Author: T.A. Gruver

The rolling thunder of pulse cannons fell silent as the setting sun hid behind the clouds dancing over Eleos Basin. Not a sound could be heard from the firing lines as a crying Orion trooper grasped his leg with one hand and pulled himself up with the other through the red sands to the Andromedan firing line. Inch by inch, Private Ollie Doolittle crawled to the enemy, his beam rifle slung around his back. He wondered why he didn’t see theirs lighting up the sky.

He heard the faintest hum of a railgun coming to life over his headset seconds before he spotted a flash from the corner of his eye that sent him to the ground. The pain shot up his spine and bore into his brain—what little there was of it. Ollie thought about what his brothers were thinking, watching good ‘ole Private “Do Nothing” walking on all fours like a newborn to his grave. He owed them one last laugh for leaping over the parapet, abandoning his post for fame on the HoloNet feeds.

Har Deshur was the fourth dustball from its sun in a forgotten pocket of the Orion Belt where the Andromeda and Milky Way Galaxies collided. Eons of cold wars evolved into hot wars as Andromeda’s gas-rich stars drifted into human space and the nozzles of its solar rigs. Humanity dug a hole in the Red Planet and dared the Andromedans to follow them. The End of the Anthropocene promised to put on one last fireworks show.

When the Human League made landfall on Har Deshur, their plan was to lose slowly. For the past week, they had done just that. The 181st Spaceborne Division was running short on power packs and people, leaving it to reap clone reservists fresh out of the lab to fill its ranks and defend its reputation as the Hundred-and-Eighty Worst.

Thirty straight days of shelling were enough to drive the brothers of the 181st stir-crazy in their dugout in Eleos Basin. They bided their time eavesdropping on Andromedan communications. It was a week until the Andromedans learned of their unwelcome audience. The hexapods amused themselves, regularly informing the Orion boys how they would go about copulating with their mothers.

Grimacing, Ollie looked up to see someone walking towards him. Their silhouette grew taller as they came closer. It was an Andromedan, clad head to toe in eight feet of titanium, a mess of arms and legs.

Swearing under his breath, Ollie flailed about for his rifle, limping like some hurt animal when four meaty hands lifted him to his feet. He struggled as the Andromedan threw him over its shoulder, carrying him like a rag doll back to the Orion firing line.

The pair were met with stares and silence. No one moved at first. The Andromedan kept its hands where the company could see them. After what seemed like an eternity, the Ollies broke into cheers. Their Andromedan friend was sent off to No Man’s Land with pats on the back and an 181st patch pinned on its sand-caked exo-suit by the Ollie in charge.

The sun shone on the smoldering battlefield as the Andromedan returned to its post. The burst of light sent a charge through both sides’ beam rifles—1%…3%…4%. Shots rang out again.