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next op.” Jackson glanced
around the table. “On planet for a few months. That includes some
R&R.”
    At the woots Paris realized he wasn’t the
only one who found ranger life suffocating. Though, he was only new
and his squad had been around for some time.
    “They just set coordinates for Tasia, heavy
grav but we’ll get antigrav suits to wear. Intel says smugglers are
using the smaller continent so we go in after the meat and take
over the operations. Once there we do inventory and shit, and then
we get to play the smugglers, do a meet and greet with the
buyers—finish off with a deal.”
    Paris was beginning to see a problem. “But
that sounds more like a job for the special marine division?”
    They all stared at him.
    Jackson was the first to recover. “We are the
special division, alien. What’s with you?”
    “Yeah, token alien,” said Path with a
smirk.
    “Shut up, token chick.” Paris leaned forward
and the others copied. “What was with the space station
mission?”
    Messma laughed. “We were bored while they
nabbed the army deserters questioning them to get details of their
next drop so they gave us an extra job. When me and Chezza snuck
away we did a little shopping.”
    “Ah.”
    Jackson now was studying him. “The pill
didn’t work on you, did it? Your alien DNA?”
    Path gave him a quick nod. It was time to
fess up. “No.”
    Jackson rubbed his tanned cheek. “Well,
you’ve done pretty good considering. Can you fill your medic role?
We really count on that.”
    “That’s not a problem.” Instead of studying
medical stuff he’d turned to calling up spells to heal, binding
them to him.
    “Good.”
    “He did a good job with this,” Chezza said
holding up his finger with the bandy-aid still attached.
    They all laughed.
    Paris lifted his arm and moved his hand
around. “It’s all in the wrist action.”
    He could tell they wanted to make jokes about
wanking but that wasn’t allowed anymore, another directive from the
commander.
    “And you can fight right? The medic is great
an’ all but our medic needs to be able to kill to. And not that ‘do
no harm’ shit, if your enemy is down and squealing like a pig
you’ve gotta leave ‘em.” Kabab’s dark eyes were as hard as they
were serious. “POWs are not our concern.”
    Paris smiled nastily and it wasn’t lost on
the marines. “Not a problem. Killing is actually a requirement
where I come from.”
    Jackson raised his pale eyebrows.
    Path nodded. “I come from the same planet and
killing isn’t a problem. The village children are all conscripted
to learn to fight. There are creatures, raiders, marauders, or
gangs that attack the villages.”
    “Alright.” Jackson resumed eating but looked
unconvinced.
    Paris explained, “It’s not army but militia …
hang on, what did you mean about the meat going down?”
    They all avoided his eyes for a moment.
    Path snorted. “Paris! The meat grinder. The
front lines usually always get butchered.”
    That just made him feel sick.
    Chezza drawled, “Don’t you send in the front
line in the militia?”
    “No. We have secret watchtowers and set up
traps.”
    “That’s cold, man.”
    What sort of special marines were they?
Evidently not black ops. Paris snarled, “Sure, as cold as sending
in raw recruits to their deaths!”
    “Calm down, marines.” Jackson finished his
steak. “That’s not our unit, alright? We work more circumspectly
but we do need the way cleared. Everyone does their part.”
    Paris spooned in his porridge not able to eat
steak for breakfast ... yet. He should be grateful that he wasn’t
“meat”. Those soldiers may think they were dying for some good
cause. “What’s the importance of the operation?”
    “Briefing, in thirty.”
    “Right. You can test our skills too, in
battle.”
    Jackson smiled now, his face relaxing.
“Sure.”
     
    At the briefing Jackson, as squad leader,
took his place in the front of the tiny room. There were six chairs
making