A New Story Most Thursdays

In This Edition of Thursday Stories: Space Opera!

Happy New Year, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. And so, drumroll please, I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the print-only tales have been set free.

You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Of Two Minds, straight-up Sci-Fi space opera with culture clashes and split personalities. This story first appeared in the Dark Horses magazine, published in 2024. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Of Two Minds

by Marco Etheridge

“Let me get this straight. You’re proposing to bring dead troopers back to life?”

The two docs just stand there, dressed in identical white coveralls. They exchange glances, then turn to face the angry officer.

“No, Captain Jenkins, we’re proposing to reawaken brain-dead fighters. There is a substantial difference.”

Captain Robert Jenkins pinches the bridge of his nose hard enough to hurt. The pain is tangible, a verifiable reality, as opposed to the insanity of the current situation.

A single company of provisional infantry to defend the entire colony of Sector Seven. Nine hundred civilian colonists and only four platoons of grunts to protect them. One hundred and ten soldiers, counting himself. And fifty-seven of those grunts have been turned into brainless vegetables.

Sector Seven, a lonely colonial outpost on a barren asteroid. No one gave two shits about Sector Seven. A cold rock that isn’t worth the trouble of a foreign patrol, much less an attack. But that was before Earth got wiped out. Then the Luna colonies went dark. For all Jenkins knows, he commands the last existing company of the Colonial Armed Forces in the entire solar system.

The attackers had swept in from the deep shadows of space, without warning or mercy. Earth gone in four months, then Luna in six. The colonists and soldiers of Sector Seven were marooned in the asteroid belt.

At first, the situation was critical. Then it got worse. After two months of isolation, the Krang landed. They came on a single scout ship, forced to this lonely rock by the same marauders that wiped out the rest of the solar system.

Captain Jenkins figures the Krang want what the colonists had: food, water, and shelter. A place to hide. Sector Seven was no longer marooned. It was besieged.

“Captain?”

“Excuse me, Doctors. Just assessing our position. You were saying?”

“We would like to test this procedure on one of the casualties. As you know better than anyone, time is critical. We can’t send out a request for reinforcements. Sector Seven is on its own.”

“I’m fully aware of our tactical situation.”

“Then you agree to a trial run?”

“We’re not exactly wading in options. Okay, run it by me again.”

The medicos look more at ease now, safe in their medical element.

“Normally, we would implant the device internally, wrapping it around the reptilian brain stem. The device functions as a surrogate operating system, a brain reboot. The implanted system takes over all functions of the host body, including cognition. Since our medical tech is limited, we’ll have to go with an external mount, just at the spot where the nape meets the skull.”

“We bolt a new brain onto a brain-dead soldier. Do I have that right?”

“In layman’s terms, yes. We’ve programmed the device to have a complete knowledge of soldiering. Of course, there will be a period of adjustment, but we estimate no more than forty-eight hours.”

“And then I get, what? A veteran or a raw recruit?”

“We believe the subject will be fully combat-ready.”

“What happens to the, what is the word I’m looking for? The personality of the soldier before the Krang zapped him. What happens to that?”

“Gone, I’m afraid. Overwritten. But it’s already gone. We don’t fully understand what type of weapon the Krang are using, but it appears to erase the consciousness of their victims, hence the vegetative state.”

“So, broke is broke, as they say. I don’t see that we have much choice. Proceed.”

“Captain, do you have a preferred subject for the first trial?”

This, at least, is an easy question.

“Yes, Sergeant Jake Pierce. Jocko Pierce. Best soldier we’ve got. Or had. Keep me posted.”

Jenkins turns on his heel and exits the sickbay, glad for the swish-lock of the auto door. He hates hospitals, hates docs. Always had. Now, with half his troops laid out like zombies, he loathes the white-coated bastards.

The captain stalks down a cramped subterranean corridor carved into the asteroid’s bedrock. The rough walls and arched ceiling are whitewashed to reflect the glow lights. He turns into a side corridor, then stops before an auto-lock. A stenciled sign above the door reads: Provisional Infantry, Sector Seven, First Company. There is no second company.

Waiting for the retinal scan, Jenkins’ face is grim. The door pulses open, and he steps through. Operations for ProvIF S7/1 are contained in a low-arched room. Equipment racks line the rock. The armory occupies the next chamber.

Three desks are crammed against the back wall. Not much privacy or privilege of rank on Sector Seven.

Jenkins crosses the room and slumps into a chair behind one of the desks. The other two are empty. His Number Two and First Sergeant wouldn’t be needing their workstations. Both are laid out on gurneys, comatose as cabbages. Captain Jenkins is on his own.

Alone, staring down at the meaningless clutter that litters his desk, the hard set of the captain’s jaw disappears. He feels like bawling.

Fucking Krang. He wasn’t trained for this shit. He’s more policeman than soldier. His orders were to enforce tariff laws and curtail smuggling. No smuggling now, not with Earth and Luna gone black and silent. And no one left to send new orders.

How do you fight space monkeys who vanished like rabbits, then reappeared behind you and smacked you with a brain-killing club? It wasn’t fair.

It was the grunts who coined the name, the lucky ones who came back from the first fight. If you could call that debacle a fight. The little alien bastards had some sort of personal cloaking device, a technology far beyond the standard weapons issued to the Colonial Infantry. Despite their sneaky cloaking, or maybe because of it, the Krang fought with sticks.

The survivors called them Krang sticks. Krang! That’s what a near miss sounded like crashing past your combat helmet. Closer than that, who knows what the sound was. Ask one of the senseless bastards who got slammed. Maybe they know. But they’re not talking.

Two missions to push the Krang back into space where they belonged. Both missions total disasters. Half his grunts were down and not a single dead Krang to tally against those losses.

