind cover like a jack in the box, snapping shots off efficiently. “Tagged another one.” He shouted enthusiastically. I swear he was enjoying himself.

There is an adage I read years ago, there are heroes and old people, but no old heroes. Its meaning is that the brave tend to die young. Personally, I wanted to die old and in bed, preferably accompanied by a beautiful young grieving widow. This was the reason I didn’t follow Robinson’s approach and make myself a target.

Whack-a-mole wasn’t as much fun when you were playing the part of the mole. Staying crouched, I fired between gaps in the rocks. This only gave me a narrow line of vision, but equally, it reduced the chance of me catching a bullet. A trade-off I was happy to make.

I was starting to feel optimistic about our chances when someone screamed behind me.

“It fucking hurts, the bastards have killed me.” Schmidt was sprawled on the floor moaning, blood gushed quickly from a shoulder wound, soaking into his shirt.

Ignoring the bullets buzzing past him, Sarge moved out in a crouching run. “Cover me!”

Firing quickly without aiming I sprayed bullets over the battlefield. The bugs didn’t care, unlike humans, they showed little sense of self-preservation. Crouching in the open as they returned fire.

Behind us, Sarge grabbed Schmidt's shoulder and dragged the man back into cover. “Stop bellyaching, if you’re complaining then you’re not done with fighting.” Sarge pushed a gun back into Schmidt’s bloody hands, before turning back to the fight.

There were far fewer of the attackers now, our persistent barrage had whittled down their numbers considerably. Their lack of tactics was making this a horribly one-sided battle.

“Last one,” Robinson clambered proudly atop his rock.

“Robinson you bloody idiot, stay in cover. Everyone stay put until we’re certain they’re all dead.” Sarge wasn’t taking any chances with our lives. This was why his men loved him, he kept them alive, even protecting them from themselves.

The battlefield was silent for several minutes, I wrapped a bandage around the moaning Schmidt’s shoulder while we waited. He’d been lucky, the bullet had gone clean through and seemed to have missed hitting anything vital.

We were about to head back when there was a scratching sound. One of the bugs was moving, trying to drag himself away from the field. Robinson raised his gun and without thinking I knocked it aside. “He’s no threat, look at him.”

The Skitter’s carapace had been hit several times and showed violent cracks down upon the surface. The alien made slow progress across the ground while we watched, leaving a slimy green trail behind him.

Sarge didn’t stop me when I left cover. The creature stopped trying to drag itself away and kaleidoscope eyes turned their unblinking focus on me. As I took medical supplies from my pack, its mandibles opened and closed rapidly creating a light-toned chittering effect. If this was speech, it was meaningless to me.

“Just kill it already,” Robinson offered by way of a helpful suggestion. I considered doing just that, the battlefield was already littered with dozens of its hive mates, would one more make a difference really?

Probably not, but killing someone in self-defense was one thing. Killing a helpless victim was another entirely. The adrenaline of the fight had left me and in its aftermath, I viewed the battlefield not as a glorious victory, but as a senseless slaughter. There had been living creatures, aliens. Their first contact with humanity had been when it destroyed them. This wasn’t a legacy I was proud of.

Ignoring the flow of lurid comments from Robinson, I shrugged my pack off and pulled out my medical kit. Ten minutes later I stood up and looked down upon the feebly moving skitter. I’d packed his carapace with gauze and then sprayed an aerosol bandage on top. There was no way to wrap a normal bandage around his abdomen, even if I’d managed to get him to co-operate he was just too wide. The critter must have realized that I was trying to help, it hadn’t tried to escape or attack me while I’d worked.

Still, he didn’t seem to be leaking gunk anymore. I figured he’d live, probably.

“What now?” Sarge said in an almost mournful voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You said they’re hive creatures?” He squatted down, peering into the bug’s eyes at its own level while I worked out what he meant.

The skitter didn’t have a hive any more, thanks to us. I had no idea how it would cope, or what it would do. How well could an ant survive on its own? I supposed it would have to find out, I’d given it a chance to heal, the rest was up to it.