My squad is deep in the sewers of an alien city when I start wondering how I'm going to die this time. We've been hunting in this maze for nine days without seeing a trace of the enemy. I hate it. The tunnels are tight. Constricting. Suffocating. This won't stop us. We're the tip of the spear, the hunters, the best of the best.
We crawl in single file.
The aliens' solid waste is cuboid, blue. It floats on wastewater up to our shoulders, past my face, bumping on my chin. I'm a good soldier; I ignore my disgust. I focus on the mission. Far above me, a billion Xasen‑Kora aliens are relying on my squad to protect them. They don't know we're in their sewers. They wouldn't want us here. They blame us for the danger they're in.
We crawl through shit and darkness to save the lives of people who wish we didn't exist. This is our war.
But the Xasen‑Kora are wrong. They need us. We're making the universe a safer place. I only wish we could do it somewhere with a better view.
The concrete tunnels are caked in alien filth. In front of me, Specialist Erratos slips and kicks back with a clawed foot, catching my forehead with a painful thud. It's not intentional. I've done the same to my best friend, Hephaestus, crawling behind me. Hef and I are the only privates in the squad, the last in line.
Our movement causes large bubbles of organic gasses to rise to the surface. It stinks. A single breath would kill a human body.
Which is why we traded ours in for something better: combat bodies. Disposable ones.
Our alien employers call the combat body we're using a Nonstandard Type Eight. We call them Kobolds. Kobolds are humanoid in shape, but squat, and only three feet tall. Perfect for tunnel work. They're dark metal nanoflesh metal over an alloy skeleton, alien machinery instead of lungs or guts. Skin that changes color to match the shadows. Heads topped with bat‑like ears that measure sonar and radar. Ugly, but practical. Perfect for tunnel work.
The onboard computers convert all sensor information into vision. I can 'see' the tunnel around me despite the lack of light. I feel it, too. Water sloshing past me. Slop washing over my skin. The cold metal pipes pressing on my back. A sharp sting as Erratos kicks me again.
The tunnel gets narrower.
We crawl on.
The tunnel slopes downward. I'm caught in a stream of lumps. I try not to think about them. The Kobold is a third the size of my real human body. Too small to carry my standard hyper‑rifle. I'm naked without it. In its place, I have a small plasma pistol. That won't be much help in a fight. I try not to think about that, either.
We reach a grill with narrow-spaced bars in the tunnel. Too narrow for a Kobold, yet we must pass. The squad disassembles itself to get through. When it's my turn, I focus on my right arm. It becomes thin. I push it through the grill until someone on the other side tugs on it. My arm detaches from my shoulder. My left arm is next. Piece‑by‑piece my body is disassembled. My skull, flattened and halved. My torso split into chunks. Specialist Erratos assembles me on the other side. I do the same for Hef.
Being taken apart and reassembled leaves me feeling vulnerable. Exposed. I could be left here, in the dark and wet, in pieces. Left in the sewer until my mind falls apart.
"I'm a good soldier," I remind myself. "I can do this."
I make the mistake of speaking aloud over the squadlink, so everyone hears me. Two of them laugh. The twins, of course.
"Feeling nervous, rookie?" Specialist Phobos asks. "Are the walls closing in? Getting tight around you?"
Phobos and I are the only women in the squad. Neither of us considers this ground for friendship. I don't need to see her face to know she's smiling that half‑smile I hate so much.
"If you think this is bad, wait till the zants slice us apart, feet first," her younger twin brother, Specialist Deimos, adds cheerfully. "They'll use laser cutters, cut you up before you can move."
Phobos laughs again. I shake my head. The twins are the two best soldiers in the regiment, according to them. The best shots, the most missions, the greatest stories. But the worst jokes. Constantly. Unfortunately, Deimos has a point. The Genocide Seed's crawling soldiers, the zants, might be small enough for these tunnels. They'll have wheels in place of their normal spiny legs. Their heads will be tipped with cutting tools instead of missiles or rifles. A single one could tear through the whole squad in seconds. I can imagine it all too easily.
I check my pistol, running my eye over its diagnostic panel. Fully charged, as I knew it would be. The twins move off again.
"You okay, Troy?" Hef asks from behind me. He knows I'm better with heights than enclosed spaces.
"I'm fine," I say, trying to believe myself.
Hef pats my foot with a metal hand, pushing me gently forward. I keep moving. I wish there were more of us down here. There should be thirteen Pointers in our squad. Thirteen would have made this safer. Easier. But Pointer squads are often too small. Most soldiers can't adapt to nonstandard combat bodies like the Kobold. They aren't skilled enough. Which is why we're six, not thirteen. We will have to be enough.
"Have the other squads found anything?" Hef asks.
There are a lot of soldiers on this world. Companies of Marchers patrol or stand guard in the city above us. Being seen. Keeping control. It's busy work, mostly. There's a company of Shouters up there too, ready with their heavy weapons, for show. The Genocide Seed isn't up there in the city.
It's here. In the darkness. Hidden. Protected.
The search for it belongs to us, the Pointers. The rest of our platoon is in the upper sewers, where the tunnels are wider and the enemy more likely.
I envy them.
We're in the lowest, narrowest tunnels because our captain doesn't like us. That's my fault, as the twins keep reminding me.
"No sightings from the squads in the city," Corporal Boreas says.
"That's no surprise. The Marchers are lame, and the Shouters couldn't find a zant in a teacup," Deimos complains. "Plus, they'd smash the teacup."
"Useless bunch," Phobos adds. "We should—"
"Observe radio silence from now on, as per mission protocol," Corporal Boreas orders.
"But nobody is down here," Phobos replies. "The enemy can't hear our squadlink, so—"
"Just be silent."
Our tunnel joins several others, forming a room of sorts with a drain in the center. The ceiling is high enough for us to stand. It's a luxury after hours of crawling. I stretch my arms, but only from habit. Our metal nanoflesh doesn't tire.
"Let's take a break," Boreas orders.
"Why? Are the poor little rookies all tuckered out?" Deimos asks.
"Yes," Boreas snaps.
Hef and I don't complain. Our combat bodies might never fatigue, but our minds do. We take a moment to look around, relax. The room's walls are smooth metal, tarnished and stained after years of use. One wall has a rough patch running along it. I lean in closer. There's a small bulge on the wall. The sight freezes me in place.
"Spike! Everyone—"
The bulge explodes, vaporizing half my head. I scream in pain as I'm thrown across the room. My back slams into metal, and I bounce hard onto the floor. My legs give way as I try to stand, sending me sprawling into in a pile of soft alien crap.
"Dammit, rookie! How can you be so slow and blind?" Deimos shouts.
"So dumb," Phobos agrees.
My thoughts fill with fire. Then, sweet numbness. My vision fades.
I'm dying.
Again.