The Final Memories of Sergeant Eron Krus

I never understood the word “war” before today. Way I figured it, people had always been fighting. The world was a battlefield since before we evolved opposable thumbs, and if it survives us, whatever lifeforms crawl out of the toxic, irradiated wastelands will continue to fight for dominance.

They say this particular war has been going on for centuries, ever since the Cold War turned hot, but if none of the nations that started it are still around, is it really still the same war? Is that how it works? This nebulous concept survives like the Ship of Theseus until everyone signs a piece of paper, and then a new war is born shortly after, when someone decides they don’t like the treaty anymore?

Didn’t make a bit of sense to me. When people gather at a market, it’s not called “a shopping.” When people work, it’s not called “a labor.” So why is it “a war” when people shoot at each other? Why have this special name for something so mundane and normal? Did we really need another word for “existence”?

Whenever I brought this up with anyone, they always told me my real problem was I didn’t know what the word “peace” meant, but I was pretty sure they were wrong. I knew peace. Peace was the days when the wind blew the purple miasma away and the enemy didn’t attack and you could walk around outside the domes without a protective suit. Peace was the look on my dad’s face when he retired from the army and passed the family rifle down to me. It was the thought that I would do the same for my son one day.

In other words, “peace” was no different than “war.” Both were words used to label aspects of ordinary life.

But, well, maybe they had a point. When we finally signed the treaty and my unit was decommissioned, things were different—uncomfortably different. Forbidden from leaving the domes without a good reason, life suddenly felt claustrophobic. I landed a well-paying job as a corporate sycophant, but I found I had little patience for sitting around talking about what other people should do instead of taking action to get the job done.

All my adult life, I had been a soldier, and before that, I trained to be a soldier. All of a sudden, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I didn’t know who my son would be when he grew up.

Turned out I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Rumors always swirled about dissatisfied soldiers living out in the wastelands, building up their strength to launch an attack that could rekindle the flames of war. Never put much stock in them—surviving out there seemed impossible—but then the UN came looking for volunteers to find and eliminate them. I signed up in less time than it takes to slap a power pack into a gun. They wanted someone to fight and I wanted someone to fight. Seemed like a sweet deal to me.

It quickly turned less sweet. In just three weeks, half my company was taken out, but not by enemy fire. In places, the miasma was so thick that some of it leaked into our protective suits. Those who were sensitive perished quickly; those who were a bit less sensitive perished slowly. Others died from exhaustion, forced to march for days in heavy suits that we couldn’t remove, not even while sleeping.

But at the end of those three weeks, we found our target. As a scouting report came in over the radio, I rechecked my rifle. I knew that rifle so well it was like an extra limb. I should have been able to check it in my sleep, but I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the miasma, but in any case, I was in no shape for combat, and neither was the rest of the company.

Private Egger’s voice crackled in my ear. “Geez, there must be over a hundred of them. We didn’t come prepared for numbers like these.”

Doing my best not to make a sound, I crawled forward towards the ridge to take a peek. Sure enough, the convoy was much larger than we expected.

A sniper slithered up alongside me.“I count two-hundred and sixty-two of them, and there may be more in hiding.” Although the protective suits made it difficult to tell who was who, her voice gave away that she was a gynoid. Unholstering her gun, she took aim near the back of the group. “My sensors have located the cargo… Analysis indicates it is a complete and functional nuclear warhead.”

We all took a few seconds to recover from the shock. Egger was the first to speak up. “You sure? How the hell would they get something like that?”

“Unknown. We received intelligence that they were enriching small amounts of uranium in the wastelands—where international monitors wouldn’t notice—for use in a dirty bomb. But if they detonate it anywhere near a dome, the deaths it causes will be the least of our worries: It could ignite a new war between the superpowers.”

“Why? The superpowers already know about these yahoos. Surely they could figure out who was behind it.”