All his best fighters were laid out in sickbay. The pint-sized Krang tagged Lieutenant Gregg in the first melee. They got First Sergeant Jake Pierce in the second. Jocko Pierce, Top, the guy who really ran the outfit. Without Jocko’s lead, the surviving grunts are nervous as sheep. Captain Jenkins feels scared and useless.

Now the docs are trying to pull off a miracle. And barring a miracle, ProvIF S7/1 is doomed, and the rest of Sector Seven as well.

Captain Jenkins drops his head into his hands.

*  *  * 

Everything is black. He tries to move, tries to blink his eyes. Nothing happens. Less than nothing. He has no sensation, no sense of up or down, no pull of gravity. No pain.

Get your shit together, soldier!

Sergeant Jake Pierce hears the words in his head, but the darkness is silent. You gotta move, Jocko. Get your men and get them out of here. Focus, for fucksake. You’re the guy in charge. The boys are counting on you.

Then Jocko Pierce sees a grey glow, a faint glimmer on the far horizon of the blackness that engulfs him. The dim light rolls out of his vision, then reappears, again and again, and each time the glow seems closer. Like he’s tumbling through space, untethered and adrift, pulled toward some distant nebula.

Now the light rushes at him and the darkness vanishes, replaced by a scene viewed as if through a porthole. Shit, he’s in sickbay. Right, okay, get a grip on yourself. Sickbay is better than a body bag. You got tagged, but the boys brought you back.

The room resolves itself into rows of gurneys, with bodies laid out on each. Jocko tries to scan the scene, but his eyes do not respond.

Look left. Nothing. Look right. No response. Left eye, blink. Still nothing. Jocko’s mind signals fear, but there is no corresponding tightening of muscles, no metallic taste of adrenaline at the back of his tongue. He is devoid of sensation.

Paralyzed, that had to be it. But what about his eyes? Then his field of vision shifts, panning upward like a movie camera on a gantry. He sees his feet at the end of the gurney. His body sitting up now, but how? He wills his right foot to move. Nothing happens. So not paralyzed, but not in control. Then it hits him. If he wasn’t controlling his muscles, who was?

Excuse me. Who are you?

A voice slamming into his mind, a voice he did not recognize. A stranger in his head. What the hell was happening?

You are not supposed to be here.

Right, and fuck you too, asshole.

You should know that I hear the thoughts you formulate.

Right. Okay then, who are you and what are you doing to me? Is this a drug reaction, some crazy shit the docs dosed me with?

Before we go further, am I correct in assuming that you are First Sergeant Jake Pierce?

Yeah, duh, Jocko Pierce. That’s me. Who the hell are you?

This is perplexing. Please allow me a few moments to process this information.

Process what? It’s a simple question. Who the hell are you and what did those stupid medics do to me?

Silence.

Then the vision shifts. Jocko’s body swings its legs off the bed. His feet must hit the floor, but he feels nothing. His body is a robot over which he has no control. All he can do is watch, a parasite along for the ride.

A hand, his hand, reaching for a glass of water. The water coming closer, tilting, then disappearing out of sight. No sensation of swallowing, or of a long thirst being quenched, nothing.

Then the goddamn voice again.

I apologize for the delay, Sergeant Pierce. It appears we have a slight malfunction. A glitch.

You think? I wake up in sickbay with voices in my head and no control over my body. Yeah, I think that qualifies as a glitch.

Please remain calm. Your brain functions were determined to be zero. That was the medical assessment, not mine. I was installed as an alternative operating system so that your body could be returned to active duty.

You were installed? Who the hell are you? No, wait. What the hell are you?

I am a programmed human operating system. I have taken over your body’s functions.

I have a suggestion. Get the fuck out of my head, uninstall yourself, and give me back my body. Like, right now!

Very well. There, I am not at present controlling any of your body’s functions.

Jocko’s slice of vision goes black, like his eyelids are sliding shut, which they are. Open your eyes, Jocko. Open your goddamn eyes, man!

Nothing. He feels nothing, controls nothing. He’s a puppeteer without a puppet. Dead, but not dead.

Okay, I get your point. And you can’t give me back my body? 

I’m afraid that’s impossible, Sergeant Pierce. You have suffered severe brain trauma. Can you recall any memories?

Maybe, if you shut up and let me think.

What was the last thing he remembered? Fuzzy, broken images, like trying to look through cotton candy.

Okay, right, first there was the contact. An unidentified ship landed, no protocol, intentions unknown. Lieutenant Gregg takes the first patrol. Reconnoiter, ascertain whether friendly or hostile, establish contact if friendly, do not engage if hostile. By the numbers. Only that’s not how it went.

What really happened?

Stop that, it’s annoying as hell.

Sorry. Please continue.

Gregg has First and Third Platoon loaded aboard four gun carriers. Takes them right to the coordinates. No sign of a ship. No sign of anything. The Lieutenant decides to do a sweep on foot, him and First Platoon, with Third standing backup. That’s when things went to shit.

I was at base, listening to the feed from the comm station. One minute everything is by the numbers, and the next it’s chaos. First Platoon is under attack. Third Platoon is talking crazy, little hostiles beating our guys with sticks. They can’t lay down backup fire because it’s a melee.

Nothing made sense, the captain shouting ‘Disengage, disengage!’ and then the comms go dead.

Three minutes, max, I’ve got Second and Fourth Platoons firing up the gun carriers and strapping in. Then Third is back on the comms. Retreating to base with wounded, twenty-five soldiers down, the entire foot patrol taken out except for two grunts. No fatalities.

Things didn’t get a lot clearer when the patrol limped back to base. We carted in the wounded until sickbay was almost full. Didn’t know then how crowded it was going to get. Then the docs started wrestling the casualties out of their suits, and things got weirder.

