Our intelligence briefings on the Rak’Lan had been remarkably devoid of information.  Having never recovered more than charred bodies from our skirmishes, all we knew was their basic physiology, their shape and size (if that didn’t vary), and a vague understanding of their technology.  Some of our own recent breakthroughs had occurred as a result of the analysis of some of their wreckage, but in other ways, we were far ahead of them.  I suppose that just goes to show how different races evolve along different pathways.

The interior of the Rak’Lan station was bathed in a pale, red glow.  Whether this was characteristic of their normal lighting or if this was emergency lighting was unknown.  The corridors were not square or rectangular; they were ovoid, matching somewhat the curve of the station.  The air was rank with some kind of ester.  This may have been a product of their body chemistry, a source of fuel, or even an example of their cooking.  There was gravity in the corridor.

All of this came to me in a flash as Rogers started his minigun.  There was a metallic whirring sound as the barrels spun before the deafening roar of the slugs began.  My helmet immediately clamped ear protection over my ears and switched to radio communications in the noise of the battle.  I swallowed at the sudden change of matching pressures with the station and the covering of my ears.

Inside stood three Rak’Lan, covered in a sort of segmented exoskeleton that was faintly reminiscent of medieval armor.  They crumpled in a mist of red-tinged fluid as Rogers’ minigun swept them aside like chaff.  Two more Rak’Lan, fighting from an improvised cover position about thirty meters down the corridor, returned fire with high velocity assault rifles, their rounds fragmenting on the chest carapace of Rogers’ exoskeleton.

“Jenkins!” the sergeant called to a member of the heavy weapons squad.  “RPG on Rogers’ target.  Squads!  Covering fire!” A flashing, red reticule appeared in my helmet visor, placed there by my squad leader’s objective designation over the radio.  Moving forward into the station behind the person in front of me, I saw that one squad peeled to the left while the other peeled to the right.  The gravity differential made me stagger as I stepped into the station.  If my training was any indication, I would say that it was about 0.7 gees.  

The heavy weapons squad set up behind Jenkins and his loader, deploying the .50 caliber machine gun.  Taking up a cover position, our own assault rifles began to lay down cover fire as the RPG team moved forward.

“Clear!” Corporal Jenkins called behind him as he depressed a firing stud.

With a swoosh that was deafening even with my ear protection in the enclosed corridor, the grenade shot outward, flames dripping from the nozzle end.

“Load!” Jenkins shouted behind him as a private snapped another round into place.

The plasma charge in the grenade looked like it dissolved the cover behind which the Rak’Lan were concealed.  The blast wave threw them backward down the corridor, skidding on their backs.

“All right, Howser,” the sergeant said.  “Unleash the hounds.”  A private, still taking cover within the shelter of the landing craft’s troop bay, punched at the computer strapped to his forearm.  He reached into one of the capacious cargo pockets on his fatigues and placed a steel and chrome sphere that was about 10 cm in diameters on the ground.  With a snap and a buzz, the sphere rose off the ground with the sound of its namesake bumblebee and flew down the corridor almost too fast for the eye to see.

One of the Rak’Lan tried to get to his feet as the Bumblebee hit him.  With a sound of metal striking a saw, I saw the Bumblebee cut through the alien and emerge from the back side, slinging fluid over the corridor walls.  It checked its forward motion and amid shouts of glee from Howser, he drove it through the Rak’Lan from the reverse side.  “San Francisco, you bastard,” he said over the section frequency.  The Rak’Lan collapsed on top of his fellow. 

“Squad three!  Sergeant Dunkel, check the casualties down there.  By squads, establish the defensive perimeter.”  He smiled.  “Well done, boys and girls.  We’re holding here until we figure out how to hook up with rest of the platoon.”  I could hear him click over to the command frequency.  “El tee, we’re in and have established a beach head.  Setting up a perimeter and waiting for orders.”

My squad leader beckoned to me and one other soldier.  Carefully, we made our way down the corridor, past the bodies of the first three Rak’Lan, to the one killed by the Bumblebee.  The little device was still hovering over its kill, but no longer shedding fluid from its blades.  Dunkel leaned down and heaved the top body away to find that the Rak’Lan underneath was still alive.  It lay perfectly still as we covered it with our weapons.

Although covered in its segmented armor, it was roughly humanoid.  It had two arms, two legs, bilateral symmetry, a head, and a neck.  Large, liquid eyes, somewhat like a squid, blinked at me with some kind of emotion.  Was it fear?  Was it anger?  Resignation to its fate? Its face was almost aquatic looking—leathery skin like a shark, sharply canted mouth, no visible nose. 

“Hey, Sarge!” Dunkel said.  “This one’s alive.”

“No prisoners, Dunkel.  We don’t have the manpower, and the intel crew won’t be here for another hour.”

“Copy that, Sarge.”  With a sigh, she pushed her assault rifle against the helmet of the Rak’Lan.  The frequency of the blinking eyes increased, but I could see her frown through her visor.  “San Francisco,” she said quietly, and squeezed the trigger.  The face inside the helmet dissolved in a mist.  “Rejoin the squad,” she said to us.

Needing no further urging, we rejoined our spot on the perimeter as Dunkel trotted up behind us.  “Did you see that?” The trooper had accompanied me down the corridor asked, a faint Irish lilt to her tone.  She was a stranger to me, having been recently assigned to our unit from another training cadre.  She had O’Leary stenciled across the forehead of her helmet, just above the visor.  In the dim light, I could see wisps of what I thought was red hair plastered to her forehead with sweat through her visor.  She wasn’t using the radio.  I noticed that my helmet had released the ear protection to let me perceive ambient sounds.

“See what?” I asked quietly.

“What Sergeant Dunkel did.  Doesn’t that violate the laws of war or something?”

I laughed mirthlessly.  “What they did to San Francisco and Shanghai violated the rules of war.  Besides, what rules are there?  They don’t conform to our idea of war at all.  The sooner we realize that, the better off we are.”

“Yeah…but executing a prisoner?  We’re not animals, at least, not most of us.”  We had taken our positions together on the defensive perimeter, watching the corridor for signs of movement.

“You heard the Sarge.  We don’t have the manpower to spare for a guard.  Should we leave him at our rear to wreak havoc?”  I checked the ammo readout on the top of my rifle.  “The only ethics that matter right now are the survival of the human race.”

“But if we have to change who we are to survive, have really we survived?”  There was a faint tone of amusement in her voice, but I could sense the seriousness of her question as well.

“Quiet in the ranks,” Dunkel said from behind us.  “Get ready to move out.  Orders.”

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