‘Til We Meet Again

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say, which was proven once again as my plasma sword sliced through the reptilian eye of the Spogre. Jade-streaked black goop erupted from the wound and splattered my insulated battle suit. The strange creature's orifice opened to reveal crystal razor teeth meant for my demise, like a slow-motion silent movie, and the alien's final wail dissipated into the realms of space.

You have done well, Guillory. Your kill count stands at five, and you shall bear the Spartan crest, my encrypted combat A. I. fed into my consciousness via the cyber port embedded in my skull. We had been under absolute radio silence for thirty days. All communications from command came through our A.I.

I am an oil rigger by trade and never thought I'd become a soldier defending unified Earth from the alien invasion in a short six months. Far less, I had no forethought I'd be fighting in space. They said I had a knack for battle, a gift. Most Spogres were only wounded in battle and difficult to destroy. I killed. On Earth, I drove oil pipes into the ground and fought off Alligators. In space, I rammed a plasma sword into Spogre eyes. All spurted thick black gunk.

A.I. - You are to regroup at Ocean crater Twenty-three, two clicks south. Skip time, thirteen minutes. Battalion loss fifteen percent. Re-ranking to be announced in ten minutes.

Corporal Jorge held his position on my wing at the specified ten meters. The blue of his plasma knife flashed, and he sliced the gnarled talons off his alien kill. The curved razor-sharp claws sold for a small fortune on Earth. He turned to me, and his manic grin dared me to intervene. To him a prize, to the Earth Coalition a flagrant violation, and to me a perverse abomination. We were equal in rank as corporals and citizens of Earth and opposites in all other things that mattered. I fought to defend my world's freedom for my country, family, and Bernadette. Jorge fought for the prize of violence and money. I fought depression after each battle and withdrew into myself. Jorge exulted in the gore and extroverted in celebration. I cried, and he danced.

Jorge approached me with wild blue eyes, held up the prized talons of his victim, offered me the plasma knife, and pointed at my defeated opponent. I nodded in the negative and began my hop-skip journey to the battalion. I glanced back as a blue plasma knife flashed, and Jorge increased his collection of battlefield mementos.

A.I. - Corporal Guillory, you have been promoted to the battlefield rank of Third Sergeant. Congratulations. Reconnoiter your reformed squad at the Third sector of Ocean Crater Twenty-three. Battle Alert, incoming raid in minus three hours.

A wave of nausea roiled my stomach, and I fought not to foul my sealed helmet with vomit. A promotion meant my mentor and friend, Sgt. Littlefield was dead. The wounded were rarely attended to in space. Either you survived or died. A stab, a bite, a slash, or a tear, whether by Spogre, plasma knife, jagged moon rock, or incidental friendly fire, meant death.

Status of Sgt. Littlefield?

A.I. – Status sealed per Command Central.

Sealed? I want a report on the Sergeant, Now!

A.I. - File is Classified Top Secret. Violations of The International Security Act impose a penalty of life imprisonment or termination for anyone who conspires or aids anyone in breach of the law.

I wanted to scream, but the sound would only resonate within the isolation of my spacesuit.

As a child, I would sit and fantasize about adventures on the moon; I now hated the barren, dusty, and rugged hunk of rock. People on Earth were induced to become romantic under the deception of its glow and failed to realize the barren rock stole from the sun to hide its true ugliness. All fantasies were destroyed here. This was real. I wanted to go home and never view the moon again. The Central Command exhibited its own deceptions.

The bayou of my home was green and lush with the fragrances of Earth. Musky decays of the swamp under laid natures perfumes of honeysuckle and marsh flowers. Black perilous waters provided food as well as hazards below its calm surface. Compared to the barren, sterile existence of rocks, dust, and endless ridges on the lunar surface with the annoying irritants of the survival canisters, this increased my depression. Bernadette, the love of my life, my Cajun partner, waited for me to hunt, fish, and make love in simplistic warmth without the need for a damn pressurized battle suit. The loss of three of the five senses, touch, taste, and smell, would drive anyone to insanity. I have lived in fear I would arrive at this point of no return and the death of Sgt. Littlefield pushed me closer.

***

My newly assigned squad of eight rendezvoused at the third sector. Lunar drones resupplied liquid plasma for our blades, laser cell packs, and sustenance canisters. After I inspected each soldier and was satisfied with their updates, I connected my renewal canisters. The rush of fresh oxygen, water, and nutrients boosted my attitude. I'm sure the amphetamines and other supplements induced into my lungs and stomach worked to maximize our battle efficiency. Corporal Jorge, assigned to my squad, strutted like a rooster and displayed his collection of alien digits. Six veterans and two greens made up my squad.

