by S. V. Brown
“Are you ready, marines?!”
“Yeah!”
“Are you ready?! I can’t hear you!”
“Yeah.”
“Absolutely bad arses…”
Paris screwed up his face. He’d heard that from a movie from Earth. It had aliens in it. With his new, short haircut, medic bag, and L Squad duties he’d picked up being a marine fast. He used a slight mimicry spell that allowed him to copy actions and ways of speaking. It was what he called a loose spell because it didn’t bind him fully, so he could prevent himself from saying stupid things like, “I did my nails last night” or “give me some of that—” no, he couldn’t even finish that last comment. At first he didn’t know what it meant and then over dinner it suddenly dawned on him and he ran out vomiting. He just wasn’t that kind of guy! His idea of nookie night was more cuddling than sex.
He liked romance and soft music.
He liked roses and poems.
Maybe marines hadn’t been such a good decision but they weren’t all just a bunch of jarheads were they?
Why didn’t girls like nice guys with pale, bony bodies?
He had nice eyebrows.
But being in the marines was only for twenty years so it wasn’t too bad. He was sure he would manage.
In his squad was Jackson, Messma, Kabab (meat on a stick but Paris didn’t get it) and Sanchez. It took him two seconds to see there was a white one, a black one, a yellow one, a pink one, and him. It was some kind of politically correct order from the same commander who didn’t believe in testing. He leaned over to Chezza. “What am I again?”
“The alien?”
“Yeah, but what color?” he asked as a joke.
The others laughed. Jackson wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Every squad’s gotta have an alien on board, green then. We’re supposed to have a chick too but the commander is uming and ahing over it.”
“Right.” So it was okay for an alien to die but not a chick. From other unflattering things he’d heard about their commander that meant the commander was a “chick” chick and not an alien chick. Maybe.
They were standing in what looked like a box with places for them to stand and be strapped into. The box would be ejected, ranged to a place, on this mission it was to a space station, and they would run out screaming with guns firing. It wasn’t like the movies at all. First he’d been inside the shuttle, then inside the war rangers, and now inside the box. Soon he’d be inside the space station and once they had contained their section then they’d just sit there until it was time to get back in the box, ranged back to the war ranger. He missed seeing the “outside”. Paris had complained to Path the night before and she just said, “You’d die.”
His fellow marines were more sympathetic. “Just watch it when we get back.”
“No way, Chezza.” Kabab whined. “I’m not watching work in my recreational time.”
Chezza scratched his balls. “Just think of it like a sci-fi movie, it’s not like the cameras will be on us.”
But it was. After some wrestling they sat and watched and all they saw was their footage from their personal cams. Paris threw some popcorn at the screen. “Where’s the ranger views?’
Messma glanced around the room and pulled out his tablet. “Hold tight.”
Jackson got up and checked the passage. His blond head of hair disappeared around the corner before reappearing and he sealed the hatch. “Hurry up anyway.”
They saw an image appear.
Paris stared at it. “That’s it?”
“You’ve got no appreciation, alien. That’s an outside view of our mission. In the corner you can just make out the space station.”
Paris screwed up his face and then said with a grin. “If you could just compile a bunch of shots and then add some music?”
Chezza tackled him off the chair and on to the floor. After some roughhousing, something the commander allowed, they tried to hack into the ranger systems and create a “movie”.
“This is fucked up, man!” Chezza complained.
“Shut up, Chezza. You’ll be labelled ‘potty mouth’ and have to walk around with that stupid hat.”
As long as it didn’t have a rat in it, Paris thought snidely, and suppressed a little shiver. He shook his head. The commander didn’t like swearing but humiliating the marines was okay. “That chick is a bitch.”
His comment endeared him to his squad.
Path jumped up as he entered her cabin later and her eyes went wide. “What happened to you?”
“Just some friendly tussling with the guys.”
She studied his face and then nodded. “You seem happy, what are you up to?”
He just smiled. For the first time in his life he really felt a part of something. The mission had been boring and while his team laughed at him as he tripped over the hatch lip charging into the station they had also helped him recover and they took their quadrant with ease.
“I’m the token alien.”
“I see. Does that make you happy?” She blinked as she looked up at him.
“Path, don’t do that psycho-anal stuff on me.”
She huffed and sat back down curling her legs under her. He ignored her surly mood and went to get himself a drink. “We need a token chick in the squad next according to the guys.”
At the silence behind him he turned lifting the cup to his lips. He took a sip and looked around the little room. “Path?”
He hung around her cabin for longer but she didn’t come back. “Sulky cat.”
Paris headed back to his cabin and read over his medic notes again. It didn’t look too hard to mimic the actions of a medic. The only thing he had to do on the last mission was attach a bandy-aid. He watched the marine records again, taking in the postures and songs. He had a good memory so that helped.
Falling asleep was easy with a little sleep spell.
The next morning he dressed and headed to the mess. The guys were already up and seemed excited about something. He grabbed a tray and selected some food before heading over. Just as he sat down the guys’ attention all shifted to behind him.
“Hi, marines!”