We finally get First Platoon laid out on gurneys but couldn’t find a single wound on any of them. Their body armor is intact, suits not breached. But every soldier, woman or man, has been knocked into a coma. None of them show any signs of waking up.

I debriefed the two survivors from First, Gates and Graves. She covers his back, and he’s got hers. Bad asses, the both of them, but their report makes no sense.

Gates said the hostiles were small, no more than four feet tall. Said the bastards appeared out of thin air, swinging clubs. One almost got her. Said it sounded like a cracked bell ringing in her ears. Krang! Then the hostile was gone—Poof! Graves just nodded his head, like always. That boy hardly talks.

I ask him did they get any and he shrugs. Maybe one or two, Top. Gates talking then, saying Graves tagged two of them. Said the hostiles went up like white flares. But there was no time to check it out, Top. That shit was intense. Krang-Krang-Krang, the whole platoon dropping like rocks. Then everything went quiet. The little fuckers just vanished.

Logging my report, I’m seeing how nuts it looks. Hostiles in black body armor, black helmets, no bigger than human kids, but swinging for the fences. Graves hardly talks, but he did say the Krang were fast, quick as cats. Humanoid, wide shoulders, thick legs. I read it back, shaking my head. Sawed off humanoids armed with clubs beating the shit out of a heavily armed platoon of Colonial AF.

Twenty-four years I’ve been soldiering. Turned forty-two last Earth year. An old man to troopers like Gates and Graves. I maybe spent two years earth-side that whole twenty-four. Seen some weird shit out here, but this took the cake. Weird or not, I logged it in like any other action.

Twelve hours later, I rolled out with the entire company, the gun carriers loaded with everything they could carry. The only ones left at base were the comms corporal and the captain. Last place you want Number One is anywhere near a fight.

Might as well have packed slingshots. We got our asses handed to us. I took the gun carriers within a thousand meters of the landing coordinates, but there was nothing. Either our data was wrong, or the hostiles were invisible.

Then I made the same mistake Gregg made. I took the troops out of the carriers. I wanted evidence, footprints, discarded weapons, anything to give me an edge. Instead, I walked those soldiers into a fight we couldn’t win. Stupid.

We went in ready and armed for bear. Four squads, two-by-two, half with pulse guns, half with projectile carbines. Everyone locked and loaded.

Everything was by the numbers. I pulled up short of the scene of the first fight, fanned the squads out into an arc. I signaled move, and the squads advanced. Textbook maneuver, for all the good it did.

Ten seconds later, all hell broke loose. Hostiles materialized out of thin air. For a split second, I saw a shimmer, like heat waves dancing over an air vent. Then one of the bastards was right in front of me, swinging a long club. I dodged left and the club just missed my helmet. Krang! I popped off two quick rounds as the Krang vanished. I doubt I hit him. Or her. Or it.

There was no line. The Krang were everywhere, behind us, in front, appearing and disappearing right in the middle of a squad. I saw my soldiers going down left and right. Couldn’t lay down effective fire without hitting the trooper next to you.

The comms were a tangle of shouted warnings and the echo of Krang—Krang. A shout crackled over the headset. Top, your six!

I swung one-eighty, leading with my carbine. The last thing I saw was the end of that little bastard’s club. Then nothing.

And now you are back from nothing.

Shit, that’s going to take some getting used to.

I am sorry, Sergeant Pierce. I did not mean to startle you.

Look, if we’re going to be crammed in here, I think we can dispense with rank. Call me Jocko.

Very well, if you insist.

I do insist. And what the hell do I call you? You got a name?

I am IHRS-Zed-392. Interactive Human Replacement System.

Okay, that’s not going to work. You need a name. How about Gizmo?

Gizmo, yes, I like that name. It is humorous.

You have a sense of humor?

I do. I am programmed in many aspects of human behavior. Would you care to hear a joke? Three men walk into a spaceport…

Whoa, Gizmo. Another time, maybe.

I apologize. You are correct, Jocko. There are important matters to attend to. It interests me that your consciousness has returned. This is not the case with any of the other soldiers. And there are portions of your narrative that may be of great use to us.

Such as? I’m all ears.

I don’t understand.

See? We need to work on your humor skills. It means I’m listening. What’s useful besides that the Krang kicked my ass?

Yes, it is evident that the Krang, as you call them, won the battle. Yet it is the method by which they achieved their victory that may hold the key.

Meaning?

None of your soldiers were killed. I would venture the theory that they were incapacitated. The Krang do not seem disposed to eliminate their enemies, but to best them. This ritualized form of combat has precedents among some of the aboriginal peoples from your home planet.

Holy shit, Gizmo, I see what you’re getting at. Counting coup, like some of the ancient Native American tribes. I’ve read about them, the Cheyenne, the Crow.

Exactly, Jocko. Also the Sioux, Blackfoot, and others.

That’s probably something they teach at the academy.

What academy are you referring to?

The Officers Academy, where green officers learn how to get their troops killed.

Why would that be a subject for study? And why would the officers be green?

Forget it, Gizmo. If we’re on the right track with this coup thing, then each side has two completely different objectives. We want to force the Krang off Sector Seven. The Krang want to demonstrate their bravery. Shit, we’re going at this all wrong.

I believe that may be the case, Jocko. I am recalling a quote that seems applicable to our current situation: Success in warfare is gained by carefully accommodating ourselves to the enemy’s purpose.

The Art of War. I’ve carried old Sun Tzu with me since I was a corporal. Okay, Gizmo, time to come up with a new plan.

*  *  *

For Jocko Pierce, it’s like viewing a scene on a movie screen. Gizmo is controlling everything, doing all the talking. Jocko is staring out of a porthole. On the other side of the goddamned porthole, another man is staring back at him. At them.