A.I. - Sergeant Guillory, you are to report field command stat.

I had no need to sleep and grew agitated to join the coming battle. My controlled rage came more from the warrior cocktail than the fading reasoning of my enlistment to save Earth. In some combatants, the human in them would vanish, and they would go insane from the stimulants.

Bonni.... I mean, Bernadette, the love of my life, entered my thoughts, but I once again debated the color of her hair. One moment I remembered black, and next, I argued brunette. Thirty straight days in combat and the global armies' hyper supplements muddled the mind of personal connections.

The Company Captain and Master Chief acknowledged me with a wave of their hands as I entered the command tent. I only knew them by the rank markings on their space battle suits and nameplates. We had been suited in battle gear for a month. The specialized space suits self-cleaned the kit and the soldier via healthy bacteria canisters we changed daily.

The Master Chief fastened Sergeant stripes to the arms of my battle suit, and the Captain presented an engraved silver nameplate of an ancient Greek Spartan impaling a Spogre. Guillory was stenciled below the iconic imagery. He slid the new placard into its place on my chest to honor me as Spartan elite, an ace. The Master Sergeant gave me a gloved thumbs up, they both saluted, and everyone clapped with a resulting silence.

A.I. - Congratulations, Spartan. One of twelve in the United Space Force.

Remnants of alien goop accented the crevices of the award, which meant a Spartan died as easily as any other. Almost everything on the moon was recycled or recharged and rarely new except for fresh recruits. Two weeks out of boot camp, the Greens had not yet faced the enemy. Most were rightfully scared, and others beheld dreams of glory gleaned from too many Hollywood movies. Fifty percent survived their first battle, and the other half didn't. The inexperienced soldier's minds rebelled at the gross reality of their first contact with the enemy. The terror of coming face to face with the incredible creature’s triggered shock, and hesitation meant death.

The herculean organic aliens were twice the size and similar in shape to Earth's Greyback gorillas and were piloted by onboard alien pilots of a different form. The Spogres only wore reflective solar shields and weapons packs. They were unaffected by the environment of the moon.

A.I. - You must return to your squad. Attack imminent. Hold the third sector defense line at all costs.

***

I don't know what the enemy wants with the moon. Some speculate the lunar satellite was a launching point for a full-scale takeover of Earth. Others say they are measuring our strengths and our resolve to fight. The invaders secretly built a base on the moon's dark side and systematically destroyed satellite systems in Earth's orbit with unknown system viruses. We are here to drive them out and my squad is ready.

The Spogres fired their red lasers from a ridge above us, and the battle began. The frequency of fire was lower than average, meaning they were reserving ammo.

A.I. - Hold your fire. Wait until you scope the orange of their eyes. Hold!

One of the Greens fired indiscriminately and wasted their energy canister. The Spogre barrage ended without casualties except for some moon rocks. The enemy charged our position as fast as an earth leopard and leaped across the moon's surface. Though made of organic flesh, the ape-shaped creatures appeared metallic with their chrome-armored black bodies. The armor deflected the brutal solar rays pounding the moon. Their four eyes, two uppers for long sight and two lower for near blazed orange, behind long flaccid snouts, their sharp crystalline teeth waited in ambush. They raged with pleasure when they ripped an Earth soldier apart like a lion with an antelope by the neck. A weapon pack on their backs mounted a laser weapon controlled by the pilot from a crystal tubular disc implanted in their chest.

The alien standard battle tactic was laser fire, charge, and overwhelm. Our tactic was simple, defend the line, and kill the pilot. We called the pilots Buttons because of their human-like oversized heads, enormous blue eyes, and slender bodies like F. Scott Fitzgerald's character Benjamin Button.

The Spogre’s pronged talons dug like spikes into the surface and scattered a cloud of moon dust and rock in their wake. They stopped halfway to our positions, wheeled around, and retreated. Blinded by drugs, arrogance, and greed, Corporal Jorge fell for the ploy, jumped from his position, and chased after them.

A.I. - Do not intervene. He is a dead man. Stupid is as stupid does.

New to my command position, I ignored my A.I. and hand signaled the remainder of the squad to realign and fill the gaps in our defense. I followed Jorge.

A.I. - You have a thirty percent chance of saving him. Stop!

