Jennifer Wells: Beyond the Stars: At Galaxy's Edge

The Talos system was well outside settled space, and so far, devoid of any humanoid life forms, including Scythians. Talos 5‌—‌this system was so far off the beaten path that no one had even bothered to name the planets‌—‌was our last stop before we headed back to the rendezvous point. We’d eaten all the decent freeze-dried meals, and the air had taken on a taint of recycled ozone that clung to the back of my throat.

I connected my sensor package with the ship’s nav system. “Commencing scan, Mambo.”

She raised her hands from the controls. “She’s all yours, Noog.” The ship banked gently as it entered a preset search pattern. I settled back in my seat and crossed my arms. For a planet this size, a full scan took about eighteen hours.

On the other side of the Zeron, Hercules stirred in his bunk. Standing close to two meters tall in his socks, Hercules was easily the most deadly human I’d ever met. During my first week on the job, when enemy contact was still pretty common, I’d seen him rip the armored carapace right off a Scythian soldier’s face and kill the alien with his bare hands. Hercules had one mission in life: to kill Scythians. Not for the first time, I wondered what all these Marines were going to do when they disbanded the Erasers. The rumors were rampant that this was our last run. I hoped so‌—‌although I’d never say it out loud to this crew.

Hercules flexed his massive biceps and ripped out a long, vibrating fart that would take the atmospheric scrubbers at least thirty minutes to dispel.

“For love of Mike, Hercules. Go in the can if you’re gonna do that!” Gunnery Sergeant Madeline Jolly threw a shoe across the cabin that bounced off Hercules’ quivering pecs.

“Sorry, Gunny.” Hercules hung his head. “It just slipped out.” Mambo feigned choking in the front of the ship.

Gunny peered over the Zeron, fixing her flat, gray stare on me. “How’s it going, Noog?”

I pretended to make an adjustment to the system, uncomfortable as always in her gaze. “Nothing yet, Gunny. It looks like this run might be a goose egg.” I attempted a smile.

She slitted her eyes. “They’re out there. I can smell them.”

The only thing I smelled was the inside of Hercules’ colon, but I just nodded, glad to have her turn her attention away from me. If you met Gunnery Sergeant Jolly as a civilian, you might think she was someone’s middle-aged mother. Looks are deceiving. Despite the unfortunate surname of Jolly, the woman had all the emotional warmth of an arctic sunrise. Gunny was the heart of Eraser Seven, a legend in the Corps. In three years on the job, she’d lost only one team member‌—‌the sensors guy that I replaced. I guess the fact that they still called me New Guy after a year meant I was never going to measure up to my predecessor.

I went into sensors thinking that I’d serve out my enlistment far from the killing. A nameless drone on a fleet battleship somewhere, patrolling empty space. In training, I studied hard, finishing at the top of the class. They neglected to tell us that the top three students in each class were assigned to Epsilon Units.

That was my life: closet conscientious objector turned draftee with a front row seat to some the most brutal slaughter of aliens you could ever imagine.

Nearly two hours later, the Zeron chirped. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gunny’s gray bob snap up like a bird dog on point. We were passing over the mid-latitudes, and the signal showed up next to a large body of water. “Gunny, I got a hit!”

I took manual control and refined the scan. Six humanoids, with one bright trace that indicated a Scythian presence. A second, fainter Scythian trace popped up, then disappeared.

“Looks like five humans and one Scythian,” I said.

“What the hell are they doing all the way out here?” Hercules asked. “Hostage situation?”

Gunny stood behind me, close enough that I could smell the stale sweat on her uniform. When I looked up, she was pinching her lips between her fingers. “Let’s go check it out.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Good work, Noogie. Feed the coordinates to Mambo and let’s go hunting.”

Sometime in the second decade of war, an organized movement of conscientious objectors called The Society emerged across the United Earth Federation. By that point, it was pretty clear we were going to win the war and The Society advocated for an end to the draft and peace negotiations with the Scythians. I knew about The Society because I’d done a ton of research on them‌—‌secretly, of course‌—‌and even attended a few meetings. I’d even made a pledge to become a member when I turned eighteen. We know how that ended.

So when we approached the walled compound on Talos 5, I knew exactly what the five-sided bronze bell hanging from a post meant. This was a Society outpost.

“What’s that?” Hercules raised the eyescan on his helmet and tapped the muzzle of his rifle against the bell. “Dinner bell?”

“That’s a symbol that represents the fusion of Earth’s five major religions,” said a voice from behind the wooden door. “I would appreciate it if you would not touch it with a weapon of war.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Madeline Jolly, ma’am. UEF Marines. We’re here to take the alien you’re harboring into custody.”

A small window in the door opened up and a pair of blue eyes peered out. “You mean you’re here to kill him.”

“We’re carrying out the lawful orders of the UEF, ma’am.” I knew the kind of glacial stare Gunny was laying on the person behind the door, but the blue eyes never flinched. “You’re aware of the Epsilon Directive?”

“I am,” the voice shot back. “And your directive also forbids you from harming any humans in the execution of your duties. I believe you call it ‘collateral damage.’”

Gunny cleared her throat. “That’s correct, ma’am.”

The door opened to reveal a slim woman in her thirties. Her face was deeply tanned and she wore a simple shift of soft gray that highlighted her eyes. She held out her hand to Gunny and smiled. “My name is Avalon. But you can call me ‘collateral damage,’ if you like. As long as you leave your guns outside and promise to enter in peace, you are welcome.”

The woman’s hand hung there for what seemed like a long time. I felt Hercules’ bulk tense up beside me. Then Gunny stripped off her armored glove and shook Avalon’s hand. “Herc, you stay here with the weapons. Noog, you’re with me.”

It was cool inside the compound and the sweet air emphasized how awful we smelled after two weeks without a shower. Avalon led us into a courtyard with a bubbling fountain and pointed to a low stone bench where we could sit. I could see Gunny’s eyes sizing the place up and wondered if she planned to take out the alien right now. No, I decided, Gunny had a respect for the regs like no one I’d ever seen. She wouldn’t risk hurting one of the humans. Besides, she’d given her word.

I slipped the handheld Zeron unit off my belt. The Scythian trace was strong now‌—‌we were definitely in the right place. Then a second trace ghosted onto the screen. I cursed to myself. I’d forgotten to run a diagnostic on the Zeron to deal with that ghosting gremlin. I felt Gunny’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my helmet.

“Problem, Noog?”

“No, Gunny. Just checking to make sure the target is still here.”

She squinted at me. I braced for the inevitable follow-up question, but we were interrupted by Avalon returning to the courtyard.

I’d never seen a Scythian without his battle armor before. During indoc, we were taught how their warriors took hormones that induced the growth of chitin-based armor all over their bodies. The pictures they showed us were terrifying: seven-foot tall monsters covered with shiny brown scales that could stop an ordinary projectile round. They showed us pictures of dead Scythians who had personalized their armor with glyphs carved into the shell and weapons embedded in the growth. I suppose we were told this armor plating was a temporary state, but there were no pictures of a non-warrior Scythian in the briefing.