We buried Schmidt quickly and without ceremony. In a little under a week, I’d seen two squadmates die. Wondering who would be next - I looked around at the others as Robinson started the eulogy. 

Robinson normally exuded a terrifying feral intensity. Now speaking about his dead friend he looked nervous and unsure. The loss of his sidekick had shaken the man. I suppose, it was to be expected, bullies were never as brave without backup. Still the man was a fighter and stubborn as hell, he wouldn’t go down easy.

Sarge’s shoulders were slumped forward slightly, his normal military posture defeated by exhaustion and the continued stress. But his eyes shone with determination and drive. I knew he’d fight to avenge Schmidt.

Westcott on the other hand looked like he was about to puke. His eyes flicked around looking anywhere but at the grave, I think this was probably the first time he’d seen a corpse. The kid had better toughen up fast. We couldn’t afford to carry dead weight.

Seriously though, who was I kidding? - In this group, the walking corpse was probably me.

 A cough from Sarge brought my focus back to the burial.

“Schmidt was a good friend. No one better to have beside you in a fight. Whether it was against aliens on a strange planet or a bar brawl against the VC I trusted him to have my six.” Robinson fell silent and quietly wiped his face. I realized the man was crying. Not the choking, ugly tears you see in movies when someone falls apart. These tears were restrained and respectful, bearing the loss of a friend stoically.

“Amen to that,” Sarge finished, “It’s likely the enemy knows we’re here now. So we need to bug out.”

Robinson nodded; there was a grim, hard set to his mouth as he set off. I pitied any Arachnia who crossed our path. None of us were in the mood to take prisoners.

We proceeded in a cautious march with Robinson at the tip of our formation. The forested area ahead was becoming increasingly spartan, and we bunkered down beside the thinning cover to consider our options.

Far in the distance, the strobing light was visible. Tiny blurred figures were to be moving purposefully beneath it. They knew we were coming.

“Any idea how far that fancy rifle can shoot?” Sarge enquired.

I considered the rifle for a minute, and the relevant information flooded my mind.

Arachnia Sniper Rifle

Reliable Shooting Range - 1,000m

Maximum Range - 1,960m

I was so shocked that It took a few seconds for me to respond. This was a real game-changer. "It's reliable up to a klick out, and the maximum range is around two klicks."

Robinson smirked as he lifted the sniper rifle, looking like the cat who'd just got the cream. 

Remembering the rest of the weapon's description, I blurted out. "If you depress and hold the trigger for five seconds, then it'll charge up and do more damage."

"Good to know," Robinson muttered. "Perhaps having a bookworm along isn't such a bad idea."

Sarge nodded, squatting down next to him. "Take your time, son, no rush."

Robinson ignored him, breathing slowly. He sighted on his target and depressed the trigger holding it.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four seconds.

Five seconds.

An audible click sounded in the weapon, and a latticework of red icons appeared on the side of the gun's barrel. 

"Let her rip," Sarge encouraged.

Robinson breathed in, holding his breath. Then as he let his breath out, he released the trigger smoothly. There was a ferocious crackle of energy as a blue bolt of energy flashed out of the rifle's barrel.

There was a splash of bright light as the bolt impacted in front of the tower. Streaks of lightning played frantically over an invisible dome covering the structure, leaving the tower completely unharmed.

"Shit!" Robinson exclaimed.

Sarge was more practical, "Time to move people; they know where we are now." 

My mind was whirling as we moved out. Damn it. I should have seen that coming. In retrospect, it was obvious they'd have protected their base against their own weapons. They were familiar with those, which meant that the ones we should be using are the ones from earth!

"Sorry." I blurted out. "I should have known they'd have defenses against their own weapons."

"Now's not the time, Peters," Sarge stated bluntly, not even bothering to face me as we moved out.

Robinson was less polite, "SITFU, kid. You can work through your teen angst if we live through this."

Our march guided us towards thicker cover. The forest was denser here. There was little direct sunlight beneath the packed trees, only the occasional shaft of sunlight broke through the gloomy twilight. 

Some primitive instinct nudged at the back of my mind. Something was wrong. I felt my nerves come alive, danger was near.

"What's that?" Westcott asked, slowing down so he could look around. A low key buzzing noise was filling the air, drifting over to us from the area we'd fled only minutes ago.

"Take cover!" Sarge snapped.

I hurled myself into the nearest brush, ignoring the thorns which tore at my uniform and face. Any scratches I incurred were temporary, death was permanent. Seconds later, Westcott joined me. I resisted pushing him away from me as he huddled up to me. The kid was like a kitten finding his mother's presence reassuring. 

The buzzing grew louder as we lay still, watching for signs of movement. Then, Robinson pointed to the sky above us. My heart skipped a beat when I saw flitting overhead were a squad of flying fucking spiders. They were as horrific as you might imagine, huge arachnids held aloft by rapidly moving wings, their eight legs held open as if they were in the act of pouncing on unseed prey.

Westcott's eyes went wide. Squealing in terror, he took in a huge breath and opened his mouth to scream. Before he could give us away, my hand clamped down over his lips. Hard. "So help me, God. If you make a fucking sound, I will gut you like a fish." I shocked myself by meaning every word that I hissed through clenched teeth. 

The Arachnia were flying lower now, inspecting the forest beneath them as they searched. Robotic wings protruded from large leather suits that they wore, allowing them to zip back and forth with unnatural ease. 

All we could do was wait to be discovered. The rookie's eyes stared at me plaintively. The boy wasn't fighting against my hold, but I could see his cheeks were taking on a slightly blue tinge as he struggled for breath. If I applied just a little more pressure, then I probably wouldn't have to worry about his sorry ass anymore.

Overhead the Arachnia were oblivious to the drama playing out beneath them, and eventually, the buzz began to recede. The danger was past. For now at least.

I released my stranglehold over Westcott's mouth, silently praying he'd keep quiet. It was probably the stupid move, but I couldn't bring myself to kill him in cold blood.

The boy gulped in a huge breath of air but didn't cry out, much to my relief. "I'd thought you were the normal one." His quiet words were coated with a heavy layer of accusation. 

"No one who survives in war is normal," I growled. The sooner the guy toughened up, the better. 

The anger in my thoughts shocked me. Not long ago, I had been in the kid's position. I knew I'd changed since then and probably not for the better. Napoleon had once indicated that the worse the man was, the better the soldier. I was becoming a more effective Marine, but I wasn't sure what that meant about me. I felt more commanding and less indecisive, but was I also becoming less compassionate?

Did it matter?

I’d always seen empathy and compassion as positives. In peacetime perhaps they were, during a mission they seemed a weakness.

One which could get you killed.