“Because they couldn’t have done it alone. They must have had help from someone high up in one of the superpowers. We have to stop them. After they round the next bend, I will take out the courier and as many surrounding him as I can. I want grenades and suppressive fire concentrated toward the front of the group. With any luck, they will retreat to cover without realizing they dropped the cargo. That will be our chance to swoop in and take it.”

A dangerously stupid plan. I’d never served with a gynoid previously, but I knew they had a reputation for being all too willing to risk lives for infinitesimal odds of success. Sure, you couldn’t ask for a better sniper, but you couldn’t expect a machine to understand the value of life.

Turned out I wasn’t the only one with reservations. Egger kept his eyes on the enemy but directed his words to the gynoid. “And then what? Get shot?”

“We run like hell.”

Shocked silence fell over the entire company. We’d never heard a walking computer talk like that before. I didn’t know how the others interpreted it, but to me, it felt like she was trying to emphasize the seriousness of the situation.

Egger wasn’t having any of it though. “You’re gonna get us all killed. Who made you the leader anyway?”

“The Lieutenant did. When he succumbed to the miasma, command fell to me as the next highest-ranked officer. If you have a better idea, you are welcome to share it.”

“Yeah, I got a better idea. We head back and report their strength and position. Now that we confirmed they got the cargo, the higher-ups will have to take the threat seriously.”

“Negative. We cannot risk losing them, and by the time we return, it may be too late. I have already radioed a message to HQ. If it got through the miasma, they will send reinforcements, but it is our duty to delay the enemy in the meantime.”

I won’t lie: I thought about switching sides right then and there. Why die futilely fighting for a cause I didn’t believe in? Except, over the last three weeks, that had changed.

Up until now, I had only ever been playing soldier. I had experienced drills and discipline patrols, sure, and I had lost comrades in arms in firefights, and because of that, I thought I knew what war was. But I had always been well-fed, well-supplied, defending our fortresses with superior numbers on my side. How many thousands of the enemy had marched through this wasteland to reach us, only for the few that didn’t die from the journey to be shot dead in their exhaustion?

They truly knew war; I had not, and for my foolishness, I would probably die a painful death far from civilization. I would never have the opportunity to pass my rifle to my son, but that was alright. If we stopped them here, he would have no need of it.

Having made peace with my fate, I crept along the ridge so that I could toss a grenade down the valley when the assault began. As the rest of us got into position, Egger continued to argue with the gynoid. Right as he stepped toward her, she opened fire on the enemy.

Luckily, we managed to catch them by surprise, and just as the gynoid predicted, they scrambled for cover. From the corner of my eye, I saw the gynoid jump the ridge and half run, half slide down the side, firing as she went. With perfect accuracy, she opened a hole in the enemy forces large enough to steal the cargo and scramble away, firing behind her as she fled.

The rest of us weren’t so lucky. In our attempts to pin down the enemy, most of the company fell to return fire. An RPG kicked up a spray of dirt not far from my position, and I knew it was time to, as the gynoid had put it, run like hell. Our heavy protective suits had other ideas, making it appear as though we were power walking like purgatory instead. The enemy should have been worse off, with thicker, older suits, but we were exhausted and unused to the terrain. Even though we started at a higher elevation, It wouldn’t be long before they caught up to us.

By some twist of fate—good or bad, I couldn’t tell you—I wound up on a hill overlooking the path down which the gynoid ran. She was shucking her protective suit, well aware that the miasma would eat away at her body, and eventually, her circuitry. From her vantage, she could not see an enemy sniper waiting for her just around the bend.

With only a moment to make the decision, I stopped in my tracks, raised my rifle, and fired. On my third shot, I scored a clean hit, and his body tumbled down the hill.

Mine followed shortly after.

Perhaps if I had kept running, I might have survived longer, but the mission would have ended in failure. As my life faded, I saw the gynoid run into the petrified thicket. My vision blurred, and were it not for her gray skin, I would have sworn she looked just like a human.

With my last thought, I hoped she would succeed. The fate of the world—and my son’s future—depended on her now.