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Changes Three: Gods and Monsters
Posted By: Mark Boone<markboonejesusfreak@yahoo.com>
Date: 9 November 2004, 10:14 PM
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CHANGES THREE: GODS AND MONSTERS
The admiral was notorious for mispronouncing the word "strategy." Everyone called into his office, rumor had it, eventually would hear it. Some even said it would be one of the first thirty words out of the admiral's mouth.
"You seem to have a knack for staying alive, Lieutenant. How do you do it: is it luck, or are you the strongest Marine in the Core?"
"I think it's a little bit of both, sir. And some intellectual superiority over the Grunts, too."
"Ah " said the admiral, "It's strategery then But still . . . it's like you're invincible, you've met the Covenant so many times and walked away. I mean, is it possible that you're the strongest man in the UNSC armed forces?"
"It's not such an anomalous hypothetical, Sir. Someone had to be the strongest. Why not me?"
The admiral didn't answer that question. But he did say, "Lieutenant, I'm sending you to reinforce a town on Lambda Seven until the Covenant overrun it. Your mission will be to kill more of them than can be counted, and to protect some scientists until they can finish packing up their equipment for evac."
"Which one is the primary objective, sir?"
"Whichever you like. It'll probably come to the same thing in the end," the admiral mumbled glumly.
"Sir?"
"Pick your own men for the job. You and sixty Marines under your command will ship out at 1800 hours today." There was a long pause while the lieutenant stood waiting calmly. The admiral looked out the window at the blue sky, and then he said, "We all have a part to play in this war, Lieutenant. You, me, the scientists you'll be protecting, our political leaders. Everyone has their own unique job to do, Lieutenant. I picked you because you're the best I know of, and I want this job done right."
Everyone had their part to play, mused the lieutenant. That meant he was expected to die on this mission. Was there any point in letting the admiral know he understood him? Not really: if he did die, it would make no difference. If he survived, the admiral would be wrong and it would still make no difference. "How many Marines do we have in the town now?"
"There were about seventy when they made their last transmission, and God knows how many are left now."
"Estimates on the enemy force?"
"Oh, hundreds, thousands . . . the usual."
The lieutenant, whose popularity alone was enough to make this method work, called an assembly in room E32 of all Marines who were available at 1500 hours and were willing to give up a few minutes of their time. When they arrived, he instructed the ones with families to leave. After they did, he told the ones who had nothing to fight for to leave. They did.
Gee, what were these guys fighting for if they had no families? Oh well. How to get rid of twenty more? Some general had had to do something like this in some old book. Ah, of course: anyone who is afraid leave.
There were probably ninety or so left. How to get rid of thirty more? The guy in the book had tested their alertness. Hmmmm...Everyone carrying their assault rifle, step forward, and everyone else go back to your card games. He counted them: fifty-three. Close enough. Later he would round up seven more guys whom he'd been with on other missions. All seven of the survivors of the last horrible mission were here, and only two of them were out of action with wounds: that was a start.
"Gentlemen," said the lieutenant, "If you accept this mission you will all die. But we will die together, we will die as men, with honor, and we will slaughter untold masses of our despicable enemy We will die defending our race with the last drop of our blood How does that make you feel?"
"All gonna die, huh?" quipped a guy with a cigar. "What else is new?"
"What's new is you know that you will die within seventy-two hours, or maybe even forty-eight."
"I'm in" said the man with the cigar.
All fifty-seven were nodding their heads or making signs of agreement, or just standing alertly. Too easy. "Your skin will melt in plasma, and the needler shots will explode in your capillaries, and Covenant Elites will snap your necks like twigs We will be crushed beneath the stinking feet of the Grunts, and the Jackals will drink our blood "
"Bring it on, baby" said the man with the cigar, a true Marine.
The next day beads of sweat were rolling off the lieutenant's chin as he stepped off the Pelican dropship onto Lambda Seven. He had already been briefed on this planet, but he was surprised nevertheless at how hot it was just two hundred miles closer to the sun than the normal planetary average.
Apparently the scientists in this town were working on a special weapon that would help the Humans in this war. An embattled sergeant was running up to him, his clothes torn, his skin scratched and burnt in places, and his expression alternately changing from one of delightedness to one of mystification. But he obeyed the laws of military discipline and properly stood at attention saluting. The men behind the sergeant did the same. "At ease, Sergeant."
"Welcome to Lambda Seven, Sir" the sergeant stammered. "Are you all they're sending us?"
"That's right, Sergeant" answered the lieutenant. "Expecting more?"
"I was hoping for it, Sir."
"Why is that, Sergeant? Speak freely."
"Well, we're being overrun here, Sir, and frankly . . . I don't want to die."
