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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Traditional_wolf_007 on 2024-09-07 01:34:17+00:00.

It has been two hundred years since the fall of the United States of America, and all other human nations at the hands of an alien collective known as the Federation. The Federation rules over most of the Earth without meaningful contention, but in the far northern reaches of North America the Alaskan National Guard fights on. The Alaskan Guard was formed out of American, Canadian, and Russian units that held out long after the Federation forced their nations’ surrender. The last free army on Earth hides in vast bunker cities under the permafrost, and deep in the mountains. It sustains itself on venerated war gear from two centuries past, and mans its trenches with the children of alien POW’s and descendants of the original Guard alike. Now, they fight a brutal guerilla war in some of the harshest conditions known to man against a technologically and numerically superior foe. 

The sun broke over the horizon, bathing the taiga in golden light. 

“Cold this morning, sir.” I said. The captain put down his binoculars for a moment. 

“Дa, Specialist.” He replied. “Good for us. Foxtrots don’t perform in low cat.” I nodded.

“Hooah,”I replied.

 “How old are you, Specialist?” He asked, after a moment. 

“Fourteen, sir.” He nodded.

 “Moving to Corporal when?” 

“NLT fifteen, six months, sir.” He nodded, impressed. 

“See you at Captain school by my age.” I nodded, grateful for the confidence he placed in my career. I considered his age, though, and doubted I’d live to be as old as he was. His voice had changed to an authoritative baritone, and his face was devoid of even the barest hint of acne. He had to be twenty-two, at least. We were of similar heights, but only because my species grew taller and slimmer than humans. 

“How old are you, sir?” I asked cautiously, not wanting to invoke his offense. 

“Twenty,” He replied. “Plan to go full bird by twenty-five.” My eyes widened. That was ambitious. If he survived, at that rate he could make General by thirty or thirty-five. There was a reason, however, that such quick promotion was possible. Enemy snipers were to officers what romantics were to the unmarried. He put his binoculars back up.

“Approaching. Warm the armor.” He motioned to a couple other crewmen to do the same to their own vehicles. 

“Roger,” I scurried up inside the carefully concealed Abrams tank, making sure not to disturb the tyvek wrap, then once inside started the engine. The ancient machine, sanctified by the prayers of a thousand soldiers, roared to life. I looked through the thermal scope as the captain climbed in the vehicle. Little blips of heat in the forest moved slowly a couple thousand meters out. In black marker, faded orthodox prayers were written in Russian around the edge of the scope. I murmured some of them aloud in English as I calculated the firing solution.“*God sanctify this weapon, and forgive this sinner.”*

“Initiating fire in count thirty.” Captain Johnson said. “Is it done?”“Дa, Shift eight mils sky, sir.” 

“Спасибо,” The sound of the tank’s main gun moving filled the cabin. I glanced at my watch. Fifteen seconds until initiation of fire. I scrambled over to the gun’s magazine and picked up a sabot shell, ready to load it. It was scrawled with a mixture of prayers and profanity. 

*CHOKE DEAD FEDERATION!*

*Дочь Вавилона, опустошительница! блажен, кто воздаст тебе за то, что ты сделала нам. Псалтирь  8:137.* 

*STICK THIS, ALIEN!* 

I had a special hatred for aliens, as did most of the guardsmen who traced their lineages to species other than human. Aliens were godless weaklings without exception, and yet some how I was related to some of them. The thought disgusted me. I was trained to fire a weapon at the age of five. I was trained to march like a man at eight, and march like a machine at ten. I was conceived inside an Abrams tank. My helmet had belonged to my father, and his father, and his mother, and hers before me, inscribed with each of their names. My rifle had been borne from Afghanistan to the South China Sea, four hundred-thirty-five notches in its stock. I was bathed in the pride of a hundred warriors before me. Of that, what could an alien say? That they were born to a life of luxury aboard a starship; never knowing the cold bite of the wind, or weight of the sword and gun? 

My heart pounded in my chest. I glanced down at my watch, my arms struggling to hold the shell. Ten seconds. I steadied myself against the wall as best I could. The tank shook, almost knocking me over. The chamber opened, and I frantically loaded the shell. I recited a prayer for tankers as the next round shook the vehicle, gripping the prayer rope sticking out of my FLC vest. 