Paris’s spoon froze on the way to his mouth.
Path moved from behind him, with tray in hand, and squeezed between Jackson and Chezza. She grinned cheekily at Paris who hadn’t yet recovered.
“I’m the token chick.”
“Fuck yeah!” they bellowed out.
Paris’s mouth fell open. No. No. No. This was his moment! His moment to be a part of something and now his stupid cat was here.
“We’ve got the next op.” Jackson glanced around the table. “On planet for a few months. That includes some R&R.”
At the woots Paris realized he wasn’t the only one who found ranger life suffocating. Though, he was only new and his squad had been around for some time.
“They just set coordinates for Tasia, heavy grav but we’ll get antigrav suits to wear. Intel says smugglers are using the smaller continent so we go in after the meat and take over the operations. Once there we do inventory and shit, and then we get to play the smugglers, do a meet and greet with the buyers—finish off with a deal.”
Paris was beginning to see a problem. “But that sounds more like a job for the special marine division?”
They all stared at him.
Jackson was the first to recover. “We are the special division, alien. What’s with you?”
“Yeah, token alien,” said Path with a smirk.
“Shut up, token chick.” Paris leaned forward and the others copied. “What was with the space station mission?”
Messma laughed. “We were bored while they nabbed the army deserters questioning them to get details of their next drop so they gave us an extra job. When me and Chezza snuck away we did a little shopping.”
“Ah.”
Jackson now was studying him. “The pill didn’t work on you, did it? Your alien DNA?”
Path gave him a quick nod. It was time to fess up. “No.
”
Jackson rubbed his tanned cheek. “Well, you’ve done pretty good considering. Can you fill your medic role? We really count on that.”
“That’s not a problem.” Instead of studying medical stuff he’d turned to calling up spells to heal, binding them to him.
“Good.”
“He did a good job with this,” Chezza said holding up his finger with the bandy-aid still attached.
They all laughed.
Paris lifted his arm and moved his hand around. “It’s all in the wrist action.”
He could tell they wanted to make jokes about wanking but that wasn’t allowed anymore, another directive from the commander.
“And you can fight right? The medic is great an’ all but our medic needs to be able to kill to. And not that ‘do no harm’ shit, if your enemy is down and squealing like a pig you’ve gotta leave ‘em.” Kabab’s dark eyes were as hard as they were serious. “POWs are not our concern.”
Paris smiled nastily and it wasn’t lost on the marines. “Not a problem. Killing is actually a requirement where I come from.”
Jackson raised his pale eyebrows.
Path nodded. “I come from the same planet and killing isn’t a problem. The village children are all conscripted to learn to fight. There are creatures, raiders, marauders, or gangs that attack the villages.”
“Alright.” Jackson resumed eating but looked unconvinced.
Paris explained, “It’s not army but militia … hang on, what did you mean about the meat going down?”
They all avoided his eyes for a moment.
Path snorted. “Paris! The meat grinder. The front lines usually always get butchered.”
That just made him feel sick.
Chezza drawled, “Don’t you send in the front line in the militia?”
“No. We have secret watchtowers and set up traps.”
“That’s cold, man.”
What sort of special marines were they? Evidently not black ops. Paris snarled, “Sure, as cold as sending in raw recruits to their deaths!”
“Calm down, marines.” Jackson finished his steak. “That’s not our unit, alright? We work more circumspectly but we do need the way cleared. Everyone does their part.”
Paris spooned in his porridge not able to eat steak for breakfast ... yet. He should be grateful that he wasn’t “meat”. Those soldiers may think they were dying for some good cause. “What’s the importance of the operation?”
“Briefing, in thirty.”
“Right. You can test our skills too, in battle.”
Jackson smiled now, his face relaxing. “Sure.”
At the briefing Jackson, as squad leader, took his place in the front of the tiny room. There were six chairs making up two rows. There was a monitor at the front and a little podium. The hatch was sealed. Paris sat in the middle.
Chezza sat next to him and leaned closer. “It’ll be your turn on the forth mission. The new commander says we gotta take turns.”
Even Paris could see the stupidity in that.
There was laughter right behind them. Messma leaned forward. “Yeah, but we all support each other so it’s no big deal.” He slapped Chezza on the head. “Stop trying to freak out our newbie.”
“You’re not the boss … today.”
They all sniggered.
“Shhhhh.”
“Thank you, Path.”
His feline gave him an annoyed look and turned her Cheshire cat smile to Jackson.
“Attention token yella (Chezza), brown (Kabab), black (Messma), alien (Paris) and chick (Path).”
They laughed at “whitey (Jackson)”.
“Now, for my next act I’m going to present the mission.”
“Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are. You. Ready. Marines?” Jackson flexed his muscles and then puffed out his chest bashing it in a joke.
“Yeah!”
Everyone laughed except Path who was drooling.
“Path?” Paris asked.
“Huh?”
He tossed her a tissue. “Mop up, pussy cat.”
She blushed prettily. “Thank you, Paris.”
Paris tried not to think about the remarks around about pussy and mopping up. He slapped any head close to him instead, gaining another notch as “one of the guys”.