The Lieutenant walked a few steps past where the sergeant and surveyed the cityscape. "Sergeant, all you can do is all you can do. There is nothing to fear if you do your duty; only fear not to do your duty."
The Lieutenant reminded him, "Speak freely, sergeant." The sergeant said, "Yes, sir . . . but what about death?"
"There is nothing to fear in death if you die honorably. Some of the religious weirdos say there's something else, but they've never convinced me. Until they do, I'd rather die well and in a good cause than live like a wuss, or like . . . like a man who's never fought . . . fought these . . ." he lapsed into obscenities, then barked: "Follow me, Sergeant." The lieutenant began to look around the town, heading for the defenses in the front gate. The town was built on a hill, one that had cliffs on three sides. In front of the gate was the one side from which an army could effectively approach the town. It was pretty much a gentle slope for many hundred yards out, and the ground dipped out of sight at that distance. Those hundreds of yards were covered with vultures. The vultures covered the dead bodies of both Humans and aliens. "How many Marines do we have Sergeant, and is there any officer here higher up than you?"
"We've got thirty left alive and twenty wounded, and I'm the highest ranking . . . living officer here."
Ninety total functioning soldiers. "How many of those wounded can be moved?" asked the lieutenant. "About half of them" was the reply. The wounded who could move and hold weapons could be placed on the inside of the walls. If the enemy pierced the gate, those guys could shoot a few of them before everyone was killed. "Sergeant, why was a town built with walls?" The sergeant answered that there were wild animals on this planet that hunted at night.
"Why are the Covenant so slow in taking this town? What are they waiting for?"
"Well, Sir, they have much more than us as it is, but I think this is just a preliminary force for this planet. I don't think they're in any kind of hurry. They'd rather wait for reinforcements and take us out with even more superior numbers than they've already got. Why? Haven't the Covenant ever tried a siege before?"
"Not that I know of" said the lieutenant. He sighed. "In the old days, you could usually get one out of two options in a defense like this. You could die and bring down twice as much of the enemy as your own men: die with honor. That happened at the Alamo and with the Spartans in Thermopylae. Or you could wind up with the other option: you could survive and make an unprecedented victory. But with the Covenant . . . you can only die. You can't take out twice as many of them, and you can't win a victory. There's nothing. They don't have any air support, do they? No Banshees?"
"Nothing."
"Thank God. Oh, well, thank . . . whomever I don't know if I believe in, anyways. Did you have any sniper rifles?" The sergeant shook his head no. "We've brought a few. Are there any good snipers among you?"
"I know of some."
"Bring them." The Sergeant ran to follow his orders. The lieutenant remained in the gate looking out over the war-torn wasteland. The Covenant were not far off. Probably just on the other side of where the ground got a little bit steeper. Outside this gate was death. Outside the city was death. Inside was . . . mankind, with all his glory and all his strengths and weaknesses. Outside the city were . . . Aristotle had said . . . outside the city were only gods and monsters.
Gods and monsters. In the old days, gods had walked among mortals. Caesar. Alexander: gods among men. In tale and song there were Aragorn, Gilgamesh, and Odysseus. Now a new thing had entered human history: the Covenant. The monsters had come, and all who would be gods, including the lieutenant, were now only men: men, noble and strong enough to do their duty and die with honor. But in the end they were only men: naked and exposed to the ravages of a superior power that left them either cringing in terror or possessing an ultimately futile defiance, the last thing they owned before their bodies were blasted and their souls swept away into nothingness (or eternity?). In the end all would die. All would only die. And death was all.
Now the lieutenant was thinking about going outside the city. If he survived, he would be a god: only gods and monsters were outside the city. The lieutenant turned and went back to his men, who all jumped to attention when he came into sight. He ordered the ones who had special skill with a sniper rifle to follow him. Thirteen out of sixty of the reinforcements he had brought came forward. The sergeant had arrived with three more. The lieutenant picked two of his own men to go back to whatever they were doing before, as there were only fifteen sniper rifles. After picking up their weapons, the lieutenant led them towards the gate. The three were placed on the wall to wait and to provide covering fire for the inevitable retreat of the lieutenant with the eleven.
One of the few exceptions to the general rule that Covenant technology was immensely superior to Human technology was that the UNSC had managed to develop improved silencers for their sniper rifles, ones that made their original booming thunder about as loud as a footstep in sand. This was one of the first missions to be equipped with the new silencers.
The lieutenant and his eleven warriors walked boldly outside of the city and went about a hundred yards before the lieutenant ordered them all to start crawling. They had each taken a good, long drink of water before going out, but the lieutenant wondered how long it would be before they were all in need of more. Well, as soon as the shooting began it would only be a few minutes before they either fell as men or returned to the city as gods.
