Where am I? WHO am I? Why can't I remember?!
Wait. I remember now. I am William Bricker, a sergeant in the Terran Empire Marine Corps. I was part of a task force to retake some ball of dirt from the birdbrains. Hell, I don't even remember hearing a name for it. Just a numerical designation.
Oh, God. I know my eyes are open, but I can't see anything.
My voice. What'd they do with my voice?! I have no mouth, and I must scream. Who wrote that? Oh, yeah, Ellison. Egotistical bastard.
Calm down, Willy, and stop worrying about dead assholes. You need to remember what happened.
"Hey, Sergeant! What's the story with those damned fruitcakes up in orbit? They waiting for the birdbrains to invite us in for tea or something?"
"Damned if I know, Leann. I'm just a grunt with a couple of chevrons given by people stupid enough to promote my dumb jarhead ass." Not stupid enough to come down here where the shit's going down, though.
The marines fall silent, awaiting the expected counterattack on the small 'beachhead' they'd established around their crashed landing craft, shot down by a Kilrathi missile launcher. That quiet is broken a minute later by the low rumble of K'thaoran fighters piercing the sky.
"INCOMING! TAKE COVER!"
All around the marines, Hell itself breaks loose, fountains of dirt rising from the explosions as cannon fire and missiles impact into the ground.
"Base, this is Expeditionary Force Uniform, Company Delta! We're under attack by a whole shit-ton of K'thaoran fighters. Requesting support, like yesterday!"
"Neg...ive, Co...ny Delta. We... ...sy here too. Ki...tha... are blitzing the fleet," comes the crackly reply, barely audible above the static.
"Shit!" the radio operator bellows as he slams the microphone down. "We're on our own, Sergeant! Looks like the birdies are attacking hardcore in space as well. We've gotta sit tight for now."
"Nah, really?" Lance Corporal Leann Garibaldi replies sarcastically between explosions, trying to make for as small a target as possible.
Not small enough, though, to prevent a piece of shrapnel from a missile casing from nearly severing her head, leaving gushers of blood spraying from the the ragged slash across the back of her neck.
"Garibaldi!"
Bricker sticks his head up long enough to yell "Get down Smith! She's not the only piece of ass in this Corps," then ducks back down, just in time to dodge a rock sailing at where his face was a moment ago. Like the dumbass didn't know the only reason she was so willing to fuck him was because the rest of us didn't want whatever diseases the slut had. Damn shame she was also the best sapper this sorry group of shitheads.
"Lieutenant! Where the fuck are those airedale bastards?!
"Like I fucking know, Smith? Stay froody. AND GET OUT THAT GODDAMNED HEAVY BLASTER! YOU'VE GOT THE ONLY THING THAT CAN HURT THE BIRDIES!" Oh, shit! How'd I forget the loaners? "Shooter platoon!" Lt. Rico yells into the mike from the radioman. "What the hell are you waiting for? Get out those damned firecrackers of yours and fuck 'em up!"
"No contact with the missile guys, sir. Don't think they got the order."
"Then you'll have to deliver it, Bricker. We need those missiles live pronto, or else we're dead!"
"On it sir!" Well, I always said I'd put my ass on the line for Rico. Now's the time to put deeds to words.
Bricker leaps up, and sprints towards the last known location of the missile platoon, on loan from a company not participating in the retaking of the small world on which they were stranded for now.
Unfortunately, land mines, like the one that Bricker unknowingly steps on, have this nasty characteristic: they tend to make a big mess out of whatever -- or whoever -- is unlucky enough to trigger them.
"What's the story with this one Julie?"
"Came in shortly after the throttle jockeys beat off that K'thaoran attack. His landing craft got shot down, and they got swarmed by a metric butt-tonne of K'kai fighters during the attack on the fleet. Looks like the doofus went and stepped on a mine or something. Anyhow, I'm not seeing any reaction to sensory stimulation save a few twitches of the brainscan, for touch, but we know he's alive."
"If you call being a fucking zombie needing machines to perform normal life functions 'alive,'" the older man snorts derisively. "This ain't life."
"Yeah, I know. The goombahs upstairs think he'll come around, though, so we've gotta keep him tied up to the machines. Don't think they've got a lick of sense among them, and sure as hell not medical knowledge. As always, though, we're stuck carrying out stupid ass orders. Poor bastards. He's the only one we had enough pieces of to identify. Well, him and that headless Lance Corporal chick. Anyhow, thank Goddess I'm not a marine. Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Expected," repeating the old saw about what 'marine' stands for.
"Ain't that the truth. I'm gonna grab a late dinner from the mess deck. You coming?"
"Yeah, in a minute. Gotta check Mr. Bricker first."
"Ok. I hear they've got garbage can pizzas down there tonight. Nummy."
"Save a few slices for me, wouldya? All this has made me hungry."
"Yeah, sure."
Why, God? What have I done to deserve this? This isn't life, isn't death; my body is nothing more than a prison cell.
What was that ancient song that Donny liked? The one I ragged him about listening to all the time, over and over? Yeah, that's the one. That's me.
Landmine
has taken my sight
taken my speech
taken my hearing
taken my arms
taken my legs
taken my soul
left me with life in Hell
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["One", by Metallica; Lyrics © 1988 Creeping Death Music, ASCAP. Used without permission. Story © Dan Poore, though who'd want to plagiarize my work I have no idea.]
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