Staff Sergeant Bronski looks confused. Hell, the poor bastard has a right to be. Bronski is the company’s armorer, a tech guy, not the sort of man who is used to seeing ghosts. And standing in front of him is First Sergeant Pierce, newly back from the dead. Worse, Top doesn’t sound right. It’s like there’s some other voice coming out of his mouth.

“Top, with all due respect, you sure you should be out of sickbay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

Psst… Gizmo, you’re freaking Bronski out. You gotta talk normal, more like me. Blame it on the implant or something.

I will try, Jocko.

Jocko hears Gizmo clear his throat. He wishes he could feel it, could feel anything.

“The doctors cleared me, Sergeant Bronski. It will take time to get used to this new implant. Please bear with me.”

Loosen up, Gizmo. Try swearing.

“Fuck. I mean, fuck sickbay. We have work to do.”

Okay, better. Now let’s get Bronski on board with this.

“You understand what we need, Sergeant Bronski?”

What they need is a bang stick, a fighting club that packs a thunder punch. A pugil stick mated with the cartridge from a pulse rifle. They want Bronski to build it and build it fast.

“I got it, Top. Mount a pulse cartridge on the body of a pugil stick and build a contact trigger on the business end. The tech is primitive, no problem. But I gotta warn you, this thing is going to kick like a mule.”

“That is a risk we will have to accept.”

Don’t forget the decorations.

“One more thing, Sergeant. We need to ornament the weapon.”

“We?”

“Affirmative. We, as in a team. You and I.”

“You want me to make the thing pretty?”

“Not pretty, Bronski. Think ritualistic. Tribal. Put some damn feathers on it, rawhide, that sort of thing.”

“Okay, Top, whatever you say. I’ll get on it.”

Bronski’s face disappears from Jocko’s view as Gizmo turns their body and walks out of the armory.

He thinks we’re nuts, Gizmo.

Quite possibly, but will he do it?

He’ll do it alright. Bronski’s the best. The question is, do we really want him to? If he builds it, we might be stupid enough to use the damn thing. C’mon, let’s go next door and brief the captain.

They find Captain Jenkins at his desk, head in his hands as if he hasn’t moved in hours. Perhaps he hasn’t. The captain looks up, sees First Sergeant Pierce, and then he’s blinking like an owl. Pushes himself up like he’s the one who should be saluting.

Gizmo throws off a sharp salute, way too formal for the captain. Jocko sees the confusion on the poor bastard’s face, then relief.

“Top! Damn docs didn’t tell me you were out of sickbay. How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine, Sir. Thank you for asking. I am ready to get to work.”

Captain Jenkins tilts his head.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sergeant? You sound funny.”

Now you’ve done it, Gizmo. Jenkins is just a piddling captain. You’re treating him like a general or something.

Sorry, Jocko. But protocol is an important part of…

Damn protocol. Tell him about the mission. Don’t ask him. Tell him. And loosen up, okay?

Gizmo does his best. Now he’s only about a half-kilometer short of the real Jocko Pierce. Still, he manages to curse once or twice, even if he sounds like a schoolboy dropping his first f-bomb.

Once he hears the mission, Jenkins flops back in his chair, a stunned look smeared across his face.

“Top, I know you’ve got way more combat hours than I do, but this is a crazy idea. You want to go out with a single gun carrier? No ground support? Sounds like suicide to me.”

“No Sir. I need a closer look at the Krang position. A first-hand report. No need to jeopardize additional soldiers.”

“Okay, Top. You know best. Or you usually do, anyway. But you better not take any unnecessary chances. That’s an order. You don’t make it back, this unit falls apart.”

*  *  *

Jocko Pierce sits alone in the bay of the gun carrier. Alone with Gizmo. The troop bay seems cavernous without a full platoon aboard. The pilot and Graves are sealed off up front. Gates is in the firing turret.

On a digital display, Jocko sees the stark terrain of Sector Seven floating past, exactly what the pilot is seeing. The carrier is floating over the desolate waste, two meters off the deck, drawing close to the coordinates where the Krang ship should be, but isn’t.

Jocko leans forward, monitoring a position readout, comparing the bearings to the video feed.

Okay, Gizmo. Just like we planned it. The comm line crackles to life.

“Two hundred meters. Bring us down to a crawl.”

Inertia drags forward as the carrier slows.

“One hundred more, then bring us down facing on our current bearing.”

The ship slows again.

“How’s this, Top?”

“Good. Set us down here. Gates, you okay up there?”

A female voice fills the headset.

“All good, Top. Firing systems hot.”

This is the tough part, Gizmo. They aren’t going to like this, so you’ve got to sell it.

I will do my best, Jocko.

“Right. Listen up, you three. Straight ahead, five hundred meters, you see that rock outcropping?”

Three affirmatives.

“Look just past it. You see where the horizon is distorted, like a faint heat signature?”

Affirmations again, but less certain.

“Graves, you’re navigating, so you track targets for Gates. That big shimmer on the horizon is the Krang ship. That’s your target number two. Target number one is the area in front of that rock, where the patrols got into trouble. Target one, target two. Clear?”

“Got it, Top.”

“Roger, Top.”

“Good. Here’s the operation. I’m going out on a solo reconnoiter. If the Krang take me down, you light up target one with AP fire, pulse and projectile both. Do you understand?”

“But Top…”

“No buts. You do it. Fire for effect, full bore. Take down any and all individual Krang fighters. Then you switch to target two. Throw the heavy stuff at their ship. Hard projectiles, ion cannon, everything. Keep firing until you’ve got nothing left, then get the hell out of here. Understood?”