Too late for me to save him, Jorge disappeared over the ridge, and I was glad his screams would not reach my ears. I stopped. A satellite drone scouted the blind rise and signaled my A.I. the ridge was clear. I charged to the other side and found Jorge's ripped battle suit and mauled body with his collection of claws strewn across the ground. A Spogre, in the distance, disappeared over the subsequent rise with Jorge's support pack and canisters.

A.I. - Cease and desist, Sergeant. He is dead. Return to the line. Central Command Order Thirty-four states that no soldier shall engage the enemy alone.

I ignored and followed the choppy trail left by the enemy. I crossed the next ridge, and a hidden Spogre ambushed me and fired his laser. The round pulverized a rock behind me. Laser accuracy on the moon's surface was poor due to its inconsistent surface conditions. The beast struggled to stand as his laser mount rotated to re-aim. I charged with my plasma sword raised. A red flash beamed past my shoulder, and I stumbled on a rocky outcrop. The Spogre stood upright, and we collided like two Sumo wrestlers. Interlocked, blue blade to red blade, we fell into a deep fissure. The shock of impact at the bottom, thirty feet down, immobilized me as I landed on my right side in absolute darkness. I wanted to scream.

Assess Damage, I commanded.

A.I. - Yo... are... to ...retrea... Silence.

Your external command mode is disabled, switching to stand-alone.

I initiated internal systems check, and multi-colored digital meters were displayed on my face shield. Oxygen supply? One hour. Weapons canisters? Damaged. Pressurization? Check. Mobility? Impaired. Medical? Scanning now... heart rate -- elevated, B.P. -- high, Breath rate -- elevated, Skeletal -- intact, Skin temperature -- right side elevated, indicative of contusions.

Initiate navigational lights, I ordered.

The rhythm of my heart skipped a beat, and I gasped as my face shield rested against the tubular disc of the Spogres chest. A bug-eyed Button and I stared at each other, separated by our transparent shields a few inches apart. The hairless, wrinkled, ten-inch tall, green-skinned alien and I were trapped and helpless. Oddly, the old Looney Tunes Martian cartoon character came to mind. A spar of moon rock had decapitated the host Spogre.

Is this how Spartans die? In the company of a gnarly alien left in the bath too long? I thought. Alone, without my Bernadette?

A.I. - Warning: Oxygen supply -- Fifty-five minutes -- re-canister required in thirty minutes to maintain pressurization, announced my internal system and displayed a yellow diamond on my face shield.

The Buttons crystal dome flashed a yellow triangle in the top corner of his pressurized compartment, and I realized he, or she, or neither, had their own problems. The Button beat on a control panel with baby-like fingers, threw his hands up, and folded his arms. His bright shade of green had faded to a pale jade. The little dude pointed his middle finger at me.

Yes, we are both screwed, and you're a bit crass, I thought.

Button's green hands went to his head, threw his hands up again and rolled his eyes with the appearance of disgust, and pointed his middle finger again.

Great communication skills, this one.

The little alien made a triangle with his fingers, drew them to its chest, and converted it to a circle as he splayed his hands outward. I realized he wanted to communicate. He shaped a circular okay sign with his fingers, pointed to the diamond on my mask, and traced it back to his triangle. Finally, he pointed at my exhaust port and repeated the entire charade.

What does a yellow Triangle symbolize? I requested my internal system.

A.I. - The yellow triangle is the international symbol for CO2.

Oh, my god, Buttons, like an earth plant, intakes CO2 and expels O2. I intake O2 and expel CO2. The attacks on our base and Earth are for CO2, not our destruction. They captured Jorge's canisters and left him. Is this the attraction to Earth, our excess CO2? Does their planet have excess O2? If my loved ones or I were about to suffocate, I'd invade another world to save them. Our civilizations can save each other if we can work together, and I can go home. I flashed my lights in Morse code in the hope Buttons understood our ancient system. They invaded us and should have studied Earth's communications.

-.-- . ... -.-. --- ..---

"Y-e-s C-O-2," I flashed.

Button flashed his internal lights.

.-.. . - ..- ... - .-. .- -.. . .- -. -.. .-.. .. ...- .

"L-e-t u-s t-r-a-d-e a-n-d l-i-v-e."

Now we had to figure out how to exchange each other's expelled waste, escape our entrapment, and stop the war. Could a Spartan Third Sergeant and one Button end the madness? Will anyone listen to an oil rigger from Louisiana? Is this the reason for Order Thirty-four? The real question is, who is saving who, on the moon and on Earth? I flashed a new message to Buttons.

.... --- .-- ..--..

“H-o-w?

***