Half an hour of crawling. The ridge. Camouflaged and moving an inch every three seconds. Ah, there were the devils. There must have been at least four hundred of them down there. A little too close for comfort: probably three hundred and fifty yards. They had not set up any stationary plasma weapons, and there were neither any heavy armor nor any machines. Thank God for that: a ghost would have been the death of the twelve would-be gods.
"Alpha" said the Lieutenant in whisper as he squeezed his trigger. A yellow Elite fell with a bullet through his hideous brain..
"Beta." The man on the Lieutenant's right fired, and a Grunt died.
"Gamma." A Jackal with a bullet through its neck.
"Delta." Another Grunt.
"Epsilon." An Elite dropped to its ugly knees, stunned. "Zeta." Another bullet put the ugly monstrosity out of its misery. And on through "Eta," "Theta," "Iota," "Kappa," "Lambda," and "Mu" and back to "Alpha." The camouflage and heat waves were doing their job. Eleven Covenant shot dead and the creeps still didn't know from whence the shots were coming. It had only been twenty-five seconds since they had started. After ten more Greek letters a Jackal hissed and pointed at them, and the bombardment began. "Omicron" said the Lieutenant, signaling his men to fire at will. At this distance the only ones with enough skill to hit them were the Elites. The twelve would-be gods concentrated on the Elites but the things dodged too well, and few of them were hit. Meanwhile Grunts were running forward, plasma was starting to burn the shriveled grass at the lieutenant's elbow, and he thought he smelled burning human flesh. "Omega," he said: retreat!
They crawled backwards and turned around so they could crawl faster. One of them had had some plasma touch him in the face, and could no longer see. Two were not with them. It could have been Delta and Epsilon. The others helped the blind one by telling him that he was going in the right direction, and to keep moving. At about three hundred yards from the city the Lieutenant gave the word and they all jumped to their feet, a man supporting the blind Marine on either side. At about two hundred yards left the three snipers on the wall started firing. The Covenant had crested the ridge, and it was only a matter of split seconds till the needles started exploding in their backs.
Duty and the categorical imperative were calling. The Lieutenant, in one swift motion, turned around and dropped to his knees, calling out as he did so, "Beta Gamma " The two other Marines joined him on the ground, each a couple of yards behind him: one to the right and one to the left.
They were in a V shape facing the enemy, and three snipers on the wall behind were lending aid. The seven more Marines, one wounded, were beating a hasty retreat, the V giving them maybe half a chance. The three on their knees tried to fire on the Covenant who were closest.
The lieutenant felt himself moving his hands to reload once or twice, and felt himself pulling the trigger, and saw himself seeing the enemy through the scope, and he moved with flawless rhythm, his movements quick and smooth, exemplifying the art of killing. He was the essence of perfection, and he never thought about what he was doing, he only noticed that he was doing it. It was as if his mind were disattatched from his body. Time and again he killed an alien, and each time he moved methodically to the next one, never hesitating, never missing, and never making the slightest mistake. He didn't think about how to do it, he only did it. In the back of his mind he asked himself why he was doing so well. Still in the back of his mind, he answered himself that it couldn't last for much longer. He told himself that something was different. Yes, something was different, he realized: they were getting closer.
To his left the lieutenant heard Beta cry out a last scream of pain. In the corner of his eye Gamma crumpled to the ground. In a daze the lieutenant tried to break free of himself. One more alien down, and then the trance was broken. He dropped his weapon and began to run, but it was impossible that he could make the distance without dying.
Then one last chance for survival came when the enemy got a little bit closer, just close enough for scores of Marines on the walls to open fire with their assault rifles. The bullets kicked up enough of a thick enough curtain of dust to partially blind the enemy. Running madly, the lieutenant raced for safety. The seven were just entering the gate. Terrible pain shot through his leg: a needler shot. His running limp brought him a little bit closer, though each step on that leg felt like the leg was being crushed. Welcoming hands pulled the lieutenant inside the city gate, and inside the city walls he collapsed into unconsciousness as a god.
Coming back to life he pondered what had just happened. He had been outside the city and survived: therefore, a god. At least for now. But what a miserable god was this man whose frail body had only been saved by luck.
"Whoa," said someone through the haze—it could have been the embattled sergeant—"that was a miracle. Maybe some of us will survive after all."
"Luck, soldier. Never trust it twice, and never expect a miracle." The lieutenant lifted up his head and was able to make out, indeed, the sergeant, kneeling over him and pouring a little bit of water down his throat. The lieutenant swallowed and said, "Unless you know any religious folks that aren't weirdos."
After the lieutenant had reached the gates and was no longer within reach of the Covenant weapons, the Elites had begun to command the smaller aliens to leave the battlefield. Many aliens had been slaughtered, but the great benefit of the skirmish was the boost in the Humans' morale.
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