The comm line stays silent for a long moment.

“Understood, Top. I will light those fuckers up.”

“Atta girl.”

Jocko watches as Gizmo slides the helmet over their head and locks it in place. The face shield display blinks twice in the upper left field of vision, then begins scrolling data.

Are you ready, Jocko?

Born ready, Gizmo. Let’s take our big stick and go for a walk.

Gizmo taps the comm line.

“Secured for exterior. Open bay door.”

Coup stick over their shoulder, they climb down the dropped ramp and step onto the rocky surface of Sector Seven.

Seems a lot further than half a kilometer.

Interesting. My perception is similar.

We’ve still got time. I could talk you out of this. Or you could talk me out of it. Either way.

But you don’t wish to be talked out of it, Jocko.

On the money. Just talking trash while there’s still time to talk.

The gyro-grav boots keep their feet in contact with the surface. Gizmo walks them forward, his footsteps lighter and faster than they would be on Earth. He carries the coup stick at port arms, business tip up. Two bands of plastic feathers, Bronski’s fabricated decorations, dance from the shaft of the weapon.

Okay, we’re getting close. Look sharp, or someone’s going to wind up dead.

True, but you’ve already been dead once.

That is some cold comfort, Gizmo. If I had a body, I’d be laughing.

Jocko peers forward. He sees the disturbed surface, confused footprints in the dust. This is where the fight took place. What’s left of his disjointed memory flashes an image, clear and certain.

Hey, I just remembered something. The Krang. I think all of them are right-handed. And I’m left-handed. Or was.

You are still left-handed. That information may prove useful.

Look sharp. This is the spot. They’re here. I can feel it. Keep your eyes peeled. I hope this old body works for you.

Gizmo does not reply. Jocko sees his arms extend, brandishing the coup stick. One foot forward, body slipping into a crouch. Ready or not, here we go.

There’s a smear of motion across the air in front of them, like a clear film distorting in a non-existent wind. In the next split second, a single Krang appears.

For one frozen instant, Jocko sees a helmeted and black-suited warrior, weapon held high and ready. The Krang’s face plate is mirrored. A reflection hovers in the mirror, a tiny man holding a ridiculous stick. Jocko realizes he is staring at himself. Then everything dissolves into a blur of motion as the fight begins.

The Krang swings from his right, hard and fast, low to high. Jocko hears air sizzling, but it’s all in his disembodied head. There is no sound, no atmosphere to transmit it. Gizmo pivots left with their coup stick held vertical, hands wide. The stick blocks the Krang’s swing. The physical shock of the impact is very real.

Snake-quick, the Krang spins away, pirouetting like a Luna Gei-Han dancer. Now he stabs in from his weak side, using the Krang stick like a spear. The tip is a blur, a missile streaking into their face shield. Then the Gizmo is crouching and swinging, parrying the lunge from below and sending the Krang’s thrust high.

Momentum brings the little bastard in close. Gizmo pivots to throw a left knee into the Krang. Jocko watches the horizon dip and swirl with each move. It’s like being trapped inside an out-of-control flight simulator.

The knee kick drives the Krang back, but the blow is not enough to knock their enemy down. The Krang extends its arms high and left, holding the Krang stick aloft as if for an overhand strike.

It’s a feint, Gizmo!

I see it.

Instead of striking down, their half-size foe twirls the Krang stick behind its head, coming around with a viscous arc knee-high to the rocky ground.

Gizmo jabs the coup stick into the ground like he’s planting a colonial flag. The Krang stick stops dead, then rebounds. For a single heartbeat, the Krang is off balance. Gizmo lunges forward with the butt end of the coup stick. A fountain of dust follows the lunge, particles glistening in the harsh light.

The coup stick stabs into the middle of the Krang’s chest, driving it back two full steps.

Good shot, Gizmo!

Yes, Jocko, but the fight is not done.

As if to prove Gizmo’s words, the Krang is back in a fighting crouch, Krang stick held at port arms. Then Jocko sees a shimmer pass between them and their enemy. He remembers the last fight.

He’s going invisible. Behind, Gizmo, he’s gonna come from behind!

The shimmer turned to a swirl and the Krang vanished. Instead of turning around, Gizmo runs straight toward the spot where the Krang disappeared. As he dashes forward, the Krang reappears, weapon held high. Krang stick smashes down on the space they just vacated. Gizmo swings around to face the befuddled enemy.

That fucked him up!

Yes, thanks to your warning, Jocko.

Watch the little shit. He’s going to try something sneaky.

The Krang edged sideways, circling, and they circled with him. Their gyro-grav boots kicked up miniature volcanoes of dust. Without warning, the Krang lurches sideways, as if tripping over some hidden rock.

Gizmo feints a half-step forward then pushes back as the enemy swing comes out of nowhere. The Krang is not off balance, not stumbling. He’s swinging for the fences. Krang! The business end of the Krang stick misses their face shield by mere centimeters. The shock wave jars their helmet.

The Krang allows the missed stroke to spin itself back into a fighting stance.

Our enemy uses a classic swordsman’s feint, Jocko.

I told you the fucker was sneaky.

Deception takes many forms.

Gizmo raises the coup stick high and left. Jock sees the pulse cartridge below their hands. Gizmo is using the wrong end! Before Jocko can shout a warning. Gizmo swings the butt end of the stick down, but the blow is slow and awkward. The Krang raises his weapon to the horizontal, an easy block to Gizmo’s feeble blow.

Gizmo does not strike. He drops to their knees, pulling their arms down to chest level, then flinging them forward, as if casting a spell. But it’s not spells Gizmo is throwing. The coup stick spears forward, pulse cartridge first, passing under the Krang’s misdirected block. The weapon slams into the Krang’s mirrored face shield, the detonator triggers the pulse cartridge, and a burst of white engulfs both warriors.

