It was still hard to believe that humanity was standing on Pluto, roughly six billion kilometers from the sun. The planetoid was oppressively cold, even with artificial climate control measures that had been in place even centuries before Taran Burke was born. He looked to the pale orb that seemed impossibly far away in the sky, so far away now that its heat that gave birth to the human species back on Earth tens of thousands of years past could not reach Pluto all the way out nearing the extent of its gravitational pull. In a way, the reason that anyone was capable of standing on the surface of such a barren and inhospitable chunk of rock and survive was entirely thanks to the scientific achievements of scientists and technicians who had died long before anyone currently standing in the base were born was symbolic of humanity’s fate; the only way the species was going to survive was by depending on the ingenuity and bravery of each other.

Six billion kilometers away was the reason that Taran stood here now, a worn down old rifle in hand and a combat harness that someone else probably died in. Somewhere towards that pale white dot was Mars, and knowing what kind of thing lurked beyond the stars, it still seemed too damn close. If he could see which way was home, then the Bulwark could, too. And they were coming; and like the tide, they were drawn forward with grim reliability.

And as if Charon’s gravity brought forth the Bulwark, yet another bright orb filled the sky, and another. The attack had started. It would be the fight of their lives, and losing Pluto meant losing each world until eventually they were swarming down Mars’ tunnels and cracking through the protective domes. Watching the artillery shots obliterate the observation towers with a brilliant incandescence that seemed to belong more to a witch’s spell than an alien war machine, Taran grit his teeth in defiant rage. He knew what happened if he lost this fight, and he’d personally blow holes through the bodies of every single one of the alien bastards himself if he had to. 

As Taran pulled himself from the dirt he reflected on what he’d always heard about the enemy; once humanity had been a successful interstellar species that had explored the cosmos with pride and self-assurance that they’d never face extinction because they escaped from their home system and had the means to keep ahead of any cataclysm. Then, without declaration of war or escalating hostilities, the Bulwark made it their singular purpose to destroy humanity wherever it had spread, as if burning the roots out from under a tree until only the trunk remained. Nobody knew why the Bulwark wanted to see every man, woman, and child extinguished from the stars, and they got damn close. 

[I]No more.[/I] Taran thought, charging the bolt carrier on his carbine, the well-oiled and used machine seamlessly picking up a case from the magazine lip and slamming into battery with a satisfyingly solid clang of kinetic force. Others were already in the firing line, sending heavy rounds downrange that slammed into the vanguard of the Bulwark forces; the Grik. 

The Grik were roughly humanoid with pale, deformed skin that was marked by several long and ghastly tears, as if the flesh beneath couldn’t be contained by such unsuitable skin. They were deformed, hideous, and a mockery of life itself. Mo, one of Taran’s fellow trainees, called to reload and left her place on the firing line, which Taran quickly took over. As his thumb released the safety and the padded buttstock found its customary spot on his shoulder, Mo shouted, “Give ‘em hell!” to him, feeling the same intensity that gripped him.

“Finish reloading and we’ll send them there together.” He called back, the front post of his sight hovering over the neck of what was soon to be his first kill of the day. The rifle barked, its bullpup configuration comfortably taking the recoil into his shoulder as the muzzle flash nearly blinded Taran to the exploding wound out of the back of the Grik’s neck, the hollow point making substantial trauma to the creature as it slumped down dead. Back when humanity fought amongst itself, there were rules to war. Here, against something bent on their annihilation, the old rules no longer applied and that included mass issuing expanding munitions.

There wasn’t much time to aim, not like the training range, and as soon as a pale silhouette filled the crosshairs the trigger was depressed, and more often than not, some part of a Grik was taking trauma. The 15 rounds were extinguished all too quickly, and by the time Taran was fumbling for his magazine pouch, Mo was back in action. He could only hope that the Grik couldn’t find an opening in the line to exploit; close quarters was exactly where you wouldn’t want them.