Be my armor, O Lord. Let this wrath not be mine. The tank shook. I hefted another round with great effort, and loaded it. I lost my place on the rope, so I recited the first line again. Deliver me from flame; deliver me from damnation. Went the next line. My claws scratched into the interior paint as the tank fired again. My heart sunk, as I’d damaged military property. Let my ears hear only your thundering voice. 

The tank lurched forwards, and I felt it sliding down the hill. That was my cue to get on the M2 machine gun. I climbed up and out the hatch, snowdrift stinging my face, I pulled my goggles down and gater mask up, before gripping tight onto the .50 cal’s handles. 

It had turned into a bright day, with the sun climbing the horizon, and the snow reflecting its light like a mirror. Shells screamed through the air as our support line fired on the Federation line. Red lasers and burning flechettes shot out from the treeline, and I lit the area up with machine gun fire. The whirr of Federation hover vehicles echoed around me, laser fire pouring out of an enemy vehicle. Laser never did much to armor plating, but I ducked anyway because it was damned effective against personnel. I popped back up and started leading my shots to where I thought the skimmer would be when the rounds hit, and although I couldn’t see the thing itself through the brush, I could see the licking flames engulfing it. Our vehicle pressed forwards, through the brush onto an icy road, tracer rounds ripped through the trees and scrub, but the shells had stopped. Before us stood red-uniformed infantry, scrambling to get to cover. That was good. So long as they kept their distance, I had nothing to worry about from them. The Federation soldiers were of many species, most of which I’d seen wearing American uniforms just as naturally. 

It wasn’t much of a fight. All of their heavy vehicles had already laid smoldering and disabled. A few laser pulses came my way, but the tree cover the enemy had was as good as bad concealment against my .50 cal. Combined with fire from gunners on other vehicles, and it was over in seconds. We hit our limit of advance after crossing the road, and after security was set up, the EPW team was called to search the bodies of the dead. Being on the team, I slung my M4 around my neck and made my way down. My battle-buddy was a human girl a year my senior named Smith, an E-4 like myself. I was glad I wouldn’t be dealing with some ten-year-old private, in case shit went south. The first body we checked was a J’Arn. I popped a round in his chest, then one in his head regardless of whether he was still breathing. Then, I pulled security on the squat creature while she rolled his body over in case he’d fallen on a live grenade. 

“CLEAR!” I shouted. She crossed the dead alien’s legs, and we repeated the process on a few more hostiles. We came to a body that was Lyran, like me. Orange skin, black hair; humanoid, but cat-like. Alien Lyrans are cowardly shits that like to snipe, and usually use their quick feet to get away when you try to gut them up close. Ours are as disciplined as anyone. It made me angry to think we were the same species. I handed my weapon to Smith, and laid down next to the corpse, pulling roughly on his clothes to flip him. 

Only… the air next to the alien’s nose was hot. I was supposed to dead-check the bastard, I realized, too late as the alien’s eyes shot open and pulled a knife off his belt. I caught his dominant wrist, but missed his off-hand. Twin pupils in both eyes bored into my skull through my goggles, and the alien clawed at my face. My gater did little to protect my cheek from the alien’s claws. It slipped, and his face widened in shock when he saw my face beneath. I used the pause to my advantage to headbutt, kevlar helmet to bare head, sending the alien reeling back. I followed up by sinking my fangs into his arm. The alien cursed in its ugly language. I didn’t care that I couldn’t understand it. I didn’t want to. I realized the bastard looked older than the Captain. Maybe twenty-five. It almost intimidated me. I was strong, and well-trained, but I’d never seen this kind of fighting before, and that was a lot of seniority.

I caught a glance of Smith trying to get a good shot, but could hear the rest of the platoon screaming at her not to shoot. The alien wrestled me to the ground, pinning my arm and freeing his own, poising to stab. At that, Smith let out a yell, and dove at the alien, tackling him off me. The was a splash of blood on the snow, and Smith fell to her knees. The alien staggered to his feet, and he raised the knife to bring it down upon me. 

A deafening rattle lit up the air, and suddenly the alien was nothing more than a red mist. My ears were ringing…

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