The explosion of electric white fades to complete blackness. Jocko Pierce is suspended in time. One split second, or maybe an hour, a year. Then a bleak spacescape blurs into focus, the rocky surface of Sector Seven. And a few meters away, sprawled on its back in the dust, lies the fallen Krang.

Jocko tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. They seem to have fallen to one knee, maybe staggered by the pulse blast. He tries to stand, remembers that he can’t, then remembers a whole lot of stuff he wishes he could forget.

Gizmo, you still there?

I believe so, Jocko. I’m a bit shaken. The pulse shock had a significant impact.

I’ll say. You knocked that little fucker for a loop. Down, but not dead. Look, he’s moving.

The Krang was moving. The black-suited warrior rolls onto all fours, then pushes itself to its feet. It staggers a step or two, helmet swinging from side to side. Then it crouches to the ground. When their opponent stands up, it’s holding the Krang stick.

Shit, Gizmo, we don’t have another pulse cartridge. We fired our only shot.

We may not need another. Let us wait and see.

They do not wait long. The Krang turns to face them, arms extended. Its weapon rests across open palms. Jocko gets his first good look at the Krang’s hands. They are lean and long, with opposable thumbs and three slender fingers each.

The two warriors stand a few meters apart, still as statues.

Then the Krang does something Jocko could never have imagined. It bows. Their enemy bends forward at the waist, holding its weapon out as it bows. One heartbeat, two, and the Krang straightens itself and stands rock still.

Before Jocko can react, Gizmo replicates the Krang’s gesture, executing a perfect formal bow, holding it for the correct interval, then straightening back to standing.

What do you suppose happens now, Jocko?

I have no idea. None whatsoever.

As if sensing the question, the Krang tilts his weapon and plants it on the dusty surface, holding it with one arm extended, just like a recruit learning drills.

The little bastard knows parade rest.

So it would seem, Jocko.

The Krang raises its empty hand and executes a twirling gesture. The empty space shimmers across a wide semicircle. A dozen Krang appear. Another hand gesture and all thirteen Krang sink to the dust, legs crossing gracefully beneath them, Krang sticks across their laps.

And now, Jocko?

Same as them, Gizmo. Our guy is in command. Looks like we’re going to have a parley.

Gizmo lowers their body to the ground, what’s left of the coup stick balanced across their folded knees.

Alright, before we parley, let’s make sure Gates doesn’t vaporize the lot of us. Open all comm channels and tell them to hold their fire.

Gizmo activates a control and static hiss fills their battle helmet.

“Gun Carrier One, do you copy?”

“Copy, Top.”

“Gun Carrier One, we are engaging in negotiations. Hold your fire, repeat, hold your fire. Copy?”

“Affirmative, Top. Copy. Standing by.”

Okay, Gizmo. Let’s see if these munchkins will talk to us. Give ‘em the peace hand.

Gizmo holds up one hand, palm out. The Krang leader responds with the same gesture.

Then the static hiss crackles into a series of what sounds like guttural yowls. The Krang is speaking, but the Auto-Translate yields nothing.

Right. It seems we’re done fighting, but we can’t talk with them. Now what?

I suggest sign language, Jocko.

Give it your best shot. Try to find out why they’re here, maybe what they want.

Gizmo raises a hand to their helmet, taps it, then shakes their head. He holds both hands out, palms up. A question. Then he points to the shimmering aura beyond the rock outcropping. The Krang looks to where he is pointing. Then Gizmo holds both hands forward as if holding an imaginary stick. He mimics breaking the stick, then repeats the question gesture.

A long moment. Nothing. Then the Krang nods once. More yowling fills their helmet, but the Krang leader has turned to his troops. Three of the Krang rise as one and scamper off toward the rock outcropping. The Krang leader turns back to face them, both hands raised palms out. Wait.

Jocko laughs his silent laugh. They don’t teach this shit in the manual, Gizmo. We’re playing space charades with a bunch of hostile aliens.

It appears so, Jocko. We can only hope they are familiar with the concept.

The wait seems interminable, but it does not last forever. Just when Jocko is sure he cannot endure one more second, he sees the three Krang reappear. The small figures scramble down the rocky slope and trot toward the waiting group. One of them cradles something in its arms.

The three Krang reenter the half circle, stopping before their seated commander. The Krang bearing the object holds the thing out to the leader. He nods once, then flips a hand to indicate Jocko and Gizmo.

The Krang soldier approaches, drops to one knee, and holds out the object. Jocko tries to get a good look at the thing as Gizmo takes it from the Krang’s outstretched hands. As soon as Gizmo has possession, the Krang soldier retreats to his place in the half circle and sits down.

Gizmo, if I had to guess, I’d say that’s some sort of fuel jet, an atomizer, or valve of some kind.

I concur, Jocko. And it has obviously malfunctioned. There is a large fracture in the housing as well as evidence of burning.

Son of a bitch. These poor bastards aren’t invading Sector Seven. They’re broke down. Shit, I bet the machinists can duplicate this thing. It doesn’t look that complicated.

No, it doesn’t. Replicating this part would perhaps kill two birds with one stone, as the saying goes.

Right. We make peace and we get the Krang on their way and off Sector Seven. Tell them we can do it.

*  *  *

Gizmo and Jocko climb up the drop ramp and into the gun carrier. The Krang commander follows, leading four of its warriors. One of the soldiers carries the failed fuel apparatus. The Krang sit on the troop bench opposite Gizmo and Jocko.

Let’s get some atmo in here. Time to show our faces. Sorry, our face.

Gizmo taps the comm line.

“Secure bay door. Pressurize interior.”