After the briefing they went to the shooting gallery and then into a small sparring room. It only took several minutes before Jackson walked over and helped Messma up. He inspected the cut on his dark lip.
“Clean that up.” He glanced at Paris who was perspiring. “I think that’s enough. Welcome to the Hammer Squad.”
“Ooray!”
Jackson slapped him on the head.
“Oorah!”
“Better.” Jackson watched as Path and the others left the room and he turned to Paris. “Why don’t you like saying ‘Oorah’?”
Paris grimaced. “Noticed that did you?” Without waiting for an answer he said, “Just some bitch back home is named ‘O’rah’.”
“Ah,” Jackson said with a grin and headed out. “Just remember when you say ‘Oorah’ you can imagine firing a bullet in her head. You are a good shot. You were a sniper weren’t you, on the watchtower?”
Paris nodded. “In my younger days before… You know.”
He nodded. “Good to know.”
Paris finished dressing, no longer quite as embarrassed by his bony, white body. They’d seen it now. No more hiding and no one laughed. Path had proven herself a little spitfire with strange fighting techniques. Only Paris knew why and tried not to laugh when she hissed and pulled hair.
Spell Nine – Lunatics Act
Paris checked his medic pack before shoving in more food bars. Magic meant he had to eat more and while he had only to help his fellow marines, there might be other friendlies he’d need to help. Path was their new telecommunication expert and after batting her long eyelashes at Chezza he was happy to take over patrol work.
He was finally ready.
Standing in his small cabin only for a moment was enough for him to get the hell out. They had a few months on planet. As he walked down the narrow companionways he met up with Chezza, then Messma, then Kabab.
“Where’s Path?” Paris asked.
“Already on the tub with Jackson. I think she’s got the hots for the current leader.” Messma glanced back at him with a smirk.
“Yeah, can’t wait till it’s my turn!” Chezza raised his rifle to bash with Paris’s rifle but he declined. Chezza asked, “What’s up, man? It’s not loaded yet.”
Paris’s faced burned. “Hold up.”
The three turned and covered for him while he unloaded his weapon.
“Shit, alien, did we forget to tell you that rule?”
“Arseholes.” Paris was really getting the hang of being a marine. “We always load up at home.”
Chezza looked insulted. “We didn’t do that on purpose. We could all get time in the brig for that.”
Paris felt, and probably looked, sheepish because Kabab slapped him on the back. “Forget it.”
Two minutes later they boarded the tub and were loading up their weapons. Paris rolled his eyes while the others laughed.
“It is kinda funny, alien.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What’s funny?” Path asked appearing from behind a stack of crates being lashed down by Jackson.
To his relief the guys told her a crude story to which she giggled even as Paris blanched and moved quickly away. He stored his pack and weapons in his locker and made comfortable in his seat. The tub was small and seats were on either side. At the back, near the rear hatch, were the crates. Jackson came through checking their stuff. Paris asked, “I thought you were the leader?”
“Yeah, the commander says that leaders need to be humble so they gotta do some of the shit jobs as well.”
“Ah huh.”
“That bitch needs a—”
“Chezza! Enough.”
Chez
za laughed and sat down. “Sure, sir.”
After they settled Paris looked behind him as the rear hatch closed and they were sitting in the dark. “Whose piloting?”
A dark hand rose in the seat before him and waved what looked like a games console. “Me.”
Suddenly they were jerking in their seats, lights came on, and Paris could hear a tinny voice giving them the all clear. He’d seen the specs on the ranger they were in, it looked more like a capsule than a war-like spacecraft. The energy readings were low and the material non-reflective. The capsule trundled along something and then wop! Paris was being shoved back in his seat, he heard Path squealing in laughter.
They jerked to the right, then left, and slowly his cheeks filled out again in the right places. He rubbed them to get the circulation back. They had no monitors to watch what was going on. The first ten minutes were kinda fun. The next ten hours were boring. Paris looked across at Chezza who was reading. Ahead he could hear Path and Jackson chatting away. Kabab was snoring just ahead of Chezza.
Paris sighed and jumped as a book was thrown in his lap. He turned seeing the almond-shaped eyes on him.
“Sigh again and I’ll have to kill you.”
“This book better be good then.”
Chezza leaned over. “You getting sassy with me, marine?”
Paris reached over and rubbed the short crop of dark hair. “Be a good boy and learn your ABCs.”
Chezza grabbed his hand. “This is Chinese burn. My grandfather showed me.”
“Yeow! Alright, enough.”
Jackson yelled at them. “Keep from making politically incorrect remarks boys, the commander wants the files. Messma?”
“Yeah, I’ll erase that shit out.”
Paris snorted. “So, our Chinese marine can’t say Chinese burn but we can say ‘shit’?”
“Good point. Messma?”
“Fucking erase our files and give ‘em all Alien burn on the way out.”
“Oorah.”
“Ooray.” Paris laughed.
Jackson yelled. “Give that marine a smack on the head!”
Paris leaned over to Chezza. “Hey, what does Chinese burn mean anyway?”
