Death Trooper Blues

"One minute till we drop, get your shit together!"
Words without a voice beam through the soldier's brain.  Someone's thought, but not his.  As per the soldier's training, he checks his stance and prepares to jump.  He clutches an impact sled, a large, 8x4 foot plate of heat-resistant panels and sensors and rockets.  It's a throwaway machine, designed to be used only once, and that is obvious given the build quality of the machine.  Statistically speaking, about three of the twelve soldiers will die before they hit the ground, one because of "mechanical difficulties".  A bent Pitot tube, a crack in the insulation pads, retrorockets exploding, a whole laundry list of fatal malfunctions.  There was a bit of writing on the sled, right above the monitor.  The soldier had never noticed the words before, and focused intently on them, trying to make out what they say in the darkness of the cabin.

                                                TAURUS INDUSTRIES, MFG
                                                    Made in Brazil
                                                  ID:  199000000000

Well shit.

Another phrase beams through his brain.  "Ten seconds".  He'd say a prayer for luck if they weren't watching.  Watching him think.  A cryptic message from a skeptic soldier isn't worth ten lashes.  A loud crash followed by a faint whooshing sound fills the cabin, then is quickly replaced with the unbearable stagnation of space.  The soldiers in front of him become fewer and fewer as they jump towards the alien planet below.  In complete silence, the soldier prepares for his jump, hesitates for a moment, then jumps.

The planet spins towards him at an alarming rate, yet the motion is undetectable.  He leans forward slightly, to peek over the sled.  He sees a gray planet, fertile nonetheless.  The briefing mentioned the planet's flora of gray mold, which stands out against the brown mud of the planet's surface.  The ocean is sparse, what little of it there is is a dark green.  Whether or not it is water is debatable, the briefing didn't say.

Air begins to shake the sled, and the soldier hunkers down behind it.  The scream of re-entry is drowned out by his helmet's sound dampeners.  All that is audible is the rattle of his armor.  Ten minutes pass and another order beams through his brain.

"Impact in five, four, three, two.."

Retrorockets engage and parachute deploys, nearly jerking the soldier out of his armor.  Before he knows it, the final burst of the retrorockets breaks his fall completely, and he is dropped on the ground feet first, rifle in hand.  The sled splits in two and lands on the ground, crumpling as it hits.

The sky is a light blue, and the humidity fogs his helmet's visor.  After wiping it off with his glove, he sets off into the forest with his squad.

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Four hours later....
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Dew dripped silently off a flower.  An animal hastily chirps its song, then ceases.  The alien's eyes widen, and its nerves jolt.  Dirt wells up in a straight line from where the camouflaged man lay prone, as a round from his rifle pierces the air.  The alien's head is suddenly, and violently, torn from its neck.  Bits of purple sludge and sparks fly every which-way as the camouflaged man stands up, bayonet fixed, ready to meet whatever vengeful god made him.  A small army of thirty-some assorted aliens awaits him.  A large creature, one incompatible with all that is human and earthly, grabs him by the head, and squeezes it until nothing is left.  His rifle falls to the ground along with his body.  A slapstick thud alerts another human soldier hiding in the bushes, not far from where their comrade lay dead.

This soldier isn’t all human; it’s a towering, genderless, post-human war machine, outfitted with blocky steel and polymer armor and a large .30 caliber automatic rifle capable of RPMs far beyond that which a normal human can manage.  The ungodly alien is startled by the soldier’s appearance.  It dons a grey ghillie suit, to blend in with the mold-grass of the forest.  The rifle has a bayonet fixed, and the black triangular visor is reminiscent of the face of one of the alien’s gods.  A god of pain, death, and righteous fury.  Whether or not the alien cares about the helmet’s likeness is irrelevant.

Half a second is all it takes for the creature to be laid to waste by the soldier, along with the rest of his flock.  The scene is no more gruesome than it was, with the colorful ichor that is the alien’s blood soaking the grey molds of the forest, it can easily be considered a more soothing sight than before.  The soldier, however, no longer has an eye for beauty.  Whether indoctrinated as a child, or grown in a tube (which is usually the case with such soldiers), the man-thing is detached from all earthly pleasures.  Stoic and silent, it goes back into hiding amongst the mold and waits for the reinforcements to arrive.