“Roger, Top.”

The door bolts click into place and lock. A hissing noise fills the troop bay.

“Pressurized, Top. You’re good to unseal.”

Gizmo ratchets the safety lock on their battle helmet and releases the seal. Jocko imagines the relief of that first breath of atmo, but it’s only a memory. He doesn’t breathe anymore. The helmet lifts clear of their head, giving the Krang their first look at a human face. Jocko hopes the little bastards don’t freak out.

If they have any plans for freaking out, the Krang don’t show it. The commander gestures to one of his cadre, who pulls a device from a sealed pocket. The Krang soldier holds the device up, activates it, and waits. The thing emits a soft whirr, a few beeps, then goes silent. The soldier nods and holds the sensor out to its commander. He reads the instrument’s display and reaches for his helmet.

If there was going to be any freaking out, it was Jocko’s turn. The helmets come off one by one. The Krang not only yowl like felines, but they also look the part. Jocko sees long, flat noses, pointed ears, almond-shaped eyes, and furry faces. The color and pattern of the facial fur vary. The commander’s face is a striped grey. Two soldiers resemble orange tomcats. Of the remaining pair, one is jet black, and its comrade is white.

Their eyes range from golden yellow to chocolate brown. Studious, serious, observant eyes, and all of them looking at Sergeant Jocko Pierce.

I believe a greeting of some sort is in order.

Yeah, go formal, Gizmo. Pretend you’re in a Gei-Han Salon on Luna.

Not something I’ve experienced, Jocko, but I know the protocol.

Gizmo holds out their forearms, palms up as if offering a sword. Or a coup stick. Still sitting on the crew bench, he bows at the waist, forty-five degrees, holds the posture, then straightens their body.

The Krang commander nods. Some quick soft yowls pass between the Krang. Jocko figures it’s the equivalent of feline whispering. Then all five of the alien warriors hold out their three-fingered hands and bow in unison.

A long silence follows. The Krang look at them, and they look at the Krang. The air crackles with tension. There is no hostility, but no one is relaxing either.

The comm line breaks the quiet.

“Ten minutes out, Top.”

The Krang commander cocks its head. Gizmo holds up their hands, fingers and thumbs out. Then he spins one forefinger in the air and points to the sensor unit strapped to their wrist. The commander observes these gestures, nods, yowl-whispers to his crew.

You think the Krang got that?

I have no idea, Jocko. At least they do not appear to be insulted.

The captain is going to shit when he meets this bunch. I’m kinda looking forward to that.

*  *  *

Captain Jenkins does almost shit when he sees the Krang. The alien guests cause quite a stir inside the Sector Seven compound. Most of the civilians are better behaved than the captain. Gates and Graves act as rear escorts.

The machinist foreman seems to hit it off with one of the Krang soldiers. Human machinist and alien soldier pass the burnt-out fuel part back and forth. A few gestures, some quick sketches, and the pair are suddenly thick as thieves. Without a word or a yowl, they vanish into the depths of the machine shop.

The Krang commander seems to take this in stride. Ignoring his missing soldier, the Krang boss turns to Captain Jenkins, who is at a loss. Jocko urges Gizmo to the rescue.

“Captain, let’s take them to sickbay. Maybe they can give us a clue about our wounded.”

“Good thinking, Top.”

“Graves, let the docs know we’re on our way.”

“Roger, Top.”

Sergeant Pierce leads Captain Jenkins out of the machine shop, and Jenkins pretends to lead the Krang guests. They follow rock-hewn corridors, turning left and right, with Gates and Graves marching in step behind them.

 The sickbay doors are open, the doctors waiting just inside. If the medicos are freaking out over the Krang, they’re hiding it well. The entourage comes to a halt. Fifty-seven gurneys fill the space, each holding a comatose colonial soldier.

What now, Jocko?

Now we see how badly the Krang want their spare parts. Wave them forward and let’s see what happens.

Gizmo turns to the Krang commander, then gestures to the fallen colonial troops. The commander looks across the rows of gurneys, then motions to his three soldiers. A low yowling, then he touches each of their furry foreheads. The three Krang soldiers step forward, their Krang sticks held like staffs.

“Top, are you sure we should…”

Gizmo gets a hand up faster than Jocko can warn him. The Krang commander watches every move.

“Captain, I believe the Krang mean well.”

Way to go, Gizmo. Better keep an eye on Gates and Graves. We don’t want a firefight in sickbay.

Gizmo turns and gives the two fighters a look, flashes them the palm down sign. Be cool. Jocko sees his pit bulls relax, at least a little.

 The three Krang move along the narrow aisle and stop at the first gurneys. They raise their Krang sticks and hold them over the foreheads of three wounded soldiers.

Jocko catches movement out of the corner of their eye. Graves is raising his weapon but Gizmo waves him off. The Krang commander half-turns. Gizmo meets its eye, nods. The commander gives a low yowl. The three outstretched Krang sticks glow and pulse, once, twice. The soldiers raise their sticks and move on to the next trio of gurneys. The docs hurry after them, checking the sensor readings.

“Captain, heartbeat increasing, and we’ve got brain activity. I think the patient is responding.”

“Same here, Captain.”

“Are they conscious?”

“No, Captain, not conscious. But not comatose, either.”

The Krang continue around the gurneys, lighting up the fallen three-by-three. The doctors scurry after them, reading sensors and comparing notes.

The Krang commander watches his soldiers, and Jocko Pierce watches the commander. The Krang soldiers reach the last two wounded colonials. The Krang commander yowls, and his soldiers pass the remaining two gurneys and return to their leader.

Jocko looks at the last gurney. He recognizes the blank face of Corporal Benson, a decent enough soldier. Then Benson’s face blurs. The overhead lights seem to pulse and dim. He hears the captain’s voice, angry and loud.

“Why are they stopping? What about those two?”

Gizmo, I don’t feel too good. You gotta stop the captain. He’ll screw us all for sure.

Jocko sees the Krang leader, sees Gizmo raise a questioning hand. The Krang shakes his head, holds up two fingers, points to himself, points to them. The message is clear. Two of ours, two of yours. We lost and you lost.

“Captain, we have to let this go. The Krang lost two of theirs, so we lose two of ours.”

Jocko can’t hear the captain’s answer. The lights are pulsing faster now. It’s like being drunk. Jocko wishes he was drunk. Wishes he was anything. Then he hears Gizmo.

Jocko, what’s happening to you? Can you hear me? I’m losing you. Okay, hold on, I’m shutting this down. Try to hang on, Jocko. Just hang on, you hear me?

There’s the ceiling. He must have fallen. Jocko stares up at the lights, the pulsing lights. Who’s turning them on and off like that? And faces, faces leaning over him. Doctors, and doctors that look like cats. Cat doctors. Gates and Graves, and that worthless captain. Spinning, spinning, pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? Cats with glowing sticks, pretty lights, pretty pretty.

*  *  * 

Everything is black. He tries to move, tries to blink his eyes. A sliver of light, then it’s gone. C’mon, Jocko. Focus. You’re the guy in charge.

Then he sees a grey glow, a faint glimmer on the black horizon. The dim light rolls away, then reappears, like he’s tumbling through space.

Now the light rushes at him, and the darkness vanishes. He’s in sickbay. Right, that makes sense. Wisps of memory swirl, coalesce. There were doctors, and wounded soldiers laid out on gurneys, Gizmo and the Krang. Shit, what happened to the Krang? Where’s Gizmo? Who’s running this show?

Jocko forces his eyes to focus. He sees rows of empty gurneys. He looks left, looks right. The empty gurneys swing back and forth as he shifts his eyes. Wait, holy shit, he’s moving his eyes. Gizmo, are you there? Gizmo? He’s shouting in his head, and the thought bothers him. He shakes it away, realizes his head is shaking when he tells it to. What the hell is happening?

He’s raising his left hand, staring at it, when the doc appears.

“Welcome back, Sergeant Pierce.”

Jocko blinks at the doc, then at his raised hand. He wills the fingers to move, and they do. Then he laughs aloud.

“You need to take it easy, Sergeant. You’ve been out for three days. Take it slow.”

“What about the Krang?”

“They’re gone. Took their new parts and vanished. Lifted off Sector Seven not long after that. But before they left, they fixed you. After you collapsed, the head Krang had a look at you.

“He found the implant system at the back of your skull. He insisted we remove it. It was your soldiers who backed him up. Graves and Gates. The captain was against it.”

Jocko reaches a hand to the nape of his neck, feels the bandage.

“What about Gizmo?”

“Sorry? Who?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m still a little fuzzy.”

But Jocko Pierce isn’t fuzzy at all. Scenes flash through his brain, each one sharp and vivid. Gizmo, the idea for the coup stick, the fight with the Krang, he remembers it all, right up to the moment the lights went out. Now Gizmo is gone. And all the gurneys are empty.

“Doc, what happened to the wounded?”

“Up and around, every one of them. Well, we lost one. We thought it would be two, but we were able to save Corporal Benson. We used the implant unit we removed from you. He’s waiting to see you, by the way.”

“Who, Benson?”

Yes. He’s been waiting for two days. The captain gave up on you, said you were dead for sure this time. But Corporal Benson didn’t believe him. He’s just outside, with Gates and Graves. Shall I send them in?”

“You damn skippy, Doc. By all means, send them in.”

The doctor disappears. Jocko hears a shuffling of feet, then three faces smiling down at him. Gates, tough and pretty at the same time, Graves’ ugly mug, and Corporal Benson. Gates does the talking, like always.

“Hey, Top. How ya feeling?”

“I feel like six gallons of shit in a five-gallon bucket, but it’ll pass. You guys okay? Who’s running the show?”

“Lieutenant Gregg is doing the honors. Captain sort of checked himself out, I guess. Speaking of which, me and Graves gotta head back. We’re on duty but we skipped out.”

“Which means you two clowns are away from your post. Get your asses back there, and I do mean now.”

“Roger that, Top.”

Graves and Gates turn to go, but Jocko stops them.

“Hey, you two grunts. Thank you.”

“Sure, Top.”

And then they’re gone. Corporal Benson hovers over Jocko’s gurney, grinning a stupid grin. Jocko remembers that Benson was never the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“You okay, Corporal?”

“Yes, Jocko, I am right as rain, as the saying goes.”

Anger shoots through Jocko like an electric current. This low-life grunt has the nerve to call him Jocko? A goddamn First Sergeant? This kid is going to be on extra duty for an earth year at least.

He opens his mouth to shout, sees the smirk on Benson’s face, and a weird gleam in his eye. The realization sinks in with a jolt.

“Gizmo? Holy shit! Is that you?”

“Yes, Jocko, it’s me. They implanted me on Benson. The poor lad is gone, I’m afraid. Really gone.”

“Shit. It’s always hard losing a young one, and it never gets easier. But we’ve got work to do and you’re on duty, Corporal Benson. Your first duty is to tell me everything I missed, starting with when I blacked out.”

“You got it, Top.”

Corporal Benson pulls up a stool beside First Sergeant Pierce.

When the doctor hurries into sickbay to check on his last patient, he sees young Corporal Benson and the craggy sergeant huddled together, heads close. Their conversation strikes him as intense and deeply private. The doc makes a notation on a clipboard, then backs away without saying a word.

Fini

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